Out on the Town by The Linnet's Wings

The Linnet's Wings

AUTUMN 201 3

The Linnet's Wings AUTUMN 2013

Leap to the morning Oft times I wake and must leap to the morning ‘Quit wriggling’, you say, and go back to your snoring So I take my word head and its thoughts all a-gnawing Say ‘come on’ to the dog, ‘let’s leap to the morning’. Kristina Jensen

Title: A Pot of Geraniums, Artist: Juan Gris, Technique: Oil

Also by The Linnet's Wings: The Song of Hiawatha by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow One Day Tells its Tale to Another by Nonnie Augustine Randolph Caldecott's The House that Jack Built

Published by The Linnet's Wing, 2013 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, of transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written prmission of the publisher. Any person who does any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way or trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form or binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser. Visit www.thelinnetswings.org to read more about our publication. ISBN-13:978-1492904090

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OLIVER GOLDSMITH

SONG FROM: SHE STOOPS TO

CONQUER viii

LET school-masters puzzle their brain, With grammar, and nonsense, and learning; Good liquor, I stoutly maintain, Gives 'genus' a better discerning. Let them brag of their heathenish gods, Their Lethes, their Styxes, and Stygians: Their Quis, and their Quaes, and their Quods, They're all but a parcel of Pigeons. Toroddle, toroddle, toroll. When Methodist preachers come down A-preaching that drinking is sinful, I'll wager the rascals a crown They always preach best with a skinful. But when you come down with your pence, For a slice of their scurvy religion, I'll leave it to all men of sense, But you, my good friend, are the pigeon. Toroddle, toroddle, toroll. Then come, put the jorum about, And let us be merry and clever; Our hearts and our liquors are stout; Here's the Three Jolly Pigeons for ever. Let some cry up woodcock or hare, Your bustards, your ducks, and your widgeons; But of all the birds in the air, Here's a health to the Three Jolly Pigeons. Toroddle, toroddle, toroll.

The Linnet's Wings

TAB LE O F CO N TE N TS S E P TE M B E R 2 0 1 3

CNF

INTRODUCTION

Mummy's Bureau, Anna G. Raman 17

Leap to the Morning, Kristina Jensen i

Song from She Stoops to Conquer v Foreward Seamus Heaney: An Archaeologist of CLASSIC GOLDSMITH the Soul by Oonah Joslin xi Selection of Poems 19 Editor's Note xii Epilogue to She Stoops to Conquer 29 The Linnet's Wings Information Page xii FLASH FICTION

Moon Goodess by Ginger Hamilton 1 How Long the Life by Howard Bernbaum 5 The New Born Day by Derek Osborne 9

ESSAY

Play on Words, John Ritchie 1 3 The Working of Pure Gold, Stephen Zelnick 21

MICRO FICTION

On the Way to Over There, Shirani Rajapakse 32 Macaroon, Carly Berg 33 Suit of Lights, Bill West 36

ESSAY AND SPANISH TRANSLATION

Spanish Women Writers, Diana Ferraro 37

Title: The Light and So Much Else, Artist: Paul Klee

POETRY TRANSLATIONS

Vivo Sin Vivir Ee Mi por Santa Teresa de Avil

(Translation: Diana Ferraro) 38 San Antonio Bendito por Rosalía de Castro (Original Gallego) (Translation: Eduardo Freire Canosa)39 Vinte unha crara noite por Rosalía de Castro (Translation: Eduardo Freire Canosa) 43

Kristina Jensen Down The Crack With The Crickets 56

Tom Sheehan Sign on a Wall 58

Aire por Emilia Pardo Bazán (Translation: Diana Ferraro) 4 5

Tim Gundrum

Se beben la luz Gloria Fuertes (Translation: Diana Ferraro) 52 Geografía de la aurora por María Zambrano (Translation: Marie Fitzpatrick) 54

The Flower 60 Ann Howells

Debut 61 Strolling the Pier in October 62

POETRY

Sara Clancy

Straight Shooting Poem 51

The UFO over Portland 52

Christofer Oberst In The Last Twenty Four Hours 54

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Tim Dwyer UNPUBLISHED WORKS OF DONAL MICHAEL FUREY (a fiction) 1950-2003 63

Title: Ophelia, Artist: Odilon Redon

xii

Gemma Meek Obelisk 65 HW6834 66 Ian C. Smith Pipedream 67 Mates 68

Sleeping Deer, Artist: Franz Mark 53 Glass, Cup and Newspaper, Artist Juan Gris 55 The Book, Artist: Juan Gris 59 A Gust ofWind, Artist: John Singer Sargent 61 Woman with Basket, Artist: Juan Gris 63 The Garden, Artist: Juan Gris 65 The Open Window, Artist Juan Gris 78

Nonnie Augustine Hogsheads and Tricks 69 Reverence 70

TEAM Managing Editor M. Lynam Fitzpatrick

Martin Heavisides WoWWiW 71 Straightforward Lible 72

SENIOR EDITOR Bill West

SHORT STORIES

GUEST EDITOR Oonah Joslin

Mozart and I by Alex Braverman 64 The Pact, Margrét Helgadóttir 79

EDITORS FOR REVIEW ENGLISH Bill West Nonnie Augustine Yvette Wielhouwer Flis

ART

A Pot of Geraniums, Artist: Juan Gris ii The Light and So Much Else,Artist: Paul Klee vii Ophelia, Artist:Odilon Redon Ashes II, Artist: Edvard Munch 3 Rising Star, Artist: Paul Klee 7 Death and Life, Artist: Gustav Klimt 11 TOberon, Titania and Puck with Fairies Dancing, Artist: William Blake 13 Design for the Frontispiece to "Plays" by John Davidson, Artist: Aubrey Beardsley 15 Edward Austin Abbey,(1852-1911) Illustration to "She Stoops to Conquer" 21 Incipit Vita Nova, Artist: Aubrey Beardsley 31 Cake-city, Artist: Ivan Bilibin 33 The Bullfighter, Artist: Juan Gris 35 Cupid Wins Souls, Artist: Giovanni Battista Piranes 47 The Soul of the Rose, Artist: John William Waterhouse 51 Web Sites Researched for this issue: Wikipaintings and Gutenberg

SPANISH Diana Ferraro Marie Fitzpatrick Consulting on Copy Digby Beaumont Spanish Translations Diana Ferraro Contributing Editors Martin Heavisides Photography Editor Maia Cavelli

Database Manager Peter Gilkes Offices Mullingar, Co. Westmeath, ROI Motril, Granada, Andalucía Online Offices Provided by Zoetrope Virtual Studio Web Hosting Provided by ddWebsites.com Design© TheLinnetsWings.org 2013 Founded, in Edgeworthstown, Co. Longford, in ROI, in 2007 Publisher: M. Lynam Fitzpatick Published by The Linnet's Wings ###

Oonah V Joslin

F O RE WO RD Seamus Heaney:

An Archaeologist of the Soul by Oonah V Joslin They asked me to write something about Seamus Heaney and I thought, ‘Who am I to do that? Sure, he’d never heard of me and I never met him.’ Still, when he died I felt sorrow for the loss and referred to him as a great poet and fellow countryman and I recommended people read Beowulf. Then I thought, ‘Maybe my reaction itself bears some scrutiny.’ Great poet, undoubtedly. Such men never really leave us. Fellow countryman? You take the Ahoghill Road from Ballymena through Portglenone to Bellaghy and it’s only about twelve miles. But twelve miles and fourteen years and Heaney’s Ulster was a bit different from mine. He was a Catholic from County Londonderry (which he would have called Derry). I was Ballymena Baptist with ‘orange’ blood in my veins. And why Beowulf? Heaney was out and out, an Irish poet and I do not consider myself so. In Ulster parlance we dug with the opposite foot. So let us pick our way you and me, over this splintered field of broken green glass and find out what made us fellow countrymen. I’d picked up Beowulf before and tried to read it, not in its original form of course. Much as I wanted to, I couldn’t get on with it at all. I’d studied French as Heaney did and it seems we’d both cut our teeth on Hopkins and Eliot at school. We had that in common. Heaney however had the benefit of learning Gaelic because his education as a Catholic was culturally Irish so he developed a broader linguistic palate. Yet for him the language of Ulster was riches enough. When I picked up Heaney’s new translation and read: “Afterwards a boy-child was born to Shield,

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An Archaeologist of the Soul

a cub in the yard, a comfort sent by God to that nation. He knew what they had tholed, the long times and troubles they'd come through” I grinned. “tholed” is just the word I would have used but it apparently comes from an old English word that begins with a letter shaped like a thorn. I read on. “That was one good king” I smiled again. Later on there was: “hirpling with pain,” and there was “blather,” and “gumption,” and “hoked,” and I read on and on delighted by the little treasures of my past. I read about the great hall: “The hall towered, its gables wide and high and awaiting a barbarous burning. That doom abided, but in time it would come: the killer instinct unleashed among in-laws, the blood-lust rampant.” and I knew that he was talking about all divided peoples everywhere. It was only later that I read in the introduction where Heaney talked about his family, the Scullions and their voices and words that had woven their way into this poetic narrative. He wrote that: “The place on the language map where the Usk and the uisce and the whiskey coincided was definitely a place where the spirit might find a loophole, an escape route from what John Montague has called, ‘the partitioned intellect’” That struck a chord with me. I know the River Usk too having lived in Wales. But you see

Oonah V Joslin

"Now he belched forth flaming fire."/An illustration of Beowulf fighting the dragon that appears at the end of the epic poem./Marshall, Henrietta Elizabeth (1908) Stories of Beowulf, T.C. & E.C. Jack, p. 93

xvi

An Archaeologist of the Soul

I do not consider myself an Irish poet. I am not an English poet either. I could perhaps be termed a Scot in the original sense of that northern part of Ireland being where the Scots came from (the Picts being from Scotland). Maybe going back far enough, I could call myself Dalriadan, being from part of that ancient Northern Kingdom that encircled the Western Isles. There is this innate identity crisis in all subjugate peoples; divided loyalties, cultural chasms, religious rifts and it’s difficult to find where you stand in an entrenched landscape dug by history. As I have said before, “difference is very persistent in getting the upper hand” The Linnet’s Wings Summer 2012 Heaney promised he’d dig with his pen but for me he did more than that. There’s digging and digging. Some people dig nothing but dirt, others dig graves and there has been a lot of that in Ireland’s history. Seamus Heaney endeavoured, like so many of us, to be part of the solution not the problem. In digging deep within the roots of our language, he excavated for us a rare treasure; the key of a kingdom. He reinterpreted the map of, as he put it: “that complex history of conquest and resistance, integrity and antagonism…..that has clearly to be acknowledged by all concerned…” if we are to move forward. Well, I shifted my position a bit and I owe him that. For is it not true that no matter who we are, we have far more in common with each than the total sum of our differences? He did the spadework for me. I understood Beowulf and myself and my history a bit better and in the splintered landscape of broken green glass, I look up and there are the old signposts: Ahoghill, Portglenone, Bellaghy with such familiar sounds and maybe next time I’m home, I’ll visit. Thank you my fellow countrymen at The Linnet’s Wings for the privilege of paying this little tribute. ### Oonah V Joslin is managing editor at Everyday Poets: www.everydaypoets.com

xiii

Editor's Note This quarter, I wanted to write something really classy in my note, something that would shout-out from the rooftops look at us, look at the talent we have in this issue. And then I remembered that each quarter here is similar and that we're just lucky because we got a hard working team who all share a passion for their discipline and the work that they bring to the table. Alongside other great content we have two essays that I want to mention: Stephen Zelnick's: 'The Working of Pure Gold,' and John Ritchie's: 'Play on Words.' Stephen writes in praise of 'She Stoops to Conquer' by Oliver Goldsmith and John writes on Shakespeare's 'A Midsummer's Night Dream.' Of course, in both, nothing is as it appears. But who ever said comedy was a bag of laughs! From the author's perspective isn't there always an underlying story? But when a good scribe knows their subject the rest of us can sit back, read and enjoy. Many thanks to the guys who wrote to our request, your time, knowledge and skill is much appreciated. In our Spanish Section: Diana Ferraro calls up some of the best of the 'Spanish Women Writers' and with a easy touch she brings to light their internal lives, we get 20 pages of poetry and prose translations, my favourite of these has to be: the poem: The Maiden's Prayer, Blessed St. Anthony/Grant me a man:)!! And Seamus Heaney's passed and there's a new star in the heavens but that's not much comfort to his family. We extend our condolences and to mark his departure we asked a countrywoman of his to compose our foreword. Oonagh Joslin grew up just down the road from where Seamus was born and reared. She's a fine poet and we've carried her work in previous issues. I'm glad she agreed to put pen to paper. Thank you to all our contributors, if I had the space I'd sing hosannas about your talent, the work as always is much appreciated because we're only as good as you allow us to be with your fine contributions. Have a wonderful autumn and I wish y'all a spooky All Hallows, and here's a Yeats poem for Seamus. I wonder have those two caught up yet in their piece of paradise. Slainte, Marie

xviii

I Am Of Ireland William Butler Yeats 'I am of Ireland, And the Holy Land of Ireland, And time runs on,' cried she. 'Come out of charity, Come dance with me in Ireland.' One man, one man alone In that outlandish gear, One solitary man Of all that rambled there Had turned his stately head. That is a long way off, And time runs on,' he said, 'And the night grows rough.' 'I am of Ireland, And the Holy Land of Ireland, And time runs on,' cried she. 'Come out of charity And dance with me in Ireland.' 'The fiddlers are all thumbs, Or the fiddle-string accursed, The drums and the kettledrums And the trumpets all are burst, And the trombone,' cried he, 'The trumpet and trombone,' And cocked a malicious eye, 'But time runs on, runs on.' I am of Ireland, And the Holy Land of Ireland, And time runs on,' cried she. "Come out of charity And dance with me in Ireland.'

Ginger Hamilton

OON GODDESS By Ginger Hamilton

It always comes down to a choice: she can be herself, or she can be loved by a mortal man. Tonight, she stands at the devil's crossroads once again

Moon Goddess

hey stalked the darkened field behind Dean's house armed with badminton racquets and watched for a signal from the fireflies. Dean hunkered low in the tall summer grass. He smelled traces of lemon Joy dishwashing detergent lingering on Ginny's hands, and felt a pang in the center of his chest. Tonight I'll prove myself. I'll get the first bat, and she'll love me back. His arms quivered with fatigue and he hunched his shoulders for relief. Focused on the blue-black air, Dean waited for the first flicker. *** It was their secret ritual, killing fruit bats that dipped low to eat the lightning bugs. Their game was forbidden, and exhilarating. Ginny's mother would ground her for the rest of the summer if she found out. Dean's father would whip him with a belt if he knew. Yet every summer evening as the sun set, Ginny and Dean went to the field and waited for fireflies to signal the competition's start. Ginny played tennis – took lessons for two hours every day -- and she was good. Dean walked her to the public courts each morning. He watched as Ginny became a beautiful wildcat springing for an unsuspecting bird. She rarely missed. A thrill ran through him when the muscles in her calves tightened. And something deep inside Dean hungered to touch the hair that clung to the rivulets of perspiration on her neck. But he knew he had to earn that right. Maybe tonight, he hoped. The day had been muggy and hot, but the temperature dropped to a tolerable level as soon as the sun disappeared behind Ginny's house. Fireflies sparkled, ushering in the magic session when shadows become monsters and the unknown lurks behind every outbuilding. Bats drifted in dreamlike circles seeking breakfast, for this was shift change between day and night creatures. It was Ginny's favorite time of day. A firefly flickered. Instantly, a shadow dove from the eastern sky. Ginny sprang to her feet and slammed the bat to the ground with a single, panther-like strike. "The night's mine!" Dean’s shoulders slumped. "I wasn't ready." "Ready or not, the night's mine, fair and square." They stood over the animal and watched as its broken wings twitched. In seconds, the movement ceased. Dean’s brow furrowed; his jaw tightened. "I'm not playing anymore." He slung his racquet. It landed on the ground beside the dead bat. Ginny squatted beside the creature and poked its carcass with her racquet. Satisfied it was dead, she flipped the bat up into the air and sent it flying with a solid underhand swing. It soared for several feet, then halted and plummeted to the ground.

Ginger Hamilton

Title: Ashes II, Artist: Edvard Munch, Completion Date: 1896, Style: Expressionism, Technique: lithography, watercolor

Locusts droned. In the distance, a dog barked. Without a word, a truce was made. Ginny and Dean climbed partway up the hill and lay back in the grass. Dean pointed into the night sky. "There's Corona Borealis, right over Griffith's roof." Ginny looked where he pointed. "Let's pretend I'm Ariadne and you're Theseus. You just slew the Minotaur, and we're sailing away." Ginny spooned her body against his. Dean's cheeks felt hot. "I didn’t slay him; you did. I guess that makes me Ariadne."

Moon Goddess

"Well, you can kill the next one, Dean." "I don't want the next one. The night's yours, Ginny – or should I say, Theseus." Ginny rolled away from Dean. Overhead, more bats circled the field. She had drawn first blood; the night was rightfully hers. She slapped at a hungry mosquito, and remembered only female mosquitoes bit people. She took a deep breath. "Then the night's mine, Dean. Because you lost, you owe me a wish. I wish you to tell me the story about Ariadne and Theseus again." Ginny rolled side to side, smoothing the grass until it was flattened beneath her. Dean snuck a glance at the gentle mounds beneath her shirt. He loved to watch them rise and fall with her breathing. Ginny was changing, somehow growing up faster than he was. He felt a stirring in his pants and squirmed to reposition so she didn't notice. Ginny closed her eyes and imagined a ship with black sails setting off for Crete. She suspected Dean was being stubborn, so she started the story. ". . . Ariadne fell in love with Theseus at first sight. She gave him a sword and a ball of string. She told him to tie the string to the door of the Labyrinth so he could find his way out after he slayed the Minotaur . . ." Dean continued the story. ". . . Ariadne fell asleep on the Island of Delos, and Theseus put out to sea on his ship with the black sails, leaving her behind." Ginny rolled up on one elbow and squinted so she could see Dean's face when he answered. "Why do you think he left her behind on the island?" "I don't know.” Dean shrugged. “Maybe he was afraid what his father would say if he brought her home." "Why would he care? I mean, she saved him and all those other people's lives. Didn't he love her?" "Sure, he loved her." Dean squirmed and gazed up at Corona Borealis. He had the sense that Ginny was sailing away from him right here, right now, and he felt desperate to stop her. The silhouette of a soaring bat sailed between him and the constellation. Dean looked around for his racquet. Maybe the night isn't a total loss. He searched the sky for the bat to sail past again. When did everything change between us, he wondered. I know it's different, but I don't know why. Dean glanced over at Ginny. Her face was in profile, and the sight of it made his chest ache. A cloud from the east crept closer; he hoped it would block the constellation. Dean didn't care if he ever saw Corona Borealis again. Ginny struggled to remember the last details of the story. It was the best part, she knew. Then it came to her: Ariadne became the goddess of the shining moon, the spiral dance, and swirling stars. Standing up, Ginny spun in circles with her head thrown back. She kept her eyes on the moon, and the stars swirled in a magical spiral dance. After several spins, she fell back onto the grass, satisfied. She had seen the swirling stars. She had done the spiral dance. She was the moon goddess. The seven stars of Corona Borealis twinkled in the distant heavens. Dean stood and picked up his racquet. "It's late; see ya tomorrow." He trudged up the hill towards home, holding his racquet over his head. In the darkness, it reminded Ginny of a black sail. ###

H oward Bern bau m

ow Lon g The Life

by Howard Bernbaum

How Long The Life

he twins were distracted by the neon like meteor’s streak seen through the high hospital window. At that moment Mrs.Thurgood slowly exhaled, sank farther back into her pillow, and breathed no more. Their dear aunt had completed her journey and a common act of nature had distracted them from observing the end. Not until several nurses rushed in and began resuscitation attempts did they even realize the loss. The meteor continued on its path strewing its remnants across a remote part of the Arizona countryside. That the path had its terminus somewhere in that state was more common than mere coincidence. A glance at a meteorite strike map ofArizona gives evidence of three distinct zones of impacts besides the massive Meteorite Crater outside Winslow off Interstate 40. Strike records show a streak of hits along a line from Navajo to White hills near the California border. Another line of strikes range from Clover Springs to Wikieup. Further south remnants can be found scattered for miles around Tucson. However for lazy prospectors like Zeke Smothers and Jake Jackson, the flatter land around Kaylen near the south west corner of the state made more sense. There weren’t even major hills to climb. That there was a dearth of findings in this area mattered little as their families provided the essentials for their maintenance in hopes they would stay away. Both men understood the philosophy and by pooling resources had enough money for booze as a dietary supplement. Neither cared much for his partner but symbiotic relationships frequently form indestructible bonds. Zeke and Jake had been wandering the sere countryside for over ten years finding a worthwhile shard now and then, the largest of which sold for just under $100. That binge lasted a week and almost did them in. Jake had awakened before noon, rolled out of his sleeping bag, and was brushing his brown coated teeth with a twig he had found. “Hey Zeke, did’ja notice a flash last night? I thought that sucker was gonna land right in the middle of the camp. It hung up there fer an hour before it come down.” Zeke grunted. “I didn’t see nothing. When I sleep, I sleep and nothing better wake me, or else.” He looked around for a twig to wipe his teeth. That bitter taste in his mouth was just awful. There were no decent twigs in sight so he reached under his tattered blanket and retrieved a bottle of Four Roses. One slug and his mouth was back to normal. He pulled the tent flap to one side and squinted at the glare of the sun. “Too hot to go out now. Let’s put it off to later.” He took another drink and returned to his prairie bed. Jake agreed and returned to the tent. “Betcha we find another hundred dollerer.” There was, indeed, a meteorite, the same one watched by Mrs. Thurgood’s twin niece and nephew the night before. The heavenly orb, streaking along earth’s orbit, had finally succumbed to gravity and ended its unbelievable journey. Jake, if he were philosophically minded might have pondered where the flaming missile came from. He might have wondered how long it had

H oward Bern bau m

Title: Rising Star, Artist: Paul Klee, Completion Date: 1923, Style: Expressionism, Period: Bauhaus

How Long The Life

been wandering the vast terrestrial distances. However, his mind held not a shimmer of phenomenal curiosity. Still, if he had been told about the origin of that mixture of atoms he would have taken another drink and muttered “Bull sh - -.” In fact, some vast number of years before 14.7 billion years ago existed a nothing. To make matters a little clearer, the nothing had once been an immense star. Because of its enormous gravitational field the star attracted space debris and other objects, even other smaller stars. The star was made up mostly of hydrogen atoms but contained all the other atoms as well. Over millions of years it continued to grow until it couldn’t manage its mass. It became unstable, swelled up, then collapsed strewing some of its mass into the surrounding empty space. With more millions of years it reclaimed its mass and gravity pulled all those atoms into a tighter and tighter cluster. The gravitational field was so strong ultimately even light couldn’t escape. If there had been eyes to look at it they wouldn’t have seen anything. It became what in the future would be called a black hole. Time elapsed, more millions upon millions of years. All the elements that had resided in the majestic sun were still there, only concentrated. Interatomic distances had shrunk to a small fraction of their original infinitely small lengths. Then one day, BOOM. The black hole had become unstable and exploded. Matter was dispersed in all directions. Gases, solids, atoms, molecules all were sent on their ultimate journey. Billions of years passed as the gaseous matter gathered and coalesced into spatial objects. Suns were formed, some with planets and their satellites in orbit. Clouds of gases continued through space. Some systems revolved around each other and even entire galaxies rotated in the new universe. Comets traveled throughout space and meteors were formed and traveled in comparable orbits. Out of this diversity with its unimaginable masses and distances grew a galaxy called the Milky Way, rotating in space. A minor star developed in the periphery of this galaxy and this minor star, called the sun, was the pseudo center of a cluster of various sized planets in solar orbit. Some four billion years after the origin of one of those planets, life formed. Many millions of years later that life form evolved into what is questionably referred to as intelligent life. People named their resident planet earth and claimed knowledge of the rest of space appending appellations on everything they observed. As miraculous as the story of creation goes it is a mere gossamer in the coincidences that occur without the least bit of help from man. Man, a being whose conceit is the only challenge to the enormity of the universe. From that vast explosion that took place those billions of years ago, matter was ejected that coalesced into the meteor that wandered the universe until one fateful night it crashed into the desert near Zeke and Jake thus providing them, upon discovery, a shard large enough to sell for nearly $100 and another week of nonstop drinking. On a sadder note, one of the by products of that cataclysmic eruption was the formation of several gaseous molecules that ultimately arranged themselves into a volume containing among other things approximately 80% nitrogen and 20% oxygen, a sufficient amount of air to provide dear Mrs. Thurgood her last breath. A tear formed in her niece’s eye as she watched from the hallway where the nurses had ushered her, the futile attempts at resuscitation as futile as mankind’s attempts at living in harmony with his neighbors. ###

Derek Osborne

he New Born Day

By Derek Osborne

The New Born Day

arvin saw the dead raccoon on the side of the road – body twisted, mouth open – its paws reaching up as if to say, “No!” A image there at the edge of his lights; at two in the morning he sped his way home. The day had gone better than planned; the project was now a go. He was already spending the money, more in this one deal than he’d made his entire career – a million square feet of building – he’d just made all of them rich. Life was becoming a rocket. The dead raccoon flew by. And then she was there in the lights, another, smaller and fat, eyes like little blue diamond’s wide with sudden alarm. He barely had time to touch his brakes. He couldn’t swerve, he was going too fast. She lifted a shoulder, closed her eyes with a snarl, Marvin felt her tumbling beneath the car and the hollow thump as the rear wheel hopped and she spun off into the night. There in the glow of the driver’s side mirror, brake lights shone in the trees. Touching an icon, he shut off the music, pulling the car to the shoulder. The animal’s cart-wheeling body played again and again as he sat there and tried to calm down. Marvin wasn’t sure why he stopped. Dozens of raccoons died on that road every year. He was usually good about driving at night. The eyes always gave them away and he always had time to maneuver. His kids would scold if he drove too fast, but tonight he’d really been speeding, partly the high from closing the deal but mostly the need to get home. He’d finally tasted the tiger’s bowl. From now on they’d all be players. So he took in a few deep breaths, tried to get rid of the image. As his wife would say, another soul moved on. Marvin put on his flashers, grabbed the light he kept in the glove box. The least he could do was pull her back off of the road. He opened the car door. Marvin liked the feel of that door. He liked the protective weight and the smell of leather and polish, the solid sound when it shut. He didn’t know why he was calling it “she”, perhaps because it was smaller, and he wondered if they’d been mates. Had the road’s tunnel of poplars funneled his scent? Had she been wondering why he was no longer following? The overhead leaves echoed the pulsing lights of the car. He walked down the lane, crickets and fire-flies out in the fields, the sound of a deep summer’s night. “Oh, Christ,” he said when he saw the body. The mother had drawn up into a ball, her face pushed back, eyes bulging, but that’s not what caused his reaction. He focused the flashlight’s beam. Just behind, in a murky puddle of blue placenta, four gray pups lay in the road. Two of them, a miracle, were moving. Marvin turned and vomited. He shone the light again. Their legs wriggled out, stretching and feeling, tiny eyes shut, their mouths instinctively sucking imagined teats. He spun once more and bent over, this time getting all of it out. He couldn’t just leave them. Pulling his shirt off he got to his knees. Then, laying his undershirt

Derek Osborne

Title: Death and Life, Artist: Gustav Klimt

The New Born Day gently beside, he used the other two bodies as buffer, scooping the whole mess into the soft white cotton, carefully folding it over. His pin-striped Brooks Brother’s shirt made an excellent gurney. Running with all of it back to the car, Marvin put the bundle down on the passenger’s side, switching the air off and touching another one of the icons, the seat warmer. He drove as fast as he dared. It was only ten more minutes. “Open garage,” Marvin said to the car. They’d remodeled the kitchen just that year with all commercial appliances. At one end of the granite island a food warmer hung from the ceiling. He placed them below. Only one was moving now. Marvin wrapped the others in paper towels, laying them down in a line like little soldiers. “Janice,” he called upstairs, “Janice.” He watched the infant raccoon feeling its world beneath the light. His children had moved the same way. “What’s going on?” his wife said, shuffling down the back stair. He gestured. “Oh.” “What do we do?” She checked where her husband had set the temperature. “I’ll call the vet.” “There’s no time for a vet.” “Then I’ll Google,” she said. Janice went to the screen mounted over the micro-wave. Marvin watched as she calmly went about it. He laughed, then looked at the counter and wanted to cry, then laughed again, a mix of the two. “What is it?" “I closed the deal.” For a moment she paused. The building, the deal, was one of those massive data-storage centers, the kind that had been in the news all week. Big Brother was finally watching. She smiled, going back to her search, flipping through windows until she found the one she wanted. Marvin had bent back over the little one. He put his hand down close, testing the level of warmth. A paw reached out and touched. “Wait till I tell them,” he said. The You Tube video came on the screen, How to Feed Newborn Raccoons. They waited until she could skip the ad. ###

John Ritchie

lay on words By John Ritchie

Title: Oberon, Titania and Puck with Fairies Dancing: Artist: William Blake

Play on Words

hakespeare is believed to have written ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’ between 1590 and 1596, by which time he was a well established and highly regarded playwright and poet. The Dream is widely considered to be a light-hearted play and is very popular, being used in schools as an introduction to the Bard’s work and often performed in the summer at open-air theatres. But it is possible that the play might have been part of an ongoing dialogue between Shakespeare and Elizabeth I regarding the monarch’s determination to rule alone. Take for example, Shakespeare’s representation of Richard II. The play appears to have had a minor role in the events surrounding the final downfall of the Earl of Essex who led a rather ineffectual rebellion against the Queen in 1601. Charles and Joscelyn Percy (younger brothers of the Earl of Northumberland), paid "above the ordinary" for a performance, at the Globe Theatre on the eve of the attempted insurrection, of this play, which even the Chamberlain’s Men felt was too old and "out of use" to attract a large audience, yet clearly it made its point, because Elizabeth who was well aware of the political ramifications of the story including as it does Richard’s abdication, supposedly remarked "I am Richard II, know ye not that?" But it may be that Shakespeare’s message was rather more subtle. In Act 4, Richard takes his crown and invites Bolingbroke to take it from him. “Here, cousin, seize the crown. Here, cousin, on this side my hand, on that side, thine.” For some moments both men hold the crown, and thereby, metaphorically, the power the crown represents. Might it be that Shakespeare was suggesting that Elizabeth share her crown, that is, that she marry. Marriages of political expedience have been commonplace throughout history and apart from securing important alliances were also used to provide heirs. An uncertain succession, as is the case with an heir-less monarch, could throw the country into civil and religious conflict, an outcome no right-minded person would have wanted. The theme of marriage is re-visited in ‘The Dream’ with the additional twist of not one but three nuptials being planned. If that were not complicated enough, considerable confusion and upset is introduced by Oberon and Titania, King and Queen of the fairy folk, who are arguing over who has the raising of an orphan boy. Here, Shakespeare has put an heir, albeit one who doesn’t actually appear in the play, centre stage, thereby making his point quite clear. Further on he has Titania dispatch her attendants to remove any disease from the wild

John Ritchie

Title: Design for the Frontispiece to "Plays" by John Davidson, Artist: Aubrey Beardsley, Style: Art Nouveau (Modern)

Play on Words

rose buds, so that “beauty may blossom”. To an Elizabethan audience the allusion would be obvious; at the time roses were associated with the female genitalia and therefore ensuring their flowering was a clear reference to successful childbearing. In the play within a play, Shakespeare could be interpreted as taking a riskier approach. In this patently ridiculous romp, Shakespeare lampoons his own profession as an actor and a playwright, yet nevertheless contrives to send a chilling message. When the lion is seen with Thisby’s bloodied mantle in his mouth, the audience knows that no actual harm has befallen Thisby, but the scene is open to interpretation. It was common practice at this time for the bed sheets to be displayed on the morning after a wedding to show both: that the marriage had been consummated and that the bride had been a virgin at the time of her marriage. Shakespeare famously used this device to suggest Desdemona’s infidelity in ‘Othello’, when a strawberryspotted handkerchief fell into the wrong hands. In the ‘play within a play’, however, the ‘bloodied’ garment is held by a yokel pretending to be a lion. To the Elizabethans the lion, was representative of kingship and in Richard II, Queen Isabella entreats the cowed Richard to act like a lion even as he is imprisoned, by a commoner, Bolinbroke. Yet here the lion is commoner holding a representation of virginity. Therefore, this could be interpreted as the risk to the Virgin Queen of being deposed by her subjects or a low-born usurper, such as Bolingbroke, or the ill fated, Earl of Essex. Ultimately however, Nature, decided the matter and after a successful 45 year reign, Elizabeth died an unmarried woman, in 1603. ###

Anna G. Raman

ummy’s

ureau By

Anna G. Raman

I do not know her name. I remember, everyone From my mother To the neighbors nine doors away, Called her mummy.

It stood in a corner of my study in our Coimbatore flat. There was also an iron table, an iron chair, a wooden cupboard built into the wall, an old treadle sewing machine, with an iron pedal, and a very much out of place plastic pail and a pile of laundry outside the attached bathroom. The bureau, over six feet tall, looked more classic and majestic than all the other furniture in the room. It had a stainless steel handle with a lock that we never used. We never locked this bureau. My mother kept all her pure silk sarees, Chinese silk sarees and blouses on

Mummy's Bureau

the top three shelves, and my salwar kameez with their dupattas and other clothes went on the bottom two shelves. My much-treasured kebaya and batik set went on one of the bottom shelves too. Someone from my father’s side of the family living in Malaysia had gifted it to me when we visited them in 1990. It had been a Visit Malaysia Year and we had spent some of our summer holidays there. The set had beautiful orange-coloured patterns. It was very special and I proudly wore it, to visit a friend or to walk to the milkman’s house to find out why he hadn’t delivered the day’s morning milk. This bureau also had the privilege of storing the first pair of jeans in the household, which was handed down to me from a younger cousin, who had grown taller than me. I wore the jeans, mostly in Chennai. In Coimbatore, it got a lot of disapproving eyes and brows those days. The nearly rusty iron shelves were lined with pages from old editions of 'The Hindu' newspaper. Sometimes, one of the shelves would lean like an inclined plane and all the clothes on it would slide to one end. This would happen very quietly and we would not know about it until we opened the green double doors. These doors, however, were very loud, as if they were yelling and demanding oil. The doors of the blue bureau were also loud but they sounded a little more dignified and polite. It was like the bureaus had their own signature sounds and one could tell which one was being opened or closed from anywhere in the flat. My father’s and sister’s clothes were stored in the blue bureau, along with my sister’s only Barbie doll and her trinkets which we explored together from time to time. It had the pleasure of going on an adventurous treasure hunt and finding goodies. The bureau was painted dark green, so dark, that no light reached the insides, even with the tube-light on. It had a safety locker but my mother never kept any of her jewellery in it. I was too scared to reach into the dark secretiveness of the locker. I think I was afraid of finding Mummy’s soul there, waiting to chide me for some big mistake. My mother kept all her valuables in the other, blue bureau, in my sister’s study-cum-bedroom. The coarse paint was peeling off in several places and made the bureau an ideal board for writing. I used to fill up the sides with Mechanics equations, using white chalk pieces which travelled home occasionally in my mother’s handbag from the school where she taught Chemistry. As I wrote, the fine chalk powder fell on the floor making lines around the bureau and made a protective border for it. The bureau had been brought from Mummy’s house in Palakkad. Mummy was my Great-Grandma. Everyone who knew her fondly called her Mummy. She must have bought the bureau sometime after she moved from the Middle East to Kerala, with Grandma Lilly and my Great-Aunts, towards the end of World War II. After Mummy’s departure, everyone inherited something from her house and the bureau ended up in Grandma Lilly’s house on Lawley Road in Coimbatore. My mother had requested for it from my Grandma when we had much more clothes than the blue bureau could hold. In 2003, sometime before my wedding, my mother sent it back to Grandma Lilly’s, to turn my study into a honeymooners’ room. Now the bureau sits on the ground floor of my Uncle’s house where he runs a smallscale plastic business. He says it’s a precisely cut, finely made bureau from the olden days and it should be kept. ###

OLIVER GOLDSMITH “You can preach a better sermon with your life than with your lips. ”

A SONNET WEEPING, murmuring, complaining, Lost to every gay delight; MYRA, too sincere for feigning, Fears th' approaching bridal night.

AN EPIGRAM ADDRESSED TO THE GENTLEMEN REFLECTED ON IN THE ROSCIAD,

'TWAS you, or I, or he, or all together, 'Twas one, both, three of them, they know not whether; This, I believe, between us great or small, You, I, he, wrote it not--'twas Churchill's all.

TO G. C. AND R. L.

Yet, why impair thy bright perfection? Or dim thy beauty with a tear? A POEM, BY THE AUTHOR Had MYRA followed my direction, She long had wanted cause of fear. Worried with debts and past all hopes of bail, His pen he prostitutes t' avoid a gaol. ROSCOM.

LET not the 'hungry' Bavius' angry stroke Awake resentment, or your rage provoke; But pitying his distress, let virtue shine, And giving each your bounty, 'let him dine'; For thus retain'd, as learned counsel can, Each case, however bad, he'll new japan; And by a quick transition, plainly show 'Twas no defect of yours, but 'pocket low', That caused his 'putrid kennel' to o'erflow. “Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey/Where wealth accumulates and men decay”

SONG

FROM 'THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD' WHEN lovely woman stoops to folly, And finds too late that men betray, What charm can soothe her melancholy, What art can wash her guilt away? The only art her guilt to cover, To hide her shame from every eye, To give repentance to her lover, And wring his bosom, is -- to die.

“You can preach a better sermon with your life than with your lips. ”

"THE BEST BELOVED OF ENGLISH WRITERS"

ON A BEAUTIFUL YOUTH STRUCK BLIND WITH LIGHTNING ('Imitated from the Spanish'.) SURE 'twas by Providence design'd, Rather in pity, than in hate, That he should be, like Cupid, blind, To save him from Narcissus' fate. “Our greatest glory consists not in never falling, but in rising every time we fall. ”

Stephen Zelnick

GOLDSMITH' S S HE S TOOPS TO C ONQUER:

THE WORKING OF PURE GOLD Stephen Zelnick, Emeritus Professor, Temple University

Edward Austin Abbey,(1852-1911) Illustration to "She Stoops to Conquer"

She Stoops to Conquer: The Working of Pure Gold

he brilliant Irish author, Oliver Goldsmith (1728-1774), was stunningly ugly, even sitting across the table from the grotesque Samuel Johnson. By all accounts, Goldsmith possessed defects more than skin deep. Goldsmith was eaten up with envy, once leaping upon a table to prove that he could surpass in eloquence the famously gifted Edmund Burke, only to find himself stumped after two sentences. Praise for Johnson drove poor “Noldy” to distraction. He was a stupendous failure at university, finishing last in his class at Trinity College, Dublin, and was awarded his B.A. out of pity. In his early writing career he plagiarized naturalist texts and popular histories. He drank, he gambled, he was always in debt. He studied to become a medical doctor but by God’s grace never practiced; he did, however, treat one serious illness and managed to send himself to an early grave. He was ugly, unpleasant, incompetent, reckless, and lacking in self-discipline … and blessed by the gods with a superb talent for lucid and entertaining writing. Horace Walpole called Goldsmith an “inspired idiot.” More generously, Johnson wrote that Goldsmith “left scarcely any style of writing untouched, and touched nothing that he did not adorn.” Goldsmith, unlucky in life, was repaid with immortal fame – the author of The Vicar of Wakefield (1766), The Deserted Village (1770), and She Stoops to Conquer (1773). I write in praise of She Stoops to Conquer. Most considerations of this superb play have engaged the arid exercise of determining the play’s category of comedy and the type of Goldsmith’s humor. Sure enough, it is a “laughing comedy” as opposed to the un-laughing romantic comedies of its time, where happy endings suffice. The play contains satire, farce, mistaken identity, ludicrous servants and pompous lords, love and marriage in desperate collision, with wonderful puns, sexual jolts, comic songs, broad physical fun, and racing along at a break-neck pace surprising in a play now 240 years old. Squint, and you can see a Hugh Grant film, only with greater edge and far funnier. Goldsmith’s wonderful play mines the fertile comedic terrain of love and marriage. Let’s face it, marriage is surrounded by absurdity – two strangers brought together for a lifetime by the confusedly mixed interests of property, propriety, consumer habits, romance and lust, and family dictates – nothing could be sillier or more vital to our happiness. Most cultures have solved the problem by authorizing adult members of the interested families to make this vital decision. Why leave the fate of families and their property to two youngsters mad with desire?

Stephen Zelnick

… or, worse yet, with the commonplace imaginings of romance? While “She Stoops” enjoys its jolly romp, its humor twines around serious matters. The play offers us options. We open with old Mr. Hardcastle, tradition bound, and his indefatigable wife, Mrs. Hardcastle, itching to enjoy London fashion. The two share nothing but a well-honed spitefulness. HARDCASTLE : I wonder why London cannot keep its own fools at home! In

my time, the follies of the town crept slowly among us, but now they travel faster than a stage-coach. Its fopperies come down not only as inside passengers, but in the very basket.

MRS. HARDCASTLE : Ay, your times were fine times indeed; you have been

telling us of them for many a long year … Our best visitors are old Mrs. Oddfish, the curate's wife, and little Cripplegate, the lame dancing-master; and all our entertainment your old stories of Prince Eugene and the Duke of Marlborough. I hate such old-fashioned trumpery. HARDCASTLE : And I love it.

Mrs. H. cannot resist reminding her second husband of the excellences of Mr. Lumpkin, her deceased and therefore beloved first husband. She carps at Mr. H. incessantly, and he revenges himself with curt sarcasm. This marriage is a continuing horror; two strangers, at one another on every point, and targeting their venom with deadly aim. They are together because Mrs. H. is manipulative and greedy for cash and status; Mr. H., lost in his reveries of Prince Eugene and the Duke of Marlborough, failed to pay sufficient attention to the package he was getting in his second and disastrous marriage. Still, marital bickering lights up the stage. In standard romance, the young renew our faith in love and marriage. But Goldsmith takes a clever turn. His standard loving couple, Hastings and Constance Neville, seems to be the antidote. Where the Hardcastles show the rough edges of life’s wear, these lovers are fresh minted. However, appearances deceive. Hastings is too hasty in wishing to whisk away his beloved Constance; and she is constant only to her regard for her legacy. Hastings would throw caution to the winds, relinquish her dowry, and flee with her to France. His beloved is full of faults, mere manners and morals, with nothing loving about her: HASTINGS: Such a tedious delay is worse than inconstancy. Let us fly,

my charmer. Let us date our happiness from this very moment. Perish fortune! Love and content will increase what we possess beyond a monarch's revenue. Let me prevail!

MISS NEVILLE : No, Mr. Hastings, no. Prudence once more comes to my

She Stoops to Conquer: The Working of Pure Gold

relief, and I will obey its dictates. In the moment of passion fortune may be despised, but it ever produces a lasting repentance. (Act V) She is not leaving without her jewels and is deaf to Hastings’ idealism. Love is fine, especially with cash in hand. These two have not been through a true test; he will free her from her captivity in Hardcastle Hall, and she will fulfill his dreamy notions of love and rescue. They will become the Hardcastles; she begging for more, and he begging, with growing agitation, to be let alone. A third variation is the barnyard amours of Tony Lumpkin. Lumpkin is a delightful Puckish fellow in the Hardcastle halls and stables. He is defiantly unlearned, loves the alehouse and carousing with drunken louts and loose country women, delights in playing pranks and tormenting his mother and step-father, manipulating their proprieties. His mother demands that he marry Ms. Neville so that Constance’s legacy can remain in her control. Tony sees through Constance’s false sweetness and propriety and recognizes in her another version of his manipulative mother. Tony trusts in appetite, drinking and gorging himself, and servicing the bovine beauties of the neighborhood. Bet Bouncer, a great voluptuous mound of womanhood, is Lumpkin’s ideal. Tony is a jolly figure, a prize role for generations of actors. He can perform a jaunty hymn to the Three Pigeons Tavern, his witty remarks brighten the stage, and he engineers the clever pranks that drive the play’s action – the misidentification of Hardcastle Hall as a country inn is his idea, as is the wild night ride that resolves the play’s foolery. Lumpkin is natural feeling as the antidote for society’s priggish deceptions. He is just the sort of character you would expect “Noldy” Goldsmith to favor. But Romantic Comedy, whether of the laughing or un-laughing sort, cannot adapt to such anarchy. Mr. Hardcastle and his less deluded old friend, Sir Charles Marlow, hold society together -- Hardcastle by his respect for tradition, and Sir Charles with his adherence both to social forms and also to natural feeling. Lumpkin delights us with his foolery, but we can’t have a world that depends upon his rascally chums, or upon Diggory and the rest of the serving class. The answer to the faults of Tory rot cannot be the anarchism of the barnyard or the confusion of the servant’s quarters. The courtship of young Marlow by Kate Hardcastle resolves this puzzle of forms and feelings. Marlow is a victim of this form-feeling clash. His sense of propriety is overwhelming, so much so that he looks upon a modest and refined woman as unapproachable: MARLOW: They may talk of a comet, or a burning mountain, or some such bagatelle;

but, to me, a modest woman, drest out in all her finery, is the most tremendous object of the whole creation (Act II).

Marlow, struck dumb and near paralyzed in the presence of feminine social refinement, is bawdy and aggressive in his guise as the Hogarthian “Mr. Rattle,” and preys upon the servant class, who are presumed to be immodest and ready game. “She Stoops” portrays Marlow as victim to this social pathology. His Dr. Jekyll is as beastly as his Mr. Hyde, and leaves him exhausted and

Stephen Zelnick

confused. Sir Charles has stepped in to solve his son’s problems by arranging a relationship meant to produce a marriage with the daughter of his old friend Hardcastle. However, without Kate’s clever easing of Marlow’s torment, love and marriage would be a sorry prospect. While Lumpkin represents the solution we cannot afford, Kate stands for the appropriate solution to this bedeviling puzzle. Women in romantic comedy are superior to men in intelligence, feeling, and judgment – and with good reason, as Goldsmith’s Kate makes clear. While men of the establishment can slide through life, picking and choosing, and resting assured of their preeminence, women must fight for all they can get. Instructed by her father to accept an unknown man purely on the basis of a generic description, Kate happily acquiesces. Even if he turns out to be less than her father’s description supposes, she can mold him to her specifications once they are wed. Dangers lurk here, but there are reasons for Kate’s blind acquiescence. Isolated in the North England countryside, and without fortune or title, Kate is unlikely to attract suitors of quality. Plotting her disguise and deception with the wily maid, Kate explains her predicament: although Marlow will not recognize her, “I shall be seen, and that is no small advantage to a girl who brings her face to market” (Act III). In the marriage mart, Kate has only her personal qualities to recommend her; her good looks, her wit, her courage, and the radiance of her personality. Young Marlow, the unsuspecting prey, thinks he can afford to be loose and inattentive, while the hunter attends to every rustling bush and scented breeze. As the play’s title announces, Kate’s strategy is to affect the appearance and manner of a bar maid and hope for nature to drive her quarry into the trap. What fun to watch Marlow transformed from a timid suitor terrified by Ms. Hardcastle into a ravisher pursuing Kate, the barmaid! What fun to watch the ardent pursuer falling helplessly into the trap! Nonetheless, if “She Stoops” is to be rescued from satire, Goldsmith has to construct a convincing meeting of minds and souls to redeem the notion of marriage as both sensible and blessed. These lovers must overcome the cross purposes of marriage and the contretemps of their immediate circumstances to emerge sensibly in love and passionately bound to one another. Marlow is described as handsome and well-educated but overly scrupulous in his regard for women of quality. While Kate appreciates this high-toned timidity, she would prefer a dashing and ardent lover. Mr. Hardcastle reminds us that courtship cannot be all politeness and poetry: “…girls like to be played with, and rumpled a little too, sometimes” (Act V). The play’s staging ought to emphasize the sexual signaling between these two. Kate needs to be ripe and playful, not just handsome, like Constance, but with some of Bet Bouncer’s vitality. While Constance is conventionally attractive, Kate must be sprightly and sexual. In the National Theater performance, Kate tempts Marlow by squatting suggestively to light a fire in the hearth. This pose ignites Marlow’s fire, and we see Kate’s knowing glance as she measures the effect on him. As the barmaid, Kate’s words are virginal, but her actions are suggestive. She tells him she has some embroidery in her room that she would love for him to see. While Kate poses as innocent, the remark anticipates Mae West. On his side, Marlow desires her, not just as a conquest, which is Mr. Rattle’s game, but as a lover. At the outset, Marlow can take her or leave her, but soon he cannot find a way to leave her. This cannot result merely because he admires her character and decency. Girls like to be rumpled; women require it.

She Stoops to Conquer: The Working of Pure Gold

Barmaid or penniless gentlewoman, Kate must avoid a marriage based upon his wealth and her material need. Marlow must come to appreciate her relaxed and genuine culture. Unlike Hastings and Ms. Neville, they must struggle to recognize one another. As in Pride and Prejudice or Jane Eyre, those who must struggle past obstacles come to know one another. The key moments between them occur in Act V. Marlow comes to take his leave from Kate, under pressure to satisfy his father by marrying Ms. Hardcastle. He struggles to make the break with the woman who has touched his feelings and imagination. Kate protests that her lack of wealth and class identity should dissuade him if he hopes to satisfy the demands of society and of his father. As Kate assumes a more natural manner with him, Marlow is touched by her solicitude and her willingness to sacrifice for his benefit. As she begs him to forget her, he collapses into feeling and respect: MARLOW: By heavens, madam! fortune was ever my smallest

consideration. Your beauty at first caught my eye; for who could see that without emotion? But every moment that I converse with you steals in some new grace, heightens the picture, and gives it stronger expression. What at first seemed rustic plainness, now appears refined simplicity. What seemed forward assurance, now strikes me as the result of courageous innocence and conscious virtue. Having accepted her as she is, whoever she really is, Marlow must overcome the disclosure of her trickery. But Kate reminds him that he met her as Marlow/Rattle and has no grounds to protest. The Ms. Hardcastle he met at first was a social confection whipped up by property and title, and no more real than either of his two faces. Stripped of illusions that bring pain to marriage, Marlow can echo Kate’s discovery, “I never knew half his merit till now” (Act IV). As trenchant as the theme is and as cleverly as it structures “She Stoops,” no one would care if the play were not brilliantly entertaining. The true test is to go from the play’s text to a performance as clever as that of the National Theater of 2004¹, watching “She Stoops” play out, we become aware of one essential joy of theater, taking our place briefly with the gods who observe the confusions of the poor personages below. We know that Hardcastle Hall is not the inn Hastings and Marlow think it is. We know the barmaid is really Kate and that Marlow’s sexual aggressions are more dangerous to him than to her. We know Tony has stolen the jewels and that they truly are missing and not part of a ruse, as his poor mother discovers. We know the source of the confusion that baffles Mr. Hardcastle and Sir Charles about young Marlow’s reports regarding his interviews with Kate. We anticipate with delight as the Hardcastles untangle their bafflement at their wild night’s journey. While we look down upon the foibles of others, we see double -- what characters think is happening, and what we know is happening. When Marlow and Hardcastle each bellow “this is my house,” we howl at their helpless indignation. A variation of this “insider’s knowledge” is the access we have to the character faults that drive these poor beings. Mr. Hardcastle bears a classic Idée Fixe, his absorption in the military

Stephen Zelnick

exploits of Marlborough and Prince Eugene. Mrs. Hardcastle is a slave to the Frenchified London fashion she neither understands nor can acquire. And then there is young Marlow’s divided soul. In each case, the character is a puppet on a string we see but they cannot. A moment’s reflection would suggest that we also are puppets on the strings of our ridiculous obsessions, but for these two hours, we can imagine we know ourselves while others are laughable. Watching the play well performed, we notice also what a good director can do. “She Stoops” offers endless opportunities for physical humor. One example is the scene where Hardcastle tutors his servants in how properly to wait upon esteemed guests. Hardcastle wishes to impress young Marlow, his prospective son-in-law, even though the grandeur of his house is faded. His servants are country laborers, more comfortable in the stables than in the dining hall. They are great oafs and, as the text proposes, strike preposterous poses to satisfy their exasperated and sputtering lord. Another is the play of North England accents, a sure source of amusement for Goldsmith’s London audience. The text prompts this in the scene of carousing in the Three Pigeons Alehouse, but there is great fun also as Kate acquires the manner and speech of a barmaid. When the maid asks Kate whether she can act the part, Kate bellows in a raw, below stairs voice: “Did your honour call?--Attend the Lion there--Pipes and tobacco for the Angel.--The Lamb has been outrageous this half-hour” (Act III). Mr. Hardcastle bustles and fumes at young Marlow’s behavior, but even richer in physical comedy are the battles between Mrs. Hardcastle and her wayward son. She claws at him as he drags her around the stage, mocking her and paying her back for her aggressions. Both actors should be agile to bring this ludicrous dance to its perfect expression. Perhaps the high point of the play occurs when Mrs. Hardcastle reads the letter describing her as a hag, which pushes her an octave above her accustomed indignation. Goldsmith’s play is a delightful romp, which the written text, like all mere scripts, can only begin to suggest. For those accustomed to watching fine-honed sit-coms trimmed to fit commercial television, we should recognize Goldsmith’s excellent sense of timing. “She Stoops” roars along, shifting scenes with due regard for audience attention. While the play observes the classical unities almost perfectly, we rarely sense anything static about it. The text has Five Acts, but the count of discrete episodes comes to near three dozen. Goldsmith offers speed and variety. Along with broad physical comedy, one finds excellent word play, sentiment, music, topical satire, wise observations, and moments of eloquence and grace. A lesser writer would have leaned on any of these and risked tedium, but Goldsmith knows when to move on. He might, for example, have Kate in her barmaid guise fire a barrage of malapropisms; he has her use only one when she complains to Marlow: “I'm sure you did not treat Miss Hardcastle, that was here awhile ago, in this obstropalous manner” (Act III). Tony commands a brilliant capacity for wildly picturesque images: comparing Constance to his beloved Bet Bouncer:" LUMPKIN: Ah! could you but see Bet Bouncer of these parts, you might then talk of beauty.

Ecod, she has two eyes as black as sloes, and cheeks as broad and red as a pulpit cushion (Act II)..

But Goldsmith keeps such distractions under control. Kate has a pleasant wit, but at times she exceeds

She Stoops to Conquer: The Working of Pure Gold

herself with brilliance. When her father inquires whether Marlow has made protestations of his intentions,

Kate shows deft wit in her response as most profest admirers do:

KATE: "...said some civil things of my face, talked much

of his want of merit, and the greatness of mine; mentioned his heart, gave a short tragedy speech, and ended with pretended rapture” (Act V). Too much of that and we would begin to see Kate as tougher than she needs to be. Mr. Hardcastle’s benevolence does not need to be pounded into us; it is enough that in his closing speech he wraps his arms philosophically around the night’s entertainment: MR. HARDCASTLE: And, Mr. Marlow, if she makes as good a wife as she has a daughter, I don't

believe you'll ever repent your bargain. So now to supper. To-morrow we shall gather all the poor of the parish about us, and the mistakes of the night shall be crowned with a merry morning. So, boy, take her; and as you have been mistaken in the mistress, my wish is, that you may never be mistaken in the wife (Act V).

Too much of this and we would drown in the moralism of benevolence and have no room to laugh at him when he is silly. It is dangerous to talk of artistic perfection. However, Goldsmith wrote a play worthy of his noble name. end ¹ The National Theater production of She Stoops to Conquer (2004) is available on DVD. It can be streamed from Theater on Video (Alexander Street Press) for those with access to university libraries who subscribe to this service. A brief scene from this production appears on YouTube.

EPILOGUE TO

SHE STOOPS TO

CONQUER WELL, having stoop'd to conquer with success, And gain'd a husband without aid from dress, Still, as a Bar-maid, I could wish it too, As I have conquer'd him, to conquer you: And let me say, for all your resolution, That pretty Bar-maids have done execution. Our life is all a play, compos'd to please, 'We have our exits and our entrances.' The First Act shows the simple country maid, Harmless and young, of ev'ry thing afraid;

Blushes when hir'd, and, with unmeaning action, 'I hopes as how to give you satisfaction.' Her Second Act displays a livelier scene -Th' unblushing Bar-maid of a country inn, Who whisks about the house, at market caters, Talks loud, coquets the guests, and scolds the waiters. Next the scene shifts to town, and there she soars, The chop-house toast of ogling connoisseurs. On 'Squires and Cits she there displays her arts, And on the gridiron broils her lovers' hearts: And as she smiles, her triumphs to complete, Even Common-Councilmen forget to eat. The Fourth Act shows her wedded to the 'Squire, And Madam now begins to hold it higher; Pretends to taste, at Operas cries 'caro', And quits her 'Nancy Dawson', for 'Che faro', Doats upon dancing, and in all her pride, Swims round the room, the Heinel of Cheapside; Ogles and leers with artificial skill, 'Till having lost in age the power to kill, She sits all night at cards, and ogles at spadille. Such, through our lives, the eventful history -The Fifth and Last Act still remains for me. The Bar-maid now for your protection prays. Turns Female Barrister, and pleads for Bayes.

Shirani Rajapakse

Title: Incipit Vita Nova, Artist: Aubrey Beardsley

On the Way to Over There

n the Way to Over There By Shirani Rajapakse

I was trudging up the mountain when I met a leopard. He appeared from over a rock at the side and stopped a few feet away glaring at me as he flicked his tail in disinterest. I stood still and watched him surveying his kingdom nonchalantly, sniffing the air and glancing surreptitiously my way. Pulling out my camera I fumbled with the buttons. One click and he was frozen in time his tail up in the air as if waving a flag. He blinked as the flash caught him in surprise. The wind howled around us like an old man in the throes of death. The cold slapped my face as I wondered what to do. The leopard was in my way. I could not move ahead. We stared at each other eye to eye like children in a game of stare me down. “Go on, go on,” he said after a while. “Don’t mind me. I want to take in the sunshine before moving on,” he yawned. “I’ll join you at the top.” He pawed the snow, sniffed and moved to a side. Sitting down he began to lick his paw like a child an ice cream cone. The cold blew in his face but he didn’t seem to mind while I shivered up the mountain one heavy step at a time. The sun’s lazy fingers lit up the snow making it shimmer; gold streaks on white like the embroidered saree I wore one day in summer. The tall trees in the distance bent their snow laden branches and waved me on. Snow everywhere, in my mouth, in my eyes, melting in my nose as I moved up, up to swirl with the clouds at the peak. As for the leopard, well who could tell if we’d meet again? ###

Carly Berg

AC ARO O N By

Carly Berg

ridays were the best dessert days, double the choices. But Mac lay awake the night before, worrying. Every ¹ day challenged him, but Fridays were impossible. The problem: Once he could finally see his options, he didn’t have enough time to decide properly. He passed up the school lunch, to buy two desserts instead. The day’s selection---

- Hot peach cobbler - Tapioca pudding - A brownie - White cake with pink frosting - Two oatmeal cookies -Chocolate ice cream

Macaroon Which was rarest? Cobbler. Hot desserts were scarce. But chocolate tasted the best. However, then he’d still have to choose between the chocolate brownie and the chocolate ice cream. He preferred the ice cream. They always had ice cream, though. Which was largest? Tapioca? Hard to tell, in that tall, thin bowl--“Move, Macaroon!” The kid behind him shoved him. The name-calling started again, so Mac paid attention. Most of the names he knew, but a few he did not. “ Marzipan mongo, “ someone said. “Tiramisu tard. Petit Four whore.” Some other kids laughed, and the lunch lady moved down the row to yell at them. Mac grabbed his chance. He slapped one each, of all six desserts, onto his tray and slipped out of the cafeteria. He rushed down the hall. The loading area at the back of the building had a bench. It was quiet. Sunny and fresh, as usual. Far superior to the noise, humming lights, and heavy air of the school cafeteria. A good place to enjoy dessert. Brownie, cobbler, cookies, ice cream, tapioca, white cake. He recited the desserts in alphabetical order several times. The anticipation ritual pleased him like a prayer. No, not “white cake.” Just “cake.” Brownie, cake, cobbler, cookies, ice cream, tapioca. Six desserts. Six! Mac arranged them on the bench, in artful balance by color and shape. He tucked the paper napkin into the top of his shirt. A mouthful of brownie. Oh, my. A spoonful of cobbler. Good lord. A bite of cookie. Simply heaven. He filled up on desserts, and he filled up on a feeling that all was extraordinarily good in his world. Pie in the sky, a piece of cake, (rainbows and) lollipops. At last, he pulled the napkin out of his collar. He starting writing a note on it before he forgot, with the pencil he always wore behind his ear. Three boys from the cafeteria line approached: “Awesome, dude!” “You totally ripped off the lunch lady, hahaha!” “Wanna hang out after school?” “Shush,” Mac said. “I’m trying to think.” He wrote: New Desserts To Try 1) Marzapan 2) Terrimis Sue 3) Petty fours The bell rang, time to head back to class. He floated past the boys, light and fluffy as whipped cream. It was Friday, and his mom always served cheesecake for dessert on Fridays. ### Art Poster, Cake-city, Artist: Ivan Bilibin

Bill West

Title: The Bullfighter, Artist: Juan Gris, Completion Date: 1913, Style: Synthetic Cubism, Technique: oil

Suit of Lights

uit of Lights By Bill West

Manuel García-Ramírez reads Hemingway in translation. His favourite: “Death in the Afternoon.” But Manuel is shamed by his lifelong fear of bulls. Each Sunday he eats a plate of roasted bull heart while dressed in a sequined Matador suit. Placing his montera on the table beside the plate, he toasts Juan Belmonte García’s memory with Sangre de Toro. As a teenager Manuel ran with the bulls in the streets of Pamplona. He still has nightmares. Of being caught and tossed. His left leg smashed so bad it set crooked. Today is his seventieth birthday. He finishes the bottle, puts on his hat, takes up his father's estoque and goes out. People stare. He walks to the zoo, climbs the wall of the lion enclosure. An old lion looks at him and yawns. Manuel twirls his cape and drags it in the dust. A young lioness snatches it with spread claws, but loses interest. He draws his estoque, the killing sword. Keepers come running. His body is sprawled on the ground. His Traje de Luces, his Suit of Lights darkening like the sunset, ripped open, the flesh beneath torn away, ribs broken. They can see his true heart, like an egg in a nest of sticks. ###

Spanish Translations: Diana Ferraro

SPANISH WOMEN

WRITERS By

Diana Ferraro 37

Spanish Women Writers

esides the powerful influence of Cervantes and the repeated claim that all Spanish literature derives from “Don Quixote,” there’s another lineage running in the veins of the Hispanic literary heritage. While the delusional world made of desire and impotence reflected in “Don Quixote” seems to have found its heiresses in Latin American women writers, women writers in Spain have chosen a different path: the gratifying invisible world of spirituality, where “another” life can certainly be lived. Under the protection of the religious truths of Catholicism, within the realm of accepted and self-enforced cultural sexual repression, or as an outlet in their struggles for freedom, Spanish women writers walk the ropes of the supernatural as though they belonged to one more room in the houses where they’re confined. A literature of freedom there where some can see a prison, this original literary trail goes from St. Teresa ofAvila(1515-1582) –who also happens to be the patron-saint of writers—to the contemporary poet and philosopher María Zambrano (1904-1991.) Spanish literature is written not only in Spanish, but in Galician and Catalan as well. The major Spanish poetess in the 19th century was Rosalía de Castro (1837-1885,) and she wrote primarily in Galician. The greatest Spanish Civil War novel in the 20th century is probably “La Plaza del Diamante,” written in Catalan by Mercé Rodoreda (1908-1983.) Under the peninsula’s spirituality, these women writers join a legion of novelists starting with María de Zaya(15901661) in the 17th century, going to the first realistic novelist in the 19th century, the Countess Emilia Pardo Bazán (1851-1921,) and finally attaining a remarkable group of writers in the 20th century and our century, including Rosa Chacel (1898-1994,) Gloria Fuertes(1917-1998,) Carmen Martín Gaite (1925-2000,) Ana María Matute (1925,) Adelaida García Morales (1945,) Soledad Puértolas (1947,) and Almudena Grandes (1960.) These women writers deserve more attention in the Anglo-Saxon literary world. They all shine with their work based mostly on women characters, representatives not only of the universal female struggle embedded in this case within the Spanish history and culture, but of the very original connection to a spiritual world in which love and sex can be sublimed, transcended in a way which is aesthetic and, at the same time, comforting in the very Spanish idea that we’re a matter of death as much as of life. ###

Spanish Translations: Diana Ferraro

VIVO SIN VIVIR EN MÍ por Santa Teresa de Avila Vivo sin vivir en mí, y tan alta vida espero, que muero porque no muero. Vivo ya fuera de mí, después que muero de amor; porque vivo en el Señor, que me quiso para sí: cuando el corazón le di puso en él este letrero, que muero porque no muero. Esta divina prisión, del amor en que yo vivo, ha hecho a Dios mi cautivo, y libre mi corazón; y causa en mí tal pasión ver a Dios mi prisionero, que muero porque no muero. ¡Ay, qué larga es esta vida! ¡Qué duros estos destierros, esta cárcel, estos hierros en que el alma está metida! Sólo esperar la salida me causa dolor tan fiero, que muero porque no muero. ¡Ay, qué vida tan amarga do no se goza el Señor! Porque si es dulce el amor, no lo es la esperanza larga: quíteme Dios esta carga, más pesada que el acero,

que muero porque no muero. Sólo con la confianza vivo de que he de morir, porque muriendo el vivir me asegura mi esperanza; muerte do el vivir se alcanza, no te tardes, que te espero, que muero porque no muero. Mira que el amor es fuerte; vida, no me seas molesta, mira que sólo me resta, para ganarte perderte. Venga ya la dulce muerte, el morir venga ligero que muero porque no muero. Aquella vida de arriba, que es la vida verdadera, hasta que esta vida muera, no se goza estando viva: muerte, no me seas esquiva; viva muriendo primero, que muero porque no muero. Vida, ¿qué puedo yo darle a mi Dios que vive en mí, si no es el perderte a ti, para merecer ganarle? Quiero muriendo alcanzarle, pues tanto a mi Amado quiero, que muero porque no muero.

Spanish Women Writers

I LIVE NOT LIVING WITHIN ME by St. Teresa ofAvila

I live not living within me and, as I wait for an exalted life, I die because I don’t die. I now live out from myself after dying of love; because I live in the Lord, who wanted me for himself: when I gave him my heart he put on it his sign, that I’m dying because I don’t die. This divine prison made of the love in which I live, has made God my captive and my heart free; and seeing God as my prisoner causes in me such a passion that I die because I don’t die. Aye, how long this life is! How hard these exiles, this jail, these iron bars enclosing the soul! Just having to wait for the exit, hurts me with a ferocious pain, and I die because I don’t die. Aye, what a bitter life there where one doesn’t enjoy the Lord! For if love is sweet, prolonged hope is not; May God take from me this burden, heavier than steel, for I die because I don’t die.

I only live trusting that I shall die, because upon dying, living assures me of my hope; death where living is reached, don’t be late, I’m waiting for you, for I die because I don’t die. Life, beware that love is strong, and, see, don’t bother me, consider that to gain you I only need losing you. let sweet death come now, let dying come swiftly, for I die because I don’t die. That life above is the true life until this life dies one which can’t be enjoyed while alive: death, don’t avoid me; may I live dying first, for I die because I don’t die. Life, what can I give to my God who lives within me, but losing you to deserve winning him? I want to attain him as I die, For I love my Beloved so much, That I die because I don’t die.

Spanish Translations: Diana Ferraro

SAN ANTONIO BENDITO por Rosalía de Castro (original Gallego) San Antonio bendito, dádeme un home, anque me mate, anque me esfole.

Meu santo San Antonio daime un homiño, anque o tamaño teña dun gran de millo. Daimo, meu santo, anque os pés teña coxos, mancos os brazos. Unha muller sin home... ¡santo bendito!, e corpiño sin alma, festa sin trigo, pau viradoiro, que onda queira que vaia troncho que troncho. Mais en tendo un homiño, ¡Virxe do Carme!,

non hai mundo que chegue para un folgarse; que, zambo ou trenco, sempre é bo ter un home para un remedio. Eu sei dun que cobiza causa miralo, lanzaliño de corpo, roxo e encarnado; carniñas de manteiga, e palabras tan doces cal mentireiras. Por el peno de día, de noite peno, pensando nos seus ollos

color de ceo; mais el, xa doito, de amoriños entende, de casar pouco. Facé, meu San Antonio, que onda min veña para casar conmigo, nena solteira; que levo en dote unha culler de ferro, catro de boxe, un hirmanciño novo que xa ten dentes, unha vaquiña vella que non dá leite... ¡Ai, meu santiño! Facé que tal suceda, cal volo pido. San Antonio bendito, dádeme un home, anque me mate, anque me esfole.

Que, zambo ou trenco, sempre é bo ter un home para un remedio.

Spanish Women Writers

A Maiden's Prayer by Rosalía de Castro (translated from Galician by Eduardo Freire Canosa) Blessed Saint Anthony, Grant me a man Even ifhe kills me, Even ifhe skins me.

My saintly Saint Anthony, Grant me a greenhorn Though he be the size Of a grain of corn. Bring him, my saint, Even if he has lame feet Or both arms missing. A woman without a man— Blessed saint!— Is a frail, soulless frame, A feast without wheat, Fresh bread gone stale, That wherever she goes Goes walking stick kale. But with a greenhorn for mate— Virxe do Carme!—

The world isn't big enough For relaxation; Bowlegged or knock-kneed It's always good to have a man To mend a need. I know of someone whom to see Is to covet, Spare of body, Red and ruddy, Smooth skin of cream, And words as sweet As counterfeit. For him I ache by day, By night ache I,

Brooding over his eyes The colour of sky, But he, already savvy, Knows a lot about love, Little about getting married. Bring him to me, My saint Anthony, To marry me, A maiden child; I bring for dowry A spoon of iron, Four of boxwood, A new baby brother Who has already sprung teeth, A dear old cow That doesn't give milk... Please my cherished saint! Bring it about As I ask you. Blessed Saint Anthony, Grant me a man Even ifhe kills me, Even ifhe skins me.

Bowlegged or knock-kneed It's always good to have a man

Spanish Translations: Diana Ferraro

Vinte unha crara noite por Rosalía de Castro (Translation: Eduardo Freire Canosa) I Vinte unha crara noite, noitiña de San Xoán, poñendo as frescas herbas na fonte a serenar. E tan bonita estabas cal rosa no rosal que de orballiño fresco toda cuberta está. Por eso, namorado, con manso suspirar os meus amantes brazos boteiche polo van, e ti con dulces ollos e máis dulce falar, meiguiña, me emboucastes en prácido solás. As estrelliñas todas que aló no espazo están, sorrindo nos miraban con soave craridá. E foron, ¡ai!, testigos daquel teu suspirar que ó meu correspondía con amoriño igual. Pero dempois con outros máis majos e galáns (mais non que máis te queiran, que haber, non haberá), tamén, tamén, meniña,

soupeches praticar á sombra dos salgueiros, cabo do romeiral. Por eso eu che cantaba en triste soledá, cando, ¡ai de min!, te vía por riba da veiga llana, con eles parolar: "Coida, miña meniña, das práticas que dás, que donde moitos cospen, lama fan." II ¡Que triste ora te vexo!... ¡Que triste, nena, estás!... Os teus frescos colores, ¿donde, meniña, van? O teu mirar sereno, o teu doce cantar, ¿donde, meniña, donde, coitada, toparás? Xa non te vin, meniña, na noite de San Xoán, poñendo as frescas herbas na fonte a serenar. Xa non te vin fresquiña cal rosa no rosal, que muchadiña estabas de tanto saloucar. Ora, de dor ferida, buscando a honriña vas, honriña que perdeches, mais ¿quen cha volverá? Eu ben, miña meniña, ben cha quixera dar, que aquel que ben te quixo doise de verte mal.

Mais anque dir, eu diga, que limpa, nena, estás, respóndenme sorrindo por se de min bulrar «Ben sabes, Farruquiño, Farruco do Pombal,

que donde moitos cospen, lama fan».

Spanish Women Writers

Where Many Spit, Loam Turns to Muck By Rosalía de Castro

More handsome and gallant than I (Though none who love you more, For no one ever ever shall) (Translation: Eduardo Freire As well, as well, lassie, Canosa) You were wont to chatter Under the shade of the willow trees I Past the festive picnics' site. That is why I used to sing to I saw you on a cloudless you night In sullen solitude At twilight Saint John's Eve When wretched me! I saw Setting the fresh herbs to you steep With them chatting In the table bowl for the Across the flat lowland, night "Be careful, my lassie, And you looked as cute About the conversations you As a rose in the rose bush have Drenched For where many spit, In fresh dew. Loam turns to muck." That is why, enamoured, With soft sighs II I threw my loving arms How sad now I see you...! Around your waist; How sad, girl, you are...! And you, charming Your glowing colours, lassie, enchantress, With sweet eyes and sweeter Whither did they part? talk Your serene gaze, Beguiled me Your sweet singing, lassie, In placid solace. Where, o ill-starred one, All the twinkling stars shall you find? That above in space reside Where No longer did I see you, Looked at us smiling lassie, With soft-light shine On the night of Saint John's And they were witnesses ah! Eve Of those sighs of yours Setting the fresh herbs to Which reciprocated mine steep In equal, gentle love. In the table bowl for the night. Yet afterward with others

No longer did I see you sparkling fresh Like rose in the rose hedge, Sadly withered you were From weeping so much. Now you go scarred by pain In search of your good name, Reputation you surrendered, But who will render it? O how, how I wish, my lassie, I could lend it back to you For he who loved you true Suffers to see you ailing. But however much I say and say What a wholesome girl you are They reply to me smiling To make of me fun, "Well you know, Frankie, Frank from Pombal, that Where many spit, Loam turns to muck. "

Spanish Translations: Diana Ferraro

AIRE por Emilia Pardo Bazán -Tenemos otra loca; pero ésa, interesante -díjome el director del manicomio, después de la descorazonadora visita al departamento de mujeres-. Otra loca que forma el más perfecto contraste con las infelices que acabamos de ver, y que se agarran al gabán de los visitantes, con risa cínica... Y figúrese usted que esta loca está enamorada...; pero enamorada hasta el delirio. No habla más que de su novio, el cual, por señas, desde que la pobrecilla ha sido recluida aquí, no vino a verla ni una vez sola... Si yo creo que esta muchacha, suprimido el amor, estaría completamente cuerda. Verdad que lo mismo les pasa a muchos mortales. La pasión es quizá una forma transitoria de la alienación mental, desde que nos hemos civilizado... -No -contesté-. En la Antigüedad precisamente es donde se encuentran los casos característicos de pasión: Fedra, Mirra, Hero y Leandro... -¡Ah! Es que ya entonces estaba civilizada la especie. Yo me refiero a épocas primitivas. -Sabe Dios -objeté- lo que pasaba en esas épocas, de las cuales no nos han quedado testimonios ni documentos. Lo indudable es que el sufrir tanto por cuestión de amor es uno de los tristes privilegios de la Humanidad, signo de nobleza y castigo a la vez... ¿Se puede ver a esa muchacha? -Vamos; pero antes pondré a usted en algunos antecedentes... Ésta es una joven bien educada, hija de un empleado, que se quedó huérfana de padre y madre y tuvo que trabajar para comer. Se llama, deje usted que me acuerde, Cecilia, Cecilia Bohorques. Quiso dar lecciones de piano, pero no era lo que se dice una profesora, y por ese camino no consiguió nada. Pretendió acompañar señoritas, y le contestaron en todas partes que preferían francesas o inglesas, con las cuales se aprende... ¡sabe Dios qué! Entonces, la chica se decidió a coser por las casas, y en esta forma ya encontró medio de vivir: dicen que tiene habilidad y gracia para la cuestión de trapos... Se la disputaban y la traían en palma sus clientes. De su conducta todo el mundo se deshacía en alabanzas. Entonces la salió un novio, el hijo del médico Gandea, muchacho guapo, algo perdido. Amoríos, vehementes, una novela en acción. Según parece, el muchacho quería llevar la novela a su último capítulo, y ella se defendía, defensa que tiene mucho mérito, porque, repito, y los hechos lo han demostrado, que se encontraba absolutamente bajo el imperio de la más férvida ilusión amorosa. Una de las señales que caracterizan el poderío de esta ilusión es el efecto extraordinario, absolutamente fuera de toda relación con su causa, que produce una palabra o una frase del ser querido. Dijérase que es como palabra del Evangelio, que se graba indeleblemente en los senos mentales, y de la cual se deriva, a veces, todo el contenido de una existencia humana ¡Extraño dominio psíquico el que otorga la pasión! El novio de Cecilia, al final de las escenas en que él solicitaba lo que ella negaba dominando todo el torrente de su voluntad rendida, solía exclamar en tono despreciativo: -¡Tú no eres nadie; eres más fría que el aire! Con su asonamiento y todo, la frasecilla acusadora se clavó como bala bien dirigida dentro del espíritu de la muchacha, y allí quedó, engendrando un convencimiento profundo... Ella era, seguramente, aire no más... Lo repetía a todas horas -y ésta fue la primera señal que dio de su trastorno-

Spanish Women Writers

. Como que no hizo otra cosa de raro, ni menos de inconveniente. Con el mismo aspecto de pudor y de reserva que va usted a verla ahora, siguió presentándose en las casas de las señoras para quienes trabajaba, y de estas señoras ha partido la idea de traerla aquí, a fin de que yo intente su curación. Se interesan por ella muchísimo. -¿Y usted espera que cure? -No -respondió el médico en tono decisivo y melancólico-. La experiencia me ha demostrado que estas locuras de agua mansa, sin arrebatos, sonrientes, dulces, apacibles en apariencia, son las que agarran y no se van. No temo a las brutales locuras de la sangre, sino a las poéticas, las refinadas, las delicadas, las finas... Yo les he puesto, allá en mi nomenclatura interna, este nombre: «locuras del aire»... -¡Como la de Ofelia! -respondí. -Como la de Ofelia, justamente... Aquel gran médico alienista que se llamó -o no se llamó- Guillermo Shakespeare, conocía maravillosamente el diagnóstico y el pronóstico... Después de estas palabras de mal agüero, el médico me guió a la celda de la «loca del aire». Estaba muy limpio el cuartito, y Cecilia, sentada en una silleta baja, miraba al través de la reja, con ansia infinita, el espacio azul del cielo y el espacio verde del jardín. Apenas volvió la cabeza al saludarle nosotros. Era la demente una muchacha delgadita y pálida; sus facciones aniñadas, menudas, serían bonitas si las animasen la alegría y la salud; pero es cierto que hay muy pocas locas hermosas, y Cecilia no lo era sino por la expresión realmente divina de sus grandes ojos negros cercados de livor azul y enrojecidos por el llanto cuando respondió a nuestras preguntas: -¡Va a venir, va a venir a verme de un momento a otro! ¡Me quiere a perder, y yo..., vamos, no sé decir lo que le quiero! Lo malo es que, acaso, al tiempo de venir, ya no me encontrará... Porque yo, aquí donde ustedes me ven, no soy nada, no soy nadie... ¡Soy más fría que el aire! Como que soy eso, aire... No tengo cuerpo, señores... ¡Y como no tengo cuerpo, no he podido obedecerle con el cuerpo ¿Se puede obedecer con lo que uno no tiene? ¿Verdad que no? Yo soy aire tan solamente. ¿No me creen? Si no fuese esa reja, verían cómo es verdad que soy aire... Y el día que quiera, a pesar de la reja, se convencerán de que aire soy. ¡Y nada más que aire! Él me lo dijo..., y él dice siempre la verdad. ¿Saben ustedes cuándo me lo dijo la primera vez? Una tarde que fuimos de paseo a orillas del río, a las Delicias... ¡Qué bien olía el campo! Él me quería estrechar, y como soy aire, no pudo. ¡Y claro! ¡Se convenció!... ¡Soy aire, aire solamente! Comentó estas declaraciones una carcajada súbita, infantil. Salimos de la celda previo ofrecimiento de avisar al novio, si le encontrábamos, de que su amiga le esperaba con impaciencia. Y fue una semana después, a lo sumo, cuando leí la noticia en los periódicos. Llevaba este epígrafe: «Suceso novelesco...». ¡Novelesco! Vital, querrían decir: porque la vida es la grande y eterna noveladora. Aprovechando quizá un descuido de los encargados de su custodia, presa de un vértigo y aferrada a la idea de que era «aire», Cecilia trepó hasta la azotea de uno de los pabellones, se puso en pie en el alero y, exhalando un grito de placer (realizaba al fin su dicha), se arrojó al espacio. Cayó sobre un montón de arena, desde una altura de veinte metros. Quedó inmóvil, amodorrada por la conmoción cerebral. Aún alentó y vivió angustiosamente dos días. El conocimiento no lo recobró. Su última sensación fue la de beber el aire, de confundirse con él y de absorber en él el filtro de la muerte, que cura el amor. ###

Spanish Translations: Diana Ferraro

Cupid Wins Souls, Artist: Giovanni Battista Piranes

Spanish Women Writers

AIR by Emilia Pardo Bazán “Here we have another mad woman; in this case, an interesting one” said the asylum director after the disheartening visit to the women’s department. “Another lunatic who represents the most perfect contrast to the wretched women we’ve just seen who, with cynical laughter, cling to visitors' coats. This mad woman, instead, is in love; but in love to the point of delirium. She only speaks about her fiancé who, need it be said, hasn’t visited her a single time since she was secluded here. I firmly believe that, if her love were suppressed, this gal would be completely sane. It’s very true that the same thing happens to many people. Passion is maybe a transitory form of insanity since we became civilized people.” “Not at all,” I answered, “It’s in the Antiquity where you find the most characteristic cases of passion: Phaedra, Mirrha, Hero and Leander...” “Why, humankind was already civilized at that time. I meant primitive times.” “God knows what happened in those times,” I retorted, “No witness’s reports or documents had been left. We cannot doubt that the great suffering because of love is one of humankind’s great privileges; a sign of nobility and a punishment at the same time … Could I see this young woman?” “Let’s go; but let me first fill you in with some of her background. She is very well-educated girl, the daughter of an employee, who happened to lose her father and mother and had to find a job to survive. Her name is, let me remember… Cecilia: Cecilia Bohorques. She wanted to work as a piano tutor, but she wasn’t exactly a professor and she couldn’t make it with lessons. She then proposed herself as a companion to young ladies, but she was told everywhere that French or English women were preferred, because with them the young ladies would learn … God know which things! Then, this girl started to sew in different people’s houses and that’s how she finally found a way to make a living; they say she has a great skill and taste for clothes. Soon clients started to compete for her services. Everyone complimented her behavior. And that’s when she happened to find a boyfriend, the son of the medical doctor Gandea: a handsome guy, somehow lost. There follows infatuation, impassioned love: a novel in full action. As it seems, the young man wanted to take the novel onto its last chapter, but she refrained, a resistance that deserves much merit because, and I repeat this, because facts have shown that she was under the dominion of the most heated love delusion. One of the signs that characterize the power of this delusion is the extraordinary effect created by any word or sentence of the beloved, absolutely unrelated to its cause. We could say that it works like the Gospel, with words immediately engrained in the mind

Spanish Translations: Diana Ferraro

and from which sometimes all the content of a human existence develops. The strange psychic power of passion! At the end of every scene, in which Cecilia’s fiancé demanded what she denied while she mastered the flood of her surrendered will, he'd shout in the most deprecating tone: ‘You’re nothing! You’re colder than air!’ And that’s how, with its tone and all, the brief sentence hit -- like a well-directed bullet-- the girl’s mind and that’s where it remained, creating a profound conviction. As he had said she had to be air. She repeated this hour after hour and this was the first sign of her disturbance. She didn’t act-out any other strange or inconvenient things. With the same modesty and reserve that you’ll observe in a moment, she went on visiting the houses of the ladies she worked for, and it was these ladies that had the idea to bring her here so that I could try to heal her. They care a lot about her.” “Then you expect her to become sane!” “No,” answered the doctor with a decisive and melancholy tone, “Experience has taught me that these types of madness-- of quiet waters without any fits, lovely, smiling, apparently peaceful -- are those that stick and never leave. I’m not scared of the wild madness of blood and flesh, but of those which are poetical, refined, delicate, well-bred. I call them, in my inner dictionary, ‘the madness of air.’ ” “Like Ophelia’s!” I answered. “Like Ophelia’s, precisely. That great psychiatrist called –or not called—William Shakespeare, knew about its diagnoses and its prognosis.” After these words of bad omen, the doctor walked me into the ‘air madwoman’s' cell. The small room was very tidy and Cecilia, sitting on a low chair, looked out -- with infinite yearning-- across the bars at the spacious blue sky and green garden. She turned slightly towards us when we greeted her. The madwoman was a slender and pale girl: her features childish and delicate would have been pretty if enlivened by joy and good health but, truth is that there are very few beautiful madwomen. Cecilia was not one of them but for the divine expression of her big black eyes which were surrounded by a livid blue and reddened by weeping when she answered our questions: “He’s going to come; he’s coming to see me at any moment! He loves me without restraint and myself, well, I can’t say how much I love him. The bad thing is that by the time he comes, he might not find me, because here where you see me, I’m nothing, I’m colder than air. That’s who I am: air. I don’t have a body, gentlemen. And, since I’ve no body, I couldn’t obey him with my body. Can you obey with what you lack? We certainly can’t, can we? I’m just air. Don’t you believe me? Were it not for those bars, you would see it’s true that I’m just air. And any day that I choose you’ll be convinced that air is what I am. Nothing but air! He told me so and he always tells the truth. Do you know when he said it for the first time? One afternoon, when we strolled along the river, at las Delicias. How lovely the country smelled around us! He wanted to hug me, but since I’m air, he couldn’t! And, of course, he was convinced. I’m air, just air!”

Spanish Women Writers

She ended these comments with a sudden, childish laughter. We left her cell after assuring her that if we met her fiancé we'd warn him that she was impatiently waiting for him. It was at the most no later than a week that I read the news on the papers. The headline said: “Novel-like event.” Novellike! Life-event, they meant, because it’s life that is the great and eternal novelist. Taking advantage of a momentary distraction of her guards, trapped in her mind’s whirl and grasping tightly to the idea that she was “air,” Cecilia climbed up to the roof of one of the pavilions, walked up to the eaves and, exhaling a cry of pleasure, she threw herself to the space. She fell down onto a mound of sand from a height of twenty meters. She remained motionless, asleep in her brain concussion. She still breathed and lived for two more days. She never regained consciousness. Her last sensation was to drink the air, melt with it, and absorb from it, the filter of death, that which cures love. ###

Spanish Translations: Diana Ferraro

The Soul of the Rose, Artist: John William Waterhouse

Spanish Women Writers

Se beben la luz by Gloria Fuertes

They drink up the light

Puedo deciros...

I can tell you...

Yo puedo deciros que el carbón no mancha, que el malo no es malo, que el soldado nunca quiere ir, que el olvido no existe, que no hay muerte que mate.

I can tell you that coal doesn’t stain, that a bad man is not bad that a soldier never wants to go, that oblivion doesn’t exist, that there’s no death that kills.

Yo puedo deciros dónde está la Luz, la otra, no ésta, la luz donde crece la Armonía... A veces me pregunto: ¿Hay cosa más fácil que hacer un hombre de un criminal?

I can tell you where Light is, the other one, not this, the light where Harmony grows… Sometimes I wonder: is there anything easier than to made a man from a criminal?

Nada tan sencillo como comunicarnos sin teléfono.

Nothing as simple as communicating without a telephone.

Escribo para niños, para peces, para rameras honradas... para ti. A veces digo que la estrella es un clavel blanco,

I write for children, for fish, for honest hookers, for you. Sometimes I say that the star is a white carnation, but this amounts to nothing. I know when I fail and when I’m right. Because I’m still alive and I’ve to show up within shadow, because there’re men who drink up the light!

pero eso no vale para nada. Yo sé cuándo fallo y cuándo tengo razón. Porque aún estoy viva y tengo que manifestarme en la sombra, porque hay hombres ¡que se beben la luz!

by Gloria Fuertes

Spanish Women Writers

Sleeping Deer, Artist: Franz Mark

Translation: Marie Fitzpatrick

Geografía de la aurora por María Zambrano

Y las piedras preciosas, esas grutas de esmeraldas que nacen en sueños y al soñante acogen tan de verdad que éste conserva en la vigilia las huellas del tacto, a veces hecho memoria tanto o más que un lugar simplemente natural; y el color que sin nombre sostiene la retina por años, por duraciones sin fin, ese color visto tan sólo en sueños y ese felicísimo estar en la gruta, y aun el poder volver a ella encontrándola en tierras lejanas bañadas por otra luz. ¿Cómo suceden, cómo están ahí asequibles aunque no enteramente, y sin sombra alguna de terror, cosa tan extraña a toda gruta desconocida, por insignificante que sea? Este no tener, y no esperar, este estar sin esfuerzo alguno, esta patria perdida o esperada, donde se ha entrado sin saber cómo ni por qué, sin esperanza ni temor. Y ese vivir sin anhelar, ni apetecer, sin añorar sin soñar, duerme al fin en su gruta sin soñar señor alguno, que le haya herido y sin soñarse él a sí mismo, olvidado de toda herida. El ciervo reposa sin herida, apoyada su cabeza sobre una piedra, flor azul. Zambrano, M.: "Geografía de la Aurora", en De la Aurora, Madrid, Ed. Turner, 1986, p.106

Geography of the dawn by María Zambrano

And the precious stones – those caves of emeralds that were born in dreams and which host the dreamer so truthfully that the dreamer preserves in wakefulness the traces of touch, sometimes transformed in memory as much or more than would a simply natural place; and the colour that is without name holds, in the retina, for years, for periods without end, this colour seen only in dreams and that happy being in the cave, and even, to be able to return to it, finding it in distant lands bathed by another light. How does this happen, how is life there, so accessible though not entirely, and without some shadow of fear, something so strange to any unknown cave, as insignificant as it may be? This not having, and not waiting, this being without any effort, this lost or long-awaited homeland, where you have entered without knowing how, or why, without hope, or fear. And that living without yearning or craving, without missing without dreaming, sleeps in the end in its cave, without dreaming any master who would have wounded it and without dreaming itself, having forgotten all the hurt. The deer lies without a wound, resting his head on a stone, blue flower.

Title: Glass, Cup and Newspaper, Artist: Juan Gris, Completion Date: 1913, Style: Synthetic Cubism, Technique: oil

THE LINNET'S WINGS

Martin Heavisides

POETRY

In the Last Twenty-Four Hours

Straight Shooting Poem

Hogsheads and Tricks

Christofer Oberst Sara Clancy

The Flower

Straightforward Lible

Kristina Jensen The UFO over Portland

Ian C Smith

Debut

Mates

Tom Sheehan Strolling the Pier in October

UNPUBLISHED WORKS OF DONAL MICHAEL FUREY (a fiction) Tim Gundrum

Ann Howells

Reverence Nonnie Augustine

Tim Dwyer HW6834 Down The Crack With The Crickets

Gemma Meek

Sign on a Wall

OBELISK

Sara Clancy

Straight Shooting Poem This one won't obscure the issue under the black brim of metaphor. It won't equivocate in deference to your delicacies. It will bang the saloon doors askew, halt the ragtime of companionable assent. It will fix you in its sightline until you rethink your taciturn objections and deal out an honest hand. We all know that no one will pay for the stanza or two it takes for any hanging judge to ride back into relevance. So stable your censure, pour yourself a sarsaparilla on me and damn the vigilante repercussions -I expect them to be rugged, damned deadly and slim.

Sara Clancy

The UFO over Portland had you going for several seconds, left you to questioning what you really believed was possible in those moments when you exited the Sunset Tunnel and saw the thing flashing running lights, like a Marvin the Martian cartoon. You shouted, "Oh my God! Do you see it?" and right then you had to adjust your incredulity to include the dance of mist, the swerving tail lights, the implausible. Designed to deceive, this hot air balloon had an outline meant to disappear into the evening with the safeguard of your certainty, your reason alien to you then as it banked off towards other explanations, and by the time it righted itself whole lanes of traffic were skidding to the shoulder in a near catastrophe of wonder.

Title: The Book, Artist: Juan Gris, Completion Date: 1913, Style: Synthetic Cubism, Genre: still life

Christofer Oberst

In the Last Twenty-Four Hours “I keep wondering ifit will rain. The sky darkens. There is thunder. ” Mark Strand, “The Dreadful Has Already Happened” Inspired by: Mark Strand

Pebbles of ice fall from the sky, plunging into the soggy earth like comets from deep space. My daughter watches safely behind her window propping her head on her palms as she waits to make her wish. I sit and listen. Rumbles in the distance, downdrafts flocking toward the perfect storm. A slender tree bends and stirs in the face of the wind. Its branches break, scattering twigs and damp leaves along its roots. Wisps of mist trail along the pavement. The newscaster on the radio is telling us to stay indoors. There are whispers that it is the end of the world. The dog covers his head under the blankets. The teacups rattle on her pink table. “When will it end?” she says. “…when it ends,” I hear the newscaster say. Bellows of thunder drum above our heads. I sip a stale cup of coffee. Stones of ice splinter into twos and threes. The grass is littered with ice like freshly fallen snow. Lethargic clouds separate. I think of a never-ending winter, encasing us all in a glazed glass box; never knowing what’s left but a girl, a dog, a man. “Make your wish,” I say. She closes her eyes. I watch and wait, hoping to catch some semblance of peace. Christofer Oberst 30 April 2013

Kristina Jensen

Title: A Gust of Wind, Artist: John Singer Sargent, Style: Impressionism, Technique: oil

Kristina Jensen

Down The Crack With The Crickets In the moment between your day and my night, an angry thought got sucked out by the wind. Lost, gone, down the same crack crickets chose when they crept away. I’ll have to go down, slow down to see that space under there. In the dark, I know there is blood running from your heart. I try to wash it away with fresh words. Try like water to wash over the terrifying power of a thought that can tear a lover’s heart. Searching turns into longing. I can’t get my thought back. It’s gone down the crack with the crickets.

Tom Sheehan

Title: Woman with Basket, Artist: Juan Gris, Completion Date: 1927, Style: Cubism, Technique: oil

Tom Sheehan

Sign on a Wall The dough board, oblique, worn to a frazzle, now hangs in the cellar way. Knuckles of love soft shoe across it. Like a fallow field it lies, fifty years since my mother powdered and rolled dough into its grain, beginning bread. Her hands, white-knuckled, went board to dough to forehead to the plain blue apron smelling of rolls, haitch bones, sweat and anxiety. She struggled great breads out of its surface, morning fried dough sizzling in oil, a sure birthday cake three tiers tall on special days, and wrung from its granary pains and aches and tired bones, migraine’s soft thunder, age, a shot at infirmity. That old board, edges like fingers, hangs awry on a nail my father drove to catch a jacket; if I bang it hard enough, fisted, belligerent about recall, a small cloud of powder floats her love.

Tim Gundrum

Title: The Garden, Artist: Juan Gris, Style: Cubism, Technique: oil

Tim Gundrum

The Flower There was a garden and in the garden was a woman and she stood there in the dreamy garden and beyond the garden was nothing, everything cloaked by mist and there was silence, a beautiful silence. She was at a distance, but she was close and you reached your hand to touch her face and you could not touch, but instead became one with her, and you said nothing, but she knew everything. And she smiled. Her face was wide and her eyes were bright and her hair like black cotton. She did not turn toward you, only her face. And she understood you. Her gown was white and it shimmered in the haze and in her hands she held flowers, red, but blue, they changed but did not. In the garden were only hip-high hedges, dark green, squared, a maze. Taupe earth solid beneath your feet. There were no flowers, save one. She was the flower.

Ann Howells

Debut This is her premiere—tap routine on the bottom stair. She knows her audience: stuffed panda, sock monkey, chenille elephant, will rave and roar, as she shuffles, side-steps, whirls and slides. Hurrah ! they will shout, Amazing talent! She will bow low

as they toss roses at her feet. Bravo! Bravo! Her patent leather Mary Janes— only gift she asked of Santa— more precious than ruby slippers.

Ann Howells

Strolling the Pier in October The young couple, late night arrivals, are out early this morning. Indian summer has fled. A stiff wind off the bay makes her shiver; he enfolds her in his thin windbreaker. Storefronts display closed signs. They booked this week too late in the season. A small shack offers breakfast: coffee in a chipped cup, undercooked bacon, runny eggs. The cook shakes his head, they are open only six to two, though the pizzeria two streets over, he admits, might be open later. They leave hand in hand, browse windows of padlocked stands, gaze across roiling green waters to a pale sun, imagine a bright future.

Tim Dwyer

UNPUBLISHED WORKS OF DONAL MICHAEL FUREY (a fiction) 1950-2003 A few years ago I received from a neighbor, an elderly woman, who was in the beginning stages ofAlzeimer’s Disease, a Macy’s shopping bag that was filled with drafts, poems and correspondence from her nephew Donal, who had recently died. He had been born in Ireland, raised in Queens, and had stopped publishing in journals around 1980. Although I expressed reluctance at accepting something that seemed so important to her family, she insisted, stating “I know you will see that they are well cared for”. AUTUMN WITH YOU My Caer, 1952-1979 1999 Farmers prepare the ground for winter wheat the air has been turning for days, turning toward Autumn season of dusk that I love the best. The local peaches are at their peak, the apples are on their way. Through these woods I’ve walked twenty Autumns since you left this world. You are still my swan with the spirit song that brings deep rest to all who hear.

Tim Dwyer

My glimmering one what would you think of me now that the red beard you loved is turning gray, and the hardness of the years is chiseled in my face? As sand or water slips through my open hands, the moments are now few and fleeting that I sense you near, hear your voice, feel your kiss and embrace in this season of dusk that I hate and love the best, the season I lost you, the season I met you.

Autumn With You Note: Caer was the beloved ofAengus, Celtic god of love and poetry. He first saw Caer in a dream vision. When he found her after years of heart sickness, they flew away, singing such an other-worldly song that it placed all who heard it into a deep, restorative sleep for three days.

Gemma Meek

OBELISK We tread timidly, in shell-shocked silence, around a house that was once a home. I think you mistake my abeyance for peace. I am fermenting a fury as old as time, a simmering sourness that sits well with me. There were brackish words that caught in my throat and there were words you wouldn't think to say. I don't know when it became too late. A pathetic implosion, a magician's cloak flapped and we suddenly recoiled, awkward as strangers. I watch with resignation as this huge thing disappears, like a ship sounding one last mournful warning as it glides out into the freezing fog. We float in stagnant water; two pale, lifeless bodies waiting to be discovered.

Gemma Meek

HW6834 I found your prison letters today, among some old boxes I had stored in my father's attic. I wish I could tell you. A bundle of thirty five envelopes tied with a band, each uniform rectangle splattered with your idiosyncrasies and black, spidery writing. I can't look inside. I still remember your number: HW6834. I stood in the cold too many times, in a queue, in the rain, for love, to spend 15 minutes with you and laugh at the world while the world laughed at us. It was only the start of our story. I think I'm used to missing you but sometimes I forget. What I would give to find one of your letters on my doormat again. You were always going to be the one to cave in. That Bowie song comes on the radio and I just choke on my tears it's how I like to think you are now, orbiting out there, finally at peace, somehow holding all the answers.

Ian C Smith

Pipedream Lightning breaks across the sky as I come to a building where in a bright room, a man and a woman share a meal with their smiling child. The man steps up to the window lighting a pipe, looking out, rain starting. I sidle into shadow, hear my own breathing. I have not seen anyone smoke a pipe since the days when my father who wished he had never married smoked a pipe I gave him for his birthday when I was growing up, not understanding sexual tension, old jealous demons. Imagining an aromatic waft of tobacco I am, by now, thoroughly soaked. Thunder rumbles in my head, my heart. I wonder who else remembers that time those past people, before marriages, divorces wireless comedians, bread and dripping work boots drying in front of the grate the blackened bricks, burning coal a time of childish joy with life’s miracle my trust in that wishbone, the future.

Ian C Smith

Mates Dedication: To Jake and Patrick

He is dead, suddenly, nearly twenty-one, the same age as his friend, my grieving son. Though I hardly knew him, sadness scrapes my heart, this off-kilter order, end too near the start. I recall esprit de corps on the soccer team, their future at that age a film script dream, left-wing and right-wing mirrors, hard-working roles, gunning their engines through defensive holes. As his calendar turns, if granted such grace, my son should covet extra-time’s running space, breeze flirting with hair, smell of sweat, crushed grass, strive to delight teammates with the perfect pass, for we each want to realise beautiful goals, link arms, boldly sing, before the bell tolls.

Nonnie Augustine

Hogsheads and Tricks She wanted a hogshead of wine, 63 gallons of it, all to herself. The tricks would be soon over then, she thought. She sang Paul Simon (who she remembered) “There’s a girl in New York City who calls herself a human trampoline,” then forgot the rest and so hummed some wobbly bars. ”If wishes were horses beggars would ride and I’d be drunk on a hogshead of wine,” she said. Hogshead. A word to use in a poem, she thought. She’d lost poems, though. My expertise has come down in the world, she thought. I used to have better thoughts, she thought. A PT Cruiser pulled up and the guy rolled down his window. Well, this will be something new, she thought. My first PT Cruiser.

Nonnie Augustine

Reverence Sweet Mother of Jesus look and learn, Macky, my boy. Learn of the woman’s high heels, low neck, short skirt, tight belted waist for the love of Saints Peter and Paul. Hips and tits, and alone on the low-down street. Shilling for the Devil, the Snake in the Grass, the Tempter that can curse every freedom lovin’ man from Dublin to California and all the way around the sweet earth and back again. Take your lager with you, Macky, and we’ll see where she wanders. See the blessed long legs of her striding through the night. Smell the scent of her swinging holy hair.

Martin Heavisides

WoWWiW WoW Walking on water--a miracle for these times? I think not. Twenty centuries ago might have been a different matter, but today? Rot your shoes if any and leave you with toxically infected feet. This is a miraculous demonstration? Some wisenheimer's bound to yell out "Heal yourself, doc!" and how long before the whole crowd's taken it up? Many things can be legitimately raised by miracle--laughter and derision not amongst 'em.

WiW Water into wine? That's more like it, not just a miracle but a solid commercial proposition. Wouldn't want to overdo it--shudder to think what the ecological implications would be of a whole ocean turned to wine. But that's true of any miracle-how would you handle the pension payouts if all the dead were suddenly raised? But a steady turnover of water into wine, by a process miraculous, hence free--you could sell cups of it as cheap as coffee and still make a very handsome per-unit profit. Plus if wine were as widely and cheaply available as coffee, there'd be considerable upswing amongst the populace at large of hope for the future.

Martin Heavisides

Title: The Open Window, Artist: Juan Gris

Straightforward Libel You've been going around accusing me of telling people you'd sell your own grandmother so let's get things straight shall we? What I've been saying is that you'd sell both your grandmothers and if you found yourself satisfied with the rate of return, start buying up other people's grandmothers, on the sly and on the cheap, and selling them. God help us if you found out then there was a sizeable profit margin in grandfathers also.

Alex Braverman

M ozart an d I By Alex Braverman

Mozart and I

ou think Mozart had problems? Mozart had genius. They say genius is a problem. Genius, they say, is a cause of hypersensitivity, or maybe a result. When a genius creates something, like an opera or a minuet, or for example a painting, he relies on his hypersensitivity. But when he doesn’t create but simply lives, then this hypersensitivity is his plague and ruin. Then he suffers from it. Or more accurately, then he suffers for it. Nothing is free. There’s no creating, there’s only refashioning. If something of value comes out one end – something gets defective at the other. That’s preservation of energy for you: the sum total of energy is a constant. Same with happiness. Ask anyone, ask me for example. Or ask Mozart. When someone is happy – someone else is upset. Mozart made many people happy, so he suffered for it. When Mozart was young, fifteen months maybe, he was already a genius. This is because his father Leopold made him so. Everything Mozart had he got from his father Leopold, who taught him everything and took him everywhere. And Mozart never disappointed. This is not to say Leopold was not disappointed. Leopold was always disappointed, for that was his nature. There are generally cheerful people, and there are generally morbid people, like Dostoyevsky, and there are disappointed people, such as Leopold. So when Mozart was fifteen months old, Leopold took him to the Emperor’s Palace where Mozart performed for the Emperor a Concerto for Ukulele and a Very Small Orchestra. The Very Small Orchestra was performed by Leopold himself. All his life Leopold performed the part of a Very Small Orchestra, and I think this made him disappointed. A Very Small Orchestra consists of a small number of parts, all important, but none significant. The function of a Very Small Orchestra is to provide for the genius Ukulele soloist, such as Mozart. This was not a very gratifying position for Leopold, who raised genius Mozart and taught him everything and took him everywhere, while maybe, quite possibly, coveting Mozart’s genius. They say Salieri coveted Mozart’s genius. I think Leopold did. I think Leopold did him in.

Alex Braverman

It all started on that memorable night when Leopold took Mozart to the Emperor’s Palace for the Ukulele soirée. Mozart played beautifully, with both his eyes and ears shut and two fingers tied behind his back. Everyone smiled. Leopold smiled and played violin on cembalo. The Emperor smiled and drummed with his fingers on the white polished top of the harpsichord. He also wanted to play in the Very Small Orchestra. Leopold was pleased that the Emperor aspired to do what Leopold was already doing with ease and in comfort, so Leopold smiled more vigorously. Then Mozart stopped playing and picked his nose. Leopold untied him and Mozart jumped into the arms of Golda Meir and asked her to marry him. Now everyone laughed out loud, except Leopold, who instantly became disappointed. “How can you shame me like this in front of strangers?” asked Leopold when they got home. Mozart ran up to his mother Pertl and buried his face in her skirts. He wanted to cry, but crying only fueled Leopold’s disappointment, at times sparking opera inspiring rage. Pertl picked the boy up. “Why don’t you ever commend him? Performing for the Emperor is no small feat,” she said to Leopold. He made a sour face which meant, “Not in front of the child.” She continued in Yiddish, so that Mozart would not understand: “Why can’t you tell him, ‘well done!’ or ‘I’m proud of you!’?” “And what good would that do him? Huh?” asked Leopold the pedagogue. “If I scold him, he will have something to strive for,” and he immersed himself in The Punishment ofthe Brothers Karamazov. “Leopold!” implored Pertl. “At least kiss the boy.” “He shamed me,” replied Leopold, “in front of strangers.” This is what Mozart told me after the second Maccabee beer while we were sitting at a table in a sidewalk café on Dizegoff Street. “I can’t remember the time when I did not shame him,” said Mozart. “This cannot be true, Ze’ev¹ ,” said I. “I know for a fact he is very proud of you.” “My name is Wolfgang Mozart,” said Mozart. “In Tel Aviv your name is Ze’ev¹ Moritz,” said I. “What’s in the name,” said Mozart. “But tell me about his pride.” “Well, just yesterday he told me how fabulously you were doing. He said, you were a little meshugener, but still a golden head and a clever boy and surely one day you will sit down and take life seriously and then you will amount to something.” “This you call pride?” “He’s a strange man. It’s not easy for him to pay a compliment.” “He pays them to Salieri a dime a dozen. All I hear is Salieri. ‘Ah! Salieri! Now that’s a talent! A real genius! You should learn gerunds from him and various idioms, you know. One day he will amount to something. He will be a professor. And you? Why can’t you be a schoolteacher like everyone else?’ That’s all I hear. A schoolteacher. He should have adopted Salieri, they seem to be so fond of each other.” At which point Salieri arrived. He sat at the table and ordered hummus and Maccabee beer.

Mozart and I

Mozart and I didn’t mind, Salieri always paid for everyone. “Some stay popular by the power of purse,” said Mozart. Salieri twitched to make a sour face, but thought better of it and pretended he didn’t get it. Popularity of a genius is cheap. Popularity by purse can be very expensive. “My father …” Mozart kept riding his horse. “Whenever we talk, we always end up talking about his accomplishment and my shortcomings.” “Ze’ev,¹ cut it out,” said I. “Stop being so hypersensitive.” Mozart opened his mouth and I stopped listening; I started scribbling notes in F# on the paper napkin. Mozart and Salieri carried on the conversation without me. “But what does he say to you?” asked Salieri. “He says, Sobibor. He says, Bergen-Belsen. You can’t trump that.” “Yeah, that’s steep. That’s intense,” said Salieri. “Forgive me, Salieri. You’re not all that bad.” “Don’t mention it, Mozart.” Salieri bit on a pickle and mopped up with pita the remnants of the hummus. “Why don’t you give him what he wants, just once?” “I don’t know what he wants.” “Write the Sobibor Requiem.” Maybe the suggestion was genuine. Maybe it turned out to be the devious intrigue without any ill design by Salieri. Or maybe Salieri had genius of his own, of a different nature, and this was his retribution for the earlier remark about the popularity and purse. “He’s been writing the Sobibor Cantata all his life,” said Mozart. “Mozart! Mozart! He’s been writing it for you! He taught you everything and took you everywhere.” “Parents should not write for their children. It’s a mean trick. This is how they keep their grip on them from beyond the grave.” “You are right, Mozart! Children should write for parents, to be their source of pride and glory. Isn’t it what you want to be for Leopold?” Salieri took a sip of Pouilly-Fumé Sauvignon Blanc and delicately nibbled on the pheasant wishbone, while parting his pinky from the rest of his fingers, so that the posture of his hand also resembled a pheasant wishbone. Ah, so very graceful! I made a quick note of this pinky on the back of the paper napkin. It was rather warm, but Salieri’s navy with golden thread coat was buttoned all the way up to the neck. His neck turned lively in color. He tugged on the white with the shade of ivory batiste collar but did not undo the top button. He was always proper, always composed, this Salieri. Mozart had the urge to complain, he was warming up to Salieri’s friendliness, offering more and more episodes from his childhood, unhappy under Leopold, and the episodes kept acquiring new details, the polyphony grew in volume and complexity, converging now and then in the glass of Sauvignon Blanc in Salieri’s elegant fingertips. They kept chattering like this, but I’d had enough. I left Salieri to pay for the feast and went home. Father was squinting at the candles, biting the quill, occasionally making a mark on the page. “How’s the progress?” I asked, sticking my head in his study.

Alex Braverman

“Good, good. Do you want to lose a game of chess?” “Not now, aba² . I think I lost all I could lose in one day. Maybe later. Besides, mother is calling you to dinner.” “Leo, the soup is ready!” I heard ima³ calling from the kitchen. “I’m coming, I’m coming,” said Leo. “Pesya Shifra, our son is terminally ill! He doesn’t want to lose a game of chess!” And he went to relish chicken soup. I went to my room and took the crumpled paper napkin out of the pocket, looked at the sketch and saw that it was good. I turned it over and looked at the sketch of the detail, and saw that it was also good. I set up the easel and worked for two weeks, eating roast beef sandwiches and drinking Maccabee beer. Mozart sat on the shelf and played a piano concerto. The photographic eye of God stared down through the smoke at the distressed Baba Yaga who no longer baked children in the oven because all the children were baked and put on the baker trays by someone else. The trays moved on the conveyor belts up to heaven, imps in black uniforms were glazing the baked children for the heavenly feast. The imps’ pinkies were held gracefully to the side. Hansel and Gretel and Pretzel and Boruch were dancing bolero around the Hut on the Chicken Legs, while their dog was nibbling at the Leg. The Leg’s pinky was held gracefully to the side, apart from the rest of the claws. The front wall of the Hut was blown off and one could see the insides. The small intestine was trying to strangle the large intestine out of hunger, chasing the slice of the SS ersatz bread it didn’t have the time to digest. At the anus of the Hut sat Mozart, the sound of his Fender Stratocaster electric guitar ripping the canvass apart with the single shrill aquamarine lightning shooting upwards towards to the photographic eye of God. “What is this?” asked Leo, his bottom jaw so low – it rested on the expensive Persian rug hand knotted by child labor over the period of twelve years. “This is the Sobibor Requiem, aba,” said I. “This … this … I worked on it all my life, I taught you everything and took you everywhere, and you give me … this? Who are you?” “My name is Asher Lev.” “Your name is Ze’ev Moritz,” said Leo. Leo was disappointed and I knew this was Salieri’s plot, the envious conniving bastard. He always stuck tongue and nose at Mozart and me, and somehow his every intrigue always worked out to our demise and his benefit. Salieri was our puppeteer, even Leopold’s. And now Salieri pulled the strings of the Sobibor Requiem and greatly disappointed, distressed Leo sat down to his last trick, to write his last will and testament. “Son,” he wrote. He has never addressed me as son before. I was lovingly known as pindgick or pimpernoter or schlimazl. But who can address the Last Will and Testament to pimpernoter? So he wrote, “Son.” And then he dipped the quill in black ink and wrote the rest of the Last Will and Testament: Your mother Pesya Shifra says, I never acknowledge you or praise you. So now I do, here it goes: I am very proud of you. I could never say this to your face. It would’ve been bad for your development. But the truth is I just couldn’t say it. I don’t know why. But now that I am

Mozart and I

dead I can say it. Now that I said it and you know how I am proud of you and love you and care for you and wish you only the best, it should be easier for you to talk one last time about your future. Pertl says you’re a genius. She’s the mother, every mother says that. But you are normal. And as a normal person you should remember who you are and do normal things. You should become a schoolteacher. It is a good job and will keep you in bread. And what can be better than raising children? I should know, I taught you everything and took you everywhere! The pension and the retirement fund of a schoolteacher are also good. Become more serious and write the Sobibor Requiem the way it should be written. It should be exact, it should be believable, it should be authentic, just like a photograph or an affidavit. This is my Last Will and Testament: you must promise me that you will do it. I am not here to check on you, and I am not here for you to argue with! In exchange I bequeath you my quill, my candelabra, my blessing and my permission. Leo sealed the envelope. “I am going to the park to play chess,” he lied. He was going to his attorney to deliver Leopold’s Last Will and Testament. I went downstairs to take the trash out. First I didn’t hear him backing out of the parking, then I didn’t hear the sirens. Then I didn’t hear anything at all. Now I’m here with my friend Mozart, sticking tongues and noses at Leo and Leopold. Now let them write the Requiem. end ¹ Ze’ev (Hebrew) Wolf ² Aba (Hebrew) Dad ³ Ima (Hebrew) Mum “My name is Asher Lev” is a novel by Chaim Potok. A Jewish prodigy artist, born to an ultra orthodox family, depicts his mother as crucified Jesus – a blasphemy in his religion and an affront to his family. For this he is shunned by all and expelled from his Brooklyn community.

Margrét Helgadóttir

he act

by Margrét Helgadóttir 85

The Pact

e careful, Tuva,” her grandfather had said when she told him about her plans. “You’ll have to make a pact with the grey people if you want to succeed in this.” He’d lowered his voice and whispered, as if he feared they might hear him. “The grey people made a deal with my father, but I never knew what it was about. Whenever I asked, he would only say ‘just remember: always be kind to the animals and always remember to put out food for our little grey friends before going to bed.’ He was a man with secrets.” His father had been in the resistance movement during World War II. In the shadows of the night, when their little tivoli had closed and their guests had gone home, he’d helped many people escape through the woods towards the border. It’d been very risky, and they were almost captured several times. “My mother didn’t like it. We were already looked upon with suspicion by the authorities. She told me that my father often had to hide the refugees for days before he could lead them to the border. I guess it was pure luck that no one came to investigate our place. You know, I think the grey people protected us.” But then his father was shot during an exchange of fire near the border and didn’t return. “It must have been a traitor, a quisling amongst the refugees. During the occupation you had to be very careful who you trusted.” Tuva’s grandfather was just a boy when he lost his father and the tivoli was really just a handful of performers, animals and a carousel ride, but he felt responsible for the miniature carnival. That meant he had to contact the grey people. “I never saw them, but I knew they were there, waiting for my father,” he said. “So I went outside the night after we received the bad news. I shouted out loud that he was dead and asked them if they could accept me in his place.” But the grey people didn’t seem to believe him or accept him. “We didn’t notice it at first. But slowly our lives turned into a nightmare.” The people woke up in the morning to find their food mysteriously gone or damaged and their clothes torn apart. The few vegetables that

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grew in the field on the steep hill rotted over night. The bear attacked its keeper and ran away into the woods. Their guests said they felt pursued by invisible beings when they walked through the forest to get there. The bearded sisters claimed that the carvings in the ceiling came alive and stared at them when they stood on stage. They refused to do any more shows. One morning the sisters left, followed shortly by the scarred man and his girlfriend. Every day, fewer guests came, and then no one came at all. “My mother was grieving and didn’t notice what was happening,” Tuva’s grandfather said. “Everything was falling apart around us, but I didn’t know what to do. I was just a little boy.” “One night the ground shook so hard we woke up. When I ran outside, I saw a massive wave of earth coming down the hill. I’ve never seen anything so frightening. It ploughed its way through the forest, throwing huge rocks and trees up in the air. We left the next day.” Then, seeing her look, he’d added. “I know it was them, Tuva. When we left, I heard a vicious, shrill laughter. It wasn’t human.” # Tuva looked around at the little cottar’s farm that her great-grandfather had transformed into a carnival. She’d been surprised to find it still standing after being abandoned for so many years. She remembered the shine in her grandfather’s eyes when he told her about the strange place where he grew up. The children who screamed in joy on the carousel in the afternoons, and the magic when people and animals crowded around the fires in the evenings, the flickering flames competing with the moonshine and the stars above them. In the little cottage he shared with his parents, he’d usually fallen asleep to the riot of laugher, the joyous screams, the hush during the freak shows. Her grandfather and his mother had never returned here. She frowned. Why hadn’t he talked about his childhood until now? Had her mother known about it? Her grandfather had seemed so relieved to finally be able to talk about it, but when she told him that she wanted to visit the old farm, he’d become agitated. Tuva was unnerved to see him like that. The old man had been her cliff of support ever since her mother died a few years earlier. He had made sure she finished secondary school and they had talked many evenings about what she was to do with her life. She knew he’d support her, no matter what path she chose. It was just the two of them left now. Tuva respected and loved her grandfather, but she didn’t believe the grey people existed. Still, it wouldn’t do any harm to be extra careful. She took a bottle of water from her rucksack. Summer heat had arrived at last after the long cold, wet spring. The air sparkled, dry and warm. The houses perched on a tiny plateau in the outermost corner of the valley, which clung to the side of a steep hill. Snow-tipped mountains towered over it. Thick forest surrounded the clearing and seemed to creep closer if you stared too long. Green moss and tall grass had almost buried the few buildings scattered around the yard and in between the trees. The main house stood dangerously near a deep rift in the ground, where an avalanche had created a massive trail through the forest. Huge grey rocks stretched downhill towards the valley as if a giant had thrown them out from the mountains. Tuva felt embraced in the calm, the quiet disturbed only by the sounds of busy bumblebees and the trickling of a nearby stream. The horrid stress on the motorway and the city noise were just distant memories. It’d been a long drive and then an exhausting walk along old squiggly

The Pact

trails through the forest to get here, trails that had almost disappeared with time. Small scratches from the thick vegetation covered her arms and legs. The forest was slowly reclaiming the human-made clearings. Sometime in the future, the plateau would be completely lost in vegetation. Tuva had expected that the place would be in poor condition after all the years, but the sight of it was overwhelming. Tears swelled in her eyes. She took a deep breath, calming herself. There would be time later. The clearing basked in the evening sun, but she could already see the darkness of the night creeping along the edge of the forest, casting long shadows. Stretching her stiff body, she got up from the rock where she was resting. She had to get ready. “They come at night,” her grandfather had instructed her. “You must be prepared and stay awake.” A wooden carousel creaked when she hurried past it. It needed a kind and gentle hand, but she could see that it was a dazzling beauty underneath all the dust, dirt and mould. The little horses seemed undamaged and ready to spring happily around the carved pillar. She shook her head in amazement. Such an odd thing to find here in the middle of the forest, she thought and chuckled at the strangeness of the whole place. A tivoli in the hills! When her grandfather had told her about his childhood home the first time, she had not believed him, until he’d shown her pictures and an old poster. It’d been yellow and torn at the edges, but the creepy and grotesque drawings had been clear and visible. That was when she had fallen in love with the quirkiness of the abandoned place and started to make plans for it. Inside the main house Tuva found a bare room with only a few benches and a little stage. Thick cobwebs covered everything. The wood frame around the stage had more of her greatgrandfather’s carvings, but these ones had a darker tone. Strange creatures looked down at her with vicious grins and grimaces. This must be where they had the freak shows, she thought. She could easily understand why the bearded sisters would imagine the carved faces had come to life. They looked creepy, dangerous even, in the meagre light. There were no windows in the room, only small openings in the walls, between the broad wooden boards. Her grandfather had of course only been a boy at the time, and couldn’t remember all the details, but she recalled how wide-eyed he was when he told her about the bearded sisters. In the drawing of them on the poster he’d shown her, the two sisters with the hairy faces had looked grotesque. Tuva couldn’t help but pity them. She wondered where they’d gone when they left and if they had any children. They’d looked so young in the drawing. She noticed the contours of a trapdoor on the floor, and thought it must lead to be a cellar underneath the room. The air was thick and filled with an odour of old and rotten things. The ceiling felt suddenly closer. Tuva shivered and hurried outside again. She looked over to the other side of the clearing, where a skigard fence surrounded a little enclosure. Probably where they had the cock fights, she thought. She almost fell when she stumbled over a thick iron bolt in the ground. Something big and strong must have been tethered to the ground there. Hadn’t her grandfather talked about a bear too; the one that attacked its owner and ran into the forest? She shuddered. There had also been a strong man for a short time, who the guests could challenge to a boxing fight if they dared. Her grandfather had told her that the giant actually was a kind man from the east who hated the fights, but it was easily made money for a man with no education or craft. Her grandfather spent many mornings in the big man’s hut, listening to

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his stories from the world. Tuva smiled at the thought of the boy and the large, muscled man being friends. Beyond the enclosure she saw a door in what appeared to be a house swallowed by the mountain, but when she looked closer, she saw that it was a turf house, built half underground, with grass and moss burgeoning on its roof. It looked ancient, much older than the other buildings. Her grandfather had not mentioned it. She wondered what was behind the door and how far into the mountain it went. In between the tall spruce trees in the forest, she could see the contours of several small cottages scattered about. They were barely visible in the dark. It had to be where her great grandparents and their people had lived; a little village in the woods, hidden from sight. It must be possible to renovate at least a few of the cottages, she thought. She would have to look at them more closely later, but now it was time to get ready. The bluish grey of twilight glided across the nooks and crannies in the mountain surface, making them look alive and brooding. Tuva hurried to light a fire in the fire pit in the middle of the yard, then settled down on one of the rocks nearby to wait. It wouldn’t be long before the grey people arrived, she thought. If they arrived at all. # A thick mass of grey burst through the door of the turf house. Tuva couldn’t see what it was and stretched her neck to see it better, her heart thudding in her ears. The grey mass moved over the land, through the houses, in between the trees, and over the rocks in quick, short waves, like a pulsating blanket. Then, it seemed to notice her, swarmed towards her, surrounded her, and ceased moving. An ocean of glowing red eyes watched her. They seem to be studying me, she thought, like predators observing their prey. Cold chills went down her spine. They moved closer and closer. She saw sneers, short, pointy narrow teeth, flickering tongues. She screamed. Her ears filled with high-pitched laughter. # Tuva woke up with a thundering heart. It was pitch dark. She lay still, trying to remember where she was. At one point she must have moved down from the rock back to the fire pit. Only a few embers smouldered red on the dark ground beside her. The chilly night air stroked her bare arms and she huddled under the wool blanket she’d brought with her. Slowly she calmed down. It was just a dream, she assured herself. Just a dream. She stared up at the stars, marvelling at how large and near they seemed to be here in the mountains, away from the city lights. Something scratched in the darkness. Tuva startled and turned her head, looking for the source of the sound. A small shadow moved in front of the main house. Tuva sat up and squinted, but couldn’t identify it. An animal? It trotted around a little, then disappeared in between the trees in the forest. Curious, she waited, but it didn´t come back. That’s when she saw it. Or him. She wasn’t sure what it was. It sat atop a rock on the other side of the fire pit, almost lost in the shadows of the night, watching her. A creature, no

The Pact

larger than a small child, with long claws, pointed ears, grey-brown fur and a long tail curled around its body. Her every pore screamed to her: That’s no animal! Run away from here! Save yourself! As if the creature had heard her thoughts, it suddenly slid down from the rock and moved towards her. It seemed to be floating through the air. Tuva froze. As it neared, the fresh scent of earth, pine trees and bark caught in her nose. The odour wasn’t unpleasant, but it scared her, made the hair on her skin bristle. Everything told her that this creature wasn’t an animal or a human. Tuva bit into her lip. The pain made her grimace. The strange being stopped a few metres from her and settled down on a smaller rock. Intense, bright eyes glinted yellow in the meagre light from the fire pit. What brings you here, human child?

Tuva startled. The voice was clear inside her head, ancient and reverberating with power. She swallowed loudly. The creature cocked its head, studying her. Amusement lit the golden eyes. “My name is Tuva,” she said at last, thinking her voice sounded loud in the night. “Trym was my great-grandfather.” The creature drew its lips up, sneering. Tuva shuddered at the sight of its sharp canine teeth, glinting in the meagre light. Looking up, she saw that dawn was slowly arriving in the clearing. She sighed in relief. The summer nights were short here in the north. Trym was a fool thinking he could deceive us.

The voice penetrated her thoughts. “He didn’t deceive you. He died,” she said. “I can prove it.” She opened her rucksack and took out a box, removed the lock and showed it to the creature. “This is earth from his graveyard,” she said, silently thanking her grandfather for thinking of this. It wasn’t until after the war that they’d been able to go to her great-grandfather’s burial place. A small stone cross marked the grave now, with his name engraved. Stopping there on her way, she’d spooned up some of the earth, whispering an apology to her greatgrandfather and asking for his forgiveness as she did so. She placed the box on the ground. The creature looked at her suspiciously before it trotted over to the box and sniffed at the earth, its long tail sliding along the ground. Tuva held her breath. A split tongue slid out and the creature licked the earth. It shuddered, then turned its head towards her and sat down again. We believe you. I taste him. What do you want, human child?

“My grandfather told me that my family has made pacts with you all the time we have been at this place. That you’ve helped us.” Yes.

“I’m not sure exactly what these deals are about. My grandfather was just a boy when he left this place.” Yes.

“Would you consider making a pact with me?” She held her breath, waiting. The creature scrutinized her face.

Yes.

Margrét Helgadóttir

She sighed in relief. “Thank you. May I ask what these deals have been about?”

Yes.

The forest around them went silent. Just when she thought she couldn’t bear it any longer, images started to flow into her mind. Tuva stared at the creature with wide eyes. It nodded to her. We will show you.

The night still kept a strong grip on the little clearing. She didn’t know how long she sat on the ground next to the strange being, watching images from the past. The grey people had been here all the time, living in the mountains. Tuva saw images of great flocks of tiny creatures in the moonlight, sweeping over the mountains like a living blanket. They looked just like the strange grey mass with glittering eyes she’d seen in her dream. She trembled at the sight of the pointy teeth. Then, men began to appear in the visions. At first, the creatures didn’t know what to do with the humans. However, observing that the men were kind to the animals and the earth, they decided to accept them, and to offer them a pact. Tuva saw images of the creature in front of her and the other smaller beings working in the fields and taking care of the household animals in the night, while the humans slept. The creatures protected the humans against wolf packs, bears and lurking beasts in the forest, and even soldiers. A number of times, Tuva saw flashes of men putting out bowls of porridge in wintertime, and of the creature in front of her coming in the night to eat it. And suddenly she remembered hearing tales about this in her childhood. She’d thought they were silly, funny folk tales. But the creature in front of her didn’t look like the chubby gnome with red cheeks that were portrayed in the tales, with pointed hats and shredded clothes. “Are you a nisse? ” she whispered. We go by many names.

It said no more, but continued to show her visions from the past. With every new generation, the creature had made a deal with the head of the family. From the tone of the images, she sensed that the creature respected the men as long as they treated their animals and the earth with respect and put out food for the grey people. When the creatures felt that the men did not respect this deal, they became vicious. Then, pictures of a tall and rugged towheaded man flowed into her mind: her great-grandfather. She recognized him from the family photographs. Tuva sighed. She wished she had met her great-grandfather. He must have been an amazing character. He’d looked so tough and harsh in the pictures she had seen of him, but the fragile and beautiful carousel he’d made indicated that there was another softer side to him too. ###

Trym was not like his forefathers. He was not like other men.

Tuva sensed that the creature not only missed her great-grandfather, but also the tivoli. It showed her the clearing crowded with people, the image in soft focus and with golden edges, as if the creature felt a wave of nostalgia for these humans. Men stood around the skigard fence shouting to a couple of men fighting. The sweat on their backs glistened in the lights from campfires and torches. In the distance, a woman laughed.

The Pact

The creatures peeked out from the trees at all the humans. When the cottar’s farm was dark and silent, the creatures peeked into the cottages at the sleeping humans, and pointed their little ears, curious. In one of the cottages, a woman lay in bed, her arms around a little boy with tousled, blonde hair. Tuva smiled when she realized the boy was her grandfather. She watched her great-grandfather working and working, being the first one up and the last one into bed, but never forgetting to put out food for the grey people. She observed him carving the beautiful carousel, a small smile playing about his lips. The tiny grey creatures liked to let their claws click-clack over the carousel horses, making the wood shine. Then, a vision of her great grandfather walking away and never returning popped into her head, followed by an image of the creatures chasing the remaining humans away in rage, but feeling empty and lost afterwards. “I wish I’d known him,” she whispered. The creature turned its head and looked at her a moment. Seeing it sharply now in the grey light of daybreak, she gasped. It was grotesque. Hideous. Yet, she felt a connection with the creature, and a deep respect. It sat quietly on the rock, its tail swinging slowly from side to side. Suddenly, she felt something nudging her inside her mind, something seeking her thoughts, her intentions. She startled. You wish to honour your great-grandfather?

Tuva nodded. “Yes.” The idea had hatched from a wild thought she’d had when her grandfather first told her the stories about his childhood home and showed her the old poster. From there, her plan had slowly developed. The setting was unique. Its history was unique. Tuva wanted to show it to the world. She dreamed of renovating the whole place and turning it into a museum, with an art gallery and restaurant, and maybe even renting out some of the cottages to tourists. She wanted to show people the history of a young man who, after inheriting the farm, decided to walk a different path than his forefathers had, and who changed the traditional cottar’s farm into something dark, foreign and exotic. She wanted to honour the miniature tivoli he’d made, with its charming collection of humans and animals. Perhaps she could still restore the tivoli. It could be a living museum. Maybe she’d be able to track down some of the people who’d lived here, or learn something about their ancestors. You want to find the people who lived here?

She nodded. “Yes, I want to get to know them, find out what happened to them, apologize to them if possible.” The creature was quiet. You remind us ofTrym. He was a kind human.

It became quiet again. Tuva held her breath, waiting for the creature to respond to her ideas. Tuva believed her grandfather now. She knew the images the creature had shown her were true. All her senses and her very bones told her so. The grey people existed. But she didn’t know if the creature in front of her believed in her. If it wanted to make a pact with her. We will help you, human child.

“Thank you,” she whispered, sighing in relief. She rubbed her tired eyes, then blinked. The creature was gone. One moment it was there, the next it wasn’t. The morning sun cast its warm fingers across the clearing. Stretching, she stood and yawned. The door to the turf house

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swung shut. Smiling, she folded her woollen blanket. She had lots of work to do. Tuva looked forward to tell her grandfather the news. Maybe he would consider living here together with her, if he could overcome his fears. Giggling with joy, she walked towards the forest trail, swinging the rucksack onto her back. “I’ll be back,” she shouted. And, she could have sworn that she sensed something touching her bare arm, as light as the breeze. Thank you, Tuva.

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CONTRIBUTORS Editorial Oonah Joslin

Gemma Meek Ian C. Smith Nonnie Augustine Martin Heavisides

FLASH FICTION Ginger Hamilton Howard Bernbaum Derek Osborne

SHORT STORIES Alex Braverman Margrét Helgadóttir

ESSAY John Ritchie Stephen Zelnick CNF Anna G. Raman MICRO FICTION Shirani Rajapakse Carly Berg Bill West SPANISH TRANSLATION Diana Ferraro POETRY Sara Clancy Christofer Oberst Kristina Jensen Tom Sheehan Tim Gundrum Ann Howells Tim Dwyer

ART Odilon Redon Edvard Munch Paul Klee Gustav Klimt William Blake Edward Austin Abbey Aubrey Beardsley Ivan Bilibin Giovanni Battista Piranes John William Waterhouse Franz Mark John Singer Sargent Juan Gris