#links for 2008-07-01
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a weekly speculative fiction magazine
Archive for June 2008
#dream.20080630: empty
I sneak in to grab a few things from my room. I am not due back here for another week or so and do not want to arouse suspicion. No one recognizes me anyway. I turn the corner and a few folks look up but say nothing. There is perhaps a faint glimmer of recognition but no greetings, no definite acknowledgments. I enter my room to find it empty. Everything that they had assigned to me is gone; only my own things remain — a stack of books and a few trinkets. My things are lined up along the wall as if still contained on their bookshelf. I grab a few items up into my arms (none of which I had originally come for) and try to leave the way I came.
#links for 2008-06-28
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via ThinkSimpleNow.com
#Papa’s Little Kosmonaut
#Pastoralia
Imagine for a moment that you go into the up-scale liquor store around the block that is celebrated city-wide for its fabulous wine selection. You’re a bit of a novice when it comes to wine and are a little embarrassed to be here because your wallet is that ballistic nylon stuff and not something truly exotic like alligator skin and with that in mind you decide not to ask the sommelier for any help. You browse around the store looking for a bottle of something called David Foster Wallace that was recommended to you by your friend with the alligator skin wallet. You manage to find the bottle of DFW and admire the fancy bottle with its fancy label and its curlicues and footnotes and excellent leading. The bottle seems really heavy and big and everyone has told you how excellent it is. So you decide to try it but when you actually get to the counter you discover that you’ve picked up a bottle of something called George Saunders by mistake. The George Saunders bottle isn’t as big or as fancy as the DFW and in fact it looks a little bit like a down-market or off-label knock-off of the vintage DFW but at the same time you believe that there is maybe something authentic and distinct about it anyway. The sommelier gives you a funny look as he rings you up but you don’t say anything because you don’t want to look stupid in front of him and anyway you’re probably just being self-conscious about the whole thing like the time you had a glass of Pynchon at your friend’s house and you said that it was a good Vonnegut and everyone laughed and your friend explained that the Vonnegut has a much sharper finish and you’ll notice how the Pynchon seems to hang around in your mouth so much longer but he could see how you might make that mistake. And you try to think about that night on your drive home because it’s that same friend with the alligator skin wallet that is coming over for dinner tonight with his wife and you remember how he plays golf with your boss and this is an important event to get right. So that night before the main course you pour everyone’s glass in the kitchen so that no one will see the bottle and the secret will be safe with you. And your wife brings out the entree and you bring out the wine and everyone digs in and finds it delicious. Your friend with the alligator skin wallet remarks on how delicious the wine is and did you have any trouble finding the David Foster Wallace at the store? And was the sommelier there helpful? And what year did he recommend because this is really really quite good? And you smile and try to decide whether or not to say anything because you know that you’ll need to say something but how are you going to make up something plausible on the spot. But then your wife blurts out that it’s really a George Saunders and don’t you just love it? Because she slurped down her glass of George Saunders and it was her third of the night anyway because she and your friend’s wife managed to down a whole bottle of David Sedaris as a warm-up but they both agreed it was too dry for them even though you and your friend think that it’s the perfect middle-of-the-week wine. For a moment you’re paralyzed with fear because this was your shot, your chance to show off and really shine and display your competence and you blew it because you were too chicken shit to tell the sommelier at the counter that you picked up the wrong bottle by mistake. But instead your friend raises an eyebrow and says that it’s wonderful, just delightful, and he’d never tried it before and though maybe it’s not as dry as the DFW, does it ever have a great finish and it’s just perfect for a dinner party, isn’t it?
Review originally published on GoodReads.com.
PS: If you enjoyed this review, please consider buying a copy of Pastoralia
#Holden Sterling
At 5:02am on June 22, 2008, our son Holden Sterling was born. He was a very healthy 8 pounds, 10 ounces and was 21 inches long. He had a full head of dark hair, the hint of manly sideburns, and huge freakin’ feet. We loved him instantly and are delighted to be a family with him.
#dream.20080621: meow
We arrive at the shelter with the night coming quickly, close on our heels and ready to consume us. I do not know what we were expecting. A log cabin? A English Tudor house? No matter. The shelter is octagonal and in many ways little more than a screened-in gazebo. Considering what we have just been through, where we’ve come from, this should provide sufficient coverage for the night. We set out things down and go about our quick-as-we-can business of securing the sight. We check the screens for tears. We bolt and lock the door. We inspect the floorboards to make sure that none are loose. Feeling safe enough, we unroll our sleeping bags. But it isn’t long before we hear the low groans and know that they have found us. Within minutes, we can hear their shuffling in the leaves and branches of the dark forest night around us. We hear a thud on the roof. We turn and see them start to climb up the screens: the zombie cats with their patchy fur and drooling hissing. Fear overwhelms us.
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