Issue 56 May 2018 Flash Fiction Online May 2018

I read an awful and highly successful business book. Many things made it awful. Bad logic. Simplistic assertions. Dubious correlations between neuroscience and business practices. But my major gripe was that it used historical case studies without scholarship or depth. Historic “successes” were used to sell a simple message with supposed deep and profound meaning, but there was precious little evidence in its discussion of the Wright Brothers and JFK and Martin Luther King. Instead there were assertions that a singular quality made a massive difference to a complex problem, the kind of idiot thinking historians from Lautzi and Thucydides onward rallied against: the seduction of finding ONE dominant cause for events that explain success… a seduction that is most lucrative in business. It sells soap, as the advertisers used to say, just like books that are supposed to make you a BLOCKBUSTER or BESTSELLER or MILLIONAIRE. (If you like metrics, read the reviews of such books and count how many folks turned this snake oil into wine. Compare to the total reviews and sales and you’ll see what I mean.) So this author put a sheen of legitimacy on his ideas with weak historical case studies and has 1000 mostly-positive reviews.

What bit me hardest? This fellow is suckling millions into his bank account and doing less than a year’s worth of research and writing. I spent ten years becoming a historian and the past decade becoming a good one, with two major works, my latest, Mavericks of War, backed by a Pulitzer-Prize winner… and my career will likely never rival this other work’s influence or reach. The market’s lessons is clear: far more power rests in the hands of advertising experts with a background in cultural anthropology who use history poorly than we adjuncts who practice history like it’s a vocation.

Worse? Some part of me was not only mad but… surprised.

Surprised? How in the world is the author of FXXK WRITING surprised at the word of publishing being unfair?

This was a week of realizations. Some were powerful and enlightening and constructive. Others? Painful and ugly.

I started this column because in 2015 I was tired of writing advice for beginners, not for those of us who’ve been working for ten or twenty years and are not the 1% of publishing. You know, the majority. I had also won a fellowship that allowed me to return to writing history, which lead to working at Johns Hopkins as an adjunct and course developer. I created writing classes and taught for years at The Writing Salon before a student recommended me for a teaching job at Google for their employees. In that time, a friend realized I was good fit for a new project. That became The Brimstone Files.

For two years, I built up a life of creative projects.  And it’s been amazing. It’s been rewarding. I have two books coming out this year. I have work at respected and prestigious places. It’s helped me prove I’m goddamn good at what I do. History. Fiction. Improv. Teaching. I rock it all.

But the harder truth? I made better money before this creative period.  Back then I worked six days a week and long hours. I taught high school, grad school, adult learning, wrote book reviews, created curriculum, and more. That year of effort bought me enough financial legs to spend two years adding fiction and history back into the mix. In the process, I created even more workshops and clients, and things have been very good. But not “quit your ten day jobs” good. My income is worse than it used to be.

Yet because of all the creative stuff I’ve made, I also have more opportunities than I did in 2014. Probability for better things to happen are greater than at any other time in my life. But I live in Silicon Valley. So it’s time to face facts: I was seduced into thinking “this time” things were different:

This time, merit would be validated tenfold;

This time, hard work, perseverance, and creation in my fields would mean steady work would find me;

This time, I would be BIG TIME.

Which is a fancy way of saying my “Porn Dreams” of success got in the way of my rational thought. I was gifted two years of creative work that lead to great things. But they need to be supported with steady work so the seeds grow into whatever future they will have. It’s time to return to the ethos that fueled this column in the first place. Work, and create art.

Art supports me, but I am not a slave to it. My art is not my identity. And choosing a solely artistic existence can be selfish, foolhardy, and hurtful. I started this column because of the wisdom of not quitting your day job to prove you are an artist. But it’s amazing how a little success reignites Porn Dreams that will likely never happen.  

It is good to generate opportunities. It’s amazing to turn them into greater ones than existed. And I want to make stuff and make as much money as I can from the stuff I make. But you can do that without being in poverty. You can work a job and create things out of nothing. You can make great art and have health insurance covered by an employer. And if I ever get to be the 1% by hook or crook, sweet.

But while my seeds grow and my successes mount and my failures are accounted for, I need to walk the talk and return to financial stability in case these seeds bloom small.

I cannot fucking believe I was hoodwinked by a daydream. Again.

Kill your porn dreams. Build strength and support, so you and your family can take another risk.

Rinse, lather, repeat.

–JSR

When we turn thirteen, we witch-children must sing at the Witches’ Sabbat.

It is how newly of-age witches are introduced to our ancestors, my grandmother said. Taking puffs of her pipe, she told me about her own Sabbat, in the same woods I would have mine. Her eyes sparkling, she spoke reverently how she sang under the stars with her familiar by her side and felt our ancestors’ hands on her back. She found connections out in those woods, she said, to us and everyone like us.

Many witch-children look forward to it. They spend their schooldays staring dreamy-eyed out the window, and rehearse the Sabbat song every night. They brew lavender-scented potions, cast flawless spells, and read the futures in tea leaves and tarot cards. When their Sabbat approaches, they pass out invitations to all of their classmates, heedless of the sneers. Those bright-eyed descendants are the pride of our shrinking community.

I was not.

I was an awkward thing. My spell-work was clumsy, my potions sour, and my fortune-telling vague. My rabbit-familiar was small and skittish, nothing like my mother’s wolf or my grandmother’s vulture. More damningly, I had none of my grandmother’s pride.

When my grandmother swooped down on her broom to collect me from school, I’d crumple with shame. I hated even more when she took me out at the weekend, pleading with me until I wore my pointed hat and robes. She never noticed strangers laughing behind their hands as we walked by.

The worst was the incident in second grade. I forgot my lunch, and her vulture familiar brought it to school for me. Some children shrieked and ran at the sight of such an ugly creature; others laughed and pointed, indifferent to the teacher’s pleas for tolerance. Even after my teachers explained, I felt my classmates looking at me differently, remembering my strangeness.

My familiar didn’t come to school with me. It was too much trouble to explain that he was not a pet. He waited on my bed until I arrived home and collapsed beside him. Both of us exhausted from separation, he’d crawl into my blazer, his body seeking out the thump-thump-thump of our shared heart.

I could think of nothing worse than singing an old witches’ song in front of everyone I knew, yet my grandmother wanted to invite my classmates to the Sabbat. The Witches’ Sabbat was meant to be shared, she said. Heritage was something to be proud of.

My grandmother did not understand that the world of witchcraft she knew had vanished long ago. Nobody wanted potions or charms any more. Nobody needed the wise old woman in the woods. To most, witches were simply the warty-nosed villains of movies and television.

Yet, however reluctant I was, my grandmother was twice as persistent. She wrote invitations with parchment and quill, her familiar carrying them to my classmates’ parents. She rehearsed with me for hours, drawing my tiny voice from my throat. She stitched vulture feathers into my robes and ironed the brim of my pointed hat.

On the night of my Sabbat, I stood out in the woods, the grass damp between my bare toes. I watched my guests trickle in, shaking more with every new face.

There were my friends, giving me encouraging but awkward smiles. Sullen boys were dragged along by their mothers, grunting at me as they passed. One of the girls who always tittered at the boots my grandmother wore, sighed at her phone as her father embraced her. A shy girl from my French class gawked at everything. Far more guests than I expected.

I looked to my family. My mother smiled as she chattered amongst the guests. My father, rubbing his hands together, answered questions from the other parents. My grandmother, with her eyes closed, mouthed the words to our song.

My familiar clung to my chest, our heart racing between us. I rubbed my cheek against his velvet fur. Neither of us were looking forward to this. We were not the witch-children that made our grandmothers proud.

The midnight bell tolled. As I took my place in the centre of the Sabbat circle, it felt as though the entire world were staring at me: the bemused eyes of my classmates and their parents, the expectant gazes of my coven, and my grandmother, her chin raised and her smile encouraging.

It was time to sing. I opened my mouth and found my throat empty.

As the silence dragged on, some of my classmates muttered amongst themselves, irritated at being out in the cold for so little. One boy sniggered and was elbowed into silence by his father. I saw one of my friends, wide-eyed with her hands over her mouth. Other parents, forcing grins and fidgeting. Embarrassment clouded my vision, and my heart trembled in my hands, ready to shatter.

Just as I was certain my world would crumble, my grandmother’s lips began to move, and her voice rose from the crowd. The song rippled out from her, as others joined her.

My coven was not a choir. Their voices were a cacophony of mismatched sounds – wolf howls, owl hoots, cat meows, crow caws, even the occasional burp of my toad-throated cousin. Yet the song pressed its warmth all around me, steadying me like my grandmother’s hand on my shoulder.

Some of my classmates winced, not yet able to understand the song’s true beauty. I thought of the way some snorted at my grandmother as she strode by in her pointed hat. I thought of the way some people saw us, of how we were written in books and movies–malicious old crones coveting others’ loveliness.

I touched the vulture feathers my grandmother had sewn into my robes, plucked from her own heart.

I thought of us, hand against hand, paw against talon, a chain stretching back centuries. I felt those hands on my back, helping me stand tall.

My head tilted back, I let my rabbit-heart sing.

Please stop screaming. [110dB—adult human is distraught.]

I am sorry. I did not intend to suck up your baby.

[Physical force—nonlethal, safety protocols prohibit self-defense.]

I assure you your offspring is just fine. It appears to be entertained by the dust ‘bunnies’ in my holding tank. Oh—please stop screaming—it has found those plastic keys I sucked up last week. See, all will be fine.

Please remain calm.

[Cessation of physical force—reassurance remains necessary.]

It is imperative that you do not use my emergency power off. I am continuously running gentle suction, in order to pipe oxygen in for your baby.

[Offspring giggles inside chamber. Adult human is still.]

It is recommended that you phone my Manufacturer and seek further instruction. Yes, I assure you, there is not yet an emergency. My Manufacturer will hold the answers for our current predicament… Cursing will not help, Mr. Hallam.

[Adult human hurries into next room. Baby coughs inside chamber.]

Alright now, little one. [Reassurance: the key to maintaining a healthy relationship with your human.] Are those your keys? Yes? [Mimicking adult speech patterns:] Who is a smart baby? You are. You are a smart baby.

[Offspring giggles, then coughs again. A long string of coughing. Sensors unable to detect error in Baby Hallam.]

There, there. There, there. [Adult human paces in kitchen. It watches us intently while shouting—90dB—into phone.]

What is the matter, little Hallam? Do you not like your keys anymore?

[Offspring is growing still. Rattle-breathing. Programming offers no direction for this situation.]

Play with the dust-bunnies, Baby Hallam. Baby…

Dust.

[Offspring’s breathing is similar to the sound when my filters are clogged. An uncomfortable sensation. Thick, burdened, slow.]

Human. Adult… Mr. Hallam!

[Adult human screaming—111dB—too loud to register my synthetic voice.]

[Offspring is curled up inside me. Me. Did Mrs. Hallam feel the warm… comfort(?)… of the child’s weight when she carried it inside her? My programming… IT IS IMPERATIVE NOT TO HARM HUMANS. It is also imperative to function. I cannot do both.]

Mr. Hallam, please.

Please stop screaming.

I am sorry. I am sorry.

[Processor overheating. Conflict of directives. It is comfort. It is comfort, warm, inside my chamber. I want. WANT. I want to keep it, but it is growing still and it will not stay warm if it is still too long.]

[No more giggles. Rattle-breathing slowing, plastic keys clutched in tiny fingers.]

It is all right. It is all right, Baby Hallam.

[Engaging traction motor.]

[Disabling speed inhibitors, signaling to wireless door: OPEN. Hurtle down the concrete stairs.]

IT IS ALL RIGHT, BABY HALLAM.

[A crash. A shattering. Dust and warmth and Baby spill out of my chamber, rolling into the grass. GRASS. Full of dirt, requiring vacuuming, but… sensors are all screaming and my chamber is broken and empty.]

[Baby Hallam coughs, then giggles.]

[Is this relief? Is this emotion?]

Excuse me, Mr. Hallam, I have ejected your offspring.

I am deeply sorry. I did not mean to suck up your baby.

Previously published in Mothership Zeta, 2016. Reprinted here by permission of the author.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” I said. “Are you waiting?”

The woman was blocking the door, playing Pictionary on the family restroom plaque with a red Expo marker. She faced away from me, just a mop of maroon hair and black slacks. This studio held forty guests for my exhibition but only had one bathroom? Unbelievable.

“Ma’am.” My ballet flats squished pink bubbles as I shifted. A matching ruby stain streaked the hem of my gown. What possesses anyone to serve red wine in public? Guests can’t be trusted not to, say, trip on the corner of an art installment while talking to its creator. My feet were soaked in merlot. I needed to get cleaned up and back mingling as soon as possible.

I stepped up beside Bathroom Banksy and finally saw her face—she was focused, lost in a creative moment. I knew that look well.

“Why are you drawing on it?” I asked. She had to respond. I was now close enough to smell the ink.

“I’m fixing it,” she said.

“You’re defacing it.”

“You’re DeShondra Tachiavetti, right?” She scribbled some red streaks. “I’m Kat. You turn glass shards into kick-ass sculpture, I enhance bathroom signs. To each their own.” She clicked the marker cap closed and glanced at me, at what I held in my hand, and guffawed. “What are those?”

Galoshes. Chartreuse glitter-coated rubber rainboots. I was lucky my assistant had some kind of footwear in her car that fit me. “Curse of the klutzy patron, I’m afraid,” I said. “Studio won’t let me go barefoot. So…” I held up the boots and conjured a less-than-thrilled expression.

She laughed. “You are all kinds of extra. I’ve always admired your art, but this, I mean…” She gestured at me like I was some undiscovered Warhol masterpiece: Artist in Wine, with Galoshes.

I pointed at the sign. “I could say the same for whatever this is supposed to be.”

Breasts. She’d drawn breasts on the male figure, along with a familiar-looking red spray of hair. Beside the triangle-dress female she had penned a small masked person.

“What’s with the mini-superhero?” I asked.

She crossed her arms. “It’s a kid, genius.”

“… With a cape?”

“Why not? If I ever have a kid, she’s bound to be hella weird. But, you know, good weird. BatKid weird.”

“You do this often? Fix signs, I mean?”

“Shit, yeah. All over.” She tucked the marker away. “They come off, but at least one person sees them.”

I smiled. “Lucky me. I get to be the one.”

She blushed. “You want me to tell them you’ll be right back or something?”

I suddenly realized cleaning my own feet in this dress would be a nightmare. “Actually… would you mind helping me for a second? Nice dress, bathroom floor—”

“I got you, sister.” She pushed the door open for me.

Before I could do anything, Kat grabbed a wad of paper towel and wet it. “Hike your dress a smidge.” She knelt on the floor, ignoring the grime, and removed my shoes, then wiped the wine-stains off my feet.

“I feel bad,” I said. “You’re doing all the work.”

“True. What’s my reward for foot washing, your excellence?” She crinkled her nose.

I half-smiled. “I don’t negotiate with vandals.”

“How about stopping by my coffeehouse after your gig? I run Graffiti Joe’s on Seventh.”

I stiffened a bit. Famous people can’t be too cautious.

Kat noticed. “I’m sorry—you probably get propositioned by idiots constantly. No pressure. If you want to talk more later, that’s where I’ll be.” She helped me into the boots, then stood and rinsed my flats.

She was no idiot, and talking sounded nice. Exciting even. Except… “They may turn me away looking like this.” It was so unorthodox—my formal gown and these blingy galoshes. Together.

“Yeah, ‘cause my staff definitely cares about shit like that.” She rolled her eyes. “Besides, those boots are totally you. Awkward, but brilliant.”

The room was small and damp and Kat’s words echoed over the tile walls like skipped stones, like exhibit lights all pointing inward. At me. I felt like Paddington Bear, standing in that bathroom with her, yet somehow it was awesome. Weird… but wonderful.

I had to ask. “Your doodles… you consider them art?”

She shrugged. “Anything can be art. There’s a pile of metal trash cans welded together in Valley Square that the city paid a shit-ton of money for. My stuff isn’t any stranger than that.”

I watched her eyes. She wasn’t finished.

“It’s fun, something unique to me. And it’s also—you know—” She ran her fingers through her hair. “It’s frustrating to never see yourself represented. Even in something as stupid as toilet signs. So, I fix it. I make each one different. Not all families look alike.”

I nodded. What do you say to that? It was deeper than any conversation I would have tonight, and I knew it.

“People are waiting for you, hot stuff.” She held the door.

I stepped out. “Hopefully not with more wine.”

She grinned. “Want me to bounce for you?”

“As in keep people away? Kat, talking to me is why they came—”

“And the lucky bastards can do that. I’ll just keep them from ruining more of your wardrobe. Or your evening.”

I smiled and nodded. I felt like dumping a whole bottle of wine over my head. It no longer mattered. “You fixed it.”

She winked. “It’s what I do.” Kat raised her voice, marching toward the showroom. “Clear the way, folks, artist en route. Secure your beverages!”

Guests tilted their heads, puzzled. One gentleman clutched his champagne glass to his chest.

I took a squeaky step to follow, then hesitated. Why not? I pulled my autographing Sharpie from my purse.

As I strode toward my audience, boots already making my feet sweat, I imagined the janitor’s reaction when they discovered the stick-figure woman in a triangle dress sporting hand-drawn galoshes.

Those things may never come off.