A World in Every Sentence

A rabbit who is really a penguin lives in a nest of quarks under the sink, reading Bridget Jones’s Diary and whispering the secrets of the universe through the walls at night. That is the first, and one of the more straightforward stories in David Atkinson’s Roses are Red, Violets are Stealing Loose Change from My Pockets While I Sleep. The book forces readers to adopt whole new worlds with every sentence. Drills spit spheres filled with human brains; Hot-Wheels set saves lives; patio tables are fabricated from old waffles. Roses are Red is composed of more than a hundred pieces of fiction, few longer than a page and a half, and each of them is a radical reading experience.

Each story has its own logic, but they share the ability to subvert expectations. Every sentence in Roses are Red is a discovery, often humorous in its departure from what should follow from the sentence before. In “Frog Legs are Good Though It’s Hard to Get a Grip to Bite if They Aren’t Dead First,” for example, we find this:

Personally, I think throwing me in a Turkish malachite polisher prison was downright unjustified. You can tell me that’s all specified in subsection seventy-three, eighty-two six bis of the Napoleonic bro code, but we both know that “bis” is an imaginary number anyway. I won’t be fooled by Algebra again, not after that run-in with those bat-plastic-pants salesmen. I never should have trusted anyone smoking a cigar, let alone three of them.

This process of subversion continues relentlessly throughout the book. The reader experiences the constant joy of discovery and the exhaustion that comes with it.

But the stories in Atkinson’s collection are not mere word salads. Each story is indeed a story. A first pass at reading might not yield much insight into the world of the piece, but there is a world in there. An example of this might be “Himmler’s Hidden Alien Civil War Gold Caused that Detroit Pawnshop Storage Locker to Lose its International Real Estate Flipping License.” In the piece, History Channel documentaries about the Nazi’s bleed into polluted algae beds via corroded internet cables, giving rise to zombie clones of Eva Braun, Hitler’s companion and, briefly, wife. Fortunately, the zombie apocalypse is averted due to the Eva zombies’ aversion to spray cheese and the fortuitous “Easy Cheese World Subsidy Initiative of 2013.” The piece is as strange and unpredictable as any in the book. Still, it both participates in and critiques the zombie genre. It is on one hand an indulgent romp, and on the other a spotlight on absurdity.

The key to Atkinson’s success in these pieces is specificity. Each new concept, each reference, each break in continuity is not a whimsical departure but an exact movement that makes the piece feel intentional and crafted. In one story, a character has taken out a want ad for an RV trailer which needs to transport “a couple thousand pounds of pornographic Space Ghost collectible silver half dollar coins.” To finance the ad, the narrator had to sell “one complete collection of ballpark hot dogs partially eaten by significant Yankees infielders of the eighties.” Colorado, as a setting, has a distinct presence across the collection as well. Denver and its suburb Lakewood appear on numerous occasions, as do small towns like Glenwood Springs. These locations make Roses are Red feel real, rooted in a specific place. They also have the flavor of inside jokes, which made references that I didn’t understand feel more stable. If I didn’t get where a story went, then perhaps the story was for someone else. Specificity makes the leaps in logic in this book feel purposeful. The reader can feel safe in the writer’s hands, knowing that they’re on a journey, even if the destination is one of bemused wonder.

The tangled path of Atkinson’s work can still yield results. Few books have made me laugh as much as this one — not in amusement, but in surprise. Atkinson so relentlessly subverts expectation that every sentence bears the potential for genuine discovery. The stories in this collection are often hard to parse, but there is emotional depth for those who care to seek it. My favorite story in the collection was also one of the longest. “Ideas: Where to Get Them and What to Do When They Won’t Leave” is a literalized metaphor in which a writer’s ideas manifest as unwelcome visitors. The writer attempts to drive them away by embarking on ambitious artistic undertaking with them. Often, the ideas are turned off by the writer’s eagerness for commitment and are driven away. But sometimes, they stick around. The story captures the melancholy that comes from a new idea falling short, as well as the quite hope of the ones that stick around.

The ideas that inspire a work of art are often ideas that artists have a relationship with for years. No matter the form, an artist may toil for a long time before an idea matures into their vision. Roses are Red has the air of that kind of object. There are hundreds of distinct stories in the collection, many of them challenging. Still, they all bear the mark of obsessive experimentation, of fun had trying something strange and new, and the purity of making something for one’s self, though other’s might also find satisfaction in it.

It Begins with a Very Simple Incident: A Review of David S. Atkinson's Not Quite So Stories

One of the most common questions in the world of fiction is, “Which form is superior: the novel or the short story?” (That is, if one extreme must be taken over the other. The novella is usually a suitable compromise.) While it’s impossible to pick one over the other with complete objectivity, there is one important factor to consider: the latter typically allows storytellers to unleash their most unconventional concepts with maximum brevity and pacing, ensuring that these peculiarities leave an impression but conclude before they become laborious or unremarkable. Case in point: Not Quite So Stories, the newest collection by David S. Atkinson (whose previous two books, Bones Buried in the Dirt and The Garden of Good and Evil Pancakes, were copiously acclaimed within the indie publishing scene). Comprised of roughly two dozen quirky vignettes, the book proffers an abundance of colorful slice-of-life situations and philosophical ponderings. Although there are a few stumbles along the way, the bulk of the sequence is highly engaging and memorable, making it a very worthwhile read.

Aside from alluding to Rudyard Kipling’s Just So Stories, the title Not Quite So Storiesprepares readers for what’s inside: a chain of eccentricities. Atkinson describes it as follows:

The traditional explanation for myth . . .  is an attempt by humans to explain and demystify the world. That’s crap. We may be able to come to terms with small pieces, but existence as a whole is beyond our grasp. Life is absurd, ultimately beyond our comprehension. The best we can do is to proceed on with our lives in the face of that. The stories in this collection proceed from this idea, examining how the different characters manage (and/or fail) to do this.

The majority of the tales included here capture this outlook, with the best examination being “An Endless Series of Meaningless Miracles.” It begins with a very simple incident: one day, “aging [and] pudgy” William P. Forsmythe (who feels a bit like an elderly version of Alvy Singer from Woody Allen’s brilliant Annie Hall) gets into his bathtub for his daily soak and notices that the water level sinks instead of rises. Relentlessly perplexed by how “the tub water had acted contrary to universal laws [of displacement],” he sets out to experience a few more acts of God in a single day and discover a new purpose in life. Despite the pacing sometimes getting bogged down by clarifications as the narrative unfolds (which, to be honest, is a reoccurring issue throughout the collection), the text is nonetheless consistently intriguing and inventive, with a plethora of subtle details that make it feel very realistic. After all, “it did not occur to Warren that the miracle was utterly insignificant, however inexplicable it was. Warren’s life was too insignificant as it was; he craved significance,” and the way Atkinson uses his character’s trajectory to comment on humanity’s need for self-actualization (as well as how easily we ascribe to fantastical beliefs to assuage our sense of desperation and loneliness) is understated yet masterful. It’s definitely a highlight of Not Quite So Stories.

Another metaphysical gem is “The Bricklayer’s Ambiguous Morality,” which concerns an inexplicable accident involving two friends, a brick, and causality. While its surreal events may suggest mere superficial entertainment at first, there’s definitely an underlying commentary on how misguided gun enthusiasm can conflate with misplaced senses of patriotism and masculinity. Atkinson demonstrates skill in capturing the conversations and reactions of conventional adolescent males, and the way he puts a spin on the familiar condition of two kids goofing around until something horrible happens is clever and refreshing. In other words, the catalyst for the tragedy may be purposefully silly, but its implications are strikingly relevant to modern America.

Among the peak creative concoctions in Not Quite So Stories is “60% Rayon and 40% Evil,” a fascinating and novel take on the killer doll cliché. Told from the perspective of a “five-inch stuffed bear” who “fully acknowledge[s] that [he has] a desire for murder,” the story is remarkable because of how the barbaric and remorseless actions of its protagonist are juxtaposed with his intellectual rationalizations. Rather than act as a soulless, bloodthirsty creature from hell (as is usual), Mr. Rictus (as his owner, Tristan, names him) is a product of his own backstory; Tristan pretends that the bear is a homicidal maniac, and, as Mr. Rictus suggests:

However, strangely enough, and according to no mechanism that I at all comprehended, it all became true. In fits and spurts, I found myself becoming aware . . . . After all, it was a game, a theatrical trick, which Tristan had developed. The intent would have been spoiled if it had to be suddenly acknowledged as fact. One of the core features of Tristan’s fiction was that I killed when no one, particularly him, was looking, so that is exactly what I did.

From there, the two develop a relationship akin to the one explored in the Twilight Zoneepisode “Caesar and Me.” The way the piece ends isn’t entirely surprisingly, yet there’s no doubt that its final line—“Colloquially put, you people blow my mind. Perhaps that is one of the reasons I kill so many of you”—is chilling.

Filling its hyperbolic central conflict with practical insinuations, “Domestic Ties” feels a bit like a lost Vonnegut effort. It centers on Charlotte, an archetypal 1950s-esque housewife (her husband is even named Ward) who’s preparing her home for the impending arrival of a prisoner. You see, a jury notice:

notified that the state would be requisitioning the use of her home for the purpose of providing shelter to a convict. The prisons were impossibly overcrowded, the letter informed. Unable to determine any other immediate solution, the state had no choice but to place prisoners in private residences.

Once he arrives (and is confined to a small space in her kitchen), the two engage in various instances of uncomfortable cultural shock, as Charlotte is dutifully respectful yet cautious because the prisoner is both incredibly meek and inherently threatening. All in all, it’s a very engaging and tastefully written tale, with a conclusion that, while not overly dramatic or substantial, makes readers question the nature of Man.

Although most of the book is wonderfully captivating and idiosyncratic, there are a few missteps along the way. The most glaring issue (aside from the aforementioned repetitiveness) is that some of these selections fail to warrant their length. In other words, either the premises themselves aren’t appealing enough or not enough happens within them. Works like “G-Men,” “Cents of Wonder Rhymes with Orange,” and “The Elusive Qualities of Advanced Office Equipment” are certainly written well, but they aren’t especially compelling; instead, they just kind of happen without leaving much to reflect on or remember. The biggest offender of all is “A Brief Account of the Great Toilet Paper War of 2012,” a lengthy exploration of how a simple marital squabble over pride escalates into ridiculous territory. The issue at hand is certainly relatable, and even a bit humorous, but the joke wears out its welcome far too soon, resulting in a tedious slog to the end. Empirical resonance notwithstanding, even people who’ve been in the same situation before will want to move on ASAP.

Not Quite So Stories succeeds far more often than it fails, and honestly, isn’t that the real test of a short story collection? None of the pieces are without merit, and the bulk of them provide resourceful plots, three-dimensional characters, and best of all, enthralling writing on a technical level. Atkinson has a gift for fleshing out strange narrative shells with dense minutiae, articulate wording, and weighty meanings. He certainly has a distinctive perspective on life, as well as an equally original way to deliver it; anyone looking to be simultaneously entertained and enlightened should read Not Quite So Stories.

They'd Have Yelled If They Found Out: On David S. Atkinson's Bones Buried In the Dirt

Bones Buried in Dirt is a collection of short stories that are linked together to form a novel. This is a literary format that can either go brilliantly, or it can go horribly, terribly wrong. David definitely has written a work that falls in the brilliant category.

The stories are all from Peter’s point of view and follow him from around the age of four or five all the way to around twelve. In these stories, Peter goes through everything from neighborhood wars (“The War”) to first crushes and girlfriends, with sexual experimentation along the way (“Training Part 1” and “Training Part 2”).

I became so immersed in the stories that at times, I almost forgot that the author wasn’t a kid, that these weren’t being told straight from a child’s mouth. David captures the way a child thinks, the way he acts, and the rationales he forms to explain things perfectly. In “The Virgin Mary Tree,” Peter’s friend Joy  has run off into a potentially dangerous situation. Peter wants to stop her.

We were really going to get in trouble if something happened and we hadn’t helped. My parents would have yelled at me and asked me why I had just let her go. Her parents, too. They’d have said she was our friend and we were supposed to have helped. Or maybe they wouldn’t have said it. They’d have thought it though. They’d all have thought it when they looked at me. It wasn’t fair. I didn’t even know what was going on.

He isn’t able to stop her.

I thought I could tell them all I tried. I thought maybe that was going to be good enough. I walked back to the hole in the fence. I might have even gotten in trouble for having been in the graveyard. I wasn’t supposed to go there at all. I still went a lot, but my parents didn’t know that.  They’d have yelled if they found out I went in. Or maybe worse.

Peter’s reaction reminded me so much of when kids do face situations that are outside of their normal contexts. They can’t see exceptions to situations.  Peter can’t see that his parents probably would not have gotten angry with him for being in the graveyard in this situation, because he’s never had a prior situation in which they wouldn’t have become upset at his breaking a rule.

In another story, Peter’s dad has to sit him down and talk to him because a neighbor was just arrested for molesting boys. Peter’s dad wants to make sure that this hasn’t happened to Peter, and Peter is more concerned that prior activities he and his friends engaged in will get him in trouble. The timing in this story is so tight. I could feel myself in both his and his father’s skin, David caught both characters in such a perfect way.

“You can tell me, Peter,” my dad pleaded.  “You have to know you can talk to me.  If something like that happens, it isn’t your fault”

“He never did anything! Honest!”

My dad took a deep breath and exhaled loud.  “Good” he finally said.

I tried not to look at him, but he was looking at me.  I just wanted him to stop. I already told him nothing happened. It made me keep thinking of training.  My head wouldn’t stop twitching, like I couldn’t get my neck to sit right.

David does an amazing job with character descriptions. In just a few words, he sums up a character, and almost everything after that the character does or says, fits in with the original picture he gave of the character.

In his last story, “Cards,” we meet a character named Danny, who is only in this one story. Yet, from the very first description of Danny, I knew him and all his further actions made sense and fit with the picture painted at the beginning.

Danny looked up a little. He sat on a swing like a big old slug. Not swinging really, just swaying around a little scuffing the dirt with his shoes.  The dirt got his black sweat pants all dusty. He probably didn’t care. He always had those dingy things on.

I enjoyed how the stories deepened from one into the next. I felt that it perfectly captured the evolution of what is important to us as we age.  In the first story, Peter is upset over a balloon.  In later stories, he’s upset about way more intricate social relationships. And finally, in the last story, you begin to see the beginnings of an adult empathy to Peter.

There was very little I didn’t adore about Bones Buried in the Dirt or David’s writing. However, in a couple of the stories, Wooden Nicklepayback being the one sticking in my head, David ends the whole thing too abruptly. He does this in a lot of the stories, but in most of them it fits with a child narrating or with the story itself. But this type of ending doesn’t work every time. Also, the only one adult to adult character interaction in the entire book, between Peter’s dad and a neighborhood rival, PJ’s dad, feels false. It’s awkward, but not in the “we don’t know each other but your kid’s beating on my kid’s” way, which might be what David was trying to achieve. It fails though and just feels awkward.

This was a fascinating book to read. I loved it, I loved how I remembered things from when I was a kid because of it, things I felt or said or did.  I loved watching Peter grow up. Certain images that David painted in Bones Buried in the Dirt are still lingering with me days later.

One of the bonuses to reading this was David’s providing me with the best 80s hairstyle description ever.

She had long, nasty brown hair that was all wavy and stuff.  Her bangs rolled up in one of those dumb shredded wheat puff things, like she’d been messing with hairspray again.