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Some Viral Videos I’d Like to See

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A four-month-old baby does a perfect backflip, then catches a tossed fisherman’s cap on its head. Once the cap touches its head, the baby falls asleep as if by magic. 

A man in red running shorts plays Twister with a Bengal tiger wearing matching shorts.

An elderly woman dressed as Captain America is taunted by TSA agents.

A local television anchor doesn’t realize she is on the air when she accuses the station manager of secretly being a lizard person.

Two otters hold hands while fighting each other to death.

A young boy in a pterodactyl costume begins cradling his father’s head and referring to it as his, “egg.” He savagely attacks anyone who comes near it.

Some children are given wine and then asked to describe their parents to a police sketch artist.

A pit bull in a Guy Fawkes mask rides a Roomba.

A bear slaps its paw into a river and instead of coming up with a fish is surprised to see that it is holding an open umbrella.

A gorilla feeds a shirtless teenage boy a bottle of formula.

A trailer for the Phantom Menace is recut so it looks like an erotic thriller.

Auto-tuned footage of a man tuning his guitar.

A skateboarder grinds down a thirty-foot railing, does two complete 360s, lands perfectly, then bursts into flames.

A bunch of Civil War reenactors are chased off a battlefield by geese.

Prisoners on the Moon

Greetings, Blog-checkers!

I have three new stories in the most recent issue of Hayden’s Ferry Review. You can grab the issue here

You can also read one of the stories below, which is about the controversial subject of moon prisons. 

Yours in the regolith, 

Seth

Prisoners on the Moon

When the initial steps were taken, most of the plan’s organizers were focused on the simple practicality of the decision. With the success of the newer space stations farther out, the moon was no longer being put to much use as a transportation hub. The hundreds of dormitories that once housed the staff needed to operate the moon’s electromagnetic freight cannons and launch compounds were now mostly empty. And while the colony’s public administrators would have been happy to sell the place off to commercial developers of condominiums and resorts, the idea seemed laughable. After all, who would want to go to the moon?

Enough generations had brought back reports to Earth of what a grim, undesirable place it was: one’s waking hours confined to industrial facilities overlooking pale deserts of regolith interrupted only by desolate-looking craters, the view obscured by the persistent layer of corrosive dust that accumulated on every porthole and window.

A man slumped forward on his barstool is asked what it was like to live there for eleven years. He shrugs. “They run your piss through algae, and then you drink it.”

So the idea to turn the place into a prison seemed like the only way to make sure that the moon’s existing infrastructure would not go to waste, though the public initially resisted the notion. Not because it seemed cruel to banish prisoners from the planet. After all, these were violent offenders with no possibility of parole. But because the moon had still managed to maintain a symbolic resonance in most people’s imaginations. Even if it was an uninviting place to visit, the moon as it appeared in the night sky was still a sight that filled people with inarticulate longings and a somber type of hopefulness.

A similar attitude had been a hurdle for those who had first wanted to turn the moon into a center for shipping and transportation. All initiatives for that project first had to be ratified by an international committee, whose firm consensus had been that “any facilities established on the moon should be camouflaged so as to imitate its surface and thus not diminish its natural beauty as seen from the Earth.”

But even after this new plan to send prisoners to the moon had been approved, on the grounds that it would bring about no noticeable changes to the night sky, there was still some widespread discomfort at the thought of it. One of the advantages of terrestrial prisons, people realized, was that they were always out of sight, so easy to forget about or ignore. Driving down a rural interstate, one saw a series of squat buildings in the distance surrounded by barbed wire. Such a facility was passed by so quickly that most people barely had time to realize that it was a prison containing the sum of so many brutal, unfortunate lives.

Once the first cohort of prisoners had been sent, no one could look up at the night sky without imagining a line of convicts being led to a cellblock amid the long darkness of a lunar night. In the minds of observers, the moon had become populated with sad-eyed  men and women who looked down at the Earth and thought about their hometowns, the sound of rain, the feeling of being inside the world and looking out as opposed to outside the world and looking in. The notion that anyone could be locked away at all, even here on Earth and even if they had done everything to deserve it, suddenly seemed like madness. This aspect of society that people had managed to disregard for so long was now taking place on a stage that occupied a central place in their imaginations, and the resulting surge of empathy was undeniable.

Over time there was a groundswell of prison and judicial reform. People began to call for less aggressive sentencing and an emphasis on rehabilitation. They demanded public inspectors be sent to the moon to ensure that living conditions there were adequate. Some concerned citizens were even moved to join advocacy groups or write letters to their representatives asking that dubious cases be reopened and sentences overturned. Wrongly accused men and women were brought back to Earth two and three at a time.

Of course, there were many prisoners who were unquestionably guilty, those who expressed no remorse and whose hatred of their fellow man indicated clearly that their place was on the moon. And yet even the removal of such wretched individuals was never cause for celebration. People quietly mourned the existence of these prisoners, not because of the particular offenses they had committed, but because of the evil that innocent men and women were forced to commit in denying these criminals their freedom.

No matter how equitably punishments were decided on or carried out, the sight of the moon, once beautiful, now instilled a deeply moral sadness. Its waning usually came as some relief, a thin crescent perhaps even obscured by a dark bank of clouds. But when full, it looked bigger than ever. There were nights when it seemed to fill the whole sky. When there was no place else to look.

The Evil Tyrant of Ten Kurk

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Greetings, Seth-heads! 

I have a new story in the most recent issue of The Missouri Review

I’ve included an excerpt from the story below. If this short passage (combined with the title page of naked death-fighting shown above) doesn’t pique your curiosity enough to make you subscribe to TMR right now, then you need to get your curiosity muscle checked, mon frère.  

Yours respectfully, 

Seth Fried

EXCERPT: 

The tyrant and rebels

Though the majority of his subjects have abandoned all hope of resisting him, every so often the tyrant will commit such an outrageous act that a young hero will attempt to organize a rebellion.

This is always an exciting time in Ten Kurk. Oh, what a privilege it is to be young and to have a castle to storm. To spend some hopeful night bivouacked in the woods to the north of the tyrant’s fortress. The stink of bonfires and the grave sound of pledges being made between comrades in the dark.

Though nothing will come of it. The tyrant will have planted a traitor among the rebels, and their camp will be ambushed in the night. If an assault is made on the fortress, the rebels will find its defenses too daunting. They will die pathetically beneath high spires in clouds of their own musket smoke. Even so, as they look up from the field of battle to his impenetrable defenses, the rebels will be grateful that they had a fortress to charge at in the first place, that behind all their woes was an entity unmistakably at fault.

The tyrant and nature

Occasionally a storm moves through Ten Kurk. In the calm that follows, citizens come up from their cellars to find trees uprooted by strong winds, wheel carts and chicken coops swept up and smashed in the street. Occasionally they will also see in the distance that the tyrant’s fortress is missing a turret or that one of its heavy walls has been damaged.

Even with his men hard at work making repairs—scaffolding visible over a breach, loads of stone making their way up—the sight of the fortress in such a state never fails to remind his subjects that the tyrant’s power is nothing compared to all the forces that operate beyond his authority.

The tyrant is usually so relentless in his rule that his will can seem all-encompassing. By committing atrocity after atrocity, he creates a world for his subjects that is defined solely by his disdain for them.

But these sudden acts of nature reveal the world to be something more complicated, a chaos of fates centered on nothing, directed at no one. A flash of lightning splits an oak tree, a river floods a town, a lion eats its cub, a star in the night sky extinguishes itself. When measured against nature’s raw, impersonal destruction, the tyrant’s crimes against his subjects begin to seem theatrical, ludicrous.

It is for this reason that natural disasters are very much to the tyrant’s advantage. After a storm has passed and his fortress has been repaired, he arranges to have any evidence of the damage dragged into one of Ten Kurk’s public squares. A massive rubble of dark stone. When his people look on it, there is a sudden air of acceptance and even approval of the tyrant’s authority, as if they have been reminded once more that beyond the illusion of his supremacy lies oblivion.

Das Kolumne #10

Das Kolumne #10 is up over at Tin House. This installment is a healthy mix of writing advice and basic iguana care advice.

I suggest you mix up a couple of hot toddies for you and the special lizard in your life, then drag your computer monitor into a hammock for some relaxing blog reading. You can let my literary humor column rock you gently to sleep while Dr. Grooper’s Extra-Strength Lizard Expectorant courses perniciously through your blood stream.

I can’t think of a better way to spend this fine Monday morning. But then again, I’m a maniac.

Daily Writing Tip #238: Wear A Baby Bjorn With A Hoagie In It

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WRITING TIP #238:
Ron Carlson once wrote, “The writer understands that to stand up from the desk is to fail, and to leave the room is so radical and thorough a failure as to not be reversible.” I agree with this sentiment wholeheartedly. A writer must stay in the room and face the difficulty of the task at hand without giving in to easy distractions. That said, if I stay at my desk too long, my blood sugar drops and I start to describe all of my characters as being “assholes” with “smelly faces.” That’s why I always wear a baby björn with a giant hoagie in it when I write. As soon as I start getting that urge to throw my protagonist down a spiral staircase or to have him be attacked by a swarm of eagles, I just reach down for some hoagie goodness, replenishing my blood sugar without getting up from my desk.

BONUS TIP: 
Try to avoid sandwiches with a strong odor, such as egg salad or grilled limburger. These can be distracting while you’re trying to write. Also, they will require you to clean out your baby björn with a pressure hose after each use.