Catcht Oot, by Ceinwen E Cariad Haydon

Yis grindle grinder drosses off
hindneath hyst silkun ballons.
Hym telt hystself,
Nay bodies peepwatched mun plezure,
mun rod encumbered by mun tinglers.
Yis grinder trust hyst portal keyed up tootall tite,
Mae, hym discollect hyst damen’s mudder.
Herst haft ansistin unt key, ket por emgenzees.
Wist na bell-warnen ou alarums, herst cum tryst-soft
yis ink-drenched nycht. Hersta optycks largen
mosecs avaunt his staffthix spurtles y floops.
Hersta cheekles flambé, y hersta gottenfort enteer
yis grinder ist hersta suna, bie wedvow ohdidohs.
Hersta limbles lythen, hersta cardo pinds y pomps
ast herst flicks y grinds yis enshamed grindle yute.

Ceinwen E Cariad Haydon
Ceinwen lives in Newcastle upon Tyne, UK, and writes short stories and poetry. She has been widely published in web magazines and in print anthologies. She graduated with an MA in Creative Writing from Newcastle University in 2017. She believes everyone’s voices counts.

 

The Rabbit by Barry Ergang

Once it was in raw November...or October? Can’t remember--
I was worn and badly wasted from a long day at the store
and I dozed off, no doubt drooling (I’m not kidding, I’m not fooling:
work that day was really grueling--puling patrons, I footsore),
while my love and her big brother called on friends they’d seen before.
        ’Twas just a social, heretofore.

Next day my love told me, “Honey, I am gonna get a bunny.
My brother’s friends raise troops of rabbits, troops enough to make a corps!”
I stared at her, my vision’s habit, then declared, “There’ll be no rabbit.”
At that she struck my rib--she jabbed it--elbowed it till it was sore.
“It’s cute! They’ll give it free,” she cried. “You know that bunnies I adore.”
        Thus my plea she did ignore.

I bound the rib and, vocally heated, gazed at love and still entreated,
reminding her that rabbits breed, they spawn like grunion on the shore.
“If with pet you must cohabit, why’s it have to be a rabbit?
Why not sea-life? Hermit crabs fit...Tuna! You’ll get albacore!”
Her look spoke volumes, drilling through me, but from curses she forbore.
        “I’ll have one bunny. Say no more.”

Hence in a December snowy, when the wind was cold and blowy,
my love and I betook ourselves, to sate her antic leporine chore,
to brother’s friends named John and Tony, pleasant guys and never phony,
whilst I continued to be groany right up to their house’s door.
Up the icy path we went to house with windows rimed with hoar.
        My love was smiling smiles galore.

Then inside we were admitted, where John and Tony’s two dogs flitted--
Trev and Raleigh welcomed us with canine capers at the fore.
How they frolicked, Trev and Raleigh, greeting party ever jolly,
eager to begin the folly that brought my love back to their door.
They leaped about, devotion dogged, licking hands for their encore.
        “Dogs!” our hosts snapped. “Calm restore!”

John and Tony soon besought us, and our custom long had taught us,
to take refreshment, eat and drink--and neither grub nor glass forswore.
A tray of snacks they then extended and, lest they should be offended,
to our dinner we appended nosh and beverage furthermore.
“Have some coffee?” they inquired. “Some tea, perhaps?--Here, have a S’more!”
        My love craved harey herbivore.

So belowground we were taken, to the cellar not forsaken
by our hosts who here bred rabbits--here, I say, not Baltimore.
My love rushed forward, ever eager (penned-up creatures do intrigue her)
to rabbit cage with space so meager over which her heart did pour,
and snatched the fair and radiant rabbit whose legs jerked like a semaphore.
        We named her Twitchley, not Lenore.

Well, by gum! by gosh! dagnabbit! My love finally got her rabbit,
and with it home we hied to give it warmth from weather’s biting frore.
There encaged the bunny huddled; my love’s soul was liquid puddled,
for with quaking, nervous bunny she’d have cuddled on the floor.
“I’m your mother, baby,” she said. “Come to me!” she did implore.
        ’Twouldn’t be for two days more.

Soon accustomed and ensconced in her own room--here, not Wisconsin--
Twitchley romped and rocketed around the place--how she did soar!
She’d hide at length behind some clutter; love and I would often mutter
that she’d speed as slick as butter to hideyhole behind the door
where we discovered heaps of fibers from the carpet that she tore.
        She gnawed the carpet, never floor.

She was calm--the Bunlai Lama--distant from the human drama,
and when we moved her to the kitchen she made not a single roar.
Apples, pears and hay she munched, or tasty carrot neatly crunched--
within her cage intently hunched (the cage was made in Singapore)--
ate her peanuts, cherries, popcorn, lettuce that she gently tore--
        ate just enough but never more.

Next she spied her stuffed pink piglet, shook her scut--oh Lord, did wiggle it!--
leaped from cage and circled toy quite like a fearless picador.
Then she mounted, vibrant, humping--clutching, avid, swiftly pumping;
little rabbit feet a-thumping, rump a-bump ’gainst kitchen floor--
chieftainess atop her subject, dominant, sans pinafore,
        as dainty as a stevedore.

Twitchley’s life? A bowl of cherries or, I should say, bunny berries;
with them daily she got richer, pile by pile beside the door.
Satisfied from all her humping, Twitch withdrew and squatted, dumping.
Once again I started grumping to my love about the chore
of picking up fresh rabbit poop that unimproved the room’s decor.
        She sighed, grabbed broom and swept the floor.

Oy, gevult! They kept on coming, pouring from that rabbit’s plumbing
like cluster bombs, a mass so vast--enough to sink Corregidor!
While I trod there, nearly snapping, again I heard the faintest tapping
as of rabbit slyly crapping pellets on the kitchen floor.
“My love,” said I, “my darling...honey--get a vacuum, I implore.”
        From cork suggesting I forbore.

Thrice while love and I were talking on the phone, our Twitch went stalking,
saw the line connecting handset to the base and then made war:
chewed the wire--with teeth she crumped it--hopped away, the little strumpet.
Sudden silence made me trumpet, “You there? Can’t hear you anymore!”
Thus my love picked up extension, our discussion to restore.
        Quoth the rabbit, “Sever cord.”

Yes, I know I seem curmudgeon, that my story’s full of dudgeon,
but watching my love hugging Twitch became contentment’s metaphor.
Their snuggle sessions were terrific--love with smile so beatific,
the kitchen chamber so pacific as rabbit she caressed and more:
crooned Twitch nicknames, sang weird songs--my comic love, the troubadour.
        My love and Twitchley I adore.

So, you see, for all my drab wit, I too came to love that rabbit.
Like my love she is the sweetest daughter mother ever bore.
Whenever worries had me sweating, I’d engage in bunny-petting
and sure enough my awful fretting sailed the creek without an oar.
I had my love and Twitch to steer me from disquiet’s roiling shore.
        Precious angels--evermore.

Former Managing Editor of Futures Mystery Anthology Magazine and former First Senior Editor of Mysterical-e, Barry Ergang’s poetry, fiction and non-fiction have appeared in numerous publications, print and electronic. A Derringer Award winner from the Short Mystery Fiction Society, some of his work is available at Smashwords and Amazon.

 

Don Juan Between The Cantos by Marcus Bales

Juan wandered off into the wood
Before he broke his fast or said his prayers.
He followed hunting paths until he stood
Disoriented, breathing morning airs,
And watching luscious Little Red Riding Hood
Come jiggling down the path, and all his cares
Of finding some way back to camp were gone.
He contemplated what found him at dawn.

He smiled and then most eloquently bowed.
She curtsied “A wolf! But you’re not scary, though.”
“I’m wounded you’d say such a thing out loud —
You shouldn’t …” but she cut him off mid-flow:
“My grandma told me all about your crowd:
You’re ‘Mad, bad and dangerous to know’.”
Taken aback, well, what could Juan do
But try to tell her that it wasn’t true.

He spoke a while to make her understand
He posed no threat, and said that they were done
With their encounter. He smiled, politely bland,
And said he’d treat her like a novice nun,
And go another way. She took her hand,
Til then inside the basket, out with a gun,
And said, “Oh, no! The Big Bad Wolf can’t fail!
You’re gonna eat me, just like in the tale.”

She poked him to a shady clearing where
She said they wouldn’t be disturbed, and spread
A blanket down. She gave a saucy stare,
Took off her hood and dress, and smiled and said
That she could see his interest growing there.
She had him strip to see its pulsing red,
Then put away the gun, kicked off her drawers,
And said “I knew those tales were metaphors!”

An hour later they lay side by side
Breathing hard and covered in their sweat
Juan thought her wholly satisfied,
And so she was til she began to pet
And kiss him trying to arouse his pride
And get again the gift girls want to get.
She shook his floppiness; he writhed a bit;
She frowned when not much sturdy came of it.

“What the hell is going on out here?”
The deep and manly voice was very loud,
Its owner stepped into the clearing. Fear
At once so shrank the gift that was half proud
Inside her fist that she could only jeer
“Apparently my wolf thinks three’s a crowd,”
She tossed his pants to him and turned away,
And cooed “Perhaps the woodman wants to play.”

She lifted up her ankles wide apart.
The woodman dropped his trousers with his axe,
And Juan, grateful, heavy around the heart,
Admired her as she embraced the facts —
And Riding Hood herself gave a little start
At what would surely plumb her to the max.
A certain focus entered their proceedings —
And Juan crept away beyond their heedings.

It wasn’t long that Juan had the blues
Because he had, before he’d done his creep,
Enriched his clothing with his shirt and shoes
And took the basket, too, without a peep.
All he had to do from there was choose
A path to camp to get some needed sleep –
And leave behind the glade that now was rife
With pleasured cries from she who’d saved his life.

Although, of course, he also had the gun
Where Riding Hood had hidden it again.
Ideal for when you’re sort of on the run,
A thing that happens every now and then
Whenever the pursuit of having fun
Has landed you in some vice-ridden den
Where “Sorry” and a smile at toes you step on
Will only get you by if you’ve a weapon.

But out there in the wood no den of vice
Was likely to be found. Instead his fears
Are though he’s dressed and armed he’s twice
As lost. But it’s not long until he hears
The trickle of a stream and in a trice
The sounds of making love don’t reach his ears
As, though his downstream walking gets him damp,
It isn’t long until he’s back at camp.

And oh! the wild adventure he can’t tell!
For who’d believe that even Juan’s luck
Would run to having nubile maids compel
Him in the middle of the woods to fuck
Them senseless, then they save his life as well?
It sounded like the sheerest jive and shuck,
So Juan told a tale so highly glossed
It sounded like he’d simply gotten lost.

Not much is known about Marcus Bales except he lives in Cleveland, Ohio, and his poems have not appeared in Poetry Magazine or The New Yorker.