The Blue Bird Flower

By Craig Downey

This concoction of stories come to light when two brothers find them in a trunk in the attic. One of the brothers, Plug, writes a “cover” letter to some unknown, un-named man. The cover letter is attached to a bundle of letters written to a Mrs. Ainsworth by a man named Chuck. A beggar-man somehow comes into passion of the letters and sells them to this author for $1. Each letter centers about a man with a questionable occupation (an office in town, money to gad about, married or bachelor, and lives in what era)? Those questions go unanswered; and who is Mrs. Ainsworth (his aunt, sister, friend?)

With a few exceptions, each story is a tale unto itself and mostly in or about Wetowannabee a town in upstate that is not listed on modern maps or in past land records. The man, simply known as Chuck, writes letters to Mrs. Ainsworth, each letter contains a story about an incident that he heard about or observed or that someone else has written. He takes no blame or credit for the story. Some letters are merely his observations on a specific condition of life or after life.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jun 5, 2013
• ISBN: 9781618562487

Craig Downey

A God Complex is a work I have had in progress for about five years and represents the deep sense and knowledge I have acquired due to a life of diversity. I am a masters degree qualified professional, currently undertaking PhD studies to further my life. Although academic studies have not always been my focus, and in no way should it overshadow the truth of the human condition that can see any one of us face the same adversity.

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The Ego Merchant 

December 10, ----

Wetowannabee,

My Dear Mrs. Ainsworth: 

This, being the Christmas season I find myself short of time. I have all sorts of errands to run and treasures to buy for the young ones. 

When I was over in Midland I stayed at Jacob’s Lion which, as you know, is my favorite hostel when I am in that area. After securing a room for the few days I was to be there, I went on down the street to O’Malley’s Place to share a pint with my old friends and see how O’Malley is getting on. His moustache and hair seemed greyer than last I saw him and the old war wound was again giving him a limp. 

While there I heard the most outlandish story (turned out to be true) that I have ever heard; a fellow, by the name of Eagan, standing at the bar began to tell a story about an old lady that went about, in some of our villages, selling cosmetics, mostly to our wives but also to some of our young girls. 

As the story goes; recently the old lady got a new shipment of goods from Singapore and before going on her regular sales route, that morning, she thought to spruce up a bit with cosmetics and other items that came in the shipment. She selected a comb and as she stroked her grey/silver hair, a dark sheen came across where she had stroked and some of the silver grey hairs came out or changed to a darker color. 

A huge uproar arose in the bar and some fisticuffs came about on the side bar. Although up in age, O’Malley stopped the commotion quickly with the billy he keeps for such a purpose. Eagan, the tale teller, a seeming honest man of character, swore to the truth of the story and promised to bring the old lady by the next evening. 

Being ever so curious about such matters I decided to stop by the next evening. When I arrived there was a fine congregation roundabout the front of the bar and so I could not get in. However word spread about that the old lady, who was then inside, had climbed atop the bar and stroked the grey and silver from her hair. These words were passed out the door and circulated among the crowd. After 30 minutes, not being any nearer to the entrance I went on back to my room. 

The following day I packed to leave for Wetowannabee, a long walk for Repo and a rugged rough pounding on the old buggy not to mention my aching bones and a back all bent with the arthritis. Before leaving town I thought I would say goodbye and so went in to have a last word with O’Malley; I found him standing behind the bar with a comb in one hand and a small mirror in the other constantly stroking his fine black moustache. Upon questioning O’Malley he fessed up to the purchase of a carton of the combs. 

Always being quick to see where a profit might be made I asked would he be willing to sell a comb or two. He said he would and set a price way above my means. I told him that the price was too high and considering our long acquaintance and unequalled friendship, that he should give me a break on the price. After a good deal of bartering we struck a deal and I bought 25 of the fine combs and set out for home. 

Shortly after dark Repo and I and the old dilapidated buggy approached our village, known by all for its three gas lights that burn night and day from some underground source of inflammable gas. However as we crossed that gloomy moor, called a park by some, Repo seemed to pick up the pace, no doubt the taste of fresh oats upon his tongue. Home at last, Repo and I both let out a sigh. First I must tend to Repo, a finer horse one never had. A good rubdown, a bucket of oats and his new blanket will soon pass Repo on to a voyage that only sleepy horses can anticipate. 

The next day I stopped in to see my barber and to tell him this most fabulous tale. Examination of the comb, by my barber, proved no place for an injection of some dye of one sort or another, the comb just kept on working as if by some mysterious power. I sold him all but a few for a tidy profit and the next weekend made the arduous trek over to Midland for more combs and whatever else I could buy that the ladies might have some interest in. 

When I arrived in town O’Malley’s Place was closed and sitting on a bench in front of O’Malley’s was a man named Deek; I had met Deek on the previous trip. After a few niceties I asked about the closed up bar and Deek said that O’Malley had left town with the loveliest lady he had ever seen. She had something to do with cosmetics and was going to open a salon over in Quigley, some three-hundred miles on down the road. 

As I turned old Repo toward the arduous journey home, Deek called out to me, You need a comb, or some fine lotions for your lady? 

And so long until next we meet. 

P.S. Please enjoy the comb enclosed. 

A Father’s Affection for His son 

December 18 ….

Wetowannabee,

My Dear Mrs. Ainsworth: 

This morning when I came to my office I found an envelope shoved in under my door and the following, charming letter of a conversation between a budding young child and the wisdom of a loving father. I have no idea who might have left it. Their mode of speaking reminds me of a Middle Eastern or oriental fable translated into English. Whatever the case, I pass it on for your consideration; 

This story, being handed down through the generations of civilized man, is now mine to tell: 

I have it on good and faithful account that five thousand years ago (give or take a year or two) in a small but civilized city, nestled within the arms of a great and powerful wall, a young, perhaps 5 year old, lad ran to his father, sitting upon his favorite tree stump at break time, with this account: 

Father, father, oh my father, (the breathless lad related); the old man that sits by the wall told me this today; ’Of all of thy possessions get gratitude, hope, love, charity, faith, courage, patience, understanding and the many other virtues known to a civilized man and a satisfied heart.’ The young lad paused and panted and taking up his story once again, he said; Oh my father, the old man said, ’Get thee first, gratitude; for if each of these virtues were a friend and you could choose only one to accompany you on your journey called life, you must first choose gratitude!’ 

Oh my father, what did the old man mean? 

Without hesitation the father answered: 

This journey through life is fraught with a multitude of dangers, some seen and some invisible to the eyes of a lad. The father here paused to think a moment and then, continued, and to dodge these dangers one will need many virtues, the greatest of which is gratitude, for if you can claim gratitude as a good and faithful friend, all of the other virtues will soon follow. 

Here the father, with a mist in his eye and great love for the lad in his heart, paused and looked upon the lad with a great abundance of hope and understanding. And here with a sigh, he took up his observation again: 

The seven deadly sins seeing this event will soon depart. And so, my son you might ask, ’Oh my father, what are the seven deadly sins?’ To which I must answer; pride, wrath, envy, lust, gluttony, avarice and sloth! Let them not be your friends!!" 

With this said the young lad, summoned by the other lads, ran off to play with his friends by the great wall. The father, with an immense and tender love pang in his heart, arose from his seat on the tree stump and returned to his toil knowing that the lad did not understand and would need to be told over and over again until he reached maturity. I must send the old man that sits by the wall, a chicken in gratitude for the lesson; the father said to himself as he picked up his hoe and went back to the field. 

And so long until next we meet. 

You Want a Dog Mister? 

June 2, ----

Wetowannabee,

My Dear Mrs. Ainsworth: 

I have never known Tony to write about the occult or things of that nature but always he has stuck to the subjects that he knows. However here is one of Tony’s fine short stories and I absolutely have to extol his clever pen. It appears that he has scrapped the edge of the occult, perhaps unwittingly; 

You Want a Dog Mister 

By T. Trapper 

Since you are going up to Miffton why don’t you swing by Rodailia and drop off this package at Mort’s hardware—you’ll save me a trip?. 

It’s only 7 or 8 miles out of your way and I’ll buy your lunch, Clara’s Café is next to Mort’s and she has the best meatloaf in the state. 

Ok, ok I’ll do it. He said, what the heck a free lunch is a free lunch, he muttered to himself. 

There’s a cutoff that goes up to Miffton but don’t take it, it’s all large river rock and it will just slow you down. Jim said following him out to the two horse wagon. 

It was a perfect day for a mountain road tour through every small town between here and Miffton and the river rock road sounded good to him—he took it. 

Up he came over the top of a pastoral hill and there it was the proverbial church spire a sure sign of a small town. SETON TOWN LIMITS POP. 310, the sign said. The town square of this little village had no court house just a fine park with a white pavilion; jungle bars and seesaws for the kids and benches for the old men to sit upon. After an hour and a half at the reins he preferred to lie on the fine stand of grass and just watch the clouds drifting by. 

No sooner than he spread his blanket than here come the finest little gold and black, fuzz ball of a puppy you ever saw! Up he jumps into his lap lickin’ at his hands and a nibblin’ at his thumb. 

Hey mister, that’s my dog, came the small fragile voice of a young boy. He looked up to see a small boy, 6 perhaps, with dirty worn bib overhauls, no shoes and a too big straw hat. One bib strap was not buttoned and hung down nearly to the ground, he wore no shirt and from the looks of him had on nothing but the dirty worn bib overhauls with the knees out. 

He must have been playing a long time, his hands and arms were dirty and his face sported remnants from the local dirt pile. Hey mister, that’s my dog, he repeated with a hint of animosity in a voice now more husky than before. 

The little dog was happily nipping at his shoe seemingly uninterested in the boy’s demand. 

Ok so it’s your dog, Sport, what’s his name, he said. 

His name is dog, the boy said with a sinister looking grin on his round little dirty face. It was then he noticed that there were no other children in the park indeed there were no other people in the park! The breeze was warm and the air heavy, no birds and no other sounds just the boy the pup and him! 

He looked at the pup, he shook his head, was he seeing things? No gold and black fur ball, no little pup—a black dog with ugly jagged teeth and sultry eyes—now growling, salivating and gnawing at his shoe! He looked up at the boy, now taller than he had remembered. The boy with his hands on his hips had a cursed smirk on his lips. You want a dog mister? He said in a rasping throaty almost laughing voice. 

He kicked at the dog and sprang to his feet; his wagon seemed a mile away as he raced across the grass with the large dog nipping at his ankles and the adolescent boy right behind repeating over and over, You want a dog mister. 

And so long until next we meet. 

One Squirrel Too Many 

July 15, ----

Wetowannabee, 

My Dear Mrs. Ainsworth: 

I was over in Merit last week and thought I would stop in to see Willy. I’ve known Willy Harris for 20 years or more. Willy was just elected chief of police in that small town of 900 souls. After the niceties were passed out about Willy’s capabilities in his new job; he began to tell me a sad, true and funny tale. He just had to tell me of his first days in office. It seems that he inherited from the outgoing Sheriff one ignorant deputy named Charlie. Being much interested in all of Willy’s tales I got out my writing tools and took down this tale: 

So said Jim, the boss and what could he say—Jim signs his check 

Charlie, I’ve told you a hundred times to stay away from Maria and you just can’t get it through your mind that she’s bad news! Now everyone in town except Suzan and Harry knows what’s going on! 

Look chief, Harry’s nuts—always off a huntin’ rabbits or squirrels or pheasants—always something and what is she to do but sit at home and wait. So related the passing Sheriff of his conversation with Charlie as he walked out for the last time. 

Now Charlie, I told you that one of these days Harry’s goin’ to come home and catch you and shoot you like a squirrel—I’m telling you—stay away! So said Willy as he sent Charlie on his new route. 

Well Charlie wasn’t about to do that, he was half the police force in that two cop town and he’d go where he wanted! 

Harry was one of those boys that stayed home too long tied to his mother’s apron strings. Since high school he had had 20 jobs but he really didn’t need a job since he inherited the house on the edge of town from his widowed mother when she died. 

Harry was short and squat but it wasn’t his looks that attracted Maria, she liked the comfort of that big house. Harry was 30 when she married him, under the giant elm tree in the front yard, unaware of the fact that there was the house and little else to Harry’s inheritance. 

It was a bad day for Harry, one lousy squirrel in a whole day of tramping the woods. It was a good thing that this was a big-un or there would be no squirrel for supper tonight. Harry was a rather unconventional hunter—he didn’t own a shotgun and did all his hunting with an old rifle. He always took his dog Toots along, she was good with birds, rabbits and squirrels— today however was just one of those days. 

He parked the buggy in the yard under the big elm tree and Toots jumped out to run while he went in to show Maria the supper. She met him at the door and took his hunting coat with the squirrel in the game pouch. 

Just one today Hon, but he’s a big-un. 

She grabbed the squirrel by the tail and pulling him from the game pouch threw him into the sink. The squirrel bounced from the sink onto the kitchen table making all sorts of squirrel noises! Maria screamed and Harry grabbed his gun and shot the ice box. The ice box died as the door fell part open for want of the blown off hinge. 

Maria gaining her wits grabbed the broom and broke mama’s $800 heirloom chandelier that came from France at the turn of the century— the squirrel, unharmed jumped from the remains of the chandelier onto Harry’s head and into the living room. Harry killed them all one at a time the couch, the settee, the tea cabinet and proceeded to chase the varmint from room to room with Maria yelling and screaming right behind. 

The neighbors, hearing the commotion called the police and so Charlie, who just happened to be in the neighborhood, came to the scene with his siren on his new model A screeching and lights flashing; something he had wanted to do since he got the job five years ago. 

Hearing all the gunfire and screaming Charlie figures he better go in with his gun drawn. So he ran up the porch and bolted into the living room through the door that he had seen both sides of earlier in the day but at a more convenient moment! 

The squirrel jumped from the remains of the wingback chair onto Charlie’s belly. Harry, concentrating his focus on the squirrel, pulled the trigger and shot the tip end of the squirrel’s tail off—the bullet, undeterred, tore up Charlie’s zipper in an un-mentionable manner and destroyed Charlie’s want to. 

Well the ambulance came and so did Willy who sorted it all out: 

Charlie was proclaimed the victim of an unfortunate accident. 

Harry was absolved of any wrongdoing. 

Maria, being deprived of Charlie’s emotional affection turned to Harry for comfort. 

The squirrel, well he retired to the comfort and bliss of the giant elm and took up residence with a widowed squirrel with what remained of his tail. 

At this point Willy was laughin’ so hard he could barely talk. 

And so long until next we meet.

A Popular Pied Piper? 

February 21…..

Wetowannabee,

My Dear Mrs. Ainsworth: 

The other day as I was sorting papers to file, I found this article in an old newspaper clipping. Unfortunately the credits are gone as is the date and paper it came from. I found it an amusing article and thought you may also. I found it disheartening to think there are people that lie to themselves about the outcome of a project that they planed let alone blaming it on some fictitious gremlin that always screwed up their projects. 

A Popular Pied Piper 

By A. Non Amous 

This one didn’t come for the rats and he didn’t come for the children or for the money; he came in a rather insidious manner for the hearts and minds of any that would listen to his rhetorical litanies of pessimistic prose. 

He was one of those guys that you’ve known for so long you don’t remember when you first met. When I was young and just starting out (I had hair then) I thought he had some neat ideas and I believed in all he said or all that he is reported to have said. Everyone that I knew that knew him recognized this great talented seer and spoke of him with acclaim. I came to embrace his psalms, endorse his pessimism and spout excuses, in his name, for my own shortfall. In fact his ism’s became so ingrained in my psyche that I joined the crowd and wrote some prose that sounded like his and made the same abysmal forecast. 

Some years passed and I became, at first, an adherent, then a skeptic, distrusting, unbelieving and all of those other steps that you take that bring you from the blissful pinnacle of the believer to the abysmal depths of the antagonist. 

My father always said, If you can’t say something good about a man then don’t say anything a’tall. But I think in this case I should name names and tell all I can about this prophet of pessimism and his minions of mistakes. I don’t know what his name is, but his initials spell MURPHY; Murphy; that great disparager, that doctor of doom, that forecaster of failure. 

I recall the crybabies that wept and sobbed the Murphy’s law that, If any thing can go wrong it will, and it invariably did, Murphy has struck again, alas and alack. What a cop out excuse for forgetting to tighten a bolt, secure a rope or properly set a sail! Or the ones that begged and pleaded innocent via a Murphy’s Law that says, If everything is going well, you have obviously overlooked something. What a cop out excuse for not checking your work, adding the column twice or ignoring the recommendations of peers. I heard these excuses so many times, from talented people that I saw fail for lack of attention to detail, that I began to wonder, why on earth would they even think of taking on this task if they thought that Murphy would sabotage it? 

Over the years I began to believe Murphy to be a fool and his minion’s losers, fondly grasping Murphy’s thin line of excuses for failure as proof of their innocence. It’s no wonder that Murphy has become an icon and somewhat revered. You see, in his religion you can blame your sins of ignorance or ineptitude on some inanimate object that failed to obey the laws of nature and somehow put you to ruin.

 His following has generated the greatest bag of reasons for failure that rationally places the blame for failure on the nature of some inanimate object! It is incredulous to me how many bystanders and participants will show sympathy for the looser when they utter, with great pride and greater hand wringing; Nature always sides with the hidden flaw. 

Some years ago, while listening to myself prove my