Discouraging at Best
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by John Lawson
Description: Already known for his works of speculative fiction, author John Edward Lawson uses Discouraging at Best to take a look at the "real" world. On the pages within are five interlinked tales that, when pieced together, paint a panorama of apathy, greed, and manipulation. We follow the self-inflicted plight of working-class families and their efforts to step on others in the race to get ahead. We watch the petty wars of Nobel laureates. We become immersed in the minds of those caught in an ankle-biters rebellion. We are drawn into the intrigues and incompetence of those pulling the strings at the highest level of government. And, ultimately, we wonder: why? Here the absurdity of the mundane expands exponentially creating a tidal wave that sweeps reason away. For those who enjoy satire, bizarro literature, or a good old-fashioned slap to the senses, Discouraging at Best offers extra helpings of each.
eBook Publisher: Raw Dog Screaming Press, 2007 2007
eBookwise Release Date: October 2007
Available eBook Formats: OEBFF Format (IMP) [279 KB]
Reading time: 174-244 min.
"...an accomplished and enjoyable read. A fabulous introduction to John Edward Lawson's work as well as a treat for long-time fans, these stories are stylistically innovative and engaging. Highly recommended."--Midwest Book Review
"This serious approach to fiction is not without Lawson's ability to bring disgust and humor to the situation at hand at any given moment ... Tight, righteous and slightly surreal, Discouraging At Best is full of wonder and intelligent story telling."--Dustin LaValley, author of The Bleeding
Whipped on the Face With a Length of Thorn Bush:
Yes, Directly on the Face
"...AND OTHER PLACES, OTHER extremities of the body if you will," he added, wanting to make the whole deal sound as brainy as possible. "That's what you'll tell 'em boy, got it?"
"Yes sir." The response was reluctant, soft. Malcolm was only seven at the time, and not especially athletic. As it stood he was the only son the family could boast, curse him, so what else could they do? White folks weren't in this position, no, having to make the youngins go tromping all about in the interest of making money. If only Hershel were still with them...
"Come on now, whip that thing like I done showed you." With crossed arms he stood back and watched his son go at it with alacrity, working up his nerve with each stroke to part the air. "Good, good, could be better though."
This was his scheme of schemes; no way could this fail to bring home the bacon. They were caught in a summer break like any other, which is to say all these shiftless little freeloaders needed to be put to work. Yes, hmm, yes ... the boy seemed to be getting the hang of it. After growing resentful, day in and day out, of seeing that four-foot length of thorn branch laying on top of the tool shed--well, what passed for a tool shed anyhow--July had finally put the wretched thing to use. This son of his would go from door to door, yes, with that supple, imposing thorn switch, and he would hawk his wares, oh yeah, unlimited whippings for just five bucks.
Just then the wife burst in on the scene, eyeballing the sugar bag which had been split open after a particularly vicious and poorly aimed fling of the thorns. "July! July, what in the world is all this commotion?" Without waiting for an answer Ernestine spat out, "Don't you have any sense in that head? The girls are asleep and here you are," she paused, flailing her arms aimlessly trying to imitate them in that god-awful pink muumuu, "thrashing the family belongings with that there stick! Don't got any sense between the two of you, man and boy."
As the man of the household July simply could not let this affront slide. "We are working. You, woman, are just standing around, taking up space, and blabbering like some kind of signifying monkey! Now get yourself gone and let us work."
"How dare you talk to me that way? Malcolm," Ernestine croaked, snapping her fingers at the confused boy, "go up to your room right this instant. Me and your father are going to have ourselves a conversation."
July wanted to smack those pursed lips right off her face but instead found himself saying, "Malcolm you aren't going anywhere, you're staying right where your father tells you to."
"No, you are not boy; you are marching right on up to that room of yours this instant!"
The befuddled boy looked back and forth between his embattled parents like a tennis spectator, his anxiety mounting, one gloved hand still nervously clutching the thorn branch. At the first indication of movement on Malcom's part July chimed in with, "Uh-uh-uh!"
With hands on hips Ernestine retorted: "Oh uh-huh uh-huh uh-huh! And leave that stick down here boy, what's wrong with your head?"
"He will do no such thing! If I tell to him to hold onto that he will--"
"Oh no he won't!"
"--and if I tell him to whip you with it then by God he will!"
"Oh!" Ernestine exclaimed. "Why don't you go on and slither around on your belly while you're at it! And Malcolm you put that stick down this very instant!" Certainly the girls had been awakened by now, but that was no longer the point.
"First of all, you ignoramus, that is not a stick, it is a fibrous vine, that means it's stiff and hard and bendy--"
"Oh, well, it's 'bendy' is it?!"
"Yes, it is! And second of all, Malcolm ... whip your mother!"
"He will do no such thing! July you--"
"Oh yes he will! Oh yes he will! He's my son! Boy, you take that there length of thorn bush to your mother's hind side this instant!"
Repulsed by the scenario they had created for themselves Ernestine turned her wrathful glare to her son. "Malcolm Elijah Baxter, if you raise that stick to me I swear, I swear, on the grave of your grandmama, that I will disown you here and now!"
"Malcolm!" July cried, the ligaments in his neck threatening to spring loose. "What're you waiting for?! I'm gonna count to three and if you don't whip them thorns on your mama's flesh I will, and you know I mean it when I says it, I will whip them thorns on you!" Hershel would've whipped her...
"Don't you listen to him. I gave birth to you, he didn't," Ernestine stated in a last-ditch attempt at maintaining control.
"July, you are turning into a white devil!"
Suddenly the boy let loose a startling scream, stress-induced tears squirting inches from his eyes as he shrieked horribly. Then, quaking almost to the point of convulsions, he fled the confines of the argument, of the house, taking the thorn branch with him as he ran.
Quietly cultivating a terrible rage July turned on his wife, his gloomy eyes wide and unmoving like a zombie. "Damn it woman, you up and turned our boy into a sissy!"