Book One of the Econotopia Chronicles
Written by D. C. Winters *
There is no question that D.C. Winters has written the most vulgar work of Young Adult dystopian-utopian, twenty-second century fantasy/sci-fi/romance literature in the entire known history of the English language. And the use of footnotes is atrocious! We should know, because we work for the O.E.D., and you obviously do not. So, who exactly is “down wid’ O.E.D.” now, you potty-mouthed, horny bitch (or possibly bastard), you? Who is “down wid’ O.E.D.” now, INDEED?”
- Anonymous members of the Oxford English Dictionary’s YALit Editorial Board (all of whom are fat, bald, and impotent, obviously).
(*) Not our real name, obviously.
Date created: 12/16/2019
Last date edited: 12/28/2019
The Econotopia Chronicles
For our two young children, Sofi and Sam.
You are both so very beautiful.
You are both so very strong.
We love each of you
– equally –
so very, very much.
A few more things, kids …
We wish that the things we wrote about actually happened,
and we wish that the places described actually exist.
We wish that we could visit them all together, as a family,
and could explore each one to our collective hearts’ content.
But, our darling children, we are sorry to have to tell you
that this is never going to be able to happen,
because all of things done here are pretend,
because none of the words spoken here,
not one tiny word of them,
was ever really,
Except for the Elmo parts.
Those definitely were true!
Elmo thinks so!!!!!
And who is D.C. Winters
to say that Elmo is wrong?
Advanced Praise for D.C. Winters’
Arc Collective,The Chronicles of Econtopia, Book One
“Arc Collective, the impressive debut novel by the hitherto unknown and unheralded pseudonymous author, D.C. Winters, is not just the best new twenty-second century, dystopian-slash-utopian young adult fantasy, science fiction, road trip, adventure, and Platonic teenage romance novel I have reviewed yet this year – it may just be the best such book of its kind that I have ever read and reviewed on these N.P.R. airwaves, period!
And that’s not just because WHYY’s diminutively statured yet formidably present public radio hostess, out-of-work dominatrix, and Freudian interview therapist psychobabble ice queen, Teri Gross, just handed me a previously prepared copy of my review to read aloud on air while threatening to bitch slap me with her iGlock16™ “Heil Hillary” limited liberal edition electronic starter’s pistol, which she is at this very moment now waving dangerously close to my attractively witty yet also profoundly meaningful face; I think it’s also because some microscopically small part of me ACTUALLY MEANS IT. But maybe that’s just the twelve ounces of cask strength Irish whiskey talking that I surreptitiously dumped into my N.P.R. pledge drive coffee mug this morning just before sunrise, when I excused myself to go powder my nose in the ladies’ room.”
- Maureen Courigan III (eClone™ version 1.0), recorded live on January 1, 2120 at 5:30am for the syndicated National Potty-Mouth Radio show, “Now, that’s Some REALLY Fresh Air,” hosted by Terri Gross XVI (eClone™ version 2.7).
“To dismiss D.C. Winters as a mediocre and indeed a selfish writer merely because she (or he) chooses to direct her (or his) modest but not inconsequential talents towards the potentially lucrative subgenre of young adult literature, a field designed to appeal directly to the lower needs and baser instincts of our impressionable young children and grandchildren; or to regard her (or him) as a puerile, profane hack novelist who lacks sufficient gravitas to write truly meaningful prose while simultaneously failing to provide her (or his) readers with a coherent political and moral philosophy, is to perform a veritable clusterfuck on the English language; indeed, it is to clusterfuck the very essence of language itself.
D.C. Winters is not merely a creative writer; she (or he) is a creative genius! She (or he) is, as is plain to ALL who have the EYES with which to see the Truth, a TRUE Daughter (or Son) of God who is most ETERNALLY beloved by her (or his) Creator: a mortal and thus FLAWED manifestation of that Divine Thread which binds ALL our souls together into the Heavenly Fabric of the Universe; and it is, my Sisters and Brothers and gender-nonconforming Members, the selfsame most GLORIOUS of Golden Threads that connects the planets, comets, moons, and stars of the Milky Way with the billions upon billions of other planets, comets, moons, and stars in the most DISTANT of galaxies into cobweb filigreed constellations of eternally radiant and pure, rainbow-colored light. Can I hear an AMEN? For, verily, I SAY unto thee that D.C. Winters will one day CLAIM her (or his) rightful place on the Heavenly Dias, alongside Our God Almighty Himself, when the Final Day of Judgment has arrived.
Subcommittee editorial note: Do we know if the sentence above should not more correctly be written as God Almighty “Herself”? Or possibly “Itself?” “Themselves”?? “The gender-nonconforming deity formerly known as ‘God’”? Dammit all to hell! I can never seem to keep these personal pronouns straight. And did we get that other thing syntactically right in paragraph one, as well? Is “clusterfuck” one word, or two?”
- Excerpt from an unpublished draft of an internal report prepared by the New Books Under Review subcommittee of the Young Adult Fiction and Chick Lit advisory council to the American Modern Language Association & Neo-Baptist Revival Movement Affiliated Chapters, in preparation for the anticipated, highly controversial 2121 publication of Century City,the first volume of the first book of the Econtopia Chronicles, written by D.C. Winters.
“You call THAT advanced praise? Advanced?? Compared to what? A cyborg banana slug’s first undergraduate essay on the instructor assigned topic, “Our Slimy, Bodies, our Slimy Selves” for their Mollusk Studies 101 writing course at UC Santa Cruz Archipelago in 2130? We mean to tell you that fully both of our frickin’ toddler-aged children can write better sentences than that, and they are still scooting around our farmhouse in their biodynamically grown cotton diapers. Sheesh! Who writes these things, anyway?”
- D.C. Winters, in rebuttal to their own advanced praise.
“D.C. Winters is making an utter and complete mockery of the young adult and fantasy genres, ones that I am and so many other dedicated, hardworking, and vastly more talented real writers of wholesome and high quality fiction have done so much in the past decades to popularize and promote. His so-called excuse for a YALit multivolume novel, Century City, should never have been allowed by his (of her) publisher to have seen the light of day. As a failed writer and deeply flawed human being – without a trace of a magical talents or wizardry abilities whatsoever, I might add – I think it fair to say that D.C. is a pompous and arrogant world class jerk with no redeeming qualities of any of kind worth mentioning. I will say one thing about D.C., though, in his (or her) defense. Friends of mine in the publishing industry who know his (or her) real identity say that he (or she) has got a really nice ass.”
- J.K. Rowling XIII, a next generation eClone™ created from the cryogenically preserved DNA remains of one of the twenty-first century’s premier young adult fiction and fantasy writers, now best remembered for her highly successful Harry Potter books and for the much later, anonymously published “Young Adult Lesbian Learning” series of non-procreative sexual practices coloring books and erotic fiction, Hermoine’s Fantasy Isle of Lesbos, (vols. 1-10). A prototype version of Rowling XII (age 20) was unveiled for the very first time at the 23rd Annual All-Female Nude Fashion Show, hosted in 2099 at the Greenbriar Resort’s O-ASS Federal Governance, Fossil Fuels Refinement, and Male Chauvinists-Only Entertainment Center, and was manufactured by the Federated Fendi, Gucci, and Armani Human Cloning and Clothing Corporation, Ltd., as part of their then highly anticipated “ Hot Women for an Even Hotter Century” Dead Literary Celebrities eClone™ Fashion Line.
“Yo, J.K.XIII, check this shit out. Your friends are right about the rock-hard awesomeness of our hot yoga toned asses. But we’ve also got wet tongues on us like you wouldn’t believe. We call them our “West Coast Wizards.” How many licks, we wonder, would it take to get to the bottom of YOUR ultra-rich, English lady, “Earl Grey tea with milk and two sugars” flavored Tootsie-Pop? What say we all meet and try to find out? Let’s rendezvous at midnight in exactly two weeks’ time at the Stoned Sorcerer, the 5 Michelin-starred speakeasy cannabis café and natural wine only bar located on a remote redwood island in the Santa Cruz Archipelago. But we’ve gotta, like, meet on the DOWN low, you feel me? ‘Cause we wouldn’t want that crazy sexy librarian spider silk weaving wife of ours, Madame X., to know. Peace out, ya’ horny YALit cloned bitch!”
- D.C. Winters, in an extremely inappropriate, incredibly crude, highly salacious, but sadly all too typically post-adolescent male (or possibly female) attempt at expressing genuine and heartfelt appreciation for one of his (or her) true literary heroines and aspirational writerly role models. The real J.K. Rowling, of course. Not the eClone version, although J.K.XIII definitely does have a pretty smokin’ hot English muffin of a body.
“Readin’ da’ ‘Topia Chronicles, see, it sorta’ brings me back to da’ New Yawk fishily-fish place wherze I’m from befores I took ta’da’ high seas like a fuckin’ real man did back then, ya’ know? It’s sorta like wid’ D.C. and all, it’s as if I am looking at a toddler version of myself at age three and a quah’tah or somethin’, or maybe quite possibly fauh. Like, herz dis’ little Latina (or possibly Latino) Spic kid, da’ runt a’ da’ litter you knowz, who walks eve’ry day ‘sept on da’ Sabbath – she (or possibly he) bein’ half Yid and all – with her (or possibly his) cutesy old Jewish-Mexican grandmah to attend a Montessauhri type preschool run by a buncha’ butch-lookn’ Irish dykes. And one day while at dis’ fancy as shit preschool, dis’ fuckin’ kid just up a shits in da’ paih’ of white whale skin pantz ‘dat she (or possibly he) jus’ got for fuckin’ Chanukah’, and dis’ kid plants her (or possibly his) poop-stained ass o’ hers right down on da’ the floor, and it’s like dis’ kid is somehow quite possibly PROUD of herself (or possibly himself) you know, cause’ of that big stinking shitpile dat’ she (or possibly he) jes’ made, and this kid, I’m tellin’ ya’, and Jesus/Mary/andJoseph please forgive me if I’m lyin’ ‘bout dis’, but it’s da’ God honest truth, it’s like dis’ kid is kinda’ all pleased wid’ herself (or himself), like all smilin’ an’ shit, and dis’ fuckin’ kid – SHUT UP CAUSE’ I’M TALKIN’ HERE! – dis’ fuckin’ guy (or possibly gal) is all grown up now, writ’n books an’ shit, but insida’ mind, it’z like she’s (or possibly he’s) still stuck in dat’ same shit-stained place, like she (or possibly he) ain’t nevah’ really left. Tell youz what, though, for a tiny lookin’ pipsqueak who sweahs like a mothafuckin’ sailor’, she’s (or possibly he’s) got some Moby Dick sized fuckin’ titties (or possibly balls), if ya’ know whata’ mean. Badda’ bing!”
- Herman “Tony Soprano” MelvilleXL (eClone™ version 4.0).
“D.C. Winters, you say? Nope, never heard of the dude (or dudette). Is she (or he), like, a FoXXX n’ Friends with Benefits™ investigative journalist hooker or in a Baltimore Sunken Harbor jetski gang or something? Sorry! Can’t talk now. Gotta run. My new Salamander7 “Gurlz Gone Wild™ edition” eBike in the upper school parking lots still needs charging.”
- Victoria Martinez, aged 17.997, a G10 Level II learner at the New Druid Hill Academy’s Upper School for Gifted and Talented Girls, located in New Hampden Township. West Maryland.
Table of Contents
Note to Readers
Prologue: Dear Madame Govnah’
- Die Verwandlung
- Beautiful Swimmer
- The Hive
Postmodern, Pastiche-Style Interlude: Yo, Check Dis’ Shit Out: Or, How to Learn to Spot Fake News and Decide if You Are Mature Enough Yet to Handle the Truth! *
- A Mysterious Package
- H.A.U.S. Rules
- Banjo Bistro
- Big Momma’s Kommuun’ti Kitch’n
- Dykes-ney Land
- Mission Impossible: Hagerstown
- Midnight at the Claw and Cork
- Governor’s Tower
- The IKEA™ Shower Scene That Went Viral
- Worst Plane Trip Ever
- Rocky Mountain High
- Red Sonya
- The Convoy
- Western Stars
- Mammoth Operation
- Dire Wolf Mountain
Epilogue: Meet Samwell Ghibli
(*) Contains ¡Trigger Warning! For Sensitive Readers
Preliminary Chapter List for Book 2, Century City
- Napa Valley Rehab
- Facebook™ Harbor
- Secrets of the Sapphire Sisterhood
- Stevedore Jobbing at MacBookPro™ Quay
- The Maverick
- The Spider Silk Weaver’s Workshop
- Great Grandpappy’s Whiskey
- Fires on Mount Fuji
- Maersk Mission
- Whale Watchers Anonymous
- The Obsidian Boys
- Garden of Eden Plot B002
- Mellow Park
- The Aetherton Ion Exchange
- Montara Mountain
- SOMA Cellars
- Neptune Sex Pool
Epilogue: Muppets in Moonlight
Note to Readers
The writings that follow are entirely fictitious; they are never meant to upset any particular individual, group, or socially-recognized minority community. They are not meant to unsettle anyone in particular; they are meant to unsettle us all. As such, the words on the page have expressively been selected because they have the ability – almost of themselves by their very utterances, like some sort of incantatory spell – to provoke wide ranges of reactions, frustrations, confusions, and emotions in each and every one its readers.
The truth, dear readers, is that even we are sometimes offended by parts of this book, and we are the frickin’ anonymous collective of artists and writers who wrote it!!!
In the event that potentially offensive situations like this should arise, my advice to you is to pause, take in a fresh inhalation of breath to a slow count of ten, hold that breath in your lungs for a few, mindful moments, and the expel the air slowly through pursed lips to that same, slow ten count. Repeat this sequence enough times until you have returned to the peaceful and blissful state of readerly equilibrium with which you started, or until you pass out. Next, try to figure out on your own what it was that our anonymous author (or possibly authors) may have been trying to say and why it might have made sense for her (or possibly him, or even possibly them) to write it that particular way. What deeper meanings might lie beneath the vulgar verbal veneer? Is there a coded, more compassionate message of some sort that you can discover beneath the offending words on the page that caused your emotional reaction in the first place?
If you practice this technique often enough, you may stumble upon meanings and messages on your own, without the agency of the author to get in way. And, if this doesn’t work, you can always just tell D.C. Winters to go fuck herself (or possibly himself, or even possibly themselves). That technique may work equally well.
This book is also an attempt at social satire, an effort an imagining in fictionalized form what our current obsessions, proclivities, peccadillos, perversions, and preoccupations as a collective bundle of billions of individual egos might bring out on this shared planet of ours in the generations and centuries to come. While it may not always be a particularly convincing one, most if not all of it was written in an attempt to make others besides myself laugh and in few cases also to make them cry, which the author herself (or possibly himself) did during the writing, revising, and editing processes themselves.
Sometimes, emotions get set aside and swept under the rug in a quest to survive each day of our busy and overscheduled lives. This book is an invitation for you to step back for a few minutes, hours, days, or even weeks and feel free to laugh, to cry, and to reconnect with an earlier you, when you were once eighteenth, or thirty, or sixty-five, or ninety-nine going on 100 – or whatever.
And, if you do happen actually to be eighteen or possibly even younger and find yourself with a copy of this book: congratulations. Now quickly hide it from your parents before they find out and hog it for themselves! Strap yourselves in, grab a blanket, pour yourself something nice, inhale whatever needs to be inhaled, and get ready to enjoy one hell of a ride.
Also, no Elmos were harmed in the writing of this book. Not even one. Well, maybe there could have been one. But if so, he probably had that – or worse – already coming. And as for those pesky gophers in the garden, none of the them were actually harmed, either, since we could never manage to catch even one of those furry, little snot-nosed bastards, although we did sometimes manage to cuss them out a few times real, real good.
- D.C. Winters, from an undisclosed cabin in the woods located somewhere within a triangular territorial range whose sides can be formed by drawing straight lines on a Mercator projection map of the United States (ca. 2020) between Seattle, Washington, San Diego, California, and Topeka, Kansas.
- Well, that narrows down the possibilities quite a bit, don’t ya’ll think?