Two For A Penny

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

Other Eyes

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

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

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

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

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

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

Eyes

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

by Doug Mathewson

Caught Out

Renn always worried. He worried about something, trivial or not, almost everyday of his long long life. A life so far of over a thousand winters, but now he really had something to worry about. “I am hardly myself”, he thought. “ I am but a wind-fell weak branch. There is little magic left in me now, but I shall be a stubborn old stump.”

He was never powerful, or even regarded as clever in the wide and intricate realms of Queen Mab Kingdom. His kind were once many, and fiercely loyal to The Fey. The power and magic of Dryads was deeply knotted twisted within the trees. Oak was strength and Ash offered wisdom, but Renn dwindling tribe, still kept the oldest ways of Faerie. Rowan was Renn’s tree, the one wood of magic, the wood of his bond.  Now in a time of fewer trees, nymphs had been brought low. When sap no longer flows, natural magic dies.

He was weak, capable of only  simple, small spells. Once he could wildly shifted-shapes with ease, now he could only manage small creatures, nothing massing more that five or six kilos. For centuries he won his way artfully by theft, impersonation, and deceit. And now, he was reduced to beg. He went back-door to back-door trying shapes that might gain him a meal. He found these humans he once tricked with ease took no interest his well being when he assumed aspects of  marten, stout, pocket-bagger, or raccoon. Of the simple forms he had taken in the past, only strayed house cats gained some small degree of charity in this place, once forest, now bland domesticated lands.
He felt cold and weaker still as the seasons changed. The few remaining trees slowed for winters sleep.

Luckily Renn found his benefactor, or benefactress to be more accurate in Margarite. She was a small elderly woman whose small elderly home was thankfully beneath several mature Oaks so Renn could summon strength and and inspiration there. He appeared over several days as different cats – charming, curious, hungry cats, each in need of a meal. For his own amusement he added a unique personality to each, one affectionate, one timid, and one so rude and bold! Margarite had a loving heart, but spending so much of her time pressing and cataloguing wild flowers of  the district left her with little imagination for the naming of cats. She called him in turn “Marmalade”, “Snowbell”, and “Tiger.” Kindly she spoke with each, complementing them in the manner  that cats so love.  Often she would reminisce aloud about a Tuxedo Cat, her dearest companion of many years who had passed. Margarite was concerned about the health and well-being of her visitors, now her friends. On her pension-petite, as she called it, one cat would visit the Veterinary Clinic per month to insure their continued good health, but who should be first?  Fate would decide, she thought. “Who ever I can pop-into a pillow case today, will go first.”

Renn was adorable and cuddly,  comically overplaying “Marmalade” when the fabric closed around him. Weakened as he was, all he could do was tussle and hiss while his mind spewed curses and spells. He changed through every form he could remember, hoping to locate his small sharp sword in the possession of one. But it was no use and finally he drowsed.

A strange voice woke him “ Well, yes Mme., let us take a look at this fine chat-in-a-sack you have brought.”  Renn panicked! What had he been? Often he slept as a hedgehog rolled into a spiny ball, but that couldn’t be right!  Frantically he tried to snatch an image from Margarite’s thoughts!  A cat! Yes a cat of course! In a wink he changed just as the cloth was unknotted! Margarite caught her breath with surprise. It is the miracle I have always hoped for, thought Margarite. Renn smiled to himself and purred with satisfaction as she scooped him into her arms. He admired how striking his black and white paws looked, set against Margarite’s lavender velveteen. She trembled with joy as she held him close and  whispered, “Boots,…. you’ve come back.”

by-Doug Mathewson

Tallest of Allest

When I was kid nobody seemed as tall as a cowboy. The cowboys I admired changed as I grew up, from Roy Rogers singing on the range to Clint Eastwood delivering harsh retribution. I knew nothing about sports, but was astonished by how Michael Jordon flew, arching higher and higher in magnificent  flight. Latter heroes loomed large to me as rock-and-roll giants. They delighted me with their music, clever lyrics, and brilliant shows. Giants they were, till I encountered someone larger by far.

I was in Manhattan, headed for a gallery opening downtown. Tower Records in Times Square projected a moving image eight stories high of Jay-Z walking majestically and confidently, striding out of a fog filled back ground, Savile Row overcoat slung over
Armani shoulders, his penetrating eyes looking at, and then through me. A completely over-powering image, commanding and compelling. The after-image has stayed with me as strong inspiration to stand up for what’s right in my own life. His surprisingly political music was at both ends and the middle of the radio dial.I heard him in the cabs and on the street. The strong clear lyrics indicted George Bush and his failed regime. Jay-Z put the blame where it belonged. Blame for selling out our country, and blame for abandoning the people of New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina.

Dramatically a few weeks back, Jay-Z announced he would do free shows in support of Barack Obama’s Campaign, the first show to be in Detroit. He passionately championing the Obama message, to an overflowing huge stadium crowd, performing
“American Dream-in’” thunderously rapping out the words with incredible intensity. The band was tight, and then tighten more as Jay-Z boomed into full voice for “Minority Report”. Huge background screens alternated between pictures of Bush and bleak images of New Orleans. Images of suffering and tragedy. “ – put money in the hands of the fool who left my people stranded – ” The images came faster, the band picked up to match. “helicopters swoop down for a better scoop, but the don’t scoop you! – out on the roof for seven days – no damn food or water, and the baby’s gonna die.” Now the screens showed George Bush saluting as flags slowing drifted in the background. And
Jay-Z brought it home. “-jet blue, jet blue – what you do, if that fool fell from the sky?”
(silence, then he shrugged and theatrically walked away, turned on his heel and said) “you useless, mutha-fucka.” Pyrotechnics filled the stadium and the sky above for all to see with stark silver-white light, then “YES-WE-CAN.” The band drove the music faster still, the pace intense, but Jay-Z was even faster, leading the chanting crowd in “Obama Now”, and “Yes We Can.” A picture on Bush flashed on the center screen and Jay-Z absolutely
screamed “- YOU GOOD WITH THIS SHIT?, …. hell no.” Lights killed and in the dark boomed his voice “YESS-WEE-CANN!” Now silent, but for the breeze, small back and white photo displayed of Mr. Obama, his wife, and daughters, and mixing with the wind, carried ninety three thousand voices with,  “yes, we can.”
The following morning the McCain camp conceded Michigan to Obama and took their campaign efforts elsewhere. Now, and for all time without any question, I know who is, and shall remain, the very tallest of them all.

by-Doug Mathewson

Ekphrastic Riff

“People are such shit!” my sister screamed as she overarmed her phone against the wall.
“There’s just so much of  the good stuff to go around, you know” said her boyfriend the Archangel Gabriel, voice muffled by his wings as, lantern raised, he peered into the fridge. She bitterly resented being lectured, by immortals most of all, and I hated it when he and she fought.
“He only created so much soul back then you know, omnipotent or otherwise, no one  could have anticipated the demand” said Gabe (as we called him around the house). With fierce hand gestures and a scalding voice my sister went on and on about whatever.
All I could hear was Laurie Anderson singing:
“oh Daddy Daddy, it was just like you said
now [that] the living out number the dead”.

by-Doug Mathewson