Tales of the Fiction House

No. 105: AN OCTOPUS GARDEN, PART I

Posted on September 21, 2014 by Raji Singh

Our Founder, James Thaddeus “Blackjack” Fiction
‘Tell our stories, Raji. If you don’t, it will be as if we never lived.’
These whispering cries of joy and sorrow rise from the bookshelves and portraits in the Fiction House.
I cannot refuse.
(Artwork enhancements by: Joseph Rintoul)

Raji Singh’s Lore of the Lindian Woods

Once upon a time…

A powerful earthquake causes a violent tsunami. Jet ocean waves wrench a toddling octopus from her happy cove. Her eight arms whirl and whip like seaweed in a whirlpool. Her seafloor family reaches for her, barely touch her tentacles, unable to hold her safely in their suction cup grasp.

“Goodbye, Ollie,” is all she hears midst the crush of the ocean’s might. If only Ollie knew the rest of what they say. She would have hope. “We won’t stop searching for you, Dear Ollie.” Sadly, never again would she see Mother, Father, Sister, and Brother. How could she ever find them in the unending seascape, or they her? Never again would she look upon their family’s underwater garden – bursting with the deepest colors of purple, pink, and yellow – tended by seahorses stabled in their coral corrals.

Tens of thousands of miles Ollie travels, swept by the tsunami’s powerful force. She survives by swiping up fish that skim past her. Finally, she washes up hundreds of feet onto sun-scorched land not far from the Lindian Woods. She skids to a muddy stop. A sickening odor clogs her nostrils. The likes of she’s never sniffed in the ocean. It is the smell of fish, but a rancid odor – so not anything compared to fresh ocean fish. Ollie’s in a garbage dump.

She looks around. So ugly compared to her beautiful starfish twinkling waters. She looks up. So blue, white and bright! So different from the sea’s dark ceiling. Poppy Sol winks at her. Ollie squints, shielding her eyes.

She hears a familiar cree, cree. Circling overhead are gulls like those that hover over the sea. At her home, they swoop down to catch live fish that swim to the surface. Here in this strange place they pluck up dead fish. ‘Oh please. Don’t let a flock of them seize me and carry me away to be their dinner.’ Helpless, she cries. Out of the familiarity of water, she knows she will soon die. Tears streak her face and fall on a passing spider parade.

Her survival depends on these crawly, skinny creatures, the spiders. Ollie has never before seen the likes of them, and they haven’t encountered her kind. They are her eight leg compatriots of the land, kindred spirits.

Aghast, never having seen such a large version of their selves, Queen Spider from atop an empty tomato soup can proclaims an edict to her hundreds of dump subjects. “This visitor must be protected from Poppy Sol’s heat. See how sad and sickly she is becoming. Quick, we must cover her head.”

An army of spiders spies a discarded goldfish bowl. They heave and hoe it up a rubbish hill and drop it, open side down onto the octopus. Plunk! It helmets her head. Ollie’s tears come so hard they fill the bowl: Just enough so she feels at home.

Though Ollie weeps, already she is losing some of her sickly look. Queen Spider says, “She is obviously a creature of the water. We must immerse her, and very soon.”

A curious squirrel hears the arachnid chatter and leaps from a mountain of discarded refrigerators and stoves. He shouts. “There is a discarded tank full of water on the far side of the dump. But it is covered. I do not think the opening is big enough for her to enter.”

Ollie smiles for the first time while land bound. She nods proudly to the squirrel. She knows about a fact that every resident of the sea realizes – an octopus can squeeze through the thinnest of cracks. Ollie says, “It will suit me well, my furry friend. Lead the way.”

A new parade forms. Squirrel is in the lead. Ollie, and her hundreds of eight-legged passengers riding on her eight long arms, follows. Snake, lizard, skunk, and raccoon join in as they promenade past mound after mound of debris. When they arrive at the clear plastic tank, the spiders disembark. All watch amazed as Ollie contorts her rubbery torso and maneuvers, squirms and slithers, seeming magically, into a sheet thin as paper. She slips into the tank. She smiles out at her admirers. To bolster her spirits she dreams she is swimming through unending gardens. She is crowded but refreshed.

But this is no life for a creature that will grow more than ten times bigger than she is now!

And listen. In the distance, you can hear the rumbling sound of the caterpillars and heavy debris burying equipment as they move a little closer, every day, to Ollie’s liquid sanctuary on land.

Join us next week for Ollie’s thrilling escape – to an Octopus garden beyond belief.

(Join me every Sunday night at the Fiction House, your place for short story, lark, whimsy, and merriment. Meet the many residents as I archive their lives and centuries of adventures. You can read of their origins in my novel TALES OF THE FICTION HOUSE. They are completely different stories. My novel is available at Amazon, and Barnes and Noble.)

Posted in archeo-apologist, Children's stories, Fiction House Publishing, humor, Short stories, Whimsey, writing | Tagged children's tales, Foundlings, humor, imagination, Lindian Woods, new short stories, Octopus, Octopus Garden, Poppy Sol, Raji Singh, short story, spider story, survival, Tales of the Fiction House, whimsey | Leave a comment

No. 104: OF SUPERMOONS, SCUPPERNONGS AND SUMMER

Posted on September 13, 2014 by Raji Singh

by Raji Singh

The blissful harvest of all our autumn experiences yet-to-come: Quietly it approaches. I hope your fall is bountiful. The yield from the summer of 2014, a blaring brass band of the warmest of memories, preserves in the hearts of the Singh family. We will enjoy its bounty as years pass.

Almost every night of the 2014 summer, the starry sky and twinkling fireflies light our pathway from the Fiction House and into the Lindian Woods. We take strolls – just as millions of other families do – after supper and before dessert. For many the repast is watermelon, ice cream, or pie. For my wife Tenille, our two young children and I, it is Scuppernong grapes. They grow wild near the pond.

This is a time of evening for us to converse about our day while we feast on the tantalizing fruit of the vine. Our senses bombard us at once. The sweet pulp of the Scuppernongs plays gently acrosss our taste buds. Teniile smiles and says. “It’s like a piano concerto and your tongue is the keyboard.”

The tart of the grapes’ thick skin, as its scent wafts into our nostrils, mixing with the damp of the Lindian Woods, seems to calm us. “Feel your chest,” Cathy says, putting her small hands to her blouse. “It makes your heart beat soft and slow, as if you’ve entered deep slumber.”

Welcome to the Lindian Woods
(Image ©2014 Raji Singh

Who can hear the squish of the grape you bite into, against the cacophony of nature? The Frog Brothers, Frer and Brer, from their bachelor lily pad romance the lovely Toad Sisters on the shore with their ribbit, ribbit chorus. The Ten Otters of the pond gently slap the water as they stare skyward. Turt is trumpeting a Satchmo rift. Crickets come out from hiding under leaves and join his serenade.

Though the breeze is slight, there are small waves on the pond. Thurston jumps about excitedly. “Hey, look everybody. The grasshoppers are surfing on the water.” We look at the waterworld. The grasshoppers are actually ‘Hanging Ten” (or however many a hopper has to hang).

Just then, all becomes eerily quiet as a broad shadow passes above us. Thurston squeezes to Tenille, probably remembering a similar occurrence in some little-boy nightmare. Cathy pulls me close. I feel her tremble and I grasp her.

Suddenly we hear a shout. “Look up, you Singhs.”

Instinctively we do. Wheh! Relief. It is Captain Polly flying overhead, and not some vulture-like apparition.

Cathy calls. “Why did you scare us, Captain Polly?”

Captain Polly doesn’t answer. She squawks loud. “Aaark. See how close Luny Mum is, Singhs. She wants to say hello. In a big way.”

All the creatures of the Lindian Woods look skyward. Our eyes follow their glance and we leave our own little world, and our own worldly concerns. We enter the celestial wonder.

There is the moon, bigger than any of us ever remember seeing her. Her beams overwhelm the Lindian Woods, and turn the pond sheet white, like milk. We look at her through the clusters of grapes we hold, and it is as if she is gowned in the most beautiful shades of purple and red. We cannot speak. We can only enjoy the spectacle of light prisms our orb provides us.

I can almost hear Luny Mum speak to me as when I was an orphan foundling and had only she, Turt and Poppy Sol for my friends. “I am glad you brought your family to see me, Raji. From now on, I’ll help look after them, as I did you.” Luny Mum and Poppy Sol are the protectors of orphan foundlings, until the time we are taken in by humans who will look after us.

Of course, science disputes the magic of the moment I am feeling. We are seeing a Supermoon, the first of three this summer. Technically, my Luny Mum is a “perigee moon’. Mum is massive, and extra bright, because she is about 50,000 kilometers closer than her regular full moon self, an “apogee”. All science aside, to me Luny Mum and Poppy Sol are living celestial entities, just two of the few friends any orphan foundling creates in imagination so we are not alone in a cold world.

My perigee Mum would visits many times in the summer of 2014.

She watches with Tenille and I as we see Thurston discovering the joys os spitting Scuppernong seeds. “He’ll shoot my eye out if he achieves any more distance or accuracy,” she laughs. She eyes Cathy squeezing Scuppernong juice into a pitcher of lemonade. “Mmm! I can just taste it, Raji.” Tenille pours the mix into glasses, which we raise.

“”Here’s to Luny Mum,” we toast. “May everyone appreciate her brightness tonight!” I remember seeing on TV, that people all over the world could see our Super Mum – from outside the Taj Mahal, atop Eifel Tower, alongside the Pyramids at Giza, beside the Great Wall of China – all they’d have to do is look up.

Our Friend Calico
(©2013 Image by Joseph Rintoul)

One night our butterfly friend Calico flitted by to visit us. She seemed to hover in the sky for hours. Luny Mum’s brightness shone through the multi-colors of her wings. The Lindian Woods and pond became an efferverscent rainbow glow. The eyes of all the Woodland creatures turned from red to orange to blue to green and back, over and again. Anyone lucky enough to be moseying the Woods at that time would have been treated to a light display more dazzling than any Fourth of July fireworks show.

Thank you Luny Mum, for a summer the Singhs and billions of others will never forget.

Posted in archeo-apologist, Fiction House Publishing, humor, Uncategorized, Whimsey, writing | Tagged Captain Polly, fable, Frog brothers, humor, imagination, James Thaddeus 'Blackjack' Fiction, Kansas summertime, Luny Mum, Mark Rogers, new short stories, Raji Singh, Scuppernongs, short stories, short story, summer, summer delight, Super Moon, Tales of the Fiction House, Turt, whimsey | Leave a comment

No. 103: THE TOAD SISTERS REFINE THE JUICE OF THE STUMP

Posted on September 7, 2014 by Raji Singh

Raji Singh’s Lore of the Lindian Woods

What is it that Tillie and Ginger, the Toad Sisters enjoy most in all the world? Gathering fruit, and giving it to the sickly creatures of the Lindian Woods. Their kind act helps so many animals and reptiles survive.

One bright and breezy day while crouching on a Lily pad in the pond Ginger Toad ribbits to Sister Tillie,

“Tillie my dear. We have made almost all the critters healthy. Now they do their own fruit collecting. What will become of the extra fruit we’ve put aside? It would be sad if it rotted.”

Tillie scratches her head with her gangly leg and wonders. “Indeed Ginger. We mustn’t waste.” Her movements make the rubbery pad sway like a small sailboat and creates gentle waves that make slap, slap sounds against cattails growing near the shore.

Ginger sniffs at the sweet pungency of apples, plums, and pears wafting from the fruit they’ve banked in their secure vault of thorn berry bushes. Ginger thinks aloud, “An early freeze, an ice storm, or a flood might come. What if we could save the fruit for when there is none to be found, Sister?”

Tillie puts a deep freeze on that notion. “But the fruit has already fallen, so it wouldn’t last.”

“Hmm. You are right Ginger. But I know there must be a way.”

“Do not worry Tillie. There is a way. And we will find it.”

Not long after this Lily pad meeting of Toad minds, an event would happen that shows them how. It would forever change life in Lindian Woods.

Welcome to the Lindian Woods
(Image ©2014 Raji Singh)

It begins with Little Fox. She stoops over and laps water from a hollow stump. The poor vixen makes a dreadful scrunched face and a horrendous yowling cry, “Yech, phew!” She spits it out and licks her soft brown fur to rid herself of the taste. This doesn’t work and she begins to cry.

The Toad Sisters hear their friend from across the Lindian Woods and come hopping to see what is wrong. When they approach Little Fox, they see the stump is full of cherries, apples, and mulberries dropped from nearby trees. Most of it is soft and mushy, barely edible by any creature. Ginger sips the water. “Aach, it’s awful.”

Tillie carefully balances on the stump’s rotting edge, and scoops everything out. “Do not worry Little Fox,” Tillie assures. “After a while the bad taste will wear off.”

Ginger tenderly pets the soft fur of the tearful vixen. “Rain will come, Little Fox. It will dilute your stump water so it tastes good again.”

Little Fox sniffs and smiles. “Thank you Tillie. Thank you Ginger.”

The Toad Sisters go about their way on this merry day. They see their friend, Calico, sipping from another hollow stump. She flits away gleefully, waving, “Try this, Sisters! I’m sure you will like it!”

My Pet Calico (©2013 Image by Joseph Rintoul)

The Toad Sister’s Friend, Calico
(©2013 Image by Joseph Rintoul)

The sisters hop to the stump. Fruit has been floating in it for a long time and smells temptingly sweet. It is hot in the Woods. Tillie dips her back leg in and uses it to wet her face. Some of the juice drips to her mouth. “Mmm!” She sweeps her long, skinny tongue across the water. “It is delicious, Dear Sister. Try some.”

Ginger leans over to the water and drinks.

And drinks.

Her eyes light up and sparkle. She starts feeling woozy. Her head feels lighter than it ever has. She begins walking crooked, and hopping crooked. Still, she leans over the stump and drinks even more. She feels the beginning of a headache so she stops. “I’ve got it, Sister Tillie! I know how we can use the extra fruit so it lasts an ever so long time.” She licks her lips. “All the hollow stumps in the Lindian Woods: We fill them with fruit and berries. We add herbs and roots. When it rains, VOILA! Our special stump juice is slowly brewed.”

Excited, Tillie adds. “Raccoons can be our stump guards. Young animals can drink only from certain stumps, where the fruit mix hasn’t been in as long. So their juice isn’t strong.”

Ginger quickly nods. “And adults, ones such as you my sweet Sister, are limited to how much of the stronger drink they are allowed.”

The sisters clasp stump juice covered hands and shake to seal their partnership.

Thus begins the Toad Sisters brewing of the highly prized beverage all those of the Lindian Woods call “Toad Sisters Stump Juice.”

A Perfect Vessel for Making Stump Juice
(Photo by Mark Rogers, 2014)

Ginger and Tillie always glue the words, via twig letters attached by leaf paste to the side of each stump, “For Medicinal Purposes Only.”

Posted in Children's stories, Fiction House Publishing, humor, Short stories, Uncategorized, Whimsey, writing | Tagged folk cures, humor, imagination, Lindian Woods, new short stories, Raji Singh, short stories, short story, stump juice, Tales of the Fiction House, Toad Sisters, whimsey | Leave a comment

No. 102: LABOR’S DAY

Posted on August 30, 2014 by Raji Singh

by Raji Singh (editor, Fiction House Publishing)

“…he died at age 52,” reports the network anchor, breaking the news of the death of….“A successful business person, he was known to proudly brag of working 16 hours a day, usually 6 to 7 days a week. Doctors report he died of sudden…

“Associates say, ‘He worked himself to death’. It’s reported his personal net worth exceeds one billion dollars.”

“Jack died doing what he loved most,” says his widow as her face comes on the screen briefly. “Making money.”

***

“I believe she was smiling just a little, when she said that, don’t you, Raji?” Tenille says playfully, as she comes from the kitchen and turns off the TV. “’He worked himself to death.’ They never say, ‘He took-it-easy’d himself to death,’ hmm Raji.”

I smile. “I knew him.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“Not well. But enough to know he never took a break from the money chase. He was always pestering me, trying to buy one of my businesses. Just so he could turn around and sell it. I overheard a conversation at a restaurant between him and his wife. She kept telling him, ‘Slow down, Jack.’ He was on the phone through their entire meal. He obviously didn’t hear her.”

Tenille sits beside me on the couch, brushes her fingers across my cheek, and kisses my mouth. “I’m glad you’re not like that anymore, Raji.”

“Well, I was never quite like Jack. Still, you and the children changed me.”

Tenille’s josh, “They never say, ‘He took-it-easy’d himself to death,” is something I agree with wholeheartedly. It’s a sentiment I’m certain most, maybe all my ancestors here at the Fiction House practiced.

“Fortunately, it does not appear, mine sweet druzhyna husbant Raji, you will be featured in a news story like that anytime soon, eh?” Tenille is mimicking, kindly, my Russian immigrant great grandmother, Shelva Fiction. Tenille knew her very well. (I wish I had known G – Gra’ma Shelva. I didn’t, growing up so far away from her.)

Shelva’s Lighthearted Friend, Calico
(©2013 Image by Joseph Rintoul)

Shelva was always involved, fully, with life every moment of her over 100 years. Her thousands of stories, many of which we’ve been publishing at Fiction House, certainly prove it.

Tenille imitates in a loving way the odd little Muscovite sayings Shelva incorporated into her ‘Amerika talk’.

“I learn English; Russian steppes by steppes. The consonants of North and South Amerika, they are an ocean away from the consonants of Asia and Europe. That distance – it is good. Because, then there is no worry about the Czar’s Cossack butchers disemvoweling you.”

This is what Shelva’s ‘husbant’, her sweet druzhyna, said when George Bernard Shaw published Pygmalion. “My Fair Lady, Shelva. It wasn’t long before she was speaking English as well as Professor Higgins, and writing like Shaw in never-ending journals.”

Shelva and Jack: I wonder if they had anything at all in common. Jack made money, and at age 52 that money made his widow smile, slightly. Shelva at over double that age was still traveling, still helping raise children, still helping fellow Muscovites to freedom, still writing of past, present and yet to come experiences that thousands would come to read. So many ‘stills’ for Shelva. She was always smiling.

I don’t think, of all the times I saw Jack, I ever saw him smile.

(Join me every Sunday night at the Fiction House, your place for short story, lark, whimsy, and merriment. Read more about Shelva and meet the many residents as I archive their lives and centuries of adventures. You can read their origins in my novel TALES OF THE FICTION HOUSE, but that’s a different story. It’s available at Amazon, and Barnes and Noble.)

Posted in archeo-apologist, Fiction House Publishing, humor, satire, Short stories, Uncategorized, Whimsey, writing | Tagged humor, imagination, Labor Day, making money, new short stories, Raji Singh, relaxation, Shelva Fiction, short stories, Tales of the Fiction House, Tenille Fiction, whimsey, workaholic | Leave a comment

No. 102 : THE FROG BROTHERS FIRST CRUSH (a tale of youth)

Posted on August 22, 2014 by Raji Singh

Raji Singh’s Lore of the Lindian Woods

Since barely past being tadpoles Frer and Brer, the Frog Brothers have liked the little Toad Sisters. Many frog friends advise,

“Keep to your side of the pond, Brer and Frer.”

Brer and Frer do not listen. One night when they are big enough, they paddle to the opposite riverbank of the Lindian Woods pond. They call to the Toad Sisters. “Ribbet. Ribbet. Join us on our lily pads built for two. Just follow the star beams of love in our eyes.”

The gangly green Sisters giggle to each other. “Frer and Brer are so handsome. Oh how their emerald skin sparkles in moon glow. And see how quickly they catch flies.” The Sisters wink at each other. Then “PLOP”, they hop in the water and swim out.

They, too, receive advice… from Toads. “Keep to your side of the pond, Dear ones.”

They pay no attention.

Frer and Brer get on their knees, and in a gentle frog-ly way, help the girls onto their slick lily pads. Inconspicuously, with gangly legs the Brothers reach and pull the two plants into one large bachelor pad. Brer echoes Frer. “My Cheri.” “What lovely eyes you have.” They imitate older frogs they’ve seen.

The sisters turn shyly away. They pretend to snap up bugs on the pond’s surface with their long tongues. Each tries to conceal their deep breathing in of the Brothers bold, sweet scent of the pond that perfumes them.

“How agile your movements are,” says Brer.

“It’s easy for us,” a Sister says.

“Unless there be just one bug,” laughs the other. Then we risk our tongues twining and tangling.”

Brer laughs too. “What a sight that would be.” With their own skinny tongues, the Brothers try to imitate such a thing happening. They hope the Toad Sisters might join in the fun.

The Sisters don’t. But they smile. They find Frer and Brer nice, and funny.

The brothers show the Sisters how they can rub their legs, like crickets. Then they breathe slow, imitating fluttery moth sounds.

Frer and Brer are so happy that they leap into the air. They slap hands then bounce on their pads. Throughout the evening, they sing sweetly about life in the pond. The Sisters join in.

All four of them agree. “What a good time!”

A loud croak vibrates from the Woods. It is the girls’ folks. “Sisters. It is time for bug snacks before bed.”

“They probably think we’re playing on the shore. We must go.”

The Brothers look sad. Their heads droop. Frer asks timidly, “Can we see you again?”

The Sisters push out their tongues and barely brush Brer and Frer’s faces with the tips. Then they wink and smile before leaping into the pond. “We had fun tonight.”

Yes, the Toad Sisters like them, but the Sisters are young, and as many girls know, many frogs need to be kissed before you find a prince. The Toad sisters aren’t searching for their pond prince just yet.

“Maybe someday we’ll be more than friends,” they croak to the Frog Brothers as they swim back to the shore. “But not for now Frer, Brer.”

The Frogs are sad, but hopeful. “Ribbet, ribbet. “That someday will come,” they agree.

* * *

As time passes, many female frogs bat their eyes at the Frog Brothers on warm nights. They would tempt the Brothers, with flies and mosquitoes they’d offer from the tips of their tongues. Brer and Frer would sing with them on hollow logs. Sometimes the Brothers were certain these were the sweet-frogs for them.

Alas, days would go by, and the Brothers interests return to youthful pursuits like learning the many ways of catching insects with their sneaky tongues. Or, seeing how far and high they can leap without bumping into other creatures. And soon, thoughts of the Toad Sisters again fill their thoughts. Then they leap into the pond and head for a lily pad on the other side – ever hopeful.

Welcome to the Lindian Woods
(Image ©2014 Raji Singh

Posted in archeo-apologist, Children, Children's stories, Fiction House Publishing, humor, satire, Short stories, Whimsey, writing | Tagged bad love advice, Children's story, children's tales, falling in love, first love, Frog brothers, humor, imagination, Lindian Woods, Lore of the Lindian Wood, new short stories, Raji Singh, short stories, short story, Tales of the Fiction House, young children's story | 1 Comment

No. 101: THE LEGEND OF THE SCARLET TONGUED, BLUE MOUTH DEMONS

Posted on August 17, 2014 by Raji Singh

I am James Thaddeus ‘Blackjack’ Fiction – a true Fiction. Typhoon tears me from my parents. I alone survive. I become an orphaned foundling, taken in by new loving parents, Dr. Ben and Indira Singh. Now, I am Raji. These are my found and foundling tales.

School’s started for some, just around the corner for others, and forever out for many. Here’s a school daze reminiscing that nearly scared the “be-jeezers” out of me.

*****

From the sidewalk, you believe you hear terror in the voices of the Aru brothers. When you peek through their bookshop door, propped to allow in the morning breeze, you think you see fright on their faces.

“Never eavesdrop, Raji. It is impolite,” Mother often tells you.

You wish you had heeded her admonition. Nightmares, sweat drenching sleepless nights, and a discombobulated first month of school result from what you overhear. The street traffic is noisy. So you make out just pieces of the conversation.

“…They may well overrun all Cincinnati, those, those…”

Ari Aru finishes his brother, Sari’s sentence. “…Those scarlet tongued, blue mouths…”

Though it is still warm August, Ari and Sari’s next words freeze you, as if you’re a January snowman.

“…4^th grade boys…”

“…turning them into…”

“…so hideous, so scary…”

You clench your school lunch sack and remind yourself, ‘You are a 4^th grader, Raji.’

“Hi Raji,” Ari shouts, thawing me.

“Hello, Mr. Aru.”

“Come in Raji. The book your father ordered arrived. We’ll wrap it up for you to give him.”

Even though you’ve known these bearded and ancient Lindian neighborhood uncles as long as you can remember, suddenly it seems you don’t know them. You hesitate entering their shop. The always-there baggy, blue-black puffs beneath their eyes, seeming gentle smiles, suddenly appear sinister.

“Do not just stand there, Raji.” Ari takes you by one shoulder. Sari seizes the other. These friendly bookish confines you’ve been in hundreds of times, becomes a trapping lair. They lead you to the counter. The business has an out of place scent, burning saffron. Strange chants, in a Lindian dialect you do not understand, emanate from tinny speakers in a back room.

The brothers dress in white cotton dhoti shirts and multi-color silk pants. They keep, oddly, to the old world Lindian ways. They chew teeth reddening beetle nut, yet worship Goddess Nardesha who forbade the addictive habit. They speak perfect English, yet stock only Lindian language books and newspapers. These things, that for you had been ‘just the way the brothers are’, now are ominous.

You begin believing – If you were a stranger passing through our neighborhood…those red teeth, and blue-black under-eyes…you’d keep right on going, lickety-split.

“What grade are you in this year, Raj?”

You stammer. “Four…fourth.”

“Hmm!” Ari looks to Sari and back to me. “Well you be very careful, Raji. Because boys your age…”

You don’t hear the rest of what he says, because you grab the package, and run out. You’re just sure you hear Ari say to Sari,

“I just hope our Raji doesn’t become one of those scarlet tongued, blue mouths.”

Don’t know what one is: A zombie, giant lizard, horrific monster. Don’t want to find out.

* * *

Throughout September, you avoid walking by the bookshop. With time and distance, you start realizing your distrust of the Aru brothers is unwarranted. What you should fear is the scarlet tongued, blue mouths of whom they speak.

You look twice into alleys you must cross. You never know if a scarlet tongued, blue mouth may lie in wait, or what they may do to you. You shutter your mind to the possibilities.

Dear Reader, you may ask. “Why isn’t Raji asking an adult about the scarlet tongued, blue mouths?”

It is because of another conversation you overhear. Sari Aru is on a street corner talking to a parent of a classmate. “So it got your son. I am sorry to hear that. But he will survive. Embarrassment will be his only illness. That is fortunate.”

Then Sari says. “If only they’d stop talking about it, then they would all be safe from the scarlet tongued, blue mouths.”

That convinces you. Your lips are sealed.

The next day you look close at the talked about boy. There it is, hardly noticeable, a slight tinge of blue to his lips. When he speaks, you see a slightly scarlet tongue.

You look at the mouths of other classmates. You lean too close to a girl’s face.

“What are you doing, Creep?” she cries. “Are you spying on me? Mom wants you to report if I wear makeup. Doesn’t she?” She quickly wipes off bluish lipstick. “I hate you Raji Singh!”

She runs from the room. You sink low in your seat as everyone looks at you – glaring, smiling, as if we were a 4^th grade ‘item’ and it was revealed at that moment.

Maybe a confrontation with a scarlet tongued, blue mouth would have been easier than confronting her.

* * *

That afternoon on the playground, The Mystery solves itself. Boys line up to climb the ladder to the slides. Mop-haired Joshua, a trickster, secretively shares one of his gimmicks. He takes a plastic pen from his pocket. “The Aru brothers carry these at their store. If the pens go bad, they may look at you funny, but they’ll give you a new one. When you’re almost out of ink, just suck on the air hole, like this.”

The boys watch curiously. The ink rises slowly. Something strange happens. Maybe it is high readings in barometric pressure that day. Maybe Joshua’s showing off and applies too much suck effort? The blue ink suddenly spurts from its tube – like red mercury from a thermometer in a Saturday morning cartoon.

Joshua spits, phhts, and phews as the ink coats his lips and seeps onto his tongue. Mouth turns blue, tongue scarlet. He runs wildly around the playground, spitting, phht-ing and phew-ing as he wipes crazily at his face.

* * *

The question you will always have for Ari and Sari, but will always be afraid to ask:

“Did you know I was listening to you that August morning when I was in 4^th grade? And, was it for my own good?”

Posted in archeo-apologist, Children's stories, Fiction House Publishing, humor, satire, Short stories, Uncategorized, Whimsey | Tagged back to school story, Fiction House Publishing, humor, imagination, James Thaddeus 'Blackjack' Fiction, new short stories, Raji Singh, school story, short stories, short story, sucking pens, Tales of the Fiction House, whimsey | 1 Comment

No. 100: THE FROG BROTHERS MEET TURT

Posted on August 10, 2014 by Raji Singh

Lore of the Lindian Woods as observed by aerialist and oral storyteller Captain Polly.

As squawked to Raji Singh

When last we saw the Frog Brothers atop the tattooed rock…

They were leaping from the clutches of the half-gator/half-human monster tattoo image called Laza Bones. The sunlight had brought the drawing to life. But, quite sadly, the Frogs jumped right toward the wide-open beak-snout, sharp as a razor; of a shelled creature. They’d never seen the likes of him. Ever.

The creature snatches Brer and Frer Frog. (And now we’re caught-up.)

* * *

The beak-snout closes and holds them tight. The Brothers feel squished. They peek out. They see a large fin-claw belonging to the creature. It reaches up and slaps Laza Bones flat as a monstrous lily pad.

The pancaked, ‘grrring’ monster squirms, trying to re-inflate himself. The creature spits out Brer and Frer, right atop that mad pad. They edge quickly away from it. Before they can hop to safety, the fin-claw moves. It hovers over them. They cannot move.

Frer realizes. ‘We’re not on a rock at all.’ He whispers to Brer. “We’re on the creature’s shell, Brother.”

The creature rises up and now three more fin-claws show. Its strange beak-snout moves, until its sleepy blue eyes are inches from the Frog Brothers.

“Don’t leap away, Fellows. I’m Frog friendly.” He removes his fin-claw from above them.

Brer and Frer stand up – half scared-half intrigued. Brer is brave, or tries to appear so. His glare meets the creature’s stare. “Aren’t you afraid that we greenies may eat you?”

Laughter blares from the beak-snout. The trumpeting sound is sweet, but the breath smells sour.

“Ooh,” Brer whispers to Frer. The Brothers try not to flinch. “He eats raw fish.”

“My name’s Turt,” says the creature as he starts to mosey toward the Lindian Woods.

Welcome to the Lindian Woods
(Image ©2014 Raji Singh

“The pond is lovely there, so I hear. I’ll just bet that’s where you were heading.” All the while Turt is telling Brer and Frer this, his beak-snout remains frightfully near them. The Brothers have no thoughts about trying to hop away – this shellster is too quick. “What are your names, Friends?” Turt asks.

“We’re the Frog Brothers. He is Brer. I am Frer.” The Brothers lose some of their fear. Still they feel leery about the monster carved into Turt’s shell.

Turt senses the wise caution. He informs them. “That’s Laza Bones. He’s one of the meanest creatures to walk the earth and swim the seas. I must flatten him now and then to keep him from doing his mischiefin’.”

“Where did all the pictures on your shell come from?” Frer casually asks. He wants to remain on Turt’s good side, his friendly side.

“I travel the world. Many two-legs, and many creatures also, they like to leave their mark on me. If I like them, I let them. If I don’t, I let them know. I’ll show you how.” He trumpets a vicious growl, but considerately aims it over the Brothers’ heads.

Still they flinch.

Turt feels bad for scaring them and for his saliva that rains down on them. They aren’t about to risk any quick movements to wipe the sliminess away. To try to let them know he is really, truly friendly he says, “If you want, I’ll let you draw on me.”

Brer says boldly. “You’re awfully big for a turtle.”

“I’m like a turtle, but I’m called a Trumpeter.” Turt notices that the Frogs keep staring over toward Laza Bones. Their expression of anger, almost hate of the he/it is the same as was Turt’s, when he first noticed the he/it scarring his shell when he craned his neck and saw the he/its tattoo for the first time. Turt is sure, that like so many animals, Frer and Brer too must have had bad experiences with Laza Bones. “The he/it is no friend of mine, Dear Brothers. He carved his picture into me while I slept. The reason I don’t scratch it out: So others will see and realize that such evils crawl and slither the earth. Beware!”

Turt suddenly rap, rap, raps his beak-snout against Laza Bones’ squashed picture.

Laza Bones groans, and Frer and Brer hear his muffled threat, “I’ll get you Turt. Just you wait.”

Turt looks away from the Frogs – to give them a chance to hop away if they wish. He says to himself. “I hope they won’t. I like the little guys with their bold curiosity.” Turt sniffs the air, smelling the sweet fruit of the Forest they are coming to. He smiles: Because Frer and Brer don’t hop away.

They’ve become too anxious to introduce Turt to all their friends in the Lindian Woods. And so they too may see close up the dangers of the Laza Bones’ of the world.

“Just think,” Brer says to Frer. A real Laza Bones could saunter into the Lindian Woods. All the while, they pretend to be friends. All the while they’re scheming.”

Turt’s smile crescents even more. Two new friends has he made today. Maybe soon a whole lot more at the Woods and in the pond. “At least the Laza Bones of the world won’t bother anyone in the Lindian Woods, Brer and Frer,” Turt says. “Not while I am around.”

Turt reaches into a pocket of his shell for pencils he always carries. He gives them to new friends so they could leave their mark on him.

Posted in Children's stories, Fiction House Publishing, humor, Short stories, Whimsey, writing | Tagged 'Laza Bones' Thibidioux, Brer and Frer Frog, Captain Polly, humor, imagination, James Thaddeus 'Blackjack' Fiction, Lindian Woods, new short stories, Raji Singh, short stories, short story, Tales of the Fiction House, Turt, whimsey | Leave a comment

No. 99 : THE FROG BROTHERS SL-O-O-O-W DOWN

Posted on August 2, 2014 by Raji Singh

Lore of the Lindian Woods as related by Raji Singh

On a recent August evening, Tenille, our family, and I relaxed in the Fiction House garden. Captain Polly entertained us with her whimsical account of Turt’s first visit to the Lindian Woods.

(Turt’s a giant of a land-sea beast, species Trumpeter, akin to a Galapagos turtle. He’s tattooed with the images humans added to him as he traveled the world.)

Captain Polly perched on Turt’s beak-snout, big as an ostrich egg, tough as an anvil. Turt was cooling his shell in our fountain as he listened intently to the colorful macaw’s even more colorful tale. Turt cannot speak human words as Captain Polly can, so he couldn’t contradict the talkative bird’s version of what happened. He didn’t take a bite out of her plumage either, so I am supposing the story is accurate.

* * *

Once upon a time…

As the Frog Brothers Brer and Frer amble down the road to get to the Lindian Woods, they come upon a big, half-round brown rock. It wasn’t there the day before.

“Couldn’t have just fallen from the sky,” says Frer.

Brer ribbits agreement. “Too heavy to have dropped from a cart, Brother Frer.”

Frer sniffs it. Fishy. “I don’t recognize it from our pond. River’s too far away. So it couldn’t have washed in.”

Brer pushes at it with his willowy leg. We have a mystery, Brother Frer. “Is it real or am I just imagining it?”

“You are not imagining, Brother.”

They hop atop its dome for a closer look. They study the dozens of carved, drawn, and painted pictures. The Frog Brothers’ eyes widen with excitement, as the magical glow of sunshine brings the images to life. They see armored ants doing battle with ferocious, sword wielding ladybugs. The weapons crash together, but make only tiny, tinny sounds.

There are people depictions. They keep ever busy with people chores.

So many pictures – Animals playing, birds flying.

A cricket rides a snail. He leaps, somersaults and shouts to Brer, “Race ya.”

“Yer on.” Brer hops. He goes so far that he almost gets to the Lindian Woods. He looks back. The cricket and snail have barely moved. Brer hops back. “I win.”

Cricket and Snail grin. “Whoa Frog. We win. You have to SL-O-O-O-W DOWN to win.”

Mad, Brer stomps. When he does this, he feels a rumble, as if he has caused an earthquake. Brer looks to Frer and questions. “Did the rock just move, Brother?”

Frer nods. “I do believe it did, Brother. Maybe we should take our leave before it might rocket away as fast as it arrived here?” As Frer says this, his spindly green foot brushes against a drawing of a dozing sloth, and bring her to life.

She advises, before returning to sleep. “SL-O-O-O-W DOWN Frog.”

Brer laps his long tongue into a pictured pan of fricasseed flies and gulps them. He suddenly starts vibrating like a rattlesnake’s rattle. Even his eyes shake. When he sticks his tongue back out so he can catch his breath the flies are slithering all over it. They didn’t disappear into his belly, as they ought. In chorus they buzz, “SL-O-O-O-W DOWN. If you must et us, as Frogs are ought, do it slow or in your throat we’ll be caught.” They fly – to freeze back into their picture pan, once a’gan.

Suddenly there is a feline scream.

“Me-o-o-o-w! Pick on someone your own size.” A painting of a scowling cat challenges the Frogs. Puss stands on hind legs. Actually, he is their size only if Brer were to stand on Frer’s shoulders. The feline wears boxing shorts. His paws are fisted. “I’m Puss ‘N Gloves. Champion of the world,” he screeches. “Put’em up I say. I’ll sl-o-o-o-w you two hoppers down a notch.”

The riled up Brothers hop and duke. Their blows touch only – AIR.

Puss ‘N Gloves is so swift not one punch lands.

Frer and Brer huff and puff until they are so tired they barely move. “We’ve met our match, Frer,” says Brer. Brer nods. SL-O-O-O-WLY they crouched into frog squats.

“Let that be a lesson,” Puss ‘N Gloves meows. He leaps, clicks his boot heels, and stretches his paws skyward. “Victory belongs to me.”

“You are right,” Brer and Frer croak sl-o-o-o-wly, as sl-o-o-o-wly to sleep they drift.

Theirs would have been a contented and happy sleep – but

Suddenly water splashes them. The moving pictures go still. All, but one, and Frer and Brer wish they’d never seen it. It is the carving of a monster living in a scummy bayou pond. Its flopping-about splashed the water. One side of its body is gator – all rough, scaly. The other is human – with long, flowing hair, smooth skin, as handsome a human ever there was.

He ambles toward the Brothers. “You Frogs shouldn’t be a listening to the do gooden’,

SL-O-O-O-W DOWNERS. Now you sl-o-o-o-wed down enough for us Fasters to et ya.” He clamps his scratchy gator claws on their heads, opens his mouth, and then stuffs in Frer and Brer.

It is so dark the Brothers have to feel around to be sure the other is still there. Frer remembers what the Flies did to him. “Hold tight to the tongue, Brer,” he shouts. They do. Just in time.

The monster swallows. He coughs. He chokes. He cannot get the Brothers to slide down his throat.

The monster slyly smiles. The Brothers look out into the bright world from behind the prison bar teeth. “You boys SL-O-O-O-WED me down.” But I’ve got all the time in the world. I’ll just wait you out.” He lies down and basks his gator side in the sun.

Frer and Brer tremble. “What shall become of us?”

They hear “psst, psst,” from the Puss. Puss ‘N Gloves quietly creeps beside the monster’s snout and whispers to the Frogs. “Do what I say and you’ll get free. Miss a punch and you’ll be down his gullet for the count.”

Brer and Frer stare at each other. Their eyes ask, “Can we trust him?”

Puss ‘N Gloves punches at the rock’s top. The rock begins moving, shaking, and then quaking violently. “I’ve awakened it,” Puss excitedly purrs.

“How can you wake up a rock?” the confused Frogs ask one another.

Startled, by the rock almost roll motion, the monster inadvertently opens its mouth and says “Huh.”

“Jump,” Puss ‘N Gloves shouts to Frer and Brer.

Brer says to Frer. “Cat and creature might be in cahoots. ‘We let loose the tongue for even a moment, down the throat we may go.”

“Jump, fools,” meows the Puss. “Know the time to be SL-O-O-O-W and the time to act fast.”

They jump. Mid leap, they find themselves heading right at a giant beak-snout that wasn’t there a moment ago. “Tricked,” they croak to one another as they close their eyes and ready themselves for the worst. “Why did we ever climb this rock?”

They hear a loud trumpeting sound that seems to say, “What makes you think I am a rock?”

They open their eyes and see that the question is coming from the beak-snout. It is at least four times their size. They go flying right into it. They see the cable sturdy neck it is attached to, but they cannot see that it comes from within the rock.

“Well its down one hatch or the other today for us,” Frer consoles his brother as they lock arms and prepare for doom.

TO BE CONTINUED

NEXT WEEK: THE FROG BROTHERS MEET THE STRANGE ROCK-LIKE CREATURE

Posted in archeo-apologist, Children's stories, Fiction House Publishing, humor, satire, Short stories, Uncategorized, Whimsey, writing | Tagged Captain Polly, children's tales, Frog brothers, humor, James Thaddeus 'Blackjack' Fiction, Lindian Woods, new short stories, Raji Singh, short stories, short story, Tales of the Fiction House, tattoos, Turt, whimsey | Leave a comment

WAR’S TENDER MERCIES

Posted on July 25, 2014 by Raji Singh

by Mark Rogers, Editor

(Taking a break from Mr. Raji Singh’s whimsical Lore of the Lindian Woods animal tales: They’ll return next week. A national news commentator’s sad remarks on the dozens of wars occuring now throughout the world, prompts this book review.)

Disclosure: Fiction House Publishing has no financial interest in the novels of any of the authors mentioned. Normally we do not comment on the works of other publishers. The thoughtful approach to her subject matter by the author, Charlene Newcomb, causes us to reconsider.

Ms. Charlene Newcomb’s latest work, MEN OF THE CROSS, Book I of the Battle Scars trilogy, traces war’s brutal effects. It lays bare the emotional scars that war inflicts. Ms. Newcomb paints a compassionate portrait of the novel’s characters. She utilizes masterful storyteller’s methods of incorporating plot, dialogue, comedy, and pathos to delve into intertwining relationships.

If you enjoyed author Sharon Kay Penman’s LIONHEART, or more recent A KING’S RANSOM, you will find Ms. Newcomb’s work a fitting companion.

MEN OF THE CROSS takes place in the later span of the Middle Ages. Knights are pledging their troth to King Richard the Lionheart. They follow him in the Crusades. This isn’t a book, which only recreates battles. It has ample humor, akin to the type you’ll find in Richard Hooker’s M*A*S*H or Joseph Heller’s CATCH 22. Various characters from the Robin Hood legends arrive on the pages: Robin himself, Allan-a-Dale, and a brash Little John. Their rollicking adventures in the Middle East will have you retelling their tales to co-workers at the water cooler.

The novel’s major characters are brave knights, Henry de Grey and Stephan l’ Aigle. They grow close. Midst war atrocity and soldier camaraderie, they force themselves to question their own stolid values and their relationships. Their life and lifestyle decisions are as hard fought as those of the battlefield. The scars of war cause them to rethink everything about their lives – except loyalty to their King.

The emotions in MEN OF THE CROSS are ragged and raw and often bawdy – befitting knights of valor. Unlike many novels steeped in wars, in this book Ms. Newcomb demands profound character change. Instead of becoming battle hardened, Henry and Stephan evolve into tender, merciful men. They find deep meaning in one another.

Frank Yerby’s excellent THE SARACEN BLADE is one of my favorite novels of this genre. I’ve read it more than once. I can say the same thing about Charlene Newcomb’s MEN OF THE CROSS. It is a book that tempts a first and then a second look!

Available from Davenport, Florida publisher Blue X Entertainment and Amazon.

Posted in Fiction House Publishing, writing | Tagged book review, Catch 22, Charlene Newcomb, Crusades, Fiction House Publishing, Frank Yerby, Joseph Heller, King Richard the Lionheart, Mark Rogers, MASH, Men of the Cross, PTSD stories, Richard Hooker, Sharon Kay Penman, The Saracen Blade, war stories | 5 Comments

No. 98: THE LORE OF THE LINDIAN WOOD

Posted on July 20, 2014 by Raji Singh

By Raji Singh

As related by Captain Polly to Raji Singh

As she roamed her perch at the Fiction House, our South American Macaw unabashedly spun this yarn for our guests at our Sunday night dinner. She told of the magnetic draw her Lindian Woods has on creatures of the wild. I’ll eliminate her staccato squawks and whistling squeals to make her whimsy more appealing in printed form.

* * *

Once upon a time…

All the animals in the Lindian Woods bid farewell to Turt. He is giant shelled land-sea creature akin to the turtles and tortoises living on the Galapagos Islands.

Randall, the Forgetful Raccoon inquires,“Where’s he bound?”

Frer Frog says, “Turt’s always taking a trip to search for his tribesmen or tribeswomen.”

“Maybe this time he’ll find them,” Frer’s brother Brer adds excitedly. “Then he can bring them to our Woods. Wouldn’t more like Turt be a wonderful additional to our Woods family?”

Hawk, The Ten Otters, The Toad Sisters, Squirrel, and all the others agree with nods, squeals, and “ribbets”.

After a long journey, Turt comes ashore oceans away from the Lindian Woods – on the continent of Australia. He finds a pond and decides to go for a dip. When he surfaces, he is beak-snout to duck-bill with a platypus. His eyes widen. “What are you?”

“A platypus. What pray tell are you?”

Turt frowns, and thinks. ‘If he doesn’t recognize my kind, then there are no others like me here.’ Turt hides disappointment and says proudly, “I am a Trumpeter.”

“You look like some kind of turtle.”

Turt blows a jazzy rift, and then says. “I am a special kind of turtle, a Trumpeter. Could a common terrapin play such swinging tunes?”

“You got soul, Turt! From where do you hail?”

“Many places far away. I enjoy a special forest, The Lindian Woods, with my friends. Maybe you’ve been there.”

“Alas I do not travel much.” Platypus dips his beak and says sadly. “I’d like to travel as you do, but I suppose I’m destined to spend my life in this pond.”

“You can come with me,” Turt trumpets. “I can sure use some company after my lonely journey. I could show you the right and wrong things to do as a traveler. It would be an adventure you’d remember. Always. We’ll both be the better for it.”

Platypus perks up, “I’m game.”

“Crawl atop my shell. We’ll be off.”

To the ocean they go. Platypus holds tight as Turt catches the fastest ocean currents. They swim past prickly starfish, sweeps of plankton, and silvery, beautiful sights and creatures Platypus could never have imagined.

It is such a glorious trip in the ocean. Platypus wants it to last forever. And in his thoughts and memories for all the rest of his life, it will. Thanks to new friend, Turt.

“I didn’t find my tribes-people,” Turt consoles himself. “But I found a lifelong friend.”

* * *

Captain Polly squawks at Tenille, myself, the children, and the guests at our Sunday night dinner. “Hear ye! Hear ye! Platypus never traveled again. Because she found the best home ever in our Lindian Woods pond.”

Welcome to the Lindian Woods (photo by Mark Rogers)

Someone at the table pays tribute. “Oyez! Oyez!” We all clink glasses. Captain Polly raises her talon in bird ‘toast.’

Posted in Children, Children's stories, Fiction House Publishing, humor, Short stories, Whimsey, writing | Tagged Captain Polly, Friendship, humor, imagination, Lindian Woods, new short stories, platypus story, Raji Singh, Tales of the Fiction House, travel story, Turt, whimsey, young children story | 1 Comment

Tales of the Fiction House

No. 105: AN OCTOPUS GARDEN, PART I

No. 104: OF SUPERMOONS, SCUPPERNONGS AND SUMMER

No. 103: THE TOAD SISTERS REFINE THE JUICE OF THE STUMP

No. 102: LABOR’S DAY

No. 102 : THE FROG BROTHERS FIRST CRUSH (a tale of youth)

No. 101: THE LEGEND OF THE SCARLET TONGUED, BLUE MOUTH DEMONS

No. 100: THE FROG BROTHERS MEET TURT

No. 99 : THE FROG BROTHERS SL-O-O-O-W DOWN

WAR’S TENDER MERCIES

No. 98: THE LORE OF THE LINDIAN WOOD

UNEARTHING THE FICTION HOUSE

Follow Blog via Email

Raji Singh

The Novel: Tales of the Fiction House by Raji Singh

Shelva Fiction by Mark Rogers

The Seasons of My Giving Back, By Mark Rogers

Captain Polly’s Lore of the Lindian Woods

Seeds of Vengeance, by Mark Rogers

Categories

Blogs I Follow

Archives

Administration

Recent Posts

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

Share this:

UNEARTHING THE FICTION HOUSE

Follow Blog via Email

Raji Singh

The Novel: Tales of the Fiction House by Raji Singh

Shelva Fiction by Mark Rogers

The Seasons of My Giving Back, By Mark Rogers

Captain Polly’s Lore of the Lindian Woods

Seeds of Vengeance, by Mark Rogers

Categories

Blogs I Follow

Archives

Administration