Narratives in Pill Form
Author
William Olmstead
Author Bio
William Olmstead is a writer who ponders the greater philosophical questions like if a phone rings in the forest, is anyone really calling? His stories are a bemusing look at the absurdities and poignancy of life.
Working as a cartoonist and animator, Olmstead created and animated dozens of characters for comics and computer games. His stories often have the snap and pop that those art forms typically generate.
He originally hails from New Hampshire and began his career as a cartoonist and writer after moving to Los Angeles. He then made a move to Seattle to work as an animator.
All the while the stories in his first collection of fiction were germinating in notebooks and drafts. Upon returning to Los Angeles in the mid-aughts, Olmstead set about bringing them to fruition, publishing several in venues like Café Irreal, Everyday Fiction, and Nomos Review. They are now assembled in “Narratives in Pill Form.”
His diverse areas of residence have uniquely impacted his voice and vision: the dry wit and sarcasm of New England; the lotus-eater mythology of L.A.; and the quirkiness of the majestic Northwest.
Olmstead currently resides in Los Angeles with his wife, a nationally recognized jazz vocalist, and their cat, Maxwellton the Third.
Description
This wickedly funny collection of fiction can be savored individually over days or imbibed whole in one sitting. Poignant, bewildering, or laugh-out-loud funny, whole worlds come together and sometimes fall apart in these very brief stories. Narratives in Pill Form is literary fiction that skirts many genres.
William Olmstead brings to life scenarios like these:
a mysterious stranger confounds the residents of a small village;
an entire family is jinxed by a mongrel dog;
the evil eye manifests itself on an unwary car salesman;
a man indulges his final wish to the horror of his family and friends;
guided only by his internal organs, a native seer offers his prophecies;
an average day in the life of a Norse god;
gunmen from another world shoot up a bar in St. Louis;
medieval warriors haze a newcomer;
a man in ancient Galilee searches for a good carpenter.
There are also encounters with mimes, artists, nuclear powered motorcycles, rhinoceroses, shoot-outs, gangsters, and, of course, yams.
Olmstead pokes fun at the human condition while maintaining its heart. His characters are animated and recognizable, abiding in a concise, impactful prose. His writing often blurs the line between stand-up comedy and experimental literature.
“Working in short forms is actually a lot of fun,” Olmstead says. “Establishing a setting, characters, and a fulfilling narrative in one or two pages is a challenge I enjoy. Although I work with longer forms of writing, too, I’ve really enjoyed creating the stories in this collection. My hope is that readers will find something that stays with them.”
Reader comments:
“This collection of vignettes is a big return on a short investment of time. Olmstead showcases his dry, unique brand of humor with his skillful prose and development of nutty characters. Where the heck does he get all those crazy names? He sucks you in and then dumps you with his deadpan last line deliveries. Even though I exceeded the recommended dosage there were no adverse effects. This is a great read for a quick laugh and a brain tangle.”
“Sometimes I smiled, sometimes laughed and sometimes scratched my head!”
Narratives in Pill Form is an indelible restorative for a busy world.
Book excerpt
I’ll Be Seeing You
I was gardening in my front yard when the man came walking by. “I’ll be seeing you,” he said and waved. I gave a slight wave back.
“Yes, I saw him, too,” Herb Kelp told me later. “I’ll be seeing you.”
Others along Screed Row saw him that day. There was Mrs. Murch and the two workers who were repairing her stone wall. “Oh, yes. That’s just what he said. I’ll be seeing you. I think he had a dog with him.”
I spoke with several people at the pub that evening. With a wave of his hand he had uttered the same thing to each of them as he passed: “I’ll be seeing you.”
We never saw him again.
McHughie’s Wake
When Brian McHughie suddenly dropped dead of a heart attack at the age of forty-two the community was stunned. McHughie was a golf buddy of ours and the most successful car dealer in town. His ads and billboards were legendary – there he’d be with his big, square, crew cut head, wearing a pair of sunglasses with broad white rims, and an enormous grin. His teeth were huge. His right arm was always raised high at a ninety degree angle, giving a manly wave.
Jonesy and I walked into Beaver Brothers Funeral Home that Monday to attend McHughie’s wake and were stopped in our tracks. I actually gasped. There was McHughie sitting up in his casket grinning, his arm crooked up in a waving position, wearing those crazy sunglasses, just like on the billboards. Only he was dead. He looked waxy.
The room was filled with local luminaries. Most of those in attendance appeared, for lack of a better word, uncomfortable. I heard someone utter the word “grotesque.”
We saw McHughie’s wife, Tammy, sitting in the corner sobbing, her two teenage kids perched on each side of her. As we approached she shooed the kids away.
“Do you see this idiot?” she sputtered. “He stipulated in his will that this is what he wanted. I had no idea. My mother nearly had a stroke when she walked in here. And his Aunt Heddie from Minnesota? Fainted dead away. We had to carry her out.”
“I’m so sorry, Tammy,” I said.
Jonesy cleared his throat. “I’m sure he meant well?”
“And that’s not all. Now he wants to be buried in his 1957 Thunderbird — you know, the bright red one? Well, I’ve got news for that bastard.”
We said our good-byes and sidled away from the grieving widow.
“She seems angry. I hope she doesn’t start drinking again,” Jonesy murmured.
“Oh, that’s right. I forgot that she used to have a drinking problem.”
“I guess it’s no wonder. She spent all those years putting up with that,” he said, nodding towards the happy corpse.
On Friday we stood with eight of our other golf buddies on the ninth green at Pummel Hill Golf Course, one of McHughie’s favorites. We had been called together by Tammy, who sent emails to all of us saying she’d like to have a short memorial service at Pummel Hill before the burial.
Shortly after noon the thunder of a powerful internal combustion engine blasted away the serenity of the links.
(continued)