If you think free, self-published chap-books are made by people who write stuff that’s so awful no one else will publish it, you better read Fluff by Duncan. Every one of these stories and poems verges on the edge of some occurrence, but nothing ever actually seems to occur. In “Sunflowers” we find ourselves at the far end of a love affair that has just ended. “To tell the truth,” the female character says at the beginning of the story, “I’ve decided I don’t love you very much. I like taller men.” A story called “Solitaire” is made up almost entirely of a dialogue between two characters. One character is busy playing solitaire on his computer when the other comes in and starts asking questions: “You still playing solitaire?” “I am. I’m doing great.” “Isn’t your article due tomorrow?” “It’s not an article. It’s a book review.” “Whatever. Have you finished it yet?” “What do you care? You never read them anyway.” “How much have you finished?” “Nothing yet.” “And you’re playing solitaire?” “Yes I am, and I’m doing great.” Duncan’s sense of timing is impeccable. It’s lovely to watch him work. One small warning: don’t read “Bloody Chunk of Phlegm on the Handle of a Urinal” while eating. And don’t read “The Brown Hawk” at all. It perches too self-consciously on the edge of narrative conflict, exploring it relentlessly, painfully. But read everything else this guy ever writes. (KS)
Over 15,000 Zine Reviews & Growing!
