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Welcome to the Weird Issue
by Oren Pierce, Guest Editor


I was born in the bathtub in which my poor mother also did the wash, as were my ten or twelve brothers and sisters that lived. The home shack was on the edge of the Camp Drum military reservation and had two bedrooms, but one was strictly for my dear mother’s soldier appointments, so when each of the resulting children became old enough to toddle, the child was moved to the chicken house out back. We raised each other there and took care of the chickens too. Did a pretty good job of it I think; went to school looking clean enough, brought home books, and read to each other. Don’t ever think that our mother was not a saint of a woman, because she was.

But I strongly suspect that the reason I have been tapped to write the guest editorial is because I am being cast as weird. I was not given the honor so that I could select the authors and articles. I am told that the weirdness theme is not meant to imply that the subjects or the authors themselves are to be weird. It is just supposed to be an everyday back of the mind thing …but both the man and the story in the case of Davy Weathercock here seem over-the-top weird to ME.

Weathercock (I feel) has presented us not with just an honest meditation on the uncanny nature of everyday life that an unsensational treatment of the theme requires, nor is it either fact or fiction, but just plain fake news.
Not wanting to be too negative, I won’t get any further into that. Read and judge for yourself.

Just about everything else in this issue is fine with me and I recommend the writings to you without further doo doo.

But as guest editor, it is my responsibility and my opportunity to tell you about the NEXT issue of the Metaphysical Times: the FOOD issue, in which I myself will have a featured story; but I will not be the guest editor then, so then I won’t be able to introduce my own story in it, which is a relevant chapter from the Nowella and Threadbear saga. It’s about condiments and you are going to love it.

If I HAD been asked to contribute an article of some sort here for the Weird issue, I would have written about my brother Armer. Most people know about my other brother, who grew up mostly in David S. Warren’s family, after wandering away from our place and into that household where he was given the name, William Bonaparte Warren, William was born with abnormally short legs on a (mostly) otherwise normal sized body, and there is a weird story right there, but I am speaking now of my brother Armor. My family was not exactly a nest of freaks, but there were a lot of us kids, freaks happen and my brother Armer was way stranger than William.

Both of them were made quiet and clever by their own oddness.

At school, at home, and otherwise, Armer came to be called Armor, Armoire, Ermine and a subset of derogatory nick- names: Worm head, Dick Head, Pig’s Ass, and so on, all on account of he was born with a fleshy extension from the area of his baby-head soft spot: a coil of tapered, twitchy, nervous tissue, which - despite the socks, stockings, and stocking caps he wore on his head - all the local kids knew about.

To go where nobody knew his head, Armer wandered away early and we didn’t hear about him for many years, and assumed he had died.

I did finally hear from him: got letter ten or twelve years ago. A long one. No room for it here, but I will just tell you that he was and probably still is out in Utah, happily married to a woman he encountered in a dollar store. He had complemented her on her hair style, which was like a particularly beautiful sea shell, not entirely unlike, what was under his hat.
As I said, I have no room for that story here, and Armer never sent any photos of the happy pair, but it should suffice to say that they really hit it off and the story is a heart-warmer. But for now I have tried to picture the happy couple by using two odd eggs produced recently by the Dog’s Plot chicken family.

 

Anyway, please enjoy this Weird issue, and be on the lookout in three months or six, for the next Issue of Metaphysical Times, which will be on the theme of food. I won’t be guest editor for that issue, and for that reason I won’t be able then to give any introduction then, so for now I will just remind you to read my own story set to appear in that issue.

By the way, be sure to check at the Inns of Aurora events site to see when, where, and If my Zen of Badminton and or my Tobacco as a Sacred Herb classes are listed for later this year or the next.
Wsh had mr sp ce, bt no,
Yrs Trly
Or.Prc.
MSG, LSMFT

 

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by Davey Weathercock

And then: such a furious explosion of sound that it seemed to come from within me …. as if I were a Boeing 747 taking off …. and I say Boeing 747, not just in a desperate reach for an appropriate analogy, but becuse at that moment, and without the lag of thought, I involuntarily felt myself … efectually BELIEVED myself to be a Boeing 747 taking off.
On the strength of that unwilled and unexamined conviction, I jumped, I sprang, I leapt … in one motion l took flight: an e x t e n d e d flight … a flight of unwilled suspension, or of what? Psychic Propulsion? Self Kenisis? Autonomous Teleportation?
At the peak of my parabolic arc, I must have been at least eight feet high, up where the fog was thinner and I could see the flapping shapes of the snow geese around me. I

(see the entire story)
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Noah had stared at the falling water for he didn’t know how long, when his eyes began to wander around the yellowish chamber floor and he saw a helmet lying there: a battered metal helmet with stubby horns. And then, only a few yards from the helmet, he saw a bodiless head in a nest of its own hair among the rocks. It’s eyes were wide open, and the grisly thing spoke to him, although in an understandably weak and sighing sort of voice.

“Don’t be afraid!” said the Head “I’m just a head.”

This was not at all reassuring to Noah. His mouth dropped open and he took two steps backward.
“What!” he exclaimed; not that he hadn’t heard what the Head said.

“Just put me in my helmet,” the Head said, and softly sighed.

“But … what happened to your … body?”

“It lost me,” said the Head, softly. “I don’t know anymore which of those bones were mine.”
“If I had a body,” it continued, “I would get out of here.”
Noah reached into his pocket, where he felt nothing but the burnt cork he had secreted there before he left the world.
“Do you know how to get out of here?” he asked.

“Well,” said the Head, “I think you will have to put me in my helmet and set me up before I can go on with this talking..” The Head halted for a bit of quiet sighing, then continued. “ Talking is very tiring for just a head, you know, but there is some utility yet in the helmet and I have adapted to my condition”, he sighed and paused. Then continued: “I simply need a little help from you my friend.”

For another interval outside of time and space, Noah stared at the awful … not-a-friend…thing.
“Pick me up and put me in the helmet … horns down,” the Head softly suggested.

With nothing to lose, and avoiding closer contact, Noah picked up the Head by its long hair and plunked it upright into the helmet.
Eyes closed for a moment, the Head teetered on the blunt points of the horns, more or less gaining a balance. click here for the recap of chapter 1 and all of Chapter 2

 

 

 

Perry City Dinks
by Gabriel Orgrease

“Fire so hot and quick that when they opened the trailer door they found my father sitting smack in front of the tube with his reading glasses melted around his nose still holding an instant coffee on his lap only the skin of his fingers was stuck to the melted thermal mug.”

Mary Dink cannot visit without giving the undiminished details; the conversation careens around us, we never discern where she is headed. We are swiftly informed when moving into the laborer’s bungalow across the gravel driveway that her youngest twin girls, Dale and Bale with blonde tresses both have synchronous heart murmurs. (go to story)


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1 I was at a crosswalk and the oncoming motorist stopped to let me pass.

2 Rocks along the train tracks are of consistent size and shape, composed mostly of basalt. They are excellent throwing rocks, as if quarried and broken for that purpose. I hit a RR sign with one on a quiet creosote-rich afternoon and it made a startling racket. Some deer broke out of the sedge. I felt lonely all of a sudden.

3 Toenail fungus is a form of life that is hard to evict from the body. It has generated a whole line of quackadoodle remedies. The only surefire way to get rid of it is to have all infected toes removed.

4 When I checked my pants pockets this morning, I found 77 cents in quarters, nickels, dimes and two pennies. I don’t normally keep pennies. Pennies are not worthless, but we don’t use them for cadavers any more so why save them? There is nothing significant about 77, except it was in the title of an old TV show called "77 Sunset Strip."

For numbers 5 to 21 click here

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by Georgia E. Warren

I was taught hand reading in the 1960s by a doctor from India who was getting certified to practice medicine in the US. It took me two years to learn the intricacies of the India-style of hand reading. When Dr. Singh said I was ready to go out on my own.I got a seat working steadily in a coffee house in Akron Ohio.

One night a couple of soldiers back from Vietnam stopped by. Their hands were in their coat pockets.. They said they wanted me to read their hands. They were laughing, and I was sure they’d probably had a “couple” of beers. I didn’t have the attitude that I gained years later to say, “I don’t do readings for people who have been drinking.” The two of them sat down, still smirking. They took their hands out of their pockets, they were prosthetiucs. Neither of them had any hands for me to read. (go to story)

 

That's what I call the Crows and Ravens I meet on walks around this island. Sometimes they greet me from perches in their favorite trees, and sometimes they squawk as they fly over. I am always happy to see them, whether they are locals or just passing through. We've hand reared a few Crows in our time doing wildlife rehab. Ravens are passed along to a friend with bigger, stronger cages. They are both extremely smart and sensitive, and sometimes destructive if they don't have enough distractions. (go to story)



 



by Rhian Ellis

The letters came, and the letters came, and then they stopped. The last came in the autumn, with the falling leaves and the clotting sky, but through the long grayness of winter there was nothing.
Ruth continued to write even though it felt as though she was dropping her pages into a bottomless well. She asked questions that were never answered and told stories that seemed unheard. She wrote faster and more frantically as the snow blew into the city and hid the dirt and the trash and the broken things. She imagined her sister in her little house, out there in the wilderness, burning logs and nursing babies and what else? What did she do? Life was so different out there, so hard to imagine...

And then a letter came, on the same rough paper, written with the same too-sharp pen that scratched. But the hand was unfamiliar. And inside, the letter was hard to read and cramped and was almost like the writing of a child. Perhaps it was the writing of a child.

Sister Ruth-- I hayte that I am the barer of the world’s moust dreaded newes but the truth is that our dearr Jane is dead and so are the chyldren tifuss came to our small house and we coud not stop it. First the older chyld then Jane then the baby went to the arms of Jesuss. Wheeler is the only chyld left and I am left too tho to what purpose I

(go to story)
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The DesertedHouse

by Annie Campbell

One time, the kids and I stopped to explore a large deserted house on Townline road near Trumansburg. It still had its roof and didn’t look too bad, so we squeezed through a door coming off its hinges. Plaster and lath which had fallen from the ceilings in the three spacious rooms we could see - littered the floor. Carefully, the three of us made our way to a big room that still had a few glass panes in the windows. A wide staircase beckoned, and I made the kids wait while I went up. It seemed safe enough so I waited for them to catch up to me.

(go to story)
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Weldon packs a yellow umbrell athough he doesn’t expect to use it. “If I carry a yellow parapluie jaune,” he tells Mathilde, “it might fake out the rain sprights. Energize them. Maybe drought will start to end. Vive la pluie.” He finds his French words exhilarating, as he does his French girl friend.
(go to story)

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Weird Happens

by Georgia Warren

In 2008 at a psychic fair in Cobbleskill, New York, a lady sat down with me for a hand reading. She believed she was a Space Alien from a planet that circled Proxima Centauri, about 4000 light years from Earth.

Over the last several weeks I have been remembering, researching all the details of her visit, writing it all down and re-writing. The article got to be twenty pages long. I became very proud of this studious piece of work. (go to story)


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POETRY

MARY GILLILAND
Kitchen Theatre (go to)

SUE-RYN BURNS
Wild Turkeys (go to)

PETER FORTUNATO
Cocks of the Walk (Key West) (go to)
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(You may view the complete print version here)
(Click to Purchase as a print magazine
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IN THIS ISSUE–––

• OREN PIERCE, GuestEditor
Welcome to the Weird Issue

• DAVEY WEATHERCOCK
My Heart KnewWhat the
Wild Geese Knew


• DAVID S. WARREN
Natural Bone Chapter 2
TheHeadUnderground


• FRANKLIN CRAWFORD
21 Things You May or May Not
Consider Weird

• RHIAN ELLIS
fever cat

• GABRIEL ORGREASE
Perry City Dinks

• ANNIE CAMPBELL
The Deserted House


•STEVE KATZ
DEW

SUE-RYN BURNS
Black Beauty

•GEORGIA WARREN
Weird Happens

GEORGIA WARREN
The Soldiers' Story

• SUE-RYN BURNS Wild Turkeys
• MARY GILLILAND Kitchen Theater
• PETER FORTUNATO
Cocks of the Walk (Key West)

• COVER
Copernicu under cover



The focus of our next Metaphysical Times will be
"FOOD" (see full size)

 

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