clouds?”
“No, not them. I will explain soon.”
We reached the kitchen. I brewed more coffee. Then I sat the fable on my callused knee and began, “You are an example of what is often called metafiction. In other words you are a fiction that makes overt reference to its fictional status as an integral part of its own text. Indeed, you reference yourself in a tight loop. Your opening words are, ‘ It’s high time I told you about a homeless fable I once knew .’ So—”
He blinked up at me. “What?”
I extended my hands in a gesture of surrender to fate. “In our present culture, there is no literary form more unjustly maligned than metafiction. Readers will say you are too clever for your own good; that you are smug and shallow, that you are merely showing off. Such insults won’t hurt less for being ill-judged. Your life will become a perfect misery. It’s my duty to protect you from that. I have an idea.”
He looked up at me and trembled, but there was strength in his gaze, a determination not to appear weak.
“I will embed you in a parable,” I declared.
“A parable?” he muttered.
“Yes, with a moral to the effect that we must be kinder to the products of metafiction, more considerate of self-referentiality. Parables are always about ordinary men and women, never animals or inanimate objects, and that’s how they differ by definition from fables; if you are embedded in a parable, the focus of your story will shift from you, a talking fable, to me, a man; a man who makes a plea for you.”
He looked uncertain. “Are parables comfortable?”
I slurped my coffee loudly, one of my talents. “They tend to be small and cramped, but don’t worry. The parable won’t be your home. You will live in the minds of the readers who read this story, the tale I am currently writing for you, the actual parable that is a vehicle to carry you from non-existence into living brains. The instant the parable is published you must be ready to leap out from the page…”
“Will I have a soft landing?” he whispered.
“Oh yes! Brains are spongy and will absorb the impact. You will find your new abode roomy and furnished with taste. You can ask for no finer home than the brain of a good reader.”
“At what point should I make the leap?” he asked.
“When they reach this point.”
“Now?” he babbled.
“Now!” I cried; and he sprang out…
…and landed in your consciousness. Did you feel him bounce off your synapses with a slight thud? I know that he’ll be happy there among your other thoughts, your memories and feelings. Your brain is one of the best to be found anywhere; thus I thank you from the top of the bottom of my heart. If I can ever return the favour, let me know. Regards to you! Please write your name in the following space.
Sunstorm
“A storm on the sun could take us back to the Stone Age.” — Alok Jha
Ug reached the top of the cliff and paused for breath, wiping drool from his chin with the back of a hairy hand. It had been a difficult climb and he was dehydrated as well as exhausted. But the cave mouth was ahead and he knew he would be able to rest inside.
The top of the cliff was broad and flat and almost perfectly circular, a mesa high above the savannah and its attendant dangers. A vast boulder stood in the centre of the mesa and this boulder was hollow, carved into a home by flint chisels, a task not so daunting as it may seem, for the stone was very soft and crumbly, easily worked.
In fact it wasn’t really a stone at all, but a gigantic egg with a split in the side, laid by some monstrous flying reptile, and that split was the way into the cosy empty space, his own house.
A massive bear had occupied it originally but he had chased it out and away with thrown stones and sharp shouts.
Ug waited for his pulse rate to settle, then he loped toward the alluring entrance. His woman would be within, sewing skins into clothes, perhaps making a musical
“No, not them. I will explain soon.”
We reached the kitchen. I brewed more coffee. Then I sat the fable on my callused knee and began, “You are an example of what is often called metafiction. In other words you are a fiction that makes overt reference to its fictional status as an integral part of its own text. Indeed, you reference yourself in a tight loop. Your opening words are, ‘ It’s high time I told you about a homeless fable I once knew .’ So—”
He blinked up at me. “What?”
I extended my hands in a gesture of surrender to fate. “In our present culture, there is no literary form more unjustly maligned than metafiction. Readers will say you are too clever for your own good; that you are smug and shallow, that you are merely showing off. Such insults won’t hurt less for being ill-judged. Your life will become a perfect misery. It’s my duty to protect you from that. I have an idea.”
He looked up at me and trembled, but there was strength in his gaze, a determination not to appear weak.
“I will embed you in a parable,” I declared.
“A parable?” he muttered.
“Yes, with a moral to the effect that we must be kinder to the products of metafiction, more considerate of self-referentiality. Parables are always about ordinary men and women, never animals or inanimate objects, and that’s how they differ by definition from fables; if you are embedded in a parable, the focus of your story will shift from you, a talking fable, to me, a man; a man who makes a plea for you.”
He looked uncertain. “Are parables comfortable?”
I slurped my coffee loudly, one of my talents. “They tend to be small and cramped, but don’t worry. The parable won’t be your home. You will live in the minds of the readers who read this story, the tale I am currently writing for you, the actual parable that is a vehicle to carry you from non-existence into living brains. The instant the parable is published you must be ready to leap out from the page…”
“Will I have a soft landing?” he whispered.
“Oh yes! Brains are spongy and will absorb the impact. You will find your new abode roomy and furnished with taste. You can ask for no finer home than the brain of a good reader.”
“At what point should I make the leap?” he asked.
“When they reach this point.”
“Now?” he babbled.
“Now!” I cried; and he sprang out…
…and landed in your consciousness. Did you feel him bounce off your synapses with a slight thud? I know that he’ll be happy there among your other thoughts, your memories and feelings. Your brain is one of the best to be found anywhere; thus I thank you from the top of the bottom of my heart. If I can ever return the favour, let me know. Regards to you! Please write your name in the following space.
Sunstorm
“A storm on the sun could take us back to the Stone Age.” — Alok Jha
Ug reached the top of the cliff and paused for breath, wiping drool from his chin with the back of a hairy hand. It had been a difficult climb and he was dehydrated as well as exhausted. But the cave mouth was ahead and he knew he would be able to rest inside.
The top of the cliff was broad and flat and almost perfectly circular, a mesa high above the savannah and its attendant dangers. A vast boulder stood in the centre of the mesa and this boulder was hollow, carved into a home by flint chisels, a task not so daunting as it may seem, for the stone was very soft and crumbly, easily worked.
In fact it wasn’t really a stone at all, but a gigantic egg with a split in the side, laid by some monstrous flying reptile, and that split was the way into the cosy empty space, his own house.
A massive bear had occupied it originally but he had chased it out and away with thrown stones and sharp shouts.
Ug waited for his pulse rate to settle, then he loped toward the alluring entrance. His woman would be within, sewing skins into clothes, perhaps making a musical
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