The Sara Bellum Review, Vol Lll

By Carl Fanning

On the surface the SBR appears to be an extended exercise in creative writing. Shakespeare, however, throughout his plays, reminds us that nothing is ever as it seems and this book is no exception. The discerning reader who is willing to go beyond the obvious is likely to find additional levels layered into the text.
Whatyou may wonderingis this material all about? What is its raison detre? Does it have peaks and valleys or a place to hang its hat? Why arent the short stories more complicated than the skills of a cat? Does it fit into a category?
In a word, no. Sara Bellum has tried to work within the comfort zone of formula writing but it was not to be. You see, the Review has always been restless and unwilling to buy into the idea that there is only one way to do things. The Review is its own genre and creativity (levity) is its center of gravity.
Where does that leaves us? In short, the three volumes of the SBR have opted to make a subtly yet far reaching demand of its readers. Our intent is to prompt you to step up your creative efforts (the arts) and thus activate your higher energies. You will not be alone. Such a movement is happening globally and the SBR is proud to be a part of it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Dec 11, 2012
• ISBN: 9781477285138

Carl Fanning

The author, who tries to be one of those people on whom nothing is lost, has a list of favorite things which include long walks, the Marx Brothers, pumpkin pie, short sentences and the tendency to listen when his cyber friends warn him against disclosing too much personel information. Was Mark Twain ever concerned about hacking when back in 1883 he penned Hackleberry Finn? And that's enough about me?

Book preview

AuthorHouse™

1663 Liberty Drive

Bloomington, IN 47403

www.authorhouse.com

Phone: [phone]

This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

© 2012 Carl Fanning. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author.

Published by AuthorHouse 12/7/2012

ISBN: 978-1-4772-8515-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-8514-5 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4772-8513-8 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2012920426

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Contents

Section 1: The Introduction

Stories

Roscoe and Lester

The Travails of a Pigeon

Thoreau

The Rake

Richard Shaw

The Coin Family

Felinicus

Hosed

Water Jobs

Cloud Nine

A Most Unusual Man

Timber

Home Run

Written from Scratch

Out to Lunch with Shakespeare

The Midway

The Best China

Carrion

The Mechanics of Romance

Changes

Play Ball!

Are you being watched?

Monarchy

Calendar Bricks

Boatswain

Journalism

At the Pond

Whattle I Do?

Romancing the Rain

The Eagle

Rubric’s Cube

Shadows I

Shadows II

Daylight

Shooting Pool

The Meat of the Story

Conversion

Chap

You’re hired

Bee that as it may

Making the cut or cutting the grass

Permanence

A Training Film

Table Manners

Mercy!

Plumb Tired

Curiosity

The Rabbit and the Fish

Earl Dixon

Etta McCory

Tyler Rope

The Sleep Train

Silverwear

Gesundheit

Electric Geese

Thermos II

Arbor

The Mayor

The Book of Matches

Find Your Place

Nature

Who’s got the Button?

Milo Nail

To Crack a Joke

SB and the CC

Wisdom

Wing it!

Conrad

Moving a Mountain

Hamster Days

The Fallen

Penman

And the winner is…

Shoestring

Greenhouse

Touche’

Sew What

Clothes Pen

The Inspector

Omni-trash-ites

Halloween

Still Water Runs Deep

Disguises No.1

Barn Raising

Bill

Hispanic Cuisine

The Pun Cowboy

Inside Information

Tea Ball

Dining in

The Can Opener

Some Local Yokels

Excursions

Sly

Cat-harsis

Wild Turkey

Mirage

Back in the Saddle

Grench

Awesome

Well-Trained

Someday

Testing

It’s a Job

Rain

Pullpit

Daisies

Have some Coffee

Ilk and Cookies

Change

The Bottom Line

Bucky

Millage

Cellar Door

Neurosis

Symbolism

Saga Recycled

Hot Water

Bird House

Sweet

Tanks a lot

Sign

Hairy Tale

Horoscope

Issues

Count on Us

Guilty

Splitting Hairs

Yield!

Folks,

Frozen Puns

Chores

An excerpt from the Aviary Flyer:

Jury Duty

Embassy

In the Throes of Job Woes

How do you turn down the latest in technology?

Tree-tment

Cheap Trills

Neon

The Card Game

Lost

Trapped

Whittled Aged

A Toss Up

Pipe Dream

How to make a splash

Stumped

Section II: The Float Trip

Sara Bellum on Vacation

Section lll: The Bulletin Board

1.   Since his river trip, my son Tom is a changed person. He now knows that the best way to start a canoe is to carry a silver paddle on his key ring.—Waldo Rippleton

2.   A highly palatable word jam—spread some on your morning conversation.—Boysen R. Barry

3.   Growing up as tadpoles, I knew my brother Galileo was different. After reading this book, I have a much better understanding of his vision.—Lilly Frog

4.   S.B.R. Vol. III is one of a kind. It’s an open invitation from my nephew Sir Real to free your mind. Enjoy.—G.T.

5.   Worth every penny.—J. Krugerrand, distant relative to the Coin familyThank you Shirley Rash for your editorial assistance.

Thank you Bonnie Curnock for the

—zebra/bookshelf

And thank you Anjuli R. Bowen for the art work that includes:

The book cover (Sara Bellum Branches Out)

Sara Bellum sipping her tea

Geese w/extension cord

The canoe w/three people

The bulletin board

The elephant in the chair

A Sara Bellum Book

Vol. lll

livingroom_illust.jpg

Section 1: The Introduction

When Sir Real arrived, he noticed that Mary McCoy had tacked an open note to Sara Bellum’s apartment door, inviting her to supper that evening for some leftover stew.

Sir’s mind, however, was preoccupied elsewhere. He knocked twice and waited patiently. Silence never answers the door he told himself and knocked again.

Sara, are you in there? Rise and shine.

Sar…

I’m here. Hold on, came a familiar voice, and a few seconds later the door swung open.

Come in, she announced and made her way back to the couch, which had been converted into a bed.

Why are you sleeping on this? Sir asked, fixing his gaze on the furniture.

Where should I be sleeping?

Most people prefer the bed, but then you are not most people.

Close the door.

The door, which was ajar, caught a glancing blow from the visitor’s boot heel.

What hour is it?

Two minutes past the hour of charity?

Are you here on a mission?

I’m here to donate some of my cards to your cause.

Because… ?

They might provide an extra dimension to your material, he explained what he was sure she already knew before lowering himself into the only available chair.

Have a seat, she teased with the hint of a smile on her face, and you’re right, the card always manages to open the door to a different point of view.

Sara reached for a glass of water on the table next to the old card. She took a big sip and sloshed the water around in her mouth and noticed that Sir was more interested in observing her early morning persona than in continuing the conversation. She responded to his silence more out of a sense of self-consciousness than an obligation to fill the void.

I shouldn’t have overslept. I have a ron-day-vu this morning with two rather bucolic sorts whom I recently met. They co-partner a field of puns and I was told yesterday that they have put together a state-of-the-farm report, a long admixture of prose/poetry which tells of our first meeting.

Are they potential recruits for your writing team?

"I hope that Roscoe Fescue and Lester Pedeza will sign on. I like their work and this book could certainly use some outside input. That aside, I just had the strangest dream?

The Union Pacific football team… ."

Excuse for interrupting, but let me guess. Did you (a) relent to sewing an A on your blouse after it was publicly disclosed that you are an alien?, (b) buy an ankh at a horn store and then discover that it was a wrench and could be expanded to loosen the capstone on the great pyramid?, (c) convince the coach that with a coat of anti-gravity paint on his helmet, the left halfback could outrun a train?, d) know that when taking a multiple choice test and you’re unsure of the answer, always circle C?

All of the above… .

Can you be specific? Generalities tend to alienate people.

What if I’m an alien? Sara replied.

That would certainly answer some questions, Sir chided.

Sara stepped politely around the comment and continued.

I always like to piece the images together. It can be powerful information, you know, dreams.

Sara took another sip of water, and rubbed her face.

Hey, I need a shower, but first tell me about the new card. Is it different from the old? I mean, we all need to be updated, even a calendar… and throw me that pillow next to your boot. I need something for my tush.

"Whatever the dream, you seem to be in recovery. I won’t call the dream squad, but I will tell you about the card.

Like the old, the power of the new lies in its psychological effect.

Sara rolled her eyes. It’s way too early for such big words.

Sir pretended to be slightly miffed. Hey, you’re a Renaissance lady, you can handle it. He paused briefly, then continued. Okay, in a nutshell: when you carry this little piece of plastic, you become empowered. You become a reader of energy which will help you to accomplish whatever you want to do. It’ll certainly open a few doors as to what this world is all about.

A reader of energy?

Sure. It’s easy. In the spring, you watch while the flowers are brought to full bloom by the April showers.

Speaking of which, while you’re in the kitchen, will you brew some tea, and somewhere out there in breakfast-land, you’ll find bananas, honey and bread.

Was I going to the kitchen? Of course, I was.

The knighted one knew the host’s lifestyle and no sooner had she fixed her bed and left the room did he set about his task.

Quicker than you can say, Shopping for flowers at Bloomingdales, the repast was on a tray and being served.

Sara!

I hear you, she answered, looking fresh and ready for a new day as she entered the living room.

Looks delicious and thank you and now, where were we,

. . . reading energy?

"To recap, we’re talking about the difference between the old and the new. The former featured a tree, not any ordinary tree but one with hearing limbs so that it could pick up Alicia Whitewater reading what was current in the River News.

The new card puts glasses on the tree, which enables the fir to not only read but also to do the visual thinking required to decode The Book of the Forest.

Sir went to work on his banana while Sara layered some honey onto a piece of toast. And what exactly would it be decoding?

That would be the interconnection of all life forms.

Whoa, this card packs a wallop.

So does the human intellect, Sir replied.

This is going to take a while to digest.

Yep, and it’s all about tapping our inner power through the use of symbols. When you believe that the card has the power to create, that little piece of plastic is more than willing to reciprocate. A shift in perception can quickly turn a button into a coin. A log turns into a hammer and a wedge of geese—an arrow. Do you get the point?

And, Sara followed suit, a needle turns into something you sew with.

Sort of, Sir replied. He seemed more than willing to put up with Sara’s verbal whimsy in order to accomplish his mission.

If, he continued, the thread in your needle happens to stretch from A to Z, at least you’ll know how to fill in the missing letters.

What if, according to my judgment, Sara mused, what if the letters are out of order?

Who’s to decide? Sir responded. "Mu order doesn’t have to agree with your concept of what should be. If your next Wednesday needs a D before the C, no harm done and I’m sure K. Oslo Terry would be quick at agree.

The nonexistent clock in Miss Whitewater’s office will go on ticking and more logs will fall into the river and more lumber will be nailed into houses with their bedrooms and the beds where we slumber next to the computer that opens up to your blog and don’t forget that polliwogs turn into Galileo Frogs. You do have a blog, don’t you?

Are you going to correct that typo at the top of the paragraph… should be my?

No, the guest was taken aback by the editor’s eye that apparently never rests.

No, he repeated, not at all. I’ll wager that at least three people will research that word, and one individual will have his life changed over a trivial textual mistake, and he tossed his banana peel onto the tray.

What’s more, he continued, if the winds of change blow cold, put on you winter coat and ‘button it’ and watch as one of those small round pieces of plastic turns into a silver dollar that rolls straight down the street toward a book store that has all kinds of printed material for sale. He paused and diverted the subject.

You’ve turned up the volume. You now have two books on the market now. How are your sales going?

Sara ignored the diversion with a slight burst of laughter.

"That was the most contrived segue I’ve ever heard. The Council of Mu has certainly come a long way only to be plopped onto a shelf in the middle of a bookstore.

But to answer your question, the books have been left to their own devices. It would help if I better understood the internet world of blogging, You Tube, cyber links, etc.

Before Sara could continue, the elevated consciousness of her breakfast guest took off again.

"You know, given the fact that I was in the wings during the writing, I think I know the answer. You know, looking back you have written thousands of topics and stories. As I recall, they were like porridge pouring from the pot, spilling over, down to the floor and out the door.

At this point, what do you think? Is this what you wanted? Are you satisfied with the contents of volumes one and two? You have nearly nine thousand topics.

Sara had never been asked the questions point blank, and it took her a minute to digest it. She wiped her mouth with a napkin.

If a Munchkin is a small person, then a napkin is a small person wiping his mouth before going to bed?

There, an excited Sir jumped up from his chair, did you read that? One of them surfaced. From nowhere, out of the Blue Card and into the script. They do indeed have a life of their own. Excuse me, you were about to say.

Your observations are accurate and well-placed, Sara began, "and I can say that with conviction because I understand their evolution.

"Now, let me drop a procedural bag of tea into our morning cup. The books are not highly organized, but they don’t need to be. They are, however, self-generating and flow with the grain of human experience. The topics start at the top of Abstract Mountain and move downhill to the valley zoo and can impulse inspiration to the reader at any point along the way.

As Mayor of Topicville, at least two civic leaders have asked why we didn’t annex more land, more space, and develop them into larger districts or longer stories. The answer is—we did. We expanded—we moved over a hundred into larger settings, the contents of which will follow the introduction. Enter the question: ‘Why didn’t you combine sections of them into an extended narrative?’ Had we done so, the results would have been scattered beyond the leaves that once fell on a (Salvador) Dali-yard sale."

Nice. Sir sipped his tea.

In a sense, she continued, Nigel Pigeon, who was trained by the River News, volunteered to have a go at it. His story is in the text.

A talking pigeon?

Yes, he even has a shell phone that charges from a conch when he is home.

And that, Sir asserted, is the perfect opening paragraph to a blog.

What, and become a cog in the cyber machinery, Sara shot back.

Look,— again Sir took on the demeanor of a man about ready to launch a rocket.— You have got to get all of your material out there. His eyes widened, and he lowered his head to gather some emotional intensity. Do you remember the famous words of John Donne, who, back in 1597, wrote that no man was an island? We are all in this thing together, and I’m sure Emily Dickinson would come down the stairs in Amherst long enough to agree. Even C. G. Jung tried to get it across that we are all interconnected.

The Book of the Forest, Sara interrupted.

At a basic level, who knows how many writers are playing with some of your ideas and are inches away from going public. So, whitewater notwithstanding, let’s dive in. Let’s get marching, Blog-ust is right around the corner. You know really it’s not that complicated. Set up an account, type in your address, craft your message, send it and wait for the feedback. By the way, there is a note for you on the door.

Hey, anyone who can finish their breakfast with a cup of systems tea will fit handily into the network. Millions of people have blogged. It’s a no-brainer.

And that leaves me out. You see I’m part of the human brain, Sara countered in one last moment of resistance.

Yes, but you have been personified and that means you have responsibilities.

And so have you.

"Agreed and, much to your consternation, I arrived here early to give you my latest card, which I will leave on the table. And now I have to go—

make a mad dash to Mia Dollop’s place on Polaris Street. She wants me to adjust her plasma TV. If you need me, simply concentrate," and Sir was out the door.

Kardashian? Sara wondered. No, it can’t be. How did that get into this script?

Hello, Roscoe Fescue, are you there?

Stories

Roscoe and Lester

After a wit spring, Roscoe Fescue wondered if his word field would yield a good crop of double meanings.

For gleanings, here’s a sample.

One will be ample.

Roscoe scratched his temple and thought about religion.

__But wait, this is so simple.

__Go back two lines and we have an answer.

And the rhyming…

(Moliere would be proud)

such a word dancer.

But hay, let’s not be cowed—

the grass is growing.

Do we call in a combine?

That’s only for seeds and seeds are for sowing.

This merely needs some mowing.

Roscoe’s thoughts began to meander

back to Mrs. Sanders

and her English class

and her desk upon which rested a Blue Card.

"Roscoe, your hand is in the air.

Do you have something you wish to share?"

"As surely as three feet make up a yard,

"Daisy, who sits over there alas,

is more than my brain can sustain.

She’s as pretty as the terrain

in the falling rain and

ever so cute, recalled Roscoe.

But the past is moot.

We are up from school.

We’re back to today

and the harvest may be coming our way.

Ah, the breeze is blowing

and the nights are cool.

The field does need mowing.

The farmer charmer never feels the strain.

It is but a word salad.

So let’s put on our chutes and go for a wok

and a talk.

An hour should be long enough

to sample our word power.

Tendril grass as green as can be

has pushed up through the topsoil

to the family of puns. It’s to be loyal

so let’s get to the essence with a capital E.

Who would come to blows

for the honor of Miss Elsie Rose?

This one might.

A swashbuckling wind will send two blades

of grass into a sword fight.

That’s right,

came the thrust and parry

of one Lester Pedeza who operates a local dairy.

"A melody to the ear—

(smacks of Dumas and the Musketeers.)

and hey ho, let’s rally."

The telepun is ringing

and the two samples we did tally

are nearly worth singing.

Les and Roscoe continue to wade

through the thickest of clover

until a decision can be made.

Pun samples?

Let’s go for three.

To laugh is to be set free.

A chute was snapped at its roots.

Is anything below?

Who gives a hoot?

Upon closer examination

Roscoe grinned with elation:

two aunts and an uncle,

something carbuncle,

or a bunion.

Can you dig an onion?

"Young puns can be as tough to understand

but what’s more

you may need to know the lay of the land."

Let’s say contours.

Ou contrare,

ventured Les with some French that was rare.

"And my statement isn’t over.

We simply haven’t sampled enough.

Let’s try a four leaf clover.

It’s Irish stuff. Think about the blarney stone.

It’s west of Dover.

The pants are soaking and so are my shoes.

The Shamrock will give us some wit to hone.

Was I joking?

This one was worth a pot of gold

and if I may be so bold.

Mayor Castle has been demoted to Minor Castle.

Al, that was a ton of a pun, Roscoe put it to scale.

It’s had plenty of sun, but how will it bale?

What a hassle? mumbled Les,

"and since the Shamrock is all about luck,

to sell this story is to make a buck."

And, Roscoe added, "the best poetry

is inspired by a leprechaun.

(Now that’s a difficult rhyme, noted Les. "Try

‘except at dawn.’ ")

"We are all related

so let’s keep moving."

And so Roscoe did:

"The pasture is thick and so are the puns.

What about trees and branches and

streams and rocks?

A ring of keys should unlock

that door."

Ah, noted Les, a backdoor metaphor.

Suffice it to say

the pasture was cut the next day

and to be sure

there was plenty of time for the hay to cure.

The jokes were bailed and stored in a loft.

I’m glad it’s done, Les looked proud.

"This is not the work of a crowd

that’s soft."

But darn… what now… do we go home?

We’ve written the poem.

We scrambled the yarn

as if we knew how.

We’ve confused the rhyming.

But it’s all in the barn, responded his pal,

and in the timing."

Hey, I know, Les chimed in.

"This is all about nature.

We’ll change our names.

It’s called nomenclature."

Perhaps I can help, offered a different voice.

My name is Sara and there is always a choice.

Roscoe and Les were aghast.

Who was this guest?

And what was her task?

She had walked out of the barn munching an apple

or some repast.

"It’s okay to say darn if you insist on the rhyme.

But there are better ways to occupy your time."

Who are you? the duo queried.

A lady of means, she replied, "and don’t look so harried.

Technically, the female personification of the human cerebral cortex. I am your brain. Need I say more? And you’re wondering what I may need you for, and then she laughed.

Whoa! blurted the farmers in tandem.

And this structure behind me is but one of many offices for penning ideas. And let me further state that I appreciate the field of puns and the bales of humor that you delivered.

And then she raised her eyebrows and stood akimbo.

"Yes, there are more arrows in the quivers

but I won’t leave you in limbo.

The human mind has an infinite capacity to create, and if you can relate, I certainly need your help. If you’re into the game, come on in and look around.

Now, about our names, Les wondered out loud. Can you give us something with a different sound?

Yea, Roscoe added, something that retains the agrarian twist when the acreage is green. You know what I mean?

In essence, the name isn’t important. It’s the material we put down that tells the story. Therein grows the morning glory. Plus, we write a lot because we are here to stimulate thought.

Les’ jaw dropped; What hath God wrought?

You will be amazed, Sara concurred.

"Your very own mind can keep you in a daze.

"So Roscoe and Les

or more or less

or Barney Hayhurst or Jim Naseum

or whatever you choose.

Whatever it means

keep in mind that you will work behind the scenes

and nobody will lose.

We all win

if you’re inclined to pick up a pen.

Now, as for all this rhyming, miming,

Climbing—yes, it’s all in the timing.

Chaucer, for sure, would approve.

Would it behoove

or put shoes on the horse?

Nobody can say of course.

Moliere would clasp his hands

and offer Tartuffe as proof.

The thought of extra help

makes me shiver.

The farmer and the dale

and thirty-two rows of humor bales.

When we finish we’ll go float the river.

The Travails of a Pigeon

Neither sharks nor swordfish nor stingrays nor high pressure weather nor Poseidon’s wrath will detain the ocean postal system. The dedicated waves deliver the morning edition of The Progressive Review, a newspaper published by the Sara Bellum writers, to the subscribing sandcastles along the beach. Please remember to include your code in the address. (This publication is a sub-dairy that features much of the milk and honey from The SBR.*)

Meanwhile, Gene (one) and Erica (two) are going for a stroll along the beach with the morning edition of the PR.

One: A brisk walk along the sand-soaked coast line is an excellent way to rid our thinking of a few mental tarantulas. Ah, yes, the waves, the sand, a few tufts of grass and a constellation of starfish… .

Two: Pod-on me but can we stop first at the canteen for a snack?

One: You do know that peanuts grow above the ground?

Two: No, they don’t. They grow below.

One: Let’s consult the peanut encyclopedia.

Two: Let’s do something before somebody starts cracking jokes about bookworms and all the humor that is to be found in humus.

One: All right, Guber, here it is, and you’re right, they grow below.

Two: But people seldom call me that because my name is Erica and that is the end of the story about nuts. Peanuts are so accessible. I’m open to anything. How about a house without a door and once in, can a mirror double the size of your den? Okay, how about an alarm clock that never gets excited?

One: You do know that when you snack on peanuts next to a swimming pool, you qualify for the Gubernatorial Party?

Two: I vote we ban all repetition.

One: You do know that glass is made from sand don’t you?

Two We should circulate a petition outlawing all repetition. If we don’t get enough signatures with our first attempt, we’ll try it again and again.

One: Are you ready for a sandwich?

Two: Do you see the white pigeon sitting on top of the lighthouse with the fish-eye glasses?

One: You do know he can talk, don’t you?

Two: If a swan can sing and a cockatoo can count to three…

One: . . . and people can parrot.

Two: You’re are a trove of information. I’m glad you decided to share it.

High atop the lighthouse, Nigel Pigeon, who had been listening to the banter below, continued reading The Progressive Review and mulling his present state of affairs.

Must be more to this job than a generic dialogue or am I working for peanuts, Nigel wondered. Let’s see, what’s been going on in the ever changing world of ideas. We seem to have a rather busy table of contents: a box of Fragilistic wafers, Li-berry jam, a hambone, a dome-shaped chocolate cake, a salt shaker and a stack of Sir Real cards. This is one busy printout observed Nigel as he leafed through the pages. And it sounds interesting. Let’s slide another item across the table. This one will deal with fractions, and we’ll consult an area ship to get our facts straight.

From there, the pigeon flew in a straight line until he found the ship and a sail with a recliner rope for perching.

What are you doing up there? asked the captain of the good ship Indivisible, which was gently rocking to and fro.

Trying to decide how much purchasing power I have in my wallet, Nigel joked to himself but before he could answer, he was interrupted.

Standing on the deck is the captain, who is brusquely growling to his crew, the four I’s.

When you open your eyes, you become a lighthouse beaming and receiving information.

Never mind the anchor-age, throw it out! he demanded.

Aye, captain, parroted the crew, and with a unison heave, the heavy ankh-shaped piece of metal goes overboard but never reaches the water.

Dolts, cursed the ship’s commander, I should dock your dots.

Meanwhile, a dozen feet above the main deck, an amused pigeon remains perched and preening throughout the palaver. Noticing the bird, the captain does a pirouette spin and is suddenly vis-à-vis and firing questions.

Kindly explain your presence above my ship, he requested.

I tried to tell you that I’m perched on the line that divides the air from the water, answered the pigeon as he ran his beak through his wing pit.

If it came out the blue, what’s left inside of the blue?

Bologna, the man in charge shot back, and I assure you that that cut of meat is not to be found in France. I find it difficult to believe in view of the fact that the line doesn’t exist. It’s to be summed up in one word: incredibilitas.

That particular brand of meat is not on my geographical menu, replied the pigeon, who was determined not to take any guff from the irascible old seafarer. Besides, you should borrow some crew members from such a long Latin term. You, he continued his line of thinking, can look, but you cannot touch. This perch swims in a stream of consciousness."

I can’t touch. You wait here ‘til I can bring back some tacks and a hammer. I’ll show you touch, and the Captain, being tired from raids, tugged at his beard and squinted his eyes through the crow’s feet.

Nigel took a hop to his left and decided to fill in the silence left by his pondering counterpart.

Yes, you can pin your hopes on this line but not your clothes.

I need some way to dry my laundry, replied the starchy old man. "Although I surmise that if the I’s can hang out on the deck, so can my pants.

Tell me, Pigeon, as an entry into the captain’s log, if I remain on course, will the ship run into this line?

Are you allowed to ask questions if you live on a ship inside a bottle?

Nigel Pigeon, being fully cognizant that this was his first assignment, was ready.

"If you were standing on you land legs, I would suggest that you consult an abstract office. However, since you can’t or you won’t, try not