Life, Satire, Writing (Published)

Published — “Flexible Groups”


Defenestration published my short story “Flexible Groups” in its December 2016 issue (for context, they release an issue every April, August, and December). I was influenced by Kurt Vonnegut’s “Harrison Bergeron” and my experiences in professional education. One of the members of my writer’s critique called this style “snarky with a soul.” I’m keeping that.

Defenestration is an online publication devoted to humor in all its varieties, and its About page boasts such accomplishments as selling its life story to Christopher Nolan (you might have heard of a little something called The Dark Knight) and successfully defending the Earth from Martians.

Satire

Trailers for future installments of the God is Not Dead franchise

Senator Hurpkins walks into his office. He looks unhurried, self-assured. All of his secretaries, even the male ones, are huddled around Janet’s desk. Janet looks at him urgently. “Bill, you got to see this.” Hurpkins takes the document she’s holding and looks at it closely. “No,” he says. “That’s not possible.” Janet explains what he’s seeing because movie audiences don’t read good. “They want to delete God’s name from the Constitution. The Constitution.” (The film takes some liberties.) Hurpkins is visibly upset: “NOT THE FUCKING CONSTITUTION. Not on my watch. NOT ON MY WATCH.”

Quick shots of the Declaration of Independence with black highlighter over “Nature’s God” and coins dropping on a counter which read “In Nothing We Trust.” Elementary students recite the pledge of allegiance, skipping “under God.” Scenes of Senator Hurpkins filibustering in front of Congress with an earnest Mr. Smith Goes to Washington desperation. A narrator voiceover: “When the United States of America decides it wants to erase every mention of God from the country, Senator Hurpkins is the only politician willing to fight back. But at the end of the day, Hurpkins has to ask himself, in WHO does HE trust?” Cue the same shot of coins dropping on the counter. Narrator: “The stakes have never been higher.” A fancy dinner party, people are eating steaks. The pun is unnatural, forced. Narrator, again: “He will have to defend God in front of every enemy imaginable. Democrats. The Liberal Media. Planned Parenthood. And… himself?” Hurpkins, kneeling in the street, holds the dead body of Janet. She’s been hit by a drunk driver. He takes a swig of a bottle of Scotch and shakes his fist at the sky. Onscreen, cue the words: “God’s Not Dead 9.” Narrator: “This holiday break, you’ll have to SEE IT to BELIEVE IT.”

A funeral. A procession of grim-faced men bearing a casket on their shoulders. A circle of mourners as the casket’s lowered into the ground. A shovelful of dirt lands on the lid, now placed in its grave. An onlooking celebrity, maybe Tom Hiddleston, holds an umbrella over a crying widow and says, “I can’t believe he’s gone.” His companion, hopefully John C. Reilly, not because he’s perfect for the part, but because I really like John C. Reilly, he’s just a great guy, he’s funny, plus when you see John C. Reilly in a movie you know that at least it’ll have some excellent comic relief, looks around curiously, “What’s that sound?”

The sediments on the casket are vibrating like at the end of Superman v. Batman. Whatever’s inside is alive and powerful. Cut to black. Onscreen, cue the words: “God’s Not Dead 27.” Tom Hiddleston says the arc words, “He has not abandoned us,” which have a haunting, poetic effect.

Little girls jump-rope. Some teenagers jump into a cherry-red Lamborghini Aventador (careful product placement which should pay for half of the movie). Dads mow their lawns and wave impotently at each other. The mediocre tranquility of the Suburbs. Narrator: “The kids of Sugar Creek don’t know it yet, but something is coming to get them.” An actress in her late twenties who’s playing a freshman in high school wakes up coated in fear-sweat. Sexy fear-sweat. The actress, Jennifer Lawrence or maybe new talent, runs downstairs. “Mom! MOM!” she shouts. Mom grabs her by the shoulders: “What, what is it, my little hushpuppy?” The actress has no time for cute names: “I saw him! I saw him!” “Who?” The girl sobs into Mom’s wool cardigan: “I saw God.” The Mom stares enigmatically into the distance as if struck by old but traumatic memories. “Dear Lord,” she says. “He’s back.”

A montage of scenes with teenagers in the grips of terrible, divine events. A teenaged boy, screaming. There are holes in his hands. A girl being dragged up the wall, her arms splayed, her body forming the shape of a tee. Fresh blood on a wall which reads: “Repent.” Then a celebrity, undoubtedly Nicholas Cage, in fact it can’t be anyone else, it has to be Nicholas Cage, drives down a freeway at high speeds, a pistol in each hand pressed against the steering wheel. Nicholas Cage has a face that means business. Cut to Paul Giamatti in an orange prison suit, speaking to Cage from behind a pane of glass. Giamatti: “He’s coming for them!” Nicholas Cage hangs up a phone and walks away decisively. Giammati keeps shouting: “He’s coming for them all! The Lambs of God! Lambs for the slaughter!” Narrator: “No one knows where it came from, or who it will visit next.” The police dredge a body from the river as a dove lands beside red-and-blue flashing lights and watches menacingly. A teenager opens a drawer, sees a Bible, screams, shuts the drawer. Narrator: “God is Not Dead 59: Die Harder.” We see the actress from before crawling down a hall. The shadow of a robed, bearded man falls over her. A powerful voice, maybe Liam Neeson, maybe Benedict Cumberbatch, says, “You are all my children now!” The trailer cuts to black and dark laughter.

Satire

A list of exhibitions the Museum of Modern Art would probably display

A wall coated in Bubble-wrap with a Do Not Pop Sign. All the bubbles have been popped.

A year’s worth of poops in grocery bags. Each is titled with what the artist ate that day. For example: Desmond White, “eggs, mushrooms, enchiladas, side of salsa, aspirin, 18 ounces of water,” Nov. 7, 2016.

A wall-sized plaster vagina with live feminists inside spurting passerby with super soakers full of goats blood in a modern comment on silencing the lambs of lady periods.

A window that’s been labeled “window” or “panels.” A mirror that’s been labeled “reflections.”

An armchair made out of dicks been done

A labyrinth of waist-height cardboard walls been done

A video of people making out and rubbing fish on each other been done

A pile of straws been done

A rabbit made out of rabbit turds been done

and finally

A beautiful baroque portraiture done in the style of Rembrandt with a caption that reads: “The artist wanted to upset the popular notion that modern art has to be shit.”

 

Fantasy

Lovecraft Mimicry — “The Artist’s Wife”

Sluice Warrington was growing more and more annoyed with Rez, especially the man’s side-street studio with its clitter clatter of canvases and layers upon layers of dust and paint-pocked floors as mindless as a Jackson Pollock. But worse, he hated how the man’s oil canvases would sell for upwards of five grand; how entropy spawned celebrity. It seemed the more Rez became a mess of a human being, the more potent the paintings he pushed into galleries and living rooms and furniture stores and government buildings, while Sluice kept a tidy space—white and rounded as an Apple Store, clean and clinical as a nurse’s ass—debarring his passion only on canvas, releasing himself like a frothing inmate given knife and vein—and made nothing.

Not a quarter on skulls fading into moons, not a dime on robed figures biting into babies, not a nickel on statues wearing human skin, not a penny on nude women exhaling trails of beetles down their necks. But no one wanted truth anymore. No one wanted darkness. They wanted lazy pleasures that took a heartbeat to decipher. Rez’s slurred landscapes, his blotted horses, the slop he called wildflowers and slabs of meat he called people, that sold.

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Writing

Fiction—Post Post Post

INT. CLASSROOM

STUDENT
What if I wanted to write how John Milton’s Satan is a post post-modern hero? Would that still be within the limits of the assignment?

PROFESSOR
Are you asking me if you can write a paper on John Milton’s Paradise Lost in a “Scholarship in the Last Fifty Years” course?

STUDENT
But I’ll be using Bourdieu as a discursive lens.

Professor looks at Student wryly, then sits on the desk in front of him.

PROFESSOR
How about I answer your inquiry in the form of a story? You see, when I was thirteen, there was an essay-writing contest put up by the Food and Drugs Administration. The first place winner received $50, which back in 1976 had about the same buying power as $213 and nine cents.  The prompt was something like what is the most American pie? I wanted to argue for chicken pot pie, but I wasn’t sure that it qualified, or if they were just looking for dessert pies. So I sent the FDA a letter asking for their definition. What were the exact degrees of distinction between a pie and other pocket pastries? And you know what happened?

STUDENT
What?

PROFESSOR
My parents died. I had to become man of the house. Started working two jobs and put my siblings through college. They all think I’m their father. They call me Dad. Or Papa Bear.

STUDENT

PROFESSOR
I tell them I’m not your father. I’m your little brother, Colin. But they won’t listen. Do you get me?

STUDENT
I think so. Yeah.

Professor pats Student on his head, affectionately. There are tears in his eyes.

PROFESSOR
Derek.

STUDENT
Yeah, Dad?

PROFESSOR
Never mind.

Writing

Fiction — “Raymond Clem”

I hadn’t thought about the letter in years. It wasn’t until I was at the MoMA a few days ago that I saw a name that reminded me. Mallick Clem. It was an inscription on the wall. Mallick. Clem. The installation itself had not been substantial. Mallick had starved a cat to death in a bucket painted like a can of tomato soup. The Warhol reference I got, but the poor cat? I guess I just don’t understand modern art.

The name Clem, though, rattled awhile in my synaptic nerves. Then it came back to me. That curious incident with the letter. Clem! That had been the addressee. One Raymond Clem.

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