Week in Seven Words #583

This covers the week of 3/21/21 - 3/27/21.

biota

The season begins with crocuses, progresses to turtles.

fending

Spiky seed balls plinking on car windshields and roofs, as if the trees are defending against an invasion.

observing

Interesting to see who comments on the new glasses and who seems not to notice.

skateboarders

Two skateboards. On one, a young man holding a leash. On the other, a bulldog at the end of the leash. They skim along at a relaxed pace, both of them looking cool and poised.

substitutes

Her brain is largely hijacked by alternate realities, other versions of herself that command her thoughts.

superstore

The superstore is a comforting place because it never seems to run out of anything. It promises abundance.

uniformity

They all look like they go to the same hairdresser. Their hair is in the same ponytail, some threaded through a cap. They all wear yoga pants, short jackets, and big sunglasses, and they clutch a coffee in one hand, a phone in the other.

Week in Seven Words #484

bug
At the lecture hall, the walls are a Pepto Bismol pink. I sip Diet Coke to try settling my stomach, before realizing that I probably won't be able to sit upright for two hours, not with this 24-hour bug churning in me.

laptop
A sleek gray rectangle with an impressive amount of power.

renovation
Wires have burst from the walls like intestines. It's a cold and dusty room.

screening
The rooms are in gray and white, the lights are bright, the professionals simulate kindness.

tossed
The birthday card spurts from his hand and splats on the table, where a newspaper will soon slink over it.

trips
Staying up late to look at models of RVs. I imagine fitting one out and just driving for months.

well-wisher
I wish them all well, while feeling out of place among them.

Filling our minds with stock figures: On an essay by Terry Pratchett

For the Deal Me in 2017 challenge, I read Terry Pratchett's grumpy, funny essay/rant on the clichés of fantasy fiction, and what 'fantasy' and 'escapism' mean. He calls his piece "Elves Were Bastards," to attack the cliché of the noble elves from Tolkien.

He rails against:

... so much round-eyed worship of mind-numbing myths, so much mindless recycling of ancient cycles, so much unthinking escapism.

I like how he distinguishes between meaningless escapism vs. an experience that you learn from and take something from.

But the point about escaping is that you should escape to, as well as from. You should go somewhere worthwhile, and come back the better for the experience.

And later:

The best stuff does take you somewhere. It takes you to a new place from which to see the world.

It's also a sense of wonder not limited to fictional stories.

Pratchett's repeated use 'mindless' is key. It's inevitable that we'll retell stories, but they shouldn't be expressed in rote ways, without care, thought or imagination, not if they're to be meaningful.

This got me thinking about the contents of our minds in all respects, especially our representations of other people. It would be easy to fill up on 'stock characters' - two-dimensional representations. It makes life simpler in some ways; what to think, and the right ways to act, take on apparent clarity. At the same time, it's an unfulfilling way to live. It's also like a bad diet that poisons the health of the mind. It compromises the ability to understand complex situations, in anything from politics to personal relationships.

Stock figures are stunting. If we can imagine only the 'noble elves,' we're limited, lacking in wisdom and more vulnerable to deception. The stock figures populate a deceptively simple world, and chances are if we escape to it too much, we'll stay trapped in it. One way or another, we'll suffer and allow others to suffer without understanding complex situations and the possibilities for how to act.

Week in Seven Words #300

enthusing
We share a table at the atrium and for an hour write quietly in our notebooks. At one point, a man wanders in and tells everyone he's just bought a house. Then he dances, his arms out-stretched. I look at her, she looks at me, each of us thinking, "Is he going in our story?"

insensible
The advice she gives me assumes good faith in everyone. That if you tell someone you're hurt, they'll hear you out sincerely, instead of enjoying your discomfort or attacking you for troubling them.

metallurgy
The pond is gold and olive green in the early evening. The trees that border it are a tarnished silver. We sit on a bench, the backs of our hands touching.

pharmacologic
He's tried to hide it from me, but I can see on-screen that he isn't feeling well, and I get uneasy.

piquant
Short-rib tacos paired with a frozen non-dairy mango-flavored dessert.

prior
People dip their toe in the past, in a room with limestone walls and rippling columns.

reveries
If everyone else left, it would just be me in a dusky room where unicorns prance on the high stone walls.

13 More Short Stories for Friday the 13th

Like I said the first time I posted a Friday the 13th short story round-up, I don't believe in the superstition of the day. But I'd like to share stories I've read that have some combination of dread, distorted thoughts, strange phenomena and/or horror.

Title: A Diorama of the Infernal Regions, or the Devil’s Ninth Question
Author: Andy Duncan
Where I Read It: Fantasy: The Best of the Year 2008
This coming of age story, set in the 19th century American South, reads like the set-up to a novel, or maybe a computer game; but it feels complete too. The main character, Pearleen Sunday, was dumped as a baby on the doorstep of an unscholarly museum. It's run by a man who likes to use magic tricks, sex, tall tales, and eye-catching visuals to draw a crowd. As she's growing up, Pearleen has a variety of chores, like working the diorama of the infernal regions - a huge moving strip of canvas that depicts all kinds of hellish torture to museum visitors. But whenever she stands behind it, cranking it into motion, Pearleen sees different images from what appears to be another world.

One day, a visiting magician, Farethewell, needs a last-minute replacement for a young female assistant in his magic show. When he asks Pearleen to step in, and she sees the humiliation in store for her, she flees and leaps into the back of the diorama, which leads her to the ghost-filled mansion of an old widow, Mrs. Winchester. And though she isn't in the infernal regions as depicted by the diorama, Pearleen will still meet the devil's son-in-law.

Pearleen chooses between a coming of age experience that would turn her into a sex object and one where she discovers where she might belong and what her powers could be. It's an odd adventure and hints at more to come.

13 short stories for Friday the 13th

I don't believe in the Friday the 13th superstition or that 13 is an unlucky number, but I thought I'd have some fun with today's date (especially because this weekend it's the Ides of March too!).

So here are a bunch of stories that are dark, disturbing, or otherwise strange, exploring fears and tragedies. The characters might be unlucky. They might also work to make themselves unlucky.

Six Short Stories About Different States of Mind

Title: The Balloon of William Fuerst
Author: Lowell B. Komie
Where I Read It: Legal Fictions

A short, funny story but one with a familiar pang in it, the feeling of life getting wasted on triviality. The main character is an attorney who starts to hear air escaping from his ears - "a hiss of all the useless acts." He imagines his head is a balloon, with air leaking out. How does he think he can fix the problem, without leaving a job he feels trapped in? Maybe helium is the answer! If nothing else, at least he'll sound like a new person...

Title: Bitter Grounds
Author: Neil Gaiman
Where I Read It: Fragile Things

Before reading "Bitter Grounds," I hadn't come across any zombie fic that interested me. But this story is further proof that it's never the subject matter that's the problem, but the way it's handled. Any topic can be written about in an interesting way.

This isn't a typical zombie fic. There are no rotting corpses staggering around - no brain-eating, post-apocalyptic monsters. It's more a confusing and fascinating story of escape and loss of identity, of blurred boundaries between people and between the living and the dead. It begins with a man who can't deal with his life anymore:

"In every way that counted, I was dead. Inside somewhere maybe I was screaming and weeping and howling like an animal, but that was another person deep inside, another person who had no access to the face and lips and mouth and head, so on the surface I just shrugged and smiled and kept moving."

One day, he drives and just keeps on driving, with no particular destination or purpose. And then starts to move between different identities. Through circumstances described in the story, he steps into the shoes of an anthropology professor invited to give a talk in New Orleans about tales of undead Haitian coffee girls. Nothing in this story is as it seems, and by the end, you have to wonder who is this man, and who has he met along the way? Not sure if this is a nightmare, or if he's ripped through the fragile tissues that life's made of.

Week in Seven Words #132

acquainted
He's too young to read the Lord of the Rings, but he's been permitted to watch the Peter Jackson movies with an adult present and collect some of the Legos (including a Lego Shelob with a length of web-like rope coming out her rear end). To me it's an odd way of discovering that universe, when you first know the characters as movie stars and collectible toys.

amazing
I haven't been following the Olympics much, except for hearing about Michael Phelps, watching a few women's gymnastics videos, and occasionally checking in on weightlifter Sarah Robles. One thing I do watch is the match where Misty May and Kerri Walsh win their third Olympic gold in a row. It's awesome to see how close they are as friends in addition to being an unbeatable team on the court.

exploratory
I introduce one of them to the world of blogs. The other is making her own world, a poster of an imaginary country with a list of stats: language, currency, major rivers, a capital with a strange name.

quaggy
Between the trees I see a beautifully green and scummy pond.

unobserved
Unproductive hours trickle by followed by a burst of activity and inspiration. I always worry about those hours when I don't seem to get as much done as I want, but maybe they're necessary for whatever it is the brain needs to do.

unshod
He greets me with a high heel in each hand.

untranslatable
After I leave a friend's apartment building in NYC, a man approaches me as I stand alongside a small family of tourists at a crosswalk, waiting for the light to change. He's bald and somewhere between the age of 35 and 50. "The way you stepped out of that building," he says in a heavy Russian accent, "it was as if you were stepping onto water. It was amazing." What he means by that, I can't say, so I say nothing. "Do you speak Russian?" he asks. "No," I say. "Maybe one day you'll learn," he says. "Maybe," I agree. "You know what I say when people ask me if I play the violin?" he asks, laughing a little. "I tell them, 'Maybe one day I'll learn.'" He laughs again. Then he asks, "Where are you from?" I'm tempted to say 'Earth' but instead say, "The U.S." He nods thoughtfully. "You don't look as if you belong here..." He looks at me expectantly, but when I make no reply, he shrugs and says, "Ah well, you have the right to be alone," and walks off quickly. The light changes, and I cross the street, looking back a couple of times to make sure he isn't following me. He isn't. Whatever his intentions were, something was definitely lost in translation.

Week in Seven Words #105

coding
The online coding tutorial rewards you with a blue check mark on every exercise you successfully complete, and it's a good feeling to see one surface on the page, a sense of progress and mastery, even if you later realize that you have to go back to those old exercises because you've forgotten something important about the correct placement of semi-colons and the script you're trying to write isn't working anymore.

freeing
I like brainstorming on the train. The rocking motion seems to loosen things up in the mind.

impregnable
The blue doors on the school are like portals in a fortress, admitting no one. I expect that at any moment a sphinx will alight on the steps and demand an answer to a riddle in exchange for entrance.

marigold
The Shakespeare Garden is quietly alive in the winter sunlight. And on a plaque I find this passage from The Winter's Tale:
The marigold, that goes to bed wi' the sun
And with him rises weeping...
The marigold flowers are nowhere in sight; only the promise of them.

relaxed
Boats drifting by on the river. I don't need to know where they're going.

unruffled
Ducks and seagulls are scattered across the lake. When they take wing the water hardly stirs.

whimsies
Two of my favorite things are Thing 1 and Thing 2 from The Cat in the Hat.

Week in Seven Words #100

chocolatier
Tempting chocolate truffles in a golden box.

coordination
Group photo: fitting thirteen people on and in front of a sofa, then programming the camera's self-timer. The first couple of times nothing happens, and we sit there smiling at the camera as it stares back at us with its glossy black eye. On the third try the person adjusting the camera gets it to work but doesn't arrive back at the sofa on time, so the photo shows her from behind as she tries to dive back in next to her husband. Finally it works. After a moment's hush we cheer, and the sudden noise makes the baby startle and burst into tears.

glee
He's beaming as he rocks back and forth on the large green plastic rocking horse; it's a hand-me-down from older siblings who now sit beside him clapping and singing "Yankee Doodle Went to Town" to make him go more quickly.

invitation
Settled on a cluster of rocks by the lake, an elderly woman scatters crumbs around her and calmly greets the wheeling gulls.

perpetuity
A display at the train station shows an old-fashioned village where lights glow from little homes, happy figurines have snowball fights or glide among the evergreens on sleds, and a train travels round and round it all on a looping track. The display draws people who smile and pause to lean over it. They tip themselves for a moment into the village where everything is repeating, moving without going anywhere; no progress and no end, and for a few seconds, peace.

unplanned
There are joys planned out for them: food brought from the outside and musicians who do their best to sing beloved old songs. There are also moments of spontaneous joy that feel more real and lasting even though they're over quickly - as the party winds down they bat a balloon around; it glances off their fingers and stays airborne for a few happy minutes.

unseasonal
It's winter but feels like autumn. Turtle Pond looks like a sheet soaked in deep blue ink, and beyond it the Great Lawn is green and gold. The shadows of trees stretch out on the grass as if they're taking a leisurely nap.

Good Short Fiction: 2 tales from The Oxford Book of Fantasy Stories

Collection: The Oxford Book of Fantasy Stories
Editor: Tom Shippey

Title: Lila the Werewolf
Author: Peter S. Beagle
Farrell, a musician living in NYC, keeps falling for women who have serious issues. His latest live-in girlfriend, Lila, is a werewolf, as he discovers after she moves in with him. At one point in the story he explains to his horrified best friend why he's still with her:

"The thing is, it's still only Lila, not Lon Chaney or somebody... she's got her guitar lesson one night a week, and her pottery class one night, and she cooks eggplant maybe twice a week. She calls her mother every Friday night, and one night a month she turns into a wolf. You see what I'm getting at? It's still Lila, whatever she does, and I just can't get terribly shook about it. A little bit, sure, because what the hell. But I don't know."

Farrell is a laidback guy who seems at ease in the presence of other people's weirdness, but his tolerance is put to the test in the story's climactic scene, where Lila (in werewolf form) goes into heat and starts roaming the city pursued by packs of male dogs. Farrell follows her to try to prevent any unfortunate liaisons, in a scene that's both hilarious and surreal. He's accompanied by Lila's formidable mother, who keeps popping in and out of taxi cabs, and he's trailed by his building's superintendent, who hopes to put an end to Lila once and for all. As for Lila herself, she's initially excited by the presence of her canine suitors, but by the end of the night her feelings turn from lust to bloodlust, and unfortunately that's when the little coddled lapdogs venture out to have their chance with her:

They were small, spoiled beasts, most of them, overweight and shortwinded, and many were not young. Their owners cried unmanly pet names after them, but they waddled gallantly towards their deaths, barking promises far bigger than themselves, and none of them looked back.

Owners of small dogs will not like what happens next. But even if lapdog carnage isn't your cup of tea, there's a lot to enjoy in this story, not least the author's knack for odd funny descriptions; for instance, this is what we're told about the superintendent of Farrell's apartment building: "He smelled of black friction tape and stale water" and "He roamed in the basement all day, banging on pipes and taking the elevator apart."

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Title: The Silken-Swift
Author: Theodore Sturgeon
Rita is cruel and stunning; she'll toy with men, humiliate them, and dance beyond the reach of their touch or their vengeance. Barbara is "a quiet girl whose beauty was so very contained that none of it showed"; no one notices her, but she is never alone:

... Barbara's life was very full, for she was born to receive. Others are born wishing to receive, so they wear bright masks and make attractive sounds like cicadas and operettas, so others will be forced, one way or another, to give to them. But Barbara's receptors were wide open, and always had been, so that she needed no substitute for sunlight through a tulip petal, or the sound of morning-glories climbing, or the tangy sweet smell of formic acid which is the only death cry possible to an ant, or any other of the thousand things overlooked by folk who can only wish to receive.

Del is the man who meets with both women during a night where he's preyed on and where, in a haze of anger and drink, he acts as a predator. After a certain point his perceptions are false. But matters are cleared up in the bogs, where "there was a pool of purest water, shaded by willows and wide-wondering aspens, cupped by banks of a moss most marvellously blue." The Silken-Swift, written in evocative language, addresses the concept of purity and how it's often equated with virginity. Blindness is also an important theme in this story: blindness to truth, character, and genuine beauty.

Of everyone in the story Barbara is in many ways the strongest. She isn't cruel or vengeful; she has no part in the destructive power plays that diminish the other characters, whose actions corrupt the world around them. This is why she lives on the margins of society, ignored by everyone; she offers no attraction to blinded people.

For Barbara the idea of love is receiving what the world offers (instead of seizing and conquering). Sometimes the offering is painful in the extreme. What the world offers can also be beautiful beyond measure. But can a place "without hardness or hate," as the pool in the bog is described, survive the intrusion of people?

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This post has been linked to at Short Stories on Wednesday #13 over at the Breadcrumb Reads blog.

Nineteen seconds of starlings in flight

On one level they're starlings; on another they're phantasmal creatures.

starlings from David Raymond on Vimeo.

Week in Seven Words #22

absorption
The intense focus of two dogs discovering a third. The two immediately strain at their leashes and begin to sniff; one of them attends to the third dog's face, the other delicately samples the hindquarters.

crotchety
My foot is slightly swollen and pained. It reminds me of a grumpy companion on a road trip, complaining about distances, uncomfortable car seats, and slight jolts along the way.

currency
The cashier is incredulous when a customer pays her in dollar coins; she at first thinks they're fake, like amusement park tokens. She's new to this country, but thought she'd learned everything about the money; she tells another cashier that a trip to the mint is in order.

elusive
The young child's mind is good at eluding experiments that try to tap into the earliest years of language use; a researcher can feel like a naturalist crouched in a tangle of vines and shrubs, hoping for a chance to cast a net at a sly and mysterious creature.

haft
In some other world, a character I've become acquainted with holds her sword at the ready.

nice
She's someone who's genuinely nice. I don't mean that in the bland way in which 'nice' may be used, when you can't think of a stronger or more interesting quality. She is a fundamentally nice person, and it's a pleasure to be in her company.

rudder
I think I have a firm grasp on the story, but the draft I'm working on drifts off course, and not in a mostly delightful or illuminating way. But at least I get some insights into the characters from this unexpected deviation, along with some words that I'd like to keep working with.