Little Snowfall: A James Franco Fanfic

By Lynn Crosbie

"Little Snowfall" is a short story about a beautiful, young woman named Pixie, who suspects her new neighbour is James Franco. The problem is that her neighbour says his name is Edward and denies he is the famous actor/artist.

Pixie has a monstrous crush on James Franco and is sure that Edward is lying about his true identity. After hearing him say his stay is only temporary, she gives herself two weeks — by Valentine's Day — to make him fall in love with her.

Pixie quickly befriends and seduces the man who denies he’s James Franco. But Pixie has secrets of her own that soon threaten to derail their budding relationship before it even has a chance to begin.

What unfolds is a sweet, comical romance between two illusionists that culminates in a dramatic confrontation at a major art show on Valentine’s Day.

Written as a teaser for Lynn Crosbie’s new novel about Kurt Cobain, Where Did You Sleep Last Night?, "Little Snowfall" is fun and romantic nod to the hugely popular fan fiction genre.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Anansi Digital
• Release date: Feb 14, 2015
• ISBN: 9781487000660

Lynn Crosbie

Lynn Crosbie is a cultural critic, author, and poet. She teaches at the Ontario College of Art and Design and the University of Toronto.

Book preview

Little Snowfall cover image

Little Snowfall

A James Franco Fanfic

by

Lynn Crosbie

For Michael Ventola, who is all heart.

My favourite writers? There’s so many. Balzac, Baudelaire, Bankhead, Beckett, Bidart, Brontë, Bukowski, Burroughs … those are just some of the Bs.

— James Franco, Aesthetica, Issue 59/2014

Right after James Franco-Face moved in next door in February (Sunday, the first), I started spending a lot of time at home.

I called the agency and told my repulsive male boss that I had a contagious yeast infection, and he let me e-commute my copy for our big new cigarette client.

Home is a cool condo/loft on Queen West, with vaulted ceilings, a mile of sunlight, and paper-thin walls.

I had seen his face through my peephole when he walked by, hauling a trunk. When he went out to get more boxes from the truck, I watched from the window: James Franco, 127 Hours body: nice. I pushed a hole in the wall between us, and quickly covered it with a 2014 Psy calendar.

Then I waited, with my back to the wall, for him to return, while pulling up pictures on my laptop, not of him but of the girls he had worked or been associated with.

This was going to be a challenge: he seemed to favour fat men and waifish women.

He also had a bit of a temper.

Who fucking trashed the wall? I heard him yell, then I shrank as his fingers forced their way through to the slick pages of the calendar then roughly retracted one.

Oh my God, he said. Who am I living beside?

I could hear everything.

Someone amazing, another guy said, turning on the Super Bowl pre-game show and adding, At least it’s only for two weeks.

Over the next eight hours, my living room turned into a thundering hotbox.

I was oblivious. I kept anxiously contemplating the words two weeks.

He was staying until Valentine’s Day.

And that was more than enough time to make him — probably James Franco — fall in love with me.

That was the plan I came up with, anyway, as I considered his mercurial nature, and deep, sleepy eyes; as I remembered that I am no more a woman than Jesus Christ was a man.

I was so stoned that I sent in this copy: SMOKING IS COOL. ALWAYS HAS BEEN, ALWAYS WILL BE. DEAL WITH IT LSRS.

The client went bananas, they just loved it.

+

I was a girl the day I was born. My mother steadfastly insisted on naming me Pixie, after seeing me trying to style my tuft of hair two minutes after I was