It came out in the investigation that the history of Sod Martin’s personal control of the Martin Sod farm after it was passed down to him, needed—phew—to be exposed, because, it was claimed by an in-law of the recently deceased Theodore T. Gainy, that the level of care with which Sod would run the business was influenced by Gainy, and, as a matter of fact, were it not for Ted Gainy, Sod may have sold the whole thing off after he inherited it because, he felt—it was not the business for him. As a matter of fact, it’s always been no secret that the young Sod was also very embarrassed by his unusual first name, which his parents were forced to give him by his grandfather, founder of the business. When Sod looked over the state of the farm upon taking over, with his mental state re his name as it was—to him, the Sod business seemed no good. It was primitive, and the work required to keep it going was to his young face overwhelming, so; he nearly sold off the whole thing—to be followed by swiftly changing his silly first name—to some pasty land rover, in favor of faking a hot’d career in creative scenerioting, which he’d got half-hipnoteized into thinking he loved it, by the school gang he was thriving o’er the dole of it from, several of the young shapliesnesses whomsides involved there, b-b-b-ut; ‘bout this time—is when he met Ted Gainy.  

Gainy’d closely flowed after the next future of the Martin Sod farm as he’d been previously and independently enthralled by a story he’d ‘ntered of a family in the pasifistic Nord-West, that ran an acres over more acres of a stupidly huge sod farm. The amount of money they claimed to rake daily yearly or monthly, well, yes; of course he knew the difference if you get a dollar a day versus dollar a year and/or the backfigured segmentations of a dollar a’ every segment of time’d twinned-intween—hoot—he got to Sod and told him the giant money that ‘gether they could grow up into and to Sod, well, wow ‘ow wo’—wow! The future amounts seemed to Sod nearly cosmetic in their earsplitting super-hugealities, so—he split the band widths waves metrically measure segments of that also, so—-o, and, with Gainy on the money side, he embraced the business, but. The whole thing as he saw at first was top-primitive shackelie, like but for the actual grass of the sod, which, is still pretty much the same God’s grass whether greened on a bumbleshacked ramblydowned stinker of a farm, or, a Taj Princess’ Mahalian looking peter’s God of a holy beautiful priceless—which word got defined to Sod in the sideroom off a Roman Catholicked holily cleansed daily meditation and once in a while a prayer space—the grass’ the same all same the all the same yes the the grass’ all the same. 

Hiccup! 

So! As Ted Gainy all told him, they’d chomp indie spike, up-pup! Geggsactley. Bu’ buh butt he cayme dunder t’ eart’ aall bumpy just knowing how much work thought and sweat it would take to perform an entire u’spruce spanning all acres of buildings land machinery rock-steadies and other required—goouse. But, Gainy said, Yup. Said—yup, yeh. 

In unison they said, Yup! 

They palled immediately how and why’s ‘not portent for this particular narrative to be believable sustained, but. Ted Gainy ‘stinctively snatched up the business side ‘n they got to work all teamie, first; Gainy preached first, Image is important, Sod. They will not buy Sod from a bedraggled starvational skinny-butt soul standing in a drizzle at the curb holding up a ripped off box top saying SOD FOR SALE in sloppy invisibly thin blunt number three pencil yo bonk ya gashta-be compupadded neat nice combed deodorized and properly medicined-up man ditch those cornstalks vintage transparently seated trousers be a firelippe’d roostercock of a sales generating buzz-man, trash those handydarned stockings, and, take it from me. I mean, gosti bang-slam-clash, uh; Sod, my man, you’re now running a farm with billions of plants planted; how, man; lessee time quick—ten blades of grass parrots per square centimeter signed contracts binding by law very binding one hundred thousand blades of grass per square meter many over centipede-meter funny funny one hundred trillion blades of grass, plus; total surface area of planet earth be yon quite Godlike number of 5.1 * 10^8 km2, Godlike qua Father qua qua Son qua qua qua Holy Ghost to some, Spirit to others qua qua depending on this and depending on that, see, My Son, this topic qua by no means be qu’ simply done deah’. Okay? 

Yes. 

Okay; then the firm name’s s’sential be snap crack und poppe—so what other lawnery oriented businesses s’name slam them trucksides big signs et loud-ads yelling as in this one case I dug, hear it; CORE AERATION FLIGHTPATH DEFINITION CERTIFIED CROPDUST NAVIGATION SPECIALISTS AND MOWERMEN. Then, t’nother actusentually hen woking a grassy smell of the custmummerian mind, with COMPLETE LAME CARE BROTHERS (LAME, LAWN—NO DIFFERENCE. WE DO IT ALL) n’ SUPER LAWNSEED ROTO-THROW HOMEOWNERS COMMUNE that kind makes ‘em leap Sod, trust ‘n fluncken ou’ of one lawnsmell cloud invotentation entering another passing fat strap of a BONNIE CHAINWOOD TREETOP SAWMEN the edge of the lot there no more saying GURDJIEFF AND SONS WAY-POTENT FERTILIZER DUMP AND THROW CORPORATION and RAISING THE CANE GARDEN and LARGE LOUD GARDEN TRACTORS and CHURN POWERSEEDERS and RAZE THAT SHED IMMEDIATELY MASS YARD CLEANUP and FENCE FIDO IN TODAY BECAUSE IT’S THE LAW LLC and CHEAP CRITTERS and BUNGEE THE PAL and WHOPPINGPUP RESCUE AND MANAGEMENT and READY MIX HEAVY SUBSTANCES and ELECTROPOWER WILDLIFE REGENERATORS PA and DOCTORS’ SLICE AND MASH WALK IN the walk winding out through the flat green lit crowdmob o’ seeming hayseedlike farmermen bump-knocked the door behind again, letting another large strawhatted coveralled farmer kind of guy but twice his size painfully flowing himself around the tiny gap of space remaining for movement in the booth saying this samething exactly; one packed mass of hayseed hatstraw crushed together in a mass of cheap landscaper-standard issue shirt cloth, et cetera, et cetera, studded here and there with veered-off nosetips bit back ear lobes pressed tight glaring eyes and just plain fleshspace giving quite painfully the last possible sentence able to be said from the highest boss reached through all iterations of the event, as yes yes yes dig that dog juice mama and I’ll throw you another hayseed hatstraw landscaper-standard issue shirt cloth since, and because but not to me mistcoustrutted that even the Earth is eternally falling sunward it’s a tightrope existing thank God f’ t’ Global Lawncare and Landscaping business I bet you didn’t know that eh—owner or past fired by any arm of the landscaping business, similar in stench to the Sod job we got,, think of it! Think of it, you landscaping magnate, you—the lot is not safe not HAMMERSTEIN PIANO WOOD RECYCLERS AND MULCHERS reading the trailersides passing you now BLOWER-RIPSOUNDING MOST HOLY ANNOYANCES CROP-ROARATION LLC my God get a name on you like that the work will pile in and smother us—we got to dodge quick, but, it will not overwrite your recall that when we BROUER’S BAND-AID COMPANY heard you hating this passage here, SUPERSTICKY FLYSHIT face, Yes no face, Sod, my man, her face both, no KILLING FIELDS TREE SURGEONS and MAKE IT LOUDER ALL-DEBRIS TWO-CYCLE LONGBLOWERS CLEAN KILL PEST-CIDER we love you CHAINSAW MASTERS faces and BLACKTOP DRIVEWAY CRAP-FILLER so SPIN THE BLADES OF YON MOWERHUBS; REPAIRMENT AND REPLACETION do I SCREAM PAST THE BACK FORTY ESCAPE SYSTEMS LLC SUPERMAN’S DEAD LONG LIVE SUPERMAN face no faces we faces GIRLBONNET FAIRYCRAFTERS no love faces their you faces no we do faces faces no faces back out NON-EVIL MULCHMASTERS NOT YOUR FATHER’S TOOTSMYNOODLE SYSTEMS RENTALS TUCK AND STOW ESQUIRE break BASTARD POLICEPERSON RENTALS NOT MY LEAK SORRYAGAIN SHINGLES AND SNAPPERS CORPORATION go Sod their DOWNPOURING GUTTERSLOPES AND BUCKETDRIPPING CHAIN SOLUTIONS faces contract CRUMBLEPUPPIES SERVICE STARS swinging THE TANGLEFOOT MAN-TRIBE light swinging CROSS THIS LINE I DARE YOU STICKYSTRIPPING CORPOR-NATION dark light dark now Chevrolet unlock’d by my own final FordTruck’s blast-bash, bosh, twenty nine point two percent of the planet is land. That means makes regard such a business in this may be profitable ‘cause; of this land about twenty percent is grass. This means the surface area of all grass areas combined is 5.1 * 10^8 km2 * 29.2% *20% = twenty-nine million km2. This amounts to. Blades = 10^11 blades of grass / km2 = 3*10^18 blades of grass. This is roughly four hundred eighteen million. Blades of grass per person. How to shack that how to shack that? Alive. So, what you think Sod? 

I—I don’t know. I mean— 

Come on, come on—what the heckle y’ jeck’ think Sod? We all know what we’re thinking. ‘cause we never leave our heads. Why did you lie so? 

Okay. The name should not change. MARTIN SOD FARM. There you go. Ping that bellrim, ah. MARTIN SOD FARM, ah. Sweet. Simple. And, it’s what everybody already knows. We got a banckle o’ Parkies in the fileboots ‘lready use us. Plus, if we change, it’ll cost a few hundred repainted ad-signs, and every file in our cabinets will require a time-consuming and utterly laborioius, Caligariational reboot. But, hey.  

But what? 

I am fired up, Sod said. Fired up, s-so—let’s go, Farouk. 

What’s that mean? 

Some king. Name of Farouk. Popped in. From back my head where school’s slow dissolving. F’om sum other place ya; got to learn the past of even though it will never touch you. 

Why? 

Why? 

Why? 

Okay? 

Okay, Sod.  

Good. 

By Jim Meirose

It wasn’t supposed to start this way, but since you insisted, here are your team’s assigned purposes. Nyah, nyah; get, from the kitchen, a raritangle of chopped bosnias served on a belch of kleenex on a clean plate toward each paying customer—who will be labeled as such—because, Das Minotour, risen in off the sea, told each quite clearly; here it is, citizens; Pacha’ pounded on, pounding, pounding out with, but ended up nonetheless shouting, like always, Everybody! All of you! Come here, get this drip; anyphase, after my establishblink up Back City, they said what d’we do for foodie and drankdowns, but—they are stupid. With rare exception—always very stupid. And, even though the big senior class mathematically specialized finals are over, but, still, always; yes, always. No egg’sathrecisation! Plus, my God, ‘s being me ‘ly myself, of course, as usual, it’s spilled out all over here. At exactly the next six p.m., like all of you do once a day. All of you, ‘cause of you. 

Spill it all out over here once a day!  

Jesus Christ! Swear to God! As D’ Spanish Tyrant’s big Rant’n Rave! Why must it take this to teach you? Why? Why? So? What the ‘uck?  

But. 

Even so, we’re confident the more robust among you, your quietly solid core of noncomplainants, will crisply start over, as, new fresh; so; so-o, this; so-o-o he, new fresh; as’d this; and as’d ‘it off-gain; so-o-o, and this restart’s well-advised at this juncture, partly because two time signatures are normally used in this kind of attempt, yas yas, so-o, to provide a satisfying end for each and every listener with no sexteptions.  

Hip!  

Fat hooey.  

You should not find this necessity surprising, since we all swore to God, then, that ess, God hun-self had made it so-so, guvvernmendt men thrust f’um his bush, stating, We know your plight, we are here to help, like all’s of those always react, of course. That’s their reason—though it seems most laborious, twisty and non-intuitiviteed. And, most of you already may know what we said, what they said, back then, that, Your Back City is speckulumly unicornique, and muss’ be hairy-served, often as daily r’ hourly or more, so—you need to know, eh, new fresh; got to know, eck eh, new fresh; will be told, rip, ‘cause that’s my mission. This swamp’s a devil; does not want you here; strains to—no, no, look into the black greenie face of the solidified stinking rotmass o’ Back City swamp and we won’t need to tell you, you’ll see for yourself, that it’s coming. It and all its big stink of a past implies, entails, or—quite simply, means. For God’s sake, insurer. You’ve a brain, you will see; day and night, it strives to take you. New fresh. It’s coming. Sure as knot soup. New fresh. Take you. Take you. What hard words these; it comes to take you. 

That simple. Simple as; 

‘m new lin-n’geries, to b-bail!  

Yope. 

As this’s-ll perfectly circular and intentavittebelle right now, contact local law enforcement immediately local law immediate-hic local enforcement. Local. Hic. Of the law. 

Yes! I said! Enforcement! With an e! Because, if Das Minotour risen in off the sea comes up to save, but can’t never, if that’s ‘t, all’s done for. You, too. Run fast now. 

What?    

Run fast. Right now—buh huh, wuss; huh. New fresh. Uh! B-b’, s’ ‘ot soo f’st; so what, ess, ‘s, so. Move over there just a tiny ‘fore you go, though, would you? I need to reach those things over there. Sure. But, I may not go. I really do feel good, but—someplace down deeper, I’m not glad I do. You know?  

Not really. 

You know? You know? You— 

Han’ d’ d’ palmup! 

Okay, Willy. Stop. Calm down. Der booster’s widdyu, okay? Now, anyway; so since you’re too stubborn to take the easy way out, gi’in that, then so, know that much like you, struggling Pachasandrim pushed on relentlessly with that very same shriek-type, waving down all the while; ‘cause it sank into her there’s a sea on the tipside, and a swamp on the glandside. If they press together, she might just canc-l-null downdyflop. Abracadabra! And so, then imagine, if their deeply elemental untiring strive to engulf Back City crashed together right ‘top your great big central city hall, and whirlwring yo’ round themselves big and tight, you’ll all engulf each other, and all you two ‘s well, transforming most instantly into multiple deep flows of peagreen calm slush! 

Oh—like slap? 

Yep! Like slap! And then, like probably, this Big One Production operation will, then, ‘ig its vacuum t’ rush in takin’ your surviving crowd, if any, down a murmur or two; here or there. Or partial, if s’. But—hope’s her-e, and hey. Read that off that tallyscroll up there. It says;  

Current denizens. Do it now. S’create non-account. 

S’create non-account. S’create it now. All current denizens. 

All currently registered denizens use “TFFKJXC376BQM24K37M89KMWM” to s’create your non-account now, or, yes be denied, yes, be denied, yes be-ee-e-e-e, denie—d-d-d-d— 

New fresh. 

What? Phooey! 

Schratcha-count newly cr-reated! Gosh oh gee. So jot down these details. Oop. Where’s my sharpened das yellowish pinckle? An m’ blankiedink’d-papro? There—one of those—of those nonessential kinds. That whole stack can be wasted without a worry. Write that down. That code’ll always get you in, but, my God, again. It’s spilled out all over here, again; what the ‘uc’? Oh, hokay. Blue bumble, by gosh, I always— 

Calm down. Sit that slap-panel. 

What? There? Why? 

Because. Do not always run off with yourself—stop! Bad habit. Here, do not worry. By use of your own fully exact unique key, regardless of your tote or your styles, you’ll always be let back in. 

Sure? 

Yas, see. See? Do you see? 

Of maybe, but. 

Oh, come on; what I mean, Martin. Get it up. Think a little. 

But; why? They said Das Minotour’s risen in off the sea. 

It’s—nah, nah. But hey. My God it spilled out all over here; what the ‘u’? That happens every single time. Don’t you care? Yes, of course; that happening every single time’s why we the guvernoir-mente hass com to bail from you. New fresh. ‘cause, Das terrible Minotour’s risen in off the sea. Eighteen-sixteen for the—wait, oh mosh, we need to survive, eh, but we just hit the bricks, eh, ahhhhhhh, ahhhhhhhhhh! Das terrible! Oh, Minotour’s mosh risen in we just off the t’ hit the sea bricks, ahhhhhhh. Too weak! Too weak! Why does this happen again and again? 

Who’s to blame? 

Oof! 

Y’ know. But—poor Martin. Good God, he ought of got it. Knew better. Y’ know? 

Yes. But not all can always be saved. 

‘n the truth. New fresh. Tube. Poor Martin indeed. But he’s only the first. When the killer which cuts its own arms with its knife makes long wet red lines down its forearms, it’s time then to immediately call the police. But, yet; it’s funny how I feel that’d also be—wrong. 

Overkill? That, you mean? 

Yep. The first. 

Nah. Nonsense. No one’s ever that simple; only Begobah. 

New fresh. New fresh. 

By Laurence Raphael Brothers 

For a long time, I used to go to bed early…. 

I shut the book. The opening of Swann’s Way was so familiar that I could summon an image of the first page from memory. There was hardly any point to reading the printed words. 

“Hey,” said the woman. “I was in the middle of that.” 

She was reading over my shoulder in bed. I realized this was a dream, one of the sort that Proust wrote about on the first page of his great work. Marcel (not Proust!) describes how he used to summon imaginary women into his dreams as a sickly youth. 

Having realized I was dreaming, I took stock of my situation. The linen undersheet was cool and smooth, and the white quilted comforter which covered the two of us was even more pleasant. I could feel her breath in my ear. I didn’t know who the woman was. I didn’t want to turn to face her. I was afraid of what I might see. 

“Hey!” She poked me in the side, not hard, though. “The book,” she said. “Open the book.” 

“What?” This was more initiative than I was used to from people in dreams. 

“I was in the middle,” she said. “Open it back up and let me read it.” 

The book’s gilt-edged pages gleamed in the dim candlelight. It was heavy for its size, with maroon leather covers chased in gold. There was no title or other printing on the cover or spine, but I knew it was mine and that I’d had it for a long time. 

I felt a little uneasy about the situation, so I temporized. “Why do you want to read it? There’s no way we’re getting through even a single volume of Proust in one night.” 

“But we were reading together,” she said. “Please.” She moved her hand to my shoulder. It felt nice, but I hesitated anyway. 

Maybe she sensed my reluctance because she sighed. “It’s not really Proust. But it’s got all of Proust in it that you remember, and all of every other book you remember too. And more besides.” 

“And you want me to give it to you.” 

“No!” she cried. “You mustn’t do that!” 

“What? First you say you want it, then you don’t.” 

“I want to read it with you. You could guide me through it.” 

“Please,” I said. “Give me a hint, at least. I don’t understand at all.” Talking over my shoulder at her was annoying, but I had the feeling I shouldn’t turn toward her. It was a very strong feeling. 

“Look,” she said, “if you have an infinite thing and you give it to me, you won’t have infinity yourself anymore. You wouldn’t like that. It would be bad for you.” 

“That’s kind of you, I guess, but I still don’t know why you want to read it.” 

“All I know is I’ve lost something. And I think maybe you can help me find it again.” 

“Lost something? Like a memory? That’s the only thing you can find in a book.” 

She hugged me then and laughed in delight. 

“Yes! Now I remember. I don’t have a book of my own. I lost it, somehow.” 

“I get it,” I said. “Proust is all about recalling lost memories. The madeleine. His mother’s kiss goodnight. Gilberte; Mademoiselle Swann. And if you read the book–” 

“If I read your book. Everyone has a book that contains all the things they know, all the things they care about. Well, almost everyone. I guess I lost mine. But I bet your book has lots about memory and stuff like that in it. Because you love Proust so much. And if I read it–” 

“You can find your own book again?” 

“I hope so.” 

“Okay,” I said. “Let’s read it together.” 

She scooched up to better look over my shoulder, and I moved the book to where she could read it more easily. And then I felt it happening. The dream was coming to an end. Things were already turning gray and fuzzy. Soon I’d lose her and she’d lose me and the book too. 

I turned to face her and I had no problem doing that, but my vision had deteriorated to the point I could barely make her out; just a vague silhouette. And yet I thought I knew her. I thought I remembered her from a time long gone. From when I was young, perhaps. I held the book out to her. 

“Quick! Take it!” 

“But–” 

“I know! Just do it! This could be your only chance!” 

She reached out and I let her take the book…. Her fingers brushed against mine, and we fell away from one another into darkness. 

I awoke in my own real bed, alone, with no woman, and no– what? I couldn’t remember. I managed to get to my feet despite the gaping hole in my head where things I’d treasured had once resided. As I rose the dream faded and I could barely recall it at all. Something to do with Proust…. I fumbled for my copy of Swann’s Way there on the nightstand. It seemed I’d never read the final page before. Tears ran down my face and I didn’t know why. I blinked them away and the last line came clear in my vision. 

…remembrance of a particular form is but regret for a particular moment; and houses, roads, avenues are as fugitive, alas, as the years.