General introduction: These stories were all originally posted on the Subreality Café Mailing List, an eminent webring (go to Yahoo! Groups and type in "Subreality") that used to have a much higher traffic than it does now. In the interest of publicizing the group's unique literary tradition, I have decided to post them in one multi-chapter fic on this estimable site. (They were originally posted on my main account, under the name of "Qoheleth" - which is why the author in several of these stories bears that name rather than that of "Bar Sira" - but, for reasons of my own, I now prefer that they be here.) A happy perusing to all who visit.
Introduction to "A Writer at the Club Concepto": Subreality is a universe between fiction and reality, where characters from different stories can interact with each other as well as with real people - most notably, the writers of the Subreality Café Mailing List, who have a great fondness for projecting themselves into Subreality so they can be verbally abused by their own malcontent daydreams. In this capacity, they are generally accompanied by their Muses, or personified sources of inspiration (how far these Muses are to be identified with the classical Nine is a subject of much debate on the SCML), and they spend much of their time frequenting bars - in this case, the Club Concepto, a place of refuge for fictional characters (or "fictives") who have not yet been put on paper.
This story was posted on the SCML on 20 August 2003, and makes reference to the Animorphs fandom.
Shall the thing framed say of him that framed it, "He had no understanding"? –Prophecies of Isaiah, xxix, 16.
They say that, if you look very closely, you can tell the exact moment when a person arrives in Subreality.
Nobody, however, was looking very closely this evening, and so Qoheleth and Erineae appeared on the street with the usual absence of fanfare. One moment they weren't there, and the next moment they were. It was all very routine.
"Now, then, how do we find the place?" Erineae whispered.
She didn't whisper out of any desire for secrecy, you understand. There are few persons less secretive than a novice literature Muse. But Erineae was a very private sort of Muse, and she felt uncomfortable speaking in any other tone.
"I assume we just ask somebody," Qoheleth whispered back; again, not because of anything to hide, but because it didn't seem proper to speak to Erineae in any other way. "You'd expect it to be something of a public landmark, wouldn't you?"
Erineae agreed.
"Excuse me, sir," Qoheleth hailed a passing fictive. "Would you happen to know the way to the Club Concepto?"
The fictive turned and stared at Qoheleth in disbelief. There was some irony in this, as the fictive was of such a sort (blue-skinned, green-haired, and bearing a single eye in the middle of his forehead) that most people would have stared at him in disbelief. Qoheleth, however, was in no mood to appreciate irony, and merely tapped his foot impatiently.
"The… the Club Concepto, sir?" said the fictive.
"Yes," said Qoheleth. "The Club Concepto. You must know of it; small, dingy, not a greatly esteemed clientele…"
"Oh, of course I know the Club Concepto, sir," said the fictive. "Used to spend some time there myself, as a matter of fact," he added, shuddering at the thought. "But I can't see, sir, why a Writer such as yourself would want to visit the Club Concepto."
"I don't, especially," said Qoheleth. "It's more a matter of brutal necessity."
"Eh?" said the fictive.
"He's only going there because he has to," Erineae translated.
"Oh," said the fictive. "Well, of course, sir, if you have to, it's down that way about two blocks." He gestured with a clawed finger toward what passed for the southeast. "Right next to Joe's Can't miss it."
"A thousand thanks, my good man," said Qoheleth. If it hadn't been for the claws, he would have shaken the fictive's hand.
"And if you'll take my advice, sir," the fictive added, "be careful. Your sort isn't well liked in there. Neither is hers, if it comes to that," he added, gesturing to Erineae.
"Thank you kindly, sir," said Qoheleth. "I'll endeavor to remain cognizant of the peril."
"Huh?"
"He'll try to stay alive," said Erineae.
The Club Concepto, when it came into view, fully satisfied all of Qoheleth's preconceived images of it - which, when he reflected on it, was hardly surprising. It was small, grubby, and easy to overlook, and had little wooden letters in the window proclaiming, "THE CLUB CONCEPTO: A HOME FOR THOSE WHO HAVE NO OTHER."
"Not exactly subtle, are they?" Erineae whispered. Qoheleth smiled; he had been thinking the same thing.
The interior of the Club was equally well suited to its role – dark, cramped, and vaguely sleazy, with an odor hanging in the air that smelled partly like anticipation, partly like disillusionment, and partly like the cheapest brand of Guinness on the market. Qoheleth couldn't really say he cared for it, but it seemed to strike a chord in Erineae.
"Mmmm," she whispered. "Smells like the Collegium."
"The Imaginarium Collegium smelled like this?" Qoheleth whispered, astounded.
"Well, not exactly like this," said Erineae, "but it always had that same tinge in the air."
"Tinge?"
"Certainly," said Erineae. "The tinge of pure ideas, unfiltered by plot or technique. The people in this room, my dear Solomon, are the simple desires of their Writers, the utter longing of their hearts, the Inspirational equivalent of straight rye. They are pure. They are good. They are true."
Qoheleth surveyed the clientele of the Club Concepto. "And most of them," he whispered, "are also drunk."
Erineae snorted. "Oh, you're impossible."
"Hey, you!"
Qoheleth glanced up. A portly mobster, evidently the Bouncer of this establishment, was striding towards them.
"What's the idea?" he demanded. "You people ain't allowed in here, you oughta know that."
"I beg your pardon, sir?" said Qoheleth.
"Don't play innocent with me, bub," said the Bouncer. "You come in here practic'ly drippin' Reality, and flauntin' that little weasel-Muse of yours, or whatever it is, and you expect me to believe you're not a Writer?"
Erineae, who was rather proud of her ferret manifestation, contented herself with a muffled hiss in the Bouncer's direction.
"Listen," the Bouncer continued, "I've thrown tougher stuff'n you outa here just for makin' the napkins into inappropriate origami models, so if you think you can just waltz in here and start reWritin' the menu, you've got a…"
"Excuse me, sir," Qoheleth interrupted. "I have no intention of tampering with the local cuisine. I'm just here for a meeting."
The Bouncer looked suspicious. "Just here for a meeting, huh?" he said. "Just here for a… Say!" An idea seemed to strike him. "You the one the party at table 8's been waiting for?"
"Most likely," said Qoheleth. "Two humans and an Andalite?"
"Yeah, that's right," said the Bouncer. "Well, well, that makes a difference, sure. If you think you can get the table 8 crowd to clear out, you've got me in your corner. You know I caught that Andalite sneaking around the counter, trying to pinch my cigar butts outa the ashtray?"
"I'm not surprised," said Qoheleth. "He probably thought they were a delicacy."
And with that, he excused himself and headed for table 8.
"You know, Solomon," Erineae whispered fiercely, "if you ever wanted to write a gangster novel, I'd be happy to suggest a few whackings…"
"No," whispered Qoheleth.
"Oh, come on."
"Erineae, if I let you work out your personal aggressions in my stories, I'd never get a PG rating again."
"Hey, Mr. Q! Over here!"
A girl of about fifteen, with brown hair and a round, cheerful face, was hailing him from a nearby table. Qoheleth elbowed his way through the crowd, trying to ignore almost alternating looks of resentment and pleading from nearby fictives, and sat down beside her.
"Sorry I'm late," he said. "There was a logic puzzle I wanted to finish. So, what do we…"
"Just a moment, my good Writer," interrupted the elderly human-Controller at his left, a sardonic tone in his voice. "Aren't you going to introduce us?" He gestured to Erineae.
Qoheleth frowned. "Don't be cute, Zennin."
"No, really, Solomon," whispered Erineae, a twinkle in her voice. "Surely you're not implying that I know these people?"
Qoheleth gave her a look.
"Really, my dear, I have much higher standards than that."
Qoheleth sighed. "Fine. Erineae, this is Teresa Sickles, noted Yeerk-pool evangelist; Aristh Anifal-Mekelial-Worrann, of the U.S. Morph Force; and Zennin Two-One-Five, successor to Third Visser Esplin Nine-Four-Double-Six and the second Yeerk in history to gain morphing power. Folks, this is Erineae."
"Charmed, I'm sure," said Erineae. (Lordy, she could be coy when she wanted to.)
The three fictives all nodded in acknowledgement.
"And now," said Zennin, "with that formality concluded, let us cut right to the point. I note, with grave displeasure, that all of the fictives sitting at this table still retain the status of the unWritten."
"Which is why they are sitting at this table," said Teresa.
"True," said Zennin. "Now, my dear Qoheleth, can you proffer a satisfactory explanation for this state of affairs?"
"Certainly," said Qoheleth. (In fact, he was not at all sure he could, but it was never wise to show insecurity to a Yeerk Visser.)
Zennin leaned back in his chair. "Well, then, by all means, enlighten us."
"Gladly," said Qoheleth. "In your own case, Zennin, it's quite simple. The story 'Twisting Point' is envisioned as a saga-length endeavor, comprising several chapter-length stories. You do not figure in the plot until well into the second story, and I've only made it to chapter 8 of the first story. Ergo, you remain unWritten for the time being.
"As for you two," he continued, turning to Teresa and Anifal, "your situation is a little more complicated. The stories in which you appear are very tricky stories to write…"
«That is not really a justification, Lord Qoheleth,» said Anifal. «As a Writer, you have a responsibility to avoid developing characters for stories that you know yourself to be incapable of writing.»
Qoheleth held up a hand. "Anifal, I never said I was incapable of writing the stories. I just meant it would take some time. These are complex stories, and I need to know exactly where I'm going with them before I can commit them to paper."
«Why?» said Anifal.
Qoheleth shrugged. "Because that's who I am. I can't just dive into a story the way some Writers can, especially not a delicate one like 'Sacred Host' or 'The Parallel'. I have to brood on it a little first."
Teresa sighed. "Just our luck. Out of all the Writers in the world, we had to get one who thinks he's Stanley Kubrick."
"Take my advice and count your lucky stars," said Erineae. "If Solomon was a normal human being, none of you would probably be here right now."
Teresa nodded. "Yeah, I guess."
And Qoheleth, hearing this, leaned back in his chair, with a sense of having triumphed in the face of terrific adversity.
But Zennin was not yet finished. "Supposing all this to be true," he said, "I still see a difficulty. If, as you say, you have made it to chapter 8 of the first 'Twisting Point' story, you must long since have introduced the character of Sarah."
"Yes…" said Qoheleth.
"Now, if Sarah had been Written, it seems impossible that she should choose to remain at the Club Concepto; we all know how she values luxury. Yet I can swear to having seen her in this Club no later than last Tuesday. Now, my dear Qoheleth, how do you explain this?"
Qoheleth shifted in his seat. He had rather hoped that this subject wouldn't come up.
"Well, that's a very good point, Zennin. Um… I hope you won't take this the wrong way, but, um… the fact is, I'm having a bit of trouble with the posting process. The, ah, HTML tags."
Zennin arched an eyebrow. "The HTML tags?" he repeated.
Qoheleth nodded, flushing slightly. It is never pleasant to confess, to a member of a race capable of Z-space travel, that you are ignorant of the basics of Earthly computer programming.
«Lord Qoheleth,» said Anifal, «I was under the impression that provided a list of approved HTML tags in its Document Manager Section.»
"It certainly does," said Qoheleth, "and that would doubtless be of inestimable value to me if I knew what the heck they meant."
"Don't you?" asked Teresa.
"No doubt I ought to," said Qoheleth. "Unfortunately, however, having grown up in a household absent of any particular computer expertise, and not having taken a decent computer class since I was five, I've never had the opportunity to learn. And I'll tell you this: it's impossible to figure it out on your own. You access your Document Manager page, and then you just stare, fishlike, at a group of utterly unintelligible letters enclosed in thought-speak brackets."
"And so," said Zennin, plainly enjoying himself, "because of your ignorance of this basic subject, we are condemned to an interminable existence in the Subreal ghetto; surviving on the swill they laughingly call food in this place…"
"Oh, is that the problem?" said Qoheleth. "I can fix that. Here." He pulled out a wooden ballpoint pen engraved with Philippians 1:6 ("He who began a good work in you will carry it to completion"), pulled a napkin toward him, and scribbled something on it.
Three bowls of Rice Chex materialized in front of the startled fictives, who dug into it with some reluctance, as though they expected the Club Concepto Bouncer to throw them out for handling contraband.
«Why does it bother me when you do that?» Anifal asked rhetorically as he began to morph to human.
"I couldn't tell you, I'm sure," said Qoheleth. "There's nothing remarkable about Writing Chex."
Teresa glanced up from her cereal and gave him a look.
"I just want it understood," whispered Erineae, "that I did not give him that joke."
"No one accused you," said Zennin.
Qoheleth sighed. "How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is to have a thankless fictive."
Zennin turned to him. "And what, pray tell, are we to be thankful for?" he demanded. "As far as I can make out, you have called us into existence purely to leave us wallowing among the lowest of the low, with no realistic intention of ever allowing us to rise above the status of Subreal corpse-handlers. You will, I trust, forgive us if we fail to fall at your feet in gratitude."
Qoheleth, taken aback, found himself unable to answer, and it was left to Erineae to come to her Writer's defense.
"Zennin," she whispered, "you have spent your life among soldiers and commanders, and have learned a great deal about ordinary human nature; but I don't fancy you know much about Writers. Writers, I think – the best of them, anyway – can't help but create characters. There is a passion in them, a passion for life, for the special beauty they find in the world around them, and they need to share it with someone.
"But the process of finding another person who can see that special beauty is a laborious one, fraught with difficulties; and Writers, more often that not, are impatient beasts. So they take the quicker path, and simply invent for themselves the persons, animals, and things that they require. They are not, Lord knows, omniscient creators – they are too prone to create recklessly, without thought of the consequences – but it is, in most cases, and certainly in this one, a flaw born of love."
It was Zennin's turn to be taken aback. He muttered something under his breath in a bewildered sort of way, but before he could give any intelligible response, he was interrupted by a voice from behind his chair.
"Well, folks," it said, "that sounded pretty like the end of the discussion to me. So, you three wanna clear out now?"
Zennin turned to the Bouncer, who was standing behind the chair with a check in his hand. "Cino!" he exclaimed. "You don't mean you've been listening to us all this time?"
"Yeah, sure," said the Bouncer. "Couldn't hear everything the Muse said, but I got enough to count."
"How dare you!" said Teresa. "This is a private conversation!"
The bouncer chuckled. "Listen, kid," he said, "I've had the exact same talk with my Writer half a dozen times – except some of the names were changed, and his Muse talked out loud. Trust me; I didn't hear nothing I ain't heard before."
Qoheleth rose, "Well, ladies and gentlemen," he said, "it looks like we're done here. I don't know about you, but I make it a point never to keep powerful mobsters waiting."
The Bouncer nodded approvingly. "Smart, bub," he said. "Real smart."
Zennin threw down his napkin and strode out of the Club, with Anifal following close behind him. Only Teresa lingered.
"I'm sorry about Zennin," she said. "I guess he was a bit, well…"
"I don't expect Yeerk Vissers to be the most cordial of dinner guests," said Qoheleth.
"Right, of course. And… I understand about the story being delicate, and I certainly don't want to appear in an inferior piece of work, but… could you maybe hurry it up just a little?"
In spite of himself, Qoheleth was touched. The appeal was so simple, so heartfelt, so utterly un-Zennin-like.
"Why, what brings this on?" he enquired.
Teresa sighed. "I don't suppose you'd understand, exactly," she said, "but it's… it's just creepy not being Written. It's… oh, a million little things – when you pass Written fictives on the street, and feel them staring at you – when it starts raining, and the rain doesn't feel as wet on your skin as it should – when you get hit by a passing surge of Inspiration, and you get that wonderful warm, tingly feeling all over your body, and then five seconds later it's gone…"
"I see," said Qoheleth, who did.
"It's just that whole sense of incompleteness," Teresa explained. "Like you're not good enough for Subreality yet, so go away and stop bothering us."
"Don't be ridiculous," said Qoheleth. "You're straight rye."
Teresa blinked. "I'm what?"
"Straight rye."
"Um… if I have to be a drink, I'd rather be a Shirley Temple," said Teresa.
Qoheleth shook his head. "No, that's not what I meant…"
"Give her credit, though," said Erineae. "It was a pretty good comeback."
Qoheleth sighed, but it was a good-natured sigh. "Very well," he said. "I'll do my best."
Teresa smiled and left the table, leaving Qoheleth alone with the Bouncer – who, Qoheleth noticed, was now tapping the check on the table in an impatient manner.
Qoheleth sighed and pulled out a wallet. "So, how much was the meal?" he asked, thinking of those cigar butts.
The Bouncer coughed. "Well, y'see, pal, it's like this," he said. "Real money don't do us a ton of good down here – it's like the girl said, material stuff don't do too much for us – but if your little Muse there could maybe douse a little Inspiration on this here napkin, so I could take it to my Writer next time we meet… well, we'll just say that covers all expenses, huh?"
Qoheleth nodded. "That seems reasonable to me," he said. "Pay the man, Erineae."
"You have got to be kidding," Erineae whispered. "This two-bit hood expects to take my hard-earned Inspiration in exchange for Club Concepto lasagna? Well, I've got news for him…"
"Erineae," Qoheleth repeated, glancing at the Bouncer's rapidly hardening expression, "pay the nice gangster."
Erineae argued a little longer just for show, but eventually she consented to dab a few drops of Inspiration on the Bouncer's napkin. This done, Qoheleth took his cloak and his Muse and walked out into the Subreal street.
They say that if you look very closely, you can tell the exact moment when a person leaves Subreality. Nobody, however, was looking very closely this evening.
Disclaimer: Subreality and the Club Concepto were created by Subreality's illustrious founder, the late lamented Kielle, while Andalites, Yeerks, and so forth are the creations of the equally illustrious K. A. Applegate. No offense is meant to either.
Updates: Since this story was written, both The Parallel and Sacred Host have had at least a single chapter posted, and Anifal and Teresa have therefore joined the ranks of the Written. Zennin Two-One-Five, meanwhile, has been demoted to Visser Seven and given a token, off-screen role in The Parallel. Serves him right.