Recent Reading

It seems only appropriate that, if I'm going to inflict upon the world my own fiction, that I should at least let said world know the kind of fiction that I have been reading, so they know whom to blame. And, in case anyone cares, I'll be rating them, too, as though my opinion means something.

Over the past couple of months, I have read:

Smoke and Mirrors, by Neil Gaiman (short story collection) (****)
American Gods, by Neil Gaiman (*****)
Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell, by Susanna Clarke (*****)
Homeward Bound, by Harry Turtledove (***)
Anna Karenina, by Leo Tolstoy (*****)

Untitled, part I

The hospital waiting room was quiet, subdued, and only the presence of expectant fathers kept it from being utterly morbid. Concerned friends and relatives of the sick conversed in muted voices, afraid to speak normally for fear of disturbing those who needed their rest. Or maybe fear that they would attract some evil spirit of sickness towards themselves. But though the room was quiet, it was the opposite of meditative; the tension that hung thickly in the air hindered concentration by its constant reminder of the grim purpose of the large concrete structure it served.

Sitting calmly in the corner, growing ever more frustrated and impatient, Jonathan was awaiting life; but to his family, this new life was almost another death. He was inclined to view matters more philosophically, as accustomed as he was to viewing the bigger picture, dealing with matters of much greater import than the fate of a single child, but he couldn’t deny feeling a sense of loss at what was going to transpire here today. And that was why he was waiting here, alone, on a mission unknown to the rest of his mourning family. Of all of them, he was the only one equipped to take action, and he was willing to bend the rules a little in order to get what he wanted.

Jonathan was checking his watch for what seemed like the hundredth time when he spied the woman striding out the doors that led into the maternity ward, a small bundle in her arms. Her expression and demeanor were no-nonsense, and her walk was purposeful. She looked as though she would simply walk through someone in her way, but in one swift glide Jonathan moved to block her path. Contrary to what some small corner of his brain had been expecting, she did stop, though her gaze seemed to look through him to the doors behind him.

“Yes, sir?” she said, politely but rushed.

“That’s my sister’s son you have there,” Jonathan said, and was surprised at the emotions that simple thought was able to stir inside him. “Can I please see him once before you take him away?” The woman’s expression softened slightly, but she shook her head firmly.

“I’m sorry, but we don’t allow any contact between the birth mother’s family and the child,” she replied. “Trust me, it’s better this way. Your sister has already signed all the papers. It’s really more healthy to just let him go.”

Well, I asked nicely, Jonathan thought. He locked gazes with the woman, forcing her eyes away from the doors behind him and into his own.

“Please, just one look.” His voice lowered and softened, and he brushed her hand with his own in the lightest of touches. “It won’t do any harm.”

The woman’s eyes widened just a little, and she slowly nodded. Without another word, she held out the baby. Jonathan took him from her arms, leaving them to hang slackly at her side. He looked down at the tiny face, eyes closed in repose, and felt a deeper connection than he could have imagined. What he would do would forge an even deeper connection still. With his forefingers, he touched the child’s forehead, and muttered a few words underneath his breath. The baby stirred but then went back to sleep, showing no other reaction. He held out his sister’s son – soon to be her son no longer – and the woman from the adoption agency took him back, once again in silence.

Jonathan stepped out of her way, and shaking herself from her lethargy, the woman once again strode forward, and was out of the door in a matter of seconds. Jonathan could feel a part of himself go with her, and he ached for the loss. But it did not matter. The boy would return, eventually. All he need do now was wait.

American Gods and the Power of Myth

In Neil Gaiman's masterpiece, American Gods, he portrays a world where gods, mythological beings, and cultural icons are brought to life through the belief of mankind. While the main plot is concerned with the battle of America's new gods -- the media, the internet, cars, and other such -- against the old gods of European mythology (and contains a tacit but definite critique of our tendency to discard the old in our eagerness for the new), the book also examines the way in which our society has deconstructed and almost destroyed the very idea of myth and story, to our great detriment.

Myths and legend are the oldest forms of story, our most primal mode of communicating ideas. They connect to something deep within us, slipping past our modern cynical defenses to speak to something more basic. They fulfill our need for magic in everyday life, our desperate search for something more than just what we see with our eyes. The mythologies we study in school today -- Greek, Roman, Norse, Celtic, even American -- have been passed down through generations, refined by innumerable storytellers until they have grown great in both wisdom and power. The stories we have today are the ones that have been strong enough to survive centuries; no mediocre efforts could last so long. These stories are entertaining, yes, but they have lasted so long because they are also true, in a way much deeper than just the factual. Some of these stories have historical basis, some do not, but it matters not a whit to their ability to move and inspire us.

These days, however, we are in danger of losing our stories. In its commendable dedication to truth in history, our society has forgotten the value of fiction in myth and legend. We now demand that all portrayals of persons and events be purely factual, and even take great joy in pointing out the inaccuracies in our previously-cherished tales of our forefathers. We are quick to declare that Washington never chopped down a cherry tree, John Chapman (a. k. a. Johnny Appleseed) never traveled over the countryside wearing his cooking pot and planting trees, Christopher Columbus never admitted to finding a new world, and a hundred other things we loved in our stories never really happened. We are eager to bring our heroes down to the level of mere men, and so we viciously attack the stories that have grown up around them, believing that we have gained truth, when in the end, maybe all we have gained is fact. We have sacrificed magic for accuracy, and lost our souls in the process; we have confused our storybooks for our history books, forgetting that the two can coexist, demanding that one destroy the other.

The modern world little knows how to deal with living story. The written word, while preserving a tale just as it is told, also in a way kills it. Myth grew to such great power through constant retelling, and retelling inevitably leads to change, no matter how many precautions are taken against it (the ancient Celtic bards were required to learn their sagas by heart, word for word, and swore never to change a single one, but change they did). Again, modern society views this malleability with great suspicion, and warns against believing in such twice-told tales (look at the glee many take in debunking urban legends). But stories that cannot change with the times, that have no room for adaptation or improvement, quickly die, and rarely do they attain the heights of power scaled by the older myths. (It is ironic that J. R. R. Tolkien was very concerned with a filmmaker altering his books for the sake of a movie; surely he, of all people, should have known that myths -- even man-made myths -- change with the telling, and that this is a good thing.) Once again, the modern world's obsession with "fact" (in this case, the "fact" of the text of a story) threatens to destroy the soul even as it bolsters the mind.

Accurate history is a good thing; there can be no question. But myth and legend and story are not history; they affect us on a different, more primal, level. But if we insist that the latter become the former, then we will forever destroy one of the great transcendent experiences of life, and the world will become a darker place for it. We need science, but we also need magic.

A Review: "Pushing Blackness", by A. P.

Original story can be found here


One of the greatest challenges of the short story writer is finding deep meaning in the minutia of life, of capturing those tiny moments that open up a window into the souls of men despite their short duration. It is the writers who can fully encapsulate these defining scenes that create captivating fiction, little snapshots that resonate with the reader long after their few paragraphs have been devoured. Even more challenging is to confine the reader to a single man's thoughts, to convey an entire world through his biased, limited perspective. These challenges are amply met by A. P.'s very short (only a page) but perceptive ficlet "Pushing Blackness".

The setup is simple: a nameless man watches as an airport janitor named Daryl pushes his cart through the crowds, travelling between restrooms with a cart full of toilet paper. This is the only action, and there is no dialogue. The story is concerned only with Daryl's thoughts about the anonymity of his job and his speculation of what, if anything, this nameless man might think of him. It is a story about perception, about how others perceive us, and even more about how we imagine others perceive us, whether we have an overinflated or underinflated sense of our own importance in the minds of others. This point is hammered home in the final paragraph, in which a surprise revelation as to the identity of the narrator casts the entire story in a new light, sharply highlighting the previously hidden message. This masterful twist forces the reader to rethink all the conclusions he has so-far formed, and (if he is self-aware enough) to reconsider what erroneous conclusions he might have formed in his real life as well.

The prose style is conversational, the narrator casually addressing the reader in such a way as to make him a confidant, drawing the reader in. Almost every sentence echoes with Daryl's loneliness and desperation. The emotions are well-conveyed, though some might quibble that their portrayal seems a bit too upfront, lacking subtlety. But if that is the case, it is a minor criticism, and it does not detract from the overall power of the narrative.

"Pushing Blackness" does a remarkably good job of conveying complex emotions and ideas in a very short space. For a short read, it is highly rewarding.

A Faery Tale
by E. A. Smith

Sean Kennedy watched the full moon rise behind the trees, sending slivers of light through the branches to shine like searchlights on the water. The lake was nearly still, only a few ripples raised by the light breeze that blew past his bench near the shore. The faint, shimmery light only seemed to highlight his dusky mood, revealing and enhancing the solitude of his surroundings.

Sean only came to this lake, situated in a isolated corner of a park not a half-hour’s drive from his home, when he was feeling lonely. Sean came here a lot. He couldn’t even explain why he did it, as he couldn’t remember it ever making him feel better, and the scenery looked more likely to make him feel worse; but for some reason, he so often found himself drawn back here, watching that same full moon rise behind those same trees. It always seemed to be full when he was here, but Sean credited that to an actively romantic imagination, which wanted to cast the past in the most effective mise en scéne. And watching the water now, when the moon was in fact full, he knew how effective that little extra bit could be.

Sean had to admit to himself that anyone watching his life from the outside would be puzzled as to what all his fuss was about. He had plenty of friends and family, and had even had a few romantic relationships as well (none of them having ended well, or he wouldn’t be here, but many people could share that story). There were those he loved, those he was close to, but somehow none of them seemed to be quite . . . enough. There was a gap, an empty spot in his existence. Some place where something was supposed to go. But what? Or who? And how was he supposed to fill up that hole when he didn’t even know what was supposed to fit into it?

The moon rose above the highest of the treetops. Now unobstructed, its light flooded the lake and the ground around it, turning darkness into silvery glow. Sean felt himself and his surroundings bathed in the moonshine, transfiguring an ordinary park and an ordinary man into something otherworldly. Sean looked down at himself and was almost surprised to find the same figure he saw every day of his life. But the moonlight did not leave him completely unchanged. The reflected glow washed out his imperfections and flaws, and nearly washed out his humanity. He felt as though the glow was coming as much from him as from the orb in the sky above his head, as though he had transformed into a being of glory and grace, even though underneath that light he remained the same person he always was. A spot on his left ring finger caught the light particularly well, and for a moment it looked as though the moonshine were reflecting from a band of silver around his finger. Goosebumps raised on his skin. His eyebrow suddenly itched, and he raised a hand to scratch it, only to find another hand already there.

He turned, and beside him sat a young woman, though Sean did not think that he could have missed her arrival. She was tall and lithe, but something about her conveyed a sense of rightness and grace that belied what should have been an ungainly height. Her skin was very fair, almost translucent, contrasting sharply with the jet-black hair that streamed over her shoulders. Through that hair poked two ears that ended in just the slightest suggestion of an elegant point. Her features were sharp, but tempered by a tender smile. And her eyes were the brightest green, so bright they seemed to shine in the moonlight. Sean’s breath caught in his throat, but then the tension and surprise faded from him, and he smiled contentedly.

“Hello, my love,” he said, and leaned in for a kiss.

* * * * *

Afterwards, they lay on the grass, snuggled naked together in sleepy warmth. The woman was curled up next to Sean, her head on his chest, her fingers tracing patterns over the skin of his arms and his torso. Sean held her tightly, as he always did, knowing this moment would end too soon and hoping, he knew in vain, that maybe this time he could hold her firmly enough to keep her at his side.

The woman raised her head to look at him, her eyes uncommonly solemn.

“Do you regret this?” she asked, her low, musical voice not hiding a tremor.

“What we just did?” Sean replied, trying to raise her spirits. “Believe me, that’s the very last thing on the list of my potential regrets.”

“No, I didn’t mean that,” she said, her faint smile showing that she appreciated the joke, but she wouldn’t be deterred by it. “Do you regret me? Do you regret taking a wife you can only be with, only remember, when the full moon reflects upon the water?” Her voice and her face betrayed a real concern, so Sean put aside his joking manner. He raised himself up on one elbow, the better to look full into her face and show her his sincerity.

“No, I don’t,” he said, matching her serious tone. “When we are together, I don’t regret it for a second. I love you, no one else. It’s only when I’m with you that I’m fully aware of what the word ‘love’ even means. And I’ll take a few stolen hours with the woman I truly love over a lifetime with her first runner-up any day.”

“I fear you hold it against me. I fear that what I have left you with is only half a life. I fear that whatever I may offer you is not enough to repay what you have given up.”

“Never think it,” Sean said. He took her hand and held it to his lips, then his heart. “I chose this life; I chose you. I knew what I was getting into. You’re worth more to me than every moment of my life without you. You bewitched me, my love. Your faery magic captured my heart and now I can never let you go.”

“There was no magic involved and you know it,” she replied, trying to sound serious but betrayed by a giggle.

“That’s what you think,” Sean said, “but you cast a spell over me as surely as if you had commanded my heart to be captive to yours. I can only be left to wonder how every man, mortal and faery, could not be your captive.”

“Many pursued me, but none caught me until you. And I am caught, Sean, as surely as you.”

“Do you regret that?” Sean asked, wondering and fearing that he had discovered what had truly been on her mind. “Do you regret taking a mortal for a husband? My life is just a speck next to yours. It would destroy me to lose you, even if I couldn't remember why, but you knew from the beginning that you would lose me. How can you bear to think of that?”

“It is nothing that some of my people have not faced before me. I have spoken with many faery women whose mortal husbands are long dead. Few of them regret the decision.”

“But do you?” Sean asked, noticing with alarm that she had not answered his question. For a moment or two, the only reply he got was a mournful sigh as she pulled herself even more tightly to him, but turned her head down, her eyes hidden from his own. She replied in a heavy voice.

“Sometimes. Sometimes I do. Not because I do not think you worth the sacrifice. But I wonder what you are doing in your world, without me, without the memory of me. What dalliances are you having, with what women? Maybe I should be pleased that at least you can have some comfort, but I am too selfish to be so generous.” Sean briefly closed his own eyes in sorrow, then, tilting up her chin, looked deep into his wife’s unearthly gaze.

“Never think it,” he said firmly. “It’s not selfishness to hurt when you think I might be with someone else. Even ignorant unfaithfulness is a horrible thing to do to one you love.” Sean could feel his breath catching in his throat, blocked by the lump that was forming there. “I’m so very sorry for all that I have done to you in my forgetfulness. I do have one regret: that my choice to be with you has brought you pain. I am the selfish one. Please forgive me.” He ran a strand of night-black hair through his hand, brushing her neck in the process. She caught her hand in his, and brushed it gently with her lips.

“My love, there is nothing to forgive,” she said. “You are not to blame.”

“These other women . . .” Sean continued. He could not accept absolution so easily. “They’ve always felt empty to me. Deep down, I knew there was something missing.” He placed her hand over his heart. “I’m only complete when I’m with you.”

“I understand, Sean. I feel the same. That is why I chose the way I did.” Her lips curled in a shy smile, though it could not completely dispel the haunting in her eyes. “Let us leave this talk of fear and regret behind. I want to enjoy my time with my husband while I can. My foolish worries have stolen enough of it.”

The faery woman raised her hand to Sean’s face, her touch as delicate as leaves on water, wind on grass. A silent apology. But Sean did not hold her fears against her, nor did he begrudge the time it took to console her as best he could. Despite her assurances, he keenly felt the imbalance of their situation. For her sake, he wished that, when they were apart, she could forget him as much as he forgot her.

Sean hated the magic that kept them apart, hated that the men of her race feared mortal men so much that they would so punish their women who loved them. But his love was right; to dwell on these thoughts was to steal from them both the few moments they had together. However well spent, much time already had been lost, and he could never be sure of when they would be together again. Sean leaned over to answer her touch with his own, to be with his wife as fully as possible for the time they had left.

Overhead, the moon moved behind the oncoming clouds, and she was gone.

* * * * *

Sean sat on the bench by the lake, wondering yet again why he kept on bothering to come here. Somehow, there was always a hope in the back of his mind that this place held the cure for his feelings of isolation and emptiness, even though he always came away feeling even more hollow and confused than when he arrived, sensations coupled with a strange lassitude of body that only magnified the melancholy. He rose with a sigh, forcing his reluctant body into motion, a body weighed down by more than physical weight. Hope unfulfilled was a heavy thing indeed.

Sean turned his back on the now-still lake and walked away. Even as he went, though, something inside him made him pause. He turned halfway back and took one final glance at the shadowed water. He knew he would be back.

---------------------------


Author's Note: This story was inspired (more in spirit than in content) by two other works I recently read: Susanna Clarke's magnificent (and massive) Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell, and a short story by Parke Godwin entitled "The Lady of Finnegan's Hearth".