Jayson Iwen

Each issue of KNOCK, we feature one or two new books that made a mark on us as we put the issue together. Books that are either just released or set for release within the next few months. Jayson Iwen’s new book, A Momentary Jokebook, will be released in April, 2008.

“I’ve never read anything quite like A Momentary Jokebook. It is wonderfully intelligent, terribly funny, thought provoking, often wise and always compelling. Think Milan Kundera meets South Park. What unifies this wide ranging work is Jayson Iwen’s fresh approach to form and language, and his ability to surprise us and turn us on our heads.” —Tom Barbash, contest judge & author of The Last Good Chance.

“The words of Iwen’s novella have angry sex with one another, climaxing in transcendent moments of laughter and love. His themes are our most fetishistic desires—to be both nurtured and do violence, to humiliate and be humiliated, to pervert history while singing our innocence. Such is the pathos of our uncertain age, and here is a marvelously crafted tragic-comic record of it.” —Christopher Grimes, author of Public Works.

EXCERPT 1

Three witches stand around a cauldron in a fog-shrouded vale.

Do you see them in the cauldron’s hideous broth, says Witch Two.

No, says Three, I told you already, I don’t believe in this witchcraft bullshit, or any other superstitious religious mumbo jumbo.

I see them, says One. Our little spy has finally made contact and cleverly worked her way into their confidence, through one’s inflamed passion. She now leads them to the execution of our desires.

My sources verified that yesterday, says Three.

Good. Good, says Two. And they think they’re making their own decisions?

Their desires make their decisions for them, says One.

And we only think we control them because we understand their desires, says Three.

So is it possible that we are controlled by their desires, says Two.

I thought I was playing the cynic here.

Wait, says One, I see the answer in the cauldron. Yes, it is possible that we are controlled by their desires.

But we manipulate their desires, says Three.

You mean our desires manipulate their desires, says Two.

I suppose.

Then who are we that posses these desires?

The answer, says One, it comes to me. Ahh yes, only those who understand the limits of their freedom know that they are free. Those who are free of all responsibilities are no longer a part of the world. They are living dead.

That didn’t quite make sense, says Two.

I think she means that freedom is defined by restraints, says Three. Without any restraints freedom loses all definition. For example, if you break your chains they are no longer chains. They become memories or symbols of chains. But if you forget about them completely they will manifest themselves as physical realities again.

No, says One, that’s not exactly what I meant, though it sounds nice. I meant that those three horny soldiers only think they’re free because they’re horny.

Now you lost me, says Three.

Yes, says Two, and we sent them some tail.

But she’s not sleeping with any of them is she, says Three. I hope not. Did you say tail?

According to the cauldron she isn’t. And this is exactly why they think they’re free, because they’re not doing what they feel they’re expected to do.

Oh, I see, says Two, so we’re free because we’re making them do what we desire.

Because then we’re not doing it, says Three.

The cauldron says yes.

Why don’t you answer us yourself for once, says Three.

Me, asks Two.

No. Not you, says Three. She points at One. You! Oh, look, the cauldron wants to know why you’re always running the show.

Listen, I don’t need to be here, says One. I can stop being a witch whenever I want. I can turn my back on our fog-shrouded haunts whenever I want. There, how was that for an answer?

It hurt my feelings, says Two.

Yeah, says Three, you didn’t need to go that far.




EXCERPT 4

Out of the changing maples emerges the girl, wet and trembling as a newborn, a motley of edelweiss, saxifrage, yellow poppy, and transylvanian columbine petals clinging to her. She advances upon the iron gates of the monastery.

Females aren’t allowed within the sacred enclosure, a skinny sweaty monk says to her through the bars.

I’m here for Rana, she says. If you don’t want me coming inside, send him out.

Neither may a woman’s words enter the enclosure.

You seem to be hearing me just fine. Tell him Zoia’s here.

The monk squints at her and says, I can’t hear you.

Have it your way, she says, and throws the gates open, knocking the monk on his skinny sweaty ass. She enters.

How’d you do that, the monk says.

It wasn’t locked, you idiot. Now, she raises her voice and sets the very air ringing, where is Rana!

A crowd of monks gathers around her. Be gone female, they hiss, go hence amongst the bitches and heifers and fuck thyself! Be gone from this hallowed earth! Less thy very shadow defile it!

Grow up, she says.

Rana emerges from the temple, says, what the fuck’s going on, and descends the steps in the direction of the commotion. Nicu stays at the top of the steps and watches, arms folded into the sleeves of his robe.

The monks part, allowing Rana to stand before the young woman. Well well well, says Rana, look who we have here. Couldn’t wait for me, could you. You know what we do to women around here, don’t you?

Same thing you do to them everywhere?

That’s right. And with that he unties the sash of his robe and throws it wide, exposing an enormous, erect phallus.

The girl gives it a swift kick, jamming it into his abdominal cavity, leaving nothing but a tiny nub protruding like the head of a newly hatched chick from a nest of louse-infested hair. Rana sinks to his knees and bows his head for a minute. A murmur passes through the crowd. He carefully re-covers his nakedness and ties the sash. He then stands and smiles, revealing vampiric canines. If you want it that way, he says.

He encircles the girl with his arms and thrusts his fangs at her neck.

She turns into a pine tree, against which he smashes his face.

You fuffing bish, he howls, staggering backwards. He stands for another minute, thinking and wiping pink foam from his lips. Then he turns into a giant prehistoric beaver with incisors the size of fists. Through the beaver’s vocal chords bubbles a thick, now you fucked. And he falls onto the tree again.

The air is filled with a tinkling, creaking sound, like a time-lapse recording of a lake freezing, and the beaver looses a pitiful moan and falls onto its back. It lies there, spread eagle, its naked prehistoric belly exposed. A monk steps forward and knocks on the tree. It’s petrified wood, he says. Then he lifts from the ground a pair of giant incisors. The crowd goes, ahhhh. They turn their gaze back to the beaver, which is now a man again, face bloodied and mumbling. He rolls over onto his hands and knees and screams.

The scream turns to a roar and a brontosaurus stands over them now, a leg in each corner of the courtyard, tail brushing the cornice of the temple. When its lungs are empty the beast raises its right foreleg and brings it down on the pine tree with such might that the buildings rattle on their foundations and at least one more monk is knocked on his ass.

Then there’s silence. Silence and no sign of a tree under the creature’s foot. Only the stock still silence of the beast, whose eyes are wider than it was ever possible for a dinosaur’s eyes to be. It shudders the full length of its frame and empties its lungs in a gust so powerful it empties the apple tree of its bounty, and the beast tumbles over, flattening the garden and a thirty foot stretch of the monastery’s outer wall. Only then do they see that its right foreleg has mushroomed outward at the foot, where it exploded over the giant diamond which now sits serenely in a three-foot crater in the courtyard cobblestones.

Rana limps out of the garden. I’ve got you now, he mumbles. And disappears.

The congregation gasps in unison.

Just then the monastery’s financial manager runs from his cell screaming, waiving a copy of the Wall Street Journal over his head. The diamond market is plummeting, he screams, diamonds are worthless! We’re ruined!

He stops and thinks. No! Wait! Now’s the time to buy! Buy! He runs back to his cell screaming, Buy!

The rest of the monks grin and fix their gaze on the giant diamond before them.

The market is trembling, the manager screams from his cell. It’s shaking! It’s groaning! It’s sweating like mad! Oh fuck! It just bottomed out! I think we really are fucked this time!

Rana collapses into an insensate heap beside the diamond.

The diamond turns back into the girl. She sits on the edge of her little crater, elbows on knees, panting for breath. Rana regains consciousness long enough to say, you win, bitch, and passes out again.

Nicu rushes to the side of the girl. He helps her to her feet.

Traitor, Rana moans, and passes out again.

Who are you, Nicu says.

Zoia, she says.

Why are you here, he says.

To do what I just did, she says. Why are you here?

I’m watching the world for god, he says.

I’m getting dizzy, she says.

Come with me, he says, and leads her to the stable at the edge of the courtyard.

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