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  PRAISE FOR

  THE FUN WE’VE HAD

  “Michael Seidlinger is a homegrown Calvino, a humanist, and wise and darkly whimsical. His invisible cities are the spires of the sea where we all sail our coffins in search of our stories.”

  —STEVE ERICKSON, author of Zeroville

  “Melding the static, high-concept premise of two humans floating alone on a coffin in a sea devoid of all else with stark and meditative prose, The Fun We’ve Had evokes a highly unexpected experience, somewhere between Beckett’s most hopeless solipsists and the mysterious energy of a child’s Choose Your Own Adventure-era dream.”

  —BLAKE BUTLER, author of There Is No Year and

  Three Hundred Million

  “Michael J Seidlinger writes with the kind of weird, wonderful, joyful abandon that reminds the reader that the world is still the great unknown. In The Fun We’ve Had, he examines the long blank space between life and death, fills it with love and loss and boats made of coffins, with people clinging to life and using the weight of the past as ballast. This is a fun read, true; but it’s also a true read, and that’s what makes it so beautifully sad.”

  —AMBER SPARKS, author of The Desert Places and May We Shed These Human Bodies

  “The best poets are writing poetry no matter what they are writing, creating entirely new and weird spaces. There is no doubt Seidlinger has made one of the weirdest spaces we will ever inhabit. In The Fun We’ve Had, every visible thing is a love of disturbing tremors, keeping ahead of our ever-curious eyes, hoping to savor every line. What a magnificent book.”

  —CA CONRAD, author of The Book of Frank

  “It is obvious that Michael J Seidlinger had a great deal of fun writing The Fun We’ve Had. What more could a reader ask for?”

  —MICHAEL KIMBALL, author of Big Ray

  “Seidlinger’s imagination is a sea unto itself, the reader riding these rollicking waves. This book will have you clutching pages as though they’re life vests. Fans of Calvino and Shelley Jackson will dig the slow submerge into this crazy romp.”

  —JOSHUA MOHR, author of Damascus

  “Ready for an analogy? Here goes: When you need to give a dog a pill, you don’t just jam it down his throat, you wrap that pill in something yummy, like, say, ham. Michael J Seidlinger understands that this principle extends to people and books. So he’s got this pill he wants you to swallow, right? That pill is the truth about love and death and strife and, more generally, the messy mysterious business of being human, and also of being nothingness. Pretty heavy, right? Big old horse pill. But then Seidlinger, no fool, wraps it in the yummy slow-smoked maple goodness of his humor. He obviously had a fine time writing this book, which is precisely the reason you’ll have a fine time reading it.”

  —RON CURRIE JR., author of Flimsy Little Plastic Miracles

  PRAISE FOR

  THE LAUGHTER OF STRANGERS

  “The Laughter of Strangers delivers a combination of psychological horror and strangeness that would not be out of place in a David Lynch film. Seidlinger’s weird new fight fiction suggests that perhaps the best place for boxing contests isn’t in the ring but between the pages of a book.”

  —THE LOS ANGELES TIMES

  “Unexpectedly, Michael J Seidlinger has given us the boxing novel of the year. The Laughter of Strangers is a tough and gritty book that will challenge you page after page, but it is oh so worth it.”

  —FLAVORWIRE

  “Seidlinger’s stripped down prose resembles a boxer that possesses both graceful footwork and devastating power: it’s rough and fast, but given to bursts of eloquence, humor, and philosophy.”

  —BOOKSLUT

  “Michael J Seidlinger’s The Laughter of Strangers is vicious and unforgettable. Willem Floures’s search for meaning in a world that keeps knocking him off his feet is as gritty and enthralling as a fight. The Laughter of Strangers destroyed my expectations of what a boxing novel can be. Seidlinger is charting new narrative territory, and we should follow him wherever he goes.”

  —LAURA VAN DEN BERG, author of The Isle of Youth

  “The bare-bones prose within The Laughter of Strangers is heartbreaking, bleak, and stays with you long after finishing the book. This one should not be ignored.”

  —FRANK BILL, author of Donnybrook

  Lazy Fascist Press

  Portland, Oregon

  PO Box 10065

  Portland, OR 97296

  www.lazyfascistpress.com

  [email protected]

  ISBN: 978-1-62105-147-3

  Copyright © 2014 by Michael J Seidlinger

  Cover Design by Matthew Revert

  www.matthewrevert.com

  Edited by Cameron Pierce

  Proofread by Kirsten Alene

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written consent of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

  All persons in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance that may seem to exist to actual persons living or dead is purely coincidental. This is a work of fiction.

  Printed in the USA.

  OUR TURN

  We were here before anywhere else, and it is why they returned to tempt the seas, swimming against the current, fighting the engulfing waves. Each wave is its own feeling, rhythmic crashing of those that resist the tides. We are all here, and it is only now that we understand.

  The waves are hellos.

  The incoming storm is the sincerest goodbye.

  Like every single one of us, they held on.

  We held on until we could no longer hide. No one can hide out at sea. The current felt is something that only the quickening heartbeat, the quick-to-react being, can adjust.

  We go with the current.

  We are the current.

  We want to say hello.

  One wave tapped the side of their coffin while another nearly tipped the coffin over. We were way too excited. We are always excited to greet new voices. Though we may shout, they can only hear the sound of water deepening their descent.

  Some hold on longer than most.

  She held onto her potbelly, trapped in that tired, middle-aged body. He tried his best to fight us, unaware of the fact that we are here to help. We directed them toward the calmest part of the sea. We brought them in so that we could rock them slowly to their final sleep. Ease them in…

  Let go.

  With each gulp of water they became more like us.

  He wanted to fight us with one oar and the weak, frail body of a young girl. She was with us. She’s been with us for quite some time. He fought, wanting to hold on.

  They were only harming themselves.

  We are here, waiting for time to kick back in.

  The ocean has no clear end. The waves push and pull as we do our best to remember who we once were.

  Every single voice used to walk bodies across lands untold; each voice is a source of experience.

  There’s no telling what kind of fun we’ve had.

  But we try. If you can listen into the sound of the seas, calm and raging, a contradiction based on the billions that populate its depths, you’ll hear us shouting, doing our best to tell our stories.

  Holding on, they believed they had a chance.

  We push them toward the calmest part of the sea, beyond the dangerous waters, for the moment when they would sink.

  Eventually we all sink.

  If you choose to swim, you choose to drown.

  HIS TURN

  He rowed long before he realized what had happened. After he opened his eyes, really opened his eyes, he still f
ound it difficult to see anything. The deep and dark depths of blue made it a desperate struggle to find north. Sense of direction shattered, he rowed in circles, wide enough circles to hide the fact that he had no idea where they were. Of course he only hid the truth from himself.

  She sat slumped over, tired and defeated, toward the back of the coffin. He pretended that the coffin was a boat and they had simply gone sailing, one of their impulsive adventures, the kind that seemed to define their relationship.

  Thrill seeking, the very act of embellishing every minute as something monumental. For every show of affection, they showered themselves in anxious energy.

  Let’s go! He could still hear the enthusiasm in her voice. Genuine and true—nothing quite like new love.

  And it was love.

  He was sure of it.

  As sure as he was now of where they had ended up. One oar, nothing more, did little to help him forget that these hands were not his own. These frail, thin arms couldn’t be his arms.

  He looked over his shoulder, “Not much longer now!” That voice, high-pitched and youthful, wasn’t his voice.

  And what did he mean? Not much longer now. Where had they been? Where were they going? Yet all questions were already answered. If he could listen to the ocean, he’d find all the information he’d ever need.

  But confusion buoyed him, steering the coffin that would one day be his. Kept rowing in one inexact direction while he frequently turned to repeat the same phrase, “Not much longer now!”

  Confusion is an entirely different kind of torturous wave, one that denial combats well during times of distress.

  This was a time of distress. His first turn and all that could register was the denial of what had happened. Why they were here to begin with was without question the first and foremost item on his mind.

  “We’re a little late but we’ll be okay. They won’t leave without us!”

  He might have been confident if it weren’t for the tears running down his cheeks. He wiped them with those fragile little fingers, so frail they might break if he were to ball them up into a fist. Paleness of his palm as plain as everything he could not say, everything he might have wanted to say but when he opened his mouth to speak, what came out were old words, old statements, the filler and fodder of the life he left behind.

  The life they left behind.

  HER TURN

  They were equals. From the beginning, they built their friendship and subsequent intimacy on the back-and-forth of good conversation. If he spoke, she would speak next; if she whispered, he would whisper the same number of words. Never a shout if they were going to make a real go of this.

  They did. And it was love, some might say.

  She used to count how many times they’d say, “I love you.” It wouldn’t have been too difficult to believe anything after it’s repeated enough times. She could count how many times he rowed using the one old, bent oar, but she couldn’t fight the current. The feeling of exhaustion weighed in deep, heavy, exacting.

  She whispered, “Do you recognize this song?”

  His predictable answer, “They played it on the radio three times in a row.”

  It felt meaningless. The words passed by like the gentle waves: effortlessly.

  Please, sit down next to me. Stop trying to row. Words that would never leave her lips, chapped and purple, lips matching the sagging facial features of someone having reached middle age. Forty plus years of stress and poor diet, the face fit well with the belly that made it impossible to see beyond the waist.

  Ideally, she knew who this was. More so, she could feel the effects of a life on-edge. This body borrowed is the one hint she had to identify where they had gone. What they had done…

  Where their actions led to depths beyond final breaths and final blinks.

  “That silly hairdo isn’t you. It’s trendy!”

  The nonsense of dead speech, of lines that had already left one’s lips long ago.

  “If you miss the appointment you’ll have to reschedule.”

  The back-and-forth of good conversation. She spoke out of context. He rowed with no clear concept of north.

  When it was his turn to speak, she had already spoken. The voice that dribbled out of her lips was deep and hoarse, heaving with a lack of energy, complete exhaustion.

  Though she may have wanted to help, she found it difficult to do much of anything but sit where she sat, watching as he repeated the same thing.

  Repeated enough times and the present worries were subdued. Though displaced, cast to the borrowed bodies of familiar acquaintances, she couldn’t be helped. She couldn’t help herself, even if she tried. The belly so heavy weighed her down. The frantic, almost manic energy, that he displayed, alarmingly the image of a young girl, only weighed her down more.

  If she still needed to breathe, her breaths would have been audible, anguished wheezing.

  She didn’t notice the differences, how if she wanted to, she could look past him. Right through the tiny body. She could see through her body to the velvet texture of the coffin acting as the as-of-yet largely unnoticed destiny of him, her, of everyone.

  The coffin floated, for now.

  She sat, vaguely aware that she would be the one to recover her sense of direction. She would be the one to hear the voices trapped in the waves. She would see the hinges of the coffin and it would all come to her at once. Enough to send her into a coma until he caught up. Denied for as long as he could, she would rest, teetering in the nonexistence of this purgatorial sea.

  The only way to rouse her would be to admit what they’d have to do.

  “I love you,” in this case, meant letting go.

  HIS TURN

  “Are we having fun?”

  The sun made its first appearance, long rays of light poking through the clouds, highlighting the area where they would soon drift. By the time he’d fight the current, not that he ever won, more like the ocean let him win every time, the light pulled a few feet forward.

  Always out of reach.

  He stationed himself at the front of the coffin, like a captain of a nameless and needless ship. He wanted to say everything to her but all that came out was the same question:

  “Are we having fun?”

  The question, at first directed to her overweight and overwrought frame, soon became his meaningless refrain.

  Meaningless, because if he let himself understand the question he would have to admit to all that he fought so hard to deny.

  Follow the light.

  He began to see shapes and other apparitions in the rays. Excitedly, the rowing became his primary focus. He held the oar with both hands, leaning to either side as he lowered it into the water. It looked painful but he felt nothing.

  He wasn’t at all sure this was excitement, but at least for now, the glimpsing of something else, something, anything, was enough to keep the momentum, the same momentum that seemed to outline his days. What might have been a lazy, relaxing Saturday became a cause for adventure, a curious matching between him and her, their search to be out, on the city, the town, so as to stave off being on the outs with each other.

  That’s what it is, was, and will always be.

  Nothing would change. Nothing is wrong.

  This is just another adventure. New thrill.

  “Are we having fun?”

  Of course they were. When every feeling is time-stamped and the life you lead becomes the life you led, there cannot be a whole lot more to do except admit right from wrong. However, if he could see the look on that girlish face of his, it would tell a different story.

  Keep rowing to the leaking of tears from bloodshot eyes. And yet there was a smile to accompany the act.

  Beyond the beyond, he thought of a horizon, of an island they once pretended to exist. Desert island adventure.

  What would you need to have fun?

  Cheesy lines delivered—you.

  You too—followed by a list of feelings, emotions, rather than material bel
ongings.

  To feel was all they wanted.

  To feel alive.

  Then what does this feel like?

  “Are we having fun?”

  HER TURN

  She could never picture it in her mind despite saying that she could. A desert island? It’s rhetorical. Fictional. There isn’t a lot of space on earth; every corner and crevice is populated with life. If it’s deserted it might be death. Danger ahead. But that’s the way they liked it. Especially now, she felt it, everything from the emotional surfaces to the depths of childhood, leaving her for good. She succumbed to numbness. She felt nothing.

  She wanted nothing.

  She heard him. She always heard him, especially now. How obnoxious his voice seemed as he wore that smile while the rest of his face told a different story. Let’s go!

  To that illuminated patch of water.

  The sunshine duped him dozens of times. All she could do was sigh. The sigh never escaped her lips. Those lips began to stick, as if shut for good.

  Her character flaw wasn’t that she denied herself what she felt. She fed on her emotions, listening to every single nudge and twitch, even if it ended tragically. Her character flaw, like there was ever only one per person, had more to do with an ever-present pessimism. It might have been good, what they had, but she second-guessed everything.

  Here and now, she second-guessed the sea around her. Distantly her thoughts mimicked the time she made her way across the country. She might as well have been by herself because she pushed away the two friends that occupied the same journey. She doubted the cities they visited, claimed the caverns they found to be duplicates, fraudulent copies of the real thing.