Acknowledgements and dedications;
This narrative has some good facts.
However, the author has twisted, polished, and embellished them at will.
None of the characters are real people.
But we hope to have created some reasonable facsimiles.
(Persons who don't read prologues may skip to Chapter One <page 9> without fear of retribution but with some loss of historical information)
This book is for Stephanie,
but she is not allowed to read it until she comes of age, and we recommend that you do not read it, dear reader, unless you are a mature adult of sound mind and strong spirit.
I am eternaly grateful and edebted to my daughter Sylvia Rose for her inspirations and for loaning me her copy of “God-Shaped Hole” by Tiffanie Debartolo; and slso to Tiffanie for graciously responding to my stranger emails:) S. W. Scribe.
A huckleberry is actually an indigenous fruit bearing flora, a native of Missouri, and many other north America states. A wild and brushy waste-high weed which grows an eatable, but small, bluish, purple berry. They were often mentioned in folklore (tall-tails) of hillbillies and crackers alike.
Real, honest to goodness, hillbillies and crackers are mostly extinct now days, but there are a few remaining villages of those quaint creatures scatted around the country. Trashy democrats and pushy valley people of suburbanite sprawl are commonly flourishing now days - as predicted by social Darwinism.
Huckleberries long held a place in now archaic American slang. The tiny size of the berries led to their frequent use as a way of referring to something small - sometimes in an affectionate way. The saying, "a huckleberry over y'alls persimmon'd head" meant "a little bit beyond your mental abilities, Bubba". "I'm your huckleberry" was once a way of saying "I'm just enough man for the job"; a quote often attributed to an out of work and diseased dentist, originally from Valdosta Georgia; Doc Holliday of Tombstone fame. Where the Doc first appropriated that expression would probably surprise some of you dear readers. But, that's getting a huckleberry ahead of this history.
Exactly why his Pap (or more likely, his poor unfortunate mother) gave Huckleberry Finn that singular name is not really known. But it is a proper, and fitting name for our hero. The huckleberry is a tenacious, unpretentious, and opportunistic weed. One which flourishes in most all available environments. The famous Finn did no less, as you well know - if you have read his autobiography, "The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn "(1885)
Some literary critics will not believe that Finn wrote that work himself. They will invariably claim that Mark Twain (being a gifted liar-novelist) fabricated the whole darn yarn. Some will offer bits and pieces of factual information gleaned from Twain's childhood for evidence of his caricaturist creations. There is a record of a certain vagrant named Finn who (being drunk as a skunk and in possession of matches given to him by the ignorant young Twain) burnt himself up in the local calaboose of Hannibal Missouri. Twain mentioned that incident in his “Life On The Mississippi” ; not sure about chapter and verse, but it's in there, somewhere. Never the less, I beg to differ with those auspicious opinion-ators, and rather believe they have failed to read (and adequately comprehend) the entire work themselves. This is understandable; many critics, not having time or gumption to read a whole book themselves, rely on a condensed synopsis (such as you would find in “readers digestion”) to formulate and write their considerable critiques. However, reading the whole work carefully, and studiously, revels much internal evidence as to its true authorship. In fact, Finn admitted emphatically (in the last paragraph of the last page) that he had written the dang book himself.
"Tom's most well now, and got his bullet around his neck on a watch-guard for a watch, and is always seeing what time it is, and so there ain't nothing more to write about, and I am rotten glad of it, because if I'd a knowed what a trouble it was to make a book I wouldn't a tackled it, and ain't a-going to no more. But I reckon I got to light out for the Territory ahead of the rest, because Aunt Sally she's going to adopt me and sivilize me, and I can't stand it. I been there before. Huck Finn.”
Being an honest, historic, literary student, we must of course give Mr Twain credit for publication. Also, he deserves some accolades for his obvious (but limited) collaboration efforts concerning Finn's autobiography. Without question, Twain wrote the introduction; his irreverent, iconic-ally honest, and cutting style is here undeniable,
"PERSONS attempting to find a motive in this narrative will be prosecuted; persons attempting to find a moral in it will be banished; persons attempting to find a plot in it will be shot.
BY ORDER OF THE AUTHOR, Per G.G., Chief of Ordnance. (M. T.)”
This simple opening statement, humorously, but concisely, defined the best of modern American fiction for more than a century. Those literary works unburdened by materialistic or politic motive, devoid of dogmatic hyper- morality, and unpopulated by ponderous pandoric plots. Works to be read, reverenced, re-read and treasured, solely for their entertainment value. If some one happened to get 'a little bit educated' while reading them, so much the better.
Much like Shakespeare, who never wrote an original story (other than some sibylline sonnets to his dark lady and their mutual benefactor), Mr Twain took an original narrative in the most common vulgar vernaculars of his day, and compiled from such mundane mush - a literary masterpiece. We are sure that Twain read Shakespeare. Although he claimed that poetry was well beyond his common abilities of comprehension, he misquoted Shakespeare as well (and nearly as often) as he misquoted the king James bible. The poetry in Finn's autobiography, (expounded by Twain) is cheap, common and vulgar . However, when properly read, it can be no less moving than the grandest efforts of the reverenced romantics of the gilded age – at least, no less moving to me. Others will differ in their opinions of its poetic values, of course, as poetry is a matter of taste (or tastelessness) much the same as all human art.
Poetry aside (but retained for further waxing and waining at the author's digression) Twain further explained his purpose,
"In this book a number of dialects are used, to wit: the Missouri Negro dialect; the extremest form of the backwoods Southwestern dialect; the ordinary "Pike County" dialect; and four modified varieties of this last. The shadings have not been done in a haphazard fashion, or by guesswork; but painstakingly, and with the trustworthy guidance and support of personal familiarity with these several forms of speech.
I make this explanation for the reason that without it many readers would suppose that all these characters were trying to talk alike and not succeeding. THE AUTHOR (M. T.)”
None the less, logically, where there is a narrative, there must have also been an original narrator. But even among those immodest 'moderns', such as Twain (who are mostly all washed up, considering that pop-educated twenty first century text junkies have no literary abilities of comprehension beyond what can be presented in a manga format ) none truly claimed to be the genuine A-1 original. This saying is mostly true of all humanities efforts, including literature, “There is nothing new under the sun”. The best a human writer can do, is add some personal style in telling ancient truth or lies – and give credit where credit is due. After careful research and copious study of the material available, we long ago concluded that Huck Finn was to Mark Twain as Lodge of Hamlet's Revenge was to Shakespeare - the more original genius - being closer to the source.
Convicted of this fact, we began an exhaustive, expansive, genealogical research effort (over the course of several tedious years) into the further history of the famous Finn. Having little to go on, other than his stated intention, "But I reckon I got to light out for the Territory ahead of the rest, because Aunt Sally she's going to adopt me and sivilize me, and I can't stand it. I been there before", we had soon wasted away many laborious months mining a literary dry hole, and were on the verge of admitting failure when, quite unexpectedly, we hit pay dirt.
From a source which must remain anonymous (that being our most favorite source, and accordingly well protected), we now have in our possession several personal letters, and a journal, beginning in the year 1849 (the year Finn went west) and spanning six decades. Among those documents, a hand written 'lease of mining rights' (testate'd and legally sworn to by a notorious republican well known) from the very hand and pen of that most famous Finn.
When we first received these documents we were cautiously skeptical as to their authenticity. Not wanting to be the victim of some elaborate modern hoax, we had them examined by an expert, a personal friend, who is also a HPHD, specializing in linguistics and nineteenth century literary antiquities (as well as many other similarly archaic subjects). Here follows his summery conclusion of scientific analyses;
"The paper and ink of these writings are certainly of mid nineteenth century origins. The handwriting is consistent of form and idiosyncrasy, most probably the work of one person. The writer was obviously, mostly self-educated; but to a level generally equivalent to that of a late nineteenth century 'back-woods' college graduate. Otherwise, no other conclusions can be made, scientifically, concerning the origins or authenticity of those documents we examined. Dr. Sam Clemente Esq. Prof. Linguistic Antiquities, UC Mo; HPHD.”
Our excitement, none-the-less, over these writings cannot be exaggerated. Much like a depraved and deprived malefactor, forcibly sequestered for many long years from desirous female companionship, suddenly at liberty to attend the local bikini club, we ravenously began to devour the documents - figuratively speaking.
And so, dear reader, we finally come to the purpose of this prologue, introducing to you "Seeking The Legend of Huckleberry Finn". A narrative account of Finn's adventurous life after he "lit out for the territory". Source documents authenticated to that era from the hand and pen of someone claiming to be the original Huckleberry Finn, herein translated, interpreted, and expounded upon by a post-modern author, Stephie Wayne.
Credits; considerable references made to some works of Mark Twain (a well known personal friend of Huck Finn); specifically "Roughing It” (1872); and “Huck Finn and Tom Sawyer Among the Indians” (1884?, unfinished); and “Letters From Earth” a collaboration of Twain and Lucifer (1909).
We also consulted with a reputable medium (actually an educated cracker witch, which are still somewhat common here in the deep south) in order to query Mr Twain's ghost regarding some unfinished aspects of his work on Finn's biographical writings. He was readily available, somewhat cooperative and communicative - or rather his spirit was. Regrettably, he was not much help in regards to our purpose. He remains a rather cynical, witty and humors, somewhat likable, but pompous old ass. Neither paradise nor purgatory has made much improvement to his normal Midwestern civility. He claims to be in demand in both those realms – dividing his time accordingly. We refrained from asking how often he goes to hell. However, we will write more on that subject in the first chapter.
We certainly hope you enjoy this witchy whimsical tale.
Note; It is only possible to deal out a symmetrical six pointed star contained in a circle using a 54 card deck. Using a standard deck with two jokers, as illustrated here,
But only a real witch or true seer can supposedly read them properly. An interesting fact for those who read further. S.W. & K.J.M.
“Twain's Tirade, and a post-modern pirate's reunion with a cracker witch. “
Having read in one of Mark Twain's more curious wittings, his personal account of attempting to gather information from a departed soul by visiting with a spiritualist of his day, we decided to give that method a good try - on the premise of “nothing ventured, nothing gained”. We emailed Madam Kay; she being a well known local witch of past personal acquaintance, and conveniently located to us (her cracker house sits on a bluff bank of the St Marys river at a moccasin bend, deep in the piny woods south of the Okefenokee, overlooking bone white sand bars and black miring waters of that ancient, twisted stream – only one long sandy road in, to her place. But, she's connected to the world by satellite - a well informed and up to date Sybille) as I was saying, we thought of her first and shot her an e missive outlining our purpose and requesting a session. She responded the same day,
“Dearest, Have known for days that you would be contacting me – just had that feeling – so I've penciled you in for Friday, 13th of the candle moon (Feb.) We should start your session at the eleventh hour, so please arrive about nine-ish. We do need some catch-up time. Also, bring one of the letters you mentioned. The one addressed from Finn to Twain, dated 1903 should do; assuming it to have been in both their hands at some time, it will be a great help. See you soon honey, no need to R.S.V.P., we both know you are coming. Always Yours, MK.”
At exactly 9:01 PM on the appointed evening I was standing on the front porch of her ancient clap board cypress cracker house reaching for its ornate brass witchy-knocker, when that heavy oaken door flew open, and there she stood, shockingly beautiful as ever – grinning vivaciously. She looked me over for several moments with her critical (but friendly) emerald green eyes. Suddenly, reaching out with both hands, she grasped mine, with a natural feminine affection so pleasing to my male ego, and led me across the threshold. Holding me at arms length, using her best, sweet southern-Irish welcome home voice, she greeted me as an old friend and lover would,
“Well now - let's just look at you. Mr punctuality, as always. One minute past nine is all ya could manage – of course, you being so predictable. Oh my! But those gray locks and that grisly
beard are prime. Just a little thin on top love, but still prime. Bless your soul, but it is so good to see you - up close, I mean - after all these years. But I am very peeved at you now, you heartless rascal, making me wait all this time. I won't be forgiving you so easily mister – no sir I won't. Ah but still, you have those devilishly, dreamy blue eyes that I, and all the ladies, love so... hum m... no doubt about it, you have aged rather well, you old pirate. Come on in now, and make yourself at home. Join me in the kitchen, we'll have some fresh fried gator, directly, and some homemade wine. I know you've a lust for both – nearly as much as you once lusted for me.”
Having said all that rather breathlessly, she tiptoed up quickly, and kissed my cheek. An electric tingle coursed through me – sharply, pleasurably. I had forgotten how she could always do that to me with just a touch of her pouty pink lips. She smelled of rose water and earth spices with a hint of e'stalauder, and something else; something provocative and scary, faintly noticeable but definitely real, and dangerously seductive. Something I can only describe as a lusty primordial feminine musk. That natural scent of a naturally, healthy, and sexually active women. That which would make me filthy rich and disgustingly famous – if I could only figure out how to bottle and properly market it.
“My God, Kay!”
I hugged her tight and gazed into her devilish, dancing, feline green eyes.
“You are a deliciously dangerous and witching woman, and you simply must forgive me. ”
She laughed easily, returning my embrace;
“Well now, would you be expecting anything less? But no, I simply won't be forgiving you – not yet, ya mean old cracker.”
She briefly kissed my lips releasing me quickly, then turned gracefully and sashayed toward the kitchen; indicating with an over-the-shoulder coy glance that I should follow her obediently. I hesitated, looking around her parlor that I remembered so well. She went on with out looking back again.
“Hang up your jacket... Relax... and come on back here... when you're ready.”
I was a little nervous and somewhat apprehensive. Had always felt that way around Kay, although I cannot think of any good reason why. She had always been very kind and friendly to me. There was nothing evil or sinister about her. She was, however, a very intelligent, knowledgeable and spiritually powerful woman.
Hanging my jacket on the coat rack by the door, I walked around her parlor – the only other room on the ground floor of her house. It was the same as always; neat and clean and furnished comfortably with real antiques. I paused at the front window. A large multi paned affair looking out onto the covered poach. Six rows of twelve inch square panes with an inside glass shelf dividing each row. Centered at each pane was a unique porcelain figurine, various potteries, or a glass sculptured piece. Not a speck of dust on anything - a pleasing menagerie to gaze upon. My favorite was a beautifully formed emerald Pegasus (winged horse of Medusa) with an angelic, nude, female rider – which closely resembled Kay. The porch was a wraparound, open and unscreened. Hurricane lamps were hung at intervals all around the house, and these were always lit from dark till dawn giving the place a warm inviting glow at all hours of the night. A round wrought-iron, glass top table with two
comfortably cushioned chairs stood on the porch outside that window. Kay and I had often sat out there enjoying the sunrise, sometimes reading, sometimes talking, always sipping our coffee – years before.
The second parlor wall was an extensive library of neatly shelved books from floor to twelve foot ceiling. I knew from experience, that twenty foot wall contained many of the most important literary works of humanity. Centered in the wall was a roll top desk of red cedar and dark mahogany. The desk was open with its green shaded reading lamp turned on. Beneath that was an Old English Bible opened at the twenty second Psalm;
*A cry of anguish and song of praise
To the chief musician upon Aijeleth*
Shahar, A psalm of David
Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani?*
Why art thou so far from helping me and from the words of my roaring?
Oh my God, I cry in the daytime, but thou hearest not; and in the night season, and am not silent. But thou art holy, O thou that inhabitest the praises of Israel. Our fathers trusted in thee; they trusted, and thou didest deliver them. They cried unto thee, and were delivered: they trusted in thee, and were not confounded. But I am a worm, and no man; a reproach of men, and despised of the people. All they that see me laugh me to scorn:
they shoot out the lip,they shake the head, saying, He trusted on the Lord that he would deliver him: let him deliver him, seeing he delighted in him.
But thou art he that took me out of the womb: Thou didst make me hope when I was upon my mother's breasts. I was cast upon thee from the womb: thou art my God from my mother's belly. Be not far from me; for trouble is near; for there is none to help. Many bulls have compassed me: strong bulls of Bashan have beset me round. They gaped upon me with their mouths, as a ravening and a roaring lion. I am poured out like water, and all my bones are out of joint: My heart is like wax; it is melted in the midst of my bowels. My strength is dried up like a potsherd; and my tongue cleaveth to my jaws; and thou hast brought me into the dust of death. For dogs have compassed me: the assembly of the wicked have inclosed me: they pierced my hands and my feet.
I can count all my bones: they look and stare upon me. They divide my garments among them, and cast lots upon my vesture. But be thou not for from me, O Lord: O my strength, haste thee to help me. Deliver my soul from the sword; my precious life from the power of the dog. Save me from the lion's mouth: for thou hast heard me from the horns of the unicorns*.I will declare
thy name unto my brethren: in the midst of the congregation will I praise thee. Ye that fear the Lord, praise him; all ye the seed of Jacob, glorify him; and fear him, all ye the seed of Israel. For he has not despised nor abhorred the affliction of the afflicted; neither hath he hid his face from him; but when he cried unto him, he heard. My praise shall be of thee in the
great congregation: I will pay my vows before them that fear him. The meek shall eat and be satisfied: they shall praise the Lord that seek him: your heart* shall live forever. All the ends of the world shall remember and turn unto the Lord: and all the kindreds of the nations shall worship before thee. For the kingdom is the Lord's: and he is the governor among the nations. All they that prosper upon earth shall eat and worship: all they that go down to the dust shall bow before him: and none can keep alive his own soul. A seed* shall serve him; it shall be accounted to the Lord for a generation. They shall come, and shall declare his righteousness unto a people that shall be born, that he has done this.
I read all of this, paying close attention to her highlighted passages. There was also a note pad next to the Bible; in Kay's unique handwriting the note read;
1. Aijeleth; The deer of the morning.
2. Eli, Eli, lama sabachthani? My God, My God, Why Hast Thou Forsaken Me?
3. Heart; Spirit and Soul.
(4). Remember; Stephie Wayne; Friday, February 13th, 9:01 PM. Dinner, reading ~ and maybe ~ dancing.
5. Horns of the Unicorns; The powers that slay the virgin, and themselves.
6. A seed; A chosen one accountable only to Eli, in every generation.
The third parlor wall was all natural, natal river stones, imported from a crick up round Stone Mountain Georgia. Center of this was a large fireplace with clear glass doors. A warm pleasant fire was banked and glowing – a mixture of cured oak and pecan, by its unique smell. This wall separated the parlor from her equally large kitchen. The fireplace was a double, you could actually see through it into the kitchen - if you bent down and looked. I did, and could see her bustling around in there. Could also hear her whistling a tune “Kate In A Low Back Car”, a rather roguish Irish drinking ditty. Over the mantel was a life size, stunning self-portrait of Kay. I know this because she had told me
years ago that it was of herself, done by herself, signed and dated;
Kathleen Janis MacDonough February 13th, 1929
In the painting she was wearing a flimsy flapper girl chemise' of summer green with an emerald green, smart girl hat and matching sparkling green slippers. A silver haired mink lay around her shoulders. A woven white wool with roses belt hugged her slender waist, and a clever silver chain clasp fastened the belt with two dangling, dainty, tear drop rubies. Her same classic 27 year old beauty face stared out at me from the portrait, but her eyes were a searching sky gray. I also knew from experience that the eyes of her portrait changed whenever hers changed - en persona.
The fourth wall held a wide stair case which landed half way down, turned, before it continued down into the parlor. Starting on the landing and proceeding up were various sized portraits of her ancestry, going all the way back to the high kings of Tarah – I supposed. Under the stairs was a large guest bathroom. Upstairs was her chambre priv'ee du plaisir, and two other bed rooms and baths. The whole cracker house was 50' square, including the six foot porch, and all rooms were spacious and airy with tall ceilings and wide windows.
Turning the corner around the stone wall, I finally arrived in her kitchen. Her green eyes smiled at me sweetly. Kay stopped whistling and quipped,
“I certainly hope you dusted while roaming around... like a nosy puppy.”
“Taint no dust in your house Katykat - never has been - never will be.”
She had not changed one bit in thirty something years, not that I could see. If the date on her portrait was correct, she hadn't changed in eighty years. But I expected no less; Elder witches (real honest to goodness ones) seldom look their age – not unless they really want to scare the crap out a someone.
She was dressed in much the same casual way as I remembered her to have dressed, around the house, in the early nineteen seventies. She wore black and white converse sneakers, size six; well faded, and fitted, Levis chic jeans, and a simple lavender and lace gotcha blouse – reveling but not slutty. The blouse was tied at bottom, a little to the left, showing some skin and a slim waste - but not her belly button. She wore the same woven white wool with roses belt, as in her portrait; this was threaded through her jean's loops with the two tear-drop rubies of the silver chain clasp dangling at her fly. Her complexion was perfect, the color of heavily creamed coffee with a few grounds (freckles) here and there. Scarlet ringlets of silk ribbon were tied up in cascades from the curly locks of her wind-blown, red-streaked auburn mane. That shoulder length hair, as always, looked exactly right – not made up, just a little bit messy, and slayingly sexy.
She stood exactly five foot, six inches tall, weighed exactly one hundred and sixteen pounds,
and she carried herself with simple unconscious grace in a perfectly proportioned female body. A body exaggerated exquisitely, in exactly - all the right places.
Wherever Kay goes, nine out of ten men will notice her, many will gaze with appreciation, and virtually all women know instinctively that she is a witch. I had no idea, then, of her actual age. The first time I laid eyes on her in 1971 she looked to be 27. She still looked 27. I asked her once what her secret was in that regards. We were in Charleston South Carolina at that time, on the water front wall. She grinned innocently and shrugged her shoulders, drawling in her best sexy Charleston'ian voice,
“Nothing much, you nosy dah'ling man... When I become twenty seven, I liked how I looked... and I simply decided, I'd just stay that way... fo-e'vah'... an e'vah'...”
I liked being there in her kitchen (the living room of her house) warm neat and clean, and full of the most delicious smells on planet earth. The ceilings were eight foot high with exposed cypress beams hung with every kind of kitchen pots and utensils; also mesh bags, and bunches, of most every herb, spice plant, and root crop imaginable. There were cabinets and cupboards and counter tops, a large double stainless steel sink, and all the modern appliances one could ever need; all arranged nicely along both side walls. A good sized butcher-block table on casters stood near her cook top, where she was working on some delicious concoctions. Knives and cutting instruments of all sorts hung around the four sides of her butcher-block – every thing one would need to cut up a side of beef, or peal a pare. In the back wall was a large frame picture window; its wide seal held seven lit candles, glowing softly. Before it, a large finely polished solid cypress slab table was set for two with three more candles, a dozen red roses, and a bowl of red delicious apples and naval oranges.
I was standing close to her, watching her every move, when she turned suddenly, flicked some flour in my face and demanded that I get out of her way. I moped on over to the picture window.
Looking out that widow gives one a beautiful view of the river; soft white sand bars and silent black water snaking through huge old live oaks draped with long wispy grayish beards of Spanish moss. The candle moon hung low in a black velvet sky just above the tree tops; its shimmering light reflected in the dark placid waters. Only a few of the brightest stars were visible as the moon was nearly full.
I stood there enjoying that view while she brought food to table. In a moment she joined me, slipped her arm around my waste, snuggled up and begin to purr – really! Making a soft pleasant, barely audible sound. Actually, a sensual warm vibration that she transferred from her body to mine - caressing all my senses.
“You feel so damn good, Katykat. How come you never called me? You could have conjured me out here any time you wanted.”
She said nothing. After a long silence I looked at her pretty face and saw her deep emerald eyes change; they grew steely gray and piercingly ancient – denying her youthful appearance. She gazed into my soul for a long time, seeing things that only her kind can see, things I'm sure I didn't want to
know myself. Then she looked out at the night and sighed deeply,
“Time and season, demand their reason.”
Then her eyes brightened to flashy green; claiming she was young again.
“And you had to grow up, buster brown... Now lets eat, while its hot.”
I looked at the table of steaming food. A platter of perfectly fried gator, a bowl of sumptuous swamp cabbage (heart of palm) and a dish of tender steamed asparagus in cheese sauce; a bottle of her wine, a box of Cuban cigars, a warm loaf of crusty rye bread, a box of chocolates, sea salt and pepper grinder, all the correct condiments for hot fried gator, a picture of ice water, and a hot pot of Columbian coffee. The lady thinks of everything.
“Good gracious girl – what exactly, are we celebrating?”
She smiled pleasantly... thoughtfully,
“Your coming of spiritual age... and my birthday.”
“Really! – So, you were born on February the thirteenth, in... ?
She ignored the question, forked a piece of hot gator, leaned over and stuffed it into my mouth and giggled,
“Shut up and eat, pal-ease... and open the wine.”
Chewing the sumptuous gator, I picked up the cork screw obligately, and studied the bottle while she begin to fill my plate. The label was obviously her art, a delicately drawn flying white dove with an olive branch in its beak and an ancient broken arrow it its claws. The flint sharp arrowhead was dripping blood and there was a dark, purplish red, blood stained wound on the breast of the bird - also dripping blood. A flowing script across the bottom of the label read,
“ Blood of my vine, 1929.”
The cork came out easily, in one piece, and I could smell the tangy sweet fruitiness of the wine immediately.
“A very good year - nineteen twenty nine - I suppose?”
I commented, while pouring a taste into her glass. She swished the deep purple liquid around and sniffed it critically before taking a sip. In a moment she smiled pleasantly and handed her glass to be filled,
“ One of my very best. So now - let's drink to... us... and... carnal knowledge, two thousand and nine.”
I could feel myself blushing as we touched glasses. We both drank them empty. Falling to, I devoured my supper like a starving man. She remained mostly silent throughout the meal, devouring her own cooking with relish and watching me proudly - as I so obviously enjoyed it all. When finally finished, I stopped abruptly, leaned back in my chair and growled,
“Sweet Jesus... I will never enjoy eating anything more, than I enjoyed eating all that.”
She laughed at me, reached for a cigar, smelled it, then cut it, and lit it like a pro. Taking a drag, she inhaled deeply and blew three smoke rings toward the ceiling before leaning over and kissing me puissantly. Removing her lips slowly from mine, she replaced them with the cigar and purred,
“Well now, I'm thinking that you most certainly Will... enjoy eating something more... just a little... knowing ya as I do.”
There was a rosy blush in her cheeks and at the base of her throat flowing down toward her breast as she stood up from the table, and began to clear it. I was blushing too, but in a lower bodily hemisphere. At that moment, a thought popped into my head, something not exactly from Shakespeare, but close enough; I didn't say it, but I thought it,
“Good men have died from time to time... but not for love, nor eating pussy.”
Kay burst into laughter, gazing toward the ceiling she exclaimed,
“Dear God forgive'm! But e's a natural born rake and roughish cad... butchering the bard no less. Just enjoy your cigar, my evil man... while I'm finishing clearing this table, and You try to clear your nasty little mind of everything... except what you really want to know. Open that letter you brought and lay it face up and centered on the table.”
She certainly could read my mind – rather accurately. I had completely forgotten about my original reason for being there. I done as she said. When she returned she lay a deck of old fashion playing cards in front of me; the kind with no numbers or letters, just the spots, and faces for kings, queens and jacks.
“Shuffle these, dear – honestly”
I picked up the deck and looked at the bottom card. It was the queen of hearts. I smiled, and began to shuffle them – honestly. She refilled our glasses and lit herself a cigar while I went through the cards thrice, before laying them down. She cut them thrice, and picked them up in correct order; dealing us both two hole cards, and a river of four. The river was 2, 3, 5, 6, all hearts.
“Sure are a lot of hearts in this deck”
I quipped, while peaking at my hole cards. I had the seven, and queen, of hearts. She didn't look at hers.
“OK, mister cowboy”
She sighed, breathing out a billowing cloud of sensuous smoke.
“This is the deal... you win this hand, the séance is free, and, you can spend the night – if you like. But If I win it ... you pay full price, and stay the night - like it or not - and, take me fishing in the morning.”
Thinking that I couldn't loose anything but money either way, I knocked. She knocked, burnt the top card off the deck and turned up the 4 of hearts to the river.
“Shall we up the bet?”
I asked calmly. She lay her left hand on her hole cards, but still didn't pick them up.
“Sure thing, Stephie - just be careful what you bet, as you just might win. I never cheat when I don't have too.”
Knowing what I wanted, I said immediately,
“If you loose... you'll also have to tell me the year of your birth – and, let me count your freckles.”
She stared at me, poker-faced, for several seconds with her hand still on her unseen cards - tapping her fingers. A slight smile twitched in the conner of her mouth as she leaned forward and whispered heavily in my face, while looking deep into my eyes,
“If you loose...”
She kissed me softly touching my lips with her tongue,
“ You'll also have to Kiss...”
She kissed me a little harder touching her tongue to my tongue,
“Every... Blessed... One... of My... Freckles...”
As she was saying that, she kissed me much harder with her tongue everywhere in my mouth, slobbering out the words and making me a little bit dizzy, before releasing me suddenly.
“And - I get to tattoo my label on your harry arrss.”
She set back in her chair giggling outrageously, making a funny little piggy noise in her nose. Then she spat in the palm of her right hand and offered to shake. Without hesitation, I spat in mine and slapped her hand tightly. Her grip was as good as mine. Then she showed me her cards - the ace, and king, of hearts.
I hesitated a long moment, wondering way she had dealt me the winning hand. My seven was high card of the straight flush, her ace was low. But I folded my hole cards into the deck.
“All those hearts dealt in one hand of two handed poker – and you never cheat – when you don't have too - right!”
She hummed an Irish dirge, grinning slyly, as she reshuffled the cards and dealt them all out face up. She accomplished that rather quickly, making a large circle with a six pointed star pattern in the middle. The letter I'd brought was dead center under the cards.
“ Well now, My Love... let's just get serious.”
She said that in her down to business voice, and began to study the cards with a blank face. She looked those over for nearly half an hour. I watched the clock on the wall behind her and waited patiently. Then she reached out with a trembling hand and took another unlit cigar. Without looking at it, she began to twirl it around in her fingers. Then she gazed out the window for another long while. Finally she whispered softly, in a barely audible, extremely sad, forlorn, and longing way,
“Moon's down... eleven o'clock... Friday... thirteenth of February... nineteen hundred and three.”
Turning towards me, her eyes were again that ancient searching gray. She dropped the cigar and reached out to me with both hands - trembling hands. Her lovely face and head ticked and twitched like some one with Parkinson's disease. I took her hands and they were icy cold. She was deathly pale, all but her lips, which were a dark bloody red. She spoke, and her voice was exactly like my Mother's voice,
“Stephie, honey – are you sure you want me to do this for you?”
The sound of my mother's voice coming form Kay's lips startled me. My mother is still living.
For the first time that evening (first time in awhile) I felt a twinge of guilt - and some uneasy fear. I didn't know what to say, or think.
Kay dropped my hands and her demeanor again changed drastically. She became cocky, projecting a pompous aloofness completely unnatural to herself. Picking up her cigar, she slid her chair back. Slouching down and stretching out her long shapely legs, she propped her feet at the edge of the table - crossing her ankles. She then unclasped her belt, unbuttoned, and unzipped, her Levis. She pushed out her belly, patted it, belched loudly, and sighed contentedly. (I could see she was wearing pink lacy panties) She reached behind her ear and produced a wooden kitchen match from her curly locks and struck it with her long pink thumb nail. She got her cigar lit, took a huge drag, and proceeded to blow multiple smoke rings that drifted naturally towards my face. She waved out the match and dropped it casually on the rug (something Kay would never do) and began to speak auspiciously. Her voice was gravely, masculine, and satirical – Mark Twain Tonight to a T. Rather astounding, coming form the lips of such a beautiful woman – beautiful despite the paleness, and except for, those unsettling, cold and pricing, gray eyes.
“Well now howdy, Mr Wayne, (no kin to John, I'm sure) are we now to believe that you have developed the gumption to actually finish something really important - for once in your life? And just where do you pretend to get enough talent to do this job? May we recommend that you dredge up a reputable, willing, ghost writer - while you are into dredging. Your gay and fancy witchy woman seems competent enough for that purpose. However, I advise you to proceed with caution in her regards. Think long and hard before engaging yourself in a REAL high stakes poker game with that tight little package; its put up or shut up with her kind – to be sure. (My... but this see'gar sure is prime, almost worth the aggravation of this summons - but where was I?) High aspirations are grand and glorious pursuits – for a man with real ammunition. But, I certainly wouldn't give an Indian head nickel for your prospects – literary or otherwise. There is not a gifted, naturally talented humorist among you post-modern novelist, certainly there are no liars of genius. A bunch of slip-shod foul-mouthed literary comedians, mostly. If there's a real story teller among the lot, I'll be damned; which is impossible, as one of the perks of the dead is immunity from further, effective, damnation.... etc;etc. "
After several minutes of this tedious tirade (mostly unusable in this context) I ventured a comment;
"Tiffanie Debartolo is a gifted living novelist. Her 'God-shaped Hole' is a good read."
Kay gasped and gagged like she had swallowed a chunk of wet cigar butt. She stood up coughing and hacking, her eyes watering profusely. I jumped up and started patting her on the back. In a moment she caught her breath, stood up straight and hawked up what sounded like a mouthful of snot, and began looking around for something to spit in. Spying the sink, she went there, spat loudly, hawked and gagged again, then turned on the faucet. I was gently rubbing her back and saw a nasty looking glob of bloody phlegm slowly washing down the drain. Being concerned, I spoke up,
“ Kay, honey... I think we should stop this...”
She shoved me away with one hand and grabbed a glass with the other; filling that with water, she took a big gulp, rinsed, and spat it out. Reaching for a towel from the rack over the sink she began to wipe her face as she stood there trembling. After a moment she turned and strolled back to her seat - glaring at me. Then she exclaimed, in Twain's gravely voice,
"Hog wash! Revamped sentimentality of miraculous mush... metamorphosed from Cinderella poesy into chic-flick commercialism... ”
Then she (or rather he) erupted again, Vesuviusly. I sat back down and listened until the bitter end, but for the life of me cannot recall all of that rambling reconnaissance - except the conclusion;
“Therefore, you pestiferous son of a Missouri skunk, henceforth please restrain yourself from bothering your immortal betters with mundane mortal matters. I'm off to a bohemian conference with seventy virgins and several of my Buddhist compadras. The archangels Micheal and Lucifer are scheduled to debate all merits of eternal cosmic flux; the pros and cons of which are a huckleberry beyond your current cognition. So... as we say in nirvana, hang your conscience... and have a pleasant eternity.”
Kay sat there absolutely still and silent for a long while. I could hear a faint breeze rustling through the branches of the trees down on the river, and somewhere off in the distance a hound was howling about something. That old fashion bird clock on the kitchen wall was ticking loudly. It was well past midnight. As I watched, her complexion came back to its normal lite brown sugar glow and her emerald eyes slowly regained their sparkle of life. Her lips were soon back to their natural wet, glossy pink. I know I have seen some women nearly as beautiful as Kay – but not many. I reached over and took her now warm hand in mine. She gave mine a squeeze, smiled sweetly, and spoke in her normal sweet southern Irish way,
“Well now... that old bastard certainly wasn't a lot of help.”
“Most certainly not. But Katykat, darling... tell me the truth now... are you well?”
“Haven't been sick a day in my life... silly man. Chewing on that damned see'gar got to me though. Ugh... that was nasty.”
She shivered, and avoided my eyes. I was thinking she was lying about being sick, but I changed the subject,
“When you asked me that question, about being sure... it was my mother's voice...”
“Don't worry, your Mom's alive and well. Doing very well, for her age, in fact... Her spirit grows stronger everyday. She may remember seeing you tonight in a dream. But it was her spirit, and me own, speaking to you.”
“Oh... well, I didn't know that you could do that... I mean... summon spirits of the living.”
She laughed softly,
“There is a whole hell of a lot that you don't want to know about what I can do, love... but you should certainly know by now, the only kind of spirits that have ever existed, are spirits of the living... even among the dead.”
“Can you do that with me... I mean... summon my spirit into yours.. into your mind, body and soul?”
She giggled, got up and sat down on my lap and squirmed until she got comfortable. Then she
started massaging the balding spot on top-back of my head, kissing me softly on the forehead.
“Want me to make this grow a little more hair?”
“Not important... answer my question.”
She lifted my face with both her hands, caressing my stubbly beard with her thumbs and smiling demurely,
“Of course I can... isn't that exactly what I did thirty eight years ago when I first took you into my body and soul... and you just a babe of seventeen... and isn't that exactly what I have done so many times over the years? Oh yes... but you have been so busy loving so many others, you must have forgotten... and you choose not to remember the dreams I've sent you. And that, my love, is exactly why I don't forgive your cruel, cold, pirate heart.”
“Actually, my dear sweet katykat, you ruined me for any mortal woman.”
“Ha, truth be told, deary... I prepared you for all those 'mortal' women, and not a single damned one of those bitches has loved you... not as I have loved you, and watched over you all these years... And for your information, ignorant man, there is no other kind of woman, but the 'mortal' kind. No human being, not even a witch, can physically survive much longer than 120 years on this planet... and only a fool would want too, in the flesh.”
Then I remembered what she had whispered at the beginning of the séance, the date and the year 1903. “That's it...” It suddenly occurred to me, her birthday. Kay had turned 106 at eleven o'clock that evening. Thinking about the highlighted passages in her bible, I wondered if she was physically and mentally tired of living. I started to ask, but she stopped me with a kiss. There was a sweet sad smile on her lovely face and a look of calm quiet acceptance in her beautiful green eyes as she told me,
“ I will be here until the final second of the final hour of my 107th birthday, sound of mind and body... then I shall be elsewhere... and hopefully, spiritually sound... and you, my roughish pirate, would not long remember your Katykat. But, I shall leave you with me own heart of truest love that you shall come to love, more than you love yourself. I read all that, and more, in the cards tonight... and they have never lied to me, and neither do you... although you have often tried, you silly cracker.”
I thought about that revelation seriously, sadly; wondering why, after all these seemingly healthy years, would she just, up and die, on her 107th birthday? I didn't know what to say – there was nothing to say. There it was, just a fact of life. There were no tears in her eyes. But I kissed them as if there were; softly and tenderly; thinking I could never forget her, never, not in life or death or heaven or hell or any other place in this god forsaken universe. So I told her,
“I have never forgotten anything about you Kay... will never forget anything about you... how could I? Unless... you somehow make me... you did tell me not to come around and see you anymore... when you sent me away all those years ago... don't you remember?”
“I remember... and of course, you Always... do Exactly... as your told.”
She laughed knowingly, stood up and arched her back - stretching. Reaching both hands toward the ceiling, she let out a little squeal that ended in a purr. I could see the top half of a tattoo in the small of her back - the same white dove as the wine label. I reached out and touched it with my finger tips.
“Wow... This... I don't remember.”
“Of course you don't... you can never see it... not unless, and not until, I let you. Watch this.”
As she spoke, it began to fade away. She hooked her thumps into the belt of her Levis and slipped them down over her lovely ass - leaving up her shear, lacy pink panties. She then leaned temptingly across the table, looking back at me over her shoulder,
“Take a good... long... look... Now... my Baby.”
(Soon after she assumed that pose, I knew her in the biblical sense until dawn and this ends chapter one of the censored, for the underage and prim minded, version of this narrative - all such persons should turn to chapter two. The rest of you dear readers may read on for the adult climax-ical reality version)
Removing my cloths quickly I stood up behind her. The image of the dove reappeared slowly on her back and its colors grew vivid; its eyes turned the same emerald green as Kay's. More exactly, the color of Kay's eyes, the color of the dove's eyes, were like a mixture of sea green ocean blue – but vivid, and achingly alluring. Dove and Kay at some point in time had became the soul of one living creature; her wings were wide for landing, and the wound on her breast was oozing blood. The ancient broken arrow in her claws was dripping blood, and the olive branch in her beak matched the color of her eyes. I kissed the wounded breast and felt her heart fluttering against my lips; it tasted salty, sensual and completely, helplessly submissive. I shuddered inside with a sudden fear and self-loathing. I willed myself to stop - for half a second. But Kay's sweet voice instantly destroyed my will.
“Please don't stop, me love... never be afraid with me... never be afraid of your Kaytykat.”
Kay was sweating and quivering and watching me with her eyes half opened and her lips slightly parted – breathing expectantly. I lay booth my open hands upon the image and dragged my thumbs down the curve of her back through the crack of her butt, slipping her panties down in one slow caressing motion. I touched her hot bottom with my finger tips and she was soaking wet and gushing down the inside of her legs. Finding her button, I began to rub it firmly in a circular motion. She jerked and squirmed and moaned,
“OH God... baby I'm cum ming already... get inside of me now! Baby... Oh God... BABY... I'm CUM MING!”
In just a moment I was inside of her, and just as quickly, I was 'cum ming'. I kept 'cum ming' until I was weak and trembling all over. I collapsed onto her back and we both slid down onto the floor – dragging a bunch of those playing cards, and the forgotten letter, with us. After a little while, my heart had stopped pounding, my breathing had returned to normal and I was drifting off to sleep when she elbowed me in the ribs.
“Don't you dare, go to sleep on me.”
She rolled over on top and began sensually hunching me, slowly – but to no avail. I lay there
with my eyes closed. After a moment, I laughed.
“I think you broke the damn thing, honey.”
“We'll just see about that, now, won't we... Mister wiggly?”
She kissed me hard for a long moment, breathing into my mouth and biting my tongue – but not too hard. Then she nibbled on both my nipples. Then she stuck her tongue into my belly button, and slobbered. Then she stuck her lips tight around my belly button and blew hard, making a farting sound which tickled me painfully, for a moment, and caused her to giggle outrageously. Then she put Mr wiggly into her pretty mouth. In just a second I was rock hard ready again. She braced her hands on my hips and and eased me back inside of her, in slow motion, squeezing me all the way down, and all the way up. After a couple moments of that, I opened my eyes to watch her. There was the 7 of hearts stuck to her sweaty stomach. I laughed out loud.
“Damn it sugar... there's my winning card.”
She snatched it off her belly and stuck it to my forehead without losing her slow, steady rhythm.
“You folded... Stop interrupting.”
Her squeezing became more intense and she trembled all over. She stopped at the very top – shaking and quivering. Covering my mouth with hers, she whispered into my mind without speaking, and I kid you not - I could hear her perfectly,
“OK, my love... one more time... when you are all up inside my body and soul... tell me you love me... and cum hard... cum hard, in me... with me.”
I did exactly as she said - and she came even harder. We lay there in each others arms on the rug of that warm kitchen floor, floating in a paradise of intense pleasure for a very long while. As the Florida dawn began to light up the room, I kissed every freckle I could find on her warm sensuous body, and every other warm sweet-salty part of her that needed, or wanted, kissing. Kay lay there limp and purring trough out my kissing. Then she curled up like a contented kitty and went to sleep.
Note; Our soul sister. She looks a lot like Kay in this sketch. We only met her once before she passed. We love you girl! Fo e'vah' an e'vha'! Amen.
February bass fishing, Florida style; Kay makes some more surprising revelations.
( Properties and statistics of this work to date; Created: 02/09/2009; Modified last: 03/03/2009; Total editing time: 136:20:49; Revision number 52; Number of pages: 38; Number of graphics 4; Number of paragraphs: 404; Number of words: 16166; Number of characters: 88082; At this point dear reader, we are in complete empathy with Hunk Finn, “if I'd a knowed what a trouble it was to make a book I wouldn't a tackled it, and ain't a-going to no more.” But we shall endeavor to find the gumption, somewhere, somehow, and continue soon. S.W. Scribe)
“A woman without freckles is like a day without sunshine...
Or the night sky without stars... a little less than perfect...
The freckles of a beautiful woman are a treasure map...
To those secret places of her heart and soul...
Touch them... kiss them.... caress them...
As her true beauty... her inner self... begins to glow...” K.J.M. & S.W.
When I woke up on Valentin's day it was nearly noon. I was in Kay's huge fourposter bed and the first thought in my mind was, “Just how did I manage to get upstairs in my sleep?” Kay was not there. But it felt like she had not been gone too long. I sat up in bed and groaned. My body ached with soreness. Most any fifty five year old man who has fooled around with an athletic youthful woman on a hard kitchen floor will know exactly how I felt. The room smelled of fresh coffee. There was an automatic coffee maker on the table of her bedroom, and it was in the process of making a pot. There was a masculine type bathrobe hanging on a bed post. Kay always thinks of little details for the ease and comfort of others.
Getting my feet on the rug I stood up and stretched, groaning and yawning simultaneously. It felt good to be alive and awake. I robed and went for the coffee. The table sat inside a six foot wide dormer overlooking the river – another pleasant aspect of her home. Setting down in one of the two comfortable chairs, I waited for the coffee maker to finish. The digital clock on the coffee maker read 11: 45 AM. There was a note on the table witch read,
“Good morning my sleepy headed Mr. Wiggly :) Happy Valentine's day! The bass are bedding, so I'm down on the river. Look out the window.”
I got up and looked and there she was, standing on the bank near a huge water oak dressed in khaki shorts and shirt, wearing a slouchy hat, holding her rod in one hand and waving with the other – smiling in the sunshine. I smiled and waved back. After a moment she turned and walked across a white sand bar under the trees and made an easy caste into the black water. I watched for a little while as she raised her rod tip high and began to crank the reel slowly, dragging one of her huge night-crawlers across the bottom. She grew those worms in her own garden just for that purpose. I knew we would have fresh bass for brunch that day. I went back to the table and read the rest of the note.
“Relax my love and leave the fishing to me... You're no damned good at it anyway. Enjoy your coffee, I'll be back.
Your Katykat, Fo e' vah!”
I was sipping coffee and thinking about the events of the previous night. Wondering why I hadn't questioned Twain, or Kay, about the letter from Finn. Twain wouldn't let me get a word in edge ways. And Kay had certainly kept me busy with other matters. And I was wondering just how many 'fo e'vahs' there could be in just twelve months time, when I heard the front door open and a male voice sing out,
“Hello Mums y! You're long lost prodigal has returned... as you summoned!
I sat there and listened as he began to sing, 'Kay' in a low back car, as he walked into her kitchen. In just a moment he came back into her parlor and bounded up her stairs – still singing. He had a fine Irish tenor voice. I stood up to great him. There was nothing else I could do, the bed room door was wide open, and I felt sort of caught, but had no real fear. He strolled with confidence into that bedroom and stooped singing abruptly. He gazed at me just a little surprised, but remained completely composed. He smiled easily and his eyes were a lot like Kay's – he was obviously close of kin.
“I'm sorry. But I was expecting to find Kay at home.”
I relaxed and smiled also,
“She is, but down on the river fishing.”
“Oh yes, should have known, it being Valentin's day and the bass on the beds, she really slays em ya know. I'm James Mac Donough, Kay's only wayfarin' son.
He extended his hand and I shook it.
“Pleased to meet you. I'm Stephen Wayne. Kay never mentioned she had a son.
“She wouldn't, I'm not around often. I recognize your name... your that 'pirate poet'. Mum has mentioned you often over the years – kindly, to be sure.
“Well, I'm flattered that she would. We haven't seen each other for many years... not until last... night... Would you like some coffee?”
He glanced at his watch and chuckled,
“No thanks, it being after the noon hour, think I'll just go down to the kitchen and have a beer. I'm sure Kay will be back and preparing us a delicious brunch soon.
He winked slyly, just as Kay would, turned and left the room. I was deep in thought, wondering why she hadn't mentioned this James. She obviously knew he would be there, and I'm sure she new exactly when he would arrive – Kay just naturally knows such things. He certainly favored her in looks and personality. He had some other vaguely familiar masculine features. Although I'd certainly never met him, I felt like I should remember him for some reason. I tried to guess his age – thirty something I supposed.
Thinking such things I went into Kay's spacious bath and begin the process of making myself more presentable. Having done the best I could, I got dressed and headed down stairs. Strolling through the parlor I could hear James and Kay talking pleasantly about the weather, and the fishing in Florida, as compared to Ireland. She was already working on a delicious smelling meal. When I arrived in that kitchen she came to me and gave me a big hug and kiss. Smiling broadly she drawled sweetly,
“Bought time you've joined us my dear, sit yourself down now, and have a beer with Our Son...
while I get this fish ready for eatin'”
I stared at Kay incredulously, and mouthed the words, “Our Son?”
“The one and only, to be sure... a fine young man, but stubborn as hades and nearly as willful
as his highwayman Father.”
I looked at James, searching his face for something to deny the facts. He shrugged his shoulders, smiled demurely (Kay's smile) then smirked, (my smirk) and took a long swallow of his beer. He slammed his beer mug down on the table for emphasis, belched, and smirked even more like me, and quipped,
“Imagine the hell out'a that now... shan't we?”
There was a look in his eyes which can best be described as bitter and angry consternation. Kay walked over to him and hugged him, then she ran her fingers through his dark curly hair and spoke to him softly, yet firmly,
“You be nice and respectful to your Father me boy... none of this is his fault... its all me own... I sent him away, for my own good reasons, nine months before you were born... and he has never known you existed... until this day.”
“I'm not angry at Him! Mother Dear!”
Kay looked at me with a sad determination in her lovely eyes, smiling knowingly, she sighed,
Both my men are a little peeved at me now... to be sure... but I'll be making amends to ya both, before I leave this world... you'll see.”
James stood up abruptly from the table, knocking his chair backwards and shoving his mother away roughly,
“Well now, just maybe... we'll be able to discuss all this crap in Hell... Ya God damned Witch!”
He stormed out the back door slamming it hard, and he crossed the back porch quickly, heading down for the river. Kay made a step to follow him but I reached out and grabbed her arm.
“Hold on a minute woman... just let it lay for now... give'm some time to think about all this.
Oh, Kay! Honey... you should have told me about him years ago.”
Kay muttered something then which sounded like an ancient Irish curse,
Séamus an cháca, a chaill Éireann,
lena leathbhróg ghallda is a leathbhróg Ghaelach
I stared at her blankly, she smiled a little crooked-sweet-sad smile and sighed,
“Just something an old pirate poet, much like you me love, once said centuries ago, roughly translated; 'James the shit has lost Ireland, with his one shoe English and one shoe Irish' … God bless his Irish-American-cracker soul.”
Then she turned into my arms sobbing and crying profusely. I held her tight and let her cry it all out. First time in my life I had ever heard the woman cry. After a while she sighed heavily, stopped slobbering and hiccuped. I handed her my handkerchief. She wiped her eyes with it and blew her nose into it rather loudly, before stuffing it into my front pants pocket, and laughing softly. She stood there fiddling with a button of my shirt, then she finally looked up at me. Her eyes were that mix of sea green and ocean blue, and I realized I was helplessly, perhaps fatally, in love - neither one of us heard the back door open as she spoke,
“Well now love... I wouldn't be laying that kind of responsibility on you at seventeen... you definitely wasn't ready for it... it just wouldn't have been right... and it surly was illegal by the law, for me to have you as a lover. God knows all the good southern baptist round here would be wanting to crucify me, and sanctify you. My only intention, truly, was to teach you... seeing how you so desperately wanted to know... being physically ready and desiring... but still just a boy. I did not plan on getting pregnant. I took all my normal precautions. But, a higher power decided differently, than what I had planned. As soon as I knew our babe was growing in me, I sent you away, knowing it was best for you, and our child... under the circumstances... best for me to have him, and raise him on my own. I knew then you would be married to another woman at twenty, and starting a different family. I was, and am, very jealous... but, believe you me, I have never interfered in your life... although my heart and soul could never completely release you. My falling in love with you, was a complete surprise. It amazed me really... and gave me a bitter sweet joy for life that I had never experienced... never until you planted that seed of life in me. James is my only child. I've waited patiently for things to happen as they would, waited for the reason of time and season to bring you back to me... so now they have... and here we are.”
I kept my eyes on her face as she told me all that, and I honestly believed she was telling the whole truth. I sensed someone else was in the room. Looking away from her face I saw James standing quietly, just inside the door. She looked his way when I did. He stood there silently for awhile staring at is shoes. He finally spoke to the floor,
“Well... now... I never imagined anything... such as all that.”
He looked up at his mother with teary eyes, and spoke up like an honest man,
“I'm truly sorry Kay, I had no right to act, or speak, so meanly to you... will you please forgive me?”
“You were forgiven all, and everything, before you were ever born, my dear. Now... just you get your Father a beer, and you men have a seat and relax while I finish fixin' our brunch.”
“I'll get the beer” I spoke quickly and went to the frig. I grabbed three cold bottles of Corona (my favorite Mexican brew) a dish of fresh cut limes and three icy mugs out of the freezer. Getting all to the table without dropping anything, I looked at my first born son still sulking by the door, watching his mother's every move. “He looks more like Kay, than me, but he does have my smirk.” I thought, as I sat down and tried to make conversation with him - opening the beer.
“How's life in Ireland, James?”
“ Much better.” He said flatly. After a moment I tried again.
“Any good women?”
“Not a one... like me Mother.”
“ There's not a woman good as Kay anywhere in this world, that I know of... guess you'll have to settle for second best... if you could find such a one.”
Kay brought everything to the table in silence. The bass was steaming in a large black skillet, fried in real butter with a touch of garlic, and all the fixing's were perfect – as usual. She had set all three places at one end of the long table; myself at the head. She sat down, smiling, on my left, leaving the place to my right for James. She reached over and took my hand. She reach her other hand toward our son. After a long pause, he finally game over and sat down. After another pause, he smiled rather sheepishly, and took his mothers hand across the table. She stared at him for another long silence. He stared back at her for a moment, then he reached over while still staring at her and took my hand. Kay gazed out the window toward the river and spoke this prayer,
“Thank you Eli for all things, and these two good men... keep us from all evil, and prepare us for those worlds to come. Amen.”
I said Amen but James did not. He released our hands and forked a piece of fish. Taking a bite, he chewed it slowly, gazing at me. After a moment he said,
“This is damned delicious... don't you think, eh Pops?” I smirked back at him, and quipped,
“Nourriture et de boisson des dieux … Nothing better in this world than Kay's Valentine's day bass... and Corona beer... I'm a thinking.”
He looked at Kay and smiled broadly.
“So, me old man speaks French eh? Don't believe you ever told me that... or much else. He is right though, this is 'food and drink of the gods'... you never cease to amaze me, Mum... But I would like to know something... seriously... Why would you be praying to an ancient Hebrew god that does not exist, although he has been quoted as supposedly saying, 'thou shall not suffer a witch to live'. Why indeed... I'm a wondering?”
Kay smiled at her boy, but her eyes were flashing green fire, with a murderous look in them, and her face was blushing like flame, but she spoke in a sweet calm, but rather cutting, voice,
“There are many things I've never told you about your Father, because I was knowing that someday you would be having the pleasure of learning them for yourself... harses arrss that you are at times... perhaps you will learn from him, what you have failed to learn from me... that the Ancient of Days has no nationality! And humanity, including you my dear boy, knows very little of what does, and does not exist, in spirit.”
James threw up his hands in surrender and laughed slyly; so like Kay – and exclaimed,
Truce Mums y! Didn't mean to be a 'harses arrss'... I am only trying my best to make civil conversation with two strangers. Strangers who happen to be my parents.”
Kay was still furious, tapping her fingers on the table. Then she grabbed a hush puppy and flung it at James; barley missing his head, that missile exploded on the picture window. James fired back with a wedge of lime. Kay caught it in the palm of her left hand and flung it at me with one quick motion – I ducked just in time. I looked at them both, poker faced, and calmly asked,
“Would one of you 'harses arsses', just pass me a see'gar... please?”
They booth burst into outrages laughter. James handed me a cigar. I laughed with them. After a while I cut the cigar and Kay produced a match from behind her ear – I'll always wonder how she managed that trick, because I have looked, and have never found a match there. She lit the match and held it for me. She stopped laughing and gazed into my eyes with a look that was somewhat scary, but full of love. I could see that something else was on her mind. When she reveled her thoughts to us, a moment later, I nearly choked on my cigar smoke. Looking at James and smiling a beautiful bitter-sweet smile she said,
“As of early this fine morning, your loven' mother is with child again... in nine months you shall have a baby sister... and your father shall have a loven' daughter... much like me.”
When I caught my breath, stunned, in shock, I spoke with questioning wonder and utter amazement,
My God, Kay! But... of course you always know such things... But, sweetheart... that could be dangerous for You... Dear God... I mean...think of your age... She interrupted me with a kiss, and spoke to me with calm assurance,
“Silly old cracker, me foe'evah love, a natural danger for any woman so blessed, at any age... to be sure... but haven't I already told ya, I shall be livin' well and happy... until my last moment, on my next birthday. I am contented, come what may, and... to be leaving my only daughter in the care of her Father, and only Brother... is a gracious blessing, to be sure.”
James and I sat in silence for a long while, thinking many of the same thoughts, I'm sure. He looked at his mother soberly, and spoke rather sadly,
“Mom... no doubt you can, and you will, accomplish all this... but, I'm wondering why? Why after all these years... all these things... all at once... And Why, have you suddenly decided to depart this earth?”
She reached across the table and took both his hands tenderly in hers.
“Jamie, my Son... No one decides when they shall be born... or when they shall die... not even those who believe they are ending their own life of their own free will... there is no free will in human pain suffering and insanity. Your Father, the only man I have every loved, was not available to me, nor willing, until now, for the making of your sister. Some things do happen, exactly as I plan... but not all... far from it. That which creates life has the natural power of ultimate determination. I will never depart this earth completely, dear; what you can see of me, what you can touch, and feel of me, will simply return into the fundamental dust of the earth. My spirit, being made of the primordium participium dust, and the eternal energy of creation, is not limited to any particular place of space and time. The reasons of times and seasons are not of my making... although I do have some ability for seeing them... but no one has perfect sight... not even your 'witch' mother.”
That was the first, and the last time, that I ever heard Kay refer to herself as a witch. James looked at me, grinned slyly, and asked,
“Well now... me own learned Dad... could you be explain'an, far your ignorant chile', the meaning of this 'primordium participium dust'? And... just when were you consulted in all this?”
I was staring with wonderful appreciation, and with many mixed emotions, at Kay's lovely face. She turned my way and raised one eyebrow, then she winked and smiled, as if to say, “your turn.” I smiled back at her, wondering why in the world a woman like her would ever love an ignorant old weather worn cracker such as I - then I made my best answer to my son's questions.
“Well... if my memory of Latin is correct, that would translate 'original sharing dust'. But I think your mother, more specifically, was referring to the original creating, and living substance that shares itself with all existence... including humanity. As far as being consulted... your mother and I are of one body, soul, and mind... as she is, so am I... as ordained by that which you referred to, just a while ago, as the non existing Eli.”
James stood up and went to the frig. “Think I need another beer... anyone else?” Me and his mother both nodded our heads with out speaking. With his back to us and his head stuck in the refrigerator, he grabbed three more beers and fresh mugs. Coming back to the table he declared,
“It's all antiquated and ignorant superstition, I think... all spiritualism, and all religion... and, so is much of today's popular 'science', just so much slick bunk! I will remain extremely skeptical of all things physically imperceptible to me.”
Kay smiled sweetly and began to hum an old Irish lullaby. Her thoughts came into my mind clearly,
“This babe within me has only just begun to live, and yet I know her so well.”
“And what will you be naming my little sister?”
Kay stopped humming and glanced at us both, then laying her hand on her belly she said,
“When she is a year old, I would like for you both to have her christened, Janis Stephanie Wayne MacDonough... but the day she is born, and nursing at me breast, I shall whisper in her ear, 'Janie my dear, you shall have a wonderful life... in spite of your highwayman Father, your wayfarin' Brother, and your departed Mother.'”
“I'll drink to that.” I said, as a matter of fact. “But my soul will curse that day, my sweet Kay... when you are no longer here, to hold and hug and kiss... in the flesh.”
We all stood and clinked our beer mugs together. James and I drained ours down. Kay took only one sip, walked to the sink, and poured the rest of her beer down the drain.
“That's enough of that... for the next nine months.”
She caste her empty mug onto the stone hearth, shattering it into thousands of tiny pieces. James and I joined her and done the same. We all thought the same thing at once.
“We certainly are a ritualistic, and somewhat superstitious family... to be sure.”
There was a loud tapping on the picture window and we all turned to see a tall, elderly black man, standing outside on the porch, looking in and smiling broadly. Kay waved and called,
“Come on in, Mister Mose.”
He walked over to the door and opened it, scrapping his boots on the welcome mat several times before entering and speaking greetings in a friendly and happy sounding voice while closing the door carefully. He was dressed in clean faded denim overalls, a red flannel shirt buttoned to the collar, and was dragging a wide brim felt hat off his head - reveling his kinky, grayish white hair as he spoke,
“Howdy Miss Kay. I didn't intend to be intruding but thought it best to ask about helpin' plant your potaters seeing its Valentine's, but I see you got plenty a men folk around to help ya dis year.
Kay met him as he walked in and gave him a big hug. Tiptoeing up to do it. He hugged her back somewhat shyly, patting her shoulder with a strong callused hand, and obviously blushing. She released him, winked and smiled broadly, declaring,
Well now... these two aren't going to be much help plantin' any potatoes, so yes... I do need your help my friend... You remember my James of course...
“Yes Mam... I surly do.” They shook hands, both smiling warmly. “My goodness it sure is good to see ya, its been a long while since ya ran off to Ireland Mr. James, and left your poor sweet Momma all alone to run this place. Seems so many you young-ins now days wants to be Irish, or Indian, or some other such, stead of being just plane Ole cracker, like the rest of us common old folks round here is, mostly.”
James laughed and spoke easily,
“It's certainly good to see you too, Mister Mose... but you know, I have rested easy, and in good conscience, seeing how I left my mother with such a good friend, and neighbor as you.
“Humph... Good neighbors ain't near nothin' like good family... you know it, and I know it.”
“Now Mister Mose... You are family... and you know it... but how are all your others?”
“Well day all bout da same, I reckon... doing good as day can... Misses Mose is most well, and just as jealous as she evah was, bless her heart. All our five girls are married off, and moved away. Even my baby girl Ruthie Ann. I know you remember her, surely ya do! You all growed up a playin and a scrappin and going to da same school and making trouble together. I'll never forget when you two dablame little heathens captured dem water snakes and took em in ya back packs and turned em loose on da school bus. Yes sir now dat was a righteous mess, had ta spank my baby girl for dat, and you too I memba cause Miss Kay told me I had ta do it, cause she couldn't. Member how my Ruthie Ann was so fast running track, and such a strong swimma, and always winin' dose beauty contest. Well now she got a schalaship and put in to go up to Chicago cause she could stay with some of her Momma's Yankee relatives, and I was against it from da get go; her not being but twenty year old. But Messes Mose, she talked me into letting my baby girl go up dare, and wouldn't you know it, but she fell in wid some slick talkin' niggah politician, dropped out of school and for all we knew day was living in sin. So I told Messes Mose I was surely goin' up ta Chicago ta skin me a no count niggah, but she called up Ruthie Ann and got her on de phone a crying and carrying on, and den Messes Mose she handed the phone ta me and you know I don't like talkin on no phone. But I listen ta my Ruthie's voice and she sure broke my heart when she say 'Daddy... you don't be a calling my man no niggah... we are married... and I love him'. Well I just couldn't say nuffin' – there wasn't nuffin' ta say, dem getting married and him not even having da gumption to come and speak to us first. Well I just handed da phone back ta Lisa, and say 'Here, Messes Mose, you just talk ta ya own daughter, cause I got nuffin' to say'. Dats when I come over here ta get you, Mister James. You and Ruthie Ann being such good friends an all, I just figued we would go on up dah and find out ourselves just what kinda man dat niggah was, what done turned my baby girl head, and took her out a school an married her. But when I got here, Miss Kay she told me you had done run off ta Ireland, and I reckon dat just took da wind outa my sail. But my my... here you is back, and its been... well it's been... dat was 1991, so its been eighteen yeah... my my...”
At this point Kay took him by the arm and said,
“Mose, I want you too meet my best friend... the father of my children.
He stared at her a long moment. Then he looked me over with his friendly, searching, sky gray eyes. We shook hands and his made a firm manly grip. I spoke first.
“ Stephen Wayne... pleased to meet you.”
“Moses... Moses MacDonough.... but most folks call me Mose... pleased to meet you too. My Mammy she gave me one name, Moses, only name I evah needed for many a yeah, but when I went for a social security card, Miss Kay, she drove me into town and said I had to have a Christian name for the gov'ment people to be satisfied. I thought that Moses was a Christian nough name, but she said they wanted two names, and my second one should be MacDonough, seeing how me, and all my people fore me, was born on dis place. 'But Miss Kay' I say 'You know I can't spell no such name as dat' . She just laugh pretty like she does and say, ' Don't you worry none now Mose, I brought along da family bible and your name is in dah for you ta copy, and we got ta show it ta dem people anyway, just ta prove you was born. I was thinkin', dem gov'ment people must be kinda stupid, can't da just look at me, and see livin' proof dat I was born. But I've heard tell of you Mister Wayne... didn't know dat you was Mr. James' Daddy though. Miss Kay likes to quote your po'try, calls you the 'pirate poet' , but I ain't much on po'try, myself, never took to it much. But when she talks it, it sounds real good, and sorta right... moss times. But Miss Kay! Now did you say, ' father of your children'? Now if dats so... just where you been hiden' any others... I'd like ta know?”
Kay had fried some more fish while Mister Mose and I were getting acquainted. She carried a hot skillet to the table saying,
“You men come on over to the table. Mister Mose I want you to try some of this bass I caught today, and have a cold beer... and we'll just talk awhile, before we plant those potatoes.”
We all sat down while Kay got three beers and mugs for us men, she brought a cup of coffee for herself, sat down next to me and took my hand smiling sweetly. Mose looked at his plate, and at the beer, and sighed,
“Well now Miss Kay, this sure nough looks and smells mighty good... but I oughta be drinking coffee like you is doing, cause Messes Mose won't like it, not one bit, ifin I's ta come home smelling like beer.”
Kay got up and walked over to his chair, laying her arm on his shoulder she leaned down and kissed him on the cheek, speaking softly, but firmly, she told him,
“Mose... You know good and well that we buried Liza in the family church yard last spring. There is no good reason why you can not drink a beer with my men folk.”
He looked up at her with teary eyes, but his voice was steady as he replied,
“Yes'm... Miss Kay, I know we did, and I ain't lost my mind... but I like to forget she's gone.
Most days I do forget she's gone... I mean, sometimes at night I reach out and she's just dah... most like a dream I suppose... but real nough ta me... and sometimes I'll be workin' in da garden or walkin' down to da river and she'll be dah... and I'll just start a talkin ta her about evahffin, and a laughing wid her bout hard times and good times... and well... she ain't really gone nowhere... somehow... not from me, she ain't.”
Kay searched his face for a long while; seemingly satisfied with what see saw, she responded with a sigh,
“I know it Honey, and that's fine... I just worry about you at times, in that house all by yourself... you know there's a room for you here anytime you want to stay. But you just eat now, or I'll be mad at you for sure.”
Mose brightened up, smiled broadly, and chuckled,
“Lawdy mussey, Miss Kay! You want Lisa ta sure nough be haintin me... an de preacher too... Ya know how folks talk silliness bought such things as... ”
Kay interrupted him angrily,
“Damned the preacher! And every nosy hypocrite on the planet... You know as well as I that Liza loves you dearly, and wouldn't be denying you anything, anywhere, anytime... Just hush and eat.”
He done as Kay instructed. She came back to my end of the table, dragged her chair up close to mine, took a sip of coffee, then leaned her head on my shoulder and sighed contentedly. James was lost in his own thoughts sipping on his beer and thinking about Ruthie Ann, and their growing up together – I imagined. I sipped my beer in silence, thinking about how my life had changed rather quickly and unexpectedly. Thinking about this new family of mine, one that I could never have imagined - not in a million years. Wondering how all this would turn out from here, I thought about the book I was supposed to be researching and working on. I thought about my other children and grand children. Thought about my wife, dead and buried in a church yard cemetery not far away. Sad to say, but I hadn't thought of her in more than a year. I remembered something I once read about the best made plans of mice and men; how the unseen forces of fate and the natural forces of existence can change them without notice, and sometimes sweep them all away.
I knew I had to make some decisions; one most important of all.
Seeing that Mose was almost finished with his meal, I spoke up,
“Would anyone but me, care to smoke a good cigar?”
“No thanks, Daddyo... those things are bad for ya... don't you know?”
“Yes sir... Mistah Wayne... most certainly would. My gracious but Miss Kay sure is da best cook dis side Nor'leans... I swear ta goodness.
He slid his plate back, and seeing that Kay was asleep with her head on my chest, he took two cigars out of the box and cut them both. He handed one to James.
“Heah now... Mistah James, just you light dis for your Daddy... it wont kills ya.”
James did so, and handed me the lit cigar, I took a long drag and blew the smoke up toward the ceiling. After a moment I declared my intentions.
“If neither one of you gentleman have any objections, I'd like to ask Miss Kay a very important question.”
They both stared at me and Kay a long while, catching my drift. James took the last swig of his beer and nodded his head affirmative. Mose blew out a cloud of smoke, smiling broadly and said,
“No Suh... You won't heah no objections on my count... But ya gone ta have ta wake her up ta ask hah... She was down on dat river little pass daylight dis mornin' scoutin dem bass beds... she only waited till de sun was high on de water ta start reelin' em in... as she always do on Valentin's day.
Let me tell ya something about her you oughta be knowing. Miss Kay, she saved my life, and my Mammy's life, both on dat day I was born, right back heah in dat house I been livin' in all my life. Dat was 1923. The Lord has givin' me 86 good yeahs on dis eahth. But back dah on my fust buthday I was breeched, and my Mammy Ruth was in terrible hard labor on da edge a death... she told me all about it, much latter when I was a growd man. Miss Kay weren't but 20 yeah old den, but she new exactly what ta do, and she come down to da house and she done it. My Mammy always say 'Miss Kay is one of God's special angels'. But now, a lot of folk round heah say she's a witch cause she don't nevah look a day ovah twenty seven... and she sees things, and knows things dat a lot of folks don't. But it don't amount ta a hill o beans ta me... what anyone say. I believe as my Mammy did, Miss Kay is sure nough one of dem special angels, and I figued you oughta be knowing dat... ifin you didn't by now.”
There was a long silence while James and I thought about all that he had said. We could hear the clock ticking away, and Kay's steady breathing, and a little wind was whispering out in the live oaks, and off in the distance the sound of a train blowing for a crossing, up at St George, by the sound of it. James broke the silence,
“Mister Mose... How come you never told me about all that before now?”
Mose shrugged his shoulders and smiled easily.
“Guess it just waun't yo time ta be knowin' it... befo' now.”
I kissed Kay on the forehead and her sleepy eyes opened wide immediately. She sat up and wiped her mouth with a napkin. She had been drooling just a little. She blushed, just a bit embarrassed, and looking out the window she exclaimed with exasperation,
“Oh my goodness... been dreamin' bought planting potatoes while the days a waistin' and here I been asleepin'. Sorry Gents... reckon I was all tired out from las... “
She stopped abruptly, looking around at us and blushing a little more. Her eyes locked with mine and a slow smile begin to spread across her lovely face.
“Well now... I reckon you men been talkin' bad about me... or some other poor woman, maybe... Sure hope I wasn't snorin'.”
“Kathleen Janis MacDonough! I said, and she took a deep breath, and held it.
“We three men, who you know well, were just a wondering, if you had any plans to be marrying the father of your children?”
She dropped her eyes to the table, let out her breath slowly, and remained perfectly still and silent for a very long time. I was beginning to think she wouldn't respond, when she finally lifted her eyes and gazed into mine. What I saw in her brilliant emerald green eyes, at that moment in time, would be difficult for any man to explain. There was a bitter-sweet sadness of love, and joy, and knowledge of life and death and hope and peace and war and hate and many more things beyond the understanding of mortal man. I knew in my heart and soul that Mose and his Mammy were exactly right about who Kay really was, and is. When she spoke, her voice to me, was like cool water in the hottest infernos of hell that anyone (including Dante) could ever imagine.
“Well now, Stephie... I most certainly have, made such plans... but truth be told... the man has never asked me.”
“That man... This man... is asking you now... Kay, will you be my wife?”
“Yes... I will.”
We stood up and embraced for a long while, her heart was pounding in her breast against mine and her eyes where brimming with tears. James began to tap a rhythm on the table with his beer mug. Mose went out to the parlor and returned with Kay's violin case. In a moment he had that fiddle out and was playin' an Irish country jig. James began to sing the tune, something about getting married in the spring when the rain melted the winter snows on the high moors away, and Kay and I, danced.
We three men took turns dancing with Kay. I couldn't play the fiddle worth a hoot, but she had a Martin six string that I managed to keep a rhythm on. After a couple times around, Kay flopped down in a chair to rest.
“My goodness... but you fellows have to let me catch my breath. This is the best Valentin's day of my life. We won't be plantin' no tators till tomorrow... to be sure. This be the day for celebrating.
Jamie dear, get you all another beer for a toast, and I'll be having just a sip of me love's. But gracious aren't we forgetting somethin' very important?”
We looked at her wondering what she meant. She grinned at me slyly, got up and went to the table and took a cigar out of the box and removed its ring. She motion to me with her ring finger saying,
“Now you just come ov'a here me love, and put this ring on your sweetheart's finger... and be make'n this engagement a good and proper one.”
And so I did. We drank another toast... to Kay and the new life within her. She took one sip of my beer and demanded that I drink it down. Then we men smashed our mugs on the hearth. We continued the celebration, laughing and dancing and singing and playing, and I know that day will remain the best Valentine's day of my life. But the next would be my worst – I was thinking, If I should remain among the living.
Note; Me daughter Sylvia Rose; who introduced me to Tiffanie Debartolo, they both look, and act, at times ~ a lot like Kay. Sylvia has a lot of talents ~ a little like Tiffanie.
I actually enjoy reading Tiffanie's work. 'It don't make no never mind to me' what Mark Twain's ghost may think. When Sylvia gave me a copy of “God-shaped Hole”, I read the back page 'about the author' first, and thought, 'I probably won't like it, it being a book written by a Berkly chic'. I was in a funk depression, being retired, and all washed up. But I was wrong. Have read the book several times; and it has helped me considerably. Also, It has inspired me to work harder on my own stuff; trying to make something I won't mind being remembered by. With that in mind, time to move on to chapter three; not wanting to work on this poesy posthumously.
Stephanie Diane & Sylvia Rose, March, 2009.
This book is dedicated to me grandchild Stephanie; and I hope she reads it some years from now. Sylvia does not like to read my works, mostly, because she feels they are too autobiographical, and the sex scenes make her feel creepy. S.W.
letter to Trixie
Here is my daughters copy of 'God-Shaped Hole' that I mentioned in the email. Please sign to Sylvia Rose in side first blank page. You're a sweetheart for doing this. Fo'real! Will get your new book soon 'Love the new U2 record' I'll let you know what I think. Also please keep this copy of fust three chapters of 'Seeking The Legend of Huckleberry Finn' all I got finished so far; wanted you to have something I created ~ turnabout is fair play.
Thanks again my friend fo'evah an evah till the end of the world.
A shamans revenge and I go a hunting
To Tiffanie Debartolo
Angels fall like rain, whispering in our soul
Forget morning pain, remember, rocks don't roll
Except rolling stones; still no satisfaction
Angels kiss with dew, teasing our desert heart
Every one we knew, with lying from the start
Oh yes, kissing us, with primal reaction
Angels love with songs, playing them in our mind
All those naughty wrongs; how could we be so blind
No man, no father, has felt birth's contraction
Angels forgive us; heaven's forgiving Ruth
We missed the damned bus; standing, waiting for truth
All, and nothing more, a god-shaped attraction
Angels fall like rain, into the earthly dust
Angels feel our pain, the rot, ruins, and rust
The sound of the rifle shot on Kay's back porch startled and scared the crap out of me at the same time. Turning to look, I saw a long-haired evil looking man standing there working the lever of his rifle, getting ready to fire again. His eyes were not human at all, they were the eyes of a wolf, full of blood lust with a furious determined stare. There was one small round hole in the window glass from his first shot.
Before he could fire again, Kay raised both hands palms forward toward the window and screamed like a banshee. The picture window exploded outward and the red faced man, with the rifle in his hands, went tumbling backwards in a cloud of shattered glass off of the porch. I ran to the back door, jerked it open, and made it to the porch steps just in time to see the man running into the woods. He was limping a little, but still moving quickly.
*Stephie is pronounced Stevie
*Complete quote of Psalm 22 from the King James Bible; 19th century edition