Just So You Know

An introduction to a series of short stories I've been working on for a little while, each about one character from the group of friends described below. The first story is Esmeralda's, is nearly finished, and if I fail at getting it published in a lit mag somewhere, it will probably end up here too!

Cryptic Crossword 1 Answers

Answers and explanations to Cryptic Crossword 1 below the break. Congrats to Ryan Menezes and Lu Chen who actually solved this bugger last Wednesday.

Six Word Stories

We had a competition this week. If I Were a Writer's lost. Look at that sucker's long post. Tell him you agree with me. Or tell me, whichever you want. All my sentences are six words. You're telling me that's actually irrelevant? And that he's explained why already?

I don't like you guys anymore.

1. "Halloween"
Want candy? Sorry. Twist: You're dead.

2. "Garfield"
Apocalypse! Wait - never mind. Just Monday.

3. "Theology"
God whispered, "Don't." People did. Damnation!

Have your own six word stories? Share them below, in the comments. I'll give you imaginary ice cream.

A Primary Concern

What color am I thinking of?

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Cryptic Crossword Solving Guide

(I'm publishing this early. Don't tell anyone.)

Monday's post was a cryptic crossword puzzle. Apparently these things are incredibly popular in England, but most Americans have never heard of them. This makes me sad, because cryptic crosswords are awesome. Unlike typical crosswords, which often emphasize knowledge of trivia, cryptic crosswords are instead all about lateral thinking and decoding answer clues. That's not to say that a healthy vocabulary isn't still a powerful solving tool, but it's not the only weapon at your disposal.

In the hopes that more people will actually attempt the one I posted, I present here a solving guide, based solely on my own experience solving and creating these buggers. I claim no expertise.

Cryptic Crossword 1

A Small Part of the Pantomime

A microfiction I wrote in the middle of the night after finishing The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao. The writing style is undoubtedly influenced by Junot Diaz, consequently, though for all that it's more conversational than my usual style, it doesn't really achieve the same narrative intimacy. Still. Writing! Achievement. Or something. 

- - - 

There was this thing that happened. 
            It's late afternoon on a Sunday and there she is, a girl, a grim star that must be burning somewhere because there's glows coming through her cracks, but boy on the outside she's not much: dark and cold, hardened magma, sitting cross-legged on a dock in front of a white plastic chair. Plate of cookies beside her, the hardest shit you ever tasted, break your teeth to bite the things, but they're her grandma's, what can she say? She dips them into the lakewater so they'll go down soft, glares (you couldn't tell she was glaring but she is, lasers from her eyes, just no fog around to catch them) at the fishes who glare right the fuck back, she's sure.

            This thing that happened happened on a boat. It's an old man's boat called simply The Green, no one knows why, it's a mystery for the ages. The Green is a white boat with blue seats made out of that plastic sort of boat seat material (real helpful, no?), and on The Green at the time of the thing was not an old man but an old man's grandson, shirtless and white but tan and red, like his skin is some kind of map, different factions laying claim to his territories by painting them one shade or another.

            The sun's low so the girl puts a hand to her forehead, feels sweat against her index finger, and I like to think it's a kind of sensual feeling, something that reminds her that she's got living skin all over, though who can know? For whatever reason she lets sweet talk pull her on board The Green. I concede: Maybe she's just bored, or maybe her parents pissed her off and she's itching to return the favor. I like to think it's the sweat, that a cool breeze catches lines of it on her legs, that she gets Ideas.

            The motor hum follows them like a heatseeker, there's no shaking it. Too bad. Still it's a quiet kind of loud and it fits the sun (getting rusty yellow toward the evening, a vicious, violent yellow) like a wedding ring, and when he stops the boat the silence tears open the scene, a goddamn hurricane of silence. It's awkward suddenly; the moment that helped her in The Green isn't gone all the way to memory but God or somebody has stuffed it into his pocket at least, and she tries to smooth out the wrinkles with some nice words, some nervous giggles. The boy's gotten shy, hushed by the sunset or something (is he a fucking romantic? Let's see, let's see). They swing their legs at each other and once or twice their bare feet touch. There's high evergreens around and their black reflections smile boldly in the water.

            She's stood up and is letting two of her fingers play with the thin fabric of her dress, like she's strumming a bass--yeah, and he may've gotten shy but you can bet he feels the vibrations--when the sky starts falling: sends a golden missile straight at the wet carpet between them, and they both jump a mile, rock the boat something fierce, one of them lets out a shriek (I won't tell which). Of course the sky isn't falling, of course it's not a missile. What IS it? They both swear, recoil, dodge it best they can which is not well, it's a copper sawblade blur, it's a severed angel's head.

            What it is is--it's Superman! It's a plane! It's--a bird. She calms herself the fuck down, her pulse mellowing out, mountains to molehills. He stays with his knees pulled into his stomach, watching it like it's the brass of seven trumpets, revelation, motherfucker! even though the sound is more like textbook pages turning, or tearing, or burning. What it is is the first part of the thing.

            It won't leave, it can't leave, won't stop and won't speak, either, hushed in panic. A single broken wing, it looks like, and it crashes itself in every corner of The Green in a neat circle, a kamikaze whose plane just will not blow. What do they do? "Free" it into the lake, give it a swimming lesson, watch it skip like a stone, shorter and shorter and shorter bounds until...? Or maybe it will plummet right away, that one working arm like an oar paddling down, down. The body bubbling up like a confession, like shame. Drive to shore? To where, the magical dockside animal clinic? All the while the bird flapping around, catching perfect gold light like a coin that refuses to pick heads or tails, beams of light, bolts of light, like a headache, like a strangled heartbeat, like a fucking Ha-lle-lu-jah! And every minute, every flap of that wing, pumping their blood pressure up, his and hers, too, til they're ready to pop. Her molehills back to mountains, his knees unbending, and he pulls up a compartment lid under one of the blue seat covers, blinded and turned pale and crazy, rough feathered body pounding him what feels like constantly, touching the skin of his stomach. Comforting feel of metal on his hand, cold I figure, the rope damp and smooth, can taste the anchor's spears, the way you can feel lust in your ankles, or a toothache in your back. Somehow it winds up in her hands--does she take it, does he force it on her? The anchor heavy in her hands (like doom, like it turns her arms into marble) that startlight inside her fuses an iron core, goes super N-O-V-A, this fucking bird fucking her head with light, with massive light.

            Somehow her aim--she's not practiced in anything, no sports or whatever, but it takes two swings for a hit: There's a gush, one of the anchor's fingers tags it like a fishhook, and then it speaks, finally, a curious fucking little sound, like you'd speak a question mark. And still it moves! Flops distressed and demented in place, skewers itself, golden trauma, and she shakes the anchor, punches it against the floor, pulps all the blood from around those hollow bones, until finally it stops, it stops.

           

            Sun doesn't go red to match the carnage or anything. It stays yellow and dims. Maybe spits up purple on a few of the clouds.

            I won't even say what The Green looks like at this point--just that the boy's looking at her like she's terror and revulsion, and she looks back at him like she agrees. She holds the anchor over him like it's her own hand, like she'll never be able to let it go.

            What did you want me to do?! she yells. She yells it again. She yells it again. The words fly out, ring out, dry out, die out, skip like stones over the lake, short and shorter and shorter bounds until...

Obligatory First Post Post

Welcome to my blag! As with most people who aren't already famous, I'm beginning this venture mainly as an exercise in keeping myself prolific. Maybe it will work!

Here's the plan: Fridays will be driblets (wow, that's actually a word? I could've sworn I was making it up) of fiction that may or may not be part of something larger and more productive. Not all of them will be as macabre as today's offering, but as I always say, the best friendships usually start with the killing of a small animal with a heavy, multi-pronged object. Fortunately for the animal kingdom I usually content myself with subpar friendships. (Hi friends!) 

Mondays will be puzzles I've made, either traditional or think-outside-the-boxy, depending on my mood. I've been into building cryptic crosswords lately, so I'll probably offer one of those up next week. Maybe a solving guide, too, since no one seems to have any idea what cryptic crosswords are. (FYI: They are fun.)

Wednesdays will be anything else I feel like posting, probably usually in the form of rants or absurd competitions with this guy. 

Cordially, 

BS