Mooreeffoc: Stories from this World

By James David Audlin

A stripper loves a swinging lightbulb. An explorer encounters the Face of God. The accidental inventor of streaking. Children dig a hole to China. After his death a father's storytelling talent is discovered. A couple find the way to have a perfect relationship. A soldier at the front writes the world's greatest poem. A woman is haunted by her own reflection. A dying man feels ever so much better when his family has gone.

Here is a collection of short works by the author of "Rats Live on no Evil Star" and "The Circle of Life".

• Language: English
• Publisher: James David Audlin
• Release date: Nov 29, 2011
• ISBN: 9781466128910

James David Audlin

James David Audlin is an American author living in Panama, after previously living in France. A retired pastor, college professor, and newspaper opinion page editor, he is best known as the author of "The Circle of Life". He has written about a dozen novels, several full-length plays, several books of stories, a book of essays, a book of poetry, and a book about his adventures in Panama. Fluent in several languages, he has translated his novel "Rats Live on no Evil Star" into French ("Palindrome") and Spanish ("Palíndromo"). He also is a professional musician who composes, sings, and plays several instruments, though not usually at the same time. He is married to a Panamanian lady who doesn't read English and so is blissfully ignorant about his weirdly strange books. However his adult daughter and son, who live in Vermont, USA, are aware, and are wary, when a new book comes out.

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Mooreeffoc: Stories from This World

by James David Audlin

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2011 by James David Audlin

Cover photo by Marijke Taffein

Cover design by the author

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

These stories are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual locales or persons, living or dead, is purely coïncidental.

All translations are by the author.

DEDICATED

with love to all the people of the cat variety

who were, are, and will be kind enough to make their home with me

and share so generously their perfect love with me, especially:

Big Kitty, Kitten-Brain, Mister Fish, Pum, Sphinx, Conan, River Mile,

Snow Moon, Bowie, Shug, Gracie, Lilo, Fey, Tashi, Tico, and Elizabeth.

Table of Contents

Preface

Mei Lin

Le Coup d’Éternité

Beyond the Black Mountains

dancin real slow

Interlude

The Swings

The Face of God

The Perfect Woman

Conversations Between Two Friends

The Balcony

The Horde

The Golden Spike

Perfect Strangers

Over the Hill

Digging a Hole to China

The Book of Stories

A Long Sizzle

The Exile

The Pipes of Kant

The Other Woman

California

The Father

The End of the Story

Notes on the Stories

Preface

Click Here for Table of Contents

This collection comprises those of my stories that might be considered more realistic, more firmly rooted in what is generally considered the mundane world of ordinary experience. I hate to use such a characterization, as what could be more fantastic than life itself – it has been my universal experience that there is nothing stranger than this plain, everyday world around us; it is merely that, sadly, most of us do not see how strange it is.

It is, therefore, the responsibility of the artists of this world to see the strangeness, to appeal to those who read, hear, or view their works to point out the strangeness, to inspire a sense of wonder, to appeal to souls to see the world around them in new ways, and to realize, as must Horatio, that there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamt of in our philosophy, and therefore, as a stranger, give it welcome. The path to the sacred, the ineffable, the indescribable begins in this, the day of common experience, and it is up to the artists to show us the way, to describe the path as far as they can follow it and report back to us, until they can describe no more what lies beyond description or even comprehension.

Dickens, in his unfinished biography, wrote about a place he frequented on St. Martin’s Lane

of which I only recollect that it stood near the church, and that in the door there was an oval glass plate, with COFFEE-ROOM painted on it, addressed towards the street. If I ever find myself in a very different kind of coffee-room now, but where there is such an inscription on glass, and read it backward on the wrong side MOOR-EEFFOC (as I often used to do then, in a dismal reverie,) a shock goes through my blood.

In his own biography of Dickens, Chesterton comments on this recollection:

That wild word, Moor Eeffoc, is the motto of all effective realism; it is the masterpiece of the good realistic principle – the principle that the most fantastic thing of all is often the precise fact. And that elvish kind of realism Dickens adopted everywhere. His world was alive with inanimate objects. … There are details in the Dickens descriptions – a window, or a railing, or the keyhole of a door – which he endows with demoniac life. The things seem more actual than things really are. Indeed, that degree of realism does not exist in reality: it is the unbearable realism of a dream. And this kind of realism can only be gained by walking dreamily in a place; it cannot be gained by walking observantly.

Tolkien dismisses such writing that is so real it becomes fantastic.

That kind of fantasy most people would allow to be wholesome enough; and it can never lack for material. But it has, I think, only a limited power; for the reason that recovery of freshness of vision is its only virtue. The word Mooreeffoc may cause you suddenly to realize that England is an utterly alien land, lost either in some remote past age glimpsed by history, or in some strange dim future to be reached only by a time-machine; to see the amazing oddity and interest of its inhabitants and their customs and feeding-habits; but it cannot do more than that: act as a time-telescope focused on one spot.

I side, rather, with Charles Williams, who believed that

In the order of the single universe known to myriads of minds, the time and place that belongs to each of those myriads has relation to others; and though the measurement of their experiences may differ, there is something common to them all in the end. Sometimes where time varies place is stable, or where places intermingle time is secure, and sometimes the equilibrium of both, which is maintained in so many living minds, swings into the place of the dead. Sometimes the dead know it, and sometimes the living; a single clock ticks or a single door opens in two worlds at once.

And George MacDonald, who wrote that

Now and then, when I look round on my books, they seem to waver as if a wind rippled their solid mass, and another world were about to break through. Sometimes when I am abroad, a like thing takes place; the heavens and the earth, the trees and the grass appear for a moment to shake as if about to pass away; then, lo, they have settled again into the old familiar face! At times I seem to hear whisperings around me, as if some that loved me were talking of me; but when I would distinguish the words, they cease, and all is very still. I know whether these things rise in my brain, or enter it from without. I do not seek them; they come, and I let them go.

Strange dim memories, which will not abide identification, often, through misty windows of the past, look out upon me in the broad daylight, but I never dream now. It may be, notwithstanding, that, when most awake, I am only dreaming the more! But when I wake at last into that life which, as a mother her child, carries this life in its bosom, I shall know that I wake, and shall doubt no more.

These stories are presented in the order in which they were written, from 1970 to the present. The one exception was that I transposed the first two, so English-speaking readers wouldn’t be daunted by finding the first story to be in French. (And please note that a translation of that story may be found at the end of the volume.)

In preparing this collection I have resisted all temptations to improve (meddle with) the earlier stories, restraining myself only to minor corrections and necessary revisions. The exception is the story Interlude, which was incompletely drafted in 1979 and never brought into final form; even there, however, I have done my best to preserve the original inspiration, though I am aware that I am no longer the young man who wrote that draft.

I have provided at the end of the volume some notes on the stories, giving at least the writing and editing dates insofar as they were recorded, and sometimes a few additional comments that I think the reader might find interesting. As to the meaning of each story, that is up to the reader – and, at this point, I am a reader too, with no special advantage when it comes to its interpretation, if indeed an interpretation is even necessary or useful. When writing a story, I simply let the story tell itself, and I do not deliberately have a meaning in mind; if I did, I would provide it explicitly therein. A story should be complete in itself, and not rely on an external interpretation for it to be appreciated by the reader. Still, while it is natural to reflect on the meaning of a story, I prefer to leave such reflections, if any, to the reader, including me. The notes are therefore not at all necessary to the full appreciation of the stories.

A good short story, in my view, should have the same ring of authority and truth that is found in traditional stories (that is, to give a brief definition, stories by a people rather than by a writer) worldwide. It should not merely entertain, but point like Buddha’s finger to the moon of wisdom, lest we ever forget how close it is. A good short story should read aloud well, especially in front of a campfire on a dark night. And a good short story should challenge the reader or hearer to consider the mystery that is embraced by the story the way music embraces silence. I have enjoyed the writing of them; I hope the reader finds them worth the reading.

Mei Lin

Click Here for Table of Contents

Click Here for Notes on this Story

He had to have her. The car slid through the streets oiled with night, and he thought about her. She had sat so quietly, so like a child, that he couldn’t help but notice her. All through the party he had been looking at her. Surely she had noticed. Somebody had brought her along to advertise the need for money to help the children – where? Somewhere. Her name was Mei Lin. So he introduced himself, said his name real slow, so she would be sure to get it, said he was Bart Johnson, Johnson Enterprises, son of the founder and CEO. He would be interested in helping her cause, maybe; would she mind if they went somewhere to talk more privately. She hadn’t, so now she was sitting in the car next to him, her purse held tightly in her lap. They were going to his apartment, and she was nervous. But he had decided; he had to have her.

The car slipped into a parking space. Johnson got out and opened the door for Mei Lin. She looked up, her tiny mouth pursed in a surprised half-smile. They floated up the stairs to a white door, and entered.

Drink? Johnson asked, taking her coat into the bedroom. He didn’t see her head quiver with a slow wordless no. He poured her a scotch, and another for himself. He looked up, and she was watching him with her black eyes. She took a sip of the drink, hardly a taste.

Sit down. He pointed. She sat so suddenly she nearly lost her drink. He stood before her, and smiled. He was tall, dark, and handsome, and he knew it. They usually melted. Mei Lin stared at him as if he were a vulture. It wasn’t going to be easy. He had to make conversation, get her talking.

Tell me about yourself.

My name is Chin Mei Lin. I represent Help the Children Foundation. I am seeking for kind people to help the needy boys and girls in Indochina in whatever way they can. The need is very great for all help we can get. Babies are alive only to die soon of awful disease, and children go hungry to bed...

I’ve heard all that already. I asked you – He stopped and began again more gently. I asked you, Mei Lin, to please tell me about yourself. I want to know about you. Who you are. What you are like. He sat in the easy chair across from her and put his feet up on the coffee table. The drink cascaded down his throat, and he knew he had to have her.

Mei Lin stared at her drink, then put it down. Her small hands folded together in front of her thin waist. He looked at her dress. It would have been fashionable about five years ago. It was cut low enough to show the pure white of her lower neck, but it firmly covered her breasts like a shield. Her slim legs stuck out crookedly, and she pulled the skirt down with her hands. She was nervous.

Don’t you like me?

That got her. She had to be polite. Looking up suddenly, she said, Yes, of course I like you. You want to help the children.

Of course I do, Mei Lin. He smiled when he added her name. That opened her a little bit; she smiled back. You really care about the children, don’t you? She nodded excitedly. Sometimes I run into people collecting for different charities who don’t really give a damn. They do it because they think they owe somebody a favor, or because they’re bored maybe. But you really care, don’t you, Mei Lin?

Yes, Mr. Johnson, I really care. She smiled and nodded quickly, jerkily. They need my help. I love them. Will you help too?

Mei Lin, I like and respect you. You are a deeply caring person. Damn the orphans, he thought. He restrained the urge to go over and tear her clothes off. Her lips looked very warm, now that she seemed happy.

Mei Lin’s hands fluttered together. You will help, won’t you?

I’ll be glad to help.

She was obviously overjoyed. Ah, thank you, Mr. Johnson.

Call me Bart. You can’t be that much younger than me. – How old are you?

I am twenty-seven years old.

I’m twenty-nine. Where are you from, Mei Lin?

I am from Hong Kong.

How long have you been in America?

I have been in America since I went to college. Are you going to help the children?

Johnson looked up, startled briefly by the non sequitur. Yeah. Sure. You bet. He got up and sat next to the woman on the sofa. She didn’t move a muscle. Johnson felt encouraged. It was going to be easy after all. He put his hand on her breast. She stiffened, looked up at him with her lips slightly parted. Johnson bent down and kissed them. Take your clothes off, he muttered, chewing the words out slowly. She looked at him with incongruous eyes. Take your clothes off and you’ll get lots of money for the children. She looked away again. Take your clothes off, Mei Lin. The children will get plenty. And so will you.

I’d just give it... she began, words coming out in broken pieces. She looked at him, scared.

He reached for the back of her dress. Her hands whipped out, and knocked his away. Slowly she unzipped her dress, with sharp jerking motions. She never once looked at him. The dress came off. She stood before him, small and thin, now less like a child. He looked at the misty seas of her body and knew he had to have her.

Her bra sagged and fell; her small breasts shivered. Johnson got up, ignoring her flinch, and turned down the lights. He picked Mei Lin up and pulled her down beside him. Her thin voice suddenly broke into motion like glass. My mother works in a clothing factory. Johnson tugged at her stockings, managed to get them past her thighs. Her skin was rough with goosebumps. She sews pockets on shirts. The stockings came off, and he flung the gummy mass from him. He reached for her panties while bending down to kiss her breasts. He knew he had to have her. And by god he was. She sews on maybe three hundred or four hundred pockets a day. And then she comes home to my brothers and sisters. Mei Lin’s breasts felt like rubber under his tongue. They were cold and clammy from his saliva. My father died when I was eight. The panties slid over her waist. He was an assemblyman in an automobile factory. He slid a finger into her crotch. When I was little girl I wanted to be a jet pilot because I liked the stars in the sky. With his free hand Johnson started unbuttoning his shirt. He ran a hand frantically over her body, touching here, caressing there, kissing with his forefinger. He knew he was