Category: Literature (Page 1 of 9)

My Upcoming Book Schedule

April 1, 2024 /

As you may or may not be aware, I recently released a (sort of) new book called Past, Present, Future. I’ve also got another, Remembering the End, arriving later this year. But those aren’t the only books coming to a shelf near you.

Today’s the perfect day to reveal all the books I’m working on. Let the hype-train commence its chugging.

The Woman with the Wine Glass

To capitalize on the trend of book club books about alcoholic shut-ins, I’m writing a twisty mystery about Lilith, an alcoholic shut-in.

One night while staring out the window and guzzling some Barefoot-brand white zinfandel, Lilith witnesses a heinous crime: Her neighbor beating her husband to death using a mini baseball bat from the Cooperstown Baseball Hall of Fame.

But did Lilith truly see what she thinks she saw, or was it a hallucination brought on by her wine-induced stupor? Not sure. I’ll let you know when I figure it out.

Expected release date: ASAP, since this literary fad should go the way of the vampire any day now.

Gerald Barkley Rocks: Kyle’s Version

(Cover originally designed by Nathan Rumsey and here modified by the author.)

Re-releasing a previously released album? That’s a Taylor Swift special. I haven’t dropped an album of my own (yet), so I suppose I’ll settle for my books.

The thing is, my first novel, Gerald Barkley Rocks, was already an independent release, meaning there’s no distributor to break free from. So, my plan is to copy and paste my book’s text into a new file, then slap “Kyle’s Version” on the cover and call it a day. Hopefully, my psychotic cult of fans will buy millions of copies so I can continue flying my private jet to the far reaches of the earth.

Expected release date: You’ll find out during the Grammys.

Spon Con: The Book

If you enjoy commercials during podcasts or the #ad hashtag, you’ll love this book. From cover to cover, it’s all product placements.

What for? Whatever you’ll pay me for. I’m opening this one up to advertisers, especially the ones who cold email me with no knowledge of who I am or what I do. I’m aiming for 300 pages, and every page is its own advertisement—the more garish, the better. Get your spot while they last.

Expected release date: April 2025, or whenever I accumulate enough money to buy an Alpha Black Lotus.

So Done with Airports: An Anti-Flyer’s Manifesto

Perhaps the most personal book I’ve ever written, this mad ranting is the perfect distillation of my hatred for the airline industry. I cover everything from security to bag policies to seat size. There’s even a chapter on how best to silently seethe while your seat-neighbor spreads over the armrest like a blob of molasses.

Expected release date: October 2025.

ChristmaTyranny: A Tale of Revolution & Retribution

Deep in the frozen wastes of the North Pole, Boss Santa rules as unquestioned god-king over his subjects. Christmas trees stand as monuments to his splendor, exhausted reindeer haul his chariot across the eternal night sky, and the vicious Gingerbread Mobsters serve as enforcers of his orthodoxy.

Under the sugar-laced thumb of this toy-making empire lies Bupkis, a lowly quality assurance elf who’s so bland and forgettable he must wear a nametag, despite working the same job all his life.

Yet when an underground insurgency force recruits Bupkis to overthrow Boss Santa’s corrupt regime, the elf’s true loyalties are put to the test. Is he really just the company man he appears to be, or is Bupkis deceiving both sides—and perhaps even himself?

One part spy thriller, one part heist adventure, and all parts festive, ChristmaTyranny is the gift that keeps on giving plot twists, right until the bittersweet end. Hailed as “anti-plutocracy ideology meets Elf,” there’s no better book to add to your stocking this holiday season.

Ho ho has gotta go.

Expected release date: Christmas 2025, of course.

Say Nothing & Complain About It Later: A Practical Guide to Passive-Aggression in the Workplace

Most business books offer suggestions on improving one’s corporate image, but instead of zigging, I’m zagging. Mine is all about letting the hate flow through you.

Angered by coworkers always leaving the water cooler empty? Annoyed by the inane chatter happening right outside your cubicle? Distressed by the state of the bathrooms? This book will help turn your simmer into a boil, making you the most passive-aggressive person in the office since Angela Martin. It even comes with a handy supplementary workbook containing future employment suggestions for after you’ve been fired.

Expected release date: Look, I’m working on it, alright? I’ll have an update by EOD.

Ceaseless Hype: A Memoir of My Dog

For those who’ve never met her, my dog Osi is a hyperactive four-year-old English Springer Spaniel who writes under the pen name “Psychopup.” Of course, no one ever believes she’s four, because she acts more like she’s four months. And now, I’m co-authoring a book with her.

It’s a slow process. Every time I try to schedule writing sessions, Osi’s eating, napping, or running wind sprints in the backyard. Plus, like many dogs, she has no fingers, so I’ll be doing all the typing.

Expected release date: Woof. (That’s a direct quote from Osi.)

Get Your Wallets Ready

These books are coming soon to online retailers near you—except ChristmaTyranny. I’ve just received word that Santa is suing me for libel, so that one’s on hold. Maybe I’ll write a book about the proceedings.

P.S. Happy Aprils Fools’ Day.

Kyle A. Massa is a comedy author of some sort living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife, their daughter, and three wild animals. His published works include five books, along with several short stories, essays, and poems. When he’s not writing, he enjoys reading, running, and drinking coffee.

A Muggle Parent’s Questions About Academics at Hogwarts

October 11, 2022 /

Hogwarts Questions

Dear Hogwarts Admissions Office,

My name is Kyle Massa and the only magic I know is the trading card game. Nonetheless, I’m considering sending my daughter to your school, provided you can answer some quick questions.

First, what’s the approximate mortality rate among students? I ask because the brochure mentions giant spiders in the woods, secret chambers beneath the castle, and ghosts of former students haunting the bathrooms. Also, the liability waiver is longer than Infinite Jest. Should I be concerned about this?

Second, where are the math classes? I never liked math and, truth be told, I dropped out of precalculus after two classes. Still, basic mathematical skills seem important in the everyday world, magical or otherwise, yet all I’m seeing is stuff like Transfiguration (whatever that is). Does this mean wizards can’t calculate tips? If not, will Grubhub still deliver to the school?

My third question is about PTAs. Most Muggle schools have them, yet Hogwarts appears not to. I have no firsthand experience of such things, but I hear PTAs are sort of like a prison sentence, except you volunteer for it. More experienced parents have advised me never to speak of them, lest someone mistake it for interest.

You know what? This isn’t a question—more a congratulations on not having PTAs. Well done.

Actual question number three: What’s your cell phone policy? Ubiquitous cell usage was just beginning during my school days, yet even then administrators spent roughly half their tenure confiscating Motorola Razrs. So what’s the Hogwarts policy? (My suggestion: Outlaw Snapchat. It’s the worst.)

My fourth question is about the houses. Here are my general impressions:

  • Gryffindor: The home for future world leaders with no discernible issues or shortcomings.
  • Slytherin: A pack of cheats, sociopaths, and borderline white supremacists.
  • Hufflepuff: A bunch of randos who do nothing noteworthy, except maybe die.
  • Ravenclaw: See above.

Look, I know tribalism is fun for kids (e.g. Lord of the Flies). However, after careful research, I’ve concluded that Gryffindor is the only house a parent would want their child in. If my daughter got into Slytherin, for example, I’d immediately hire several psychiatrists and hide all the knives in the house.

And hey, does your food contain laxatives? This is my fifth question. I ask because, when I was a freshman at Ithaca College, one of my good friends insisted the campus food was laced with laxatives. He provided no evidence other than claiming he was pooping a lot (we took his word for it). According to his theory, if we drained our bodies frequently, we’d need to eat more, thereby making the college more money.

I reiterate: This was never proven. I am not suggesting my alma mater tampered with our food. But does Hogwarts? I’m asking as a concerned parent.

I could go on, but I’m running out of ink and this owl you sent to retrieve my letter won’t stop staring at me. Which brings up another question: Do you have email?

Best,

Kyle

Kyle A. Massa is a comic fantasy author living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife, their daughter, and three wild animals. His published works include three books and several short stories. When he’s not writing, he enjoys reading, running, and drinking coffee.

Getting Hyped for Netflix’s “The Sandman”

July 25, 2022 /

Sandman

After decades of development in The Dreaming, Neil Gaiman’s epic masterpiece Sandman finally arrives on screen. I am hyped for this moment, and I hope you are, too. But if not, this article will help. Here’s why you’ll love this show.

It Has An Excellent Cast

Remember Game of Thrones, that show everyone adored until the final season? I know, we don’t talk about Thrones. But if you’ll allow me a moment’s blasphemy, Netflix’s Sandman has not one, but two GoT alums amongst its cast.

The first is Charles Dance, who you’ll remember as the cold and ruthless Tywin Lannister. (If there’s one actor who I’d actually buy skinning a deer, it’s this guy.) In Sandman, Dance plays Roderick Burgess, a magical cult leader with outstanding job titles, including “Daemon King” and “Lord Magus.” Imagine putting that on your LinkedIn profile.

The second Thrones alum is Gwendoline Christie, who you’ll remember as Brienne of Tarth. (You may also remember her turn as the tragically underserved Captain Phasma in the latest Star Wars trilogy.) In The Sandman, Christie plays Lucifer. Yes, that Lucifer. Gaiman’s treatment of the character is one of the best ever, right up there with Milton, Rushdie, and Ferrell. Christie will do a magnificent job.

But enough about GoT people. The rest of the cast looks just as special, especially Boyd Holbrook as The Corinthian and Kirby Howell-Baptiste as Death. Tom Sturridge as the titular Sandman/Morpheus/Dream is giving me Edward Cullen vibes, but I bet he’ll be good, too.

It Will Have A Unique Structure

The comics sure did.

Like most comics, Sandman was released episodically in annual issues. However, due to its mass popularity, the series was subsequently collected into volumes of graphic novels divided by story arc. Ten such volumes compose the main series, along with several other standalones and spinoffs.

Fans will note that characters from the first two volumes have been cast for the first season of the show. This inspires a theory, and my theory is this: The show will run for five seasons, with each season combining two volumes. If that proves popular enough, there’s still additional content left for more.

Not only is this two-volume approach symmetrical, it’s also logistically sound. Though the 10 volumes tell an overarching story, three of the 10 are entirely standalone short stories. Therefore, if the show follows my approach, seasons two, three, and four will all contain both main story and short story episodes. It’s a great way to involve both without losing either.

If you’ve never read Sandman, you might be dubious of random one-off episodes. However, assuming they take this approach, it’s not without precedent. The X-Files, my favorite show of all time, pioneered this structure with their “Mythology” and “Monster of the Week” episodes. The former advanced an overarching tale, while the latter were standalone investigations (which I always preferred to the “Mythology” eps).

The Sandman can do the same. Trust me, you do not want to miss the one about a thousand cats.

I Promise It’s Not a Superhero Story

I know what you’re thinking. A comic book with the -Man suffix? This is just another superhero property, isn’t it?

It’s really not. And I’m not just saying that to get you to watch (though I really want you to). Sandman is honestly difficult to describe; the closest I can get is an epic blend of fantasy, horror, mythology, history, and even a little humor. Dream, a.k.a. Morpheus,  a.k.a. Sandman, is the Lord of Dreams, and therefore the master of stories, aspirations, and idealization. Every moment of Sandman derives from this theme.

Sandman is also a family drama. Dream has six siblings, all of whom bear names that conveniently start with the letter D: Destiny, Death, Destruction, Desire, Despair, and Delirium (formerly Delight). Each sibling has a different relationship with the others, and throughout the series, they often compete and interact in interesting ways. In such an epic tale, one could get swept away by the otherworldliness of it all. However, Morpheus’s family, collectively known as the Endless, help ground the story in relatable humanism.

The Trailer is Sweet

Just watch it!

Ready?

Me too. The Sandman premieres on Netflix on August 5. Schedule your binge watch now.

Kyle A. Massa is a comic fantasy author living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife, their daughter, and three wild animals. His published works include three books and several short stories. When he’s not writing, he enjoys reading, running, and drinking coffee.

The Three Authors of April, Part 3: Neil Gaiman

July 5, 2022 /
neil gaiman

Image copyright: nrkbeta, CC BY-SA 2.0, via Wikimedia Commons

I haven’t been to many rock concerts, but I suspect I now know what it’s like. I went to a Neil Gaiman reading.

BTW: This is the final part in a three-part series chronicling all the author events I attended in April. Part 1 was about Colson Whitehead and Part 2 was about David Sedaris. Part three is about to begin.

The Event

After a 30-minute sojourn into Schenectady, New York, I parked on level two of a parking garage near Proctor’s Theatre, then noticed a girl with a sparkling black dress and purple hair. Only the most interesting people come out to see Neil Gaiman, and many of them are moderately goth (like the author himself).

I purchased tickets to this event almost three years prior. Originally scheduled for 2020, the pandemic said “LOL” to that plan, sweeping in like the big bad wolf to huff and puff and blow the date to 2021, then 2022. Fortunately, the final date stuck.

I attended with my brother-in-law Dan (shoutout to Dan), who read the entirety of Gaiman’s Sandman catalogue in a matter of months. Once we met up, we proceeded into the theater (theatre?) for an evening with Neil.

The Author

If you’re not familiar with Neil Gaiman’s work, you soon will be; his masterful Sandman comic series comes to Netflix in August. He’s also penned novels for adults (American Gods, Good Omens, Stardust), children’s books (Coraline), movie scripts (Beowulf), and even nonfiction (The View from the Cheap Seats). Name a genre and he’s written it.

Proctor’s was sold out, and when Neil took the stage wearing his customary all-black attire, that sold-out crowd erupted. I snagged a pic:

Neil Gaiman

That glow though.

What’s that burst of light onstage? Is Neil some sort of radiant angel? Well, no—this is just what happens when you take a picture in the dark. But hey, judging by the ovation, he might as well be divine.

To kick off the festivities, Neil commented on how this event was supposed to take place two years prior. “Sorry I was late,” he said. He then read several pieces, beginning with “Credo,” a nonfiction piece written in response to the Charlie Hebdo murders carried out by Al-Qaeda. For his second reading, he asked if we wanted something funny or scary, to which the overwhelming response was, “Scary!” So, we got “Click Clack the Rattlebag.”

After that, I lost track of the readings. I know he did “Chivalry” and “Making a Chair,” though I don’t recall the order. He also read a piece I’d never heard before and never caught the name of, mostly because I was afraid of another member of the audience.

Her name was Holly. I know this because, at some point halfway through the show, she stood up and announced her name, then informed the crowd that she’d invented a device to “solve the bipartisan machine.” This really happened—you can ask Dan if you don’t believe me. It was so bizarre and unexpected that, for a moment, nobody spoke.

Neil tried to diffuse the situation with humor. “Holly,” he said, “I should warn you, this crowd might tear you limb from limb.” Holly kept going, though, and the good people of Schenectady began to jeer. One concerned citizen even offered a helpful recommendation: “Shut your face!” At that point, Holly shrugged, said, “Okay,” then reclaimed her seat and did not speak again. I suppose the bipartisan machine will continue to chug along.

Aside from that, it was a wonderful night. Between readings, Neil answered questions, many from educators and librarians. A few I noted…

Q: Of all your characters, which was the most fun to write?

A: Delirium from Sandman. “She did her own dialogue.”

Q: You have been described as critic proof. How does that feel?

A: “I am? Oh, good.”

Q: What advice do you have for young writers?

A: “Get into trouble.”

My notes grow sparse from there, probably because I was enjoying myself. I did write “my butt hurts,” though that’s to be expected when you’re seated for two hours. Yet no one remained seated when the evening ended. We gave Neil a standing, raucous ovation. It truly did feel like a rock concert.

The Takeaways

Neil Gaiman continues to be the sort of author I aspire to be. He’s made a living from writing what interests him, whether it be adult fiction, comic books, nonfiction, screenplays, or anything else.

For me, Neil exemplifies creative freedom. And that’s a goal worth striving for.

Kyle A. Massa is a comic fantasy author living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife, their daughter, and three wild animals. His published works include three books and several short stories. When he’s not writing, he enjoys reading, running, and drinking coffee.

The Three Authors of April, Part 2: David Sedaris

June 20, 2022 /
David Sedaris

Image copyright: Harald Krichel, CC BY-SA 4.0, via Wikimedia Commons

I had the privilege of attending three author events in April. Last week, we kicked off the series with Colson Whitehead discussing space crackheads. In part two, I met David Sedaris.

The Event

It was Sunday, April 10, and Sedaris visited the Oncenter in Syracuse, New York. Tickets were a birthday present from my wife (thank you Sara!), and Sara’s mom Karen also joined us.

The first thing I recall seeing: A long table seasoned with Sedaris’s many books, which have delightfully eclectic covers. For instance, we purchased a copy of When You Are Engulfed in Flames; its cover depicts an astronaut’s skeleton sinking into sand, while a futuristic spaceship crumbles in the background. It looks like an Asimov novel, though Sedaris writes humorous nonfiction. I’m unsure how those connect, but I dig it.

The Crouse Hinds Theater wasn’t sold out, but it was pretty well filled, especially for a Sunday afternoon. We sat about 10 rows back on the right side of the stage—the perfect vantage to appreciate the author’s entrance. Speaking of which…

The Author

If you’ve read David Sedaris, you’re familiar with his affinity for culottes. He often writes about them, and though I’m aware of these pants from his writing, I’ve never actually seen them—until this event.

Turns out they’re a silky, reddish-orange garment that fall just below the knees and billow when you walk. Sedaris wore his with a suit jacket. They look super comfortable, and I might try wearing them if I was brave enough (not that I am).

Other than the culottes, my notes for this event were less thorough than those for Colson Whitehead. This is because the lights went down and remained dim until the end. I had my notebook and pen ready, but I couldn’t see what I was writing. The result: My notes were even messier than usual, not to mention incoherent. What does “piece on scaffolds” mean, anyway?

Still, even without my notes, I recall the sheer coolness of the event. Hundreds of people gathered in an auditorium to hear someone read stuff. We love to make sweeping claims about society these days, one of the most common being that cell phones have killed the long attention span. Yet there we were, a few hundred contradictions, enjoying a simple reading for over two hours. Aside from quick pictures, I saw nary a cell screen.

Anyhoo, enough cultural commentary. Let’s talk about jizzum-soaked hags.

David Sedaris said it, not me. I know this because it was one of the few legible entries in my notebook, as if God really wanted me to remember it. For context, Sedaris was listing phrases The New Yorker has cut from his articles in the past. “Jizzum-soaked hag” was used to describe a woman who accosted him during a late night wander through Central Park, an episode he went into hilarious detail on.

After various anecdotes like this and a few essays, Sedaris concluded the readings with some journal entries. I’ve kept a journal of my own since this date, mostly because I want to someday sell mine like he did. Here’s an entry from the day after the event:

“It occurs to me that Sedaris leads a far more interesting life than me. If you’re reading this someday in the future and you’ve paid for it, prepare for anecdotes about Albany, New York, Taco Bell, and the annoyances of indie publishing on Amazon. I apologize in advance.”

Nobody’s paying for that—but journaling has been fun nonetheless.

Sedaris capped things off with questions. This was perhaps my favorite part of the afternoon, because, unlike other authors, he makes no attempt to be polite in his answers. For instance, someone asked him, “What’s the best state to visit on book tours?” Sedaris answered something to the effect of, “We can’t end on that question, somebody give me another.”

The Post-Event

After the reading, we met the man himself. I didn’t take notes on this, so you’ll have to trust my memory. (Now we’re both in trouble.)

The line was long, and it stayed long no matter how long we stood in it. It was for good reason, though: Sedaris talks to everybody. This isn’t the cursory chat you get from most authors, where you say, “I just love your books,” and they say, “Why thank you, devoted follower.” Sedaris strikes up an actual conversation with everyone in line.

For example, he commiserated with my mother-in-law on the disadvantages of having the name “Karen” these days. Sedaris suggested that internet fads eventually pass, so this one probably would, too. I think Karen appreciated that.

My wife and I said little during this exchange. For weeks prior, Sara brainstormed something great to say, perhaps hoping she would appear in future books. She even considered giving him a salt potato or a jar of Pastabilities pasta sauce, sort of like a Syracusian peace offering.

Of course, once we got to the front of the line, we couldn’t think of anything except the occasional, “Yeah” or, “Thank you,” maybe even a, “You were great.” So it goes.

The Takeaways

Journaling! I tried keeping a journal in college but never maintained it. Since seeing David Sedaris, I’ve had far more success. And if I ever collect the entries in a book and sell them, you’ll know who to blame.

Kyle A. Massa is a comic fantasy author living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife, their daughter, and three wild animals. His published works include three books and several short stories. When he’s not writing, he enjoys reading, running, and drinking coffee.

My Most Embarrassing Writing Fails

January 26, 2022 /

Bad Writing

My grandparents on my dad’s side were famous for never wasting anything. This is not a statement of hyperbole.

For instance, instead of killing dandelions in her yard, my grandmother served them as salad toppers. Also, my grandfather once removed every rusty nail from every board of a dismantled shed, then stored the nails in buckets in the basement for future use.

See? Nothing wasted.

I take after them in this respect, though my waste refusal has nothing to do with dandelions or rusty nails. Mine is all about writing.

I can’t discard my writing. No matter how bad it is, no matter how unreadable, I can’t write anything without using it somehow. So, this blog post is all about my lousiest work. I could (probably should) throw it out, but instead I’m sharing it with you. Hope you get a kick out of it—and maybe a few helpful tips along the way.

Pages of the Mirror

This pretentiously artsy script was my senior thesis project at Ithaca College in 2014. This was back when I feared nobody would take me seriously if I wrote comedy, so the resulting piece is emo, dull, and ultimately lousy.

Pages of the Mirror is about some dude named Danny who lives in a small town and is beloved by everyone, for some reason. When his equally beloved Uncle Jack (car mechanic with tattoos who listens to Metallica, of course) gets murdered, Danny becomes the prime suspect.

Plus, there’s an intertwined story of a mysterious fellow mysteriously named “The Writer” who’s working on a mysterious book and who continues to be generally mysterious, because I decided all this mystery would be intriguing. We soon discover this is a story within a story; the Writer is writing about Danny.

At the time, I thought this was clever. Looking back, the connection between the two stories was probably immediately obvious. Plus, it’s a classically egomaniacal story for a writer to write. (What if my writing became so good it came to life!?) I recall pulling an all-nighter the night before it was due, which is probably why I only got a B. But look at me now—I got blog content out of it.

My takeaway from this project: When you’re developing your voice, you might strike a few sour notes. Just clear your throat and keep singing.

“Apocalypse Now…or Never”

It’s hard to believe, but I’ve been writing on this here blog now for 10 years. If you explore my archives, you’ll find some bad writing. Perhaps the worst was my first ever blog post, entitled “Apocalypse Now…or Never.”

The title isn’t terrible; it’s the rest that’s ugly. Just check out this leadoff sentence:

“I’m having a hard time buying this ‘2012: World is Going to End’ crap.”

I wrote this sentence when I was 19, yet it makes me sound like I’m 60. Also, I’m pretty sure the punctuation is incorrect.

Things don’t improve from there. My intro paragraph is a block of text, and I somehow venture into a rant about Ozzy Osbourne possibly being a zombie. I don’t even address my anti-apocalypse stance until paragraph eight, and when I finally get to it, I use a funfetti cake as a metaphor.

If you want to read just how bad this blog post was, you can find it here. My takeaway: Writing gets better with age. I’m not some premier blogger, but this blog is certainly better than it was a decade ago. Second takeaway: I was right about the world not ending in 2012. Yay me.

Pleasant Street

This is another college project, though Pleasant Street was a short story, not a script. It’s so bad that I’ve actually written about it before. Not sure this is something I should brag about, but here goes…

This story has it all: A doofus protagonist, heavy-handed symbolism, clumsy language, geriatric cannibals. What more could you ask for?

Well, if you’re asking for competent plotting, compelling characters, or an interesting setting, look elsewhere. Pleasant Street is about a first-time cop named Officer Green (I warned you about the heavy-handedness) who’s assigned to walk the beat in a neighborhood called Pleasant Street. See? Because it’s called Pleasant Street, you’d never expect anything bad might happen. Brilliant misdirection.

As it happens, the residents of Pleasant Street have achieved eternal life via cannibalism. (I partially lifted this idea from an episode of The X-Files, so my apologies to Mulder and Scully.) Rather predictably, the story concludes with the main character being cooked and eaten. I would’ve offered a spoiler warning, but no one will ever read this story again—I’ve made sure of it.

As for the grade on this assignment, I don’t recall it. Perhaps my mind is repressing it to defend me. But here’s what I do remember: I never collected feedback on this piece. If I did, maybe someone might’ve told me it needed work. So that’s our takeaway for this story. Get feedback from people you trust, then use it if it works.

“10 Bold Predictions for the Future of Magic: The Gathering”

Yes, I know most readers will not care about Magic, let alone understand it. If you were to browse this article, you’d find such esoteric phrases as “enemy fetch lands,” “two-block paradigm,” and “Kaseto comes along in the new Commander product.”

However, I’m including this article because of my low success rate on these so-called bold predictions. To be clear, the writing is actually passable; I had some decent wisecracks, including a dig at Jar-Jar Binks (timeless). The issue is, I only got five of my 10 predictions right!

I won’t bore you with the details. I’ll just say this: We must deliver on our promises to our readers—especially when the promise is right in the title.

“Someday”

I’ve saved the worst for last. You think my poetry is bad now? Just check out this poem from May 5th, 2011, for a creative writing class at Ithaca College.

“Someday soon,
We’ll touch the moon.
Ride the stars to the sun.
Someday soon,
We will commune.
And then we shall be one.”

This is weird pseudo-hippy crap that sounds like something you’d cringe at if you heard someone singing it with an acoustic on the campus quad. And it’s only an excerpt! I feel like I should apologize to you for forcing you to read it. I’m sorry.

The lesson learned here is clear: Don’t F with poetry. Bad poetry is more offensive than bad prose. My poetry is still pretty bad, but at least I’m reading and studying the craft before I write more. And I’m definitely not trying to rhyme.

Summing It All Up

I’ve said this before and I’ll say it again here: I think it’s healthy to review your old work, no matter how nauseated it makes you feel. I may not be a great writer, but at least I’m better than I used to be. And sometimes, that reminder is all we need.

(P.S. I hope I made my grandparents proud. Waste not, want not!)

Kyle A. Massa is a comic fantasy author living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife, their daughter, and three wild animals. His published works include two books and several short stories. When he’s not writing, he enjoys reading, running, and drinking coffee.

The World Without William Shakespeare

December 2, 2021 /

William Shakespeare looking like a boss at his desk

Lately, I’ve been reading Shakespeare to my daughter. Based on the number of times she farts during said readings, Macbeth is her favorite. (She’s one month old, by the way.)

Anyhoo, all this Shakespeare got me thinking…what would the world look like without him? And I don’t mean the conspiracy theory Shakespeare-didn’t-write-his-own-plays thing. I’m wondering how different our lives might be if the Bard never existed.

So, in a world without William Shakespeare…

…Amanda Bynes, Julia Stiles, Channing Tatum, Joseph Gordon-Levitt, and Heath Ledger Wouldn’t Be Famous

Follow me closely here. Amanda Bynes and Channing Tatum starred in the 2006 romantic comedy She’s the Man, a film which kickstarted both their careers. Likewise, Julia Stiles, Heath Ledger, and Joseph Gordon-Levitt rocketed to stardom thanks to their roles in the 1999 romantic comedy 10 Things I Hate About You.

And what do both these films have in common? They’re modern adaptations of Shakespeare’s plays!

She’s the Man is adapted from Twelfth Night and 10 Things I Hate About You is adapted from The Taming of the Shrew, in case you were curious. So, without the plays, we wouldn’t have the movies. Without the movies, we wouldn’t have the star-making performances. And without the performances, we wouldn’t have the stars. That means no Ledger’s Joker in The Dark Knight, no Stiles’s Nicky Parsons in the Bourne films, and no Tatum’s Magic Mike in Magic Mike.

Well, I suppose we’d get along without that last one. But I know my wife would be disappointed.

…We’d Be More Skeptical of People Getting Married After Barely Knowing Each Other

I mean, I suppose we already are skeptical of that. But nobody would rationalize it by saying, “It’s just like Romeo and Juliet!” This means dating shows like The Bachelor wouldn’t exist, and we’d all be better off.

…There’d Be a Hole in Lesson Plans for English Classes

Speaking of Romeo and Juliet, we spent weeks on that play in high school. We also read Julius Caesar. And once I got to college (shoutout to all the Ithaca Bombers) I took an entire class devoted to Shakespeare. Without him, what would all our English teachers do?

They’d probably teach more Steinbeck, which would be terrible for us all. I’d like to thank Will for sparing me that fate.

…Ray Bradbury’s 1962 Novel Something Wicked This Way Comes Would Need a New Title

That’s because Ray borrowed the phrase from Macbeth. It’s a far better title than, say, Evil Carnies Attack!

…The 2011 Disney Film Gnomeo & Juliet Wouldn’t Exist

To the disappointment of nobody.

…Led Zeppelin’s “Stairway to Heaven” Would be Short a Second Line

That’s because Robert Plant paraphrased Shakespeare’s line “All that glitters isn’t gold” from The Merchant of Venice. Might I suggest “All those wrinkles mean you’re old” as a replacement?

…We’d Be Without Tons of Other Useful Phrases, Too

No more “it’s all Greek to me,” which comes from Julius Caesar, and which is often employed by non-Magic: The Gathering players when Magic players say stuff like, “Tap out, kill your blocker, swing for lethal.”

No more “wild-goose chase,” which comes from Romeo and Juliet. Tough to invent a substitute for that one, since “Uncontrollable pheasant pursuit” just doesn’t have the same ring.

No more “break the ice,” which comes from The Taming of the Shrew. This absence would leave college orientation leaders and first-time Tinder dates bereft of an important concept.

…English Would Have Far Fewer Words

To demonstrate my penultimate point, here’s a brief story for you:

I was undressing in my bedroom, inwardly questioning whether or not my outfit was fashionable, when I heard something downstairs. It wasn’t inaudible, but it was close; a lonely yelping, just on the edge of hearing.

So of course I hurried downstairs, my heart thumping, and when I turned the corner, I saw something obscene: An alligator eating my breakfast. The damn thing must’ve slipped through the open window!

“Well aren’t you nervy?” I growled.

The alligator only shrugged. “I may be jaded, lonely, and even a little zany. But at least I’m not totally worthless—unlike that outfit you’re wearing. I don’t mean to be a critic, but really, honey. Hey, do you have any skim milk?”

Look, I know alligators can’t shrug or speak, and they might be lactose-intolerant. But that’s not the point of this exercise. Here’s the same story again, minus the words widely credited to Shakespeare:

I was _____ in my _____, inwardly _____ whether or not my outfit was _____, when I heard something _____. It wasn’t _____, but it was close; a _____ _____, just on the edge of hearing.

So of course I _____ _____, my heart thumping, and when I turned the corner, I saw something _____: An _____ eating my breakfast. The damn thing must’ve slipped through the open window!

“Well aren’t you _____?” I growled.

The _____ only shrugged. “I may be _____, _____, and even a little _____. But at least I’m not totally _____—unlike that outfit you’re wearing. I don’t mean to be a _____, but really, honey. Hey, do you have any _____ _____?”

He also invented the word “puking,” which I’m grateful for.

…We’d Be Missing Some Stellar Insults

I’ve never called anyone an “elvish-mark’d, abortive, rooting hog,” but someday I might need to.

…The World Would Be Far Less Interesting

Thank you, William Shakespeare, for all the plays, phrases, insults, and more. The world could’ve done without The Bachelor franchise, but to borrow a phrase from you, all’s well that ends well.

Kyle A. Massa is a comic fantasy author living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife, their daughter, and three wild animals. His published works include two books and several short stories. When he’s not writing, he enjoys reading, running, and drinking coffee.

Some Things I Learned on My Tour Through Westeros

November 17, 2021 /

Westeros Header

I recently re-read the entirety of George R.R. Martin’s A Song of Ice and Fire.

…Do you still say “re-read” if you listened on audiobook? We’ll pretend the answer’s yes. Shoutout to late great narrator Roy Dotrice.

Anyhoo, now that I’m back from my tour, I thought I’d share some words of wisdom for those planning a similar visit. Consider this a long-form TripAdvisor review, only with fewer typos (hopefully).

People are super judgmental about parentage

In Westeros, if both your parents aren’t members of the one percent, odds are someone will call you “lowborn.” And if mom and dad weren’t married at the time of your birth, you might even be labeled “bastard,” which is only marginally better than, say, “accident.”

Seriously, people sling birth-related insults like mashed potatoes in a cafeteria food fight. Just ask Jon Snow, Mya Stone, or Gendry what’s-his-name. There’s even a guy named “The Bastard of Godsgrace,” if I remember correctly, which somehow stings even worse. I mean, if I was called the Bastard of Albany, I’d be bummed.

If you receive a wedding invitation, check the “Respectfully Decline” box

I’ve been to three weddings this year and the body count remains at zero (as far as I know). If this was Westeros, I wouldn’t even be alive to write this article. And if you think Westerosi weddings are dangerous, try a Dothraki ceremony. In the words of Illyrio Mopatis:

“A Dothraki wedding without at least three deaths is considered a dull affair.”

If you must attend a wedding, arrive armed and don’t touch the food. And if the DJ starts playing “The Rains of Castamere”—yes, even the remix—run.

Imposters are everywhere

John the Fiddler, Jon Snow, Gryff, Young Gryff, Alayne Stone. Whenever you meet someone in Westeros, I suggest doing a background check, post haste.

George R.R. Martin is more sex crazed than a 14-year-old

Seriously, the guy can’t go five paragraphs without mentioning boobs, brothels, or some variation of the word “fuck.” No wonder HBO wanted the series adaptation.

Don’t be a peasant, because you’ll probably be murdered

Also, people will call you “smallfolk,” which is insulting.

…But don’t be a noble, either

You’ll probably get assassinated by your most ruthless rival, at which point they’ll claim your lands, income, castle, and underwear (presumably).

The safest approach is to become a middle-class working joe. Not that Westeros has a middle class, mind you.

Anyway, whatever your job is, it’s going to be horrible

Whether it’s the lifetime vow of celibacy for the Kingsguard or the lousy food of the Night’s Watch, every job in Westeros is kinda unappealing. Some other examples:

  • Hedge Knight: This is like being a freelance writer, in that you’ll take any project, so long as somebody pays you—which is never much, by the way. But at least you’re not sleeping under a hedge. Unless you really are sleeping under a hedge, in which case, you should’ve read the job description closer.
  • Septa/Septon: Meh, this job seems kinda boring—unless you’re the septa shouting, “Shame!” during Cercei’s penitence walk.
  • Maester: This looks like a desirable profession at first glance, since you just read books and offer unsolicited advice. However, several Maesters have met nasty ends, i.e. Luwin and Kerwin. Plus, Lady Barbrey Dustin made unflattering observations about them: “Isn’t it clever how the maesters go only by one name, even those who had two when they first arrived at the Citadel? That way we cannot know who they truly are or where they come from.” Alright, fine, I suppose that is a little sus. I’m out.
  • Whore: No thank you.
  • Hand of the King: Similar to the Vice President, minus the potential for biopics. Plus, the last few Hands have gotten caught in the proverbial wood chipper. A brief list:
    • Jon Arryn: Poisoned by his psycho wife.
    • Ned Stark: Imprisoned, framed, and beheaded.
    • Tyrion Lannister: Nearly decapitated in a botched assassination attempt, then subsequently fired. Technically acting Hand of the King at the time, but still…
    • Tywin Lannister: Shot in the bowels by his son whilst pooping.
    • Harys Swyft: I don’t remember this guy and I’m sure you don’t either.
    • Orton Merryweather: Hired because his wife was frienemies with the Queen Regent.
    • Mace Tyrell: Hired to forestall the end of a hopelessly fraying alliance. Also a doofus.

I’d rather work in customer service than any of these jobs, which is really saying something.

Keep a dream journal

This is a must since dreams are so often prophetic. Sure, you’ll stress over portents and symbols and whatnot, but you’ll have an advantage over those who don’t bother. Take this dream from The Ghost of High Heart as an example:

“I dreamt a wolf howling in the rain, but no one heard his grief. I dreamt such a clangor I thought my head might burst, drums and horns and pipes and screams, but the saddest sound was the little bells.”

Though she never made it to the show, she totally dreamt of the Red Wedding before it happened. Alas, nobody in Westeros enjoys Freudian dream interpretation.

At least the food’s good

They may not have GrubHub in Westeros, but who needs it when you’ve got options like this?

“They began with a broth of crab and monkfish, and cold egg lime soup as well. Then came quails in honey, a saddle of lamb, goose livers drowned in wine, buttered parsnips, and suckling pig.”

“There were loaves of crusty bread still warm from the ovens, crocks of fresh-churned butter, honey from the septry’s hives, and a thick stew of crabs, mussels, and at least three different kinds of fish.”

“They started with a creamy chestnut soup, crusty hot bread, and greens dressed with apples and pine nuts. Then came lamprey pie, honeyed ham, buttered carrots, white beans and bacon, and roast swan stuffed with mushrooms and oysters.”

Fortunately, they don’t have Tapas restaurants. Now please excuse me while I go raid my pantry.

In Conclusion

I hope these notes have enlightened you regarding Westerosi culture. If not, I wouldn’t recommend traveling there anytime soon.

…Unless you’re arriving via book, that is. In that case, visit as often as you like. I know I will.

Kyle A. Massa is a fantasy author living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife, their daughter, and three wild animals. His published works include two books and several short stories. When he’s not writing, he enjoys reading, running, and drinking coffee.

Thanks to this Gizmodo article for collecting the meal descriptions.

Back at the Albany Book Festival

October 4, 2021 /

It was 10:25 in the morning, my socks were quacking against my Adidas Slides with each step, I was lost between the austere granite slabs of UAlbany’s campus, and yet I recall feeling content. The Albany Book Festival was back.

To be clear, last year’s event wasn’t cancelled—it was virtual. However, I was Zoomed out, so I didn’t attend. This year was back in-person, masked and socially distant.

I brought my Special Olympics New York backpack, a pen and notebook, a packed lunch, and some cash (because one can never have too many books). I also came clad in the aforementioned socks and Slides, which was in hindsight, a poor choice.

I was aiming for comfort.

“So, are you a student here?”

I’m almost 30, and I got this question about that many times. I’m pretty sure it was the footwear.

10:35am

I slipped into the day’s first session about five minutes late. Fortunately, the back row was open and introductions were proceeding.

Three people sat at the head of the room, six feet separating them. On the left: Dana Spiotta. On the right: Ed Schwarzschild. In the middle: Nana Kwame Adjei-Brenyah. “I’m sitting between two of my professors,” Adjei-Brenyah said with a smile.

Albany Book Festival Sign

Despite the signage, I still managed to get lost.

I scribbled two pages of wisdom over the next 45 minutes. Aside from the parentheticals, these are direct extracts of my notes:

  • 3rd v. 1st person – Nana has both in his new book (re: point-of-view)
  • “Novel? Yeah! But short story? Where’s the novel?” (Adjei-Brenyah’s impression of agents)
  • “It’s like getting married.” (Spiotta’s comparison for writing a novel.)

I don’t quite recall what all my scribblings meant, but I’m glad I scribbled them. There’s nothing so inspiring as listening to talented writers discuss writing.

11:35am

With the opening session complete and my coffee thermos empty, I needed a bathroom. Not for the first time that day, I learned how labyrinthine UAlbany’s campus is. (Don’t worry—I ended up finding one.)

That left five minutes until the next session, which I devoted to meeting local authors in the Campus Center Ballroom. Had I acted faster, I might’ve joined the 40 or so folks tabling at the event. But hey, there’s always next year.

Inside awaited books. Books perched on platforms, books displayed on racks, books upon books upon tables arranged in concentric rings. I made the rounds and met many of the people behind those books, including Keith W. Willis, Shana Gourdine, Bill Moloney, Eleanor Kuhns, and Laura Heffernan.

Albany Book Festival Loot

My loot from the event.

(Not pictured: The Milky Way bar I devoured on my way to the next session.)

12:10pm

This panel began at 11:45, so I regrettably missed much of it. Ed Schwarzschild was back once again, this time paired with Emily Layden, author of All Girls, a novel about a New England boarding school.

My favorite bit of advice from Layden: “An editor’s job is to see your work for what it’s trying to be.”

12:37pm

Unfortunately for my groaning stomach, there was no lunch break on the schedule. So, with eight minutes until the next session, I discovered a distant table tucked beside the shadow of the Campus Center stairs and removed my mask. Time to eat.

(My meal, for the curious, was a turkey sandwich with baby carrots, saltine crackers, a banana, and a granola bar. Did not snap a pic.)

So there I sat, munching on my sandwich, watching masked people flow up and down the stairs, swinging their complimentary purple totes, consulting their programs and floor maps, chatting about this panel or that book. I eat turkey sandwiches every weekday—but that Saturday’s sandwich tasted especially good.

12:45pm

This was the first session I was on-time for. I padded lightly, reducing the squeaking of my Slides as much as possible, then chose a seat at the end of the row beside a woman knitting a purple sweater. “Are you a student?” she asked me.

Peter Osnos was the featured speaker, in conversation with Paul Grondahl. Osnos is a remarkable guy, first as a journalist covering the Vietnam War, then as an editor, now as a publisher, and always as a writer. The guy has seen some shit, and he’s met many important people along the way (some of them shitty). A short list: Robert McNamara, Jimmy Carter, Bill Clinton, Barack Obama, Donald Trump, and Vladimir Putin.

Of our modern times, Osnos commented, “I think we’re living in, as we always will, a time of turmoil.” I found this statement oddly comforting. Every generation has their turmoil: The Cuban Missile Crisis, Vietnam, 9/11, the pandemic (I know I’m missing a few). Yet if we endure these turmoils, someday we’ll speak of them in the past tense.

But the best exchange went like this:

Grondahl: “You’ve been a reporter, editor, and publisher. Which is your favorite?”

Osnos: “Grandfather!”

1:45pm

“When you’re in the storm, it’s hard to describe. It’s just…life.”

I can’t recall the question that sparked this response from Quiara Alegría Hudes, but I loved it. She wore a suit jacket with pink and blue flowers, and she sat on a stage in the Campus Center West Auditorium, six feet away from interviewer Sarah LaDuke.

Albany Book Festival Stage

The stage just prior to the interview.

Hudes is perhaps best known for co-writing the musical (and screen adaptation of) In the Heights with Lin-Manuel Miranda, the guy behind Hamilton. But her career goes far beyond, with numerous other playwriting, screenwriting, and essay credits. Her current project: A memoir entitled My Broken Language.

When asked how to honor the varying cultures of the people in her book, Hudes answered, “Authenticity lies in the multiplicity of voices present.” A profound statement.

2:45pm

I rounded out the day with a talk from Elizabeth Brundage, a veteran author who’s an Albany native herself. Her new book is called The Vanishing Point, and it sounded so intriguing I picked up a copy myself. When asked about the book’s genre, Brundage said, “I don’t try to think about genre too much when I write. I just try to write a good novel.”

I dig this sentiment. Especially in the indie space, I worry some are too fixated on genre. I’ve heard far too many authors cautioning others against genre hopping and breaking conventions, when I fear that approach might lead to homogeny. After all, I can’t recall ever reading a book and thinking, Wow, I love how conventional that story was.

Anyway, I digress. Later in the session, Brundage summed up her feelings thusly: “I’m interested in people. That’s my genre. People are my genre.”

Later, I got in line to meet the author. She was personable, and she wrote a kind dedication in my book: “From one writer to another.” Of course, she must’ve seen my footwear.

“Are you a student here?” she asked.

3:30pm (Or So)

As I drove home in my 2005 Honda Element (nicknamed “The Box” by my wife), I pondered this essay. I wondered what the point would be, beyond notifying people I’d attended the Festival. I thought about masks and the pandemic, about how one year ago, this event existed only online. I thought about a sentiment I’ve heard so often, always in different forms, but always the same: Why didn’t the pandemic bring us together?

For over a year, every person on earth has had something in common. You’d think that would inspire unity, but it’s only fueled division: Masked versus unmasked, vaccinated versus anti-vax, cautious versus no-worse-than-the-flu. For many, this dissension is cause for despair.

But at a gathering as relatively small as the 2021 Albany Book Festival, I found the unity the world’s been longing for. I saw people joining together, masks and all, to celebrate our shared passion: books.

Books. Simple as that. Words printed on pages and bound together, covered by shells of cardboard, matte or gloss. Words from one person to another. Words that help us realize how much we have in common, or how little, and why there are reasons to hope either way.

My right Adidas Slide quacked as I pressed it into the accelerator. I merged onto I-90, and I headed home.

Kyle A. Massa is a speculative fiction author living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife, their cats, and their dog. He has written two books and numerous short stories, both published and yet-to-be published. He enjoys unusual narrative structures, multiple POVs, and stories that make readers laugh.

The Real Reason Frodo Didn’t Ride an Eagle into Mordor

August 19, 2021 /
Lord of the Rings Parody

“Bilbo and the Eagles” by Ted Nasmith

There’s a common question posed by readers of The Lord of the Rings trilogy: Is Tom Bombadil robotripping?

Also: Why didn’t the eagles help Frodo?

No, I’m not talking about the NFL’s Philadelphia Eagles (thank god). Nor am I talking about the band (though now that you mention it, I’m down for a little “Hotel California.”) I’m talking about the Great Eagles of Middle-Earth, also known as the Eagles of Manwë, also known as something else, I’m sure, because everybody has like 10 names in Middle-Earth (i.e. Gandalf).

According to this Screen Rant article, cartographer Karen Wynn Fonstad calculated Frodo and Sam’s journey was 1,779 miles long, all on foot (hobbit feet, as it were). They rowed down rivers, stumbled through bogs, and wandered into giant spider lairs, all while they could’ve hopped on giant eagles and dropped the ring into Mt. Doom.

There are many explanations, the most likely of which being that J.R.R. Tolkien wanted some actual conflict. In this post, I’d like to give you my explanation. It all started at RIA, better known as Rivendell International Airport…

#

“Sam,” said Frodo. “We’re late.”

If Gandalf (their travel agent) had been present, he’d have some quick rejoinder prepared. A frequent flyer is never late, Frodo Baggins… But Gandalf wasn’t present. If he was, they wouldn’t be late.

Frodo and Sam found themselves in the lobby of Rivendell International Airport. The drop-off zone outside had been a madhouse, packed with horses and ponies and passengers. It was no less chaotic inside: men, elves, and dwarves jostled and bustled like soldiers preparing for battle. All of them stood between the hobbits and their flight.

“Come on, Sam. Hurry!” Frodo, unencumbered by any bags, plunged into the fray. Sam, weighed down by all their luggage, chugged along behind.

“Do you think we can fit this all in carry-on, Mr. Frodo?” Sam asked as they ran. “Should we check a bag or two?”

“No,” Frodo answered gravely. “We’d never see them again.” He swept his gaze over the crowd, noting a dwarf slurping a pint at the airport bar, an elf enjoying a kingsfoil salad, and a hooded man reading a mystery novel. “We must hasten, Sam. The Dark Lord has eyes everywhere.”

“Even in the bathrooms?”

“Especially in the bathrooms.”

“Aye, he’s evil enough for it. Hey, did you pack the…you know?”

Frodo touched his chest, feeling the solid metal between skin and shirt. It was such a small thing, such a little thing, yet it heaved on the chain about his neck like a lead weight. It was the One Ring, the ultimate weapon of the Dark Lord Sauron, the bane of Isildur, forged in the fires of Mt. Doom, retailing for $999.99 at Jared, the Galleria of Jewelry.

“I have it,” Frodo confirmed. “But let us not speak of it. Too many ears in this airport.”

“Unfriendly eyes, unfriendly ears.” Sam shook his head. “What’ll be next? Unfriendly toes?”

As if on cue, an elf sped past and crushed Sam’s toes with a roller bag. He yelped, but Frodo didn’t notice—he was pointing ahead. “Look. The security checkpoint.” He hurried onward, leaving Sam to hobble behind.

Though Rivendell was a haven of beauty and enlightenment, its airport security was staffed by the TSA. They were a brusque people, a grouchy people, and it was said that folk who displeased them were plucked from line and cavity searched, just for the hell of it.

One such TSA agent awaited behind a kiosk, an old crone with faded blonde highlights and fingernails the size of pairing knives. Each nail was painted a vivid purple, and they clacked like the bones of a skeleton as she rapped them upon her kiosk.

“Have your passport and boarding parchment out and visible,” she growled at them.

Sam gulped. “I’m scared, Mr. Frodo.”

“Be brave, Sam. Our flight is due to board any minute.” Frodo approached the woman at the kiosk, bowed his head, and presented his documents.

The woman’s hand descended like a bird’s talon. “Name?”

“Underhill,” said Frodo, keeping his eyes down. “Mr. Underhill.” Gandalf, their travel agent, had insisted on secret names.

The woman clacked her purple fingernails, then shifted her gaze to Sam. “And you?”

Sam offered his documents. “I’m Mr., umm…Gardner?”

The woman narrowed her eyes. “That a name or a question?”

“N-neither,” Sam sputtered. “I mean, both?”

Her gaze drifted to the luggage. The woman still had yet to blink, and Frodo was beginning to wonder if she had eyelids at all. “You don’t have any razors in those bags, do you?”

“No, ma’am.”

“What about aerosol cans? Firearms? Fireworks? Lithium batteries?”

They’d never heard of such things in the Shire (except the fireworks), so it was easy to shake their heads no.

“Good enough,” she said, stamping their boarding parchments. “Now get outta my sight.”

Ahead awaited more security. “Arms and armament in separate bins,” barked one of the surlier TSA agents. “Empty your pockets, and remove all metal.”

All metal. That meant…

Frodo stopped short. “Sam. The Ring. They’ll make me take it off.”

Sam frowned. “They’ll give it back, though, won’t they?”

“They might. But what if they’re servants of the Dark Lord?”

“Oh.” Sam scratched his head. “Hadn’t considered that.”

“You two!” the surly TSA agent screamed. “You’re holding up the line. Move move move!”

They moved. Sam hauled the luggage into bins, then stacked them onto the conveyer belt. They hustled ahead.

The Ring still hung around Frodo’s neck. He tried to look as innocent as possible as he stepped through the metal detector.

Beep.

“Honestly, squirt, are your ears clogged by the fur of the Cats of Queen Berúthiel?” The TSA agent beyond the metal detector jabbed a finger at him. “Back through. And make sure your pockets are empty.”

Frodo turned around, wiping sweat from his brow. He knew it would beep again, but if he removed the Ring, they’d claim it for their own. He stepped through again, and—

Beep.

“That’s it. Time for a cavity search.” With a little too much satisfaction, the TSA agent snapped on a rubber glove.

Frodo’s eyes went wide. “They’re going to take it. Then the quest will be for naught, the Dark Lord will win, and the Shire will be ruined. And we’ll have to apply for flight vouchers.”

“No, Mr. Frodo,” Sam said, striking a determined expression. “Let us be rid of the TSA, once and for all.” Suddenly, the musical score swelled, and Sam stepped forward heroically. “He has…a pacemaker!”

The TSA agent blinked. “A what?”

“A pacemaker.”

“Oh.” The agent shrugged. “Why should I care?”

“Because that’s what’s setting off the metal detector. Just a pacemaker. No need to harass us further.”

“Hah. Good one. Now bend over, little man. Let’s make sure nobody’s smuggling any Longbottom Leaf…”

Sam looked stricken—but Frodo had an idea.

“Fine,” said Frodo, unbuckling his belt. “We’ll just be late to our trial.”

“Trial?”

“Yes, trial. My associate and I are lawyers.”

The TSA agent’s eyes went wide. “Lawyers?”

“Aye,” said Sam, nodding and smiling. It seemed he’d caught on to the charade. “We love suing people. We sue them all the time.”

“In fact,” added Frodo, warming to the role, “we’ve got a class-action suit pending against the Witch King of Angmar for stabbing people with his Morgul Blade. We’re suing him for all he’s worth—which isn’t much these days, but still. Care to join him?”

The TSA agent glowered at the hobbits. His eyes flicked from one to the other, as if sizing them up. “A pacemaker. Aye.” He snarled at them, like a rabid dog, then waved them through.

Sam gathered their belongings and hoisted them onto his back. He was still hobbling from the damage to his toes, but he did his best to keep up with Frodo. They raced through the terminal.

“We’re at Gate whatever-that-is,” Frodo huffed, pointing at the swirly Elvish runes. “Hurry, Sam!”

They hurried. They hurried through dwarvish families, elvish business professionals, human tourists, and finally, they arrived at their gate…

Just in time to see their flight take off.

They were meant to fly on the back of a great eagle, a hulking golden bird with a wing span wide enough to blot out the sun. It sped down the runway, cawed, and with three beats of its massive wings (both stamped with the words “Southwest Airlines”), it lifted off and soared into the distance.

Frodo slumped against the glass. Sam collapsed beside him.

“Cheer up, Mr. Frodo. We can always book a new flight to Mordor.”

“But Sam. We’d have to go through customer service.”

They glanced at the customer service desk. Thousands of people stood before it. Most were dead on their feet, their corpses rotting and stinking, while the living were blanketed by cobwebs and dust.

Frodo shook his head. “No, that way lies doom and despair. We have no choice but to walk, or take an Uber. And I left my phone at home.”

“Dropped mine in the toilet,” sighed Sam. “Suppose we’re walking, then. Think anyone will join us?”

“I’m sure Gandalf can book us some companions.” Frodo slapped his friend on the shoulder, then stood. “Fuck it, Sam. Let’s form a fellowship.”

Kyle A. Massa is a speculative fiction author living somewhere in upstate New York with his wife, their cats, and their dog. He has written two books and numerous short stories, both published and yet-to-be published. He enjoys unusual narrative structures, multiple POVs, and stories that make readers laugh.

« Older posts

Disclosure: Some links on this site may be affiliate links. This means I earn a commission on sales made through those links, while you pay no additional cost.

Alliance of Independent Authors

© 2024 Kyle A. Massa

Theme by Anders Noren — Up ↑