Friday, October 9, 2015

A One in Three Hundred Chance

There is a roughly one in three hundred chance your life will end with a bullet finding you today if the front door you are walking out this morning is in America.  The Republicans apparently have no problem living with these numbers. Maybe as the bullets find their children (instead of the children of others) they will begin to rethink their positions the way James Brady did.  I don't understand how any civilized country could continue down this path, but that party keeps falling in lockstep time with the N.R.A.'s agenda, which is one of pure greed, industry profit, and nothing more.

When will we decide enough is enough? When it's a part of the daily news every single day? Are we really going to wait that long?

Now Arizona. And a campus in Philadelphia was on lockdown because of a threat (promise?) that shootings would occur there.

We use 9-11 as a cultural shibboleth all the time. But if you actually count up the victims of gun violence in America, it's the death toll of 9-11 rung up over and over again, year in, year out.

More Americans killed by guns since 1968 than in all U.S. wars.

Thursday, October 8, 2015


In the future, pseudo-humans, interactive automata, act as interceptive "victims," luring and enticing abductors to seize them. Should one be "taken," it would neutralize its would-be victimizer, and reapportion the "social resources" contained within its body, the entire process taking well under eight hours and richly fertilizing the transplantation banks. Imagine opening a hotel room door and discovering one of these A.I. entities (probably a small beauty)  busy "breaking down" one of the apprehended, her quarry, on plastic sheets, with refrigerated cases waiting nearby to get their fill of the body's goodies.  She would look over her shapely shoulder, tell you she believes you have the wrong room, apologize for the mess, and then give her government credentials in an otherworldly voice, that rather sexy, dulcet tone of the machines that live. Then she would go back to what she was doing while asking you to "kindly shut the door softly, citizen." 


the rat dose is significant—the body is a wandering (albeit) form
can't have this—significance—the arbiter ghost wakes up distortion
come home, not wanting to be as hallowed, however


in the garden of former selves—risky abeyance—to wander

Miniatures is a hookup site where memory-challenged people go to meet (repeatedly) various memory-challenged lovers they discharged long ago. Of course, there is constant novelty in these accidental rediscoveries. One can safely complain about one's ex as one lies in flushed satisfaction in that ex's warm arms. Neither you nor that ex will ever guess the truth about either one of you. Mercifully, nobody will be offended in this forest of blank lovers. It's the same way it happens even among those who are not memory-challenged. They too live out other people's stories, repeat the past, without having any clue they are doing this.

The Last Vispo Anthology

Nico Vassilakis just sent me a link to this anthology.

Apparently, this came out some time ago (2012). Anyway, it was news to me, so I was happy to discover it. Maybe it was only recently made available as a free-access file? (Few seconds later: yes, this is the explanation.)

I'm lost in this PDF currently and really digging its scene.

I had to scroll through all 337 pages and look at everything.

I initially started compiling a "favorites" list, but it was growing ridiculously long. I'd recommend you look at everything. There are sockdologers in every single section.

I couldn't read the essays right now.  I read little blips of them. It was the work itself I wanted to see.

(the night game)

Wednesday, October 7, 2015

Epiphenomenal Fiction

Darn you, Karen Russell, for making me cry first thing this morning with your story "Madame Bovary's Greyhound!"

This is Madame Bovary retold from Emma's greyhound's perspective. It's a story in the "first person greyhound."  Hey, canines can become disaffected and fall out of love too. Just like les petites bourgeoises. Karma's a bitch here. Literally. You might think it would be difficult to pull this off without the pathos degenerating into bathos. And you'd probably be right. It is probably difficult to do that. But I can only guess what that failure would look like. Because Russell wins through.

This was in the Zoetrope issue from 2013 I found in the Salvation Army store near here the other day. This mag finds some great contemporary fiction. I read another story in the same issue that also knocked my socks off. And I was sitting in a hot bathtub at the time.