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  • Graveyard Whistler Presents Verönique Flüres’ “A Tale of Political Intrigue”

    Image:  Donkeyspeak – Cartoonstock

    Graveyard Whistler Presents Verönique Flüres’ “A Tale of Political Intrigue”

    Fiction Alert!  For entertainment, not information!

    Belmonte Segwic is a fictional character, created to explore the world of literary studies. Publishing under his nom de plume, Graveyard Whistler, he invents characters, events, and places—all fictional. Any resemblance to real people, living or deceased, to actual events, or to real geographic locations is unintentional.

    Graveyard Whistler posts primarily what he discovers in his literary studies research.  But a politico, Verönique Flüres, sent him this piece, saying she thought it important to get this information out because she knows all the pertinent facts.  She changed names and dates to mask the guilty.

    A Pre-Foreword from Graveyard Whistler

    As my regular readers know, I plant most of my writings on my personal website, and I have gained a rather dedicated following.  However, one of my readers suggested that I might try posting articles on a site called Fulcrum Letters.

    The Fulcrum Letters outfit claims to be for writers and purports to feature only the best pieces of work in any field of endeavor and to pay writers for their efforts.  The reader/follower suggested that I might make a few extra dollars on my more worthy pieces.  I was skeptical but I thought I’d give it try.

    I discovered that the editors of the site have an obvious, political bias.  But more important was the discovery that they cannot distinguish between fiction vs non-fiction and literary vs expository writings.  

    Here’s how I know:  every article that I submitted that contained any negative view or refutation of their political bias garnered a red-flag, meaning they would keep the article up (because it receives lots of traffic and ad clicks), but they red-flagged them and admonished me to reconsider the “tone” and revise to a more “acceptable state of standard logic.”

    And that happened not only on expository pieces that did have an obvious political view, but even with literary fiction (even satire)—pieces that might have a character whose dialog identified him as leaning toward one end of the political spectrum.  

    In the “Conversations Area” of the site, I asked other writers if they had experienced such treatment, and many responded with the same complaint that I have, and some even stated that they actually had articles censored—poof, deleted from the site—even satire, that argued against or presented ideas against the bias of the FL editors.

    Of course, not all literary pieces are of equal value, but writers know their own works and when they see that their pieces are being unfairly criticized or censored, they know they are the victims of unfair bias.  

    I finally decided to remove all of my articles from Fulcrum Letters—close to 600 of them in all—and leave those biased editors to go after whatever it is they were chasing.  On the one hand, I feel guilty for allowing myself to engage in self-censorship, but on the other hand, I could not in good conscience allow my work to be used by those editors for their own financial gain, as I received just a pittance for my work. 

    Censorship is a travesty in a supposedly free country; unfree countries themselves are travesties.  But when we run up against any organization that engages in political bias and censorship, we must stand and push back against it.  

    Actually, political bias in and of itself is not the problem.  The problem is when editors allow their bias to unfairly criticize, denigrate, and censor their opposition.  We need to hear all sides of issues, and if we can’t, we don’t have enough information to make good choices.

    The piece I offer here—Verönique Flüres’  “A Tale of Political Intrigue”—is an example of that bad “tone” and “substandard logic” that the editors of Fulcrum Letters found unsavory.  After wiping it form FL, I revised it and am now placing it here on my personal site. Verönique Flüres wanted her message to get out, and I’m honoring her wishes.  

    Luckily, I don’t have to self-censor on my own site!  Have a happy!  And enjoy!  

    Foreword by Graveyard Whistler: On Verönique Flüres

    Customarily, I post things here only that I have encountered in my literary research.  But this gem came to me from a source, who says she just wanted to get this story out because she knows the true facts of the situations.  Still, she claims she has changed the names of people and places to protect the guilty.

    Her name is Verönique Flüres; she is a citizen of Lichtenbourg but has worked for three decades in Washingtown, Metropolis District, and traveled overseas often between that locale and Mukabull, Krimelin-in-Russha, and she may be the only person in the world who actually knows personally all of the people involved with those two political items in question:  the dossier and the laptop.

    The “Tin-Pot Dossier”—aka the “Tambor-KiR Conspiracy Report”—and the “Numrod Frake, Jr., Laptop”—aka the “Computer from Hell-Hole”—will likely remain two of the most controversial items to grace—or disgrace, as it were—the political scene:  one is authentic, the other could not be more inauthentic.

    So I turn the floor over to Verönique Flüres:

    The Dutiful Dossier

    In July 20–, after business tycoon Reynaldo Manuel Tambor, declared his intention to run for the office of President of the Principalities (POP), the world-famous Britnish scholar and humanitarian, Professor K. S. Timmpott, began an in-depth research project to determine the eligibility and desirability of the noted businessman and former silver screen celebrity to hold that high office.

    Timmpott found himself embroiled in an undertaking of a lifetime, and he was thrilled to find that high ranking Principalities politicians, including  former Underwriter of the Commonweal, Murftry Brainfree, and her political allies in the Demon-Run-in Party (DRiP) were eager to not only verbally encourage Timmpott’s project but more than willing to support financially that important research.

    Important Findings

    In record time with the assistance of lucrative financial arrangements from the Brainfree Conglomeration and the DRiP, which allowed the hiring of an army of research assistants, Timmpott was able to finish his project, which culminated in the famous Timmpott Dossier, aka Tin-Pot Dossier. 

    The final report appeared by January 20–, just in time to begin throwing monkey wrenches into the machine known of the Tambor Presidential Campaign.

    The dossier was released and the upstream media organizations then began the vetting process, and again in record time were able to corroborate the findings that Professor Timmpott’s work had produced. Key findings include the following:

    1. A high level cohort of Tambor campaign workers, including the Tambor family and Tambor himself, were exposed as agents of the Krimelin-in-Russha (KiR).  Tambor was revealed as a puppet of Vladivostok Kagebee, strong man and dictator extraordinaire of KiR.
    2. During federal police raids on the Tambor campaign headquarters in every major city of the Principalities, the top spy agency retrieved a treasure trove of names, dates, and strategies coordinated by the Tambor campaign and Krimelin-in-Russha (KiR) agents.  Many phone and texts message between Tambor and Kagebee were seized.  
    3. Records were found involving emails, text messages, photos, bank accounts, and many lists of KiR requests for Tambor once he was installed in the Ovalish Office, for example, one of the most damning requests directly from Vladivostok Kagebee, was that a newly elected POP Tambor was to hobble the progress of the weakened but struggling government of YiTrane, a neighboring country to KiR.  
    4. Tambor’s main messenger, coordinating many of the meetings and communiques between Tambor and Kagebee, was Karen Suss-Wage, a high level operative who traveled to KiR over 30 times between July 20– and January 20–.  It is expected that Suss-Wage will be one of the first Tambor campaign operatives to be tried for treason after Tambor’s presidential term has ended.
    5. Not only did the Tambor campaign collude with KiR to win the 20– election, it also sought to say mean things about Murftry Brainfree.  For example, it was revealed that Kagebee had suggested that Tambor continually refer to Murftry Brainfree as “Mad Money Murftry,” which the presidential contender then did at every one of his campaign rallies.

    Conclusion

    Despite the findings of Professor Timmpott’s thoroughly vetted and widely reported dossier, Reynaldo Manuel Tambor did succeed to the presidency because of the many acts of collusion with KiR.  Evidence has even been discovered that three out of five voting machines during the 20– election process had been hacked and votes changed by KiR computer specialists.

    While many citizens of the Principalities have remained nearly oblivious to most of the credible information offered by Professor Timmpott’s dossier as the upstream media has continued to protect and cover for Tambor, their favored candidate.

    That protection and cover remains even now moving into the next election season, sources say that after Tambor’s term is over, he and the Tambor family will all be arrested and will face charges of treason, along with all of the other campaign operatives including Karen Suss-Wage.  

    Tamborian opponents in the government are waging a campaign to re-instate public hanging as punishment for treason.  Very likely the entire Tambor family and all government officials, including High Court picks, will hang in the public square—likely in the courtyard of the Emancipator Memorial.  Tickets to view the hanging will be sold on eBay, and sources say they expect to sell enough tickets to pay off the entire national debt.

    The Lurking Laptop

    In April 20–, Numrod Frake, Jr., brilliant, accomplished son of the beloved former vice-president, Numrod Frake, Sr.,—who humbly declared that Junior Frake is the “smartest dude he ever had the acquaintance to”—took a laptop computer that his father had given him for Christmas to a LapTop Computer Repair Shop in — (city retracted to protect residents), to find out why the computer was running so slow.  

    The LapTopRepairman, Jeff Johnus, saw immediately that the LapBook had too many files on the desktop, an operation notorious for slowing down computers. The LapTopRepairman noticed some of the filenames and became suspicious:  things like “Pops and the YiTrane Prosecutor,” “Pops or the ‘big lug’ as I lovingly call him,” “Uncle Jock and the Ching-Chang Comm-Brunch date,” and “list of big bucks for each of us Frakes—Yay!”

    Suspicious Repairman and the Malignant Mayor

    The suspicious LapTopRepairman hatched a plan to get into those files.  He’d heard on the conspiracy dabbling WOLFPACKnews Network that the Frakes had been pulling some shady deals in foreign countries to haul in big bucks by offering to those countries the influence of the big Frake name. 

    He also knew that the current president was finally being held accountable by being impeached for his quid-pro dealings with YiTrane.  So to get Junior Frake to leave his laptop, the LapTopRepairman told the brilliant but unsuspecting lad that he would have to keep the computer overnight so he could send for parts to help repair the slow-running machine.

    So Junior Frake leaves the laptop.   But then when he did not return the next day to retrieve it, the LapTopRepairman let the computer sit on his shelf for the 75 days required for considering the computer abandoned. After the 90 days, he tried to contact Junior Frake but was unable to locate him. 

    Waiting another week, he then tried to contact Junior one more time but again was unable to contact the very busy world traveling entrepreneur-now-turned Picasso-esque artist.  Then Jeff Johnus made several copies of the computer’s hard drive.

    Jeff Johnus, the LapTopRepairman, then decided to give the hard drive to a man named Cosmo Karakus, who had been the mayor of a large city, running that city into the ground—literally in that on one fine day in September some people managed to do something that exploded and brought down several of the tallest buildings in that city, killing over a million citizens and maiming many millions more for life.  

    So the disgraced mayor fiddled with emails, made them look like poor Numrod Frake, Jr., and his beloved father and world-class statesman, Numrod Frake, Sr., had done something mean.

    Conclusion

    The morally bankrupt mayor then peddled a concocted story to several smut magazines and waited for the stuff to hit the fan.  Of course, the stuff never did hit the fan because all of the legitimate news outlets were able to see that the stuff was just that—stuff, or more specifically “Krimelin-in-Russha disfornication.”  

    Thus, the country was finally made aware that Vladivostok Kagebee was still in charge of their country and likely would be until the country could safely elect Junior Frake’s beloved father as president—or perhaps evict the scoundrel Tambor, perhaps even installing the rightful heir to the Ovalish Office, the long-suffering Murtry Brainfree, who has sacrificed so much for her country.  

    The shame of all shames is that had Ms. Murftry Brainfree been elected and secured the Ovalish Office, none of the preceding would have even occurred.

    Well, that’s what I know for now.  I’ll report more as it comes in.

    Afterword by Graveyard Whistler

    Pretty bizarre story, but Verönique said she was glad to get it out there so folks can do with it what they will.  I’m glad I could be a platform on which she could offer her insights.  History is brimming with such subterfuge, and I am always glad that my concentration area is literature instead of hard history.  Too much politics for my blood!

    Literarily yours,
    Graveyard Whistler,
    aka Belmonte Segwic

    🕉

    Some good whistlin’ goin’ on!! Enjoy!

  • Graveyard Whistler’s First Flash Fiction Find (1)

    Image 1:  “Whistling past the graveyard” iPatriot

    The Graveyard Whistler’s literary journey now finds him delving into the phenomenon known as “flash fiction.”  He also reveals that he is in possession of a literary treasure trove bestowed upon him by a professor who curated a lit site, until he decided to leave academia and go into law.

    Fiction Alert!
    This story is fiction.
    It does not depict any real person or actual event.

    Introduction by the Graveyard Whistler

    Graveyard Whistler here again!  I keep finding stuff that just blows me away, and I just have to share it.  This time it’s a series of little narrations that have come to be known as “flash fiction.”  There are several online outfits dabbling in that endeavor.

    The following set of ten that I offer here are refurbished narratives based on a set I found on a site that no longer exists.  The site was called “Stone Gulch Literary Arts.”  I contacted the owner of that site, and he told me he had completely abandoned it along with literary studies in general, despite the fact that he sports a PhD in American Literature and serves as a full professor in the English department at a state university. 

    He preferred that I not identify him, and he has since taken down the site from the Web.  He said he was now studying law, and as soon as he passes the bar exam, he is waving good-bye to academia.

    But “Stoney,” my nickname for him because he refuses to reveal his identity, did give me permission to do what I want with anything found there.  And I might add, for my purposes, the site remains a treasure trove of goodies, from the flash fiction to highly sensual poems to short stories full of dark and dreary twists and turns to airy mystical stuff.  Stoney’s literary treasure trove even sports some political treatises and analyses that are quite fascinating as well as insightful.  

    So, I begin with the flash fiction pieces. 

    Ten Flash Fiction Pieces

    Here are the first 10.  Each story contains only five sentences. But each boasts an opening, a conflict, and a conclusion.  Seems that this would make a useful exercise for the creative writing class.

    Prison for the Battered

    A battered wife, home alone one morning, gives birth to a baby boy.  Afraid of the infant, she buries it in the back yard.  She didn’t even know she was pregnant! The neighbor’s dogs dig up the body of the infant.  The battered wife welcomed prison to escape the beatings from her spouse.    

    Lucy’s Tunes into Law

    Lucy loved music and wrote many songs.  She performed her songs on a number of CDs.  Lucy’s friend sent two of Beth’s CDs full of songs to a famous singer.  The singer ripped off the songs, and left Lucy demoralized.  Lucy never wrote another song but decided to go to law school to study copyright law.

    Candy’s Dream Job

    Candy was poor and couldn’t buy her dream dress on display in Gladys Harper’s Boutique window.   Candy tries to spirit the dress away under her winter coat.   Gladys’ sharp eye catches Candy’s attempted crime.   Gladys requires Candy to work in the boutique to earn money to buy the dress.   Years later, Gladys dies, bequeathing to Candy both the boutique and Candy’s dream job.

    A Big Heavy Rock

    Martin brings the big heavy rock to his room upstairs.  Delbert is walking past Martin’s house.  Martin then drops the big heavy rock on top of Delbert’s head. Martin panics and then calls an ambulance.  Seems unlikely but the two boys became fast friends as Delbert recovers in the clinic.

    The Green Marble

    Edna carried around her three pretty marbles.  She handed over a blue one to her friend, Martha.  Annette coveted Edna’s the green marble.  Edna let Betty have her green marble.  Annette hated Betty from than on.

    Old, Dead Guy Waiting

    An old guy named Winston Totenfelder was waiting by his mailbox. Unfortunately, the mail was running very late that day. Old man Winston Totenfelder started to worry about his friend, Jack Neuland, the mailman.  Jack in his mail truck had crashed into a big buck deer on his mail run. Old Winston Totenfelder gave up waiting, walked back to his house, and in his kitchen near the sink, fell dead.

    Pop! Pop! Capped! Capped!

    The house looked empty to Stoop and Dreggs.  Stoop ran to the back porch, while Dreggs stayed on the front porch.  Stoop shouted out to signal to Dreggs—time to break through the doors. Pop!  goes the lady of the house, capping Stoop. Dead instantly!  Pop! goes the other lady of the house capping Dreggs.  Also dead instantly!

    Purple Bicycles

    Twin boys, Jon and Don, sped on their purple bicycles over to Mortmaker’s Lake.  Jon told Mrs. Mortmaker about the heron he saw by the lake.  Don spoke to Mr.  Mortmaker about riding his bicycle around the lake.  Both Mr. and Mrs. Mortmaker utterly despised all children.  Those purple bikes were brought up out of the lake, after a ten year search for the twins.

    Glazna’s Final Swim

    We all carried our lunch pails down to Spork River at high noon.  Glazna boasted that she could swim fifteen miles upriver without one stop.  Amy replied she was very doubtful that Glazna could do that.  Glazna popped up off the rock she sat on, slung off her shoes, and dived into the muddy water of Spork River.  A report on the six o’clock news the next day claimed Glazna’s lifeless body was recovered from Spork River after a twelve hour search.

    Jimmy and the Hold Up

    Jimmy buys himself a nifty water pistol at Jaggly’s Dollar Emporium.  Jimmy’s mom tells him not to take the squirt gun to school.  Jimmy tucks away his new water weapon into his backpack and ventures off to class.  A teacher calls Jimmy’s mom at lunch time. Jimmy had attempted to hold up the secretaries in the main office brandishing his new water pistol.

    A Final Comment by the Graveyard Whistler

    This installment features only the first 10 of these flash fiction pieces.  I’ll add more later.  But I’ll probably delve into other genres before I continue with these.  I have put off writing my dissertation because at this point I am not finding as much information as I had anticipated on the topic of irony.  

    Maybe I will change my focus to a simple notion of “variety” in the literary world because I am finding that literature, both ancient and modern contemporary, does sport a wide array of different topics, genres, issues, attitudes, and styles.  I could like “coin” a whole new glossary of literary devices if I put my mind to it, and I might just have to do that!

    Literarily yours,
    Belmonte Segwic
    (aka Graveyard Whistler)


  • Graveyard Whistler on “The Lucy Light Letters”

    Image:  “Letters”   Photo by Ron Grimes

    Literary letters have always been a marvelous find in literature.  Graveyard Whistler found this series of letters and although they do not address his main interest in irony, they do offer an interesting take on some of life’s most intriguing conflicts.

    Fiction Alert!
    This story is fiction.
    It does not depict any real person or actual event.

    Graveyard Whistler’s Introduction to “The Lucy Light Letters”

    As my faithful readers know by now, I am pursuing a PhD in literary history with a concentration on “irony.”  The thing is I am finding such marvelous gems that do not actually address the issue of irony but which are just so fascinating I can’t let them drop without exposing their emotional plights to light.

    This series of letters offers a delightful exchange between a professor and former student.  They are obviously very much in love but have much baggage that prevents their ability to requite that love, that is, until certain unpleasant facts of life are overcome. 

    I apologize ahead of time for not being able to offer a completely satisfying ending to this story.  I know my readers will be left with questions:  did LJ succeed in persuading JL to relocate to SoCal.?  does their love ever become physical?  do they resume writing that corroborative collection that seems to have started this whole thing?  and simply, do they live happily ever after?

    I know I would like answers to those questions, and I will certainly keep looking for them.  But for now, please enjoy the exchange.  Their writing includes some clever and quirky turns of phrase.  They both were definitely lovers of literary language, and they definitely loved each other with a rare love and affection that many of us only dream about finding on this fuzzy-mudded planet.

    Letter #1

    April 19, 19—
    Encinitas  CA

    Dear Jefferton,

    It’s still difficult to call you that, even though I know it would be ridiculous to call you Professor Lawrence, considering our past relationship.  I know you must be surprised getting a letter from me now; maybe you are shocked or annoyed, and are not even bothering to read this, so maybe I am writing in vain, but I will continue in the faith that you do still have at least a spark of interest in me and my life.  

    I owe you a huge apology for just vanishing the way I did, without one word of explanation or even good-bye.  I hope you will accept it and know that I am truly sorry.  I don’t really understand myself that well even now, but at the time of our relationship, I was thoroughly confused.  That confusion—or my desire to try to work it out—is part of the reason I am writing you now.  But there are other parts.  I hope I will be clear; I’m not even sure I can be.  

    Before I get into that, I wanted to tell you that when I saw your book on our library’s new arrival shelf, I was tempted to check it out, but then I rushed over to the bookstore and ordered my own copy.  You can be sure I will read it carefully and cover to cover as soon as it arrives.

    Well, there are some things I have to say, and I might as well jump right into them.  At the time we were working on that collection of poems, I was in a constant state of turmoil.  I had written what I considered some of my best poems for the collection, but I feared they were too revealing, I mean, I feared they showed too clearly how I felt about you, and our growing closeness.  I feared that if anyone we knew (your wife for example, and my parents and brothers) saw those poems, and saw that we, a professor and student, had authored them, they would make assumptions about the nature of our relationship.  I could not face that.  And I did not have the courage to tell you about my fears.  You had such confidence in me, and you thought I was so bright and sophisticated for a twenty-year-old, but I didn’t feel that way, and it scared me and upset me to have you find out.  I just couldn’t let you know how weak and insecure I felt, so I transferred to Miami to finish my BA in English.

    Living at home was hell, but I’ll tell you about that later, if you are still speaking to me or listening and you still care.  

    I had thought I’d tell you everything I had been doing and thinking lately in this one letter, but I see that it is getting too long.  And I really should not be so presumptuous as to assume you are still interested.  Instead, I will just come right out and ask you: Are you still interested in hearing from me?  Do you think we can be friends?  I have never forgotten you for a minute.  I really do love you, and I have missed our talks. 

    You were always so insightful; I look back now, and realize that I surely could have trusted you with my insecurities back then, but I just didn’t know it then.  I am learning, but I am still full of confusion.

    I hope you will let me know if it’s all right to write you more.  Please let me know soon.

    Your “Lucy Light” (I hope still)
    Lucinda Janson

    Letter #2

    21 May 19—
    Muncie, Indiana

    My Dear Lucy Light,

    I was delighted to get your letter.  I have wondered about how you are doing and where you are.  I have wondered if I had been the cause of your sudden disappearance and from your letter I gather I must bear some guilt in that regard.  I should have realized that you were too young and inexperienced to become equal partners in that endeavor of authorship.  But I will never take back what I said about your intelligence; you are still the brightest and most perceptive student ever to sit for my class in Mod Brit Poetry.  You are also one of the most creative.  I had occasion to teach a creative writing section last fall; as you know, I hated every minute of it, but at least now I know why I hate it so much.  Because I totally agree with Auden that artists who take academic positions should do academic work.  If I had my way, all creative writing courses would summarily be banished from the university.  I have gotten upon my soapbox, and now I shall descend again to finish my lecturing to you alone.

    Dear, dear girl—as you have apologized to me, let me say that if you truly think you owe one, then I accept it.  But let me apologize to you in return.  I am so sorry for what you have been through.  I am more than willing to do anything that you feel will help you; I am more than willing to accept you back into my friendship, and may I say this, without pressure, if you feel you would like to resume collaboration on that collection, I would be happy to do it.  I put the project away and have not had the heart to pick it up again, since my Lucy Light was extinguished.

    I am so glad you are going to read my book; it’s just one of those critical pieces that takes up much more time to write than it is worth.  But it did me favors when it came time to apply for promotion, which I did and won full professorship; now I have occupied the Glossmere Distinguished Chair in Rhetoric and Writing for the past five years.  Unfortunately, my share of committee work has not lightened, but I do intend to take steps to reduce all outside distractions, so I can concentrate on my own poetry.  I have published maybe five poems in the past two years, and I feel that is a disgrace, but as I said, I do plan to remedy that.

    So Lucy, as you may have gathered thus far, I will be watching my mailbox with a greedy eye for your letter.  Your place in my mind and heart has not been filled by another nor erased by time.  Come back into my life, and let’s make life brighter and fuller for both of us.

    I too have much news for you, but I wait for yours first.  I wait and watch.

    Yours for the works,
    JL

    Letter #3

    May 30, 19—
    Encinitas CA

    Oh my dear Distinguished Professor,

    You have made me so happy for accepting my foolishness and forgiving it.  Now I feel relieved and confident that I can tell you my reasons for contacting you.

    Do you remember Nathan Glass?  He was a student in the Mod Brit Poetry the same semester I was.  And maybe you remember that he and I were dating off and on, while you and I were working on that collection.  Just before I transferred to Miami, Nathan asked me to marry him.  I told him I couldn’t marry him because I was in love with someone else.  And he pressured me to tell him who it was, but I never did tell him.  

    Without my knowing it, he was watching me; he contacted me at Miami, and insisted I see him, and when I did, he told me he knew that you and I were having an affair.  I denied it, of course, but he said he had pictures of us.  Well, I laughed in his face because I knew that was impossible, but he showed me pictures that looked exactly like us entering the Bevon Motel.  He said it didn’t matter if they were real, because they looked so real, real enough to get you fired and divorced.  Anyway, he insisted I marry him or he would show those pictures to your wife and department head.  So that’s what I did, I married him.  I hated him; I feel so guilty now, but I hated every minute of being married to him.  Every time he touched me, I wished he were dead.  He raped me; he never ever made love to me; he raped me, and he’d call me whore, slut, bitch, in love with that prig of professor, here bitch take this.  That’s what he’d say.  He would never leave bruises on me, and he bragged that I would never have any proof that he continued to rape me and curse me.

    That went on for three years.  I was working on my masters at the University of San Diego, and he was an assistant professor in history.  At the beginning of last year, his department head gave a party for the new members of the department.  It was some kind of record; they hired something like five new members, and they had many more new TAs than usual, so they wanted to celebrate.  The department head held the party on his boat, and everyone got real boozed up.  Nathan usually never drank, except for beer, and he had told me he was allergic to vodka; this is why I feel so guilty.  The bartender set out on a tray three glasses of drinks, two had gin in them, and one had vodka;  I picked up the one with vodka and took it to Nathan, and I said, “Here’s your gin.”  He was talking to one of his colleagues and didn’t pay any attention and just drank it.  About a half hour later, there was a big commotion and people looking over the side of the boat.  And a couple of TAs jumped in.  I rushed over to see what it was, and it was Nathan in the water.  A female TA said he tried to unhook her bra, and she slapped his face, then he told her to watch, he could walk along the edge of the boat like a tight rope, but he couldn’t, and he fell in.  They pulled him out, and he was dead. 

    Oh, Jefferton, I hate myself for these next words, but I can’t help them:  I was so relieved, so happy.  I cried and cried for days; of course, everyone thought I was crying in mourning for my dead husband, but I was crying in relief for myself.

    Of course, I don’t miss him and I’m still glad he’s out of my life, but I also know that I never wished he was dead.  I just wished he were a decent human being.  But the guilt is eating me up.  Jefferton, help me, if you can.  I have no friends here yet.  I am teaching two classes of composition at MiraCosta College in Oceanside, and I also work as a waitress in a natural foods restaurant.  They think I will eventually get hired full time in both jobs.  But for now, all I have is two jobs, and I need a friend with some advice. 

    LJ

    Letter #4

    1 September 19—
    Indianapolis  IN 

    Dear Lucy,

    I must apologize for not answering your last letter sooner.  After I recovered somewhat from the shock of your plight, I discovered that Marie has been having an affair with—well, never mind with whom—but the horrific scene that played itself out at our home on the third of July this year has left me a shambles.  I don’t want to go into the details of that yet though, because I know I must attend to your request.  Let me just add that Marie and I have finally decided to end our thirty year marriage; you must have noticed my address change.  I can no longer live in the town where I was born, the town where I fell in love, the town where I grew to manhood—leaving only to pursue my graduate degrees, and then returning to the town I had taken to my heart for what I thought was a lifetime.  No, the very trees here mock me that my Marie would deceive me so, and so I have moved to Indianapolis and become a commuter to my beloved Ball State to finish out my days as Professor of Rhetoric and Writing.  I cannot leave my undergraduate alma mater, the university that took me to its bosom to allow me to blossom in my career as professor of English and now Distinguished Professor of Rhetoric and Writing.  No, I shall live those fifty miles away and drive to my university every day, and leave as soon as my teaching and other duties are over.  

    One other thing—Martha-Marie Vandover Lawrence will never teach at this university again.  Over and over I thank my God in Heaven that we bore no offspring to suffer this slice of hell on earth.

    I just re-read this opening paragraph, and I am tempted to delete it, but no, I want you to know my state of mind, so that you may better judge any “advice” I give you.

    First, you are not guilty of anything.  That lout simply got what he deserved and in that, you are getting what you deserve:  to be rid of him.  Yes, I remember that knot-head.  His putrid essays left a stench on my fingers; I hated having to mark them, and how I would have reviled having to discuss further with him any point I might have marked, and if I had marked any of his inanities, he would have engaged me after class to elucidate further stupidities.  So I always marked him A and let it fall at that, no comment, nothing to invite his further attention. 

    How I would give anything had you told me that that bastard was blackmailing you.  Oh so many years between that blackguard’s deeds and now—but I would not have allowed him to get away with it.  Still, nothing we can do to remedy that, except that I convince you that you have no reason for guilt, and you must know that—I insist.  Of course, you did not wish him dead, and you did not kill him.  His own perversion killed him; his overweening pride, his misogyny, his blatant disregard of decency and humanity.

    Lucy, if you could come here I would so cherish a visit from you.  I have my own confusions.  All the years of my marriage I was never unfaithful to Marie, though I have found out that she was unfaithful many times.  But she claims my infidelity was mental and emotional, and she found your letters, and uses them as evidence I was just as guilty of infidelity as she.  Maybe I am just old and out of touch, but I do not see it that way.  To me there must be a physical consummation to constitute marital infidelity, and you know that we never so much as held hands. 

    Dear Lucy, if there is anyway you could travel back to Indiana, I would cherish a visit from you.  I feel that we both need a balm that we cannot hope to receive from anyone other than each other.  I simply must convince you that you must leave any guilt for that villain’s death to the wolves.  You deserve to make your life a haven of peace.

    I will be waiting for your response with prayer that we may meet soon, resume a blessed friendship, and find the strength to live out the rest of our lives in harmony with each other and the world.

    In love and friendship,
    JL

    Letter #5

    September 5, 19—
    Encinitas CA

    Dear Jeff,

    How to express the relief I feel from your kind words!  No, I cannot.  I am overwhelmed by the invitation to return to Hoosierland.  You can be sure that I will begin immediately making preparations for that return.  

    It’s all so breathtaking—it makes me dizzy.  My work here is not without its perks, and I do love the climate.  A thought, maybe a crazy thought!, just popped into my head:  how might I persuade you to relocate to southern Cali?  No, we can jump off that bridge if and when we come to it.  But just maybe your love for your school and native state has run its course?  

    Now, I am off to make a flight reservation.  Before I go further than that, I feel we need to reconnect in person to discuss all the details of my relocation.  Please know how grateful I am to you, and that I so look forward to seeing you, listening to your sage advice, and just generally unburdening myself of cares and issues that I know you have the wisdom to address.

    I will let you know my flight information as soon as it is confirmed!

    Thank you again, dear Professor!

    With love and gratitude,
    LJ  

    PS/ Just in case, here is my phone number (760) 701-4619.

    Letter #6

    Post Card
    15 Sept 19—
    Indianapolis IN

    Lucy—

    Our talk left me stunned and so grateful for our re-connection. Oct 7 cannot come soon enough.  See you at the airport! 

    Always,
    JL

    Final Word from the Graveyard Whistler

    This couple remains a mystery.  I wonder if they really re-connect and what re-connecting really means to them.  Will they remain professor and student?  Will they write and publish works together?  Will they begin a steamy affair?  Will they marry?

    That’s the intriguing feature of this sequence: that it heralds more questions than answers.  I guess the true value of studying this sequence of letters rests in analyzing the styles of each writer.  The professor, for sure, has a unique voice, and the student, his “Lucy Light,” brings off some unique features of her own.

    Interestingly, I did not revise a single word in this sequence of letters.  Except for blocking out the date, I have left everything exactly the way I found it. I have been asked where I found these letters, but revealing that location would prove problematic for I don’t know if these people are alive or dead.  

    By the dates, they could very well still be living, and they would be quite old now, and if they happened to learn that their letters were now being spread all over the Internet, they might not approve, and they might even be hurt. So I simply must refuse to divulge the exact source for these letters.

    Again, my purpose in publishing these letters is simply to reveal what I think is an interesting, unique professor-student relationship that is conveyed in unique literary language.  Who they are is not important for the purpose.  If I ever hear from anyone who knows who these people are, I will divulge whatever that individual will allow about the issue.

    Literarily yours,
    Belmonte Segwic
    (aka Graveyard Whistler)


  • Graveyard Whistler Features Stoney’s One Act Play

    Image 1: “Whistling past the graveyard”

    From that great treasure trove of the former Web site called “Stone Gulch Literary Arts,” the feature offered here is a one act play.

    Fiction Alert!
    Belmonte Segwic, aka Graveyard Whistler, is a fictional character, created to explore the world of literary studies. Thus Graveyard Whistler is free to invent characters, events, and places—all fictional. Any resemblance to real people, living or deceased, to actual events, or to real geographic locations is unintentional.

    Introductory Word from Graveyard Whistler 

    The late owner, Stoney, of the literary site was quite a prolific writer in many different genres.  He has a grand total of ten one act plays.  I don’t know if I’ll feature all of them here, but I just might.

    Just to refresh memories:  “Stoney,”—my nickname for him because he requested anonymity—the owner of the Stone Gulch lit site, gave me permission to use any of his essays and original fiction and poetry anyway I choose.  

    So as I base the pieces on the selections I make, I tinker a bit with them, for example, I always change names.  I have no idea if Stoney used names of real people or not, but for my purposes, I intend to keep these entries pure fiction, so my tinkering is geared to mask as much as possible any telling details that someone who knew Stoney might recognize.  

    The last thing I need is someone from Stoney’s circle of folks to suspect he sees himself and feel he’s being targeted.

    The following play features two characters who are engaging in a conversation through letters.  It is sparse, but it tells a story about two very different characters revealing their various qualities, strengths, and weakness.  It’s funny in some ways but mostly pathetic as it pulls the veil off of a decaying, dying, and possibly dead relationship between the two characters involved.

    Its original title was “Two Pathetic Women.”  I changed it, alluding to Bob Dylan’s song, “Don’t Think Twice, It’s All Right” because I felt that allusion summed up the tenor of the letters the two women have offered.

    Enjoy!

    I’ll Just Say, “Fare Thee Well”

    A one act play by Stoney

    The stage setting features two writing desks, a woman at each with pen and paper.  The curtain opens as one is writing, speaking as she writes. The curtain closes then opens as the other woman, writes speaking as she writes.  This toggling continues until the final curtain closes. 

    Two pathetic women are exchanging correspondences.  

    Pathetic Woman 1:  It occurred to me that we could easily lose each other.  And if that is what you want, I am willing to accept it and respect it and will not bother you again.  But I suspect that deep down you do not want that and deep down I do not want that either.  We have a lovely and deeply inspirational childhood that we shared, and that we both cherish.  I know that it has seemed to me that when we reminisce about our common past we are most in sync. If any of this rings true with you, please let me know because I have an idea that may keep us in a relationship that we can both accept.  If not, just ignore and continue on, I won’t bother you again, and blessings to you.

    Pathetic Woman 2:  You think you are such a smartass intellectual with you fancy-ass ways of trying to look down on me.  I get it.  This just another way of saying I am at fault for our lousy relationship.  You are the one who left home and left me to take care of our family while they got old and died off.  Where were you when meemaw was dying, when peepaw was dying, and all the others I had take care of all by my lonesume.  You are a selfish fuckhead.  You never come to visit even when you are in town.  You never call me.  Most people who love each at least stay in touch.  As far as I am concerned you can take a flying leap and kiss my ass.

    Pathetic Woman 1: I think I understand.  As I said, I won’t bother you again.  And blessings to you.

    Pathetic Woman 2: You think your such a fucking saint with all your “blessing this” and “blessing that.” Your just a hypocrit and fraude and you think of no one but your own godam self.  You always try to make me look like I’m wrong when you know down deep I the one who has the common sense—peepaw even said that.  He said you had the book learning but I had the real smarts.  That what alway pisses you off.  You know I right about politiks and shit like that.  But just because you have choosen the wrong side you think you can bully me and make me think you are the smart and right one.  You don’t know shit.  As far as I’m concerned to can rot in hell with all the other crapheads.

     Pathetic Woman 1:  OK. You’ve convinced me.  I’m not worth having relationship with.  I annoy you, and I promise from now on I will simply leave you alone.  At the risk of flaunting sainthood, I’ll again wish you many blessings and a joyous life.  But before I go, one last thing: because you did not yet ask about the idea I had for keeping in touch, I’ll just mention it now. Every week or so we could offer a “blast from the past.”  Here is my first one:  I was playing my guitar this morning and realized that I have this particular brand of guitar because of Uncle Jedediah.

    I asked him on one occasion what the best brand of guitar was, and he said, “Martin.”  So that’s the brand of guitar I have.”  I thought it would be interesting and helpful for us if we could share such info from time to time, since we both think lovingly upon our past and our family.  

    However, I can see now that that thought was silly.  You would be much better off not keeping up a relationship with someone who is so repugnant to you.  So, as Bob Dylan once quipped, “I’ll just say fare thee well.”

    Pathetic Woman 2:  You know I love you more than anything, but I just wish you were different. I wish you understood how unsafe and stupid I feel every time I have to read what you write. I used to like to read you stories and shit, but now all I see is stupid  shit that makes me feel like a looser.  I AM NOT A LOOSER – NO MATTER HOW MUCH YOU TRY TO MAKE ME OUT ONE.

    Pathetic Woman 1:  All right then.  I think I’ve got your answer.  Won’t bother you again:  “I’ll just say fare thee well.”

    Pathetic Woman 2:  No response.

    The curtain closes. One woman lets out a blood curdling scream: the audience is left to wonder who screamed.

    Finis

    Afterword from Graveyard Whistler

    Just a quick note to thank my readers, especially those who offer useful suggestions. I could do without the insults, smears, and ghastly stupidity that gets slung my way, but what the hey!, that’s to be expected by anyone who goes public in anyway.  And I do treasure the kind words and helpful comments.  Keep them coming, please!

    Back to the drawing board, as the old saw goes . . . 

    Literarily yours,
    Belmonte Segwic
    (aka Graveyard Whistler)

  • Graveyard Whistler Finds “Stone Gulch Literary Forum”

    Image: “NOTHING IS WRITTEN IN STONE” 

    Graveyard Whistler discovers a treasure trove of literary gems in a website titled “Stone Gulch Literary Forum,” including a piece displaying the literary device “irony,” and he then runs with it.

    Fiction Alert!
    This story is fiction.
    It does not depict any real person or actual event.

    Graveyard Whistler’s Introduction

    Hello, to recap a bit—my name is Belmonte Segwic, (aka “Graveyard Whistler,” a handle I used in grad school), and I just recently earned my master of arts in creative writing from the Iowa Writers’ Workshop at the University of Iowa.  

    After achieving that momentous event, I decided I would go for a PhD in the history of letters.  Thus, I had to go searching for a topic about which to attach my literarily waning interest. With a ton of doubt on my mind, I started rummaging the Internet searching for my focus of interest. 

     Unfortunately, I am still searching for that focus, but I am happy to report that I found an interesting piece that caught my eye because its title contains the term “irony,” and irony is my very, extremely very, favorite literary device.

    I happened upon a literary website called “Stone Gulch Literary Forum.”  The website owner explained that he was terminally ill and was therefore terminating his site.  He thanked all of his readers and wished them well. So I contacted that website owner and discovered some fascinating facts about him.  

    He was actually the writer and creator of all the pieces offered on the site.  I asked him if I could use his pieces in my research, and he gave me complete ownership of all of his works on the site.  I have a legal contract and all that!

    He asked only that I not divulge his name and that I change any names in the pieces that I reproduced.  I gladly agreed and now I am in possession of a treasure trove of short stories, songs, poems, philosophical and political essays, even some drawings and sketches.

    A few months after I acquired the Stone Gulch literature, the owner did succumb to his illness, and now when I feel it necessary to refer to this excellent writer, I refer to him only as “Stoney.”

    The following short story “Chester Shows Them” is the first offering from Stoney’s treasure trove.  It gave me a chill or two!  Maybe it will do the same for you.  

    Chester Shows Them

    Chester is sitting near the river, intending to slash his wrists so he would be found in a pool of blood.  “That will show them,” he thinks. He sits for a long time brandishing a sharp stick, slashing through the muddy bank leaving long trails of troughs. 

    He continues to wait, he knows not what for, perhaps the courage to take out his knife and finish the job.

    Suddenly, Chester bolts upright, after having dozed off for how long he could not tell. He throws down the sharp stick and starts walking up the riverbank, thinking a new location might inspire him. 

    A tree root reaches out and wraps itself around his ankle.  He cannot move. Then a tree branch grabs him around the neck, squeezing tighter and tighter.  

    He thinks he may pass out, so he takes out his knife, cuts the tree branch from his neck and then cuts the root from his ankle, and walks on up the riverbank, cursing “Goddam tree!”

    Suddenly, the bank is covered in weeds and grass so thick he can hardly walk through them.  The grass is slick, and he nearly falls as he continues on, again cursing, “Goddam weeds!”   Finally, he sees a place to sit near a large rock.  

    He feels that the rock may give him courage, and he can take out his knife slash both wrists with deep wide slashes so the blood will gush out, and he will be found in the pool of blood that he continues to envision.

    Yes, they will find me in a pool of blood, and they will be sorry for wrecking my life, leaving me helpless, leaving me without any hope, leaving me without any dignity with which I could conduct my life.  

    They will find me, and they will see what they have done.

    While Chester is playing out his drama down by the river, Flora is taking out the last of her money from the checking account she and Chester had shared.  

    Flora is on her way to a new life without Chester’s constant whining and accusations and sudden temper tantrums that always end with beatings and promises of death and utter destruction for Flora and her parents.

    Chester’s brother is helping their parents clean up the mess Chester had left after breaking into their home, stealing money from their wall safe, breaking every mirror in the house, and emptying the food from the refrigerator onto the kitchen floor, where he had apparently stomped the lettuce, yogurt cartons, cheese, and other items until they were flattened, disgusting globs.

    Chester’s friend Arthur is listening to his voicemail from Chester, who is ranting uncontrollably about all the times Arthur had tried to pull something over on him.  Chester keeps repeating, “you’re going to pay, Artie.” 

    Chester continues:  “You and everyone else is going to be sorry for all the shit you have slung at me over the years.  Just wait and see.  Kiss my ass, you motherfucker.  Kiss my goddam ass.  Piss off, fake friend.  Friend! Ha!  Go to hell!”

    Arthur is stunned by this rant.  He had seen Chester suffer from dark moods but had never heard Chester talk like that.  He runs to his car and speeds over to Chester’s apartment but finds no Chester.

    Sitting by the big rock, Chester again takes up a sharp stick and begins craving long trough-like trails through the moist riverbank soil.  He carves and carves until he falls asleep.  

    As Chester sleeps, it begins to rain.  It rains the rest of the day into the night as Chester continues to sleep.  The river overflows its banks.

    By the evening of the next day, the flood waters begin to recede.  By this time Chester’s family and Arthur have alerted the police that Chester is missing.  A search is put in place, but no one had any idea where Chester might have gone.  

    After four weeks, the captain of a riverboat sees something bobbing in the water.  The riverboat crew haul in the object and realize it is a human body, badly decomposed and unrecognizable.

    Chester’s family hears on the news about the riverboat crew finding a body, and they haul themselves down the police headquarters to check on their missing loved one.  

    Yes, the authorities are aware of the body, and the lab had started DNA tests but with nothing to which they can compare it, they had put the testing on hold.  Chester’s brother gives a sample of his DNA for comparison to the corpse.  

    And his mother turns over a hair brush with Chester’s hair.  The test comes back positively identifying the corpse as Chester.

    Three days later, the forensic examiners offer their completed report.  The victim had died by drowning.  It appeared that the victim had fallen asleep sitting quietly by the riverbank. So simple!   

    So different from the drama that Chester had hoped to leave.  No pool of blood!  No remorseful gnashing of teeth by the family and friends who feel no compunction about taking any blame for Chester’s accidental drowning.

    Graveyard Whistler’s Final Comment

    I am kicking around the notion of focusing my dissertation on letters of famous literary figures who have confused their audiences with “irony.”  I think that might work.  I’ll keep you posted as I continue to research this issue.   

    Thanks for taking this literary journey with me!

    Literarily yours,
    Belmonte Segwic
    aka “Graveyard Whistler”

  • Life Sketch of Belmonte Segwic aka Graveyard Whistler

    Image 1: “Whistling past the graveyard”  

    Belmonte Segwic, aka Graveyard Whistler, is a persona that I created to tell a story about a unique individual’s interaction with the study of the literary arts.

    Fiction Alert!

    Belmonte Segwic, aka Graveyard Whistler, is a fictional character, created to explore the world of literary studies. Thus Graveyard Whistler is free to invent characters, events, and places—all fictional. Any resemblance to real people, living or deceased, to actual events or to real geographic locations is unintentional.

    Introduction by Graveyard Whistler

    “We cannot choose what we are free to love.”  —W. H. Auden, “Canzone”

    Greetings! My name is Belmonte Segwic, aka “Graveyard Whistler,” a handle I used in my many Internet writings and communications in grad school.  I fairly recently completed a master of arts degree in creative writing at the Iowa Writers’ Workshop at the University of Iowa. 

    After achieving that step in my education, I have been batting around the idea of pursuing a PhD in the history of letters. 

    Thus, I have transferred to a large university in the eastern United States that will remain nameless.  My advisor advised me to keep it nameless because of my intentions to engage heavily on the Internet. 

    I guess she felt that my style might cramp that of this “prestigious” institution of higher learning.  

    Being the opinionated fool that I am, I would love nothing better than to engage in poking holes in the inflated balloon of reputation that these Ivy League monstrosities like to float over the heads of their inferiors.  

    But I will have to save that for another day because now I intend to seek, read, and research, looking backward into the history of literature.

    I am particularly drawn to irony as a literary device, and likely I will offer lots of stuff pertaining to that device.  

    But I’m also easily swayed by intriguing narratives of all sorts, from flash fiction to gigantic tomes that seem never ending.  

    For my writing purposes though, I will likely stick to mid-sized works that can be handled in 1000 to 4000 words for the Internet, where attention spans diminish daily. 

    So those honorable mentions represent a brief overview of my literary intentions at the present time, and of course, I reserve the right change directions as speedily as I can close one text and open another.  

    My apparent lack of direction is somewhat upsetting to my advisor, but I have assured her that I will have a dandy dissertation all tied up in bows by end of the three-year limitation that has been imposed upon me.

    A Little Bit about My Background

    I was born on an undisclosed day in an undisclosed small hamlet in eastern Kentucky.  I’d like nothing more than to disclose those bits of bio, but my parents are important people in Kentucky politics.

    And I refuse commit any act that would limit where I will go in my Internet scribblings, which I would most definitely be called upon to do if it got out who my important parents are.  No!  Forget about it!  It ain’t Mitch McConnell or the Pauls.)

    Just let me say that they are decent, hard-working folks, highly educated, and even to my own politics-blighted view, important to the societal, cultural, as well as political fabric of Kentucky and the mid-South in general.

    I am an only child and feel that I have not missed out on anything important by not having siblings.  I did grow up with about a dozen cousins who seemed like siblings, some staying with us for extended visits. 

    It seems that there were always a cousin or two filling up our extra bedrooms, keeping our refrigerator perpetually empty but offering the best company a young tyke could ask for.  

    I always enjoyed having those cousins visit, learned a great deal from the older ones and was constantly entertained by the younger ones.

    What I remember most is writing and putting on plays. All of cousins loved movies, theater, and books about imaginary characters. 

    From my age of six to seventeen we must have written and performed a couple hundred plays, all influenced by something some cousin had read and loved.  

    I hated acting but was always recruited to be one of the main characters.  I loved doing the art for the backgrounds and working props like swords, capes, pistols, wands, fairy dust, make-up and other costumes—whatever we needed to make the play more colorful and life-like.

    My Favorite Play

    The summer after high school graduation when I seventeen, four of my cousins (all of us getting ready for college in the fall) came to stay for the entire summer.  

    The first few days we just goofed off—swimming, throwing baseballs around, riding bikes, watching TV, and cooking large meals every night.  

    Then about two weeks into the visit, the oldest cousin blurted out while we were sitting around trying to decide what to do that day, “Let’s do a play!”  Everyone shouted in unison, “Of course, a play!”

    The next question was—what will it be about?  And after batting around ideas for about an hour, we decided it would be a play based on a Shakespeare play. 

    One girl-cousin then insisted it be based on The Tragedy of Romeo and Juliet, but then the other girl-cousin objected saying that one always made her “cryyy.”  

    But then a boy-cousin piped up, saying, no, let’s make it a comedy.  It doesn’t have to be exactly like the Shakespeare, let’s turn it into a comedy.  That will be a barrel of fun to turn a tragedy into a comedy.

    To make a really, really long story much shorter than the original, we began right away to write our version of the Shakespeare tragedy into a comedy.  We titled it “Raymond and Julie:  A Funny Tale with a Happy Ending.”  

    We worked and worked.  I painted sets, helped make costumes, and we then asked the principal of our high school to let us use the auditorium to put on the play.  Then we got the brilliant idea of selling tickets.  

    I typed up a ticket, took it to Kinko’s and ran off a thousand copies. And we sold every one of them!

    The auditorium only held 850 people.  So on performance night, roughly 200 people had to stand around to watch this amateur group of ragamuffins scuffling across a stage performing their original version of one the great bard’s masterpieces.  

    Luckily, the play went off without a hitch, the audience loved it, some even asked if we would do it again!

    Then all hell broke loose!  The county clerk’s office contacted the principal of the high school and asked if a certain unapproved event had taken place at the high school.  

    The clerk asked for details such as tickets sold, capacity of the room, and what permits the administrators of the event had applied for and obtained.  

    Well, we had not applied for and obtained any permits, and when the clerk had gathered all that information, he sent the sheriff to our house for a little sit-down with our parents.  

    The sheriff found that we were in violation of a number of county and city ordinances, and the fines for those violations amounted to $15,000!

    We had sold tickets for 50 cents each.  We sold a 1000, so that means we took in $500 for the sale of the tickets.  My parents were stupefied about all those ordinances and that’s how they got into politics.  

    They first ran for council positions to try to eliminate the coercive nature of government into the lives of young people who were actually doing good creative work.  

    But for the time being, before they could actually do anything politically, my parents owed $15,000 in fines for allowing us to perform a play for the community. 

    Luckily, they were friends with a neighbor who was a tax attorney.  He also knew quite a lot about the ordinances that we had violated. He came over to our house one evening to explain what he had found out about satisfying that ridiculous fine.  

    He told us that we could retro-actively apply for a permit for the play, but that we would have to perform the play again after we received it—that is—if we received it.  

    He then said that if we apply and receive the permit and re-perform the play, we must turn over the proceeds to a county or city charity.  We didn’t have to sell tickets again, we could just turn over the money we had collected from the first performance.

    So here is how it went down:  we had paid $50 to get the tickets copied.  We took in $500 for the first performance of the play, which had left us with $450.  

    After the lawyer-friend told us about getting the permit, we shelled out $100 for the permit.  

    It didn’t cost us anything to re-perform the play, and actually we loved getting to do it again, and our audience loved it so much that they donated money because we had not charged them for the second performance.

    And they donated big time:  the 1000 people who attended, donated roughly $60 each. 

    That meant after we gave the original $500 to the charity (our three sets of parents made up the $150 missing from the original intake of $500 that paid for the tickets and application for the permit)—we chose to give to the “Little Brothers and Sisters of Saint Francis”—we ended up with roughly $55,000!  

    We did not have to pay the fines because we donated our $500 to the “Saint Francis” charity, so all that money was ours.  So we gave $5000 more to “Saint Francis” and split up the rest of it among ourselves.  

    We each got $10,000, and we all were entering college in the fall.  

    When we get together now, we all wonder how we would have managed to enter college that fall without that windfall.  

    Sometimes we get silly and say things like, we should do that again, I got car payments that could use it, or who knew we could sell our skills so cheap and then reap a big payout like that?

    It all seems surreal now, but the play, “Raymond and Julie:  A Funny Tale with a Happy Ending,” will always be my favorite.  I have a worn-out copy that I take out from time to time when I need a smile or two.  

    I thus have no doubt about what sealed my interest in the literary arts.   Our play had included rich dialog, poems, songs, jokes, biography, and even a play within a play.  

    Thank you to those who have stayed with me to this point.  I will now go off to play in the world of literary arts, and wherever you go off to, I wish you as much fun as I will have in mine.

    Literarily yours,
    Belmonte Segwic
    aka Graveyard Whistler

    Some good whistlin’ goin’ on!! Enjoy!