~chapter one~
She was third born in a litter of five pups that warm May morning in Northern California. She was big-boned just like her father, Jett. Jett’s mistress, Mary, loved him dearly. She often looked out the back door of her home to see him standing in the near woods that bordered her property. He appeared majestic to her, every bit the North American Timber Wolf in her eyes. He was a long-haired German Shepherd, purebred, papers going back for generations. Mary made an arrangement to sire him out. For her part she would be given pick of the litter.
When the puppies were born, there was no doubt in Mary’s mind as to whom her pick would be. The size of the puppy’s paws, huge and out of proportion to its body, captured the discerning woman’s attention. When the litter was weaned Mary took her puppy home to meet Jett. She was taken aback, a bit surprised, when he refused to accept his daughter at first. He sniffed her from one end to the other, shook his shaggy head, then returned to the thin woods, his place amongst the trees.
The little girl was terrified. While Jett was poking and sniffing at her with his nose she put her head down and pressed her body against the wall of Mary’s back porch. Her bushy tail held low, she watched closely as Jett left the porch and disappeared, stiff-legged, into the trees.
“Look at you, poor puppy,” Mary said. She scratched the pup behind its ears, kissed the top of its head. “You’re beautiful,” she crooned lowly, “Perfect markings, your mask and the top of your ears, tan and black, just perfect.” Mary gathered the big puppy up in her arms and sat on the porch rocking her back and forth. “You’re my princess,” she said softly, “I’m going to call you Talah.”
Talah whimpered, sounded almost like a baby crying. “I know, I know,” Mary whispered in her ear. “You miss your mother and don’t remember your daddy, Jett. Don’t worry, he’ll come around.”
Mary wasn’t so sure about that. Jett’s behavior confused her. She had supposed he would recognize his daughter immediately by scent, at the very least understand that she was one of his kind and needed him. A proud and solitary animal, he tolerated other creatures, Mary’s son’s dogs and her cat in particular but preferred to be alone. Mary led the puppy to a corner of the porch where she had constructed a bed out of old towels and what-not. Talah groaned and laid her head down when Mary went inside.
Jett watched it all from the cover of the trees. He was conscious of Mary’s every move, her comings and goings. There was a bed on the porch for him next to the one Mary had made for the pup. He seldom slept there, preferring to stay in the lair he had made for himself deep in the trees. He went there now to lie down, his ears keen to Mary’s movements in the house and the pup’s whimpering. Later, when he was sure they were both asleep, he went through the perimeter fence, deeper into the California woods to hunt.
Early the next day, Mary awoke and busied herself with her morning ritual of toast and coffee. A bumping sound from the back porch reminded her of the puppy. She tip-toed across the room and peeked out the window. She hoped to see Jett and the pup together. “Oh my,” she gasped. Her hands fumbled with the lock on the door.
Mary was terrified at what she saw when she stepped onto the porch. The puppy’s rag bed was torn to shreds. She was lying in the middle of the mess, her face and head matted with blood. “Oh no,” Mary sighed, “Jett, you didn’t.”
The puppy whined and Mary was both relieved and distressed. It was alive but bloody and crying. She rushed into the kitchen and returned presently with a bucket of warm water and clean towels from the bathroom. The puppy was waiting at the door for her, its tail wagging and head cocked to one side. Her hands full, Mary nudged the door open with a foot. The puppy walked gingerly to its torn up bed and lay down. It began gnawing on something amongst the bloody rags.
Mary dipped a towel in the warm water and bent to the task of cleaning the blood from Talah’s face. She worked slowly at first, careful and gentle, expecting with each wipe to find an open wound. The pup nuzzled her hand and nipped playfully at her. It jumped up unexpectedly and knocked over the pail of water. “Silly girl,” Mary said, a perplexed look on her face.
“Jett,” Mary said under her breath. She rummaged through the mess of the puppy’s bed and found an animal bone. “Here puppy, here Talah,” she crooned in a singing voice, picking up the bone and offering it to the dog. “Your daddy brought you a present last night, didn’t he?”
Talah accepted the bone. She sat there with it in her mouth, studying Mary with her intelligent and inquisitive puppy eyes. She whimpered a bit, set the bone on the floor of the porch, and lay down next to it.
“Well, sweety, you sure gave me a fright,” Mary said as she sat down next to Talah and worked at washing the blood away. She was startled by the sound of the screen door opening behind her.
“Ma, what happened? What’s all that blood? Are you okay?” Her twenty-year-old son, Jimmy, stood there, concern and worry evident on his face and in the tone of his voice.”
“I picked the puppy up at the breeder yesterday,” Mary explained. “Looks like Jett dragged something home last night. That’s where all the blood seems to have come from, thank goodness!”
Jimmy knelt down and examined the pup. “She’s the spitting image of Jett when he was a puppy.”
“Look at the size of those legs and feet,” Mary said, pointing a finger at Talah. “And her markings, they’re perfect. She’ll be a whole lot prettier than her daddy.” She paused a moment, glanced inquisitively at her son. “I didn’t hear you drive in. Shouldn’t you be at work?”
Jimmy scratched Talah behind the ears. “I got laid off, Ma, haven’t worked for a couple of weeks. I’m about to lose my apartment.”
“Help me get some food and water for this little girl,” Mary sighed, “Then we’ll go in and talk over coffee while I get ready for work.
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© artwork & words conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner ©
~come flyin’ around the corner~
~ridin’ your bad-ass machine~
~there’s a government plan~
~an eighteen wheeler u-turning~
~you twist your head~
~to tell your Harley baby goodbye~
~white line~
~white linin’~
~hundred dollar bill~
~never know what happened next~
~naked babies~
~{third eye red}~
~monkey night~
~burrow dreams~
~some smooth-voiced sonofabitch~
~elephant shit on his feet~
~tryin’ to john kennedy my ass~
~ears flappin’~
~fingers tappin’~
~lips smackin’~
~do not forsake them~
~your dead & wounded~
~compatriot heroes~
~fellow citizen heroines~
~welcome to the reacharound~
~amerikan politik~
~I’ll see your three heroes & raise ya a junkie~
~devil vaginas~
~horned toads~
~penis demon semen~
~fuck you & the war you rode in on~
~those children you name soldiers~
~subjugated to your causes~ ~freedom~
~patriotism~
~country & nation~
~are deep sick on the poison of your lies~
~before you dispatch them to kill other people~
~& die so far away from home~
~while you sick bastard reptilian guard~
~spout speeches~
~drape yourselves in flags~
~cover ‘em up~
~cover ‘em up~
~your god damned stinking lies~
~republicans~
~democrats~
~independents~
~what the fuck would they know about independence~
~your gaggle-goose gang of citizens~
~wake up you stooopid fucks~
~that mouth crying for the blood of your children~
~donkey dick~
~elephant shit~
~backdoor sonofabitch~
~phase II~
~monkey guts~
~the jungle dream~
~napalm gangsters~
~a rebellion of sluts~
~pay a fee to drop your nickel dick load~
~in the twat slot~
~double nut dime to shoot her in the mouth~
~that gorilla shit is bound to get you~
~I gotta get outa this~
~frame of reference away from~
~its shackle-shame manacled~
~leg humping sycophants~
~phase III~
~the REM’s~
~chains clanging~
~against lead poison uprights~
~a prison~
~a playground~
~a flagpole~
~school yard yes~
~let it be~
~those children before~
~laughing~
~waiting their turn~
~& the cannon-ball daddy~
~never disappoints~
~he pulls ‘em back~
~runs ‘em under~
~flings ‘em~
~swings ‘em~
~high into the air~
~higher daddy higher~
~that last time the under daddy~
~never knows until it’s a memory~
~like he pushed ‘em too hard~
~too high~
~too high~
~& they never came down~
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WordWulf
Inquiries: tracy@traceliteraryagency.com & wordwulf@wordwulf.com
© artwork & words conceived by & property of
Tom (WordWulf) Sterner ©
I’d like to thank my wife’s mother who I never met in this life for teaching her daughter the appropriate action to take when dealing with nuisances, remedies and recipes for destroying destroyers, as in sprinkling salt on meandering hordes of slugs leech-ass clinging to the cat food dish.
And my own mother, in fact; while ranching with her in Wyoming she taught me many things, not the least of which was taking action against flocks of summer moths. She poured water into a small saucepan, mixed in dishwashing soap, tossed a dish towel over her shoulder, and advised me to watch closely. She stood on a kitchen chair, held soapy water under the ceiling light, swooped at the moths with her dish towel. They fell down, drowned in layers.
I went over one morning to have coffee with Momma and my stepdad. She was sitting at the table weeping. He was out riding fence. Momma lifted my four-year-old son into her lap, held him near to her breast, when he asked her where Lady and Snoopy were. They were pets brought from the city when my stepdad purchased the ranch.
Snoopy was a loveable Siberian Husky with a hair lip, one blue eye and one brown. Lady was a red Alaskan Malamute. Snoopy followed her everywhere. She was a year older and half again his size. Lady took care of my boy. Many a time I was busy with chores, turned around to say something to that little guy and he wasn’t there. He did that things kids do, disappeared into thin air.
There were wells and holes and rattlesnakes, a thirty foot high slab pile full of black widow spiders outside a dilapidated sawmill/barn. I went near crazy looking for that boy at times. Out there in the endless fields one day, hay and alfalfa, lavender yellow, I followed those curled Husky’s tails meandering through the rows. I found Lady herding my boy back to the house, keeping him safe, bringing him home, Snoopy close on her heels.
There was a lot for a father to worry about on that red dirt, dry-assed Wyoming ranch, cows out, broken fences, sixteen hour work days seven days a week, the never-ending demands of the hard-boss, my stepfather. Lady gave me peace and assurance that whatever hole I fell into my boy was safe with her.
Momma was weeping. “Give me a minute,” she sobbed. Momma wasn’t a crier. I watched her closely, Momma’s hand on that coffee cup, as I poured myself a cup and took a seat at the table, her arms around my boy. She took a sip, set her cup down slow and easy. “Remember when the dogs were chasing the cows?” She looked across the table at me, her eyes chocolate brown, deep and moist, bottomless.
“A couple of weeks ago,” I replied, “What?”
“Do you remember what he said?”
“He said they can’t do that. It distresses the cows. They’re ready to calve.”
She nodded sadly. “Yes, and the lead poisoning.”
I ran my fingers through my beard. “Hell Momma, he says some weird-assed shit. That lead poisoning dogs and cows business didn’t make a connection with me but I didn’t want to hear any more about it so what the hell…”
“That porcupine the dogs kept chasing,” she mused, “It died of lead poisoning.”
I nodded my head. “That was something. Never occurred to me a creature could get so many quills in its face. They whimpered and cried like little babies while I sat on ‘em and he pulled ‘em out with pliers. Seven days in a row, they’d go find that damned thing and go after it again..”
“He shot that porcupine dead,” Momma said.
“Hell of a shot,” I agreed. “A hundred yards away, that porcupine dropped dead off that telephone pole before we heard the report of the rifle. Can’t say I felt sorry for it, all the work it put us through.”
Momma hugged my boy tight, buried her face in his hair.
“The dogs chased his calves last night,” she whispered, “lead poisoning.”
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WordWulf
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© artwork & words conceived by & property
of Tom {WordWulf} Sterner ©
~my son posted 2 words~
~& a picture on Facebook~
~a crystal instance~
~his creativity & imagination~
~put a smile on my face~
~that was yesterday~
~& it’s still there~
~couch potato~
~also challenged the muse~
~I’m eager to go home to Colorado~
~hug everyone~
~make music with my sons~
~they engage & challenge me~
~today I say to Zedidiah, “Zoodious”~
~thank-you &~
~armchair quarterback~
~fugue~
~thinking about my music~
~unsure whether it was the~
~crowning glory of my youth~
~or the toilet it was swallowed by~
~there are warts on their skin now~
~dragon nail breath~
~those fresh songs far away~
~momma used to come dance to my voice~
~first she stopped dancing~
~then she ceased to live~
~or was it the other way around~
~those little girls~
~my daughters~
~who used to sing all my songs~
~have children of their own~
~husbands & careers~
~my boyz make their own music~
~stoned damned markers in our lives~
~deaths of parents~
~assassinated politicians~
~elections & hurricanes~
~life experiences that bind us~
~a sense of purpose & expectations~
~of ourselves & others~
~canned laughter from the tv room~
~makes about as much sense~
~other than duplicity~
~there is no actuality~
~audiences expect to hear & see~
~experience a secondhand reality~
~what they are programmed to be~
~comfortable with~
~hot & ready to do that thing~
~everybody’s talkin’ about~
~whatever the hell it is~
~the room was empty~
~when the pretenders left~
~nearly as empty as before~
~beggars~
~are the only liars~
~who earn their keep~
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WordWulf
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© artwork & words conceived by & property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner ©
~The Butterfly Poet~ ~it finally arrived~
~that day words wouldn’t come~
~the empty feeling refused to go~
~he tore his hand~
~from the glove of his mind~
~watched his imagination~~those minute remnants left~
~dribble onto the notebook~
~a blot pattern blood ink~
~he wrote an ode to the butterfly:~
~whose wings of earth~
~& feet of sky~
~an invitation to glory~
~the likes of which I~
~see sun through each~
~a fluttering~
~land~
~beautiful~
~mute~
~you are so much &~
~expect so little~
~you are at peace while I~
~envy you heaven~
~that fair bit of sky~http://wordwulf.com
WordWulf
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© artwork & words conceived by & property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner ©
When I was in my late teens/early twenties, I would eat the occasional moth, grasshopper, ant, etc. to entertain my young children and their neighborhood friends. I also swallowed other things, goldfish and guppies to name a couple, to amuse them (and myself I suppose). This was great fun on camping trips.
Haven ridden motorcycles all my life, I’ve ingested countless flying things I’d rather not think about. During the eighties there was a group of crazies who called themselves the Moon Men. They’d show up unannounced and uninvited at motorcycle rallies and campsites. Their wild antics were high entertainment so, in most cases, they were not chased away. On one such trip, I stopped at a mountain restaurant to eat on a balmy summer weekend in Colorado. Half a dozen loonies, Moon Men extraordinaire, were flitting about the café to the consternation of cooks and waitresses, catching moths, picking up bugs off the floor. Each had a glass jar into which went all the creepy crawlies he captured. Later that evening, around a blazing community campfire, the Moon Men cavorted and entertained me and a host of other midnight riders. The Moon Man with the most critters in his jar was the star of the show. He was acknowledged in low ritual, rewarded as it were, honored by his peers, encouraged and slapped silly (no far reach) while he smacked his lips, yummy-yummy, and ate the day’s catch of the entire group.
Somewhere along life’s path, I decided not to intentionally kill any more bugs. That is, bugs not biting or stinging me and/or my children. Those I promptly stomp, swat, chase, generally swear a sincere vengeance upon. Flies are not a part of my amnesty on critters. I hate the filthy, slimy, sometimes biting little bastards. I collect Rosie the beagle’s doo-doo every morning, drop it in one of those plastic grocery bags and tie it loosely in what I call a half-knot. I hang the bag from a light fixture in the backyard, go my merry way and wait. A couple of times a day I retrieve the bag, hold the top firmly closed at the half-knot, and literally punch the living caca out of the flies that have crawled into the bag. Yesterday, I am glad to report, I took out over a hundred of the little vermin and hardly got any on myself. I am determined and easily amused.
Last week, driving back from our wedding in Colorado, I was chatting with Kathy about what bugs me in life (no pun intended, heh-heh). She was driving (what a good and special girl to give me a break) and I felt it my duty to entertain her. A tiny green bug was crawling around on the windshield on my side of the car. Using my right index finger, I encouraged him over and over to hide himself in the corner between the rubber molding and the glass (I knew he was a he because I saw his little peesqueeter very clearly, thank-you very much). I asked him what he thought about the graveyard just the other side of the windscreen. “What goes through all your little buddies’ bug brains when they smash into that invisible barrier at eighty miles an hour other than their butt-holes?”
Kathy, amused at my discourse (I think), decided the little green bug deserved a name. After some deep consideration, she christened him ‘Nevada Bill’ in honor of the wide and ‘less than scenic’ state we were motoring through. Bill, as if excited to finally have a name, exhibited an amazing ability to hop several times farther than the length of his tiny bug body when I poked his little butt with my finger. He landed on my shirt pocket and perched there looking up at me as if to say, “Now what?” It was either that or Bill needs glasses. I pursed my lips and shot him a little whoosh of breath. Bill didn’t like that. In one little giant hop (I think maybe Bill can fly), he landed on the side window. I tickled the down button on the door panel and out he went into the wind-stream. I kind o’ liked that little guy. Sure hope he doesn’t run across any Moon Men.
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WordWulf
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© artwork & words conceived by & property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner ©
~this piece is written for & dedicated to my Mother~ ~Carroll Hart~
~7 September 1931~11 July 2004~
~I violin~ ~if the wood be my face~
~I would howl~
~I would~
~hasten myself toward glory~
~the grain of my skin~
~would tell where I’d been~
~the sweat & the tears of my story~
~tie your metal strings~
~turn them tight into wings~
~cross your bow~
~give me lavender voice~
~as each note sings my bones~
~a god come to own~
~me you play me~
~a song of your choice~
~as I die as~
~I violin~
~the last violin~ ~they said the night was behind us~
~whose tears had only begun~
~did you see the one they held pris’ner~
~did you hear the songs left unsung~
~& there just above morning~
~they danced decades gone by~
~lovers beyond this world of chance~
~caught in the winking moon’s eye~
~I hear the strains of the last violin~
~& the notes each chord while it plays~
~echoing through my mind ‘til it sings~
~the last violin of our days~
~sleep is the ghost we’ve been chasing~
~wearing faces left over again~
~strangers in masks of our choosing~
~haunting places we’ve never been~
~& time the present reminder~
~of pasts even yet to be shared~
~quicker than they are occurring~
~wonder were we really there~
~I hear the strains of the last violin~
~& the notes each chord while it plays~
~echoing through my mind ‘til it sings~~the last violin of our days~
~a symphony sings at your cradle~
~an Ozarks sweet serenade~
~rocking the night with his fiddle~
~the player whose aging chords fade~
~you’ve learned to dance on without him~
~an angel whose feet kiss the floor~
~& all the others stop dancing~
~the last violin plays no more~
~I hear the strains of the last violin~
~& the notes each chord while it plays~
~echoing through my mind ‘til it sings~~the last violin of our days~
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WordWulf
Inquiries: tracy@traceliteraryagency.com & wordwulf@wordwulf.com
© artwork & words conceived by & property of Tom (WordWulf) Sterner ©
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