ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Grateful acknowledgment is made to the editors of Mad Hatter’s Review, Red Fez, Prime Number, The Write Room, and THEMA, in which some of these pieces previously appeared.

CIRCLE, TRIANGLE, SQUARE by M.V. Montgomery

Copyright 2011 by M.V. Montgomery

NAP CHAP 4

Published by NAP Magazine & BooksIndianapolis, IndianaNAPLITMAG.COM

Cover by Bettie Sarantoswww.croquetartist.com

CIRCLE, TRIANGLE, SQUARE

¡ r o

Flash Fiction

M.V. Montgomery

CONTENTS

Circle, Triangle, Square

Dali World

Stories That Defy Literary Conventions

Stories in Which the Narrator Withholds Information

Tales of Bewilderment and Angst

The Killer

Our Family Annals

Vitamin Weird

Word Problems

Dreamblog

Odd’s Country

Postscript: Ten Excerpts

6

10

26

32

38

46

48

54

60

66

74

86

CIRCLE, TRIANGLE, SQUARE

Roll credits.The recently-escaped prisoner

staggered across the desert. He’d beenrunning and running since God knows when.

Exhausted, he grimaced in pain as he negotiated theparched land. A rock slid, he lost his footing, and after

plummeting downward, he found himself face down on a remote canyon floor. Both legs were broken. There wasn’t

a way to flee any further.

Just ahead, atop a smooth granite slab, a slow drip of liquid and some moss. The man snaked ahead

so he could eat. He sustained himself like this for a week, until the meager rations ran out. Then he wasted away.

Afterwards, a coyote gnawed his bones. The rest decomposed. Nutrients leached into the soil;

moss grew. Yes—it would revive soon, for the next-to-escape prisoner!

Roll credits.

He loved him some baseball,he loved him some beer. He was remote with his wife,So she hid his remote. It was Lady or theTigers.

The man would consider a waffle breakfast, but shunned pancakes.

For a lunch, perhaps a sandwich, but never soup.

For dinner, only lasagna, never pizza. He had to have his three squares. Et voilà, c’est fini.

DALI WORLD

avatar

I examined my new avatar suit, impressed. My middle-aged sag had been replaced with metallic muscle ridges that positively gleamed. I moved around, a little clunky, noticing that my knees were still a little stiff. We didn’t replace everything, I was told by the Defense Department contractor.

Then I noticed raised bumps on the knuckles of one of my gloved hands. Those are missile launchers, the contractor explained.

I gave the knuckles of the gloves a kiss. Who’s going to save the world? I asked. You’re going to save the world!

the browns

I was depressed, seeing the whole world in dark sepia tones. A friend asked me what was the matter. I said, Got a case of da browns.

the envelope, please

On Take-Your-Daughter-to-Work Day, Rina and I were at a meeting sitting just one row away from the CFO, who was apparently slumming it by hanging out with the workers. Toward the end of the presentation, we were told to check under our seats for envelopes; some of us were lucky winners of Chick-Fil-A coupons and “other goodies.”

My daughter came to life and bounced off her chair. Then, disappointed, she shook her head. I reached down under my own seat, though I never won these kinds of things. Surprised, I found a bulky package there. I should have let my daughter open it, of course, but in the novelty of the moment wasn’t thinking too clearly and tore off the tape.

Inside was a small pair of girl’s shoes, plastic purple, which I handed over to Rina. She put them on—a very tight fit. Then I handed her the envelope and let her fish through it for the coupon.

In the row behind us, the CFO had also discovered an envelope under his chair. It was an awkward moment for him. He stared down at the blue necklace he had won and didn’t seem to know what to do with it.

Probably for the first time that morning, he noticed us sitting nearby and held the necklace out to my daughter, who thanked him. Then he got up to leave quickly, still clutching the envelope in his hand.

He’s going to Chick-Fil-A, my daughter whispered.

carpe diem

Staying at a lake cabin with friends, I was helping to unpack Ron’s truck. He had laid out life preservers of all sizes on the gravel drive and lined up a dozen fishing poles. I had my hands full with some packs but grabbed as many of the poles as I could in my free hand, asking, Do you really think we will have time to do any fishing?

Ron just shrugged, saying, I thought we might go after that giant carp that’s been giving the housewives along shore so much trouble.

So I headed off to the cabin. Lo and behold, I heard a flopping noise just outside the door and then saw the largest carp of my life, the size of a pot-bellied pig. It charged at me, so I shut the door and braced myself against the thin plywood.

A second later, a thudding began: this carp was angry and wanted in! I looked over my shoulder and saw a large cooler on the floor. If I could just get to it and use it to stun the fish, I thought. Won’t Ron be surprised?

ice, iced

It had become very trying to babysit my young nephew. He not only wanted to play outdoors for hours, but persisted in throwing snowballs and ice chunks at me.

Finally, after a few more unheeded warnings, I picked him up and pressed him into a snow bank, as firmly as if I was making a little gingerbread man. I then began to layer snow thickly over each appendage until only his head poked through.

What game are we playing, Uncle Mike? the curious head asked me.

It’s called Containment, I said.

madonna and children

At the end of the vacation, I was retrieving items from a rowboat when someone shoved off. It was Rina and one of my little nieces, and also a woman who had become catatonic during the trip and wouldn’t leave the boat.

Unfortunately, the girls had brought no oars and the current was strong. We were soon at its mercy. The woman began to bump around on her seat, as wooden as a religious icon, so I held on to her. I couldn’t really look out for the girls, and even feared one had gone overboard for a while. Momentarily, the stiff figure of the woman had blocked my view.

As the boat plunged ahead, I yelled at the girls to hang on. I secured the woman in a headlock and heard her neck pop. Suddenly, she stirred and made signs as if coming to. And we rode out the rapids just like that, the girls squealing, the woman moaning, all of us holding on for dear life.

muzak attack

I arrived at a town meeting where developers were pitching their plans for a new mall. People were grumbling about traffic congestion until someone began playing a recording made in another mall concourse. You could hear footsteps and murmuring and a wall of music that became a little mesmerizing to listeners in the audience. It may have been a little hypnotic to the presenters, too, for they forgot to turn it back off.

odeon

At a film festival, I struck up a conversation with a young woman seated nearby. It was a restored old theater, drafty. The woman had brought a large blanket which she kindly spread over both of us. And then I was perfectly content, at least until her boyfriend arrived.

lots of paella

Vacationing couples were nonchalantly strolling into a beachfront restaurant with buckets of seafood. They were happy, irrepressibly so. Both men and women were topless and as flat-chested as kids. I followed one old acquaintance of mine, Steve from New York, around for a while, snapped pictures of him and his girlfriend. She grinned and posed, and he looked positively domesticated for a tough guy.

There were mounds of rice on the floor. The couples approached, dumped their buckets on the rice, then happily sat down to eat and play with their food. I said to Steve’s girlfriend, I wish my parents had thought of that when we were younger.

giant slides

I was chaperoning two children through an industrial area on a slow weekend, and they were looking glum. So I pointed to the tops of some tall buildings with giant fire-escape slides running down to the street on all sides. The workers get to use those at the end of the day, I observed.

Immediately the kids wanted to try the slides out. Of course, of course, I said. That’s what we’re here for.

pit bike, pit stop, pity party

I flew over the desert on a dirt bike, the terrain so flat and dusty that it wasn’t clear where the road began or ended.

Almost out of fuel, I skidded onto a paved surface like a plane hitting the runway, then parked my bike next to an elder-care center.

I entered, seeking a reprieve from the hot sun, and pretended to be visiting a patient. I just caught a glimpse of a patient list near the front desk. So when I was asked who I was there to see by some white-clothed attendants heading toward an elevator, I gave them a name.

Immediately, they stepped back from the elevator and grabbed my arm, sympathetically. They said, We’re so sorry and told me to come along. Of course I had to play the hand out at this point, so I followed them into a waiting room.

I was greeted immediately with hugs by a small crowd of mourners.

sweating it out

I was doing the Dean a favor by writing a classroom observation of our new algebra teacher. He was a young man, fresh out of graduate school, who raced through the lesson quickly.

I was ashamed to discover that the New Math left me behind and pretended to be busy writing notes whenever our eyes met. After a while, though, I had to wonder how the students themselves were faring. As the teacher continued to fill every inch of dry-erase board with hieroglyphics, they wriggled uncomfortably in their chair-desks. Some tried to sneak cell phone pictures of the equations.

Seated next to me was a young lady with a frozen smile. She took no notes. I glanced down and noticed spots of flop sweat on the outside of her jeans.

vision quest II

I was being fitted out with too-large reading glasses, red. The lenses enlarged my eyes to the size of golf balls and bent my field of vision into wavy pillars. But I was told that this was the only pair available at the low price advertised in the sale ad.

buzzer beater

Two cats were playing basketball. One of them had a chance to win on a long final shot, but at the last second, totally choked. The other cat yelled, Hairball!

STORIES THAT DEFY LITERARY CONVENTIONS

The Summation

“You’re probably all wondering why I called you into the parlor. But the circumstances of Lord Robert’s death were suspicious from the start. I noticed the cigar butt on the floor which suggested an interview had transpired earlier that day with Colonel Jackman. That this interview had become an argument was later confirmed by the testimony of the chambermaid, who described a rather apoplectic look on her Master’s face.

“Of course, the maid’s own behavior was not above reproach. And the cause of her enmity could not remain hidden long, once it became apparent she was with child. Was this Lord Robert’s baby? Did he insult her by trying to buy her off?

“And what of the young nephew and heir, young Jack-O? Surely his gambling debts provided motive also. Especially when he overheard his uncle’s open disapproval of his prodigal lifestyle and new threat to disinherit him in favor of the bastard child.

“Lord Robert’s elderly spinster sister? Hadn’t she always secretly harbored resentment in her heart for her brother, who had once blocked her marriage to a commoner, ruining in one fell swoop her only chance at happiness?

“I realize I’m asking you all a lot of questions, people, and I’m sorry. I guess I’m a little excited—you see, earlier today we caught the actual murderer in town. Just as we suspected, a homeless gypsy fellow.”

A Mood Spoiled

Mardie and I held our embrace. Our eyes met and danced with joy. I picked her up in my arms and swirled her around on the beach. The waves crashed. We kissed. The waves crashed again.

We’d better get out of here, I said. Those breakers are getting really big.

New Character

It is now time, gentle reader, to bring this long chronicle to its conclusion. Sadie and Philip married and settled down. And I am pleased to report that their household was soon blessed with two beautiful children, a boy and a girl, who carried on the slow-paced, gentle life at Mangrove, learning to love nature and revel by the brook and trees just as their Mummy and Daddy once had, in those glorious golden summers of early childhood, before new love first blossomed.

Philip worked with a man named Silas Simpson at the Williamson company. This Silas kept to himself mostly, although he was once a contestant on Jeopardy.

FINIS

Saying Goodbye

When I saw Old Boney stagger out of the forest, I knew something was wrong. He looked so different—eyes red, foaming at the mouth and growling under his breath.

Pap just handed me the shotgun and said, You know what you must do.

But Boney’s my best friend, I said. How can I?

That there’s not Boney, not any more, Pap said. But if you want, I can handle this. You go on ahead in the house.

No, you’re right, Sir, I told him. Boney’s my dog and my responsibility. You always taught me that. Reckon I can take things from here.

I’m proud of you, son! Pap said.

I took the shotgun from Pap and watched him slowly march to the house. Then I drew a bead and fired. He dropped straight to the ground.

Now it’s just you and me boy, I told Boney.

¡ r o

STORIES IN WHICH THE NARRATOR WITHHOLDS INFORMATION

“My partner and I were lured by that bane of mankind, gold. We were foolish enough to attempt the Sierras in January without packing any more provisions than what we could carry ourselves. Then a landslide sealed our fate—how I rue the day that icy cavern became our prison! What days of raw misery, of untold suffering and horror! Not until the Spring thaw did God send my bold rescuers, Captain Jack and his scout ranger team. Alas, too late for my partner, had passed away in that cruel cave.”

“Yes, matter of fact I did know O’Leary, one of my lifelong parishioners. He came to confess to me on a wintry night much like tonight, after pulling off his most celebrated heist. He spared me no detail of the crime. And I understand he was shot down only hours later. Therefore, though he had at hand a heavy penance, we may assume the man did not die in a state of sin. Indeed, he is still well spoken of throughout these parts. Our new cathedral could not have been built without his beneficence.”

“I sleep in a box by day and come out only at night. I have no real will of my own; the Master keeps me tight in his grasp and never lets go. At times, to appease me, he will say we are a team. Ah, but if that were the case, why does he earn the silent respect, even the awe of crowds, while I am never spared their raucous laughter? I nervously chatter like a monkey in my attempt to win their approval, and never succeed, yet they will sit in quiet attention while the Master even never moves his lips.”

“Pap always said, ‘Champ, you know I’m there if ever you need me.’ And when the fightin’ got real bad and I just couldn’t take it, I recollected those words and suddenly knew what I must do. I changed course and flew that jet clear back to Wichita! Out of fuel, I landed in a cornfield and started the fall harvest early by skidding along those furrows. If my copilot Vic could’ve seen it, he’d like to have had a heart attack! Of course, he’d put up some resistance to the idea of a visit in the first place.”

“My break-up with Angelica was all the more painful because it occurred on Valentine’s Day. I had pursued her for what felt like only hours, yet it must have been months. I was always eager to catch even brief glimpses of her on the street or at her apartment building. My buddies on the force said, ‘Dude, you really must stop all this, that girl has gotten to your head.’ I ignored them, of course, and kept up my wooing. Until they finally said, ‘Dude, no we mean it, you really must stop.’”

TALES OF BEWILDERMENT AND ANGST

better-shaped states

What we most need, I feel, are better-shaped states. Imagine a glorious Delphina curling its foot into an Ocean of Clover, bordered by Norgeist, sleek as a fresh-laundered sheet, drifting its way up the rugged coastline! Several new Heartland States, Potsagon and Loafana, shaped like a good stout kettle and bread. And Surcusse, the first entirely round state, with its man-made borders circling the Sea of Wist. Iollalalilly, just a small snake of a state. Sparkling Jemmina, with its landlocked Lake Kite. And to the west, behold Gattoria, creeping along with its perfect bump-rippled back, or Ribbornia, the Rainbow State, proclaiming its manifest Beauty!

chang and eng

I invited Chang and Eng over for a barbeque. Big mistake. Those guys just sat around the kitchen by themselves, refusing to mingle with the other guests. Finally, I had had enough of this and really blew my top.

C’mon you guys, get out there and circulate! What’re you, joined at the hip or something?!

lab assistant

That one time I was a mad scientist, I took on a lab assistant. Which wasn’t easy -- the evil glint in my eye, my mad ‘fro and crazy laugh, tended to turn away applicants.

Finally, one hapless fellow was desperate enough to come to the interview and tell me he could start right away. Being quite deranged, I couldn’t resist the opportunity for some sport.

So I kept him running around all evening with wires and electrodes and body parts and beakers. He was efficient enough for a first timer, but had one trait I just couldn’t stomach: he insisted upon keeping up a running commentary the whole time. This man’s chatter was boring me to tears!

Finally, when my irritation grew too great, I had him stand in a giant vat. Then I unloosed a mighty acid stream to melt him down.

Why? he asked, bewildered.

The steam coiled around us like an evil cloud.

You were part of the problem, I told him. Soon, you will be part of the solution.

mr. cease and mr. desist

Thank you, thank you, anyone who wasn’t just booing our fine karaoke performance. We will be signing off now!

tune out, turn off, unplugby Henry David Throwpillow

We stack mundanity upon mundanity and consider our poor lives rich; we use ugly words like multitasking without realizing how ill-suited we are to become machines; we connect only to virtual spheres, missing out on the better part of life; and put the richest part of ourselves to sleep, failing to heed our dreams!

what-the-sam-hill???

My neighbor Barry is losing his memory.

We were hanging out, per usual, on top of his driveway drinking brews. It was a lovely spring day. We’d both been out in our yards working. After I had finished trimming my hedges, Barry saw me and beckoned me over.

Soon we sat on two lawn chairs, admiring our work.

Suddenly we heard a squawking and a small flock of cranes flew over the corner of Barry’s roof.

Startled, he tried to recall the name of the cranes: Shoot, now lemme think. Was it red-bill? Something like that? Or sand...sandy…sam hill? Dammit!—I can’t focus!

¡ r o

THE KILLER

Shrouded in darkness, he strode into the juke joint and took up a station on a bar stool. Yes, he would be waiting here for a long time. Time would, in fact, be his first victim.

Occasionally, the talk spread his way, but he knew just what to say to terminate a topic of conversation or to frustrate further queries.

Gradually, the others would learn to simply leave him alone—alone to dust off glass after glass of house whiskey.

OUR FAMILY ANNALS

Uncle Steve’s Speech at the Family Picnic

“Hey, thanks to Ron and Ronnie, who when it comes to hosting these shindigs really know how to step up to the plate. Especially Ron himself, folks, if you know what I mean. Just lookit him putting away those burgers! And howzabout that bean-and-weiner dish of Ronnie’s—huh, ladies and gents? Maybe I should say, ‘ladles and germs’?”

Aunt Magda’s Cautionary Tale

“You children run along. I’ll be out later. Gotta watch your step—those Communiss might be lurking in the bushes trying to take your picture, or maybe hanging microphones down from the porch, tryin’ to record everything you say. That’s what that dear, dear man from Wisconsin used to say when I was just a girl your age. That Senator Joe.”

Cousin Jenna’s Letter Home From College

“. . . It’s not like Centreville is the center of the world, you know. There are lots of other places!! I’ve made some friends here who believe I must have grown up in the sticks!! They know that there’s a world out there bigger than you can possibly even imagine!! So you might as well know now that when I graduate, I’m going to move to New York!!”

Pappy Lou’s 95th Birthday Wish

“Goddamn it, I said I’m tired. Can’t a man lie down when he wants to? [Snores]. What the . . .? [Pause]. Blow out the damn candles yourself. Waste of electricity! Olley, golley, what’s shakin, Miss Molly? Heh heh heh. Heh heh heh heh heh [Snorts, blows his nose]. Sure I’ll make a wish, now, damnye! I wish you’d all just pop off so I could lie down.”

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VITAMIN WEIRD

a conversational standoff

I’m afraid of crocs, she said.

No need to fear them around here.

They might hurt my feet.

True, I said. But we’re not in Florida.

What are you talking about? she asked.

What are you talking about? I countered.

at the discount outlet

R U bored, she texted me from the other side of the warehouse.

No, but I see a lot of distressed merchandise.

Ha ha ha, she texted back.

short PSA

Please remember to take a toothbrush with you to all public places. Dentists have found that brushing alone will not prevent cavities.

knock, knock

Knock, knock.

Who’s there?

Thank you. This has been a test of the emergency knock-knock system.

birthday toast

I may be almost fifty, but I still have the emotional maturity of a much younger man.

WORD PROBLEMS

Bill and Julie are seeing one another. Bill has angered Julie and she has been rather curt with him on the phone, claiming she is busy. They live 100 miles apart. It would be possible for Bill to reach Julie in 2 hours if he averages 50 miles per hour in his car. But he doesn’t know if Julie will welcome a visit and so queries with an e-mail first. Julie doesn’t reply, so he sends another e-mail later the same day and cc’s it to 2 other addresses. He also leaves 3 voice mails, 2 in the evening and 1 the next morning. Later he tries calling Julie at work but is told she is in a meeting. This is Tuesday. The question is, how many days will Julie stay mad at Bill?

1.

Bill is trying to lose weight by cutting calories. He is very fond of the Jimmy’s Titanburger, which contains layers of bacon, fried eggs, and suet and tips the scales at circa 6000 calories. Bill weighs 286 pounds and has a size 48 waist. His BMI is a whopping 38.8 and his LDL cholesterol is nearly 200, although this latter number is skewed by the fact that Bill can never fast 12 full hours before his check-ups. After 7 or 8 hours, he hears a Titanburger calling his name and makes for the all-night drive-through like he is fleeing a robbery in a getaway car. Using his calorie calculator, Bill discovers that he must lower his intake to 2898 per day just to reach the “maintenance level” and 2288 to reach the “fat-burning level.” The question is, how can he do this without sacrificing his daily Titanburger? Also, if Bill does lose weight, will Julie find him more attractive?

2.

Bill likes to drive to work contemplating his retirement account. He is 40 years old and has let this matter slide. Using his 401K account calculator, he discovers he will need to save the maximum of $500 a month for the next 10 years, then an additional $100 under the “catch up” provision after he turns 50 in order to retire comfortably at age 80. The problem is, Bill can only afford to put $50 in his retirement account per month and layoffs are looming at work. Bill wonders whether he should stow money away in a short-term “emergency” fund earning 0.67 % interest instead. Even if he loses his job and health care, he calculates that by the end of 4 years, he will have enough money saved to pay for a short ride to a hospital in an ambulance. The question is, how will he then be able to sneak out of the room to avoid paying his bill with all those tubes sticking out of his arm? Also, what is the probability of Julie’s ever coming to visit?

3.

Answers:

1. She will file a restraining order after 11.5 days.2. a) Bill must learn to chew without swallowing. b) n/a3. a) Bill must remove the tubes first. b) < 0

¡ r o

DREAMBLOG

I. Dreams and Literature

The shape of dreams

That old self of mine who used to hole up in the library stacks to study for ten hours straight, that student who read more books than Wilt Chamberlain had mistresses—he’s been absent in the flesh, now, for many years. I sometimes wonder if any of those books he once made it his business to know, which used to appear on everyone’s BA and MA English major’s lists, now help to shape my dreams.

It must be acknowledged that those classic novels and collections were usually more mannered than plotty, more character than concept-driven. So my dreams, which partake of pulp fiction characters, supernatural elements, and Gothic romance twists, like anyone else’s, at first glance seem to have more to do with the comic books I read when I was cheating on my literary diet, or with the thousands of hours of TV and sports I would rely upon to leaven my entertainment.

Yet it is equally true that even the most fantastic dreams can come across sounding quite boring to others; as nothing special. To purify the raw ore, to produce poems and stories that will stand on their own right, it is not surprising when flying above the trees or a dog with two heads places second to conflict or dramatic irony. So it goes for me.

Perhaps while my brain was picking up, like a magpie, bright odds and props in the usual places, what I was doing in that library was disciplining my mind, training it to think in terms of dramatic structure, alternate universes of association and allusion, and layers of subplot and subtext: developing what Northrup Frye called an “educated imagination.”

This might be the lasting benefit of majoring in such an impractical and impoverished field as the humanities in the first place. The more we read, the more we give shape to our dreams.

II. Dream Layers

“Our little life is rounded with sleep”—-Shakespeare

There are many stages of dreams and wakefulness. When you are startled awake in the middle of the night, you might still be mired in the primordial ooze, with your dreams just a swarm of images that may or may not strike you or anyone else as full of portent. But they make good source material for poetry.

When you are on verge of waking, your dreams become more lucid. For me, the dreams that rise up out of the ooze can morph several times over until they reach the lucid stage, piling up new situations, characters, and props. When I write down the dreams in the lucid stage, I always find myself starting to consciously tinker here and there and ending up with (usually funny) flash fiction.

Of course there is a percentage-wakefulness after you get out of bed, too, with layers of consciousness reaching all the way up to enlightenment. But Shakespeare was right—dreams are what round life out and live at the core of a person. To dream is to grow, to self-heal, and to be.

III. The Dream-Self

“Own it all”

Recently, I was asked by an editor of a journal what advice I would give to a writer who was just starting off.

For me, the best advice is simply to own it all. Don’t think of yourself in the Western way, as the ghost in the machine, directing all conscious activity from the control center of the brain. Think of yourself in the Eastern way, the way of the Vedas and the Upanishads, as the autonomic self turned on all the time, while asleep and unconscious, while asleep and dreaming lucidly, or even when fully awake and sending out its daytime avatar—that commuting, clock-punching, social-networking outer shell. It simply makes better logical sense that way—people don’t stop being themselves for eight hours a night.

Provided the ghost allows one to sleep for even that long. I remember Christopher Hitchens, that very rational soul, stating in an interview he didn’t much like sleeping because he felt to lose consciousness was to relinquish control. To some extent, I used to feel that way, too, though I was accused equally often of being a “dreamer” and letting my mind wander while I was expected to be fully alert.

It’s not such a bad thing to let the mind wander, of course, if we may circle back now to the topic of writing. If you are overly invested in your daytime self, or trying to go about the business of writing in a practical, self-help way, you are probably going to get your wires crossed. Instead, learn to listen: take dictation straight from your dreams, practice writing unconsciously, and understand that everything you once thought the essential you was only an ego-shell, a semblance. Then pick up a pen and try to rebuild yourself from the ground up. I dare you.

IV. Dream Worlds

Familiar and unfamiliar places

There is sort of a reverse statute of limitations when it comes to dreaming for me. I had dreams of childhood when I was a college student, dreams of the Minneapolis lakes after I had moved to the desert Southwest, and dreams of Tucson after I moved to Georgia. The templates for all these places became more firmly fixed in my unconscious mind a few years or sometimes several years after the fact, perhaps for quite different reasons.

It could be that I am trying wistfully to escape backwards, not so much into the past as into the calmer inner recesses of my mind. It could be that the brain’s synapses and scripts require periodic reinvestment and replacement: because the outward stimulation has been removed, the mental model of the place is in danger of hazing into a cloud, and so through dreams, the brain hits an inward refresh button. Or it could be that time and distance have simply squeezed the place down into a more usable template for dreams in the first place. When you are still living in a place, or new to a place, it’s too big to encompass. You can dream a house, or perhaps a street, but the whole topography is not likely to show up through the reverse angle of the telescope.

That is why familiar places seem smaller to us as we grow older, because they have been resized to fit our conceptualizations several times over. With the perspective of several years, they often fit neatly onto a zip file that can be seized by the unconscious mind when it needs a ready template.

But it occurs to me that the same holds true for our files for people and events and even ideas. It takes time to encompass and to understand, to be able to adapt these as dramatis personae, plots and subplots, or themes.

Perhaps it takes less time for the prodigious intellect or the empath, the loner or agoraphobe whose interactions with others are caricaturized in the first place, or for the artistic prodigy who sees the world through a lens.

The rest of us have to wait until late middle age when memories simplify of their own accord, or our relationships with others have fallen into neat grooves, or the worlds of our experience become as worn and familiar as maps in a glove compartment.

ODD’S COUNTRY

I. The Alligator Queen

Under a bridge in New Orleans, I discovered a discarded stack of old tapestries. One caught my eye and I pulled it out. It was a strange print featuring stylized alligators floating over a field of bright scales and Mardi-Gras colors.

Is that the one I wanted? a homeless man standing nearby asked. But I gleaned the subtext of his remark: he was trying to scavenge anything of potential value himself. So I ignored him, draped the hanging over my shoulder, and walked away.

Somehow, I got sidetracked on my way back to my hotel. The street tapered into a narrow walkway leading me up to some not-so-nice tenements.

Through one window, I saw a man in a tank-top t-shirt appraising a headless mannequin affectionately. Then the door to a second apartment suddenly opened and a large woman spilled out. She was only partially clothed.

She saw the tapestry I was holding, and giggling, snatched it away. Bending over, she draped the cloth over her head. I began to protest until she straightened up.

The transformation was startling. The tapestry fit her like a robe, and rather well—the scales neatly encasing her breasts, and the reptilian golds and greens making her look like comic-book royalty.

I am the Alligator Queen, she announced, dramatically. Both of us stood there transfixed for several seconds. Then from within, a man’s voice rumbled.

Still enrobed, the woman spun around, laughed again, and pulled the door shut.

II. Friends of the Bride

While ushering at a childhood friend’s wedding, I found myself on the periphery of several conversations.

I had been told that some of the bride’s single friends might be interested in talking to me. Unfortunately, this meant that they weren’t shy about approaching me with lots of extra requests.

One asked about facilities for kids and then introduced me to her daughter, a blonde girl of perhaps three who looked a bit too old to be coddled and put on display as “cute.” She had a petulant look and a prominent button nose that looked almost irresistible to “beep” with the end of your finger. Go ahead, her mother urged.

Later, I saw the same girl sitting with her father at a banquet table with the woman nowhere in sight. Had she actually borrowed someone else’s kid? I wondered.

Then another friend of the bride’s approached me with a baby stroller to disassemble. Her infant was irritable, and I could tell he needed to be put down for a nap, so I led her to a bedroom in the house. Once there, she tried to get me to stay and chat.

I managed to return outside, where I noticed the tray from the baby stroller leaning against the wall with no sign of the carriage and seat.

I walked past the line of tables, searching, while guests held up glasses for refills or asked me to check on the music.

A third friend of the bride’s, a little intoxicated, motioned to me to join her in the line to the bar.

Just then, I spotted the baby carriage near a table. An elderly man was sitting in it looking completely disoriented. His caretaker, an adult daughter, was sitting next to him busily eating both their dinners.

When I approached to ask her about the baby carriage, she instead reached under the table and handed me an enormous pile of papers and soiled linens.

I’ll have more for you in a minute, she said. Her father, now unconscious, made a little gurgling noise.

.

III. The Lost Swedes

I was just about to put the car away after checking my mail at the end of the driveway when three hikers tumbled in. They were Swedish tourists, a young woman her two male companions, just passing through. They had read about a dinner special in town featuring two-dollar steaks and were so wildly enthusiastic I felt obligated to drive them.

I’ll admit, I was somewhat dubious. We’re just a small Southern county: here we have catfish barbeques in cafeterias with real flies. So I couldn’t help wondering if the group had gotten its tourist brochures for different places mixed up.

We pulled over at an information kiosk just past the “Welcome to Vegas, Georgia” sign. I pulled some old maps I had out of the glove compartment, although there had been so much new construction in the county lately I told the young woman they probably weren’t much good. She and her companions all had beautiful eyes.

They unfolded out of the back seat and headed over to study the kiosk.

After a fruitless search, during which they queried quite a few confused passers-by for information, the lost Swedes tromped dejectedly back to the car.

IV. Temperance Tantrum

A bunch of us were giggling as we watched an old movie featuring a failed young actor who had gone on to become a blustery Southern Congressman.

It was funny because here he was playing a small town bartender, serving up draught after draught of beer to patrons in a party film called Drink up! Yet on the House floor, he had become notorious for his temperance law speeches, and if he could, would ban even rubbing alcohol sales from drugstores on Sundays.

Later, we saw this Congressman being interviewed on TV, backpedaling furiously, spreading the usual palaver about once being young and foolish and not having had other means of income.

Did you know this film is going to be rereleased in theaters? a reporter asked him.

Instead of answering her, the Congressman took the Lord’s name in vain.

V. Dancin’ Borges

My poetry class was overcrowded. It was the week of midterms, and where had all these students suddenly come from? Did they truly expect to be able to pass the class when joining so late?

Not only this, but there was a sort of gallery of adult visitors who sat in coats on chair-desks against the far wall. All told, there must have been thirty people in the room. My class had been capped at twelve.

But the hour had begun and I knew it was not wise to hold court on student excuses now, so I simply invited everyone to stay and pass out copies of poems if they had them. To my regular students, I apologized, We’ll have to share.

One student stood up and said she was just joining the class after getting out of prison. (Excellent excuse, I couldn’t help thinking.) She gestured to one of the women seated in the gallery on the other side of the room and waved, That’s my parole officer.

The grim woman didn’t acknowledge her.

The prisoner-poet was a bundle of energy. She was a wiry brunette, a few years older than most of the others.

Though I discouraged students from prefacing their poems with a narrative, she told the story of how she had come to be sent to prison (aggravated assault, argument over a boyfriend). She had one day discovered poetry in the library there. Or rather, she had found a treasury of best-loved verses, had then practiced rhyming herself until she got better it. She apologized that she was so nervous but really really hoped we would like her poem.

At least, that is a précis of what she said.

After her painful recitation had finished, a few of my regular students did their best to be polite. Jarold tried to express a positive point about one phrase. Oh thanks, I just love that—I just love men! she bubbled to him.

Kaylee automatically started to disagree with Jarold, but when the expression on the poet’s face darkened, Kaylee ended her sentence with “…or not.”

I wrapped up the ensuing discussion as quickly as I could, skipping the question-and-answer period, then asked for another volunteer.

The next student was a Kellie Pickler-lookalike who might have missed class due to too many parties. She seemed slightly intoxicated as she stood up to read her short poem in her Southern twang. From the peanut gallery, three of her sorority sisters applauded.

The student hadn’t made copies and read the poem so quickly and in such a thick drawl it was difficult to follow. Something about sunbeams and dolphins. Yet no one wished to be thought unable to understand her accent. Just to be polite, Raven, my best student, said that she enjoyed the sun, too. But the sorority poet had placed her head down on her desk.

Suddenly one elderly woman stood up and made an announcement. While she hadn’t brought in any work of her own, if Raven could help her pull up her favorite poem on the Internet, she’d read it.

The woman marched up to the front of the class before I could say a word, and we all waited a few awkward moments while Raven signed on her laptop. Eventually, we heard a forceful recitation of Robert Frost’s “The Road Not Taken.”

The hour was waning, mercifully, when the final student got up to recite a poem. She introduced herself as Mariella from Argentina. I say recited—but half-sung is more like it. She actually sashayed down the aisle of the classroom!

Her poem was in Spanish. Most of my class found it indecipherable but nevertheless enjoyed the performance. We’d never had a moment in class quite like this.

I caught little more than the refrain myself. It sounded like Borges, Borges, Borges. Roughly translated, it might have meant, Borges, Borges, Borges / King of the Dance!

After Mariella bowed to her audience and sat down, I couldn’t help asking her if the Borges referred to in her poem was Jorge Luis Borges, and if so, what was his connection to dance?

Mariella shook her head. She didn’t understand English.

From the other side of the classroom, a woman arose. She was wearing a heavy coat and said she was Mariella’s mother.

I asked if she could translate my question for Mariella and repeated it for her. Who is the Borges of the poem? I asked.

A rapid-fire exchange between Mariella and her mother carried us almost to the end of the hour. We all waited. Finally, the woman turned back to the class and shrugged.

She say, it’s not poetry if you have to explain it.

¡ r o

POSTSCRIPT: TEN EXCERPTS FROM REVIEWS OF MY BOOKS WHICH SUGGEST THAT I COULD POSSIBLY, QUITE CONCEIVABLY, BE AN ORANGE

1. “Montgomery’s book is destined, not to become a classic, but to be relegated to the realm of pulp fiction.”

2. “One peels off layer after layer of Dr. Montgomery’s work and finds it somewhat lacking.”

3. “Upon graduation from the Navel [sic] Academy, Montgomery immediately began writing his first book of poetry.”

4. “For breakfast, a glass of Montgomery can be golden.”

5. “Although chockfull of acerbic wit and many essential nutrients, Montgomery’s surreal tales are not satisfying sources of protein.”

6. “Didn’t you hate it when Montgomery’s literary productions were heaped up and covered in kerosene and burned, rather than fed to starving Okies?”

7. “Is it true that Montgomery was once overheard calling Anita Bryant his little ‘minute maid’?”

8. “To make a mimosa that will rock your world, just pour a little champagne into this author.”

9. “Orange you glad I didn’t say Montgomery?”

10. “There is clearly no word in the English language that rhymes with Montgomery.”

AUTHOR NOTE

M.V. Montgomery is a professor at Life University in Atlanta and the author of the poetry collections Joshu Holds a Press Conference and Strange Conveyances. He has also published two recent collections of short fiction, Dream Koans and Antigravitas.

Also By M.V. Montgomery

JOSHU HOLDS A PRESS CONFERENCE

“M V Montgomery’s thoughtful poems are glimpses of historical moments, by turns moving, perceptive, haunting and funny. A pleasure to read, and an education.”

—Alex von Tunzelmann, The Guardian

“It is good to have a guide who is full of bonhomie, not immune to the occasional bout of horror and misery, but always consumed by the thrill of our wide, wonderful world, with its heroes, murderer, poets, prophets, wackos, monarchs, artists, adventurers and paragons, and the spectacular concatenation of legends that is their constantly spreading wake.”

—Christopher Hobday, The Conversation Papers

STRANGE CONVEYANCES

“Like a character from a magical realist novel, Montgomery’s speaker never thinks any situation to be bizarre. And like Camus’s Mersault, he never has reservations about his present predicament. But though it is interesting to draw these parallels, it would be irresponsible to call Strange Conveyances either absurdist or magical realist. It is a book about dreams, and…no greater proof exists in the contemporary literary world of how captivating the dreams of another can be.”

—Benjamin C. Krause, Muscle & Blood Magazine

“Montgomery’s poetry is real and accessible—not the poetry of angst buried in dark corners, but the work of one who lives with eyes open.”

—Amy L. George, Bird’s Eye reView

“In Strange Conveyances, a real world is evoked. Within the re-enactment, the recollection, the facsimile, the poet goes about his mysterious business. In the manner of the last man cataloguing the universe for whatever might follow mankind, or an American Proust discovering himself in the lingering images of memory like a ghost on the edge of a photograph, Montgomery is both the wise, mundivagant sage and the baseball-capped friend at the bar, discussing the wonderful machinations of existence with the easy tones of a close friend shooting the breeze about the weekend ballgame. Like any gifted interlocutor’s, his reports are personal, but universal; the inner logic of the poetry, with its philosophical clarity and ensuing verisimilitude, never fails to reveal emotional or psychological truths that are impossible to deny—thanks in the main to a charming and overarching benevolence.”

—Christopher Hobday, The Conversation Papers

DREAM KOANS

“Dream Koans, which consists of various themes and statements, leaves the reader in awe of M.V. Montgomery’s imagination. The flash fiction ranges from exaggerated melodramatic scenes to ridiculous impossibilities from unheard-of creatures. As an eclectic collection, it does not read so differently than Gertrude Stein’s Tender Buttons, and this is clearly its success. The multitude of characters—family, famous people, academics and animals—evokes an independent world…to me, it often reads like a Billy Collins book of poetry with all its cleverness, and at other times, like an Ernest Hemingway short story with all its pathos.”

—Dustin Dill, Fast Forward Press

“M.V. Montgomery has distilled the narrative concept down to an incredibly pure form, one which does nothing but enhance the humor, subtlety, and emotional weight of these dreamlike vignettes.”

—Robert Lieberman, Conte Online

“M.V. Montgomery’s stories don’t preach about how to write yet raise questions about what writing means and how it can happen.”

—William Males, Frostwriting

“Creativity explodes from this…and a lesson can be learned by all writers drudging through the same stagnant form again and again, myself included. I’m going to think of M.V. Montgomery the next time I begin crafting in that same tired pattern: Action, Background, Development, Climax, Ending. Greatness comes from breaking form. I’m learning. Thanks, M.V.”

—Daniel McDermott, Bananafish

ANTIGRAVITAS

“Antigravitas is an interesting and very vivid collection of flash fiction, muses, and short stories that are as odd and quirky as they are funny and unique—and if you share in having a wry and dark sense of humor, then many of these writings will definitely resonate with you.”

—Cinsearae S., Dark Gothic Resurrected Magazine

“M. V. Montgomery is a twenty-first century Borges—a comparison I don’t make lightly. His vivid images and open, powerful language will follow you off of the page. With surprise encounters with zombies, Mark Twain, extended family and the people across the street, Antigravitas speaks to everything from self-judgment to the creative process.”

—Megan Arkenberg, Mirror Dance “After reading M.V. Montgomery’s new collection, I shared it immediately with a friend. I couldn’t keep it a secret. For days my friend and I discussed. We couldn’t decide whether or not these stories were to be taken for dreams or reality. There are ghosts, certainly. And human clones, and tumbleweed entities. But what humanity there is behind these imaginings! What surprising vulnerability from the consciousness of this storyteller.

“In the end, my friend and I decided, it matters not what can and does happen in this book, but merely that it happens for the reader, that it happened for the writer. For when you encounter these sentences, you come to know M.V. Montgomery himself, and the experience is haunting.”

—Nicholas Maistros, Palooka