13 Variations on CORONAVIRUS: A Novel

1. An infuriating first-person account penned by COVID-19, in the vein of "If I Did It." 2. A counter-narrative perspective from multiple anonymous jealous alternate coronaviruses. 3. Political musings by an anonymous 21st-century commander in chief that if accurately-sourced prove said chief to be far more intelligent and prone to reflection than it would appear. Pandemics are a mere departure point. The novel explores humanity's darkest hours and finds levity and hope in the margins. The voice? A guy you would definitely want to have a beer with. But you don't drink beer, do you Gladys? Because last time you fucking drank beer, you ended up under a pile of cops. 4. In 2035, a government agent must prevent COVID-37 from being unleashed on an unsuspecting humanity by a punchy 4-year old who would very much prefer to escape quarantine and her family. 5. Wordless; violent Crayola scribblings by the same toddler. "I finished, dada!" Humanity: finished. 6. Novel opens under a pile of cops, either pre-social distancing rules or with same expressly loosened just this once for effect. Each chapter is the touching perspective of the next cop off the pile; their inspiration to serve, their highs and lows, the things that motivate and terrify them, sometimes at the same time. The ways they've coped, the bonds they've forged on both sides of the law and in the surprisingly foggy gray between. In the silent spacing of the final chapter, we are left to understand that either no one was at the bottom of the pile of cops, or the person in said position has passed out cold or become deceased, or they have been moved by the experience to take a vow of silence. 7. It is 2902. Zorfu, an alien detective, explores the remains of a centuries-gone civilization, lost to multiple overlapping pandemics and a fractured global ecosystem. Theorizing that variations on Snickers wrappers are less a marketing ploy than a coded message from a dying culture, Zorfu struggles in vain to separate intuition from empiricism. In a poignant final scene, Zorfu, himself deathly allergic to chocolate, reckons with his final clue by eating a small refrigerated surviving fragment of peanut butter Snickers. 8. It is 3502. Zorfu's granddaughter Klatu unearths his diary, but is quickly distracted by another more engaging project: the destruction of the sun and its surrounding planets and with it, an end to human history. 9. It is 3503. Zorfu's granddaughter contemplates chocolate and its discontents in the area formerly known as the Solar System. Criticized bitterly as a plot-free attempt to cash in quick on the novel set in 3502, it never saw a second edition. 10. It is spring 2020. An angry four-year old, a teething puppy, a disappointed spouse, and a preteen tangle with a disoriented middle-aged man. They share an apartment that shrinks by 5 square feet each day. Each chapter represents 24 hours, at the end of each the man will say: "Guys, um..." as if to reign in order. Reader, order does not reign. 11. It is 3504. A carnivorous planet-eating superblob challenges Zorfu's own world. Time-travel scenarios in the expensive computer reveal that a punchy 21st-century four-year old is her sole potential savior, but only under the condition that Zorfu will order her every Barbie toy ever created via Amazon Prime. The two trade largely unintelligible barbs and an obscenely-expensive number of Barbies before ultimately forming a snappy friendship and a wicked zero-gravity kung fu tandem and defeating the blob. In a triumphant closing scene, Malibu Ken arrives as hope fades to provide the killing blow. 12. Subtitle: A Pile of Cops. Each page of this coffee table edition features a high-resolution photograph of a pile of cops from a different unit in a different town. Piles range from 2 to 88, with personalities and appearances as diverse as the structural methods used to build each. With an introduction by Le Corbusier. 13. Summary and quality unknown. Only one review copy exists, and it has been shared person-to-person once per hour over the last 3 weeks. Handle with care.

a repetitious paean to the new Snickers

My recent journey in song: The song totters patchily to a modest momentum. Establishes movement for a fleeting middling few and the band disappears. Four measures of nothing. Four more: Nothing (x4). The drums return four bars on their own and things begin to build back a smidge, but over too long, over like 64 or 128 bars. The bassist sucks and steps all over the drums. The keyboardist is in his head. At bar 71 all goes quiet again. The track continues for days in absolute silence. To prevent distractions, the song is constructed so that any ancillary noise of substance in the listener's room will through phase cancellation be rendered fully silent. All but the most patient listeners break off and leave the room before lack of water or food or sleep deprivation do them in. That skeleton with the headphones is my goddamned best friend. -- My recent journey in epistolary form: To whom it may concern, I am wr -- My recent journey in painting form: Not an empty or abruptly-severed canvas: A canvas depicting a rotund man eating a bunch of some new kind of Snickers. He is so prodigious in his consumption of same that it forms a kind of impeccable camouflage. To the casual observer it is simply a repetitious paean to the new Snickers. To those wise to the ways of this writer, it is a man consciously drowning himself in the new Snickers. -- My not dying of COVID-19 gratitude list, take one: Nothing. -- My recent journey in movie form: John Wick 8 in which he has a total change of heart and swears that he will never hurt another human being. This time he means it. Knowing that he will be tempted by some soon moment to return to form, he exiles himself fully to Antarctica. He builds snowmen spanning a four mile radius, in a variety of peace-loving and joyous postures. As the film nears its conclusion, a penguin accidentally knocks one of the snowmen over. All is nearly lost, but self control wins the day. Roll credits over John Wick and the same penguin sharing Smores in the fading Antarctic light. -- Gratitude list, take two: The new Snickers. And the people I call home. And not dying.