by ed. Pela Via
A friend had driven her to the clinic. They sat out in the parking lot for an hour as freezing rain plinked down on the windshield. Tears flowed down the back of her throat and she could not will her legs to take her inside. Dreams and reality were always different beasts. Her company director let her stay on as a teacher and she was able to keep her apartment with the help of her roommate, a fellow dancer. She stood on the side during dance practices, watching and guiding her friends. Sometimes a fear flashed over her that they would soon surpass her. Each day she got bigger and she knew the chance she would go back on stage became slimmer. At night she would rewatch the tape of her performance over and over until every unnoticed mistake became cataclysmic and she knew the applause that came at the end was a joke on her, a series of condescending cheers. Her pillow would dampen and she held the tape in her hands, thinking of ways to destroy it like the forgotten man had done to her. Her mother came to the city and helped her pack her few things before the child was due. They drove back home listening to the wind pushing against the car. Though her mother never asked about the father, she told her everything and the mother smiled sadly and said she would not tell the girl’s father. She settled in to her childhood home, getting used to the idea that she was going to be a mother. Before dawn on a Sunday she woke knowing it was time. They drove to the hospital she herself had been born in. Before those long hours she knew pain as something abstract but it became real, a tearing heat from the child working its way out of her.
She sent him letters. Each was written by hand, her calculated cursive holding dreams he didn’t want in the hoops of an O. He didn’t write back at first. He knew he should have, the world he found himself in. All the old timers spoke of needing an anchor on the outside, even if you won’t be seeing it again. You needed something to dream about. For most it was a woman, others wanted the stars or a country they’d never been to, offspring or a cold beer. One night in his first year, he woke up to find his cellmate, the Sacred Heart inked over his chest washed in pale fluorescent light, a sliver of glass shivering in his hand, begging for a word, any word. He relented, if only for a night. He showed his cellmate a picture the girl had sent with a letter. The child was the one he remembered from the years before who had grown into the woman holding her young.
His only peers were the lifers and among the convicts their will was law. His first parole hearing was pushed back to account for the man he left dead in the commons and he thought that was good. His father came to visit and they sat together, both men older than their age, one by a looming death, the other by containment. The father apologized through a breathing tube for the sins that put the son where he now was. The son sat stone still for several long moments, looking over the crags of the old man’s face. He forgave his father and it was like a long sigh, the letting go. They hugged, a deed never committed between the two. The father left with a smile. When the old man died in hospice weeks later, the warden looked over the son’s record and allowed an excursion to attend the funeral. The son had been inside for a decade of his life. A guard lent the convict a simple black suit and they drove in the prison van out of the gates, the tie tight around his neck, his hands and ankles chained. When they got to the funeral home, the guard asked if he could be trusted to behave himself and he nodded in reply.
A family was gathered in the main hall, their mourning continuing still. An attendant guided the two men into a small room lined with plastic flowers, his father the centerpiece. The old man looked more alive than the last time his son saw him, and the convict stood above the coffin for several long minutes under the guard’s watch. He looked down and felt blank, unsure of what it was he should have been experiencing. His mouth was dry, that he knew. His father was small in his repose. The man’s uncle came in with his family, an aunt and two cousins he couldn’t remember. They shook hands and exchanged forced words. He thought he would like to go back to prison but felt that would not be right, that his presence was as important here as the dead man’s. He found a seat and he stared through the world around him, his mind the smooth surface of a lake at midnight. Someone sat in the chair beside him, a woman holding a young child. He looked to her, and she greeted him, her smile breaking through him, and he spoke.
——————————
Afterword
by Jesse Lawrence
Let me show you a magic trick
Take a book. Note the weight of it in your hands, the feel. Now, open this book. Scroll your eyes over the text, let the words flood your brain, let them opiate you like the braille of just-bared flesh. Do this and . . . you're gone.
Fragment your soul and blow it in a kiss to the world. Embrace the fervent susurrations, cradle them with your lips, taste them on your tongue. This can be done. This can be done with magic, with stories, with love letters cried onto the pages, bled through screens, body and mind racing to keep pace with each other so you may feel, so you may know. Let it into you and it will be so.
This is ceremony
This is what I do. Born to run, gunning for a heartbeat. It pulses through me, rushing like blood to excitement. It carries you, those shoes dancing to your grave. It happens every time, but I don't care. I need to run, never return, the world pieced whole in my wake. The places I've been, the people I've known. I belong to these worlds. In every alcove, around each corner. Burning in the sun and loping through the dark, my fractured self lies in wait.
One day this place will fall in, and I will not be under it
By the time earth meets sky, I am gone, a flat field swallowing me down, childhood dreams escaping my grasp. We'd never ride in cars, pulling over on back roads, dancing in headlights to the songs we found truth in and swore by. We'd never walk by lakeside houses, lay claim to those that would surely be ours. We'd never even say goodbye. So many years ago, you found your audience. When I lost mine, lost you, I went where I'd never again dare.
I didn't care, I wasn't there to feel nice
My whole life, in conversation and in action, I was going one step too far, obliterating lines already blurry in my eyes as I traversed my day by day. If one tab of blotter was good, how would two or three be? The way to know such things, it's to dive in, take the next ever-ascending step toward all you seek. You, your partners in crime. You do it just like this. Only you, you took a breath just long enough to see the approaching “too far.” You left that world behind, satisfied in knowing madness had not, in fact, destroyed your mind. But fragile still, you searched for another anodyne.
The numbness I sought, I found it in stolen glances in 'cross town bars. All those stool-perched nights, my desires mollified by the mouths of women, by the lips I wanted to sink my teeth into, draw blood from. The buckles and zippers undone, the urges expunged amidst straddled porcelain. I found it here, but was never fully sated. So I drove. Rarely stopping, I plunged out of my northern state into a desert criss-cross. My life behind me, the one I never knew.
I never did anything wrong but I never stopped thinking about the things I never did
I never whispered in your ear, ran my fingers through your hair and felt your breath on my cheek, nor did I consume you until you were paralyzed and blind. I never knew what compelled your heart to beat. Instead, what I did, I ended up here, out of fuel and shivering back into something so long gone.
On my childhood street, before I knew what men gambled in basements, before the strippers and before even the magazines, before any of these things: the family next door. A mother, and a boy the same age as me. This boy, he didn't play tag or climb trees. I never heard him laugh or speak. And when his mom passed me, my bike rolling through yards, I shied my eyes, some certain feeling in her face much too much for me, like the artist I later became, night after night my body eviscerated and puzzled back together, the threads of the physical plane fraying more, and yet even more, every time I went to stage. That feeling from her face, I learned what it could mean. I left my performance space. I instigated a war, and I bowed out of the world
. Believed by all to be dead, I saved those most close and dear, my final act the cost of love.
This will all end well
Open your veins to possibility. Open your homes, your hearts, your heads. Open yourself and they will come. They know your history, your thoughts, your desires, your fears. They know the very moment your breath bates. They know you well enough to end you, but they do no harm, no. What they do, they dance unyielding ballets of fire behind your eyes. They lead you through, hands entwined and not looking back—never looking back—wholehearted and faithful, so you may emerge on the other side, your dreams never ceasing.
—Jesse Lawrence
. . . will always be a love letter
—P
Acknowledgments
To The Velvet
Write Club and The Cult
to Robert Baynard, Matt Bell, Misty Bennett, Tim Beverstock, Blake Butler, Will Carpenter, Vincent Carrella, Mlaz Corbier, Jason Cross, Craig Davidson, Brian Evenson, DeLeon DeMicoli, Christopher Dwyer, Stuart Gibbel, Michael Gonzalez, Amanda Gowin, Cassie Gressell, Jason Heim, Mirka Hodurova, Anthony David Jacques, Mark Jaskowski, Jay Slayton-Joslin, Jeremy Robert Johnson, Phil Jourdan, Nicholas Karpuk, Rick Keeney, Chuck King, Nik Korpon, David Law, Gary Paul Libero, Alex Martin, Colin McKay‑Miller, Kyle Minor, Doc O’Donnell, J David Osborne, Rob Parker, Bob Pastorella, Gavin Pate, Cameron Pierce, Michael Raggi, Eddy Rathke, Bradley Sands, Roger Sarao, Sam Schrader, Michael Seidlinger, Devin Strauch, Hilary Tardiff, Brandon Tietz, Gayle Towell, Paul Tremblay, Simon West‑Bulford, Mckay Williams and Nic Young
and most especially
Chris Deal, Sean Ferguson, JR Harlan, Gordon Highland, Chelsea Kyle, Jesse Lawrence, Caleb Ross, Jessica Smith, Boden Steiner, Richard Thomas, Axel Taiari, Craig Wallwork and Mr Via
Livius Nedin and Robb Olson
Logan Rapp
Steve Erickson
Will Christopher Baer, Craig Clevenger, Stephen Graham Jones
Thank you
—PV
(photo and tattoo: Doc O’Donnell)
Bonus Content
Final Thoughts by Livius Nedin and Robb Olson
Warmed and Bound: Up Close by Phil Jourdan
Interview with Pela Via by Phil Jourdan
The Multiple Voices Inside Your Book by Jay Slayton-Joslin
Interviews with Booked Podcast
Transcript: Craig Clevenger
Transcript: Brian Evenson
Transcript: Stephen Graham Jones
Transcript: Pela Via
The Fuse
(photo: Charles King)
Final Thoughts
by Livius Nedin and Robb Olson
of Booked Podcast
The definition of anthology is: a collection of choice literary works. As often is the case with anthologies, the publisher spends way too much time on the collection portion of that definition. What common theme should said publisher “collect?” How many stories can he “collect?” Who is the target demographic for this “collection?” What expectations are there for this “collected” work? The most common problem with anthologies, in my opinion, is the lack of emphasis on the word literary.
The Velvet community set out to write a love letter, as evidenced by the opening words to Warmed and Bound. A gathering of stories to celebrate a common bond, the community that developed around a respect for authors, Will Christopher Baer, Craig Clevenger and Stephen Graham Jones. Initially, it was intended as something to share amongst themselves, a way to put their works together in one place as a token of their shared affection for the group to which they all belonged. But soon that changed. Much like The Velvet itself grew from being a fan base for three fantastic authors into a genuine community of like-minded readers and writers, so grew their love letter. With Pela Via at the helm, Warmed and Bound moved from what could have been a chapbook of shorts, a “collection,” into the true definition of an anthology.
38 stories find their home in Warmed and Bound, seemingly without theme. 38 different authors with 38 different ideas about what The Velvet is, all piling story on top of story until it too could be called a collection. Although this assembly of short form fiction doesn’t share a location, an emotion, a common monster or even a writing style, it still manages to fit together wonderfully. This accumulation centers itself around the dark. Sometimes it’s the darkness we find in our own hearts and others, it’s the darkness that finds us. From the very start, with Axel Taiari’s strange world where violent suicide becomes a spectator sport, to Chris Deal’s touching finale, this book delivers. Amanda Gowin and Caleb Ross contribute chilling stories of family ties while Bradley Sands and Paul Tremblay bring us touches of Bizarro fiction. Pela Via and Richard Thomas break hearts with dark stories of love that you never see nearly enough of, while Doc O’Donnell and Bob Pastorella remind us why jumping into that love isn’t always such a good idea. And then we have showings from veterans Brian Evenson, Craig Clevenger and Stephen Graham Jones (need I even say anything here?) I could continue to list the great authors and stories that appear in this book but instead I’ll say this, the level of talent in this book makes it nearly impossible to discern the up-and-comers from the seasoned pros.
When I look back at the definition of anthology, as far as this “collection” is concerned, the operative word in that definition is choice. Choice literary works make this anthology something special. With so many collections struggling to hit the mark with half of the stories contained within, Warmed and Bound manages to strike nearly every note with lovely precision.
Congratulations on a beautifully written love letter.
—Livius Nedin
Warmed and Bound is more variety show than anthology. It has 38 vastly different authors who contributed stories covering the spectrum of fiction, from bizarro to classic crime fiction and everything in between (and it likely invents a few new styles along the way). The stories range from heartwarming, inspirational and touching, to chilling, disturbing, terrifying and just goddamn heartbreaking.
My favorite thing about this collection, and what I think makes it really stand out from others, is that it’s not 38 people who wrote a story to fit the theme of the anthology. It’s 38 stories that, when assembled into this book, tell a bigger story that becomes the theme. There are no stifled voices, no potential untapped. You are seeing everyone at their very best, and it shows.
This is a project born of love for words, love for The Velvet, and love for the idea of the anthology itself. It’s where anthologies need to come from, and sadly that is never ever ever the case.
I’ve stopped myself from calling this group of authors a ‘movement’ several times. Whether they are or not, or if they would even care for the label, this is the direction I want to see the realm of short fiction move in. High quality, lots of passion, and tons of fucking brilliant, brilliant talent.
As a book reviewer, I gave this book five stars (of five). As a reader and aspiring writer, I give it every damn star in the sky.
—Robb Olson
Warmed and Bound: Up Close
by Phil Jourdan
Articles originally published at PAJourdan.com, reproduced with permission
“The Return of Independence”
Published August 6, 2011
You will find collectives of writers everywhere. What makes the people over at The Velvet more interesting than others is their drive to push things forwards. I have only ever been a sporadic participant in Velvet-world, but I know enough about how it works to find the success of their recent anthology, Warmed and Bound, less surprising than a skeptic might think.
Because I haven’t yet finished Warmed and Bound, I won’t comment on individual stories. Instead, I want to draw attention to the conspicuous parallels between online writing communities and the early 20th century “amateur journalism” movement. The forming of alliances between writers is nothing new, and was nothing new even before the Great War, when future (if still contested) important figures like HP Lovecraft were exchanging
texts with each other and publishing all kinds of small-scale magazines without the endorsement of “legitimate” literary publishers. Amateur journalism was an alternative to the always-suffocating, less forgiving world of big name authors, editors, and so on. An amateur journalist could write on his favorite topics and see his work in print without needing to conform to standards set by nameless (or nameless-enough) entities more likely to reject than accept a manuscript. For the most part, of course, this led to a lot of poor publications; but that’s not the point. The point is, rather, that there was another way of doing things, a kinder system for people who loved to write but for whatever reason couldn’t or wouldn’t land their stuff on the shelves of bookstores.
