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ken*again
, the literary magazine  
         
   

ken*again
is a quarterly, nonprofit e-zine presenting a
hearty, eclectic mix of prose, poetry, art and photography:
accessible, obscure, soothing, disturbing.

Wrap your mind around a good read.
 


 



Poetry


Coffee in My Hair  Ella McCrystle
Delilah Dolorosa  Ella McCrystle
Voice Lessons
 
Ella McCrystle
Tsunami  Rochelle Hope Mehr
List  Rochelle Hope Mehr
Al Fresco Café Poems #87  Duane Locke
Al Fresco Café Poems #88  Duane Locke
Al Fresco Café Poems #89  Duane Locke
Untitled Poems
 Kelley Jean White
Identity Parade
  A. Lee Firth
Washroom  A. Lee Firth
Miracle  Joseph Lewis
How the Universe Might End, We Think  Susan H. Case
More Therapists Than...  Susan H. Case
Periodic Cicadas  Susan H. Case
Old Photos  Susan H. Case
What Goes Without Saying  Priscilla Barton
just enough  DB Cox
Love Poems  Ashok Niyogi
The Married Woman Speaks  S. J. Holland-Batt
Trans-America Pyramid  S. J. Holland-Batt
To Henri Rousseau in Heaven  S. J. Holland-Batt
In Soundless Defense
  Tom Sheehan
I Think of My Grandfather  Lyn Lifshin
If My Grandmother Could Have Written a Postcard to Odessa  Lyn Lifshin
Storm Cellar  J. R. Salling
Spiders and Screws  Jerome Kiel

Prose      

Mouse Immortal  William Gladys
The Meaning of Tuesday  Andrew Kingston
Seasons  Frances Mackay
Estrella's Walk  Skeeze Whitlow
The Beanstalk Revisited  Rob Rosen
The Fred Mart   Zan Nordlund
Caught in the Act  Jerry R. Nedelman
The House on Bretton Heights  Tom Sheehan

Art

The White Horse  Carolyn Schlam
Afternoon Nap  Carolyn Schlam
The Old Fort  Carolyn Schlam
Three DrawingCarolyn Schlam
First Church of Salem  Herman Krieger
Requiem  Herman Krieger
Halo Mary  Herman Krieger
Arch Angels  Herman Krieger
Art Show  Herman Krieger
Tina
  Herman Krieger
Terry
  Herman Krieger
Tourist
  Herman Krieger
Coffee Drinker
  Herman Krieger
Atomic Panther
  Jeremiah Stansbury
Sent on Sent  Jeremiah Stansbury
Paper Skater  Jeremiah Stansbury
Banner Reading Gouch  Jeremiah Stansbury
Metamorphosis  Dee Rimbaud
The Shaman Casts the King Adrift Dee Rimbaud
On the Darkest of Nights  Dee Rimbaud
Small Man's Quandry  Dee Rimbaud
A Vision of Pan in Pink Midnight  Dee Rimbaud

And another thing... 

The Glorious Persistence of Character in the Almighty Parent  Caitlin Leffel  
 
 


 

CONTRIBUTORS

 

Priscilla Barton (poetry) has appeared in Red Coral, Some Words, Shades of December, the Rose and Thorn, Stirring, and Rustlings of the Wind.  She resides in New York and works in the mental health field.  She is madly in love with poetry, and sometimes it loves her back.  antaresstarr@aol.com

Susan H. Case
(poetry) is a college professor in New York City.  Recent work can be found in or is forthcoming in:  Eclipse, 88: A Journal of Contemporary American Poetry, Floating Holiday, Freshwater, Georgetown Review, Into the Teeth of the Wind, ken*again, Mad Poets Review, Slant, Tar Wolf Review and The GW Review, among others, including the anthologies Yowl and Poems for the Mountains.  She is the author of The Scottish Café (Slapering Hol Press, 2002), which is currently being translated into Ukrainian and selections from which have been translated into Polish.   sgray13@nyc.rr.com

DB Cox
(poetry) is a blues musician/poet, originally from South Carolina.  After graduating from high school in 1966, he did a four year stint with the U.S. Marines, then moved to Boston to attend the Berklee School of Music, where he eventually found the blues circuit.  He loves writing for the same reason he loves playing the guitar—a way to communicate how he feels at a given time, on a given day.  He now resides in Watertown, Massachusetts.  His writing has been published online in Zygote In My Coffee, Remark, Underground Voices, Dublin Quarterly and others, and in print in Aesthetica, Snow Monkey, My Favorite Bullet and Open Wide Magazine.  donniebegood@comcast.net

A. Lee Firth (poetry) was born in 1962, Pontefract, England and attended the same school (but many years later) as the late Poet Laureate, Ted Hughes.  Several hundred of his poems have appeared in small press magazines and anthologies since 1988.  Imagist/minimalist and experimental linguistic/ludic forms predominate.  A new collection  is due to be published June 2005.   leefirth954@hotmail.com

William Gladys (prose) is the  pen name of  Brian Rayner.  Under his pen name he published (through his own Derek Books) a satire, Monarchy:  Politics of Tyranny & Denial, an irreverent critique of royals and monarchy in Britain at the present time, which is being stocked by local bookshops and some branches of Ottakers.  He self-published because he was fed up with delays from interested publishers in Great Britain.   He has a BA in English Literature from Cardiff University, is a pensioner aged 68, married with three children with hordes of grandchildren rooting about his place from time to time. Writing short stories is a new venture for him.  His hobbies include stained glass work, walking his dog Daisy, and playing the blues on trumpet.  He is keen on flying single engine aircraft, but the cost is prohibitive at present.  He enjoys listening to Miles Davis and William Orbit and reading prose and poetry; poetry-wise he likes Sylvia Plath and will not apologize to those who consider her rather over the top and angst ridden.   williamgladys@tiscali.co.uk

S. J. Holland-Batt (poetry) lives in St. Lucia, Queensland, where she is the poetry editor for the literary magazine Vanguard, and a freelance arts writer for localART.  Her poetry has appeared most recently in Straight Out Of Brisbane (SOOB), New Writing, Aesthetica: A Review of Contemporary Artists (UK), and Ideation.  Her upcoming publications include Cultural Studies Review (March 2005).  She is currently completing her Honours thesis on embedded texts in the works of Vladimir Nabokov, Haruki Murakami and D. M. Thomas.  uqvanguard@uq.edu.au

Jerome Kiel (poetry) has been writing short stories and poetry for a long time. He attended a series of poetry workshops, run by that Barnsley barnpot of the biro, Ian Macmillan.  Ian's sheer enjoyment of words and lust for life was infectious and Jerome's writing took an upward turn.  In the past six years, however, he has found the medium of poetry useful and rewarding, having helped to start a group in Doncaster, England, where workshops were the stimulus to getting ideas down on paper.  The group was invited to read at a Cultural Festival some five years ago and his enthusiasm for performance has grown from that, organising poetic shows, complete with music, props and scenery.  However, the dynamics of the group moved and Jerome formed a breakaway group, where the words are the priority.  This smaller group of poets, called The Poetry Factory, performs in pubs and clubs, theatres and halls, using no theatrical extras and continue to take the mystery out of poetry.  He recently performed poetry at The Poetry Cafe, Covent Garden where his works met with warm applause.   jeromekiel@hotmail.com

Andrew Kingston (prose) was born in Luton, England in 1967 and has lived there every day since, except for a ten year stay in London.  His first writing to reach the public was through the unbalanced journal living, Clod magazine, which he co-founded in 1987 and which is still, sporadically, produced.  Andrew’s aim to become more widely published is somewhat hampered by his full time job at the local university and by playing drums in a commercially unappealing rock band.  ELLIOTPSMOKE@aol.com

Herman Krieger (photography)  Photography has long held a fascination for Herman Krieger.  He worked as a photo lab technician during his teens in Detroit in the 1940s, and served as an instructor in the Army Air Corps photo school.  Earning a degree in  mathematics from the Univ. of California in Berkeley, he spend 30 years as a computer programmer in Europe.  Upon retirement, he and his wife moved to Eugene, Oregon, where he enrolled in the Univ. of Oregon School of Fine arts, and received a BFA degree in 1994.  hkrieger@efn.org

Caitlin Leffel (And another thing...) is a freelance writer and editor in New York.  She has learned a lot of things from her mother, Vikki, including how to maintain a reading pace of multiple books per week, that sentimentality is no excuse for clutter, and, most recently, how to get candle wax stains out of clothing and bedding.  clleffel@hotmail.com

Joseph Lewis (poetry) has published poetry in various print and ezines including ken*again, Sunspinner and sometime city.  He lives in Virginia.
ezwriter101@netscape.net

Lyn Lifshin
(poetry) has written more than 100 books and edited four anthologies of women writers.  Her poems have appeared in most poetry and literary magazines in the U.S.A., and her work has been included in virtually every major anthology of recent writing by women.  She has given more than 700 readings across the U.S.A. and has appeared at Dartmouth and Skidmore colleges, Cornell University, the Shakespeare Library, Whitney Museum, and Huntington Library.  Lyn Lifshin has also taught poetry and prose writing for many years at universities, colleges and high schools, and has been Poet in Residence at the University of Rochester, Antioch, and Colorado Mountain College. Winner of numerous awards including the Jack Kerouac Award for her book Kiss The Skin Off, Lyn is the subject of the documentary film Lyn Lifshin:  Not Made of Glass.  For her absolute dedication to the small presses which first published her, and for managing to survive on her own apart from any major publishing house or academic institution, Lifshin has earned the distinction "Queen of the Small Presses."  She has been praised by Robert Frost, Ken Kesey and Richard Eberhart, and Ed Sanders has seen her as "a modern Emily Dickinson."  onyxvelvet@aol.com

Duane Locke
(poetry) is Doctor of Philosophy, English Renaissance literature, Professor Emeritus of the Humanities and was Poet in Residence at the University of Tampa for over 20 years.  He has had over 5,000 poems published.  Over 2,000 were published in print magazines, such as American Poetry Review, Nation, and Bitter Oleander.  In September 1999, he became a cyber poet, and added over 3,000 poems published in E zines.  Mr. Locke is the author of 14 print books of poetry, and in 2002, added 3 E books, The Squids Dark Ink, From a Tiny Room, and The Death of Daphne.  The entire Spring 2004 issue of the magazine Bitter Oleander is devoted to a 92 page interview with Duane Locke and includes sixty of his poems.  He is also a painter, having many exhibitions, his latest at the city art museum in Gainesville, Florida.  A recent book, Extraordinary Interpretations, by Gary Monroe, published by University of Florida Press, has a discussion of Duane Locke’s paintings.  He is also a photographer, and now has over 194 photos in e-zines.  He does close-ups of trash tossed away in alleys and on sidewalks.  His old biographical notes, published many times, are now obsolete.  The notes stated that he lived in an old decaying house in the sunny Tampa slums, populated largely by drug dealers and the homeless.  The house was condemned by the city of Tampa inspectors, and after his living at this location for fifty years, he was forced to leave within six days.  The forced move was due to the fall of the bungalow in his large back yard.  The bungalow contained a priceless literary scholarly library which is now under debris.  An army of inspectors descended and decided he could no longer live in his home, so Mr. Locke left Tampa to relocate in Lakeland, Florida.  He lives by a lake with swans and many wild birds.  The fall was a “Fortunate Fall,” for he now lives in a more desirable and pleasant location at Lake Morton Plaza.  The only disadvantage is that he can find no trash to photograph, no broken beer bottles on sidewalk, no litter as it was in Tampa.   duanelocke@netzero.net

Frances Mackay (prose) is a retired secondary school teacher living with her husband in a small village in Outback Queensland, Australia.  Since moving there she
has spent her time renovating their home and writing short fiction, poetry and anecdotes.  She is also writing her autobiography at the insistence of her daughter who says she must put it all down "before you lose it."  Ms. Mackay has had pieces published, in print and on the web, in Australia, Canada, USA, England and Scotland but is still experimenting with her style.   fmackay@bigpond.com.au 

Ella McCrystle (poetry)
scribbles notes others insist on calling poems and inappropriately breaks into song.  Her recent poetry publications are in Underground Voices (online), Citizen32 (print) and  MiPo Bonsai Project 2004 (anthologized).  She is a PEN American Center Prison writing mentor and editor of The Hiss Quarterly.  In the few years she's been writing, Ella's poetry has been featured in over 25 publications.   ellamcc@thehiss.net

Rochelle Hope Mehr (poetry) lives in New Jersey.  She has appeared in San Gabriel Valley Poetry Quarterly, Lucidity, Writers of the Desert Sage, Improvijazzation Nation, ArtPage Images and many other publications.   rochelle.mehr@gte.net

Jerry R. Nedelman (prose) by day, is a statistician in the pharmaceutical industry, with a number of scientific publications to his credit.  By night, he writes short stories and haiku.  nedelje1@optonline.net

Ashok Niyogi (poetry) was born in Calcutta in 1955.  He graduated from Presidency College, Calcutta with Honors in Economics and thereafter started his career as a professional manager.  He  held many senior managerial positions in trade and industry, the last of which was as the head of an international company's operations in Russia but he retired to start a plantation in Goa.  His sojourns in Russia and the world over made a lasting impression on him, which finds frequent expression in his literary outpourings. Mr. Niyogi  now divides his time between Delhi, Moscow and California where his two daughters live.  He has been published in book-form:  "Reflections in the Dark" and "Crossroads" by A-4 Publications, India and his poems have appeared in numerous literary magazines
published from the UK, the USA, New Zealand and Australia and some of them, including some in chapbooks, are available online with Scars Publications (scars.tv) and other on-line magazines. 
Mr. Niyogi's book of poems, "Tentatively," is being published in the USA (iUniverse) and should be out for sale in March 2005.  ashokniyogi@yahoo.com

Zan Nordlund (prose) is a Grand Prize winner of the Chicken Soup for the Soul 10th Anniversary International Writer's Contest.  Her works have appeared with FlashFiction.net, Boom! ForReal,  Spillway Review, and others.   zannord@hotmail.com

Dee Rimbaud (art) is an artist and writer, living in Glasgow, Scotland, but will soon be packing his bags and heading off to sunnier climes.  He is author of two full-length collections of poetry and one novel:  "The Bad Seed" (Stride, 1998), "Dropping Ecstasy With The Angels" (Bluechrome, 2004), and "Stealing Heaven From The Lips Of God" (Bluechrome, 2004).  His art and writing have appeared in hundreds of print and internet magazines worldwide.  He is editor of The Book Of Hopes And Dreams and The AA Independent Press Guide (a free online guide to thousands of print and internet literary magazines).  Further information on all of these can be found at his website: http://www.thunderburst.co.uk/   thunderburst@ntlworld.com

Rob Rosen (prose) lives, loves, and works in San Francisco.  His first novel, "Sparkle," was published in 2001 to critical acclaim.  His short stories appear regularly on more than forty literary sites worldwide, and have been published in the literary anthologies Mentsh (Alyson, 2004), I Do/I Don't (Suspect Thoughts Press, 2004), Travel a Time Historic (Cyber Pulp, 2005), Short Attention Span Mysteries (Kerlak Publishing, 2005), and Brotherhood (Alyson, 2005).  Rob was also the winner of the Muse Apprentice Guild's annual international Chapbook Competition and will have a collection of his short stories published in the spring of 2005.    robrosen@therobrosen.com

J. R. Salling (poetry) is a teacher of mathematics, which should not imply any special ability in the discipline.  His stories, for example, don’t always add up in the end.  Publication credits include Pindeldyboz, Opium Magazine, Flashquake, Yankee Pot Roast, Facsimilation, Poor Mojo's Almanac(k), Insolent Rudder, Dead Mule, uber, Ten Thousand Monkeys, Copperfield Review, Rumble, Skive, Canopic Jar, Subterranean Quarterly, Journal of Modern Post, Defenestration and Thieves Jargon.   10ziersal@insight.rr.com

Carolyn Schlam (art)
is a painter and glassmaker now living and working in Miami, Florida.  She's a graduate of Harpur College and studied art with Norman Raeben in Carnegie Hall and glassmaking at Urban Glass.  She works in oil, mixed media, collage, fused and cast glass and now combines glass with clay and metal.  She has a large body of diverse work and accepts commissions in glass and other media.  Carolyn thanks ken*again for publishing her work and hopes you enjoy it.  "Thanks to everyone!"  She has not put up a website yet but if you'd like to contact her, you can write to carolynschlam@aol.com

Tom Sheehan
(poetry and prose) has five Pushcart nominations, and a Silver Rose Award from American Renaissance for the Twenty-first Century (ART) for short story excellence.  "A Collection of Friends," memoirs, was issued in September, 2004 by Pocol Press.  A poetry chapbook, “The Westering,” was issued summer 2004 by Wind River Press.  His fourth poetry book, "This Rare Earth & Other Flights," was issued in 2003, by Lit Pot Press.  He has two mysteries from Publish America, “Vigilantes East,” 2002 and “Death for the Phantom Receiver,” an NFL mystery, in 2003.  Another mystery, “An Accountable Death,” is serialized on 3amMagazine.com.  His work has been published in Retort Magazine, Nuvein, Slow Trains, The Paumanok Review, 42 Opus, Snow Monkey, and, many others.  He has been a feature writer in Nuvein, New Works Review, Tryst and Electica. tomfsheehan@comcast.net

Jeremiah Stansbury (art) graduated with a Bachelor of Arts, Art History cum laude, from The College of Communication and Fine Arts, The University of Memphis,  in 2003.  He spent a semester at The School of Visual Arts in New York City (painting) and a semester at the Memphis College of Art (drawing, design).  His exhibitions in Memphis, TN include:  Art Show at St. Georges Elementary School, March 2002; “New Works on View” Midtown Artists Market, August 2002; “Oil Paintings by Jeremiah Stansbury”, D’Edge Art and Unique Treasures, February 2003; “A Fresh New Look”, Painted Planet Art Space, August 2003.  His new works are currently on view at Painted Planet Art Space, Young Ave, in Memphis.
  He won the Jim Blevins Foundation scholarship to study Art History at The University of Memphis:  January 2000-January 2003.  Mr. Stansbury spent time in Florence, Italy in 2003 while conducting a close study of sculpture relating to the human anatomy in an attempt to further develop his ideas concerning abstract painting.   clipinpics@bellsouth.net

Kelley Jean White (poetry) was born and raised in New Hampshire, has degrees from Dartmouth College and Harvard Medical School, and has been a pediatrician in inner-city Philadelphia for the past twenty years.  She has nearly 2,000 poems accepted or published by more than 350 journals including American Writing, The Café Review, Chiron Review, Feminist Studies, The Larcom Review, Minnesota Review, Nimrod, Poet Lore, Rattle, and Whiskey Island Magazine, as well as several chapbooks and full-length collections of poetry:  The Patient Presents I am going to walk toward the sanctuary (Via Dolorosa Press,)  At the Monkey-Feast Table (Zebook Company,) Late (The People's Press,) and Against Medical Advice (Puddinghouse Publications.)  Ms. White received a Pushcart nomination for an experimental piece (from Gravity Presses) in 2000, her first year of submission,  and again in 2002.  She has read her work throughout the Philadelphia area and in Delaware, New Hampshire, New Jersey and New York and will be a featured reader during the 2004-2005 Free Library of Philadelphia reading series.  She has been identified as a "Peace Poet," reflecting her active membership in the Religious Society of Friends (Quakers) and for involvement with Poets for Peace locally, nationally, and internationally.  Her new book, A Gilford Offering, was published in October 2004.   kelleywhitemd@yahoo.com 

Skeeze Whitlow (prose) settled down to write after having sailed the seven seas.  Aboard ship, only the best story-tellers dominate.  The miracle is that he actually did write.  He has 20 years worth of stories.  The21writer@alumni.marymount.edu

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Mouse Immortal  William Gladys
The Meaning of Tuesday
  
Andrew Kingston
Seasons
  Frances Mackay
Estrella's Walk
 
Skeeze Whitlow

The Beanstalk Revisited  Rob Rosen
The Fred Mart
 
Zan Nordlund
Caught in the Act
 
Jerry R. Nedelman
The House on Bretton Heights
 
Tom Sheehan

 


 

 

Mouse Immortal                                          

by William Gladys                                                                          

                                                                                   

here Mouse Immortal originated from is not known, but having lived in the grounds of Halo Hall, and the mansion after it was built, for more than nearly two hundred years, it is hardly surprising that he became intimately but clandestinely involved with the comings and goings of any family that lived there.  This anecdote relates to the time when the occupants of Halo Hall were a self indulgent clique of affluent aristocrats, who had made fortunes by cruelly exploiting indigenous native labour around the world.  Mindfully, it also relates to their financial bankruptcy and social demise.

Mouse Immortal is tight lipped about his origins.  Assiduous research on my part and colleagues has yielded nothing constructive, although rumours point towards his being present in England during the time of Beowulf.  It was also hinted although not proven, that he may have worked as an agent with Geoffrey Chaucer the poet, spying for England in 13th.century France.  Indeed because of his alleged involvement with Chaucer and their enthusiastic importation of port and wine, it is highly probable that Mouse Immortal’s later rebuke of alcohol consumption misrepresents the truth, a point referred to on page three.

Mouse Immortal cannot be considered an ordinary rodent, a perhaps obvious declaration avowed with humility and candour.  Over many years, he has witnessed and privately recorded the lives and deaths of many of the human inhabitants at the Hall, some of whom had died tragically.  In a lucid example he admitted responsibility for the death of a male heir, registering neither remorse nor regret, but immense pleasure.  The heir in question, Master Harry, still considered it his absolute right to implement the anachronistic Droit de Segneur and sleep with Betty the beautiful servant girl who was to marry Stephen the groom later in the year.  Over threats of dismissal, he heard her weeping should she not acquiesce on the pre nuptial eve.  Like the most perceptive of lawyers, he reviewed and resolved the state of affairs quickly and brilliantly, chewing on putrefying badger flesh in the early hours, and gnawing imperceptibly at Harry's leg so as not to wake him while he slept.  In a few days, the maleficent had died from a brisk infection of his internal organs, leaving the servant girl and her lover groom free to consummate their love in marriage.  Out of respect to the family of the deceased however, Mouse Immortal attended the funeral at the local church.  A poignant and noble act, conveyed with the utmost modesty dignity and respect, but naturally no tear was shed.

This disclosure illuminates a small part of a complex nature and personality; a desire to protect the under privileged; and passion to pursue justice but arrestingly imbued with humility and kindness.

Although Mouse Immortal had never been inside a lawyer's office, signed any documents appertaining to the Hall, or paid even a minimal peppercorn rent, the entire rambling abode was accessible to him.  He would visit rooms whenever he pleased; the warm luxurious drawing room, the remote and chilly servants' quarters in the attic, the well stocked but cold, damp wine cellar in the basement, accessible to the dining room above.  He confided that at times, he had been tempted to imbibe, especially when the stock of ageing Nuit St.George prevailed, but having succumbed once, the memories of which were painful to recall even fifteen years later, he had vowed to abstain forever.  (A comment that seemed somewhat disingenuous in view of his alleged involvement with Chaucer, and their importation of fine port and wine in the 13th.century.)

He was able to see into each room and listen to conversations in soothing comfortable warmth from the confines of his beautifully constructed hideaways, each lined with moss, and hay.  During the cold winter months he particularly enjoyed his domicile behind the open fireplace in the drawing room, where he was able to glean "secret" information about the comings and goings of the family or slumber contentedly when the occupants had retired to bed.  Not surprisingly, over the years, scientists and probing souls have sought to authenticate his immortality.  To those who doubt, I recommend they read his historic revelatory memoirs and diaries dating from the early 19th Century, and later restructured editions of 1890, 1935 and 1981. What better substantive and authoritative proof could anyone ask for?  Indeed, how can such gems of literature be disputed as genuine when they exist for the scholarly to read, albeit in restricted form while preserved in temperature controlled rooms at universities and other admirable institutions.  Each book signed by him has been catalogued by eminent academics as bona fide.  Furthermore would I or any publisher wish to damage an unblemished reputation by falsely claiming something to be genuine when it wasn’t?  It is most unfortunate however, that his early poems and songs handed down by word of mouth; appear to have been forgotten.  Regrettably this is also the case for his earlier manuscripts, but thankfully, my discussions with him revealed new and astonishing historical facts, and these I have recorded in a footnote to page five.

Moreover, a foremost issue in his life relevant to this anecdote referred to above, occurred in 1860.  An occasion that generated enormous change, upheaval and trauma for him and from which he took an unusually long time to recover.  Immortality is not a state without emotion.  How ironic therefore, that the disturbing episode referred to in the previous paragraph, was recorded in perpetuity a year later in 1861 by the Pre-Raphaelite artist Robert Braithwaite Martineau, in his painting The Last Day in the Old Home.

The artist Martineau was a friend of the family and had, according to Mouse Immortal, recreated a not entirely accurate scene of the family during its day of reckoning at the old house.  For some extraordinary reason Mouse Immortal did not appear in the finished work.  (This altered or second inferior painting as Mouse Immortal referred to it, can be viewed without hindrance at the Tate Gallery in London.)  He assured me that he was present throughout, when the preliminary sketches were made, and was resting behind the clock on the large cabinet in full view of the artist.  Sorrowfully he acknowledges that his image was removed later but is unable to put a precise date as to when.  (It was awareness of this snub, arrowed straight to his heart which hurt him the most, he told me.)  For ease of understanding therefore, and out of respect to Mouse Immortal, I have included on page six, a contemporary reconstruction of the original work before he was so callously erased from the scene.

Nevertheless, the altered masterpiece exhibited at The Tate Gallery, without my eminent acquaintance, encapsulates in perpetuity a folly responsible for the ruination of an established and prominent family.  The painter Martineau has captured, on canvas, a historical and infinite moment of tragic foolhardiness.  He portrays the opulence, self indulgence and privilege that this family had been enjoying, as well as the destructive power not only of excessive alcohol consumption, but also inherited idiocy plainly visible in the upper class physiognomy.  Even at the eleventh hour, the feckless aristocrat continues to look at life through a tinted glass, and is incapable of comprehending the dire situation his behaviour has created, betraying not only his family but those who depended on him for employment.  Around him and his heir, the evidence of his inanity piles up:  auctioneers labels on items of furniture, a list of available apartments to rent; the loyal but deplorably subservient retainer receiving the keys to the Hall from his former employer.

And Mouse Immortal?  After centuries of constancy, he, like the former inhabitants of the Hall had to adapt to circumstances and attitudes that were changing rapidly.  Very occasionally however, nostalgia would creep in and he would shed a tear or two, recalling past glories and a charmed existence, where unassuming canines would leave him alone and irritating cats were never tolerated.  The wearisome news for him however, was that the latest owners of Halo Hall were doting towards a particular feline species and bred Abyssinians, one of the oldest types of domesticated cat, allegedly descended from the sacred cat of Egypt.  To Mouse Immortal however, a cat was a cat was a cat.  Being eternal, he naturally had nothing to fear, but there lingered nevertheless, an innate and irascible sense of abhorrence for them, an attitude which I feel is entirely reasonable under the circumstances.  Undoubtedly, the unpleasant malodorous urine they would release and incessant body fur,—even though this breed had a short coat—would guarantee him countless sleepless nights weighed down with wheezing and sneezing.  Essentially, he would have to cope with the irritation and intrusion as best he could and, as expected of such a gifted creature, cope he did.

Footnote, of Historical Magnitude:

During one of his summer vacations in the 20th.century, Mouse Immortal revealed that he had stayed in the northern county of Yorkshire, England.  It was there that he met the celebrated wood carver and furniture maker Thompson who, enamoured with such a splendid mind, body and perfect profile, carved for posterity Mouse Immortal’s image.  In dedication and appreciation on his especially fine pieces of furniture and as a consequence this craftsman was renowned thereafter as The Mouseman.

 

 

 



                                                                                                        


                                                    
                                                    
 

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The Meaning of Tuesday                               

by Andrew Kingston                                                                          



he skylights were deep yellow so that on sunny days, the garage was butter coloured.  Most of the time, throughout the year, there would be at least one vehicle idling between runs  One bright golden morning, a minibus was turning over next to the inspection pit, its exhaust unhealthily hanging in layers.

Pete patrolled the doorway.  He was angry and exasperated.  He paced and peered inside and back out again to the hapless sight of Lumber, the poker-faced, simple-minded mechanic.  Lumber was trying to defend himself, although he was clumsy and unconvincing.

“The way she was heading this morning, it’s a good thing she’s not around,” he said, pushing into the palm of one hand with the grubby index finger of the other.  “A good thing.  She was………. well, I don’t know what she was up to!” he blurted.  “Running around the yard, with all the oil and everything.  Knocking things over.  All sorts.  Didn’t know what was going to happen next.”

“You should never let her out of your sight, you bloody idiot half-wit,” Pete replied sharply.  He’d asked Lumber where the girl was and all he got was a load of drivel about why it was good her not being here.

Lumber looked forlorn.  “She’d’ve been more trouble here than wherever she’s gone,” he protested.

“Which is where exactly?”

“Duck pond.  I think.  She’ll be alright and back before elevenses,” Lumber said.  “Just you see,” he added, trying to sound bright.

Pete stopped pacing and threw down the rag he’d been scrunching and un-scrunching.  He turned away from Lumber and towards the inside of the garage.  “Would you ever stop that bloody noise!” he called in, zealously waving his arms.  There was a pause and a muffled shout before the minibus engine cut out and quiet flooded around them, carrying just the vaguest hints of more distant traffic and a couple of startled crows above.

Lumber could see Pete gritting his teeth and getting ready to shout.

“Bloody clown, Lumber!  You just cannot—can not—let a seven year old out on her own.  It could land us in all sorts of trouble!  Take your lunch break, right now, and go find her.  Pray to God she’s not come to any harm.”

There was something magical in the air.  Unknown and exciting.  She could smell it on the breeze; she could taste the salt and shine in the clear and smoky daylight.  She’d been up to the park a hundred times with Lumber and sometimes with the other mechanics and drivers, but today was different!

She happily swung her bag of broken bread.  Brightly coloured cars crashed past her.  ‘Smithy’ sat at his usual spot.  Part of her wanted to go and say ‘hello’, but she worried he would smell bad.  Her uncle wore clothes like Smithy and he smelled awful.  And besides, Lumber called Smithy ‘pervert’ and said she should never, ever go anywhere near him.

She didn’t think Smithy was a ‘pervert’ and felt bad, especially when people shouted at him.  No one she knew had a good word for him.

Still, it was her first time out on her own.  Whatever her sympathies and even if he didn’t stink, and even if no-one could see her……  She crossed the road in good time.  Smithy called out but she walked on, swinging her bread in time with her footsteps.  It was a quite beautiful day.

The park was at the bottom of the hill and she started skipping down, singing and looking forward to feeding the ducks.  She picked up speed, swinging her arms until they started hurting, skipping faster and faster until she was nearly tripping over herself.  Just in time, she grabbed the last post in the iron fence and swung in to the park.

The tarmac around the lake was deserted except at the far end where a small boy and his grandmother were pointing through the fence.  The silence and emptiness worried her and she sensed something wrong.  Everything was eerily quiet until suddenly, on the periphery of her vision and on the other side of the fence, she was aware of a huge kafuffle involving three desperate cats who had appeared from nowhere.

Her heart leapt into her throat.  She called out but the little boy and his grandmother couldn’t hear, or paid no notice.  She started shouting and waving her arms and ran towards a nearby gap in the fence, before sliding through and scaring the cats away.

She felt brave and anxious and her breath caught.  She’d scratched her leg piling through the hole in the fence.  The duck was blinking and its wings looked all wrong and bleeding.  It was barely alive, but the other ducks didn’t seem to notice.

Lumber walked at a furious pace, feeling angry and guilty.  He felt a pang of disgust and his hackles jump at the sight of Smithy, until he reasoned if he was here, on the bench, he could hardly be anywhere else and up to no good.  He felt relieved, then indignant.  What kind of harm did Pete possibly think could have come to the girl?!

“Fiddler!” Smithy yelled.  Lumber didn’t shout back like he usually did.  He didn’t want to be put off, not by Smithy, or by the wind blowing grit where his ankles were exposed between the tops of his socks and the bottom of his trousers.

He didn’t know why it was up to him to look after the little girl.  He didn’t mind, most of the time, although sometimes, she was a pest.  A right ‘pain in the arse’ as Pete would say.  He cursed to himself.  He hated and would never forgive himself if anything went wrong.

He should never have let her out of his sight, let alone encourage her to leave the garage.  He had told her to go off and find ‘the meaning of Tuesday’ and come back and tell him all about it at lunch.  He just wanted her away from the yard for a while so that he could get on with some work.

It wouldn’t get done now.  Pete would have to wait.

He rounded the iron rail fence and couldn’t see her; or at least not straightaway, not until what looked like a pile of clothes between the border fence and the lake stood up and started crying.

“What’s wrong; what’s wrong?” he flapped, hurrying the hundred or so metres over to her.  He wasn’t a large man, although he had a large man’s bearing.  The little girl flung her arms back towards the water as he approached.  Only when she stood to one side did Lumber see a pile of feathers and a barely moving body of a duck next to it.

“There there,” Lumber said, making soothing noises.  He vaulted the fence and landed heavily.  The duck was in a bad way.  He scrambled back over, telling the girl to ‘stay tight’ before disappearing and returning with a cardboard box.  All the while, the little girl sobbed quietly before crouching and reminding herself how badly the duck was hurt and renewing her noise.

Lumber picked the duck up in his box and took a firm hold of the little girl’s hand and walked them back to the garage.  The duck’s eyes opened every now and again, but things didn’t look good.

Pete wasn’t happy to see Lumber, or the girl.  He certainly wasn’t interested in the duck.  When Lumber suggested he should at least make sure it was comfortable, he was given short shrift.

“You do that in your own time.  It’s a day off your holiday!”

“A bloody duck,” Pete muttered as he turned round and wiped his oily hands on an old hand towel.

“Is Pete angry?” the girl asked once they’d found a clear space for the bird in the workshop.

“No.  Not really,” Lumber smiled.  He knew where to look for whiskey and heated a little over the stove with some milk.  He took some of the little girl’s bread, cubed and stale as honeycomb, and floated it, before the chunks absorbed the mixture, bloated and sunk.

Lumber found a stool for the little girl to stand on, but undertook the operation of feeding, or trying to feed, the duck himself.  The duck took a little before falling asleep again.

As the afternoon wore on, the duck started looking wild and panicky.  Lumber tried to impress an air of cautious wisdom for little girl’s benefit.  “He’s scared now, but that’s a good thing.  Better scared and have the strength to be scared than to be sick and dying.”

There was a fizz behind his eyes as he said the word ‘dying’.  He hated everything it had come to mean, especially in the last six years, during which time he had watched his wretched mother losing her grasp, dying a little more, every day.

To the little girl, the idea of death was unexpected, new and completely unknown.  Totally ungraspable.

“Can we take him back?” she first asked at about half past two.  By the time she asked for the third or fourth time, it was clear the duck was on its way to a recovery.

“I don’t know,” Lumber said wisely, even though he’d already decided.  It was a trick rather than an outright deception.  He stroked his chin.  “Oh what the heck,” he followed up, grandly shrugging his shoulders. The little girl squirmed with joy, but tried to hold back and show her maturity.

“Not for an hour or so though,” Lumber added.  He wanted to get home to Mrs. Lumber at the usual time and not have to explain the whole day’s events to her.

“Well of course not for an hour,” the little girl added, as if anything else was ridiculous.

Half an hour later they had walked past Smithy’s bench and were rounding the park railings.  Lumber held a coat over the box where the duck lay sulking and worn out from the excitement and the whiskey.

The duck didn’t think he would be taken back so soon and in such a state of disarray.  Not for one minute.  The first he suspected was when the smells and background sounds around the bumping dark started becoming familiar.  Surely not, he thought.  He’d been found out as a weakling at the pond and removed from the group.  To be dropped back so soon would be disastrous.

Suddenly, the lid was off the box, letting fresh air and light flood in.

After a minute or two of swaying around and ‘quacking’, the duck started hoping perhaps—just maybe—the people who had bought him back were waiting for the heat to wear off.  It would take some time though.  The vibes he was getting from the other ducks were determined and ugly.  They stood their distance, none of them looking like they were prepared to approach him.

Twice the man tried to get the little girl away, but twice she pulled him back.

The duck thought furiously, trying to project out to them.   “You must stay!” the bird’s brain screamed.  He looked round and for a second, his hopes raised.  His colleagues seemed to have lost some of their interest.  If only a few of them jumped him when he was finally, inevitably left by his rescuers, then he might—just might— stand a chance.

He started waddling and limping back towards the fence and slipped where the grass petered out in to tarmac.  Only when he steadied himself did he realise his former rescuers were sneaking away.  As she turned the corner, the little girl waved.  Then she was gone.

Next day, the sky was more brittle and had the sulky look of the oncoming winter.  The little girl skipped on her way to the garage.  Her head was full of activities for the day.  She’d drawn a picture for Pete to make him less angry with Lumber and decided the two of them—her and Lumber—should return to the pond, at lunchtime, to visit the duck.

Soon she was at the road which led off, in one direction, to the garage, and in the other, to the park.  She started worrying.  Lunch was hours away, and what if Lumber couldn’t go?  She turned in the direction of the garage, but swiveled round, ruefully.  She had to see that the duck was still okay, and after a moment’s hesitation, decided to pop up past Smithy’s bench and on to the park to see.  In her heart she already knew...

 

 



                                                                                                        

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Seasons                                                                  

by Frances Mackay

                                                                                                                                              

une stepped onto the hard baked soil.  It had been another restless night and her baby was almost due.  She put her hand on her stomach and smiled as she felt the ripple.  "Soon, baby, soon", she crooned.

She sighed as she looked out at the parched land.  Dust storms had brought the dunes closer.  They were now encroaching on to their pastures and had piled against the sparse windbreak.  Don, her husband,  had taken what was left of their stock to the ‘long paddock’, the traditional droving trail used in times of drought, and she’d had little word in the last weeks.  She was going to have to handle the birth by herself.

Rusty, the old heeler bitch, walked the yard with her.  Together they stopped and watched the sky change to rosy colour.  June fondled Rusty’s ear, an ache in her throat, as a small wind caused an eddy of red dust to whirl across the flat ground.  Leaves and grit buffeted the pair.

Bush bees were already busy and the flowers of the tall cactus glowed, reflecting the light.  Their beauty wouldn’t survive the heat and would be shriveled by mid-morning.

June winced and arched her back at the low, grinding pain.  As soon as she was able she turned back to the house and smiled at the unopened buds on the cactus.

 

 



                                                                                                        
 

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Estrella's Walk                                                         

by Skeeze Whitlow



n due time, I heard through the scuttlebutt, word of a most amazing creature.  An Indian Goddess.  With iridescent beauty holding forth, standing proud, high atop a lush green hilltop in Armuelles.  Our destination!  And this Goddess’s name was Estrella.   Estrella.

So this was what it was all about:  Estrella.  They spoke of her with reverence.  Beauty untouchable.  Estrella’s light feminine mannerisms captivate.  A ray of hope shines from above with the mention of this Goddess.  Genuine seven crowned Chiriqui.  Her dimensions consummate apparition like karat fixates diamond.  Blameless vitality shifts through spectrum.  Bizarre shades of night.  The earth, created for her amusement; water conceived so she might have somewhere to walk.  Well formed bare feet, exquisite in their arch.  She moves through dreams.  And upon them.  Every ethereal grace rewards those touched by Estrella.

A glimpse of her as she wanders down toward the sea, on midnight strolls with a sleek panther who comes in out of the jungle to nuzzle against the firm of her thigh.  Momentary pleasure indulges as they, two together, amble along the noiseless depth of riverside’s mist.  As if in dance, she’d sway; he’d stretch velvety paws of guile.  Heel and paw glisten over shiny slate, over garlands of flowers draped along the bank.  Sashaying through low fronds brushing against the calves of their legs.  Touching the wily innocence of this night.  Clinging vines reach for river’s succor.  Before glowing orchids of Espirito Santo the atmosphere smacks of forever.  They absorb the water’s bubbling gurgle.  In plain sight, reptilian alertness.  El Grande Zappo.  The sensitive eyes of all God’s creatures.  Below nesting birds of paradise, the cat’s haunching vertebrae slithers to the tickle of brazen fingernails.  Down to the river’s mouth, they step, often carelessly setting foot within the tempting flow, keeping clear of large round phosphorescent boulders.  Dappled moonlight gleams.  Down to the gushing mouth where white crests of algae-laden sea lap against this peaceful flow, against these deep reflective pools which began their trickle and fall from craggy mountains, clear as day, rolling down through leafy hillsides to vast grasses, dipping to banana plantations.  Estrella’s native land.  Top soil takes on new meaning.  Still waters span loamy banks.  Aqua elements meet, touch and mingle.  Rich dark silt sweats out nutrients.  Shallow roots caress.  Palms touch the starry starry sky.  Thin trees, overgrowth of vine.  Shoots and sprouts, scrubby bushes, blossoming bijous.  Tiny scurrying things thrive here.  Off to the side of the pummeled footpath.  Beneath lush cover—small eyes blink.  Noises coo.  Magic escapes in effervescence.  Memory bubbles.  To a hallowed opening in this suffocating jungle flora.  The melding of fresh water and salt, a frothy bubbling point where the flow’s clarity is engulfed.  Clouded.  Enraptured.  This land’s sweet nectar gives way to the sea’s stiff breeze.  Estrella bids the famished black cat drink.  Lowering its head, the panther dips its tongue into brackish liquid.  Slurping, lapping up juices of life.  Sublime juices, pledging elusive powers.  His sleek black whiskered mouth stitched with incisors; nimble pink lapper one notch above silence.  Need pulsates like spanning rings.  Desire craves this vicinity.

Estrella parts with her midnight paramour.  Puma, lord God of fear and respect.  She’ll walk with him tomorrow night.  And ever more.  Her ankles kick.  Sand and salt sift through urging toes.  Dry beach luminescent against crashing waves.  Frothing traces of brine.  The wind tugs her hair, a knowing smile glistens; she outshines.  Her muscles flex.  Shadowy flanks curve.  Eager feet prowl.  In search of dawn.

Yes, this is what I overheard from the beaten and world-weary sailors as they made their ways back and forth from the meal table.  I was mesmerized.  Stunned.  My anticipation shot up through the overhead.  All I wanted was to meet this woman.  Yes, I needed a Goddess like never before.

 

                                                                  


                                                    
                                                    

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The Beanstalk Revisited                                                      

by Rob Rosen



ake awoke with a start at the sound of pounding on his bedroom door.  “Jake!” his father bellowed, repeatedly, until Jake flung his legs out of bed and lumbered over to the door.

“It’s Saturday, dad.  I don’t have to get up early today,” Jake said, groggily, as he opened the door.

“Yes, but I do and today is your mother’s birthday.”

“Step-mother,” Jake corrected.

“Semantics,” his dad replied.  “In any case, I’m sure you’ve conveniently forgotten to get her anything, so here’s fifty dollars.  Go buy her something nice.”

His dad handed him the bills and was off in a flash.  Jake could think of a million other things that he’d rather do than go shopping for a present for his stepmother, like poking his eyes out with hot pokers, but he knew he had had no choice in the matter.

When his real mother was still alive, birthdays were more fun than Christmas.  Now, very little excited Jake; especially anything that had to do with the woman his father married.  Still, he did have fifty dollars, and that could buy a whole lot of things besides just a gift for his evil, old stepmonster, as he liked to call her when nobody was listening.

So Jake showered, dressed, and rode his bicycle down the street to the local pawnshop.  Mr. Harrington kept a wicked, cool collection of comic books that normally Jake could never afford to buy.  But normally he didn’t have a wad of cash burning a hole through his jeans.  And though Jake never did care for Mr. Harrington, he certainly liked his comics.  He eyed them hungrily as soon as he entered the store.  Mr. Harrington was on him in two seconds flat, as kids like Jake were forever trying to steal those particular items.

“No reading in the store, young man.  You want it, you buy it,” Mr. Harrington admonished.

“No sweat,” Jake replied, and flashed him the money.  Mr. Harrington eyed him suspiciously, but stepped a few feet back to let Jake explore the collection.  Mr. Harrington liked cash more than he hated kids.  It was merely a matter of priorities.

Fifteen minutes later Jake was at the counter with several hard-to-find issues.  Each cost ten dollars.  That was five comics:  a boon for any twelve year old.  But just before Jake paid for them, he remembered his stepmonster.  She’d never believe the comics were for her; and, more importantly, neither would his father.  So, with much thought, he dwindled the stack down to four and asked Mr. Harrington what he could buy with ten dollars for his stepmother’s birthday.

Mr. Harrington looked around his store reverently and replied, “Son, you’re lucky to get those comics for that price.  You know, ten dollars doesn’t go very far these days.”  Jake looked around the store as well, but all he saw was a bunch of junk.  Who’d want this stuff, he thought, let alone pay ten dollars for any of it.  But just before he started to return another comic to the rack, Mr. Harrington pulled out an item from beneath the counter.

It was dusty.  It was banged up.  It was on the small side.  And it had a funky angel-like thing along the side.  But, Jake noticed, it was marked for ten dollars.

“Bingo,” Jake said, with glee.  “What is it?”

“What is it?”  Mr. Harrington said in mock surprise.  “This, my little friend, is a harp.  And a very special harp at that.”

“Then why’s it marked for only ten dollars?”  Jake asked, already leery.

“Because it can only be sold to a very special young boy.  An adult could only appreciate it for its beauty, but a child can make it truly sing.”

“Sing?  You mean play, right?”

“No, for the right person, this harp will sing.  My lad, do you know the story of Jack and the beanstalk?”

“The fairytale?  Sure, I know it.  My mom used to tell it to me.  When she was alive.”  Jake looked down at his sneakers.  He hated talking about his mother like she wasn’t there anymore.

Mr. Harrington nodded.  “Yes, the fairytale.  Though like many fairytales this one was rooted in truth.  This, my boy, is the actual golden harp that Jack stole from the giant.  And it will sing, but only for a child.  Or a giant, but they’re harder to come by these days.”

“Oh come on now,” Jake said.  “You’re pulling my leg.  It’s just an old brass harp.  Fairytales are fairytales, nothing more.”

“No siree.  Lots of stories are based in some way or another on real people.  Take, for instance, Dracula.  You know Dracula right?  Well, he’s based on a real live person:  Vladimir the Impaler.  Ever heard of him?”

“Sure.  I suppose so,” Jake said, thinking that Mr. Harrington was even crazier than he first thought.  “Still, Dracula ain’t no giant beanstalk or a singing harp.”

“Okay, how about Cinderella then?  And her evil stepmother?”

Ah, Jake saw something concrete in that example.  He knew they existed.  “Fine,” he finally said.  “I’ll give you fifty for these comics and that crazy old harp.”

“You got a deal, m