A Dog's Tale
By Mark Twain
My father was a St. Bernard, my mother was a collie, but I am a Presbyterian. This is what my mother told me, I do not know these nice distinctions myself. To me they are only fine large words meaning nothing. My mother had a fondness for such; she liked to say them, and see other dogs look surprised and envious, as wondering how she got so much education. But, indeed, it was not real education; it was only show: she got the words by listening in the dining-room and drawing-room when there was company, and by going with the children to Sunday-school and listening there; and whenever she heard a large word she said it over to herself many times, and so was able to keep it until there was a dogmatic gathering in the neighborhood, then she would get it off, and surprise and distress them all, from pocket-pup to mastiff, which rewarded her for all her trouble. If there was a stranger he was nearly sure to be suspicious, and when he got his breath again he would ask her what it meant. And she always told him. He was never expecting this but thought he would catch her; so when she told him, he was the one that looked ashamed, whereas he had thought it was going to be she. The others were always waiting for this, and glad of it and proud of her, for they knew what was going to happen, because they had had experience. When she told the meaning of a big word they were all so taken up with admiration that it never occurred to any dog to doubt if it was the right one; and that was natural, because, for one thing, she answered up so promptly that it seemed like a dictionary speaking, and for another thing, where could they find out whether it was right or not? for she was the only cultivated dog there was. By and by, when I was older, she brought home the word Unintellectual, one time, and worked it pretty hard all the week at different gatherings, making much unhappiness and despondency; and it was at this time that I noticed that during that week she was asked for the meaning at eight different assemblages, and flashed out a fresh definition every time, which showed me that she had more presence of mind than culture, though I said nothing, of course. She had one word which she always kept on hand, and ready, like a life-preserver, a kind of emergency word to strap on when she was likely to get washed overboard in a sudden way—that was the word Synonymous. When she happened to fetch out a long word which had had its day weeks before and its prepared meanings gone to her dump-pile, if there was a stranger there of course it knocked him groggy for a couple of minutes, then he would come to, and by that time she would be away down wind on another tack, and not expecting anything; so when he’d hail and ask her to cash in, I (the only dog on the inside of her game) could see her canvas flicker a moment— but only just a moment—then it would belly out taut and full, and she would say, as calm as a summer’s day, “It’s synonymous with supererogation,” or some godless long reptile of a word like that, and go placidly about and skim away on the next tack, perfectly comfortable, you know, and leave that stranger looking profane and embarrassed, and the initiated slatting the floor with their tails in unison and their faces transfigured with a holy joy.
And it was the same with phrases. She would drag home a whole phrase, if it had a grand sound, and play it six nights and two matinees, and explain it a new way every time—which she had to, for all she cared for was the phrase; she wasn’t interested in what it meant, and knew those dogs hadn’t wit enough to catch her, anyway. Yes, she was a daisy! She got so she wasn’t afraid of anything, she had such confidence in the ignorance of those creatures. She even brought anecdotes that she had heard the family and the dinner-guests laugh and shout over; and as a rule she got the nub of one chestnut hitched onto another chestnut, where, of course, it didn’t fit and hadn’t any point; and when she delivered the nub she fell over and rolled on the floor and laughed and barked in the most insane way, while I could see that she was wondering to herself why it didn’t seem as funny as it did when she first heard it. But no harm was done; the others rolled and barked too, privately ashamed of themselves for not seeing the point, and never suspecting that the fault was not with them and there wasn’t any to see.
You can see by these things that she was of a rather vain and frivolous character; still, she had virtues, and enough to make up, I think. She had a kind heart and gentle ways, and never harbored resentments for injuries done her, but put them easily out of her mind and forgot them; and she taught her children her kindly way, and from her we learned also to be brave and prompt in time of danger, and not to run away, but face the peril that threatened friend or stranger, and help him the best we could without stopping to think what the cost might be to us. And she taught us not by words only, but by example, and that is the best way and the surest and the most lasting. Why, the brave things she did, the splendid things! she was just a soldier; and so modest about it—well, you couldn’t help admiring her, and you couldn’t help imitating her; not even a King Charles spaniel could remain entirely despicable in her society. So, as you see, there was more to her than her education.
- - -
Mark Twain is known as one of the great American authors, but I think that this little gem paints him as something more. Enjoy the weirdness and wry humor of "A Dog's Tale"
By Mark Twain
My father was a St. Bernard, my mother was a collie, but I am a Presbyterian. This is what my mother told me, I do not know these nice distinctions myself. To me they are only fine large words meaning nothing. My mother had a fondness for such; she liked to say them, and see other dogs look surprised and envious, as wondering how she got so much education. But, indeed, it was not real education; it was only show: she got the words by listening in the dining-room and drawing-room when there was company, and by going with the children to Sunday-school and listening there; and whenever she heard a large word she said it over to herself many times, and so was able to keep it until there was a dogmatic gathering in the neighborhood, then she would get it off, and surprise and distress them all, from pocket-pup to mastiff, which rewarded her for all her trouble. If there was a stranger he was nearly sure to be suspicious, and when he got his breath again he would ask her what it meant. And she always told him. He was never expecting this but thought he would catch her; so when she told him, he was the one that looked ashamed, whereas he had thought it was going to be she. The others were always waiting for this, and glad of it and proud of her, for they knew what was going to happen, because they had had experience. When she told the meaning of a big word they were all so taken up with admiration that it never occurred to any dog to doubt if it was the right one; and that was natural, because, for one thing, she answered up so promptly that it seemed like a dictionary speaking, and for another thing, where could they find out whether it was right or not? for she was the only cultivated dog there was. By and by, when I was older, she brought home the word Unintellectual, one time, and worked it pretty hard all the week at different gatherings, making much unhappiness and despondency; and it was at this time that I noticed that during that week she was asked for the meaning at eight different assemblages, and flashed out a fresh definition every time, which showed me that she had more presence of mind than culture, though I said nothing, of course. She had one word which she always kept on hand, and ready, like a life-preserver, a kind of emergency word to strap on when she was likely to get washed overboard in a sudden way—that was the word Synonymous. When she happened to fetch out a long word which had had its day weeks before and its prepared meanings gone to her dump-pile, if there was a stranger there of course it knocked him groggy for a couple of minutes, then he would come to, and by that time she would be away down wind on another tack, and not expecting anything; so when he’d hail and ask her to cash in, I (the only dog on the inside of her game) could see her canvas flicker a moment— but only just a moment—then it would belly out taut and full, and she would say, as calm as a summer’s day, “It’s synonymous with supererogation,” or some godless long reptile of a word like that, and go placidly about and skim away on the next tack, perfectly comfortable, you know, and leave that stranger looking profane and embarrassed, and the initiated slatting the floor with their tails in unison and their faces transfigured with a holy joy.
And it was the same with phrases. She would drag home a whole phrase, if it had a grand sound, and play it six nights and two matinees, and explain it a new way every time—which she had to, for all she cared for was the phrase; she wasn’t interested in what it meant, and knew those dogs hadn’t wit enough to catch her, anyway. Yes, she was a daisy! She got so she wasn’t afraid of anything, she had such confidence in the ignorance of those creatures. She even brought anecdotes that she had heard the family and the dinner-guests laugh and shout over; and as a rule she got the nub of one chestnut hitched onto another chestnut, where, of course, it didn’t fit and hadn’t any point; and when she delivered the nub she fell over and rolled on the floor and laughed and barked in the most insane way, while I could see that she was wondering to herself why it didn’t seem as funny as it did when she first heard it. But no harm was done; the others rolled and barked too, privately ashamed of themselves for not seeing the point, and never suspecting that the fault was not with them and there wasn’t any to see.
You can see by these things that she was of a rather vain and frivolous character; still, she had virtues, and enough to make up, I think. She had a kind heart and gentle ways, and never harbored resentments for injuries done her, but put them easily out of her mind and forgot them; and she taught her children her kindly way, and from her we learned also to be brave and prompt in time of danger, and not to run away, but face the peril that threatened friend or stranger, and help him the best we could without stopping to think what the cost might be to us. And she taught us not by words only, but by example, and that is the best way and the surest and the most lasting. Why, the brave things she did, the splendid things! she was just a soldier; and so modest about it—well, you couldn’t help admiring her, and you couldn’t help imitating her; not even a King Charles spaniel could remain entirely despicable in her society. So, as you see, there was more to her than her education.
- - -
Mark Twain is known as one of the great American authors, but I think that this little gem paints him as something more. Enjoy the weirdness and wry humor of "A Dog's Tale"
Migraination
By John Ogden
Phantom
TENSIONER - / - SPiNEMiND
-NAiL-
SHARP liquid spread~
- - -
John Ogden was conceived of a government form and a passing mailbox. He lives somewhere out in the woods of a rural land more akin to the fantasy realms of literature than real life, and his favorite dirt bikes will always be the broken ones.
By John Ogden
Phantom
TENSIONER - / - SPiNEMiND
-NAiL-
SHARP liquid spread~
- - -
John Ogden was conceived of a government form and a passing mailbox. He lives somewhere out in the woods of a rural land more akin to the fantasy realms of literature than real life, and his favorite dirt bikes will always be the broken ones.
Eternity in Tedium
By E.S. Wynn
When the fabric between realms caught fire, Dana was the only one who didn’t see it, didn’t feel it. While others were sucked violently into places that lay between or saw their very reality melt away in a dripping haze of mobius donuts and melting coffee cups, Dana saw only the letters and the numbers ticking across her computer screen, ordinary invoices handled and processed repetitively, one after another, one after another, one after another until the next stack came. While others stared, laughing hysterically at hands that bulged with alien color or cried out on the edge of hairy, sweaty abyssal gulfs, Dana’s fingers tapped away at the solid keys of the aging diehard computer that had lurked monolith-like in her office for as long as she could remember. Reality never cracked for her, never changed, even while the whole of reality folded in on itself and collapsed to a pinpoint of golden light, Dana continued to type, to review the numbers, perpetually tired but not exhausted, the clock on the wall ticking but never changing time. Even now, as the final moments of the universe approach like a steady tide, as the condensed nature of the heavens coalesces toward a hazy rebirth of colors and ethnic music and donuts and false prophets, Dana continues to type, glances up at the clock, sighs. Her day has only just begun.
- - -
E.S. Wynn can see the future. Maybe.
By E.S. Wynn
When the fabric between realms caught fire, Dana was the only one who didn’t see it, didn’t feel it. While others were sucked violently into places that lay between or saw their very reality melt away in a dripping haze of mobius donuts and melting coffee cups, Dana saw only the letters and the numbers ticking across her computer screen, ordinary invoices handled and processed repetitively, one after another, one after another, one after another until the next stack came. While others stared, laughing hysterically at hands that bulged with alien color or cried out on the edge of hairy, sweaty abyssal gulfs, Dana’s fingers tapped away at the solid keys of the aging diehard computer that had lurked monolith-like in her office for as long as she could remember. Reality never cracked for her, never changed, even while the whole of reality folded in on itself and collapsed to a pinpoint of golden light, Dana continued to type, to review the numbers, perpetually tired but not exhausted, the clock on the wall ticking but never changing time. Even now, as the final moments of the universe approach like a steady tide, as the condensed nature of the heavens coalesces toward a hazy rebirth of colors and ethnic music and donuts and false prophets, Dana continues to type, glances up at the clock, sighs. Her day has only just begun.
- - -
E.S. Wynn can see the future. Maybe.
Maladroit
By J. Bradley
Courting Blaze Fielding was easy. I cooed Whitney Houston's "I Will Always Love You" and her halter top fluttered to the floor. Blaze always liked to tease her hair high so I could weed the moans. I didn't mind wearing her Aqua Net like mittens after.
She was always picky about the where. Blaze hated bathrooms, how the tiled floors chewed checkerboards into her back. She didn't like bringing food into the mix so the kitchen was out. The thought of being caught rotted her lust so public places were out, too. It always came back to my daybed.
I waited until my little brother watched t.v. downstairs before I closed the door of our bedroom. I folded open the GamePro, held it steady in my left hand; I could see in Blaze's eyes how much she missed me. We were always careful to not let the bed springs bloom.
- - -
J. Bradley is the author of Dodging Traffic (Ampersand Books, 2009). He lives at iheartfailure.net.
By J. Bradley
Courting Blaze Fielding was easy. I cooed Whitney Houston's "I Will Always Love You" and her halter top fluttered to the floor. Blaze always liked to tease her hair high so I could weed the moans. I didn't mind wearing her Aqua Net like mittens after.
She was always picky about the where. Blaze hated bathrooms, how the tiled floors chewed checkerboards into her back. She didn't like bringing food into the mix so the kitchen was out. The thought of being caught rotted her lust so public places were out, too. It always came back to my daybed.
I waited until my little brother watched t.v. downstairs before I closed the door of our bedroom. I folded open the GamePro, held it steady in my left hand; I could see in Blaze's eyes how much she missed me. We were always careful to not let the bed springs bloom.
- - -
J. Bradley is the author of Dodging Traffic (Ampersand Books, 2009). He lives at iheartfailure.net.
The Death Dealer
W. Steven Pendleton
The Death Dealer lies in wait,
his knife a tool of fate.
Shadows hide his smiling face
as he watches his next case.
Judgement tickles the front of his mind,
sentence is passed, then signed.
The young mark, in a calm air of laziness,
scans the crowd with haughtiness.
Assassin eyes lock, he sets his course,
and he acts quickly without remorse.
Slithering through the crowd, the viper,
strikes without warning, like a sniper.
A splash of gore hits the ground,
the lad's insides lay all around.
His eyes and face register pure amazement
as he scans the crowd in appraisement.
His mouth opens into a silent scream
as "death" disappears, unseen.
Shadowed eyes lie hidden by cowl of cloak,
it always takes only one stroke.
The Death Dealer slowly leaves the scene,
his dagger and smile equally keen.
- - -
Bio: Well, besides his favorite past times Steven enjoys the sunsets he can see from his hillside home in southeastern idaho. His wife, four kids, two dogs, and Peaches and Cream the Cat, share a life of adventure and chaos. He enjoys telling his kids stories about the characters in his world Pendora.
W. Steven Pendleton
The Death Dealer lies in wait,
his knife a tool of fate.
Shadows hide his smiling face
as he watches his next case.
Judgement tickles the front of his mind,
sentence is passed, then signed.
The young mark, in a calm air of laziness,
scans the crowd with haughtiness.
Assassin eyes lock, he sets his course,
and he acts quickly without remorse.
Slithering through the crowd, the viper,
strikes without warning, like a sniper.
A splash of gore hits the ground,
the lad's insides lay all around.
His eyes and face register pure amazement
as he scans the crowd in appraisement.
His mouth opens into a silent scream
as "death" disappears, unseen.
Shadowed eyes lie hidden by cowl of cloak,
it always takes only one stroke.
The Death Dealer slowly leaves the scene,
his dagger and smile equally keen.
- - -
Bio: Well, besides his favorite past times Steven enjoys the sunsets he can see from his hillside home in southeastern idaho. His wife, four kids, two dogs, and Peaches and Cream the Cat, share a life of adventure and chaos. He enjoys telling his kids stories about the characters in his world Pendora.
The Sibilant Sin
By James Bloomfield
A turbulent tempest raged outside and, duvet pulled tight up to my chin, I listened to the eerie din; of whistling wind and lashing rain as it whipped my windowpane. With a flicker and a flutter my bedside lamp began to sputter. When in the trees outside a night-owl spoke, the feeling that the sound evoked, was a pang of fear I tried to quell but proved too stubborn and did swell.
Unaccountable and ungrounded; unexplainable and unfounded - needless to say I felt the fool; until my fear was further fueled by my sudden, certain intuition of a supernatural apparition.
All at once, into my midst, came a thing of myth and mist. A shape unclear and unclean; indistinct yet so obscene, that the screams that caught within my throat were so violent they caused me to choke. The darkness stole on tip-toed feet towards me cowering ‘neath my flimsy sheet.
The sibilant sin that sauntered in spread me wide and crawled within. Enmeshed itself within my flesh. Then, dear reader; burned with fever, my body was invaded, violated and pervaded. Made mad with terror I fought my best but this was a power I could not contest; the sickening sin in serpents’ skin spun its webs within my chest.
A helpless hostage held immobile; I could only panic while, in a fierce furor of fear, I felt his many tongues within my ear. Malign and oh so erudite; my choleric cleric spoke of many things that night. Everything that has been and will be. Saviors and scapegoats; monsters and messiahs. Guns, Gods and Governments. Our full story in all its gory, gruesome glory.
Listen closely; for this is what I learned...
- - -
BIO: James Bloomfield has been writing flash-fiction ever since a copy of Stanley Donwoods’ “Tachistoscope” introduced him to the style. He lives on the outskirts of London, England and is lucky enough to be in love with both his job as policeman and his flame haired fiancé for whom he writes.
By James Bloomfield
A turbulent tempest raged outside and, duvet pulled tight up to my chin, I listened to the eerie din; of whistling wind and lashing rain as it whipped my windowpane. With a flicker and a flutter my bedside lamp began to sputter. When in the trees outside a night-owl spoke, the feeling that the sound evoked, was a pang of fear I tried to quell but proved too stubborn and did swell.
Unaccountable and ungrounded; unexplainable and unfounded - needless to say I felt the fool; until my fear was further fueled by my sudden, certain intuition of a supernatural apparition.
All at once, into my midst, came a thing of myth and mist. A shape unclear and unclean; indistinct yet so obscene, that the screams that caught within my throat were so violent they caused me to choke. The darkness stole on tip-toed feet towards me cowering ‘neath my flimsy sheet.
The sibilant sin that sauntered in spread me wide and crawled within. Enmeshed itself within my flesh. Then, dear reader; burned with fever, my body was invaded, violated and pervaded. Made mad with terror I fought my best but this was a power I could not contest; the sickening sin in serpents’ skin spun its webs within my chest.
A helpless hostage held immobile; I could only panic while, in a fierce furor of fear, I felt his many tongues within my ear. Malign and oh so erudite; my choleric cleric spoke of many things that night. Everything that has been and will be. Saviors and scapegoats; monsters and messiahs. Guns, Gods and Governments. Our full story in all its gory, gruesome glory.
Listen closely; for this is what I learned...
- - -
BIO: James Bloomfield has been writing flash-fiction ever since a copy of Stanley Donwoods’ “Tachistoscope” introduced him to the style. He lives on the outskirts of London, England and is lucky enough to be in love with both his job as policeman and his flame haired fiancé for whom he writes.
In Billings
By Daniel Romo
Said he always thought God would come into his life when he was older—
But you didn’t. I don’t blame you. Standing with his back leaned against
the kitchen counter, he ate a big steak holding it in his calloused hands like
fresh kill. He licked his fingers and belched when he was finished. That was
last night in Billings. This morning he ate a bowl of Corn Flakes for breakfast
and laughed while soy milk trickled down and evaporated into his lavish,
rustic beard. Quite funny. Even his Labrador he called “Moats-art” got a
kick out of it, howling in tune to the man’s own amusement. How ‘bout that
boy? Hee hee hee... And at noon when perfectly parted hair, short-sleeved
Mormons knocked on his front door, he dove to the ground like he did when
he heard Vietcong thunder. That was forty years ago in Hanoi, and said,
Please God. Don’t let them see me. Hee hee hee...
- - -
Daniel Romo teaches high school Creative Writing, and lives in Long Beach, CA. He is an MFA candidate in poetry at Antioch University, and thinks gray sky the utmost inspiration. More of his writing can be found at danielromo.wordpress.com/ (Peyote Soliloquies)<
By Daniel Romo
Said he always thought God would come into his life when he was older—
But you didn’t. I don’t blame you. Standing with his back leaned against
the kitchen counter, he ate a big steak holding it in his calloused hands like
fresh kill. He licked his fingers and belched when he was finished. That was
last night in Billings. This morning he ate a bowl of Corn Flakes for breakfast
and laughed while soy milk trickled down and evaporated into his lavish,
rustic beard. Quite funny. Even his Labrador he called “Moats-art” got a
kick out of it, howling in tune to the man’s own amusement. How ‘bout that
boy? Hee hee hee... And at noon when perfectly parted hair, short-sleeved
Mormons knocked on his front door, he dove to the ground like he did when
he heard Vietcong thunder. That was forty years ago in Hanoi, and said,
Please God. Don’t let them see me. Hee hee hee...
- - -
Daniel Romo teaches high school Creative Writing, and lives in Long Beach, CA. He is an MFA candidate in poetry at Antioch University, and thinks gray sky the utmost inspiration. More of his writing can be found at danielromo.wordpress.com/ (Peyote Soliloquies)<
