Where to begin with Pynchon? Despite being fascinated by premonitory erections and scenes of submissive turd eating, I was defeated by Gravity’s Rainbow in college. This was before I felt the postmodernist bite, and I barely made it a hundred pages in. Years later, I attempted V., trudging through 19th Century British colonies and the Namibian Hereo Wars along with Stencil and the Whole Sick Crew, coming out the other end with less of a grasp of the historical framing than when I began.
Listen. Look, in my dayjob I work with some people who can most delicately be termed characters. You know the type; at home with the mindspring of Kaufman and Solondz. One gentleman in particular I vibe well with, and depending on the amount of drudge to be done that day, to be working next to him is a bane or boon; he is a storyteller. The man yarns. I have been gifted new chapters of the same story on the regular for nearly two years, delivered cantabile-like with purposeful pauses.
Jamey’s got a problem. A problem with over-sized shoes and a red rubber nose. He’s been abducted by clowns and forced to join the circus. Accessible only by a network of port-a-johns and situated on the precipice of hell, The Pilo Family Circus has existed for centuries, harvesting human souls. But Jamey doesn’t want to be a clown. He wants to go home. Unfortunately, every time he puts on the face paint he becomes JJ- a sadistic bastard with a penchant for terrorizing midgets and gypsies. JJ loves circus life, and has no intention of giving it up. So when Jamey becomes involved in an underground movement aiming to bring down the circus from the inside, JJ decides he might just have to kill him.
Attention writers! Lock and load, because it's time to prowl the wasteland of procrastination and start collecting scalps. Translation: It's time to get serious about your writing. Here at The Cult, we do not rest until we're sure that every writer with potential that is reading this has taken that fateful plunge into improving their craft. We're relentless in this endeavor; to make you all better writers a
Console your eyes; the Thetans throwing beaucoup bucks at the Dianetics funnel have come to level with us lowly, turning their best tricks toward inspirational--there is now a commercial for Scientology. Commercials for cults! It is a new day, people. In between some slick editing and some guy mouthlusting about my life-- "It's yours!” without a slink of irony--I thought I saw Thora Birch smiling back from my set. What? No. What?
The fireworks aren't over just yet! It's my pleasure to announce that Craig Clevenger's second short story (an excerpt from his forthcoming novel Saint Heretic) is now live.
God is Dead
God’s not dead, (no) he’s alive
- Christian song
Opinions are like assholes. What I want are facts- cold, hard facts. Like Antonius Block in The Seventh Seal, I want knowledge, not belief.
An unnamed motorist is sitting at a stoplight when he is inexplicably struck blind. A good Samaritan offers help and from there it spreads, introducing us to our cast of characters, becoming an epidemic in the process. An ophthalmologist’s wife remains unaffected, but feigns blindness in order to accompany her husband to quarantine. Together they experience the horrors of a world without sight, and we become witness to the best and worst of humanity.