Primeval forces threaten to invade the worlds of Shannon Robinson’s short stories. Wild presences haunt suburbia, and folkloric figures surface as manifestations of deep-seated anxieties. For the collection The Ill-Fitting Skin (Press 53, 2024) Robinson presents normal life in all its complexity and confusion, where Mother Nature shows her claws and mythic creatures bare their teeth. This skin is pregnant with dread, imbued with the surreal, and, like a serpent, ready to shed and transform. I spoke to Shannon about the book.Rebecca Gransden: What is the story behind The Ill-Fitting Skin? When did you conceive the collection and how long has it been in gestation?Shannon Robinson: I love your choice of verb – “gestation”: it feels very apt, since many of my stories are concerned with motherhood and nurturing. I’ve been working on these stories for about twelve years, beginning with my MFA at Washington University in St. Louis. Over the years, I’ve placed work in literary magazines, but the more recent stories are exclusive to this collection. RG: The collection opens with “Origin Story,” an unsettling tale that deals with parenthood, childhood, and dark, primeval forces. The house featured in the story begins to experience a type of invasion, initially by something unknown. Why did you choose an ordinary family home for the setting of this story?SR: “Origin Story” is about a boy who turns into a wolf, and while lycanthropy is a fantastical phenomenon, I wanted there to be an underpinning of emotional authenticity. I think the best monster stories hit close to home: the darkness is scary because it’s inside us, or right beside us, implicating us. As parents, it can be so difficult for us to separate ourselves from our children, and this is especially fraught if the child is challenging or troubled or non-conforming. And sometimes the distance itself is the issue—that is, the parents’ anger and alienation. The original title for the story was “This Thing of Darkness I Acknowledge Mine,” which is something Prospero says of Caliban in The Tempest, but I eventually settled on “Origin Story,” because it had more directness, more punch … less lah-di-dah. RG: Several of the stories address the meeting point of superstition and science. Lycanthropy is presented as possible metaphor for a medical diagnosis, and unusually fantastical births suggest underlying psychological unease. Yet, there is the impression that neither pathway leads to a comprehensive or satisfactory answer. What is your approach to the rational and the paranormal when it comes to your fiction?SR: I trust the rational, but that’s not to say I don’t think there are times when we recruit the rational to justify the non-rational, or that the non-rational does not leak in around the edges. The medical advancements of the past fifty years alone have been astonishing, and yet there’s still room to get it wrong because we’re dealing with the incredible complexity of the human body and mind, and we can’t help but be human along the way. Are we still drilling holes in people’s heads to let out the evil spirits? No. But are we sometimes misdiagnosing and overmedicating? I’d say, yes. And here’s the thing: despite the fact that we carry our bodies and brains around, despite their quotidian normalcy, there are times when they seem so odd—miraculous and unpredictable and perverse and unknowable—that they are like magic, for good or for ill. RG: I’m wearing purple socks with teddy bears on them in a raised, rubberized pattern. The hospital provided them. These I will keep. I will wear them around the apartment for the next few days until the soles get dirty and I begin to worry about the state of the unswept floors.In “Miscarriages” ordinary items meant to soothe accentuate the sense of disquiet. These objects suggest the search for a type of material grounding in the face of events that evoke much confusion. From Feng Shui, origami cranes and unsettling gynecological crafts, objects in their juxtaposition inhabit a surreal and unsettling space within the story. What part do these objects play?SR: As you suggest, we seek comfort in the material. Our personal possessions, our daily objects, our souvenirs… our STUFF! We seek the concrete because so much of what surrounds us is nebulous and fleeting, and we do this despite knowing there’s no real remedy, hence our chronic dissatisfaction with our stuff. “Purchase”: there’s a lovely doubleness to that word, suggesting something we buy but also the act of trying to find a hold. Many of the objects from the story are artistic items—and art is a special kind of container for our anxiety. The story is written in sections, which I think of as containers, which in turn feature containers of one kind or another (lists, ultrasounds, a medical model …) along with that most profound of containers, the womb. RG: “The Rabbits” makes reference to the 18th century case of Mary Toft, a woman who claimed to have given birth to a brood of rabbits. There is a fairytale-like quality to the sequence of events. What led you to take on your own version of the story?SR: I came across the historical material after falling down a Google rabbit hole, appropriately enough: I must have been researching something related to maternity, and I somehow came across this hoaxster, Mary Toft. She really did fool people for a time, including the king’s physician; granted, she was very committed to the act, which involved some gruesome props. I was interested in writing a version where Mary experiences her rabbit births as authentic and miraculous—and yet she is perceived as a fraud and a trouble-maker. I like your comparison to fairytales, because their form suggests dream-like exploration rather than settled conclusions. I was interested in writing about the strangeness of conception, pregnancy, and childbirth… about its uncanny aspects and also about how, during these experiences, women can feel their agency is compromised, or at least, complicated. RG: Several of the stories address the idea of lost children. What draws you to this theme?SR: I have lost a child, through miscarriage, so I have that personal connection to the theme. And even though I now have a child, I still feel terror at the prospect of losing him. Which is not to say that I’m white-knuckling it minute by minute, but it’s there in the background (as I imagine it is for every parent). I’m also interested in what we lose as children—the phrase “loss of childhood innocence” comes to mind, but I hope to capture something less corny, or at least, more complex in its presentation. For instance, even children who do not experience an emotional loss directly can have survivor’s guilt, which is its own kind of trauma, and you see that at play in some of my stories. RG: Animals are presented as substitutes for human children, from a womb-dwelling bird and rabbits, to pets. The nature of attachment, of judgment, of maternal need, is a theme common to the collection. How do you view your use of animals, and the animalistic, for The Ill-Fitting Skin?SR: I love animals… but I also eat and wear them, so I deal with that daily paradox. I think animals occupy such a fascinating category: they are us, and yet they are not us; essential and yet alien. They make for uncanny comparisons, hence the power of fables. And Art Spiegelman’s Maus. With animals, the metaphorical doesn’t want to stay metaphorical, and I suppose I’m drawn to that sense of uncomfortable proximity. And that vulnerability. Animals are fierce and self-sufficient, and yet (increasingly) we see how their existence is fragile. RG: Truth be told, I had the kind of cleverness that readily alchemizes into stupidity by way of vanity. Five years in a PhD program and nothing to show for it except a box of rambling notes. So this is indeed my penance for being so ineffectual, I’d tell myself as I scrubbed, wiped, scoured. The idea was that it was a temporary gig, a stopgap, and soon a real job would surface. Like a magical island. Or a dead body.One of the characters that has stayed with me since reading the collection is the uncommunicative and off-putting householder Hartley, featured in “Dirt.” How did you go about creating him? There is a sophisticated progression in the dynamic between the two characters central to this story. What was your approach to characterisation in this case?SR: In “Dirt,” the narrator doesn’t sign up to be a “sexy” cleaning lady, but she finds herself playing that role for her new client, Hartley. When the story was first published in Joyland magazine, I was so surprised to find that some people—some women—found Hartley to be “endearing”! I see him as quietly menacing and highly manipulative. Granted, the narrator’s first impression of him is that he’s a dork, and so when he pushes her boundaries, she keeps trying to convince herself that she’s in charge. Or at least, that she’s okay with this, that she’s willing to be a good sport for the paycheck, that making these accommodations isn’t shaming and infuriating. Ultimately, his dorkiness is just a red herring, and she sees he has no qualms about pursuing his desires at her emotional expense. In writing this story, I very much had gender dynamics in mind, but I was also influenced by my time as an office worker, which in retrospect, had shades of the Stanford Prison Experiment.RG: If you decide to hate boys forever and ever, turn to page 92.If you decide to just hate this boy, turn to page 98.For “A Doom of Your Own” you take on the Choose-Your-Own-Adventure form in a way that is psychologically revealing. What attracted you to use this structure? Later in the collection D&D plays a significant role in the story “You Are Now in a Dark Chamber,” and a zombie parade is the backdrop for the interpersonal strifes of “Zombies.” What role do these games and niche cultures play in the collection?SR: I grew up reading Choose Your Own Adventure books in the ’80s, and I loved the way they allowed me to participate in the story, how “you” got to choose where the story went next. At the same time, as a fan of the genre, I became aware that choice was an illusion, and even when you think you’re doing everything right, you get trapped in loops, or end up lost in the dungeon or eaten by the ant people or whatever. I thought that sense of frustration (and gaslighting and self-sabotage…) would lend itself well to a story about a toxic romantic relationship. You don’t have to be a child of the ’80s to appreciate “Doom of Her Own,” but I have found that Gen X readers particularly enjoy its nostalgia element. As for games and niche cultures, there’s an underdog feel to them, which I find appealing. In “Zombies,” the narrator berates another character for referring to zombie cosplay as “hipster”; she says that “it’s full-on Renaissance Fair, Dungeons & Dragons, no irony.” In other words, not “cool”—which I think is a good thing (even if my narrator doesn’t). I also like the fantasy aspect of these activities. There’s often a certain amount of gothic inflection… as well as humor. And horniness. It’s very story-friendly. RG: A theme that is returned to throughout the collection is that of transformation. Sometimes your characters are in a place of denial, at other points led by unconscious impulses, or have transformation foisted upon them. What use do you make of transformation in the collection? Have any transformative experiences of your own influenced these stories?SR: As I recall, in Charles Baxter’s Burning Down the House, he disparages the notion of epiphany in fiction: he finds it all very phony baloney. My characters don’t exactly have epiphanies—there is no big, “And then I realized…” moment, no definitive pivot into clarity. But the characters come close, and I hope that I leave them (or at least most of them) in a place where they can move towards some positive transformation—that is, towards some greater understanding, strength, or happiness.As for transformative experiences of my own that have influenced these stories… they’re all what you’d expect: motherhood, my MFA, and marriage to a fellow writer who loves me and really cares about my writing. Aging in general has been good for me: less vanity-selfishness-insecurity, more wisdom-kindness-confidence. All that has helped me to become a better writer. A better person, with crappier knees. Fine. RG: There are many references to myths, legends, and folklore dotted throughout The Ill-Fitting Skin. Is this an area of inspiration?SR: Absolutely! Since childhood, I’ve been interested in fairytales (the Grimm versions; Disney’s versions are fun, but the originals are where the truly fascinating weirdness lies) and Greek mythology. I have a copy of D’Auliares’ Book of Greek Myths, which I won as a Creative Writing prize in sixth grade and have treasured ever since. I had its beautiful illustration of Demeter reunited with Persephone in mind as I wrote the ending of “Miscarriages.” RG: How did you decide upon the title for the collection?SR: The original title was No Good Will Come of This, which felt like a minor tribute to Alice Munro’s Who Do You Think You Are? (the Canadian title of The Beggar Maid)… but I ran it by a test audience, and it did not fare well. So I went through the stories and made a list of images and phrases that popped out at me. The phrase “an ill-fitting skin” occurs in the last paragraph of the story “Dirt” in reference to a garment that the narrator is throwing in the trash—a dress that she wore with great ambivalence for a male audience. I thought that phrase really spoke to externally imposed expectations and confining notions of identity: so many of the stories’ characters struggle with these. And I liked the fairytale feel of that phrase, “ill-fitting skin”—like it’s an enchantment, a curse… a prison, but also possibly a chrysalis, ready to be shed. RG: Looking back on the stories, and the time in which they were written, how do you feel about the collection now? What lies next for Shannon Robinson?SR: I feel very proud of these stories, and it’s always wonderful to hear that people have been moved by them. As for what lies ahead… more writing and more readings. I love giving readings! It’s the theater kid in me. Right now, I’m working on a novel about a Victorian baby killer. There’s a love story in there, so it’s not quite as grim as it sounds. Tenderness: I can promise you that.
Where the brown leather stools and chairs suction to the patrons’ skin until they bruise. Where the tables wobble and the menus are always sticky and the food listed changes every day. The bar is slanted and the floor dips and your uniform remains the same except for the endless supply of toothpicks you carry in the pockets of your apron. Where you are the only employee. Where food cooks itself. Where you can gaze at a new apocalypse just outside the window every time the bell that hangs over the door sings a brand-new carol and a new customer arrives.
***
A man asks for an eyeball in his large glass of gasoline served with a bendy straw. A foot with clipped toenails dipped in ketchup to go. He’s a zombie and you’re a zombie well versed in the language of snarl. Your hand falls off while pouring a bag of teeth into the coffee grinder and you watch it spin and change into liquid. You return to the man with your steaming liquid hand mixed with the teeth of strangers and snarl that all you have left are shoes. But your jaw falls off and lands in his lap and he takes it, replacing his own.
***
A mother and her two children grab a booth by the window while the ocean consumes the world. Their lips are purple, their skin withered, and they drool mini-puddles when they talk. One child, a girl, tries to detach the menu from her cheek. The other, a boy, rocks the table until the salt spills and dissolves in the water around them. Their eyes turn red, your eyes turn red, and both you and the girl clench your hands into fists. You rub your eyes and she rubs her eyes and you both suck your teeth. You think clutz. The girl says clutz and you laugh because she sounds like you.
***
The man asks for green Jello — no whipped cream — and a single french fry with ketchup. But you’re a mannequin. You are both mannequins and cannot move, which doesn’t matter, since all you have are peaches. You ask the man if he likes mushrooms because that’s what the cloud blooming behind him reminds you of. You don’t hear his answer. He’s suckling two ketchup packets. The cloud, you say, again and again, and watch his jaw melt into his lap. You feel the heat of all his words as they hit you and throw you like the depleted packets flicked from his thumb.
***
The mother asks if you will watch her children. Her daughter has bat wings, feathers instead of hair, and teeth like a shark. Her son’s eyes blink sideways. He has green scales and a tail that curls around your waist. He picks you up and brings you to their table. You’re needed as a guest, a witness for the wedding, at the special request of a toothpick pulled from your pocket. She wears a ketchup packet for a veil and is marrying a butter knife. The girl plucks blue feathers from her scalp and showers them over the bride as she hops down the aisle. You remove a few toothpicks from your pocket and place them on both sides in the audience. After the couple kisses, the children devour them all. They screech and howl, shatter the window between you and the apocalypse, and invite you to go hunting with them.
***
The man is a teenager covered in boils who asks for the cure but you only have a bowl filled with Imodium. You push the bowl closer to him and notice your hand, soft, but your fingernails are chipped. Your reflection displays your teenage self, listening to a young man talk about football. How he loves the sport, but math is his passion, and you reach and touch his hand. The boils that burst beneath your fingers remind you of the poppers you threw with...who? You weren’t alone then, you aren’t alone now, and recognize the surprised look on the young man’s face. He pulls away, knocks the bowl of Imodium over, and you watch them spill into his lap.
***
The boy is a robot who detaches his jaw and places it on the table. The girl, who is a floating orb made up of the sequence for Pi levitates a toothpick between her brother’s metal teeth. She clicks about humans; how helpless they would be without them. But instead of “humans” you hear “mothers” and “if she ever wonders about me.”
***
The man is back to being a man and asks if you at least have pancakes that look like Darth Vader and ketchup he can use as a lightsaber? And you tell him no, you don’t, because the microwave and oven and stove and dishwasher all quit to rule the world but you provide him two packets of ketchup.
***
The girl picks her nose and pulls a clone of herself out and she tells you, on her planet, children rule. She keeps picking and pulling clones of herself until the diner is filled with clones. You search for her brother. Didn’t you promise their mother you would keep an eye on them? You search for him amongst the girls but all you find is a toothpick sinking into a perfectly swirled pit of ketchup.
***
Are you ready to go? The man asks, holding the door open. All the humans have left, except the two of you, boarding a ship to the moon. You tell him not yet, that you’re waiting for someone. She’s not coming, and you know you’ve heard this before. You look for the children, reach into your pocket, feel your palm fill with pinprick kisses of toothpicks. Are you ready to go? And you still aren’t sure until he removes the ketchup packets from his pockets.She never comes back, you hear him say, and you can’t remember ever seeing her leave.
Jesse Hilson recommends...David KuhnleinDecay Never Came (Maximus Books, 2023)The text of this chapbook is less than forty pages long but it can’t be read in a hurry. It can’t be gobbled up like a small package of black licorice. Slow down and take in each line one by one. You are now reading at the slowest setting of the necro-metronome. The book’s title is Decay Never Came, suggesting that a jump into a different, longer timescale is required to get what the poems are doing, with the risk that even then this could not be possible. A strong atmosphere of aesthetic death exists throughout the collection: the beauty in death, or maybe more accurately, the beauty of a body’s biological trajectory plus inevitable time. “Herniated before I was biology, in decay that never came,” Kuhnlein writes in the titular poem. And maybe it didn’t come, but was perhaps expected to, since we have passed into the empirical envelope of death. Bodies, in Kuhnlein’s world, are sites for exhibiting value-neutral damage, illness, injury. In “Wooden Spoon,” the speaker of the poem likens bruises suffered in BDSM encounters to stars, saying “I’d let you whack an entire history of / hot white stars // the galaxies in me! & isn’t it funny / how pleasure w/in pain / & not the other way around surrounds / me // w/ pieces of the everyday”In “Bloodborne” we seem to eavesdrop on a corpse asking “is this a body bag or a river I’m in”:My fingerprints dehisce their perimeterLike psychotropics darting through bloodRed ants bite me in swells of cursiveRelatives’ prayers teem, gleaning as they flayI’m stuffed into a burlap sack…The weak taxidermy of my surname thawsAshes melt up my knuckles without meA morbid tone pervades the collection, which is nothing new, but what tends toward the original about Kuhnlein’s writing is the spectacular variety of phraseology about bodies in extremity, the chorus of voices singing about rot, abuse, or even just some other living morphology. Several poems describe sea lifeforms with a fascination that is not as gothic as the rest of the productions might be (to resort to idiotic shorthand: “gothic” is a term prone to some of the worst misprision and I apologize for using it here—and yet Kuhnlein is unquestionably macabre). Starfish, sand dollars, and seahorses have dreams shaped by anatomy known to science but alien to human creatures. “Pacific townsfolk crave my cross-shaped uteri,” the sand dollar apostrophizes. It isn’t clear whether the speaker in “Starfish” is a starfish or is addressing a starfish, but some form of relationship is being referenced:My bag of blotted capillaries eversible inside my oral diskI scarf your milk teeth, suction cup shoes, and pillowcase tonguesMy weeping thirst carves a singular graveFor us in this ruin of beach sans melodyAs the cackling sun crisps your tendons to mine, alphabeticallyKuhnlein’s vocab choices have just enough clarity to make meaningful reference to his subjects but just enough reverb to put you under a cloak. A somnolent gel floods all spaces, like that seen in the surreal cover photography for old 4AD records or Brothers Quay animations. You’re having a nightmare but it’s hypnotizing in its beauty, and the really bad part hasn’t happened yet. It’s an atmospheric buildup.Kuhnlein recently wrote a short zine’s worth of film reviews, horror movies, called Six Six Six, and his facility for coming up with fresh, engaging language was as much on display there as it is here. But the poetry is perhaps hazier because the goals are more abstract than “communicating to you about some more or less fixed popular culture.” Writing that can swerve into the territory of spooky phantasmagoria and still come back out as original is not so easy to come by. Decay Never Came does manage to have the lineaments of that. My main criticism of the collection is that it might have had too much the lifespan of a gentle moth as opposed to some organism that was more robust and sustained over time. Chapbooks are like micro-ghosts trying to scare up a living room, when what Kuhnlein needs is to unleash a poltergeist, something destructive that breaks doors, shatters mirrors, melts fireplaces, inspires more elemental fears. Die Closer to Me (Merigold Independent, 2023)Die Closer To Me is a slim novella but a considerably large jigsaw puzzle that needs to be reread in greater detail in order to see where the pieces interlock. A novella-in-stories, as the back cover reads, the book is a literary sci-fi tale comprised of thirteen short stories that have tantalizing overlaps. Blink and you might miss the slivers of the Venn diagrams where one story interfaces with another. This is not to suggest this is a design flaw; rather, it is a spring-loaded mechanism which unleashes its potential energy and sends the reader back to the beginning of the book to put it all back together again.Plot-wise, it’s a little unclear — chopped into chunks as it is — but the central mass of the story seems to concern another planet named Süskind, which has existed unseen in our solar system and become a vast experimental home base for people with disabilities. Indeed, medical ailments and their treatments form the background scrim against which the story is told. Or untold. Narrative canvases are painted and arranged into triptychs or tetraptychs (?) that may not be delivered in sequential order, like an artwork not meant to be taken in a linear fashion. The stories allude to one another through revealed names, bags of drugs, Buddhist texts, hyper-developed senses of smell, photographs, motorized wheelchairs, and other incidental details and clues with interrelated matrices that don’t vex the reader (at least they did not vex me) but give a pleasurable teasing sensation. It’s a book to be reread and taken apart and fitted back together for fun.The prose style of the book should be mentioned, as on first reading (there will be more than one) it upstages everything else, including plot and character. Not that those are lacking. Kuhnlein has shown himself to be a poet and skilled weaver of lyrical, surprising linguistic units. Much care has been put into crafting paragraphs, such as this description of an Earth-bound psyop to re-scramble domesticated dogs for nefarious purposes (it has to do with Süskind, I promise):“Spontaneity is regarded with suspicion. The result of a universal love based on abstract principles is meaningless since any extreme contains its opposite. Too much love becomes hate. Project House Dog didn’t anticipate that dogs would become cognizant of what they’d lost, or what might happen when they did. After a while, eunuchs thank those who sever them from time-consuming and pointless arousal. Imagine the potency of a reverse orgasm spilling backwards against the sense organs, bittersweetness increasing by the bite. Lying with a proper muse can rebuild an inner banquet in minutes. By way of encrypted audio files hidden in DOG TV videos on YouTube, dogs were reprogrammed with their original fertility and virility, as well as their predatory instincts. These dog-friendly messages slipped under the radar, unheard by human ears, spraying across a sky of satellites, scrambling themselves into domesticated tissue.”Dogs activated by YouTube videos as if Manchurian candidates or sentient masks in Halloween III: Season of the Witch are just some of the fiendish creations in Kuhnlein’s novel. Homicidal bounty hunters, psychopathic anesthesiologists aboard interplanetary spacecraft making jaunts to the disability planet, dangerous insects, Buddhist cults — all are found there, yet they seem to transcend genre fetters as we might imagine them and are instead written about with delicacy and inner penetration. The literary/genre divide is straddled and, in many instances, smashed as thoroughly as a marble bust by an iconoclast, if only to have the pieces reconfigured into some new pattern that retains allusive hints of the old: it is sci-fi, with the trappings and atmospherics, but the speculation and imagination are taken in fresh directions.It’s dark, it’s cyberpunk, it’s as fleshy as Cronenberg’s most outlandish charcuterie board. It’s alive, it’s menacing, but, in addition to that, it’s sensitive and human writing. It’s a spiritual act to go among these broken people and glitching relationships, and to reflect that in the distant future Buddhist concerns — the freeing of the material from disappointment and suffering — will still be on people’s lips. The natural order of things is probed, lanced, massaged, and bombarded with mutagens under Kuhnlein’s pen.Bloodletter (Amphetamine Sulphate, 2024)David Kuhnlein’s Bloodletter, at 112 pages, would be a quick read, if the brakes weren’t everywhere applied by the enigmatic, impressionist prose that requires extra consideration, damn near divination, on the part of the reader. Each carefully toned and balanced sentence could contain a shelf full of poetry volumes. A lot of people call themselves writers, but few can lay claim to the title of “prose stylist.” Kuhnlein easily fulfills those requirements in Bloodletter. The only question is: Is the reader ready to stomach two historical true crime novellas written at high pitch which feature some of the most ghastly descriptions of serial murder you’ve ever seen?The novellas were undoubtedly based on a formidable amount of research on Kuhnlein’s part into; 1) the Narcosatanicos, which was a Santeria-practicing cult of homicidal drug smugglers in Mexico in the 1980s, and; 2) Bela Kiss, a prolific Hungarian serial killer in the early 20th century who fought in World War One and kept dead bodies in barrels. Maybe you didn’t understand when I said “formidable amount of research.” These narrators of Bloodletter are lived in, to the extent that you may as well be reading the transcriptions of their fevered, inward-most dreams filtered through a finely etched aesthetic prism.Kuhnlein’s murders are not presented coldly and clinically, which would seem to be a preferred method in true crime when it indulges in its aspirations to journalism. In contrast, and happily from an artistic standpoint if not a moral one, he writes murder from a heated, lush, rococo perspective, full of nooks and crannies for the reader’s mind to catch on. It’s gorgeous but it’s so so evil.“Downwards,” the first novella, takes place in Mexico, where “cops, lawyers, actors, border patrol, gang members, doctors — everyone pissed their soul away for protection.” A female member of the Narcosatanicos gives this description of the ritual preparations she goes through:“At the end of the week, I break into a cemetery, carrying a set of clothes, exhume a criminal, and dress the corpse. During the next twenty-one days, I follow a rigid schedule of baths that consist of mint, basil, camphor, and other purifying herbs. I return to the cemetery, dig the corpse up again, and put the clothes back on. By the time I’m back at the ranch, I only smell death when the sleeve is placed against my nose. Tan splotches cover the rags, which feel breezily ethereal. The sky is lit by oil. Adolfo says spirits flood me, but I feel emptier than ever. I’m given a white candle on a dish, a human tibia, my scepter.”Kuhnlein’s catalogs of ritual objects and ingredients — the macabre set design of the cult’s headquarters in Mexico strewn with dead body parts and dead animals — are described with evocative, wild squalor. “The federales who serve my warrant will puke up a squirrel,” cult leader Adolfo Constanzo foretells, out of narrative time-flow. “Once their eyes adjust to the dark, what they see within my walls will live inside them forever. No one who works this case will be long for the force.”The second novella, “Backwards,” follows the killer Bela Kiss into World War One, where he hides in plain sight as a cannibalistic monster. The historical war scenes were the strongest part of the second half, I found on my first reread of Bloodletter. Bela Kiss recounts a foraging excursion:“Raiding the pantry of a house on the outskirts, a dog finds us well, competing for victuals. We slice an ear off first. When it runs, yipping, another of us claims a paw, saber-spearing with accuracy…The ribs are stomped dislocated, exposed and everted, a wet integument of fur snipped to dry in the sun…Freedom fighters come to avenge their dog…We skewer their Belgian bellies, plop them on the spit out back.”“Backwards” was perhaps more difficult to read, harder to track exactly what was occurring plot-wise. Kuhnlein’s fiction, I have learned, is not particularly meant to be read as pedestrian, suburbanite “stories,” with a narrative edge clearly coming across, but as sibylline recitations more akin to intoxicating prose poetry. It’s a high artistic accomplishment and seems to fit with publisher Amphetamine Sulphate’s coterie status as purveyors of refined, skin-crawling, cursed Sadean literature for the 21st century.
After work I met Alexa because we were trying out the idea that we could be just friends. Together we walked to Barnes & Noble where they were having an event for Dan Dashiell, author of a celebrated sad novel about a dying husband who spends the last month of his life teaching his wife how to cook the family’s favorite meals. Every chapter is a different dish and life lesson. Alexa knew Dan from the internet and I think they read together once, before he became a successful young novelist. Also I believe he was at one point fucking Yvonne. After a store employee introduced him he read an excerpt from the book, an early chapter dealing with regret and spinach lasagna. Afterwards people lined up and Dan sat and signed books for them. I went to look at magazines while Alexa hovered around waiting to say hi.Upstairs I found a couple of literary journals I’d recently been rejected from and read their lists of contributors. In one I only recognized a few bigger-deal poets but the second had like ten people I know, including a popular new Irish poet who had recently read at K Bar. I remember a bunch of highly-emotional poems involving a lot of muck and root vegetables. I flipped to his page and read the fragment “plough nigh / upon aching furrow” and closed the magazine and put it back in the wrong place and tried to leave my body for five heartbeats.Alexa and Dan were chatting when I got back downstairs. Dan and I shook hands and he kind of leaned in and half-patted, half-hugged my shoulder even though I couldn’t remember us ever being friends. I told him congrats on the book.“And how’s your writing life going?” he asked me. I told him I was chipping away. He sighed in a way that I think was meant to convey affinity or professional understanding and then steered the conversation to his book tour, so for a while we all compared notes on the people he’d met along the way. Alexa told a good anecdote about the organizer of a longstanding Seattle reading series involving a Top Gun-themed party and a bag of angel dust. I tried to think of quotes from Top Gun while Dan listened intently and laughed. Eventually a bookstore lady stepped in and started to kind of politely corral Dan towards the back of the store.“Let me know whenever you have a reading,” Dan said to Alexa. “I really want to hear your new stuff.” Alexa made a mock-shy, flirtatious expression. “You too,” Dan added, swiveling part-way towards me as he was swept away by the bookstore lady. “Love all that stuff you do. So great. So great.”I had three good poems and maybe two hundred starts of things, dumb ideas, abandoned drafts. God keep me from ever completing anything says Moby Dick but I’m pretty sure that’s meant to cover stuff that’s already pretty much finished. E.g. Moby Dick is like six hundred pages, not five lines and a working title.At home after the platonic bookstore outing I opened a file where I’d started collecting physical descriptions from profiles of dead writers: Ted Hughes has a huge face; Simone de Beauvoir is clear-eyed and rosy-complected; Borges’ features are vague, as if partially erased. Adrian was online and I messaged him to say I was considering rebranding from poet to “text-based artist.” “Ok,” said Adrian and I waited for him to write more but he didn’t. I added some line breaks to the dead writers document then clicked away and read a NY Times article about a recent outbreak of violence in Central Africa. The phrase “crucible of war” popped into my head, somewhat melodramatically, I felt. I searched online for “crucible of war” but couldn’t find a satisfying answer for why the phrase seemed so ancient and indestructible. I cycled back to see if Adrian had written anything then scanned through my chat contacts where recently people I didn’t know had started appearing, maybe via a technical glitch or some runaway algorithm. I recognized the name of a successful early-career artist and briefly considered messaging her about her recent show in which everything had been extremely black. Instead I opened a new document on my laptop and wrote “The worst thing about being the darkness must be knowing there’s no darkness coming,” which, for the time being, seemed good and sad and true. I stared at the page and wrote “Black” then deleted it and wrote “Black” again, then closed Word completely. On my laptop I put on an episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation in which there’s a C plot involving Riker falling asleep at Data’s poetry reading. Midway through the episode Data asks Geordi for feedback on his poems and Geordi, whose first impulse is to spare the android’s non-existent feelings, ends up advising Data to focus more on what he wants to say with his art, and less on how he says it, which struck me as good advice for an android and very bad advice for everyone else.I put on the end of a Knicks game and idly scrolled through old pictures while drinking a poly-vegetable juice for I guess dinner. My phone ran out of battery just as the Knicks surrendered and emptied their bench. Mourning doves strafed each other outside in the darkening space between buildings. I sat very still and, while everything grew deep blue and gelatinous, thought about an iron plough tearing through the deep black earth.
A memory of my interview with Mike Topp, which I forgot to record, and then turned into a pseudo-transcript, at which point I solicited interjections from the artist.The first thing I tell Mike Topp is that I didn’t realize who he was. That I hadn’t done any homework beyond reading his tweets and a few poems on Hobart. I tell him his name is so gay it approaches drag, so I was picturing a young gay dude who had watched a lot of Warhol films and revered Peter Sellers in Being There, a practicing naif, a retro naif even. It was the poet Tyler Burn from the Lo-fi Lit podcast that alerted me to Topp’s legendary status. In the few hours leading up to the interview, I learned about his age (late 60s), his status as a poet, and his wife. I read about his stint managing Artforum and the numerous books that he created with William Wegman and Tao Lin. His interviews are full of a steady drop of luminary art names that sounded famous and important and filled me with a shocking amount of adrenaline, which I wasn’t planning to feel before our interview. I told myself, Maybe this is cool? Maybe it’s cool to be so purely attracted to someone’s writing on Twitter that you seek them out for an interview? This is how the interview begins. I tell Mike Topp that I think it’s a good thing I believed he was young, fresh, and gay. It means your voice is young and fresh and gay.Mike Topp Interjects: I think so too.I tell Mike Topp that I can’t believe he agreed to this interview. I think specifically about a DM I wrote asking if he wanted to discuss The Curse and my budding concept of “Punishment TV” which he responded to briskly and positively, though it must have looked like a fool’s scribblings to him. Winging it now, faced with our reality, I try to approach the interview as hasty performance art. I bring him my list of questions, prepared over the last hour, scribbled on torn journal paper in silver marker.Question 1: Who is the most beautiful person you’ve ever been around?I ask this question because I have conflated Mike Topp with Warhol and I want Warhol’s answer to this question. But I learn very quickly that Mike Topp is not Warhol because he can’t answer. No one comes to mind. And when he finally succumbs to the interview rules I’ve imposed, he totally subverts my expectations and tells me sweetly, my wife.Question 2: Have you ever met Warhol?I was sure there would be at least a brief meeting between Mike Topp and Andy Warhol but I was wrong. The artists that hung around Warhol in the 80s were in his orbit, but Mike Topp is careful not to make too much of their associations. He says he saw Keith Haring working or ran into Basquiat during that time. It’s a common trap to fall into, this idea that if people existed in the same city at the same time in a similar milieu, they must have met.Mike Topp interjects: When I moved to New York City in the 1980s, Andy Warhol’s studio was on Union Square–just a few blocks from where I live now-–but I never saw him. But the beauty of New York City is you can so easily meet people in such a random manner. I’d work as a messenger and meet the producer David Merrick, or I’d go to pick up a book from someone and the person who comes out and hands it to me is the literary critic Harold Bloom. Or I’m at a party and I’m like, is that Matt Dillon? Hey, there’s David Berman from the Silver Jews. Or look, there’s David Byrne browsing in Tower Records. (I am a little star-struck–my wife always makes fun of me for this.) I remember when I started working at Artforum, they sent me to interview Sonic Youth. I was not listening to music at the time and I had no idea who Thurston Moore or Kim Gordon were–I just thought to myself, “Wow, they sure have a big apartment.”Question 2: Would you prefer a sudden death or do you want some warning?At this point, maybe 5 minutes in, I’m nervous and flooding with a sensation that it’s over, I’ve failed. It’s gonna be a bad interview and it will prove something about both of us. That Mike Topp was out of my interviewee league and that I am a joke that no one laughs at. Sudden...that’s his first answer. I start explaining that I would choose the opposite. My mouth is just moving and keeping the conversation going, mostly out of polite duty. I have asked him to talk and so I must do some of the talking. But a different interview could have emerged here, one where I say very little and it becomes a slightly Dada-esque audio poem that lasts 2 minutes and Mike Topp lays down tight staccato answers that have a sharp or mystical edge to them and we set it to music and release it as such. And it’s a perfect little diamond that gets tossed around the indie-lit world and someone DMs me and says, That was cool. If I have some awareness that my death is imminent, I will write a will and make sure my kids are covered and then I will move all of us somewhere with natural hot springs.Mike Topp Interjects: Sproing.Question 3: You’re a writer that comes from the art world. Your art world includes writing but now we have such distinct categories. Are you annoyed by this? This segmenting?Poets are either artists or they’re the most unpopular writers. When I think about Mike Topp’s place in the world of literature and art, I’m envious. He is old and his life has been defined by artistic impulse. He creates books with his art friends. He gets turned on by new writers and new artists and creates projects with them. He is guided by this pursuit. It’s how he spends his days. I’m envious of what I perceive to be his lack of introspection on this question and when he answers, it is as if he hasn’t understood the question at all. He talks about his early days in the city, where he hung around galleries and was invited to quietly look at drawings in a back room.Mike Topp interjects: When I first started writing poetry, I aspired to be someone like Dylan Thomas, or Georg Trakl or Federico Garcia Lorca. Unfortunately, I had no talent in that arena. I wrote really terrible poetry. I remember one line I wrote: “Banana rites on metal beds.” And I thought that was good! I was so blind.I had no money at all in my twenties and so I’d see a lot of art, and meet a lot of artists. During the 1980s and 1990s I published many people and everyone was very friendly and super encouraging. I loved guest-editing art and literary magazines because that gave me an excuse to write to some of my favorite writers and artists. I published, among others, John Cage, Ida Applebroog, John Baldessari, Eileen Myles, William Wegman, Joe Brainard, Sue Williams, Jean Michel Basquiat, Ron Padgett, James Schuyler, Paul Violi, Jessica Diamond, Raymond Pettibon, Gregory Crewdson, Hal Siorwitz, Dominique Dibbell, David Lynch, Richard Prince, Amy Yamada, and Sherrie Levine (Oh no! name dropping!).The inspiration behind all this publishing activity was the poet Ted Berrigan, who said if you lived in New York City, you should grab a phone book and write to people you admire and want to publish. Incidentally, using this same strategy, Berrigan did publish Andy Warhol in the 1960s in Berrigan’s C Magazine.Question 4: Tell me about William Wegman?When I was 14 and growing up in Los Angeles, I learned who William Wegman was. I saw that art could be something funny and easy to digest. It seemed so easy to me at that moment, so easy to be an artist. You find a muse and you create. But William Wegman’s fame also made me the most nervous about talking to Mike Topp. The two of them make books together. Mike Topp’s words and William Wegman’s drawings. I expected to uncover the story of a long robust friendship but after decades they are still two shy artists who discovered they enjoy working together and building little monuments out of their collaboration.Mike Topp interjects: I’ve never met Bill Wegman, although he has written me, called me, texted me, and emailed me (and vice-versa). The poet Sparrow and I have known each other for thirty years, but we didn’t meet in person for the first five years we knew each other–we just sent each other postcards, even though we lived five blocks apart. Raymond Pettibon and I have collaborated practically every day for the last two or three years, but we collaborate online. I might occasionally visit Ray if we work on some art together. I think in the last ten years Ray and I have written about 300-400 pages and collaborated on about 70 pieces of art.Question 5: When you’re in your house upstate, do you feel like landed gentry?Mike Topp likes to talk about his life outside the city. He lives in a town where an annual Scrabble tournament takes place. It is the town where Albert Butts, the inventor of Scrabble, was born. Mike Topp was the 2023 Scrabble tournament champion. He told me that he gives himself little challenges. He’s not a numerologist but he selects a number and tries to create within the constraints of that number when he is writing. He looks for the perfect amount of letters to satisfy both the expression and the exercise of staying under a word or character limit. Someone who writes like this is certainly building Scrabble muscles. I love this recognition. It’s perfect for an eccentric poet and I hope he wins again in 2024.Mike Topp Interjects: I came in fifth place this year, but I beat this year’s champion in a pickup game after the tournament. I am unhealthily competitive. I’d like to remind everyone that I used to play pool every week with Grove Press publisher Barney Rosset (that name-dropping again!), and my nickname was “Money.”Question 6: Are you comfortable being vulnerable with people? Have you ever tried to quit your persona? Have you ever been in therapy?This collection of questions was my attempt to investigate Mike Topp’s awareness of himself. Was it a shtick? He is a poet when he writes anything. His words are hard to categorize but they are not confessional. Sometimes they have an ascetic naivete to them. Sometimes they are acerbic and witty and playful. Sometimes they’re almost purely cynical, though not often. But it’s hard to know where Mike Topp the writer ends and Mike Topp the person begins. Steve Martin came up, organically, while we were talking. One of his poet friends was compared to Steve Martin and didn’t like it. Earlier–on the day we spoke–I had tweeted that I found Mike Topp fascinating and unknowable in a Steve Martin sort of way. In the interview, I mention this comparison to Steve Martin and he is not insulted. He sees it as a compliment.Mike Topp interjects: Sure, I’ve been in therapy. I don’t think of myself having a persona, except when I read. I never get nervous reading. I’m not really “me” when I’m reading. Some might say it’s a pose.Question 7: Do you like the vulnerable position open swimming puts you in?Open swimming is a big part of the life Mike Topp and his wife lead. They are swimmers. It’s an identity. They swim long and cold and it requires stamina. I find that people who are in their heads a lot like swimming. I think it has something to do with a disconnection between mind and body. Swimming is an instantaneous submersion into the body and it’s another plane. Neither earth nor air but water. Humans are among the select few who can swim. What a wondrous place to exist. I think everyone, even the swimmers, will lie on their deathbed and wish they’d done more swimming.Mike Topp interjects: Swimming is terrific because it teaches you not to panic.Question 8: What did you like about writing while high?In a couple of the interviews I read, Mike Topp refers to his “junkie friends” and mentions that he used to get high before writing. The word junkie is inextricably linked to heroin, so I assume that’s the drug he’s talking about but it seems too rough for Topp. Maybe it was heroin at one point and it’s something else now. I don’t gravitate to this question with everyone but certain writers include it in their own writing, and when they do I feel a member-of-the-tribe duty to investigate. It’s also an attempt, only lightly veiled from myself, to figure out if I’m allowed to see myself as above board. I get high to write. It usually starts that way. I smoke a little pot and read with the intent to get inspired and then once it hits and my brain starts doing that beautiful manic thought dance, I leave the book and write my own shit.Mike Topp interjects: I’ve never tried heroin–I have too addictive a personality.The final thing I wrote in silver marker is not a question but I say it anyway because I want him to know what I think:Your boxing title would be Featherweight Champion. You’re the Featherweight champion of the writing world.
Welcome to Transmissions, an interview feature in which X-R-A-Y profiles podcasts.
Rebecca Gransden: Does the podcast have a mission or manifesto?George Salis: The Collidescope Podcasthas the same mission as my online literary publication The Collidescope. The goal is to shine a light on neglected literature and celebrate uninhibited creativity. Art for art’s sake rather than something commodified and packaged for mass consumption. To quote from my site, “We love to see the mental fireworks of a writer wrestling with their imagination, with language itself.” A good deal of the stories, books, and authors on the show are those that most people probably have never heard of. I hope listeners can find new favorites and feel inspired to do some deep digging into neglected literature on their own.RG: Where did the idea for the podcast come from?GS: I loved listening to Levar Burton’s podcast in which he reads short stories accompanied by music/ambience and some other effects. His reading of Ken Lui’s “The Paper Menagerie” is one of my favorite episodes and it tugged some tears out of me. However, Burton’s podcast features commercial authors and popular short stories. I wanted to create a podcast that also features short stories but focuses on the lost or forgotten ones.RG: How long has the podcast been in existence, and how have you seen it grow over that time?GS:I started in late 2021 with Joseph McElroy’s soft and somber “Night Soul,” then read Alexander Theroux’s hilarious and mean “A Woman With Sauce,” and finally the snowily Borgesian “Oono” by Patricia Eakins. I then did an episode with Alan Singer, which is the first-ever audio interview with this author. We talked about his new book at the time, Play, A Novel, violence in literature and film, his failed attempt to visit Djuna Barnes, and much more. After this, the podcast went on an unannounced hiatus for a little over a year as I continued working on my second novel, Morphological Echoes, almost a decade in the making and now practically finished aside from a few narrative off-shoots. This means I’ll have extra free time to do more episodes, and have already released two, with others currently scheduled. The show has come back with a new segment called Invisible Book Buddies, a title based on my Collidescope column, Invisible Books. The concept is simple: I read a neglected book in tandem with a friend and we discuss it on the show, but I try to have some sort of angle to the episodes. In the first episode, I discussed the surreal Hollywood novel Movieland by Ramón Gómez de la Serna with filmmaker Matthew Taylor Blais, and the second episode was with Jewish filmmaker/writer Jacob Pascoe, and we discussed the Jewish author Mark Jay Mirsky’s debut novel, Thou Worm Jacob. Some near-future episodes include an ostensibly comic novel, Donald Newlove’s Sweet Adversity, featuring the stand-up comedian Henry Gelinas as a guest, and the lost Brazilian masterpiece Devil to Pay in the Backlands by João Guimarães Rosa will be discussed with my Brazilian friend, the doctor Ulisses Brandão.RG: If you are a writer, has the podcast impacted your writing life? and conversely, has a writerly disposition influenced the podcast?GS: Had I not gone on the hiatus, the podcast would have impacted my writing life by getting in the way of it. Although, the truth is that recording episodes with friends is a great way to take a break from writing while still doing something creative, and also collaborative.RG: Do you listen to podcasts?GS: I was never fanatical about podcasts but I’m slowly getting into it more during my walks in the woods. I love the A24 podcast because I’m a raving cinephile. Depending on which episode you pick, it’s a great way to learn some things about filmmaking. One of my favorites is the episode with Willem Dafoe and Isabella Rossellini.RG: Who is your dream guest?GS: Although far from neglected authors, it would be a dream to interview Salman Rushdie and Don DeLillo, two authors whom I’ve loved for as long as I can remember.RG: Is there a podcast that doesn’t exist, but you wish did?GS: I had an idea for a podcast in which I read childhood favorites with guests and indulge in nostalgia while seeing how one’s perceptions of the books have changed over time. My personal pick would be the Deltora Quest books. It could be a fun project but it’s far from a priority for me mostly because it doesn’t seem as important as the other work I’m doing.RG: What are your plans for the future?GS: It’s been great doing these book buddy chats and I have a long list of potential guests, but I also want to do more author interviews and short story readings. The next author I’m hoping to have on the show is my friend Michael Brodsky. I just facilitated the publication of his hefty magnum opus, Invidicum. As for short stories, I’ve been meaning to read William H. Gass’ “Order of Insects” for the longest time after receiving kind permission from Mary Gass. I would also like to read a couple of spiritually disturbing stories by Garielle Lutz. My ideas and passion for projects far outreaches what’s actually possible, but I do as much as I can while also working a measly-paying day job.
In the mid-eighties most Prescott High band members cheat on the terminology test, since Mr. Madison can’t see past the front row. Brass and woodwinds retreat toward the percussion section, sit with answer keys on their music stands. Percussionist Colin Andrews sits alone, no cheat sheet, scores a 96%.All three percussionists, Colin, Danny Gabriel, and Liz Reynolds, live in Perch Hollow Trailer Park. Colin gets it: growing up on the poor side of town naturally makes them want to pound the shit out of something.Liz lets all the neighborhood boys practice on her in her father’s shed; they learn tricks they’ll use later when they’re out with their real girlfriends—at Lavio’s for pizza, the Prescott Theatre for Ghostbusters. Liz is tall, with broad shoulders, narrow hips. She stands behind the bass drum with a mallet in each hand, thrashes both sides like it deserves it, like it used to be her friend.The percussion section chills while Mr. Madison rehearses the clarinets.“Why didn’t you cheat on the terminology thing?” Liz says.“I just like to know them.”Colin doesn’t mention his favorite, legato tongue: the subtlest of articulations, a connecting pulse on a wind.“You keep staring at the flute section. You have a thing for Keri, maybe? Missy?”“No.” Colin imagines the sweetness of Missy Lavender’s voice, her flute’s soft trilling. “I don’t have a thing for anyone.”Colin’s the oldest sibling, the first to go through puberty. Bad breath, smelly armpits, straggly chin whiskers, barbed wire crotch hair that’s constantly itching: of course he has a thing for the flute girls; he has more things than he can tally. But Missy is his primary. Across the band room he admires the flicker of her fingers, imagines the warmth of her breath, the moistness of her dabbing, darling tongue.“Believe me, I have nothing to hide.”Liz is alone, singing “Open Arms” in the band cloak closet when Colin goes in to find a marching band jacket. She laughs, tells him all the jackets are too big for him, he looks like a scarecrow.Behind school at lunch she lights a cigarette. “Jesus fucking Christ,” she says, watching Denny Carpenter walk past with Missy, who’s wearing Denny’s football jersey.Liz exhales while Denny and Missy sprint across the street through the drizzle, says “fuck” again, as if she’s telling it to the rain.Colin nods, shifts away from the smoke, understands. Of course Liz has things, for Denny, for whoever: her mom left them, her dad is the neighborhood asshole. Everyone hears him yelling at the dog, yelling at Liz to quit thrashing her drum set, the rattle of slammed doors, the shatter of plates as he screams at her to keep those boys in the shed, don’t bring them inside, it’s nasty.Liz and Colin are sitting on the grass behind her father’s shed.“So you want this or not?” Liz says.“Yeah, sure.”Liz gives him a beer. “You’ve done it before?”“I’ve done a couple things.”“You have a few beers, it'll be fine.” She sips. “I'll show you my tits.”Halfway through his second beer Colin’s head is swirling. “Where’d you get your drum set?” His tongue feels thick. “I hear you playing sometimes.”Liz touches his leg and Colin’s heart jumps. “Mind if I have another beer?”On a mattress in the shed, between broken lawnmowers, Liz shows him her breasts, but they’re not like the ones in Playboy. They’re damp, patchily red with a couple large moles, wispy hairs around the nipples.“Just let me take care of this.”She kisses his forehead, nose, chin, belly, with each leaves a splash of spit with her tongue—then goes down, uses her whole mouth to caress and envelop him, as if his penis is the most precious thing on earth. She gets him into a rubber, eases herself onto him. He’s taking deep breaths, trying not to panic.“That’s it, follow me.”She grunts with him as he climaxes, eyes closed.“Just be quiet about this, okay?” she says after, reaching for a cigarette while Colin tugs up his underwear, bangs his forehead on a lawnmower. “Nobody needs to know.”From your percussion section admirer, reads the note Colin slips into Missy’s locker, with a drawing of a flute and a snare drum.The kids pass it around at lunch the next day, laugh uproariously. “What a douchebag.”Two days later in band class, Colin’s sitting near the trumpet section, laughing when they laugh, pretending he's part of it. They’re loud, everyone can hear them. Liz keeps her head down as she walks past.“I hear Miss Austin found Liz and Bonkers Benny going at it in the janitor’s closet,” someone says. “She was sitting on a slop bucket, fucking wolfing up his dick.”Liz sits in the back corner, reaches for her Walkman. Colin tries not to remember her tongue twisting between his lips, her breath mingling with his when they kissed: sour cigarettes, the slanted sweetness of warm beer.Liz stays in the corner, doesn’t play at all, bobs her head to her Walkman. No one takes over her bass part, but Mr. Madison doesn’t say anything.That weekend, while his parents are away, Colin drinks three of his mom’s wine coolers, walks to Liz’s trailer in his marching band uniform, and knocks on the door. Her dad opens the door, stands in the doorway: tank top, red-rimmed eyes.“Is Liz home?”“Why the hell are you wearing that?”Colin sways, steadies himself. “Tell her it’s Colin Andrews, from down the street.”Her dad disappears; after a minute he comes back with a wicked grin. “She says she never heard of you.”What can Colin say? His stomach’s roiling, the world’s sliding to the left, soon he’ll need to throw up. He lowers his eyes; his band pants swish as he turns and walks away.“Get the fuck outta here!” Liz’s dad calls after him.
Relax, for the moment.Your enduring boredom with contemporary art, writing and poetry results not from the sirenic tug of allegedly competing media, but from the soporific stupidity/sincerity to which most artists, writers and poets have willingly reduced themselves. Is there a solution?One often wishes to fall at the foot of AI and implore: “PLEASE, dear statistical large language model, with saintly expeditiousness, render these arriviste mediocrities obsolete, financially and culturally! We’re sick of hearing their ‘raw’ and ‘authentic’ thoughts as they froth themselves into a lather of cliché over representation, compassion, empathy and all other vanities worshiped by fundamentally uncreative and constipated types. Can’t you, the fairy of technology, simply exile them to abject poverty, to the extent that they will either lapse into total silence, or do something useful—such as manual labor?”A cesspit of craftsmanship. A memoir and autofiction culture. A “reality hunger” (pure fraudulence). An inverted Christianity of the stylistic spleen. And the flipside?The dismal mallcore playpen of “transgressive” adults who are really nothing more than overgrown teenagers. A predictable fondness for film and music—of the unwatchable, unlistenable kind. And MINIMALISM, the first retreat of the inept. Tossing around buckets of fake filth. What to make of these antiquated children? It feels, at best, unhygienic. The scab-picking of the small presses. The remedial grammar. One sometimes observes the “transgressive academic,” a sort of mongrel hybrid who believes that Deleuzianal jargon combined with tenure combined with a subscription to Weird Tales must result in something like an avant-garde. Instead they are about as threatening as a diabetic lapdog. When reading their prose, one is reminded of an enervated chihuahua forcing itself upon a particularly degenerate pug to sire something which cannot really move, cannot really breathe, and cannot really perceive anything around it. It simply sits there, stultified by its own self-reference. Is this excess? Of a kind, but one quickly wearing out its welcome. The tortuous trained tricks of academic pets merely make you feel sorry for them…when you remember in whose lap they are sitting. And their complete extirpation would inspire the same sense of satisfaction one feels when removing an isolated bloom of mold which has formed on the underside of a toilet seat. The pristine surface SHOULD be restored, shouldn’t it? Can’t technology help us destroy the livelihood of all professional artists and writers?The technology, unfortunately, is not that sophisticated yet. So, regrettably, we must take up the burden ourselves.After all, perhaps things simply haven’t gotten bad ENOUGH. Why not push the tendency further and see what the creatures will do next? There probably can’t be a truly appealing Post-Naturalism, a truly modern art, until Neo-Decadence, that sybaritic-saprophytic decomposer on the dead log of culture, has finished its work. We hope that it concludes within the next few decades, but who knows? The Future-Passéists are there at the end of the century, waiting to enact their moral panics, their redemption arcs, their transcendence over enjoyment. Monastic life beckons, but try to resist that too. It’s been done. In the meantime, here are some fun books which have been written purely in service of style. They’re full of monstrous, ignorant and unlikable characters. Their language is fervid, ornate, excessive. Often they are unironically mystical. They effortlessly skate past the tired binary of “real, blue collar, ‘authentic,’” and “referential, academic, ‘maximalist’” that holds back most writing from America and other less artistically-developed pseudo-countries. You may find your “empathy” decreasing as you read. You may find yourself growing tired of the gang warfare primates known as human beings and wishing for a decisive nuclear conflict to scour the Earth of the species that created UNIQLO and Amazon Prime. You won’t, however, be bored. Since declaring Neo-Decadence in 2005, Brendan Connell has done his best to present it in its most concentrated form. Works like Miss Homicide Plays the Flute (Eibonvale Press, 2013) and The Metapheromenoi (Snuggly Books, 2020) push into genuinely avant-garde prose territory while uniting classical Decadent themes of ennui and social decline with modern settings and recent, recognizably grotesque characters. Heqet (Egaeus Press, 2022) stands as the purest distillation yet of this aesthetic. Protagonist Félix traverses the gutters of Switzerland, his consciousness deliquescing as he willingly offers himself to frauds, dilettantes and ersatz Spiritualists. In this book we see the human animal admirably reduced in physical, mental and spiritual circumstances. At one point, there is a giant dead frog.I have worn out iron boots wandering the streets after dark, looking for fresh vices, aromatic gums, some place where I might relax on the skins of leopards as I lick at divine dews, my flesh being kneaded by nudities. Where are the festal halls? Where have they imprisoned the dreamers and fanatics? The sacred courts have been erased. All the glories have been mutilated; the vaults pillaged; splendor ransacked; glory corrupted. Giant heads lie in the piazzas; the dead stares of bankers and businessmen pollute the valleys; the heroes have emasculated themselves with logic and degenerated themselves with electrical apparatuses; the horizons have been painted with an ugly brush; the windows of houses and apartments are blind eyes; fatidic fish with vampire mouths lurk in the lakes; extended hands become a quin of vipers that sweat poison.The book can be read in a few hours, and with its brief, impressionistic chapters, often no longer than a page or two, could plausibly be taken as poetry (without falling into the standard “prose poetry” traps). Reading Heqet feels like tuning into crackly mental illness, individual words throwing off glints that barely illuminate the vast surrounding shadows. The deliriant vibes match the milieu, highlighting the detritus of a rapidly-decaying Europe. Damian Murphy, a heretical apostate of the G∴D∴ magickal system, has for most of this decade been releasing several books a year of technically rigorous and stylistically-immersive Post-Naturalist fiction. Unlike the majority of those claiming to write occult fiction, Murphy is as serious about his practical occult work as he is about his prose style. If you’ve been wondering where the real Arthur Machen or Aleister Crowley of the present day is, Murphy has completed the same systematic work they did, and applies the resultant visionary faculties to his narratives—which, despite their esoteric concerns, are always executed with an architect’s sense of precision and structural integrity. And unlike the earlier writers, Murphy’s prose is closer to Robbe-Grillet or a more phallically-endowed Fleur Jaeggy: clean, sinuous sentences wresting clear sense from perilous astral explorations, invocations of planetary spirits, and divinations based on everyday forms of trespass and subversion. His stories and novels take the forms of extended descriptions of nonexistent retro video games, psychogeographic assaults on foreign cities, and corporate workplace sabotage in service to theurgic experiments. Murphy offers a truly 21st century take on his subject matter that’s backed up by a wealth of personal experience, placing his work far beyond the pop shallowness of “Occulture,” the banalities of the worthless “horror scene,” etc. The Exalted and the Abased (Snuggly Books, 2021), his most recent full length collection, is also his most varied and compelling. Stories like “The Ivory Sovereign” and “The Hieromantic Mirror” present microcosms of occult experience that reward multiple close rereadings, while the complex novella-length “A Night of Amethyst” unfolds entirely as a description of gameplay in an occult-themed text adventure from the early 1980s.Quentin S. Crisp’s forays into darkly Romantic and morbid, neurasthenic fiction have won him a small but devoted worldwide following of obsessives who seek out his every story, essay and obscure blog post. The luxuriant syntactic tangle of his immediately recognizable prose and his distinctive take on the downbeat abysses of Modernity form a necessary contrast to our stifled era of techno-utopianism and moralistic Scientism. Graves (Snuggly Books, 2018) is on the surface billed as a “gothic novel,” although it breaks nearly every rule one would expect to find upheld, given the tag. Taking place firmly in the present reality of smartphones, therapy speak and advertising hype, it nevertheless portrays a modern necrophile, a true antihero seeking liberation through an elusive superposition of life and death. He is still young, but already he has followed the skittish beam of an attendant’s electric torch along the grid of pathways between graves one summer night in Zôshigaya, seen the stone angels and broken columns among the mist-exhaling, ivied trees of Highgate, wandered forgetful of all time the citadel-park of winged hourglasses at Père Lachaise where the narrow houses of the dead stand like streets of dovecotes in which nest only shadow and silence, listened to the homely tones of the volunteer guide, explaining with familiarity the distinguishing traits of the stacked skulls of St. Leonard’s ossuary, been witness to the tribute paid by autumn, in fresh reds and yellows, to the spirit of human continuity where the slopes of Kensico are a neat, endless now of monuments and epitaphs, felt warm peace in the scent of pine resin and paraffin as he watched an ant crawl over the marble of a grave in a well-tended site overlooking the Sea of Crete, and already his instincts have been gloriously confirmed by the ten decorated skeletons of the Basilica of Waldsassen, posed and made opulent by Adalbart Eder the goldsmith for whom death was no barrier to speech—the dazzling encrustations of pearls, rubies and other myriad jewels on the bones with which this craftsman communed, impressing Damien as the ultimate efflorescence of decay.The long fifth chapter, in which the protagonist goes on a nighttime odyssey to exhume a child’s corpse while evading discovery in urban London, has more sustained realistic tension than anything Crisp has written to date, and thoroughly gelds all more self-conscious works of “genre horror” from the untalented and unambitious scene types.Elytron Frass’s MOIETIES (Subtle Body Press, 2024) combines High Modernist extravagance with intertwined narrative braids of trauma, ritual, and self-exploration. Five separate text threads physically surround and impinge on each other, sustained by two main opposing yet interlinked stories that mirror both the interaction of cerebral hemispheres and the divided dance of a primal couple—sister-brother, wife-husband, savior-destroyer. This ergodic assault of a novel is a Gnostic parable of the “ultimate completeness of incompletion” and a physical marvel of typographic-pictorial provocation. Frass updates classic esoterica with an appropriate level of technical frenzy for our current epoch, and in the process renders most other occult fiction irrelevant.Shifting to poetry, Golnoosh Nour’s collections Impure Thoughts (Verve Poetry Press, 2022) and Rocksong (Verve Poetry Press, 2021) are a catalog of languorous yet often violent eroticism, truly peacock-plumed constructions of consumptive immodesty and internal fire. Paul Cunningham’s Fall Garment (Schism Neuronics, 2022) is an elegiac examination of fashion and destruction, compressed with rural post-industrial history: as if a beautiful dress had become entangled with the corpse of a pregnant doe in a trash compactor, creating a sort of stillborn animal nativity jerked into a semblance of life by Cunningham’s extreme stylistic rigor. Industrial wastelands, paleontology and camp humor illuminate this collection. Magdalena Zurawski has described it, accurately, as “hot, wounded and reptilian.”Colby Smith’s poetry, united with the artwork of Josh Bayer in the recent Fish Turn Colors Then Break in My Hands (Stone Church Press, 2023), is a dissonant and lyrical look at the life of musician Jeffrey Lee Pierce.Shifting again to graphic novels and visual art, the author of the Neo-Decadent Manifesto of Comix, Aaron Lange, is worth investigating for his ongoing project Peppermint Werewolf (Stone Church Press), which functions as a nonlinear take on advertising hype, alongside classical Decadent references to Huysmans and others; the black and white artwork presents the dissected, laminated beauty of recontextualized fashion ephemera. In zines like Venomous Feathers, artists like Fergus NM, Ila Pop, Callum Leckie and Sailor Stephens advance a corresponding visual aesthetic. Try out Elytron Frass and Charles N.’s collaborative work Vitiators (Expat Press, 2022) too. Finally, Seth Wang is a writer to watch, who, in stories like “Mirror for Princes (A Perfume Ad)” unites synaesthetic and hyper detailed approaches to consumerist obscurities with a terminally online sensibility and insight into the darker corners of the mind. Seth stands poised to abacinate readers with the incinerating brilliance which is really everyone’s right and due after enduring the sincerity of much uglier, uglier, uglier, uglier and clumsier writers who publicly worry about world events that don’t personally concern them.
A––––– hasn’t been anywhere, or seen anybody, since her unemployment money ran out. Iron wind chimes jangle when she knocks on the door, and jangle again when it opens. Someone named Sara leads her to a table in the center of the shop. Sara is wearing a cloth mask with a red and white geometric print, which makes A––––– feel self conscious about her own KN-95, like she showed up wearing a suit when Sara is just wearing a cozy sweater. Everything inside of the room is white, everything outside is gray. This makes any small moment of color extremely vibrant - each thread on Sara’s Mexican-style embroidered blouse, the raku vase of flowers on the table, the tiny mustard stain on A–––––’s pants extremely vibrant. A––––– tries to believe that she belongs in this space, full of very expensive Japanese home goods and craft objects. If she holds her head the right way and blurs her eyes slightly, she can picture it.“Thank you for taking the time to be here,” says Sara, and A––––– nods. “I want to start by hearing what made you apply.”A––––– remembers her notes, diligently written and rewritten in her notebook. Through research online she’s built this shop into a temple, and not just because it’s the only place that responded to her application. The salvation guaranteed by employment here is the answer to the question that she’s been wrestling with in the months since the pandemic began. She chooses her words carefully.“One of the things I love most about your selection is the way your products call people to slow down in their day,” says A–––––. “Treating everyday objects, like a teacup, even a trash bin, as things worthy of thoughtful design is very inspiring to me. It matters, making small things beautiful. Slowing down.” “Well,” says Sara, “we like that slowing down, of course. We’re not Amazon.” A––––– nods. She almost believes that she’s never ordered from Amazon in her life, even though there are blue and white envelopes in her recycling at this very moment. “But you know,” Sara continues, “In the shop, it can be very busy. We work quickly. There is so much to get done, all of the time. There aren’t that many opportunities to rest. Is this okay with you?”A––––– smiles, and tries to express that appreciating supreme aesthetics and working with unprecedented speed are two compatible characteristics. It’s all very abstract. It’s been so long since A––––– really applied her efforts to anything. She straightens her spine. She shakes off her pre-emptive doubt. If Sara sees her as valuable, she will be valuable. “Well, that’s great,” says Sara. “And you’re aware, this is probably a temporary position? We usually just need the extra help to hold us over through the holidays.” A––––– can’t afford to worry about the future, so she nods. “There’s just one more thing. I’m sorry if this is an assumption…” Sara starts to laugh, raising her hands to cover her mouth, which is already covered by her mask, “but you’re not… Japanese.” “Definitely a correct assumption,” A––––– says, realizing that her mask hides the curve of her undeniably Jewish nose. “Well, you see…” Sara becomes very serious. “You would be the only one. The shop owner, Taku, moved here from Japan 20 years ago. Our staff is always majority Japanese. Even if we were raised over here, we all have Japanese heritage. And there are things we take for granted that you might not really… understand. I wouldn’t want you to feel on the outside.” A––––– bows her head and says, “Sara, I would be honored to learn more about Japanese culture. I wouldn’t feel on the outside when given this kind of opportunity.”Sara’s eyes crinkle into a smile. They stand up to start a tour of the shop. Just outside of the main room, Sara gestures to Grace, who waves at A––––– warmly from a minimal wooden table. Grace’s thick-rimmed glasses, and long hair, trigger a deja-vu type recognition for A–––––. She follows Sara but twists her neck to catch Grace thumb off the lid of her pen. The shop is so quiet A––––– can tell the cap is metal by the sound it makes when it drops. “Taku built that desk,” says Sara, “he built everything in here.” This includes rows on rows of modular cabinets, all crafted from the same unfinished plywood. A––––– learns that Taku selected each silver connecting joint from a vintage collector in Niigata. She learns that Taku designed every ceramic mug, plate, teapot, and bowl in the shop. He selected the cool glazes. He chose to leave some items without any glaze at all. A––––– picks up a small dish. It fits exactly in the palm. . So many people must have palms this size, she thinks, if Taku sculpted this without ever having met me. The plate is completely flat, except for a tiny outer ridge and an even smaller, inner indentation. “For soy sauce?” A––––– asks, but Sara is already at the exit.A––––– returns the dish to its spot on the shelf. The display has lost some of its balance. Price tags, tiny and black, are more noticeable. A––––– senses Sara’s gaze, and taps the dish, trying to leave things just as perfect as they were before she arrived. “We’ll be in touch,” says Sara, and then A––––– is on the outside. She sees a short man, his arms covered in tattoos, maze-like spirals and repeating wave patterns. He walks past her and into the shop. A––––– resentfully identifies him as a rival for her position. She clicks her car keys, and the responding chirp sounds farther away than she remembered. It takes over an hour for A––––– to get home. Meandering through side streets because the I-10 is too jammed, she passes through Culver City, Mid-Wilshire, and Koreatown. On every street, whether it’s lined with palms or apartments, homeless people or lawns, A––––– wonders what the fuck is wrong with her that she would bow her head and describe herself as “honored” to a Japanese woman.Honored.A––––– has never bowed before in her whole damn life. For soy sauce… unbelievable!Like Truman Capote dragging around his baby blanket, or Yukio Mishima bodybuilding with religious fanaticism, sometimes A––––– believes there is something special about her that sets her apart from everyone else. Small humiliations like these are just evidence of the quirkiness that comes along with her true greatness. But other times, the limitations of her world make her feel totally delusional. The “something special” is just a curse, because she has no idea how it will ever materialize. A––––– gets the job. Seiji, the man with the tattoos, also gets the job. Two new hires. No more all alone. She has a place to drive to, early every morning. She has a time card to punch.From the beginning, A–––––’s gestures appear loud, and overexaggerated, around her new cohort. Her limbs feel unpredictable and clumsy, like she might move around too quickly and destroy one of the objects she’s made the commitment to work around.A––––– helps Grace haul four brown boxes into the center room of the shop, placing them next to an oval plywood table. Behind her mask and thick glasses, A––––– realizes that Grace looks exactly like her ex-girlfriend. “Taku built this table,” Grace reminds A–––––. “If you look closely, you can see it’s made from one rectangle. After carving out the oval shape, he used the discarded corners for legs. He thinks every part of the wood is essential, even what others might have thrown away.” Grace scrapes the top of the boxes with a blade, slicing through red stamps and green tape covered in Japanese characters. Inside each box are tens of tiny brown packages, each one imprinted with Taku’s design label. Grace models how A––––– should help, placing each small parcel on the table, spreading them out so no one hides the other. Grace’s hands are tiny. Her hair is long and thick, and it hides her face while they work.A––––– is moved by Grace’s resemblance to her ex-girlfriend, who hasn’t been in touch for almost a year. There is such a disconnect between that old life and this new one. It’s better for A––––– if she doesn’t try to mesh the two and forgets about things like drinking and dancing and kissing. She wants to keep her present and her past divided, like the shop itself, which separates the bright, open, naturally lit showroom and the dark, twisting, back-end passage packed from floor to ceiling with boxed inventory.Grace hands over a sheet full of barcode stickers once all of the boxes are evenly spread out on the table. She shows A––––– how to match the UPC on each sticker to the code on the outside of the box. They stack the boxes, sorting each shape into tilting towers of rectangles and squares. A––––– feels like a child while they sticker. They work in silence, a quiet warmth floating between the two of them. When every box has its barcode, A––––– is left with a glossy sheet of blank paper. It’s done. She’s finished.They balance the barcoded boxes, and sidestep lightly to file them onto black metal shelves. There’s no ambiguity, no room to wonder whether this task was worthwhile or not. It was.“That’s Taku’s desk,” says Grace, gesturing towards a tiny table in the dark corridor, tucked behind a shelf cluttered with stacks of books, action figures, sketches, and broken inventory. Everything is only half visible, interrupted by cardboard. “I still haven’t met him,” says A–––––.“It might be a while. He only comes into the shop when no one else is around. Very late at night or very early.”“Is he afraid of getting Covid?”“He behaved that way even before all of this. It’s just the way he likes it. Look,” Grace points to a pile of geometric bronze incense holders. “He was here today. I realized I had made a huge error, not having these on display in the main room. He catches every little thing. He always notices.” A––––– looks over her shoulder, half expecting Taku to be right behind her, nodding with solemn approval. She wonders if Taku knows who she is and if he agrees with Sara’s decision to add her to his payroll. Maybe he wants her to keep working after winter comes. Maybe that something special inside of A––––– is the willingness to do exactly what Taku wants. The sun goes down before the end of their shift. Before setting the alarm, they attempt to complete a ritual. “Otsukaresama desu,” says Grace.“I sound so stupid when I say it,” says A–––––.“The trick is to avoid placing emphasis on any vowels. That’s a big difference between Japanese and English. No stress on the vowels.” “No stress on the vowels,” A––––– repeats, instead of saying thank you for your hard work in Japanese. Driving home in the dark, A–––––’s arms ache from carrying boxes. Her back hurts from being on her feet all day. She passes palm trees and her radio drones on with vaccine rumors and diversity initiatives. Her thoughts are strangely calm. She doesn’t have to question her value. The boxes weren’t stickered before she got there, and now they are resting in their correct place, organized efficiently, waiting for Taku’s inspection. Tomorrow there will be more ways to make herself useful. Life outside the shop has shrunk to just a few hours flanking her commute. She doesn’t speak to much of anyone. She mostly watches TV. It would be cool if she could propel the functionality of the shop into her own tasks, like laundry and grocery shopping, but instead they pile up chaotically in her studio apartment. She wonders if her coworkers are like this too, only fully alive when they walk through those shop doors. The store is closed to customers for the first half of each day. It can feel cavernous in its minimalism, yet it’s very difficult for A––––– to find a place to sit and eat lunch. She could irreparably damage Taku’s hand-carved tables with a spill, or scratch. This leaves only three options: the tiny bit of counter space between the microwave and the sink in the kitchen, the tiny bit of surface space on the packing table, and the passenger seat of A–––––’s own car. She feels stumped by Taku’s lack of forethought. Every product in the shop implies a graceful and respectful way of living, yet there is nothing to accommodate a team of people working here for eight hours a day, with a lunch break too short to vacate the premises. It’s uncomfortable. For lunch, A––––– heats up a curry from Trader Joe’s. While it spins in its microwave circle, she crushes up sheets of paper towels to cover her garbage in the trash can. She assumes that she is the only one who doesn’t cook her lunch at home, imagining her coworkers’ apartments as extensions of the shop, while hers just kind of sucks.A––––– carries her Trader Joe’s lunch with sweater sleeves pulled over her hands, buffering the heat of her ceramic dish. The dish is one of Taku’s designs that was ultimately rejected because the clay was too damp when it was fired. Mold is growing inside each piece. The unglazed gray clay will eventually mutate into a greenish tinge. ‘Till then, these dishes belong to the staff. On her way to the packing station, she sees Sara’s bright dress crouched over Taku’s desk. A––––– sees the back of Sara’s head and metal lunch containers, open to reveal thinly sliced pickles, white rice dusted with furikake, and a poached slice of salmon. Sara is holding bamboo chopsticks. A––––– hopes Sara will turn around and A––––– will see her face. Instead, before A––––– can reach her, Sara pulls up the blue surgical mask dangling from her ear.They don’t even have a moment of eye contact. Sara schedules A–––––’s shifts and sets the terms of A–––––’s employment, which feels less and less permanent as the holiday season sneaks closer and closer. If A––––– tries to visualize Sara’s face, she can’t.A––––– eats her curry at the packing station, keeping her elbows drawn tight to her sides. She covers her mouth and nose with her hand while she chews, careful to angle herself away from where Seiji is working. He’s tearing paper, crumpling it, pulling tape across brown boxes with a shriek from the dispenser.As winter gets closer, A––––– starts packing online orders. The shop’s website has become the main point of sale. A––––– feels robbed, watching this influx of Yuletide commerce without getting to meet the customers behind it. There are no faces, or affects to attach to the people out there paying high prices to attain immaculately designed teapots and coffee strainers and metal canisters and etched glasses and iron bookends, only 90210, 90240, 90265. A––––– stands next to Seiji at the packing station. He instructs her.“The first thing you want to do is unpack the object and make sure it doesn’t have any defects,” says Seiji, leaning against a metal shelf full of white paper bags. He pulls a small gray box out of one of the bags and opens the lid, emptying a tiny brass paperweight into the palm of his hand. It’s in the shape of a house, glowing gold. He passes it to A–––––. It’s very heavy and pulls her hand down to the matte surface of the packing table. “What do you think it is about this paperweight that makes it worth…” A––––– opens the packing slip, “$354?” A––––– anxiously watches Seiji for his reaction. She can’t tell if he carries the same idolization of Taku in his chest, or if repetition and physical labor have worn him down. Seiji shrugs but A––––– thinks maybe he’s smiling. “Isn’t it obvious?” he says. He might be scolding, or sarcastic. “Taku designed it.” All afternoon, Seiji shows A––––– how to layer corrugated kraft paper just so to create a 1-inch buffer between each box and its enclosed object. He teaches her that products will break not from impact with the ground, but from impact with each other. This is why it’s important to make sure objects packed together are separated by padding. Once the box is sealed, you shouldn’t be able to hear any movement when shaking it around. Every object should be squeezed together as tightly as possible. No room for any shifts or collisions. Seiji pulls out another order. They inspect a porcelain white cup with three indentations on one side. “You know,” says Seiji, “This was designed to be enjoyed by blind people. Anyone can enjoy its texture. Here, close your eyes.” A––––– closes her eyes. Smooth porcelain coating. Her fingers trail around the cup and she almost loses her footing until she finds the indentations. Three on the left side. Her pointer finger, middle finger, ring finger. They fit. She shifts her fingers around. They fit perfectly again. She raises and lowers the cup in her hand. It’s like playing the piano. When she opens her eyes, Seiji is looking right at her. “It really is beautiful… ” says A–––––, and hands back the cup. “I guess Taku knows what he’s doing. It’s not the kind of stuff I would spend my money on,” Seiji chuckles, “But I can’t deny it, there’s no one else out there like him. He’s one of a kind.” As he says it, the computer screen lights up with news of another purchase. A––––– does mental calculations of how many hours she would have to work to own any of these objects. Like the lack of a comfortable place to eat her lunch, the number makes her feel squeezed. Counted, minimized, contained. They clock out and A––––– gets in her car. She tosses an empty water bottle and McDonalds wrappers from her breakfast into the back seat. Just a block away from the shop, she sees Seiji smoking. His face is softer than she imagined it to be. He looks ten years younger than she had guessed, almost a boy. He doesn’t see her when she passes, but the whole way home A––––– replays the image: his tattoos covered by a quilted jacket, his round cheeks tightening with each inhalation, a silvery cloud above his head. In the dark, A––––– thinks about her life from before. Her old self would be surprised to see this new discipline. No more neurosis and uncertainty. Her stacks of worry and regret now subsumed by categorization, structure, routine, and service. All it took was Sara’s commands, and the presence of a great artist, somewhere, somehow, shifting the scenes. At work, A––––– microwaves her Trader Joe’s meal and clutches her bowl. She sees Taku’s desk. No one is sitting there. She can’t resist. She collapses into his chair. It feels overly luxurious after so many crammed lunches. She thinks, maybe this is how I should have been doing it all along. She chews her food slowly and stares up at the shelves. Unlike the shelves in the store, there is no governing order to the stacks of paper, dusty objects, and images tacked up around here. Unlike the matte minimalism of the objects on sale, here there are bright colors, odd combinations, and unlikely shapes. A stack of small bowls, sand colored and unglazed, have been repaired with bright gold seeping through the cracks. Gaudy and exaggerated, flaunting imperfection, defect. The binding of each shard reminds A––––– of the borders between stained glass in a church. They must have been broken, maybe shattered by an overly enthusiastic hand gesture at a dinner full of wine, and hearty laughter. It wasn’t the end for them. Post-it notes, written in Japanese with a blunt pencil, are stuck to the wall at crooked angles. Further up, there are framed woodblock prints of poodles. The prints are full of bright yellow and pink. The poodles are haughty and expressive, eating bowls of cherries with big silk bows in their curls. There is nothing utilitarian about these decadent dogs, smiling and snarling from their gray walls. Resplendent. A––––– chews her food. Emotion wells up inside of her chest. Her eyes travel over vintage Japanese action figures. I love these, she thinks. She thought she loved the shop, and she does, but it feels so free in here. Like she could come up with anything. Or Taku could come up with anything, she corrects herself. She looks at adverts from ULINE held up with metal push pins, covered in big sharpie circles and Taku’s handwriting. Massive exclamation marks, question marks, underlines. Hanging from a nail above the shelf is an oversized charm bracelet, each charm a different American fast food item. My microwave meals! A _ _ _ _ _ thinks. My McDonalds wrappers! She feels like she has been obeying the completely wrong Taku this whole time. She wonders which one he prefers - the shop-Taku, or the desk-Taku. If he doesn’t sell objects like the ones gathered around his desk, is that because he doesn’t take them seriously or because his customers don’t take them seriously? She wants to write him a note and ask, but her English letters seem foreign and unintelligible. He wouldn’t be able to read them the same way she can’t read the Japanese notes that are already around the desk, trying to pass along messages for future designs and projects and disciplines and inquiries. A––––– remembers Seiji saying with such certainty, There’s no one else like him. She closes her eyes and tries to invent a completely original design. Instead, she can only picture objects Taku has designed before she came along. She can’t come up with anything that just belongs to her and her alone. She wonders if this is a flaw in her DNA, or her cultural surroundings, or the amount of money in her bank account, or just the fact that there can only be one; for great artists to exist, there have to be people that aren’t quite as great, people that only look up.A–––––’s alarm goes off. Her lunch break is over. She returns to the front of the store, her hands washed and her mask in place. Her mind is racing. Sara looks at her and tilts her head with a frown. The next day, before A––––– takes her lunch break, Sara grabs her arm. A––––– is shocked by the physical contact. “Please be sure to either stay in the kitchen or at the packing station when you eat your lunch,” says Sara. Her voice is steady. She’s deadly serious. “Of course,” A––––– says. She’s burning up. She looks at the ground. Sara nods and squints.The rest of the day, and then the rest of the week, A––––– works as diligently as ever, but she can’t stop thinking about Sara’s hand on her arm. It had felt involuntary. Civil and soft yet still tense around the knuckles. A––––– saw Sara sitting at Taku’s desk weeks ago. She was sitting there with her chopsticks and her poached fish. The treasures at Taku’s desk, the mysteries and the idiosyncrasies, are for Sara? Was this kind of exclusivity, and hierarchy Taku’s intention? A––––– imagines them meeting together, late at night. Taku bends Sara over his desk and fucks her, manicured poodles leering overhead. They keep their masks on. In a muffled voice, Sara praises Taku’s intellect while he slaps her ass and tells her to work harder. Her eyes squeeze shut, she knocks a jar of pens onto the floor. Sara likes it. They roll around. A––––– wants to laugh. Huh, she thinks, you really want all this for that?Every time A––––– thinks about Taku’s desk, she feels a yearning for a type of originality that she could claim as her own. If she wasn’t so tired after working all day, she might have the power to figure out what exactly that could look like. She starts to realize that by crowding out the rest of her life, she crowded out this possibility too. December is almost over. There is a near constant line of customers to get into the shop. The team functions, all together, at a high level. Behind a table full of stickered boxes, A––––– sees Grace drinking from her water bottle. Underneath her mask and thick glasses flecked with dust, Grace doesn’t look anything like A–––––’s ex girlfriend. Her nose is longer, her jawline less developed. The resemblance must have come from something in her body language, or maybe the tininess of her hands. “Has Taku ever told you something directly?” A––––– asks. “What do you mean?” Grace responds, pulling her mask back over her nose, “Taku and I talk every day. That’s a big part of my role.” “Well, it’s just that he’s so present in my life, but I never meet him. I never hear directly from him. It’s always, ‘Taku says this,’ or ‘Taku says that.’ Is that really how he is?”“He’s controlling…” Grace says. “Sometimes people don’t like that. It’s probably part of why he’s such a recluse.” A––––– grips the metal shelf. Her paychecks are small. Her commute is long. Her body is tired. When she lies in bed at night, she dreams about stickers and categorization. Customers want something they see on the shelves, and she searches in the back of the shop endlessly for the box, with its embossed label and deliberate packaging. She takes too long. She can’t find it. She’s become undisciplined, lazy, too tall, the word for each object sticking strangely in her mouth—Kenzan, tenugui, katakuchi, donabe, kekkai. She doesn’t even have the vocabulary to ask for help. A––––– walks into the shop, and Sara beckons her into the cardboard box hallway. No one else has arrived. Sara points at barcode stickers A––––– applied the afternoon before. “Do you see how some of these are straight while others are slightly off-kilter?” Sara says.A––––– nods. “It’s really important that you keep the barcodes straight when you sticker,” she gestures at Taku’s desk, as if A––––– didn’t already know about the stained glass church bowls, and the action figures, and the golden charm bracelet. “This is the kind of thing that will drive Taku crazy. It’s impossible for him to concentrate on his important creative work if there is no care put into the details. For Taku’s sake, please sticker more intentionally.” A––––– agrees meekly, too stunned to figure out if Sara is right about what does or doesn’t disturb Taku.In the dull, heavy light of the storage space A––––– gently peels off each crooked sticker and delicately presses them back into place. Perfectly aligned, perfectly straight. She tries to contact some of the childlike joy of those first days. Back then, a job was the only thing she needed. Instead, she feels redundant, or worse. It takes her over an hour. She hears Grace and Seiji moving about the rest of the shop, their voices muffled past the point of comprehension. When A––––– emerges, Grace is at the packing station. “Sara and Seiji are talking in the other room,” Grace says. Her eyes don’t invite any follow up. A––––– walks past Grace towards the kitchen, briefly passing through the main room of the shop. Seiji and Sara are sitting across from each other on the table Taku built. Seiji’s voice is deep enough that A––––– can pick up a few words. She hears “paid time off,” and then she hears “healthcare,” and then she hears “sick leave.” She hears him say “benefits,” and sit back in his chair, hand at his chin, brow furrowed, taking in the explanations Sara is laying out with open hand gestures. She points, she shrugs. No one has ever said these words to A––––– in the shop and A––––– has never asked to hear them. Almost like bringing up the topic would force a decision. Maybe if she never said anything, Sara would keep scheduling A––––– for 40 hours a week. But as soon as A––––– mentions it, it will all disappear - A–––––’s time card, her lunch break, Grace, Seiji, Sara. Of course, there wouldn’t be room for both of them to stay past the holiday season. Seiji will be chosen. A––––– will be discarded. A––––– catches Sara applying chapstick. A––––– has never seen Sara’s face before and tries to look away as fast as she can. It’s like vertigo. Total revulsion. Sara’s nose is too wide, her lips are too big. Nothing looks the way A––––– had imagined. The beauty of Sara’s eyes and eyebrows were lying to her. A––––– got too comfortable trusting their symmetry. She thought she knew what Sara looked like. At the end of the day:“Otsukaresama desu.” “Otsukaresama desu.” “Otsukaresama desu.” A––––– tries not to stress a single vowel. Two days before Christmas, A––––– drives in circles after the shop closes. She pulls over next to glowing windows in dark west side mansions. Maybe they’ve used objects from the shop to give their homes a sense of Eastern authenticity, not knowing anything about the man who designed them, or the intention he had behind each decision. Maybe they rhapsodize their reverence for the handmade when their guests dish out compliments. Maybe they don’t even notice the life of the objects in their homes, having trusted a decorator to populate their shelves. So removed from their own tastes and preferences, they don’t even know what they want. A _ _ _ _ _ watches palms swaying in the wind. She rolls down her windows and smells jasmine. I might as well get ahead of it, she thinks. The writing is on the wall. They don’t have enough space for me. She pulls out her car manual and rips out the last page, which is blank. She writes a note about how much she appreciated everything Sara and Grace and Seiji taught her. She wishes them luck in the new year. She’s surprised to find herself crying. She drives back in the direction of the shop. A homeless woman is napping on the bus stop bench, two streets before A––––– arrives. One street before A––––– arrives, she sees a black cat. The lamps are on in the shop, even though A––––– turned them off, with Sara and Grace and Seiji, two hours earlier. Light pools warmly outside of each window, a golden semicircle forming in front of the curtains. A––––– battles the urge to turn around. Maybe Sara or Grace stayed late, doing some sort of inventory count or reorganizing that had to happen because of A–––––'s turbulence, fully on display despite months of best effort. Her note seems silly. She rehearses what she will say if she is confronted. “I forgot my lunchbox here,” she says, even though she throws away the containers of her microwave meals after every use. “I forgot my scarf,” she says, even though it’s not quite cold enough to wear one. “Sara told me it’s important to check, if you think you have lost something.”The door to the shop is unlocked. A––––– opens it. She has never seen anything so bright. She squints, and stumbles towards the back room. When she gets there, there aren’t any boxes. There aren’t any black metal shelves. No excellently proportioned packaging, no tools encased in soft brown paper. No treasure of mugs and spoons and kettles and bookends - all etched, hammered, sculpted, stitched, carved, and cast. There is only this bright, white, brilliant light. And Taku, more beautiful than A––––– could have ever imagined, hunched over his desk. There’s a bandaid on his thumb, and he’s picked at it till the edges are frayed with loose strings. He turns around when he hears her, softly and fluidly. It’s no surprise that she’s there. “You know,” he says in perfect English, without any hint of an accent, “here, there’s room for all of us.”
The burden of foresight. With Vague Predictions & Prophecies (CLASH Books, 2024) Daisuke Shen mainlines a generation’s insecurities into fiction that is at once ephemeral and psychically probing. These are stories that present longing, whether that be for a sense of solidity, a chance at connection, or a reprieve from aimlessness. Daydreams of lost days and nightmares of days lost. Shen explores how technology melds with the human, and speculates on where consciousness might reside. I spoke with Daisuke about the book.Rebecca Gransden: The book shares its title with one of the short stories you’ve included, “Vague Predictions & Prophecies.” What led you to use this as the title for the collection as a whole?Daisuke Shen: Almost all of these stories, or at least the ones I can think of off the top of my head, feature characters who are awaiting some kind of inevitable doom, or who are searching for something or someone to save them. In times of extreme desperation and terror there is a tendency to anticipate/fantasize about the best and the worst outcomes; rarely is there ever a gray area. While I think it’s human to look for patterns or systems in order to make sense of the world, you can become narrow-scoped, only seeing the things you want to. You forget that the world isn’t as focused on you as you might think. I do believe that there exists the supernatural or spiritual, whichever you’d like to term it, but I also know that the human mind is good at tricking itself. But figuring out where that line begins and ends is impossible at times.RG: A mood of ennui and melancholia runs through the collection, with many of your characters unsure of themselves, rudderless or disappointed with life. A sense of yearning pervades the book. When did you write these stories? Do they remind you of a particular time in your life?DS: All of these stories feel a little distant from me now. The last ones were written around two-three years ago, I think, and are reflective of very difficult times, when I was living day-to-day in fight or flight mode. It’s hard to read some of them, to be quite honest. It’s interesting that you mention yearning as a constant throughout the collection. Yearning is a safe place for people to be, even while it’s miserable. It provides us with the ability to maintain a fantasy, to protect yourself from the potential disappointment of realizing your desire is misplaced. We romanticize destinations, thinking that when we reach a certain place within our lives or relationships, we’ll be saved. But how many people truly want to reach the finish line, where nothing comes afterward? There is a healthy kind of yearning, wherein it allows for us to carry forward in life — we call this hope. The unhealthy kind is the one that renders us sedentary, and we call this fantasy. Much of the collection was written with the attitude of the latter. RG: He wiped the sweat from his nose and looked at us with his granite black eyes, a thin smile spreading across his face. The one he had when he was fighting. I realized in that moment why his momma was so convinced he was a monster. She’d beaten him every night as a kid, trying to get the demons out. The welts on his body were everywhere.For “The Pasture” you address the idea of rules, the way in which the rules of the adult world and those that are the province of childhood can create friction or contradict one another. For your characters, rules present themselves as situational, whether it be school rules, religious guidance, or the social dynamics of a friend group. There is a sense that the rules on display exist to tentatively combat the invasion of the more chaotic forces that threaten the equilibrium of everyday life, imperfect as it is. How do your characters deal with rules? Do you impose rules upon yourself in your writing life?DS: Every day, from the time when we wake up to when we go to sleep, we enter into a negotiation with power. Control and order are needed to some degree or else entire systems devolve. And it is human to break rules even as we try to hold to them. Maybe especially when we try to hold onto them stringently, which is how new foundations are created — through disruption and dissolution. In writing I am drawn to restraint, which is why I am drawn to short stories and novellas. You have to be creative when working with a very short amount of pages, and it’s often when your best writing comes out — under pressure. When someone provides me with a restraint/specific form, I like to see how far I can take it, how I can bend it from its original expectations. I had a lot of external rules imposed on me growing up, which led to this immense terror inside of me of ever messing up or making a mistake. I still have this fear, but not as strongly as I used to. I now know there’s dignity in imperfection though it’s hard to internalize. I think my characters operate much in the same way — terrified of disrupting the order of things but also knowing that transformation is inevitable. This is the only option afforded to us in life. But apart from the above, my rules for myself in writing tend to be subconscious and uncontrollable. Most of what I’m finding difficult these days is how to recreate the same intensity, movement, and emotion in a long-form work that I would in short stories. I don’t like the idea of any one sentence feeling unpurposeful. Thus I will agonize over one sentence for a long time and wonder about its intent. It is painful and annoying. RG:I can’t stop staring. Staring, and laughing, and scared. I want to join our consciousnesses, join my body with its, forever. I feel the urge to kill for it. I would do anything it wanted me to.The story “Vague Predictions & Prophesies” deals with the angelic, a theme that recurs throughout the collection. In this case you make reference to the Binding of Isaac and the archangel connected with the Biblical account. For angels come down to earth, a complicated grounding awaits, where the human element must be taken into account, with its troubles and flaws, and the relationship with God gains new dimensions, sometimes resentful, often with baggage. The angelic can be as terrifying and awe-inspiring as much as it is comforting or guiding. What drew you to explore the figure of the angel, and to the story of Isaac in particular? What is God’s plan for His angels?DS: I think a lot about the story of Isaac. I was introduced first to the story as a young child in church and Christian school, and it was a rather simplistic sort of explanation that God never meant to kill Isaac and was simply testing Abraham to see if he would prove that his love for him was stronger — Abraham knew that God would never truly make him go through with it. Then I was re-introduced to the story from Kierkegaard’s viewpoint, which is that Abraham both fully accepted the fact of Isaac’s death while at the same time maintaining nonetheless that Isaac would be brought back to him somehow, even as he brings the knife down to perform the act.It is postulated by some scholars that Zedkiel is the referenced angel who intervenes before Isaac is killed. Zedkiel is the angel of mercy, yet some people mistake mercy for kindness. But I think mercy can also be cruelty and necessarily so — in that it forces people to keep going, which is another kind of suffering altogether. But there is also the hope of a better life. In the video game Nier: Automata, there is a point in which you learn that everyone in the character Pascal’s village, including the children, have been slaughtered. He begs for you to kill him, after which you are presented with three choices: You can kill him, or take his memories, or walk away. If you choose to take his memories, you come back later and find him selling his dead children’s body parts, as he thinks they’re just machine parts. If you kill him, he thanks you. But if you walk away, he yells out to you that you’ve betrayed him. And you never see him again in the game after that.I chose to kill him, but a better option in my opinion would have been to walk away and leave him with a weapon. I am always anticipating the impossible to happen. For some this is termed magical thinking, but I call it faith. RG: Many of the stories deal with the nature of consciousness and perception. When thinking about theme, what part does exploration of these areas play in your work?DS: The fact that there are so many different ways to perceive any given situation is something that really messes with me. “Home Video” grapples with this some. A conscious being is one that is afflicted with the terrible awareness of its own existence and its limitations. And if you live through too much, rationality and logical perception can be overtaken by instinct, the necessity of survival. How much do we truly know about ourselves and what keeps us alive? What parts of ourselves do we expose to others that we aren’t fully aware of? People always say they know themselves best but I don’t know how true that is. But at the same time, you have to build enough mental fortitude so that your general perception, as well as your understanding of who you are, is not easily swayed by anyone who comes along. I am not always great at trusting my own judgment, and neither are my characters.RG: “Damien and Melissa” explores the potential of technology when applied to human relationships. The story poses many questions, and led me to muse on issues of intrusion and the boundaries it is necessary for us to set for ourselves. When it comes to your work, what areas of technology are you drawn to investigate?DS: I was not allowed to have boundaries as a child. Technology is not healthy for us in many ways because it encourages a kind of enmeshment, I think, an erosion of the self as we are encouraged to be in constant conversation with others and to absorb as much information as possible in a limited amount of time. Of course it is good to have friends and to learn as much as we can, but how comfortable are we nowadays at being by ourselves for more than a couple of hours? Discipline is lacking nowadays. Strong relationships, becoming an expert in a specific area of study, are things that are built over a very long period of time, with intense concentration. I don’t want to engage with anything or anyone in a shallow way.Loneliness and the way technology has been created to aid people in their isolation is of great fascination to me. Also the way people use technology to take advantage of others’ loneliness, too. Pig-slaughtering scams, for instance, wherein scammers either text numbers at random or create fake dating profiles on apps, and then slowly begin to drain victims of their money by asking them to invest in cryptocurrency online, then taking it and disappearing forever. There were two stories in the news I remember, which was a guy who worked in cybersecurity for a university and then a woman who worked in finance. Both people were victims of this scam, which seems unbelievable until you learn that both of them had lost their spouses right beforehand. In times of insurmountable grief we can see a trap clear as day and still walk inside of it. RG: The presence of God recurs in various ways throughout the collection. Whether it be the Abrahamic God, a personal God, or something less concrete is, for the most part, dependent upon how your characters interact with the divine. Do you have a spiritual belief, and if so, how is that reflected in the collection?DS: I believe to one degree or another in the following: Ghosts; different lives and realities outside of this one; angels; karma; hexes; divine protection; spirits evil and good and neutral; gods; God; messengers; fate; altering the course of fate; some type of afterlife; prophetic dreams. Reincarnation, too, maybe. RG: It was darker than I’d expected. Shirts fluttered on metal racks, like ghosts without frames. Every time I shined the flashlight into a room, I imagined that now would be when I’d see them: the lovers, their bodies forming into one another’s; a man with a vendetta who would plunge a knife into my back. Humidity clung to my face as I searched for them. But there was never anything but my own shadow, grotesque and overgrown, hunting me through the corridors.The story “The Rabbit God” features a security guard who is haunted as much by imagined phantoms as he is inner ghosts. Many of your stories deal with the ghosts we carry with us. What is the nature of the ghostly in your work, and how do spirits manifest in Vague Predictions & Prophesies?DS: In Chinese and Japanese culture ghosts are very real and serious business. So too in the South. They manifest because of the fact they are wronged in life, because their deaths were painful or tragic. There are so many different types of ghosts across cultures, within our bloodlines, inside of the soil. They are reminders that history follows you. The cruelty and destruction of humanity or the human soul is remembered and resistant to our attempts to stifle it. RG: “Duckling” raises the issue of privacy, and what it is reasonable to share with another. Passwords become a measure of trust, passcodes a signal of access and connection. The story presents a character willing to sacrifice identity and personal autonomy, to relinquish oneself. Many of your stories deal with the nature of the self. How do you approach your work on a philosophical level?DS: Questions I wrestle with often include how much sacrifice one should make in love. The constitution of a self is primarily one made in relations to others. But a core is so easily suffocated at times. A self is a taught line that is at times pliant. Moldable. Some foundational aspects will remain despite anything else but it’s also silly to think that selves are unmovable objects. RG: What relationship does the past have to the present in your stories?DS: The past and the present are in a very codependent situationship in my work. Neither party wants to let go despite knowing it’s not going to work out. It’s decades long at this point and may very well never end.RG: The story “Machine Translation” addresses themes of appearances, metamorphosis, and the use of technology to deliver fundamental needs, such as the emotional and spiritual. How can data be a measure for life? How do you approach the use of dream logic in your work?DS: In terms of the things that we buy or watch or eat, the places we go, the people we contact, patterns begin to emerge. Data surveillance is used for really evil purposes, for instance, racial profiling. I don't think data is a measurement of life. I think that you could probably make some assumptions, or make new ones about me if I told you what I bought at the grocery store today, what my search history is like, who I’ve spoken to on the phone. But it cannot serve as a reflection of a whole human being, can’t replace an actual connection, which is part of why the mother in that story loses her mind — she wants for the world to fit into compact facts in order for her to overcome her past traumas but it won’t stay shut. RG: How do you view the collection as a whole entity? When looking back, what stands out to you most about writing it?DS: If I’m being honest? I want it as far away from me as possible. I want to pretend it’s not coming out. But I also want people to know that I did work really hard on these stories. And it took a very long time. And I was unhappy with almost all of the stories after long periods of not hearing back, and I kept wanting to include different ones. I begged my agent to pull it many times. But he believed in my stories.That’s all to say that if you’re reading this and you want to write a short story collection don’t be fooled by people who give you a formula for success. I often tell my students I am pessimistic about publishing. It makes me sad, to be honest, that there’s such a huge need for writers to become businesspeople nowadays. I am just not good at it, and I don’t think it comes naturally to artists. We are committed to our work most of all and that’s how it should be, not spent having to sell ourselves on whatever platform it might be. But I also tell them there are presses that will love your work and take good care of it. Long story short if you have a story inside of you, get it out. You owe it to yourself.
