The grand finale of our Summer 2014 Issue is Robin Wyatt Dunn‘s short story “San Vicente,” a surreal, shadowy, sensual, and satirical tale about the purposes of art, the products of revolution, and a few other things we’re kind of scared to examine too closely.

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THE KUMBAYAH SCENE AT THE END WAS THE BEST PART: The Jews, and the gays, and the Uzbeks, they all held hands and danced in a circle, singing pretty songs. I was crying throughout it, though I knew Janie found it a bit much.  Still, it had great production design, the color was beautiful.  I think they’d actually shot it in 35.  It was a shame we had to watch it over the noise of the generator.

Afterwards we went out to get a cup of coffee from the man on the street;  shootings were way down this month and the air smelled okay to me, so Janie and I stood there for a bit, drinking the coffee and sharing a French cigarette.

“What the fuck was that movie about?” she said.

“I don’t know, umm, overcoming personal obstacles.  Empowerment.  A new spirit of internationalism.”

“It sucked,” Janie said.  Her eyes were hard, and flat.

“Well, I liked it,” I said.  “You can pick the next one.”

“Why would you go to all the trouble of making a movie about a bunch of random people who all hate each other only to have them improbably embrace, sing and flow their tears at the end?”

“Well, Shakespeare had a lot of improbable endings like that,” I said.  “What’s the matter with it?  Besides, people like it.”

“It sucks,” she said.

“Shall we go home?” I said.  “You want me to call a cab?”

“I’ll walk home,” she said.

“You don’t want to walk home at this hour,” I said.  “Come on, I’ll call a cab.”

“No,” she said.  “I’m walking.”  And she took off.  I followed.

San Vicente got a lot weirder after the revolution.  It was not unique in this respect, I knew, but I knew its weirdness was unique.  For one thing, we had no cars at all now, only jitney-cabs.

Continue reading “San Vicente” – Fiction by Robin Wyatt Dunn →