Piers Anthony - Anthonology.pdf

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Anthonology
by
Piers Anthony
CONTENTS
POSSIBLE TO RUE
THE TOASTER
QUINQUEPEDALIAN
ENCOUNTER
PHOG
THE GHOST GALAXIES
WITHIN THE CLOUD
THE LIFE OF THE STRIPE
IN THE JAWS OF DANGER
BEAK BY BEAK
GETTING THROUGH UNIVERSITY
IN THE BARN
UP SCHIST CRICK
THE WHOLE TRUTH
THE BRIDGE
ON THE USES OF TORTURE
SMALL MOUTH, BAD TASTE
WOOD YOU?
HARD SELL
HURDLE
GONE TO THE DOGS
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
POSSIBLE TO RUE
I started writing fiction seriously on the way to my B.A. in Creative Writing.
My thesis for graduation was a 95,000 word novel, _The Unstilled World_, that
kept the College President up much of the night. No, he wasn't a science
fiction fan; he just had to read all the papers, and hadn't anticipated one
that was 300 pages long. That novel was never published, though later I
revamped a portion of it that is now part of the _Battle Circle_ volume.
The first story I wrote, "Evening," I submitted to the first _Galaxy Magazine_
amateur story contest in 1954. In 1955 I received notice that my story was
among the top ten entries, but that they had decided to have no winner. Sigh-
my literary career had been launched in typical fashion. Meanwhile, my later
friend andy offutt (that's the way he capitalized it) entered a similar
contest sponsored by _If Magazine_ and won it. Fate has generally treated me
that way; I seem to have a propensity for just barely missing the cut.
But I have always been ornery. I refused to comprehend the message that I
wasn't wanted in Parnassus. This is my advice to other hopeful writers: be
ornery, keep trying, don't get the message, so that you, too, can suffer years
of frustration, irony and humiliation. Once every decade or so the worm does
turn.
I tried other stories on other markets, receiving rejection slips and a curt
note from H.L. Gold not to try to compete with the big boys. (And where are
you now, H.L.? Suppose I had followed your arrogant advice?) In 1958 my story
"The Demisee" was accepted by Damon Knight at _If Magazine_-which then ceased
publication just long enough to unsell my story. I had missed the cut again.
But I kept trying, while earning my living in such mundane pursuits as
delivery driver, the U.S. Army, electronics technical writer and state social
worker.
But still I longed to be a writer; the dream would not let go. Finally my wife
went to work, so that I could try writing full-time for one year. This is my
second major item of advice to other hopefuls: have a working spouse to earn
your living while you grasp for the impossible. We agreed that if I did not
succeed, I would recognize the nature of my delusion, give it up, retire to
productive mundane work and be at literary peace. One of my fifth cousins did
exactly that, ending his writing attempts to become an executive at Sears.
It was now late in 1962. I wrote a fantasy story and sent it off to the
_Magazine of Fantasy and Science Fiction_-let's just call it F&SF-and a
science fiction story that I sent to _Playboy_. They both bounced. I wrote
another fantasy and tried F&SF again, while trying the first two at other
markets. They all bounced. I thought I might try a British magazine-I was
after all born in England, and was a subject of the King/Queen for twenty-four
years-but I didn't have the address. So while I was trying to get it, I sent
my second fantasy story to _Fantastic_, just to keep it in circulation. And
suddenly it sold.
After eight years, nineteen stories, and thirty rejections, I had a $20.00
sale. I was a success!
That story, of course, was "Possible to Rue." It was published in the April
1963 issue of _Fantastic_, and thereafer sank without a trace, until this
moment. I make no special claims for its merit; it just happened to be the
chip thrown up by the wave. I include it simply because it was the point at
which my worm turned, my first success as a commercial fiction writer, of
interest for historical consideration. Perhaps scholars more intelligent than
I am will be able to trace in this story the genesis of my later career as a
writer of light-fantasy novels. The rest of you can take satisfaction in the
fact that at least it isn't very long.
* * *
I want a pegasus, Daddy," Junior greeted him at the door, his curly blond head
hobbling with excitement. "A small one, with white fluttery wings and an
aerodynamic tail and-"
"You shall have it, son," Daddy said warmly, absent-mindedly stripping off
jacket and tie. Next week was Bradley Newton, Jr.'s sixth birthday, and
Bradley, Senior had promised a copy of _Now We Are Six_ and a pet for his very
own. Newton was a man of means, so that this was no empty pledge. He felt he
owed it to the boy, to make up in some token the sorrow of Mrs. N's untimely
departure.
He eased himself into the upholstered chair, vaguely pleased that his son
showed such imagination. Another child would have demanded something
commonplace, like a mongrel or a Shetland pony. But a pegasus now-
"Do you mean the winged horse, son?" Newton inquired, a thin needle of doubt
poking into his complacency.
"That's right, Daddy," Junior said brightly. "But it will have to be a very
small one, because I want a pegasus that can really fly. A full grown animal's
wings are non-functional because the proportionate wing span is insufficient
to get it off the ground."
"I understand, son," Newton said quickly. "A small one." People had laughed
when he had insisted that Junior's nurse have a graduate degree in general
science. Fortunately he had been able to obtain one inexpensively by hiring
her away from the school board. At this moment he regretted that it was her
day off; Junior could be very single-minded.
"Look, son," he temporized. "I'm not sure I know where to buy a horse like
that. And you'll have to know how to feed it and care for it, otherwise it
would get sick and die. You wouldn't want that to happen, would you?"
The boy pondered. "You're right, Daddy," he said at last. "We would be well
advised to look it up."
"Look it up?"
"In the encyclopedia, Daddy. Haven't you always told me that it was an
authoritative factual reference?"
The light dawned. Junior believed in the encyclopedia. "My very words, Son.
Let's look it up and see what it says about... let's see... here's _Opinion to
Possibility_... should be in this volume. Yes." He found the place and read
aloud: " 'Pegasus-Horse with wings which sprang from the blood of the Gorgon
Medusa after Perseus cut off her head.' "
Junior's little mouth dropped open. "That has got to be figurative," he
pronounced. "Horses are not created from-"
" '...a creature of Greek mythology,' " Newton finished victoriously.
Junior digested that. "You mean, it doesn't exist," he said dispiritedly. Then
he brightened. "Daddy, if I ask for something that does exist, then can I have
it for a pet?"
"Certainly, Son. We'll just look it up here, and if the book says it's real,
we'll go out and get one. I think that's a fair bargain."
"A unicorn," Junior said.
Newton restrained a smile. He reached for the volume marked _Trust to Wary_
and flipped the pages. " 'Unicorn-A mythological creature resembling a horse-'
" he began.
Junior looked at him suspiciously. "Next year I'm going to school and learn to
read for myself," he muttered. "You are alleging that there is no such
animal?"
"That's what the book says, Son-honest."
The boy looked dubious, but decided not to make an issue of it. "All right-
let's try a zebra." He watched while Newton pulled out _Watchful to Indices_.
"It's only fair to warn you, Daddy," he said ominously, "that there is a
picture of one on the last page of my alphabet book."
"I'll read you just exactly what it says, Son," Newton said defensively. "Here
it is: 'Zebra-A striped horselike animal reputed to have lived in Africa.
Common in European and American legend, although entirely mythical-' "
"Now you're making that up," Junior accused angrily. "I've got a picture."
"But Son-I thought it was real myself. I've never seen a zebra, but I thought-
look. You have a picture of a ghost too, don't you? But you know that's not
real."
There was a hard set to Junior's jaw. "The examples are not analogous. Spirits
are preternatural-"
"Why don't we try another animal?" Newton cut in. "We can come back to the
zebra later."
"Mule," Junior said sullenly.
Newton reddened, then realized that the boy was not being personal. He
withdrew the volume covering _Morphine to Opiate_ silently. He was somewhat
shaken up by the turn events had taken. Imagine spending all his life
believing in an animal that didn't exist. Yet of course it was stupid to swear
by a horse with prison stripes....
" 'Mule,' " he read. " 'The offspring of the mare and the male ass. A very
large, strong hybrid, sure footed with remarkable sagacity. A creature of
folklore, although, like the unicorn and zebra, widely accepted by the
credulous....' "
His son looked at him. "Horse," he said.
Newton somewhat warily opened _Hoax to Imaginary_. He was glad he wasn't
credulous himself. "Right you are, Son. 'Horse-A fabled hoofed creature
prevalent in mythology. A very fleet four-footed animal complete with flowing
mane, hairy tail and benevolent disposition. Metallic shoes supposedly worn by
the animal are valued as good luck charms, in much the same manner as the
unicorn's horn-' "
Junior clouded up dangerously. "Now wait a minute, Son," Newton spluttered. "I
know that's wrong. I've seen horses myself. Why, they use them in TV westerns-
"
"The reasoning is specious," Junior muttered but his heart wasn't in it.
"Look, Son-I'll prove it. I'll call the race track. I used to place-I mean, I
used to go there to see the horses. Maybe they'll let us visit the stables."
Newton dialed with a quivering finger; spoke into the phone. A brief
frustrated interchange later he slammed the receiver down again. "They race
dogs now," he said.
He fumbled through the yellow pages, refusing to let himself think. The book
skipped rebelliously from _Homes_ to _Hospital_. He rattled the bar for the
operator to demand the number of the nearest horse farm, then angrily dialed
"O"; after some confusion he ended up talking to "Horsepower, Inc.," a tractor
dealer.
Junior surveyed the proceedings with profound disgust. "Methinks the queen
protests too much," he quoted sweetly.
In desperation, Newton called a neighbor. "Listen, Sam-do you know anybody
around here who owns a horse? I promised my boy I'd show him one today...."
Sam's laughter echoed back over the wire. "You're a card, Brad. Horses, yet.
Do you teach him to believe in fairies too?"
Newton reluctantly accepted defeat. "I guess I was wrong about the horse,
Son," he said awkwardly. "I could have sworn-but never mind. Just proves a man
is never too old to make a mistake. Why don't you pick something else for your
pet? Tell you-whatever you choose, I'll give you a matched pair."
Junior cheered up somewhat. He was quick to recognize a net gain. "How about a
bird?"
Newton smiled in heartfelt relief. "That would be fine, Son, just fine. What
kind did you have in mind?"
"Well," Junior said thoughtfully. "I think I'd like a big bird. A real big
bird, like a roc, or maybe a harpy-"
Newton reached for _Possible to Rue_.
THE TOASTER
Buoyed by my first sale, I kept writing. I submitted a long science fiction
poem, "Strange is the Measure," to four markets and retired it. Then I wrote
"The Toaster" and tried it on the leading SF magazine, _Analog_. That
magazine, in its prior guise as _Astounding_, had been the light of my life in
the late 1940's when I discovered the genre; how nice it would be to have one
of my own stories represented on its hallowed pages! Alas, three and a half
months later my story came back, rejected. I have always wondered how a
magazine that publishes every month can take several months to consider a
story; surely the editor should run out of stories at that rate! (The answer,
of course, is the slush pile: that towering stack of unsolicited manuscripts
from hopeful writers like me that the editor postpones reading as long as
humanly possible. Editors don't take three months to look at my fiction
_today_.) I tried it on _Galaxy_, and then on _Fantastic_, and finally on
_Cosmopolitan_. All bounces, so I retired it, as I had run out of markets and
postage adds up. Hopeful writers have to pay the postage both ways, you know,
if they want to get their stories back. This, then, is a failed story; it has
never before appeared in print. Is it worse than "Possible to Rue"? Only about
one in four of my stories ever sold, which is one reason I had to graduate to
novels. It was economics, not natural inclination, that forced the move-but
once I had done it, I discovered that I liked being a novelist better than
being a storyist. Some of my fans today don't realize that I ever did write
stories.
* * *
The announcer bonged respectfully. "Speak your piece," the cheerful white-
haired woman said briskly.
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