No-accounts! Cease your screaming and calm yourselves. Gather at the foot of this dead stump, watch as I pluck the strings of this simple guitar lying open before you, and call your minds to the twang and thread of life.

In the distance, Bosch’s ship lies wrecked, and all its clambering occupants scramble, eyes watering, to the rocks, straining to catch my tune.


When the knock came Pintrip took a few moments to settle himself before answering the door. His computer had to be powered down and all of his files saved and closed. The browser window (which had been the focus of his attention) popped in the short hop the knock had hit in his reflexes.

“Damn,” Pintrip thought, wiping his hands off on his pants.

The door was opened, and he welcomed Dati—an undergraduate he knew—and gestured towards the couch. Dati was large and dark, his belly egglike, arms and legs thick and meaty. He sat with his legs spread open (besides reclining it was the only position he could assume with comfort) a hairy paw resting on each knee.

“Just a moment, Dati.”

Dati grunted. Through their conversation he looked off into the distance, past Pintrip, to the rows of bookshelves that lined the room. When forced to address Pintrip directly, to look into his eyes framed by their hanging skin, he did so with difficulty, massaging the porcine flesh around his left temple.

“Do you have a headache?”

Dati shook his head and resumed speaking into the corner. They were talking about nothing in particular, and Dati’s essay, which was coming along, but so far off that Pintrip wondered whether he had come to say anything at all.

In the midst of their conversation Dati’s speech was interrupted by one of Pintrip’s good-natured jokes. “Excuse me,” Dati said, filing away the joke for later dissection.

When Dati was finished he quickly turned to his bag and rose to leave. Pintrip rubbed his hands on his pants again and stuck out a hand to see him off. “Please, come again,” he said, as he led the heavy-footed student out. Dati did not turn or nod, but instead, stepping into the hallway, pulled his coat up at the collar and fastened with difficulty one of the buttons hanging loose before his neck.

“What an odd creature,” Pintrip thought, shutting the door.

What is a husband?

What is a husband? Am I a husband? I have heard it said that being a husband is inappropriate. Is it inappropriate to be a husband? That’s what’s been I’ve told. Others have said that husbands are the height of refinement, that to be a husband is to realize a state of elegance unknown to those who are not husbands. Why the difference? Do I represent the husband in a way that suggests the husband has no grace? Is my representation, in other words, improper? Do I demean the husband by association? Is the general position of husbands affected? Just who do I think I am, calling myself a husband?


As I was heading down the stairs I heard a laugh crack like a gunshot. Three stories up, someone was celebrating. Did they know I could hear them? I stood on the landing, deliberating. Two doors went in opposite directions. Which was the exit?


Ficiton comes from the space in-between the comprehensible and the incomprehensible.

The incomprehensible has many names: infinity, freeplay, Providence, the unexplained. As the lines are drawn bounding what we know as “reality”, as they are manipulated, drawn back or pushed forward, the incomprehensible remains. To be in a state of incomprehension: this is what is essentially human. No system can circumscribe desire, emotion, the unknown: though systems have been developed to limit our susceptibility, or sensitivity, to each (those of the devout, the solidier, the scientist, the capitalist).

Circumscribe: to calm, to negate, to repair, to grasp, to contain.