Read Online Ghost Town by Richard W. Jennings - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Richard W. Jennings
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the artist," he replied. "Consider poetry. Each word must be torn from the heart. Very expensive. Very painful."
"Hmm," I said. "I hadn't thought of it like that."
I put a roll of film in my camera to photograph Chief Leopard Frog's work in progress. I figured that if nothing else, Milton Swartzman could use a snapshot for his catalog. Also, I wanted to record Chief Leopard Frog's art before it was dispersed throughout an unwary world. The detail in his carving, as always, was astonishing.
By the time the film came back from Sparkle Snapshot in St. Louis, Chief Leopard Frog had completed forty individual pieces and an equal number of new poems, each poem associated in some way with one of the carvings.
My feelings of guilt rose steadily, like the DRINK COCA-COLA IN BOTTLES thermometer outside Mel's (closed forever) Bait Shop on a summer day in Paisley, Kansas. Not just for hoodwinking Chief Leopard Frog, but also for unleashing Paisley's bad luck on an unprepared planet.
The talisman pictures turned out nicely. I also appreciated the bonus shot of Maureen Balderson in the bathtub. By now I'd come to expect such things, but this one was especially interesting. I'd forgotten what a nice smile she had.
"So," I said to Chief Leopard Frog, still staring at the picture of Maureen as he continued to carve bee tree burls, "what are you planning to call your book of poems?"
"Burl Hives,"
he replied.
"What?" I said. "That won't work. It sounds like some old country singer."
"It's my book," Chief Leopard Frog replied. "I can call it whatever I want."
"Yeah," I said, "but think about the marketing problem. Who's going to want to put out good money for a book of poems that sounds like it's about the guy who was Frosty the Snowman?"
"I did not ask you to write my book," Chief Leopard Frog said flatly. "Nor am I asking you to title my book. Only to send it to the man who will publish it. That is your role. Now excuse me while I carve."
What a nitwit,
I thought.
That's the worst title imaginable.
My feelings of guilt lessened somewhat.
I sneaked another peek at my most recent photo of Maureen Balderson before putting it away in the cigar box.
Too bad they moved away,
I thought.
If it weren't for his Neanderthal killer instincts, her brother and I might have been friends.
I sent a letter to Milton Swartzman, a brief situation report.
Dear Mr. Swartzman,
I wrote.
We're about two-thirds of the way through the assignment. Making good progress, I think. There's just one hitch. My partner is expecting to get his poems published in a book. Somehow he got it into his head that you're the one who's going to publish it. Any ideas?
Sincerely,
Spencer Adams Honesty
P.S. That ghost camera is worth more than five hundred dollars. Take my word for it.
Careless Packing
I SPENT THE WEEKEND cutting back the pumpkin patch. It had grown so big that it was in danger of engulfing our home. Just up the road at Ma Puttering's place that very thing had already happened. Her house had vanished. There was nothing left but a house-shaped jungle of pumpkin vines.
"Where am I supposed to put all this stuff?" I asked my mother while chopping leaves as big as elephants' ears.
"Just pile it up by the road, and after it dries out, we'll burn it," she said.
"That'll be something to see," I commented.
Country people enjoy burning things. The entertainment value of the act far outweighs the damage to the atmosphere.
As Chief Leopard Frog was nearing the completion of his assignment, I turned my thoughts to practical matters:
How would I package and send the talismans? How would I deal with the "poetry issue"? How would I deposit the money, since no doubt it would come in the form of a check and there were no banks left in Paisley?
Plan ahead
âthat's my motto.
No, wait: that isn't true.
What's the rush?
is my motto.
Well, maybe they could both be my motto:
Plan ahead, but what's the rush?
Seems okay.
Uncle Milton wrote back using regular
"Hmm," I said. "I hadn't thought of it like that."
I put a roll of film in my camera to photograph Chief Leopard Frog's work in progress. I figured that if nothing else, Milton Swartzman could use a snapshot for his catalog. Also, I wanted to record Chief Leopard Frog's art before it was dispersed throughout an unwary world. The detail in his carving, as always, was astonishing.
By the time the film came back from Sparkle Snapshot in St. Louis, Chief Leopard Frog had completed forty individual pieces and an equal number of new poems, each poem associated in some way with one of the carvings.
My feelings of guilt rose steadily, like the DRINK COCA-COLA IN BOTTLES thermometer outside Mel's (closed forever) Bait Shop on a summer day in Paisley, Kansas. Not just for hoodwinking Chief Leopard Frog, but also for unleashing Paisley's bad luck on an unprepared planet.
The talisman pictures turned out nicely. I also appreciated the bonus shot of Maureen Balderson in the bathtub. By now I'd come to expect such things, but this one was especially interesting. I'd forgotten what a nice smile she had.
"So," I said to Chief Leopard Frog, still staring at the picture of Maureen as he continued to carve bee tree burls, "what are you planning to call your book of poems?"
"Burl Hives,"
he replied.
"What?" I said. "That won't work. It sounds like some old country singer."
"It's my book," Chief Leopard Frog replied. "I can call it whatever I want."
"Yeah," I said, "but think about the marketing problem. Who's going to want to put out good money for a book of poems that sounds like it's about the guy who was Frosty the Snowman?"
"I did not ask you to write my book," Chief Leopard Frog said flatly. "Nor am I asking you to title my book. Only to send it to the man who will publish it. That is your role. Now excuse me while I carve."
What a nitwit,
I thought.
That's the worst title imaginable.
My feelings of guilt lessened somewhat.
I sneaked another peek at my most recent photo of Maureen Balderson before putting it away in the cigar box.
Too bad they moved away,
I thought.
If it weren't for his Neanderthal killer instincts, her brother and I might have been friends.
I sent a letter to Milton Swartzman, a brief situation report.
Dear Mr. Swartzman,
I wrote.
We're about two-thirds of the way through the assignment. Making good progress, I think. There's just one hitch. My partner is expecting to get his poems published in a book. Somehow he got it into his head that you're the one who's going to publish it. Any ideas?
Sincerely,
Spencer Adams Honesty
P.S. That ghost camera is worth more than five hundred dollars. Take my word for it.
Careless Packing
I SPENT THE WEEKEND cutting back the pumpkin patch. It had grown so big that it was in danger of engulfing our home. Just up the road at Ma Puttering's place that very thing had already happened. Her house had vanished. There was nothing left but a house-shaped jungle of pumpkin vines.
"Where am I supposed to put all this stuff?" I asked my mother while chopping leaves as big as elephants' ears.
"Just pile it up by the road, and after it dries out, we'll burn it," she said.
"That'll be something to see," I commented.
Country people enjoy burning things. The entertainment value of the act far outweighs the damage to the atmosphere.
As Chief Leopard Frog was nearing the completion of his assignment, I turned my thoughts to practical matters:
How would I package and send the talismans? How would I deal with the "poetry issue"? How would I deposit the money, since no doubt it would come in the form of a check and there were no banks left in Paisley?
Plan ahead
âthat's my motto.
No, wait: that isn't true.
What's the rush?
is my motto.
Well, maybe they could both be my motto:
Plan ahead, but what's the rush?
Seems okay.
Uncle Milton wrote back using regular
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