Friday Fiction Fix: "Ziggurat"

Last week, the Fiction Fix took a different twist to what had been our typical approach. This week continues that trend. Today's author is a guy named Stephen O'Connor, who has published three novels, and seen shorter works published in The Chicago Tribune, The Boston Globe, Harper's, and many others. He teaches MFA writing at Columbia University and Sarah Lawrence College, received his undergraduate degree from Columbia and his Master's at California-Berkeley.



His piece "Ziggurat" appeared in the final June issue of The New Yorker, and can be found here.

Today, we'll not attempt to excerpt lines and have them tell us another story. Instead, we'll examine a few lines for the sheer sake of the imagery they conjure. For a writer who, in comparison with others that have been featured in FFF, is less acclaimed, this author displays an incredible talent as a wordsmith. For this and this alone, we examine his piece today.

The story begins with a character hammering away at a computer game. There is a Minotaur lurking nearby, a creature that destroys and devours at will, all humans who cross his path.

"It is true that the Minotaur was very strong...But in fact he didn't really look like a bull...His lips were fat and earthworm pink, his eyes were asymmetrical, and his eyebrows were like forests of black wire."



Okay. I lied.

What's fascinating about this piece, though, and really with any good bit of writing, is that the writer's use of language as a descriptor, a compressor of time, and as a vehicle for theme, is tops. For example, his description of human behavior through the eyes of the Minotaur as something that consists of "loud noises and a series of cowardly acts. Running, etc. Curses, self-soiling" is superb.



The creature finds it "not uncommon for one human being to push another into his path, or even to slay that human being...as an offering."

The insight of the monster is inspiring in that it too, has its tendencies.



"(H)e got up and lumbered off to a tiled tunnel, where he could always find a skulking dog or two, sometimes whole packs."

The Minotaur's hunger leads him to constantly consume, to devour incessantly, yet ironically, he has never experienced the simple joys of beer, pool playing, or even sex. He does not even have a favorite place, as we learn, in the labyrinth. He of course cannot discover these things of his own accord. A helper, of sorts, points them out,



giving "him tips about wrist action, momentum, angles of incidence, about which part of the (redacted) ball to hit when, and about the need to care just enough that you noticed you cared, but no more than that."

The Minotaur of course has his view on humans as well: "None of the things they yearned for would come to pass. All their beliefs about destiny and justice, all their rituals, injunctions, inhibitions and plain-as-the-nose-on-your-face truths: trash, irrelevant, wrong."

He loathes those that sit "atop vinyl-covered swivel stools,



savoring their own tasteless and puny repasts..."

On a journey, both characters make discoveries, the helper finds that "(a)t every turn, the geometry of the world was reinvented," that "footsteps were wholly devoured by (the) past." The Minotaur reconsiders his thinking "of himself as a messenger bearing the ultimate truth:



You were created to be destroyed. That was it. Simple."

On their journey, they discover bizzarisms, oddities, like upon entering any diner, "there were always two cups of steaming coffee waiting on the counter. And, nearby, two little stainless-steel pitchers of half-and-half, always brimful and cool, even though there was never anyone else there: no customers, no staff."

Other noteworthy pieces of imagery include a face "like a soap bubble in candlelight," or the fact that the helper can't remember a favorite place either, but is led, by the Minotaur, to a place where a mother's needlepoint cushion "portraying a smiling lamb jumping a fence," a father's chessboard where the toppled king's "bottom rolled around the pivot of its top," and a moving rocking chair with nobody in it.

And the Minotaur finds himself alone for a spell, his steps that shook dust streams from the ceiling," so that "the lamination would dwindle to gossamer cross-hatching, to a golden web..."

O'Connor takes the reader on a trip, in search of enlightenment, hoping to avoid failure, one with numerous interesting twists. If you enjoy the story, navigate to his Web site, where you can find opportunities to purchase some of his works.
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Friday Fiction Fix: "Idols"

When we have the opportunity to deliver an installment of this feature, the idea is to typically blend stories, one that's written, one that tells another with images. Today we're making an exception in that the photo-image story is not one, but a series of individual mini-stories, if you will. The author of "Idols," today's piece of fiction, is a guy by the name of Tim Gautreaux, who hails from Louisiana, and has seen his work published in The New Yorker, Harper's, and Atlantic, among others. He has also published two novels, The Next Step in the Dance and The Missing, in addition to a couple short-story collections.



He is the Writer in Residence at Southeastern Louisiana University and has won several awards, including the 2005 John Dos Passos Prize. "Idols" appears in the June 22 issue of The New Yorker.

The story is, in my interpretation, about two men who've set their lives -- or at least the current portion of it -- and every ounce of their will toward achieving one goal. Such determination, one might argue, can be admirable, but there may some details of futility that get in the way. The character from whom we will (mostly)hear is named Obie.

“'Some men can change like a porch lizard switches colors,'



(he) said...'And some cain’t.'”

Obie gives us this gem early in the piece, which, in a sense, gives us the motif via foreshadowing.

“'I know about what a man thinks he needs.'”



"And with this he began unbuttoning his shirt."

By undressing, Obie will reveal something to the other main character, Mr. Smith. Chances of that something being a naked Bar Rafaeli video are slim, but we can all dream, right?

“'Maybe I don’t need ’em no more.



Get a little older, you need less and less.'”

I went to my sixth Royals game last night, and it was absolutely brutal. This team cannot hit, which means it cannot win. Period. The buddy that went with me simply couldn't grasp why I was so disappointed afterwards. He just didn't get it. As an interesting side note, I met Joakim Soria's wife afterwards at a bar. We had a five-minute conversation about where they met, how long they'd been married, etc. I made a comment about a typo on his Twitter page, which went over real well, but we moved past it. We talked about how long they'd dated, Mexicutioner facial hair -- she said she doesn't mind it except for when he's "down there attending to business" -- injuries, and athlete travel. Things were going relatively fine until I asked her what the name of the bar -- she'd already disclosed that they met in one -- in which they met was, and she lost it. She started screaming at me and called me a douche bag, which I found highly original, and tried to throw a drink on me. It was good times. One of my friends, in a fit of sheer sobriety, tried to get in her face, and her friend tried to apologize for her friend's actions, etc. Then my buddy tried to ask the friend (who had already told us she has a live-in boyfriend) out, and, well, like I said, good times. Getting back to our story...

Obie and Mr. Smith talk marriage. Both men have had their share of troubles.

“'Aw, she’s just a woman. Can’t hurt a man unless she buys a gun.'”











What? That last lady didn't have a firearm? Oh. Sorry 'bout that.

Anyway, we find out later that Obie has religion in his life:

“'Save me, O God, for the waters threaten my life;



I am sunk in the abysmal swamp where there is no foothold.'”

Ah. The good old days when the AFC West wasn't the NFL laughing stock, and people weren't wondering if the Raiders might make a run at the division.

There's a third (fairly) major character in the story. His role is crucial for a number of reasons, and he has his opinions on Obie.

“'That boy’s a good worker. I believe he can fix a broke horse.'”



For the purposes of this little vignette, "Obie" is Kansas City Royals Trainer Nick Swartz, who has been, shall we say, discussed a bit recently.

One of the characters finds the path to success, and must relish in it.

“'The old me’s gone. The new me’s got to move on down the road...



...Might be time to sell out.'”

Several months later, and I still can't believe that these two will don new uniforms for real next month.

The character who finds success seeks help from he who has not:

“'I’m sorry, (sir),



but it sounds like things is past fixin’.'”

And we'll wrap it up there. Please follow the pre-jump link and give "Idols" a go without photo/commentary interruption, and if you like it, consider purchasing some of Gatreaux's work here.
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Friday Fiction Fix: "The Descent of Man"

We might very well be licensed to slack a bit on the usual Friday, but I'll be damned if we'll head into a holiday weekend without a little Eff Cubed, if you feel me. It's been an interesting week on the House of Georges, and we might as well go out with a bang. We will, however, keep this one brief, so's not to give too much away. Be careful with your boats, beers, barbecues, and bongs out there, America.

T. Coraghessan Boyle is an American novelist and short-story writer who has been publishing since the late 1970s. He has compiled an impressive list of works and achievements including 12 novels, eight collections, a PEN/Faulkner award, and a Guggenheim Fellowship. He currently has a novel and a short-story collection in the works, with tentative publication dates of 2011, 2010, respectively. I would highly reccommend The Road to Wellville and The Tortilla Curtain; the wife is currently reading Talk Talk while I'll next take on Budding Prospects, a 1984 novel about growing weed. So if you don't know T.C. Boyle, ya betta' ax somebody, 'cause his stuff makes fer good readin'.

"I was living with a woman who suddenly began to stink."



"There were other problems, too. Hairs, for instance. Hairs that began to appear on her clothing, sharp...and brutal...Then too there was the fruit...



...these fruit fragments occurred principally in the bedroom, on the pillow, surrounding by darkening spots."

As one might imagine, our narrator is in somewhat of an uncomfortable situation to say the least.

"(She) was in the habit of sitting before the air conditioner when she came home from work, fingering out her hair, drying the sweat from her face and neck in the cool hum of the machine, fruit bits sifting silently to the carpet...hairs drifting like feathers. On these occasions the room would fill with the stink of her, bestial and fetid."



"One evening, just after her bath (the faintest odor lingered...), I lay my hand casually across her belly and was suddenly startled to see an insect flit from its cover, skate up the swell of her abdomen, and bury itself in her navel."

Our protagonist, with his frustrations now yielding suspicions, begins to ponder an investigation.

"At home I poured a water glass of gin, held it to my nostrils and inhaled. (She) sat before the air conditioner, her hair like a urinal mop, stinking...On the way to the bedroom I poured a second glass.

In the bedroom I sniffed gin and dressed for dinner...She appeared in the doorway. She was dressed in her work clothes: jeans and sweatshirt...'I figured I'd go like this,' she said."



"I was knotting my tie. 'And I wish you'd stop insisting on baths every night -- I'm getting tired of smelling like a coupon in a detergent box. It's unnatural. Unhealthy.'

When I returned from work the following day, (she) was gone...On the pillow in the bedroom I found a fermenting chunk of pineapple. And sobbed."

Thusly, the last straw, and the narrator is off in search of answers.

"It was dark when I got there...I began searching through the rooms, opening and slamming doors."

"Inside I found (her), legs and arms bare, pinching a lab smock across her chest. She looked puzzled at first, then annoyed. She stepped up to me, made some rude gestures in my face...Then I saw (him) -- in a pair of baggy BVDs.



I grabbed (her). But (he) was there in an instant -- he hit me like a grill of a Cadillac and I spun across the room, tumbling desks and chairs as I went.



I slumped against the chalkboard. The door slammed: (she) was gone."

Boyle's story is full of numerous surprises. You can obtain a copy of one of his short-story collections here.

That's today's Fix, kids. Dunno when we'll be back with another one, so be sure to check back every Friday afternoon, and the rest of the days that end in 'y,' as well.
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Friday Fiction Fix (Now With Cinematic Twist!): "The Only Good Indian"

If, and I'm taking a shot in the dark here, you found this feature a tad confusing in the past, well keep your pants on. Today we're including another element. KC FilmFest kicked off on Wednesday night, and the wife and I sat one row behind Bob Uecker. The theater was stadium-seating style, which is never good on the neck, but it does rock when the star/executive producer/complete badass gives a Q&A afterwards. Such badass is Wes Studi. If you've never seen "Dances with Wolves," or "Last of the Mohicans," or "Geronimo: An American Legend," well, you're just plain missing out. Those films are good places to start, if you're interested, though.

As I mentioned, the film stars Studi, along with J. Kenneth Campbell, and cinema newcomer, Winter Fox Frank. It was directed by Kevin Willmott, and written by Thomas Carmody. It's not really playing in the major-movie market, so you'll have to dig around for it, which I highly recommend. One of the many cool things about the picture is that the storyline uses, incorporates, and runs parallel with the text from Bram Stoker's Dracula. I know. Super-dope fly, right?

For the sake of consistency, Bram Stoker was born in Dublin in 1847. He published a dozen novels, three short-story collections, and four non-fiction pieces before taking a wooden stake to the heart in 1912. Either that or he had syphillis. Anyway, in the same sense that I hoped Wes Studi needed no introduction, I hope the same for the story of Dracula.

"I did not sleep well, though my bed was comfortable enough, for I had all sorts of queer dreams. There was a dog howling all night under my window, which may have had something to do with it; or it may have been the paprika, for I had to drink up all the water in my carafe, and was still thirsty. Towards morning I slept and was wakened by the continuous knocking at my door, so I guess I must have been sleeping soundly then..."



"They were evidently talking of me, for every now and then they looked at me, and some of the people who were sitting on the bench outside the door--came and listened, and then looked at me, most of them pityingly. I could hear a lot of words often repeated, queer words, for there were many nationalities in the crowd, so I quietly got my polyglot dictionary from my bag and looked them out."



"The strange driver evidently heard the words, for he looked up with a gleaming smile...



...The passenger turned his face away, at the same time putting out his two fingers and crossing himself...There is a flask...underneath the seat, if you should require it....

...I found my dear one, oh, so thin and pale and weaklooking.



All the resolution has gone out of his dear eyes, and that quiet dignity which I told you was in his face has vanished.



He is only a wreck of himself, and he does not remember anything that has happened to him for a long time past. At least, he wants me to believe so, and I shall never ask...I do believe the dear soul thought I might be jealous...Then one night, just as the moon rose, he grew quiet, and kept murmuring to himself...It was a strange thing that the patient had humour enough to see their distrust, for, coming close to me, he said in a whisper, all the while looking furtively at them, They think I could hurt you! Fancy me hurting you! The fools!"

"It was soothing, somehow, to the feelings to find myself disassociated even in the mind of this poor madman from the others, but all the same I do not follow his thought. Am I to take it that I have anything in common with him, so that we are, as it were, to stand together. Or has he to gain from me some good so stupendous that my well being is needful to Him?

I am in doubt, and so have done the best thing I know of. I have written to my old friend and master, Professor Van Helsing,...who knows as much about...the world...



Van Helsing would, I know, do anything for me for a personal reason, so no matter on what ground he comes, we must accept his wishes. He is a seemingly arbitrary man, this is because he knows what he is talking about better than any one else. He is a philosopher and a metaphysician, and one of the most advanced scientists of his day, and he has, I believe, an absolutely open mind. This, with an iron nerve, a temper of the ice-brook, and indomitable resolution, self-command, and toleration exalted from virtues to blessings, and the kindliest and truest heart that beats, these form his equipment for the noble work that he is doing for mankind, work both in theory and practice, for his views are as wide as his all-embracing sympathy. I tell you these facts that you may know why I have such confidence in him. I have asked him to come at once."

"You will, of course, understand...that when a man is so loved and honored...everything regarding him is of interest in our little community...



...When an individual has revolutionized...conventional forms are unfitting, since they would seem to limit him to one of a class...He made this last appeal with a courtly air of conviction which was not without its own charm."

"So I contented myself with making a general statement that...I...would then see what I could do in the direction of meeting his wishes."



"We have now had so many changes and find the same thing so constantly that we are encouraged to think that the journey will be an easy one...It is a lovely country. Full of beauties of all imaginable kinds...

...our enemy is still on the river...



...we travel, always getting closer to the mountains, and moving into a more and more wild and desert land..."

That's today's installment. Find out more about "The Only Good Indian" here, and get your copy of Stoker's masterpiece here.
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Friday Fiction Fix: "The Rum Diary"

Believe me when I say that taking on anything by Hunter S. Thompson for the Friday Fiction Fix is no small challenge. Selecting The Rum Diary was key in that, by the time it came out in 1998, I figured I'd already read everything great that Thompson would pen in his life. The irony in that is that the author actually wrote this when he was 22, which would be somewhere around 1959. It has even been dubbed "The Long Lost Novel."

At the time of its release, I was roughly a year away from commencing at THE Fort Lewis College, and well, like any other thing not called homework, I devoured the book. It, like everything else I've ever read by the man, was fantastic. So today we revisit it, and given that there has been much ado with the Kansas City Chiefs' end-of-season changes, turmoil since, and the voluntary mini-camp taking place this weekend, it came as a bit of a surprise that running back Larry Johnson would be in attendance.

If you need an introduction to Hunter S. Thompson, find it yourself. If you have no idea of the conduct of Larry Johnson since the Chiefs drafted him out of Penn State in the first round of 2003, I'm confused as to how you wound up here. Assuming you're familiar with both, today's exercise, like all of them, will examine a couple of snapshots into Johnson's, or Paul Kemp's, if you will, post-college days.

One

"My apartment in New York was on Perry Street, a five minute walk from the White Horse. I often drank there, but I was never accepted because I wore a tie. The real people wanted no part of me.



It occurred to me that the real reason these people were leaving this island was basically the same reason I had left...and said to hell with all the things I was supposed to want -- indeed, all the things I had a responsibility to want -- to uphold, as it were -- and I wondered how I might have sounded if someone had interviewed me...on the day I left...with two suitcases and three hundred dollars...

'Tell me, Mr. Kemp, just why are you leaving...where your family has lived for generations and where you could, for the asking,



have a niche carved out for yourself...so that you might live in peace and security for the rest of your well-fed days?'"

"Sanderson's office was on the top floor of the tallest building...I sat in a leather lounge chair...There was a definite feeling of being in a control tower.

Sanderson had his feet on the window sill.



'Two things,' he was saying. 'This business...won't amount to much...Zimburger's project is a big one.'

'Zimburger?' I said.

He nodded. 'I didn't want to mention it yesterday because he might have dropped in.'

'Wait a minute,' I said. 'Are we talking about



the same Zimburger -- the General?'

He looked annoyed. 'That's right, he's one of our clients.'

'Damn,' I said. 'Business must be falling off. The man's a jackass...'

...'Look,' he said sharply, 'you've been here long enough to begin learning a few things, and one of the first things you should learn is that money comes in odd packages.' He tapped his pencil on the desk. 'Zimburger -- known to you as 'the jackass' -- could buy and sell you thirty times...'

...'One of these days,' he said, 'this silly arrogance of yours is going to cost you a lot of money.'

'Goddamnit,' I replied, 'I didn't come here to be analyzed.'"

Two

"Sometime after midnight we found ourselves in front of a place called the Blue Grotto,



a crowded...dance hall with a two dollar cover charge. I tried to pay, but people laughed and a squatty woman grabbed my arm.



'Oh, no,' she said. 'You come with us. We go to the real party...'

...We ran down the street to where they had a car, and about six more people piled in with us...We stopped a a house full of lights and music...The squatty girl gave a loud whoop and ran up the steps...It was jammed from wall to wall, and over in one corner a band was playing...and I began looking for a dark corner where I could drink without being seen...



...A few feet to my left was a door and I edged toward it, bumping more dancers. When I finally got outside I felt like I'd escaped from a jail...The dancing was getting wilder now...There was a driving rhythm to the music; the movements on the floor were jerky and full of lust, a swinging and thrusting of hips, accompanied by sudden cries and groans. I felt a temptation to join in, if only for laughs. But first I would have to get drunker.

On the other side of the room I found Yeamon,




standing by the entrance to the hall. 'I'm ready to do the dinga,' I said with a laugh. 'Let's cut loose and go crazy.'

He glared at me, taking a long slug of his drink...Yeamon was staring at the dancers, looking very morose...

...'Look at that bitch,' he said...

...'Yeah,' I said. 'She's hell on this dancing.'

'She's part nigger,' he replied...

'Careful,' I said quickly. 'Watch what you say in this place...'

...'Fine with me,' he replied. 'Try talking to her...'

...'Hell,' I said. 'Just grab her. Let's go.'

He shook his head. 'I did. She screamed like I was killing her.'"

"Suddenly, I was next to Chenault. I shrugged helplessly and kept up the stomp. She laughed and bumped me with her hips.



Then she danced back to her partner...the music fromt the crowd was getting crazier...They had made a big circle, and in the middle of it Chenault and the small, spade-bearded man were doing the cance. Chenault had dropped her skirt and was dancing in her panties and her white sleevless blouse. Her partner had taken off his shirt exposing his glistening black chest...

...Now, as if in some kind of trance, Chenault began to unbutton her blouse. She popped buttons slowly, like a practiced stripper, then flung the blouse aside and pranced there in nothing but her bra and panties...

...I looked again at Yeamon. He was waving his hands in the air now, trying to get Chenault's attention. But he looked like just another witness, carried away with the spectacle.

Now they were close together and I saw the brute reach around Chenault and unhook the strap of her bra. He undid it quickly, expertly, and she seemed unaware that now she wore nothing but her thin silk panties. The bra slid down her arms and fell to the floor. Her breasts bounced violently with the jerk and thrust of the dance...

...I watched, fascinated and terrified, and then I heard Yeamon beside me as he lunged toward the dance floor. There was a commotion and then I saw the big bartender move up behind him and grab his arms. Several others pushed him back, treating him like a harmless drunk as they made room for the dance to go on.

Yeamon was screaming hysterically, struggling to keep his balance. 'Chenault!' he shouted...

...Suddenly Yeamon broke loose...The melee stopped the dance...I staggered through the crowd, cursing, shoving...Behind me I could hear Yeamon, still yelling...Several people whacked me before I got to the door, but I paid no attention...

...Sometime during the night it started raining and when I woke up I was soaking wet. I thought it was dawn, but when I looked at my watch it said nine o'clock. My head felt swollen to twice its normal size and there was a big, painful bump in from of my right ear...The more I remembered, the more depressed I became...

...The cop asked if he could come in and take a look...

...'No sign of a white girl,' he said, looking Yeamon straight in the eye...

...I had several Chenaults on my mind right then:









...When I woke up the next morning Chenault was already in the kitchen. 'It's my turn to do something,' she said with a bright smile. 'You just sit there and be waited on...'

...The bathroom door was closed and I pulled it open. The curtain jerked back and Yeamon peered out of the shower. 'Kemp?' he said, peering through the steam. 'Who the hell is it?'

'God damn you!' I shouted. 'How did you get in here?'

'Your window was open. I'll have to stay here tonight...'

'You dumb bastard!' I snapped. 'You might have a murder rap on your ass...'

He jumped out of the shower and wrapped a towel around his waist. 'Jesus,' he said. "I better get out of here.'"

And that'll do it for this week's edition. If you're interested in obtaining your own copy of The Rum Diary, you can do so here.
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