The (approximately) 5″ tall Coldstream Guards of England pictured above were manufactured by Pfeiffer, a doll maker in Vienna in the very late 19th/very early 20th cenutury. Pfeiffer dolls’ heads, hands and feet were made of composition- a mixture of sawdust and glue. They were hand painted with great life-like detail.  (examples of Peiffer/Peiffer- like dolls are shown below).

Around 1898 it must have occured to the makers that half the toy market was missing out on their products. Thus they introduced a line of soldiers (British guards, Teddy Roosevelt’s Rough Riders, etc. The detail and accuracy of their handpainted dolls carried over into the soldiers.

In 1904 Pfeiffer was purchased by Hauser, another doll maker. This company, under the brand name “Elastolin” manufactured a huge line of toy composition figures, soldiers of all nations, knights, Native Americans, farm and zoo animals. Elastolin is in business to this day though the figures now are plastic.
In Elastolin’s pre-WW2 heyday the specialty was fighting men like this duo from the “Old Shatterhand” novels of Karl Maye locked in mortal combat

Somehow, though, almost in tribute to their doll origins, among Elastolin (and Lineol the other great German composition figure maker) most interesting, most human creations are camp scenes with an injured man toting a pail of water, a band master with a “Kaiser Wilhelm” mustache, or a bugler in a tense moment.

History, as we know, repeats itself. In 1964 Hasbro Toys executives contemplated the amazing success of Mattel’s Barbie Doll, she of the endless wardrobe, vast accessories, even a boyfriend who needed to be outfitted. Barbie was a money machine.

The answer, of course, was G.I. Joe whose wardrobe rivalled Barbie’s in size and variety and whose accessories – everything from grenades to Armored Personnel Carriers – was at least as vast.

Ken may have been Barbie’s boyfriend but G.I. Joe was made for her (or at least for the brothers of the girls who played with her). Nobody at Hasbro ever said this was the ultimate boy’s doll.  But like many things never said it was true.Perhaps the last great toy soldier as play moves online. Joe was a doll for boys but far from the first one.

I read my 9/11 story “There’ a Hole in the City” on WBAI-FM, NY


At 11 AM Sunday to commemorate  the tenth anniversary of  the Twin Towers disaster my friend Jim Freund hosted an hour long show in which I read my story. This was followed by Dr. Charles B. Strozier the preeminent expert on contemporary terrorism’s effects upon individuals and author of  Until the Fires Stopped Burning: 9/11 and New York City discussing my story and other fiction about the fall of the towers.

WBAI Radio Promo For My Reading on Sunday 9/11 at 11AM


I’ll be reading my story “There’s a Hole in the City” which is set in lower Manhattan in the days after the event.   Kind of nice: I’ve never had a radio promo before.
(script follows)

[Actuality intro] — about 20 seconds to the words Houston St and LaGuardia Place

On Sunday, September 11th, as part of WBAI’s special  anniversary programming, The Next Hour with guest host Jim Freund will feature this award-winning story, followed by an interview with Rick Bowes and the preeminent psychologist on contemporary terrorism, Dr Charles B. Strozier.

[Theme up and down]

That’s September 11th at 11 AM on The Next Hour, featuring Richard Bowes reading There’s a Hole in the City.


Lost Troubadours – Phil Ochs, Tim Hardin, Fred Neil

PHIL OCHS (December 19, 1940 – April 9, 1976)- My memories of the Greenwich Village folk music scene-  in the way of old memories – have gotten crystalized into a few visuals, a few songs. Sometimes this gets jostled and prodded. That happened for me this spring  with the Phil Ochs documentary, “There But For Fortune”. 
Matt Cheney on his Mumpsimus blog writes about this:
remember hearing Ochs perform at (I think) The Bitter End – even own a “Best Of” CD. And I have a personal memory or two.  The voice wasn’t great but it reflected an absolutely sincerity. And he was a compelling stage presence – a good looking kid. Chosing shots from Google I found myself ruling out the ones that just looked too handsome.
For good or ill the visionary troubaduor was a large part of the ’60’s dream. Dylan gets remembered. But circa 1965 when I began hanging around, Bob Dylan had just begun to break out of the pack – and few in Greenwich Village had a good word for him.  A singer/composer like Ochs, committed and political was a lot closer to the Greenwich Village ideal.
Ideological disillusion,  artistic disappointment, drugs, alcohol and (my guess) the onset of mental illness combined to destroy him.
That first time I saw him play – just him with guitar in a not very large space he did political songs but also his own setting of Alfred Noyes highly romantic tragedy “The Highwayman” and I was impressed.
Seven or eight years later, maybe a bit more, I was walking down Sixth Avenue in a Manhattan with a lot less neon than it has now. At the corner of Fourteenth Street was a bank of public phones. A man, unshaven, disconected, talking to himself, was  picking up the receivers, listening to each, hanging up, going on to the next one. The guy I was with said, “Jesus, that’s Ochs”.
When I heard about his suicide a few years later it was the Highwayman, romantic,doomed, riding to his death that I wanted to hear.
ochs – power and glory
a small circle of friends
the highwayman
 Tim Hardin:December 23, 1941 – December 29, 1980)
With his long, brooding, ex-marine face and that sweet, haunting, slightly cracked voice, Hardin has always been part of my internal repetoire. 
But I had forgotten how central he was back in the ’60’s.  Then I found Patti Smith in her  bio/ autobio of  life with Robert Mapplethorpe and her path to rock stardom, citing Hardin more than once and his “Black Sheep Boy” in particular.
And, yes, that song in was one that ran through so many of our heads in the back seat of the car, on the bus, the plane, the train,  hauling our troublesome attitudes and bad habits towards home and an uncertain welcome.
With Hardin I find myself wanting to show black and white photos – an old fashioned grit look. But Hardin had a dozen reincarnations and relaunchings. I heard him play in a small club on MacDougal Street – just him on guitar and Jeremy Steig the jazz flutist. 
That scene, that scale seemed perfect. Hardin’s image of an artist whose sensitivity threatened to overturn him at any moment reminded me of Lady Day. Like her (and eventually me) he was a junkie. Hardin got into heroin early on (legendarily in Vietnam in 1959 while in what would have been semi-covert operations with the marines) and never got free. A lot of his career consisted of trying to support a raging junk habit.
If Ochs was the disillusioned idealist Hardin was the maltreated artist. He felt himself badly used by record companies and probably was. The violin backup on that first album is  ridiculous. But he was also widely recorded. His “Reason to Believe” and “If I Were a Carpenter” became standards.  He was recognized and appreciated but he never had a hit recording singing his own music.
The search for a drug have caused him to move to London and back to the U.S. It never worked for long. I know quite well that the main thing that seperates those of us who kick and those who don’t is luck plain and simple.
His catalog is small At some point his ability to write songs as good as the early ones dried up. He died at 39 which seems very young to me now. The most meaningful song of his late career was his cover of Leonard Cohen’s “Bird on a Wire,” with its line about trying in his way to be free. Perhaps it summed up his life in ways he no longer could. 
black sheep boy – Joe Strummer intro
reason to believe
if I were a carpenter
the lady came from baltimore (live and without strings)
like a bird on a wire – hardin covers cohen
Fred Neil (March 16, 1936 – July 7, 2001)
Fred Neil did not die young with his ideals crushed or grapple with an unsupportable drug habit. In 1965 he was big on the folk scene and with good reason. He could write and I will testify that he could perform. His voice was deep and true. His stage presence was powerful. Songs like “The Other Side of  this Life” and “Blues on the Ceiling” got picked up by other singers.
 His 1965 album “Bleecker and MacDougal” gives about as clear an idea of what the scene felt and sounded like as is possible.
The 1966 album “Fred Neil” contains some great material including two songs “Everybody’s Talking” which was covered by Nilsson and used in the movie “Midnight Cowboy” in 1970.  The song won a  Grammy and became a gigantic hit (one used to hear it in elevators). “The Dolphins” didn’t achieve anything as grand but it became a solid standard recorded by Tim Buckley, Kenny Rankin and others.
As I recall Neil was around for a while after that but seemingly not producing new songs. By the early ’70’s he had mostly retired from the music business and devoted his time and attention to the protection of dolphins.  When he died in 2001 it was kind of a shock that he was still alive. He seemed a figure of a prior time.
I wonder with Neil as with Ochs and Hardin if their song writing ability was a kind of lyric outpouring which did not survive very far into their maturity. I’m reminded of Rimbaud who between a dreary childhood and a hard and unimaginative maturity had a brief, amazing burst in which he wrote and loved to the hilt.
And I wonder if Dylan never felt that flash of genius and instead worked doggedly, constantly found new sources of inspiration and went on to have a career that flourishes still.
Here’s young Fred 45 years ago standing in front of the building in which I now live. His album “Bleecker and MacDougal” was one of the things that made me move to this spot a couple of months before his death. His talent, while he had it, was very real.  And the voice for me is unforgetable.

The Complete Fairy Tales of Barbara Leonie Picard

Selected Fairy Tales

At the very start of a long, successful career (more than thirty books published, three times on the UK’s Carnegie Awards short list) as an author of children and young adult books, Barbara Leonie Picard wrote and then published fifty fairy tales.

By her account this began as a distraction in the early 1940’s while on duty as a night time fire watcher in England guarding building from incendiary bombs during the Blitz.

Beginning in 1949 she published all fifty stories in five collections. In 1994, in both the UK and US, Oxford University Press brought out Selected Fairy Tales, Picard’s own choice of sixteen of these tales. This is a trade paperback with cover art and a small drawing at the start of each story by Julia Cobbold. Generally as here Picard was fortunate in the illustrators of her tales.

I bought a very-good-condition used copy some years ago at the Strand here in Manhattan. It sat on my fairy/folk tale shelves for quite a while until I picked it up read the introduction and then the stories.

Picard’s prose is graceful and clear with the simplicity we expect of tales that have been polished over generations. The difference is that Picard’s stories use old models but are her own creations. “In an old mill, overlooking a village, lived a miller’s daughter with her father. Her hair was brown and her eyes were grey and she was fair enough to look upon; but her voice when she sang surpassed all other voices in the world. (the opening lines to the  Shepherd, the King and the Southwest Wind). Once I had read these sixteen stories I wanted to read them all. Eventually I did just that.

The Mermaid and the Simpleton   (Oxford University Press 1949, Criterion, US, 1970) was Picard’s first book of  Fairy Tales – was, in fact the first book she was to publish. The fifteen tales are well done; at thirty-two Picard’s style is fully formed. Philip Gough provides generous and appropriately strange illustrations.

As her initial book she’s sentimental about it. In her Selected Tales she includes four from The Mermaid and the Simpleton including “The Sea King’s Daughter”, the first tale she wrote. Each of her volumes for Oxford includes an oriental tale and a piece of chinoiserie. For Selected Tales she uses the ones from her first collection, the nicely done, “The Ivory Box” and “The Heart of the West Wind.” All the elements of Picard, the elegance of the prose, the complications of human and human/supernatural relationships are here. Each of these stories is fine and some much more than that. But her next collection proved stronger for me.

The Faun and the Woodcutter’s Daughter  came out from Oxford University Press in 1951 and was reprinted in the U.S. in 1964 by Critereon Books. The illustrator for this and her next book was Charles Stewart whom the reclusive Picard was to praise and thank. I believe he is the best illustrator with whom she worked.

The FATWD is my favorite of Picard’s collections and I think it was her’s too. Six of it’s fourteen stories are included in Selected Fairy Tales. There’s great variety here and the overall quality is very strong. The oriental tale and piece of chinoiserie -“Malati and the Prince” and “Tiger Lilly and Dragon” are a bit deeper and a bit more confidently done than their counterpants in TMATS. She has hit her stride. In this volume we have Picard’s rendering of standard themes – the good offspring and the bad offspring in ‘The Three Brothers and the Black Hen’, the quest for the lost object in ‘The Coral Comb’, the wise fool in ‘Clever Dick’.  But there is an extra twist in each tale, a bit of psychological insight along with the myth. We can’t be sure we know what will happen.

Then there is an underlying theme in the book of love achieved with difficulty and sometimes accompanied by loss. In the title story the magic creature and the human girl can not find acceptance in her world and must leave it. In ‘The Third Witch’ a young king is brought to to near ruin by his blind love for a witch. In ‘Count Alaric’s Lady,’ the count falls in love with a faery woman for whom his world is a kind of fleeting dream.

These are not stories of failure but of redemption – told within the style and tropes of the traditional fairy tale. The most remarkable of these is ‘Count Bertrand’ the story of a completely unlovable man, hated by all but one of the many who serve him. When confronted by Death who asks him to justify his existence he defies her, refuses to bend and finds salvation only when one servant, a young page, resolutely refuses not to love him.

The Lady of the Linden Tree (Oxford 1954, Criterion 1962) was the last of Picard’s fairy tale collections for Oxford University Press. It’s somewhat shorter than the prior two (twelve stories as opposed to fifteen and fourteen). TLOTLT won for Picard a place on the short list for the prestigious Carnegie Medal for Children’s literature – the UK equivalent of the US Newbery Award.

It’s a strong collection in no way unworthy of the honor, but I’ve found that literary awards, especially juried awards, are often given not just for the book in question but for the author’s work in general. And I take this to be a recognition of the entire Oxford series 

Only two of the stories made it into the Selected Tales, though those two “The Shepherd, the King and the Southwest Wind” and “The King’s Friend” are among her most remarkable tales. The first, as the author states in an introduction “Is a straightforward fairy tale,” of three wooers. It’s a charming thing made extraordinary by the Southwest Wind himself, a force of nature, petulant and self centered. “The King’s Friend” is a story of male friendship and trust, a recurring theme which Picard handles well.

The title story is of a noble and handsome knight and the hideously ugly woman for whom he performs deeds and finally marries in order to lift the curse under which she lives. In Picard stories the men are often simple, gallant and loving. It is the women in stories like this and “The Necklace” who have complexities, strange histories and sometimes secret, sometimes selfish motives.

“The Tale of the Two Cunning Servants” is an oriental tale at least as intricate as anything in the Arabian Nights. “Lady Melicent” plays interesting games with Time.

In the introduction (the only one she wrote for these collections until The Selected Fairy Tales forty years later) Picard seem to contradict a couple of things she afterwards says about the chronology and creation of these stories. She mentions each of the twelve, points out that they all have happy endings and thanks Charles Stewart for his illustrations.

Aside from his lackluster cover art these are indeed  fine, the Southwest Wind himself, the forest in “The King’s Friend” the dragon in “The Necklace” (shown above), the court scene in “Lady Melicent” and the arabesque for “The Tale of the Two Cunning Servants.” stand out for me.

In the 1950’s and ’60’s Picard published many Folk and Fairy Tale books  (“Hero Tales of the British Isles”, “Celtic Tales”, “Tales of Ancient Persia” etc) and young adult historical novels (“Odd John,” “One is One,” “The Young Pretenders” etc.) . She wrote no more fairy tales of her own. But Oxford had only published forty-one of her fifty stories.

In 1963 Harrap & Co in England and then Criterion in the US (1965) brought out a small collection of seven tales called The Goldfinch Garden. I like small books of fantasy – think it’s a perfect format and though short The Goldfinch Garden is quite strong. I’ve wondered how these stories remained uncollected for so long. A couple are noted as having appeared in anthologies over the years. Maybe the others had similar histories that had made them unavailable.

Three of the stories, “Bertrade and Dominic” a tale of young love thwarted by a family feud – with the girl as the stronger emotionally of the pair, “The Milkmaid and the Water Sprite” a nice variation on the story of a clever girl and a dissatisfied supernatural being and “Diccon and Elfrida” a tale of faithful love between mortal and fairy, are in Selected Fairy Tales.

In some ways this is the strongest of Picard’s collection. Several of the other stories are as good in their ways as the ones the author chose for her Selected Tales. “The Goldfinch Garden,” is the story of a lazy but lucky boy, a witch and a bewigged, impossible king who’s one of Picard’s happier creations. “Sir Hermit of the Forest,” is a tale of noble knight and thoughtless lady, “The Pavilion in the Laurels” has magic, a faithful boy and a strong girl. Even fairy tale and fantasy literature doesn’t provide many tales of vegetables proving themselves but the brief, “The Cabbage Without a Heart,” is just that.

The book is nicely produced. I found it a pleasure to read. Ann Linton’s front cover and much of her interior illustration is good though she makes the characters in “Diccon and Elfrida” and “Bertrade and Dominic too young and the boys seem not to be wearing any trousers or pants which is mildly creepy.

With The Goldfinch Garden, Picard had managed to get forty-eight of her tales into book form, not an easy achievement I can tell you from personal experience. The remaining two stories, “The Ploughboy and the Nixie” and “The Discontented Gargoyle” had to wait until 1968 for inclusion in the book Twice Seven Tales (Kaye & Ward Ltd/no US publication).

Twice Seven Tales is those two stories plus the twelve stories from The Lady of the Linden Tree. The introduction from TLOTLT is retained with a description of the last two stories added and her compliment to the illustrator Charles Stewart dropped.

The illustrator for TST was Victor Ambrus probably the best known of the artists associated with these books. He collaborated with Picard on various of her other works. His style is more realistic, less fantastical and more adult in many ways. It’s interesting to see the contrast between him and Stewart in their depictions of the Southwest Wind.

The two stories original to the collection are “The Ploughboy and the Nixie” (included in Selected Fairy Tales) a well wrought story of love between mortal and supernatural, between land dweller and water creature. Picard said of The Lady of the Linden Tree that all the stories had happy endings. This one does not. The other original story is “The Discontented Gargoyle about just that creature on a medieval cathedral. Picard has written of her love for Oscar Wilde’s Fairy Tales. I’d never really seen any trace of that in her writing. I did find an echo of it here.

There was no US publication or distribution of Twice Seven Tales. It remains the rarest of the Picard Fairy Tale books. I found it worth the trouble and expense (I think my copy with shipping from the UK was about $20) just to have all 50 stories – it had become something of an obsession for me. Selected Fairy Tales is available in paperback and in good used condition for a few dollars. The other four collections are available used in the US in the Criterion and related editions at low cost  – if you don’t mind library and discard markings on the otherwise blank inside covers which I don’t.

I have no idea what audience there is for this essay about the stories of Barbara Leonie Picard who is largely forgotten in her own country as well as this. If other thoughts occur to me I’ll add them here. Let me know if I have anything wrong or if there’s something you think should be added.

Rick Bowes
NYC 2011



JUST KIDS is an enormously resonant Outsider/Insider evocation of youth on the fringes/at the center of the New York art and music scene in the late 1960’s and 1970’s. Smith’s book centers on the relationship bond/friendship of herself and Robert Mapplethorpe. They are young people in the chaotic, decaying creative Gotham from the Summer of Love to the moments before HIV/AIDS.

The pair – a gangly girl and a sexually uncertain boy epitomized aspects at the very heart of the developing zeitgeist. And both rode it to fame, he as gay artist/gay icon, she as a poet/ performer/ songwriter. In the midst of fractured lives and despair they always had each other.

It’s all here: illegal loft living, house of horror SRO hotels, The Hotel Chelsea, Warhol’s Factory, Max’s Kansas City, KGB, uptown salons and gallery openings. Mapplethorpe is always in her life but smith runs through an impressive list of lovers from Jim Carroll to Sam Shepard. I believe Smith sugar coats the hard edges, the relationships but that’s maybe the only route to making one’s way through the tumult and it’s a great trip (pages of pictures and poetry at the back – at least in the paperback version I read).

A personal memory: At some point in the early ’70’s I was heading East on Fourth Street and paused for traffic on the Bowery – traditional entryway to the Easy Village. On the other side of the street was the unmistakable, though not yet famous, figure of Smith. It was too slow for 20 somethings. We both went into the avenue against traffic, got to the center island without being hit, nodded with satisfaction to each other and plunged on to the other side.

Mr. Brain and the Island of Lost Socks

 Electric Velocipede Issue #2  Spring 2002                          

                      Mr. Brain and the Island of Lost Socks

                          Richard Bowes & Ezra Pines

   “I don’t understand,” said Mrs. Brain. “The scatter rug wasn’t yellow yesterday.”

     Mrs. Brain had long, shiny hair dangling from the sides of her head. Just the day before, she and Mr. Brain had before given in to fashion of having the plastic dome atop their head be clear acrylic, rather than colored polyethylene. The visible brain look was irresistible. Mr. Brain’s number of illicit affairs had tripled since adopting the style. Mrs. Brain had been invited to four more coffee-drinking contests around the neighborhood — more than she could manage, in truth. Yet she had accepted all calls.

      She phoned Mr. Brain at his office at Doughnut Investors Trust building.

      “I told you not to wear those glasses!” said Mr. Brain.

      “I’m not wearing glasses. I traded eyes with Mrs. Noggin, but she swears her rug has not changed color. So I’m not sure it’s an eye thing. I think the rug has actually turned yellow.”

      “I told you not to buy that rug!” said Mr. Brain.

      “You bought it for me,” she said. “Which makes it a greater mystery.”

       The rug, in the meantime, was in the breakfast nook asking for sugar in its tea.

      “You never wanted sugar in your tea before,” said Mrs. Brain, having satisfied herself that Mr. Brain was feeling better. He had left that morning out of sorts with the world.

      “I am tired of the usual ways,” said the rug, flipping back its fringe. “Oh, I long for a better life. I long for the sun. Do they have sun in Acapulco? Maybe I will go to Acapulco. I long for exotic nights. Do they have exotic nights — where? Tell me, Mrs. Brain. You have been so good to me for these past years. Where are the nights exotic?”

      “They are exotic in Denver,” she said. “It’s in all the latest magazines.”

       Since tickets turned out to be cheap for people traveling with their scatter rugs, Mrs. Brain decided to go along.

      “Should we tell Mr. Brain?” said the yellow scatter rug.

      “But he is feeling so much better,” Mrs. Brain said.


     The alarm buzzer on Mr. Brain’s desk began to beep.

     One long, two short, two long, four short beeps. He recognized the code and sprang into action. An agent of the Doughnut Investors Trust was ever vigilant.

      His splendid brain flashed and chugged for all the world to see. Gone was his peevishness of the morning. He grabbed his doughnut hole in one hand and slipped through it, emerging almost immediately onto the Island Of Lost Socks. A bracing sight it was, no matter how often he experienced it.

     As far as the eye could roam, tube socks and argyles, fluffy booties and honest woolen knee lengths: all lay in stacks, in mounds, in small hills. Socks misplaced in a million laundromats. Socks swept away by fast currents as they were being pounded with rocks in clear streams. Socks hidden under radiators and abandoned in moments of passion in the back seats of Studebakers. Socks fell from the sky in a flappy, multicolored blizzard.

     Once on the ground, they were normally gathered and sorted carefully, matched when possible – which was rarely. But not on this occasion. This time, Mr Brain observed, the gatherers, the sorters, the graders and matchers sat about drinking tea out of saucers and soft drinks out of cans, talking and arguing, singing songs their grand-mothers had taught them and flicking the odd monogrammed black silk formal stocking off their neighbor’s shoulder. Not a one was doing his or her proper work.

      Vainly did Mr. Brain remonstrate and cajole. They ignored him. They laughed at him. The clear Lucite that covered the top of his head fogged over from the steam inside. It was almost impossible now to observe the splendid machinery of his thought processes.

     Finally Mr. Brain found the president of the Island Of Lost Socks, a woman whom, barely a week before, he had endorsed for office. She sat on a pile of black nylons with runs in them, eating a chocolate Wing Ding and gazing off into space.

     When he had her attention and demanded to know what had happened, she made a dismissive gesture.

     “Go away, you silly man,” she said. “We can do our jobs without you.”

     The steam inside Mr. Brain’s head became tinged with pink. His eyes rolled out of control. Then he recovered and seizing the donut hole in one hand he jumped through it to a time a bit more than a week before. There he took a deep breath, removed a pink ankle sock, size four, with the name Mary Jane embroidered on it from the top of his head, and withdrew his endorsement of the presidential candidate.

     When he went forward to the same moment where all had been chaos before, he observed order and good workmanship and was pleased. The steam inside his head disappeared. He smiled and nodded and went back up the donut hole.

      Back in his office, he looked at the time and picked up the phone to tell Mrs. Brain that he would be a little late for supper.

      She would be a little late in answering the phone, he learned.


     Starlight filtered through Mrs. Brain’s eyebrows, which she had lengthened for the evening.

     Smog-eating guppies, numerous now after having escaped a household Smogarium decades before, flitted between the leaves of ivy covering the arbor.

     The crowds at the balconies, having cheered the daily train wreck, dispersed. A festive spirit infected the crows picking through the colorful wreckage.

     “It will rain soon,” said the yellow scatter rug. “I feel it in my corns.”

    “Mr. Brain will call any moment now,” said Mrs. Brain. “He always picks the most irritating times.”

    “I nurse desires of which I have never spoken,” said the yellow scatter rug. “I wish to have weevils in a lukewarm soup, for instance.”

   “I was hoping to see a well-lubricated policeman with a pained expression. This place is famous for them.”

    “We are so full of unfulfilled potential.”

    “Watch this mouse,” said Mrs. Brain.

    She set the small animal on the table. It ran for the condiment tray and ate a small pickle. The flesh over its head peeled away, to reveal a very realistic fish head, with one gleaming eye turned upward.

    Mrs. Brain’s extended eyebrows hummed in the light breeze.


    “Dare I ask are Mrs. Brain and the scatter rug linked amorously?” said the Detective.

    The windy day had turned from bad to worse. Even so, for a windy day, the wind was acting with restraint, only tearing off the uppermost portion of the roof. Even so it made the investigation more difficult. Suspect items kept moving across the floor.

    “Or by business?” said the Detective’s faithful lampshade in return.

    “What do you mean?”

    “I mean the scatter rug was once the Pastry Inquisitor. Don’t you think the Pastry Inquisitor’s office would be interested in the doings of Mr. Brain, and might hope to gain access through an interlude, romantic or not, with Mrs. Brain?”

    “Good thought.”

    “Why, thank you,” said the lampshade quietly.

    “You’re trembling,” said the Detective, moving nearer.

    “It’s the wind.”

    “I shouldn’t bring you to places like this.”

    “I’m all right.”

   “But you might get blown away.”

   “Dare I ask — ?” said the lampshade.

    “You had feelings for the scatter rug, you once told me,” the Detective said gruffly.

    “That was so long ago,” said the lampshade, “in another time, under a different title, one never posted. And the scatter rug was not then yellow. You remember, Detective. Tell me you do.”

     The Detective heaved a sigh, inaudible below the hooting of the wind through the house. “But if we are correct in our surmise that the scatter rug plans to murder Mrs. Brain, once it has achieved its aims,” said the Detective, “then am I to fear you plan to do me in, too?”

    “But I have no fringe,” said the lampshade. “I have only tassels.”

   “How true,” said the Detective, with narrowed eyes.


     The bare spot in the downstairs hall and the absence of  the sound of Mrs. Brain’s flutelike voice, the  sight of the enchantingly off-kilter arrangement of the hemispheres under her plastic dome led Mr. Brain to the conclusion that his wife had run off. A common tale, and sordid. Mr. Brain had heard it often enough. But never had he imagined it happening to him.

     His brain pulsed against its clear plastic cover. He stood in the midst of his disenchanted living room, casting about in all directions with his doughnut hole. Smoke the color of blue indigo seeped from the kitchen amid the chatter of the electric appliances, the ambient noise of the stairs, the snickering of the settee behind him.

     “It is ironic,” this piece of furniture said snidely, “that one of great brilliance, one who can make the elephant lie down with the mouse and the singer become the song, is subject to the whims of minor accessories.”

     Mr. Brain peered down the doughnut hole. A long way off. In another dimension, two men, one young one old, one a priest, one packing a gun, stood in a parking lot at night. “Now,” said Father MacGonigal to a burly man named March, “give me the gun. Then you’ll drive us home slowly. It’s my guess that we’ve given him the slip for tonight.”

     No sooner had he spoken, then Mr. Brain saw a thin figure, slight as steam, wavering in the neon lights of a shopping center. A very familiar ghost. March, the young man with the gun suddenly drew it out of his jacket and let fly with a slug. “Jesus Christ on crutches,” said the priest. “You’re going to get yourself locked up. Now give me that gun and get….”

     Mr. Brain paid no more attention to the two men. The ghost had been shattered like a plate. As the two men drove away, it began to re-assemble itself. As it did, Mr. Brain, an expression of incredulous joy on his face, his cranial fluids flowing briskly, prepared to jump down the doughnut hole. He had just recognized Fred Stansberg, his best friend from college.

     “Wait!” said the Detective behind him. “I have information!”


     “A smart thing your friend did,” said the coffeepot to the Detective. “Having the ghost jump here, instead of him jumping there.”

     “But the transformation was startling.” The Detective’s face still looked white with shock, hours later. “Maybe a ghost can only be a ghost in one plane. In any other … ”

     “I understand,” said the coffeepot in a low voice. “There was a mug, once – ”

     “You should have seen Mr. Brain’s face,” said the Detective, covering his eyes. “It was the ghost of his old friend, Fred Stansberg, flying up toward the doughnut hole. But as soon as he reached the doughnut hole, Stansberg changed into Dr. Frankie Flysmudge, the long-lost, merciless coffee-drinker who once brought Mrs. Brain to shame.”

      “That mug,” said the coffeepot, “I thought I knew that mug, when I was looking at the reflection in the restaurant window – ”

      “Which gives me the chills,” said the Detective.

      “But then the mug came in the door – ”
      “Because Mrs. Brain will never face Dr. Frankie Flysmudge again. And only she is good enough to issue a challenge.”

      “But the mug,” said the coffeepot. “It wasn’t the same, after all. It was – empty.”

      “So who, who, will face him?” said the hollow-faced Detective.


      “Guy, what the hell are you doing crawling around in my parking lot in the middle of the night?” asked the proprietor of Sammy’s Pizza in Rumprumble New Jersey.

      Mr. Brain made no reply. With his doughnut hole screwed into his eye like a monocle, he crawled about with his face close to the parking lot. Every so often he stopped, picked up a small, translucent fragment and popped it into the empty coffee can he had, with enormous foresight, thought to bring from home.

     “OK,” said Sammy. “I’m calling the cops.”

     Mr. Brain ignored him and went on working intently. The sirens were far in the distance when he stopped, stared into the can, and stood up.

     “Fred,” he said into the can, “Pull yourself together. I need your help.”

     He shook the can gently as he spoke. “Come on, Fred. I think you really came through. You’re in there.” Mr. Brain knew Flysmudge had stolen the opportunity to return to this dimension, when Mr. Brain had opened the doughnut hole and called Stansberg through. Flysmudge had to shatter Stansberg to do it.

     Luckily, Stansberg had started off shattered. He was no Humpty Dumpty.

     The flashing lights were barely visible when a human form, thin, white haired, and slightly wild-eyed, appeared from within the can. “Brain! Augustus J. Brain!” Dr. Frederick Stanberg exclaimed. “What are you doing here? What am I doing here?”

      “Fred, I need your help.” He explained his problem.

      The siren cut off. Doors opened and slammed.

     “There he is, the one in the hat sitting on the ground talking to himself,” said Sammy.

      “What if I told you the answer was on the Island of Lost Socks?” said Fred.

      Mr. Brain gasped, took the doughnut hole from his eye and promptly tumbled through.

      Fred Stansberg rose and turned to meet the approaching police.

      “Take me away, boys,” he said, with a shimmering smile.


     “I need the strength to drink ten coffees,” he said at the Office of the Secretary of the Coffeetariat, Island of Lost Socks Branch No. 202.

      “Do you have an appointment,” said the bored secretary.

      “I’m Mr. Brain.”

      “Isn’t that nice. Mr. Brain was a sweet man who had promised to arrange for me to rule this island. Did he come through? Nah, and nah again. This place – it’s too tidy. It needs an administrator who can make it live up to its name.”

      “I don’t have time for this,” said Mr. Brain. “I need a special sock. I know you have what I need. I need the strength to drink ten coffees.”

      “Like I said, maybe you need whatever. But you got an appointment? No? Well, we don’t have a sock for you or anyone else that looks like Mr. Brain.”

      “Look,” said Mr. Brain. “I could arrange something . .. ”

      She listened. “I could get sweet on a guy like you. But you guys are never good as your word.”

      “Make a mess of this place, like you promised. But get me that sock.”

      “You make those arrangements,” she said.

      When he returned: Tube socks and argyles, fluffy booties and honest woolen knee lengths: all lay in stacks, in mounds, in small hills. Socks misplaced in a million laundromats. Socks swept away by fast currents as they were being pounded with rocks in clear streams. Socks hidden under radiators and abandoned in moments of passion in the back seats of Studebakers. Socks fell from the sky in a flappy, multicolored blizzard.

      “I am so happy,” she said, with the vacant look of the missing-sock addict.

      “The sock,” he said.


      Dr. Frankie Flysmudge met Mr. Brain, as pre-arranged, at 7:30 a.m. at the Mr. Bean’s Coffee Clotter, which had a specially designed seating area for coffee-drinking contests.

     “I have no second,” said Mr. Brain coldly.

     “I have brought my penguin,” said Dr. Flysmudge.

     “Let us commence.”

     “I will avenge the affront you did my coffee cup!”

      “I will justify the offense by showing my superiority at sipping!”

     The formalities out of the way, they began.

     Three cups into the contest, Mr. Brain’s eye was caught by fleeting forms across the street of a glistening-headed woman and a scatter rug.

      The woman’s eye caught his. He heard the scatter rug flapping pleadingly behind her.

     “You cheat!” roared Dr. Flysmudge, pointing with his free hand. “When you turned your head I saw the doughnut hole you have hidden in your collar!”

     “As if your penguin is not helping you drink your coffee!”

     “I  demand reparation!”

      “I will do you better.” Mr. Brain removed the doughnut hole and set it on the table. “There. But you may keep your penguin.”

      He ordered more coffee, tremulously aware of a glistening-topped presence peering from the park down the block.

     Within two hours, Dr. Flysmudge keeled dead over the table from coffee ingestion.

      Mr. Brain stood and walked toward the park, his one sock sloshing in his shoe.


Now the truth about my story “Reality Girl” can be told!

It will appear in  AFTER – A YA dystopian anthology from Hyperion.
Publication date TBD
Edited by Ellen Datlow & Terri Windling

Some important authors  are still to be named. Here’s the lineup so far:
Genvieve Valentine
Susan Beth Pfeffer
Cecil Castellucci
Carol Emshwiller�
Katherine Langrish�
Richard Bowes�
Matthew Kressel�
Beth Revis�
N. K. Jemisin�
Carrie Ryan�
Steven Gould
Caitlín R. Kiernan