#fictoin

The River Death The Timksi are an odd species, but one I have always held love for. Timid and quiet, they are a people content with community and good food. I have always been grateful that our elders chose to save the Timksi, for I felt that the world was better with them in it. We entered their realm after a leisurely stroll. This part of the Barrowmorn was a dim place, and I found myself…

Reader’s Choice | August 2018

Hello everyone!

It’s that time again (do I type that every time? I’ll have to look back at pervious posts…). A new Reader’s Choice post will be out next week, however I need to know what you’d like the inspiration to be. 

So, to choose the inspiration for the upcoming post simply vote down in the poll below! 

[socialpoll id=”2516960″]

For those of you who are curious, I’ve included links…

Tower of Nebrethe | The Dying Boy | By Roman R. Sanchez

The Dying Boy Chapter 10 Urighillis sat hard pressed against a cold stone at the end of a narrow alley. He kept thinking to himself, Just stay awake. You’ll be better in the morning, as he fought hard to prevent his soul from drifting from his body because of the blood loss. He breath was faint. He was half asleep, half awake. He had his feet tucked in, and he held his right hand close to his…

by Geraldine Brooks

In the Middle East, because they all recognize the Old Testament portion of the Bible as a sacred text, Christians, Jews and Muslims are known as People of the Book, so this title intrigued me.

The other factor that drew me to this book was the writer’s style.  So many books have promising plots, but the prose is choppy and unpleasant to read.  Brooks’ prose flows smoothly, yet is full of astute observations, riveting details, and wry humor.

According to the author, her fictional account was inspired by the true story of the Hebrew codex known as the Sarajevo Haggadah.

The story involves an Australian medieval documents expert who’s been called to Sarajevo, “where they just stopped shooting at each other five minutes ago,” to examine and conserve the Sarajevo Haggadah, a rare illuminated manuscript which has miraculously survived the war.

When Dr. Hanna Heath examines the book, she discovers in its pages a bit of insect wing, some salt crystals, a white hair, and a wine stain.  Brooks uses these as vehicles to explore absorbing historical vignettes which played a role in the book’s history, from World War II to the Spanish Inquisition and beyond.  Brooks’ ‘people of the book’ are those whose lives have been impacted by the book and who played a role in its creation and preservation.

I felt a bit cheated by the fact that at the end of each historical vignette, the author left me hanging, wondering what happened to the characters I had become so involved with.  I dislike loose ends in a novel.

Curiously, Brooks equates spiritual mysticism with sexual gratification, which is a broad leap, even in fiction, and leaves the reader with the impression that the author must be deficient in either one or the other.

Here and there, especially in the final chapter, the author, who's Australian, lapses into Aussie slang that's difficult to interpret.

 “I don't know why they're called water chestnuts,” said Sera, spearing one with the handle of her spork. “I've always thought they tasted more like hazelnuts. Watery hazelnuts.”

The can of water chestnuts had been taken from the depths of the oversized messenger bag Sera always carried. She'd cut it open with a pair of wire snips from the art room cabinet before producing her lucky spork, the one with the number six imprinted in the plastic. To anyone else, this would seem like odd behavior, but Serafina Brown had a way of making her strangeness seem utterly believable, as though eating uncooked root vegetables off the wrong ends of plastic utensils was something people did all the time.

They were in the attic. They weren't supposed to be there, but Sera's dad had left the keys on his desk. Since the keys disappeared on a regular basis—mostly into Sera's pocket—their absence wouldn't cause concern. It was a major benefit of having parents on the faculty, the ability to vanish at will. Other teachers simply assumed that whatever Sera got up to had been sanctioned by one of her parents, and so she never got caught. The assumption had eventually grown to include Frances, who was currently watching Sera devour the mysterious can of water chestnuts.

“Want one?” Sera offered her the can.

Frances shook her head, blonde hair flying everywhere. “No, thanks.”

“Did you talk to your mom about the show on Friday?”

She had. “Yeah. You're gonna drive, right?”

“Yeah, yeah,” answered Sera, poking a chestnut experimentally. “You want to take the Beast, or should I ask my mom for the car?”

The Beast was Sera's truck. It was very large, very black, and her parents gave her twenty dollars a week for gas. They also gave her twenty dollars a week for lunch, but the lunch money usually ended up in the Beast's fuel tank as well, which was why Sera was eating the water chestnuts.

“I dunno.”

“I'll ask my mom for the car,” Sera decided. “The car goes faster.”

Going fast was Sera's hobby. Anyone else would look at the Beast and decide it was a slow, lumbering vehicle, but Sera had taken the word sport emblazoned on the tailgate as a promise, and regularly arrived in the school parking lot at about eighty miles an hour. Seeing as the Beast was larger than every other car in the student section, people usually got out of the way.

Frances didn't have a car, or even a driver's license. With Sera around, she didn't need one. “What time are you gonna pick me up?” “Around... seven? It starts at eight, right?”

“Eight-thirty, I think.” “Better make it seven. We'll get lost on our way downtown, probably.”

Sera didn't posses a sense of direction. All of her flaws were similarly endearing, wrapped up in a long-legged, dark-haired, leather-jacketed white girl from the suburbs, seventeen years old and ready for trouble.

Frances was the good one. Sera's parents liked Frances, because they thought she kept their daughter in line. Really, it was the opposite—Sera had spent their freshman year slowly and patiently chipping away at Frances, until the word fuck had finally burst from her lips, freed into the world after a lifetime of such imaginative swears as apple guts and sugar biscuits. Frances, however, still had the advantage of looking innocent, even with the bright red dog collar she wore around her neck. It was a tribute to a particularly inspired piece of fanfiction she'd read after her parents had a DSL line installed, enabling late-night AIM sessions with Sera and serious perusal of the darker corners of the internet. Collar removed, however, she was all blonde hair and green eyes, pretty but plain, unremarkable.

People paid attention to Sera, because she was dangerous, but they befriended Frances, who was nicer, and not as crazy.

“What am I supposed to wear?” Frances asked, trying to picture the nature of Friday night. One of their mutual friends had a friend who was in a band, which had turned out to be the same band led by a guy Sera knew from the internet (Sera knew every male on the internet between the ages of sixteen and twenty-two). The show was in some sketchy concert club in the middle of downtown. Frances had only seen the website, black and loud and somehow pointy.

“Whatever,” replied Sera, who would show up in too-low jeans with a perfectly-worn hole at the knee. She'd finished with the water chestnuts, crushing the lid back down into the can. “Wear what you usually wear.”

What Frances usually wore was boring. T-shirts, jeans from the boys' section, the red collar. She didn't even own makeup; Sera would show up at her house with a case of the stuff. There would be a chase, Frances diving behind the bed as Sera brandished the mascara. “I won't stand out too much?”

“Only in a good way.” Sera stuck the spork back into the pocket of her bag. “You're cute.”

Frances stood up, dusting off the back of her skirt. “I've got a black shirt.” “Perfect.”

Withdrawing the keys from her pocket, Sera led the way to the attic door, tossing the misshapen can to Frances. They exited the attic, locking the door behind them.

“Hey, Sera?” Asked Frances, examining the can as they walked down the hallway, Sera's boot heels echoing on the terrazzo floor. Water chestnuts—wet, crispy, slightly nutty but ultimately tasteless. Nothing special, the hangers-on to more exciting cuisine. If Frances was a water chestnut, Sera was an entire plate of General Tso's, extra spicy.

“Yeah?” “Do you actually like water chestnuts?”

“I do,” she sang, hoisting her bag over one shoulder.

“You don't think they're boring?”

Sera leveled her perfect blue gaze at Frances, her expression cool, collected. “Of course they're boring,” she replied. “Boring is marvelous. You can't have exciting stuff without boring.”

“Oh,” said Frances, tossing the can into the nearest trash bin. “Yeah... I guess you're right.”

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