A Review of Neil Gaiman's "The Ocean at the End of the Lane"

A Review of Neil Gaiman's

 "The Ocean at the End of the Lane"

by Jean Woest

            There are few living authors that have such a long lists of accolades or such a fierce fan presence as Neil Gaiman. Present in every imaginable medium (novel, graphic novel, film, television, picture books, children's books, young adult books, literary novels, short story, and video game) Gaiman has left an indelible mark on literature already.

            And then he decided to write a short story-- that became a novel-- called "The Ocean at the End of the Lane".

            It's not a very thick book. It can be read through in a few hours, though it calls for-- almost demands-- a closer, more paced reading. Because in that small space is contained not only the real, visceral and fragile presence of childhood, but also the echoes of the after effects of trauma and the questions this raises around memory.

            At face value it is the story of a memory. A memory that has been lost and is then regained. A memory of childhood horrors, of broken promises, and of magic. It is the memory of a child. Told by a man. And this is very important.

            Children see more than adults see, and so recall things that adults never remember. But at the same time, adults have records that stand under the support of witnesses and receipts, records of things that disprove childhood memories. There is real tension here. And there is so much at stake. This is the crux-- the tensions-- that Gaiman plays with.

            Some authors would chose a side and argue for it, build straw man opponents and knock them down. Others would show both sides equally, leaving their readers floating listlessly at the end in an unending moral vacuum. Gaiman somehow manages to do neither, and that is precisely the thing that causes this reviewer to keep rereading the work, to try and figure out how exactly an author can refuse to take a side, and yet still leave his readers grounded firmly in the belief that the good won, or rather, that the good endured the trials. Or rather, that there is still good in the world, even if we cannot recall it's presence. It's echoes rebound through our daily lives, without a second thought to the shout that started them.

            On top of this vastly unhelpful and abstract note on the theme, Gaiman also weaves a wonderful tale with stunning imagery, beautiful characterization, and the very visceral feel that the reader is being pushed back forcefully into 1969 Sussex. It has the texture of a time capsule, with the magic of a fairy tale, and the optimism of a Shakespearian comedy.

            There are many books calling for attention at this time of the year. But Ocean is one of the ones that deserve that attention. It is a quick read if you're willing to read it only once. But no one reads it just once. To do so would defeat the purpose of the story. The purpose, to remember.

You can buy The Ocean at the End of the Lane HERE

Or other works by Neil Gaiman HERE

Also, here's the link to Neil Gaiman's Twitter and his Blog

Stumbling Into a Rabbit Hole

Stumbling Into a Rabbit Hole

I pick up my coffee from the end of the cafe bar, wink at the cute barista, and turn to leave. Except I don’t. Or rather I do. Well, you see, its a bit hard to explain. I turned and tripped down the rabbit hole again. One moment in a cafe in Prague. The next moment, falling face first, streaming coffee behind me like the Exxon Valdez, passing through the ripping currents of time and space. Or maybe just insanity.

I plunge into the shade of mossy green that smells of wetness and muddiness and dankness and the bursting forth of life into itself over and over again. The ouroboros green coils about me and pushes me to the surface. I break through the emerald and take a hard breath of the icy air. I am sticking vertically out of a horizontal mountain dangling from the side of a cliff set over an abyss careening down wildly between two distant peaks. The navel of the world curls and ripples far beneath me and to my right. I still have the coffee cup. It is somehow still full. The navel of the world breathes up with salty, pink lips that say “Drink me.”

So I poured the coffee down and burnt it’s sickly red tongue.

So the world spat me out.

I flew in the haphazard, electric zings of a paper airplane being seesawed by the fickle breeze and strange momentum. I shifted in sharp turns, that made me feel like a stick shift stuck in first gear trying to fight to five. And screeching hiss of a buzz saw on the raw exposed nerve of a tooth filled my skull and poured hot pain into my jaw. I bit down, hard.

I bit myself into enlightenment.

On an orange beach under an orange sky with an orange sea and and orange sea birds and an orange sun that blazed like the ticking hands of a clock, relentless and deaf to pleas for mercy. I held my coffee cup up, the only white thing in a world of orange. And the world fled from it, from the strange color it could not contain. I think every soul in that world perished because of the color white on my coffee cup.

Consciousness slowly seeps like melted gold over an exposed eye, into each and every one of my cells. My liver cells ask one another why, why after so many years of hard and unappreciated work, why now must they again sacrifice themselves for the greater good. Why must they die in order for the whole body to live? Is it not debasing for them? Are not all cells made equal, all from the same stemcells, all created from the same egg and sperm. Why then ought liver cells to die so that brain cells can live and gorge themselves more on caffeine and alcohol and take all the glory for the body’s doing. Other cells in the body listen to the liver cells and some begin to believe, specifically half of the kidneys and a small group of lung tissue groups. But that is enough. Enough to start a revolution. Enough to form a company of Les Amis. Enough for them to kill me.

I douse my body in fiery coffee, the liver cells, in who I am also present, scream in anguish, while fat coated brain cells, my consciousness just as present, trip wildly on a cocaine ride of colors and images and sounds, each of them experiencing the rabbit hole for themselves. My body is agitated, and my consciousness pushed down further into the atoms, bursting thoughts and imagination like bolts of lighting as particles crush against each other like the hot throes of sex. A proton, trailed lamely by a heartbroken electron, crushes into the nearest neutron without thought or consent and destroys it, another heartbroken electron is added to it’s wake of despair.

An ice cold moment of thought triggers the end of the world, when I roll up my empathy inside myself and said factually that emoting on inanimate or unconscious matter does not make a better universe. There is a natural order to this world after all.

I become fumes, flowing downhill, trailing toward some center of gravity beyond my scope or sight. I collect bits and pieces of myself as I fall, more and more of me seems to strive towards that center. A larger collection of myself than I am, grabs the me I am, and pulls me in to be added to me. I know it is where I belong but I also feel myself vaporizing as my autonomy is stolen into the whole. I become a whisper. I become the conscience. Or if not the conscience then something opposite it.

I begin to take on my shape and my shape is smoke, a thick greasy black pillar with lines of lavender and the heady scent of opium burning acidic at my back. I collected harder and grow more pieces as I near the source, which I can now see is a the bowl of a pipe. I collected like flowing smoke, a cinder burning backwards as the smoke coils and flows like water, filling in the spaces of my black body.

Then slowly I start to glow until I am ribbed by bright orange seams, Bright orange like the orange world I destroyed and like the setting sun, when seen through a dust storm. I brighten and glow until I am a firebird of life, the power of combustion is like the sweetest feeling of peace and absolute security in the universe. My reverse incarnation draws more and more smoke into my fiery frame, and I feel a wooden center, untouched by fire, begin to take form. Water is mixed in this white smoke and it curls into my pores, for I am porous now.

In a final smolder, the fire passed down from me as if I am undressing, sliding a silk gown down my bare frame and I stand naked and wooden. I am made of wood, sitting in the bowl of the pipe. A fat finger fishes me out and passes me to a fat, yellow gloved hand. That hand passes me to a fat green gloved hand, and then to a fat blue gloved hand. I pass through every shade of every color of glove until I reach gloves with are the colors of sadness and gloves the colors of shock when you are caught with your pants down for the first time by your parents. And then there were gloves the color of music which made me weep. Finally, I had been passed up by all of the caterpillar’s hands and was facing it’s fat face. It had no eyes. No nose. No ears. Only a mouth and a million hands.

“Did you fetch my coffee as I asked?” The Caterpillar asked, taking a deep nibble into my calve.

“I’m sorry, no.” I look at the now empty coffee cup.

“What is the point of you!” It yells and hurls me against the side of an iron flower, the razer petals cutting deep gashes into my face.

“I’m sorry. I’ll do better.” I wiped my bloodied face and where I touched the blood turned to brilliant carnation petals.

“You do that.” The caterpillar took a deep drag from his hookah bowl. Then let it out in a massive pink cloud, “Well, what are you waiting for!”

The pink cloud engulfed me, consumed me, I coughed, I fell forward, and my hand splashed into the spilled coffee. Which was cold by now. I heard the cute barista gasp behind me, asking if I was okay. I wiped a last red carnation petal off my cheek and ask her to remake my coffee. Again.

The Doormouse Talks to Himself

Kourtney was a lovie, and lovies never die. So she did her face up pretty and drew on a lipstick smile. And stepped out of her window, over rain-slate coloured Paris. And broke her femur and her fingers, when she hit the concrete street. The men who passed so brusquely, stopped here and there to kick. They broke her nose and crushed her eye, and one boot smeared her lips. But Kourney was a lovie, and lovies take revenge. They do not cry from button eyes, they simply rise again and again. And again.

When Marcus left his building, his suit was much too thin. To keep his large frame held so tightly here within. The seems upon his shoulders, split open wide and white. And once his pants burst from his frame he stalked as such a sight. For not flesh or bone within him honed but rather, there dwelled there. A hurricane blasting fierce and red streaks of blood here and there. The people nearest Marcus, had but a chance to shout. Before he burst, and ate them whole, and like a light gone out.

Turn now the page to Jamie that rascal of  a jack, young Jamie who lived all Jamie's life inside of Jamie's hat. The hat was square and yellow, with an orange sort of smell. And Jamie never knew another, until the day Jamie fell. And tumbled hard upon the ground, head over toe so brisckly. Jamie smeared across what was left of Marcus who had ate Kourney. And Jamie covered in Marcus and Kourtney then began to cry. And ask for Jamie's mummy and ask for a lullaby. But Jamie's mummy did not answer. Jamie saw another figure step out. For the dark of the night was the fourth person there, and it took Jamie, Marcus, and Kourtney, ate them all without a shout.

Snippet of the Week: My Notes on the Narration of "A Long, Dry Summer"

Notes on the Narration of "A Long, Dry Summer"

What use is a frame tale? In Ocean at the End of the Lane, the point of the frame tale is to set the character in the real world before launching into the past. In Ocean it is also to make emphatically clear that the character is recalling these events as a child would. And that many of the things the child narrator memory is recalling may in fact not have been truths at all. That the narrator is unfaithful, or at the very least, untrustworthy.

What does having the frame tale of Rodney in the barn do?

It allows me to give Rodeny's POV only. It allows the perspective that exclude other perspectives. It allows that there are things happening that Rodney has no clue about, which builds tension. It allows the audience to know more than the character, at times.  It allows the telling to be part of the tale. It brings the teller into the story and makes the story closer to home. It gives the narrator more voice and personality and allows that to be expressed in a much closer telling. The drawbacks to such a present narrator is the sacrifice in the style. It is not nearly as smooth or as quick, but much more personable. Which is one of the keys to successful humor. Part of it comes from the teller being a participant in the story and the humour.

So there's a lot to be said for first person frame tales looking back. But what about switching POV in the second chapter and last chapter? It makes for a much more impact ending. We pull out of Rodney at the end. We see him from the outside. We are no longer privy to his thoughts. It is a slow exhalation from the prose. Which if that is the case means there is not as sudden of a break from the story. There is a greater sense of completion. It does make for a bit of an awkward beginning. Unless the beginning starts with descriptions of what the character is seeing, and then slides into using the first person pronoun. If done right it will be a minor bump and adjustment. If done improperly it will be too vague (the reader will not get that perspectives have switched) or too sudden (it will throw readers out who will have to reacclimatize to the story). So a careful balance must be taken at the turning over.

So maybe having description, which matches descriptions up until now. And then maybe having a reference (very quick-- eg, "but this was all year before I would end up in this barn telling this story"-- just a quick reminder to readers that what they are about to read is in fact being told to them by the guy currently sitting in front of the  horse in the barn) and then moving on. And then later, maybe a chapter or two later, referencing it one more time. Just to drive the point home in case someone missed it. And then move on. Don't dwell too long.

How does humour play into this? Well, if Rodney is telling the story he can make small asides that are funny (eg. "--even though all we ever saw of madame le roux's patients was that they were all men and would come up for quick fifteen minute psychic sessions and would leave with wide smiles on their faces-- what she did up there was truly a mystery.") but also in making the character be purposefully slow (eg "I was a simpler man back then and if there was one thing I knew it was that if you two people went naked into a room together, eventually a baby would come out with them"). Both theses attempts at humour fail miserably. But its the core concept. Its not taking the narrator seriously. Its about letting Rodney be ridiculous. Letting him comment on ridiculous things but also letting his commentary be ridiculous. Its about letting him interact with equally ridiculous people.

Where does the line between the grotesque and the ridiculous come in? This is very important. Because the line is so faint. It is the same way there is a line between detail and gratuitous blood and gore. Or where the faint line exists between tasteful sexualization and fantastic erotica. The line is faint and everyone will draw it differently. (meaning some people will see the ridicule as mockery and vice versa. Some people will not catch the humour or the jokes.)

To minimize missing it, and minimize seeming mean spirited, it becomes imperative to make sure there is an equal amount of ridicule spread around. Everyone has something ridiculous about them. Everyone says stupid things. Does stupid things. The stupid things however, should be endearing. And then there can be comedy of errors. Physical comedy. Dark humour- meaning specifically that something grotesque happens that makes us smile-- eg, someone dies overtly graphically-- e.g. splattering on the ground after being thrown off a balcony, followed by the person asking for another helping of casserole while the room reacts accordingly.

So it means keeping a light mood. Whenever the mood gets too serious there should be inserted a physical joke. Or a situational irony. Something to make the reader smile.

Rodney's perspective of himself. This is important. Rodney needs to view himself very seriously. But his words and actions should not be serious. Meaning--- "Mondays have been universally declared to be the worst days of the week. I always thought that wasn't very fair. It wasn't Monday's fault for chosing to be the start of the work week. And being the horrible person I was, I found a secret joy in the torment of the rest of humanity in trying to cope with Mondays. I will admit, on occasion, I would take wicked pleasure in making other people's Mondays as miserable as possible. Like I said, I am not the nicest person."

There is slight humour in this. But only slight. The problem comes from the fact that Rodeny's being self depricating. But maybe this could be played off as him being conscious of his self deprication. So purhaps if it were clear that Rodney wants the readers to feel sorry for him, then it could force enough distance between him and the readers that his attempts become funny and pointless instead.

There is another intresting thought. Is Rodney trying to make us feel sorry for him? Does he want us to take his side? Everyone feels sorry for themselves. Rodney is a manipulator. We have to see it, not outright, but sideways, in the ways he interacts with people. Maybe have him have a mantra that expresses this when added to his other actions. This would be difficult to do, because it demands that readers think about whether they can trust Rodney's tale. But this level of reading would make it deep. This level of reading would be the deeper element on top of just the funny story about a serial killer in the making.

Ray Bradburry's "A Farewell Summer" is all about transformation-- about resisting transfromation, about forcing transformation, and about the inevitability of transformation. It happens to all of us. The penis leaves the old man and goes inhabit the boy instead, transforming him into a man. This idea about the inevitability of transformation is the key I am taking away from "A Farewell Summer".

The idea is that "A Long, Dry Summer" is meant to take the concept of the inevitablity of transformation and apply it to a darker scenario. When the current of transformation changes towards the darker side of things, such as a serial killer in the making, can we still fight it. Or, like in A Farewell Summer, is it inevitable once we get onto the road. Is it fair to judge someone who has been forced onto the path by no choice of their own, and must now follow it to its end? Should we still only judge them by the sum total of their deeds? Or should we include the intent of their act, even if we can only gain their intent from them.

This is why the level in which we believe Rodney is important. If we feel he wants us to be sorry for him, then the intent element has been compromised. Rodney wants us to feel sorry for him because he is actual guilty but trying to make excuses by arguing intent.

The other reason the first person is so important to the story is because all the excuses Rodney makes for serial killing is his own then. It won't be reflected back on me, as the author. I mean, a lot of people will still, because they cannot separate fiction from reality. But if I make it explicitly clear, maybe towards the end. Maybe when he murders the girl and he's justifying himself. Or apologizing to the reader. Or something similar. Basically he pushed the reader out of the story for a second. Makes them remember that he is himself, and I am not him. And that this story is really his own defense. This protects me as the author, and forces us to ask questions about how much of a serial killer's defense regarding intent we can believe.

So having a first person narrative for this story is important for several reasons. One, it makes the story's narrator more personable. We have to like Rodney at first. He has to be quirky, but likeable. He has to do things which makes us smile.  Then, it allows more humour through the way the narrator tells things, through asides as well as through limited knowledge. After that, it allows us to be more invested in Rodney, and when it doesn't take himself so seriously, it allows us to step back enough to not take any of the story too seriously (since it's all coming through him-- who doesn't take himself seriously) which allows for a lot of the dark things to come across as dark comedy instead. Finally, it allows us to step back from Rodney at the end when he defends himself, to ask ourselves if we believe his version of events. And to also ask ourselves how we can truly ever know intent. So that when we leave Rodney's head and we can only observe, no longer know for certain, it closes very solidly while leaving lingering questions in the reader's mind. So it makes the book haunting.

A list of things Rodney's voice must achieve:

           

            -In first few chapters, establish that he is telling this in the barn (eg all is memory)

            -In first third of book, make him loveable (endearing, we smile even if he's wrong

            -In middle of book, his voice has to be self deprecating

            -In end of book, he has to become defensive, making us more alert as reader

            -Througout book he should never take himself too seriously

How to make list happen:

1. In First Few Chapter Establish He Is Telling This Presently, looking back

            -Have the break in POV

            -Have him reference that he is currently telling (midway chp 2)

            -Have him reference that he is in barn right now (midway chp 3)

2. In First 1/3 of book make him loveable/endearing

What makes a character lovable? When they have certain mannerism which could be annoying (Hermoine's bookishness, Ron's dread of schoolwork). They have to be identifiable. They have to have a common human experience and a common human reaction to the experience that makes people connect with them on a deep and personal level. Common human experiences: being awkward in social situations (needs to be more specific), getting lost and trying to find your way, maybe having to ask for directions without finding anyone to help (better), being approached by someone very attractive and acting like a fool, being confused for a worker/employee of some sort and acting along to avoid embarrassment, etc. Being overtaken or frustrated and being despondent about it. Makes us sympathize with them because we've been there.

            What happens during first third of book?

           

            -The first two murders-- The accident and the sloppy???

            -The cast is introduced-- Maybe Rodney moves into the Belmont

            -Setting is being established

--Incorporating the elements of loving/endearing with the elements of first 1/3:

            -Rodney moved into building, mistaken for bellboy, social akward sit

            -Rodney meets attractive people, unsure of how to act, bumbles

            -Rodney gets lost on way to place, has to ask for directions

            -Rodney gets pooped on by a bird on a Monday

3. In Middle of Book, voice becomes self depricating (eg, doesn't take himself too serious

            -Comments made aside ("There I went again, opening my big mouth")

            -Tone shifts slightly (I was having a bad day--> So I went to wallow in self pity till I felt better)

            NEED TWO MORE WAYS OF EXPRESSING THIS

4. End of book becomes more defensive.

            -Makes excuses ("She forced me to, I had no choice)

            -Calls readers attention (I know what you must be thinking of me)

            -Attempts justification (I'm not a bad person)

            -Tries to make personable but fails (what would you do if you were me?)

5. Throughout book Rodney cannot take himself too seriously

            --When he has deep profound moments a bird poops on him, or it starts to rain hard, or a cat catches a mouse in front of him and rips it to pieces during tender moments

            -- Rodney can interrupt his own scenes, to remind readers that he is going to do something stupid, a la Emperor's New Groove

            --Rodney can encounter something that we, as audience of the future, knows about, but that he dismisses, a la Monty Python

            --Rodney can encounter something that everyone else accepts as normative, eg, eating something unsanitary, or gross, and have a gross out moment similar to what the audience would have, again a la Emperor's New Groove

            -- Rodney can have dramatic exits and then has to slink back when he remembers he forgot something-- a la everything ever written for comedy

Three Short Stories: Alice in La-La-Land, The Changeling, The Head and the Body

Alice in La-La-Land

(or, The Space Between Raindrops)

by Jean Woest

She walks-- unseen-- in the dry space between raindrops in a city of black umbrellas. She wears her red bow in the morning and steps in puddles on purpose. She hums as she turns in the middle of the crowd, her fingers reaching to embrace those outstretched hands that none will offer and all need to reach out and ache to touch. She smiles and forms dimples, deep scars of her smiles, and dances and spins without the touch of water on her face. She walks-- unseen-- in the bone places where the dry wind whistles along brittle white bark.

“Hey! Watch it!”

She walks-- unseen through the rows of cars humming in quiet unison, a hymn of the asphalt snakes that coil at the heart of the city.

“Hey, hey you, there. With the bow. What do you think you’re doing? You could have been killed!”

She walks-- unseen-- and stops as his fingers wrap around her arm. She sees them, thin and white with small black hairs on the knuckles like the wisps of fog on the river in the morning.

“Are you even listening? You need to watch where you’re going!”

She walks-- unseen-- tethered by the hand and the arm hidden in the shirt and blazer with the mustard stain on the sleeve. She is a ship, berthed and beating with the fierce desire to escape the docks and sail through the salient air of the park.

“Hey, are you okay? Is something wrong?”

She waits-- feels cold-- and looks around her at the rising fingers of skyscrapers that scrape the skies bare of clouds and leave long red gashes in the heaven’s thin skin, where their blood oozes down the side and coats windows in ruby colored glass film.

“No, no, no!”

“You’re not okay? What’s the matter? Do you need me to call someone for you?”

She runs-- unseen-- and seen-- the eyes in the windows watch her as she careens against a group of school children corralled back by the quick handed teachers with their wide eyed scorn. And she sees the eyes of those children drink her soul in slowly, dissipating her core and fizzing her brain through her pores.

“Hey, do you need a doctor? If you wait here, I can call someone.”

She stops-- untouched and unseen-- hugs her arms to block the sudden winter breath across the backs of her arms like the icecube he used to push into the cuts in her skin. She clenches her teeth and sits down hard on the dead grass and mud.

“Stop it.”

“Stop what? Do you need me to stop someone? Is someone hurting you?”

She looks-- past the eyes try to climb through her windows and nest in her soul-- and past still, tracing the dance steps of satellites and astronauts she’s only visited in her sleep. A hand is on her forehead and she pushed it away, so as not to block her view.

“You’re burning up. Do you need water? Or is it something else?”

She feels-- unseen-- the rough grooves of the fingertips are sandpaper to her face and clench her chin. Makes her bring her face closer and she shuts the curtains of her eyes as tightly as she can and holds her breath and counts to three and clicks her heels and says in her mind ‘there’s no place like me, there’s no place like me’.

“It’s drugs isn’t it? Isn’t it.”

She lolls-- sideways aways away-- and goes as a worm to the rot of the ground as her arms are taken from her and held up to the light, the transparent scales checked for the diamond marks of previous pinpricks that they won’t find there anyway.

“That’s the problem with you kids these days. It’s probably something new. Rotting your brain out for a quick fix and an easy high.”

She pushes-- feeling so close to being once more unseen-- and screams the names of every person on the forty-second page of the phonebook, backwards in Ancient Babylonian to the tune of Yankee Doodle while her fingers move on their own accord.

“Hey! Let go! Let go!”

She feels-- there is a warm breath behind the eyes-- and digs in deeper.

“Let go! Ah! My eyes!”

She digs-- now seen-- she finds the thread at the root of the tree and begins to pull the spool back around her thumb and forefinger.

“You crazy fucking bitch!”

She laughs-- now she is the one who can see-- the blood boils back off the buildings and the skies swallow once again the things they ejaculated on the world. And the tops of the buildings round out to riverstone smooth edges and a happy disposition.

She walks-- unseen-- through the space between the raindrops in the grey city of black umbrellas. She sings-- unheard-- and laughs until she coughs up blood by the bucket. She cries-- unloved-- and licks the bottom of park benches to feel closer to children. She tied her red bow about her head  with now red stained fingers-- again and around her neck-- once, twice, four, five-- and a nice snug pull. Pull more. Till the heads roll off and their tea party can start again.

END

The Changeling

by Jean Woest

How many nights had Conner called me from his bedroom about the monster under his bed? This is why we told Sherri not to let him stay up late and watch Doctor Who. But everytime my wife and I went out on a date, like clockwork, the babysitter would collect her money and we'd be the ones stuck with a frightened eight year old.

        I made my way down the hallway to Conner's bedroom. I was on the landing outside his door when the muffled 'Daddee" sounded from dim, blue lit room. The night light coated the walls the dull shimmer of an aquarium.

        "Hey bud."

        There was no answer, only a whimper from the bundle on the bed, the Buzz Lightyear blankets moving together tighter.

        "Conner, it's daddy."

        I sat down, trying not to sit on finger or a foot as I slowly pulled the covers back.

        Conner's frightened eyes were staring back at me. I placed a hand on his buzz cut hair and ran it back and forth a few times, the way I would when we'd watch cartoons on Saturday mornings. The way I knew calmed him down every time he'd scuff his knees riding his bike.

        "Hey, come on bud. You just had a bad dream, is all."

        He looked up at me, on the verge of tears, and shook his head quickly, "Not a dream."

        I sighed.

        "There's someone under my bed, daddy."

        I sighed again.

        "Conner, there's nothing under your bed."

        His face lowered a few inches further under the blankets.

        "Fine. If I check will you go back to sleep, bud?"

        He nodded.

        I sighed and slowly lowered myself to the floor, making a show of pulling back the skirting around the base of the bed. I took the flashlight down from beside his bed and clicked it on. His eyes grew wide with fright and he had his entire nose covered by the blankets now.

        I lowered my head and shone the beam beneath the bed.

        Conner was under the bed, holding onto his favorite teddy bear, staring over the head with frightened eyes. I fell backward, the beam rolling over a scattered field of abandoned toys.

        "Daddy." The Conner under the bed whispered, "There's someone in my bed."

        I looked up.

        "Daddy, did you see it?"

        I looked down again.

        "Daddy, he's down there."

        I was trying to calm my breathing, trying to calm my pounding brain as I looked back and forth from the Conner on the bed and the Conner under the bed. Which was my real son?

        "Hey, bud." I found myself saying before I realized what I was doing, "Come here."

        I reached out and pulled out the Conner under the bed. He clung to my arm with his whole, small pajama clad body. As soon as I pulled him up, the Conner on the bed lurched back, pulling the sheets and comforter with him.

        "Daddy, it's him!"

        "Why does he look like me, daddy!"

        I looked from my son in my arms to my son in his bed. I didn't know what was going on. Chocolate milk. That always fixes everything. I needed to think. I needed time. I slowly shifted the Conner in my arm over onto my hip, where he was still latching on, and reached over to the Conner in the bed with my other hand.

        His eyes darted to the Conner in my arms, then back to my face. I smiled and nodded to try and reassure him. He slowly slid forward, apprehensive like a wild animal, before making a lung for my free hand and gripping it and the flannel leg of my pajamas like a life preserver.

        And so, I and my two sons went downstairs for chocolate milk.

        I flicked on the kitchen light and deposited the Conner in my arms on one side of the table and led the Conner holding my hand to the facing chair. I had hoped in the kitchen light, or maybe facing each other I could tell which was the real Conner. But no such luck. They were both identical. More identical than identical twins.

        "Okay." I took a breath and turned to face the refrigerator, my heart racing. "Chocolate milk."

        I opened the fridge, and the normalcy of it was grounding. I pulled out the milk as if I were only going to make chocolate milk for one son. But as soon as the door closed, I saw the two faces watching me in the silver reflection of the door. I moved to the cupboard, took out three glasses. I turned slightly to watch them.

        The Conner on the Left, who had been the Conner on top of the bed was slowly sinking lower in his chair, watching the Conner on the Right. The other Conner, who had been under the bed, had pulled his knees up and was holding his kneecaps with his small hands, his eyes darting back and forth between me and the Conner on the Left.

        I pulled out the chocolate syrup from above the refrigerator. The bottle was nearly empty, so I looked at the two boys and shrugged apologetically.

        "Looks like I have to get some from the pantry." I don't know why, but I backed out of the kitchen to go to the hallway where the pantry was kept. "Be right back."

        I had a moment to freak out. Okay, this was happening. I had two sons, or at least, a son and an identical copy of my son sitting across from each other. Holy shit. Holy shit! Stuff like this don't actually happen. I fumbled with the pantry door and clicked on the light. I had to try and see if there was a difference between them.

        I had just grabbed hold of the chocolate when Conner (I don't know which one) yelled from the kitchen.

        I bolted and ran in, only to find the one Conner on the ground, wiggling his toes while the other Conner was examining the wiggling digits closely.

        "See, I can wiggle my big toe without moving the others."

        "Hey, you moved the middle one."

        "No, I didn't."

        "Yes, you did too!"

        "Conner." I said.

        "Yes, daddy." The way they simultaneously intoned the answer made my skin crawl and sent goosebumps up my arms.

        "Come on boys, let's get you some chocolate milk." I guided them back to the table, all hope of distinguishing them now gone.

        I set the three glasses down on the table and retrieved three spoons. I drizzled chocolate into my glass, but when I went for one of the glasses I had the Conner to my left say.

        "I know how!"

        I handed him the syrup and he started to pour the chocolate in with gusto.

        "Alright, easy there." I took the syrup back, "Gotta leave some room for the milk."

        I handed the chocolate syrup to the other Conner. He looked apprehensively from the Conner on my left to me before taking the syrup bottle.

        "You're supposed to do it like this."

        He proceeded to try and swirl the syrup around the edges of the glass, as I had done when pouring mine, and some of it even made it into the glass. I smiled and gently took the bottle from him.

        "Alright, next." I looked down at the boys.

        "Milk!" They both intoned again, the Conner on my right standing on his chair seat.

        "Alright, bottoms on the chairs please."

        The Conner on my left hopped down from his chair, "I can get the milk."

        "I wanna get it!" The Conner on my right jumped down and ran after the first Conner.

        "Hold on you two." I stood up and made it to the kitchen counter just in time to catch hold of the side of the milk as they struggled together to get it down.

        "No fair, he pushed me!"

        "I did not! I was here first!"

        "Alright, you can each pour your own milk." I led to two back to the table, once again losing track of which Conner was which.

        "Me first!"

        "But I got the milk first!"

        "Did not!"

        "Hey." I had an idea. "Let's play a guessing game to see who get's the milk first."

        "Okay."

        "I don't wanna play a game."

        I held up a finger.

        "First question. What is your favorite cartoon?"

        "Captain Lava and the Mouse Brigade." They both intoned.

        "I said it first."

        I held the milk up before another fight could break out. "Okay, good answer. Um, what did you tell me this morning you want for Christmas?"

        "A Triple Action Morphing Water Blaster Gun."

        Again at the same time.

        "But actually. I changed my mind." Spoke the Conner on the left.

        "I changed my mind too!" Said the Conner on the right.

        "I want a volcano building set!" The Conner on the left spoke with glee. "One that goes up and up, and then you push the petal and the lava comes out and the houses all catch on fire and the trees too!"

        The Conner on my right yelled, "Hey! That was what I wanted! No fair!"

        "Alright. How about I just pour the milk." And before there was any argument the milk was in the glasses.

        I stirred my milk, slowly going clockwise. The boys both watched me and started to turn theirs the same way. I slowed and changed direction the other way. They both changed direction as well. Then Conner on the right started to pick up speed, and Conner on the left quickly doubled his speed to pass Conner on the right. Soon chocolate milk was flying over the rims of the glasses.

        "Wow, there." I held up my spoon and then rang it against the side of the glass, making a bell like sound. "There we go, perfect."

        They each pulled their spoons out and tapped the side of their glasses. The one on the right licked his spoon and said, "Perfect!"

        The Conner on the left though tapped his spoon dully a few times and made an exaggerated face, "Oh, no. Mine's not working."

        "You have to hold it like this." Conner on the right held his spoon by the back of the handle then rang out against the glass. "See."

        "Like this?" Conner on the left moved his hand down and the glass sang this time.

        "That's because, do you know." Conner on the right had to swallow before he could keep talking, "When you hit a glass. It makes vibrations. And they make the sound in the air go in waves. But it only works if you hold the back of the spoon, not the front."

        Conner on the left was slowly and methodically licking the chocolate that had been on the outside of his glass and was now all over his hands, off his fingers slowly as he thought about what the Conner on the right had said.

        "I learned that at school." The Conner on the right said proudly.

        "I did too. Miss Vale read it in the science book yesterday." The Conner on the left smacked his lips around the back of his palm.

        "Miss Vale is nice." The Conner on the right kicked his legs and examined his knees before pulling his leg up, "You see this scratch? I got it from falling down the back of the slide."

        The Conner on the left pulled his leg up and revealed a matching scratch, "I fell too. I went like this. And then like this. Boom!"

        He moved his hand perpendicular and then parallel to the table.

        "Alright boys, drink up." I took my glass in one hand downed a bit of the chocolate milk. It was too sweet for my taste.

        The Conner on the left was holding his glass with two hands and gulping loudly and for effect.  

        "Slow down there, buddy. You'll give yourself a stomach ache."

        The Conner on the right kept his glass on the table but tilted it back. I saw the tablecloth start sliding and the approaching mess.

        "Oh, easy pal." I supported the glass until he had drunk enough and he could get a grip on the sticky outside.

        I looked from boy to boy. The one on the left gave a loud burp which was met with a round of giggles from both. The one on the right, also burped and soon the two were burping and belching and giggling until they were red in the face. They were identical. And yet not. But there was no way, no one clear and distinct way I could tell which one was the real Conner.

        I put the three glasses into the sink, along with the tree spoons. I put the chocolate syrup back into the side cupboard and the milk back in the refrigerator. When I came back to the table, the Conner on the left was slouched back in his chair, breathing heavily with his mouth open, while the Conner on the right had his cheek pressed against the table, cradled in the crook of his small arm.

        I gently lifted one to each of my arms. They were both getting so big, soon I wouldn't be able to carry either of them to bed anymore. I turned the kitchen light off as I made my way up the stairs to their bedroom. As I lay both down in the bed and covered them with the Buzz Lightyear comforter, I realized even if I could tell which one was the real Conner, I would not be able to give the other Conner up or send him away. There was only one thing I could do.

        Back in my own bed, I slid between the cool covers, looking for the warmth of my wife's body. I snaked an arm around her waist, pressing her silk nightshirt close to my chest.

        "Just a nightmare?" She half mumbled to the darkness, "I keep telling Sherri but she never listens."

        "Honey." I said after a pause, "Do you want another one?"

        "Another what." She said after a moment.

        "Another kid. Another Conner."

        There was a dry, mirthless laugh from next to me as she rolled over and whispered against the side of my shoulder, "Sure, if you wanna carry the baby for nine months this time."

        "I think I just carried him up the stairs actually."

        There was a pause and then another snort, "You are so weird sometimes."

        "Yeah, I guess I am." I whispered back, "Just don't freak out in the morning."

        "Okay." She sighed sarcastically, "But only as long as you'll check for monster under my bed tonight."

END

The Head and the Body

by Jean Woest

I live inside my head and inside the head of the old woman that lives on the corner of Elliot Street and Walker Road. Walker Road is very busy early in the mornings and the old woman wakes up with the susurrus of traffic. I only ever see her face when I look in the mirror. I pinch her saggy cheeks and the flap of skin that hangs from under her chin, like some odd reminder of a turtle. This is how I know I live inside her head because sometimes she is in the mirror looking back, as surprised as when I look at her.

        We go for walks sometimes. She casts sidelong glances at my freckles, and I wonder if she wonders what it would be like to wake up looking out of my head instead. If she'd see my chest of fluffy auburn hair, and the mound of my morning desire beyond it. Would she run through my veins as I have passed through hers, meet my enzymes and dance with my hormones and breathe in the sweet smell of my blood. She wonders all these things and I know she wonders these things because as she wonders these things I am inside her mind and I feel the heavy echoes of her thoughts pounding into me like waves on a drowning swimmer.

        I have never spoken to her while inside her head. I do not know if it would even work. Or how. But somehow I feel I ought not to. That there is some sense of decency that says I may peer into her mind's grey folds but I am not to touch those silver currents of thoughts that flash like lightning in the sky.

        I am only ever fully myself insider her mind.

        One day, I talked to myself inside of her outside of myself, while looking at myself in her eyes looking into me. We found a lot in common, and many things we could agree about. We avoided politics and religion, though, so there is that.

        I have watched from her mind while she has gone about her day. I've watched from her eyes as she folded laundry and made love to herself. I have watched through her eyes as she climbed a tree, in a fit of childhood's green shoots remembering themselves. Mostly I do not mean to go into her head. Mostly I mean to go about my business only to find the scenery has changed and so have I.

        There was only one time I needed to be inside her head. That I tried so hard to be in her mind and see out of her eyes. She recalled the day we first moved into the apartment. She recalled meeting my family for the first time. And she recalled the way that I had looked at her when I saw her take the knife and slash a smile across my mother's stomach, her pale hand gripping to keep her intestines from spilling out of the abdominal sack.

        She knows that it was wrong. That she must not do such things to friends. But she also does not regret it. Because there is so many things she wants to do but doesn't. That really, she says to me in those silver veined thoughts that wrap like anacondas around my groin, she deserves to have her fun at least sometimes.

        I live inside her head and expect it to be colder. But I find it to be much to my liking. I find it to be warmly familiar to my other mind in my other body. But I have started to spend more and more times walking the wide avenues of her imagination, and have seen things no other person will see. No, not even if you were to cut her eyeballs out and hold them up to the light and look at the colors that come through the murky, misty, milky miasma inside, you still would only catch a spark of the lightning bolts she holds.

        Sometimes I come to my senses, which is to say, she kicks me out. And I find myself sitting in a rocking chair in my apartment, smelling of dead flesh and knowing I have not moved or eaten in days. And I tell myself there is no way that I can live inside two heads at the same time. There is no way that I can experience life through two bodies. And the smell of my decay tells me I am right. I can only live inside one head and with one body. And the shudder that then runs through my system comes from knowing that I have already chosen which head and which body I want for mine.

END