Statue

By Marianne Micros

The devil, a ghost, a doppelganger, a selkie, a hobgoblin – these creatures appear in Marianne Micros’s Statue, a collection of tales which combine traditional and ancient elements with contemporary issues and experiences. These fifteen stories show that the boundaries between fantasy and reality, art and life, life and death are fragile and inconstant. Micros seamlessly combines magic with the realities of daily life, showing the interrelationship of the natural and the supernatural and the significance of those interactions.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Guernica Editions
• Release date: Jun 1, 2023
• ISBN: 9781771837996

Book preview

title page

Copyright © 2023, Marianne Micros and Guernica Editions Inc.

All rights reserved. The use of any part of this publication,

reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means,

electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording

or otherwise stored in a retrieval system, without the prior consent

of the publisher is an infringement of the copyright law.

Guernica Founder: Antonio D’Alfonso

Michael Mirolla, editor

David Moratto, interior and cover design

Rafael Alt, ebook

Guernica Editions Inc.

287 Templemead Drive, Hamilton, ON L8W 2W4

2250 Military Road, Tonawanda, N.Y. 14150-6000 U.S.A.

www.guernicaeditions.com

Distributors:

Independent Publishers Group (IPG)

600 North Pulaski Road, Chicago IL 60624

University of Toronto Press Distribution (UTP)

5201 Dufferin Street, Toronto (ON), Canada M3H 5T8

Gazelle Book Services, White Cross Mills

High Town, Lancaster LA1 4XS U.K.

First edition.

Printed in Canada.

Legal Deposit—First Quarter

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 2022948793

Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

Title: Statue : short stories / Marianne Micros.

Names: Micros, Marianne, 1943- author.

Series: Essential prose series ; 207.

Description: 1st edition. | Series statement: Essential prose series ; 207

Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20220456119 | Canadiana (ebook) 20220456135 |

ISBN 9781771837989 (softcover) | ISBN 9781771837996 (EPUB)

Subjects: LCGFT: Short stories.

Classification: LCC PS8576.I273 S73 2023 | DDC C813/.54—dc23

To my husband Tim, who encouraged my writing,

provided deadlines, read all my work,

and gave me the confidence to continue writing

P

CONTENTS

O

Cover

Title page

Copyright

MEANNESS

SIMILES

STATUE

THE SELKIE’S DAUGHTER

GET THEE BEHIND ME

SUNSET FLIP

THE PLEASER

ORANGES

CLEANER

BROKEN

BERTHA

THE WOMAN IN MY BED

GHOST FLY

THE GUARDIANS

OMEGA

Acknowledgements

About the Author

Landmarks

Cover

Half Title Page

Title Page

Copyright Page

Table of Contents

Acknowledgments

MEANNESS

(three-sentence stories)

O

Toast

EVERY TIME HE pushed the toast down in the toaster, it popped back up, as if refusing to surrender to his wishes. Listen, toast, he said, you are going to be eaten anyway so just give up. He held the toaster handle down until the toast was ready, then popped it up, smeared butter on the toast, and ate it, smiling, delighting in every bite.

Grandmother

He never knew his grandmother but imagined her as a kindly old lady with a twinkle in her eye, clean hands, smooth skin, and a loving heart. As a substitute he adopted his neighbour, who had all those qualities but was very frail, a little weepy, not adventurous enough to suit him, and not quick to respond to his needs. He crossed her off his list, leaving her alone in her apartment, without the groceries he usually brought and without companionship, as he moved to the next elderly lady he could find who would listen to his stories.

Séance

She waited until midnight to summon the spirit of her dead husband, believing that was the time when the veil between the living and the dead was the thinnest—then lit a candle, sat quietly in the dark, and called to him, asking him please to answer her, to let her see him one more time. A small light in the corner came closer, grew larger, until she saw the figure of a man, or the shadow of a man, looming over her. I’m sorry, my dear, a deep, echoing voice boomed out, but I cannot tell you where the diamond ring is, for I gave it to my mistress years ago and she sold it in order to buy a condo, so I guess you have to keep living in this shithole.

The mourning after

She looked down at her own dead body, regretting all the years that she had worried about her weight, starved herself, sweated at the gym, and enjoyed not a moment of life. If only she had that flesh now, pounds of it, and if only she could eat a juicy steak and french fries—or have the love of her children back, having lost it after neglecting them for so many years. A man came into the hospital room then, her son, with tears in his eyes, mourning his loss she hoped, but he turned to the nurse and said, She was a nasty old bugger.

Manhood

He carried a gun to class every day, since his university allowed it and he wanted to be ready in case some nut or terrorist attacked. He made sure it could be seen, sticking out of his pocket, bulging menacingly yet protectively and bolstering his masculinity in the eyes of his female classmates. When she smiled at him seductively, that gorgeous dark-haired woman in tight jeans and a low-cut t-shirt, he stepped toward her, thrilled when she reached her arm around him, not expecting her to grab the gun from his pocket and point it at his head.

The pistol

Now that he was dead, as she had wished all these years, she put her pistol back in the desk drawer. She had friends who would help her get rid of the body and clean the house. She glanced over at his bloody body then, just in time to see him start to crawl towards her, a knife in his hand, and she knew that this whole pattern would have to start over, year after year, day after day, a never-ending struggle for power, for supremacy, for life itself.

Inanimate

The summer that the inanimate became animate, he did not know what to do, especially when the piano played his least favourite song, the microwave beeped on and off, the refrigerator opened by itself to throw cans of ginger ale at him, the mirror moved closer to him, and the television kept changing channels. He sat on the sofa and wrapped a blanket around himself, but the sofa bounced him off onto the floor and the blanket moved more and more tightly around him until he couldn’t breathe. He finally released himself, but the carpet rose up to capture him in its folds, until he lay there, immobile, while everything in the room danced merrily around him and the toaster popped out blackened bread that flew out across the room, striking him hard in the face.

SIMILES

O

ONE THING I can’t stand, Lisa said, is stories that start with a couple in bed together discussing their relationship. Most stories I see in magazines are like that. It really annoys me.

She was naked, propped up against the pillows, puffing on a cigarette.

Is that so? he replied. Did you learn that in my Creative Writing class?

No. I think you enjoy stories like that.

Not especially. He put down his cigarette and started to pull the sheet up, but she kicked it aside.

Don’t be demure now, she said.

Arthur shrugged and leaned back.

I also hate similes, she said. You taught us to use subtle metaphors instead. Similes just scream out, ‘I’m trying to be a writer. Look how clever I am.’ They seem so fake.

I was just thinking, Arthur said, that your breasts remind me of ripe fruit ready to be eaten.

She groaned. And your doohickey looks like a shrivelled prune.

Doohickey? Really?

It’s as good a word as any. And I hate phony-sounding vocabulary. Why not write the way people talk?

But you need style, Lisa. You need to be original. Make your stories come alive.

Yeah, yeah. I try. Then why can’t I get published?

You will. I told you how talented you are. You have a gift.

Oh, sure. Some gift!

He grinned and cackled. You are like a graceful butterfly, gliding up and down my body.

Gross. That simile doesn’t even work. What kind of writer are you?

I write like an angel, sending words out like blessings.

Oh, barf. And you are as subtle as Mt. Rushmore.

Lisa stubbed her cigarette in the ashtray and sighed. It’s time for me to take off, like a jet, heading for a long journey.

Where are you going? Stay awhile.

I can’t. I have a Shakespeare class. I’ve missed too many already. Professor Miller is losing patience with me.

Ah, but she is as flexible as a ballet dancer. And as susceptible to flattery as a young virgin. I will convince her to give you another chance.

Oh, have you slept with her, too?

Your imagination is as wily as a fox but as foggy as the mind of a first-year math student.

Ugh. Where are my clothes?

Probably under the bed, where all discarded objects go, the hell where lost dreams reside.

My clothes are not lost dreams. Your metaphors really suck.

Is that a metaphor? One that is subtle yet all-pervasive?

Not a metaphor but a cliché. Just like the cliché ‘student sleeps with her professor.’ I thought you hated clichés, too.

Oh, I do. But you are not my student anymore. Does that make it less of a cliché?

Not really. I kind of wish you were still my teacher. Ms. Collins gives me hardly any criticism.

Because you are so good, he said, rolling his eyes and smirking.

As good as what? A bottle of fine wine?

No. Maybe vanilla cake with strawberry filling.

And you are as bad as a hungry wolf. Sorry, that is also a cliché.

Lisa climbed out of the bed but Arthur pulled her back. Don’t go yet.

Hey, I really have to go. I’ll work on my new story and show it to you next week. Okay?

Okay. I’ll be waiting, you minx.

Ha. See you soon. She pulled on her jeans and sweatshirt, grabbed her purse, and rushed out of the room. He heard her opening the outside door. She called, Goodbye, you satyr. He smiled.

She thought about her new story as she walked down the street. She hated the long flowery sentences that Ms. Collins favoured, preferring ones that were short, understated, bare, with simple words and everyday vocabulary. Ms. Collins liked to write boring descriptions of scenery, people’s clothing, facial features, background history, in long, drawn-out passages. Lisa would lose attention half-way through a sentence. Ms. Collins probably didn’t critique her much because she didn’t think her writing worthwhile. You had to be good to deserve critique. She would show her. She would write the perfect story!

Andrea Collins was young, fresh out of an MFA program in Creative Writing, struggling to maintain some distance from her students,