Last
Note: Travis Prinzi loved the Lost finale. Others didn’t, for reasons illustrated as only S.D. Smith can. –Pete Peterson
Jellybean Highfive stood at the entrance of the house called Diffident Manor. He walked in reluctantly, stood in the doorway in an unassuming fashion. He had been invited here by invitation.
‘Place looks odd,’ he thought inside his mind, with his thoughts.
“Hello, stranger,” a voice said from in front of him. The voice belonged to a woman–a curvaceous, vivacious, hellacious woman.
“I’m Vivica Hellen,” she said, drawing on her cigarette like a smoker, “but my friends call me ‘Curvy Vivica Hellen.’”
“Because of the…?” Jellybean began.
“…curves,” she finished. “Yes. Because of that.”
“Why are we here?” Jellybean asked, looking around at the quaint, humble insides of Diffident Manor in an uncertain way.
“I got me an invitation, I did,” Curvy Vivica Hellen said.
“Me too,” Jellybean said. “Mine was a little odd. It said…” and he showed it to Curvy Vivica Hellen.
Come to Diffident Manor. Stop. Great riches await you. Stop. Why am I writing this like a telegram? Stop. I just can’t seem to stop. Stop.
“Mine says the same thing,” Curvy Vivica Hellen said.
“Mine too,” Jellybean Highfive said, drawing out a cigarette from his pack of cigarettes. He lit one with fire, began to smoke it cheerfully. “Mine too,” he repeated, this time with extra rasp.
“It’s a mystery. Why are we here?” Curvy Vivica Hellen asked.
“You’re here,” a voice boomed, “because I invited you, by invitation.”
Jellybean looked around, but saw no one. He thought how weird that was, then remembered all the ways voices could be projected into the room with a person not present. “Yeah,” Jellybean asked. “But why?”
“Because we need you,” the voice boomed again. “We need you to save Diffident Manor in a desperate sort of way.”
“How desperate?” Curvy Vivica Hellen asked. “On a scale of 1 to 12, how bad off is the Manor?”
“10.5, easy,” the voice said. “Maybe 11. I’m so serious. I’m not even lying.”
“That’s high,” Jellbean said.
“Yeah, so…” the voice paused, then continued, “…can I count on you?”
“Sure.” They said together, at the same time.
“Jinx,” Jellybean said, “Jinx.”
____________________________
Ten hours later they stood in the sitting room, having each committed various atrocities combined with acts of goodness.
“The Manor must be saved and it must be by you,” the voice said. “Then you will have a reward of gold.”
“Nice,” Jellybean said, “but who are you?”
“I will tell you who I am,” the voice said, “when you solve the mystery and rescue the Manor and get the reward.”
“The reward of gold?” Curvy Vivica Hellen asked.
“Yes. That one.”
“OK,” they both said together, but it was far too pivotal a scene for Jellybean to say ‘Jinx.’
‘Not this time,” he thought. ‘But it is tempting,’ he also thought.
______________________________
Then there was a tumult in Diffident Manor. The entire building began to shake with shaky shakes. Into the room came six ugly giants. Their names were “Essential,” “Important,” “Serious,” “Central,” “C.S. Lewis,” and “Nimrod.” Essential spoke. “This is Important,” he said.
“Nice to meet you,” Jellybean said.
“No, you idiot,” Essential said. “What I’m about to tell you is Important.”
“I knew that,” Jellybean said.
“Hear me and you might live,” Essential said. “Maybe. Go to the bottom of the house, the basement. There you will find three keys. The middle key must be used in the chapel closet, or doom will follow doom.”
“What kind of doom?” Curvy Vivica Hellen asked.
“Certain. Doom,” Essential said.
Then Nimrod did strike Curvy Vivica Hellen on the head and she did die. Jellybean felt her pulse and it did not exist. In fury he killed Nimrod with a look, and a gun.
“It’s all right,” Serious said, “I’m kind of a wizard. Go to the cupboard and fetch me a pail of water.”
Jellybean ran, fetched a pail of water.
“Pour it over her head,” Serious said.
“Really? Are you…”
“Serious? Am I Serious?” Serious said. “Of course I am.”
“Do it,” C.S. Lewis said. Then he left, muttering “I have to get to the shed or the whole Manor will fall down at the end.”
“OK,” Jellybean said. He dashed the water on her head. Curvy Vivica Hellen revived. She asked for a cigarette.
They smiled and wondered, ‘What kind of a place is this?’
__________________________________
Three minutes later they were all in the kitchen, except some others had disappeared. There was Jellybean Highfive, Curvy Vivica Hellen, Essential, and Serious. Nimrod was dead.
“Essential,” Jellybean said. “Why didn’t we fetch a pail for Nimrod?”
“Because he got what he deserved,” Essential said.
“But all Nimrod did was kill some one for a little while. Now I’ve killed Nimrod forever.”
“It’s what Diffident Manor wants,” Essential explained. “It’s what Deuteronomical Max wants.”
“Who is Deuteronomical Max?”
“It will be told to you in twenty minutes.”
“What happens in twenty minutes?”
“You mean other than you finding out who DeuteroMax is?”
“Yeah.”
“The Manor of Diffidence will change forever, and we have to stop her.” Essential said. Then he walked into the refrigerator and disappeared in the light.
“Where’d he go?” Curvy Vivica Hellen asked.
“I don’t know,” Jellybean said. “But he was the shortest giant I have ever seen.”
“And a good friend,” Curvy Vivica Hellen said. “A good friend.”
“Well, one thing’s for certain,” Jellybean said.
“What’s that?”
“I’m going to find this Deuteronomical Max.”
“Why?” Curvy Vivica Hellen asked.
“So I can kill him.”
“I don’t think that’s what Essential meant,” she said. “Before he disappeared behind the mayonnaise he winked at me and whispered, “‘It’s so cold.’ What could that mean?””
“We’re about to find out,” Jellybean said. “We’re about to find out.”
____________________________________
Four hours and twelve seconds later Curvy Vivica Hellen and Jellybean Highfive stood in the chapel. They thought about the keys, but not very much.
“I’m so glad we’re here,” Curvy Vivica Hellen said. “So glad.”
“Me too,” Jellybean agreed. “Me too.”
Then all the giants came in, smiling, reading books. Nimrod looked up from a Nancy Drew and ambled over. He gave Jellybean a hug.
“Sorry about the, um, unpleasantries earlier.”
“Me too,” Jellybean said. “Me too.”
Curvy Vivica Hellen said, “I’m the one you tried to kill.”
“True,” Nimrod said. “True.”
They were all smiling. With their teeth.
But also…with their…
…hearts.
The End
A.S. Peterson has crafted a work of compelling historical fiction which begs the question, “Can this really be a debut novel?” With dogged fidelity, Peterson captures the spirit, manners, and social conditions present during the American Revolutionary War. We meet colorful, credible characters who navigate the high seas of life and love, dependence and independence, war and peace, truth and consequence, and despite forays into dark places, The Fiddler’s Gun is beautiful, lyrical, and redemptive.
Walt Wangerin, Jr. strikes again.
Janner Igiby lives in Glipwood, a nothing little village in the land of Skree, on the edge of the Dark Sea of Darkness. Manhood is on the horizon, but Janner finds it hard to feel much hope for the future. Skree is ruled by foreign oppressors, snake men called the Fangs of Dang, servants of a shadowy emperor named Gnag the Nameless. The Skreeans are weak and weaponless. They’re even tool-less. Any Skreean who needs to use a hoe has to borrow one from the Fangs (and fill out the requisite paperwork). And from time to time, the Black Carriage arrives in Glipwood to carry young Skreeans toward an unknown fate across the Dark Sea.
I am not a fan of Civil War literature; in fact, I have always thought of it as one of those weird sub-genres for obsessive types. They’re almost like Trekkies with their re-enactments and maniacal devotion to detail. It’s just not my thing (although I’m secretly jealous that they get to dress up and shoot cannons).
A Randall Goodgame song is like a great independent movie. Characters deliver lines like they were lifted from a break room, a truck stop, or a downtown diner. Seemingly incongruent scenes are juxtaposed and plot isn’t obvious; in fact, narrative–a good story–is often more evident than linear plot lines. An indie movie, like a Randall Goodgame song, seems to tell itself. Rather than being rudely yanked by a chain through a sequence of contrived events, with a Randall Goodgame song, I have the sense that I’m being allowed a willing, but vicarious sneak peak into the real lives of his real characters.
Sara Groves irritates me just a little bit. With each album she makes, she moves from strength to strength and is always raising the bar with the quality, depth, and lyrical ambition of her work. And as a fellow artist, that’s just a little irritating since it means the rest of us are going to have to work harder if we hope to keep up.
I am outside on my front porch. The yellowed leaves are methodically falling from the black walnut in the yard, my breath is chalky visible in the recent cold snap, and lately I have been exploring the unpleasant nuances of the dark night of a soul - my own, to be exact. It is a strange passion we live out on this over-glorified orb of rock hurtling through space at some rate that I’m sure would astound me were I to know what it was. It is an odd series of days, I am realizing, when you question your own faith more than you question your own doubt. And, indeed, it is these nagging questions which have prompted me to share my thoughts on Andrew Peterson’s 2003 album, Love and Thunder.
11-year old Reuben Land, a character in the 2001 book Peace Like a River, provides narration that is clear-eyed and insightful, yet retains the magic, wonder, and innocence of youth. I found it easy to entrust my imagination to the author’s clever method of telling the story through the sensibilities of a pre-teen boy. An author with lesser skill would have either made the boy too smart-alecky for his own good or impossibly cute.
I just finished a book that upon closing it, I felt like it finished me in a sense. A quiet meditative book that reached down and stirred the deep waters in me. It’s Marilynne Robinson’s 2005 Pulitzer prize winner Gilead, given to me by my friend Andrew Peterson.
Eric Peters’s body of work addresses a diverse range of topics, but hope is a recurring theme that gently percolates in the midst of it all. And yet, somewhere between the 2001 masterpiece Land of the Living, and Scarce, the flavor of hope that Peters’s work emits has evolved closer to a tone that is more resolute than what came before. And though the complexion of hope has a broad range, the lyrics from Scarce–while intermittently contrite and timorous as in previous efforts, are now strengthened and bolstered by roots that have grown deeper, radiating an underlying grit and security.
Having read The Great Divorce many times over the years, I’ve found this classic from the great C.S. Lewis to be full of startling clarity and depth on the differences between Heaven and Hell. The only thing both have in common is that both begin in the human will; we can either let Heaven enter us and rule in us to blossom into love and goodness, or allow Hell to infect and reign in our hearts by the daily refusal to submit to Heaven.
Even if you haven’t heard Room to Breathe, its still likely you’ve heard Andy Gullahorn. He’s what I’d call a heavy lifter by trade. He writes lyrics, plays guitar, arranges vocals and adds production help to the work of artists like Jill Phillips and Andrew Peterson.
Allow me to preface this by telling you that I am a great despiser of gushing reviews. I’d much rather write (or read) a scathing dismemberment of the latest Brett Ratner film or Terry Goodkind book than suffer through four hundred words of overblown hyperbole about even the best of things. But when asked to write some thoughts on Frederick Buechner’s Godric, no amount of distaste for high praise was able to intervene. I hope you’ll take what I say with the understanding that I do not say it readily or lightly.
Oh my goodness. Much though I enjoyed the Lost finale, I cannot but admit that this is brilliant. Absolutely brilliant.
Thanks for the laugh!
LOVED the ending! but i still have questions like, will we ever get to meet the character named “important?” somehow i feel satisfied but a little cheated.
Well written, Sam. I thought I liked that finale, but now you’ve made me see how completely silly and dumb I must be.
In other words, now I’ve seen THE LIGHT.*
(he he he)
*And by light, I don’t mean an impersonal force shining out of a cave, either, because I don’t want this comment to convert anyone to gnosticism.
Yes! Victory.
I knew if you would read this, you would come forward to the altar in this non-ecumenical church and join the few, the proud, the correct.
But, wait. I feel myself being pulled toward…dang it, Travis…Gnosticism! This is totally on you, Travis. I am disgusted by my body and bodies in general. I feel a pull to secret knowledge.
Khan!!!!!!!!!!!!!
This is just mean.
[...] Note: The powers that be posted this at the Rabbit Room yesterday. For a little context, you can go here for the brilliant Travis Prinzi’s post on [...]
What’s this show ‘Lost’ everyone keeps talking about?
Thanks! I wondered how V ended.
absolutely awesome. thanks for putting into words what I could not… this is exactly how i felt…
Can anyone help me? I’m lost. Is there a prerequisite to this course?
Just to reveal how much of a classics nerd I am, when I read that one of the giants was named “Nimrod” I asked myself, “Isn’t that the name of one of the four giants in the ninth circle of hell in Dante’s Inferno?” Yeah….tangent. Anyway, even though I am new to Lost (just started watching season 1, go figure) this was a very hilarious piece. Nicely done Sam.
Will you please take my phone and dial everyone in it who didn’t think that ending was insultingly lame and read this to them, making sure to give everyone different accents, and change their minds for me? I feel I may actually lose friendships over how strong are my feelings of “ughh” and “really??” and also “like, actually for real, really??”
Thank you.
SD, phone homes.
I’m glad I’m not in Andrew Osenga’s phone.
Sorry to be so brash! I just liked the show because of the mysteries. I liked the hourly escape and the feeling that it was all building to some big reveal. I wanted a bang, I felt I got a whimper. I wanted to know about the island. Why it moved. Why they left and HAD to come back. There was a statue with four toes. I know that I want to know what that’s about more than the rest of you. But the show was, for me, about the mysteries. And those were all the cliffhangers, that’s how they kept you watching.
The end felt like a bait and switch to me. I wasn’t watching that show to find out what non-religious people think the afterlife is. We have Unitarians in Nashville if I ever get more curious.
I get why you’re disappointed, and I think it sucks for people who are disappointed. That’s a lot of investment in a show to be frustrated by the end!
I think it felt less like a bait and switch to me for three reasons: (1) I was with you up until the 6th season: I was in it for the mysteries. But something switched in my mind early in 6, and I realized I wanted character resolution and some nod toward transcendence (with remaining mystery) in the end. (2) There are a lot fewer unanswered questions than many people think. (3) Remaining mystery gives creative room to play; we can re-watch, speculate, try to answer canonically if explicit answers weren’t given. Everything’s not tied up nicely. I like that.
I’ll give you that, Travis. I actually feel exactly the way you just described about the end of Battlestar Galactica, which resolved most major things but left a few hanging.
And to be honest, to me, if Battlestar is the Beatles, Lost is the Rolling Stones. The Beatles were better and didn’t last as long, but the Stones wore a lot less clothing and Keith Richards’ body might be inhabited by the Smoke Monster. Cause I’m pretty sure the real Keith died before they made their late 70’s disco record…
Smith, this post wins. Everything. Andrew, you have summed up my sentiments exactly. I haven’t had time to read the 157 posts on the other Lost RR post, but I’m pretty much certain they wouldn’t have convinced me not to hate the ending. Your theory about Keith Richards being the Smoke Monster is brilliant, however, and should be fully investigated.
LOST = Awesome Sci-fi. Definitely Hollywood’s idea of redemption, though. They just do not get that we can’t redeem ourselves. But it sure make’s them feel warm and fuzzy.
@ Mr. Osenga:
Does that make Heroes Herman’s Hermits?