Weird is Fun
Not everything I write is weird, but the tales in Not Quite so Stories definitely have some oddness mixed into normal life. People ask me why I like writing stories like these and I think one of the main reasons is the way that a single absurd element in an otherwise normal environment captures attention so well. People really engage and get wrapped up in the story.
I often think of encountering something done a really different way when travelling abroad as an analogy, but the example I want to discuss today is actually the reverse.
My wife and I took a tour in Egypt in 2011 just a few months after the revolution that overthrew Mubarak. While we were escorted very safely by a trustworthy and thorough guide for most of the trip, we did take a day trip via train from Cairo to Alexandria on our own to visit a cat rescue we corresponded with there. Our guide bought our departure tickets, but by the time our friend in Alexandria went to buy our return train tickets, first class was unavailable. We went second class instead.
You have no idea the confusion this caused.
Apparently, Americans NEVER travel by second class train in Egypt. People (train guards, other passengers, and so on) kept getting very worried, trying to escort us to the first class cars. This seemed very important to them, and they urgently wanted to be helpful. Faced with the language barrier, we had great difficulty convincing them that we were where we needed to be. They simply couldn't leave it alone. The situation boggled their minds, fascinated them. It simply wasn't what they expected.
Mind you, second class trains in Egypt are actually quite comfortable. They aren't as spacious and plush as first class, but they were still better than most airline travel. The biggest different was the restroom. In first class, the restroom is basically a fixed installation porta potty with a hole emptying directly onto the train tracks. The second class had a seat, but it was sitting on the floor. Likely, given the condition of the floor, it was probably stuck there. Even as a male who most often doesn't need to sit down when using the restroom, I was tempted to pee from the doorway and hope for the best. Still, that was the worst of it and I've seen much more frightening restrooms.
Still, these people could not understand Americans traveling in this kind of accommodation, perfectly fine as it was. It was outside their frame of reference. After all, Americans all have money, so why wouldn't they travel first class? It bugged them. I could understand if we were in third class. The third class trains were another thing altogether. From what we could see, third class was a bare metal car with open windows and people standing, hanging wherever they could (sometimes outside of the car). At perhaps sixty miles an hour, it would be a little harrowing. This wasn't that bad though, and we could easily deal. We aren't that spoiled.
It was just so interesting to see people trying to fit this situation with what they understood of Americans in general and the world at large. Really, it was the most interesting part of the train ride…and that's exactly the sort of interest I hope to evoke in readers when slipping absurd things into the stories of Not Quite so Stories.
Publisher: Literary Wanderlust LLC (December 17, 2015)
Genre: Absurdist Literary Fiction
The center of Not Quite So Stories is the idea that life is inherently absurd and all people can do is figure out how they will live in the face of that fact. The traditional explanation for the function of myth (including such works as the relatively modern Rudyard Kiping’s Just So Stories) is as an attempt by humans to explain and demystify the world. However, that’s hollow. We may be able to come to terms with small pieces, but existence as a whole is beyond our grasp. Life simply is absurd, ultimately beyond our comprehension, and the best we can do is to just proceed on with our lives. The stories in this collection proceed from this conception, each focusing on a character encountering an absurdity and focusing on how they manage to live with it.
I've been reading and writing as long as I can remember, which I guess means since at least last Tuesday. Seriously though, you always hear people ask writers why they write. It just never seemed like a choice to me. It's just something I do. For good or bad, it is what it is.
I'm the author of three books: Not Quite so Stories (forthcoming from Literary Wanderlust), The Garden of Good and Evil Pancakes (2015 national indie excellence awards finalist in humor), and Bones Buried in the Dirt (2014 Next Generation Indie Book Awards finalist, First Novel <80K). My writing appears in Bartleby Snopes, Grey Sparrow Journal, Atticus Review, and others.
I'm from Nebraska originally and spend most of my life there with occasional side trips to Loveland, Bellingham, and Seattle. I moved to Denver a couple years back and have been there ever since.
I have four college degrees now. I got a BS in computer science (original major was psychology) from UNO and a JD from Creighton. While working as a patent attorney, I picked up a BA in english lit from NYIT and went back for a MFA in creative writing through the University of Nebraska program.
Currently I live in Denver and work as a patent attorney. I spend most of my non-work time reading and writing. At the moment I'm working on a number of different pieces of different kinds. Keep an eye on the news section. If anything develops I'll post it there.
David S. Atkinson is giving away one paperback copy each – BONES BURIED IN THE DIRT & THE GARDEN OF GOOD AND EVIL PANCAKES!
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Two winners will be chosen via Rafflecopter to receive either BONES BURIED IN THE DIRT or THE GARDEN OF GOOD AND EVIL PANCAKES
This giveaway begins March 1 and ends on May 27
Winners will be contacted via email on May 29.
Winners have 48 hours to reply.
Good luck everyone!
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Margaret's heels clicked repetitiously on the polished marble floors of Finklebean's Mortuary. The sharp sound echoed down aisles of metal-faced vaults in the chilled, solemn hallways. Her steps were quick but purposeful, her stride constrained by the tight skirt of her starched navy business dress. An invoice was clutched tightly in her talon-like hand. Someone owed her an explanation…and that debt would be paid.
Catching sight of the plain brown wooden door hidden off in a back hallway bearing a faded Caretaker's Office sign, Margaret halted, causing her heels to clack loudly on the stone. She pursed her lips as she scrutinized the sign. As if using the white metal sign with flaking black letters as a mirror, she adjusted the smartly coiled chestnut bun of her hair. Then she shoved open the weathered door and marched inside.
"Excuse me," she called out sternly before looking what the room happened to contain, or even whether it was occupied.
A portly man in old blue coveralls sitting at a rough wooden worktable looked up at her calmly. Long stringy gray hair framed his face around a set of coke bottle eyeglasses perched on the end of his reddened bulbous nose. A metal cart, half full of plastic funeral flower arrangements, was positioned next to the worktable. Individual plastic flowers littered the table surface.
Unlike the somber and silent polished gray marble trimmed in shining brass of the hallway outside, the caretaker's room felt more like a basement or garage. The walls were cinderblock, unpainted, and the floor was bare concrete. Obviously, the room was not used for professional services.
"My bill is incorrect," Margaret said, thrusting the invoice out at the frumpy little man between a thumb and forefinger, both with nails bearing a French manicure. "You maintain my grandfather's plot, but this month's bill is way over the usual twenty-five sixty-three…nine hundred dollars more to be precise. You may not be the person in charge of this, but you're who I found."
The older man quietly looked at her still presenting the invoice even though he had made no move to take it. "Name?"
"Margaret Lane," Margaret said curtly.
"No," the caretaker shook his mess of oily old hair. "I won't remember you. I meant your granddad's."
Margaret pursed her lips again. "Winston Lane."
"Ah, yes." The heavyset man leaned back in his chair, putting his hands behind his head and cocking out his elbows. His belly pushed on the table slightly, causing loose plastic flowers to roll around on the tabletop. The flowers were separated into piles according to color: red, white, yellow, purple, and orange. "Winston Lane. His is over on hillside four, I believe."
"I'm sure." Margaret crossed her arms, still clutching the invoice. "So why do I have a bill for over nine hundred dollars?"
The caretaker hunched forward, setting his chin on a pudgy arm and wrapping a flabby hand around his mouth. "Let's see…Winston Lane…bigger than normal bill…oh, that's right!" His face brightened with recollection.
Margaret smugly waited for the expected rationalization to begin, the extras and add-ons designed to take advantage of the gullible grieving. She wouldn't be so easily manipulated.
"He got an apartment."
Margaret's expression cracked.
"That's what the extra money is," he pleasantly explained. "It's to cover the rent."
Margaret stared, blinking occasionally. A thin purple vein throbbed angrily at the side of her neck.
The man smiled. Then he pushed his round glasses further back up his nose and grabbed one of the plastic funeral arrangements from the cart. It had a block of dense green foam set in a fake bronze vase and various colors of plastic flowers stuck in the foam. The man pulled all the flowers out in a single movement and set each in the respective colored pile on the worktable. Then he placed the vase in a pile of similar vases on the floor.
"You…rented my grandfather an apartment?" Margaret finally asked. "Why?"
"Don't be ridiculous," the older man snorted, dismembering another arrangement. "He rented the apartment, not us."
Margaret sneered, having recovered her self-possession and indignation. "Sir, my grandfather is deceased."
"Yep," the caretaker agreed. He started quickly taking vases from the cart, ripping them apart, and then tossing the materials in the respective sort piles. "Guess he didn't like the plot he picked out. Maybe it wasn't roomy enough, I don't know. Some things like that you just can't be sure of till you get in a place and stay there a while. Anyway, he must not have liked something about it because he went and got himself that apartment. He wouldn't have done that if he'd been happy where he was at."
Margaret stood rigid. The toe of one foot tapped irritably. "How could my grandfather possibly rent an apartment? He's dead!"
"How couldn't he?" The caretaker snorted again. "It's a great apartment. Plenty of light. Nice carpets. Good amount of space. It's got a nice pool, too. Not that pools make much of a difference to a guy like him, being dead and all. Anyway, take a look; happen to have a photo of the place right here. Can't rightly remember why."
The man handed Margaret a bent-up photograph he pulled from a coverall pocket. It depicted a pleasantly-lit living room with vaulted ceilings. Tasteful black leather and chrome furniture was arranged around a delicate glass coffee table. On top of the coffee table sat her grandfather's mahogany coffin, looking just as stately as it had at her grandfather's funeral service.
Margaret glowered, unsure what to make of the photograph, noticing after a moment that she was chewing her lip as she ground her teeth. Her brain couldn't keep up, it was all just too ludicrous for her to grasp. The man sorted more funeral arrangements. "So…you're telling me that my deceased grandfather rented an apartment. Him, not you."
"Yep. That's the long and short of it." The man jammed the photograph back into his pocket.
"My dead grandfather."
"Yes'm." He took the last arrangement off the cart and disposed of it as he had the others. He paused to dust off his hands. Then he grabbed a vase from the floor, jammed a plastic flower inside from each stack, and set the newly arranged arrangement on the cart.
"How could anyone rent my grandfather an apartment!?" Margaret threw up her arms. "He's dead! The landlord couldn't do that!"
"Sure they can," the caretaker countered, paying more attention to the funeral arrangements than Margaret. "The building is zoned for mixed use."
"Mixed use?! He's dead!" She wiped her hand down her face slowly, stretching her skin as it went.
"So? He's residing there. That's a residential use. Certainly isn't commercial." The caretaker accidentally shoved two red plastic flowers in the same vase. Laughing at himself, he ripped them out again and started over.
Margaret stepped back, perhaps wondering if the caretaker was insane as opposed to just conning her. That would explain the photograph.
She crossed her arms loosely and tilted her chin upwards just a little, trying to mentally get a handle on the situation. Her brain felt like an overheated car with no oil in the engine. "I'm sorry, but that's very distracting," Margaret commented, pointing at the plastic flower piles on the worktable. "Is there any way that you could stop a moment?"
"Sorry." The older man shook a thick calloused finger at an old clock on the wall, stopped as far as Margaret could tell. "I got to get this done."
"But…what exactly are you doing? You're just taking them apart and putting them back together."
The rumpled man gestured at the flowers. "Well, people pay us to put these on graves, don't they?"
"They come from a factory, don't they? Someone paying someone else to bring something a machine made? I don't think much of that. My way, there's at least some thought in it."
Margaret did not respond. Instead, she watched the man fill up the cart again. The arrangements looked exactly the same as before.
"Anyway," the caretaker went on, "don't you owe your granddad?"
"Pardon me?" Margaret puffed out her chest.
"Sure," the man said, peering up at her through the finger-smudged lenses of his glasses. "He said when he bought the plot that you were going to take care of it and he was going to leave you money to keep going to school. He thought you should start working, but helped you out since you were going to mind his spot."
Margaret swallowed, ruining her attempt to look indignant. A few beads of sweat gathered at her temples.
"You figure you've done enough?" The man had his head held low, hiding the tiny smirk on his face.
Margaret's eyes widened. Her arms hung limply at her sides and her shoulders slumped. "But…"
"Hey, that's between you two. I just take care of things like I'm paid to. If he wants his plot, I do that. If he wants a two-bedroom palace, I do that instead."
Margaret absentmindedly twisted an old, ornate gold ring on her finger. Suddenly, her eyes narrowed as if the light in the dim room had gotten brighter. The meticulously squared corners of her mind twisted and stretched deliciously. "That's right…it was a deal."
"I agreed to have his plot cared for."
"Well…" Her lips slipped into a pointed grin. "I pay you a fixed monthly amount to care for that plot. Apparently this apartment is his plot now, so the rent should be part of your monthly care. I expect you to take care of it accordingly. After all, caring for his plot is caring for his plot."
"Now see here–"
"Regardless, I can't help but think," she went on, "that it reflects poorly on your services if grandfather isn't happy with his plot, not mine."
The caretaker gawked at Margaret, his mouth hanging loose. "Is that what you think now?" The older man finally growled.
"It is," she responded with a saccharine tone, "and I expect that all future bills will be for the correct amount."
"Hmph," he huffed, settling back into his chair. "Wonder what your granddad would say about that."
Margaret smirked. "You're welcome to go and ask him, if you think it will get you anywhere."
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