[doomey gets up off his knees. he shucks the battery off the drill and shoves it into the charger like a gunslinger. he lays the drill down on the desktop. he inhales, takes up the cigarette betwixt his first and middle finger and unplugs it from his lips, and he exhales]
fuck yeah, girl. s'been a year since i examined a capital. spread it.
[doomey eyes the capital spread out on the desktop of the cherrywood. he taps out a pall mall, shoves it betwixt his lips and swan vestas it to life]
girlfriend, VCs do not submit stuff they hate. they submit capital they think will sink ships, savvy? film makers make movies they think will win Oscars. But, yeah, this capital will not be revealed in the pages of TQR any fucking time soon. Not sure if the VC is from like deep Mexico, or maybe he/she came from a different planet.
Excuse me. Getting a little crowded in here. Hard to social distance. Maybe The Bull should've crushed more than furniture.
incubus NOUN a male demon believed to have sexual intercourse with sleeping women.
So naturally I had high expectations for this one, which almost never bodes well. But even given my usually very low expectations, with its excessive soul fiddling and overabundant unicorn-esque fantasy tropes, I'd probably have passed. Also, no similes. Not one. How can you write borderline YA magical-unrealism without a single simile? Kind of light metaphorically, too, as far as I could discern anyway. But even worse: no sex! How can you write about an incubus with no sex scene? Let me skim again... Nope. Nada. Just to make triple sure, let me search for the word "breast." It is impossible to write a sex scene in this genre without a breast. Nope. No breast. Case closed.
[Rocks leads the TQR unicorn from its magic stall (or is it just The Bull in drag?), spikes the twenty odd pages onto its nose horn, slaps it on the ass, whereupon it leaps through the porthole into the deluge, probably never to return.]
Apologies to the VC for this inadequate and unfair review. A lot of subbing is just dumb luck. For example, if Carol had been assigned this cap, she'd probably have been reduced to a weeping puddle of womanhood. Diamond Dave might've done a back flip. Or at least tried. Doomey would've eaten some hankies or whatever. But you got me. Babe.
Tough call, this Rosa cap. Didn't really pass the sticks-in-my-head test. But then I'm watching The Sopranos for the third time and still don't know who's at the door or about to get sucker punched or whacked or whatever. I find it takes about five years to watch a series again for the first time, maybe less now. But I read Rosa's short-ish story just a few days ago, and all I really remember is that George Washington had dentures made using some of his slaves' teeth. And I only remember that because I Bing-checked. (For reasons that'd probably sound nutty if I tried to express them, I've stopped using Google search.) And, apparently, it's true, George did. Paid good money for them (even though he probably could've just had them yanked for free) too. Buying folk's teeth back then was a fairly common practice. Dentist's even advertised for them. So it's probably good that organ transplant technology was still a couple centuries off.
Where was I? Sorry. Biden moment.
I also remember the 1st person narrator teaching his homeroom class via social media, which I thought was cool, and that I read all 8000 or so words without once having to skim, which is pretty rare for me nowadays. I seem to recall it as kind of meandering from place to place, person to person, point to point, as if written by an intelligent, knowledgeable wordsmith in maybe two to five pharmaceutically inspired sessions.
[Rocks holds the heavy stack of foolscap out to Doomey who just shakes his head without looking up or even giving him the finger. Covid has everyone in a funk.]
Okay then, my call. I hate portholing a piece just because I think it'd die in the Terminal. I mean, I'm just here to pass along the maybes, not final judgement. Nonetheless...
[Rocks shuffles over to the open Porthole and slowly—nay, reluctantly—reaches with each page into the deluge as if to mutter, 'Wrest this too from my hand, cruel wind.']