Hopelessly Lost

I have seen some who appear lost in a maze,
with only a crust of bread in their pockets
as they turn from dead end to dead end
unable to see over the high thick hedges   
and only later did I learn
they weren’t lost at all.
They were making maps.

Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief

In a Surprise Only to Me

News Alert! The centrist leaning No Chance party has abandoned its plan to nominate a milquetoast candidate in this year’s U.S. presidential election. In making the announcement, No Chance spokesperson, Saffron Crow, spoke the following, “Pampered and self-satisfied Americans everywhere are hungry for two things: rice bowls with fried tofu and uninspiring presidential candidates with vague, non-offensive positions. That’s why we asked Shy Meeks and then E.Z. Timid and finally Vapid Agonistes to be our irresolute leader. Sadly, all of them refused. Despite the mountains of evidence to the contrary, we still believe our proud, enervated country craves unity over division, problem-solvers over problems, and competence over comedy. Accordingly, in four years, we will undertake this futile exercise in self-regard all over again. See you then.”

When asked if she was concerned that a vibrant democracy like the United States couldn’t support more than two viable political parties, Saffron Crow responded, “I’m not worried at all. In a democracy, vibrant or not, the people might not get the hero they need, but they always get the hero they deserve.”

Tengo Leche, Pointless Politics Editor

Ripped From the Headlines

London Rules is the fifth installment in Mick Herron’s Slough House series, and once again he asks what does Britain do when James Bond is on holiday? It turns to the Slow Horses, of course – that woeful group of misfits and losers who’ve been relegated to MI5’s dusty top shelf where they will hopefully either retire or die from boredom.

These novels have a ripped from the headlines feel, and London Rules is no different. It opens with an armed assault on a defenseless Derbyshire village. Twelve men, women, and children are murdered, and ISIS, much to MI5’s relief, immediately takes credit. It’s always good to have outsiders to blame, but these days, when a spy agency wants to blame outsiders for something hideous, you better take a close look at what the insiders are doing. Soon, another attack happens, and more are promised.

It’s not London Rules because London is ruling anything anymore. That was long ago. No, the title refers to rules of behavior that MI5 never strays from. “London Rules were written down nowhere, but everyone knew rule one.” It’s cover your ass, but because this is merry old England, they say arse. Oh, those silly Brits. I swear. Sometimes, it’s like they aren’t even talking English.

Anyway, it’s going to be hard for MI5 to cover its ass when the terrorists are operating from a playbook it wrote. As the head of MI5 observes, the terrorists are using “our own imperial past as kerosene. It’s the propaganda coup to end them all.” Fortunately, MI5 can pull the Slow Horses from the shelf, dust them off, and saddle them with all the blame when inevitably everything blows up. Oh, and by the way, someone is trying to kill Roddy Ho, the Slow Horses’ IT guru. But, of course, that makes for a long list of suspects, all of whom may be acting out of a deep sense of civic duty.

The Slough House series isn’t a success because Herron crafts meticulous plots laden with psychological drama. The plots are serviceable and there is suspense, but those are secondary to the maliciously fun characters and the delightfully acerbic humor. The standout character is Jackson Lamb, who’s always in “his hippo-at-rest position: apparently docile, but you wouldn’t want to get too close.” Roddy Ho has also emerged as one of the more entertaining characters in the series, which brings me to the problem with London Rules. Roddy Ho disappears one third of the way through, and Jackson Lamb is also missing in large chunks of the story. London Rules is still a fun read, but it doesn’t have as much of the misanthropic joy driving the earlier installments.

Gladiola Overdrive, Chief Editor

Each Spring Beckons Me Out the Door

A fuzzy pink sweater adorns the cherry tree
and all the ladies, half my age, are smiling at me.

Or so it seems –
maybe they’re just smiling near me.
It’s hard to see with such watery eyes,
as if I’m looking through melting ice.

Each spring beckons me out the door,
but I’m moving slower than the year before
and can’t keep up as the ladies walk past.
When did these women get so fast?

Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief

Charles Portis – Truly Gritful

Charles Portis’ True Grit, which was published in 1968, is considered a classic American Western, and that’s a shame because in reality it’s a classic regardless of genre. The story is narrated by the flawless Mattie Ross. Now to be clear, the only thing that’s flawless about Mattie is her storytelling.

Mattie is an old woman when the book opens. It’s the 1920s, and the Old West is long gone. Mattie is a smart woman. There are only two things in the world she loves: her church and her bank. But she doesn’t want to talk about them. She wants to talk about her quest to avenge her father’s “blood over in the Choctaw Nation when snow was on the ground.” It was in the 1870s, and Mattie was 14 years old. Her father, the “gentlest, most honorable man who ever lived,” was gunned down by Tom Chaney, a hired hand on her family’s Arkansas farm. Mattie travels alone to Fort Smith to finish her father’s business and start a little business of her own. She’s going to bring Chaney to justice, dead or alive.

But Chaney has escaped to the Indian Nation, which is just over the Arkansas state line in Oklahoma. That territory is a “sink of crime” but that’s not the Indians’ fault. They’ve been “cruelly imposed upon by the felonious intruders from the States.” The local sheriff has no jurisdiction in Indian territory, so Mattie needs the assistance of a U.S. Marshal. She asks for references and settles on Rooster Cogburn, a “pitiless man, double-tough, and fear don’t enter into his thinking. He loves to pull a cork.” He’s a man with grit. A Texas ranger, LaBoeuf (pronounced LaBeef) is also looking for Chaney because he killed a state senator. This odd trio goes into the Indian Nation searching for a killer. What’s the worst that could happen?

This isn’t Disney’s version of the Old West. There are no singing cowboys on horseback. Actually, LaBoeuf does sing some, but you get my point. Mattie can recall “when half the old ladies in the county were ‘dopeheads.'” I never heard anyone in the Apple Dumpling Gang say that. There’s a high body count, and no one returns unscathed.

Rooster Cogburn is an iconic character in American literature, but the story is a classic because it’s told by Mattie Ross. Her voice is matter-of-fact, unintentionally humorous at times, and indelible. “I have known some horses and a good many more pigs who I believe harbored evil intent in their hearts. I will go further and say all cats are wicked though often useful.” You’ll remember Mattie Ross for a long time. She’s the one with true grit.

Gladiola Overdrive, Chief Editor

Didn’t See That One Coming

We, here, at Pungent Sound Journal of Pulp Poetry would like to commend the International Press Corps for its incisive undercover reporting on a major international scandal. We, also, freely admit that we dropped the ball. We were duped. It embarrasses us to say so, but the truth is the truth, and the truth is the press’ currency of the realm.

We didn’t see it coming, and we’re galled by the brazenness of the deception. Like all intelligent people of good will, we trusted the British monarchy. After all, it earned our trust after hundreds of years of selfless service and beneficial works. So we were stunned when every global news agency reported for 48 uninterrupted hours that the British royal family doctored a picture for the sole purpose of making themselves look good.

We were even more surprised that the most pampered and privileged people in the world – people who do nothing all day long and are lavishly rewarded for it – could suck so bad at photo editing. Presenting a false image of happiness and respectability has been their only job for 100 years or so.

So kudos to you International Press Corps. The people of Haiti, Gaza, Israel, and Ukraine thank you for keeping the world focused on the truly important stories impacting humanity.

Saffron Crow, Photo Doctoring Editor

The Further Dangers of Being a Pretend Poet

The thing about writing poetry is
no one cares that you write poetry.
I found that curious at first.

Then I joined a writing group.

And the thing about a writing group is
no one cares that you write.
I found that curious at first.

Then I read what they wrote
and I'm no longer curious.

Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief

Stardust Casts a Spell

Neil Gaiman describes his short novel, Stardust, as a “fairytale for grown-ups.” That’s apt but not helpful. All his novels are adult fairytales, and that’s a good thing. There’s something appealing about a writer who finds the world magical, and it makes Stardust an enjoyable read.

The story opens in the village of Wall in England when Queen Victoria was young. That’s vague but helpful because Queen Victoria was old far longer than she was young. As the name suggests, Wall is a solid fixture firmly set in our world, but the walled town borders Faerie, which is each “land that has been forced off the map by explorers and the brave going out and proving it wasn’t there.” As a result Faerie is fantastical and huge, and Wall is there to keep the two worlds separate. But as every fairytale reader knows, walls are useless against magic.

And magic is everywhere, because the Faerie Market, an event that happens once every nine years, has arrived just outside of town. All sorts of enchanted items are for sale. At one stall, Dunstan meets a beautiful faerie girl who’s been enslaved by a witch. And as every fairytale reader knows, faeries be horny. Dunstan and the faerie spend an aerobic night together. Nine months later a bundle arrives outside the wall, and it has Dunstan’s name on it. He names the boy Tristran.

We jump ahead 17 years, and Tristran is single and ready to mingle, particularly with a pretty village girl named Victoria, but she refuses to even kiss him. When they see a falling star land in Faerie, Victoria agrees to grant Tristran anything he desires if he brings her the star.

Quests are perfect plot devices, because they have a way of changing people and what they think they desire. Every fairytale must have a quest, so here we are. Tristran walks into Faerie “too ignorant to be scared, too young to be awed.” Faerie is beautiful and treacherous, and Tristran isn’t the only one searching for the star, who has transformed into a luminous young woman. Her name is Yvaine. A witch has deadly plans for Yvaine, and a Machiavellian nobleman needs the enchanted amulet in Yvaine’s possession. They’re prepared to kill anyone who interferes.

Tristran finds Yvaine first, but she was injured in the fall. How will he get her to Wall when two powerful adversaries are in quick pursuit? Perhaps that unicorn will help.

Gaiman knows how to cast a spell. He seems to believe life is a gift and the world, though it can be cruel and dangerous, is full of wonders. At one point, Tristran writes a note to his mother. “Have been unexpectedly detained by the world. Expect to see us when you see us.” Is this Gaiman speaking for himself or for all of us?

Gladiola Overdrive, Chief Editor

The Poet Taster

Why does Homer's Muse disdain me?
Why won't nymphs touch my flute?
When heroes sail the wine-dark sea
why do I stay home and salute?

When will I know love from lust?
Why do both turn my brain to peat?
Why are lies the only words I trust?
Why is mud the only pie I eat?

My miserable muse is a mouse in a cage
who refuses to obey my command
and when I touch the cold, chaste page
it slaps the dry pen out of my hand.

Wicked muse, eat your stale cheese
but blow your foul breath on another fake,
allow my feeble tongue to unfreeze
for I've forms to fill and calls to make
and I'm nearing the end of my coffee break.

Luvgood Cap, Editor-in-Chief

Fortunately, the Internet Has Everything You Need

People always say to me Hey, Luvgood, you’re one cool dude. How can I be as cool as you? So I tell them: create a blog. And they respond Whoa, now. Shouldn’t I learn to walk before I try to run? And they have a valid point. Creating a blog isn’t easy.  It takes hours. 

Fortunately, the internet has everything you need.  Several vendors will happily provide you with dozens of templates for a fee.  It’s like the Bible says:  if you have a dream and the money to pay for it, the internet will provide. 

Once you’ve selected the best template you can afford, you need to choose a jarring background hue to emphasize a scalding letter color.  Whenever WordPress allows it, I go for angry red letters on a white background. The red represents the rage that can be found everywhere these days. 

All that’s left is choosing the font and font size.  Font is essential.  It says everything about your blog’s personality.  Are you old fashioned like The New York Times?  Choose Plantagenet Cherokee.  Are you a prig like The New Republic?  Choose Garamond.  Are you a pompous snob like the New Yorker?  Choose Franklin Gothic Book.  If you’re cool and approachable, choose the font I use. It’s the one mandated by WordPress. That just leaves font size, and here it really doesn’t matter what you pick, because no one reads blogs.

Luvgood Carp, Editor-in-Chief