DYSTOPIA : Collected Stories
By Richard Christian Matheson
Digital Edition published by Crossroad Press
© 2011 Richard Christian Matheson
Copy-edited by: Patricia Lee Macomber
Cover Design By: David DOdd
Background Image provided by: Harry O. Morris
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With deepest love and admiration for my mother, Ruth Ann, who soothes wounded hearts, heals broken wings and allows us all to soar.
Introduction
To be a superior writer is to confront a two-headed dragon. One head represents ideas. The other head is execution; how the idea is presented.
Both of these dragon heads need conquering; one alone is without value.
Too many writers are one-headers. Their concepts are clever, their presentation of same inadequate. Or else their writing is superlative, their ideas weak or virtually nonexistent.
Success for either one of these writers is improbable or, at best, limited.
Richard is – to quote the baseball term – a double header.
Both dragon heads topple before the slashing sword of his talent.
Conceivably, to write this introduction could have been a painful experience.
Richard is my son. I love him. I admire him as a human being – invariably thoughtful, kind and good-natured; always aware.
But what is he couldn’t write very well?
As a writer myself who has tried to maintain as much quality as possible in my work, how could I express myself in this introduction?
Pretend he was talented? Be “kind” as father to son?
It wouldn’t work.
Richard is too intelligent to be deceived by such an unworthy stratagem. He’d know immediately that I was lying. The result would be traumatic for both of us.
Happily, in this case, the gods of creativity are kind. I am spared this painful experience. There is no need for me to prevaricate or be falsely generous. I have only to speak the simple truth.
Richard Christian is one hell of a writer.
His use of language is phenomenal – far beyond my own capacity for blending words into dazzlingly imaginative combinations, creating word pictures which almost literally leap off the pages of his stories.
His concepts are uniquely his. Nothing derivative of imitative in his work.
Who on earth – certainly not me – could conceive of a complete short-short story consisting of sentences made up of one word each?
He did – and wrote it brilliantly.
Indeed, the marvelous brevity of his writing is especially notable. He wastes no verbiage; that is clear. He creates his stories with an absolute minimum of words – yet, at the same time, creates intense, startling, often shocking and unforgettable images in the reader’s mind.
At one time, we both contributed to Steven Spielberg's TV anthology series AMAZING STORIES.
That title could, very accurately, be ascribed to Richard’s collection.
Consider the variety of subject matters and literary textures in these stories. The abundance of rich, psychological insights.
Whatever, for instance; a recently completed novelette.
How wonderful a concept – and how wonderfully constructed. A fascinating, mind-challenging story. The vivid re-creation of a rock-music era through the invention of a rock group's history meticulously constructed into an intriguing jigsaw puzzle the pieces of which are pressed into place with skilled selectivity until the complete, powerfully engrossing picture is revealed. All in all, a remarkable accomplishment – one which remains with the reader long after its reading.
His other stories, many of them incredibly brief in their nonetheless complete presentation of (bright-amusing-startling - frightening-insightful-touching-horrifying, et al.) concepts are equally to be enjoyed and admired.
It is interesting to note that, in Whatever – as well as in many of his shorter works – his ability to write song lyrics is impressive – another field in which he might well have achieved great success – and, in fact, in which he has achieved success on several CD recordings (for which he also played the drums with outstanding skill; I'm beginning to hate the kid, he's too talented).
But back to the stories – some of them at any rate – my personal favorites.
Hiding, I love. Here, Richard's writing style becomes leisurely and contemplative, creating a superlative evocation of emotions both droll and touching. A concept worthy of Ray Bradbury, an anthologized tribute for whom the story was written.
City of Dreams, one of his latest stories. A work accomplished with such dazzling images that, absorbed by them one is caught completely off-guard by its chilling denouement.
The Edge, Mutilator and Region of the Flesh – all extremely perceptive with regard to mental alienation, all the more frightening for the author's deep insight into aberrant behavior.
Deathbed, a fascinatingly presented short-short with a positively bring-you-up-short ending which makes you blink and smile, then sigh reflectively as revelation sets in.
I'm Always Here, another pop-music oriented story is very powerful and, as I indicated earlier regarding Richard's stories, it stays with you after you've read it. Not lingering so much as holding on tight, forcing you to think, to visualize.
Visit to a Psychic Surgeon, reveals, again, Richard's ability to write in a more leisurely and comprehensive fashion, a story remarkably intense in character revelation and evocation of mood; definitely one of my favorites.
Considering Richard's extraordinary sense of humor (he has, on many occasions, reduced me to helpless laughter) it is – my opinion – unfortunate for the reader that Richard does not demonstrate it more in his short stories.
As evidence of this, I offer Sentences. A precursor of "The Truman Show," it is laced through with understated drollery, a laugher of an idea presented in laugh-evoking prose. Then, there is Who's You in America, a study that can only be described as ambiguous – a nostalgic, almost melancholy whimsy which is guaranteed to make the reader wonder if they should be laughing or crying because both seem perfectly reasonable. I am especially fond of—and, to be honest, awed by this story. Every new work by Richard takes on a greater depth and uncanny skill with language. It is with a father's great pride and a writer's unanticipated wonderment to realize that, literally, such writing is beyond my ability. Maybe I can start taking drum lessons to catch up.
And there is The Mail-Order Man; a truly all-stops-out funny piece. Yet, strangely, this one, too, has its ambiguity. Even as one chuckles and laughs, one has the feeling that, as in Who's You in America someone troubled lurks behind the ironic curtain: a man unable to rid himself of his mail-order addiction; a man who, albeit funny enough to evoke much laughter, is, beneath it all a clown with a sad face and lonely heart. A remarkable tale indeed.
Returning to his unique skill – creating the maximum of horror with the minimum of words, Red is still one of the most scarifying stories I have ever read.
Dead End is positively Kafkaesque
, a methodically compiled series of incidents which lead inexorably to a conclusion which, in fact, is no conclusion at all but a suspension of dread which – again – remains rooted in the mind.
Graduation (one of Richard's earliest works) is another favorite. Presented as a series of letters from a school-attending son to his parents, it ever so subtly creates a pall of extremely disconcerting reactions in the reader.
But I think you get the idea.
As a writer, Richard has achieved a high creative plateau, his use of impressive ideas and impressive language leaving me no alternative finish to this introduction but; Great work, son. I'm very proud of you.
Contents:
Introduction
Shutterbugs
Timed Exposure
The Screaming Man
Holiday
Bedlam
Red
Arousal
Intruder
Hiding
Mobius
City of Dreams
Vampire
Please Help Me
Cancelled
Mutilator
Commuters
Oral
Region of the Flesh
The Great Fall
Third Wind
Ménage a Trois
Incorporation
The Film
The Good Always Comes Back
Manifesto
Mr. Right
Visit to a Psychic Surgeon
Break-Up
Whatever
The Dark Ones
The Mail-Order Man
Mugger
Hell
Eyes
Obsolete
Wyom…
Sentences
Goosebumps
Water Child
Dead End
Groupies
Unknown Drives
Deathbed
Dust
Abused
Beholder
Obituary
Graduation
The Pitch
Sirens
Where There's a Will
Bleed
Conversation Piece
Barking Sands
Tings to Get
The Edge
Dead of Winter
Echoes
Who's You in America
Afterword – by Peter Straub
Shutterbugs
Sitting.
The coffee shop.
Trying to get some peace. Quiet.
I drink my coffee. Eat my burger. But the two prunes in the next booth won't zip it.
"I love this one. Look at it." She looks two-hundred.
"Oh, will you look at that . . . my gosh." She looks fourhundred.
Great.
Old ladies looking at photos. Why don't I just pop myself in the fucking head?
"This is a cute one."
"Isn't it?"
They nibble old lady salads. Ancient snails in capris. My eyes grow knives.
"I'd love to get a copy of this one. Is that a pine tree he's under?"
"Oak."
Wrinkly mouth, ovalling. "No. Well, I'll be darned."
"It's true."
"If you say so."
"I do."
"Good enough for me."
Yawn, yawn, yawn. I'm wilting on bad plaid here, folks. I spank the ketchup bottle, irritably. It coughs up red like a dying soldier; coats my fries.
"I like this one. She looks sweet."
"Sweeter than sweet."
"Is this . . .?" inquires Novocain Shot One.
"Yep. It's Bob," chirps Shot Two.
"I almost didn't recognize him. Nice shirt he has. Wool?"
"Wool blend."
"Isn't that nice."
"It is."
"Is that a hedge?"
"Bush."
"Nooo."
"Yes!"
"I'll be darned."
My pulse droops. I crave escape. I gesture at the waitress. My check lands on plastic flying carpet.
Their check is here, too. They hum. Powder coffin cheeks.
Tuck photos in purses. Count money. Quarters, nickels, dimes, pennies. It takes days. I age. My flesh crusts over.
I hate them.
"Well, have to get home."
"Me, too."
Gee, what a shame. I'm fucking crushed.
"Lunch, again? Next week?"
They agree. Get up. Dimple and denture past me, nodding happily. Shorter than they seemed in the booth; migraine leprechauns in saggy support hose. I mumble, or nod, or poke at them with my fork to release narcotizing gasses, or . . . I can't remember.
I watch them waddle to the bus stop. Board. The bus sponges them up like aggravating, gray-headed stains. They are gone. I am happy.
My waitress offers a refill. Coffee. I accept. Drink in peace. Muzak pumps out bogus Kenny G. It sounds like the original. My eyes wander.
I notice something on their booth seat. A photo they forgot. I lean over. Grab it. Figure to give it to the waitress. They'll come back and want it. People with pointless worlds like to keep track.
I turn the photo over, curious. This should be riveting. Maybe it'll be Bob under the pine that's actually an oak and my life will be complete.
I stare at the photo.
My guts spin.
A man is bound to a tree. Face and limbs bleeding. Open mouth stuffed with oily cloth. Eyes pleading.
Beside him, is one of them. Flashing those dentures, arm around his shoulder. Winking and waving at the camera with her other hand.
At her feet, his wool blend is neatly folded.
The ice shifts in my glass.
Timed Exposure
They met at this very strange party in Malibu.
The house was Moorish design, and a heavy, industry crowd sat on tubby, Road To Morocco pillows, danced, snorted and lied to each other, as perfect surf supplied a metronome.
She was an actress, studying at one of the local academies and getting in for equity-waiver auditions. He was . . . she wasn't sure. She asked him and he dropped two new cubes into her vodka tonic and said:
"I work when I feel inspired."
They stood by the bar's open, glass door, watching the ocean foam, and his white scarf was suddenly stolen by night wind, flying into the blackness; a ghostly serpent. She stared into his dark eyes, and he touched her cheek, asking if she were alone.
An hour later, they walked on the beach, laughing; celebrating having found each other at such a dull party. He was a world traveler named Gregory and she liked his sense of humor, though he preferred not to talk about himself. Still, as they crunched through moist sand, she managed to learn he'd been married, loved dogs, and knew the address of every great restaurant in Paris. She told him she'd never been to Paris.
At nine-thirty, sharp, a screening of The African Queen began in the plush living room, which rose over a mirror tide, and she sat beside him, nibbling crackers, sharing funny secrets.
Now and then, during the film, she would peek over at him and he'd smile, making her feel pleasingly like a child; like he watched her as a father might, taking his little girl to her first movie. As Bogart's stomach grumbled and Hepburn glared politely, the two new friends held hands and she looked over, aching to touch him; to feel him.
At midnight, guests began to yawn, and sleepy, stoned-out couples hugged the host, saying it was the best party they'd ever been to. He was a tanned, studio sultan, who kissed their cheeks and smiled, though it was impossible to tell if he believed every word or memorized which faces deceived him.
That was when Gregory asked to drive her home.
She was thrilled, feigned reluctance, said she couldn't impose. But when he threw an arm around her and whispered a joke in her ear, she laughed and grabbed her purse.
They took his Mercedes 500 SL and streaked down Pacific Coast Highway, listening to the Beatles' White Album cranked to a million watts, laughing like insane teenagers. The top was down and their hair was pulled into Dracula tightness by cool
winds, as the Mercedes purred through fog, and he reached over, pulling her closer. Ahead, they could see a fuzzy necklace of lights that stretched down the throat of the coastline, fifty miles south, lighting the way.
"Beautiful," she said, watching the wipers arm-wrestle mist.
He slid his electric window down, and wind swirled his hair into a tidepool as they ran a red light, and sped south toward her apartment in Brentwood.
That's when they saw it.
A traveling carnival.
It was standing in the parking lot of the Malibu Colony Market, and their faces were awash in pink and green neon as they drove in, staring at the huge, pendulum rockets that had screams pouring from spinning tips.
He killed the engine, did some lines of blow with her and ran warm fingers across her cold face. She touched her lips to his salty palm and gently tasted it, as a cage full of monkeys shrieked in the distance.
"You taste good," she said, words carried on visible breath.
They wandered through the sour smells of the carnival, drinking blue slush, and watching an elephant, with sad eyes, stand on one foot. And when they threw ping-pong balls into empty aquariums, he won her a small goldfish which she accepted like it were a diamond. She carried it in a Baggie, and it swam and stared at them, dangling in her perfectly manicured hand.
They strolled near a giant Ferris wheel, and were drawn by pulsing bulbs that guarded the portal to the COIN ARCADE. Inside, on a lake of sawdust, they had their fortunes told by "Madame Destiny", who stared frozenly, until slipped a token, then came alive, mechanical face tensing with worry. She told them both to beware of strangers, then lifted a Mona Lisa smile and said evil thoughts couldn't be hidden.
After more trance sounds, which she hummed ominously, the seer became stiff again, suddenly dead, eyes closing, painted hands lifeless over the chipped crystal ball.
They thanked her with amused smiles and walked-on, seeing a row of photo booths, ratty curtains half drawn.
On each was stenciled: Four Photos – 50¢.
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