Note: This is in response to Wendig’s Flash Fiction Challenge from last Friday. This week’s challenge has nothing to do with fiction; instead, he’s challenged folks to write about why they write. That felt more bloggish than storyish, which is why I’m putting this in the “journal” column. Now, on with business: “Why do you write?” I’m an oblique fellow. I like to sidle up to things rather than address them head-on, but this was a direct question, so I’m going to give you an uncharacteristically direct answer: The only thing that I consider meaningful is doing things to make other people’s live better and this is the one creative tool I have in the toolbox which gives me any hope of doing so. I’ve been working for American corporations for over thirty years now and I have long since made peace with the fact that I’m not going to find meaning or purpose in my work. I get to help people out, and that’s the part of the gig I enjoy; the rest is bullshit. My job is mechanically important to the business, but if my position disappeared from all companies tomorrow, the world would be no poorer for it. I don’t hate my job, but it is a job and it provides me a decent living and some, but not nearly enough, time away from work to do the things that are important to me. I’m in awe of people who can make things. I’ve tried my hand at more creative pursuits that I can describe and stick to the thousand word limit for this challenge. I’ve tried my hand at both piano and guitar. I’ve done a little painting. I have some marvelous old Soviet-era film cameras which I’ll dust off and lug out into the field from time to time I am a dilettante in both the worst and the best senses of the word. I’ve pursued these things right up to the point where they became difficult, up until the point I noticed that people who were not jut better than me, but better than I would ever be, were playing in cover bands on Wednesday nights at tiny bars. It’s different with writing. I can read writers who are so much better than me that I cant even really judge how much better they are, and instead of discouraging me, they inspire me. Reading enriches my life* and I can’t talk about writing without talking about reading any more than you can exhale without inhaling first. Books, like any good art, contain a hint of magic in that they can change your, can literally alter your perceptions, without you being quite aware of how they managed the trick. Have you ever read John Steinbeck’s East of Eden? If not, you probably ought to do something about that. The first time I read it, I didn’t sleep for two days after finishing it because it messed me up so badly. Steinbeck destroyed every excuse I’d every used for being less that decent to other people, and that was more self-awareness than I was prepared to deal with at the time. Somehow, Steinbeck managed to smack me like that and still write an entertaining story, which seems like one hell of a stunt. Once you’ve read it, the next thing you need to do is pick up Journal of a Novel. There were, of course, no blogs or laptops or anything like that in Steinbeck’s day. Instead, he wrote his novels in longhand on the front side of large sheets of loose paper. On the backs of those sheets, he kept a journal, and the journal is almost as amazing as the novel itself. The journal was his warm-up for the day’s writing. He’d write about personal things, about the weather, or the his family, or somesuch. He’d also write about what he was planning for the novel and that’s where it gets really interesting. He’d write about what he was trying to accomplish during the day’s writing, and how he would accomplish it from a technical standpoint (‘This next section is extremely action-packed, so I need to remember to use short sentences, just subject-verb, to accentuate this) and I remain impressed by how aware of his craft his was. His books read as though they “just come naturally,” but the truth is that he knew exactly what he was doing and how to accomplish it. On a broader not, he saw East of Eden as his legacy. It was the sum total of everything he knew, passed down in the form of fiction, to help his children deal with the obstacles life would throw at them. It was his road map for future generations, written in hope that they wouldn’t make the same mistakes he had. If you want to understand why I write, you have to understand how incredibly powerful Steinbeck’s goals for East of Eden were. I’m under no illusion that I’m “destined” to write a novel as great as even his lesser works. I’m going to work as hard as I can, as well as I can, and improve as much as I can, and I hope that something I write will help someone or someones get through something they might not have navigated successfully otherwise. I want to do this and, at the same time, write entertaining and maybe even fun stories. This is why it’s important to me. This is why it has meaning. This is why I keep practicing, even when it gets difficult. This is why I write. Thanks for asking the question, by the way. It’s not a bad thing to have to remind yourself why you’re doing it from time to time. -RK P.S. I also aspire to write something as goddamn beautiful as this: Oliver Sacks: My Periodic Table. The world is going to be measurably less awesome without Sacks in it. He’s a brilliant scientist who also has the ability to write in a way that somehow conveys the awe-inspiring contents of his mind in a deeply touching fashion. Oh, and he was really, really hot too. * Fun fact: I don’t really dream when I’m not reading. When I am reading regularly, I dream vividly every night. I’m unsure as to why, but it’s a remarkably consistent.
Author: Ridley
Like an aspirin in your advent calendar
#@$%#$ The last Flash Fiction Challenge should have been a cakewalk. It turns out that cakewalks are more challenging than I thought. 1) Generate random title: “Sustainable Greediness” 2) Giggle, because it’s a marvelous juxtaposition. Imagine doing something based on an Ayn Rand story. 3) Immediately discard any Ayn Rand related ideas as cheap and not as much fun as they initially seemed. 4) Get an idea stuck in your head linking the title to the game “Monopoly.” 5) Spend a day trying to get that connection out of your head. Fail. 6) Start writing. Create a potentially fantastic setting involving a hidden Atlantic island, trained Monopoly-playing animals, and a cast of professors and students at a secret university. 6a) Research the setting in great detail, including triangulating the latitude and longitude of the university and fabricating the secret history of Monopoly. 7) Two drafts later, fourteen hundred words into a one thousand word story, realize that all you’ve done is create the setting and introducing the characters. Recognize that there’s no actual story in anything you’ve written. 8) Save as draft. Hope that you can salvage something. 9) Spend another day trying to get the Monopoly thing out of your mind. Fail again. 10) Start anew, simplifying the setting and the characters but retaining the basic “idea.” 11) Write it. 12) Realize that it’s seventeen hundred words and it’s not going to get any shorter and it’s probably still not properly a story. 13) Link it anyway, because it’s stubborn and the way to get the blasted thing out of my head is to hit the “publish” button. That is to say, this one wasn’t fun, but it was a good workout. I’m suspicious of any story so good it just writes itself. I’m not thrilled with the result, but it was good for me to get through it and I think there are some salvageable bits in there. As a wise man once said, “They can’t all be winners, kid.” -RK
Sustainable Greediness
I had to look twice to make sure it was really him drinking alone at the end of the airport bar. Given that the only thing I knew three things about Perry Kenwauld: 1) Perry Kenwauld was the most respected economist in the world according to the people most people thought of as the most respected economists in the world. 2) According to the very few available accounts, his appearance matched that of the little man sitting at the bar, from his off-center bald spot to his impish half-grin on the left side of his face, to his tiny hands, too small even for a man I’d guess was no more than five foot two wearing the pair of unscuffed roughout western boots he was sporting. 3) As far as I knew before today, Perry Kenwauld didn’t actually exist. So I just stared blankly for who knows how long until he got tired of pretending not to notice and waved me over to join him. “Not many folks recognize me, pard’ner!” I couldn’t tell you where Kenwauld was from, but I could say with great surety that it wasn’t Texas. Not that he wasn’t trying to give that impression: He was turned out in pressed Wranglers, a floral-motif western shirt tucked in above an oversized silver buckle depicting a bucking bronco, and sitting on the bar next to him was a broad, unpressed Stetson that wouldn’t couldn’t possibly come close to fitting Kenwauld’s head. And yet, somehow, his accent was even less convincing than his outfit. “Quit yer gawkin’ and set yerself down next to me here.” So I did. “Can I buy you a drink?” I asked, not quite sure how to start a conversation. This tickled him tremendously. I still couldn’t stop staring. He looked somewhere between twenty and two hundred years old, depending on how the light hit him. “You buy me a drink? Son, that’s about the funniest damn thing I heard all day. But since you asked, I’m drinking scotch. The best they got ain’t worth a damn, but it’ll have to do.” He waved at the bartender and held up two fingers, and the bartender nodded and brought our drinks over. Apparently, Perry Kenwauld had been here a while. “So…I ‘spect you’re in the industry. Can’t figure how you’d a made me otherwise.” “Yes. Yes sir. I’m just getting started, but I read a lot. Some of the stories don’t make any sense, so I read more, and then, when I get to the part that reads more like fiction, that’s when your name shows up. I’m Don, by the way. Don Richmond,” I said, extending my hand. “Heh…howdy Don. ‘Spose you know my name. You like my get-up? I figure, I ain’t real anyway, might as well be anyone I wanna be. What brings ya to RIC?” “On my way out to a conference, actually. Another crack at trying to figure out why things are the way they are, and how to fix them.” “Fix them? Son, what makes you think it’s broke’d? Hell, I can tell you why things are the way they are.” He gave me a quick smile, more mischievous than conspiratorial, and picked up his previously-unnoticed briefcase and set it in his lap. He cracked it open and revealed… …a Monopoly set. “You’re funny,” I said, making sure to emphasize it in a way that suggested I didn’t mean it at all. “No shit I am. But if you think this ain’t the real deal, then listen up. You know this history of this here game, right?” “Of course. The Charles Darrow myth, and the true story. The woman, Elizabeth somthing.” “Magie was her name. ‘Course, that’s not the whole story.” I raised an eyebrow in question, but he didn’t need the encouragement. “Elizabeth Magie. Hell of an economist, that woman. Taught at the facility. You prob’ly never heard of it. Called the University of Charlestons.” “Charles-tons? Plural?” “Little joke of ours. Center of the real Bermuda triangle. Midpoint of Charleston, South Carolina, Charleston, Rhode Island, and Bermuda. Shoulda been a Charleston, Bermuda, too. Anyway, big ol’ barge we kept out there, where we did, where we do most of the real economic work.” “The real Bermuda triangle?” I wasn’t nearly drunk enough for this despite a second Laphroig magically appearing in front of me. “Sure. Little misdirection. Word got out about sumthin’ in the middle of ‘the Bermuda triangle,’ had to make sure people looked in the wrong place. Anywho, we’d been using the game y’all call Monopoly since Adam Smith invented it.” “That stupid game?” “Well sure, it’s stupid the way it’s played now. But it’s still one the best simulators out there.” “How so?” “Well, all you gotta do is jimmy with the rules a little and you can make it do damn near anything. The original version, the one Smith started with, was a Libertarian model. No money for passing go, no Chance or Community Chest cards, and you bank. You borrowed money from other players and negotiated the rates.” “Huh,” was all I could say. I was starting to feel like my leg was being pulled. “‘Course, it was a lousy game. You knew two or three turns in who was gonna win, but at least it was over with quickly.” He paused, took another shot of whiskey, and struggled to focus his eyes. I started to wonder just how long he’d been here. “So, anyway, Magie, the woman, she decided she’d had enough of, hell, who knows what? Women, right? She took a copy of the simulator, stole a boat, and headed back to the states. Soon as we figured out what she was doing, giving out the simulator, calling it ‘The Landlord Game,’ we hadda do something. We invented that Darrow fellow and published the game with the current rules. Everyone just thought it was a game, ya know?” “Yeah, I do. Still not really buying the ‘simulator’ part though.” “Lookit it this way. You wanna do a real simulation? You have one fella start with half the property. You make half the people immune to jail. You base the money they get for passing Go on how much property they have. That’s how it really works. Works like a charm, too. Just like real life.” “Why didn’t you make those rules THE rules?” “Oh hell, just coz’…
The Dread
EDIT: I changed the image at the bottom because sonntagsleerung is exactly what I’m trying to describe here. My sister and I have an informal yet surprisingly well-developed set of theories concerning The Dread. Most of the people I know are aware of The Dread, even if they have never called it by that name. It’s not universal, but it’s a commonly experienced by people who work regular schedules and/or go to school. “The Dread” is the feeling of dreading going back to work (or school) you get on weekends or vacations. When it hits, you know it. You stop enjoying whatever it is you’re doing and are preoccupied with the resumption or your work or school week. The Dread theory posits that, the longer the time off, the longer the duration of The Dread. You might think that it would hit the day before returning to work regardless of the length of the time off, but The Dread does not seem to work this way. If it’s a regular two-day weekend, The Dread might not kick in until Sunday evening. If you’re on week-long vacation, it might start on Saturday morning and last for two full days. If you’re off for two weeks, you could be looking at four days of The Dread. How early The Dread hits you on regular weekends is a reasonably accurate measure of your happiness with your job. Stressful times might see The Dread creeping into Sunday morning, ruining half your weekend. If The Dread makes it to Saturday, it is probably time to consider seeking employment elsewhere. In spite of how it probably appears, it’s Saturday night and The Dread is nowhere near me. Seasoned observers of The Dread and Its Many Manifestations have found that having a wonderful partner sleeping softly next to you is, while not proof against The Dread, then at the very least a pretty strong deterrent. On an unrelated note, the Flash Fiction Challenge this week is a simple one: Use a random phrase generator to come up with your title and proceed accordingly. My result is fascinating, but I’m not completely sure there’s a non-non-fiction story in it: “Sustainable Greediness.” I mean, “challenge accepted” and all that, but while it’s a fantastic title, it’s not quite as inviting as it might look at first glance. I’m not planning on chickening out and re-rolling, but I’m not 100% saying I won’t either. -RK I changed the image on this because, well, read the definition. Perfect!
Grackles are a lot cooler than I thought.
So this happened last night: Beautiful girlfriend and I were eating dinner on a restaurant patio. The restaurant had recently secured its waste disposal against birds, which had done nothing to reduce the number of birds trying to get an easy meal. Instead, it just made the birds stare at diners even more intensely with their just-this-side-of-reptilian eyes. We were next to the parking lot and, as fate would have it, so were a couple of grackles. One of them was a fine specimen, with deep purple-black feathers reflecting a spectrum that suggested he had enough oil in his diet. The other one was in worse shape. He had a badly maimed foot that couldn’t bear any weight. He didn’t seem to be getting his share of the leftover morsels and it was starting to take a toll on him. Beautiful girlfriend, being beautiful in all possible definitions of the word, tossed a few chips out into the parking lot to distract the bigger bird. She then tossed some to the maimed grackle. Strangely enough, the wounded bird ignored her offering and, loudly (as if grackles did things any other way), followed the larger bird. This frustrating dance went on for a short while until beautiful girlfriend stopped tossing and just watched. I wish I had video evidence of what happened next because it was one of the most goddamn wonderful things I’ve ever seen. The bigger grackle picked up a piece of chip in his beak and stood patiently while the bird with the bum leg took it from him. For no obvious reason, the healthy bird just sat there, picking up chips, and feeding his wounded…friend? I don’t know how else to describe it. Maybe they were related, maybe they were a nesting pair, maybe they were just friends. Regardless, it was unexpected and surprisingly touching to see. I’m not a big fan of bird in general, but after seeing those two last night? I think I need to reconsider. Like I said, I wish I’d thought to take some video or at least a picture. This is pretty much what it looked like, though.
Mercury Anterograde
I feel as though my life is making unusually good time, if not record progress, plowing against whatever metaphorical waves one might wish to imagine. My illness has not subsided in any meaningful sense but it isn’t paralyzing me as it did for most of the last eighteen months. I’m doing things more in line with what I want to be doing and spending less of my time doing things to distract me from my own nagging internal narrative. This week, the past, with its peculiar gravity, has been tugging at me with greater insistence. My sister and her husband have spent the last decade a couple of time zones over. They returned to their old home town, just a few hours from here, this afternoon They drove back, and on the way, met up with our aunt and her considerable tribe. I haven’t seen that side of the family in decades and the photographs of people I knew only as infant embracing their spouses was jarring. I knew, abstractly at least, that I needed to see them, but it’s a more concrete imperative. At the same time, I spent the day chatting with an old friend of mine who I’ve not seen in over a decade now. The fact that we fell right back into conversation as though we’d be close this whole time made me want to carve out some time to see him next time I visit the north. Which is all to say, it’s been a little melancholy around here this week. Nothing bad, but just some events which have left me a little preoccupied with the past. For a brief while, the romantic in me wanted to believe that clusters of travel, change, and setbacks occurring during a period of backwards movement by the planet Mercury represented a meaningful coincidence. I don’t think I ever really bought in to it, and I surely don’t now. Regardless, that romantic facet is reminding me now that Mercury is currently moving reliably forward and I would do well to take that hint. It’s been good to look over my shoulder and enjoy some memories and let them inform my plans, but my it’s good to feel the sense of forward travel these days. “Two auxiliary telescopes (1.8m diameter) and UT1, one of the 8m unit telescopes of the Very Large Telescope (VLT), looking quietly at the Moon, Venus (brightest planet on the picture), Mercury (Between Venus and the Moon) and Mars (redish point above Mercury and Venus). ” No comment on the direction of Mercury’s apparent relative motion.
Four comics and some very disturbing fairy tales
Yesterday, I mentioned that I got to see the works of some of my beloved impressionists. What I didn’t tell you was the the highlight of the day, hands down, was the Natalie Frank Grimm’s Fairy Tales exhibition. I’ve always known, on an abstract level, that the original versions of these stories were very dark and extremely carnal in nature. I’ve never read the originals, but I’ve read several which hinted at the more adult version of the stories. The second collection of Neil Gaiman’s “The Sandman,” The Doll’s House, changed the way I looked at the Red Riding Hood story. Natalie Frank takes that to a whole ‘nother level. She is a visceral artist in the most literal sense of the word. She doesn’t merely illustrate the stories; she gets at the disturbing, gut-level…horror? Is it horror? That’s not quite the right word, but it’s in the ballpark. Her work is unflinchingly bright and she borders it almost like a circus freak-show poster. Rather than listening to me continue to try to describe it, I urge you to check out her work for yourself. I found it unforgettable in the way a really excellent nightmare is hard to shake. This weekend’s comic book haul was the most literal representation of a “mixed bag” one could hope for. The first one I read was issue 6 of Grant Morrison’s “Annihilator.” This final issue was classic Morrison in that I’m not going to be certain I’ve understood what was going on until I go back and re-read the previous issues. Re-read them several times, in all likelihood. With most writers, you might think that this was meant as a complaint, but if you’re at all familiar with Morrison, you know that this is part and parcel to reading his work. Frazer Irving’s art is stunning. I didn’t much care for his earlier work with Morrison on Klarion the With Boy, but that as more do to with the specific book than Irving’s ability. He produces almost psychedelic images that are very much his own, which, given the history of comic book art, is very impressive indeed. I’m very nearly certain that this book is a work of genius. The next one in the pile was issue 3 of Warren Ellis’ “Injection.” We’re only just now starting to get a tiny peek at what’s going on and it looks like it’s going to be spectacular. Ellis reminds me of one of my favorite sci-fi authors, Larry Niven, in that he can take a really weird idea or two and craft a compelling story around it. Add in the fact that Ellis has become a true craftsman at telling the story, which isn’t at all the same thing as having a compelling story to tell, and you get the start of what promises to be a hell of a book. The dialog crackles without getting corny, the beats land reliably, and you find yourself really wishing the whole thing were already available in a collection. Oh, and Declan Shalvey’s art fits like a glove He and Ellis worked together on a spectacular Moon Knight run which featured some of the best art the character has every seen (and Moon Knight has always been more about look that story.) This is a very different story with sprawling locations, huge exteriors and tight interiors. It’s got to be a challenge and he seems very much up for it. It’s been far, far too long since I’ve been able to pick up a new Jhonen Vasquez comic book, and it’s been too long since we’ve had any new Invader Zim material to devour. Both of these problems are now official solved with the release of Invader Zim #1. The weight of expectations made me a little nervous about picking this one up, but it’s a worthy successor on all levels. That is to say, it’s funny. It’s really, really funny. Now, I suspect it’s even funnier if you’ve seen the old Nickelodeon show a gazillion times. You won’t be able to read the dialog without hearing the voices from the show in your head. But, I suspect this would work for readers who’ve never seen the show. If anything the tone and voice of the characters is even stronger than in the original. I’m not 100% sold on Aaron Alexovich’s and Megan Lawton’s somewhat streamlined take on the art, but I’m pretty sure it will grow on me. Vasquez’ visual style has always been busy to an almost distracting degree, and I suspect that once I get used to the change, I’ll grow to like it. The last book wasn’t anywhere nearly as successful. I picked up issue #1 of J.G. Jones’ and Mark Waid’s Strange Fruit. Let’s start with what’s good: Jones’ art is absolutely stellar. It evokes an era and a point-of-view beautifully. It’s been compared to Norman Rockwell and the comparison has some merit. I think that the intent here is to write a powerful story on race relations and I think that this is a project the writers believe in deeply. Reading it, though, it didn’t work for me. From a standpoint of mechanics, it was very much a typical superhero origin story: Set the stage, identify the villains, identify the need for the hero, and then unveil the hero at the end. However, trying to paste tropes that work in ,say, Superman’s origin into what is meant to be a very serious Book With A Message On Race feels off to me. There’s a better, more thorough discussion of the problems with this book over at Women Write About Comics. J.A. Micheline makes a powerful argument that Strange Fruit shouldn’t have even been made. I’m torn on that conclusion. I’m suspicious of arguments that tell writers what subjects they may and may not cover, but I do think when you’re wading out into the realm of other people’s experiences, you have an obligation to get it exactly, perfectly right. I’m not familiar with “The Six Swans” I think I ought to rectify that.
As I Get Older, Museums Are Somehow More Exciting
I got to see an impressionists exhibit today and I was as giddy as something that is a cliche for giddiness. I know, I know….the impressionists are the pop music of the fine art world. They’re well-known, they’re everywhere, and they’re accessible as can be. I’m fine with that. Just like I love a good singalong chorus, art which is just obviously beautiful and doesn’t require a long explanation as to why it’s beautiful is very appealing to me. The funny thing, to me, is how exciting today was. I was actually giggling at times at how delightful it all was. I don’t remember reacting that way in my twenties. Back then, it was something I had to try to appreciate, like jazz fusion, rather than something I got any real joy out of. I could tell people “I saw a van Gogh,” which sounded pretty cool, but I can’t say I got a great deal of joy from it. Today, there’s was a big ol’ Monet in the middle of the exhibit, just as obvious as could be, like “well, you really can’t have this kind of exhibit without at least one Monet,” and I’ll be damned if the thing wasn’t absolutely glorious. The thing seemed to give off a light of its own. I’m at a loss to explain exactly why seeing these exhibit hit me the way it did. My tastes are certainly no more refined than they were. Maybe it’s just a “where I am in my life right now” kind of thing and the lesson is to keep trying things you weren’t wild about before because you’re not the same person you were twenty years ago. At least, I hope you’re not. If you are, you might want to consider changing things up a bit. ————————————————– Reading the Sherlock Holmes short stories for that last writing prompt I did, the character’s view of women was a real distraction. He’s rude and condescending to almost everyone, but he seems to think of women as barely human. I don’t remember that from my first reading of the books decades ago, but I think it’s safe to say they haven’t aged well. That made it a good deal easier to take the piss out of Holmes’ smug generalizations, so it wasn’t a complete loss by any means. ————————————————— Apropos of nothing, I hope things are going well for Rebecca Black. I was trying to think of something Friday-related for a subject line yesterday when Rebecca Black’s Friday popped into my head because I am nothing if not fluent in past their sell-by date cultural references. It’s been a good five years since I’ve thought of that song and I’ve heard nothing about what came next for her, but I hope it’s something good. Fame sometimes happens to people who aren’t prepared or equipped to deal with it. The results aren’t always pleasant to look at. I’m not going to do any poking around, but I hope Rebecca Black is doing OK. —————————————————- I got to see the first episode of Comedy Bang Bang with Kid Cudi tonight and I’m pretty sure the show won’t miss a beat. That isn’t to say I won’t miss Reggie Watts, who was very much the heart of the show and one of the most likable comic performers I’ve ever seen. Cudi, though, is very canny choice for a replacement. He’s got a similar skill set, but a very different tone, and I hope the writers make as good use of his energy as they did of Reggie’s laid-back goofiness. -RK This one wasn’t in the exhibit, but I love it’s one of my favorites, so I wanted to use it anyway.
Warren Ellis and why “Book Reviewer” ought to be something one can make a career of
Let me be blunt: Warren Ellis writes about books in a way that makes me want to read them. This is an exceptionally rare skill and it ought to be the sort of skill which provides one with a comfortable income, homes on several continents, cars so rare that racing games have never even heard of them, several ponies (because who wouldn’t want a pony) and the absolute best chemical amusement aids money can buy. You probably think that I’m exaggerating, but I’m dead serious. The ability to make people make a point of seeking out and reading books is like alchemy in that it’s a both a lost art and probably impossible. I’ve always found most book reviews strangely bloodless. If you’re passionate about something, you ought to feel compelled to bust out a few superlatives. Instead, you mostly get a generic plot-summary, some historical background, a personal anecdote, and maybe a few sentences on something like “voice.” I’ve read very few reviews that made me more interested in a book than I already was. I don’t want a book report; I want reasons to read it (or avoid it). Check out this Warren Ellis write-up of Don Winslow’s The Power of the Dog. Does that make you want to read some Don Winslow? I know it sure as hell works for me. I’ve never read Don Winslow, and now I feel like this is a serious failing on my part. Thomas Pynchon’s Against The Day wasn’t really on my radar until I read what Mr. Ellis had to say about it. After reading that (and if you haven’t, go back and please, please do so), how could I not read it? I’m halfway through it and it’s utterly spellbinding. See? “Spellbinding?” How does that make you want to read a book? That’s what I’m talking about. It’s not as easy as it sounds, is it? It’s an under-appreciated talent that deserves more respect. And cash. Lots and lots of cash. EDIT: Here’s another one: Warren Ellis on The Water Knife No, not this Warren Ellis. The other one. Don’t feel bad; they get this sort of thing a lot.
Wife of The Woman
This story is in response to Chuck Wendig’s Flash Fiction Challenge: Six Random Titles. I wasn’t particularly inspired by any of them, but once I figured out a direction for this particular title, it wound up being a surprisingly fun exercise. Plus, it inspired me to purchase and read an old short story, the title of which you’ll probably guess in fairly short order. ————————————————————————————————————– Flinging open the door to the carriage, she spoke in a fierce whisper which struck the ears more forcefully than any shout, “Well, my love, it’s been quite an exciting couple of days, hasn’t it?” Elizabeth Briony didn’t look up even look from her book, an English translation of Manual de Anatomia Pathologica General, as the other women entered the carriage, although if you watched her closely enough, you’d have seen her cheekbones rise almost imperceptibly, indicating the slightest of all smiles. As the younger, petite woman settled in beside her, slightly out of breath from unaccustomed haste, Mrs. Briony continued: “We shaved that one a bit close, don’t you think? “Oh, do you think so? How very perceptive. How. Terribly. Clever. Of. You.” It wasn’t possible to be certain if the younger woman’s pauses were for emphasis or just due to the exertion, but the point was made nonetheless. Bess carefully shut her book, set it between herself and her companion, and, without the slight smile, responded: “I’m glad you think so too, Rena. If not for my, for our precautions, we would likely find ourselves in far more trouble than little Willy intended.” “You wouldn’t call him that if you knew him as I did. Besides, he was never the source of peril, it was that slender fellow he employed and you know it. Speaking of fellows, what have you done with Godfrey? Leaving him behind would be asking for more trouble.” Rena’s hair, normally arranged flawlessly, was an umbra of willow-like tendrils, a condition which Bess found almost irresistible, but she kept her hands folded and forced her eyes forward. “Godfrey’s with us, in one of my trunks. I cannot help but think he’ll prove useful again. Driver! We are settled, please carry on!” Bess’ voice had none of the lilt of Rena’s, but she could use it with surprising force when occasioned to do so. She was no beauty in the classic sense, being tall and, while lithe, broad of shoulder. “Handsome,” perhaps, would be a better description. They rode silently, the curtains of the carriage drawn tight. The women stole glances at each other, at first nervously, then conspiratorially, and finally, with some giddiness as it became clear from the sounds and smells that they were no longer within the confines of the city. They were beginning to believe that they may, just may, be getting away with it. Far from the gaslights, the night was dark enough that they felt they could risk opening the side curtains and let the fresher air of then country nighttime into the carriage. No one was likely to glance their way, and if they did, well, the chance of being recognized was slim enough to be worth the risk. They travelled throughout most of the night, making odd small talk, superstitiously afraid to discuss the nature of their good fortune as though speaking of it would burst the thin soap-bubble of providence protecting them. Rina was the first to speak of the incidents. In hushed tones, she asked, “So, tell me. How did you work it all out?” Around anyone else, Bess would have put on the air of one who knew all but revealed little, but with Rina, she shrugged her shoulders and admitted, “There was more luck to it than I’d care to admit, if I am to be perfectly honest with you. You know how I enjoy the art of fisticuffs?” Rina cringed, as she knew but did not approve. Bess continued: “Well, I have seen more fights than I can recount, and I’ve learned that it is very difficult for a man to let an inferior fighter win. Perhaps it is an affront to his manliness, but I think it more likely that, when instinct takes over, allowing oneself to accept a blow is not so easy as it looks.” Bess’ eyes became slightly distant. “Back when I was working, right before I met you, we tried to hire a professional fighter to perform with our troupe. It was a disaster. He was meant to be the villain, but he kept defeating our lead actor during the finale, oftentimes rendering him unconscious.” Rina was not especially thrilled by tales of this ilk, but listened on patiently. Bess, on the other hand, obviously found it rousing, and her focus returned to Rina. “Well, when the scuffle broke out in front of the house right the other day, I was still nearby and I could not help but observe. The clergyman who intervened, the gentleman you invited in to tend to? He struck me as a more skilled pugilist than he let on. He had several opportunities strike at the other fellows, but instead seemed more interested in receiving a blow.” “How odd.” “How odd indeed. And how odd that, almost immediately after brought him inside, a fire should break out. More coincidence than I am was prepared to accept. I decided that I would do well to follow him. After all, while he knew you and Godfrey, I was a complete stranger to him. And so, I was able to follow him back to his hired room and listen to him lay out his entire scheme to his confidante.” “That’s almost cheating, Bess! “Well, there was some peril for me as well. In order to hear them properly, I had to unfasten the windows, but those window fasteners were child’s play. After you told me about the glance to your hidey-hole for your personal papers, it all made sense. Why you keep your daguerreotype of your clients among our more…personal…photos, I will never understand.” Rina allowed herself a little clap of excitement. “You know I followed him as well!” Bess frowned. “Yes, and I think he may have very nearly recognized you. You must be careful!” If Rina felt at all chastened, she hid it exceptionally well. “Oh, hush. You know I can’t let…