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Thus Spake The Prophet Megan Fox, reflections after the end of the world.

Though many scholars debate about the origins of our teachings, and the palimpsests of time grow thicker with each new-format re-rendering of our Holy Writ, there are elements of our faith that we hold unshakable, and no two Foxist theologians can debate. I share these with you now, in hopes that we may delight in our mutual agreement.

On The Subject of the Transfiguration:

It is not understood when Megan Fox died, but based on some holy artifacts and stuck-together pages of British GQ magazine, she did in fact rise from the dead to rejoin the living. When faced with the pressures of being hired solely to be attractive Megan turned the other rounded cheek: “I turned into a really butch bull dyke for, like, six months … Then I went in the other direction. From being a giant motorcycle-riding lesbian, I turned into a zombie.” Though it is foggy amidst scholars what her rise from the dead had to do with her brief period of butch bull-dykery, or even what the parameters of this bull-dykery entailed, what is sure is that she rose to greet her followers on the third day in purple Armani underwear.

Note: It is because of this comment that any high priestesses in any Foxist sect must meditate and defeat what our holy scriptures refer to as “the giant motorcycle-riding lesbian within.”

On the battle with the Ancient Ones

From what most scholars gather, Megan Fox did most of her battles with some sort of firesword, or fire-axe, or incendiary device of note. As evinced in the fragment that follows, heard by a believer when the Prophet Megan Fox preached her sermon at a bar in Vancouver, it is the only type of weapon that appropriately dispels the ancient ones: “Look, are you aware of who ‘FHM’ magazine voted the Sexiest Woman Alive? ME! Not Angelina Jolie…it was ME! God, Jolie was lucky to make Number Nine! I’m only 21 and she’s like…ancient! I’m much hotter than her.”

It is only with hotness (again, presumably the hotness of a firesword, or perhaps some type of firemallet) that we may prevail.

On Diet

The ascetic life of the high priestess of Foxism is a hard and arduous one. They must rise before dawn, do 30 butterfly crunches and then head outside to preach to the converted cowering in the athiestholes that have come to litter our landscape since the apocalypse: smelly little indents in the vast wastelands that are home to “ugly retards,” in the words of our great lord.

In order to maintain a purity of mind and body, the high priestesses turn to the words of the Prophet, who said that in order to lose weight, “I just stopped eating.”

Her piety is an inspiration to us all.

On her involvement in the great war

Apparently Michael Bay was actually Hitler.

On hope for our future.

These are dark times we live in. The sun has been blocked out from nuclear dust and the people clamor and pull at their hair, desperate for a cure to this hopelessness. While we look ever forward for answers, the disbelievers cowering in athiestholes, saying the next bomb is close to going off, don’t understand that salvation is one quick DVD rental of Jonah Hex away. It pains us to watch the world suffer but we look backward for strength and guidance, as so many of us have done before, from the “powerful, confident vaginas” of the prophets of our past.

And while we weep for our present and the atheists, we may take solace in the words the prophet left for us. Say them with me now as we wrap ourselves in this holy “Revenge of the Fallen” Japanese movie poster:

“I’m really insecure about everything.
I never think I’m worthy of anything.
I have a sick feeling of being mocked all the time.
I have a lot of self-loathing.
Self-loathing doesn’t keep me from being happy.
But that doesn’t mean I don’t struggle.

I am very vulnerable.
But I can be aggressive, hurtful, domineering and selfish, too.
I’m emotionally unpredictable and all over the place.
I’m a control freak.

But I don’t want to elaborate.

I would never call myself a cutter.
Girls go through different phases when they’re growing up,
when they’re miserable and do different things,
whether it’s an eating disorder or they dabble in cutting.

If I did talk about it,
I’d be taking on a role-model status,
and I’d have to choose my words very carefully,
and I’d have to make sure I reveal it in a specific way,
and I don’t want to do it”

And for all the high priestesses and all devout Foxists, we pray that nourishment may find you in spite of a spotty diet.

We pray that you may not look like a retard when you’re talking to people.

We pray that we don’t have to be, like, a Scarlett Johansson–not that we have anything against her–and have to trot out every SAT word we’ve ever learned in interviews just so we can be like, ooh, look how smart we are.

We pray that the great bomb not destroy us again, and if it does, we pray that it keeps the 35mm print of Jennifer’s Body in dece condition.

And for the unconverted, we pray that people become quicker to judge and speak their mind, and that one day there be less Foxists in atheistholes.

Amen.

Book Reivew: “Boris Makes A Friend.”

Boris Makes A Friend

by Katharine Miller
55 pgs
Available at robotofleisure.com

If I haven’t already made myself clear on this point, let me be explicit:  I love Boris.  Katharine Miller’s bazaar marriage of meme between Cute-Thing and Post-Apocalypse seems tailor made to suit my taste.  I deeply enjoyed the first book, citing only small, stylistic complaints as detractors from the tightness of the work.  This second volume is more of the same slow, earnest, visual story telling, with a pathos that sits on top of the narrative directing the course of the action.  Once again, Boris explores the question of profound solitude, discovering that the difference between freedom and loneliness may only be a mater of perspective.

I wish actually, that I had chosen to review both books together, because from a narative perspective Boris Make A Friend is more effective as a companion piece to The Open House.  Both are first act type stories, mainly concerned with building the world, introducing the protagonist, and establishing his struggle.  Boris is a service robot, but the home he services has been abandoned so he has nothing to do with his time.  He explores the house, has a little fun with the things he finds, there is the looming questions about the end of the world, ect.  In a way it seems like rehashing old potatoes, becasue much of this happened in the first book, but that’s sort of the point.   I understand Miller’s need to trace over the same material a few times in order to properly establish the philosophical questions that she wants to answer and there is some amusment the re visitation.  The most fun part of this second volume, however, is when Boris finally ventures out of his home to discover what the town has to offer.

The books are divided roughly along narrative lines, but most strictly along philosophical ones.  Boris and the Open House wondered what a character with no ambition, like our heroic service robot, might do if they were completely free of restrictions.  The ponderings in Boris Makes a Friend have more to do with witness.  What’s a little robot to do when he has no other against whom to measure his accomplishments?   The evolution of the philosophy is quite beautiful.  

Stylistically, the two books are nearly identical, but in this second volume Miller’s cartooning has improved significantly.  The characters are more comfortably integrated with the environments, and while I miss the gentle schism of the earlier work, it does make for a smoother experience.  Panel lay outs have been planed more carefully, so there is both more variety, and more clarity than in the first book.  Each picture was successful in communicating its own crisp, singular message, while being equally useful at telling its part of the story.  Not once did I have to rescan a page to understand what was going on.  This may seem like a fairly basic remark, and it is, but anyone who reads comics know that this kind of clarity is not easy to achieve.  I’ve read a lot of large distribution superhero books that didn’t scan as well as Boris Makes a Friend.   

If you’re interested in getting acquainted with Boris, I would recommend reading the first two volumes as a unit; maybe with a break for a cup of tea in between.  Despite their physical and philosophical separation, narratively they function best as a unit.  When one is in the slow, earnest mindset, that caries through those two volumes, the final panel of Makes a Friend becomes quite shocking.  I am eagerly anticipating Volume 3 (coming Summer 2011), which I am hoping begins the second act of Miller’s story. 

by
Michael Scott

THE SUNDAY PAPER: Once Upon A Wish” by Ken Stamp. Part 3 of 4.

 Twilight

We are stopped. I release my seat-belt and turn to look at you.  “No wait, don’t open your eyes just yet.  Please keep them closed.”

I rush around and open your door and take your outstretched hand in mine   We are standing in sand once more. You think that we have returned to the same spot where we welcomed the morning.  You still haven’t put your shoes on.

You open your eyes and see the Pacific Ocean.  I am behind you again with my arms once more holding you in a now familiar position.

“It won’t be long now.”

You press into me as we watch the sun slowly lower itself into the waiting water.  The sky takes on a magnificent glow, turning from blue to yellow to orange then a deep scarlet.

With one last effort the sky flashes blue then green in a crescendo of light paying tribute to the suns final performance of the day. 

You turn to face me and wrap your arms around my neck and kiss me forcefully, pressing your body into me.

“Thank you for such a wonderful day. I have never appreciated nature’s wonders before.  I know they have always been there, but it took you to open my eyes to see them.  From now on, every time I see a sunrise or sunset I will think of our time together.  We drive east; darkness settling in as we enter the mountains.  The rhythm of the drive induces a dream-like state and you close your eyes again. You drift off.  You wonder what could possibly be next.

The Sunset

You open your eyes once more and realize you are lying on a sofa.  You don’t remember arriving or leaving the pick-up nor entering a building. You don’t remember lying down.

Your knees are bent and your feet up on the cushions.  Your head is on a pillow and you are facing outward with your right hand resting on your hip.

The room is in darkness except for the flickering flames that cast an eerie light all around.  In front of you is a large picture window through which you have a panoramic view of a stream, trees, and mountains all shrouded in the mist of evening.

The crackling and popping of a wood fire, burning in the open hearth, reminds you of many enjoyable evenings of your youth.  Fleeting thoughts of family scamper through your mind, but they are abstract, as if you were no longer an immediate part of them. 

I am seated on a chair beside you.  I know that you are awake. I lean over and whisper softly in you ear and tell you how much I love you, how beautiful you are and how precious you are to me. 

You wonder if this is the time that I will attempt a union with you.  Conditions are right for a romantic seduction.  You say, “I love you too, my darling,”  and you wait.  I take no action so you gently take my hand and encourage me to come closer.

When I do not move, you swing you feet to the floor and rise to a sitting position. 

Taking your hand I ask, “Please stand up.”

Wooden Rocket Press’ Sunday Paper posts new serialized fiction each Sunday.
Return next Sunday morning for surprise conclution of Ken Stamp’s “Once upon A Wish.”

Read parts one and two here and here respectively.
To submit your story for consideration for the Sunday Paper, e-mail us at submissions@woodenrocketpress.com