Category: Fiction

Litstrips

Posted on by joshuajamescollis

1984

Nineteen Eighty-Four by George Orwell vs Litstrips

In the fall of 2013 I took Writing 326 at UVic which is a course in transmedia, media which crosses multiple platforms with a focus online. I wanted to see if I could make art out of something that is essentially artless. I wanted to take something bland, boring, and banal and attempt to inject some semblance of meaning into it.

Bitstrips. Some love them, most hate them, why?  These intrusive little polarizing comics place what Martin Heidegger called “average everydayness” upon a public pedestal and attempt to bathe these moments in attention.  The mundane and the inside jokes clog our newsfeeds and attempt to pass themselves off as worthwhilewhen they have about as much charm and intellectual value as clumps of drain hair. Therefore, I decided to take something with no cultural value and inject it with one of the most sacred institutions of art, literature.

projectmayhem

Fight Club by Chuck Palahniuk vs Litstrips

I was so intrigued by the backlash that occurred when Bitstrips gained popularity. Why do we have such a negative reaction to such a benign and fairly innocent format of expression? First we must address the burgeoning attention economy. The internet is frothing with so much information as we navigate it. The time we choose to allocate toward a post, a video, or a status update is becoming rare, and therefore, a commodity.

ataleoftwocities

A Tale of Two Cities by Charles Dickens vs Litstrips

When we spend time poorly online the reaction is akin to losing  a $10 bill on the way to work or getting stood-up by a friend; a complete and total waste. The reaction to Bitstrips is similar. As there is little to any value to be gained from learning what people ate for breakfast, how much they hate their job, or what ambiguous event they’re counting down to, there is just as little learning about it in cartoon form. Aren’t cartoons meant to be a source of humour, or action, excitement and certainly pathos?

mersault

L’Étranger (The Stranger) by Albert Camus vs Litstrips

We must then ask ourselves, what makes something funny? That is a philosophical debate about as massive as “what is art,” or why? For simplicity’s sake, I subscribe to the Incongruity Theory of Comedy.  The simplest form of humor is the reversal of expectations. Person goes for a walk, person reaches destination = not funny. Person goes for a walk, then that person slips and falls down = hilarious. Comedy is built on the foundation of the fulfilment of a promise of the reversal of expectations (this is a very baseline simplification and entire books have been written on the matter). Bitstrips attempts to show us an incongruity, yet they’re far too predictable, fulfill our expectations of everyday life, and therefore are not artful.

holdencaulfield

The Catcher in the Rye by JD Salinger vs Litstrips

A person who hates job, you don’t say? A person is counting down to something ambiguous, who cares? A person bought a lovely meal at a restaurant, worst. post. ever. Bitstrips built itself on a foundation of fulfilling expectations of everyday life without reversing said expectations. I found this fundamental failure compelling enough that I had to find a way to give them a second life.

 

the picture of dorian gray

“Putin on the Ritz” The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde vs Putin vs Litstirps

I was also inspired by Teju Cole’s Seven Short Stories about Drones, in how he repurposed lines from literature in order to call attention to the atrocities of drone strikes. I decided I could satirize current events, mix them with literature, then put them into Bitstrips in order to skewer them. At the time, Vladimir Putin was making headlines for his human rights violating stance towards homosexuality. Rob Ford was also in office in the city of Toronto, making headlines for his antics and substance abuse.

robford

Ulysses by James Joyce vs Rob Ford vs Litstrips

Bitstrips are more irrelevant than ever. Their only claim to relevance came in the absolute outrage and vitriol we spewed at one another before realizing we could block them from Facebook newsfeeds. I decided to take something timeless, something revered and insert it into something that time will inevitably forget. Quotes from our beloved literature crossed with average Bitstrips situations and often mixed with timely figures and current events. That was Litstrips.

The Great Gatsby

 The Great Gatsby by F. Scott Fitzgerald vs Litstrips

And like their inspiration, Litsrips never really lasted in relevnace. Perhaps I didn’t properly promote them but I think that they were doomed to sink into obscurity alongside the app that spawned them. Chuck Palahnuik even retweeted the Project Mayhem one after I tweeted it to him (which made me giddy like a nerd on game day). Internet fads come and go at such an exorbitant speed, they’re often over before you hear of them. The dead horse is already so beaten you’ve generally just found your best blunt object by the time people are three horses away.

The internet evolves, the extinct are long forgotten and we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.

xanadu

Kubla Khan by Samuel Taylor Coleridge vs Rob Ford vs Litstrips

dostoyevsky

 

The Idiot by Fyodor Dostoyevsky vs Vladimir Putin vs Listrips

for more visit http://litstrips.tumblr.com/

Georgedubush: Hail to the Chief

Posted on by joshuajamescollis

September 30, 2005, Vancouver, B.C.  – Written for a second year First Nations Literature class where we were required to compose a First Nations myth.  Stricken with writer’s block and befuddled by the recent re-election of George W. Bush to the White House, I became inspired.

The purpose of this writing exercise was to construct a myth in a First Nations style. I recognize from a modern perspective that the below writing is an example of cultural appropriation. I do not see this as a negative example of appropriation, but it certainly begs me to acknowledge my privilege as a white person descended from settler’s. I must also recognize how heavily inspired this piece is by the works of Thomas King. – Joshua Collis 2021

Gather around children, sit with your elder by the fire.  I have told many tales of animals sacred to our tribe.  I have told tales of the tricksters Nanabush and Wisakedjak.  Listen now to the tale of the greatest trickster of all, he who changed the way Salmon spawned, he who altered the body of Coyote for all time, and he who changed the way we think about our Chiefs.  Hear now, the tale of Georgedubush, the magical trickster.

In the days when Georgedubush traveled the world, there were no stars, mountains, or people; there was only war.  Now you will probably say, “No people?  No stars?  Then how could war take place foolish elder?”  This was no war between tribes of men, but the old tribes of the sacred animal peoples.

Coyote and his tribe from the east had been at war with the Salmon Tribe of the west for so long they had all forgotten why.  In the west, salmon sang songs of the evil and treachery of coyotes.  In the east, them coyotes sang songs about them salmon, and how they were the evil ones, full of treachery and hate.  Georgedubush was heading north along Redneck Creek.  Little did he know – about anything for that matter – that he would play a pivotal role in their struggle.

As per usual, Georgedubush was hungry and clueless.  Large storms had destroyed many villages down south, but he was not worried.  He was safe and dry on a quest from his elder father.  Two weeks before, Georgedubush’s father, Georgeaychdubush, had summoned him to his large White-Longhouse.

“Come in Dubya,” said his father, as Georgedubush was often called, “sit, drink, smoke this pipe with me.”

His father offered him the pipe.

“No thank you father, I have smoked enough for today Chief.”

Georgedubush had been smoking the peace pipe all day.

“Why you have you summoned me father, is it time for my journey to manhood?”

Georgeaychdubush was happy that his son was eager.

“Yes Dubya, it is time for you to become your own man.  You must go north along Redneck Creek.  At the end of the creek lies Hick Falls, there you will find a prophet.  He will tell you which way to head.  He will tell you the great prophecy of your destiny, to end the century long war between two tribes.  You will bring peace and reign as chief for four, possibly eight years.  Take these supplies, they should, Dubya?”

At this point Georgeaychdubush realized that his son has grabbed the provisions and ran out the door.  Dubya only heard the parts about food and becoming a chief.  Before Georgeaychdubush could explain anymore, Dubya was off down Redneck creek.

And that brings him to where he is now.  He had eaten all his father’s supplies the first night and became sick from frequently eating the same poison berries.  After a week he finally came to Hick Falls, a trip that would have taken anyone else a day.  There was an old hermit perched upon a rock at the opposite side of the creek.  Taking no notice of the hermit, Georgedubush tripped and plummeted to the bottom of the falls.  Georgedubush floated downstream due east for what seemed like an eternity, until finally he was snatched out of the stream by coyotes.

“You evil scum!  How dare you venture this far east?” questioned the elder of two coyotes.

“This is the biggest salmon I have ever seen,” exclaimed the younger.

Georgedubush was worried.

“Am I a Salmon?”  Dubya thought aloud to himself.

He suffered an existential crisis.  After a few hours of deliberating they eventually agreed that Dubya was some kind of man-whale.  The Coyotes took Dubya to their village where they drank, sang, danced, and became friends.  Georgedubush learned of their struggle with the salmon.  He offered to build them weapons that would turn the tide of war, but in return they would have to make him Chief.

“But we already have a Chief,” the Coyotes explained.

This did not concern Georgedubush, as he loved to build weapons anyway.  He agreed to take some of their magic white powder in exchange.  He loved the powder very much.

After only a few short days, he had built gigantic bows and arrows as well as giant tomahawks in order to help the Coyote Tribe win the war.  He was confused though because this tribe already had a chief.  Then the old prophet he missed at the falls came running into the Coyote village.

The ancient prophet informed Dubya that he was supposed to head west to become a Chief.  Georgedubush fell asleep during this long, deep, metaphorical story.  No one knows exactly what the prophet said, but Georgedubush headed west to the Salmon tribe village.  The Salmon there were gullible and in need of serious aid.

The last chief of the Salmon Tribe had been slain by the Coyote’s new giant bow and arrow and the tribe was frightened.  They were certain them coyotes had a bow and arrow big enough to destroy their village, possibly even all the land.  Georgedubush walked in at the right time and won their election for chief by a landslide.  The salmon living on the edges of the village had voted for the opposition, an educated salmon who could speak fluent coyote and was an advocate of peace.  The salmon in the middle of the village voted for Georgedubush.  He filled them with lies, empty promises, and plans to build bow and arrows, tomahawks, and lakes of fire water the likes no one had ever seen.  He built himself a big White-Longhouse and the largest bow and arrow ever to date.

The bow was so large the salmon had to swim far upstream to complete the bow and balance the arrow when firing. The female salmon would swim upstream to their mates during the long construction period to spawn.  When the salmon spawned there, they found the waters to be a safer place to lay eggs than the ocean.  This is why to this day Salmon still spawn upstream thanks to the outrageous antics of Georgedubush.

Georgedubush thought the war would end and them coyotes would surrender, but those coyotes copied the design and built a bigger bow.  So then Georgedubush built a bigger one.  So did them Coyotes, but an even bigger one, and vice versa for another four to eight years.  Until a final encounter between Georgedubush and the Coyote Chief came.  They argued over who had the bigger bow until Georgedubush’s enchanted prostate spoke up.

“Salmon!  Coyotes!  Heed my words as they are wise and few!” the prostate cried.

“There are no more reasons for war or violence!  Georgedubush has tricked you all so that he may be called chief and live in a White-Longhouse.  He has told you all the same lies and you believed all along.  Though one can do bad things, it does not make one evil.  If anyone is evil it is Georgedubush!”  The animals all cheered.

Dubya had to do something, so he kicked the Coyote chief right in the groin to show he is strongest and Coyote weak and evil.  This is how Coyote came to have a detachable penis.  The salmon were fed up, so they loaded Georgedubush into the largest bow and shot him so far that no one saw him ever again.  Right as he was shot, his enchanted prostate leaped straight out of his body.  The resulting blood turned the salmon and their eggs red during spawning season for all time.  As a reward the enchanted prostate declared all streams sacred to the salmon during their spawning season and gave Coyote his first detachable penis.

The enchanted prostate was named Gore.  He ran for the now vacant spot of Salmon Chief.  He lost in a landslide when it was found out by the salmon in the village center that he spoke coyote, was concerned about the environment, and was a disgusting disembodied prostate.

Georgedubush kept hurtling and hurtling from the bow.  Dubya had no idea how his prostate had become enchanted or why it was named Gore.  In Fact, Georgedubush had no idea he even had a prostate or what it was for.  He was so ignorant to this that he felt no pain and as a result he did not die.  He just kept flying and flying.

He crash landed on the moon where he went on to win an election as its chief as he was its only inhabitant.  Dubya at first thought he had lost but quickly demanded a recount.  He learned that despite losing the popular vote, none of what people wanted really mattered anyway.  So he declared himself undisputed Chief of the Moon for the next four years.  He would then have another meaningless election followed by a recount or two then possibly another four years when he would retire.

Many believe Georgedubush lost the second election to some kind of space snail monster.  Others say he won and served back to back terms as Moon Chief to an articulate space snail that would try and fail repeatedly to teach Dubya to read.  Others say Dubya went mad from constantly snorting moon dust up his nose.  Others don’t care about Georgedubush and may become frustrated if you ask what happened to him.  Others say he found a way off the Moon and continued his adventures.  Them last others is probably right.  There’s no keeping some hungry substance-abusing moron away from you for too long.

Steven Jarvis and The Ham of Lies

Posted on by joshuajamescollis

Everyone at this party seems like a douche bag.  Jonathan’s friends are all either Earth tone hippies or pastel yoga hipsters.  Right when I’m about to go be alone in my room, I notice her.

            Dyed red hair, so fresh there is a faded stain along her hairline, a pierced lip, a scarlet dress from the 1960’s.  She’s smiling at me from across our big kitchen.

            Jonathan sneaks up behind me.  His muscles are so lean you can probably grate cheese on them.  The only thing separating me from his genitals is a skin tight layer of black Lululemon shorts.  Does he ever wear a shirt?

            “Don’t worry so much, dude.  You’ve been single for, what?  Like a year?  Let it go buddy,” said Jonathan.

            “It’s been two months.”

            Jonathan pinches my cheek.  Creepy, like a stereotypical grandparent.

            “Go mingle, ok buddy?” said Jonathan, as he sashays away.

            I don’t take yoga, or have dreadlocks, so I can’t exactly keep up a conversation.  I make a joke about being down with the downward dog to two girls in matching headbands.  I scurry off like a puppy to the punch bowl.

            “Steven!  Get your butt over here!  There’s someone I need you to meet,” shouts Jonathan.

            Jonathan is next to the girl in red.  She smiles that scarlet lipstick smile.  She bites her lip like she might be nervous.  I swear my glasses are going to fog up like a cartoon character.

            “Steven Jarvis, meet yoga student Rachel.  Rachel Starling, meet new roommate Steven,” said Jonathan.

            “Hi new roommate Steven.  Come have a drink with me,” said Rachel.

            “Sure.”

            She heads to the punch, beckoning me.

            “Don’t fuck it up, guy,” whispered Jonathan.

            He pinches my bottom as I follow.  Rachel grabs my hand.  It’s hard to see behind foggy glasses.  She pours us some punch.

            “Everyone here seems like such a wanker.  Except you.  And Jonathan,” said Rachel.

            “Thank you.  Read my freaking mind.”

            “So, Jonathan says you’re a musician.”

            “Yeah I’m a rock.  Like a rock star, without the star.”

            She giggles.  I am so charming.

            “You dress pretty suave for a rocker.  I love skinny ties.  You need a hair cut though.  You should let me cut it.”

            “Sweet.  I think there’s some scissors in the –“

            “Not now loser.”

            “Oh, right.”

            “So what do you play?”

            “Um.  I play guitar, tenor sax, ukulele – ”

            “You should play me a song.”

            “When?”

            “Now.”

            I take her hand and lead her to my room.  Please let me get laid.

            She sits down on the old brown couch in my room.   Could I not have tidied?  Shirts and ties everywhere.

            “What you gonna play for me?”

            I sit beside her and withdraw my instrument.

            “Really?  Ukulele?” said Rachel.

            “Just wait.”

            I begin to play:  C, F, G, A minor F.

            “I heard there was a secret chord.  That David played, it pleased the lord.  But you don’t really care for music do you?”

            Rachel gasps, “I love Leonard Cohen!  Oh my God!”

            “It goes like this, the fourth the fifth.  The minor fall, the major lift.  The baffled king composing, Hallelujah.”

            She puts a hand on my thigh.  I can see my reflection growing in her eyes.

            “Hallelujah, Hallelujah.  Hallelujah, Hallelujah.”

            Then we totally make out.  Hallelujah.  An hour feels like five minutes.  Then I drop the ukulele directly onto her foot.

            “Ouch!”

            “Oh shit!  Sorry.”

            “It’s ok.”

            She rubs the red mark as a bruise forms in the centre of her red flat clad foot.  She checks her cell phone.

            “Crap.  My ride’s here. “

            “Leaving?  Already?”

            “Yeah.  Plus, I’m not sleeping with you.  Tonight.  Although I kind of want to.  But you’re taking me on a date.  Coffee.  Tomorrow.”

            “Ok.”

            I look in the bathroom mirror after she leaves.  I laugh at the red lipstick smeared in the stubble around my lips.

            “Works every time.”

            After that night Rachel and I are inseparable.  She cuts my hair.  She makes sure I take my Flintstone’s Chewable Vitamins.  I sing her songs.  We listen to Leonard Cohen for hours on end.  He’s coming to town in a few months.  We have to go.

            We walk kilometre after kilometre through the rain.  I bring a giant red umbrella to keep us dry, she wears that indigo raincoat.  We say I love you for the first time under a rainy gray sky.

My world is perfect, until one day she starts to talk about Ricardo.  He’s the new instructor at the yoga school.

            “Ricardo?  No man, no.  I mean, I just met him, but he’s cool.  I think he has better abs then me,”

            I glare at my absence of abs then back at Jonathan.

            “He knows she’s got a boyfriend.  All she does is talk about you.  And what a mope you are,” said Jonathan.

            He tousles my hair.  I hate him and his perfect abs.

            Even with Jonathan’s, “reassurance,” I’m still worried.  Rachel starts taking more yoga classes than before.

            Her birthday is coming up.  She had one shortly after we first started dating – we didn’t do much – so I have to make this special.  I make a reservation at a restaurant on the top floor of a hotel.  It overlooks the entire harbour.  I buy a new skinny tie.  I have my shoes shined to admire my reflection.

            I’m sitting at the table staring at the single yellow candle and glow.  I check my phone again.  10 minutes late.  It’s ok, she’ll be here.  I feel like the entire restaurant is glaring.  Where’s his date?

            “Hi Steven!”

            Rachel is here.  The dirty blonde roots of her hair are visible.  The dye is fading out, like a tangerine sun set.  She’s in yoga pants and that aubergine hoodie.  Her make-up obviously put on in a rush.

            “I didn’t realize this was a formal affair.  It’s only my birthday.”

            Oh right.  Hey Rachel!  Let’s go on a date to one of the most romantic restaurants in the city, on your birthday, and dress like we just rolled out of bed!

            “You’re not mad.  Are you?”

            “No, no.  It’s your birthday.  Let’s just have a good time.”

            I order wine.  She orders tea.  I order steak.  She orders salad.  She declines desert.

            “So, I was thinking after we could take a walk around the harbour then could see where–“

            “Leonard Cohen is tonight Steven.”

            Shit.  I don’t have tickets.

            “Let’s go get tickets.”

            “It’s sold out.”

            “There’ll be scalpers.”

            “It’s fine.  I already have a ticket.  Ricardo surprised me today.  That’s why I was late.”

            Of course he did.  I spend all this time worrying about him and he beats me to the punch.  Rachel ditches me on her birthday to go to see Leonard Cohen with another guy.  She kisses me good night and says that she will see me soon.

            At home I walk past Jonathan doing headstands in the kitchen.

            “You’re home awful early fella, what happened?”

            “Fuck off Jonathan.”

            “Duly noted.”

            I slam my door so hard I think it knocks over Jonathan in the kitchen.  I sink into bed and listen to anything but Cohen.

            I didn’t talk to Rachel the whole next day, or the day after that.  She finally calls me.

            “Hey Houdini, where you been all my life?” said Rachel.

            “Around.  Busy.”

            “You’re mad at me, aren’t you?”

            “I don’t know.  Would you be mad if I went to a concert with another girl?”

            “It was my birthday.  You forgot to get tickets, so you should be the sorry one.  Ricardo is my yoga instructor.  And I love you, dumbass.”

            “I love you too.  I’m sorry.”

            “I will take that under consideration.  Look, I’m going to yoga.  Then I’m going to lunch with girlfriends.  I was thinking we could spend the afternoon together?”

            “That would be good.”

            “Ok.  I’m going to drop by first and drop off some stuff.  See ya in a bit.”

            Jonathan and I are sitting at the kitchen table debating the legitimacy of Nintendo Yoga when Rachel comes in.

            “Hi boys!  Topless again Jonathan?”

            “As much as possible,” said Jonathan.

            Rachel walked in and shed hands me a ham.  Wrapped in saran wrap.  On a platter.  A Black Forest Ham.

            “Well, this is unexpected.”

            “Don’t ask.  It was a gift.  I don’t think they realized.”

            “Ooh!  I’m making us omelettes!” said Jonathan, grabbing the plate out of my hands.  He starts ransacking the fridge for ingredients.

            “I gotta go meet the girls.  Have fun boys.  I’ll be back this afternoon, ok?”

            We kiss.

            “I Love you.”

            “You too,” said Rachel.

            I flopped down on the old sofa while Jonathan cooks.  I strum my guitar.  Maybe I’ll write a song for Rachel?  A few minutes later there’s a knock-knock at my door.

            “Bad news buddy.  You have-ta come see this.  You’re not gonna believe it,” said Jonathan.

            “What dude?  Just tell me.”

            “The ham, Steven.  The ham is a lie.”

            The ham is a lie?

            “Hams don’t lie, Jonathan.”

            “This one does.”

            I enter the kitchen.  The ham is sitting uncut on its platter.  There’s a carton of brown free range eggs.  There are some onions and green peppers.  There’s a block of orange cheddar cheese.

            “So, how’s this a lie?”

            “Sorry man.”

            He knocked off the flat front of the ham, like it’s some kind of meat plug.  It’s hollow on the inside.  Jonathan pulls a freezer sized Zip-Lock bag out of it.  He dumps its contents onto the table.  Love notes.  Tea bags, drawings of her, and rose petals.

            “This is not ham.”

            “Bummer dude.  Ham’s a lie.  I guess Ricardo’s a big liar.  And an ass hat.”

            He pats me on the back and leaves the kitchen.  I unfold a note.  Blue lined, loose leaf, Hilroy paper.  Ricardo spares no expense when professing his love.  I read the note. He had fallen for her when they kissed at Leonard Cohen?  So he fills a ham up with love?  Were they out of conventional methods at “Stalker Hallmark” that day?  I crumple the note in my fist.

            

            “I can’t believe talked me into this.  Even for you guy.”

            Jonathan and I are driving in his shitty black Toyota Tercel hatchback.  Jonathan, actually wearing a skin tight black Under Armour long-sleeve – although driving barefoot.  I’m in the passenger seat, wearing a black turtleneck.  The ham of lies, resting upon my lap.  This is a stealth mission.

            “I could get so fired for this.”

            “You could have just lent me your car.  I could have done it by myself.”

            He glares through me.

            “Keep your eyes on the road, Jonathan.”

            “So how did she take it?”

            “Bad I guess.  She just kind of screamed at me.  Then, we had a big cry party.”

            Rachel had come back that afternoon.  I picture Rachel’s make-up running down her face like little tar lines of sadness.  Her roots, growing up beneath faded tangelo hair.  Whoever said if you love someone give them away is a jackass.

            “Did she say if she was going to date Ricardo or not?”

            “I don’t know or care man.  She had an awesome thing with me, and then it all came down to a break-up ham.”

            “We’re almost there.”

            Jonathan slows the car.  I position myself on the windowsill of the passenger side.  I look around the deserted city streets for any witnesses.  It’s a ghost town at 3:59 a.m.  I look up at a starless sky as that tingling feeling of doubt creeps up my neck.  No, this must happen.

            “Don’t hit a window.  Hit the side.  If you smash a window Steven, I swear.”

            Jonathan hits the gas.  I hurl the ham of lies like a grenade against the side of the yoga school.  The pork bomb explodes against the brown brick wall.  Little bits of pink porcine flesh rain about the doorstep of the building.  The notes, drawings, tea bags and rose petals rain like perverse confetti on the Ricardo and Rachel parade.

            “Who’s the swine now?”

            He squeals the tires around the corner – we were outlaws fleeing the scene of the crime.  The pig is in the poke.

            The next morning the yoga school opened at 6:00 a.m.  The owner will find pork matter and love notes scattered on their doorstep.  Hopefully Ricardo will be fired.

            A few weeks later I bump into Rachel.  She pretends I don’t exist.  She has a faint violet hair dye stain around her forehead.