Fiction Collective Two is an author-run, not-for-profit publisher of artistically adventurous, non-traditional fiction.

Aviary Slag



Aviary Slag: Stories
by Jacques Servin

Hardcover
1996
Price: $21.95 s

Paperback
1996
Price: $11.95

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Aviary Slag is a lucid, lysergic antidote to the so-called profundities of "quality fiction." An assemblage of intricately interlocked mini-epics, moral tales, and porn tracts, it is a definitively post-postmodern work. Jacques Servin plunders and smelts the traditional forms, then fashions out of the slag a brilliant poetics of power and eros. In both form and content, Aviary Slag provides hard-hitting metaphors for the death of deforming constraints. It is a book for the volatile end of a century that has smelted and recast almost everything.

 

"Jacques Servin's writing invents a new kind of exquisiteness-daredevil, ultra-anxious, and sopping beautiful. His degree of originality borders on the mindblowing. A find if there ever was one."

—Dennis Cooper

"Toke up hermetic numina, unroll the scurfy scroll-interactive designer pyramid texts- organic cryptanalysis."

—Hakim Bey

"Stop! Don't put this book back on the shelf. You want to know what's new? This writing is new. And after you read this your life becomes the news. Absolute nitpicking genius!"

—Steve Katz



 

Excerpt


A LOT OF US WERE WEARING HEAD-DRESSES

I was the plastic explosives man-the guy they called, you know, four-thirty in the morning the bell rings, a mischievous little pat-a-cake kind of head of state goes faith-down as they say, friends-a-bobbing-in-duct-tape-fondles, and everything topsy-turvy because of this pat-a-cake kind of asshole, yeah. That was the guy I was, the guy who dealt with the plastic explosives end of the whole transaction, you know, when you're dealing with ending the friends-a-bobbing-in-duct-tape-fondles kind of mischief asshole, there was lots to consider and I was the guy, I considered some of it. Plastic explosives.

Now plastic explosives is a lot like mixing mortar on your own mother's neck for interring your father, if that's the kind of psyche you're stuck with, or like choosing your friends out of a chamberpot. In both examples you're dealing with a lot of care to be taken lest you end up massacred one way or the other-your font-of-all-loving-kindness a hardening design in the entranceway (if no one ever comes in that way, otherwise in the cellar), your life a bunch of hang-tos and mildewy underwear worship. Similarly, with plastic explosives a great, great deal can go very wrong so that no one gets paid save in jetting-through-flesh kind of action on the part of material which, to you, had been a complete and total stranger.

Much of the material, so you know, is not really plastic. Sure, the stuff that goes in you is plastic, but that's only because it has to be hard and the kind of stuff that could very well go in you. The rest is whatever chemical's explode, like in hand grenades, fusillade-repellent sort of barricade boomers kind of things, and even bullets, but only special bullets-your regular vast-issue army plugs cheapen your life a lot, sure, but compared to the stuff in my plastic explosives-well, even Auntie Mae's weirdest cherries don't glance off these barnacles.

Anyhow, I was the guy who spent a lot of time getting ready to do something or other with plastic explosives, which I've described, and finally something came up and though I'd been restless and even fretful, often, asleep on my couch, hours and hours each night full of fretfulness, this night that thing happened was like the one I used as an example above. You know, four-thirty in the morning the bell rang and Sharpie's there, turned out a leading man of the important political parties was scraping by with a bit too much hard-earned cash and waking all the neighbors besides-and I who resent the status quo as if it were my own mother! Not much needed be said and I squashed this, perfected that, mimicked that, and put together your so-prismic ball of future in nothing flat and gave it to Sharpie, who looks like one of those guys who kills you after he's gotten what he needs just so no one tattles, but he knows me, I'm too gullible and energetic to tattle on anyone, but there was a second there, me handing over the plastic explosives and Sharpie just standing there looking cute like you'd expect of your killer in that cute killer way you'd expect, when I wasn't all that sure about the next few minutes. I have to admit. But here I am!

Anyhow, plastic explosives is a rough business and there's a lot to it that ordinary folks don't want to get involved in, quite rightly, but it's my line of work, and it's not so bad if you ask me. Not so bad.