FAUNA
Fiction EditorHimanshu Goel Poetry EditorAnkur Chhabra
THE MACHINERY Fauna
First published: March 2017
Written and artistic work included in The Machinery may not be reprinted or reproduced in any electronic or print medium without the consent of either the writer/artist or the editors.
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Editor’s Note
Working on the fourth edition of The Machinery had been incredible for us, a lot of it has to do with the theme. The Fauna kingdom brought us amazing stories and poems that filled our hearts with glee as we read through the submissions crafted with so much care. We have here stories that can bring a smile to your face or wrench your heart. We would like to thank the incredible authors featured in The Machinery and encourage the reader to go to our website, where each composition is accompanied by an illustration. We hope you have as much fun reading the collection as we did.
Himanshu Goel The Machinery
Poetry
1. Avatars Anna Lavigne 2. Minotaur Kirsty Niven 3. Black Widow’s Web Janet Reed 4. Magpies Kenneth Gurney 5. Dodo SL. Wolfe 6. A Cup of Beauty Ammu Ashok 7. St Petersburg (Florida) with Mandelstam Virginia Barrett 8. A Prophet Adam Que 9. don’t give your heart to a wandering wolf Deanna Lim 10. Aquarium Lucas Bailor
Fiction
1. The Peacock and The Wren Carol Plunkett 2. I am Otter Mitchell Toews 3. Little Prissy Palmer Joanne C. Hillhouse 4. The Gruesome end of Mr Todd David Rae 5. As Every Morning of all the Mornings in the World Rachele Salvini
POETRY
Avatars Anna Lavigne
You talked of avatars conjured by me sea creature; mermaid; butterfly, gazelle dragonflies dancing on Scottish dawns. The birds you spied along the shore grew smaller and fainter with your failing eyesight, til even binoculars could not restore their plumage. You felt the call of your kinsmen all. Described their images circling as the terns that soared along the Spey. That last time we parted company, the only creatures, silent witness, were a solitary heron grounded, watchful and a mournful dolphin, rising up out of the bay.
Author Biography
On Avatars: “Enchantment, fragility; transcendence.� Anna lives in the Highlands of Scotland and loves words, play, wordplay, music, art and the sea. She has two far-flung sons who cheer her heart and fills their empty spaces with stuff and nonsense. She enjoys trying to write lyrics and composing songs in the shower.
Minotaur Kirsty Niven
The mere sight of midnight curls provokes a tear even now, and then – another, chasing its mate erratically. I long for someone, who I can no longer see. A glimpse of such a bound would cause goose-bumps to explosively erupt like little familiar friends over my polythene skin. It is ripped so easily, and with such blood lust. His hostile eyes steal my thoughts and guilt infects me, corroding my judgement. But I am not to blame; neither is it he, that demonic Dionysius. The grim fortress kept me out, away from him.
Author Biography
“‘Minotaur’ compares an unhealthy relationship to being trapped in a labyrinth.” Kirsty A. Niven lives in Dundee, Scotland with her husband and cats. Her poetry has appeared in numerous anthologies (e.g. LOVE: A Collection of Poetry and Prose on Loving and Being in Love and A Prince Tribute), journals (e.g. The Dawntreader and GFT Press Presents: One in Four) and other publications. She also contributed towards the Dylan’s Great Poem Project of 2016.
Black Widow’s Web Janet Reed
Strong and thick, you weave your slick web in recesses of matter, deep in your small mind – you think, wait, pray – preying on innocence capturing weakness planning domination. Your retinas mirror the red of your belly; you watch –smug as your victims’ breaths grow rapid with fear, recede in despair. Some arachnid sisters spin delicate doilies – their internecine desires merged into silk art, fine lace canvases of cause and effect stretched between leaf and limb.
Not you, though, black one. Aching need has no craft. Melodrama is your vehicle.
Author Biography
“Too many hyper kinetic people mimic the mania of the Black Widow and create a mess of web in an attempt to win battles real and imagined.� Janet Reed teaches writing and literature at Crowder College in Missouri. She is a Prius-driving, Birkenstock-wearing, tree-hugging flower child whose poems reflect conversations she has with voices in her head. She is a 2016 Pushcart Prize nominee. Her work has been published and is forthcoming in multiple journals, and she is currently at work on her first chapbook.
Magpies Kenneth Gurney
We gave the magpies popcorn. They asked for that movie house buttery oil to be added. They asked to come in and watch Hitchcock’s The Birds. They asked God to go on the warpath so there would be enough carrion on the ground for themselves and all their corvid relatives. At the snow sparkled cemetery other magpies sorted the dead white men from the dead brown men from the dead red men and debated on which tasted better, then pretended I did not overhear them as I did a rubbing of a marble relief carving in some railroad executive’s ornate headstone. One magpie recited passages of Dharma Bums from the lowest branch of an alder tree with “my mother is now a Gutenberg bible” carved in its bark and I thought better that than a Sears catalog or the splintery seat to a centuries old outhouse.
Dora soaked in the monastic testimony of a waining moon rising above the townscape. The magpies never strayed too far from her when they felt broken hearted. We gave the magpies all the reruns of Big Bird in his Sesame Street years. They asked for our inheritance of Grandmother’s collection of S&H Green Stamps books. They asked for a replica of the sign that say Sanders over Winnie the Pooh’s doorway. They ask for flu shots to protect them from the West Nile and Zika viruses, so they don’t drop out of the sky unnoticed.
Author Biography
“Magpies are one of my favorite birds and I have a surrealist’s imaginative mind.” Kenneth P. Gurney lives in Albuquerque, NM, USA with his beloved Dianne. His latest collection of poems is Stump Speech (2015). He runs the poetry blog Watermelon Isotope. His personal website is at kpgurney.me.
Dodo SL. Wolfe
She looked as far as the eye could see but all she could see was who she could not be. Beyond the trees Beyond the seas a life awaited where she could breathe but much to her dismay a flightless bird is a rock in the ocean and no matter the force of the tide this was now her home to stay.
Author Biography
“The Dodo, flightless due to an abundance of comfort and lack of challenge- a sad product of its own weak mind.� SL. Wolfe is a promising writer and with lots of talent hopes to claim the imaginations and hearts of all who connect with her work.
A Cup of Beauty Ammu Ashok
One lovely evening, I had a cup of coffee scribbling, flash of thoughts on my notebook. An anonymous friend came by my side, tapped my laptop screen with her paws looking at my coffee. She gazed with thirst, I gave her a sip drank delightfully but surprised on her unwillingness to give the cup back. A quick look at the screen, she paused and stared at her own image on my laptop screen. She smashes the cup onto the floor. I realised my Cat’s perception of beauty.
Author Biography
“I believe, not only humans but animals can also get motivated by the abstract concept “beauty”.” Ammu Maria Ashok, is an Assistant Professor in English Language at Mar Baselios College of Engineering & Technology, Trivandrum, Kerala. She started her freelance writing since 2005. She has published many articles and poems.
St Petersburg (Florida) with Mandelstam Virginia Barrett
[Dusk] over the water a shadow makes the fish hide; how low can the pelican glide to keep them awake forever? [Night] a heron hunts as the full moon steps through the mute bayou. The people need poetry that will be their own secret. [Morning] above palm fronds a bird conspires balanced on a wire.
Author Biography
“An intersection through time between where I was at the moment [Florida] and the poet I was reading.” Virginia Barrett is teaching-artist in San Francisco city schools. Her work has most recently appeared in Poetry of Resistance: A Multicultural Anthology in Response to Arizona SB 1070 (University of Arizona Press), Belle Reve, and Apple Valley Review. She is the editor of two anthologies of contemporary San Francisco poets, Feather Floating on the Water— poems for our children (winner of an Acker Award for the avant-garde) and OCCUPY SF—poems from the movement.
A Prophet Adam Que
Its jointed legs look as if it is walking on suture needles Its peridot painted exoskeleton Its pea in the pod shape Its head that looks like it can be a kabuki mask In its eyes I see the reminisce of dragons Wings like riding horseback on wind Front legs that grasp on the orb of Zen Not far from the same waft of wild horse grazing on native pastures More than just a prayer, a second chance “The art of fighting without fighting.” – Bruce Lee
Author Biography
“A Prophet evokes a sense of freedom, of tranquillity, of nature being beautifully untamed.� Adam Que is an independent writer/poet from Jersey City, New Jersey. He has competed as an amateur mixed martial artist. After he stopped fighting and working to be a professional fighter, Adam instead started to share his writing. His poetry has appeared in The New Engagement and Slink Chunk Press. When not writing he is a huge foodie and anime nerd.
don’t give your heart to a wandering wolf Deanna Lim
don’t make a pet of a wandering wolf how soft his pelt how kind his eyes don’t give all your trust to a wandering wolf how gentle his paws how friendly his grin don’t spend your life with a wandering wolf he’ll howl and cavort and play fetch with you he’ll roll in the grass he’ll invite belly rubs don’t pour all your soul into that wandering wolf he’ll look sad and endearing whining at your front door don’t give your heart to that wandering wolf he’ll grip it oh so gently in his jaws caressing pulsing muscle with glinting canines don’t give your heart to a wandering wolf he’ll swallow it like he swallows the sun that pelt; the velvet-night those eyes; the last glinting stars
those paws; the falling sky that grin; the waning silver moon-sliver he’ll swallow you.
Author Biography
Deanna, 23, is an aspiring writer and final-year Literature major writing her thesis on female identity in rewritten fairytales (which means re-watching Disney films and re-reading fairytales). She is currently putting together a collection of love poetry – any resemblance to real-world people and/or events is not coincidental.
Aquarium Lucas Bailor
I spent the mornings of Vanishing Wildlife looking up through inches of acrylic holding back the hammerhead, the tuna, the sardines, etc., only steps away from humanity’s stream leaking from upstairs, mornings of forced smiles, hands to my side, and shades of blue meeting khaki as I give direction after direction. My feet prepared for a day’s work preemptively throb, recognizing the day ahead and all the days that have preceded it. Soon I regret not walking vacantly in the morning after the absent count flip count flip count flip count flip of 39. 95 79.90 104.85 etc., not seeing the octopus, the sheephead, the otters, the sunfish, the penguins, the mantis shrimp, the species upon species of rockfish, but one day I do visit the baby loggerhead turtle, encased in a small cube of a tank, surrounded by
a boxfish or two and some other nondescript fish, and as the loggerhead looks lonely I wonder if I am just projecting my loneliness onto it, both of us trapped in a square space, counting the days before we move on. I don’t remember the day it leaves, too caught up in myself, my work. But outside, does the peregrine falcon, diving from the old smokestack decapitating pigeons, notice I keep trying to return with the same speed?
Author Biography
“Aquarium� represents the collage of memories that came back after no longer working at an aquarium. Lucas Bailor is an emerging writer from Moreno Valley, California. He is currently working towards his MA in English. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Boston Accent Lit and POST(blank). He sometimes tweets @lucasbailor.
FICTION
The Peacock and the Wren Carol Plunkett
In the steaming jungles of Kathmandu, a day doesn’t dawn without the piercing wail of its most splendid inhabitant. Shrieking girlishly to rouse the sun, the peacock steps elegantly, spindle-claw poised in jerking gait, nimbly picking its way over mandrake root and rhododendron branch. It has no equal; its beauty unparalleled, its hauteur unshakable. Seldom will a creature approach it. Though flightless it needs no defences, save the armour of its splendour. In the flick of its tail, its helpless victims stand immobilised in its Medusa-like thrall. Small wonder then, that on this most inauspicious, innocuous day, a day of babblers and orioles, Koles and drongos, egrets and floricans, marsh muggers and gharials; our fearless protagonist should find himself confronted. And not just confronted, but affronted, by the most unlikely foe! Scarcely had he stepped out this fine morning, scarcely had the dense jungle mists yielded to the
cauldron heat of a Nepalese dawn than there, on a path strewn with rhino apple and kapok and half hidden in a beautyberry bush, perched a bird so small and drab that the peacock could hardly perceive it. ‘Stand aside!’ he commanded peevishly, barely willing to waste his breath on so insignificant a creature. ‘Shan’t’ came back the impudent reply. ‘I beg your pardon!’ shrieked the outraged peacock. ‘Do you dare to defy me?’ Such effrontery he had never before encountered and he wished to sweep away this diminutive upstart without further timewasting. ‘Shan’t!’ came the disrespectful retort once more. ‘You can’t make me.’ The peacock, unaccustomed to any defiance from the lesser creatures of the jungle, swivelled his awful eye to peer intently at this unworthy – and hitherto unencountered – challenger. ‘Stand aside, I say, or take the consequences!’ And with a portentous sweep he flared his fiery tail to unsheathe its mesmerising magnificence, fully expecting his opponent to wither or fly off in fear.
‘And if I don’t?’ the small popinjay retorted with a mocking bravado. And, instead of retreating into the dense undergrowth, he hopped boldly into the path of his imperious aggressor. Nonplussed, the peacock lowered his crowned head till he was eyeball to eyeball with his tiny foe. ‘I will kill you, of course!’ hissed the peacock, his gimlet eye leaving the little wren in no doubt as to his intentions. ‘I propose a wager, in that case!’ piped up the pipsqueak, fluffing himself up to his fullest size (though in truth no larger than a kumquat) in an attempt to fluster his aggressor. ‘A wager?’ shrieked the peacock. ‘In what possible contest could you ever hope to defeat me?’ His hot breath ruffled the tiny feathers of the drab little bird before him, but the latter moved not a fraction. The wren’s reply so astonished him that for a moment the peacock stood immobilised, uncertain how to respond. ‘A tail-holding contest!’ he scoffed. ‘You mean holding your tail up for as long as possible? How
ridiculous!’ But he smiled inwardly, sure that this foolish little bird had no idea who he was taking on. ‘Very well, he declared magnanimously. ‘I accept your challenge. However with one stipulation. We ask the gharial to adjudicate.’ ‘Good idea, piped the little wren. ‘Will you ask him, or will I?’ The peacock agreed to seek out the dreaded crocodile and bid him come, and a time was set for post-noon. At the allotted hour, the clearing was abuzz with lively and colourful creatures of every shape and design. Indian pythons and King cobras hung from the lianas; orioles and madrigals pirouetted in the rosewood branches and among the deep leaf litter ran mongooses, martens and honey badgers. All eyes were on the tiny pathway, which until this morning had been a peaceful thoroughfare for large and small alike. ‘Ahem!’ barked the gharial, and all bodies turned towards him attentively (many trying to avoid staring at his fearsome fangs).
‘Our illustrious friend the peacock has today been challenged by a young upstart to a tail-holding contest, no less!’ The amazed crowd turned their collective gaze to seek out the tiny challenger, who, though puffed up to his mightiest, was still only a colourless dot on the forest floor. ‘Our good friend the monitor has kindly agreed to keep time, though it is unlikely to be a long contest.’ He turned his superior glare towards the hapless wren, slavering a little at the tasty afternoon treat in prospect. ‘Right!’ declared the monitor. ‘Let the contest begin! First tail to fall concedes the race.’ The two protagonists stanced purposefully opposite one another. Not beak to beak, as the sheer disparity in their sizes prevented it. But each posed with his tail erect, one in many-splendoured glory, the other in perky and defiant opposition. By this hour, the heat in the forest was becoming oppressive and the dozens of panting, rasping creatures only added to the steamy atmosphere in the clearing. The peacock, proud, poised and impatient
began to wonder why he had allowed himself to be drawn into such a foolish endeavour. The wren, for his part, looked on coolly. His position on among the forest detritus and in the shade of the peacock’s illustrious tail left him comfortable and languid. As the hours ticked by, each milestone announced importantly by the lounging monitor, the peacock’s back and neck became increasingly strained and he struggled to keep the effort from his haughty features. The wren, on the other hand, appeared to be enjoying the escapade immensely. He hopped gaily from foot to foot, his pert little tail betraying no fatigue, nor any sign of drooping. He called out to his dazzling opponent: ‘Let me know when you’ve had enough, good sir. I would hate to cause you discomfort!’ His cheeky demeanour enraged the struggling peacock, and he marshalled all his strength, determined not to be outdone by this diminutive upstart. The heat, and the hissing, baying crowd however, began to bear down on him inexorably and his breath began to come in short gasps. Each of his elaborate, twinkling feathered eyes began to twitch,
and to his horror, one by one they began to droop! No amount of hitching and tensing could prevent the inevitable! One by one the onlooking throng began chirping and chanting, chuntering and chattering, hissing and harrumphing. The peacock stood shivering in disarray, its bejewelled pinions languishing like a discarded crinoline in the dense, damp foliage, utterly beyond the command of their defeated master. ‘I declare the wren the victor!’ Pronounced the bemused gharial, sizing up the deflated peacock beneath his hooded lids. All eyes moved to the little wren, whose pert little tail neither fluttered nor faltered (nor in fact could it, being naturally fixed in this permanent perky erectitude!). In a flash, he gallantly hopped aside, bowing as he did to his vanquished rival. ‘You only had to ask nicely,’ he chirped, before flitting harmlessly away.
Author Biography
Carol Plunkett, 59, is a Hampshire, England writer of poetry and short stories. She works part time as an Estate Agent in between walking, writing and painting. Her special interest is birds, which have inspired many poems and paintings and she uses her husband Michael’s photos for the artwork.
I am Otter Mitchell Toews
I met an otter near the public boat launch. He was eating a Wendy's hamburger. As I approached, he shuffled around, giving me his back. I knew he wanted privacy but couldn’t help staring. "Excuse me," he said. "May I help you?" "I'm sorry. It's just..." "It's just that you've never seen an otter eating a cheeseburger. Is that right?" "Yes," I replied. I probably blushed - or the ungulate equivalent, at least. "Everybody appears to have an opinion on my diet," he said. "It's comical. I happen to like the square patties. What's the big deal?" I felt like I should drop it. It was one thing to have a conversation with an otter. I did not want to have an argument with one.
He resumed his lunch and I studied the boreal view. "The opinionated son-of-a-bitch across the lake objects to what I eat, you know," he added. "He - his name is John - insists that because I do not eat shellfish, I cannot be a true otter. He has expelled me from the Otterites." It was quiet. The water lapped on the shore and birds flew among the green reeds. I ruminated on what I should say next. I was curious but did not want to pry. "Does that seem reasonable to you?" he asked, pinning me against the fish-cleaning station with an unblinking stare. I felt like it was my turn to say, Do you mind? But he was upset and I knew it was a serious issue with him. I cut him some slack. He resumed his meal. Without warning, the otter flung the burger towards the dock with a cricketer’s stiff armed flail. "Stupid John!" he shouted to the sky. Then he scampered to the half-eaten meat patty and threw it like a Frisbee. Mayonnaise spun off in a circular spray as it whizzed through the air.
"I'm sorry about your troubles," I said. "It can't be any fun to be kicked out like that." "That's only half of it, buddy," he replied. "My friends and family are not allowed to speak to me, fish with me, or anything. I can't slide down the same rocks with them or they will get the boot too." "What will you do?" I asked him, after thinking about it for a few minutes. "Hell if I know! What would you do? What am I supposed to do - grow wood-gnawing teeth and become a freaking BEAVER?" He hissed at a mallard and it flew off, leaving two parallel rows of progressively widening concentric circles on the water where its wing tips had touched. "Why don't you talk to John? I don't know him, but surely he will listen to what you have to say," I said. "Ha! That's not likely. John runs the Otterites on this lake and the surrounding rivers and swamps. What he says goes. Either you play along like a good little otter or, splash! You are dismissed. If I put up a fight, I am subject to further discipline and since I am already banished, what do you suppose that means?"
He hit me with another forceful glare. These little guys are intense! I considered it a bit and then understood. "John will go after your family." "Go to the head of the class, Moose," he replied. He pulled out a bunch of succulent cattail roots and offered them to me. I lowered my head and sniffed. Prime stuff - loaded with starch and protein. I slurped them out of the tiny paw at the end of his pinball flipper fore leg. I stood chewing while the otter cleaned his paws. He was obsessive; the claws were perfectly clean and still he licked. Then he preened his facial fur. "You know," he said, his gaze focused on an eagle in a nearby pine tree. "It's not that I feel compelled to be recognized as an otter. I am not 'claiming' my otteracy on a whim. I did not, in fact, choose to be an otter. But the ottersphere is all I know. I was raised in an otter family; my mate is an otter and thirty-two of my thirty-two otter progeny eat shellfish. I have thick fur. I can swim like a Soviet Papa class sub, bro! I am cute as shit - I am cuter than kitties and puppies - plus I can kick a fisher's ASS, man! I am otter - through and through. What am I supposed to – disavow my whole life experience?"
Just then, a car rounded the distant corner of the road and we both looked up. "I gotta go," I said. "I know, I know," he agreed. "Say, Moose - thanks for listening, eh?" “No problem, brother Otter. Also, I was thinking -maybe I should speak to this John character? Some antler justice, if you know what I mean?" "No, I am a pacifist, like all otters. No need to employ that nasty rack of yours. Ironic, right? They say I am no longer an otter and that makes me react like...like what?...like an otter, that's what." He shook his little bullet head. "Besides," he continued. "John says I can still identify myself as a 'cultural otter' - that's something, I guess." But the car was getting closer and because rut season was coming up, I was afraid that I would have an uncontrollable urge to charge as it roared by with its provocative shining headlights. So, I just waded out further among the gently waving cattails and thought about how hard it would be if someone decided I wasn't a moose anymore.
Author Biography
Mitchell Toews lives and writes at Jessica Lake in Manitoba. When an insufficient number of "We are pleased to inform you..." emails are on hand, he finds alternate joy in the windy intermingling between the top of the water and the bottom of the sky, or skates on the ice until he can no longer see the cabin. Mitch's writing has appeared in CommuterLit, Fiction on the Web, Literally Stories, Red Fez, Voices Journal and Rhubarb Magazine.
Little Prissy Palmer Joanne C. Hillhouse
Her father, Denfield Palmer, was to blame for her name. A fine sportsman, he approached football with precision, and was a star with the village-side. He wasn’t too literate though. That’s what came of scudding school religiously for the football field. Maybe he’d heard someone refer to another girl as prissy and taken it to mean pretty. Long and short of it, while her mother was still out of it, he gave his preferred name for the birth certificate and turned his child in to a pappyshow.
Red, that’s what they called the girl’s mother, a white woman, didn’t fuss; didn’t have as firm a hand as you needed to with someone like Denfield.
So, Prissy Palmer it was. Wasn’t need for a nick name or a grinding name to ridicule her with after that. Also setting her apart from the children in the village was the fact that she didn’t go to the village school, or the one in the next village, or the next or the next, not even any of the ones in town. No, her mother – who had abandoned her American father’s dreams but not her trust fund, sent Prissy all the way cross country every day, to Mountain High where the various expat and socie children went. Being from a village behind God back, Prissy didn’t have friends there either. The island was mostly black, the school was mostly white, and Prissy, with skin the dull shade of a peanut shell, was neither this nor that. Always a minority, and cursed with her daddy’s cast eye and the bully-bait name he’d burdened her with, school days were very long for little Prissy Palmer. After-school was long too. Several bus rides and a long walk through to the back of the village where her parents farmed their plot, long. Long even for a healthy, young girl raised on ground provisions; long and tricky, especially the part where she had to walk past Stanlee’s dogs.
There was no fence and the dogs were never tied. Roaming dogs weren’t unusual in the village but Stanlee’s dogs were so fierce even other dogs feared them. It was usually dusk by the time Prissy Palmer typically tiptoed past Stanlee’s plot. If she was lucky they’d still be sleeping, the draining island sun had that effect on dog and man – though usually only dog could indulge the pull of sleep high day. And little girls with only one route home tried to slip by without waking them. But then there were evenings like this one when Prissy could feel the heat of their breaths on her calves, the sense, false or otherwise, of something sharp nipping at her, which is when she ran. The absolute last thing anyone should do when waylaid by dogs, let alone Stanlee’s dogs. Prissy Palmer had strong legs from all the walking she did, and she pumped them hard as the dogs followed their instinct and gave chase. Keeping pace, dancing in and out of her feet, like she was a play mate, instead of food. When she tripped, they approached, looking like jumbies in the dark. Panting jumbies with wagging tails. They didn’t bark or attack. And though Prissy’s bum and pride were bruised, and her breath hitched in fear, her small hand tentatively reached towards the closest one’s muzzle, petting it. She smiled when it practically swooned, its ha-ha-ha breathing blowing
hot on her face. The others approached curiously, one butted its head against her side gently, the other pushed its way under her arm, jostling the first one out of position, as if to say, my turn. Another leaned heavily against her back. She could hear more of them in the dark. How many of them were there? She petted them all, whispering soothing things, “you’re not angry, you just want to be friends”. That was something she could understand. Little Prissy Palmer wanted friends, too. She had lost hold of her book bag in the fall. One of the dogs brought it to her, straps between huge white teeth. It was damp when she took it. She wiped her hand on the pleats of her uniform jumper, and pulled herself to her feet. “See you then,” Prissy said, turning toward home. The dogs followed her. She tried to shoo them away but they were persistent. The pack of them set up camp right there in her parent’s yard, and didn’t budge no matter how much her father cursed and her mother fussed.
Stanlee came looking for his dogs, of course, and when the dogs wouldn’t leave with him threatened to report Denfield and Red to police for animal theft, and when that had no effect threatened to throw poison meat in the yard because if he couldn’t have the dogs no one would. When that didn’t work, he returned with his cutlass and threatened to chop tout monde sam and baggai. That’s when the big black one that seemed to be the leader growled at him, the others advancing, until Prissy urged them to “settle”. Stanlee backed off after that, stumbling down the road, grumbling; defeated. After that little Prissy Palmer seemed happier, her canine friends making up for her lack of human ones, even though her father complained about all the howling they did at night, and her mother teasingly called her “crazy dog lady”.
Author Biography
Joanne C. Hillhouse lives in Antigua, in the Caribbean. She is the author of six books including a children's picture book and Caribbean fairytale entitled With Grace, a teen/young adult novel Musical Youth - which was a finalist for the Burt award, a romance Dancing Nude in the Moonlight - which has had a 10th anniversary printing, and a coming of age novella The Boy from Willow Bend. With Grace described by critics and readers as "rhythmic", "soulful" and "meaningful" - is her latest release. More about Hillhouse and her books at http://jhohadli.wordpress.com
The Gruesome end of Mr Todd David Rae
Mr Todd lived down by the railway in a den under the footbridge with his wife and cubs. At night he liked to check the bins for something to eat. He would knock them over and make a dreadful mess. The children would come out shouting and then Mr Todd would look up quite unafraid and slip out the back gate onto the hill behind the house to catch rabbits. No one really minded Mr Todd. Until one day, the children noticed one of the chickens was missing. They thought it might be ill, so they went to tell Mr Roberts, but the missing hen was not in the chicken coop. Near a hole in the wall that led out on to the hill, they found feathers and bones. Mr Roberts growled; Mr Todd had come in and helped himself to a chicken for his wife and cubs. Mr Roberts got some wood and nailed it across the hole in the wall and on it, he wrote, "NO FOXES IN THIS GARDEN BY ORDER!"
The children had read in a book that foxes don't like black pepper, so they went home and fetched a packet and dusted it around the hole in the wall. Later, when Mr Todd came sniffing along, he would sniff up the pepper, then sneeze and run away. According to the book, it was a sure-fire way of keeping foxes out. It seemed to do the trick keeping Mr Todd away from the chickens for a while at least. A few days later the children noticed another hen was missing. They went and told Mr Roberts and checked to see if the hen was sick, but they knew what to expect. This time, the chicken feathers were right at the orchard gate. There was a hole in the corner of the gate where Mr Todd must have gnawed at it until there was a hole was big enough for him to squeeze through.
The children helped Mr Roberts to nail some wire across the bottom of the gate, and Mr Roberts said that he would like to see a fox chew through that, then he wrote "FOXES KEEP OUT OR ELSE."
They had used up all the black pepper on the hole in the wall leading out onto the hill, so they tried mustard powder instead. The book hadn't said anything about mustard powder. Mustard powder is very nippy if you get some on your tongue, but it doesn't make you sneeze. Still it was all they had, so the children took a packet and scattered it across the bottom of the gate to the orchard. Mustard powder was no use because the next day they could only count three hens and a rooster. The rooster was now strutting about and crowing and was acting so brave, but had done nothing to protect the poor hens when Mr Todd had come. He was all very brave and showy up until it came right down to it and then he'd be flying up to the rafters of the chicken shed to escape from Mr Todd and letting the poor hens fend for themselves. The Children went round to tell Mr Roberts. He blamed the rooster, saying that he should have been doing his job and that at the very least he could have crowed out and raised the alarm when Mr Todd was in the chicken house. The children all nodded in agreement and thought of the poor hens, picked off one by one without any help from the cowardly rooster.
There were more feathers at the gate and Mr Todd had gnawed the wood around the nails in the wire. Mr Todd must have been very determined to get through the gate and worked very hard. Mr Roberts nailed a big piece of wood down across the hole and wrote: "LAST WARNING MR TODD IF YOU COME IN HERE AGAIN I WILL GET YOU." But the very next day the children noticed there was a chicken missing, not one of the hens, this time, but the rooster. They felt very bad about calling him a coward. In the end, the rooster had died bravely in Mr Todd's jaws fighting to save the chickens that he loved. It was very sad and very romantic. They went to tell Mr Roberts. They opened the gate and walked along to Mr Robert's orchard and there they saw a sad and gruesome sight. They stopped and gasped with horror. It was so hard to believe. Hanging from the gate by a string was Mr Todd, stone dead. Mr Roberts had been as good as his word, and when he had heard the rooster crowing for all his worth and fighting with Mr Todd, he had rushed out and had shot Mr Todd dead. He had strung Mr Todd up by his tail as a warning to other foxes to stay well clear of his chickens.
The children began to cry, and hold their noses. The smell of a dead fox is very bad. They stood there looking at our poor dead Mr Todd. He was still a magnificent animal; his fur was the same colour as the fur on a teddy bear, his brush was thick and long, and his teeth were white and sharp looking, and, even although he was dead none of the children would put their hand in his mouth when dared to. For one thing, Mr Todd's long red tongue was hanging out and there looked like there was blood on his teeth. There was certainly blood on his coat. Above, Mr Roberts had written in white chalk; "THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS TO FOXES THAT STEAL MY CHICKENS." That was the end of Mr Todd, it was such a shame they all agreed, that foxes can't read.
Author Biography
David lives in Scotland. He loves the history that seems to exist just below the surface of things, like deep water. He has had a chequered career and working in a sweetie factory, as a scaffolder, a ditch digger, a draftsman, an ecologist, a statistician and a policy maker. He currently works with numbers but plays with words. He has most recently had work published in HELIOS QUARTERLY, GNU MAGAZINE, and 50 WORD STORIES.
As Every Morning of All the Mornings in the World Rachele Salvini
The buzz of the TV at 5 in the morning does not wake her up. She lies on the sofa, her left arm hanging over. The white light of dawn spills on her face like milk, but she does not open her eyes. She’s cold. The red fleece blanket is on the floor. Curled on it, he snores. Soft breaths in the silence. She hears the TV speaker but does not listen. This female orangutan is 42 years old and has been taking care of her cub for six.
The tiles of the floor are cold and pale, scattered with crumpled handkerchiefs like clouds on the winter sea. Between them, the vet’s number, scribbled on a yellow post. She feels his humid nose brushing against her fingers. She thinks she’s dreaming. Maybe she’s getting used to his absence. He may not be there in a few hours. The orang-utan is the primate that takes care of their cubs the longest, after us.
The claws click on the ceramic: coffee grains poured into a small cup. She hears him moving around the room with difficulty. He’s slow. It’s not a dream. He walks around the place as he usually does when dawn turns into morning. David Attenborough’s voice tells her about faraway lands. On the Ethiopian planes the sun is rising, as it is happening now in her living room. As every day that begins. As every morning of all the mornings in the world. She feels his wet nose against her fingers again, to wake her up. She needs to get up, fumble for her glasses, grab the tartan leash that hangs from the heater and go out in the biting cold. As every morning of all the mornings in the world. *** Everything has gone as it should. He’s gone. The stars begin to crackle in the black sky. She lies on the sofa again. The handkerchiefs are still there, right beside the post with the vet’s number. Tonight there is a Coke can and an empty box of chicken nuggets. She wraps herself up with the red fleece blanket.
After mating for her first time, the female octopus looks for a good place to lay her eggs. This will be her home for six months, during which she won’t eat anything: she will be too busy protecting her future offspring. It’s dark. Her hand slips towards the floor, and her fingertips sense the cold ceramic again. The next day is already coming. The sun will rise in a while. As every morning of all the mornings in the world. When the eggs start to hatch, the female octopus is dying. This mother accomplishes the greatest act of love: in order to protect her offspring, she starves herself to death, sacrificing herself for the life that will come. The red fleece blanket is warm. She thinks this is a good way to end the day, to finally close the eyes for the last time. It is scattered with blonde hairs, but she does not care. The tartan leash hangs over the heater as every day. She watches the microscopic octopuses slipping out of their eggs. New life, minuscule hearts bumping in the ocean for the first time. She feels them swimming between the fingers of her hand. She looks at the mother’s corpse pirouetting away in the current, and inhales the smell of the red fleece blanket. Again. The tiny octopuses twirled and played around her fingertips, dampening her hands. As if, despite everything, she is not really alone.
It’s Sunday morning. She ties her hair up, crushes the Coke can, the chicken nuggets empty box, the handkerchiefs and the post with the vet’s number. She puts everything into a big sack. She folds the red fleece blanket carefully. She is not sure if she wants to wash it. She decides she can wait. Then she drinks a cup of coffee at the window, the winter sun burning her cheeks. She does not go out this morning. The tartan leash keeps on hanging over the heater of the living room, all Sunday and then everyday of her life. When she looks at it, she feels life, strong and powerful as never before, hitting her like dawn lights in the morning. When she looks at the leash, the intensity of life reveals itself in all its glory, as a red fleece blanket scattered with blonde hair. As claws that clicked on the floor to come wake her up. When she looks at the leash, she feels many tiny octopuses spinning around her fingers, just like a nose trying to catch her attention as she slept, just like life going on after the end. As an octopus mother that sailed the ocean, forever.
Author Biography
Rachele Salvini is an Italian, 23-year-old student of Creative Writing in London. She has just finished her MA. Her short stories were published on Cultured Vultures, Five2One and The Wells Street Journal, for which she also worked as a translator from Italian to English. She blogs about writing at: rachelesalvini.wordpress.com