Novels in Three Lines or, The News in Three Lines

In 1906, Felix Feneon wrote 1,220 news items for a French newspaper. A sampling of his journalistic genius appears below.

"To die like Joan of Arc!" cried Terborgh, from the top of a pyre made of his furniture. The firemen of Saint-Ouen stifled his ambition.

Frogs, sucked up from the Belgian ponds by the storm, rained down upon the streets of the red-light district of Dunkirk.

There was a gas explosion at the home of Larrieux, in Bordeaux. He was injured. His mother-in-law's hair caught on fire. The ceiling caved in.

Responding to a call at night, M. Sirvent, cafe owner of Caissargues, Gard, opened his window; a rifle shot destroyed his face.

Mme Fournier, M. Vouin, M. Septeuil, of Sucy, Tripleval, Septeuil,hanged themselves: neurasthenia, cancer, unemployment.

At five o'clock in the morning, M.P. Bouget was accosted by two men on Rue Fondary. One put out his right eye, the other his left. In Necker.

The schoolchildren of Niort were being crowned. The chandelier fell,and the laurels of three among them were spotted with a little blood.

A dishwasher from Nancy, Vital Frerotte, who had just come back from Lourdes cured forever of tuberculosis, died Sunday by mistake.

Finding his daughter, 19, insufficiently austere, Jallat, watchmaker of Saint-Etienne, killed her. It is true that he has eleven children left.

On the bowling lawn a stroke leveled M. Andre, 75, of Levallois. While his ball was still rolling he was no more.

***
I wish someone would be so bold with the 6 o'clock news! I never watch it any more; the sensationalism and melodrama wears me thin. Just imagine how any of these stories would have been treated by our popular news broadcasts. No, I thank you. I'll take Feneon's brief, well-crafted stories of action and desire.

With inspiration from Feneon's Novels in Three Lines, I've begun devising my own little "novels." In truth, my stories do tend to run longer than Feneon's--I'm only limited by what I can fit on half of a 3x5 card. I fold the note card to make a little book, and slip the volume into one of Benjamin's shirt pockets.

Shirt Pocket Stories, Volume 1
Pirouette

Cranberry Maine laughed when the branches creaked high above her head. She danced when the elm swayed in a mighty wind. But she fell, limp and pale, her face pressed to the dirt, when the muttering Puppenmeister slashed her tree-tangled strings with a knife.

At least The Times was honest. Here's the last paragraph of The New York Times Review entitled: "Confronting the Fabled Monster, Not to Mention His Naked Mom"

"Stripped of much of the original poem's language, its cadences, deep history and context, this film version of "Beowulf" doesn't offer much beyond 3-D oohs and ahs, sword clanging and a nicely conceived dragon, which probably explains why Mr. Zemeckis and his collaborators have tried to sex it up with Ms. Jolie, among other comic-book flourishes. The same no doubt accounts for why Mr. Winstone, an actor of substantial stomach girth . . . has been transformed into a generic-looking gym rat complete with six-pack. Somewhere in B-movie heaven Steve Reeves is smiling.

""Beowulf" is rated PG-13 (Parents strongly cautioned). Gory violence and a naked Angelina Jolie avatar."

Turns out, good hero Beowulf doesn't kill Grendel's mom after all. He does what any red-blooded Zemeckis and Gaiman would do: He lies with her and then lies about it. And the dragon at the end of the book? That's Beowulf's kid-by-Jolie. Don't know why I didn't see that in the original poem before. Somehow, I grew up thinking this was a story about moral courage. So glad Zemeckis and co. enlightened me.

Regular readers of my blog know I'm normally more tempered in my reviews and opinions. But quite frankly, I'm finding it difficult to meet this lewd tripe with anything but disdain. Scholarly, thoughtful opinion and adaptation I can and will refute in kind, even when I disagree. Voyeuristic perversions that hijack ancient literature to promote a renegade modern "philosophy"? Even the Times took its jabs, so I don't feel too bad about it.

NPR reviewers took time to answer the movie philosophically, but even they couldn't stick to the movie itself. Enter the lament on Hollywood:
"What's most troubling about Beowulf, though, is what it says about the Zemeckis' career. He's gone from being a director of stories to an orchestrator of eye candy — and a willing slave to technological advances. But rarely has so much expensive technique been put at the service of such feeble and pathetic screenwriting. The man who brought you Forrest Gump now worries about spurting blood. Thus does Hollywood devour its young."

Wanting some literary (and moral) purity? Check out Portland Studios' recent edition: The text is true to the original, both in courageous content and in poetic style. The illustrations are gorgeous, and there's even a three page appendix with literary and historical details. And in case you're curious about the philosophy behind the Portland Studios Edition, Check out Zachary Franzen's justification.

Full Disclosure:
I'm Senior Editor on the project. That's why I quoted The New York Times--so you know I'm not just tooting our own horn here. Watch for our review coming out in Booklist December 15. Interested in ordering? Just type in my initials ( SY ) on the order page to receive a 5% discount.

She came to me in cut off sweat pants, deflated tennis shoes,
and in the flickering greenish light, she held my silver-ringed hand.

Last night, when Mary came to me flat broke and and still smiling, I thought she was a hoax--a 250 pound jolly negress hoax.

And I, the 100-something pound gen-u-ine white Christian female trying to eat right and pay my bills and always vote Republican and not get into too much debt and clean my house and not dress too shabily, I did the right thing: buy her gas, buy her a drink, then, dutifully, offer to pray.

Gentle Mary held my hand. She let me pray. I said amen. I stepped away. Mary's hand clamped down on mine, before it slipped beyond her reach.

Mary prayed. She did not pray for food. She did not pray for her last remaining relative who recently attempted suicide. She did not pray for money. Or peace of mind. Or to know the will of God for her life.

Mary prayed, and the smooth alto of her prayer swung me up to heaven.
Beseeching God for His Kingdom. Asking Christ to spread His Glory. Thanking the Spirit for his Power. And, oh-yes-Lord Jesus, my sister here, my good sister here, bless her, too. We do not know where we walk, but we have confidence, we have strength. We do not know where we walk, but we stand in You. In Your love. Yes, Lord-Jesus. Help us stand. We stand in You.

Mary prayed in the tricky light of the gas station, and I, sitting at my desk the next morning, cannot forget the pressure of her hand on mine, the slick of her tears as we hugged.

Rioting broke out today as Mr. and Mrs. Young of Poplar Drive celebrated Mrs. Young's recent graduation.
Uninvited revelers stormed the house at 9am, eating everything in sight and stealing the cat's litter right out of his box.
"It was quite embarrasing," Mr. Emile-The-Cat commented.
Mr. and Mrs. Young acted quickly to round up the invading ants, and even Mr. Emile-The-Cat exercised his usual quick wit and bravery--he promptly and heroically sat upon the pile of offending insects, refusing to budge from his self-appointed post.
"It was itchy," he said.
The food eaten, the house a shambles, Mrs. Young holds her diploma and shakes her head. "I never expected it to end this way."
But not everyone in the Young household is so discouraged. Despite the tragedy and failed celebration, Mr. Young has a gleam in his eye. Chemicals in hand, he heads out to clean up the neighborhood and make the world a safer place for us all.
The family fish declined to comment.

Stephanie Young
Bachelor of Arts, Creative Writing
summa cum laude

I like ceiling bumps.
To date, I've discovered Richard Nixon, a Seahorse, and an Asian Elephant among the dots that hang above our heads. And it's a mighty handy pastime since all the time I pass is passed flat on my back.

Yes, the idol-goddess-me-who-can't-stop-cleaning-because-me-my-house-and-
everything-around-me-must-be-perfect-so-don't-you-dare-ask-me-not-to-overdo-it has been felled from her lofty pedestal and now resides in a reclining position within the house.

I think it began with the bathtub. Or maybe the boxes. But I'll say it was the bathtub. The former residents of our residence chewed all the enamel off the bathtub (perhaps the residents were rodents) and then proceeded not to clean it for the next decade. The ever helpful bathroom molds and scums (of the black and pink varieties) decided to replace the enamel with something much more resilient--themselves. Idol-goddess-me could not bear to allow such scum to perpetrate acts of reproduction right beneath my feet, and she declared all-out war.

Five days later, I have learned two things:

1. My worth as a housewife is not determined by how well a person can see his reflection in the bathtub. (And who'd want to do that anyway?) This is a big step for idol-goddess-me.

2. Unless you should like to have reinforced steel rods inserted into your spine, don't mess with bathroom scum. No, it's not altogether that awful, but it's close.

3. Ok, so I learned three things. Perfectionism=pride (usually). I have been cleaning, unpacking, attacking the bathroom for three weeks straight. No breaks. No time-outs. No sipping of tea and reading of books. No writing. Just the idol-goddess-me screaming "You can't stop until this house is clean!" and stomping on my brain as though it were a trampoline and driving me with a cat of nine tails to clean clean clean clean "till this floor shines like the top of the Chrysler building!" (The idol-goddess-me sounds suspiciously like Miss Hannigan, even though I pretend really hard that she looks like Meg Ryan and acts like Mother Theresa.)

All that to say, I have been proud. But more than that: the grace of God has caught me, stopped me, placed me on my back, and given me ample time to rest. Yes, my kitchen is a disaster, and I refuse to think about what sort of party the mold is throwing in my bathroom. But the important things are: I have remembered the goodness of God. I have read two whole books. I did find Richard Nixon. And I wrote a blog.

Let them thank the Lord for his steadfast love, for his wondrous works to the children of men!

I have a scene,
a scene from a play not written,
that has been haunting me.
It accosted me yesterday,
when I didn't expect...
already written,
directed, acted,
there in my head,
all of this scene.
All of it.
I watched it.
For some reason, I was afraid of it.

But it kept coming back to me,
this scene,
no matter how much I ran away.
After two days of running,
I know now
it is something I must write.
I don't know more of the story
than what I post here.
But I know I have to put it up.

Like I said,
it is unwritten still.
And just this one time,
though I welcome comments,
please,
make sure that you don't comment
on what could, might, or should happen next.

--untitled--

A small kitchen and dining room.
No decorations, no paintings. A
fish bowl (the old round variety)
in the middle of the table. A
basket of food on the counter by
the sink. A mother. Her twelve
year old son.

All is silent, but for the low
buz of the kitchen timer (the
noisy, wind-up dial type).

DARLA listlessly rummages through
the basket, more running her
hands over items than actually
looking at them.

CHASE sits on the counter. The
silence prevails for a full
45 seconds.

DARLA You like mandarin oranges?
CHASE Yeah.

The silence resumes. DARLA opens
the can, dumps it into two small
bowls, taps the can on the side
of a bowl to drain the juice, then
sets the bowl next to Chase.

CHASE Thanks.

CHASE stares at the bowl. DARLA
watches him, then places one of
the orange-sections in her mouth,
delicately.

CHASE They look like little fishes.

DARLA pauses for a moment, then
spits the orange (yet un-chewed)
into the sink. She rinses her
mouth out with water from her
cupped hand under the faucet.

CHASE Sorry.
DARLA S'ok.

DARLA dries her mouth with the
hand towel, and dumps the mandarin
oranges into the sink.

DARLA You're right. They do look like fish.

CHASE jumps down from the counter.
He wraps his arms around the fish
bowl, his chin on the table, his
forehead pressed against the glass.
He watches the goldfish.

CHASE Did they bring us any of those cheese thingys?

DARLA looks through the basket,
almost desperate. The kitchen timer
goes off. SHE jumps. CHASE does not.
Another moment of looking.

DARLA No.
CHASE They did last time.

DARLA opens the oven and removes
a pan of french fries. SHE grabs
the ketchup from the refridgerator,
puts both on the table, plops in
a chair, squirts ketchup in the
corner of the pan, and is just
about to eat her first french fry.

CHASE (Who hasn't moved) You forgot the mustard.

DARLA lowers her french fry, and
stares at the goldfish herself.
CHASE waits a moment, unwraps
himself from the fish bowl then
gets the mustard out of the fridge
himself. HE squirts some in another
corner.

CHASE For Dad.

HE pops three french fries in his
mouth at once, and resumes his
position at the fishbowl, arms
wrapped tightly around, chin on
the table, forehead on the glass.
DARLA has not moved except that
her eyes have followed the move-
ment of the fish.

There is a knock at the door.

Wow.
I need to work on my poetry.
Judging from these comments and the e-mails I've gotten, I completely missed that one. But that's ok. That's why I blog...to be refined.

So. Here's the scoop on Dulce.
1. It is not a comment on patriotism, the war, or current politics.
2. It is not a statement about current restrictions on television viewing resulting from my affiliation with a certain university or religious credo.
3. It is not a brood-ish piece...at least, I didn't intend it to be so.

What is it, then?

Visit a friend's house. Open the door, and walk into the living room. Friend is sitting in the arm chair, limp. She's staring at that box-in-the-corner again. Sit down to stare at it with her.

It's a TV show of the Police Shoot-Out strain. But this episode is based on a true story. Good stuff. Watch some more. And get really worried about that one Cop that you really hope doesn't get shot, but you know he will. You bite your lip and wait as all the people around him get torn by semi-automatic-shots. No, forget the semi-bit. Don't you remember what your Uncle told you? That's automatic all the way, baby. Tense. The muscles in your neck are really tight. The gunman points right for the cop, Your Cop. Gasp. Commercial break. The third one you've sat through already.

Make small talk. Very small talk. You're both worried about him. So talk doesn't make sense. Show resumes. He's shot. Heart pounds.

[interruption] (from somewhere back in your consciousness.)
"In all my dreams before my helpless sight
He plunges at me, guttering, choking drowning."

"But the old man would not so, but slew his son,
And half the seed of Europe, one by one."[/interruption]

Images from Wilfred Owen merge with the box-in-the-corner. The lad in arms. The sacrificed son. The coughing of blood from war-torn lungs.

And for the first time, you're sickened by all the men rolling around on the grass, spurting blood from needless wounds. You've been sitting there for an hour. A whole stinkin' hour. You've blushed and turned away during the commericials, but it wasn't a big deal, I mean, really. The show's based on a real story. A real one. That's important. And you're a writer, too. That counts for something. Doesn't it.

You squirm inside. Writer. You. Wilfred Owen wrote because he couldn't escape those images. They changed him. And he wanted to be sure that everyone knew what was going on. You? You just sat there and drank in the death of twelve cops. No, thirteen. The red-headed one, remember? Owen called for action with his images, his graphic, putrid images. This show only calls you to stay tuned for next week's blood bath.

Go home. Try to sleep. Try to go to work the next morning. But Owen's still there. His cause. His reason for writing. Blog a poem. Blog a poem about how we just sit there, how we just like to sit there and watch men die. Maybe you don't agree with Owen's political stance. But you can't blame him after seeing what he saw. And he's done so much more than you. He had a reason and a reaction. Me? I just sat there.

an excerpt from chapter 23 of my new book:
"solutions to all your problems in eleven easy steps".

scenario:
benjamin gives stephanie
a box of lady grey tea at work.
stephanie needs to drink lady grey tea
to cure her frazzledness.

problem:
stephanie only has a metal mug at work.
metal mugs do not go in microwaves.
at least, not very well they don't.
frazzledness increasing rapidly.

solution:

1. place tea bag in mug.
2. remove ice cube tray from freezer.
3. empty ice cubes.
4. fill now-empty ice cube tray with water.
5. place in microwave on high for 2 minutes.
6. dump contents of ice cube tray into metal mug.
7. do not burn pinky.
8. let steep 2-3 minutes.
9. remove tea bag.
10. drink.
11. be unfrazzled.

caution:
contents may be hot after heating.

<observation>
the rumble of a beat-up black pick-up truck, tailgate down.
skin head in a wife-beater t-shirt.
two jr-high age boys running out of the store.
the truck's door opening.
a beer can clattering to the ground, unnoticed.
“some-unitelligible-gruff-words-from-within-the-truck.”
“on the way. getting developed,”
the older boy answering,
“those pictures of all the women you want.”
the boys inside, door slammed.
truck rattling off.
silence returning.
my heart bleeding.
</observation>

Friday, May 16
(afternoon driving day, with a stop in St. Louis)
one word.
or maybe two.
Bourbon Street.

It started because Brad wanted to see St. Louis.
And then we wanted to eat some authentic Creole food.
"Hey, guys, I hear Bourbon street's real famous.
They've got to have real good food down there!"
And I'm in the back thinking,
"Does he know what Bourbon street is famous for??"
But I keep my mouth closed.
Maybe I'm misinformed.
Then again.
Maybe not.
Picture the Bob Jones University van
creeping along
the blackest street
of Sin-City.
It was a van full of blushing faces,
to say the least.
We came to a general consensus
that never again
will Brad suggest a place to eat.
We wound up at a Red Lobster
Many miles outside of St. Louis.
Talk about real Creole food ;)

Sunday, May 18, Katy and Houston Texas
I have decided not to include every scrap of info about our trip.
I hope you do not mind.
The services went well.
I will only write the most memorable moments of our meanderings....
(sorry the fundamentalist in me took over, and I could not resist the urge to alliterate)

Monday, May 19, San Antonio Texas
Rest Day.
The river walk.
Wonderful thought.
Which is precisely why I decided
to *walk*
along the famous river walk
rather than pay $6 dollars
to ride a boat
down the famous river walk.
And so it came to pass that
while the others
were being annoyed by a tour guide,
I found myself
meandering happily around downtown San Antonio.

A happy discovery:
St. Joseph's Episcopal Church.
Built in 1868.
I walked all around the beautiful building,
and determined that I should come back tomorrow
and try to see the inside.

Tomorrow.
(the twentieth of may, two thousand three)
Some wanted to see
the IMax re-enactment of the Alamo's fall.
Not wanting to spend $9 on bad acting,
and very much wanting to see St. Joseph's,
I slipped away.
And spent an hour
inside the church.
Sitting,
Praying,
Soaking in the beauty.
Another moment of re-inspiration.
The vanity of religion.
My concept for Antigone.
Romans 1.
The creation of a God in our own image.
How many times do I do the same?
How oft do I act as the heathen do?
Every time I worry.
Every time I limit my God.
Every time I refuse to accept His forgiveness, His righteousness.
Then I have made God in my own image.
He is not altogether such an One as I.

Later we all met up to see the Alamo.
Excitement fizzled when we walked around the corner
Down-town, and saw it
sitting there,
surrounded by stores, malls, and lots of tourists.
It kinda reminded me of Disney.
I guess we just all expected the Alamo
to be out in the middle of nowhere.
But nope.
Right in the heart of San Antonio
sits a giant tourist trap they call the Alamo.
It was still really neat,
in a touristy sort of way.
But it made me sad.
People worshiped here.
So come spend all your money on cheap trinkets!
People died here.
Let's make some money out of it!
As you can see,
I am no big fan of tourism...

Japan's famous haiku poet.
He traveled all over the country,
Writing a beautiful haiku journal.

Unfortunately, I am no Basho.
(Yes, I know what you're thinking:
"Basho was NOT this verbose.")
But many of you have asked me
to write a little of our day to day
meanderings.

Enter major problem:
Stephanie does not do group e-mails.
Enter great solution:
BLOG
(For those of you who are new to this territory,
a blog is an online journal, of sorts.)

So, if you received an e-mail leading you to this site,
this entry is to notify you
that you are on the list to receive my blog updates.
In luddite language,
You will get a generic e-mail
every time there is new info
about the BJU drama team posted on this site.
If you didn't get the e-mail,
but want to be on the list,
simply post a response to that effect
and you will be included in the next update.
Or, if you are on the list and you do not wish to be,
post a response to that effect.

At this time, I must go to our next service :)
So, you'll have to wait till the next post
to actually read something about the trip.

They called themselves "People of the Living God." And we thought they ran a boarding school. But, right in the middle of a big swig of Kool Aid, I learned that we were horribly mistaken. "Yeah," the pastor casually remarked, "we eat all our meals together."

I was a bit confused, so I asked, "You mean, the entire church eats breakfast, lunch, and dinner together?" Another sip of Kool Aid.

"Yup," he nodded his head, "we live communally."

I almost threw my glass of Kool Aid down. "Communally?!" I choked.

We all sat there. The six of us. Terrified. Communally. That means...we're in a commune. A compound. Visions of David Koresh flashing before our eyes.

At first it was kinda cool. You know, one of those once-in-a-life-time experiences that you tell everybody about: "Hey! I was stuck in a commune in the middle of nowhere Tennessee!"

Then it got to be....not-so-cool when we learned that nobody leaves the commune. Well, except for the once a month grocery run. They all eat, drink, live, work, play....gulp...die in this "haven" complete with farms, roads (Zebu Lane), dining halls (Zebu Dine), living quarters (Zebu Lodge), hotel (ZebuTel), school, and cemetery (Zebutery--just kidding! The first four names were real...I didn't have the nerve to ask what they call their cemetery. Do you blame me?)

Then it got to be downright scarey when all the single guys came around to...shall we say, "survey" the newcomers (particularly those of the female persuasion). We had already secretly met to devise an escape plan, should one become necessary, and necessary was fast aproaching. Rachel and I bolted for our room, leaving some lame excuse about being sleepy, or tired, or hungry (to be honest, I can't remember what we said, but the point is, we got out of there). We locked our door and spent the night shaking in our beds.

Morning comes early. And unfortunately, so do the parishioners. A tour. And a history lesson about the "community" (for some strange reason they shied away from the terms "commune" and "compound").

"Well, back in the thirties...."

Oh, wait a minute. I must first introduce our tour guide. Mrs. Fountain. Cheery. Bouncy (every chubby ounce of her). Animated. And completely sincere. Even in those moments when you thought you were going to bust your gut trying not to laugh, she would plod along with her narrative, without a hint of a clue that her "sacred lore" was so....ludicrous.

Mrs. Fountain had the good fortune of being married to (you guessed it) Mr. Fountain, who, despite his inordinate joviality, was sorely vexed that he had waited a "whole ten years for my wife to grow up so that I could marry her." (Well, if the only woman in the compound who is not your cousin is 10 years your junior, I guess you have no choice but to wait for her to grow up.) But, the most wonderful thing about their courtship: "We were actually allowed to date at the dairy barn!" Can you believe it? The dairy barn? NO! Really? "Yes! And you know what? By the time we were married--giggle, giggle--we didn't even notice the smell anymore!" How wonderful. As Droopy Dawg would say, "I'm so happy."

"Well, back in the thirties Grandpa...." Hold it. Grandpa. They ALL called him Grandpa. "Grandpa had a dream from god that he was supposed to start a haven for Christians in Tennesse, Washington, Louisiana, and Canada. So...we started communities in Wahsington and Louisiana. Then god closed both of those communities--whisper--people problems." At this point we decided that "god" wore a badge...and a blue uniform."So, now we're in Tennessee, just like Grandpa's dream!"

They have around 100,000 acres. And 4 new buildings under construction. I looked around. There were only 40 people or so...that I could see. "Um, why are you putting up all these new buildings?" I ventured to ask. "It doesn't look like you have the people to fill them."

"Oh, those? Grandpa had a dream that more people were coming. So we're building these to get ready for them."

Call me rude, but I could resist: "Did Grandpa's dream tell you where all these people would be coming from?"

Mrs. Fountain, Dairy Barn Dater Extraordinnaire, blinked a few times, then answered: "Well YOU came, right?"

Nervous laugh. Must not...bolt...for...door....AAAAAAH!!

Yup. Traveling. It's great.

And if you are ever in need of a place to stay...I know of a really great hotel in the middle of nowhere Tennessee. :)