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Jay Lake

LAST PLANE TO HEAVEN

^{THE FINAL COLLECTION}

For Bronwyn, known as the Child. And my loving thanks to Lisa.

For everyone who’s ever read one of my stories, or any story, really.

In the end, words are all that survive us.

Foreword

^{BY GENE WOLFE}

Though I could be completely wrong in your case, I have a deep and troubling feeling that you almost never read short stories. As I say, I could be wrong—but the odds are in my favor. There was a time, now long past, when everyone who read, read short stories. What happened? I think I know and I am about to tell you.

Two things. The first is simply that more and more people read reviews. (To explain why that happened would take us too far afield. ) Reviews of fiction are almost entirely of novels. Reviews of novels are much easier to write. There is the jacket copy, smiling its idiot smile and offering a helping hand to the reviewer. One may generally write the whole thing after reading the first chapter, one or two chapters from the middle, and the last chapter. This though the novel has twenty or thirty chapters. Furthermore (I bet you didn’t know this), publishers often send along a sample review with the review copy of the book. Should you see exactly the same review in two publications, you will know what happened. To feign originality, change a word here and there. “Exciting” becomes “thrilling,” “very” becomes “exceedingly,” and so forth (or on). This at least looks (appears) more honest. The people who read reviews nearly always buy novels as a result, so the thing feeds upon itself.

That first reason is easy enough to explain and to understand.

The second is much more difficult. Reading short stories takes a certain tough-mindedness. A novel is a kiss in the moonlight—soft, romantic, gentle, and perfumed. A short story is you and another naked in a dark and sweltering room without a bed. No breeze enters the open windows; beyond the screens, mosquitoes buzz in the dark. You come together and the other’s body is slick with sweat, like your own. Someone’s heart is pounding; perhaps they both are, but it’s hard to tell. If you don’t understand what I mean, read a few of these; you’ll understand it better then.

The kiss in the moonlight often appeals to a tender mind. That hot, humid room frightens it to paralysis.

That said, there are people who cannot read fiction at all. You know the type. Somehow she never found the right man. Somehow he never found the right girl. Generally they are neat and orderly and perhaps a little acrophobic. Often they make ideal employees, provided they are not asked to take responsibility. They are hard but brittle.

Clearly you are not one of them.

Tough-mindedness used to be the rule. If you don’t believe me, listen to a few old songs: “I’m a ox-drivin’ man from the Kane County line / An’ I’ll whip any man touches one ox o’ mine! / I’ll beat him with the ox-goad, you see if I don’t try. / So it’s poke them cattle onward, boys. Root hog, er die!”