A November

The lovely Bethany DeMasie dedicated my Moleskine and took the opportunity to scatter small nuggets all through the pages. Just yesterday I hit this one:

"take a walk and write about what you see."

So here's a page's worth of walking.

It's early November and just past five. All the houses are covered with leaves burned brown curling in the late afternoon sun. Today is the first day it's been sunny in a long while, although the light is fading to dusk and the sky is a smoky twilit violet.

The sky is threaded to the earth in each tree, the dark holds, the fastens, the straps. Dusk is plummeting down through the air and wind and rain and all I can see is the rushed sigh of dying light as the world melts, turns its face to the shining array.

It's the path I walk: the houses nestled in piles of leaves, the bright orange faces sitting on the doorsteps, faces caved in, lips chapped and curling from the chill. Halloween's a cruel holiday.

I walk down Prospect and the wind smells like smoke and the wind is still and the wind is blown cold through my hair. I turn left at Liberty, pick the right sidewalk and cross the street. It's yellowed with leaves and in the tree above the rest hang like a canopy blown half out, and a leaf falls and touches the right arm of my black jacket. Inside the house two kids creep up to grab the sill with their tiny hands -- one sucks his thumb and the other is all curls. I smile and nod and they duck.

The prairie path is dark and every jogger's got rape in his gait, and the women cringe as I walk past and their dogs nip at my heel. I spin around to the left as a red suit jogs up behind me, a light pinned to his right, his face a solid forty. I choke a yelp and stop, pant, look up at the moon finally and only now visible and pale in the dark, silver-gazed.

THIS IS HER LIFE: The Classic

If this post is any proof that I am madly in love with Don Delillo, then I have succeeded.


Tom arrives his tie undone and the curly hair sticking to his forehead. It is the summer of 1982 and he is hot and walking dainty to keep from showing and all he can think of is his wife and a hand on her—both of—and there’s a dry taste in the back of his mouth like he’s thirsty even though he isn’t.

The kids at school. He’s kind of staggering down the hall, lit by a sallow light from the window in his oldest daughter’s room, and yeah, he wants Beth, all of Beth and only Beth and all he can think about is Beth. The house doesn’t feel empty—though it does feel vacant—like the inside of your mouth when you’ve drawn in breath all the way and you’re holding it.

When he exhales he can hears sounds—rumpling, rustling full-bodied throaty sounds.

It’s classic. It’s a classic reversal of a classic moment so many people dread—you, the one, if you’re married, the thing you’re afraid of most when he or she’s just slammed the door in your face because of the work or the friend or the kids. It’s the nightmare of the collective married all across America: the one they ape on the silver screen or every hour on the hour from ten to two on the soaps. It’s the boogeyman for grown-ups, the sound of a spouse coming home or coming staying home.

Two weeks before this Tom—and Tom remembers this twice every second since he’s walked in—Tom, Tom the inconsiderate: he was changing oil in the garage, too much oil, not enough bottle, so in a rush he dashes into the kitchen, grabs the first thing he can find and lets the remainder trickle. It’s Beth’s favorite, the bowl she would have heaped high with grapes and fruit at tea with the girls the next day. The rest is classic, sepia-toned, edges faded.

Sad thing is, he thought—he’s thinking all this in the seconds after he hears—he thought nothing of it after the initial wash-it-up-even-though-it-smells-it-will-always-smell-like-the-insides-of-your-goddam-jeep. A sleep off, a wash, he thought, he thinks. And this, the unkindest wash of them all. It’s like in chess you’re checkmated, he thinks. Only fair, he thinks. Mr. Hartnell, you’ve been served, he thinks.

So it’s fluid the way he sweeps back to the front door, opens it quiet and slams it shut, gives the classic “Honey I’m home” style swaggering booming voice like he never does, but it’s classic, and she comes down quick-dressed in jeans and the blouse he would have pulled off her five minutes ago, and he acts real hurried. “Stomach trouble,” he says and rushes to the first floor washroom and turns on the fan and the shower and stays inside for over an hour. He’s a fair man, he thinks. It hurts, he thinks. When he emerges from the shower she’s cooking potatoes and something else, real classic-like, and sprinkling chives, and he walks up behind her and puts his hands on her breasts and kisses her neck.

THIS IS HER LIFE: The Culturally Relevant Fable

*wink* *nod*
 
Beth Hartnell hobbles up the three steps and rings the doorbell. A fly zips through the air, lands briefly on her lip and buzzes away when she purses her lips and blows hard. The smell of curry drifts through the open windows, shutters splattered with a slapdash coat of whitewash. Beth remembers the scare her daughter Vivian had when she found the family wardrobe, an heirloom of four generations, had been coated with lead based paint, and even more her shrieks when she found out her baby son Paul had been alone in Gramma’s bedroom for a three hour nap. Like many other valuable pieces, the wardrobe had been burned in a pyre in the backyard two months past when Beth’s son-in-law had been diagnosed with cholera. She doesn’t understand why it had been necessary, although she saw it done in a Hallmark special that took place in colonial India. The burning is a source of bitter regret.

A lanky young man with olive skin and a unibrow opens the door, sees Beth and shouts something indistinct over his shoulder. In a minute, a wrinkled elderly woman emerges next to her grandson, his calves crossed lazily; with a sharp cluck of her tongue they are alone on the porch in the hazy after-hours when every husband is stuck in traffic and the children have stopped nursing their after-school snacks.

The woman’s name is something very long and complicated with p’s and r’s—Beth can’t remember it, so she calls her Swara. Her wiry black hair pulled back in a bun smells of old perfumes, and she wears a sari. At all times Beth is completely conscious of the fact that Swara is foreign, that her skin smells different and that, in her thoughts, Swara’s thoughts are formed from a conglomerate of intangible words and customs Beth will never understand. It made her very sad to think of—to know—a woman so much like herself transposed upon a foreign other, so she resolved to visit Swara at least once every few days.

“My grandson is out of the hospital,” Beth says, taking care to enunciate each syllable. A smile spreads across Swara’s face, moving the large but unobtrusive mole on her cheek.

“Paj is two exams from becoming a doctor,” Swara beams. Her accent is not so much thick as it is very noticeable. Having grown up on a farm, Beth realized early in life that an accent made everything, which was why she had married Tom from Boston, though that had turned out to be a mistake.

“That’s wonderful!” she exclaims.

Down the street five boys preschool age skate around a driveway—two dark skinned, two white and one with squinted eyes. The sounds of their laughter draw both women’s eyes, and soon both Beth and Swara are sitting on the top step watching the children play. A gentle breeze rustles through the front bushes and gently lifts the tails of a dozen ribbons scattered throughout the hedge.

“Is it some sort of holiday?”

Swara scowls.

“It is just a prank. We don’t know who put them there.”

The squint-eyed boy falls, scrapes his shin and hobbles to a half stand on one knee. Two of the boys point and laugh, one stares, and one helps the boy to his feet. Beth and Swara take in the breeze and Beth looks up at the darkening sky. She and Swara look back as the front door creaks open and the boy with the forehead peeks out timidly.

“Time to eat,” he says. Beth hikes up her skirt and rises slowly.

“I needed to go anyway,” she says.

Promises

I shall post. Sorry for the long bout of radio silence.

But not iTunes silence. New Moon OST is pretty decent, believe it or not. And also: Espers.

"Magic Neighbor"

Sadcore. Doesn't the word just summon up the bile from the back of your throat? Unfortunately, this has been the term of choice to describe Lisa Germano's unusual style: I'd like to say she's not a niche artist, but she really is. The only thing distinguishing any of her past albums was her choice of a "theme"--Geek the Girl is about getting stalked/raped, Lullaby for Liquid Pig deals with alcoholism, and In the Maybe World concerns itself with death (just look at the cover). Threaded within all of these albums have been Germano's overwhelming gifts as a musician and, most distinctly, her evocative singing. I've referred to her as the anti-Sam Phillips--her voice seeps into your mind filling all the empty spaces with a blanket of emotion contained within tight, economical arrangements. Except that, unlike Sam Phillips, her songs to this point have contained absolutely no redemption.

So what can I honestly say about her new album Magic Neighbor? I'll tell you it's a Lisa Germano album through and through. "Simple" contains her usual catchphrase about "feelin' this way". The clipped bells and beats crop up from Lullaby and her violin and piano are all in place. The breathy vocal style and plaintive fairy-tale-esque lyrical style are here too, and we've even got a song that sounds like a carousel. Yet all these devices and tropes are utilized with surprising restraint. More than anything else, the album sounds like a showcase of the best of Germano: her violin has never sounded more beautiful, the piano never more powerful. Most of the songs are pretty sad (even the seemingly optimistic "To the Mighty One" turns out to just be a "story" she's telling herself).

Aside from the inherent beauty of her arrangements, what should draw us into Germano's dour little parlour? I believe that, unlike any of her previous albums which were almost masturbatory in their desire to wallow in their subject matter, Magic Neighbor manages to ask questions, to tell a story that stretches us. The simple fact is that Germano is in love--a different sort of love than the two-dimensional cutout featured in Excerpts from a Love Circus. There's creation and death here, a power beyond Germano's own understanding. The opener (beyond the beautiful instrumental "Marypan") is aptly titled "To the Mighty One", asking for control, hoping to be free, to appreciate the world beyond her old emotional boundaries. The album's about the fluctuations of those boundaries in both love and in relation to God and death. The excellent title track asks why these things happen, why all the pain and sadness? (something Ms. Germano has not done on any album to date, I believe)

I haven't really scratched the surface of the album; I'm still figuring it out myself. However, I'd recommend you give it several listens (it'll take more if you're not a Germano fan). There are elements from each of her albums that are bound to seem familiar, but are by no means overused or tired. If anything the album functions as a "best of" Lisa Germano's style, taking bits from all over her career and adding in a few new ideas (I haven't heard anything like "Suli-mon").

Highly recommended.

Early Impressions: BBC's 2008 Drama "Little Dorrit"

Simple fact: it’s impressive. Dickens’ greatest strength was always his characters—not just the over-burdened starry-eyed hopefuls he often sets center stage but the periphery, the small odd ones you can often only guess at in the margins of the page. Film at large doesn’t accommodate the number of characters crafted in the span of a novel (especially one so thick as Little Dorrit) but somehow the BBC have fit 25 fascinating characters into the space of fourteen episodes and allowed them space to thrive.

Perhaps I’m misinformed. I tracked down a copy of this hound recently and have only trekked through the first six episodes (each a half hour in length). Each episode I have found more satisfying than the last. The characters are everything, and you could count on the BBC to cast exceedingly talented actors (except Freema Agyeman who was much better cast as a Who girl. I can’t decide if it was the direction or her own ineptitude—I suppose I’ll blame direction). Most every performance has such unique flavor: Andy Serkis as murderer Rigaud? Tom Courtenay and his effusive rants/sermons concerning the difficulties of remaining a gentleman within a debtor’s prison? The decidedy Havischam-esque Mrs. Clennam (Judy Parfitt) and her croney Jeremiah Flintwinch. Flintwinch. Is there a more Dickensian name out there? Matthew Macfayden and Claire Foy give excellent performances in the leading roles, although I’ll admit Amy Dorrit comes across as a tad overacted and earnest at times. And finally I’ll throw a bone to my personal hero Russell Tovey who plays turnkey John Chivery in one of the best performances I’ve seen in a long time. These are such well-rounded characters, each portrayed with such style and attention to the detail and idiosyncrasy that make someone real.

You’ll forgive me. It’s only episode six and I’m telling you this little gem shines bright. Having not read the book myself, I can’t speak for the integrity of this translation. I can’t picture Dickens writing such overt homosexual overtones into the relationship between Miss Wade (Maxine Peake) and Tattycoram (aforementioned poorly-acted Freema Agyeman),

(Overt?)

but hey, maybe he was more progressive than we give him credit. The music is beautiful and weighty, full of strings, but I’ve found it intrudes where it doesn’t belong. There are such nuanced performances on screen that we don’t need a soundtrack to tell us what to feel (see: episode 4, Mr. Dorrit’s outburst).

It’s getting late and I have more to say—I guess that’s why these are “Early Impressions”—so I’ll sign off with a promise of more later on. If you know me and want to throw together a Dickens party in Wheaton, I’m more than up for it.

You thought I was beyond meta-fiction . . .

But no. In a brief break from my current project I'd like to direct you to an area that once again seems to demand attention. At gunpoint. I speak, of course, of the Ides of Starch.

Wait wait wait wait wait! Before you stop reading, you need to understand one thing and one thing only: the Starch has grown beyond its previous incarnations of the awful fantasy Trae and I keep locked away in the closet (that didn't come out right, hahah. [Twixt punned]). It has begun to occupy real life. I'm sure nobody has kept up with it: nobody but Trae and I have the patience. However, if you examine the four most recent posts (soon to become five; first one posted 2/13/2009) you will find that Trae and I have begun to eschew the conventions of parody. This fight is coming to Wheaton, where many of you live. I intend to involve several of you in the conclusion of this misguided fantasy. If you have any desire to change your individual destinies in this patheta-fiction, then sign up quick on the blog and become the third storyteller. Both Trae and I will be *powerless* to stop you. Powerless is perhaps an overstatement. If you want to know why, I can send you the beginning to part II of the Ides.

Anyway:

This is a request. I don't care who you are: throw your bone into this brew and it'll become that much more entertaining. For your convenience I am posting the past five posts here followed by another link to the forum:

From Joe
In an instant everything changed. The surroundings melted away around Tiriana and Fledermaus until it was just them and a white expanse. A rush of wind blew, blinding Tiriana momentarily. When he looked up, he saw they were in a dimly lit room. Hunched over a desk, writing furiously, was a balding man with black hair and a thick beard. He turned at their arrival, gave them a nod, and continued typing.

“Take a seat. I’ll be with you both in a minute,” he said, gesturing to the floor.

Tiriana sat down. Fledermaus drew her sword and crept up on the unsuspecting gentleman. As she raised the blade to strike, the man whirled around and knocked the sword out of her hands with a firm kick. Holding his hand out in front, fingers curled into the palm, he hissed once.

“Try that again and I’ll kill you,” he said. Tiriana raised his hand.

“Um, excuse me, but where are we? And where are you?”

“You’re in the far north. Just north of Mi-ilk, actually. Place called Puttygut.”

Tiriana wrinkled his nose.

“What a strange name.”

“You’re in no place to talk. And where am I? I’m here too.”

“I meant who.”

“I’m the storyteller. Well, one of them.”

Fledermaus crossed her arms.

“Storyteller? Sure. This is a GREAT story. Why did we come here?”

The storyteller shrugged.

“Don’t look at me. I’m not the one telling the story right now.”

“You know something, though. You told us to sit—”

The storyteller leveled his gaze at Tiriana, who suddenly felt very uncomfortable.

“Look, kid. Do I look like I’m telling a story right now? Huh?”

Tiriana shook his head.

“I may not be telling the story right now, but I got the end all planned out. I’m writing it right now—just waiting for my friend to finish up his part.”

Fledermaus tossed her hair impetuously.

“So you’re saying things will end?”

“Not really. I mean, things haven’t really been ‘going’ for a long time. I’m not talking about an apocalypse or anything. Nothing to be worried about. I figure the reason you’re here is so we can just skip over some filler details and cut to the climax.”

“Chase?”

“You know, the part where you fight the Tuppen-Kluppens, kiss in front of the sunset. You know.”

“Is that how things are going to end?”

The storyteller smirked.

“Don’t you wish, ha ha.”

“Wait, can’t you tell us something, at least?” Tiriana cried.

The storyteller stroked his beard.

“I’ll say this: It’ll be furry difficult.”

Tiriana looked at Fledermaus skeptically. When he looked back at the storyteller, he had disappeared, along with everything else.

From Trae
As Tiriana and Fledermaus spun through the netherpaths on the way back to the ship-battle, the balding man stood from his desk. Reaching out to a table nearby, he grabbed and donned a large red cloak with sleeves and hood. He did not look happy. Turning, he descended the stairs, walked through a kitchen and out the back door. Well-groomed trails took him into the maple-woods, until eventually the man turned from the path and appoached an old decrepit appletree. He knocked on a knot on the tree trunk.
"Who is it?" a voice yelled from within. The balding man raised an eyebrow. Looking up at the sky, he said quietly, as if to no one,
"The Peppermint Avenger realizes who knocks."
A moment later, the person within the tree called out.
"Oh! It's you! Finally. I have been awaiting you." A door swings open on a single well-hidden hinge, allowing the balding man to enter.
After descending a long staircase, two cloaked men seat themselves at a large table -- really a flattened and still living root -- with stump-like protrusions for stools. The underground chamber burgeoned with alchemical tools and old leather tomes. Both men removed their hoods. Sitting across from the balding man was a thin, pimply young man with the traces of adolescence still upon him. But there was the seed of experience in his eyes, and the scent of peppermint exhuded from his robes.
"I have sought you so long," the young one said.
"Eliott, I know."
"How do you know my name?"
"You don't know that much -- about this whole thing. About what I am, and who you are."
"No. I should explain myself. Why I've come," said Eliott.
"I already know" replied the balding man.
"Oh," Eliott said. "Then I won't."
"Go ahead anyway. We must keep in mind the future possibility of readership."
Eliott looked confused, but swallowed after a moment and began.
"Nearly two years ago, the great master Quemmerrilius disappeared in search of the fallen evil overlord Berbil. But before he left he passed the essece of peppermint on to me. Feeling lost, I began to wander the land, trying to restore order in the vacuum of power. It was then that I began to have the dreams."
"What did you dream?" the balding one asked.
"I thought you knew?" Eliott said, frowning.
"Yes, but I'm trying to break up the monotony of a terrible information dump. Only a lack of time could excuse such filth. Continue."
"I began to dream of Berbil and Quemm, and I realized that they were important somehow. Somehow, they are near the root of this whole thing. And whenever I dreamed, I heard the words, 'The Starch.'"
"And so you went to the oracle."
Eliott looked up, suprised.
"Wierd," he said. "I had forgotten. Or. No, I suppose I forgot. But." He shook his head, as if dazed. "Yes, I did go to the oracle. She asked me, 'Place or thing.' I chose place. And the word she spoke as haunted me since. 'Puttygut.' She said. 'Puttygut.' And so I came in search of this place. I feel I am near. Ever so near. And as I came, as I neared this place, I began to hear whispers. Whispers of this person called 'storyteller.'"
"Well, Eliott. You are near the Puttygut, indeed. You are in the land of Puttygut, but I will take you to the old one itself soon. But first, you must understand the situation, for I need your help."
"I am ready."
"We find ourselves in a terrible plight. First, we are in part IV which is a romance -- a funny idea, but troublesome in implementation. Secondly, I am not the only storyteller. There is another. And he has done something horrible. He has cast us into the most abominable case of meta-fiction I have ever encountered. He must be stopped."
"Then lets find him."
"It's not so simple. He has no place."
Eliott gasped. "What?"
"He has .. no .. place."
"How can we find him?"
"There are rumors. . ." The balding man looked around. His face contorted into what could only be a snarl of pain. The candles flickered and nearly died. Gloom and darkness leered in around them. Moans of souls in great torment filled the empty recesses of the chamber. "There are rumors," the man choked out. "That he is in Wheaton."
Eliott blacked out.

From Joe
Tiriana and Fledermaus spun for what seemed to be hours through an interminable blackness so interminable that all things seemed lost. In that time, they forgot everything: who they were, where they were from, what they most wanted in life. The only thing they remembered, and would remember, was that they loved each other completely. Which was strange, considering that before they entered the vortex Fledermaus had only a nominal appreciation for Tiriana’s personality and looks.

When they came to, they were on the rough carpet in a dank and smelly dungeon. Up above, through the low rafters, the sound of scratching claws and the damnable tune of “Moonlight Sonata” looped endlessly, played by some maniacal mind. The dungeon was lit only by the sickly light of a steel grey box, situated in front of a half-finished wooden staircase. Suddenly, the light winked off and they were left in complete darkness.

“Who’s there?” Tiriana shouted, clinging to Fledermaus’s lacy blouse. A voice drifted through the darkness, lonely and hopeless.

“I am the storyteller,” it said.

“You? But we already met a storyteller. Well, ‘met’ might not be the right word, but—”

“Shut up. It’s my turn to explain,” said the voice. “A storm is coming and I fear we are the only ones who can stop it.” The light flickered back to life. At the edge of their vision, a shadowy figure emerged wearing a dark blue bathrobe. His face was veiled.

“Why can’t I see you?” asked Tiriana.

“There are rules to this sort of thing. I’m afraid you’ve both become embroiled in a larger battle, the both of you. As of right now I am breaking one of the prime rules: I fear I may be role playing,” the figure said. “When I wrote my companion into the Starch, I opened up a portal to the horrid lands of Arrpeejei and Mmmuhdd. Every moment I speak to you like this, the portal widens. So I must be concise.”

“But why can’t I see you?” asked Tiriana.

“There are reasons. What matters now is that, within four days’ time, I shall be traveling to the ancient mating grounds of the damnable creatures known as Miidddelklas. There I shall meet my compatriot, whom you met. I actually arranged that meeting, if you must know. But in arranging that meeting I violated a sacred code. And now we must have it out.”

“But, why can’t I see you?” asked Tiriana.

“The storyteller is gathering forces of his own—the dark lord Berbil, my fondest creation, and the Peppermint Avenger. I’m being left with the dregs of the Starch—”

“Starch?” asked Fledermaus.

“It is an invisible force that surrounds all of us, that binds and connects us. It can be a source of great power, for good or ill. Sadly, only the Storyteller and I know of it. There were others—other Storytellers—but . . .” he paused. “I fear my friend obliterated them.” The storyteller put his hands to his face. “But yes. The Starch. That’s my definition, at least. Though no one really knows what the Starch is. And I fear we never will. Perhaps three installments down the line.”

“But why can’t I see you?” asked Tiriana.

“Oh, fine. Because, as a storyteller, I am unable to look objectively at my appearance. And so, to introduce myself—to be the first to describe myself—would not only be asinine, but also unfair. The essence of being a Storyteller is in the balance of power. Neither my friend nor I can necessarily “write” a victory. We are but two parts of a whole: I am the beginning, and he is the end. Only he can write the end. He could end it, in fact, right now. All he has to do is make the two of you kiss in front of a sunset.”

“Well, don’t we want it to end?” asked Fledermaus, looking longingly at Tiriana.

“Yes, eventually. But not until the storyteller and I have had it out. One of us must have victory, though neither of us can write that victory. And once there is a victor, you two can kiss. But not a moment sooner.”

“Well, how are you going to keep us from kissing against a sunset?” asked Fledermaus, squeezing Tiriana’s buttocks.

“By keeping you imprisoned in this dungeon, of course,” said the storyteller. “Don’t worry! You will have your happy ending. Just not yet.”

“Well, you can delay the ending,” said Tiriana, massaging Fledermaus’s back, “But how do you intend victory?”

“I have no forces from the starch . . .” said the storyteller. “Save the assassin priest.”

A dark robed man stepped from the other side of the pale blue circle of light.

“But even he will not be enough,” said the storyteller. “There is one and only one way of obtaining a victory.” He leaned forward into the light just far enough for Tiriana and Fledermaus to make out a large smirk. “I will need to either resurrect or create a third storyteller.”

Tiriana and Fledermaus gasped.

“But first I need to find a way to Wheaton, the breeding ground of Miidddelklas. And to do that, I need the both of you.”

Tiriana cringed into Fledermaus’ bosom.

“We need to start a fundraiser.”

“What? Why?”

“So I can buy a ticket,” the storyteller hissed.

From Trae
Eliott opened his eyes. The hooded storyteller stood above him.
"Listen Eliott, we do not have much time. My opponent even now prepares. We must leave this place."
Eliott sat up.
"I feel so. Hopeless," he said.
"Yes," said the storyteller. "This really is the pits. Of despair."
"This here?"
"No, Wheaton."
"I figured it be more like a zoo."
"Like a zoo of death, perhaps."

The storyteller helped Eliott to his feet. Eliott tapped into the essence of peppermint and brought some cheer to the underground chamber.
"What is your name?" he asked, facing the storyteller.
"I have many names, but to the horrid Midddelklas of Wheaton, I am known as Traedles. Now come, I will take you to see him."
"Who?"

Traedles merely beckoned, and Eliott followed him up the stairs, through the dogwood brush and down the groomed paths. They passed a lovely white house, entering its spacious yards, until they reached a grey gravel dirt road stretching straight from east to west.
"This," said Traedles, "Is Puttygut."
"This?" said Eliott. "I was expecting something more."
But at that moment, a tremor ran through the road. A deep sigh and groan was heard, and little pebbles bounced up a few feet into the air and clattered back down onto the road. A hoarse, old voice spoke from beneath their feet.
"What wisdom do you seek?" it asked. Eliott, shaking with awe at the power of the voice, fell to his knees.
"I seek to know of Berbil and Quemmerillius."
"You can figure that out," said the Puttygut.
"I can?"
"Certainly. Just think about it."
"I hate it when people do this."
"When Berbil was defeated, he was struck absolutely insane, and Quemm went to find him."
"Yeah, I know. I'm pretty sure I wrote that section."
"Well, where is the one place that you'd have to be insane to go?"
The wrinkles on Traedles face smoothed away as it dawned on him. He chuckled.
"Eliott, it seems things have worked out well. They are already in the land of Wheaton. Now, old Puttygut, will you bless us on our departure?"
"No. I only bless arrivals." The road shook once more and was still and quiet again.

Eliott stood.
"You know, that was great and all, but I expected a little more than another oracle type deal."
Traedles looked at Eliott for a moment with a strange expression on his face.
"Look around you Eliott."
Eliott gazed around. Maple trees and dogwood, just showing the first flames of fall, rustled in the breeze. A willow tree trailed its yellow fronds and goldenrod enamelled the nearby field.
"Odd. I feel somehow at peace," Eliott said.
"Yes. In the fight to come you will need more than the essence of peppermint, powerful though it is. For it is in the nature of the Midddelklas, the insatiable creatures populating the hives of Wheaton, to suck away your essence, to drain you of your power. You have now been touched by the Puttygut. When you reach Wheaton, you will find it has transformed into a power of its own. It will shield you from the Midddelklas of Wheaton. You will not be safe from how much it sucks, but it cannot suck your memories, as long as you choose to remember."

From Joe
The storyteller boarded the plane and sat down between two old men, one of whom had spikey white hair and smelled of peppermint.

“Hello,” said Quemm. “I’m Quem.”

“Well aren’t you forward,” replied the storyteller.

“And you’re cheating,” said Quem.

“Yes,” said the storyteller, tapping away at the keys on his laptop.

“You’re going to have to turn that off in a few minutes,” Quem said.

“I only need a few minutes. What happened to Berbil?” asked the storyteller.

“I don’t really want to get involved,” said Quem.

“Of course you don’t,” said the storyteller, smiling deviously.

“Excuse me, but are you trying to cast yourself as a villain? Because you’re doing a fairly good job of it.”

“I’m following a code, same as my friend Trae,” said the storyteller. “For one, I cannot name myself.”

“That seems rather arbitrary.”

“Yes. Yes it is. Especially considering Trae named himself,” said the storyteller.

“So why not just break the rules yourself?” asked Quem. “By the way, my name’s got two M’s.”

The storyteller cocked an eyebrow. “Not according to me. And anyway, the truth is that—” Quemm waved him away.

“Nobody cares for the truth if the truth is boring. Isn’t that a rule? I think it is. In fact, this whole conversation is rather boring. Can I read that?” he pointed at the laptop. The storyteller nodded. After a quick scan of the previous posts, Quemm turned to the storyteller with a frown.

“It looks to me that, while Trae is preparing and strengthening his character with descriptions of this “Puttygut”, you are writing boring information dumps and halfwit dialog.”

“Oh,” said the storyteller.

“I think perhaps the most interesting thing you could do at this point to salvage the post would be—”

Suddenly a light shone down upon Quemm, blanching his skin. The storyteller glared at him, his thumb pressed firmly upon the light switch. Quemm looked, wide-eyed, into the eyes of the storyteller, and in an instant turned to sea foam.

The stewardesses, ushering the obese into back rows, froze, staring at the empty seat where Quemm had been just seconds before. A blonde woman with severe eyes and a thin nose phoned the front desk, and within minutes one last passenger, a standby, was let on. He fell back onto the wet seat cushions and looked over at the storyteller who now stared ahead with an evil glare.

“Something wrong?”

“I’ve figured it out.”

“What?”

“There’s only one way to make a meta-fiction worse. Only one. And I know exactly how to use it,” he grinned. The engines fired up and the plane began to taxi down the runway, glinting in the morning sun.

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