April 12, 2013

From “The Labyrinth-Woman” by Eveline “Ewe” Coldoff

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Her poem “Of the Labyrinth-Women” remains highly anthologized, with its haunting and lyrical language oft-quoted:

for they are the labyrinth-women
twisted within as twisted without
bent inwards upon a mockery of a path
forward to dark and darkward to death

– M. Alethia Markridge, Of the Labyrinth-Women (1935), third stanza.

For all the success and fame that her poetry brought, Alethia Markridge did not live a happy life. She increasingly turned to alcohol and isolation, to the point that her daughter Olive was all but abandoned with her parents in Montauk. “I feel a husk,” she wrote in a 1937 letter, “squeezed-out dull as the name I hide behind full-stops before my true self.”

In the later years of her life, and especially after the publication of A Thousand Strands to the Present in early 1938, Markridge became increasingly obsessed with her first name, Marie, by which she had rarely been called but upon which her devoutly Catholic grandmother had insisted. She called it her “true self” in many letters, and wrote of her fear that it presaged a domestic mundanity to which she was doomed. “To return to the washboard and the oven, the husk-party and gossip-mongery…that is what I fear the most,” she confided in a 1939 note to her sister. “I say return because I feel that all I have ever done and will ever do is but a postponement of the destiny inherited by a million Maries, the destiny they’ll pass on to a hundred more.

Markridge’s final collection, tentatively titled Love-Serenade to the Maries of the Universe, was never completed.

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April 11, 2013

From “Autopsy of a 419 Scam Spam” by Shyla M. Vanderlaan

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FROM: Lilian Thompson

I know you can embarrass get this m ail, but please do not ignore it. After going through your pro file, I feel I should tell you about it.

Oh, I can embarrass what ails you, all right. Thanks for noticing! And I really have more of an amateur file than a pro. Might go pro someday; live the dream.

My father was a poison in his business associates in one of their outings on a business trip.

So if your father was a poison, that makes you half poison? And if he was a poison in his associates, then that would mean that your mother…well, let’s just say it would be an interesting inheritance law case study.

My mom died when I was a kid, so I orphaned children.

You orphaned children? That’s cold. What, since you don’t get parents, nobody gets parents? Or were you, as an orphan, trying to make more of your kind the only way you knew how?

I request the transfer of the inherited money US $ 5.5 M and I come over there.

Too much information! And honestly I think $5.50 would mostly be eaten up in fees.

My father left him in a bank before he dies as a result of eating poison, I’ll give you 15% after the transfer, I will tell you how and why to choose you, and you need to know, but, as you may be already aware, at present, my country is currently in a State of war due to political crises.

So your father locked somebody in a bank before eating himself and dying. Your family history isn’t really selling me on this whole thing.

The rebels have already captured the entire North of the country and efforts aimed at seizing the country’s commercial center, where I am now.

Also, what country where people are named “Lilian Thompson” is currently in the middle of a civil war? Not exactly a Syrian name…

Meanwhile I choose because of the familiarity of the name, and secondly, I choose you with faith as a Christian and pray for it and believe in it.

I’m glad you have faith and all, but the familiarity of one’s name doesn’t necessarily indicate trustworthiness. Joseph Stalin and Bernie Madoff are familiar names.

Finally I love your country and its my dream, because it’s a peaceful country: reply through My Email; [redacted]

Wait, my country is your dream? Doesn’t that mean that it’ll disappear when you wake up? Maybe sending the money isn’t such a bad idea after all…

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April 10, 2013

From “Herculaneum of the East” by Renato Gevorkyan

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The isle of Cevkawesi in the East Indies, known as Kawas to the Dutch and Portuguese, was of little interest to Europeans prior to Dutch consolidation of their colonial rule post-1814. It was small and mountainous, with few of the spices or safe harbors desired by the VOC or the Crown in Lisbon.

In fact, Cevkawesi was best known for the volcanic eruption of its central peak in 1800, one which violently ejected much of the central island into the sky and left a caldera full of seawater. While paling in comparison to the eruptions of Tambora (1815) and Krakatoa (1883), the eruption still caused a localized cooling and mild tidal waves in nearby harbors, with ashfall recorded in Jakarta and Singapore.

However, archival research has indicated that the island may have been inhabited at the time of the eruption. The Vereenigde Oost-Indische Compagnie archives in Amsterdam show a visit to Cevkawesi by a trading vessel in 1787, and the master’s official report includes mention of oerbevolking (aboriginal inhabitants), ruïnes van steen (stone ruins), and hindoe beelden (Hindu statues). The ship’s master’s notes indicate that there was little of economic value, mentioning that the inhabitants were squatting in the structures and did not appear to have the technology to make such structures.

In a controversial paper published in the Historical Bulletin of Southeast Asia and Oceania, a group of scholars argued that the VOC records indicate a relict population of a much larger empire or entity living on Cevkawesi and surviving in monumental architecture from an earlier period until the time of the eruption.

The paper went on to propose a number of origins for the “stone ruins,” from the Sailendra dynasty on nearby Java circa 800 AD to the Mataram kingdom circa 1000 or even the later Srivijaya, Singhasari, or Majapahit empires. A totally unique and independent origin was also discussed (the VOC ship’s master mentioned being unable to understand the Cevkawesis despite the presence of a Javan translator in the ship’s compliment).

It was possible, however unlikely, that the inhabitants of Cevkawesi had an entirely unique culture, architecture, and language.

Whatever the case, the answers lay buried on the flanks of the island. Volcanologists estimate that the eruption would have unleashed multiple pyroclastic flows into Cevkawesi valleys, scouring them clean of all life and burying any structures deeper than Pompeii.

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April 9, 2013

From “The Secret of the Folds” by Neta Michelle Helaine

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As she’d been told, Millie followed the silken thread into the center of the maze, where an old cabin lay. It had been wracked by the elements, leaning sideways and with barely a few flecks of paint remaining, but she wormed her way inside regardless.

It was nearly dusk, leaving the interior nothing but long shadows and dust. A table was the only piece of furniture still standing, and a deeply lined sheet of parchment lay upon it. Just as the instructions had said, Millie folded it, moving the parchment along creases that had been worked countless times before.

She laid the resulting origami owl atop the table.

“You have observed the ritual properly,” the owl said in a voice that was at once the rustling of dead leaves and the rending of old books. “Ask your question.”

Millie took a deep breath. “How do I bring him back?”

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April 8, 2013

From “Hot Dog Street” by Gail B. Regina

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Bennie could thereafter be seen cruising around town in souped-up, expensive cars, since he could apparently find no other outlet for his newfound wealth. He seemed to rotate fairly equally between a red For Mustang, a yellow Chevrolet Camaro, and a lime green Dodge Charger. Townsfolk seeing those new and expensive vehicles on the road began to derisively refer to the trio as “Ketchup, Mustard, and Relish.”

For his part, when Bennie was told of the nicknames, he enthusiastically adopted them as his own, and added themed trim and custom nameplates to each car. In addition, he began recruiting flunkies to drive the cars with him in a trio so that all three condiments were out at the same time.

All of that was, naturally, before the accident that spread Ketchup, Mustard, and Relish all over what soon became known in local circles as “Hot Dog Street.”

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April 7, 2013

From “Cinema Favorité” by Altos Wexan

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Many film critics preface their lists of notable cinema with the term “the best.” The best movies of the year, the best movie of all time. It makes for dramatic copy, but it’s also highly inaccurate. It would be better for them to simply say that the list contains their favorite films of the year, but that makes less attention-grabbing reading and removes the gloss obscuring the fact that all moviegoers, even critics, are subjective viewers. Only through consensus over time can anything have a claim to be “the best.” Everything else is just “my favorite.”

This explains why occasionally you’ll see a moviegoer or critic defend their love of a particular film (as the late Roger Ebert notoriously did with Burt Reynolds’ Rent-a-Cop) despite the fact that it’s nowhere near perfect cinema. A favorite movie is like a favorite car or a favorite pair of jeans–you love it for what it is, warts and all.

I recently realized that my favorite movie, at least insofar as I can name one, is 1993’s Jurassic Park, an assessment reinforced by its recent reappearance on the big screen.

Jurassic Park is in many ways a synthesis of other things in its director’s oeuvre. It combines the broad optimism evident in E.T. and the unrelenting horror from Jaws into something that’s its own beast, apart from the book and the many, many creature feature imitators that followed. There’s action, adventure, laughs (mostly courtesy of Jeff Goldblum, much more effective as a scene-stealer than a lead in the sequel), and a real human element as well.

That’s one criticism that “serious” critics leveled at the film that I never agreed with–that the special effects are great but that the characters are cardboard. I don’t think anyone was robbed at Oscar time, but Grant and Hammond have significant character arcs. Grant, the curmudgeonly character who hates kids, is forced to come to terms with his parental side by guiding the kids through the park; willing to scare a kid to death for insulting a dinosaur at the beginning, he’s ready to give up his life to protect one by the end.

And Hammond (a much different and more sympathetic character than in the book) has his idealism and showmanship tempered by harsh reality. Not only the controller who’s lost control, but an old man faced with the sobering reality that his dream may have cost the lives of the people he loves. My favorite scene in the film doesn’t involve any dinosaurs or special effects, but rather Richard Attenborough musing quietly on his life of showmanship over bowls of melting ice cream.

I’d be the first to agree that Jurassic Park isn’t a perfect movie. Several subplots from the book are shoehorned in and left dangling, most notably the mystery of the sick triceratops and the “lysine contingency.” Despite its screen time we never learn that the triceratops was becoming sick by eating West Indian Lilac as a crop stone, and the throwaway mention of the lysine contingency adds nothing to the picture other than a hurdle for future sequels to grapple with or ignore. The conceit that all the park workers except the main characters leave the island due to the storm (or perhaps daily, it’s not clear) strains credulity.

But still, I find myself as thrilled and engaged by Jurassic Park now as I was in 1993. Even a few notes of John Williams’ magnificent score are enough to make me want to pop in the DVD. It’s not a perfect movie, but it’s perhaps my favorite.

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April 6, 2013

From “The Red Bullet” by Pherick Kermode

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Mikkalsen would often show off his gear, particularly to the younger mercenaries that he often mentored. Most eventually asked about the 9mm crimson cartridge that he kept on a lanyard around his neck.

“That’s my red bullet,” Mikkalsen always said with a grin. “It’s enchanted never to miss, and I keep it for when I really need it.”

In the Kraithari Coup d’Eat of ’24, when Mikkalsen’s mercs were pinned down by artillery strikes being called in by a spotter on the ground, one suggested that he use the red bullet.

“I don’t really need it yet,” said Mikkalsen. He killed the spotter with a well-placed shot to the head with a normal bullet.

During the Siege of Ulmar-Kam in ’27, Mikkalsen was among the mercenaries pinned down at the docks by a sniper while the last ship out of town was casting off. Again it was suggested that he use his red bullet.

“I don’t really need it yet,” said Mikkalsen. The sniper was crushed by a shipping container that Mikkalsen dropped on him from a nearby crane.

In ’38, when bounty hunters from the Imar of Callicob were pursuing Mikkalsen with orders to bring him back for torture and dismemberment, the merc, injured by a broken leg and a bullet wound, sent his fellows on ahead.

“I need it now,” he said, removing the red bullet from his neck and loading it into his sidearm.

When the Imar’s men caught up with him, the found Mikkalsen already dead–with a single red shell casing on the ground next to him.

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April 5, 2013

From “¡Noitacsufbo!” by Naxew Sotla

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.enaJ dennirg “,ydaerla retcarahc laer a ekil erom leef I”

“.gnola lla ti gniod neeb evah eW ?ees uoy t’naC” .dehgual drahciR “,lrig teews raed ym ,hO”

“.won thgir taht od s’teL” .enaJ dias “,suineg a er’uoY”

“!ytixelpmoc citameht dna evitarran rof tuo ti gnilzzup fo rehtob eht ekatsim ll’yeht dna ,ereht gninaem erom si ereht kniht lliw elpoep ,daer ot tluciffid yrots ruo ekam ew fI .ylesicerP”

“?noitacsufbO”

“!noitacsufbO” .deirc eh “!ti tog ev’I” .gnihtemos no gnittis neeeb dah eh rof( teef sih ot tohs ylneddus drahciR

“.tuo dnats sevlesruo ekam ot gnihtemos od ot deen ew lleW”

“.noitpircsed a em nevig neve t’nsah eH .tniop siht ta smihw s’rohtua eht rof teppup kcos erem a ,lla retfa ,ma I” .drahciR dehgis “,nekat enoN”

“.esneffo oN .sretcarahc laer on dna tolp on htiw yrtne golb gnirob yrev a ni kcuts er’eW” .enaJ dias “?od ew dluohs tahW”

.derob gnikool dnuora tas enaJ dna drahciR

Get this month’s blog chain information here.

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April 4, 2013

From “L. R. Badeau on Being a Full-Time Unicorn” by Clemente Sperduti

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Sperduti, Clemente. “L. R. Badeau on Being a Full-Time Unicorn.” Hopewell Democrat-Tribune 4 Apr. 2013, University ed.: A2+.

Lots of children adorn their folders and lockers with unicorn stickers, and Lisa Frank’s cosmic vision of the creatures was long haute couture for elementry schoolers. Lynn Ruelle Badeau of Hopewell has taken that fascination a step further: she has become one of the nation’s few full-time unicorns.

Ms. Badeau spoke to the Hopewell Democrat-Tribune earlier this week: “I’ve always been fascinated with mythological creatures, not just because of their beauty, but also because of their potential to do good and serve as a symbol,” she said. “I was an equestrian and a hiker, and loved nothing more than long wilderness hikes and off the trail rides.”

Badeau had long been an admirer of books like Peter Beagle’s The Last Unicorn and its 1982 film adaptation, but it wasn’t until she graduated from Southern Michigan University’s Monaghan School of Business and began working as an accountant’s assistant that she began thinking of making her fascination into a full-time job. “I thought of majoring in something that involved chasing unicorns, but the closest thing the school had–art history–had a really awful placement rate. So I made the ‘grownup’ decision and became an accountant.”

Five years of clock-punching at the Hopewell accountancy firm of Heliotrope, Burgher, and Mendicant changed her mind. “It’s a good thing no one saw my expense account sheets,” Badeau laughs, “I covered every inch of empty space with unicorn drawings. I got the work done, but 90% of my time was daydreaming about being a unicorn.” She maintained her equestrian and wilderness hiking pursuits on the side, but holds that “it just wasn’t enough.”

It was a Motion magazine article about Venado un Cuerno that really opened Badeau’s eyes. “I read about Mr. un Cuerno in SoCal, who’d been a unicorn full-time for almost a decade, and realized that there might be a way to live the dream.” She struck up a correspondence with un Cuerno, who she credits as her mentor, freely sharing tips on how to live and work as a full-time unicorn.

At first, things were difficult. “Being a full-time unicorn is tough!” Badeau says. “You really miss your opposable thumbs, and a diet of grass and rainbows is a difficult adjustment for someone used to burgers and fries!” She started with part-time unicorning, on weekends and after hours, but soon found the courage to quit her 9-5 job and move into 40-hour unicorn weeks.

“There are some challenges,” admits Badeau. “You need people to help brush your coat, and driving anywhere requires a trailer and hitch. It’s difficult for people with hard hearts to see me, and I have an instinctive fear of non-virgins that I have to control with special veterinary medication.” But it’s all worth it, she says. “Especially with children. Asking if they can ride me or touch my horn and then seeing their faces when they’re able to…it’s the best feeling in the world!”

Lynn Badeau now lives and works full-time as a unicorn, taking only the occasional weekend or holiday off to “wear clothes, use fingers, and watch Netflix” for a change. While she’s coy about how much she charges per appearance (Badeau’s website has a price quote generator), she often works for free or at the behest of the Department of Natural Resources, teaching children about conservationism and the environment.

“I’m a nerd at heart,” Badeau says, noting that she has appeared as a guest in such respected shows as Dr. What, Blade Runner: The Series, and Star Trek the Third Generation. “I’m able to make a living with my dream and educate besides. What could be better than that?”

From an idea by breylee and this article.

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April 3, 2013

From “The JCVs” by Perri D. Kelley

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The diode implants were inexpensive and enough to keep inaction or an unhealthy diet from negatively impacting a person’s muscle mass and tone. Combine that with the burgeoning industry of “tweaking” babies by choosing the most attractive and ideal combination of their parents’ genes, and the conclusion was clear. The most recent generation had far more people that were in the highest tier of human attractiveness. They were also among the most highly educated generations in history, and enjoyed the benefits of unprecedented technological infrastructure.

Why, then, were they also some of the loneliest and most disconnected people in history?

Academic struggled with the facts for years. Generation A, to use the somewhat debased term that became popular in the media, had in theory every possible convenience and every reason to succeed. And yet they failed in droves, boomeranging home, crashing out of jobs, or struggling by on minimum wage slavery despite abundant opportunities. And the suicides…paramedics in major cities took to calling them “type A fatalities” with their peculiar brand of gallows humor

Most dire, though, was the epidemic of so-called JCVs, named after one Joyce Carol Vincent. Young, attractive, and highly educated people would sequester themselves in a tiny space, often ringed with computer monitors and other technology, and live their lives through the mediation of a glowing screen, only rising to use the restroom or to eat. And many of them died in that posture, either from wasting away or the long-term effects of a sedentary lifestyle that the diodes couldn’t help.

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