Ain't No Telling

As some of you have likely noticed, tqrstories is re-running some of Lalo Telling's greatest Terminal hits. To those who don't know why tqr would be doing this, the simple answer is Lalo succumbed to a brain tumor this past year 3 days before Christmas. As curator and head honcho of tqr, you'da thunk I would have known one of my best capital managers had split the scene for that mysterious hereafter. Alas, I didn't find out until Lalo's absence the Spring quarter raised my suspicions enough to start my own private investigation. I actually think he'd begged off the responsibility in an earlier correspondence, but mentioned nothing about any problems healthwise or any other 'wise' and so I let it slide.

I'm wondering now if I shouldn't have been more perceptive then ... but Lalo is a slippery kat, coming first into our midst an intelligent machine patterned after the cold calculas of Kubrick's 2001's Hal9000. Being the creative geni that I am, (and averse to copyright infringement to the tune of sooner-than-later discorporation) I named the avatar he'd inhabit Hal3000, which was later shortened by Lalo to the catchier and 0-percent-lawsuit-risk friendly H3K. But due to the great crash of 2010 (or 2009 I can't be recall) all Terminal archives of H3K have been wiped clean. Sometime during his decadelong run with us, he became a Fox (Lalo Fox, shaken, not stirred) which morphed into his final nom de plume, Lalo Telling.

None of these were/are his "real" name. Lalo, it seems to me, lived in many worlds. In the world of flesh and bone and bodily tribulation he was someone else entirely I never had anything to do with, which was in keeping with his desire. In this world of contrived personae and limning the relative merits of those fantastic worlds coming into our e-mail inbox in the form of others' stories, Lalo, no matter what avatar he happened to be sporting, was solid as ... a fox, as sharp as a blade forged of tungsten carbide steel and certain as death and/or ultimate discorporation.

And so the world out there turns a little lighter for the load. But here, in this world of goodstuff, VC and cracked capital managers, he is forever, and never was. Until we meet again, Lalo. Ain't no telling...

0 comments unless you are guaranteeing 2 more inches or money back

Ground control to major Ted. ... Ah, the vacuum of space. I just had to dodge the pod sent hurtling outward bound from the Discovery by Hal9000, well-preserved astronaut's corpse intact. So, in fact, outer space is more populated than this place!

Unless, of course, it's some spam promising to turn my Peter North and then some. Not saying I couldn't use some enhancement, but of the (e-)ma(i)l variety, sans final 'e' yo. Do you know what the cock is cooking? Just saying, I wish someone would throw me a bone and comment on this here venture so that I know I'm not pissing into the void. Hello! or (as Alexander G. Bell first thought would be an appropriate way to answer his new invention the tallyfun) Ahoy! What is wanted?

Gimme, gimme some love, people!

Cafe break or total wig out?

[And boy are his arms tired, having held them there for days whilst the two gladiators stand in their respective corner, unmoving, unloved and definitely unmitigated]

Well for God's sake! Whatcha gonna do?

[And so, the Rorschalk lets his arms drop to his sides and he walks to the bar where Otto stands motionless and somewhat fat to face his adversary. As he nears, the Rorschalk notices how the light reflects off Otto's stone face as if reflecting off a photograph on glossy paper and then, upon his arrival, knocks the big man over with sneeze...]

God bless you, sir.

[The Rorschalk steps back in horror as the once 3-dimensional simulacrum wafts to the floor of the Rump, pirouetting as it falls, revealing the corrugated brown backing that is the representative cardboard cutout which is now flat on the ground, almost invisible blending with the dulcet earth tone stone flooring. Doubly amazed, the Rorschalk wheels around to the bar and faces the good Santino...]

What ... did you speak?

[Santino spits out a sunflower seed casing and continues to polish his glass with a sodden bar rag, perhaps nodding imperceptibly in his fashion]

Nay! Can't be, or not be, eh? I am left here facing phantoms in an ethereal reality that percolates like twice baked grounds in the Mr. Coffee of haute illusion.

[Turning to the camera, the stricken Rorschalk pleads, almost whimpers...]

Where have you gone Joe Dimaggio?[

Wond'ring Aloud

Beware the Tides of May! Errr. something like that. Anyhap ... the months roll on like the beauteous guitar chords of an acoustic Jethro Tull song over too soon. Ahh, that Ian Anderson is a pip! Pardon my use of the exclamation mark!

But what is the point?

RADIATION still dominates with grace the masthead, which is a positive result of my inability to publish anything for the present quarter. My first mate in the Terminal has departed this world for the next ... whatever that means, entails or whatever (I would like to think it is a far better place than I have ever been, a la the late great and immortal Sid Carton). And I am stuck here to wander 'pon this desolate Bardo plane wond'ring aloud and in my own skull, pond'ring, as if staring into the twin voids of Yorick's own.

Indeed, tis better sweet than bitter, but is often human nature to dwell upon the latter, and thus do I. Late of the Rump, I have narrowly avoided an ugly situation wherein my life may have been at odds with the intentions of those present. The continued incorporation of this profitless corporation may not rely upon a corporeal Rorschalk, testing the bounds of virtual and corporeal reality. Concocting a plan on the fly as it were, I've set the assassins at the others throats for the time being, and slipped away. Although I cannot really ascertain whether these assailants are anything more than cardboard cutouts that pose no real threat.

Alas! We create these passion plays to fill the vacuum that will otherwise drive us all mad and blast us off into despair. Were it not for these fictive flights of delirium, we all would be moping shrouds withering away in deceptive doldrums. And insufferable louts, too boot. So, we create them for your general consumption. And if you can relate, then you'll know you're not alone. The struggle is the thing, as is the play, as is the dumb show, and all of it is not all that stupid.

I await and crave collaboration. For without it, this one trick Shetland must retreat onto an island of mis-shat ploys, until my Mr. Spock shall ride in on his iceberg to rescue me. Now, I walk upon the trails of velvet green, desiring upon an empty canvas. Please don't be long!

Don't hate us for our Hiatus.

And so, here we are again, the cruelest month. I once knew a girl named April, who wasn't cruel at all. She was so nice, in fact. Ahhh, sweet April and the inconsistencies of youth wasted on the way by.

But getting back to cruel ... as I'm sure you are all aware now, the capital gains never materialized on my end. The two sent up I just couldn't elevate to that exalted stage. Alas, the monkey grows restless and unsure. Indeed ... who can touch the monkey anymore? Perhaps the irrepressible (or is that detestible?) Terrnace want to blame it on the system of a downer. Did I spell detestible correctly, may be the more important point to be bandied about. Alas. If I may say so, "the system" has worked in regards to such superlative CG's as, most recently, AIMS AND OBJECTIVES OF THE AMERICAN CRIBBAGE CONGRESS and YEAR OF OUR LORD'S FAVOR just fine, thangyouverymuch. So I shan't be changing or overhauling anything [except, maybe, my adult diaper when I stand front row at a Justin Beiber concert] in the near future. Some crowd surfing, maybe.

Oy vay, it's been a quarter, eh? Lalo seems to have left the building. I'm getting some readings on the long-vanished H3K over the vintage Defender console that has miraculously materialized in the Terminal in place of dear Lalo's desk. The implications are puzzling and somewhat disturbing. It makes me feel like one of the Home Erecti before the planar delineations of the obelisk in Kubrick's 2001. I still do not grok when or if I'll have a bone to throw, and what such an obvious homage will segue to. Could Terrnace be a prophet of change, then, or just another faux usurper to the throne?

Time will tell, mein froinds. As it always does. Meanwhile, TQR shan't dally in its cups or down time, either. Follow @tqrstories at twitter for updates on the current state of affairs and some tasty tidbits from the vaults and the back channels, dare I mention the catacombs where Boligard saunters down the game trails of his dark fictive fancy? Which begs a question. Dunbar? Yeah. What exactly do you mean by dark fiction? And with that, I must bid you all adieu for now. I have a lock to pick about a man. Wherefore art thou Terrnace? Good night, sweet blintz.

Dedicated to Lalo Telling

Late of TQR and Indianapolis, Indiana.

Forever in our hearts and minds

Belongs now to the stars and sky

We'll miss you... Spaceboy

GONZO THE WEIRDO need she say more?

Salut! Monsieur Dunn:

Thank you for your mad cap, Gonzo the Weirdo, as recently submitted for consideration by the toughtough nuggets at TQR, your favourite e-rag.

How did you know that your minimalist pulp would crash onto my desk here in the damp, dim light of The Floor, I wonder? Of course, you did not, although the odds are [most of the time] 50/50. It spits. it grinds. It teems. It grooves. And just maybe, if his diet has been steady this month, your cap may touch the elusive monkey.

Enough. You only want to know, je pense, as any venture capitalist might, what happens next. Here, I will tell you: Gonzo the Weirdo is going for a ride. How it will fair when scrutinized by the sports-minded, Bruno Gerussi medallion-wearing chest pounders in the Terminal, I can offer no opinion.

Watch. And see. Remember to breathe, mon cher. Sometimes, you may wish to scratch yourself hard just before reading the Terminal's meaty commentary regarding your work when it has its turn in The Terminal sometime after the 15th of the month.

Bon chance and thank you for your interest in TQR, the para diddle conjured entirely in Rorschalk's cymbalic woodshed.

Gabrielle DePlancherThe Floor, TQR --

ORDINARY WARRIORS 'holds promise' but fails the 'What of it?' Test

Bonjour, Monsieur/Mlle Denny:

Thank you for your recent submission to TQR, our e-zine of the blurry edges.

Your piece, Ordinary Warriors, holds promise within and it's obvious to me that you know your characters well.

Two troubles, Hennie Denny, that cause me now to tell you that I cannot recommend Ordinary Warriors for further shazexamination by my meat shredding colleagues in the Terminal at this time, despite its considerable attributes:

1. Telling the story seems important to everyone involved, yet I cannot see why the reader would also passionately agree that the story of how two warriors met is important enough to merit said story taking up the entire plot of the cap. The small ones...the grandchildren of the dying one...appear eager to hear of it, as though some rite of passage will occur through the telling. But what? Asks the reader. What?

2. Although the descriptions are crafted well enough so that I am with you in that cage, splattered with the blood and the slices of skin, and EVEN titillated by the subtleties of this monster love on public display, again, I ask at the end, as the reader: what of it?

Perhaps on re-reading Ordinary Warriors you will catch a whisper of what it is I refer to....or perhaps not. It may be that I've missed the metaphor, stumbled past the obvious message you intended. It may be also that your piece will find a welcome place at the hearth of some other kind of publication. For now, Ordinary Warriors does not touch the Monkey. You know by now that he is an elusive one.

Merci, and we will hear from you again, Hennie Penny. I have a feeling that you have plenty pages in your chest of words.

All the best,

Gabrielle DePlancher The Depthless Floor TQR

Rejection letter turns into something awesome

Recently I,Theodore Q. Rorschalk, had to send a rejection letter to Chris Miller, the VC of the close-but-no-capital-gain YOUNG PEOPLE HAVING GOOD, WHOLESOME FUN (see below)

Hello Mr. Miller,

I've finally posted the final judgment pon your current PCG. And I must say, not this time. Sorry, but I could not swallow the resolution to the kids' problem. Thank you for allowing us to deconstruct it on our site. I look forward to working with you in the future.

To which he graciously replied:

No, it's I who must again thank you. Publication isn't important to me (especially since I've already got you on my CV), but your vetting process is the most interesting of anyone's. Reminds me a little of that old TheFictionBitch site, only better because of all the different views involved. I will of course continue to submit to TQR and I've referred you to a number of writer friends (whose skin needs thickening).

Thanks again,

Chris

PS Where did "Radiation" come from? Never saw it vetted. Find it unreadable (too esoteric or something). Like, very strong voice, but no content.

It was the post script that dominated my response. I was glad to have a conversation about the most recent TQR capital gain, knowing that its unique construction made it not your everyday CG, and one that would garner inquisitiveness..

I found RADIATION posted on an old writer's site I am a member of (Zoetrope) and was blown away by it. I gave it a very positive review and asked the author if she might consider publication at TQR. I was surprised when she replied in the affirmative because TQR isn't a heavyweight site and only pays a token $50.

So, seeing as how TQR hadn't been able to find any capital gains for the last quarter, I figured I better get some new content up there and, bypassing the regular vetting process, I put it up. Call it executive privelege. (It's good to be king). But seriously, it's something I've done before in the past when the subs weren't able to get results.

I love that you realize writer's need to thicken their skins. That's the kind of VC we are after. Thanks for guiding them our way!

Miller persists...

I'd love to see your review of the piece. Perhaps it will inform my attempt to reread it.

Rorschalk complies...

It would be my pleasure, here you go...

Dear Ms. Kwan,

I can hardly find anything to fault with this story. It's complexity threw me for a loop the first time I read it. I did not see that the narrator's mother is the "I" in section III and so was a bit off on the familial relations I was reading of, thinking them somehow a generation off. But anyway. That is of little concern because this is a story truly meant to be read and enjoyed and unraveled multiple times through.

I'm sure I still have much to learn from it. I think I've read it three times so far and each time has been something of a revelation. Let me just say that the poetry of the language is beautiful. I am particularly delighted by this, "She read his castoffs when they went to play, as boys will, and little sisters are cast away." This one sentence, I think, perfectly sums up the circular (or should I say triangular) nature of the entire story, while having a phenomenal rythmn and rhyme scheme to keep the peasants turning the page. What I mean is it is both a pleasure to read out loud and inwardly puzzle over. Or something. Anyway. It's a great sentence.

I thought enough of this story to advertise it on th main boards or, more exactly, the "Discuss" toggle under the Short Stories entry in the Wriging Building. So, I hope you get some extra and good reviews.

The use of the mirror given as a wedding present to the mother (Kuzuko?) is a brilliant symbol of the passing of time and, conversely, the illusion of time. I'm afraid I am nearing my capacity to extrapolate upon these paradoxes and mysteries, but want to let you know that I noticed this and it brought tears to me and made me sit and ponder my existence and all that. I'm sorry if I'm not making a lot of sense here. I just want to get across the fact that your story really affected me and most everything that your story was conveying got through to me somehow, whether I was consciously aware of it or not.

I love how everything in the sections is mirrored (a ha, there's that symbol again and writing that just gave me a chill)in other sections, just in different ways from different perspectives, like the russian books, historical origins first and then content of said secondly as told in section II and section III respectively. Also the mention of th clothes in one section and the repitition, though in different words, in another section. Just great stuff. So, so good.

Everything is churning in this story, like a giant washing machine agitator turning the future in on itself, reflecting in the past and affecting the present. It's almost pointing to the irrelevance of time and how it's really all on point repeating itself or ... of course my logic starts to break down at this point, but my misunderstanding doesn't lessen my appreciation of your art.

I'm looking over some of the stuff I have underlined and it's all so good. But this sentence I cannot let go and have to share with you my appreciation of it: "So gently I let him go, so gently, gently, more gently than anyone would have believed of a tomboy like me." The repitition of gently mirrors the repitition of the darkness/light line that is so prevalent in the beginning of the story and repeats to the end. Also hearkens back to the little sister trying to fit in with the boys and the big brother she adores.

And this one too: "And you and I, we see through a glass faintly which is the mirror of time." which so wonderfully sets up your ending about being able to eschew the mirror's reflection and finally seeing face to face. The mirror is a crutch in the end.

I've studied a bit of zen and find that this is all somehow interconnected with that philosophy. The answers to the masters question which speak of dust on mirrors almost always, it seems to me know that I'm thinking about it, meet with the masters disapproval. But I'm getting too far afield here trying to expound upon what I cannot really talk about but only feel in my gut. This story is more than the finger pointing at the moon, it is almost the moon or it is the moon. It is really that good.

I would be honored if you would let me publish it in my little online journal, TQRstories. We do not take ourselves seriously (as editors and all that) but we really do love and revere (did I spell that correctly? God I hope so!) literature and this is some of the finest I've ever read. Please let me know. Usually the stories submitted have to go through a three tiered vetting process, but this one would forgo it because I am sold on it more so than I can rightly explain. Let me know.

END REVIEW

A little more insight into RADIATION. Go read the origins of it in the last frame (page 10, I think) of what's posted on the site. To me, section 1 is like the Overture, musically speaking. The content, so to speak, starts coming in in the later sections. Anyhow. It really struck a vein or chord or however that goes with me. And that doesn't mean it's going to be everyone's cup o' joe. No problemo. I love the fact lit is such a smorgasbord that you can take from what thrills you and leave what doesn't for someone else. I just cross my fingers that what I partake of is what a lot of others will enjoy, too.

***

[Theodore,] [t]hanks for letting me read your review. I read her bio page some time ago, and just reread it again. And again, as with your review, beautifully written, but gives no inkling of what the story is "about." Not that this is a bad thing. Like what is a poem about? Which is how I think I'll have to read the piece: more as poetry than fiction. I find it interesting that so much of your (i.e., TQR's) critiques focus on plot and character elements, and yet in your review these are altogether absent, clearly unnecessary to conveying what the story did for you.

As senior editor of a webzine, I suppose it makes sense that you would want others to enjoy what you enjoy. But as a reader (and even a writer), I take special pleasure in recognizing/appreciating what others cannot (or will not). I love discovering that rare forum writer whom I know to be brilliant, whose writing excites me in a hard to describe way that I know you understand, but that everyone else (especially the weaklings) either ignore or lamely miss the point in criticizing.

In my experience (or opinion, anyway) the very best writing is divisive. You either love it or hate it. Show me a story that everyone agrees is great, and I'll show you a good story, an A+ student workshop story. I still haven't read enough of RADIATION to even venture an opinion beyond that the first few paragraphs failed to engage my interest, seemed almost self-consciously clever in a vacuous sort of way. But even if I can and do manage to give it a fair read, and hate it, I'm still pretty sure it's no A+ undergrad effort, but something more. It's not for everyone, or probably even most, which is the nicest thing I can say about it at this point. (Would be curious to read your staff's takes on it.)

***

Good point. I think of it more as a poem, too, I guess. I usually insist on strong characterization and plot, but this one doesn't really conform to that and blew me away anyway. Which is kind of awesome. I agree that a lot of RADIATION is antithetical to the fictive dream John Gardener insisted upon as it addresses the reader in a casual conversational way in certain passages. But I think that's part of the whole timeand distance thematic deal that's going on throughout the story. And you're right, I can't explain it, but it got me in the gut. What you say about it not being for everyone or even most is probably closer to the truth of how I feel about it, too. It's like I put it up just in case a few others out there could enjoy it the way I did and the rest be damned. Thank you for reminding me of this. It's definitely is not a graduate student workshop drive-by.

Mims' CHANCE ENCOUNTER resembles 'un film pornographe'

Bonjour, Mlle Mims:

Merci for your recent submission to TQR.

Chance Encounters, at the outset, presents as a titillating narrative, non? In the opening scene, we look into the mind of a protagonist wondering how her 'mocha-coloured skin' would feel against him. Oi! Tres excite, mais oui.

But there is, almost immediately, the unbelievability factor, mon cher. The description of this protagonist, indeed the place, and also the circumstance----none ring true the bell of authenticity. Where is this fantasy cafe where shapely, mocha-coloured young female students congregate in the misty hours to 'do homework' while be-friending (with not even a hint of wariness suggested) plump, balding, lecherous gentlemen seeking thrills and late night tutoring opportunities? Je suis desole, I am sorry, dear writerly woman. When I read this cap and consider the subtext, I am reminded of the script for a perhaps......un film pornographe?

I cannot recommend Chance Encounters for further advancement here at TQR, as dirty as we sometimes may appear to the outside world beyond our drapeless and smudged windows. Perhaps it would fare better in another market where editors are not so fussy and particular about plot viability. You can write, dear one, but, at least this round, you have not tickled the monkey's dweezil and that means that this cap is not TQR material.

Merci beaucoup and best wishes, G. DePlancher