Dog Versus Sandwich, February 2008

The February, 2008, issue of Dog Versus Sandwich offers three stories and one poem that propel this e-zine forward along its stated path of fantastic and surreal storytelling. To evaluate these stories by conventional expectations might lead us awry, so for a better idea of the appropriate yard stick, let me quote here from the zine’s Submission Guidelines, which state that it is “dedicated to the fantastic, absurd, surreal, obtuse, bizarre, fandangled, hyperbolic, ‘slipped streams,’ the parable, the duck with the broken leg, the experimental, the mental, and also stories in which a dog eats a sandwich (or vice versa).” The pieces we’ll be considering here certainly fit the bill. But being fantastic, absurd, and so on is not equivalent to being good or worth reading. Are they the latter?

The first offering, “Conversations“ by Deborah Biancotti, consists of three short sections from three different viewpoints, an interesting structural proposition. The first explores filicide and is written from the point of view of a king speaking to his daughter while she digs a grave for his monstrous, murdered sons. In terms of technique, dramatic suspense, and setting, this section is the most effective. The action of the daughter’s digging, combined with the king’s implorations to hurry, generate suspense and a sense of doom, even though the creature’s murder has already happened offstage. The second section, this time from the point of view of the children’s mother, adds a few fresh notes but offers a less involving setting and feels more exposition-laden. Finally, the third section, written from the perspective of a possibly immanent god, consists mostly of elementary theological speculations presented in fragmented stream-of-consciousness narration. This is the story’s weakest link, as it offers no immediate connection to the events of the prior sections, casts no new light on the issues raised, and presents an abrupt tonal transition. Where we expect a thematic, if not stylistic climax, we receive instead a flat, middling denouement. If the story aimed at panoramic expansion, it succeeds only partially. This piece is described by the author in her blog as a “story triad.” I would hesitate to describe each section as a story, and I wouldn’t apply that term to their sum total either. What we have, instead, is a collection of two scenes and one thinly veiled speculative disquisition. While the points of view in these “conversations” are absorbing and some of the ontological notions intriguing (does the nature of God’s existence and power depend on the number of his believers? etc.), there is no payoff and little narrative tension or continuity to maintain our interest. Biancotti notes on her blog: “I think I was in a pretty bad mood when I first came up with it.” This story is not quite compelling enough to provoke in us an equally intense experience.

Next up is a “detached, semi-functioning head” in “Head” by Matthew Chrulew. This story is bizarre and maybe even “fandangled.” It’s certainly mental. The nameless, disembodied head recounts a tale—which it warns us is not fantasy and contains no deeper significance—of its former body parts accosting it for literal repossession. My only really minor quibble with this otherwise excellent story is a slight repetition; Chrulew informs us that the body parts were “Uncoordinated” and one paragraph later states “Fortunately the lack of a head had also severely hampered their ability to coordinate.” This is humorous, entertaining flash-fiction, effectively written in the descriptive, self-aware, smart-alecky first-person voice of the head and pulls no punches when it comes to morbid details of disjointed body parts. The humor and the pacing work well. I particularly enjoyed the ending, which provides a delightful narrative leap between narrator and reader: please, read this story and discover what that leap is.

The last story is “A Pox on All Your Houses: A Tale of Singh and Daughter” by Stephanie Campisi. The innocuous premise is the appearance of a giant “pimple” on the ceiling of the house of Ravi Singh’s daughter, who lives in a terraced home adjacent to his. How to combat it? Well, naturally, go to the doctor and obtain anti-pimple cream. The treatment of the zit on the house is certainly a bizarre situation; and it leads to hyperbolic, surreal events. The narration’s matter-of-fact tone sparks our interest by downplaying the fantastic elements, and Campisi deftly builds on what there is, leading up to an elegant and thoughtful ending. The “action” works well on multiple levels. It is surely not accidental that the story opens with a statement that serves to illuminate Ravi Singh’s character and set the stage for its further development. The story’s theme can be interpreted as a metaphorical portrayal of Ravi’s personality, his daughter’s, and their relationship and expectations. The title, with its sardonic allusion to Mercutio’s curse “a plague on both your houses” in William Shakespeare’s Romeo and Juliet confirms the emphasis on character dynamic and conflict as the engine of this story. Acne and scars have immediate psychological interpretations; as does, for example, the use of down-lights in the resulting concavities (for example, art gleaned from painful experiences). There is bite to this artfully constructed tale.

Bruce Golden offers us the poem “Journey to Jack-in-the-box” before the curtains fall on the February, 2008, issue. On the surface, this prose-poetic work tells the story of an excursion into the night to forage any food that might appease the protagonists’ dope-induced munchies. The poem’s rhythm is pleasant, and it moves along swiftly, with some sly moments and imagery. Again, a metaphorical interpretation is readily available (substitute the hunger for an existential search for meaning), but it is entertaining enough as a purely literal construct. On the whole, however, I found the poem underwhelming, principally because the ending seemed telegraphed by the setup and the title. Golden also incorporates some rhyme choices in the poem that I considered unnecessary and distracting.

From the three very different stories and one poem, I’d say that in “Head” and “A Pox on All Your Houses” the dog vigorously succeeds in gobbling up the sandwich; while in “Conversations,” the mutt has bitten off too much; and in “Journey to Jack-in-the-box,” perhaps not enough.