E-Views

Cathy Eaton uses sweaty sock smell and ironically, death, to breathe life into “Raggedy Slippers.” Her short piece (somewhere between flash and conventional short fiction) is filled with those fascinating things that inevitably get left behind:  slippers, overalls, wives, and sons. All of these things belong somewhere after they are left, and Eaton looks to explore where.

“Raggedy Slippers” follows Becca, a Pennsylvania farmer, as she traverses the solemn days following her husband Henry’s death. Household uncertainty is paired with “casseroles and pasta salads,” and despite the enormity of what’s happened, chores still remain. The Steelers hat of Roger, a friend of the deceased, and the Jersey cows that Becca tends are subtle reminders that this is a land of duty and a culture that has long stood without stagnation as a result of personal emotions. Becca must face what has befallen her with the same stoic resolve that has kept her community intact all this time.

Through the arrival of Seth, Becca’s son, the full effects of Henry’s death are illuminated. But what the interplay between these characters reveals is that the effects are quite different for each character individually. There is, on the one hand, the young man mournfully reflecting but still looking forward to initiating his own life, and on the other, the mother who has seemingly just lost half of hers. Both characters know this truth about the other. The final dialogue between the two is simple and yet it bleeds with the sympathy and compassion found in human nature.

In the bio of Eaton provided by Bartleby Snopes it states that she believes “conceiving a story and then living through its many transformations is like being pregnant giving birth, and raising a child: some days a joy, other days a heartache.”

I’m not sure there is a more perfect way than this to describe how “Raggedy Slippers” works. Nor is there a more apt setting than that confused and purgatorial space that exists after the death of a loved one through which to explore those feelings and themes that emerge out of simultaneous joy and heartache. On the surface of “Raggedy Slippers” are ordinary circumstances and situations that most people must face. Underneath the objective prose breathes an existence that is cyclical despite its spontaneity. There’s no telling when joy or sorrow will be found, but they lead up to the same thing. “Raggedy Slippers” is not celebration nor is it tragedy. It’s simply life; unrefined, uninhibited.

One need only look at titles like “I Once Knew a Girl Who Kept Breaking Bones” and “Your Big Dick Can’t Save You Now” to see that many of the stories of Pank have a bit of a dark and twisted side. “House Fire,” “Death In the Family,” and “Reproduction,” three related stories both about “Michael” and his unnamed brother written by Joshua Helms are no exception. Though not as, dare I say, “in your face” as  the aforementioned “Your Big Dick Can’t Save You Now,” these stories seem to come from a dark place inside the writer. It’s a subdued dark, however, one that sneaks up on you. A twist that’s haunting and memorable for all the right reasons.

Unclear sentences that could mean anything give the stories a dreamlike state. Concrete sentences are few and far between. (“The neighborhood is lit but no one is home.”) In this world the effects of a house fire, or a leap from a rooftop, even death itself are as in dreams, inconclusive. These tragedies come at the expense of characters (Michael, brother, mother, father) who are underdeveloped and yet eerily familiar. It is limitless and stifling all at once.

Helms isn’t telling a cohesive story. Instead he’s stacking visuals on top of each other, filling vast spaces with boyish perceptions—with fire trucks, and scratchy sweatshirts, and exploding glass. Does it work? Does it make sense? Only in that it is compulsive. Like a dreaming mind. Things appear. (You can ask why but you can’t fight the fact that those things are there, so what’s the point?) Nearly every sentence in each story begins with the subject phrase “Michael,” “Michael’s brother,” or “Michael and his brother.” Because of this, even the most meager sentences such as, “It’s summer,” and “A phonebook lies open between them,” reverberate with what feels like a crashing wave of contextual information. The resulting flow of the piece as a whole is jagged and yet entirely sure-handed.

None of the three stories tries in their 200 words or less to grip at your heart, and this is, as far as I’m concerned, a good thing. Instead each is content to rile up your subconscious, a much more manageable endeavor. Each story tactfully picks out dark places underneath already darkened subject matter. “Death In The Family” conceives those thoughts that immediately follow death. “House Fire” explores the loneliness of abandonment. The first two stories are subtle, and despite their vagueness, evenhanded.

Then “Reproduction” comes and has its way with the reader. A nearly incomprehensible slew of tit for tat remarks and revocations leaves us sure of nothing, but not exactly guessing. Here any fate not only seems possible but is possible for these characters. Death, life, nonexistence. Though the stories feel like bad dreams, what’s scary is they’re more real than that. Every word is believable.

Every once in a while college undergrads come up with a good idea.  In the case of The Narrator, they’ve also come up with a sexy idea.

I just finished reading a very solid short story by Michael Shilstone called “Toys, Cribs, and Max Weber.” I don’t pretend to know much about Mr. Weber, but – having two kids of my own – I know plenty about toys and cribs.  So, this story caught my eye.  I also happen to know that Shilstone is a very young writer, so that caught my attention, too.  We here at Avery are very interested in promoting young writers.

Shilstone’s story begins simply enough:  we think we are watching a man playing with his daughter.  His dilemma is that he wants to let her learn this simple game on her own, yet at the same time this game is teaching her to “fit knowledge” into “assigned information compartments.”  He doesn’t seem to like that at all.

As we continue to read, however, it becomes clear that the man is not the girl’s father – he is her babysitter.  At this point, Shilstone manages to shake our “common knowledge,” which obviously makes sense given the themes of the story.  And with a couple references to the movie Raising Arizona, he also manages to shake our nerves:  is this dude going to steal this girl?

No worries on that front, dear readers.

In the end, “Toys, Cribs, and Max Weber” is a good story.  Its design – and here I’m speaking of the way The Narrator chooses to present it – helps its appeal, but that’s not to say it wouldn’t be a good story on its own.  I love the exploration that happens here, and I love that we think about this and that and other things after a mere one page.  Sure, I’m confused by some of it:  what the hell is a “full-body, one piece diaper,” and why is this object integral in the telling of the story? why do we finish the story with a reference to money? is this relevant to the story’s thematics or to just Weber’s role in its thematics?

Perhaps it is, and perhaps there is a such thing as a full-body diaper.  Perhaps if I had watched all of Raising Arizona and perhaps if I had read more than a modicum of Max Weber, more things here would crystalize.  But for now, I’m okay not knowing these things.  I’m okay just knowing that a very young writer is out there in the world, trying to make us think.