god could visit their dark room
go through a thin crack in the wall
light their life with a glimmer of hope
but god has grown so fat and lazy
he can only fit through a grand church door
Text by TETIANA ALEKSINA
Image by TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2022
gaslit & ghosted
then left to grey abandon
why were you not told
Text by TONY SINGLE
Image by TETIANA ALEKSINA
© All rights reserved 2022
This is the story of Number Thirteen, a lonely young soul whose skin was as white as snow because even Sun would shun her. Of course, Moon deigned to suffer her presence but only because he’d cover his face with clouds so that he wouldn’t have to look at her. Number Thirteen felt distinctly unlovely indeed.
You may be wondering if Number Thirteen had tried to turn things around at any point. Well, as a matter of fact, yes! She once pretended to be Number Thirty-one but, predictably, nothing good came of this. The real Number Thirty-one happened to find out what Number Thirteen was doing, and posted a scathing expose of her fraudulent behaviour on Facebook. If Number Thirteen wasn’t a social pariah before, she certainly was now.
Still, it seems that she didn’t let this stop her. She also tried to split in two once, to self-identify as Number One and Number Three. But this turned out even worse! Do you think it would be easy to operate with two parts if one of them looks like a pointy stick and the other has rather puffy flanks? Whether anorexic or grossly overweight, neither was good for her health.
So, instead of changing herself, Number Thirteen tried to date other much cooler souls in the hopes that their innate coolness would rub off on her. She dated a Number Six Six Six who was a little too bestial for her liking, and had an obsession with five-pointed polygons and red food colouring. Then there was a Number Sixty-nine who gave her genital herpes and mouth cramps. And after that came a soul who was to be the worst of them all. He called himself Number Seven Seven Seven, and would often coerce her into wearing a bad ginger wig while whispering quotes from the Gospel of QAnon whenever they made out.
You would think after these dating disasters that Number Thirteen would have given up. But no, not at all! Even with the terrible luck she’d always had of just trying to fit in, she was a cheerful, optimistic soul. Social shunning, superstition and all that other numerology bullshit be damned! She threw herself into the practice of yoga and qigong instead, often pouring cold water over herself before and after, even visiting Tuvan throat singing classes on a weekly basis. She piled her plate so full with extracurricular activities that she didn’t have time to sit around lamenting her lot in life. In short, Number Thirteen lived her life so thoroughly that she eventually grew to feel less empty and lonesome.
One day, Number Thirteen was sitting on the porch with her cat. Of course, the cat was a black one—could you honestly imagine her petting a white cat? Said cat was purring in her lap, soaking up the attention like a thirsty perennial in a tropical downpour. As such, it was the best Friday that either of them had had in a very long time. They just enjoyed each other’s company without a care in the world.
A fat snot-nosed kid was passing by on the street when he suddenly looked at Number Thirteen and her cat, and began to scream blue murder. There was an equally scared woman beside him—presumably his mother—and he pulled on her skirt as he poked a dirty finger toward the porch. It was more than Number Thirteen could bear. With quiet resolve, she placed the cat at her feet, stood up, then slowly approached them.
“You’re cruising for a bruising, kid,” she snarled, towering over him.
“Behind you, lady!” he shrieked, jabbing his finger more animatedly. “Over there!”
Number Thirteen spun on her heel, and to her great surprise was a human-sized Donut just standing there. Donut was flanked by eight… no, nine, ten… twelve, maybe thirteen human-sized Scones. Yes. Thirteen.
“I am the Hole at the Centre of the Universe!” declared Donut in an authoritative James Earl Jones voice. “The Great Nothing! And yet would I gather all unto me. Yet would I grant succour from the existential storm that is being alive.” Donut waved a hand at the human-sized Scones. “And these be my disciples, the Baker’s Dozen.”
The Baker’s Dozen all waved weakly. They clearly did not want to be there, and even seemed a little embarrassed by Donut’s self-aggrandising outburst.
“I see that you are silenced by awe.” Donut pointed to itself. “To be awed is human. To awe is divine. Therefore, you are human and I am divine.” Donut nodded in smug satisfaction. The Baker’s Dozen cringed inwardly just that little bit more. “You may taste of me and see that I am good!”
Number Thirteen gave a nonchalant shrug. “As you wish.” Then she looked over her shoulder at the kid and his mother. “Would you like some donut and scones over a cup of tea?” They both nodded dumbly. They didn’t really know how else to react—at the very least not wishing to be rude. The cat arched its spine, then stretched into a satisfying, cavernous yawn.
It was good by the way. Morning tea on the porch. Such a divine taste!
by TETIANA ALEKSINA & TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2021
Do you think
that your Muse is dead?
Balderdash!
She is tired.
She is just flat on her ass.
Yes! Dash it all, yes!
She couldn’t bear
your endless snivel,
hysterics,
binge drinking…
You, pathetic Creator!
She dumped you, dumbass!
Two talented lines
aren’t worth two wasted years… yes.
Muses can fuck up.
TONY: Tati, have you ever been pissed off?
Tati doesn’t answer. She keeps looking to the door.
TONY: Tati?
Still no answer.
TONY: TATI!
TATI: Huh? Yes, of course. Every time you ask a silly question.
TONY: Hey! All of my questions are individual quests for truth! Don’t be dissin’ my questions, man!
TATI: I’m not a man.
TONY: Anyway, there’s this really cool poem you wrote once. It’s called ‘a Pissed off Muse’. Do you remember it?
Tati looks at the wall clock, then says with a petulant gesture…
TATI: Yes, I do. I’m not such a leaky head. Not like someone I could mention in this room…
TONY: Hey! I only forget the stuff that’s not worth remembering!
TATI: Uh hum… Indeed, why should you stuff your head with nonsense like the due date for our tax returns, or when to pay for municipal services?
TONY: Look, I don’t mind living without electricity sometimes, and since when have we ever earned enough to pay taxes?
TATI: Well, this time I’m going to agree with you.
Tati keeps flitting her eyes between the clock and the door, then glances out the window.
TATI: So, do you really think it’s a cool poem?
TONY: I do! I think it’s bitchin’!
TATI: Uh hum… Well… Thank you, I suppose. May I ask why you recalled it just out of the blue?
TONY: Well, it strikes me that no one ever asks the muse if they even want to be a muse in the first place, and your poem seems to reflect this. It presents the muse’s viewpoint.
This seems to get Tati’s attention. She looks at Tony for a moment.
TATI: Yes. By the way, Tony, did you know that ‘muse’ can mean not only a source of inspiration but a creator or poet also?
TONY: Oh. Really? That… That doesn’t sound quite right…
TATI: Why?
TONY: Because muses are usually only presented as some kind of insipidly romanticised ‘source of inspiration’ (to use your words). But the whole thing’s not so romantic really, is it?
Tati’s eyes have gone back to the door.
TATI: Sigh. Never mind. Do you have a muse?
TONY: Nope. Why reduce someone to nothing more than a source of inspiration for my creative endeavours? They don’t exist purely to orbit and nurture my every brain fart, do they?
TATI: Not everyone is such an egoist, Tony! ‘Nurture my every fart.’ Many creators take their muses as higher beings, not mere servants of their creative labours.
TONY: I’m not so convinced! I can’t shake the feeling that a lot of muses are mere extensions of their creators’ egos, and therefore not considered to be the higher beings you sugge—Hey! Are you listening at all? I said ‘my every brain fart’, not ‘my every fart’!
TATI: No. I don’t sleep.
TONY: Huh?!
Tati shakes her head, as if to clear it, then continues to give the door, clock and window her full attention.
TONY: See?! You’re not listening!
TATI: Not at all. Pardon? Oh, of course, you have my undivided attention.
TONY: Are you sure? I’ve been talking to your nape for the last bleedin’ hour!
Tati sighs.
TATI: I only wonder if we can talk about something else…
TONY: Okay. Fine. What would you prefer?
There’s a knocking at the door.
TATI: Wait! Do you hear that?
TONY: You bet your sweet bippy. I wonder who it can be?
Tati starts to fuss around a bit. She goes to a cupboard and pulls out some slippers, then runs to the kitchen to brew some tea. When this is done, she brings out a huge pile of fresh newspapers and tosses them on the table.
TATI: Okay, could you get the door, Tony? I think that may be for me.
Tony answers the door. A huge, glistening penguin wearing a monocle and biting down on a pipe enters the house, brushing past him like he’s not there. It waddles towards the kitchen, its pipe leaving a trail of soap bubbles.
TONY: Oh, of course. Now I understand who serves whom, my Dear Genius.
TATI: Hush! Don’t piss off the Muse!
by TETIANA ALEKSINA & TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2018
Hieronymous Hedgehog was extremely picky, it was true, but he never could see the point in settling for second best. Bothering to get out of bed each morning was his tacit agreement that he’d engage with the world, but that didn’t mean he had to take its rubbish as well. Crooked spines? Short legs? Sparse whiskers? No freaking way! His future wife would be the epitome of style and echination, and that’s all there was to it.
And so it happened one beautiful morning that Hieronymous Hedgehog awoke early and couldn’t get back to sleep. He’d tossed and turned incessantly, only to eventually give up, sit up, and get up. He stretched, scratched his big round belly, and wended his way downstairs to the kitchen on his short bandy legs. Okay, it was time to get this show on the road.
Hieronymous Hedgehog slammed the pantry door. It was empty again! No bugs, no worms, nor any rotten apple or nuts. He needed to end this barren reality that was his bachelorhood, and quickly, but he’d have to swing by the drycleaner first. He needed to pick up his pinhole suit with the natty pinstripes, then he needed a coffee while the shoeshine beetle got to work on his Testonis. He had a lot to accomplish today. He had to buy a newspaper to tut over the state of the world. He had to dominate his neighbour at chess. Oh, and he had to choose a wife.
Forgoing breakfast, Hieronymous Hedgehog combed his whiskers, then polished his spines with a big woolly caterpillar. He perfumed his armpits with amber musk, took an umbrella cane from the hatstand near the door, and plucked a big red hibiscus from the outside garden to garnish his suit lapel later on. He looked at his reflection in a random car mirror and snorted with satisfaction. Ruggedly handsome as always!
The dating agency was called ‘The Romance Factory’ and had a very good reputation. Its hostess, Miss Musquash, had been married about twenty times, and every one of those marriages had been very happy and successful. That’s why Miss Musquash could be trusted with the romantic business of everyone else in existence. She was clearly a true professional with years of relationship experience.
A short while later, the bell gave a little tinkle as Hieronymous Hedgehog burst through the front door. His stride bespoke purpose. Well, it was more of an amble actually, but at least it was a confident one. The office was very small and cosy, full of flowers and spider webs, and there was a drowsy secretary in the corner. Hieronymous Hedgehog could almost see the zees floating off her head—that’s how out of it she was. However, he would not be swayed; he approached the secretary and knocked on her shell.
“Sirrah!” he announced. “Is anybody in there? I need a wife, and urgently!”
The secretary jumped with a cute hiccup, and when she’d composed herself, peered at him over her equally cute glasses. Her beaked face then broke into a knowing smile. “Would you like a coffee?” she asked in a slow, nasal drawl. “A tea? Cocoa with worms? An orange?” But Hieronymous Hedgehog didn’t have time for silly chit chat or noticing others’ genders. He wanted a…
“Wife!”
Without further ado, the secretary pressed a button on her intercom. “Miss Musquash? Your three o’clock is here.” She looked up at him briefly. “A Mr Hieronymous Hedgehog.” The speaker crackled, then there was an audible intake of breath.
“Let him in.”
Miss Musquash was sitting on a sofa, chain smoking like lung cancer hadn’t been invented and there was no tomorrow. Around her were tossed folders full of the photos and profiles of potential fiancées. She gave a helpless shrug.
“Dear Hieronymous Hedgehog, you have gone through all of our applicants!” Miss Musquash indicated the folders. “Lucia was too short, and Maria was too tall. Helga was too fat, and Geraldine was too skinny.” She wrinkled her nose in distaste. “Too hairy, too squeaky, too lascivious! I don’t know if there is anyone alive that could meet all of your requirements! It’s not possible!”
Miss Musquash picked up a sheet of paper and shook it in Hieronymous Hedgehog’s face. It contained a long list of criteria that his potential future wife must fulfil. He ignored it, and began filing his nails instead. She sighed. It was clear that he wasn’t going to budge. In fact, Hieronymous Hedgehog even went so far as to sit himself down and plonk his short bandy legs on her desk. He then ever so ‘politely’ remind her that he was a respectable client and a chairman of the Forest Retirement Fund to boot. She shook her head and let out another sigh.
“Look, why don’t you come back tomorrow? I promise I’ll have something for you then.”
And so it came to pass that Hieronymous Hedgehog grudgingly left and the light stayed on in Miss Musquash’s office the whole night through. By four in the morning, the ashtray was full of stubs and a decision had been found, and it was the best of an impossible bunch.
A week later, all of the forest’s inhabitants were invited to a wedding. Yes, that’s right… Hieronymous Hedgehog’s wedding! He was the happiest groom. His future wife was the epitome of perfection—height, weight, prickliness. And, the most important thing of all, she was never going to argue with him.
This time, Miss Musquash sighed with relief. She closed Hieronymous Hedgehog’s case file, and called the secretary into her room. She asked her to empty the ashtray and order a new cactus for the lobby. And then business would carry on as normal at ‘The Romance Factory’.
by TETIANA ALEKSINA & TONY SINGLE
© All rights reserved 2018
unbolt me 