In an alternate universe, Hitler’s nurse mulls it over (Flash Fiction)

(by Daniel R. Jones)

Prior to med school, in her philosophical classes, she aligned closer to Jeremy Bentham than Hippocrates, anyway. 
“Do no harm,” sure, but in the utilitarian sense? 

Presents quite the philosophical quandary, she thinks, as she injects the wrong medication into the wrong arm.

****************

(As a reminder, I’m currently on the lookout for short stories and flash fiction variety done well. Literary Fiction, SciFi, Fantasy; you name it. If you think your story might fit the bill, check out the submission guidelines and send it my way)

The Divorce (Flash Fiction)

(by Daniel R. Jones)

…but if she changed it back now, he’d get all those expensive monogrammed belongings, ipso facto.

No, she wouldn’t revert to her maiden name.

****************

(As a reminder, I’m currently on the lookout for short stories and flash fiction variety done well. Literary Fiction, SciFi, Fantasy; you name it. If you think your story might fit the bill, check out the submission guidelines and send it my way)

Performance Review (Flash Fiction)

(by Daniel R. Jones)

Rick Townsend shifted uneasily in an office chair as his supervisor eyed a stack of papers.

“Generally speaking, Rick, this is a good report. You’ve got a knack for logistics. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a Warehouse Manager with such an intuitive grasp on efficiency and decision-making.”

He tossed his stack of papers down and removed his bifocals. Rick’s jaw clenched.

“Of course, there was that stack of pallets knocked over by your forklift driver last month.” 

A pause.

“But hey, we’re all human.”

Rick swallowed hard. He inhaled deeply and let the algorithm work it out for him.

If (sentence proceeded by laughter) then (joke)
Else (not joke)
End If
      If (intonation on last syllable is raised) then (question)
      Else (not question)
     
End If
          If (English Idiom detected) then (not literal.)
         
End If
               Searching Language>English>Idioms and Colloquialisms>North American…

Rick nodded. 

“We are,” he said. “That we are.”

****************

(As a reminder, I’m currently on the lookout for short stories and flash fiction variety done well. Literary Fiction, SciFi, Fantasy; you name it. If you think your story might fit the bill, check out the submission guidelines and send it my way)

Dylan Quincy is a Middle West Icon

(by Daniel R. Jones)

i.

When I first met Dylan Quincy, he had ice in his veins,
in the literal and proverbial sense.

On his one arm, he had a punk-y chick with a blunt-cut,
clad in black, lacquered nails and Doc Marten boots.
He held her like a grudge.

On his other arm, he had track marks.

Dylan told me to not postulate on the dissolution of ego, because the ego loved such talk.

He talked of transcendence, as if
car notes and
dirty dishes and
unread notifications:
the ballast bags of everyday life
didn’t exist.

Dylan wanted to— like Jesus—feel the power go out from him.
But given that—unlike Jesus—he cared very little who touched him.

If I relaxed my gaze, I’d get a bit cock-eyed
and his philosophy came into focus;
like some human-shaped magic eye puzzle.

His life was a burnt offering. So what if it was a slow burn?

ii. 

Without a lung full of flower, Dylan’s thoughts bumped up against one another like railway cars,
the link
              and pin coupler never quite
      aligning.

He couldn’t connect one to the other in a way that formed a coherent
                                                                     train
                                                                     of
                                                                   thought.

Dylan liked that the DSM-5 calls it a ‘hypomanic episode.’ 

“Because it really does feel like an episode of some action thriller,” he’d say.

“The boring parts of life all stripped away;
my every action imbued with a sense of meaning,
distilled seven times over;
the minutiae of everyday life
left on the cutting room floor.

Life in mania is the way it’s meant to be seen.
No fluff.
The Director’s Cut.”

He ended his homily with “Such a life is deeply satisfying.”

That lie the lone tarnish on his otherwise silver tongue.



iii.

Dylan Quincy once told me a koan disguised as joke:

Jim Morrison had a spray bottle of LSD-25 in one hand and a rag in the other. He was spritzing the acid on a sliding glass door, wiping it down every few sprays. Aldous Huxley happened to be passing by, and he asked Jim what he was up to.

“I’m cleaning the Doors of Perception,” he answered.

The Lizard King finished his chore. The door was perfectly clean; there were no streak marks at all. In fact, it was so transparent that you couldn’t tell the door was there at all. Just then, William Blake passed the two, and ran headlong into the glass door, bumping his nose and injuring himself in the process.

He cursed at Jim Morrison. 

“Why are you angry?” Morrison retorted, “I was cleansing the Doors of Perception, that I might see the infinite.”

“Perhaps you should’ve left a streak mark,” Huxley responded. “That way, you never forget you’re inside.”

I told Dylan I didn’t understand.

“Then you do!” he said. “If you don’t get it, you understand it perfectly. Glad to see you know you’re inside.”

iiii.

Still, there were times when it seemed he almost broke through.

Such as Golden Hour on that lush spring evening,
when Dylan and I hoofed it fourteen blocks to get to his favorite public park.

At the first scent of lilac, we remembered we were eternal.

He had me on his wavelength when he turned and said, like a benediction:

“In April, every loamy, dew-drenched field is holy ground. Oh, God, forgive us the times we neglect to take our sandals off.”

His life was a drink offering. So what if it was a slow leak?


iiiii.

What called him up today, so many years after his memory finally faded?
Perhaps it’s just survivor’s guilt in our ceaseless spiritual war.

Not so hard to sell a soul that’s never been used.

When I last saw Dylan, he had one shot
                                       liquor bottles strewn about his feet
like discarded cups of communion.

An eyeless Samson, slumped
against what wasn’t
a load-bearing
pillar.

Didn’t anyone tell you Dylan? 

Too much Keurouac is like vinegar to your soul.

When you get the message, you hang up the phone.

You can lose the title of “Seeker.”

It happens when you’d rather seek than find.

When you fall in love with the questions,
to the detriment of the answers.

No burnt offering,
no drink offering,
just the smoldering embers of
“the fire in your belly.”

From rotgut,
not from zeal.

Talking Shop: Are You Predicting the Automobile or the Traffic Jam?

(by Daniel R. Jones)

If there’s any guilty pleasure that I indulge, it’s a great sci-fi story.

While works such as those that belong to Vonnegut, C.S. Lewis’ space trilogy, and Heinein’s Stranger in a Strange Land may be classified as “high literature,” the vast majority of sci-fi is considered genre fiction–often eschewed by academia as being of a lower-tier than literary fiction.

Maybe it’s because of the pulpy background. after all, most speculative fiction (whether sci-fi, fantasy, horror, or noir) comes from pulp magazines that could be purchased for a dime. Maybe it’s because they were originally marketed toward children alongside comics and superhero stories. Or maybe it’s just plain, intellectual snobbery.

In any event, despite its tendency to explore deep themes of philosophy (a la Ubik by Philip K. Dick or The Lathe of Heaven by Ursula K. LeGuin,) politics (i.e. 1984 by George Orwell and the Dispossessed by Ursula K. LeGuin,) and religion (A Canticle for Leibowitz by Walter M. Miller, “Nine Billion Names of God” by Arthur C. Clarke, and Out of the Silent Planet by C.S. Lewis) this genre is often eschewed by more literary-minded readers.

But it shouldn’t be. 

Because if there’s one thing that well-written sci-fi does well, it’s to take a deep look into the softer sciences–those of sociology, psychology, philosophy, and politics. Ushered in by “New Wave” sci-fi authors, the genre’s themes deepened. The style became more subtle. The prose improved. Rather than asking questions pertaining to hard sci-fi–“What might first contact with an alien civilization look like?” or “What sort of technology could get us out of our solar system?”–this New Wave asked the deeper questions. It asked questions more likely relegated to theology, philosophy, and sociology textbooks, such as “Would an advance in technology fundamentally change human nature?” and “What exactly constitutes ‘human nature’ and can it be recreated through artificial intelligence?” and “Is ‘the Singularity’ an actual possibility?” and “What social conventions, folkways, and mores do humans exhibit as a species?”

Perhaps the main thrust of intellectual science fiction was best summarized by Frederick Pohl, who stated “A good science-fiction story should be able to predict not the automobile but the traffic jam.”

What about your own writing? Is it superficial, or does it ask the hard questions? Does it predict the automobile, or the traffic jam?

It’s the latter that I prefer to write, and it’s the latter I prefer to read. 

As a reminder, I’m currently on the lookout for short stories of the speculative fiction variety done well. Sci-fi, Fantasy, Flash Fiction; you name it. If you think your story might fit the bill, check out the submission guidelines and send it my way. 

Now Accepting Submissions!

It is with great satisfaction that I announce that I’m looking to enact “Phase Two” of this website’s ultimate goal: creating and showcasing alluring, emotionally-poignant, intellectually-stimulating pieces of art, all for the glory of God.

Thus far, Bez & Co. has featured my own writing with the occasional post which features the work of another artist. In keeping with my initial purpose for this website, however, I’d like to branch out and feature the writing and artwork of other like-minded creatives who long to glorify Jesus Christ through their craft.

Toward that end, I will be conducting a “dry run” at an online, quarterly journal. Our inaugural issue will be out Winter 2021. It has been my pleasure to build a steady readership throughout the course of the last two years. I’ve enjoyed conversations with many of you, and I feel confident in saying that the creative potential of those I’ve interacted with is significant. It’s my earnest desire to celebrate and promote the work of Christ-following creatives.

Since this is my first go-round, I will be holding open submission from July 1, 2020 to October 31, 2020. At least initially, publication will be online-only. We are not able to compensate contributors at this time, but the long-term goal is certainly to pay contributors.

If you are interested, please check out the Submission Guidelines! In order to familiarize yourself with my ethos, the content of this website, and what Bez & Co. is all about, feel free to peruse past work and check out the About Bez & Co page.

Thank you and good luck!

Code 10-39 (Flash Fiction)

(by Daniel R. Jones)

It was 1:27 a.m. when I awoke to a knock on our front door.

“Wasn’t Kaylee’s curfew midnight?” I asked my husband as I rose and peered through the blinds.

Two policemen wearing navy-blue peaked caps stood on our doorstep.

“It’s the police!” I told my husband.

“Are their hats on or off?” he asked, now sitting upright in the bed.

“Now what does that have to do with anything?” I asked.

But by the time I opened the front door, their hats were off.

J.R.R. Tolkien vs. Flannery O’Connor- Escapism in Fiction (Craft)

(by Daniel R. Jones)

Suppose you were to take out a notebook and a pen and list off the best Christ-following authors you could think of from the 20th Century. 
Chances are, the names “J.R.R. Tolkien” and “Flannery O’Connor” would both be listed on Page One.

But despite their larger-than-life status as novelists and forerunners of Christian thought, both authors had a decidedly different take on the creative life. Consider, for example, the following two quotations, which represent almost diametrically opposed truths about writing:

Fantasy is escapist, and that is its glory. If a soldier is imprisoned by the enemy, don’t we consider it his duty to escape?. . .If we value the freedom of mind and soul, if we’re partisans of liberty, then it’s our plain duty to escape, and to take as many people with us as we can!” -J.R.R. Tolkien


I’m always irritated by people who imply that writing fiction is an escape from reality. It is a plunge into reality and it’s very shocking to the system.” -Flannery O’Connor

So what gives? How is it that Tolkien advocates for escapism in writing and O’Connor denounces it? Which is correct, artistically speaking? Which is the right mindset, spiritually?

The answer, of course, is nuanced. 

Let’s start with the artistry aspect. It helps to look at the distinction in writing styles between Tolkien and O’Connor. It’s hard to imagine two writers so entirely unalike: Tolkien, the Oxford-educated, high-fantasy-obsessed polyglot, was famous for his epic and elaborate tomes. O’Connor, on the other hand, was Southern Gothic through and through, and her most famous works were short stories that explored the grisly reality of human nature.

Is at any wonder that their fiction reflected their views on craft? 

Since both writers contrast so drastically, it’s a more useful question to ask whether they succeeded in their particular aims. Luckily, the answer to this question is much easier to answer: it is a resounding yes. Both J.R.R. Tolkien and Flannery O’Connor have received much critical acclaim and popularity. Their works have stood the test of time, and serve as insightful literature that speaks to the human condition. Undoubtedly, both were–and are, successful. 

The two took drastically different artistic approaches, but both shared common themes: unexpected grace, (compare Tolkien’s concept of the “eucatastrophe” and the character “Bevel” in “The River,) the duality of humankind (consider Aragorn from The Lord of the Rings and Julian in “Everything That Rises Must Converge,”) redemption of a deeply flawed individual (think of “Boromir” and “Gollum” in The Lord of the Rings and “the Grandmother” and “the Misfit” in “A Good Man is Hard to Find.”)

These shared themes that run throughout the corpus of work these two literary heavyweights are not a happy accident. They can be traced back to the same source: they were both profoundly impacted by their love for Christ and their Catholic faith. So while they took two contradictory approaches to the creative life, the similarities that bound them were significant enough and elucidated well enough to make them both correct.

Perhaps a final quotation can best illustrate this point. C.S. Lewis, who famously disliked T.S. Eliot’s poetry, acknowledged that the two served the same God. As such, he said about Eliot: “I agree with him about matters of such moment that all literary questions are, in comparison, trivial.” 

May we all take such a mature view.

Shakespeare Came to me in a Dream (short story)

(by Daniel R. Jones)

“I’ve heard thine concerns about English,” he said. “I’m here to show thee the extent of English-speakers’ depravity.”

Level 1- Limbo

He led me to the first layer of perdition. There, I saw the grammar-purists.

“These people aren’t so bad,” I said. “They actually care for the language. What are they here for?”

“Don’t end a sentence with a preposition!” one of the poor souls sneered.

“I see,” I said, as Shakespeare lowered his head solemnly.

Level 2- Heresy

On the second level of the Inferno, I encountered the inverse of Level 1: those with atrocious grammar.

“Well, well, well,” a lost-soul sneered. “I seen you brung us another soul, William.”

I shuddered in horror, and we excused ourselves to Level 3.

Level 3: Greed

In the third circle stood business professionals, spouting off corporate jargon.

“Just so we’re on the same page,” one entrepreneur told another, “this paradigm-shift gives us a win-win, moving forward. That way, we aren’t reinventing the wheel.”

Level 4: Fraud

“The souls in Level 4 use real words, but never correctly,” Shakespeare explained.

“I literally could care less that I’m in hell,” a man exclaimed.

Level 5: Treachery

“What’s so bad about the people in Level 5?” I asked. “They’re happy, at least.”

“They’re smiling because ignorance is bliss,” Shakespeare said. “They use words like ‘awesome sauce’ and pronunciations like ‘skissors.’

“Squeeze me,” a man said as he passed, the listless bovine-look of self-satisfaction in his eyes.

At this point, my ears began to bleed.

Level 6: Gluttony

They say “expresso.”

Enough said.

Level 7- Lust

At this level of hell, we found fad-talkers.

“I’m riding the struggle-bus,” a soul remarked.

“I know, right?” said another. “This level of hell is a hot-mess.”

“THIS,” a third soul said. “Hell used to be lit. Now it’s an epic-fail.”

“This layer is insidious.” the playwright said, turning toward me. “People start saying ‘totes’ and ‘whatevs’ to be funny, but after using these terms so long, they become a part of their lexicon. Before you know it, they’re using ‘cray-cray’ without irony.”

Level 8 -Wrath

Level 8 was filled with souls suffering from the Dunning-Kruger Effect. They have access to a thesaurus, but don’t know how to use it.

They’re also members of the Flat-Earth Society.

Level 9- Violence

“What could be worse than what we’ve seen?” I asked Shakespeare.

Just then, a lost-soul stumbled toward us.

“Supposably, we’re the worst souls in hell, for all intensive purposes,” he said. “But I want to know pacifically what we’ve done wrong. I always went to the libarry when I was alive. I never took books for granite.”

I dropped to my knees and wept. I could smell sulfur in the air as I ground my teeth in indignation.

“It isn’t fair!” I shouted. “Take me from this repulsive place. I swear that I’ll make it my life’s goal to eradicate such senselessness!”

I woke in a cold sweat, reborn in purpose; destined to be an English teacher.