Not surprised to wake in a strange bed, in this unknown and distant city, through bamboo shades I watched mornings light dappled by heavily falling snow. Different as well, I am not alone as my companion of last night still shares my bed.

I smiled remembering our laughter, how we sang and danced while holding hands. Her wildly tangled blond hair so mottled by mornings light. Golden hazel are her eyes, clear, confidant, and full of love as she moves closer to my side.

She placed her hand to my cheek, I felt her warm breath, and so softly she whispered, “Pop, read me that story again, the one about the man selling caps that were all stolen by monkeys, and do the funny monkey voices too.” And for my Granddaughter, I so gladly complied.

by-Doug Mathewson

“This is such a Mavie and Davie story,” said Davis,  casually sliding his gaze around the room. He scanned every booth, and corner for his sister Mavis, just to be sure she had not silently infiltrated his one table-two-chair coffee shop kingdom.
“I mean,” he continued,” you know how she can be, more than little competitive, right? Between us we have our own rules about it, always have. Friendly, with love, looking out for each other. Well, mostly.

Remember last summer?  When ever you came by we were fighting? We sent these nattering nasty little text-messages, sniping and snapping back and forth for weeks. The argument was stupid. Aren’t they all? It was about who’s phone was better. First I got this feature, thought it would be real handy.
You typed in six-six-six, you know, like hell and the devil and everything, then hit the pound sign. Put the phone under your cup, it would get real hot and reheat your coffee. Sounded good, but she would watch till I did it, then call me. Like a jerk I answered every time! We both got the optional cellphone fax feature that used the same little papers to rolled cigarettes too. Worthless. The faxes too small to read, and neither of us smoked. Then she got a retina scanner in her phone and I wore mirrored sunglasses day and night just to spite her. People assumed I was on drugs! Sure, we made up, always do eventually.”

I enjoyed hearing another one of their insane “Mavie & Davie” micro-dramas. Mavis told them better, but since she regarded me more as a friend of  Davis, she  was guarded in what she would share. I got an another coffee, and some half-caff-Tunisian-pumice-stone-soy-latte thing Davis favored at the time. By then he had finished checking the multiple blogs he followed and positioned his latest phone just so, displayed to its’ best advantage on our small table. With a smile and half a laugh, he shook his head theatrically and continued.  “Crazy really, how we’ve been with new phones the past two years. We both like tech. And you know we both like showing off, and this is someplace we can do it on equal ground. Phones, we do need them. Well, you can’t really call them phones any more but all that personal digital assistant communication system stuff is all just so pretentious!” He seemed serious now, moving his chair closer to mine and sotto-voce continued.

“No mr.businessman-plain-jane-regular-blackberry-bluetooth stuff, that all get the raspberry far as we’re concerned. Custom stuff. All high end offshore limited edition genetically linked e-phones. We both got e-implants now, total interphase. Got ’em on our birthday. We had a party, had both been drinking, and worst of all, she dared me!  So next day there we are, the two of us, with cartoon band aids behind our right ears, and all hung over. She had Smurfs and I had Yogi Bear. You know, for what it all cost they could do better than Hanna-Barbera. I think.

Anyway, all hotter than hot, these e-gen-phones. Nothing newer. Mine in “distressed asphalt”, hers in “acid-wash taupe”. Latest pre-production backdoor stuff. I hacked mine a little, and knew she would too on the side.  I gotta laugh, you’ll like this part. So I follow this way cool bilget. Text messages from  minor celebrities waiting in Hollywood traffic court.  Defendant asks who ever is online, which possible excuse for their behavior will seem most plausible to the Judge!  L.A. tabloid vibe, outrageously vapid!

So thinking  I’m way cool, I drop by her place. Two quick knocks, and I stroll right in. There she was! Shaving her legs to summertime silky smoothness with her phone! A little implant jaw twitch, and her phone goes all still, and darkens. She blows the stubble-ash off the edge, looks at me real sly with her million dollar smile, and all innocent says,” “Oh, yours doesn’t do that?”  “You know, I gotta say, she so had me there!

by-Doug Mathewson

The Honk and Holler Opening Soon by Billie Letts
The Circus In Winter  by Cathy Day.

Cold and flu season soon will be upon us. Everyone treasures “snow-days” to
stay warm and cozy, catching up with a great book. But what of “sick-days”? Seemingly
near death days of jumbled thoughts, muddled actions, and CVS generic tonics. Days
you are too sick to even follow day-time TV. What do you read then? A fortunate few who may still have their Archie and Veronica comics, but for everyone else may I suggest the following two short novels. Read them in simultaneously or individually, it matters not. The flat characters are so lacking in dimension the reader can shuffle them like two pinochle decks. A slipstream merger of these two tales might well produce a more intricate, and interesting story.
The Honk and Holler Opening Soon (Guilford Library Book Sale $3.00) is without question the better of the two books. Plot and style are both enjoyable. Our story centers around a small diner owned by a disabled Vietnam Veteran. Life is quiet till a mysterious woman in a short skirt, carrying a three legged dog, emerges from the night.
The characters are predictable and cartoonish as they pass from front cover to last page, but, I liked them. The reader should not hang big expectations on these good folks, the humorous parts are entertaining and that is enough.
The Circus In Winter (Broad Street Books, Middletown, Final Clearance Table $1.98)
outlines the history of the Great Porter Circus. A lesser know big-tent show that toured smaller mid-western towns in the late nineteenth century. The snapped chalk-line of a linear plot does not allow the reader to stray far as they get increasingly bored. How can a circus book be dull? The images of life behind the scenes were very interesting. Details of a post Civil War circus touring America are revealed through biographies of the performers and their families. This information redeemed the book for me. I found the side-show people much more interesting than the  star performers. My favorite chapter follows a young man hired to portray a ”Pin-Head.” He marries a delightful woman who performs as both the circus Fat Lady, and “The Zulu Queen.” They and their children to follow establish a “Lost-Tribe,” (discovered apparently by the shows promoter), and toured for three generations.
During long winters, when the show would not tour, the performers who appeared so exotic are shown to be everyday people, just with unusual employment. Each short chapter follows a different performer, making finding your place easy after dozing off in a Day-Quil haze.
Those among us who love books regard an unread stack as “money in the bank.”
These two books are more akin to extra boxes of kleenex, great to have on hand when needed, but only pick them up when on sale.

reviewed by-Doug Mathewson

Clearout Sale
by Mark Edwards       reviewed by Doug Mathewson

Before the very first page of “Clearout Sale” author Mark Edwards tells us his purpose. The dedication page simply states, “for my mates.” I for one am glad Mr. Edwards has kindly included the reader within this circle. Clearout Sale  (Andromache Books London UK,146 pages. 2008) is a love story. Not romantic love, though romance does appear more than once as a topic with in these pages. Rather love of place and people, love of language and the interplay of conversation. The title may suggest a clearance of odd remainders, a clearing out of mismatched bits and pieces the author has yet to find homes for, but this notion would be both untrue and a disservice to the author. What he done in fact is carefully assemble a fascinating and delightful collection of brief prose poems and equally brief fiction pieces.
The first section of the book is poetry. Short prose poems that are the strongest work featured in this volume. Our setting is contemporary urban Scotland, our cast an assemblage or well crafted everyday working people. Friends and neighbors of the author one assumes. The prose, the actual language is fascinating and exotic you my American ears. Read these poems aloud for a real treat. More than the accent Mr. Edwards conveys to us with his fanciful spelling is the cadence, the rhythm of of his characters speech. Among my many favorites a few are exceptional. In “kev” the author  beautifully captures a man tell us a bit of his life. “CV -Promises” provides lasting images of high-rise life. My favorite “yir all shite” is simply brilliant. For anyone who is a poet, knows a poet, or has every attended a live poetry event this poem alone justifies the volume’s purchase. A drunken poet tells all assembled, in no uncertain terms, of his might and prowess. At a recent University open mic event I was sorely tempted to rise from my seat and read this piece aloud. If only I could manage the accent.
Short fiction, very short fiction that fits the ever changing description of flash fiction
comprises the second half of Clearout Sale. While the language and characters remain
just as captivating the selections themselves are not as strong or as lasting. Fiction that comes to us as “a slice of life” is often quite good. Tasty and memorable. When the “slices” are very small, as in all forms of micro-fiction, two problems arise. Which tiny slice to pick, and does it leave the reader satisfied? Mr. Edwards has mixed results in this area. Several stories are good. One that stands out is “Drama.”  This short piece, too long for current flash fiction guidelines, tells a complete story well rounded between our central character’s internal dialogue and the well written dialogue he has with friends. “Holiday” is memorable as well. This first person narrative memory of childhood is done with just the right mixture of innocence, desperation, and humor.
I for one was glad to have read this book, and happy to recommend it. Being both poetry and fiction may work against it. Perhaps a future edit might intersperse the two,
arranging the work more by topic or theme. Happily would I read future works by Mr. Edwards, and look forward to additional offerings from Andromache Books.

Annoyed and unnerved by his absence,
“Twice this week is twice too many.”
Gruffly she said to herself.
Bea left for work early again,
To go three blocks over and throw,
A whole dam handful of gravel and grit
At the fogged-up curtained window,
The one nearest that girl’s bed.
And Bea not caring who might hear!
More than amorous adventure,
Bea already knew.
This girl, she could just be the one.
Smiling as the light came on,
Softly to herself she said,
“Renew love’s vows before the dawn,
That’s magic, you never forget.”
But he’s my son dammit!
Up there in her bed.
And right now,
He needs to get up for School!

Space invaders from the sky!
Oh so horrifying to behold.
Wave upon endless wave of metal ships descend from above!
With menacing visage they march upon our fair metropolis,
Morning light discarded, crazed in refraction
Off armor’s unnerving gleam.
Cruel tridents ring with each lock-step strike upon ground,
Marking the measure of their advance.
With steely swords raised aloft in unison
They chant and march as one.
Clockwork voice-boxes proclaim Earth’s demise,
In crude flat imitation of our sweet native tongue.
The situation is so desperate!
Things are bleak for all mankind!
Till New Jersey’s Mighty Teamsters did arise
From very depths of Newark’s scrap-yard bowels.
Striking back with vengeance, fearsome to behold,
And the most monstrous of grapple cranes.
Huge magnetic claws cut swaths of utter ruin,
No invader remained intact, no body, ship, or sword.
We weep and laugh so joyfully now!
Our hearts do burst with delight!
As China bound by cargo-barge this once fierce army goes.
Crushed and bailed, then sold by weight.
An unanticipated destiny for them now,
Awaits beneath our foreign stars.
Newly minted they shall be reborn,
As products made by Kitchen-Maid.

by-Doug Mathewson

Life could be worse, much worse. He could still say “Professor Jacob Bernstein, Former Chair of Literature, Cornell University”, and there were his publishing credits (not that there was any actual income from either source). But more importantly, he was working. Working, still able to live in Manhattan and continue teaching. So many colleagues and acquaintances of his age and tenure had been herded quickly towards “early-retirement”, offered “buy-out-packages.” Exiled and sentenced to a living death. Shepherded to aquiet demise. Extinction would a more accurate description. Teaching jobs, good or bad, were quite a rare commodity in this economy, and being an elitist English Literature Professor no longer an option. Things were different now. Times, sadly, had quite changed.

Jacob was a very good teacher, by anyone’s standard, always tailoring lesson plans and curriculum to best fit the class. He truly cared what his students would take with them from his classes. This was a major challenge indeed, his incoming classes would be very different. The So-Ho Institute of Fashion Evening Program offered a far more exotic group of students than any Ivy Grad-School could ever hope for. When hired he was told repeatedly that twice “Project Runway” has filmed at the school and with a bit of luck he might have a cameo appearance in an upcoming spring segment.

“Fashion Institute Professor of Literature” had a quirky ring to it. He liked it, even if it was a rather hollow ring. Maybe a 60’s ring. “Think “Blow-Up”, think “Zabriske Point,”  he said aloud,“ and all the other art-house movies of that delightful decade long past. There is your key.” Why should the classics of literature, particularly American literature be so ham-strung by tradition? Making these great works relevant to new generations was so much more vital than upholding established traditional interpretations of these novels. Yes, he would make things different, as different as need be to make it work for his new classes. A new generation, always he had felt, should see with new eyes. “I’ll start with the driest material”, he mused, “and see just how we fare.”

“So, my dear young friends, Hester Prin refused to wear her Scarlet Letter. It was shaped entirely wrong for her face, the color clashed with everything she owned, and it limited so severely what she could do with her hair. It was a difficult fashion problem, but problem for The Courts as well, since she was obliged to wear this inappropriate tacky bit of flair. A more reasonable settlement was eventually reached. A solution of which some of you may be aware.” Smiling to himself, Jacob continued  “Since the only charge she was finally convicted of was Contempt of Court she would wear two “Cs”. She would not actually wear them on her outfits (since there could be no guarantee it would work any better than the initial Scarlet A) but rather on a large shoulder bag, or any other accessory item, she might carry or wear. And that, class, is how the ‘Coach’ brand was born oh so many years ago. We still see Hester’s influence today. In many fine stores, as well as popular knock offs, sold buy enterprising street vendors through our fair city,” he concluded, his confidence now renewed.

by-Doug Mathewson

The Night-Clerk showed him in, and seemed relived when he smiled so broadly. Snow fell from Lyosha’s fur hat and wide shoulders as he deposited his tattered valise on what remained of the old stained carpet. What Lyosha saw pleased him. A small worn suite of rooms perfectly suited for his stay of indeterminate length. “Very nice for me” he said. Nodding the night-man added, “yeah, not bad, but trouble with the toilet and television sometimes.” Lyosha was grateful for the offered punch-line, even in English he knew this one. “So” Lyosha said “you are saying is nothing on TV but shit?” They both laughed as the key was passed. He had made his first friend on these alien shores.

by-Doug Mathewson

Buddy loved surprises, both to give and to get. Buddy wasn’t dumb, but he wasn’t exactly right either. The Group Home’s rules said for your birthday you could order whatever you wanted for supper. Buddy did a funny voice and surprised everyone yelling steak! At dinner on his birthday, he had another surprise. He gave his steak to Big Eugene, who ate it with his fingers, while Buddy palmed the special knife. Buddy wasn’t stupid, just had his own different ways. Late that night when Mr. Jackson the janitor came to hurt the girls, and make them cry, Buddy had a surprise for him too. A six-inch stainless steel surprise with a serrated edge and a wooden handle that Buddy ripped all the way back to the bones in Mr. Jackson’s unshaven surprised throat.

by-Doug Mathewson

Renn always worried. He worried about something, trivial or not, almost everyday of his long long life. A life so far of over a thousand winters, but now he really had something to worry about. “I am hardly myself”, he thought. “ I am but a wind-fell weak branch. There is little magic left in me now, but I shall be a stubborn old stump.”

He was never powerful, or even regarded as clever in the wide and intricate realms of Queen Mab Kingdom. His kind were once many, and fiercely loyal to The Fey. The power and magic of Dryads was deeply knotted twisted within the trees. Oak was strength and Ash offered wisdom, but Renn dwindling tribe, still kept the oldest ways of Faerie. Rowan was Renn’s tree, the one wood of magic, the wood of his bond.  Now in a time of fewer trees, nymphs had been brought low. When sap no longer flows, natural magic dies.

He was weak, capable of only  simple, small spells. Once he could wildly shifted-shapes with ease, now he could only manage small creatures, nothing massing more that five or six kilos. For centuries he won his way artfully by theft, impersonation, and deceit. And now, he was reduced to beg. He went back-door to back-door trying shapes that might gain him a meal. He found these humans he once tricked with ease took no interest in his well being when he assumed aspects of  marten, stout, pocket-bagger, or raccoon. Of the simple forms he had taken in the past, only strayed house cats gained some small degree of charity in this place, once forest, now bland domesticated lands.
He felt cold and weaker still as the seasons changed. The few remaining trees slowed for winter’s sleep.

Luckily Renn found his benefactor, or benefactress to be more accurate in Marguerite. She was a small elderly woman whose small elderly home was thankfully beneath several mature Oaks so Renn could summon strength and and inspiration there. He appeared over several days as different cats – charming, curious, hungry cats, each in need of a meal. For his own amusement he added a unique personality to each, one affectionate, one timid, and one so rude and bold! Marguerite had a loving heart, but spending so much of her time cataloguing the districts wild flowers, pressed during summer months, left her with little imagination for the naming of cats. Particularly the bland variety of cats that Renn could barely manage in his weakened state.  She called him in turn “Marmalade”, “Snowbell”, and “Tiger.” Kindly she spoke with each, complementing them in the manner  that cats so love.

Often she would reminisce aloud about a Tuxedo Cat, her dearest companion of many years who had passed. He was a fine cat and her dearest friend. They took leisurely walks together, though he might insist on being carried for the return leg. Evenings they would read by the open hearth, or play cards (they both cheated outrageously). Afternoons they might garden. He destained getting his white paws dirty, so helped for his part by reading aloud to Marguerite the books they both held dear.
She loved those summer afternoons, listening to his small high voice reading “Pride and Prejudice” or  “Wuthering Heights.”  His own taste ran more towards poetry, but “Paradise Lost”  hardly seemed something for the casual work of gardening. Most of all, they found great comfort in the pleasure of one-another’s company over the years.
Marguerite was concerned about the health and well-being of her visitors, now her friends. On her pension-petite, as she called it, one cat would visit the Veterinary Clinic per month to insure their continued good health, but who should be first?  Fate would decide, she thought. “Who ever I can pop-into a pillow case today, will go first.”

Renn was adorable and cuddly,  comically overplaying “Marmalade” when the fabric closed around him. Weakened as he was, all he could do was tussle and hiss while his mind spewed curses and spells. He changed through every form he could remember, hoping to locate his small sharp sword in the possession of one. But it was no use and finally he drowsed.

A strange voice woke him “ Well, yes Mme., let us take a look at this fine chat-in-a-sack you have brought.”  Renn panicked! What had he been? Often he slept as a hedgehog rolled into a spiny ball, but that couldn’t be right!  Frantically he tried to snatch an image from Marguerite’s thoughts!  A cat! Yes a cat of course! In a wink he changed just as the cloth was unknotted! Margarite caught her breath with surprise. It is the miracle for which i have so long hoped, she thought. Renn smiled to himself and purred with satisfaction as she scooped him into her arms. He admired how striking his black and white paws looked, set against Marguerite’s lavender velveteen collar. She trembled with joy and holding him close she lovingly whispered, “Boots,…. you’ve come back.”

by-Doug Mathewson