Tales of the Fiction House

No. 58: THE CZAREVICH’S TALE OF THE TRAVELLING FICTION HOUSE

Posted on September 1, 2013 by Raji Singh

by Raji Singh

Our Founder, James Thaddeus “Blackjack” Fiction
‘Tell our stories, Raji. If you don’t, it will be as if we’ll never have 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)

1870’s St. Petersburg, Russia. My great grandmother Shelva tells of her frightful girlhood experience, stalked by a mysterious Rope Haired Man. From fear, she faints, awakening to…

* * *

Peter the Great in fresco reaches for you from the domed ceiling. Still groggy, you think he take your hand. His is so warm, you feel this is real, not dream, not imagination.

You look down, from his old, yet still blazing eyes of blue, into…young, just as blazing hazel, those of the Czarevich. Trembling, you try to pull from his grip. He holds tight. The sweat of his palm intermingles with the perspiration of yours.

“Do not be afraid, young Miss. You are in good hands.”

He wears black pants, boots. The Royal sash crosses his glistening silk shirt. You sit up on the fainting couch on which you have been reclined, and glance yourself. Your flowered dress wrinkles, but the buttons are in place. You move slightly; feel your undergarments are in place.

‘In kind hands,’ you want to believe, confused, not knowing what to do, but relaxing, just a little. Unlike his father, you have heard only good things of him.

Two orange-jacketed guards stand rigid as statues on the side of the expansive room. Such lush surroundings; this must be one of the Imperial Family’s many palatial manors. Ruby red and yellow gold orb-shape stained glass windows of Czars and Czarinas past, wink serenely at you. High walls absorb the emerald hues of ferns embracing them. Silver plaques, in terra cotta planters, announce their continent of origin. Their foliages’ mingling aroma waft through sharply arching corridors, and your senses: All at the same moment, you visit; the crisp African savannah, Europe’s crystal mountain air, Asia’s balmy jungles, Australia’s dry-perfume grasslands, South America’s damp forests, and the North’s earthy plains. You breathe deeply. Despite your ordeal, you’ve never felt relaxed as now. The magic elixir that is the exotic plants – its purpose is to have a calming effect, you realize.

It as if the Czarevich reads this in your look; and why he responds, “Blackjack Fiction insisted we bring you here, Young Miss, and your father agreed. So you may be calmed, away from your worries about the rope haired man.”

You tense, pull from his embrace. (What young woman in all Russia would believe one of their tribe would pull from a handsome Czarevich?). “How do you know Blackjack and my father? Where are they now?” (Who could imagine, Shelva, YOU making demands of a member of the Royal Family? But…desperation)

Before the Czarevich can respond, a balding butler and his bushy haired charge, both better dressed than the Mayor of Moscow in their smartly cut tuxedos, wheel in meals on satin covered carts. Following them: A half dozen maids looking like elegant ladies of the court in their stylish uniforms, in comparison to some of even the most elite women of Moscow. They, un-lid peppery braised meats, steamy chicken, and swimmingly fresh caviar from sterling silver platters.

“Such opulence, even for one simple function, Shelva?” you ask yourself, as they depart. The butlers serve up the food onto bone china dishes, and set them on a small marble table.

You suddenly realize how hungry you are, haven’t eaten in many hours. So temporarily, you forget your questions. You sit when old baldy gently slides out your chair.

But the Czarevich doesn’t forget. He waves his hand, dismissing the servants. The broad ivory panel doors, intricately carved with black bears, growl quietly shut behind them.

(Embarrassed, you think. ‘Or was that your stomach, Shelva?’)

The Czarevich sits opposite you, and says. “I hardly know your father, Miss Shelva. But I feel closer to Blackjack Fiction than I do to my own father. Mrs. Fiction, she is as a second mother. Now, onto matters more pressing! As we speak, Blackjack and your fa are making inquiries of the rope haired man to get to the bottom of this whole sordid affair.” He pours a fruity sherry cobbler, for me, champagne for himself.

* * *

The meal and the Czarevich’s pleasant demeanor are calming: His words, actions – so soothing. After the servants clear, he retrieves the cat palanquin, replica of the Fiction House, which has been sitting in a corner and places it on the smooth table.

He begins his amazing, sometimes unbelievable tale.

“Have you ever been to the Fiction House, Miss Shelva? You and Blackjack did a marvelous job recreating it in this cat-sel.”

“I’ve not been outside Mother Russia.”

“Well, maybe the Fiction House will visit you here.”

‘Hmm! What? What did he say? Oh, he is jesting. I smile. “The different ways that Blackjack described it as we built this, Kind Sire, it must be so beautiful. Not lovely as this home, of course.”

“On the contrary, Miss Shelva. Fiction House is truly the loveliest place I have ever seen, and I have seen Shah Jahan’s Taj Mahal, Napoleon’s Malmaison, Jefferson’s Monticello, and the Czar’s Winter Palace. The beauty of Blackjack’s Fiction House, resides in the freedom it represents to humanity. Freedom of body; because so many passed through its safe corridors on their flight from slavery, freedom of mind, for all the truths printed and disseminated from there about abolitionism.”

The Czarevich pauses. When he continues a heaviness of emotion swells his voice. “For me it represents a loving home, family, more so than any grand palace.”

Tears moisten the Czarevich’s eyes. You take your handkerchief and softly dab around them. Your fingers brush his warm cheeks. You do not know if you are acting properly with a Royal. He seems to understand. He takes your hand and places it on the palanquin’s gable, keeping his hand on yours.

“Do you know what makes the Fiction House unique, Miss? It can be taken apart.”

“Of course. We built it that way so it could be transported.” You demonstrate by swiftly disassembling it, like a one-piece puzzle. You quickly transform it into a rectangular suitcase with many false bottoms and tucking pockets to hide things. Then you reassemble it, just as swiftly, into the palanquin house.

You laugh a little, and joke to ease the heaviness of the Czarevich’s royal burden from which you realize he yearns escape. “Ragamuffin could not be home at his Fiction House Cat-sel to greet you, Sire. He is sitting for his official portrait as the International Cat Boxing Championship representative from America. His likeness will hang in the grand hallway of the Winter Palace – alongside Cat-there-in The Great.”

The Czarevich smiles.

“When did you go to America to visit the Fiction House, Sire?”

“Many times. You see, it was not the plans for me to be Czarevich, but for my elder brother, before he passed away. So I was escorted around the world. I was to learn ambassadorship. I visited the Fiction House in many locations, first when it was in Cincinnati, later Manhattan, and then when it was in Lindia City, Lindia.”

Again, confused. What? Oh! “You mean Blackjack built identical homes.”

“No Miss. This is what makes the Fiction House oh-so-much-more unique than all the Taj Mahals or Malmaisons. It is moveable. They must remain in one place. Blackjack must never have told you. Maybe this is so, because of remaining remnants of his playing it close to the vest – as would a card gamesman – to protect not only his business secrets, but also his abolitionist group’s actions.”

He opens the tiny door with his finger as if he is entering.

“Grand craftsmen sympathetic to the cause built it with secret passages and hideaways, and so it could be quickly disassembled and moved so swiftly, one would think it is a phantom house. As a boy visiting, I explored it endlessly. There were always new secrets to find – camouflaged doors beneath lavatory sinks, leading to tunnels tall as I, false walls masking large rooms where families could live comfortably for months if needed. So many bookshelves that revolve to open, I had to memorize the volumes to be sure I wasn’t entering one I wasn’t familiar with and maybe get lost and perish.”

A gleam twinkles in the Czarevich’s eyes. I cannot tell if it is from joy, or melancholy.

“The Fiction House is so grand, Miss Shelva. Grander than the Czar’s Winter Palace, ever, could be. Wherever Blackjack chooses to live, he takes his puzzling mobile home. Before and during America’s Civil War it often, vanished, when slave hunters sniffed too closely to it for their human prey.”

~ ~ editor note: Over the years, as I have done my archeo-apology work at the Fiction House, I have found, squirreled away in nooks, crannies, and secret compartments in the Fiction House, notes Shelva jotted down. So many involve revelations the Czarevich made to her that day in the 1870’s.

One such:

‘For over 80 years now Shelva, you have made the Fiction House your home. Still you are discovering the secrets it holds, and its secret rooms. Once, coming upon well-appointed living quarters, dust free, coffee still warm on a small burner, that day’s paper on a stand beside a reading lamp. Ever so befuddled, Shelva, have you been? Other than occasional overnight guests around that time, the only other residents were your darlink druzhyna husbant Dr. Fiction, yourself, our infant, James III, Cook, Nanny, and ‘cantankerous hired hand, Efraim’.

‘James is with Nanny. “Behind the shelves with you, Shelva, and hide” you tell yourself. You must find out who so surreptitiously makes your Fiction House, their home.’ ~ ~

Next Week: Who is the brazen interloper? A meticulous drifter? A lands-man from the old country? Maybe a handsome young Czarevich yearning to be at peace; at the place of the people he most loved?

(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, Fiction House Publishing, humor, satire, Short stories, Whimsey, writing | Tagged Abolitionists, alternate history, Alternate Russian History, cat boxing, Czar humor, Czarevich romance, Efraim Ephraim, James Thaddeus 'Blackjack' Fiction, new short stories, Raji Singh, romance, Shelva Fiction, short story, Tales of the Fiction House, The Fiction House | 3 Comments

No. 57: THE CZAR’S PUSSYCAT PARADE

Posted on August 25, 2013 by Raji Singh

by Raji Singh

When Czar Alexander II puts on a Pussycat Parade, he spares no expense. It is the 1870’s.

My great grandmother Shelva recounts joyful girlhood memories of the grand promenade, midst a sinister rope haired man stalking her. I’m certain she’d have felt caught in the middle of a real life Alfred Hitchcock scenario, if only she’d seen one of Hitch’s movies. That wouldn’t happen for another 50 or 60 years.

* * *

“STRIKE UP THE BAND!”

From our box seat high up I hear the shout, look about, do not see from where it emanates. Papa nudges. “Look there Shelva. Your dear Mama and brutter Ivan would not believe such a sight.”

I hardly do. Appearing over the crest of one of St. Petersburg’s hilliest boulevards – a baton conducting bandleader. He is dressed in a quilted, blood red coat style, klinnik, with the Imperial coat of arms blazoned onto the chest. Following – must be a thousand cats, all shapes, colors, in identical, tiny klinnik attire. The cats march in rows so straight. They step in unison. Their meows miss not a beat.

Cheers of the crowd, 100,000 strong lining the way, reverberate. Nearly all see the pussycats arrive at the same moment. People from all parts of Mother Russia, and many regions of the world, come St. Petersburg, for the First International Cat Boxing Championships. Their multi color parasols rainbow the sidewalks. Gentle scents of sour cream and borscht they purchase from cart vendors waft my way.

Papa’s and my special box seat is draped in lushly flowing, lavender-scented purple silk. We are guests of Blackjack Fiction, originator of what has become the world’s most popular sport, Cat Boxing. He is the parade’s Grand Marshall.

~ ~ editor note: For information on the first and foremost of the cat boxers, 1850’s Cincinnati’s Lil Tom, alias Puss ‘N Gloves, read the book, Tales Of The Fiction House. ‘Two of his three gloved, posing posters are known to exist. Hoped for third: whereabouts a puzzle; is considered the “Holy Grail” of the Cat Boxing collectibles. Estimated value if found, in even fair condition – TWO MILLION DOLLARS.’ ~ ~

The only box higher than ours reeks of frippery. Gold painted depictions of harmless kitties on silver shields claw skyward to appear – impossibly – fierce lions. Frankincense perfumed smoke puffs from their clay-molded nostrils. I am sure even audience a mile up the parade route can smell it. In this fragrance-mist, sits the handsome, young Czarevich so many of the women and girls of Russia find so dreamy.

When future Alexander III stands, cats halt their march and spectators quite. His golden shirt and pants seem to make him glow. He raises a sword, sharp as his temples, glistening as his jet hair, and then slices the air. He announces, in a proud Romanoff tone. “In the name of my father, Czar Alexander II, let the festivities begin. He toasts, “Na Zdorovi!”

I believe he looks right at me.

“Bring on the pusses,” people chant, stamping their feet, shaking wooden bleachers. The parade doesn’t disappoint.

From up over the hill appears the horse drawn carriage of Pytor Illyich Tchaikovsky. His serene composition contradicts his tempestuously tousled hair.

Anticipation murmurs through the audience. “Some say he will debut his work in progress, Swan Lake.”

Rumor proves true, almost instantly. Arriving on flat bed carts behind the Maestro are dozens of string musicians. They play vivaciously, while hundreds of dancing cats in tights and tutus ballet down the boulevard. Russia’s Prima Ballerina Catsalutta, a tabby Odette, does a perfect pas de deux with her passionate Persian, Prince Siegfried.

‘Feh! I say. Odette would find more happiness with Blackjack’s, rough and tumble stray, Ragamuffin – any day.’

I feel grand reveries, watching the music inspire furry dance. But, out of nowhere, suddenly the lingering thoughts of the rope haired man flourish. Something touches my shoulder. I jump up. The rope haired man has found me! Fortunately, applause for Tchaikovsky’s masterpiece overshadows my screech.

Papa says, “What is wrong, Shelva. You act as if Cecily Cobra just crawled up your dress looking for a strayed mouse. Ach! Be calm, daughter. People will look.”

Many do.

One of them is the handsome, young Czarevich. His smile, confounded, says to me, “Is something wrong, Miss? Do you not find our parade intriguing?”

I look away, shy. I sit. Maybe it is only my imagination, but I sense Alexander’s penetrating blue eyes remaining on me.

Again, I feel the touch. I tense; take Papa’s arm and squeeze. I look, expecting to see…

Ahh, it is only Poppy Sol’s warm embrace. ‘Didn’t mean to frighten you, Shelva. Just wanted to share these joyful moments with you. And keep an eye out for the rope haired man for you..’ His rays point to the horizon. ‘Someone else is here for you, too.’

Luny Mum. She smiles in the distance. ‘Wouldn’t miss a parade – day or night – for anything in this world. Just wait til you see all that is yet to come, Shelva my dear. Naturally, Poppy Sol and I can see all from our Grand Stand.’ Luny Mum haloes my head and whispers so Poppy Sol doesn’t hear. ‘I see the way the Czarevich makes eyes at you. Just girl to girl, Shelva. He likes you. So save many a dance for him at the Ball. Be ready. He may take you onto a veranda at the Palace and kiss you. If he does, I’ll look away and give privacy.”

“Oh, Mum.” I touch my face; feel flush from excitement.

Papa looks away from the parade. “What say, Shelva?”

Embarrassed by what I have been imagining – I’ve never danced with a boy, other than brutter Ivan, Uncle Vanya, or Papa, let alone kiss one – I stammer, “um, um.”

I am saved from having to explain what I have been thinking, by – Blackjack Fiction. “Look and see who is next in the procession, Papa.”

Alone in a carriage Blackjack rides. Top hat bumping the ceiling, he continually straightens it with one hand. With the other, he pushes a cane out the window. He prods, gently, Cecily Cobra to do her Lindian Woods dances for the spectators. They love it. The venomous tips of her fangs glisten. Hood flaps gently. Adults shout, “Hurrah!” Children imitate her sway.

No such creature in our country to compare her.

Cecily rides atop the carriage roof, upon Ragamuffin’s cat palanquin Blackjack and I built to look like the Fiction House. Inside, gloved Ragamuffin shadow boxes with his past lives. Captain Polly, spread winged on one of the gables, continually shrieks,

“LONG LIVE THE CZAR! AARK! LONG LIVE ALEXANDER!”

Knowing Captain Polly as I do, I understand this is all contrived – her satiric hysteria. She would as soon bite off his nose while he sleeps; or some other appendage that protruded from under his royal blankets, then flyaway, and dispose them in the Caucuses.

That opposed to those who practice injustice – be it human or beast – is my Captain Polly.

All these creatures employ such grand spectacle, guaranteeing to entice even thousands more of the audience to the cat boxing matches.

* * *

THE PARADE ROLLS ON…

For many hours, new entries veer over the crest of the boulevard and steer along the route – to the crowd’s boisterous cheers.

A sight probably no Russian ever witnessed; Hundreds of Tigermen, Lindia’s ions-old entertainers dressed and bodily painted as the sleek yellow and orange wild cats. They tell stories of comedy and tragedy, via cat-lithe, gently swaying movements that turn to violent clawing twists, rolls, flips, and tumbles. They have a cat upon each shoulder, mysteriously trained to mimic their exacting actions.

How do they do that?

Following is a marching woodwind band leading dozens of kazatsky dancers. Wearing soft leather boots, baggy cotton pants, and loose pullover shirts, they squat, crossing arms across their chests. They kick legs up and above their heads, all the way along the parade route. To finish off, some carry – balanced on flat, rigid hats – wooden platforms. On each a dozen cats dressed exactly as the humans, do their own catzatsky dances.

Look! There is caped Uncle Vanya, in promenade amongst hundreds of cat boxers, slowly toted in lavish palanquins – cat-sels they’ve come to be known. Uncle Vanya has this kooky, unique ability to; somehow – like pliable clay – adjust his face. Today, so the Czar or his Cossack henchmen won’t recognize him, because he has often run afoul of them for pleasure, profit and patriotism, he is a wrinkly, gray-mustached Prussian Count. Healed over scar lines – as if scratched in long ago by an enemy combatant’s fighting falcon – crisscross his cheeks. Not what they seem: They’re only skin folds Uncle can instantly shape into his face. He wears puffy satin pants and silk shirt. Tan leather boots reach his knees. He entwines arms with and escorts the beautiful, blue-gowned seeming woman – William/Willamina.

They peruse the crowd as they wave, smiling. Their disguises are their ruses: to help in protecting me. They’re on lookout for the rope haired man. All my family and friends here look out for me. Papa from beside me, Ragamuffin from his Fiction House, Captain Polly and Cecily from on high, and Poppy and Luny from on higher.

There is yet another, who so very soon, will arrive to protect me.

You – shell – see.

Comes now – the Czar’s royal carriage. Drawing it are a dozen shimmering white horses. Peacock feathers braid their manes. Such Grandness: Built just for the Pussycat Parade, the transport has emerald and ruby color turquoise studding the spokes of the wooden wheels. Shady muscovite windows interrupt the ivory inlay depicting cats at boxing that veneers the carriage’s sides.

‘Feh! The unending wealth of these Romanoff to have all they desire,’ I tell myself. ‘All from the brow sweat of others. Feh!’ As, his High-ass-nesses’ carriage approaches, in honor of Mama, and Uncle Vanya who so despise the inequity he epitomizes, I turn, being oh so sure the handsome, young son-of-a-Czar isn’t looking. (How can I be so infatuated with the son, and so despise the fa?) I discreetly but vehemently spit onto the sidewalk below our elevated box.

“Hey! What the…Chyort voz’mil! What you think you doing up there?” someone curses. Fortunately the angle doesn’t allow my victim to see me. I quickly stare, stone-face at the Czar’s carriage, mentally apologizing.

I hear someone from the bleachers comment. “The Czar: He is not looking at all well today. If his time nears an end, I wonder whom the young Czarevich will choose for his Czarina, to carry on the Royal Romanoff line? All Mother Russia will be asking that question.”

Someone responds, “Just look at the twinkling gleam in the young Czarevich’s eyes, mine drugh. I dare say he has his eyes set on someone, as we speak.”

I glance toward the Royal Box. I think Alexander looks my way. I often wonder – but never can discover the answer – what Mama would say if I brought home a son-of-a-czar. “Phht! You are dead to me, Shelva.” Or, maybe? “Welcome, young Alexander. Our family will make you into one of the regular people.”

Just how sick could the Czar be? I look into the Royal Carriage. The muscovite windows darken it so his face is ashen, almost muddy, and wrinkled leathery. I squint to see better. Poppy Sol sends a smiling ray through the carriage window briefly, and laughs to me. ‘Our friend rides in style today.’

Our friend? The Czar? Hardly.

Oh!

I understand. I think I do.

Poppy’s light lets only, me, see something just too unbelievable.

You – shell – see. It is Turt, the royal cape cloaking, hiding nearly all of his shell and fin-claws. The muscovite obscures his beak-snout. Did he eat the Czar for Mama and Uncle Vanya’s sake, and is now resting while digesting? This is the first time I am seeing Turt – what an introduction! I would know that gnarled face anywhere, because Blackjack has told me so many stories of this lifelong land-sea pal of his.

I decide. This is all part of the Czar’s touch of humor for his grand parade. Turt is the Czar’s stand in, his shadow, his bizarre double. I wonder. What kind of crane, how many Cossack muscle men did it take to get Turt inside the carriage? Doubtless, Turt’s enjoying the adventure. Blackjack says he never gets enough of adventuring.

~ ~ editor note: There were many assassination attempts on Czar Alexander II – even blowing up a room at the ultra secure Winter Palace in hope it would end the Czar while he was in the room above. Not long after this lavish parade, someone finally succeeded. But how many Czar Doubles killed in the process? I pity the foolish soul who would attempt to kill Turt. Arms, legs, other things very important would be, snapped! Like that! ~ ~

Turt’s carriage moves on and the Czar’s real one, identical, appears over the ridge. “Oh. I understand now,” I say to myself. “There are probably always two exactly alike, for the Czar’s safety. Except – this one has thick, solid, yet clear windows so all may see him and bask in his glory. To me his face is gory. No illusions of any of his handsomeness could change that. I want to look away, but am curious to see his carriage mate. The Czar’s frame blocks him from my view. An eerie premonition shivers me. I should look away. I cannot.

As the carriage moves closer to my box, the passenger abruptly turns. Oh no! I see the white suit, the round, protruding belly. He bends. I see the turbaned rope hair. I don’t think he sees me, or maybe he pretends not to. I tremble and grasp Papa’s arm. Instinctively Papa cradles me to his shoulder. He doesn’t see what I do. He looks elsewhere. The lump of fear knotting my throat halts me from speaking.

It seems the carriage moves in a slow motion. Why does he ride with the Czar? Why does…. why does…. questions, questions, none can I answer, though hard I try. What evils to be performed against me, Mama, Papa, Ivan, Vanya, or my friends? Against all our country? Am I crazy? My thoughts veer, so unclear is this fear!

The Parade is coming to an end. As I pray the rope haired man pays me no attention, the last of the marchers appear over the boulevard’s crest, 200 of the biggest Siamese cats imaginable. I cannot believe what I am seeing. They have hair braided to look like turbans on their heads. They are dressed exactly as the rope haired man. My worst awake time nightmare commences. Seeming at cue, these cats all turn toward me. They stare, cold, hypnotic. Their Siamese screams are deafening. The sound of the crowd’s cheering disappears for me. All I hear are their haunting ‘MEEE-OOOWS!’

The rope haired man abruptly looks from the Czar, to me. His cold, penetrating eyes say, foreboding, sinister. “Tomorrow, Shelva; all will be revealed.”

The Siamese screams echoes him: ‘TO-MEEOOOWER, SHELVA.’

I feel cold, stiff, unmovable, until the parade passes from my view. Than, all of a sudden, I scream, to block out theirs. Then, I collapse into Papa’s arms.

How long I sleep, a minute, hour, a day, I do not know. Is it “Tomorrow”? When I waken, my head throbs unmercifully, as it did the day after I sneaked Uncle Vanya’s vodka. I look up. “Papa.” It is not Papa’s arms I am in, or a place I recognize. I am on a fainting couch in a room grander than any ever I’ve seen. Peter the Great in fresco looks at me from the dome ceiling 30 feet above. Czarevich Alexander holds me tight. “Do not fear, Miss. You are in good hands.”

I sigh; breathe deeply. “Indeed, so,” I say to myself. My headache: Instantly it disappears. Replacing it is a strange happy tingling coursing through my body, that never before have I felt.

NEXT WEEK: The Czarevich’s Tale of the Travelling Fiction House

Posted in archeo-apologist, Fiction House Publishing, humor, Short stories, Uncategorized, Whimsey, writing | Tagged Alfred Hitchcock, Alternate Russian History, cat ballet, Czar Alexander, James Thaddeus 'Blackjack' Fiction, new short stories, Pussy Cat Parade, Shelva Fiction, short stories, Tales of the Fiction House, Uncle Vanya | 3 Comments

No. 56: HERE COMES THE PUSSYCAT PARADE (And Other Matters) – PART 1.

Posted on August 16, 2013 by Raji Singh

by Raji Singh

ON YOUR MARK…

Mel Blanc – the elastic voice of Bugs, Porky, and so numerous other cartoon characters: His classic song, Here Comes…I’ll wager its inspiration came from the grand cat parades inaugurated, first in America and then in Russia, by my great-great grandfa, Blackjack Fiction. Blackjack was Grand Marshall at the First International Cat Boxing Tournament in St. Petersburg. Did little Mel’s grandfa or grandma attend? One can imagine them telling the lad countless tales that played in his dreams until feline choruses whisked him away.

Here begins my great grandmother Shelva’s girlhood accounting of that infamous Russian parade.

* * *

GET READY FOR THE PARADE!

I awake to the sounds of our Moscow train arriving St. Petersburg Station. “8 a.m. Right on schedule,” I say to myself as I glance the clock in the up stretched hand of the imposing bronze statue of Peter the Fabulous who greets all incoming passengers.

~ ~ editor note: For a brief time in the 1870’s Czar Alexander II changed the name – a oft occurring, but seldom lasting tradition of Russian dictates, e.g. Leningrad, Stalingrad. Alexander began using Peter’s ‘Great’ for himself. Sensing backlash from the people and even many of his Cossack minions, quickly he relinquished his ‘Great’, returning it to Peter. ~ ~

GET SET…

The squealing steel wheels against tracks, the steam whistling, announce us.

Boisterous shouts – “Welcome Travelers” – they are of those on the platform waiting to see returning family and friends. Passengers poke their upper torsos through the cars’ open windows, frantically waving and hollering. It is all so deafening. Despite the commotion, I am able to hear Poppy Sol as he squints brightly through our compartment’s skylight.

‘Luny Mum waxed eerily poetic of your horrifying experience with the rope-haired man, Shelva. It is a wonder you slept the night.’

To the grand old man of the sky, my reply: “Tired, not so much, but I am still scared.”

‘In my bright, Shelva, he dare not harm you. So do not worry. Now, then, you must not tarry. For the promenade will soon commence. That is why everyone is so cheerful today. Anxiously have they awaited the furry four-leggers.’

Poppy Sol discreetly blinks behind cloud curtains while I change from robe and nightgown into a bright yellow summer dress and bonnet laced with catnip. Like baubles, beads, and candy thrown in other parades, I will toss the treat to the four-leggers who have come to watch their famous boxer counterparts.

Nervously I fidget. “I can hardly contain myself, Poppy Sol. Mama’s told me so much about the grand cat parades of olden days. Maybe this one will revive those unique spectacles.”

‘Perhaps, my dear, and wouldn’t that be wonderful!’

The door opens. It is Papa. He brings a warm wet washcloth and hot cocoa that has the luscious earthy aroma only Mother Russia can cultivate.

“Who were you talking to Shelva? Someone on the platform?”

“Just basking in the wonder of the morning light, Pappa.” I stretch, wipe my face with the cloth, blink crusties from my eyes, and savor my drink.

“Ach, Daughter. You were conversing with Poppy Sol, of whom Blackjack often speaks. Such imagination you both have.” Papa peers out the window and says, “Blackjack, Captain Polly, Ragamuffin, and Cecily Cobra departed soon as we stopped, to ready Ragamuffin’s palanquin for the parade. I am looking to see they’ve caught their carriage.”

Papa doesn’t fool me. He looks for the rope-haired man. Instructions from Mama. “Like a hawk, watch over our daughter. You never know what dangers may befall a young girl. Remember my cousin Svetlana and her tragic fate.”

DON’T…GO! NOT JUST YET,

BECAUSE THIS IS THE ‘AND OTHER MATTERS’ MENTIONED IN THE TITLE

How many times Mama tell me of Svetlana? So many. Maybe at our kitchen table? In the garden. Even along the river where it happened. How often does she cry, reliving those last hours? Always. Mama’s recounting is so vivid I feel I am alongside them. She and Svetlana, about my age, best of friends, inseparable as many twins. Often they dress the same, in flowered dresses. Just after a Moscow cat parade, on a bench by the river they treat on anise tea cakes rolled lightly in confectionary sugar, and their favorite drink, cranberry kisel.

“That the last time I drink it, Shelva,” Mama reinforces as she begins relating, reliving events of their last hours together. She fists her hand as if she’s breaking a delicate cup. “Never, never again will the kisel’s sweet-tart tingle my mouth. Svetlana and I, we toast. Na Zdorovi, to our health, I say to Svetlana.”

“‘And to that of the kitties who marched today,’ Svetlana says to me. ‘Dressed as catty Prussian officers in uniform and regalia; smelling of sardines, yet fresher scented than any Prussian officer; may they ninth peacefully into their coffins a long time after the Prussians do into theirs. Na Zdorovi to the fine felines.’

“We laugh so hard, mine sweet Svetty and I,” Mama says to me.

“Ah, dear Sveety!” Mama looks into my eyes! She’s seeing her cousin again.

“Remember, Svetlana? How we entwine arms and drink from the glass the other holds; then along the pier, hand in hand we walk, watching agile cranes sweep the river. We smile at their repetitive screech as they vocalize directions to their compatriots. So alike we look, Svetlana; same chestnut hair twisted as ringlets brushing over our so rosy cheeks.”

Mama gently brushes hair from my face and kisses my cheek. I feel her warm tears. “Sometimes, dear Shelva, I see much of cousin Svetty in you.”

Often Papa or Uncle Vanya are watching from afar as Mama speaks of cousin Svetlana. They knew her, knew how much Mama loved her. I see their melancholy for Mama painfully painting their faces. Sadly, they let Mama relive. What else to do?

I have memorized what Mama will say next. All I can do is let her continue, for how can I change the past?

“‘I must make water. Come into the taynyy (privy) with me my darlink cousin?’ Svetlana asks of me, wriggling to hold it in.

“This taynyy is too tiny for two, I tell her. I will wait right outside.

“Svetlana says, ‘Tell me if anyone approaches. I will leave the door ajar since it is dim inside.’

“There is the slap of water hitting the bank, crane screeches, constant grinding moans of the stretching, contracting of the planked pier – the usual riverside sounds.

“A minute passes, then five, finally, ten. I knock on the door. Svetlana? No answer. Turn the knob, push. The door, it is locked. SVETLANA! SVETLANA! Horrified, I run to find police to break it down.

“What is first thing we see, Shelva? A trap door built into the pier beneath the taynyy. From its hinges, it flaps toward the water. So quiet, so methodical, so brazen the kidnappers. They must have waited, quiet as mice in the boat. The savvy but conniving river rats that they were, they rowed swiftly away after taking my unsuspecting Svetlana – for slave purposes is what the investigators speculate. And I, just a few yards away, Shelva, never even knew they came – and left me forever, without my dear Svetlana. This is why you must always be wary mine daughter.”

Mama always maintains her composure as she tells, but when she comes to this part, she weeps, becoming hysterical, pounding her fists to her temples so hard I think she may hurt herself. I try to hold her arms to halt her. I cannot. She is too strong.

She shouts. “I should have stopped it and saved Svetty.”

As she so hauntingly repeats this impossibility, I appease with what the adults tell me to say. “There was nothing you could do, Mama. You would have been helpless as Svetlana. You too would have been taken.”

Mama’s whole body begins trembling like a slowly deflating balloon. “No! It was my fault. It was my fault.” Mama, against all rationale is helpless to think otherwise.

I begin to cry. I call. “Papa! Uncle Vanya!” Only they have strength to restrain her motions and emotions, which seem to meld into a monstrous entity that overpowers me.

They come, hold her tight, and speak gently to her– until she can be calm. “There, there. Think of only the happy times you and Svetlana had. Think of the wonderful life and family you have.”

Though this part of Mama’s life belongs to the long ago, she consoles herself with an unbridled hope that, most who know her story would call false,

“Never will I forget mine cousin, Daughter. As sure as I know the Czar will find his true place in Hell alongside the slavers who took her, one day I will see Svetlana again. Yet will we appear as twins.” Mama brushes back graying hair and rubs tears from her face.

I know neither of us wants even to think about what was Svetlana’s fate.

* * *

Often have I wished to have a friend, close, as were Mama and Svetlana. I dream of such a person, and of experiencing all they did, together.

Then, it came to me one day this past summer while Blackjack and I were prefabricating the palanquin Ragamuffin would ride in for the pussycat parade. All those glums I felt watching Mama’s strained look as she told stories of Svetlana: They vanished. Blackjack Fiction! He has become such a friend. Wait. There is more than just Blackjack who blesses me with their friendship. Kooky, but always-loving Uncle Vanya, and Brutter Ivan. And Mama and Papa. Once I become acquainted with William/Willamina, I just know he will be close as they. And of course my creature friends, Captain Polly, Ragamuffin, mine own dear feline, Alexi, and yet another friend-to-be, once I get to know the Fiction’s giant shelled creature, Turt, that Blackjack speaks so highly of.

I realize I appreciate friendship, all because of Svetlana.

I wonder sometimes, did she ever live past my age? There are times I want to know, and those others when I am afraid of what I might discover. For Mama’s sake, often I dream. It is such a satisfying dream. One in which I awaken to a knock on the door of our Moscow home. I walk to the railing in the upstairs hallway. I look down the staircase. Mama unlocks, opens the door. I hear Mama’s voice, happy-ever-after. “Svetlana. At long last, my dearest friend. Come. We shall toast with Cranberry…”

She doesn’t finish the words because their cheeks press so firmly, so tenderly, together.

Now as I think of all the friends I’ve made because of Svetlana, I know I can press cheeks with all of them just like that and sense throughout every fiber in my body the enduring joy that life provides.

Well…now there is Cecily Cobra. I have a feeling she wants to be such a friend. But she is so cunning, I’ll never know; and won’t bother to find out. Never, ever will we press together, face cheek to hood cheek.

~ ~ editor note: “Is it any wonder,” writes Shelva, in notes she made in her 80’s, “that to this day I am wary of, and look for trap doors, and hidden hideaways whenever I use a public restroom.” ~ ~

* * *

Enough of these, glums.

The parade will begin, and the audience’s cheers for the promenading pusses will be wild. Maybe Svetlana will be watching…I can but only HOPE, and try to keep Mama’s impossible dream, possible.

NEXT WEEK: GO! THE PUSSYCAT PARADE AND THE ROPE-HAIRED MAN ARRIVE

Posted in Fiction House Publishing, satire, Short stories, Whimsey, writing | Tagged alternate histroy, cat parade, kidnapping, shelva ficton, short stories, white slavery | 1 Comment

No. 55: THE TWISTING TALE OF THE ROPE-HAIRED MAN

Posted on August 9, 2013 by Raji Singh

by Raji Singh

Shelva writes passionately about traumatic girlhood experience with a mysterious rope-haired man. She is in a private compartment, aboard the Moscow train with her Papa. St. Petersburg bound. It is the 1870’s.

* * *

Almost all aboard are asleep. This, I believe is why Blackjack is so conspicuous now, talking to the rope-haired man in the dim light of the corridor: Because Blackjack wants only me to see the man.

I press my face to the corner of the barely open door and squint out through the slit. My forehead and temple crease into the splintery wood. That hurts. But I must see if I can read Blackjack’s expression. Is he taunting me mentally? “You cannot escape from him, Shelva, not on a fast moving train. There is no use you trying.” Blackjack is in his velvet evening jacket, calm and collected, unlike me. To him this is a velvet evening. To me it is Hell. I am scared, perspiring nervously under my sleeping robe.

Even though Blackjack and the rope-haired man are so close that they could walk to me in a few seconds, the clattering of wheels onto tracks makes hearing anything they say impossible. I barely hear my thoughts,

‘Why are you doing this, Blackjack? Why does that man follow me? I do not understand; cannot understand any of this. You became like a member of the family. Papa, Mama, brutter Ivan, Uncle Vanya: We all trusted you with what was most precious to us, Blackjack – our love. Please, oh please. Let this just be misunderstanding.’

But, how in the sacred name of Mother Russia, could it be?

For the briefest of moments, the rope-haired man looks my way. I just know he sees me peeking. Questions continuously torrent like ocean waves through my thoughts, ‘What does he want of me? A wife? I am too young to be married to anyone. Never to such a corpulent, odd-looking old fellow. Cook? Maid? Our household always had help for those things. I know nothing of that work. Is he the Czar’s spy? Hoping I reveal something about Mama, Uncle Vanya, or Papa, that his Cossack minions might use as an excuse to hurt them.’ I shiver. Certainly the Czar could not want to hurt my Brutter, Ivan – I’d…I’d, hurt him, that is for certain, if he were to try to harm Dear Ivan.

The train jolts unexpectedly. I must grab the door handle to keep from being flung, crashing into the glass partition, and being hurt. I almost topple out. If I had, my tormentor could have quickly grabbed me; and maybe, away with me, forever. Of such illicit slavery, we big city Moscow girls, often, are warned.

When I steady myself and peek out again, I see the rope-haired man looks behind he and Blackjack. His startled look reveals that he is suddenly wary of something, someone. Blackjack glances back, and then nods to him.

Blackjack and I have gotten to know each other so well in the last few months. Best friends, I thought, until now. We can almost sense what the other is saying by eye movements and facial expressions. I sense Blackjack’s words as he speaks to the man. “Hurry! Now is the time, Brother.”

‘Time for what?’ What does he mean by that? Must I prepare to defend myself? And, ‘Brutter?’ Why does Blackjack call him that? This is all senseless as a nightmare.

Blackjack’s glance to me says, answering the first part of my question, “THIS, my lovely Shelva, is what it is time for.”

The rope-headed man begins unfurling his turbaned hair. Ever so slowly, he bee hives it down around his face, shoulders, orb belly, and knees.

What is happening?

He starts to turn in a circle, and then spins on the ball of his foot, as would a Bolshoi Ballet master.

All of a sudden, he stops. He whooshes up his hair, twining it around one hand. It is a wig prop. Gone is protruding belly – probably a pillow. Gone too– his white suit. In his place is a statuesque woman in a long dress matching her golden locks. I sniff. Even from this distance, I can tell: Her sweet Paris perfume replaces his cigar pungency.

I blink hard. What am I witnessing? I squint to see better. Luny Mum helps me by beaming onto her face. For barely a moment I believe I see two Blackjacks beside one another, although one is a man and other a woman – the high cheekbones, dark eyebrows, pointed chin that suddenly scalpels flat.

‘Oh!’ Surprised, I realize. I am seeing Blackjack’s notoriously eccentric brother, William, for the first time – and what an introduction to him it is: as his Willamina persona. My kooky, but never usually fooled Uncle Vanya told me many stories, rife with adventure, about him/her. Uncle admitted to me that he fell in love with Willamina many years ago in America before he knew she was a he. Later, they became best of friends, compatriots in America’s abolitionist movement.

(You can read all about their bizarre, but convivial interlude in Post No. 51: UNCLE VANYA DISCOVERS THE FALLACY IN FALLING FOR A FEMME FATALE TOO QUICKLY of Tales of the Fiction House, blog site.)

“Everything is a guise, to William/Willamina, Niece, if it can bring someone justice,” Uncle Vanya often explained to me. “William has three, sometimes four outfits puzzle-stitched together. He can become someone else at the least whim. He is a true hero, Shelva. He utilized his quick-change artistry to help runaway slaves to freedom, the way we quietly help to throw off the yolks of those the Czar has made peasants.”

Just moments after William spins his locomotion ‘quick change’, I barely believe what I see. It is a real rope-headed man. It is obvious to me now; William was replicating his looks. The man approaches and stands a few meters behind Blackjack and William. The brutters realize he is there. I know this, by their cautious facial expressions. Blackjack’s look says to me. “Now you know why I had to pretend to not know him, Miss Shelva. It was for your good, Dear. And it will be for your good that you know as little about this as possible. Trust William and me, Shelva. And no harm will come to you. You will be proud of what we will soon accomplish for your downtrodden countrymen and women.”

What I’ve gone through on this trip is so unnerving. I try not to tremble, but I cannot. There were two rope-haired men! Which have I been encountering? The good-spirited William. Or the…

And, still the question bores into me:

Why? What does he want – of me, and no one else? The ruse of being the rope-haired man must be William’s ruse to protect me from the real rope-haired man-fiend.

I feel vast amounts of relief about my friendship with Blackjack. The thought of losing such a dear friend had been so devastating. That burden lightened, I breathe easier. My relief, I’m sure Blackjack sees every word of it. Almost as if it is spoken from my heart and etched into my spontaneous but hard-come-by smile. “I’ll trust you and your brutter, Blackjack. Because my family has come to love you so.”

The rope-haired man slips away. He cannot approach me just now. I am certain that is what he planned. Not with others so near. Hopeful they will be near often on this journey.

NEXT WEEK: HERE COMES THE PUSSYCAT PARADE!

Posted in archeo-apologist, Fiction House Publishing, humor, satire, Short stories, Whimsey, writing | Tagged Abolitionists, Alternate Russian History, James Thaddeus 'Blackjack' Fiction, new short stories, Shelva Fiction, short stories, Tales of the Fiction House, William "Golden Boy" Golden | 2 Comments

No. 54: TALES OF THE LINDIAN WOODS – TRANSPLANTED ONTO THE MOSCOW, ST. PETERSBURG EXPRESS

Posted on August 4, 2013 by Raji Singh

By Raji Singh

My great grandmother Shelva wrote hundreds of fables. They told of strange happenings among the beasts and creatures living in forests on the outskirts of Lindia City, Lindia, and Cincinnati, U.S.A. Some were for adults, others for children, and many for both. In this accounting, she incorporates whimsical fare into her harrowing girlhood journey across Russia.

* * *

THE RACE

Evidently, Captain Polly and Cecily Cobra were quite busy after the passengers retired to their sleeper berths. The bird and snake must have spent hours jiggling loose the handles and sliding-open the doors to the railway cars. They’ve created a raceway over 100 feet long for themselves in the dimly lit corridors.

I hear Cecily continually thumping the floor and Captain Polly on occasion bumping the walls as they compete in continuous heats. I barely see them as I look through the curtains of our glass wall compartment because they’re a speed blur. They seem to move fast as the train. Any passengers awakened by them surely wouldn’t emerge from their berths and risk getting clawed or bitten. I look out the window as we round a corner. Luny Mum, milky full, appears to be in the running as she maneuvers swiftly through the hillsides alongside us.

What I see next amazes me, cheers me. The scary man who has been following and pestering me on the trip, backs from his compartment not realizing he is right in the flight-crawl path.

I cannot help but think, ‘my dear friends Captain Polly and Cecily Cobra, they planned this to protect me. Some strange creature instinct they utilize, to lure him from his lair of hiding.’

THE CAPTURE

Cecily spools loosely around his legs, so he cannot move. Captain Polly rams into his head and seizes his lifetime’s growth of hair. It looks like a turban, coiled like inch-thick rope, twenty feet long. Off she flies, grasping the end in her beak, unfurling it. This makes him spin like a top; so fast that the metal heel protectors of his shoes spark, sizzle, and squeal. The leather of the footwear smolders, producing a ghastly acrid odor that quickly permeates the whole train.

The Conductor suddenly appears and shouts. “We must douse him so he doesn’t ignite the locomotive.” A half-dozen porters rush from the engine room with a taut fire hose and extinguish him.

A pair of the Czar’s Cossack scruffy bearded commanders has been traveling on the train back to their home base to report on their troop’s activities of rack and ruin. One of them shouts, “We must incarcerate the fiend. Most certainly he is on his way to the Winter Palace to assassinate our beloved Czar by way of some bizarre form of self-combustion.”

Porters step gingerly around Cecily Cobra and seize him.

Snake and Bird assist the porters; Captain Polly by leading the culprit, as if he’s on a pet leash, Cecily by continually swatting his backside with the blunt sides of her sturdy fangs as she crawls half-erect behind him.

“Youch, youch, youch,” are his continual responses each time they yank or swat. Passengers awakened by the commotion cheer as creature duo promenade their prey in Luny Mum’s continuous glow.

‘Whew, Shelva,’ you tell myself. ‘Your troubles are over. No longer can he bother you.’

But,

You look down and realize you are only imagining. Cecily Cobra curls in her basket, dozing. Captain Polly perches on Cecily’s head. Captain Polly sniffs between snores. They’re in front of the compartment’s door, shielding you from anyone who may have been considering snatching you.

So,

The stalking man is still at bay.

The train whistle blares shrilly, startling you. As you look up and out the compartment glass, you see what only a moment before you thought was impossibility. You clench your fists, in fear. You shake. Perspire. You look to Papa. He has turned in his sleeping-sitting position. He leans his head into a pillow. You cannot decide if you should wake him to tell what you see.

It is Blackjack Fiction. He is just down the corridor. He is talking to the rope haired man he swore earlier in the evening he hadn’t seen and didn’t know. You want to cry out,

‘Blackjack, I thought you were my best friend. Why do you betray me? Will next you harm me? What you are seeing, Shelva. It cannot be real. It must be imaginary, like Captain Polly and Cecily’s racing.’ You blink. ‘No! It is real. But Blackjack must have a reason for his actions. Please, he simply must.’

NEXT WEEK: THE ROPE HAIRED MAN, REVEALED.

Posted in archeo-apologist, Fiction House Publishing, Short stories, Whimsey, writing | Tagged Alternate Russian History, Captain Polly, James Thaddeus 'Blackjack' Fiction, new short stories, Raji Singh, Shelva Fiction, Tales of the Fiction House | 1 Comment

No. 53: THE MAN VANISHES (on the way to the Czar’s Winter Palace)

Posted on July 28, 2013 by Raji Singh

By Raji Singh

(These girlhood memories of Shelva Fiction’s 1870’s Mother Russia: I do not know if she wrote them then, or maybe nearly 100 years later. A lady recently told me she thought she once saw a movie with a similar plot to Shelva’s THE MAN VANISHES. But then the lady vanishes and I don’t get a chance to ask the movie’s title.

Hmm! Did someone hear Shelva’s story, and then tell it, as apt, a true storyteller does, just a bit differently. Maybe it is Shelva incorporating with a cinema scenario, an event she experienced? As I continue my archeo-apology work at the Fiction House, I am sure I will unearth the answer. The inked paper is lab-bound, awaiting the results – is it from the 19^thor 20^th century?)

* * *

PART I: THE HITCH IS THE CLOCK

The Moscow train station is a clattering hustle-bustle as we prepare to board the St. Petersburg bound. The fishmongers are gone for the day, but a sardine reek lingers that you seem to taste as well as smell. Merchants display their wares – baubles, beads, bric-a-brac. Mama, Brutter Ivan, and Uncle Vanya are here to wish us fair journey. Travelers are Papa and I, along with Blackjack Fiction and his menagerie. Captain Polly perches on his shoulder. Ragamuffin the Cat Boxer is atop the other. Cecily Cobra peaks her silver hood from beneath the lid of the basket he carries. The crowd clears a path for us. Whew what a strange crew we must look – en route to the Czar’s Winter Palace for the International Cat Boxing Championships.

I notice a roundish man in a turban watches me. “No. That is not his headwear,” I tell myself as I squint to see more clearly. It is his oh so long sandy hair, braided as inch-in-diameter rope. Unfurled it would extend 20 feet, I’d wager. He carries a cloth-covered cage hardly bigger than a valise. I wonder what he transports. Our looks meet for barely a second, and then he passes through turnstiles. He steps behind loaded baggage carts. If he’s hiding, his half-globe shape belly, shadow caste to four times bigger than it truly is – onto the stationhouse wall – gives him away. I feel that his eyes find me again, and are boring into me.

I perspire. I hug close to Papa. Nervously I feel around in my jacket pocket to squeeze my good luck charm. “Oh no,” I suddenly shout. “I must return to the carriage. I have forgotten my lucky wolf’s foot.” I have second thoughts. ‘What if he follows me?’ I’m glad when Papa says,

“Ack, Shelva!” He points to Timepiece Tower. “The Hitch? Clock! There is no time for you to retrieve it.”

A vendor hears our conversation. He shouts. “Just in from Siberia. Fresh-cut wolf’s…”

Feh! Not for me. Mine, not really from a noble creature. Only a gnarly root that resembles.

In my excitement about the adventure midst melancholy of leaving home, I briefly forget about the strange man. My eyes water. First time I will be away from Ivan, Mama. We hug. Brutter Ivan is in his starchy, gray uniform of the mandatory Youth for Czar Camp he must attend while we are away. Mama never-ever would go to the Czar’s Palace, even if you filled her basket with rubies and rubles. She’d cross the street and spit on the sidewalk if she saw the Czar in promenade. (Mama, in her always well-pressed housedress is fastidious. No expectorating a woman is she in any other circumstance.)

The train whistle’s shrill blare of ‘All Aboard’ makes me nearly leap out of my new patent leather shoes. I know I’d fly ten feet high from fright, but Vanya, dear, sweet, kooky Uncle Vanya grounds me to the platform with a good-bye clasp and a reassuring kiss to the cheek.

Maybe I didn’t sleep well enough last night, in anticipation of this trip of a lifetime, so I am edgy. But I cannot help but feel my fright is an ominous warning. “Be wary, Shelva!”

Oh, I do so wish I had my lucky wolf’s foot.

* * *

PART II: SHADOWED BY THE BEAST

I wave good-bye to Mama, Ivan, and Uncle Vanya through the open windows of our private compartment. As we leave the station, I look around for the mystery man. I breathe relief. Nowhere do I see him.

So tired, and the luxurious leather seats are soft and comfortable. I doze, using the chair’s soft arm as a pillow. Too tired to answer Papa when he says,

“Rest daughter. We shall go to the dining car. Later, bring you nourishment.”

How long I sleep? I do not know. I dream, at least I think I do. A strange, huge beast is crawling over the walls and ceiling of the compartment. It has the snout of an alligator, the trunk, and claws of a sloth bear. I awaken. This is not a dream; nor gator or bear. It is a beast within a cage. I do not recognize, or maybe am too tired to recognize what it is. Like its master’s belly, its shadows make it appear four times its size. I rub my eyes and look around.

“I am so glad you are awake, my child,” the rotund mystery man from the platform says. He dresses nattily, in a creamy white suit. His cologne is a woodsy freshness of the forest, but overshadowing it is the musk of his shadowy beast. He hovers above me. “It is imperative you answer a question I have for you truthfully, Miss Shelva. It concerns…”

How does he know my name? So scared of man, beast, of being alone with them, I scream. So loud – the glass panel walls rattle. I feel my body go limp. After that, all is blank.

The Conductor, Porter, Papa, and Blackjack surround me when I come to. Papa holds a cup of warm tea so I can sip it. A dozen passengers look curiously from the corridor through the glass.

“He was here,” I say anxiously.

“Who?” queries the Conductor.

“The odd man from the station.”

“Daughter, you never mentioned any such person.” Papa strokes my hair.

I quickly describe the man, precisely, and how his shadowed creature appeared. I look to Blackjack. “You had to have observed him watching me. You notice everything.”

“That is true, Miss Shelva, I do. So I can say definitively. There was no one.”

The Porter nods. His facial ticks: They show that he is recalling the dozens who boarded in Moscow. “No one of that description rides, Miss. I memorize all faces on a trip so I can help everyone best I can.”

“But he’s here. Somewhere. I know he is.”

“Dear child,” says the Conductor, trying to appease, calm me. “A man cannot just – vanish – not from a fast moving train.”

“But I am right. I know I am. He wouldn’t have jumped off. He is on board.”

“Miss Shelva,” assures Blackjack. “Someone you describe would be impossible not to notice. They could not hide themselves. I know a man who remotely fits that description. But he is in far off Lindia. Maybe I told stories about him, and your imagination has made him real.”

“NO! NO! NO!” Mentally I shout.

“I believe Blackjack has solved the mystery of this vanishing man, Shelva,” says Papa. “Rest; and let this very odd person return to your dreams where he belongs. We will stay with you. You will feel better soon.”

In all the commotion, no one has noticed Captain Polly and Cecily Cobra’s subtlest of reactions. Only now, do I. Cecily has edged her hood out of the basket. She sniffs. Captain Polly’s eyes wander about the room. She’s noticing something, sensing something. I know they are agreeing with me, to each other. ‘Yes, Shelva is right. He was here,

‘…and still is.’

I imagine Bird–Cobra conversation as I drift fitfully to sleep.

‘The question is, Cecily. What shall we do about it?’

‘When the moment comes, Captain Polly. That is when we must decide.’

NEXT WEEK: THE VANISHED, RETURNS FOR THE PURPOSES FOR WHICH HE’S INTENDED.

Check out on PBS on Masterpiece Theater, The Lady Vanishes, August 18, 2013

Posted in archeo-apologist, humor, satire, Short stories, Whimsey, writing | Tagged Alfred Hitchcock, cat boxing, Czar's Winter Palace, Masterpiece Theater, Satire, Shelva Fiction, The Lady Vanishes | 1 Comment

No. 52: SHELVA AT THE CZAR’S WINTER PALACE

Posted on July 21, 2013 by Raji Singh

by Raji Singh

(As I do my archeo-apology work at the Fiction House, I continually unearth my great grandmother Shelva’s girlhood memories of her 1870’s Mother Russia.)

PART I: SWEET ANTICIPATION

My bedroom window is open. Drifting in with the cool summer night air is the sweet aroma of borsch Cook stews for our trip. I am so excited barely can I sleep. In the morning, we will take the train to St. Petersberg.

But I cannot wait. My imagination soars. My curtains begin flapping wildly, as never before have I seen. I hear loud whoosing sounds, and then even louder the rustling of feathers. Has some mystical force invaded my pillow? A soft voice beckons,

“Come Shelva. Time to go.” It’s Captain Polly. She lights on my windowsill.

Luny Mum beckons with her long moonbeam finger like a railway conductor, ‘All aboard, Shelva. For adventurin’, ‘atravellin’.’

I crawl from bed to bird and upon her soft plumage am carried swiftly up, and away.

‘Do svidaniya’, familiar old hometown Moscow. Instantly, I arrive. ‘Dobry den’ St. Petersberg, you glistening pearl along the Baltic. I am in a gown of thousands of feathers fashioned by Mum and Captain Polly – made from feathers falling from airborne fowl. “Thanks for the lift, Captain Polly.”

“Aark! Have fun.”

From ever-watchful Luny Mum: “Stay safe, Shelva.”

Pyotr Illych Tchaikovsky says,“Greetings,” when I arrive at the Czar’s Winter Palace. Will he play on the piano the music he writes especially for me? “Now Your Highness; Ladies and Gentleman of the court, my latest composition, ‘Concerto Petite for Miss Shelva’.”

Famous writers and artists I meet in the Grand Ballroom: In the bright candle glow of the dozens of crystal chandeliers, barely can I see who kisses my hand, oh so gaullantly. It is wrinkly and graying Lev Tolstoy. “You are lovely as I have heard, Miss Shelva. No words could I write to enhance your beauty.” I swallow my giggle. “All I say is true, Miss Shelva. Would not you agree, Elfie?”

“Agree, I must,” says Elfmovich Repin as he bows. The pointed tip of his long, dark beard dabs against my wrist like a brush to canvas. “Never could I paint such a vision as she. For the wildflowers of the meadow would burn with their jealousy of her beauty. No amount of Poppy Sol’s eclipsing could cool them.” Elfie’s intense eyes burnish me. They say, “I lie to you, dear Shelva. I want to paint you in the nude.”

I turn away timidly, before my eyes can reply. “Oh no! Never will I let anyone paint me so!”

I dream I am Princess Shelva. Straddling close is the uniformed, gold-encrusted Count Zuboff of the Royal Equestrian Guard. His brow is wide, proud. His sharp, beckoning cheekbones warn ‘Look, but do not touch them for I will cut into your soul, and will eventually one day – for that is my way – leave you bleeding and alone.’ I, as all the girls of Russia who swoon over him, disregard the warning. I take his hand as he says, “I believe this is my dance, Miss Shelva.”

“Ouch!” Our grasp is slapped apart by a riding crop. “No,” counters the Czar’s ever-pestering nephew, Prince Yakoff. Yakoff is an ugly beast. Warts infest frog face. Cucumber nose is a rotten squishiness.

‘Ooo-EEE! How many first-cousin marriages had to occur to produce that? ’ I ponder.

He grabs my arm. I cannot wrench away from the cold clasp. “She is mine for the evening. She will want to hear all my many stories, in their fullest detail.”

Zuboff slaps him. The sound is that of a horse’s hoof trampling a snake. Yakoff releases me. Zuboff is shouting. “Miss Shelva is here for glitter, dance, and romance. Not to be bored to death by your dull stories, and scared all-to-Hades by your looks, Sir.”

Beautifully gowned ladies smelling of the latest Paris perfumes, and stately gentlemen in cumberbuns of many colors, gather around them. I scooch far from the melee that begins, to the far side of the cavernous ballroom.

A 500-piece orchestra plays sweetly, led by Tchaikovsky. He sees me and smiles broadly. I return it when he strikes up – I cannot believe it, everyone is hearing my song – ‘Concerto Petite for Miss Shelva’. A warm hand touches my bare shoulder. I turn. I stammer. “Your… your… highness.” He wears an ermin jacket; soft looking as anything ever I’ve seen. A burgundy silk banner drapes diagonally over it, signifying his royal lineage.

“The harmonious chords of Maestro Tchaikovsky’s music may be yours, but I believe the dance belongs to me. Shall we?” The son-of-a-Czar takes me in his arms and we waltz over the marble floor.

What would Mama say? I can just hear her now. “Feh to the tyrant and all he spawns. Mark my word, daughter. Even touch them, and you risk becoming like them.”

‘But Mama, his touch, so gentle.’ I put Mama, who is so far away in Moscow, in the back of my thoughts.

So handsome is this smooth-face Adonis not much older than I. His eyes are gentle blue pools in which I joyfully swim; his mouth warm as it brushes my cheek. Kind, are his words when he whispers, “Shelva, I’ve been entranced ever since you arrived. I believe…”

Luny Mum peaks through the Grand Ballroom’s tall windows, and interrupts. ‘Ahem, Shelva. Do not believe all you hear.’

‘Darn you Luny Mum. I didn’t hear what Alexander had to say. Now leave me alone.’

I whisper to him. “I so enjoyed the way you said that, your Highness. Be so kind and repeat it, so I may cherish your words even more a second time.”

He smiles so widely. His mouth is but inches from mine. I can smell the sweet wine of his breath when he says, “Shelva your presence stirs emotions that never before have I…”

I awaken and turn over. Tears, of joy, streak my face. I feel like I am almost floating above the bed. Luny Mum shines so brightly through the curtains I cannot get back to sleep. Doesn’t matter. I am so happy. I reside in that euphoric state between dream and reality. In my, awake, I truly am there at the Palace. It is all so grand. I twist, anxious to return to sleep, so the dream doesn’t wear off and I am just hometown Moscow girl Shelva again, scraping my feet on the sidewalks on the way to school – day after day. You must sleep Shelva, you tell yourself. To be rested for your trip of a lifetime. You feel the ballroom slipping away. You’re so tired. Sleep, Shelva. Sleep. You reposition your body over and again, and squint. ‘Go away Luny Mum.’

Suddenly you’re dancing again across the floor. You are there completely now. Staid Moscow life is gone forever. You now live in your dream. You love your family, Mama, Papa, brutter Ivan, sweet, kooky Uncle Vanya. But this is your new home. Alexander holds you tight. The night: You dance it away in the son-of-a-Czar’s arms.

‘It is quite simple,’ you tell yourself. ‘Just have them all – Mama, Papa, Ivan, Vanya – come live with you here – happily ever after. Forever you will dance, learn from the great minds of writers, artists, and composers that Mother Russia has. All you must do is be sure Mama or Uncle Vanya do not say something too outlandish and insult the Czar or his son-of-a-Czar in public as they do in private. That shant be too difficult, shant it?’

Perching on your bedroom’s windsill Captain Polly roosters, “Aark! Rise, Shine, Shelva.”

Poppy Sol arrives. ‘Rise Shelva.’

Papa comes into your room and jostles your shoulders. “Shelva. Get up. We have just an hour to get ready and get to the train station. St. Petersberg and all its glory awaits. Mama has breakfast ready. Ack! mine daughter. Why are you so hard to awaken on this most the most anticipated day of your life?” He goes to finish packing and give me privacy.

You imagine Poppy Sol and Captain Polly say simultaneously as you rise, and try to shine. “Luny Mum says you had a grand time at the ball.”

You smile at them – actually, you think it is the same smile you had all through the night. You say. “It was wonderful. Now, I cannot wait for the dream come true.” You close the window and pull the shades and anxiously dress for the trip.

Next week: St. Petersburg waits for you…

Posted in archeo-apologist, Fiction House Publishing, humor, Short stories, Whimsey, writing | Tagged alternate history, Alternate Russian History, Captain Polly, Czar humor, Luny Mum, new cinderella story, new short stories, Shelva Fiction, St. Petersberg, Tales of the Fiction House, Tchaikovsky, whimsey, Winter Palace | 2 Comments

No. 51: UNCLE VANYA DISCOVERS THE FALLACY IN FALLING FOR A FEMME FATALE TOO QUICKLY

Posted on July 14, 2013 by Raji Singh

by Raji Singh

…when last we see Uncle Vanya’s ‘Sweet Willamina’: It’s 1850’s, America.

Instantly Willamina transforms into dastardly ‘Dollar Bill’, thief extraordinaire, scourge of the west. The quick change artist is William/Willamina AKA ‘Golden Boy’ Golden, adventurer, best selling writer for Fiction House Publishing. He uses this talent as an Abolitionist, committed to the Underground Railroad. On this day, the Dollar Bill persona serves to thwart a half-dozen slave catchers trailing an escaped family he and Vanya transport.

* * *

From the girlhood accounting of my great grandmother; how her world traveler Uncle, Vanya became a worthwhile cog in the machinery of American Abolitionism.

When Dollar Bill fires a warning shot at the slave catchers, the wagon’s draw-horses whinny nervously. From the seat, Uncle Vanya steadies them with the reins. “Eee- ya! Eee-ya mine fine steeds.” He peeks through the wagon flap, hoping the noise doesn’t frighten the children so they might scream out. The adults hold them tightly. ‘Do not quiver little darlinks,’ Vanya’s eyes coax. ‘Not be afraid.’ To the tightly kinked gray haired family patriarch, whose yet muscular arms encircle daughter-in-law and grandbabies, he wants to make a promise he knows he cannot keep. ‘Somehow, I’ll not let them take you.’

‘You must jump this vor (thief), Dollar Bill, Vanyak. Your only hope, it is in wrestling away the rifle. Nyet! Do not think of the fact that never ever even have you touched a weapon of destruction. Examine him closely and see how he handles it. You will know what to do when the time comes. Da! You must take the chance. For this vor will kill us, surely as the catchers will steal the family from freedom’s grasp.’

Uncle Vanya watches and records mentally as William steadies his long weapon. He forces the men to dismount slowly and even more slowly strip away their firearms. “Put ‘em, oh so carefully on the grass,” orders William.

“Now, amble away from ‘em, gents. Thirty feet’ll be just fine. Wouldn’t want anyone to be tempted to go reachin’ and for me havin’ to waste ammunition blowing some heads off. Good. You’re movin’ just fine. Now lie face down.”

The nattily dressed plantation overseer lemons his lips. “There’s been a herd ‘a cattle through here. “You’ll have us residing in piles of…”

“Well, whattaya’ know ‘bout that. Guess it’s true what they say, ‘like attracts like’.” William laughs derisively, motioning them downward with the tip of the rifle. Slowly they comply, closing their eyes, scrunching their faces. The fetid, sun-baking plops haven’t yet crusted.

William’s plan is simple from this point onward: Gather the weapons, vamoose, and leave the slavers to walk – stinking – to the nearest town, twenty miles back, with nary a waterhole for washing betwixt. ‘They’ll never even know we had our human cargo.’ All would have come off without a hitch if my Uncle Vanya hadn’t…

He jumps from the wagon seat and wrestles William down. Everything now happens in just seconds. William and Uncle Vanya scuffle briefly. William is atop him. The weapon fires accidentally, into the dirt, inches from Uncle’s face.

Vanya opens squinting eyes. “Willamina?”

“Quiet!” William orders. ‘Don’t come out of the wagon folks. It’ll expose my ruse. I can handle all this.’

The gunshot had made the slavers look up. Quickly they rise to rush to their guns. They slip, slide on the manure, only for seconds. But that’s just long enough for William to raise, kick poor Uncle Vanya in the stomach to take his wind away so he can’t say or do something else stupid. He re-aims his rifle at the men. “Back down in your slop gents. Surely, you didn’t think a little challenge from a greenhorn could stop me. He looks briefly down at Uncle and bluffs for the sake of the slavers. “Rightly I should blow yer brains out greenhorn. But then who’d I have to unload your merchandise when came time for me to sell it.”

William leaves Uncle lying breathless in the dirt, and then loads the weapons into the wagon. The grandpa stacks them quietly and carefully away from the children, and whispers. “Other Abolitionists told us all about your rusings, Sir. We trust what you do.” William smiles.

After a minute, Uncle’s air returns. William drags him to the wagon, props him onto the seat, then gets on. “Giddy–yap.” He leans back to the men lying on the ground, and now almost completely manure-caked. “You gents have a find day now, hear. But don’t let me see you rising til I’m out of sight. I can shoot the eyes outta rats from a quarter mile off.”

A mile or so down the road Uncle Vanya rubs his eyes and stares at William. “I…I…cannot believe it.”

“Here, Vanya.” He hands Uncle the reins, and then he stands. “I told you earlier, you might not find me so pleasing to your eyes, when you opened them wide enough.” William twists around, once. As he does, his hands move repeatedly up and down his torso. Where was William, ‘Dollar Bill’ seconds before, now, is Vanyak’s sweet Willamina.

“How…How you do that?” Uncle Vanya puzzles.

William repeats the motions, but in the opposite direction. Voila! William, again. “The HOW – that doesn’t matter, Vanya. I can, and that is all that matters,” William says, sitting. “It is the WHY that is important.”

A lump forms in Uncle Vanya’s throat. An hour ago, he was in love; thought he was in love. ‘Good-bye Willamina.’ He restrains himself from stroking Willamin…William’s hand.

William looks straight ahead. He knows he doesn’t have to tell – the WHY. He’s talked with Vanya long enough to know he feels the same way about Russia’s vile system of peasantry as he does about America’s vile slavery. “Our team could use you Vanya,” he proposes. “No better pairing for our cause than a greenhorn Muscovite trader-salesman and his ever-lovin’ sweet Willamina, who’s got the ability to disappear in a twist and a turn. What say, Vanya? We’d make an undefeatable duo.” William puts out his hand to Vanya.

Vanya takes it, grasps firmly, and shakes it.

Posted in Fiction House Publishing, humor, satire, Short stories, Whimsey, writing | Tagged Abolitionists, alternate history, new short stories, Raji Singh, Shelva Fiction, short stories, Tales of the Fiction House, Uncle Vanya, William "Golden Boy" Golden | 2 Comments

No. 50: CINCINNATI’S FIRST INDEPENDENCE DAY PARADE– A Whimsical Tale.

Posted on July 7, 2013 by Raji Singh

by Raji Singh

Taking a break from Shelva’s stories of old Russia.

Here is a short holiday excerpt from my novel, Tales of the Fiction House, now in trade paperback.

Cincinatti, July 4, 1826

The Cincinnati wharf-shack sways in a light breeze. Close your eyes, you’ll think you’re drifting out to sea. But Carper’s are open and he glares at Laza Bones’ wanted poster and Laza Bones glares back. Carper asks Mariner as they eat upon tabletop Turt. “The sweet little baby Bontez really grew up to be that – ‘thing’?”

“Yessuh, he did.”

Laza Bones ‘grrrs,’ at Carper, pulls out ‘trusty blaubuster’ and shoots. ‘BAM! BAM!’ Flouted barrel smokes. Wharf-shack rattles. Carper ducks. Projectiles ‘ziinngg’ off Turt’s shell, ricochet with a ‘tiinngg’ off wall-leaning Harpoon, deflects straight at Ol Tom, who leaps, ‘MEE-OWW-OWW-OWW,’ straight up from Mariner’s shoulder.

Mariner just keeps chowin’ chowder and talin’ tales and explorin’ Turt’s tattoos.

Turt, he’s really only yawning.

Ol Tom, just napping.

“The whoppers we conjure up in our imaginin,’ eh Carper,” Mariner says. “They make for some right good tellin ‘bout to others. Bet yer imaginin’ a whale-of-a-tale now.”

Carper glances at the poster, board-stiff.

The gunfire is real. It’s outside. Old Cincinnati’s tower bells begin tolling midnight. People are whooping, shouting, running wildly about.

‘AHEM! AHEM!’ Thibidioux’s alive again and he’s prying into the worlds of others. Slyly he grins at Carper. ‘After hearin’ mah story, dontcha’ feels sorry fer me, boy?’

Carper thinks he sees the evil sneer of King Creole on Thibidioux’s face. ‘Not one bit, Laza Bones. Don’t know how you got how you did. Only knows you did. N, that’s that. I’ll jus be like the Mariner, and ignores yer hair-trigger ways.’ Carper refreezes him, and, with little boy impetuousness, glances out the wharf-shack’s porthole and becomes transfixed by the doins’.

“Nuf a my jaw-jackin, Laddie,” Mariner says. ‘Good, the boy’s seein’ more than what’s right in front of ‘ims.’ He scratches chin stubble. “This tiny ship’s not big enough to net in all your thoughts and dreams, hmm Carper.”

Carper gazes out the round, 19th century version of a television to the world. Turt joins, then Ol Tom awakens and with his Cyclops eye, he does too. “Well all right,” Mariner says, rising to pull a raggedy curtain as if pushing an off button. It barely closes and they continue peeking out. Mariner strokes Carper’s hair, pats the nape of Turt’s ropey neck, then tickles Ol Tom.

“All that hoopin’, hollerin’. It’s turned Independence Day, Carper. Country’s independence as well as yourens’. Probably the first one you’ll remember. What say we make it real tootin’ special. Takin’ a part in it. Not just watchin’. Yes-sir-ree! 1826 America. This great lands a’ enterin’ its second 50 years and two of its great makers are still ‘akicken: Tom Jeffers… and Johnny Adams.”

Mariner takes a wooden crate from his sea trunk. He tosses a glob of matches atop the conical and stick-like contents. “China-man gave me these when I docked Singapore. We’ll light up the Cincinnati sky right well to celebrate.” He picks up tiny American flags mounted on pencil-like sticks. “I got it Carper. What this stodgy ol city needs is a parade. We four ‘ll start it. The gaul-dondest’ a parades.”

That captures Carper, Tom, and Turt’s spirit. Carper observes the old salt. Aglow like crystal are his eyes, showing his excitement. It’s worth more than any gold.

“Blow the horns and git set. The si-reen, she’s abeckonin’. Time to hoist anchor.”

Turt trumpets. Ol Tom mews, and Carper claps hands as a seal he’d once seen in pictures.

“All aboard,” Mariner orders. Ol Tom leaps on his shoulder. Mariner lifts Carper to his other shoulder then climbs atop Turt. He leans the fireworks crate between his legs and the back of Turt’s head. Turt exits the shack and trumpets shrilly, excitedly down the pier then soon, onto a street. Ol Tom screeches as torturously as he would if he were perched on a fence wailing to virginal felines.

Carper sings made-up songs with words he’d heard Mariner say. “America, America, Tom Jeffers and Johnny Adams. America, America. Yessirree we’re still a tootin’ and akicken’. 50 years and for always.”

Crowds gather along wooden sidewalks. They cheer the motley paraders.

You see their faces. They glisten in the streetlamps’ glitter and look wondrous with joy. And they are looking at you. Smiling. You know, by a fresh, new, and keen instinct, that you are bringing them this joy. It makes you, the floundering Carper, happy.

Mariner lights fireworks then holds them above his head for launch. ‘POW!’ Earth is stinking sulfur smoke, but the sky explodes into a glittering bouquet of red, white, and blue.

You feel more and more of your sorrowful pain slipping, disappearing, into the colors. You hear a soft voice that comes from amongst them. ‘Bonnie boy – live forever with this joy you now feel.’ Embers from the wilting colors seem soft fingers, wiping your tears of joy.

More sky bouquets. Onlookers line up behind your fours’ parade. Hootin’, hollerin’, shootin’,and fireworkin’ continue on down the street. The crowd joins in your child’s simple ditty. “America, America, Tom Jeffers, Johnny Adams…”

You learn from this that if you speak, people will listen to you – enjoy what you have to say.

And, on this day, little does Carper realize – BORN, is a showman.

The parade, introducing boy to world, exhilarates Mariner. He has chosen so much joy in a life that began so ill fated, yet he considers this his happiest time. Boy seems to have made ancient, young again. Mariner’s hopin’ he can teach every of life’s lessons he’s learned, to him.

Ol Tom ignores the fal-de-ral. He’s had a lifetime of cheering crowds among the swabbies, every time he’s cleared a pack of rats from a ship. Warm milk, an albacore head, and a soft warm feline brought on deck at the next port are the rewards he’s craved.

Turt cranes his neck high like a ship’s mast. He’s the vessel, sailing his friends through an ocean of people. Today, much as for the Carper, this is the beginning of a new life for Turt. The joy he found in old friend Kunta, then in Mariner and Carper, is now suddenly emanating from all those surrounding them. Decades of hatred of two-legs melts away. He suddenly realizes – it seems so simple now – all he has to do is to just let the hatred go, loosen fin-claw and SWOOSH! Forever, his burden – banished.

He blares out his pride of being a trumpeting creature, louder than ever.

As he does, the crowd’s cheers for he and his mates, boom. “INDEPENDENCE FOR ALL.”

Turt makes his vow this day – to forever care for the Carper, and for those he cares.

Cincinnati’s first annual Fourth of July parade begins with these four – unlikelys. The country will remember the half-centennial – bitter sweetly. On this day, the country-makers Tom and Johnny will die within hours of one another. Cincy will remember it for the shelled ship, its stooped, ancient Mariner captaining it with his one-eyed first mate and the little singing boson.

When the city celebrates the centennial 50 years hence, every blauhard ‘tween ages of 15 and 60 will have stories to tell how they or relative rode along. In 100 years, giant floating balloons and wheeled floats will depict Turt, Carper, Mariner, and Ol Tom in the first parade. In 150, at the Bicentennial, Presidents, future Presidents, and also-rans will be seen buttonholing voters – claiming Tom, Johnny and the original 4 paraders all would have supported them.

Turt will be at each of these events – watching from the Ohio River, maybe a secluded park, or, quite conspicuous in the crowds’ midst – though quite invisible midst the hundreds of concrete or styrofoam Turt replicas. He always returns. He will be at the next you can bet.

With this first parade Carper’s reputation as fixture on the streets and piers of Cincinnati – it is set. No more is he a ‘bastaad son-of-a nickel-a-night whure’, but, friend to nearly all, with words for them that are listened-to, revered, because he’ll have gleaned wisdom at the pulpit of the Mariner.

“This parade, she’s far from over. So don’t be a leavin’ yet,” shouts Mariner.

You smile. So do all the parade watchers, who’ve become paraders.

Posted in Fiction House Publishing, humor, Short stories, Whimsey, writing | Tagged 4th of July, alternate history, Cincinnatti, James Thaddeus 'Blackjack' Fiction, new short stories, parades, Raji Singh, short story, Tales of the Fiction House | 1 Comment

No. 49: PART III – UNCLE VANYA MEETS THE GOWNED GUNSLINGER TURNED WORD FLINGER: An Ill-Fated Romance Midst a Just Cause

Posted on June 30, 2013 by Raji Singh

by Raji Singh (Publisher, Fiction House Publishing)

My great grandmother Shelva’s girlhood writings. The 1870’s.

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

I wonder. Do schoolchildren in America learn about their Fugitive Slave Act of 1850 as we in Moscow? They should. It was something evil as anything the Czar cooks up nowadays. But if they have a teacher like mine, Mrs. Dumbinski, they probably don’t. I often distrust what Mrs. Dumbinski says.

(That is not her real name. I just don’t want someone to discover this in the future, and maybe through her, get me, or my family hounded by the Czar’s dirty workers, his Cossacks.)

Mrs. Dumb is so enamored of the Czar. If it’s something bad about another country, she is sure to use it in a lesson: her example for why his iron fist rule is necessary. I just know she says to herself as she glares out at us above gherkin nose. “Mother Russia is perfect, students. My lessons prove that.”

‘Hhmph,’ to that!

Well, I know she isn’t lying about the America Act. Uncle Vanya was there. He gets caught in its unjust fury as he aided those Americans called “Abolitionists”. So, Mrs. Dumb, you are right. But Mrs. D., the Czar has his enforcers. They treat our, who you call peasants, as evilly as some Americans did their enslaved.

* * *

A family of six runaway slaves – mother, father, twin sons age five, an infant daughter, and a graying grandfa – crowd into the back of Uncle Vanya’s canvas-top wagon. They sleep as the pair of draw-horses ‘clip, clop’ steadily northward on a desolate backroad. It is the morning after a harried crossing of the Ohio River. Canada bound – FREEDOM. Uncle Vanya and my Uncle-to-be, William, today Willamina, switches driving and looking out for slave catchers. (To make his identity even more confusing William/Willamina writes novels under the nom de plume, ‘Golden Boy’.)

Skyward observor – of – all, Luny Mum, waxes to rising Poppy Sol.

“Just you look at that aura of mystical contentment on our Golden Boy’s face. We never thought, seeing him as a child, that his look of confusion would ever disappear, eh Sol?”

“Indeed Mum. Our golden boy is finally content in being Golden Boy.”

“Doesn’t that peacefulness match the ‘appiness on Uncle Vanya’s face?”

“That it does, Mum. Vanya’s got the look of bloke fully satisfied with the good ‘e’s ‘elpin accomplish.”

But Uncle Vanya seems perplexed as he glances at Willamina. Willamina is still in his evening dress that so stirred Vanya’s amorous desires the previous night. Vanya puts those emotions aside for now. His perplexity comes from his thoughts about America’s unjust ways. “I just not understand, Willamina. We are in free state. So how the catchers able to come and take our journeyors back to their tormentors?”

“It’s what we Abolitionists call the Bloodhound Law, Vanya. Allows them to traipse north, force anyone they want to do their bidding, and pluck free souls back to their hell of whippings, maimings, and worse. Some of us have deterrents to it though.” He pats the repeater rifle hidden by the folds of his loose camisole.

“Ach! They use methods surely learned from the Czar, Willamina.”

Vanya musters courage. He strokes the hand, firm but smooth, of his seatmate. “Willamina, you’re even lovelier in the sunrise than last night in the moonglow. Please do not consider this too bold a thing to say, but I think I could come to care for you deeply, My Dear.”

Willamina slips his hand away. “I wouldn’t even consider that Vanya. I’m someone who could change quickly. More quickly than you might ever imagine. You might find out that what I become is not so pretty.”

Uncle Vanya would learn Willamina’s meaning of that statement in short order.

Thundering hooves of a half dozen horses interrupt them. Dust stirs as riders block the road.

“Whoa!” shouts Willamina. He slips his hand through an inconspicuous slit in his clothing. He fingers the trigger.

“Pardon, Ma’am, Sir,” to Willamina and Uncle Vanya says a sharply chiseled Federal Marshall. He is charged with enforcing the law of the United States of all America. “We must search all transports.” Willamina sees, by the way his handlebar moustache quivers nervously, how he fidgets with his derby hat, he reluctantly does his duty.

Willamina surveys the whole situation. He concludes, by the fresh horses, the clean clothes of at least two of the others. They are northern conscripts forced by law into this dirty work.

Two others, their faces whisker stubbled, and their clothes ratty: They’re, they’re just hires, interested only in saving their hides if threatened. Only one – probably overseer at the plantation where the family escaped – a stern face man in a long leather jacket, chaps, and low crown slouch hat, has a stake.

‘A calculated risk to keep them from their search is well worth a try,’ Willamina tells himself.

“Of course, Marshall,” Willamina says. My husband and I understand you have your regulations.”

Uncle Vanya keeps his face expressionless, stone, though Willamina’s reaction causes his perplexity to escalate. ‘And this, ‘Mine husbant, statement of Willamina’s?’ Before Vanya can pronounce objections to the search, Willamina stops him with a briefest, yet coldest glare.

Then, Willamina says to the Marshall. “We have some very delicate items in the back from Russia. I’d feel better if we did the unloading.”

The impatient overseer glares at the wagon, grits his teeth and demands. “Who the hell cares about any of that? Marshall, let’s just get to it.”

Willamina’s look returns to Uncle Vanya. His eyes say. “Now it is your turn to use your greenhorn ways Vanya. They’ll think you’re as naive as Blackjack and I did when we first met you.”

“I from Moscow,” Uncle Vanya says. Know nothing of your politics, your laws, just a trader of my country’s precious goods. Trying build goot relationship between two great nations. Truly hate see anything broke. After I bring all way from Mother Russia for Eagle Amerikans to enjoy.”

“We been riding all night,” the Marshall says. “Let them do the work if they want.”

The other riders shift in their stirrups, shuffle anxiously in their saddles, and prompt the overseer, “Come on Mr. Ashley, give us a break?”

“All right. But don’t take all the day.”

Willamina says, “But first, I have some business to take care of. Personal lady-chore. If you gentlemen do not mind….”

Exasperated, the overseer waves his hand. “Sure, Mrs. sure.”

With his eyes, Willamina says to Uncle. “Do not budge from the seat.”

Willamina goes behind a wide buckeye tree. In less than five seconds, Uncle sees a cowboy emerge. His gleaming repeater rifle beads on the riders.

“Dismount slow, steady,” William orders.

“We’re a duly appointed possee charged by the Federal Government to carry out the law,” says the Marshall.

William fires, sending the slouch hat flying. The overseer freezes. He pales.

“And I’m a self appointed thief. About to requistion your arms and steeds, and the Russians goods. Name’s Dollar Bill. And I act at will. So none of you budge unnecessarily, because I won’t hesitate in blowing sizeable holes in your gizzards. Now dismount.” Slowly, they comply.

Not knowing what to do Uncle Vanya doesn’t move. ‘Willamina! Please be safe. Don’t let him have hurt you.’ Vanya plans and then questions the wisdom of that plan for the sake of Willamina and the family in the wagon. ‘If he gets close enough. I should jump him.’

Next week: Uncle Vanya discovers the fallacy of falling for a femme fatale too quickly.

Posted in Fiction House Publishing, humor, satire, Short stories, Whimsey | Tagged Abolition, Abolitionists, alternate history, Free -Staters, Fugitive Slave Act, James Thaddeus 'Blackjack' Fiction, Luny Mum, new short stories, Raji Singh, Shelva Fiction, short stories, Tales of the Fiction House, William "Golden Boy" Golden | 1 Comment

Tales of the Fiction House

No. 58: THE CZAREVICH’S TALE OF THE TRAVELLING FICTION HOUSE

No. 57: THE CZAR’S PUSSYCAT PARADE

No. 56: HERE COMES THE PUSSYCAT PARADE (And Other Matters) – PART 1.

No. 55: THE TWISTING TALE OF THE ROPE-HAIRED MAN

No. 54: TALES OF THE LINDIAN WOODS – TRANSPLANTED ONTO THE MOSCOW, ST. PETERSBURG EXPRESS

No. 53: THE MAN VANISHES (on the way to the Czar’s Winter Palace)

No. 52: SHELVA AT THE CZAR’S WINTER PALACE

No. 51: UNCLE VANYA DISCOVERS THE FALLACY IN FALLING FOR A FEMME FATALE TOO QUICKLY

No. 50: CINCINNATI’S FIRST INDEPENDENCE DAY PARADE– A Whimsical Tale.

No. 49: PART III – UNCLE VANYA MEETS THE GOWNED GUNSLINGER TURNED WORD FLINGER: An Ill-Fated Romance Midst a Just Cause

UNEARTHING THE FICTION HOUSE

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The Novel: Tales of the Fiction House by Raji Singh

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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