Excerpt from Entrekin by Will Entrekin

Imperfect Thirst

Jesus of Nazareth did not know temptation until she found him in the desert.

It was night, then, cool and dark save for the lonely silver light of the moon, dry sand wind‑rippled in places like it had once known water. A breeze shivered his paper‑dry skin, and his breath rattled in his lungs. His coarse hair hung like a shadow over his face, and he passed in and out of sleep like a freefall through clouds; what dreams came were thirsty.

His head down, eyes closed, he didn't see or hear the woman approach, only felt her shadow on his body. His mouth surprised him by watering and he swallowed by reflex, the first moisture his body had known in a long, long time. He'd known she would come, of course. She always did.

"You're thirsty," she told him. Her voice lilted like smoke, oozed in his head like oil.

He didn't answer. He didn't need to. Even if everything in his body hadn't been pleading for moisture, that voice would have persuaded him.

"I don't understand why you do these things," she said. Her dark, familiar voice slid through his soul to find the empty parts, the thirsty parts, where it gave them a taste of what they could have if they so wished. Her tongue found sibilants even where none existed and stretched them mesmerizingly.

The muscles in his neck screamed when he looked up. He could make out none of her features; she was dark against the darker night, with a silver silhouette like a moonlight halo.

He didn't answer. Tried to swallow, had to do it twice to make it work.

She looked around at the lonely, deserted night and clutched her arms around herself as if cold. "It's so lonely out here," she said, almost to herself, "So dry," her voice straining, and then she turned back, her eyes starred, her smile like quicksilver in the dark. "I'm wet." A breeze carried the invitation to him on the musky, oh-so-wet scent of her sex and arousal.

His abs clenched, and his body forced an exhalation. One taste. Just enough to wet his cracked lips, shrink his swollen tongue, soothe his leather throat. And why not? Why not immerse himself in it, lose himself in all her dark and sex, feel her wet skin against his lips and lose all the other sensation in his body? What change in the world could possibly be brought about by one man's imperfect thirst?

He would have shaken his head but he didn't have the energy. He exhaled like wind eroding the desert, and then everything he had was gone. He slid into blackness like sinking into a pool, calm and easy only because his body had long before given out.

***

He returned to the world gently as he'd left it, and the first thing he was aware of was the hard surface beneath him. Cold, porous; when it didn't give out under him like fine, loose sand, he realized just how exhausted his body truly was. His legs trembled as he rose, knees shook, and he worried they wouldn't hold him.

He was on a roof, high above a city in the middle of its night. The sky was deeply, eternally blue, lit by a full moon bright as a million human hopes pinned on a single, bloated star, and his heart trembled in his chest because it knew how they all felt. All those human hearts in that huge and lovely city, living through their days, dreaming through their sleep, laughing through their tears with all the courage and fear a universe can know.

"They'll never believe you," came the woman's voice from behind him. It ran all the way up his back, prickling the hair on his neck on its way, and it aroused him. He turned more quickly than he realized he could.

She was nearly as tall as he was, and her pale skin seemed to glow, contrasting the night-dark garment she wore. It fit her well. Her long hair rustled, as likely in the breeze as in the night, and her eyes burned into Jesus' soul like cold, pale fire.

"They don't have the faith," she whispered in her sonorous, warming voice.

Jesus said nothing. He couldn't. His body trembled, muscles like bands stretched tense and quivering, and his heart cringed because it knew the woman was right. They wouldn't believe the message he carried, or would corrupt it.

A single tear escaped his eye, full of more than that harsh, dry land was used to.

"You can change that," the woman told him. She nodded toward the edge of the roof. "Just a single step, and they would hang upon your every word, believe every last thing you said to them."

Jesus looked toward the ledge, the city beyond it. His legs trembled beneath him, and his faith shuddered in his soul. He took a deep breath, though, and in it was everything he needed to say, "There is no room for proof in faith."

The woman looked at Jesus, and those ancient blue eyes pitied him. Her chuckle was the timeless wind against the sand, comforting against the heat but also a little empty, a little eroding. "Can you really be so idealistic?"

Jesus never answered. His body gave out under him, and the night wavered around him before it closed him off.

***

He next awoke under a sledgehammer sun blazing a suffocating white sky. His breath burned in his chest, and the air seemed to push down as he struggled to his feet. He didn't trust his body; it shivered as if cold and threatened to give out on him like everything else in the world had.

He was on the edge of a cliff, and that whole world spread out before him. He could see towns and villages immediately and, farther out, the shocking blue of the cobalt sea.

"It could be ours," the woman's voice whispered into his ear, sent a thrill like water through his whole body. She gestured at the world. "You can see where they're heading, and it's nowhere worth going."

Jesus' heart trembled, but he said nothing.

"We could change that," the woman said, stepped forward, turned to face him. "You and I. Think about it. We could have the world," she told him, standing just beyond the cliff's edge, "And we could change it."

The woman smiled when she said it. He gasped before he could stop himself, because he found everything he'd never known he was searching for, right there, in that beautiful woman's beguiling secret smile.

"Ramses? Tutankhamen? I knew them. They had their chances, and what did they build but glorious empires that crumbled into dust? But you're better than they were. You know things they never did. You are like no other I've ever known, and together we could succeed where there's only been war and loss. Join me. Be my king, and I will be your queen, and together we will rule this world and beyond."

Jesus looked out at that civilization on the sea, all those proud buildings built of dust and tears, all those people, too, and he breathed out. "I am not here to lead the way, only show it," he said.

The woman sighed, ancient wind in glaciers from before the world knew words, and in it was the knowledge that time was to be long. "I'm sorry it has to be this way."

"It cannot be otherwise," Jesus said.

"It could be if only you–."

"It cannot be."

The woman breathed out, weary and expectant. She stepped to the sand again, put her hand on Jesus' shoulder.

They stood, then, looking out on an uncertain world, and two hearts weighed heavy because both, at some level neither understood, knew what was to follow. They looked out at that world, that bright, sun‑bleached land full of dreams and lives, and they hoped.

"This is where we part, then." There was regret in the voice.

"It is," the woman agreed, and she wiped her cheek.

Jesus looked at her a moment, and then he took her hand, held it. A tear glittered on her index finger like a single drop of rain full of golden stars, and he brought it to his lips, kissed it from her skin. It was salty, and it filled his body with all the moisture it could hold.

She smiled at him, so full the sun seethed in jealousy, and then his legs buckled. Her ever‑so‑secret smile was the last he saw before darkness.

***

Jesus would have fallen down that cliff, but the woman was there, and upon her hands she bore him up lest he dash his foot against the stone. She carried him from the cliff and, when they were a safe distance, she set him down, caressed his cheek, and walked away.

Jesus lay there in the sun, only finally woke when it was dark again and the world had cooled. A breeze came from the night and felt like a lover's breath on his body, filled him with energy. He stretched his tired, near‑defeated body, and it loosened where he only remembered there being dry.

The moon shone down, less harshly than the sun. It cast a colder light on the world, but there was something comforting in it. The whole city bathed in it and looked more refreshed for it. He rose, his body awkward, trembling, testing before committing to posture and even then doing so carefully.

There were footprints there, he saw, in the light of the moon; they started at the edge of the cliff and traced off into the desert. He looked at them a long moment, feeling like there was something he was forgetting, but nothing came.

He looked into the distance of the desert, following those footprints with his eyes as far as he could, and then he looked down at the city and started toward it. He didn't consider for a moment the footprints been left by someone else, and even had he, he wouldn't have followed them. Which was fine, because they didn't lead anywhere; they traced off back, started to fade, and eventually vanished as if the wind had blown over them.

PODler Book of the Month JUNE

Because the June book of the month was to be chosen by popular vote only, and because Entrekin has the most votes, Entrekin is the book of the month for June.

Next month we return to the editorial choice method.

Author Interview: Will Entrekin

Will Entrekin is the author of Entrekin, a short story and poetry collection. He is a student in the graduate writing program at University of Southern California.

You're in the screenwriting program at USC. What's it like? What are the people like? The professors? Do you have a group of friends from the program and meet regularly to discuss ideas, stories, and so on?

I'm going to answer these few in a shot. I'm actually studying both fiction and screenwriting. You know those Mastercard commercials? Well, tuition and housing are a little expensive, but studying with the director who put your very first memory on film? That's priceless.

The people are spectacular, and the professors are terrific. Very varied and diverse. Meaning, for instance, for fiction, there are some professors who concentrate on short fiction, while others concentrate on novels. Some classes are workshop intensive with a lot of writing, while others prefer to discuss planning and outlining at length before any actual writing is performed. As for screenwriting, my first class was taught, in tandem, by Irvin Kershner (The Empire Strikes Back) and Coleman Hough (Full Frontal), so immediately you see the diversity there.

I've made a lot of friends and we get together often. I think if you put any group of writers together, eventually they'll start bouncing ideas off each other and talking about writing, but that's never the goal of getting together. It's sort of funny that we go out to blow off steam and end up talking about stories, anyway.

What is it like to study with such renowned writers? Are you intimidated by their talent? Are you under pressure to stun them with your work?

It's been terrific, but not at all intimidating. During my first ever screenwriting class, Kershner showed us The Third Man, and basically gave us a director's commentary through it. It was surreal. There was the guy on whom Yoda was based, just kinda talking at length about it. Besides Hough, last semester I also studied with Syd Field. None of them have been intimidating; they've all been among the most gracious and supportive people I've ever met. Syd, especially. His mantra for the semester was "Just tell the f&*#ing story." (without the character symbols, of course)

There was no pressure. They just wanted to encourage us. There's been an awesome trend that they all look at what you write and don't try to change that. Some of us were writing socio-political stuff, some sci-fi, some horror, some indie drama. They paid attention to the stories we wanted to write and commented accordingly.

What's a screenwriting class like? How many people attend? Is there a lot of competition between the students?

It was a lot like a fiction workshop, though there was less critique from the other students. Ten pages at a go, and the teacher would basically go over what's working and what wasn't. Most of my classes were about 12 strong, but we didn't compete with each other. Never do.

Do you write toward the commercial market or toward the independent sector? Are people more interested in writing the next blockbuster or the next Oscar winning film?

I personally tend toward the former, in both instances. My first screenplay was an adaptation of the novel I'm currently revising, which is sort of a cross between "Jurassic Park" and "The Last Temptation of Christ."

We all know about the notorious screenwriting manuals, such as STORY, but what books, if any, do you use in your classes? Which, if any, books on writing craft do you like the most?


Well, like I said, Syd was my teacher. While in class, he sometimes referred to "the other screenplay book" (meaning "Story"), as he wrote what has generally become the bible of screenwriting, being "Screenplay." So we used all his books. In addition, Sid Stebel had us use his book about the unconscious and creative power, and Shelly Lowenkopf has us reading a couple books by one of his colleagues, Barnaby Conrad. Rachel Resnick had us read "The Guide to Narrative Craft," and Madelyn Cain "On Writing Well."

Personally, I've always liked "Story," as well. But also "On Writing," by Stephen King.

What is your writing process like? Where do you start when you start a story? How do you stay motivated?

I try to do it every day. Process... I just kinda do it. I write a ton of crap before I know what I'm doing, generally, but I'm not a big fan of outlining very closely or elaborately. I usually start at the beginning. Who was it who said you start a scene as late as possible? I believe in starting everything as late as possible, and getting out before you need to. So I start from an idea, a premise, and try to figure out where that story needs to begin.

I just keep my ass in the chair.

Where does the inspiration come from?

Oh, I got this great deal from this little factory just south of Fargo... no, but really, from my background. I went to Catholic schools, broke from Catholicism, then studied natural science at a Jesuit college. Along the way, I studied global theology with a Jesuit priest who was also one of the first Zen roshis in the US, and who had three doctorates (in psychology, theology, and philosophy, I believe). After that, I produced commercials at a major ad agency, then taught in a high school and edited a journal about psychiatric disorders.

Given all that, there's no shortage of inspiration, really.

What are the obstacles to writing?

Getting it done to a point one is happy with. After that, the dwindling marketplace, which was largely what my book, and the way I published it, was a reaction to. One of the great aspects of my program is that we have to submit our stuff, but when you start to, you realize the market has basically dried up. I mention it in the book, but it seems like, unless your names is Chabon or McEwan, you're not going to get into The New Yorker or Harper's, and beyond that you've got the genre magazines (like The Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction on one side and Glimmer Train/Zyzzyva on the other). After that, you get the even smaller magazines that you only see in University libraries, mostly published by MFA programs.

And it's not just short stories. Publishers think they're in big trouble, because less people are reading and buying books in the stores. I think a lot of them are scared of self-publishing. Sometimes I look at publishing like the music industry: there's salvation out there, but they're so locked into their old business practices that they're scared to embrace iTunes (or its equivalent).


What other projects are you working on?

Right now, a revision of a novel a few agents have expressed interest in. After that, probably a screenplay or two, and I have several ideas for longer fiction, though I'm not certain of their place in the market. At this point, I'm considering what I think of as the Matt Damon philosophy of publishing: do a blockbuster that gets people into the seats and watching and makes a bunch of money, and then do a smaller, more indie project.

Who is your favorite writer?

Neil Gaiman. Used to love Stephen King. I'm also on a Chandler kick at the moment.

What are some of your favorite books?

Pretty much everything by Neil Gaiman. Needful Things, by SK, made me realize I wanted to write. Harry Potter. The Time Traveler's Wife. Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance; The Great Gatsby; The Big Sleep; The Tao of Pooh and The Te of Piglet; Nerve's Guide to Sexual Etiquette, Rift...

In a number of your stories in Entrekin, you deal with rejection. How do you deal with rejection?

I think there's only one way a writer can deal with rejection: keep going anyway.

Whenever I'm rejected, I think of the novels I never liked. Of which there are many. And I realize that, if I were an editor, I would have rejected those. So it's not like they're infallible. Editors accept barely literate manuscripts all the time.

Entrekin by Will Entrekin (A)

What keeps me going as a reviewer of POD material? Why would I spend my time reading this stuff on the computer screen? I think the answer has a great deal to do with the thrill of discovery of something spectacular among the coals; it is like hacking away a train through the Amazon jungle, only to discover a spectacular treasure. Entrekin, a story and poetry collection by Will Entrekin, is one such diamond in the rough.

Entrekin is filled with great writing. My favorites in this collection are:

What I Saw That Day, a gripping first person story about a young college graduate’s experience of walking home from Manhattan after the 9/11 attacks.

The first difference I noticed when I left my office building that afternoon, through those revolving doors and into the still-brilliant sun, was the smell. The air seemed heavy, as dense with dirt and dust and grit as it could possibly be without actually becoming solid; I could taste the grains in it, feel them rattle down my throat and into my lungs. I was several miles from the World Trade Center, on 40th and Madison, breathing the towers and the attacks and the fear into my body. Though I was several miles from the site of the attacks, they became a part of me, trapped in my lungs, in my eyes, in my memories, as crystallized as silica and asbestos.

The story deals, as many in this collection, with loss. Here the loss is not only personal to the protagonist but also to the nation. This theme of loss meshes with the theme of uncertainty as to what is real. When we experience loss, our sense of the real is assaulted, and we feel anxiety and stress. The Trade Center Towers coming down was an aspect of the unreal, the cinematic fantasy, replacing reality and forever changing us, frightening us and filing us with anxiety that has been exploited, in some sense, by politicians. So are the characters in this collection changed by their encounter with the unreal, sometimes never being able to separate the real from the unreal and becoming lost. One can only wonder whether we as a nation, following traumatic events, are not lost ourselves, still trying to shift through the images of true danger and the flickering shadows that seem everywhere.

In Addicted to Praise Poe manifests himself in the form of a black raven, asking that a young Parisian analyst, Augustine Dupin, investigate his death in America.

Baltimore is a new, raw city, bricks as pink as fresh skin and cobblestones the deep grey of a winter storm. I nearly gag on the smell, some grotesque combination of roasted nuts, ground shells, and horse sweat and waste. The air is so sharp and cold breathing feels like getting socked in the nose, and the men old enough to grow winter beards have, while the women’s faces are extra pink with rouge over windburn. I first secure a room for an extended stay, then visit the local constabulary.

The story has a surreal feeling to it, coming as it does form the viewpoint of an unreliable, possibly mentally ill first person narrator. The play on what is real and what is imagined is a frightening juxtaposition exploring one of the themes of this collection—the experience of mental illness.

This theme is elaborated once again in Factory life, a frighteningly vivid glimpse into what it must be like to suffer from schizophrenia.

My coworkers continuously talk to me. I try not to let myself get distracted from these tiny steel beads, but it is difficult; whispers in my ear, and their voices itch like wool in my brain, but I can’t scratch it.

How the World Will End, a story about the end of the world offers a disturbing vision of a possible end of the world that is at once vivid and fresh, escaping the temptations of the genre.

Temptation comes to Jesus in Imperfect Thirst, a story featuring the Temptress. This story caught my attention right away, as I turned the pages, because of the powerful voice of the character, a voice that compels the reader into character's world and predicament. The temptation of the temptress for the unwary traveler in the desert of the real is that of the quick fix, a relief from oppression of desolation created by loss of paradise, water, and life.

His head down, eyes closed, he didn’t see or hear the woman approach, only felt her shadow on his body. His mouth surprised him by watering and he swallowed by reflex, the first moisture his body had known in a long, long time. He’d known she would come, of course. She always did.

“You’re thirsty,” she told him. Her voice lilted like smoke, oozed in his head like oil.

Finishing the collection is the spectacular first chapter of his debut novel, A Different Tomorrow, which is included as a bonus at the very end. The first chapter of the novel is so very much what a good opening chapter should be. It opens, first of all, in the middle of action. The writing is clean, simple, and evokes a cinematic vision in the reader’s mind. There is nothing obtrusive here, no speed bumps or mislaid structural elements over which to trip. Consider this fragment:

A ski-masked man dressed all in black pointed a gun equipped with a long silencer at Chance’s father.

In college, Chance had trained in martial arts, and the entire world slowed as his training suddenly took control of his body: leapt him through the doorway to tackle the man with the gun. The man rolled even as he fell, and Chance’s father lunged toward the man — time snapped back to the room; a lot of things happened all at once. A sound like rapid-fire sneezes caught. Chance’s father cried out in pain, fell. Chance kicked at the man, but the man used the hand that wasn’t holding his gun to catch Chance’s foot, lifted hard and pushed. Chance’s feet came out from under him, but he twisted even as he fell so that he swept the man’s legs upon hitting the floor. The gun coughed when it hit the ground, and the computer monitor exploded.

The man twisted and his gun coughed again, again; Chance dove as bullets gone wild punched fist-sized holes into the wall behind him, and the man kicked him in the abdomen. All Chance’s breath steam-whistled out of him, and then the man smashed Chance across the face and he tumbled backward.

Another cough, and another: the man was shooting again, and then brick-wall pain blasted across Chance’s shoulder so hard it spun him around. He smashed front-first into his father’s desk. The man’s gun hacked, spat, again, then sprung-locked impotent. The man pushed it forward, forward, like he didn’t want it to believe it was empty.

Chance tried to move but…

Notice the flow of the action. It is poetic, cinematic, without any overwriting. And yet it is not so sparse that it renders the narrative inaccessible to the reader’s imagination. This is the writing of bestsellers.

Entrekin is a stellar collection of work by a writer of promise.

UPDATE (September 2015): This work is no longer in publication. If you're interested in reading this work, consider contacting the author via his website.