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COPYRIGHTED MATERIAL
© 2012 copyright Lily Hoang
First digital edition. All rights reserved.
First trade paper edition 2011. Jaded Ibis Press
ISBN: : 978-1-937543-28-0
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Published by Jaded Ibis Press, sustainable literature by digital means™ An imprint of Jaded Ibis Productions, LLC, Seattle, Washington USA http://jadedibisproductions.com
Unfinished cover art by Ella Norton, finished by Anne Austin Pearce.
Lily Hoang is the author of The Evolutionary Revolution, Changing, a recipient of the PEN Beyond Margins Award, and Parabola, winner of the 2006 Chiasmus Press Un-Doing the Novel Contest. She serves as Prose Editor for Puerto del Sol and Associate Editor for Starcherone Books. She teaches in the MFA program at New Mexico State University.
The author graciously thanks the twenty brilliant writers who dared to let me finish their stories. Kate Bernheimer, Blake Butler, Beth Couture, Debra Di Blasi, Justin Dobbs, Trevor Dodge, Zach Dodson, Brian Evenson, Scott Garson, Carol Guess, Elizabeth Hildreth, John Madera, Ryan Manning, Michael Martone, Kelcey Parker, Ted Pelton, Kathleen Rooney, Davis Schneiderman, Michael Stewart, J. A. Tyler
(Bios for the contributing writers may be found at the end of the book:)
Forward by Lily Hoang
Your Ballad of Milt & Stanley from Brian Evenson
The Birthday Cake from Zach Dodson
So Cold & Far Away from Kathleen Rooney
The Whore’s Machine from Debra Di Blasi
The Man & His Treasure from Justin Dobbs
Eight Ball from Scott Garson
Kitty’s Mystical Circus from Kate Bernheimer
The Story of Two Sisters from Beth Couture
Clear Chat History from Davis Schneiderman
Baby from Michael Martone
America from Elizabeth Hildreth
Land of Unshaven, Unruly Beards from J.A. Tyler
Language of the Blood of Jesus from Kelcey Parker
Pony from Brian Evenson
Museum of Oddities and Eccentricities from John Madera
James’s Grandfather from Trevor Dodge
A Birder’s Guide to the Wibble-Wibble from Michael Stewart
An Expansion of Land from Ryan Manning
Fruit Cocktail from Ted Pelton
House from Blake Butler
The Smell from Carol Guess
Contributors’ Biographies
At the beginning of a story, attack a subject, no matter where, and open with some very beautiful phrases which will arouse the desire to complete it.
– Baudelaire
In May 2009, as the summer barreled its way toward me, I began thinking about a book project. I had quite a few short stories started and abandoned, and I entertained the idea of starting a collection, but when I re-examined my forgotten fragments, I couldn’t stand them. They were trash.
Then, the idea struck me: If I had abandoned so many stories, other writers must have as well. So I sent out a request to my favorite writers, asking for their scraps, stories or poems they couldn’t finish, wouldn’t finish, things they’d simply discarded. I offered to finish their stories for them.
Given the nature of this project, I was surprised by the generous and enthusiastic response. In my request, I asked for unfinished stories, which I would then finish. There were no parameters on what they could give me. Some writers gave me pages and pages. These were the most difficult stories for me to finish, as a voice and plot had been established. Most writers, however, gave me anywhere from one sentence to a few paragraphs. Some writers gave me fabulist fiction. This is my comfort zone. With those stories, I played. Other writers gave me realist fiction. With those stories, I struggled more than played.
This has been a collaborative process. After completing each story, I offered the original authors the opportunity to edit, revise, etc. Many of them did. Others didn’t. In this collection, I have tried my best to retain the original writers’ voice and style to the best of my ability, but of course, they are stories I have co-opted and taken as my own. Common themes and styles do emerge, but more than anything else, this is a collection of other people’s carrion, which I have — like Frankenstein — resurrected. I hope, unlike Frankenstein, that I have more empathy for my created monster than the good doctor did. And, of course, I have emerged alive and relatively unscathed!
Here, you have twenty-one finished stories, started and abandoned by someone else, that I have ended.
— Lily Hoang
September 2009
(from Brian Evenson)
So let’s just avoid conflict, why don’t we? What made you think, even for an instant, that Stanley had a chance with the cool kids? I mean, poor bastard transfers to a new school and what does he wear the first day? Seriously, he comes to school wearing a clip-on tie and a cardigan. A fucking clip-on tie. And now you think he’s got a chance with the cool kids just because one day later he’s taken off the tie and the cardigan?
That shit sticks with you.
By the time he hits fifth grade, he’ll still be seen as a stiff. Maybe when he gets to junior high, the kids might forget about it, but now, right now, it doesn’t matter how much gel he puts in his hair or how tall his spikes can get, Stanley’s the class square. There’s no way around it.
But you, you just can’t stop yourself, can you? It’s like you’re caught in some bizarre musical theatre world where Stanley can transform himself into the greased-lightning cool kid overnight, like he’ll come into school the next day, smoking a cigarette and shagging the hottest girl in the class, well, bud, that’s just not the way it works. But you can’t carry it through, can you? You got so far as to style his hair and dress him in normal kid clothes — hell, let’s be generous here. He’s even wearing semi-cool clothes — and you march him into the classroom after the bell rings (dangerous!), and where do you have him sit down? You have him sit in Milt’s seat. Fuck.
And this is the make it or break it moment, the one that stands in the storybooks as the decisive moment of Stanley’s pathetic life. You could have sat him in any empty seat of the whole room, but instead, you put him in the only seat that says, “Milt’s motherfucking chair: Don’t sit down.” Because last year Milt was in this class. And the year before that, Milt was in this class. Milt’s been sitting in that one chair for two and a half years — and you put your little homeboy in that seat!
Poor Stanley doesn’t even know any better. For all he knows, he’s sitting in any seat. He doesn’t know Milt. He can barely differentiate the cool kids from the nerds. But you. You know better. You could have sat him anywhere, and now, here it is. Stanley’s fucked because Milt didn’t skip class today. Milt’s just walked into the room, and the whole room’s quiet. Even the teacher. Even the teacher who’s supposed to be teaching arithmetic knows shit’s about to go down, and Stanley is just sitting there like a dope.
So here we are. Either Stanley is going to get up and move and live in constant terror for the rest of his fucking life, or he’s going to get his ass kicked. But you don’t have the stomach for it, do you? No, you want to turn away. You want to close the book. You’re such a fucking loser. I mean, just let Stanley get his ass kicked. Make him stand up to Milt for just one second — make him say some dumb shit like, “It’s a free country. I can sit where I want!” — and sure, it’ll hurt like hell, and sure, he won’t be in with the cool kids, but if he stands up to Milt, even for a second, he’ll at least get a little respect from the kids at the back of the class, and he’ll for sure be in with the kids who sit in the middle of the classroom because, you know, despite what you think, it’s not just the kids in the front (nerds) and the kids in the back (cool). There’s kids in the middle too. But no, for you, it’s either got to be the front row or the back row. You probably didn’t even notice those empty chairs in the middle of the room. You were all caught up remembering Stanley sitting in the very front row yesterday, all by himself, and little bastard couldn’t even see the chalkboard. He had to scoot the desk up closer like a real kiss-ass. But no, for you, it’s either total success or total failure. That’s probably why you never could make it even in regional theatre — the highlight of your life before going into sales was a gig or two at the dinner theatre playing Colonel Mustard who didn’t do it in the pantry with a candlestick. Yeah, you couldn’t even be the star in dinner theatre. But now you get to be the star. Now, you have Stanley.
Or maybe it’s just because you’ve seen too many bad teen flicks, you know, the ones where a kid like Stanley — some dopey nerd of a kid — tries to stand up to some kid like Milt — the coolest bully in school — and he wins. Maybe you’ve seen some YA flick where the nerd ends up transforming into the cool guy that all the chicks want, but you know what? Even if Stanley does stand up to Milt, even if he does get away with it for just a minute, when no one’s looking, Milt will pass a note, crumpled up into a tight ball, that says, “You’re dead, punk,” or “After school: Four o’clock” and the rest of the year — for the rest of his fucking life — Stanley’s going to live in perpetual terror. And I’ve got news for you: the moment Milt walked into that room and saw Stanley’s shit on his desk and looked up and saw the little punk sitting in his desk, Milt knew. Milt knew he’d have to kick Stanley’s ass at least once just for looks. What did you expect? Did you really think Stanley would get away with it? Are you going to turn away now, now that you’ve ruined Stanley’s chances at anything? Yeah, you are. I know your type. You’re just going to abandon him. Just like that. Because you know that, like you, Stanley doesn’t have balls. You know that, like you, Stanley’s doomed. Only he’s better than you. You hate him just a little bit more for it.
I guess we should just face it: Milt’s got more smarts and more balls than both you and Stanley combined. I mean, yeah, so you’re scared of conflict, I get it, but come on. This is a story. For Christ’s sake, have you ever read a fucking short story before? This is what happens. Conflict. But yeah, I know your kind. You’re the kind of asshole who sees Angelina fucking Jolie in Africa with all those little African babies and your heart cracks, and you just can’t stop yourself, can you? You’re simultaneously choking back your goddamned tears and hiding your chubby. You disgust me. Besides, even though you’re the type who sees Angelina Jolie in Africa and starts crying, it’s not going to kill you to see Stanley suffer a little, and quite frankly, it’s probably good for Stanley too. What was it your father used to say? Do you remember? You used to hate it. Remember? Your daddy used to tell you all the time. He used to say, “Damn it, boy! How many times I got to tell you? If it don’t kill you, it makes you stronger.” And here you are. I see you. You’re not dead. Whatever it was, it didn’t kill you because you’re still alive, right? Maybe you don’t have very good memories of that time he threw you in the lake by the tree with the family of water moccasin, but you sure as hell learned how to swim that day, didn’t you? It’s just a story for God’s sake. But maybe you don’t want a story at all. Do you want a story or not? I mean, you’re probably the kind of guy — and I’m just guessing here — who gave up his big dream of becoming an actor to sell electronic supplies at some local electronics store that went out of business when Circuit City or Office Depot moved in to the neighboring shithole town next to your shithole town, and now you’re dreaming of getting a promotion to “Electronics Supervisor” at Wal*Mart. I feel bad for you, bud. I know you’ve been hoping for that promotion for years now.
In fact, you’re not just hoping for that promotion. No, that promotion is much more than a promotion, isn’t it? I know your kind. To you, that promotion symbolizes the start of a whole new life: a chance to “make it.” I mean, in all reality, don’t you know this is it? Your life has reached its limit, but in your head, you think if you can just get this one promotion to “Electronics Supervisor,” you’ll finally have the balls to talk to that housewife, you know which one I mean. I’ve seen how you look at her. You know exactly when she comes in because you steal the surveillance tapes and watch them in the privacy of your own locked room over and over again. I wish I could say there’s no shame in that, but it’s not even porn, bud. That’d be way more respectable. This is just creepy. She’s just shopping. But yeah, so you think if you get this promotion, you’ll be taken off night shift and you could actually see her in real life, in real color, and she’ll see you, “Electronics Supervisor,” and she’ll ask you for help and that’ll be it. You’ll charm the fucking pants off of her, and then, all of this will be worth it. Except, even though you’re lost in some warped reality, the truth of it is you know things will never work with Donna — that’s what you’re calling her, right?
So instead of really stalking Donna, you can focus on Stanley and how to make his life as sweet as possible, even if it means Milt will kick his ass into next year. You’re just hoping little Stanley will have the chance you never had, the chance you lose every day that you’re a night stocker rather than “Electronics Supervisor.” What was it your old man used to say? Give the little guy a chance? You always thought you were the little guy, right? And then you started to grow, and then you weren’t so little any more. I don’t want to be rude, bud, but you’ve been the little guy for a long time now, and I’ve got news for you: you’re not so little any more. I know. I know. Little is metaphorical. Like how you feel like a piece of shit most of the time. That makes you little, and so I should give you a chance. I mean, hell, it’s really not your fault you’re working as night stocker at Wal*Mart. It’s really not. I know it’s hard out there for you middle-class suburban raised kids. You’re the little guy. You’re the ones who have suffered, and so when you see Stanley, you feel for him. You’re not looking for a story — not a real story anyways — you’re looking for a chance at redemption. You’re hoping Stanley will stand up to Milt like you’d never have the balls to stand up to anyone. I don’t want to call you a loser, bud, but the fact of the matter is that you’re not doing so hot right now, and from my end at least, the forecast isn’t brightening up any. Looks like storm clouds for miles. Or maybe it’s Stanley I’m talking about. Because when it comes down to it, bud, this is a story. Do you want the story or not? Because I can’t spend the next decade stalling. It’s now or never. Milt’s been looming over Stanley for like a century now. What’s it going to be?
Look here, bud, you got it all wrong. Milt’s not a bad guy. In fact, he’s not so different from you. I know this whole time you’ve been one Stanley’s side. You’ve seen yourself in Stanley, but you know what I think? I think you’re afraid of the Milt you’ve got inside you. You see, like you, Milt’s from a nuclear family — a rare species nowadays — and like you, his dad’s a real prick and his mom bakes oatmeal fucking raisin cookies from scratch. Like you, Milt’s a failure. Or at least he’s doomed to be a failure. It’s only a matter of time, and really, once he kicks Stanley’s ass, everyone knows he’s going to get suspended, maybe even expelled, depending on how many bones he breaks. And his parents have been threatening to send him to some military school for like his whole fucking life, and this is it. You see what you’ve done? Do you know what happens to kids like Milt in military school? They get fucked. Not literally, of course. Well, maybe. Who knows. But really, kids like Milt, they go to military school and all of sudden, they’ve got no more spirit. Military school crushes them into submission, and even little assholes like Milt start spitting out sirs quicker than curdled milk. You see what you’ve done? You’ve ruined not just Stanley’s life but quite probably Milt’s too. Are you satisfied? Does it make you feel better about your shit job and your pathetic life to destroy their lives too? And of course, you don’t even want to confront the possibility of what you’ve done. No, you’d rather take the easy way out. Shut the book. Go ahead. Fucker. I dare you. Except now, you’re too chicken to even stop reading. Too pussy to go on. Too pussy to stop. Pathetic. Have I said that yet? Just fucking pathetic.
But you know what, bud? I actually feel sorry for you, so I’ll give you your story. I guess that’s the least I can do, considering what a sorry life you’ve got. I can give you an escape. Only do you really want it? Or is it too much for you? I can see you cringing from here. I can smell it. Literally. I can smell your motherfucking fear. So go on. Turn the page. Let’s see what happens to Stanley.
Thing is, bud, this is what you signed up for. For a second there, I started to feel bad for you. I mean, I get it that you work a shit job and you — unlike most Americans — actually read books for entertainment, and not just books but real literature. I should be impressed with that, but you’re the kind of loser who probably jerks off while watching The News Hour with Jim Lehrer because of his stellar reporting skills. Then, you switch channels right before you jizz so you can maybe glimpse a shot of Katie Couric’s cleavage. Yeah, I know what kind of guy you are. So I want to feel bad for you. I really do, but when it comes down to it, Milt can’t feel bad for Stanley and I can’t feel bad for you. It’s the natural order of things, see? There’s a right way and a wrong way. Didn’t you old man ever teach you that one?
And so here’s Milt. He sees someone else’s shit on his desk, and he’s like, “Fuck. Now I’ve got to kick someone’s ass.” And I want you to slow down. Will you do that for me, bud? Slow the fuck down because when it comes down to it, it’s not in anyone’s best interest for you to go wailing like a little bitch about Stanley. He’ll be fine. Eventually. I mean, what’s your problem? Didn’t I just try to explain to you how Milt’s the guy you should be feeling bad for? I mean, sure, Stanley’s the one who’s getting the shit kicked out of him — literally, I think here’s some excrement coming out of his ass right now — but when it comes down to it, why should we always feel bad for the victim? Isn’t Milt just as much of a victim as Stanley? It’s hard work being the bully. It’s also damn hard work to fail the second grade two years in a row. Not to mention all the other times he’s been “held back.” Like really, what do you think that does to a kid’s confidence? Of course Milt’s the bully. He’s got nothing else going for him. Stanley, on the other hand, he’s got prep school and college and law school. You know Stanley’s going Ivy. Or maybe he’ll slum it and go to a top-notch liberal arts college. Guys like Stanley, they’re going to make it in the long run. Sure, life sucks while they’re in elementary school and middle school and high school — high school’s probably the worst — but in the end, by the time he starts his freshman year at Yale or Cornell or Dartmouth, he’s going to be a stud. Well, maybe not a stud, but by then, nerds will be cool. Smart will be cool. He’ll probably even get laid and his girlfriend will be hot. Sure, she’s probably fucking some other guy too, but do you think Stanley really cares? God, you’re an asshole. Don’t you know anything about Stanley? Of course, he’ll care! He’ll love her. She’ll be the best fucking thing that’s ever happened to him, but he’ll get over it. All he has to do is survive this, right now. All he has to do is stand up and let Milt kick his ass. Then, he’ll blink and he’ll be in college.
But Milt, there’s no hope for him. You know what Milt’s got in his future? He’ll probably go work at some local store doing retail — if he’s lucky and doesn’t end up in prison for raping some chick first. Maybe he’ll focus and find something he likes. Maybe electronics. But you know how this story goes, right? Maybe that electronics store will be doing well for a while. Milt will be promoted to store manager. Maybe the owners are pretty cool and want to send Milt to technical school so he can learn more about computers or some shit like that. But then, here it comes. Like you didn’t know it would happen. One day, just as Milt signs up for that first class at community college or technical school or whatever, Wal*Mart announces that it’s going to open a megastore right there in town, and we both know what happens next, right?
The thing is, bud, it all started right here. It all started because you’re a drama queen who wanted Stanley to be cool, because you felt so fucking bad for him that first day when he came in with a bow tie and a cardigan. Because you thought Stanley could be your salvation. Then, you saw Milt, and you knew that Stanley would have to stand up to Milt if he was going to make it in school, if he even wanted a chance to hang with the cool kids, but when it comes down to it, why couldn’t you be kinder to Milt? Why couldn’t you sympathize with the one character who’s doomed to have the same fate as you? Because when it comes down to it, bud, did you really think that you’re the same as Stanley? What do you two even have in common? Sure, you were a loser in school, but you weren’t a nerd, were you?
No, the irony is that you were a kid in the middle. You were the kid you never wanted Stanley to be because you thought if he was a kid in the middle, he’d end up just like you. That’s the funny thing, right, bud? Years from now, long after this story is over, it’s the Stanley’s of the world who’ll be rich. They’ll have the hot wives. They’ll have the kids who are both smart and pretty. That’s the problem with people like you. You never see the big picture. You sit your ass down to read a story, and you just sympathize with whoever the narrator tells you to like. You don’t have any autonomy. You don’t think critically. I mean, sure, Stanley is going to get his ass kicked, no question about it, but does that mean he’s the victim in this whole story? Can you see any further than your own nose?
But you know, I get your point. I really do. The whole point of a story is that you, the reader, ought to be whisked away to some alternate reality where you get to be a passive consumer. You get to live vicariously through the characters. Stories offer people a chance to escape. So ultimately, while reading this story, you actually should have felt sympathy for Stanley. You should have wanted him to sit in the back of the classroom or, at the very least, not sit in the front row. You should have wanted him to stand up to the bully. I’m really not criticizing you for all that. That would be unreasonable of me. After all, I did twist the story to make you feel how you felt. I manipulated you. I mean, you’re not really the emotional type. You work at Wal*Mart for God’s sake. It is what it is. You can’t really have much of a spirit left in you after an eight-hour shift there, can you? And then, you come home to a nice microwave dinner and The News Hour.
The fact of it is, bud, that yes, you should have felt bad for Stanley. Sure. No problem. But you took it to a whole new level. It’s one thing to want something for the character. Right on. It shows how much you care. But it’s a whole different thing once you start taking the characters’ lives and futures into your own hands. You’re not God. You’re not even a writer. You’re just a lonely guy who still lives with his mom because his dad killed himself a decade ago but you’re still worried about your mom being lonely. And again, that’s sweet and shit, but you want to know the truth, bud? Even your mom thinks you’re a loser. I mean, she thinks you’re a nice son, but even nice sons like you should leave the nest every once in a while. What I’m trying to say is that your mom has been seeing someone — I know, it’s pretty repulsive to you and probably a little demeaning that your mom can get action when you can’t — and she’d really like to bring him home sometime except your sorry ass never leaves. You go to work and then you go straight home. I mean, I get it that it’s a shitty little town you live in, but really, can’t you give your mom some space? No, instead, you rush home after work and start reading all these books, and I swear it’s like you’re a five-year-old girl playing house or some shit because rather than reading the story like a normal human being, you start seeing yourself in every character. I don’t want to be a prick or anything — and I get you’ve got “training” in musical theatre — but do you really