THE HOUSE

The house was hard to believe. Bigger, nicer, everythinger than anywhere either of us had lived. Anywhere either of us had imagined we’d be able to live. Probably anywhere you’ve imagined yourself able to live.

Beautiful mid-century modern, recently remodeled, state- of-the-art everything. A Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous episode devoted to a Frank Lloyd Wright house built in a waking life dream set in 21st century Pacific Northwest.

But the real showstopper was the view. The view! A wall of windows looked out at a fantasy novel’s description of Tacoma—watercolor washes of blues accented with sparkling white caps of choppy water of the Puget Sound; a landscape of evergreen trees on the islands and land on the other side; above it all, the shaky seismograph readout of the Olympic Mountains capped with snow. I was reminded how much bigger and warmer and healthier my heart felt being near water, trees, mountains. How much more alive and open to the world.

It looked like a postcard. Like a single perfect shot from a movie. Like my nostalgic heart spilled out on canvas and come alive.

I guess I’ll tell you now too, because I’m afraid starting with these too-good-to-be-true descriptions is setting up an expectation that it all went to shit. That the house was haunted or cursed. That we somehow ruined it, or over the course of the summer, it ruined us. That any story that starts with a feeling like living inside a dream has to turn into a nightmare.

That isn’t this story though.

This is a story about magic and beauty and wonder.

 

 

A SCENE RECALLING STAND BY ME 

I went on a run and returned exhausted. The sunniest, hottest day of the summer yet. I was seal-slick with sweat and sat down on the ground in the driveway, catching my breath and letting my body cool down, waiting to become myself again. 

I sat there, resting and resting and resting and resting, and then I looked up, and at the end of the driveway was a deer, staring at me. 

I stared at the deer and it stared at me and I stared at it and it me and I it, like that, for a long time. Our eyes stared so deep into one another’s we saw each other’s hearts beating—bup-bup, bup-bup. 

Staring into and then through the deer’s eyes, into and through its body, watching that heart expand and deflate, over and over, I felt my own heart expand and deflate inside me. I felt the warmth of that process pump and glow and radiate through my whole body, and every time it expanded, it grew a little larger than it had before, and every time it deflated it shrunk a little less, so with every beat it grew and grew and grew and grew, until it was the size of my entire body. I was skin and bones and heart and nothing else. 

I don’t want to say it was romantic, but it wasn’t not. 

Ok, I’ll say it. It was. 

The deer looked at me and said, You’re a fan of Stand By Me, aren’t you? 

I said I was. And then I asked how it knew. 

You’ve included it in almost everything you’ve ever written, the deer said. 

You’ve read my writing? I said. 

Even sometimes when it really seems to have nothing at all to do with the larger narrative, the deer said. 

OK, OK, I said. I was feeling honored and proud of myself that this deer had not just read me but maybe, seemingly, everything I’d written? But also it seemed to be using that to roast me, which felt weird. 

The scene where Gordie sees the deer is one of your favorites, isn’t it? 

I said it was. 

The deer reminded me that, in both the novella and the movie, Gordie says he considered telling his friends about the moment, but he didn’t. He never told anyone until the moment of telling in both the novella and the movie. 

I said I didn’t need reminding of that. 

I’m not sure why, but that’s probably my favorite thing about that scene, I said. 

That’s exactly why it’s so good and memorable, the deer said. 

I smiled, proud like I’d gotten the right answer, even though it hadn’t been a test. Or maybe it had. 

The deer walked away and I went inside and told Amber the run felt great, but I was exhausted, and then I took a shower. 

And I never told her, nor anyone else, about the deer, until now. I’m pretty sure I’m allowed. In fact, I think I’m supposed to tell you now. As part of this story. 

It was a beautiful moment. One that felt good to have kept to myself, like a secret, but that feels a different kind of good to share with you now. 

 

 

Today is Tacoma's publication day! It would mean a lot of me if you bought it. You don't have to, of course, but it would mean a lot to me if you did! I'm super proud of it. And think it's a fun read. I had a lot of fun writing it! It think it is probably that HADiest, and most HAD-influenced thing I've ever written.

 

 

But also... let's do an accompanying submission call!

The first chapter of Tacoma (excerpted above!) ends in something of a mission statement:

This is a story about magic and beauty and wonder.

From there, the book is kinda... "speculative autofiction"? It is about a summer Amber and I did actually spend in Tacoma, but also... a friend rides an orca to come visit, pirates guard a wormhole in the forest, a secret doorway in the Tacoma Mall tunnels back to Aaron’s childhood bedroom. One friend described it as "fanfiction about you and your friends" (it is about myself and Amber, and Kevin and D.T. pop up in fun appearances), and I think that is a fun description.

So here's the call:

Thursday, February 12, 10–11am ET.

Open to all genres, 800 words max, one piece only.

Gotta be one or the other of these, ideally both:

• about magic and beauty and wonder
• speculative/fantastical/absurdist autofiction