A Poem and Story: The Dandyfosilthiselwig and The Salute of the Legion by Kiril Kundurazieff

THE DANDYFOSILTHISELWIG

There never was a weed so odd,
So pretty, and so big,
As the curious plant called
The Dandyfosilthiselwig.

There it was, by itself,
In a square patch of dirt,
Surrounded by fencing as if in a brig,
The lonesome Dandyfosilthiselwig.

With a stem round and sturdy, and a skin course and wrinkly,
It rose toward the heavens.
What others thought it gave not a fig, this,
The proud Dandyfosilthiselwig.

It began as a seedling dropped by a bird.
Its natural instincts subverted by cat pee and turd.
Spring roots sprouted, and began to dig.
Thus did the new kid on the block, the Dandyfosilthiselwig.

Yellow at birth, green in its youth,
It gave off a smell that was most uncouth.
But as the seasons changed, and it climbed to the sky,
Indications were seen that this was no mere twig.
The budding Dandyfosilthiselwig.

A triangle-shaped flower emerged at the top,
Its color that of long curdled slop.
One had to wonder why God gave it this gig.
The weird looking Dandyfosilthiselwig.

Then came the fruit, all blue and white spotted.
About its benefits the scientists became besotted.
Beautiful and tasty, past opinions were soon judged hasty,
As it was discovered to be the cure for a prig.
A glorious freak of nature, the Dandyfosilthiselwig.

--------------------------

A tribute to writers, and those
who have inspired them to write:

THE SALUTE OF THE LEGION

The Coliseum floor is covered by neat, orderly, ranks of Warriors.

They carry the accoutrements of their profession with pride, and confidence.

Confidence in their ability to acquit themselves well, and bring honor to
their family, and country, and those from whom they continue to learn to hone their skills.

As they gaze out at the seats around them, filled to the top with all the
people who have played a role in helping them get this far, they prepare to pay homage to them on the verge of what is to come....

The Field of Ideas is covered by neat, orderly, ranks of nervous, yet eager, wordsmiths.

Men, women, boys, and girls, of all ages, races, and religious, and political backgrounds, dressed in whatever they feel most comfortable in to perform the tasks they have set for themselves beyond this day.

They carry laptops, notebooks, pens, and pencils, with pride, and confidence.

Confidence in their ability to acquit themselves well as journalists, poets, fiction, and non-fiction writers of all types, and bring honor to their family, and friends, who encouraged them, the writers who inspired them, and the teachers, whether in the classroom, or in books bought
off the store shelf, from whom they strived to learn the craft of writing.

As they gaze out at the mass of people gathered around them, all the people who have played a role in helping them get this far, they
prepare to pay homage to them on the verge of what is to come....

All conversation stops...

The ranks come to attention...

And, as one, they extend their weapons of choice in front of them, and speak...

Their voices ringing loud, and strong, so no-one could fail to hear them...

WE, WHO ARE ABOUT TO WRITE, SALUTE YOU!

Bio: Kiril Kundurazieff has been a creative writer, blogger, reporter, photographer, freelance writer, poet and storyteller, since 2002.  Kiril has created more than 4500 blog posts of original content for four blogs (2 still active) on the themes of creative writing, hobbies, culture and society, personal journey, and enlightenment, adventures in bicycling, and unique “cat opinions and thoughts”. The hallmark of Kundurazieff’s writing is his wit and peculiar sense of humor. 

Kundurazieff began critter writing on a whim in 1998, by introducing himself as his cat on a public message board.  One thing lead to another and eventually, Kundurazieff’s introduction blossomed into participating in the early years of critter blogging, beginning in 2004, leading to the creation of full-fledged writing voices of his cats.

Kundurazieff relocated to Houston, Texas in September of 2012 after having lived in southern California all his life.  Kundurazieff shares his apartment with his cats.

Mr. Nikita, born in 1998, a part Maine Coon who was his original creative muse when he went online in 1998. He made the journey to Rainbow Bridge on October 25, 2013.

Elvira Mistress of Felinity, a beautiful Tortie, Born Feb. 2010, found on his doorstep, July 2010.

Sneakers The Texian Tuxedo, born Sept. 2013, walked out of some bushes and into his heart, in November 2013.

Kiril is a published ( unpaid ) Star Trek author, with an essay in Best of Trek #15, a book that has been out of print for over 20 years. He has been quoted in the book How to Live Well Without Owning a Car by Chris Balish, published in 2006.
 
In 2013 he has made guest blogger appearances on other blogs, became a professional member of the Cat Writers' Association, and completed his first financially compensated writing on healf of Hill's Ideal Balance cat food.

The Opinionated Pussycat   Mad Macedonian

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The Importance of Words by Barbara Carter

                      

My mother says there’s something wrong with me. She’s been saying this for as long as I can remember. “You must have a brain tumor like your Aunt Rita.” A tumor might explain why I can’t be the way she wants me to be. Other times, she screams, “You’re crazy.” I read books about crazy people: One Flew over the Cuckoo’s Nest, and I Never Promised You a Rose Garden. I search for myself between the covers, trying to find out if my mother might be right.

I wonder if it makes any difference whether my thoughts are the result of a tumor or my being crazy.

I buy the book The Exorcist, because demonic possession could be another possibility.

Could I be possessed?  Mother has never suggested it. I want to ask her, but decide not to, for fear she’ll discover why I’m asking and take my books away. I can’t go to my friends or confirmation class, and I certainly can’t ask a teacher at school. I am on my own.

 I buy every book I can find on the subject. It’s easy, my mother doesn’t censor my reading material. My best friend Judy’s mother does. Judy wants to read the books I read. I help her sneak them into her house. I help her to feast on their words.

My mother only reads the local newspaper, and doesn’t do it well. She says the words out loud, like a young child. Whenever she comes to a word she can’t pronounce, she spells out the letters and stops, looks up and says, “Whatever that means,” and then stumbles on. I doubt she even understands what she reads. If my mother knew what I learn from books, she’d burn them, and never allow another in the house.   

My father on the other hand keeps stacks of western comics and novels, left over from his younger days, in an upstairs closet. I don’t bother reading them, because I figure they won’t interest me. He says he keeps them because someday they’ll be worth something. “People throw too much away,” he explains. “Someday they’ll realize what they’ve lost and want it back.” He doesn’t read anymore because he’s too busy. He goes to work, comes home, eats supper and goes to bed after watching TV. I think it’s a shame how he’s stopped reading.

 I’ve loved books ever since I can remember. As a small child I would beg my mother to buy one when we went grocery shopping. At fourteen I still ask for money, and buy books when we shop on Saturday afternoons. She gives in to anything that keeps me close to home. She has no idea books contain my escape route, a map leading me away from her.

Judy’s mother censors her friends as she does her books. Only those passing the scrutiny of her intense eye are allowed to be her daughter’s friend.  I slip by because we’re neighbors, and my family goes to the same church. I fear at any moment she’ll discover I shouldn’t be her daughter’s friend.

Judy does a good job at keeping books hidden, placing them inside other books, and reading late at night.

                My worries become real when Mother opens the door and comes face-to-face with Judy and her mother. “Are you aware of the kind of books your daughter is reading?”  

                “I…” my mother starts to answer, but doesn’t get to finish.

“Certain books are not appropriate.”

                “They’re told to read,” Mother shrugs. “What’s the problem?”

“They can read all the books they want,” Judy’s mother screeches. “Just not about the devil!”

                “Huh,” my Mother says. “I don’t know who you think is reading such stuff.”

                “Your daughter, Sarah Ann, that’s who!”

                “Well,” Mother snaps back, “You think your daughter is Miss Goody Two-Shoes.”            

“I don’t want this trash in my house.” Judy’s mother says and throws the book on the porch floor, landing at my mother’s feet. “I don’t want your daughter influencing mine with such garbage.”

                Judy’s mother grabs Judy by the arm and yanks her away. Mother yells from the doorway, “You think your daughter is something she’s not. Maybe she gave Sarah Ann the book. How do you know?”

                Mother slams the door so hard the window rattles. She explodes, forgetting the reason Judy’s mother came to our house. “She’s got a lot of nerve coming here blaming my daughter for her problems. She thinks she’s better than everyone else. You can tell the way she sits in church. Her nose stuck in the air.” Mother grabs the phone and calls one of her gossipy friends. She rants about how awful Judy’s mother just treated her and how the woman is looking for any excuse for their daughters not to be friends. “Who goes crazy over a book? I tell you, that woman thinks herself better than anyone else.”

                I don’t bother to listen to any more. I pick up the book and go to my room. I’m no longer worried about my mother finding out about what I read.  Once Mother finds a battle, she’ll try and gather everyone to her side. That’s all that matters. She’s forgotten why Judy’s mother really came to the door, and doesn’t even realize I’ve lost one of my best friends, and I still can’t figure out what’s wrong with me.

Bio: BARBARA CARTER lives in Nova Scotia, Canada.

Married with three grown children, and two grandchildren.

For years she dabbled with words, starting and stopping.

Worked as an art instructor, and in retail.

She has taken workshops and classes, but mainly learns from books and an online editing program, AutoCrit.

She’s now committed to improving her writing and finding her voice.

Her life experiences are the inspiration for her stories.

This year she joined an online critique group: Critique Circle.

Her story “Learning to kill” has been published in Enhance Magazine.  

Barbara Carter: www.barbaracarterartist.com  

Enhance http://enhancemag.onimpression.com

AutoCrit: www.autocrit.com/editing/free-wizard/‎

The Refreshment Tent by Gary Hewitt

The corner dark of wooden settee

In brightest spark of inky inn

The mood lightened by laughing buddha

Followed soon by tipsy clown

Who swiped a bottle of sweaty gin

And sat beside forgetful chimp

A curious look snared forgetful chimp

Who flopped onto wooden settee

He swigged heartily on sweaty gin

A scene most lively in inky inn

A flagon of ale for tipsy clown

Eager to share with laughing buddha

More raucous became laughing buddha

Yet scratching his head forgetful chimp

Another round demanded tipsy clown

He looked for room on wooden settee

A landlord concerned from inky inn

Lest someone complain about sweaty gin

He offered free lemons with sweaty gin

An offer accepted by laughing buddha

Echoes rebounded around inky inn

‘Is this the circus?’ pondered forgetful chimp

Who danced on hands on wooden settee

And parked himself down the tipsy clown

Head topsy turvy tipsy clown

Greasy hand holding sweaty gin

Puddle formed on wooden settee

Finger pointed from laughing buddha

Accused of piddle, forgetful chimp

Bucket and mop for inky inn

Trade booming for inky inn

Another round ordered by tipsy clown

Only water for forgetful chimp

For he could not handle sweaty gin

‘Whisky chaser’ cried laughing buddha

He swamped the middle of wooden settee

The inky inn swayed with sweaty gin

‘Booze’ cheered tipsy clown and laughing buddha

Somersaulting was forgetful chimp on wooden settee

Biography:

Gary Hewitt is a raconteur who lives in a quaint little village in Kent.  He has written two novels which are currently being edited. His writing does tend to veer away from what you might expect. He has had several short stories published as well as the occasional poem.

He enjoys both writing prose and poetry. His style of writing tends to feature edgy characters and can be extremely dark. Some of his influences are James Herbert, Stephen King, Bulgakov, Tolkein to name but a few

 He is also a proud member of the Hazlitt Arts Centre Writers group in Maidstone which features an eclectic group of very talented writers.

He has a website featuring his published works here: http://ghwt9996.wix.com/tales#!

Addie~ A Chapter from The Russian Girl by Dan Spanton

Addie McKenzie exhaled a shaky breath and pumped a shell into the shotgun chamber.  She was praying she’d make the shot, but in case she didn’t, she’d persuaded herself that skeet was a hillbilly sport, anyway.  A granite crescent at her feet had been notched with six shooting positions, and two ugly trap towers lobbed rabbits at a silver sky.       

She sighted down the gun barrel, feeling a sting in her wrist as her heart rate climbed.  In front of her, tattered trees flanked a clearing that sloped downhill for a quarter mile, and an insect chorus swelled from the brown swaths of mowed hay.  It was the raggedy butt-end of autumn.  Far below, where the woodland began, mist was pooling in hollows that would be frosty by midnight.

                “Pull!” 

            She braced for recoil and squeezed the trigger.

“You suck!” shrieked Tulip Turnbull.

The clay bunny flew unharmed above the dying alfalfa.  Addie ignored the sickening roil in her gut.  One more shot.  Keep it together.

“Pull!” 

The skeet target disintegrated.  This time Tulip kept her fat mouth shut. The instructor called Addie’s score and she turned over the twelve-gauge and rotated out.  No one high-fived her.  She caught a couple of half-hearted “way-to-go-Addie’s,” and Kyle Fowler, the dumbest jock in Portland High’s senior class, clapped briefly while staring at her sun-browned legs.  Near the clubhouse she spotted a patrol car squeezing into a parking space.  She pulled off gloves and safety glasses and sank onto grassy earth.

Kyle stepped up to shoot.

Addie sprawled.  She squinted heavenward through a weave of oak branches, heart racing.  She counted breaths, focusing on the distant, rhythmic clack and rumble of an Amtrak train, syncopated by Kyle Fowler as he shot positions.   Easy, she urged herself, no worries.  Nothing mattered.  Nothing….

Minutes passed.  Anxiety waned, and mischief raised its feral head.

She remembered the patrol car, slipping into a parking slot. She pushed up onto an elbow and called softly to Tulip Turnbull, who crouched near the trap house firing up a hand-rolled.  Addie jabbed a finger toward the cop car and mouthed “For you, Cupcake.”  Tulip scowled and exhaled smoke in her direction.  Tulip Turnbull had no sense of humor and Addie never tired of baiting her.

Addie knew the patrol car hadn’t come for Tulip.  She flashed back to the night before.  Her sinuses burned from acrid chemicals, and if evil-doings had an aftertaste, the flavor of bad behavior coated her tongue.

Skeet practice wound down as a half dozen kids chose to shoot a final round, and others headed out.  When Addie reached the parking lot Kyle Fowler passed, making a point of brushing against her, and suggested: “Me and you should hang out.”

 “Never gonna happen,” Addie retorted.   Kyle smirked and continued toward his car, and her mood ticked up a notch.  The fumes of fresh asphalt tarred the air, and nearby a weed whacker snarled with raw hostility.  She unlocked the Chevy Camaro and slung her backpack inside. The used Camaro, boasting a V-8 engine, white leather interior, and 26” wheels, had been acquired by cashing in a ten thousand dollar savings bond from her grandfather, intended for college tuition.

  She stole a look between vehicles.  She’d encountered most of the cops in the Portland Police Department, but this one had a fresh face.  A short black woman leaned against the hood of a cruiser.  At her feet lay pine cones flattened by tires and she swiped at them with the side of her shoe as if she was clearing a doorstep.  She looked up in time to catch Addie’s eye, and beckoned her over.

“You McKenzie?”

Addie turned and pointed out Tulip, climbing into Blind Billy’s truck.    “That’s her, Officer.”

A faint smile.  “Sure it is,” agreed the cop, not fooled.  “They told me to look for a tall blond who’d be a lot prettier if she wasn’t planning who to beat up next.”

“Everyone’s a critic.”

The officer smiled again, this time displaying teeth.  “You swing by Dicky’s Lobster Pound last night?”

“No reason to.  I quit over the weekend.”  As Addie spoke Blind Billy trawled past in his Ford F-150, his sister Tulip Turnbull riding shotgun.  Billy wasn’t actually blind, just fumbling and shortsighted.  Somebody had bashed him in the
skull when he was younger, possibly causing brain damage.    Right now he was gawking out the window like a lame-ass.  “Baddie Addie Waddie,” he brayed, almost steering off the pavement.  Tulip Turnbull screeched from the passenger seat but Addie didn’t turn her head.  Neither did Officer Martin.

“According to Richard Bailey, he fired you.  Just coincidentally someone entered the business after hours and activated a fire alarm.”  Office Martin studied Addie for reaction. “The pound got sprayed with flame retardant foam.  Worst part, it contaminated the holding tanks.  Piles of dead lobbies.”

“Sorry to hear it.   Any witnesses?”

“No, Miss McKenzie, I was hoping you’d shed a ray of light.”

“No ma’am, wish I could.”

Officer Martin sighed theatrically, opened the door of the black and white, and maneuvered her sturdy bulk inside.   

“I figured this for a long shot,” she confessed through the half-open window.   “Only reason I bothered is the lovely foliage.”  She waved toward the hillside above the parking lot, where naked branches clawed the sky.

“Sorry I wasn’t more help.”

“Hold up a sec.”  Through the car window she passed Addie a brochure.  “I worked a job fair last week,” said the cop. “Why not check this out?”

Addie accepted the brochure and eyed the cover.  “Law Enforcement Careers.  This a joke?”

Officer Martin regarded her soberly until Addie got the idea it wasn’t a joke. “It may help you get your head straight if you start planning your future.”

The patrol car backed onto the access road, tires crunching new gravel, and abruptly sped away.

Addie McKenzie experienced a rare moment.  People rarely proposed that she might have a future, and she was caught off guard.  Even she wasn’t sure what happened next, but she knew that fistfights and petty vandalism didn’t cut it anymore, they barely scratched the itch.

She heard a distant howl of triumph.  Above the skeet range rosy clouds bled down the silver autumn sky.   She remained rooted in place, listening to wind and gunshots, and the jarring tempo of hard, desolate thoughts.

                                                                               ****

Author Bio:  Dan Spanton lived in Colombia for five years, teaching English in Bogota, Cali, and Medellin. He now resides in Maine where he's been a clamdigger, sail maker, and restaurant cook.

Dan is also the author of Waiting for Natalie available at these links.:

http://www.melange-books.com/authors/danspanton/waitingfornatalie.html

http://www.amazon.com/dp/B009GBTV36