Mr. Fox and Other Feral Tales

by Norman Partridge

  One night I stuck a Doors album on the stereo. Coppola had used some spooky Jim Morrison songs to good effect in his film, and I thought I might catch an image from one of them that would get me started. A couple of cuts in, "Riders on the Storm" came on. Suddenly I had the central image of my story—a dark figure running through the rain, armed with a knife.

  After that, I wrote the piece fairly quickly. The other guys thought "The Harvesters" (my original title) was pretty good. The only problem was that they couldn't get their own stories going. Before long the whole idea slid by the wayside, and so did our writers' group.

  We graduated. We moved on to other things. But that was okay. I'd enjoyed hanging out with Bruce and John, and at least I had a pretty good story to show from the experience. "The Harvesters" was different than the other stories I'd written. I was pretty proud of it. It had an unusual rhythm and voice. Reading the finished product, I got the feeling that for the first time I was mining something down deep in my own gut rather than trying to channel themes or ideas that I'd found in another writer's words.[29]

  That's what I thought about twenty-five years ago. Reading my Vietnam horror story today, I'm overpowered by the voice of the piece. It's definitely more baroque than the work I'd do later... but hey, I was reading a lot of Eddie Poe at the time.

  I thought I had a pretty good shot at selling "The Harvesters." I submitted it to Penthouse and Whispers, but neither market bit. The story ended up taking up space in my file cabinet for most of the eighties. When I started writing again, I dusted it off and changed the title to "Body Bags" (I thought that had a little more punch than "The Harvesters").

  I got a couple almost, but not quite rejection slips on the story, tightened it up, and sent it out again. Peggy Nadramia at Grue bought it. Only took about ten years from the time I originally typed "The End," but that didn't matter. I was happy.

  A month after Peggy accepted "Body Bags," I heard from a couple of the editors who'd bounced the story. They'd changed their minds about "Body Bags" and wanted to buy it, and that made me feel pretty good. Not because I took pleasure in telling them the piece had already sold. I didn't need an I told you so moment. That wasn't what I was looking for at all.

  No. What I understood was that my story had stuck with those editors. They were still thinking about "Body Bags" months after reading it, and the memory of it had scratched at them so persistently that they contacted me to find out if it was still available.

  For me, that was proof positive I'd written a story that did the job.

  And that was very satisfying news.

  So, that's the story of "Body Bags," and my single experience with a writers' group. In truth, we didn't do a whole lot of writing in our little group. We talked a lot about writing, and that was important. But we didn't sit down and red-line each other's manuscripts or offer criticism of works-in-progress.

  That was never something I wanted from other writers. As I mentioned earlier, I love the camaraderie of writers. I loved hanging out at the Little Bookshop of Horrors in Colorado, talking about books and the writing business, learning the ropes from those with more experience than me. I enjoyed joking around and socializing with like-minded people who didn't look at you sideways when they discovered you wrote horror stories. Hell, I enjoyed drinking beer and eating pretzels, too. But I never wanted to get together with a group of writers and "workshop" any of my stories. I had zero interest in that kind of thing.

  I'd tried that in a couple of my college courses. There'd always come a point in the semester where the instructor would have the class break up into small groups. We'd read a story/novel chapter/screenplay scene written by the other members of the group, then give them some criticism. If you've ever taken a writing course, I'm sure you're familiar with the experience.

  For me it was always a disaster. Not that I thought I was necessarily a better writer than everyone else in the group (I wasn't), or that my stories were perfect (they weren't). But I was trying to write a specific kind of story. Usually it was a horror story. And even though I had a long way to go as a writer, I knew something about horror stories. I'd read plenty of them. I'd done my homework. In fact, I saw that as a prerequisite. I never would have attempted to write one otherwise.

  But I didn't know much about gushing romance stories, or tweedy literary stories, or tales of bohemian angst, or whatever else the other members of my group had written. That made me reticent to comment on their work. I just wasn't comfortable doing that. And if a group member's story fell short in a more obvious way... well, I wasn't comfortable ripping anyone a new asshole, either.

  But some of the other people in the groups... man, were they comfortable. They relished the opportunity to play critic, and some of them were quite expert at slicing up another member's story. At worst the game became an exercise in creating an academic pecking order. You'd end up sitting in a circle with a few earnest young men who thought that John Updike was the shit, a woman who enjoyed bodice-ripper romances, and a guy who'd read the entire Mickey Spillane canon (three times). There'd be a lot of looking down our noses from one contingent, an equal amount of you guys really aren't all that from the other. When it got down to the nitty-gritty, you'd end up debating fine literary distinctions in an adult manner. You know, you'd talk about the important literary questions. Like, Who's got the bigger dick, anyway? Updike or Spillane?

  Which is another way of saying that there was no middle ground. Groups easily devolved or were dominated by the biggest ego in the bunch. In some cases those sessions became a particularly cruel form of living dissection. Sitting there. I'd get the feeling that I was watching someone pull the wings off of a fly. I saw more than a few aspiring writers suffer by this method. I won't say they were crushed, but they were pretty banged up, and for no good reason. In most cases the criticisms offered them weren't what you'd call informed, or especially constructive.

  But wait a second. Norm, you might say. You're talking about a roomful of wannabes in their first fiction class. What about a writers' group composed of beginners who are publishing in the same genre, or professional writers who are looking for solid criticism from other pros?

  Okay. I've got an opinion on that, too. It can be summed up in three words: Danger, Will Robinson!

  Some writers swear by the group method. They believe in workshopping a story. I don't. Oh, I'm not saying it can never work. I'm sure it does... sometimes, for some writers. But I don't believe that writing is a team sport. I believe in creating a solitary vision. That's what works best for me, and that's what drives most of the fiction I admire.

  When it comes to my fiction. I'm not open to debate. I don't want to defend my stories through discussion as if they were doctoral dissertations. As far as I'm concerned, any defense necessary should exist in the words I've already set down on the page. If I haven't done the job there, any additional explanations I might offer aren't going to convince anyone. It's like trying to explain a joke. My time would be better spent getting back on the page and trying again.[30]

  Another point: while workshopping a story might smooth out a few bumps in your fictive road, it might just as easily rob your tale of some of the things that make it distinctive. Think of Hollywood. That's a collaborative enterprise. How many movies have you seen that have been ruined by too much input from a team of additional writers, or the producer, or the studio behind the film? It's no different with a story you might take to a workshop of professional writers. You might come in the door with the best damn chocolate-raspberry ice cream that money can buy, only to find out that everyone in your group loves vanilla.

  And let's remember this—professional writers walk around on two legs like everyone else. They don't climb down off Mount Olympus every morning. They fall victim to the same foibles as the average joe... jealousy, professional envy, etc.[31]

  You need to ask yourself—do you really have time for that? Do you have time to read the creative output of a half-dozen writers and try to give them a
ppropriate advice about it, or spend hours on the phone when an especially needy member of your group requires some hand-holding, or attend a meeting every week?

  I don't know about you, but I don't have that kind of time or energy. Not that I haven't helped other writers with stories when asked for advice. I've done that for a few young writers, and I've seen them gain confidence, and learn, through guidance. And I've certainly learned things myself working with editors and publishers.

  And here I should also admit that my situation's a little different than most—I'm lucky enough to have a World Fantasy nominee right down the hall. My wife, Tia V. Travis, is also a writer. Tia is my first reader. She knows my style, she knows my work, and she knows me... better than anyone. She understands the way I think, and she's given me more than a few suggestions that have helped make an average story something really special. Because she knows my work (and me) so well, I trust her criticism and take it seriously.

  But I don't always follow her advice. In the end, it's my call.

  After all, it's my story.

  That's the way it's always been for me. Early on I decided that I'd tell my stories, and I'd tell them my way. My best teachers came to me from the other side of the page. I studied the work of writers who'd succeeded writing the kinds of stories I wanted to write. I read as much as I could, learning from both the good and bad, and I applied what I learned to my own work. I've said before that it was a process of osmosis. It was also, for the most part, a solitary process.

  Working that way taught me a lot. If I had problems with a story, I didn't reach for the telephone. I didn't figure, "Hey, there's a meeting next Tuesday, maybe my writers' group can tell me how to fix this ending." No. I sat alone in my office, and I figured it out for myself.

  In short, I learned self-reliance.

  They don't teach you that in a writers' group.

  Self-reliance is one thing you have to learn on your own.

  BODY BAGS

  I am the Officer in Charge of the Dead. I am in charge. I sift the squalor for half-remembered souvenirs and rusty legacies, catalog them, wrap them up and send them home. My work is quiet. Essentially simple. It requires consistent precision and a modicum of understanding.

  I have that, and more, for I am also a loving curator.

  Still, I am not a sentimentalist. My manner is completely professional. I wear a bloody uniform, and I wear gloves.

  I wear a mask. Dead man's eyes: lacquered, cotton-colored pools shot through with red. Passionless, rose-petal lips that crumble and drift away when I grin. A bamboo brow: thin, hollow sticks pulsing with sweat. My performance is impeccable. I am the Officer in Charge of the Dead.

  Charlie's art both thrills and tortures me. He dresses my brothers for their final appearances, presents them almost theatrically. He is a genius, and I am his only critic. I must look. Identify. Detail. I carefully index his work. I radio the statistics. Names. Numbers. Kill ratios. I mark REMAINS UNVIEWABLE. I protect Charlie's reputation, for I understand his secrets. I am a loving curator, but history is my true mistress.

  Secrets float around me, tired doves splattered with blood. Tenderly, I draw them to me and stroke their diseased bodies. Their tiny heartbeats quicken and they sing sweet songs of promise, gorging themselves on my petty fears. Finally, they flap away on broken wings and I see my mask become the skull. I watch the jungle cower beneath the melted Asian sun, the orange and quivering sun.... I once thought that the enemy was the jungle itself, its black-vined mysteries, its crumbling stone blasphemies. I believed that the jungle was Death, that we were simply its victims (but these are very old thoughts). Now my vision is clearer. I see my mask become the skull and know that I am Death.

  I rip away my mask and stare at my reflection. Suddenly I realize that fate is not a moderate thing.

  I sat in the tent of the dead, the shrine of amputated tomorrows, ignoring the urge to rest. I knew that my cot was useless —a king's bed would have been useless. I would only toss and turn if I attempted sleep, and there was work to be done. Always work. Seated at my wobbly plywood desk, I poured over the reports of the private who had replaced me while I was on leave in Tokyo, correcting his ridiculous errors. The situation was unreal. I couldn't believe that I was back in the jungle.

  Two nights before I'd been in the arms of a beautiful companion. She had tried to take me home, asking the name of my girl back in the States. "Jennifer," I had said. Through the purchased hours, between kisses, she had repeated the name over and over, in reverent whispers, as our private mantra. But there was no Jennifer anymore, not even then.

  But that is nothing. A detail. The line must stay straight and true if you are to understand. I was in the morgue tent, listening to rock'n'roll on the radio, double-checking reports. The songs and forms wound together: repetitive questions and answers whispered, tired and dying, smashed into insignificance by the cutting melodies of screeching guitars and the funereal beat of iron drums. And every song, every form, was somehow the same — a symphony called KIA. Stamp it. Paint it black. KILLED IN ACTION.

  So I went on, squinting in the dim yellow light, finishing only to start again. A quiet drizzle began to fall, brushing the roof of the tent until dampness penetrated. I pushed aside the clipboard of reports and watched the sprinkling silver needles through the open tent flap, beautiful shards of water that slashed at the mud below. "Jennifer," I whispered to the rain. "Tokyo Jennifer."

  Before long the tent smelled of musty canvas and rotten rubber, as if the cleansing rain had revealed the impurities of the morgue. I stared at the moon-colored light bulb above my head, watched water drip from a puddle collecting on the roof. Soldiers began talking on the radio, right over the music, talking about going home. "After all, my man," said one, "home is where the heart is." They spoke like dreamers who had dreamt too long, lying in steady voices, painting pictures that were safe and new and clean. Hearing lies like that in the morgue tent angered me. Hadn't anyone told them? None of us had a home anymore.

  The soldiers quieted and the song came on slowly, like static at first, or maybe more like rain, descending soothingly, winding forward and back and through. The tenderly fatalistic lyrics were spoken rather than sung, and as the words spun into the rotting fabric of the tent, I realized that the song was designed for this place alone. And for me.

  The singer begged me to dream. I had actually seen him once, long before I'd ever known about morgue tents. Jennifer had wanted to see him.

  He was thin and intense, overpowering but unsure, as if he knew that he held a death grip but wasn't quite certain where its power came from, couldn't control it. I closed my eyes and tried to picture him as he had been on that distant night, a black leather lizard on stage, but all I could see was the jungle, a vine-choked path washed by whispering rain. A man-a blotch of nightmare the color of an eclipse- ran the muddy path, shivering through the green gauntlet, screaming each time his midnight flesh touched something leafy and alive. But still he ran, sliding in black creeks, skipping ghostlike over skull-shaped rocks, riding the storm....

  That was when the song came alive for me.

  I blinked away from the dream and lit a cigarette. Soon the room smelled better; the death stench was masked, and that was all that I really wanted. A blanket. One big American electric blanket and we could all be safe from this moldy jungle. We could turn up the power and sizzle away the dampness, dry the slick, rubbery vines and burn their stiff, arthritic remains. All would be safe and new and clean.

  Something shuffled in the shadowy back corner of the tent, near the examining tables. I squinted but saw nothing. I listened and heard only the radio, the jungle, the song... he ran faster now, laughing coyote laughs, leaping milky brown puddles, the rain slashing through his shining body. He reached into his hollow chest and tore out a knife; a twelve-inch metal ribbon that glinted like a mirror. His blade ripped left-right, slashing yellow bamboo stalks and he laughed - sucked cold, empty breaths and laughed - sprinting hard now. A
nd then he was gone and the jungle was left to the thunderous percussion of the rain. The bamboo dripped blood....

  Another noise in the shadows: a whisper stroke, like something alive slowly rubbing against the side of the tent. I crushed my cigarette against the plywood desk and picked up a flashlight. The beam cut weakly into the far darkness, revealing little as I crossed the tent. I played the light over the examining tables. Two red eyes glared at me from atop one of the bodies the private had bagged. A rat. The rain-slick thing slithered away from the light. Its tiny paws tore at the body bag; its yellow teeth gnawed black plastic.

  I didn't move. The dull flashlight beam shone over the chest area of the bag, where a name was stenciled in white;

  JACKSON, L. K. / MSTR. SGT

  5TH GROUP SPECIAL FORCES

  Jackson. I remembered the report. A lurp. A bad mother. I stared at the body bag. The rat chittered. "My, my, my, you're both bad mothers." I chuckled, advancing toward the table.

  I stopped. A hand pressed against the side of the bag from inside, molding itself, flexing and stretching into the glossy black plastic. The rat squealed and moved to the corpse's head. "C'mon, Jackson," I whispered. "I've seen the midnight hop before. At least try something more original than rigor — "

  A black hand ripped through the bag and grabbed the rat's slimy scruff. The creature's pink feet slashed the air; the black hand squeezed and something wet and red spurted against my hand. I dropped the flashlight. Something else, something limp, hit the floor a moment later.