Thom's First

Hello All,

Together again at last. I have to say that I was thrilled to be invited to start reading your work on the blog. You guys have some fantastic stuff here.

My turn.

I've deliberated a bit about what to post first, and due to the incomplete nature of my current project, I've decided to start with a piece written about a year ago. I'm sorry for it's length, but rest assured that future posts will be much shorter.

That being said, I hope you enjoy this very simple introduction into the fiction of Thom Gulino.

------

To Walk by the Sea
by Thom Gulino

Ronald, your feet are very heavy, said the voice. The half-slumbering man heard a bell toll through the morning fog and rolled over under his sheets.
Ronald, you are weighed down to the earth. Your feet are so heavy. His eyes opened abruptly. Yes, there really had been a voice. At first he had thought it to be the mere illusion of dream. But now he was quite certain that someone had spoken. The whispers had been quiet and cold, without any pretense of emotion. He clutched his blanket tightly for a moment, then chuckled. What nonsense was this? He was acting like a child—afraid of the whispers of ghosts or goblins. These were not things for a man of his advanced years to bother about. He put the silly words from his head, noting that his feet did not feel heavy at all. They were fantastic, in fact, what with his daily walks along the coast and all. He grinned and rolled back over, having no reason to rise on an early Sunday.

It was nearly ten o’clock by the time he rose to make himself breakfast. Eggs and toast was always the order for a Sunday morning, and he ate it over the daily paper. He ruffled slightly moist pages, the headlines trying painfully to arrest his attention. Modifications to national taxes, the prime minister making an important address to parliament, and the scandalous news on rich actresses and their equally-wealthy counterparts. He did not really have to read the articles, he thought, to know just what they said
He abandoned the paper and looked outside, noting the fog, come newly off the February sea. It was often like that around this time—a sort of lonely limbo between seasons. Wet and misty, vision veiling and smell obscuring: he liked it all, strangely enough, finding it adventurous to walk outside in such mysterious weather. He would perhaps make an extra long walk today.
It was already noon by the time Ronald prepared for his stroll. The fog had only thickened, and he donned a cap and overcoat, taking his cherry wood cane from beside the hearth. He had readied the fire a little after breakfast, so it would not be difficult to get a warm blaze going when he returned. It was all part of the routine; he’d come back, hang up his coat, lay his cane by the wall and sit down in his high-backed chair, tea in hand and fire at foot. It was invariable. That little section by the hearth, he mused, might just be the most well used part of the small beach cottage.

The air out of doors was not quite as cold as he had expected and he began at a brisk pace, feeling with his cane for the familiar rocks and humps on the ground. With this fog, even his well-trained memory faltered in recalling an image of the land ahead. The water, he knew, was only a hundred meters or so to his left—he could hear the slow tide—and up to the right was a small cops of conifer where some costal birds nested. The land rose up steeply away from the shore, but along the water’s edge it was flat. It was in that direction that he headed, sniffing the grey air.
“I’ve taken this walk not a few times,” Ronald said to himself. “And has it ever changed? No, but it has not yet grown old. And that is the only thing that has not grown stale. All else is so weary: the small restaurants don’t serve any new food, and the shows at the cinema are always the same. But this tradition is still young. How would I keep my wits without this one path to tread? ”
With a start, he became aware that he was talking to himself and quickened his pace to occupy his mind. Nevertheless, his thoughts stubbornly wandered again and he began to recall how he had first begun taking the walks. It had been an especially tough day at work, he remembered; his supervisor had given him hell for missing several embarrassing mistypes in the textbook he had been proofing. He had compensated by slowing his reading pace, and proceeded to fall drastically behind on his schedule. Returning home that day, he had rather felt like thrusting his teapot through the back window. Instead, he let the teapot be and headed outside and down the shore. That was the first time he had ever noticed the scenic beauty of the place. There was never anyone out there, and past the coastal surf, he could glimpse a horizon veiled in mystery.
A crow squawked nearby, breaking him out of his reminiscence. He did not mind the interruption, though—he had patience for animals. They never meant to bother you he thought; never hollered at you for mistakes at work or elbowed you for brushing against them in the crowed rail stations.
Animals would listen to you as well, a skill that humans had not yet quite mastered. He suddenly wondered why he did not have a pet. The thought had not occurred to him before, but it might be nice, having someone at home to return to, someone who would not start making demands as he entered the door. A lab perhaps, for cats were a bit too independent. It took him only moments to resolve to stop by a pet shop on the next business day.
That decided, he began to wish that he could see out past the fog. He was passing over a shallow scoop in the land and began to make his way closer to the shore. The waves were steady, though the fog still subdued their sound.
Some gulls were floating on the surf, not deterred by the chilly spray. “Hey you out there,” Ronald called to the gulls. “How is the water? I’d rather like to test it out for myself.” They of course did not answer, and he thought of how strange it was that he should try to speak to gulls.
It was then that the memory of the voice returned, suddenly and without prompt. He shivered at this inexplicable recollection and clenched his left hand. He had decided that the voice was a nonsensical figment of sleep, but now the memory of the words jarred him. You are weighed down to the earth, they had said. “No,” he quickly muttered, and shook his head twice.
Ronald tried hastily to calm his nerves and remonstrated himself again for acting like a child. He did not know why the memory of the dream voice had upset his mind so. A grown man should be free of imagined anxieties. Perhaps exploring around the bend of the next land rise would occupy his mind. He could not quite remember ever having gone around there.
Reaching the bend, he passed a giant moss clad rock and looked up to see the steep rise of a dune. Straight before him, as he stepped onward, was more beach, all mist-shrouded. He indeed could not recall having been this far, though he liked the feel of the land: he had the distinct sense of stepping out of his little English homeland into some uncharted place.
“Well if this isn’t quite the adventure,” he said, and then stopped abruptly. Just as his words had fallen into the mist he had heard the faint clink of metal and the sound of deliberate movement through the water. “Who’s there?” He peered on into the chill air, mindful of his cane moving over the stones. The metallic clink came again, then repeated in time with the tide. The sound of thrusting through water followed again and Ronald thought he could glimpse a faint light by the shore. “Who’s there? Who’s there I say?”
“I am here,” said a voice. Ronald was taken aback. He had not actually been sure there really was someone ahead.
“Who are you?” Ronald asked, failing to harden his own voice. As he awaited an answer, the dim form of a boat materialized out of the mist. It was a very simple vessel, though beautiful in a way. It was grey, with light carvings all over its curved bow. A lantern hung there, its chain clinking with the tide. “I am a friend of the sea,” the stranger replied at last. “I am a mariner.” Ronald could see the speaker clearly now; he was standing at the fore of the vessel, a grey oar in hand. He was dressed in a long, slate-colored cloak, and, though his hood was raised and the fog still lingered between them, Ronald noticed two bright eyes. He was very tall and his voice, though that of a mature man, was smooth—almost youthful.
“I am sorry to have shouted.” Ronald said. “But I have not been out this far before and the fog made me timid.”
“There is no need to apologize.” The stranger returned. “And you need not be timid out here. The land is peaceful in this place. If only that were true of the rest of the world.”
“Is the world not peaceful?” Ronald, of course, knew the answer to that. Were there not write-ups of the wars every day in the paper?
“No, there is little peace for people here. And there has not often been rest for me. My dreams are ever troubled.”
Ronald found the stranger’s talk of dreams and a lack of peace unwarranted and uncomfortable. He resorted to asking plain questions. “What brings you out rowing on such an overcast day?” he asked. “Isn’t this inconvenient weather for boating?”
“Not at all! In fact, I should think it would be a worse day for walking. However, as to why I am here, I am going on a long trip, away from this coast.”
“A long trip? In a boat like that? Do you have a sail, or can you row all the way to where you are going?”
The man smiled. “I have not far to go in this little boat. My ship is harbored nearby and that vessel is well able to make the voyage.”
“And exactly where are you going?” Ronald felt a sudden and keen interest in this person’s trip. The mysterious man was lucky, he thought, to be free to sail away.
“I will go westwards,” he said. “It will be a long trip, and adventurous. But it will be a sad voyage also.”
“Sad, how so? I should think you are very lucky to be off somewhere. I wish I could do the same—travel ‘westwards,’ or anyplace, for that matter. But I don’t think I will ever sail.”
The man looked suddenly puzzled, and his brow furrowed over his gleaming eyes. “You would not consider joining me then? You speak as if you are bound to stay here.”
Ronald stepped backwards. Join him? What was this sudden madness? Here was a total stranger, and he was speaking as if he expected this poor passerby to come along on a vague westerly voyage. But there was another sentiment aside from Ronald’s astonished discouragement. An ambiguous spark of hope seemed to take form in him; it had leaped up with the stranger’s invitation and now asserted itself as he made to speak.
“How can you ask me to join you?” he asked. He paused and looked at the ground, not understanding what he said next. “Of course I’d like to; I’d like to go with you, that is. I’ve always been restless here. Like you say, there really isn’t much peace in people. Everyone is so un-intimate, and everything is so very bland. It’s all stained for me. The stores and the shops…and all the rest. I can’t even describe it all. You know, I’ve just been thinking about those very things today as I walked. But to what better place in the world might you take me? Tell me again, where are you really going?”
Ronald, looking up after his short speech, cried out in sudden alarm. As his eyes had remained cast down, the boat had begun to float slowly away. It was now almost out of reach. Still, the stranger called to him in response to his last question.
“I am going to the Deathless Lands, friend. You may still come. There need be nothing to weigh you down here.”
And suddenly, with great terror, Ronald remembered the cold voice of his dream and knew its words to be true. “Oh stranger!” he called out, trying to wade forward into the water. “My feet are too heavy. Friend of the sea, I am weighed down, weighed down to the earth.” He kicked at the sand beneath him and called again, despairing. “Oh mariner, my feet are so heavy. I cannot come.” He ceased crying out, but repeated to himself the mortal phrases. The mariner did not speak to him again. He merely watched Ronald from those bright eyes and held out his hand in one final invitation. Ronald stumbled forward into the water and fell, floundering. He glimpsed the hand disappearing into the mist, along with the light and the faint clinking of the lantern.
Ronald sobbed silently, soaking in the water, unmindful of its February cold. He could not understand why he had not taken the invitation, for he had suddenly desired to leave this land with a passion he had never before known. But he was bound, it seemed, to wait in this middle place in an unchanging life.
He finally rose and made the walk back to his home, thinking of nothing on his way. It took a shorter time than he had expected and he soon arrived by the back door. He reached for the knob and entered into the kitchen. There was the hearth, with embers still glowing red. He looked at his armchair and sighed—he had forgotten his walking stick, for he had dropped it when he fell into the sea. By now it was probably being pulled out to the wide expanses, if it had not been beached on land. Perhaps, he hoped, it might make it to wherever the mariner was going.
He thought of sitting down in his chair, by the familiar hearth, ready to forget the strange occurrences of the day. After a moment of consideration, however, he walked instead to the window and stood for a long time thinking, dripping and chapped. He looked out on the sea with its white gulls calling overhead. The surf’s foam leaped up in rhythm, and the ebb of the tide remained as a steady metronome for some unheard music. The fog still lingered, though lightly now, thinning in places to give a glimpse of the far, grey merging of sky and sea. Ronald thought for a moment that he could make out a tiny, grey vessel sailing westwards. He wondered what lay there—beyond the shore, the waves and the horizon—in the West.

Otis Wellington: Second Installment

So, I'm here at the Doug Fir, waiting with a gin and tonic for the A.C. Newman show to start. Dent May is opening. Should be a riot.

But anyway, here is the beginning of Chapter Two. I have not had a chance to go over it at all, so it is very incomplete and sloppy. That doesn't mean I don't want your thoughts! Tell me everything that is weak.

Chapter Two

Over the next several years, Mr. and Mrs. Wellington discovered how truly remarkable their son Otis was, and not merely because his first word was Antarctica (closely proceeded by his second, Madagascar, his third, Yugoslavia, and his forth, Saskatchewan), but on account of everything else that might have labeled their boy “extraordinary.” What is more, all these things done by Otis were done with little or no explanation given to those around him, either because he had not the ability to articulate his musings or because he simply chose not to grant his company with the pleasure of hearing them. Be certain that his parents would have been a great deal more dazzled—and may have even considered contacting the press—if they had known half of what went on between Otis’ ears. But, dear reader, this is the beauty of books. Because you were not there, and because you are reading now, there is no limit to what you can know.

So the days passed pleasantly with the Wellingtons, as days often pass with a baby who has moved beyond his sleepless, noisy nights, and Mrs. Wellington thought it would be beneficial for everyone if fresh air took a more prominent role in their lives. She finally came to this conclusion after watching her husband and son, for the tenth consecutive afternoon, waste their daylight hours in front of their collection of maps, globes, and atlases. What rubbish! she thought, standing over them, surrounded on all sides by unfolded and crinkled nautical charts. A geography lesson here and there might be healthy for a child, but just look at those two! Otis can barely walk, never mind say his own name! It is about time we make some changes around here. Thus, after a rather brief discussion (brief because, as we all know, men who marry women the likes of Mrs. Wellington are usually poor arguers), the whole Wellington family found themselves strolling about the village green.

Such a spring day as the one enjoyed by the Wellingtons rarely comes along, especially at such an opportune time. The agreeableness of the weather translated readily into the demeanor of the family, who looked quite the charming party under the blooming trees that lined the park’s dirt path. Each member had donned the appropriate headgear for the occasion: Otis, in his stroller, wore a white sailor hat given to him, of course, by his father; Mr. Wellington, the gentleman of the troupe, had put on a brown fedora; and the missus, who pushed the stroller, modeled a wide-brimmed straw hat (carrying an unnecessary feather) set at a jaunty angle upon her crown. It was this shared love for toppers that had sparked the couple’s courtship so many years ago. But this is all very irrelevant.

Presently, the two parents came to rest at a bench under a particularly sprawling tree just beside the pond, around which the dirt path had led them. The bench, gently shaded, looked out over the village green that distended beyond them like a calm, grassy sea. Mrs. Wellington sighed deeply. “This will do marvelously,” she exclaimed with the exaggeration of a lousy actress. Pulling the carriage off to the side and settling herself in, she continued addressing her husband, “Now isn’t this worlds better than frittering away your time at home? I simply cannot think of a more perfect spot!”

Mr. Wellington could not easily disagree. He also sighed, dropped himself onto the bench, and with a quick sniff replied, “You know, you just may be right,” and quietly began reading the book he had taken along, titled Courage and Adventure, with an illustrated sea monster on the cover.

Otis, having been abandoned to the bench’s side, peered curiously over the stroller’s safety bar, out to the scene of verdant activity before his eyes. Strange people stood about, some with colorful umbrellas, though it was not raining. Young boys and girls lay on blankets and sat against the trunks of trees. Some were reading books. Others were up and throwing balls. From his seat in the carriage, Otis observed an older man, sitting on a bench opposite his, tossing bits of torn bread into an open place. The birds that congregated there looked more beautiful and more graceful than anything Otis had ever seen. And the songs he now heard overhead!

What strange land is this? thought Otis, trying to recall the many foreign lands he had seen with his father and Sylvia. To where has my mother taken us? What is this place where it doesn’t rain, yet the inhabitants still wield umbrellas? In what country can the men summon the beasts of the air with mere bread? For the sake of Queen Isabella of Someplace Far, Far Away, I must organize an expedition.

By this point Mr. Wellington, softened by the day’s exercise and the warmth of the sun, had unconsciously closed his eyes and now slept soundly on the bench. He snored with much gusto, head tipped back, mouth agape, and hands still holding his open book (having just completed Chapter Six, regarding the inhospitality of islands). Mrs. Wellington, on the other hand, confident that her husband would keep watch on the baby, had taken her leave to inspect the pond and its tadpoles.





Love,
Andrew LeTellier

Larry and Lenore by Ashley M. Boutin

Though incomplete, the end is near. This piece was supposed to be a short, but it turned into a long short much too long to simply be a short.

Larry and Lenore

[incomplete]

by

Ashley M. Boutin

Larry sat in the living room rocking in his old rocking chair. Lenore made date bars in the kitchen. Larry snored loudly, though he was very much awake, and Lenore tunelessly whistled.
“Lenore!” Larry snorted abruptly. “Lenore! Stop that damned whistlin’. I can’t hear my tele-vision.” Lenore stuck her head out from the kitchen, plastic pink curlers falling over her thick grey eyebrows.
“Shut that damned box off and do somethin’ ya ol’ fool,” she refuted and then disappeared back into the kitchen where she continued to whistle and mix, the spoon tap, tap, tapping against the glass bowl.
“Lenore!” Larry growled, sitting up in his chair and gripping the orange armrests. “Lenore! Lenore! Lenore!” he shouted, blood pulsing to his face. She ignored him and continued to whistle and tap, whistle and tap, whistle and tap, tap, tap, tap, tap. “Woman!” he shouted again, straightening his posture. She whistled louder. “Woman!” His heart beat rapidly. “I think I’m havin’ heart attack!” The whistling and tapping abruptly stopped and Lenore ran into the living room.
“What do ya mean you’re havin’ a heart attack, ya ol’ fool?” Larry held his chest with his right hand. “You were at the doctor’s yestaday and he said you’re just fine. You aren’t havin’ no heart attack.”
“I am too havin’ a heart attack. You ain’t no doctor,” Larry said, still holding his chest. The black and white picture on the television faded in and out.
“Fix that there tele-vision while you’re just standin’ there,” Larry barked as he sat back into his chair.
“What about your heart attack, fool?” Lenore put her hands on her hips.
“It stopped. Fix that there tele-vision,” he ordered, staring at the television. She didn’t move. “Fix it while you’re not doin’ nothin’.” Lenore sighed loudly and went back into the kitchen. “Lenore!” Larry hollered. “What are you doin’?”
“Puttin’ my bars in the oven!” she shouted, the spoon tapping against the bowl.
“I guess I’ll have to do it myself,” he sighed, dragging his large hand over his thin layer of white hair. Larry stood up, groaned, walked to the television, moved one of the rabbit-ear antennas, and returned to his chair. The television scrambled. “Lenore, my heart!” Larry shouted again. She slammed the oven door closed, wiped the counter with her dishcloth, and returned to the living room where Larry inertly sat in his rocking chair, his eyes closed and head slumped slightly to the right.
“Oh my Heavens,” Lenore said, placing her hand over her mouth.
“You weren’t even gonna try to save me!” Larry opened his eyes and sat up. “Well, I wouldn’t save you either.” He began rocking again. “Fix my tele-vision.” The phone rang. “Lenore, my tele-vison needs fixin’!”
“And the phone needs answerin’,” she said, running back into the kitchen.
“Hello.”
“Oh, you’ll have to talk to him about that. He said he’s not payin’ anymore
because of ‘all those damned commercials,’” she said in a deep voice, mocking Larry.
“We owe you how much?”
“He hasn’t been paying for how long?”
“No, we don’t need cable anymore. He has those antennas now.”
“I can’t guarantee nothin’, but I’ll tell him ya called.”
“Bye.” Lenore hung up the telephone and went back into the living room, where Larry rocked in his chair. “Tin foil!” Larry sat up straight. “Get tinfoil. That’ll make it work!”
“The cable company called. You owe them $254.97,” Lenore said.
“What are they gonna do? Turn the cable off?” He paused for a moment. “Wait a second. They already did! Get tinfoil!” Irritated, Lenore went back in the kitchen to get the tinfoil.
“What do ya want to do with this, fool?” she asked, emerging back into the living room with the entire roll.
“wrap it ‘round the antennas. It’ll make the tele-vision come in.” Lenore tore off a piece of foil and aggressively wrapped it around the antennas. “Well, doesn’t that look stupid,” Larry said. “Do something with it. Make it look like a flower, you know, like Origimi.” Lenore glared at him and squeezed antenna angrily. “Hold on. . . Hold on. . . By God, I think you fixed it!” A clear black and white image appeared on the screen. “Andy Griffith. I haven’t seen this in years,” Larry chuckled. Lenore let go of the antenna and the television scrambled. “Why’d ya go and do that?” he asked.

Man of Letters 2

Here is the second chapter of Man of Letters. It is incomplete, but I figured I'd post what I have so far!

PRODIGY

It was clear to my parents that I was a prodigy. Now I know that such phraseology gets tossed around a lot these days—a young boy need only discover his own anus to be the next Oppenheimer, or a teenage girl grow breasts before the age of twelve to be the next American Idol—but when I was young, to be a prodigy was something rather special. Aside from my uncanny propensity to flawlessly imitate birdcalls (a passion I still harbor), I was a surprisingly precocious child. I once stole a pair of my mother’s pantyhose and wore them on my head as a superhero’s mask, which resulted in a display of heroism in the neighbor’s front lawn, sun-faded Chewley’s Gum beach towel clothes-pinned around my neck as a cape. My father, in turn, feared I may have been one of those fellatiazing homosexuals (although after perusing some of these memoirs, I discern that such a thing is now rather in vogue). Fear not, Queensberry—I am no posing somdomite.
My first serious poetic break was in the fifth grade, after I composed some minor verses attempting to express some of my deepest sentiments toward humanity as part of our poetry unit. It was called “The People Poem.” The teacher was so impressed that she called my parents and shared my piece with them, haunted by my Poe-esque rhyming skills and certainly overwhelmed by (indeed, falling short of fully comprehending) the scope of my linguistic mastery. After informing them that I was a truly gifted young man, she asked permission to submit the poem to a literary magazine. Thrilled at the prospect of making any money off their son, my parents quickly agreed, although were disappointed to discover that the magazine did not offer any compensation for its contributors’ time or talents. So my first poem appeared published in Elementary Fiction . . . and Verse, Too!, volume 7, issue 22 (as virtually all my fans now know). You may find this early work in my anthology, Lines Upon My Face, although I will include a deleted verse here:
There are car people, bar people,
People who’ll go far people,
War people, bore people,
People who will score people.
These lines were much too personal for me to include in my early edition as a child, so I chose to remove them and keep them private. Undoubtedly some of the best writers—I have met a few—keep their best verses in a box under their bed, never to be read, and so did I in my youthful naïveté with these lines.
After my breakthrough success, my teacher encouraged me to continue writing at all costs. In order to support me, she allowed me to give up many other aspects of the curriculum in order to focus on writing. Every day became for me a writing workshop, wherein I mastered heroic couplets, trochaic hexameter, and the diamante, yet regrettably fell behind in geography, arithmetic, and social skills. Naturally, what that caring teacher nurtured for the rest of my time with her was quickly pummeled and suppressed during my next seven years of public education, during which my teachers collectively rooted out any wriggling specimen of creativity within my psyche, pinned it to a piece of sea-weed smelling wax, dissected it and discarded it in brown plastic biohazard bags. By the time I graduated high school, I was less qualified for perseverance in the literary world than Jane Austen.
My undergraduate years were spent feebly trying to reclaim my early creative talents. While I was studying English literature at Columbia, I put pen back to paper and rekindled my love for writing poetry; Alexander Pope blew it out. I remember so often sitting down to my desk, hoping to construct a brilliant bunch of lines in sweet rhythms paired with deliciously rhyming heroic couplets. Unfortunately, it seems that Pope took every last rhyme available to a writer in English, much as Joyce utlilized every pun in any language in Finnegans Wake. Naturally, I rigged up a dart board with Pope’s wretched little face on it for taking out my frustration when the verses simply refused to come. I briefly considered writing nonsense in the style of T. S. Eliot or Emily Dickinson, assuming the English rhyme to have died with Pope, but kept chipping away at it until I finally got back into the swing of things. I still recall my first successful heroic couplets from those days, which I never did end up publishing for fear of libel. It was a carpe diem poem to a rather handsome nun my mother knew. The opening lines were as follows:
That sinless snowflake, Sister Drake, belongs
In bed with Brother Jake. She says ‘tis wrong
To give one’s flesh those coital thrills; does God
Espouse abstention, still? A holy bod
Is built for lust, so Sister’s perfect frame
(I’ve seen) must be designed for am’rous aims.
While sage it seems, redeeming heathen fools,
Forget not Brother Jake’s unbaptized tool,
Which holds the key to something sweeter
Than anything beyond the gates of Peter.

Ashley M. Boutin, First Installment

This story (possibly an experimental-esque novella) parallels the commonalities between James Joyce's short story "Araby" and Ivan Turgenev's novella First Love. This installment is merely an introduction to the protagonist, Denny, and the antagonist, Sylvia.

Future characters and plot insight:

Lynette: Denny's mother. Her husband, a traveling salesman, or so he claims to be, is often away. Lynette suspects her husband's infidelity, thus provoking her to participate in her own "extra-curricular activities."

Glen: Sylvia's father. He and Sylvia reside in a one-bedroom apartment. Glen works as a mechanic and eventually engages in a brief affair with Lynette. He enjoys cheap beer and dirty magazines.

Lou Polk: He lives at the end of the hall in Glen and Sylvia's apartment building. He is a mysterious man, possibly a banker, who wears a suit and carries a briefcase. he spends his evenings as Louise, a voluptuous, blonde-haired woman who wears red press-on nails and smokes menthol cigarettes.
_________________

Sylvia

Incomplete

Ashley M. Boutin

“Tag! You’re it!” she shrieked, running past the boy and slapping his bare arm. He didn’t move. “You’re it!” she shrieked again, running further away from him towards the grassy hill, wanton curls bouncing on her back. Two small, blonde-haired boys trailed closely behind her, nipping like puppies at the hem of her floral-printed dress. Stunned by the contact her porcelain skin had made with his own pale, dirty arm, he didn’t move.

Once atop the hill she stopped running and turned around to see how far the boy was behind. The two others stood beside her, one on each side. “Dinny!” she shouted angrily towards him after realizing that he hadn’t obeyed her tag. He stared at her small, distant figure and felt an impending doom, knowing that Sylvia would punish him for not playing the game correctly. “I told you, you’re it!” she screamed, her crisp southern accent chiming. The pain in his arm trickled to the ground and soaked into the dirt. “Ok!” he shouted breathlessly in his soft, child’s voice and began running, clenching his damp palms in tight fists. “Run faster!” she screamed, jumping up and down. He squeezed his fists tighter. “Faster!” She screamed. “Faster!” He closed his eyes and sprinted, hearing her quiet shrieks harmonize with the thumping of his soles against the ground. Panting in unison with the melody of his steps and her rhythmic shouts, he sprinted faster, dropping the metronome’s weight and quickening his tempo.

Now at the base of the hill Denny opened his eyes. A blurry Sylvia stood with her dainty fingers curled around her plump waist, the two blonde-haired boys standing to each of her sides wearing angry fists. He stopped running.
“Dinny, don’tcha know you’re ‘sposed ta chase me when I tag you?” She wagged her finger at him as he approached her.
“Yeah,” he sighed, nodding slowly, eyes focused on the grass.
“Grab him,” Sylvia instructed boys in a deep, stale voice. Denny, still panting, didn’t resist her demand. The boys marched towards him and grabbed each of his limp arms.

The First Installment of Otis Wellington

(This post is much longer than is needed for a weekly post simply because I have had more than a week to ready this fella'. My next posts will be closer to one page of work. Mos' def.)

Untitled work on the character of Otis Wellington
by Andrew LeTellier

Chapter One
In which we meet our hero, however young, our hero’s father, however simple, and our hero’s cat, however unusual.

On Otis Wellington’s first birthday, he received a globe from his father. The axis squeaked, and paint was chipping from around Japan. It had the look of being passed down from owner to owner for generations, the same charm that fills attics and keeps you rummaging through your grandparents’ dusty chests for entire afternoons. Its colors were not blues and greens, as you might be used to seeing on a globe, but those of an old, well-used parchment. The continents appeared to be rusted, with coastlines of a darker, burnt shade, while the oceans shown a pale, golden color. Having spotted it at a neighborhood yard sale, Mr. Wellington told his wife that he thought it would make a lovely decoration for Otis’ bedroom. Mrs. Wellington on the other hand, a beautiful yet practical woman, thought the whole thing rather silly. As she explained to her husband, not only was Otis too young to use such a thing, but also what little boy would have any interest in a squeaky, round map? No, a model truck or stuffed dinosaur would have been much more fitting for a one-year-old. At least, she said, a triceratops would have given Otis something to chew on.

Maybe it was because he didn’t want to waste the eighty-eight cents he had paid to take it home; or maybe it was because he saw the twinkle in his son’s eye when he set it on the floor; or just maybe it was because he himself had a secret love for squeaky, round maps; but whatever the reason, Mr. Wellington began spending a great deal of time with Otis and that old globe. Every night before tucking Otis into bed, Mr. Wellington would waltz into the nursery sporting the same tattered fisherman cap. He was a handsome man (though he didn’t belong acting in movies) and his face was long with small, kind features. He was so tall and so thin that if you were to dress him up, all in one color, he could easily be confused with a writing utensil. Mr. Wellington claimed, despite his wife’s defiance, that this very fisherman cap once belonged to the captain of the legendary Saint Dumais, a ship whose voyages somehow never made it to the history books. At the heels of Mr. Wellington, following him into the nursery, often trod Sylvia, the Wellington housecat, who always seemed to know when it was time for Otis’ evening milk.

From his pocket Mr. Wellington would take a small, homemade fez and squeeze it onto Otis’s soft head. This, he had said, was a token of gratitude given to him by an Egyptian prince, whose daughter he had rescued from a gang of thieving gypsies. Over a shared bottle of warm milk, Mr. Wellington would sit Otis on his lap and ready themselves for the night’s activity. Night after night however, Sylvia would gaze at them with envious eyes, cooing and purring from her place at their feet. And so it was that Mr. Wellington, not knowing whether it was the warm milk or the ridiculous headwear that she coveted, finally decided to make an even smaller fez that fit nicely between Sylvia’s sandy ears, tied snuggly with string under her chin.

When the bottle had been drained of its contents (thanks to father, son, and cat alike), the absurd trio would settle around the great globe with reverence and anticipation. Presently, Mr. Wellington would give the thing a swift spin.

“The year is 1600, my little explorers,” Mr. Wellington had whispered over the globe’s whir. “Queen Isabella of Someplace Far, Far Away has chosen us—you and me, Otis. You too, Sylvia—to go out and see the world for her. To discover new things. New people and creatures. Lost cities. To where will Her Majesty send us tonight?” With this, Mr. Wellington would stop the spinning globe with his index finger and look to see where it had landed. This would be their assignment. Some nights the Queen would send the three of them to survey the deepest, densest jungles of the Amazon, where they would paddle, dodging darts from native blowguns, through vines that hung down like flowery, fraying hammocks. Other nights would put them on a rickety dogsled in Greenland, where they would cut through ice and snow at the bottom of towering glacial canyons, in pursuit of the elusive bearded seal. The Queen’s orders took them over the sand dunes of Morocco and along the ridges of Kilimanjaro. They rode camels, elephants, donkeys, and even a tiger on one of Mr. Wellington’s more adventurous evenings. The unlikely trio soon found that with the ancient globe and a little imagination, no place was too distant; no notion too far-fetched.

Of course, for the first year or so, neither Mr. nor Mrs. Wellington was quite certain Otis was even interested in these stories. He was unable to do anything more than babble and dribble in response. Sure, Otis appeared to be amused with his father’s rambling, but couldn’t it have been Mr. Wellington’s nose hairs that made Otis so giddy? Couldn’t the red fez have been tickling his scalp? Mrs. Wellington, convinced that her son would be just as charmed by normal boy trinkets, continued to bring home a multitude of toys for Otis. He drooled fondly on the tractor, gnawed well on the cardboard book about trains, and put his signature teeth-marks in the autographed baseball bat, but still Otis seemed most captivated by that silly old globe! Every bit of doubt, however, vanished one afternoon when Otis decided that he was tired of babbling and dribbling, and he wanted to give words a go.

“Ant,” murmured Otis nonchalantly between bites of sweet potato puffs.

Mrs. Wellington, who had been feeding her son, gasped with joy and set aside the box of puffs. “What’s that, Otis? What?” She looked at him as though she were a dog that was just promised a steak. “Honey! Otis is talking! Come quick! I think he said ‘ant!’”

Seconds later Mr. Wellington, all arms and legs, comb-over flapping (for he was not wearing his fisherman cap at the time—that was saved for adventures!), charged into the room. In one hand he gripped a pencil, and in the other he carried a book upon which “Captain’s Log” was printed in his best handwriting. The log had been created at his son’s birth to take the place of a lasting dream. As a boy Mr. Wellington had longed to sail into uncharted waters, plot and record the voyage in a leather-bound journal, and thereupon return home a hero to singing, dancing, and a great deal of merriment in his honor. Unfortunately, this had not come to be, mostly on account of school, followed by marriage, followed by Otis—a variety of pesky things (though he had undoubtedly grown very fond of the boy)—and now it was too late. So instead of documenting the exciting enterprise of an ocean voyage, he allowed the compromise of documenting the exciting enterprise of fatherhood—which, as it turns out, is a highly exciting enterprise indeed.

“Ant?” said he, rushing up to them and opening the log.

“Yes, ant!” said Mrs. Wellington. “Isn’t it wonderful, dear? Our little Otis likes ants! Oh, Otie! Do you wanna say it again? Do you want to say ‘ant’ for Mamma?”

“Go ahead, Son,” Mr. Wellington said as he scratched the date at the top of the page and poised the pencil for his entry. There were only inches between his nose and Otis’. “Say what you said before. Don’t be shy; no one’s watching.”

Otis let out a giggle from all the attention he had drawn and presently spoke clearly and proudly, “Art!” Sylvia, aroused by the commotion, had found her way into the room and was now gliding about under Otis’ high chair, playfully weaving in and out of the chair legs.

Mr. Wellington crinkled his brow and lowered the pencil a bit. “I thought you said he was saying ‘ant,’ dear. I’m no expert, but I heard ‘art.’ That’s still a word, though, eh? ‘Art’?”

“Icka!” Otis squealed. “Icka! Icka!” Otis beat his open palms on the chair top.

Sighing deeply, Mrs. Wellington backed away from the huddle. “I’m sorry, Honey. I thought this was it. I thought he knew what he was saying.” She started again for the box of sweet potato puffs. “I’ll make sure next time, before I start a fuss. Here, put away your silly book.” She reached over and took the pencil from her husband’s fingers.

“Ant,” Otis continued, raising a finger to his globe in the corner of the room.

“No, Otie,” began Mrs. Wellington, “that’s not—”

“Art. Icka!” He finished. Mr. and Mrs. Wellington silently looked at one another. “Ant art icka! Ant art icka!” Sylvia, that lovely, graceful cat, had moved again and was now across the room, circling the globe with some importance.

It was Mr. Wellington who first broke the hush. “Is he…?”

“Antarticka.”

Without taking his eyes from Otis, Mr. Wellington reached back toward his wife and gently plucked the pencil from her hand. All the while Sylvia remained at her station, pawing at the lower hemisphere, a bit unnervingly near to earth’s most southern continent.

Adam's Post

Okay, kids, here it is--my first post for our writing pact. I kick-wrote me a little piece here that I'm getting started, and I hope you all enjoy it. I intend to continue it over the next several weeks, but am not sure how long it will ultimately end up being or whether I will lose interest in the project together. It is my satirical attack on contemporary literature, being a snobbish classicist. The basis is that a reclusive writer who gave up the pen 22 years ago, Wilbury J. Krankdick, has recently decided to rejoin the literary world in order to write his memoirs. He is partially an attack on the current literary scene, but also a satiric depiction of my future self and a fun persona to ridicule ironically the sorts of things that really piss me off. Included are my mock title page, the preface by the author, and the first chapter.

MAN OF LETTERS
a memoir
by
WILBURY J. KRANKDICK,

author of the timeless classics
SUNDAY MOURNING EPISTLES
GO THITHER, SON
ALONG CASCO BAY

and others, as well as the book of poetry
LINES UPON MY FACE

and the critical masterpieces
FINNEGANS WAKING UP
A DISCOURSE ON HETEROGLOSSIA
LICKING KANT: AESTHETICS RECONSIDERED

AUTHOR’S PREFACE

Causing much speculation in the most esteemed literary communities, I had given up writing all together for well over two decades. Yes, twenty-two tranquil, reclusive years I spent in a small apartment in the woods in Maine, its plain wooden walls my only décor, the occasional deer or fox in my back yard my only company—aside from the too-frequent visits from the neighbors or the maintenance man. Having no intentions to return to any sort of literary lifestyle again, instead choosing to live the remainder of my life in blessed anonymity (nobody in that part of the country had ever heard of me, much less read my works; nevertheless, I adopted the infallible pseudonym of William Gray). With no distractions or tireless admirers begging for interpretations or meaningless autographs, I had the luxury of passing hour upon hour seated at the picnic table or lying in the grass, identifying bird songs and practicing my own bird calls, with indescribable satisfaction.
Thus, I was living the ideal lifestyle—the very one every decent writer hopes to adopt after the nescience of his or her seminal masterpiece (although I of course delivered three). And I truly did give up writing all together for those twenty-two years, never once putting pen to paper or tapping upon my now dusty typewriter. But having been lured one Thanksgiving holiday a few weeks back to join my family for that rather common celebration, I fell into conversation with, if I may make such a judgment, a surprisingly sophisticated young man whom my daughter had the kind pleasure of introducing to me as my own son-in-law. While he had never actually read any of my books, he had once perused the Cliff’s Notes summary of one or other before an exam during his undergraduate coursework, so he had a fair understanding of my importance.
In the course of my chat with this pleasant fellow—he enjoying his cranberry sauce, mashed potato, and turkey, I enjoying my more healthful but equally satisfying (and more kind to nature’s lot) cabbage and leek stew—he came to asking me why I ever did give up writing and ostracize myself from the world, including most of my family. He commented that my daughter, his wife, had not seen me in some ten years, and that she was rather shocked to hear of my being cajoled by a favorite cousin to come home for the holiday. I explained him that it was simply the sort of thing writers are wont to do, and that such a reason would have to suffice. Although he seemed unsettled, I was satisfied with my answer. But he was incessant, and continued on. “Do you never think of writing again?”
“Hardly,” I assured him. “I have written all that I had to say, and left my legacy on paper for the world to chew up and digest for centuries. My own daughter will eventually pass away, and so will any children you may or may not currently or prospectively have with her. But my works are permanent, so long as the language is read and the words are preserved.”
Although I cannot conjecture at how he absorbed this humble response to so prying a question, he supplied some hint in his own rebuttal: “What of your own life? While your ideas may live on forever, what of your life? Your own daughter knows so little about you; I can’t imagine that any accurate biographies have been written about you!” I was struck. The prospect of a manuscript recording my personal history had never occurred to me, although it was a painfully obvious one. Every great writer has an equally great life’s story. He continued: “What with the recent craze for memoirs, it would be a prime opportunity for you to return to the literary scene with your final words, a description of where you came from, what inspired you, you know, the usual memoir material.”
I confess, I was somewhat intrigued by what he said that day, and considered it continually. Even as I lay out in the snow, bundled up and listening for the occasional bird whistle (but mostly just hearing the caw of ravens), I was distracted by this memoir craze my son-in-law told me about. Somewhat reluctantly yet with indescribable angst, I journeyed to the local book store and began perusing these contemporary memoirs, which were easy enough to discover. It took only a few pages of reading to recognize their great literary quality and to verify their unwavering veracity; ere long, I was at the check out with a stack of memoirs, a handful of small-press poetry magazines (in order to see if contemporary poetry, too, has taken so proficient a turn), and, for good measure, a recent copy of The New Yorker to see if it too has improved with the literary scene or remained entrenched in the stagnant literary bog I trudged out from back in the ‘80s.
Dear reader, I need say no more than that I was captured immediately that evening upon returning home to my apartment. Instantly, I knew how great a turn the literary world had turned during my absence, and understood how important it would be for me to jump on the band wagon in order to fully guarantee my legacy as a man of letters. So often have I lamented having been brought into this world in a different era than Chaucer’s, Shakespeare’s, Swift’s, or Joyce’s. To have published beside such great names would assure one of immortality; such an opportunity did I see in these contemporary memoirs. More so, I was astounded by how clear and vivid the poetry I discovered in the best literary magazines was. Every poem seemed to be crafted with great skill, observing such clever uses of metrics and rhythm to doubly affect the reader with that musical quality of poetry that made it survive orally so long. More so, I found each one to be universally relevant; that is to say, none was even the remotest bit obtuse, or of a nature where one would need to know the poet’s biography, political stance, literary heroes, diet, height and weight, marital status, or frequency of defecation to appreciate it. Indeed, in the reading of these poems, I was more fully able to understand how great a thing is my fellow human—which I always have held to be one of the chief aims of poetry, nay, of literature all together—for which experience I am indebted.
And so, dear, dear reader, you who have waited these twenty-two years for my return to writing, I have found it expedient to write my own memoir now. Of course, I have heard recently that some memoir writers are guilty of falsification, of fabricating scenarios or padding situations in order to sell more copies, tantalize readers, or to make up for their own lame existences. Well, let me assure you now, that every word I write throughout this memoir will be absolutely true, as any member of my family would attest to. So never doubt what I share, no matter how fantastic, unlikely, or disturbing it may seem, for I would never mislead my reader in order to seek the benefits of any of the above mentioned transgressions. -WK

ALONG OCSAC RIVER

The Ocsac River was lapping the dirt off my knees as I sat on the bank with my worn-out toys, a pair of Spider-Man dolls—one of the hero himself and one of his enemy, the Green Goblin. They fought in the murky, muddy current, and I had some notion that I controlled their destinies. Even from that young age, I suppose I had the writer’s gift; I knew someday I would control people’s lives, however indirectly. With frequent glances through the trees, checking to see if my father and grandfather had the canoe ready yet, my attention ricocheted frequently. I was eager to move on the next bit of leisurely entertainment while still enjoying my present entertainment. The tension between the current fun and the impending fun caused sparks in my chest.
My toys inconsistently demanded my attention, nevertheless. The urge to play with them was becoming unnatural, yet still it was irresistible. They supplied only meager pleasure, for my efforts to make good triumph over evil in imaginary epic battles seemed inane, futile, and impractical.
When they finished loosening the ropes, my father and grandfather slid the canoe off from the top of the suburban. It lay on its side, teetering, as Dad fished through the compartments in our pop-up camper. He was probably looking for oars, or his tackle box, or maybe some fishing poles. I couldn’t see well enough to tell, because of the trees.
As my hand splashed Spider-Man about in the water, a raven flew from my left, over the river against the direction of the current. It cackled, and I interpreted it as laughter at me and my toys. I glanced back toward the camper and saw my father and grandfather preparing to lift the canoe. As my head swiveled back around, I noticed a girl to my left emerging from a trail. She was as far away from where I played as the swings at school were from the slides. Even from that distance, I knew she was pretty and only a few years older than I. She wore a bathing suit that concealed little. I noticed her differently than I had ever noticed anyone else before; I felt that the urge to watch her was unnatural, yet still it was irresistible, a vaguely familiar feeling.
Slightly uncomfortable, I stood up. My father and grandfather were following the trail from the camper toward where I sat. The rest of my family trailed submissively behind: my grandmother carried a tote bag, and my mother and sister carried a cooler. I complained later that all they packed for me were kid’s drinks—juice boxes and the like.
I shamefully held a towel in front of me, awkwardly, until that uncomfortable feeling went away. I reluctantly glanced once more at the girl as I clambered into the canoe, feigning interest in the river’s flow. No one was looking at me anyway.
As we prepared to set off on our trip, I realized that the river had washed away all of my toys. I made no disturbance, gravely accepting this omen. I looked ahead with uncertainty, anticipating our journey down the Ocsac River.
I knew I probably wouldn’t really miss my toys anymore, anyway.