Eclecticon, Volume 913 1/3

By Ing Venning

I was feeling pretty down on myself… until I received a visit from a barely defined visitor from the depths of space. This kind, and slightly infuriating, entity explained how other outsiders, from a host of worlds, might benefit from reading my work. He gave me the confidence I needed to publish this volume of eclectic work including…

– A fantasy story about a girl who isn't quite sure she's human

– A fairy tale that mixes elements of Cupid and Psyche, Rapunzel, and Porcupine Girl

– A political analysis of Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog

– A humorous essay about how I got kicked out of the church my parents used to force me to attend

– A Freudian horror story…

And much more!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Ing Venning
• Release date: Sep 4, 2019
• ISBN: 9781733076647

Book preview

Eclecticon, Volume 913 1/3

Ing Venning

(as compiled by an unknown entity from the depths of space)

Eclecticon, Volume 913 1/3

Copyright © 2019 by Ing Venning.

All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

For information contact :

https://ingvenning.com/

Cover design by MiblArt

ISBN: 978-1-7330766-4-7

First Edition: September 2019

Acknowledgmentos

My thanks to…

Addie, Alex, and Toby for their fantabulous feedback and encouragement

The team at MiblArt for their splenderful artwork

My friends and family for all their awrific support and belief in me

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Preface I: A Visitor

I... nt to c... ct yo... rk.

I stop typing and cock my head to one side. I have listened to this recording of Beethoven's Choral Fantasia in c minor before – the bold piano notes at the beginning that create a current like a dark river that will eventually flow toward the sea at sunrise, when dozens of voices will be lifted in optimistic song. It's as if a few notes had been added, an extra hand on the keyboard... no, not exactly. More like the quality of the notes has subtly changed. But it's the same recording as the last time I played it. So what can have altered?

Le... me sh... r wor...

I am looking up now, my attention having moved away from the novel I am writing. And so I notice a sort of shimmer in the air, just in front of the Boulet portrait of Cernunnos that hangs above my dresser. But it's not a shimmer, either... not exactly. It's a sort of enhancement of the colors of the painting - and nothing like that, too.

A hand, gesturing toward me. I close my eyelids halfway, blurring the room in my gaze.

And I see it. Although it is, in essence, impossible to describe. Almost like a great cat, and a winged human, and a tree moving with the wind, and like none of these. And it sounds both like human speech and music and neither, or both. But I am seeing it now, in a way, and hearing it.

I have come from a galaxy at once far away and right next to you, through a gate that folds all directions and none. I have come because I want to collect your work. To share your ideas with others who are lost, others who struggle on their homeworlds. With other freaks, though I mean the word with great respect.

I can’t argue with his assessment. I’m not normal; there’s no doubt of that. But...

Great respect? For me? That seems... odd.

Respect isn't something I'm used to. I am gifted, I suppose, but I live in a world where giftedness is something you succeed in spite of, not because of... or not at all, in my case, because no one would call me a success, least of all me. And I am pansexual and polyamorous, and a neo-socialist, and pagan. None of which are qualities held in any high regard in the time and place where I find myself.

I open my mouth to speak, but the creature says, There is no need. I understand. Yes, it is you I've come to see. You, the freak. You, who might help others. Yes.

I find tears pricking at half-lidded eyes now. I had no idea it could feel so good to have someone... something, believe in me. It's been a long time since anyone expressed approval... and this is so much beyond approval. I can sense what the creature feels for me. And, although I’ve known so little love in my life… that’s what this is.

"I visit people like you – people who are lost in their own worlds – and I inform them, remind them, that they are part of a larger siblinghood. One that is scattered among thousands of galaxies in thousands of timelines. I cannot bring them together, I fear. Oh, I suppose I have the power to do so, but I wouldn't. For a moment, I feel an anger well up that I hadn't realized was bubbling under the surface for years – an anger that hearkens back to the first time I heard someone spew hatred of lgbt+ persons, or equate pagans with evil, or talk about lunatics. But the next thing the visitor says makes the anger boil away, as if it had never been. I feel... sore, and joyful, as he tells me, If I brought you all together, you would form a world of great beauty and marvelous wonder... but at the expense of taking you from your various worlds, and your worlds need you."

My world needs me? Is the creature sure of that?

Oh, yes, I am sure. I know it doesn't seem like it, but it's true. You've spent most of your life convinced that you are worthless. You've even tried to kill yourself, believing that ending your life would be good, not bad, for those who know you, those you falsely believe are burdened with your acquaintance. Yes, it's right about that. There have been times I fell into utter despair. But this is not so.

Hey, Ing. Are you—

My roommate has just popped into my room. I've told him to knock, but he always forgets. Or, rather, he never remembers. The creature, who is made of the paintings in my room, and the music on my phone, and everything else that surrounds me in this small sanctuary, is somehow anathema to Norman. I see it through every aspect of this room except him, hear its voice in every sound except his voice.

The creature, through Beethoven's scintillating piano notes, answers my unspoken thought. He is... for lack of a better word, a loser. I cannot use him to communicate.

A loser? No, it must be mistaken. I'm the loser. Norman is an up-and-coming executive for a recording studio. He has fulfilled his financial and his musical dreams, even if the latter are relatively modest ones. He is the success in this household, the one who allows me to split the rent (though, in truth, I only pay a third) out of a sense of pity for me... or, I occasionally suspect, a desire to be better than the person he lives with.

No, you are wrong, the creature explains. You will never have more money or more recognition than he does... not on this planet, anyway. But you are the one with more to say, if you only understood.

Shh, not so loud, I urge.

Who are you talking to? Norman wonders.

He can't hear me, or see me, my visitor explains.

Oh, I stammer, n-no one. I mean, a fr-friend. I pick up my phone, touching the screen at random, pretending I've been talking to someone. What's up? I ask my roommate.

Oh, I just wanted to see if you were going to that thing tomorrow night... at the bookstore? Didn't you say you have a reading?

Oh, y-yes. Why can I never speak clearly around him? Why does he intimidate me so?

"Well, if you're going anyway, could you swing by the store on the way and pick me up some things? He proffers a list. It fills most of a page of notebook paper. I'm so busy with the new hip-hop album, I just don't think I'll have the time."

Oh, sure. I could sw-swing by.

Good deal. Thanks, buddy. He tousles my hair with the flat of his palm. I hate it when he does that, but who am I to tell