A Collection of Literary Claptrap and Fictive Nonsensery
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Hodge-Podge: A Collection of Literary Claptrap and Fictive Nonsensery Author: Django Gold Persistent link: http://hdl.handle.net/2345/588 This work is posted on eScholarship@BC, Boston College University Libraries. Boston College Electronic Thesis or Dissertation, 2007 Copyright is held by the author, with all rights reserved, unless otherwise noted. Hodge-Podge: A Collection of Literary Claptrap and Fictive Nonsensery By Django Gold Advisor: Ricco Siasoco English and Arts & Sciences Honors Thesis Friday 13, April 2007 I dedicate this work to Robert Edmund Gold, deceased, father and friend, who taught me, among other things, the value of sincerity. What I have assembled here is far from perfect, but it approaches honesty. Table of Contents Preface 1 The Kill 2 Hot Breath 23 Sorcery 47 A Failure of Understanding 70 Currency 86 Deserter’s Execution 105 The Box 121 Commencement 151 Preface I do believe that what follows stands well enough on its own, but vanity demands that I throw in a little something here if only to satisfy myself. First and foremost, I give thanks to my advisor, Ricco Siasoco, whose experience and expertise as a writer enabled me to take my thesis where I wanted it. It’s amazing the number of stupid mistakes one can make until a helpful second party points them out, and Ricco definitely had his hands full with me. What follows is richer for his counsel. Secondly, the illustrations are taken from Berke Breathed’s Bloom County comic and are used without permission. I’m not sure if I’m allowed to use them, but I don’t think they ever made any Hodge-Podge plush dolls, so it may be moot. Finally, it’s worthwhile to note that this thesis was originally planned as a novella and proceeded down that path for a few miles before taking a U-turn and backtracking to the short fiction onramp. The novella’s first chapter was excised, snipped of its loose ends, and given a title: “The Kill,” as you will soon come to know it. It was a difficult decision to abandon the novella project, as I had invested quite a bit of time, effort, and research in putting it to paper, but it was a necessary one. I had too many other ideas floating around in my head and felt obligated to get them down. I may have sacrificed the unity of the novella form, but I think I got back a unity of perspective of that my original thesis never had a chance to reach. As disparate as these eight stories may seem to be in terms of narrative technique, tone, locale, etc., there is a common theme that runs through them all and that is that they each contain a small piece of what I consider my world. It’s a fun and interesting place, my world, and it was just as fun and interesting to try and share it. I hope you enjoy what I’ve done. 1 The Kill Daniel awoke at quarter to four, some minutes before the alarm. His awakening felt unresolved and fragile, an uncertain foothold on an uncertain trail. There was no groggy intermission to bleed the edge between the gray of the morning and the dancing black of sleep; he immediately felt a clear, somehow antiseptic, awareness of his surroundings and this clarity brought with it an unaccountable unease. He was out of place, he felt, repositioned in the night by a phantom hand. He reached to defuse the impending alarm and stealthily rolled to his back, his arms folded and positioned snugly along his bare stomach which was soft with heat, rising and falling with his breath. From this new position, he could make out the barest of the room’s features. The curtains were open on his wife’s side of the bed and a faint blue shaded the dark outside, sharing just enough light with the inside to illuminate the corners of the bed, the bureau, the brass of the door handle. Across the bed, the mirror glinted vaguely but without reflection. He resolved to combat his malaise through action, and did so, carefully shifting his weight out of bed, and padding out of the room, opening and closing the door with two concentrated clicks. He ran his fingers along the wall on his left side, navigating by memory—this had been his home long enough grant him confidence. He reached the kitchen and rewarded himself with the electric light. He ran water and rubbed his face clean of sleep, scraping the sediment from the corners of his eyes and wiping away the gum from the corners of his mouth. His clothing and gear were arranged neatly by the backdoor: socks, long underwear, flannel shirt, corduroys, boots, sweatshirt, parka, ski hat, satchel, cooler, rifle, rifle kit, a plastic jug of water. Daniel sipped at the water 2 thoughtfully before capping it, and then began to dress, stretching the long underwear over his thighs. Outside, the air possessed the unyielding chill of Oregon winter, it coated the world in a blue vapor that snapped at exposed flesh and seemed to harden the trees and ground and sky into stone replicas. Though dawn would not enter for another hour, it had sent ahead as emissary a clean gray prelude that highlighted well enough the features surrounding Daniel’s home, the blue of the deathless evergreens, the blue of the cold, tamped earth. For his part, Daniel did not mind the cold, could even enjoy it at times like these when well-snugged in his hunting gear, with only an exposed face to remind the other parts of his body just how lucky they were to be alive. Daniel balanced his equipment in one load and deposited it carefully in the back of his truck. He closed the gate and moved to the cab where he swung the door open and lifted himself in. He slid the key into the ignition but did not start the truck; a nettle in his brain told him with authority that something was wrong. It was no longer the blank unease of the bedroom, though it was certainly still that, there was now something simply incorrect about his actions. He felt as if he were moving steadfastly along an erroneous path to a resolution he knew to be false. His stomach muttered and he would have liked very much a hot breakfast, though he knew from experience that it was best to eat late in the morning when hunting so as not to become slow with satiation. It was a thirty minute drive to the Fowler’s Trail turnoff and Durr would certainly be waiting for him, could perhaps be there right now, preparing his rifle, eyeing the approaching dawn with anticipation. 3 “Yes, something is wrong,” he thought. “But it will have to continue being wrong until I find out just what it is. Then we will see.” Daniel turned the key and the engine growled. The boundaries of Chancery, Oregon are broad and have never contained more than two thousand people, even at the peak of the West’s brief flirtation with the gold rush. The ground, though hilly and impossibly unnavigable at points, lies low to sea level, avoiding the upward push of the Sierra Nevada range that takes gradual hold of the land as one moves towards the ocean. It is thick land, not lush, but dense with trees and undergrowth and animal life. The town’s central commercial area, consisting of two gas stations, a general store, a pair of equally-nondescript saloons, a hardware and hunting supplies store, an auto shop, and an eroding Methodist church, lies along a paved two- lane road referred to as Mainline Avenue without even a hint of irony. Heading North along Mainline, one draws closer to civilization; South, and one leaves it as the road becomes Route Five, the common stretch of pavement that binds the various dirt paths of the town, most of which lead to the isolated residences one finds in such deeply-wooded regions of rural Oregon. The only turnoff of significance is the gated entrance of a compound labeled simply “Timber” by an iron overhang that will sway in wind. Through this gate one finds the town’s artery, it’s justification: Greenlands Timber, employer of virtually all of the town’s adult male residents, under cooperative ownership of Daniel Durr Sr. and Mark Owen. Beyond this vital turnoff and the various residential offshoots that follow, the road adopts a noticeable incline as it wraps itself around Bishop Mountain, a gradual hill of barely two thousand feet that serves to separate the scraps of Chancery from what is only civilization by virtue of Route Five itself. Once around 4 Bishop Mountain, the road smoothes out into a long straightaway that leads into California if one chooses not to take a left at the Fowler’s Trail turnoff. The roads were not icy, but they could have been, and as a result Daniel drove cautiously and reached the turnoff in forty minutes instead of the usual thirty. As he drove, the dissipating fog gave the road form, and at his arrival, only the vaguest cloudy strings remained. Durr was seated in the back of his own truck, his denimed legs hanging over the open gate. As Daniel crunched onto the turnoff, Durr raised a hand and vaulted into the gravel to meet him. Daniel nodded through the windshield as he killed the engine. He opened the door and stepped out. “Good morning,” he said.