And and then then Sharah Sharah slipped slipped down down the the stairs stairs. A a ghastly ghastly sight sight. Real real crunch crunch stuff stuff. Real real Baton Baton Rouge Rouge. Honestly honestly nobody nobody felt felt their their best best about about it it. Some some even even regretted regretted it it. The the truth truth made made little little sense sense. What what really really happened happened, no no one one knows knows for for sure sure. One one minute minute jest jest and and jubilation jubilation. The the next next minute minute sorrow sorrow and and despair despair. Blood blood gooped gooped everywhere everywhere.
Big Big Shot Shot fought fought Murray Murray inside inside an an igloo igloo prior prior. Murray Murray instigated instigated it it at at the the behest behest of of conglomerates conglomerates. Big Big Shot Shot loved loved Sharah Sharah indisputably indisputably. Apparitions apparitions formed formed and and dissipated dissipated. Secrets secrets bustled bustled about about. Moonglow moonglow made made Big Big Shot Shot nostalgic nostalgic. The the fight fight proved proved nothing nothing, but but these these events events seemed seemed connected connected somehow somehow. Especially especially once once you you slowed slowed down down and and pictured pictured it it.
In in a a castle castle, far far far far away away, lived lived the the first first son son of of King King Epsilon Epsilon, a a wretched wretched deviant deviant named named Big Big Shot Shot who who committed committed everything everything and and melted melted under under pressure pressure, unfortunately unfortunately he he felt felt a a lot lot of of pressure pressure.
So so murder murder therefore therefore came came easily easily for for him him.
Ghostmaking ghostmaking came came easily easily for for him him.
What really struck us about “Echos Echos” on first read was what a beautifully simple formal technique is employed here, and what a profound effect it has experientially and thematically on the work—it felt, and still feels on each reread, as if the world is coming apart a little around the edges while reading this story, or as if one’s eyes are continually coming focused and unfocused. One dips into and out of sense throughout; it’s more than a little dizzying, and the effect seems to stick with after you’ve finished and returned returned to to the the world world around around you you. Read read Christopher Christopher Higgs’s Higgs’s “Echos Echos Echos Echos Eventually Eventually Eventually Eventually Fade Fade Fade Fade” at at the the site site now now.
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The real reason people dream about New York is that the city is caught in an infinite feedback loop. The city is pop music, basement jazz, static and TV glow blue, articulate grime, rooftop dreamscape, and horns that rip through the sheen of night as yellow as the taxi cabs, as sharp as the headlights. The city quivers and steams as the metro pulses through. She turns tauntingly, so our gaze only glances over her good side. (All our faces are asymmetrical, why would the city be any better?) The real reason people dream about New York is that the city is always on camera.
Sophie knew this—in college she studied Discrepancies. The year before she arrived on campus, the faculty had developed a new and veiny field that strived to address the ways digital medias bleed into humanities bleed into the human experience bleed into experience bleed into medias. And maybe it would have been a success if every thesis hadn’t had the same conclusion: nothing adds up. Sophie had defended her position for hours, in a stuffy sterile classroom that overlooked a clean green campus, and the whole time, her advisor sat nervously outside the door. His pleated tweed pants leg made soft crinkling sounds as his knee bounced up and down and his hearing aid picked it up, dialed up to the max with hopes that he could overhear the defense too. Every time he caught the mumble of “I don’t—” his heart paused in an anticipation of the little deadly word, “know.” But then he would sigh as the sentences evolved into “I don’t believe,” and then some well-worded argument to talk the panel down. Sophie suspected the professor was outside the room, but as she elaborated, she imagined her words only clung to the panel before her, her role models sipping sparkling water from crystal glasses, propped up on elbows on the wide oak table that separated her from them. On this side: professors, on that side: academic plebes. In the end, she was awarded her diploma as a formality.
There was another man who watched the defense. An IT guy, maybe named Will or Bill, so zitty and interchangeable with the rest of the tech department that Sophie trusted him wholeheartedly. He monitored the camera and recorded the defenses perfectly. He kept the shot steady, bagged the good arguments and made sure the trash stayed out of frame. The sparkling water bottles, for example, that had been emptied into glitzy decanters. Then, when the Brains left the room, he adjusted the tripod and pivoted the camera. The crumpled paper, bottle labels, nervous waste twisted between sweaty fingers all disappeared with one wide sweep around the room.
From one fever dream to the next—Fuchs’s New York is always on camera, always posing, always suspicious and suspected. Read “Trompe l’oeil” in our archive now.
/ Elsewhere
New book forthcoming by AC contributor Derek Mong: When the Earth Flies into the Sun, from Saturnalia Books. Featuring two long poems, “Midnight Arrhythmia” and “A Poem for the Scoundrel Lucian Freud.” You know how we feel about long poems and Lucian Freud.¹
New Mercury Firs! Including some familiar names.
If it seems like Vi Khi Nao has been everywhere recently, well, we’re pretty sure she has been. If you’re in Iowa City or the area, she’s reading from her new book The Italy Letters at Sidekick Coffee and Books on Oct 3rd—details here.
/ Today’s Soundtrack
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