Tag: fiction

• Clip Tuesday: The Toxic Donut by Terry Bisson

  

  Terry Bisson died a year and a month ago. At the time, I knew of only one work by him, the surreal little SF playlet called “They’re Made Out of Meat.” I don’t know why I did not search out more of his writing, but just recently I have. And I’m glad I did. The short story (mainly SF) seems to have been his best form. And he has even shorter pieces — I’ve seen them called dialogues, but playlet works for me — that put his in the territory of Russell Edson and Joe Frank, two of my main dudes. So, here’s a nifty little number called “Toxic Donut”:

  HI, I’M RON, the Host’s Chief Administrative Assistant, but you can just call me Ron. Let me begin, at the risk of seeming weird, by saying congratulations.

  Of course I know. I’ve been doing this show every year for six years; how could I not know? But look at it this way, Kim—do you mind if I call you Kim? You have been chosen to represent all humanity for one evening. All the birds and beasts too. The worms and the butterflies. The fishes of the sea. The lilies of the field. You are, for one half hour tonight, the representative of all life on the planet. Hell, all life in the Universe, as far as we know. That calls for congratulations, doesn’t it? You have a right to be proud. And your family, too.

  Did you, I mean do you have a family? How nice. Well, we all know what they’ll be watching tonight, don’t we? Of course, I know, everybody watches it anyway. More than watch the Academy Awards. Eight to ten points more. A point is about thirteen million people these days, did you know that?

  Okay. Anyway. Have you ever been on TV before? “Long shot at a ball game”—that’s good. I loved Bill Murray too. God rest his soul. Anyway. Okay. TV is ninety-nine percent preparation, especially live TV. So if you’ll walk over here with me, let’s take this opportunity to run through the steps for our lighting people, as well as yourself; so you will be able to concentrate on the Event itself.

  After all, it’s your night.

  Watch your step. Lots of wires.

  Okay. We call this Stage Left. At 8:59, one minute to Airtime, one of the Girls will bring you out. Over there, in the little green outfits. What? Since you’re a woman it should be guys in bikinis? I get it, a joke. You have quite a sense of humor, Kim. Do you mind if I call you Kim?

  Right, we did.

  Anyway. Okay. You’ll stand here. Toes on that mark. Don’t worry, the cameras won’t linger on you, not yet. You’ll just be part of the scene at the beginning. There will be one song from the International Children’s Rainbow Chorus. “Here Comes the Sun,” I think. All you have to do is stand here and look pretty. Dignified, then. Whatever. You’re the first woman in two years, by the way; the last two Consumers were men.

  I don’t know why, Consumers is just what we call them; I mean, call you. What would you want us to call you?

  That’s another joke, right? Whatever.

  Okay. Anyway. Song ends, it’s 9:07. Some business with the lights and the Host comes on. I don’t need to tell you there’ll be applause. He walks straight up to you, and—kiss or handshake? Suit yourself. After the handshake, a little small talk. Where you’re from, job, etc. Where are you from, by the way?

  How nice. I didn’t know they spoke English, but then it was British for years, wasn’t it?

  Anyway. Okay. Don’t worry about what to say; the Host has been briefed on your background, and he’ll ask a question or two. Short and sweet, sort of like Jeopardy.

  To meet him? Well—of course—maybe—tonight right before the show, if time allows. But you have to understand, Mr. Crystal’s a very busy man, Kim. Do you mind if I call you Kim?

  Right, we did. I remember. Sorry.

  Okay. Anyway. A little ad-lib and it’s 9:10. I have it all here on my clipboard, see? To the minute. At 9:10 there’s some business with the lights, then the Girls bring out the Presidents of the Common Market, the African Federation, the Americas, Pacific Rim, etc. Five gentlemen, one of them a lady this year, I believe. There’s a brief statement; nothing elaborate. “Your great courage, protecting our way of life” sort of thing. A few words on how the Lottery works, since this was the first year people were allowed to buy tickets for others.

  I’m sorry you feel that way. I’m sure voluntary would be better. But somebody must have bought you a ticket; that’s the way it works.

  Anyway. Okay. Where were we? 9:13, the Presidents. They have a plaque that goes to your family after. Don’t take it; it’s just to look at. Then a kiss; right, handshake. Sorry. I’ll make a note of it. Then they’re out of here, Stage Right. Don’t worry, the Girls manage all the traffic.

  Okay. 9:14, lights down, then up on the Native People’s presentation. You’re still standing here, Stage Left, watching them, of course. You might even like it. Three women and three men, clickers and drums and stuff. While the women dance, the men chant. “Science, once our enemy, now our brother” sort of thing. You’ll feel something on the back of your neck; that’s the wind machine. They finish at 9:17, cross to here, give you a kind of bark scroll. Take it but don’t try to unroll it. It’s 9:18 and they’re out of here, Stage Left. That’s the end of the—

  What? No, the corporations themselves don’t make a presentation. They want to keep a very low profile.

  Anyway. Okay. 9:19 and that’s the end of the warm-up, as we call it. The Host comes back out, and you walk with him—here, let’s try it—across to Center Stage. He’ll help you stay in the spotlight. He admires the scroll, makes a joke, ad-lib stuff; don’t worry about it. He’s done it every year now for six years and never flubbed yet.

  There won’t be so many wires underfoot tonight.

  Okay. It’s 9:20. You’re at Center Stage, toes here. That’s it, right on the mark. There’s more business with the lights, and the Host introduces the President of the International Institute of Environmental Sciences, who comes out from Stage Left. With the Donut. We don’t see it, of course. It’s in a white paper sack. He sets it here, on the podium in front of you.

  He stands out there, those green marks are his—we call him the Green Meany—and gives his Evils of Science rap, starting at 9:22. “For centuries, poisoned the Earth, fouled the air, polluted the waters, etc., etc.” It’s the same rap as last year but different, if you know what I mean. A video goes with it; what we call the sad video. You don’t have to watch if you don’t want to, just look concerned, alarmed, whatever. I mean it all really happened! Dead rivers, dead birds, dioxins. Two minutes’ worth.

  Okay. Anyway. It’s 9:24, and he starts what we call the glad video. Blue sky, birds, bears, etc. Gives the Wonders of Science rap where he explains how they have managed to collect and contain all the year’s toxic wastes, pollutants, etc., and keep them out of the environment—

  How? I don’t know exactly. I never listen to the technical part. Some kind of submolecular-nano-mini-mumbo-jumbo. But he explains it all, I’m pretty sure. I think there’s even a diagram. Anyway, he explains how all the toxic wastes for the year have been collected and concentrated into a single Donut. The fiscal year, by the way. That’s why the Ceremony is tonight and not New Year’s Eve.

  Okay. Anyway. Hands you the bag.

  Exits Stage Right, 9:27. Now it’s just you and the Host, and of course, the Donut, still in the bag.

  It might be a little greasy. You can hold it at the top if you want to. Whatever.

  Anyway. Okay. 9:28. You’ll hear a drumroll. It might sound corny now but it won’t sound corny then. I know because I’ve been here every year for six years, standing right over there in the wings, and I get a tear in my eye every time. Every damn time. The camera pulls in close. This is your moment. You reach in the bag and—

  Huh? It looks like any other donut. I’m sure it’ll be glazed, if that’s what you requested.

  Okay. Anyway. 9:29, but don’t worry about the time. This is your moment. Our moment, really, everybody in the world who cares about the environment, and these days that includes everybody. You reach in the bag, you pull out the Donut—

  What happens next? I get it, still joking. I admire somebody with your sense of humor. Kim.

  Anyway. Okay. We all know what happens next.

  You eat it.

  2025.02.11

• Nova by Samuel R. Delany 

  This novel might be off-putting to readers of current SF or fantasy novels. Its approach to prose and plot is very different from contemporary works, and I note that SF novels of the 50s and 60s often approached plot as an exploration of ideas. It’s not that they weren’t often entertaining and well structured. But novels by Delaney, Spinrad, Dick, LeGuin and many others seemed to develop their characters and setting and plots in the service of theme, developing and testing ideas, and extrapolating social changes from technological inventions or scientific discoveries. And once a hypothesis had been established and tried and evaluated, the novel would end. Often around the 250 page mark.

  Today, the focus is on immersion into story and setting. Readers want long-term escapism for their money. So the prose is clear and simple, there is an emphasis on long changing relationships and fortunes of characters, and the page counts are massive, often stretching into a series of novels (trilogies? not a chance! why drop an established and successful brand) or “world” novels without end.

  

  Delany not only allowed his prose to be difficult, he delighted in it. He loved to throw the reader into a new world with new rules and new meanings, while providing them with few road signs. He often described his love for work by authors who would challenge readers to put together hints and make inferences in order to make sense of this new creation. Long exposition and explanation would make it too easy and rob the reader of the joy of discovery, of making connections and leaps on their own, of inference, which is really the process of making love to literature. Nova weaves a tapestry of its influences and creates an organic whole.
  

  Of course, Delany, Brunner, Pynchon, and Spinrad all had at least one magnum opus that pushed the page count well beyond the 500 page mark. But these were not SF soap operas following long character arcs. In each case, these were the authors’ most challenging, experimental, and difficult works.

  2025.02.09

• Tuesday Citation: They Do Not Always Remember by William S. Burroughs

  

  First published in Esquire, May 1, 1966, this routine (Burrough’s term for his writing jags) was later collected in Exterminator!

  Here is Burroughs talking about the story in relation to his creative process in a lecture at the Naropa Institute (Jack Kerouac School of Disembodied Poetics):

  

  Now I get about forty percent of my sets an[d] characters from dreams. Sometimes, just a phrase, a voice, a glimpse, and sometimes I will get a whole story or chapter. All I have to do is sit down and transcribe the dream. An example is a story in Exterminator! called “They Do Not Always Remember” And, sometimes in dreams I find a book or a magazine and read a story. So perhaps writers don’t write, perhaps they just read and transcribe.

  Now what are dreams made of? – Much the same material as a novel – pieces of old movies, newspapers, magazines, novels, sensory in-put. The line between subjective and objective experience is purely arbitrary. No objective reality could be experienced without somebody there to experience it subjectively, and no subjective experience could exist without something to experience.

  THEY DO NOT ALWAYS REMEMBER
  
  It was in Monterrey Mexico … a square a fountain a café. I had stopped
  by the fountain to make an entry in my notebook: “dry fountain empty
  square silver paper in the wind frayed sounds of a distant city.” “What
  have you written there?” I looked up. A man was standing in front of
  me barring the way. He was corpulent but hard-looking with a scarred
  red face and pale grey eyes. He held out his hand as if presenting a
  badge but the hand was empty. In the same movement he took the
  notebook out of my hands. “You have no right to do that. What I write
  in a notebook is my business. Besides I don’t believe you are a police
  officer.” Several yards away I saw a uniformed policeman thumbs
  hooked in his belt. “Let’s see what he was to say about this.”
  
  We walked over to the policeman. The man who had stopped me spoke
  rapidly in Spanish and handed him the notebook. The policeman leafed
  through it. I was about to renew my prostests but the policeman’s
  manner was calm and reassuring. He handed the notebook back to me
  said something to the other man who went back and stood by the
  fountain.
  
  “You have time for a coffee señor?” the policeman asked. “I will tell
  you a story. Years ago in this city there were two policemen who were
  friends and shared the same lodgings. One was Rodriguez. He was
  content to be a simple agente as you see me now. The other was Alfaro.
  He was brilliant, ambitious and rose rapidly in the force until he was
  second in command. He introduced new methods … tape recorders …
  speech prints. He even studied telepathy and took a drug once which he
  thought would enable him to detect the criminal mind. He did not
  hesitate to take action where more discreet officials preferred to look the
  other way … the opium fields … the management of public funds …
  bribery in the police force … the behaviour of policemen off duty.
  Señor he put through a rule that any police officer drunk and carrying a
  pistol would have his pistol permit canceled for one flat year and what
  is more he enforced the rule. Needless to say he made enemies. One
  night he received a phone call and left the apartment he still shared with
  Rodriguez … he had never married and preferred to live simply you
  understand … just there by the fountain he was struck by a car … and
  accident? perhaps … for months he lay in a coma between life and
  death … he recovered finally … perhaps it would have been better if he
  had not.” The policeman tapped his forehead “You see the brain was
  damaged … a small pension … he still thinks he is a major of police
  and sometimes the old Alfaro is there. I recall an American tourist,
  cameras slung all over him like great tits protesting waving his passport.
  There he made a mistake. I looked at the passport and did not like what
  I saw. So I took him along to the comisaria where it came to light the
  passport was forged the American tourist was a Dane wanted for
  passing worthless checks in twenty-three countries including Mexico. A
  female impersonator from East St Louis turned out to be an atomic
  scientist wanted by the FBI for selling secrets to the Chinese. Yes
  thanks to Alfaro I have made important arrests. More often I must tell to
  some tourist once again the story of Rodriguez and Alfaro.” He took a
  toothpoick out of his mouth and looked meditatively at the end if ot. “I
  think Rodriguez has his Alfaro and for every Alfaro there is always a
  Rodriguez. They do not always remember.” He tapped his
  forehead. “You will pay for the coffee yes?”

  I put a note down on the table. Rodriguez snatched it up. “This note is
  counterfeit señor. You are under arrest.” “But I got it from American
  Express two hours ago!” “Mentiras! You think we Mexicans are so
  stupid? No doubt you have a suitcase full of this filth in your hotel
  room.”

  

  Alfaro was standing by the table smiling. He showed a police badge. “I am the FBI señor … the Federal Police of Mexico. Allow me.” He took the note and held it up to the light smiling he handed it back to me. He said something to Rodriguez who walked out and stood by the fountain. I noticed for the first time that he was not carrying a pistol. Alfaro looked after him shaking his head sadly. “You have time for a coffee señor? I will tell you a story.” “That’s enough!” I pulled a card out of my wallet and snapped crisply “I am District Supervisor Lee of the American Narcotics
  

  Department and I am arresting you and your accomplice Rodriguez for acting in concert to promote the sale of narcotics … caffeine among other drugs …”

  
  A hand touched my shoulder. I looked up. A greyhaired Irishman was
  standing there with calm authority the face portentous and distant as if I
  were recovering consciousness after a blow on the head. They do not
  always remember. “Go over there by the fountain Bill. I’ll look into
  this.” I could feel his eyes on my back see the sad head shake hear him
  order two coffees in excellent Spanish … dry fountain empty square
  silver paper in the wind frayed sounds of distant city … everything grey
  and fuzzy … my mind isn’t working right … who are you over there
  telling the story of Harry and Bill? … The square clicked back into
  focus. My mind cleared. I walked toward the café with calm authority.

  WSB

  2025.02.05

• Monday Composition: The Enormous Whisker

  Feeling the need of increased stature among his peers, Pepkin decided to grow a beard like those of the great philosophers or Tolstoy or Brahms, and so he stopped shaving. When his beard came in though, it came not as many hairs but one enormous whisker. It grew just above the jawline of his right cheek and resembled a tree trunk. Since it lacked the look of a conventional beard, he thought about shaving it off but decided to give it some time and see how it developed. 

  As it grew longer, it continued to thicken and soon grew quite heavy. He found himself tilting his head to the right most of the time, as one with classic paralysis of the fourth cranial nerve, and people thought it gave him a contemplative air. In fact he found himself being given considerations he never had before.  Friends would listen attentively as he spoke. Strangers would ask him to opine on matters of the day. Clergy sought his advice on matters both theological and lay. Pepkin noticed other men adopting what had come to be called the Pepkin Tilt. 

  He worried this imitation might dilute his uniqueness, but it was about this time his enormous whisker began to sprout fruit. At first they were just small green nuts clustered at the end of the whisker, but over time they blanched until they looked like pulpy white berries. The weight of the fruit and the still-growing whisker itself caused it to bend down, and the fruit would sway and slap against Pepkin’s chest as he walked. While some men tried to mimic this look as well, with beaded scarves or lengths of pasta, the consensus was that Pepkin had taken his innovation too far. He found himself shunned. 

  So, he stayed in his apartment more and more, then retreated even farther, rarely leaving his bedroom. Finding the open space of the vast room vertiginous, he constructed a canopy over his bed and brooded inside. After several weeks within this crib, his fleshy berries began to split and ooze a viscous liquid. From within, little baby snakes emerged, each with a face identical to Pepkin’s. When all the snakes had hatched, he took a razor and shaved off his enormous whisker. From its fine-grained substance, he built a boat and sailed it out to sea. The snakes sunned themselves on the deck while Pepkin steered the wheel. 

  Those who saw them go tried to tell the story of their departure, but few would believe them. So, the storytellers formed their own clubs and societies. They would take turns retelling the tale of Pepkin. They called it “tilting.”

  A selection from Esau’s Fables, published by Mount Diablo Books and available in print and, as of this week, as an e-book from Amazon. The piece also appeared previously in Flash Fiction Magazine.

  

  2025.01.28

• Saturday Retro Review: “The Circular Ruins” by Jorge Luis Borges

  Like Frankenstein, Borges’ story “The Circular Ruins” explores the disturbing consequences of creating life, though here it is through dreaming rather than science. The narrator’s goal is to dream a man with minute integrity and insert him into reality, effectively creating a person out of dreams. Starting his task with perfect integrity, the narrator spends what feels like an infinite amount of time perfecting minute details, such as the hairs on the dream-man’s arm until the task comes to seem Sisyphean. Though the story follows a seemingly simple plot, it leads the reader in circles, reflecting the circularity of the text itself. Borges draws on a Joseph Campbell-like structure, weaving mythological elements and archetypes into the narrative. where reality and illusion blur.

  The father-and-son angle serves as a meditation on parenthood, creation, and the responsibilities tied to bringing another into existence. A god of fire, reminiscent of Prometheus, grants the narrator the power to fulfill his purpose of creation but twists the myth into a realization that the creator himself is also a dream. Realizing you’re a dream is one of the story’s most profound moments, leaving the narrator as a trapped figure in endless circularity. As the narrator views his dream-man with both love and detachment, much like a parent might, the narrator reflects on his own decay and the fleeting nature of existence, transforming from the color of fire to that of ashes. Further, Borges’ description of the narrator as a grey man emphasizes his ethereal and enigmatic nature.

  

  Borges integrates folkloric references, such as a Cornish legend, to tie his narrative to timeless myths and universal themes. The phrase “tributaries of sleep” poetically conveys the flow of dreams that feed into the narrator’s creative process. Weaving a rope of sand illustrates the futility and fragility of his task, highlighting the ephemeral nature of dreams. Coining the faceless wind suggests an attempt to shape something intangible and formless, like identity or reality.

  As with The Company in “The Lottery of Babylon”, the creator in “The Circular Ruins” seems to possess all-encompassing knowledge, operating with a mysterious, almost divine authority. The ruins in the story evoke a sense of a lost religion that, paradoxically, somehow comes true through the narrator’s act of creation. The narrator’s god is not the God of the Bible but a dream god, aligning with the story’s metaphysical and mythological focus. The dream god reflects the narrator’s belief in a divinity that exists within the realm of imagination and dreams.

  The story embodies metafictional and intertextual elements common in the postmodern school, blurring the boundaries between reality, fiction, and self-awareness. Borges’ use of language captures the surreal beauty of a dream, elevating the story’s poetic and philosophical tone. Like Voltaire’s Zadig, the story explores themes of destiny, creation, and the search for meaning within a larger cosmic structure. The ruins suggest a fake Babylon, evoking echoes of Borges’ “The Library of Babel” in their enigmatic, labyrinthine significance. The mention of other burned temples alludes to the cyclical destruction and rebirth that underpin the story’s themes. Borges’ story evokes the adventure and mysticism found in H. Rider Haggard’s tales of exploration and lost civilizations. Like Xenophon’s Anabasis and its tale of 10,000 mercenaries, “The Circular Ruins” portrays an epic journey, albeit one of the mind and spirit rather than physical conquest. The story’s setting feels like an aftermath of disaster, where the ruins represent both destruction and the potential for renewal. The narrator’s solitude reflects yet another abandoned village, a hallmark of Borges’ settings steeped in mystery and decay. The imagery could also evoke the post-apocalyptic aesthetic of the 1979 Walter Hill movie The Warriors with its surprisingly optimistic version of New York where chaos still holds potential for transformation.

  In the Gnostic cosmogonies, a red Adam who cannot stand is a flawed creation, paralleling the dreamed man as an imperfect reflection of his creator. Borges evokes the idea that the world was created by the demiurge, a secondary deity whose imperfect work echoes the narrator’s own creation. In this, the story makes connections to ancient tropes and anticipates future ones:

  • It resonates with themes from Valis by Philip K. Dick, where creation, divinity, and human perception intertwine in a metaphysical exploration. The narrator’s act of creation feels like an addendum to the creation story, presenting a personal, recursive mythology.
  • Lilith, as a figure of unorthodox creation, serves as a parallel to the dreamed man, an alternative version of humanity’s origins.
  • The geopolitical urban legend about red mercury echoes the alchemical undertones of the tale, where transformation and secrecy play central roles. Alchemical texts resonate with the story’s themes of creating life from an idea, turning intangible thoughts into tangible forms. The cold fusion of terrorism, like the narrator’s dream, represents a dangerous and explosive act of creation with unforeseen consequences.
  • The dreamed man parallels a golem, a man made out of clay but without a soul, questioning the essence of humanity. The narrator’s creation recalls Adam of dust from Genesis but is ultimately an Adam of dreams, born from imagination rather than divine breath. The wizard is the dreamer, embodying both the power and the isolation that come with the act of creation.

  Borges was the darling of the literary set when he was alive, celebrated for his masterful blend of erudition, philosophy, and imagination, and he is still a god of modern literature The story exemplifies Borges’ hallmark intertextuality, drawing on myths, religious texts, and literary references to deepen its meaning. Paradoxically, Borges’ made-up quotes and citations, a trademark of his style, lend “The Circular Ruins” an air of scholarly parody, blending fiction and reality. Much like H.P. Lovecraft, Borges’ works often parody 19th-century scholarship with their meticulous yet fictional sources.

  The story’s themes evoke a clash of blades vs. brambles—sharp intellectual concepts intertwined with the messy, tangled nature of dreams. Borges, like Poe the prankster, injects wit and irony into his work, creating moments of puckish and wry humor amidst serious themes. At the same time, the philosophical undertones of the story recall the works of Herman Melville, blending grand existential questions with intricate, extraordinary sentences. Borges’ writing is puckish and wry, laced with a sense of mischief even as it reaches for profound truths. The narrative of “The Circular Ruins” itself represents an apotheosis, where the narrator ascends to a godlike role as a creator, only to discover he is also a creation.

  2025.01.25