I’ve always loved the fiddle, and I really don’t know why. I must have inherited the interest from my dad when I was a kid. I suppose I got off easy, as I very well could have picked up his passion for fanny packs and Roger Whittaker.

I also love Primus, claymation, and all things devilish, so I was very happy to find this video just now.

My entry for the Whispers Short Fiction Contest has been posted.

The contest called for a 250 word maximum entry inspired by this photo. Here’s mine:

Closure

I cradle the urn in my arms, like one would a blanket-wrapped newborn, the icy metal burning against my bare hands. A yellow field of grass surrounds me, shuddering in waves from the morning breeze.

“Nothin’ fancy,” was Dad’s only request. That may as well have been written on his tombstone, had he wanted one. He lived a simple life, working as a shopkeep in a small town. I always felt like he was wasting away here, discarding his dreams and ambitions to live Mom’s life, but maybe he was on to something. Maybe once you find peace, there’s no longer a reason to struggle forward.

The cremation took place one year ago today, but when I think back it’s as if I’m still standing there watching. The thick smell in the air, like a musty campfire. The intensity of the heat as the box was slid in. The whole process takes the romanticism out of death. There are no harps, no moments of clarity, just an old, dead man in a cardboard box being pushed into a furnace.

I placed a FedEx sticker on the side of his box. He would have enjoyed that.

I dig a hole in the ground, gently tip in his remains, use them to bury the roots of a young seedling, and pack it with the loose soil.

May you someday comfort others with your shade as you did for me all these years.

——

I wrote this entry immediately after the contest was announced, but it’s just been sitting on my computer for the last couple of days. I like it, but there’s something I can’t seem to put my finger on that’s bugging me. A tad disjointed? Too sappy or clichéd? Not particularly interesting? I’m not sure, but I decided to send it in anyway.

Be sure to have a read through the other entries. Jason’s contests always attract a lot of great writing.

I forgot to keep updating my 2007 reading list, but I’ve decided to give it another go this year. It’s nice to look back on what you’ve been reading.

I’m unfortunately still recovering from a reading drought, but I’m slowly getting back on track. This has been a very slow start to the year, but at least there’s been quality.

February

A Spot of Bother by Mark Haddon

I read The Curious Incident of the Dog in the Night-Time last year and loved it, so I was excited when I picked this up. I was enthralled with Incident from the first page, but it took me a little longer to get into A Spot of Bother. When I finally did, I found it to be an overall more satisfying read. It’s essentially about an uptight Englishman, who is slowly going mad, and his family, who were arguably mad already. It’s very well written and funny, with a wide range of uniquely-voiced characters. He’s definitely an author to keep an eye on.

January

Choke by Chuck Palahniuk

A tale of a sex-addicted, con artist trying to get a grip on life. This book is full of messed-up people doing messed-up things for messed-up reasons, and it’s great fun. I love the rambling, philosophical mind of the main character. A funny, tragic, and thought-provoking read.

Every few years I stumble upon this, and I’m always glad I did, as it’s one of my favourite short stories. It’s by Terry Bisson, and he seems okay with people posting it, so here it is in its entirety for RSS ease.

There’s also a short video that was made of this story floating about the Internet somewhere, but they didn’t include some of the best lines, and I found it quite disappointing.

As a side note, I’m looking forward to the next fiction contest at The Clarity of Night, being posted this Wednesday.

They’re Made of Meat

“They’re made out of meat.”

“Meat?”

“Meat. They’re made out of meat.”

“Meat?”

“There’s no doubt about it. We picked up several from different parts of the planet, took them aboard our recon vessels, and probed them all the way through. They’re completely meat.”

“That’s impossible. What about the radio signals? The messages to the stars?”

“They use the radio waves to talk, but the signals don’t come from them. The signals come from machines.”

“So who made the machines? That’s who we want to contact.”

“They made the machines. That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Meat made the machines.”

“That’s ridiculous. How can meat make a machine? You’re asking me to believe in sentient meat.”

“I’m not asking you, I’m telling you. These creatures are the only sentient race in that sector and they’re made out of meat.”

“Maybe they’re like the orfolei. You know, a carbon-based intelligence that goes through a meat stage.”

“Nope. They’re born meat and they die meat. We studied them for several of their life spans, which didn’t take long. Do you have any idea what’s the life span of meat?”

“Spare me. Okay, maybe they’re only part meat. You know, like the weddilei. A meat head with an electron plasma brain inside.”

“Nope. We thought of that, since they do have meat heads, like the weddilei. But I told you, we probed them. They’re meat all the way through.”

“No brain?”

“Oh, there’s a brain all right. It’s just that the brain is made out of meat! That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you.”

“So … what does the thinking?”

“You’re not understanding, are you? You’re refusing to deal with what I’m telling you. The brain does the thinking. The meat.”

“Thinking meat! You’re asking me to believe in thinking meat!”

“Yes, thinking meat! Conscious meat! Loving meat. Dreaming meat. The meat is the whole deal! Are you beginning to get the picture or do I have to start all over?”

“Omigod. You’re serious then. They’re made out of meat.”

“Thank you. Finally. Yes. They are indeed made out of meat. And they’ve been trying to get in touch with us for almost a hundred of their years.”

“Omigod. So what does this meat have in mind?”

“First it wants to talk to us. Then I imagine it wants to explore the Universe, contact other sentiences, swap ideas and information. The usual.”

“We’re supposed to talk to meat.”

“That’s the idea. That’s the message they’re sending out by radio. ‘Hello. Anyone out there. Anybody home.’ That sort of thing.”

“They actually do talk, then. They use words, ideas, concepts?”

“Oh, yes. Except they do it with meat.”

“I thought you just told me they used radio.”

“They do, but what do you think is on the radio? Meat sounds. You know how when you slap or flap meat, it makes a noise? They talk by flapping their meat at each other. They can even sing by squirting air through their meat.”

“Omigod. Singing meat. This is altogether too much. So what do you advise?”

“Officially or unofficially?”

“Both.”

“Officially, we are required to contact, welcome and log in any and all sentient races or multibeings in this quadrant of the Universe, without prejudice, fear or favor. Unofficially, I advise that we erase the records and forget the whole thing.”

“I was hoping you would say that.”

“It seems harsh, but there is a limit. Do we really want to make contact with meat?”

“I agree one hundred percent. What’s there to say? ‘Hello, meat. How’s it going?’ But will this work? How many planets are we dealing with here?”

“Just one. They can travel to other planets in special meat containers, but they can’t live on them. And being meat, they can only travel through C space. Which limits them to the speed of light and makes the possibility of their ever making contact pretty slim. Infinitesimal, in fact.”

“So we just pretend there’s no one home in the Universe.”

“That’s it.”

“Cruel. But you said it yourself, who wants to meet meat? And the ones who have been aboard our vessels, the ones you probed? You’re sure they won’t remember?”

“They’ll be considered crackpots if they do. We went into their heads and smoothed out their meat so that we’re just a dream to them.”

“A dream to meat! How strangely appropriate, that we should be meat’s dream.”

“And we marked the entire sector unoccupied.”

“Good. Agreed, officially and unofficially. Case closed. Any others? Anyone interesting on that side of the galaxy?”

“Yes, a rather shy but sweet hydrogen core cluster intelligence in a class nine star in G445 zone. Was in contact two galactic rotations ago, wants to be friendly again.”

“They always come around.”

“And why not? Imagine how unbearably, how unutterably cold the Universe would be if one were all alone …”

Looks like it has a lot of potential, as long as Indiana doesn’t suddenly become Spider-man.

This about sums up my thoughts on the subject.

Bill Bailey’s fantastic.

And for the less jaded out there, here’s ‘Love Letter’ from Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds, from their And No More Shall We Part album. Nick Cave appeals to my over-dramatic side. He’s a really creative writer, and his songs are usually fairly intense and contain a lot of interesting imagery. His solo stuff seems to dip into a weirder zone that I really like, so it’s worth checking out if you haven’t heard any of it. It has an almost Tom Waits-ish vibe. Not that anyone can really be like Waits, but he has a similar uncompromised vision in his work.

The street was empty, void of cars and people and life. The thin mist in the air parted ever so gently as I walked through, closing in again behind me as if blocking my return.

That’s when I saw her. A woman, strangely bright amidst the surrounding darkness, almost blinding, staring into me with eyes that could shatter glass. Her long yellow dress and black locks of hair were undisturbed by the breeze.

“Do you dream?” she asked me.

“I did once, but I’ve been awake for so long. I’ve no time to dream,” I said. She seemed to fade a little with those words. I could feel her sadness in the air, and it stung my eyes.

“Will you come with me?” she asked, holding out her arms. They looked so warm, so inviting.

“Where?”

“Does it matter?”

The cracked sidewalk pushed up against my feet. My hand instinctively reached out to the filthy cement wall beside me, and I glanced at my surroundings. Everything was grey. Grey buildings, grey sky, and grey newspapers abandoned on the street. Why was it so hard to let go?

I pulled my hand back from the wall and rubbed the grime between my thumb and fingers. It was the dirt of days passed and lives lived. Other peoples’ lives and other peoples’ days. My life was tidy. It left no mess behind. It left no trace.

I looked up to meet her gaze and gave a slight nod.

Her dress started to flap wildly around her, as if we were standing in a hurricane I couldn’t feel. She laughed heartily as her hair, that black shining hair, grew longer and longer, creeping along the wall and across the sidewalk until it was wrapping itself around my legs and arms. I could feel each strand tightening around me as it pulled itself up my chest and over my head. My last vision before the hair closed over my eyes was of her, standing radiant in the darkness, so bright it hurt.

And it smelled of peaches.