An excerpt
Okay, here's the deal. This is a book about a baseball player. Do you care? If you don't care, read it anyway. There's some other stuff in it, too. Chance Caine. Recognize the name? Well, he wants me, an old weird guy poet, to write his story. Why? I'll tell you why. He has made rhythmic marks on paper himself. Some of his efforts aren't even dreck. You can judge for yourself in a minute. He took a class. I gave him an A. So one day he comes to me with a load of scrapbooks, diaries, videos. He says, "Here's my life. How would you like to write my book?" I say, "The thing I make will be the thing I make." I talk like that on purpose sometimes. Art is a conscious attempt at nonverbal communication. Okay? Okay. I lie to convey truth. I lie to make the story better. I am a lying guy. What can I say? I want to write this story. There may be money in it. Why lie? Okay, there's another reason. I gave my students an assignment to write a short short short story no longer than ten sentences. Mr. Caine wrote:
The Angry Fish
The fish hurled himself into the boat slashing left and right with fins, teeth, and daggers. Blood spurted from the severed limbs of the screaming crew. The fish turned a final somersault, stood on its tail on the rail, and shreiked in trembling rage, "Vengeance is mine, haa ha haaa ha! ! !" Then he dove under the waves and was gone.
The End
What the??? I graded it A and from then on leaned back a little in my chair when he walked by. I leaned back further after I had read his science fiction slash fantasy effort a few weeks later. You'll see that one, too, in time. Who is this guy? Let's see if I can answer that question.
So what
