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Small Beer Press
www.lcrw.net
Copyright ©2005 by Small Beer Press
First published in 2005, 2005
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NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.
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CONTENTS
The Pirate's True Love by Seana Graham
The Fire Girl by Marly Youmans
All The Things She Wanted by Philip Raines and Harvey Welles
You Accept What You Get When You're Eating with Death
The Mushroom Duchess by Deborah Roggie
Daylighting the Donwell River by Alette J. Willis
Native Spinsters by Diana Pharaoh Francis
"Discrete Mathematics” by Olaf and Lemeaux; or, the Severed Hand
SHH by Peter Dabbene
Bright Waters by John Brown
Contribandeaus
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Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet
No. 17, November 2005
Made by:
Gavin J. Grant & Kelly Link
With help from
Jedediah Berry, Gwyneth Merner, Erik Gallant
Contents copyright © the authors
www.smallbeerpress.com
Small Beer Press
150 Pleasant Street #306
Easthampton, MA 01027
www.smallbeerpress.com [email protected]
ISSN 1544-7782
Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet looks at the number 17, November 2005, and decides it probably will go on. This zine goes out June-ish and November-ish from Small Beer Press, 176 Prospect Ave., Northampton, MA 01060. [email protected] www.lcrw.net/lcrw $5 per single issue or $20/4. Various other money-laundering offers available by the dollar, pound, kilo, etc. Contents © the authors. All rights reserved. We reserve the right to squander the opportunities presented by quarterly publication. We reserve the right to live up to the Occasional Outburst subtitle which seems to have been tossed in the rejection pile somewhere along the way. Submissions, requests for guidelines, &c all good things should be sent to the address above. No SASE: no reply. Thanks for reading. These days are what we have. Are we doing as much as we could? Of course we're all busy, but is it just makework? What's the overall contribution to the Actual and Perceived Contentment Index? Printed by Paradise Copies, 30 Craft Ave., Northampton, MA 01060 413-585-0414.
The Pirate's True Love by Seana Graham
It was a fine spring morning as the pirate sat with his true love before sailing out to sea. She was wearing a long purple dress, and her cheeks were red with crying. The pirate held her hand and promised her jewels and fine clothes, but nothing helped. She would much rather have sat with the pirate till the end of time, and watched her purple dress turn to rags and then to dust than to have him sail off and find her the finest jewels in all the world. But she did not say this aloud, because she knew that the pirate would not want to sit holding her hand until the end of time, even if her dress did turn to dust. For the pirate's heart would always be with her, but his mind would be always on treasure. So, though she cried till her cheeks were red, she did not beg him to stay.
The pirate sailed away that spring morning and gave himself over to plundering and looting. He was good at his work, and lucky, and if that work involved a certain amount of anti-social behavior, well, it was what he was born to do. He was not a terribly analytical person, for he never stopped to ask himself why he needed to go around plundering and looting the high seas when all he'd ever really wanted was his ship and his men and the heart of his true love waiting back by the bay at home. Of course, he did have to pay somehow for the costly garments of satin and silk and lace he wore. True, these were not really necessary for plundering, but they did rather seem to go with the job.
After he left, the pirate's true love walked to the cliffs every day and looked out over the water. Sometimes, if she stood and stared long enough, she seemed to see the smoke of a great battle going on far out at sea. (Of course, her pirate love was by this time many leagues away, so this was either eyestrain or imagination.) And, after looking a great while, she would sigh and walk sadly back to her humble home. It might have helped pass the time if the pirate had left her some plunder to sort, or some loot to tidy, but the fact was gold and jewels had a way of slipping through pirate fingers like so much water. By the time the pirate sailed out on his next adventure, there was never much left but the pirate's mess to clean up, which she somehow could not find altogether romantic.
It was one day late in August when the pirate's true love turned from her lonely vigil on the cliffs, sighing because her humble home was now entirely too neat and tidy, now that the pirate's mess had long been cleared away—and realized that she was not alone. The truth was she never had been alone, but had just become too far-sighted to notice. But now—if she squinted—she could see that there were many other pirates’ true loves standing on the cliff, sighing and straining their eyes over the all-too-empty waters. And she had to admit that, sad though it was, it was also just a little bit silly. After all, the pirates never came home before October. Now the pirate's true love—and let us call her May, since that was her name and we do not want to lose her in the anxious throng of other true loves there on the cliff—May could be a rather enterprising young woman when she saw the need, and right away she saw the need for a Pirate Women's Auxiliary. For there is such a thing as too much looking out over the water.
The Pirate Women's Auxiliary flourished quite handsomely for a while. For one thing, with organization, only one true love needed to go and stand anxious and brooding above the cliffs on behalf of all the rest, and though at first they would quarrel among themselves for their turns, after awhile they began to devote themselves to the group's new task—fundraising. For there was quite enough wealth in the town—after all those years of relieving pirates of their treasure—to support any number of bake sales and raffles and charity balls. (Though it is true that, during these latter events, the pirates’ true loves would have to bravely blink back the tears as they thought of their bold buccaneers out looting and pillaging and not knowing what they were missing. And sadly but also truly, there was more than one pirate's true love who suddenly noticed that there were some not-too-shabby looking farmers and blacksmiths and shopkeepers around ... but that is not our story.)
The true true loves remained loyal, but a problem began to arise. For when the brave pirates returned that fall (in November, and very soggy), they found that their true loves were not oohing and ahhing over the heaps of treasure they had brought back with quite the enthusiasm the pirates were accustomed to arousing. The truth of the matter is, the fundraising had gone a little too well, and the pirates’ true loves had managed to amass pretty much all the gold and jewels and fine clothes they could ever desire—and these did not slip through their fingers like water at all. Oh, they did try to summon up the right note of gratitude at being showered with diamonds and rubies, but it was hard, as they were all secretly dying to get back to their carpentry lessons. For they had unanimously voted to use whatever excess earnings were lying around to build a nice warm tea house on top of the cliffs in time for spring, so that the lonely cliff vigil would not be quite so cold and, well, tedious. By now even the most steadfast of pirate true loves had begun to look for excuses to avoid her shift.
So th
e pirates were a little dismayed and the true loves were a little distracted, but if the jewels failed to excite, the handholding was still nice, and all went well through the winter. The pirates’ treasure troves slowly dwindled (and, unbeknownst to them, came back by indirect routes to their true loves’ coffers), and at last the spring day came when the pirates needs must sail to replenish their pirate hoards. So the pirates held hands with their true loves, and the true loves’ cheeks were red with crying, although noticeably less red than the year before (and some might even have been justly accused of cosmetic deception). And though their true hearts ached to see the pirate ship fade from view on the treacherous sea, they all hurried home to get the pirates’ mess cleaned up, because they were anxious to start working on a ship of their very own.
For certainly it is understandable that after you stand, year in and year out, watching a fine pirate ship fade from view on the treacherous sea, you might get some hankering to go and find out what all the fuss is about. Because it couldn't be just about the treasure, could it? (As we have seen, the pirates’ true loves had grown a little jaded about the gold, jewels, etc.) So the handiest true loves built a sturdy little vessel and the sharpest true loves studied navigation, and one warm day in August, they were ready to sail. They christened the ship the True Love (of course), and they ran up a flag made from May's purple dress (which was a much better use for it than letting it turn to rags), emblazoned with a picture of two hands clasped, and they left the now-thriving tea shop in the care of their faithful friends, who were now farmers’ true loves and blacksmiths’ true loves and shopkeepers’ true loves. And they faded slowly away from view on the treacherous sea.
When the brave pirates returned to their home by the bay (in early December and even soggier than the year before), their ship rode more lightly on the water than it had in many a year, for, truth to tell, their plundering had not come to much these last few months. Since August, in fact, they had not managed to get aboard a single fat galleon, or even raid one silent, sleeping coastal town. For just as they came within firing range of some ship or shoreline, a jaunty little ship with a purple flag (they could never get close enough to quite make out its logo, and what some of them thought they saw was too ridiculous to be believed) would race into view and warn them off with a furious blast of cannons and muskets. And though the pirates fought very bravely and fiercely, inevitably they would eventually have to make their escape, hidden by the walls of billowing smoke all around them. They were bold and fearless, but they were not stupid. They knew when they had met their match. Curiously, none of this great bombardment ever seemed to actually hit their ship, and some of the pirates swore that the enemy was purposely missing. But the other pirates only laughed at this, for the Pirates’ Code made this unthinkable. Besides, some of that musket shot had come close enough to singe the whiskers of their gorgeous pirate beards.
So now as the brave pirates alit from their ship, each walked to his humble home a little more slowly, a little less boisterously, a little less certainly than he had the previous year. (Though actually they should have been walking faster, for the treasure chests they carried were quite a bit lighter than they had been then.) They were not too sure that their true loves would love them quite so truly when they noticed that the customary shower of gold and jewels lasted for a conspicuously shorter period of time. The pirates, all in all, were a little ashamed.
But what was shame when compared to the wonder that filled each pirate's heart as he approached his true love's door—and found it locked and bolted? And what was shame compared to his consternation as he peered through a (dirty) window, and could make out no warm and glowing fire, no true love waiting next to it? And what, above all, was shame compared to the terror that seized each pirate as he stood alone in the cold, damp night and thought that some farmer ... or blacksmith ... or shopkeeper ... might well be happy in his place tonight?
Now, as each pirate was beginning to consider that treasure was a rather paltry thing compared to some other things that could be won—or lost—a pinprick of light appeared on the crest of a hill above. And it was followed by another. And another. And another. Until finally a torchlight procession could be seen wending its way swiftly down the hillside. And every pirate's heart leapt suddenly with a terrible, yearning hope that sent him running to the center of town, where the hillside road would end.
And the pirates’ true loves (after a long tramp from a secret lagoon, where a certain ship lay safely berthed for the winter) came rushing down to meet them, chattering vaguely of some Pirate Women's Auxiliary project which had unavoidably detained them. If any pirate recalled at that moment a purple flag on a distant sea, he made up his mind to forget it. For all hearts present felt, though silently, that this reunion was something rather more than the usual shower of gold and jewels.
One fine spring morning in the following year, the pirates once again sat holding hands with their true loves (none of whose cheeks were red at all, but all of whose eyes glowed beautifully). And then, a little reluctantly this time, the pirates boarded their fine ship, which soon faded from view on the treacherous sea.
And one warm day in August (for pirates are pirates, and should never be thwarted completely), the True Love sailed out after them. And so it sailed for many an August to come.
[Back to Table of Contents]
The Fire Girl by Marly Youmans
When Phoenix thinks about the fire
And grave around which they would walk
And lean, and over which the cups
Were passed, when she recalls a sheaf
Of fire-pinks on the bridge of table,
And often when she feels amused
About the queer curious child
She was, who ate the green and raw
But nothing else, with skin so pale
And tender she could never bear
The touch of selvage, seam, or tag,
When she remembers how she lived
With many tossings in the fire
Of the impetuous burning house
Ruled by a man as odd as she
But fearsome like an emperor,
When memory renews the past
Where Phoenix faced a face in earth,
Utterly perfect, curls close-clipped
And left in bowls as offerings,
Then she exults that air and pyre
Can mate to make a bright-yolked egg
That pulses with auroral rose,
And out of egg can burst the moist
Flame-fangled bird, and out of bird—The miracle of miracles
Most miracle!—can trill and flash
The syllables of word, and out
From word can hatch the mystery
Of Phoenix feeding praise to fire.
[Back to Table of Contents]
All The Things She Wanted by Philip Raines and Harvey Welles
"Most people say that the biggest trick with desire is knowing how to find what you want. But I say it's knowing what you want."
As he spoke, the stall-owner, Armitage, wiped two massive hands across a greasy Bon Jovi T-shirt. He had a belly that made him appear pregnant and the round, ever-alert eyes of an anime gamine, but to Joan, there was nothing innocent in his electric grin.
Joan shrugged. “I know what I want."
"Sure you do.” He didn't believe her. “But can you put your hands on it? Can you empty your pockets and show me, this is what I want?"
Patty had said Armitage was weird but harmless, so Joan smiled and accepted the challenge.
Clearing some old highway maps from the front counter of his stall, Armitage reached into the pocket of his leather vest. “Well let's see. Count of three. One. Two."
Joan pulled her hand out of her duffel's pocket and opened her fingers. The map that Patty had drawn on her palm was smudged by today's stuff: keys to the home she'd dreamt of for months, the two tickets Patty had tracked down for the show tonight.
"Three."
&
nbsp; Her objects shone in the springtime sun like mica under a sparkling stream. His rectilinear, cardboard cut-out looked like something snatched out of a child's mouth.
"Know what this is?"
She shook her head.
"Kansas."
Armitage's braces flashed, making her think of neon glimpsed from the passenger seat of a car. “Saw it once in a National Geographic in a dentist waiting room. Moment I first flipped those pages, I knew that this was the place where all my dreams collected. I knew that somewhere in all that empty, empty space, my heart was buried, waiting for me to come out one springtime with a map and a shovel."
"That's very poetic."
"Kansas did that to me. What's done it to you?"
Joan stared at her scraps on the counter, trying to imagine something as powerful and clear as Armitage's childhood vision in them. Her things curled up in the late winter chill. Warped and soggy with age, his Kansas still had sharp, straighter edges.
"Guess you win."
"No, you win.” Armitage scooped up Kansas and returned it to its keeping place. “Assuming you want my expertise, ma'am."
Falteringly, Joan tried to explain what she was after, but she was distracted by the hundreds of maps that Armitage had crammed into his stall. Sheets of parchment and vellum lovingly inked and illustrated hung from the ceiling poles while a hedge of cardboard tubes surrounded the stall. Carousels heavy with road maps were so packed together, none could turn without knocking over the whole stock. The names of places she'd heard of—Buenos Aires, the County of Kent, the Kingdom of Siam—were jumbled with places Joan wished that she'd heard of—Zanopia, Van Herzen's Land, the Disputed Territory of the Final Republic.
What really caught her eye though was the single map stretched across the back of the stall, a towel-sized quilt of what looked like Washington, patched together with cut-ups from other maps and heavily marked with Tippex and pencil, arcane symbols and child's drawings. “What's that?"
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