the Introduction from
'The Complete Short
 Works of Daniel Pagoda

“That,” I explained, “Was my first published story. They printed it in the annual university literary magazine. It won an award. Just the same, send it back.”

He was confused. I repeated the order. “Send it back. Have them bury it back in whatever grave they dug it out of. Tell them to plant it deep, in case a bear or something should smell it.”

He moaned a little more, now definitely knee-deep in it with me. He was silent for a brief moment, probably rethinking his strategy.

“Look,” he finally sighed into the receiver, “I just thought that people might want to see how your style progressed over the years. There are people out there who find that sort of thing interesting. They’re called fans.”

“Virgil, nobody wants to read this piece, and they can see my progression through all the other stories in the book if they like. They can see how I went from writing hack pulp stories for nothing to writing hack pulp novels for slightly more than nothing.”

Two hours and a host of other arguments later, we hung up with an agreement between us. As it turned out, the argument we eventually jumped into had gestated with a pair of misunderstandings. Virgil misread my effrontery as a ploy; he assumed indolence and a promise of riches (in that order) would wear away my thin pocket of resistance. My mistake was in thinking I could win against his contentions. I didn’t. I’ve never been good at standing my ground.

Virgil did finally persuade me to go ahead with the book, the notorious story intact. His end of the bargain conceded me the introduction to the collection, which is what you, dear reader, are swimming in.

Instead of throwing this time away as some authors might, opting to fill space with a scanty retrospective, I decided a remembrance for these twenty-seven slices of me was in order. Anything powered by twenty-seven vials of my own blood deserved some kind of memorial, perhaps even an exhibition. Take one down, pass it around, let anyone who wants a whiff have one, or perhaps even venture a taste. Let them see what dripped out of me and soaked into the yarns of this collection.

Strangely enough, when it came time to pay tribute to them all, I found myself lingering on three single stories. Two were the best I ever wrote, and they’re not included here. The other one is.

The first story I ever wrote and lost was about a green slime alien and his birthday party. It lasted no more than half a page double-spaced. I wrote it on Fail-Safe, my dad’s ancient typewriter, sometime between the ages of seven and eight. He sat down with me once it was finished and read it back to me. It was one of the best stories I ever wrote.

I made a point of saving it. Fate, however, did not agree with me. Fate carried it away to an island where all the world’s Lost Stories go, where they can eat big dinners and play in the ocean. I have never seen it since. I suppose these things happen.