Susan Emshwiller
Welcome, C’mon In
The beginning can be pointedly precise or obliquely obtuse. After all, it’s hardly more than a greeting.
Dangle the bait. Hook. Reel in slow. So slow you don’t even feel the pull.
I’m no expert but I’ve caught a few. Would have mounted trophies if that were possible.
Wording is the thing. Easy going. Easy flowing. Friendly-like. Adding a smidge of slang to put folks at ease.
Most don’t even notice the words I sprinkle for the subconscious. Red is common but I like to thresh it up with surprises. Like thresh. Gives a sense of danger. Danger draws you in. Gives zest to cozy lives. Makes you wonder—What is going on?!
Sometimes I set out pedestrian things. Everyday items.
Spoons.
Or a cheese grater.
The captive mind leaps into action. What will be done with these!? A cheese grater?
Basement. Sounds of something dripping. Flies circle under the glaring bare bulb. A cheese grater is removed from a worn leather satchel. The cheese grater inches closer. Near a most tender part. It hovers over bare skin and then —
Can you see it?
Where does it gravitate to? What can it toy with? Images fly. The forbidden. The unthinkable becomes visible behind the eyes.
Can you see it?
The swinging bulb seems brighter. Muffled voices echo. What’s being done with this cheese grater? You know. Something disturbing.
There’s a terror there. Down in your gut it rumbles, in that hidden place. It isn’t me. It’s you.
Every time you see a cheese grater, remember what you imagined.
I offered the seed. You did the rest.
I’m not a bad sort. I don’t make you feel anything I haven’t felt. I’ve done it all to myself. Everything.
I know if I push too hard I lose you. I’ve lost a few by going too far. So let’s stop now and move on. To spoons perhaps?
I call forth great geese to fly you on their smooth muscular backs feathered in brown and cream. A wide V formation of determined companions all heading —somewhere. They fly, calling out over the green and gold patchwork below. You’re with them, surrounded by them.
Listen to that honking!
Listen to the great wings thresh the air.
Listen to the chimes.
Chimes?
There, behind,—
—tied to the black webbed feet with red ribbons
—dangling in the wind
—spoons.
The spoons chime together as bells, ringing out to churches underwing. Bidding the church-bells join the joyous cacophony.
And? What next?
Well—if the satin ribbons are frayed or brittle with age, they might break. They might break and release the spoons and there is no telling where those might land.
Perhaps the spoons plummet, tarnished bowl-head first, and splash in that pond below, zig-zagging past algae and green bubbles to silently stop on the silty bottom.
Can you see them?
Down there, nibbled on by curious tadpoles.
This might not go further.
Let’s rewind.
Perhaps the ribbon breaks and the spoons drop in a slow arc to the landfill. They land in the landfill and they plop atop the favorite photograph. Why is this favorite photograph in the landfill? A photograph that didn’t mean to be discarded but got mixed up with the junk mail when—when what?—when the grandchildren knocked everything off the mantle.
Can you hear the crash? The anxious cries?
The spoons frame the precious discarded black and white picture of—
You can almost see it.
Of—
—the departed father.
A derby-hatted man—who’s almost smiling. A man who almost never smiled is almost smiling—and amidst the cawing gulls, we’re at a landfill remember, amidst the cawing gulls—only you see—the spoons and cherished photo become covered by the last truckload of trash, not to be seen again for one hundred years.
Not long enough?
Not to be seen again for a millennium!
And in a millennium they are uncovered by—let’s say by future archeologists! Discovered, and methodically uncovered by future archeologists trying to get a clue as to what went wrong. What went wrong with—
No. Let’s rewind.
The ribbons break. The spoons tumble through clouds down to that suburban home, there—the last one at the edge of the development. And as the sun heads for its bed, the spoons hit the roof, clatter and clang on the tiles, bouncing like goats down a hillside, skipping off to land noisily on the front step—just as the teenage boy, his courage finally summoned, taps on the door.
And so?
The two ribbon-tied spoons glisten at his feet.
And so?
This is not the greeting he expected.
And so?
This is not the greeting he expected but he picks up these spoons, these gifts, and when the teenage girl opens the door, he presents them. The two watch the flock honk overhead, and because they both are aware that her parents have left for the evening, she accepts the spoons and, barefoot, leads him to the kitchen when—
When what?
—when all across the county the power goes out.
Perhaps a goose landed on the lines.
And in the surprise darkness of the kitchen, the girl pauses her walk but the boy doesn’t, and the accidental bumping becomes a fumbling which becomes a quickening of hearts and unseen reddening and neither knows what to do but they make it up as they go along.
And maybe the naked boy licks one of the spoons and slides it over the naked girl. And maybe she guides him and they do things with the spoon because they’re artists at that moment and in a state of grace, without shame to halt their inspiration.
And only you know what they do with those spoons.
And the next morning their respective Moms and Dads talk about the power outage. As Dad grates cheese into threshed eggs they talk about emergency kits and flashlight batteries. And in their respective homes the boy and girl lift sacred spoons with cereal or yogurt and smile at their secret.
And you know their secret. You made it.
It could end there. Or there could be a coda of sorts.
Perhaps—no one understands why they give spoons to each other on every anniversary. Or why their wind chimes are made of spoons hung from red satin ribbons. Or why they always look up at the honking V of geese and touch fingers. Or why, well into their eighties, the wrinkled hand of one slides a cool spoon gently over the blue veins of the other.
But you know why.
If a spoon falls from a goose or a cheese grater shines in a basement and no one’s there to read it, did it happen? Does it mean anything?
Without you, these are just squiggles of ink on a page.
Susan Emshwiller is a produced screenwriter (including co-writer of the film Pollock), a filmmaker, a published playwright, novelist, teacher, artist, and short story writer. Her novel Thar She Blows debuted in 2023 and All My Ancestors Had Sex came out this year. Other writing can be found in The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction, Dramatists Play Service, Playscripts, Independent Ink Magazine, Black Heart Magazine, Gone Lawn, and Smoky Blue Literary and Arts Magazine. Ms. Emshwiller was a set decorator for many years in Hollywood and a featured actress in Robert Altman's The Player. Her feature film, In the Land of Milk and Money, a wild social satire, garnered awards and rave reviews at festivals in the US and internationally. Susan has taught screenwriting at North Carolina State University, OLLI at Duke, the Met Theatre in Los Angeles, and in conferences and festivals around the country. She lives with her husband and dogs in Santa Fe, NM where she enjoys inventing stories and backyard contraptions. Find out more about Susan in a DIHP interview: https://www.doesithavepockets.com/features/susan-emshwiller and her website https://www.susanemshwiller.com/. Follow her on Facebook.
