So this guy was named Philbert or something, I said.

That Filbert, what a nut!, You exclaimed.

Who’s Philbert? Your moron boy friend asked.

No no, it’s just a joke!, You declared.

Your idiot boyfriend didn’t believe you, I saw.

He squirmed and simmered uncomfortably,

(the mention of another man),

you enjoyed it, I shook my head

by – Doug Mathewson

This piece was written for the Creative Soup Project instalation “A Day in The Life” which I was very happy to participate in. The rest of this project may be viewed at: www.creativesoup.org

Every fall at some point I re-stick all the stickie notes on my fridge. I had a little time before work and wanted to get it out-of-the-way-as-they-say. Some notes could go, even ones I’d had up for years. “Fix eight-track player in VW bus” no longer carried the urgency or relevance it once did. Same goes for “Arturo, cat feed.” Do I know an Arturo?, or is Arturo the cat? I can’t seem to bring either one to mind. Other notes will stay as they have for many years, Duct tape, even the new clear duct tape, looks forlorn and haphazard in the kitchen so I don’t use that. I thought of fiber-glassing over my oldest notes, but what if I needed a new refrigerator? The doors would surely not interchange. 3-M dry-mount adhesive spray from the art-supply store works well on these tattered missives. I may need my many notes with their cryptic amendments. “Write great book! (one that makes sense this time) and get rich! (explore more on how to…), those two had to stay. I needed room for something new.

One of the daily papers ran a photo of President Elect Obama hugging a young Iraq Veteran in a leaf strewn Park. She would have been on tip-toes to meet his embrace as he bent to meet hers. But she had no toes, or legs. Two carbon-fiber replacements were clearly visible between her warn flat shoes and her thrift store coat. Barack’s expression showed such a depth of compassion. His eyes, the set of his jaw spoke of his understanding, and of his intense resolve.

The picture is now eye level on my fridge. It’s like a book-mark, a kind of place holder. It reminds me where I left off yesterday in my revived commitment to be a empathetic and compassionate person. That’s more important, I think, than all the rest. Including the problematic Arturo, who might or, might not, be a cat.

by-Doug Mathewson

True story, for real. I was casually doing a scrawly crawly through Duotrope’s Themed-Calender, (themes just never work out for me), (ever). If scrolling  and trolling does turn up an amazing theme, I’ll write something three months late and the word count won’t even be close. I mis-read “Erotica, 12 to 18 words” and thought, “pssst,  I can do that!” But a closer review of the details sadly revealed “twelve to eighteen thousand words in the genre of erotica.” And, well ,I can’t do that.

by-Doug Mathewson

Tuesday Shorts is a delightful place to spend time, even if it’s not a Tuesday.
The shorts being under 100 words, and publication occurring every other Tuesday.
Recently Editors Kristen Tsetsi and Shelley Rae Rich requested shorter pieces.
Specifically 20 word Tongs and 6 word G-Strings. These were my submissions.

The girls are all cell phones and tongs.
The boys gush Hot Wheels action.
It’s so great teaching Middle School.

What’s that music you ask? Well, I’d say it’s
either Philip Glass or, a test of the
Emergency Broadcast network.

“You Wouldn’t dare shoot'” – Bang! Bang!

Honestly this is true. Whenever I heard the acronym “WWJD?” I thought it referred to John Lennon , I had no idea the “J” was Christ. I’ve taken this measure seriously, always trying to do what’s right, leading a life that would meet with John’s approval. But now I know, and it won’t change a thing.

by-Doug Mathewson

The night before my Grandmother died we said our goodbyes in the hospital. We had always been very close, and knew this would be our final parting.
I said goodbye to my Father many times over the years. First when we sat together in a locked psychiatric ward. He laughed nervously and said
“I never thought it would be my mind that would go first”.
We repeatedly said goodbyes of one kind or another in different nursing homes, clinics,  and hospitals as he declined. Finally in Hospice, with cancer consuming him we said goodbye daily. We would hold hands and sit together in the sun. Tears would swell in his now blind eyes and he would say
“I want to die. Please kill me. You’re my son, you’re a good man, you know what’s
right. Kill me, please kill me. I want to die”.
If I could have taken his life I would have then and  there. But what I did do was give him permission to go, permission to die, and we said goodbye everyday until he was gone.
My Mother now is fading. Alzheimer’s and stroke have taken her once sharp mind. Memory is falling away from her so rapidly. Now we find sunny spots in which to sit. Most days she knows me, but not all. She wonders aloud if I am her brother or a childhood friend.
Every goodbye between us now is long and lingering. I never know which one will be
our last goodbye.

by – Doug Mathewson

High Schools all have ‘Senior Class Trips”, (that’s just a given). Trips from the better
funded private schools often involved time-travel. I was new to this school, but not to the routine. Chaperoning school events fell to junior faculty members. Only my lack of tenure, not a lack of experience  made me junior. Time travel, of course, had been available for a few years now, just financially out of my reach. An Ivy prep-school like Havenwood Academy had vast endowments and as faculty, I got a free ride.

We were going back to 1849, a popular destination for school groups. Each year the trip would alternate between The Irish Potato Famine and The California Gold-Rush. This Gold-Rush year which appealed to these opportunistic  young captains of industry. The department head would escort the Advanced-Placement Honors kids to Dickens’ London, to observe the social impact of the recently published “David Copperfield”. I got the four “Alternate-Studies” kids. These were the weird kids who could only stay at Havenwood by grace of family money. We were off to witness the final days of Edgar Allan Poe. I hoped my theory, the basic of my book manuscript, would prove to be correct.

The school provided costumes for the Gold-Rush / Potato Famine trip. Ragged youth was pretty much just ragged youth on either continent. The Honors kids excelled in their exquisite Dickensian finery. I told my group wear “what-ever”, our appearances would hardly be regarded as odd by Poe in these final days before gin and opium took his life. Period West Point cadet uniforms (and a lot of mascara) suited the two punk girls who insisted on being referred to as “Ami” and “Umi. I found an old frock coat and top-hat for Besztep, the exchange student who never spoke. Rickiii the goth kid turned out in the blackest of sinister clubbing cloths.  Patiently I explained to my charges that I did not care in the least measure what they did on the trip since they were all up-to-date on their cancer, HIV, and substance abuse vaccinations.
“Just stick together” I told them, “and don’t get lost!”

The original coroners report determined Poe’s death to have been the result of “Brain Congestion”. He had been found delirious outside a tavern in the Baltimore  harbor district (mysteriously wearing another mans clothes). This seemed to be a closed case. The mysterious aliment “Brain Congestion” was a broad enough diagnosis to cover a wide variety of fates. About eighty years ago in the early 1990’s forensic pathologists from Johns Hopkins determined Poe had actually died of rabies. They offered up some vague theory that he might have been scratched by one of the several cats he was know to have kept, but I knew better. He had become a werewolf.  He was found wearing his victims cloths after shedding his own. How all this transpired, I hoped to soon learn.

We timed our arrival for early evening. The streets would still be busy as the city
grew dark and I hoped we could travel unnoticed. Normally time travelers do go
unnoticed, residents of the past show little interest or concern regarding our presence.
It is impossible for people traveling in time to actively participate in the past, or change it in any significant way.. We are observers, perceived if at all only at the very corner of ones eye. People in the past might vaguely noticed you, but find your presence completely unremarkable.

Upon our arrival the kids were impressed and honestly so was I.
Life here had so much more texture than I had imagined! The lack of all technology we took for granted was dangerously exciting. My group was well behaved, they seemed awed as we traveled the grimy and primitive streets of Baltimore. passersby possessed faces more closely related to the old world. Their garments course and worn. A different
attitude regarding personal hygiene was apparent as well. The rank odor of a the commercial harbor was combined with open sewers and unwashed citizenry. Ami and Umi got horrid cheroots off some sailor and were smoking like fiends. Quietly we slid into Poe’s rooms. He occupied a small suite on the third floor of a waterfront rooming-house.

Poe was unconscious, sprawled and disheveled in a stained and tattered wingback
chair. In the grim shadows provided by the one dirty window he appeared gravely ill, a
clay pipe near his hand. The scene was not unexpected, I suppose, considering
the author’s  declining circumstances. Ami and Umi immediately  commenced going
through his pockets for trinkets and mementos, while Rickiii got busy with the pipe.
Besztep turned to me and smiled. I heard his voice, but only in my head. It was high and
beautifully musical and not, I realized, at all human.
“We will be leaving now, Mr. Gargiulo, do not become concerned. You can see there
is a problem here and we must go.”
Beszteps smile was unchanged, his lips did not move, as his dialogue continued.
“This body is dying and I must hurry to get its’ occupant home to our world.”
“Besztep, what do you mean? You’re saying Poe is an extraterrestrial, and for that
matter, you are too? I heard his voice laughing.
“Do not be concerned Mr. Gargiulo, nothing will change for you or the others, an
empty body will be left to explain his absence and no one will remember me.”
“Excuse me please”, he continued,” I am only medical rescue-tech, (with a  minor in
literature) and have called for evacuation.” I was completely fascinated as he
continued.
“Humans are mistaken that life is unique to Earth. There are many inhabited
worlds, but they are all silent worlds. Only Earth has sound. That is what sets you
apart and that is why he came here. Many consider him the finest writer of our age,
he left our world to research a great literary anthology. Here he tried to explain that he
was an Editor of Alien Poetry. Speech was so new to him, listeners thought he was
saying his name was Edgar Allan Poe. He longed to hear the sound of language.
Something that none of us could begin to imagine.” All this was beyond my
comprehension.
“Our dear editor is very ill, so thank you for your help,but now we must go.”
Besztep stepped behind Poe’s chair and placed his hands on the great writers shoulders. With one last broad smile, they were gone.
“Come on you three, we’re leaving.” I said.
“We don’t want to get back on the bus yet!” Ami and Umi chorused.
“No” I said. “we are not getting on the bus, We are going to a tavern where I may drink
and you may not. I still have period trip expense money so we can eat.”
And so we sat till noon the net day The girls cheating drunks at cards and getting
tanked (they thought I didn’t notice). Rickiii, pipe in hand, was perfecting his gargoyle lurking technique on the roof.

Great. Poe was an alien. Well so much for my theory and so much for my book. But
by next spring I should be able to pull a first draft together for a new book. Fiction I
think would be best, taking place during the time of great Potato Famine. Maybe I can introduce a werewolf character or two and use at least some of my previous notes.

by – Doug Mathewson

Here are two very different versions of a story. Different enough  to me to be viewed and treated as two different pieces. Cezzane’s Carrot out of Santa Fe was kind enough to publish “Eyes” which is the earlier work. I read “Eyes” at several book store open mic events and people had problems with talking seals.Or at least seals that our central character could understand. While I am not concerned with catering to the “Reader’s Digest Large Pint Edition” crowd, I wanted to maintain a sense of “magic-realism” so communication became all visual and limited for the most part to human people.
All people are people, but not all people are human people is something I believe. Some audience members thought he would become a deer, some thought she would become human. The two central characters are neither man nor deer. They are two halves of something much bigger and far beyond even the concept of the individual.
There is a strong element of redemption in both versions. Oddly I have written several stories of late that involve redemption of one kind or another. In addition, two of these are, “Safe Harbor” which appears in The Boston Literary Magazine, and “Ekphrastic Riff” which may be found at riverbabble.
Peace – Doug Mathewson

Our connection was immediate, and intense. My breath caught as I staggered with the  visceral impact of recognition. In the quiet diffused light our eyes meet. My watery blue diluted, dispersed and lost into the vast amber liquid of her brown almond eyes. It was then, in that moment we briefly became one again. Reunited? I thought, but did she recognize me as well?  I was unable to speak, or even breathe, fearing our tranquil connection of spirits would be disrupted and forever lost.

Dawn pushed its rough ruddy shoulders one by one farther into day as we silently parted. Our separate paths distinct. With muscular, long, slow, eloquent steps she lead her dappled fawns across the meadow. From the stop-sign I slowly slipped the clutch of
my old BMW motorcycle and left the intersection of farm and pasture roads.
Early farm house light strained from kitchen windows to reach out as far as the wooden gate and galvanized mailbox. The farm house at dawn was a vastly different world than ours. A world of flannel, radio and pancakes, alien to us both. A world she and I, in our separate isolations, would never share.

From the meadow, through the pasture, beyond the marshes, and up past the young pines, deeper into the mature hardwood growth she followed old trails. Taking her young to hidden shelter, to sleep during the heat of midday. By noon I wanted to be a hundred miles east, on the Atlantic’s unsheltered windy shores. There was no compelling need to rush. I needed time. Time to think through what had happened (could it really have been her?).  I knew my growing disquiet would lead me to the truth.

State-Line Diner is timeless. Unchanged in my lifetime at least, the small worn store-front still offers coffee and fresh Portuguese rolls at all hours. I was quiet at the counter, warming my hands on my cup, the waitress spoke, I didn’t hear but looked up and her heavily mascaraed  eyes asked “how could she be so long lost, and you didn’t know?” Finishing my coffee, I heading out, the one armed heavy-set cashier raised weary eyes from his newspaper, they said “you were gone so long you became lost, and some how  you came to forget.”

I headed to the shore, taking the old roads I knew by heart from years ago. Children still walk to school in these small shore towns. I stopped, the Crossing Guard’s back was to me. Her hands were raised, in protective benediction. A few kids openly stared at me, others shyly glanced my way as they jostled like ducklings through the cross-walk, I meet their young eyes, and answered their rapid flood of questions as best I could. “Yes she is my sister, and yes she is my lover too, yes we have always been linked, companions since the first days, and yes, we are two halves,  like two halves of the same creature – one incomplete without the other.”  By now the Guard had turned around, her tired eyes bluntly asked, “but how could you ever forget?” I pulled over up the block to loosen my worn leather jacket and tighten my old gloves.

A elderly frail woman sat in her wheel chair across from me, fading away on the porch of a small paint peeling house. She was quiet and still in her worn floral house-coat. There was bird-song nearby and I could smell the sea. We regarded each other for some time, sharing a common respect. Through her cataracts she passionately demanded “ now that you remember, now that you found her after so so long, why did you leave?” I just shook my head and shrugged. I couldn’t reply. Trust the blind to see things true, they say. I can ride hard and be back to the meadow by sundown. When we meet at dusk, I will solemnly request of her eyes “ May I join with you now for all time?”.

Our connection was immediate, and intense. My breath caught as I staggered with the  visceral impact of recognition. In the quiet diffused light our eyes meet. My watery blue diluted, dispersed and lost into the vast amber liquid of her large almond eyes. It was then, in that moment we became one again. Reunited I hoped, but could she agree? I was unable to speak, or even breathe, fearing our tranquil connection of spirits would be disrupted and forever lost.
Dawn pushed its rough ruddy shoulders one by one farther into day as we silently parted. Our separate paths distinct. With muscular, long, slow, eloquent steps she lead her dappled fawns across the meadow. From the stop-sign I slowly slipped the clutch of
my old BMW motorcycle and left the intersection of farm and pasture roads.
Early farm house light strained from kitchen windows to reach out as far as the wooden gate and galvanized mailbox. The farm house at dawn was a vastly different world than ours. A world of flannel, radio and pancakes, alien to us both. A world she and I, in our separate isolations, would never share. From the meadow, through the pasture, beyond
the marshes, and up past the young pines, deeper into the mature hardwood growth she followed old trails. Taking her young to hidden shelter, to sleep during the heat of midday. By noon I was a hundred miles east, on the Atlantic’s stark windy shore. In a  rocky cove near the breakwater I visit my harbor seal friends to catch up on their news, and to ask for advice.
I hadn’t seen them since early spring storm tides, and the seals were full of gossip. They spoke excitedly of life, of love and what they sensed in the currents of the sea.
I told them of my earlier encounter, and growing disquietude. They had dozens of questions, and all their questions were better than any of my answers. Questions about she who was so long lost to me, and how could I not know? They understood about being lost, of swimming too far or too deep. Again I explained, She and I had been separated for so long I had forgotten,and it was me who had become lost. Their barking question came so quickly! Yes she is my sister, yes she is my lover too, yes we have always been linked together, companions since the first days, and yes, we are two halves of the same creature – one incomplete without the other. But still they asked me, “how was it you came to forget?”
The afternoon started to cool, and my friend’s conversation turned to fishing and the tide. As I gathered my myself to leave a young female seal asked “now that you remember, now that you found her after so long, why did you leave?” Pulling on my worn leather jacket and old gloves, I just shook my head and shrugged. Trust the seals to see things right.
If I ride hard I can be back to the meadow by dusk.

by Doug Mathewson