Wordland 7: Mountebanks

By Edited by Allen Ashley

Tread carefully now, because you're about to rub shoulders with mountebanks, tricksters, charlatans, illusionists and rogues. Watch out for fly-by-nights, fakers and fakirs. Keep a look out for clowns, japesters, carpetbaggers and cardsharps. Watch the cards carefully. Find the lady. Ooh, bad luck. Why not try again? Come on, lay your money down. you're bound to win this time...Wordland 7; edited by Allen Ashley and packed full of fiction and poetry from, Lynn Hoffman, Joan McNerney, James G. Piatt, Liz Gwinnell, Gary Budgen, Rhys Hughes, Larry Leftkowitz, David Turnbull, Parker Weston, Paul Hostovsky, Nigel Wilson, Lana Bella, Ken Poyner, Stephen Oram, J,J, Steinfeld, Len Kuntz, A. J. Kirby, Ruth Sabath Rosenthal, Toti O'Brien and Sarah Doyle. Cover art by Faye Reynolds.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Oct 28, 2016
• ISBN: 9781326831189

Book preview

Wordland 7: Mountebanks

Wordland 7: Mountebanks

Edited by Allen Ashley

Copyright © 2016

The right of Allen Ashley to be identified as editor of this publication has been asserted by him in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents act 1988

Copyright © Allen Ashley 2016

All rights reserved

ISBN: 978-1-326-83118-9

The rights of all those appearing in this publication has been asserted by them in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents act 1988

Cover Art © Faye Grimwood 2016

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means without the prior written  permission of the publisher, not be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental

Published by theEXAGGERATEDpress UK

http://exaggeratedpress.weebly.com/

Ringmaster | Lynn Hoffman

‘Ladies and Gentleman and children of their rages,

I am here before you because the poet’s got to be

the first one in the door, the one who sweeps up

with big curving swoosh strokes and sets up chairs

in lines more regular than he will ever be.

No, that’s not true.

I am here before you because I could not figure out

the way to play like a good boy.

And so my dogs have gone away,

my karma has its ghia

I will come to no good end

though every end be good.

And now, Crabbies and Cockleworms,

let me direct your attention to the center ring

where Armand the Great will make

a pass with his magical cloak

and each of you will will that

Zsa-zsa the elephant and Scruffy

the tattooed lady disappear

and not-too-wise

before your very eyes

you will believe in magic

and the show will go on (and on) under

the big, big top.

Wonder Lotion | Joan McNerney

This can erase years from your face,

cover blemishes, sun spots, crow’s feet.

You will glow in the dark capturing

hearts, especially those of rich men.

Now you can procure a position of

prominence with a prestige company.

You are to be admired by all, heads

turning whenever you enter a room.

Coarse dry skin can become

divine, silkier than angel wings.

The alluring scent of this balm

enraptures legions of devotees.

Old friends will stare at a new you.

Baffled, they ask if you had surgery.

With a smug but unwrinkled smile,

you point to your precious ointment.

Decades of time, grime and slime

magically erased.  See dramatic

transformation as you stand beguiled

by glowing beauty in your mirror.

Envision flying down boulevards,

patronizing haute fashion shops, driven

by limos... all this and more now from

Miracle Creme at an amazingly low price.

Three Card Monte | James G. Piatt

It was a gray day in a grimy city when a

man in spats, bow tie, slim mustache,

and a too easy smile placed a small

table with three old bent cards on top in

front of curious spectators.

The old card sharp manipulated reality

with speedy hands as he conjured

nefarious tonics for those with gullible

minds. He laughed and created a

golden aura of sterile platitudes with his

smooth words, deceiving his marks with

false promises of easy money as he filled

their greedy hearts with glimmerings of gold:

He flipped the cards with an uncanny ease

and allowed one of those watching to select the

Queen in order to create a false sense of

security. He showered the naive with a

litany of conjured lies with his laughing voice,

as he filled the eyes of the innocent with

false hope by allowing his silent partner to

continually locate the Queen.

Then bets were placed on the table, and

reality changed, from the rusted moments

of fantasy, as his swift-handed manipulation

continually fooled those who naively believed

they knew where the Queen was hiding:

such sorrowful souls awash in the hazy dust

of longing for gold, played for easy money, but

instead always lost, as the card sharp

continued to win, always smiling,

always smiling…

The Man in the Singing Suit | Liz Gwinnell

No one had expected them to come.

They called themselves Ballardists and tendered musical flowers and created dresses that glowed in the dark. They were obsessed with concrete – flyovers, motorways, multi-storey car parks – all the things that their author hero had used as props in his stories. And it was utterly unthinkable to them that modern day life wanted to blow it all away. They worshipped J.G. To them, he was some sort of born again Jesus Christ unrecognised in his time.

He was a fucking novelist, Frank growled, throwing his paperback novel across the room. Inside, the characters held on to the table in the teashop and looked up at the cracks in the ceiling. He’d turn in his grave if he could see this.

If he could turn, Lydia said, darkly.

It’s a phase, Frank muttered, getting up from the couch of changing colours. At the moment it was green. That meant it was about to eject. When it got tired of people sitting on it, it went green and ejected. Frank had been ejected too many times. He wasn’t in the mood for it tonight.

I think we should go and challenge them, Lydia said. If someone doesn’t do something, they’ll take over.

It’s a fad, it’s a phase, Frank repeated. Just one more way to alleviate the boredom of 21st Century living and recreate the battlefields of old.

Lydia ignored him. Frank filled the world with black words typewritten on white paper. Words that didn’t make stories, stories that didn’t make sense. There wasn’t much room left in the flat now what with his words and her black clothes. They constantly vied for space. He wrote words on the white bed sheets, on the walls and on the floors and they slept with them running wild around their bedroom.

Well I’m not going near them, Frank said, stroking his paper dog. He loved his paper animals. When you had a bath, the paper horse watched. Those sort of people are nutters. Beware the extreme and the fringe, beware of those sitting too close to the sea. Who said that, Lydia?

Lydia threw his book back at him. The characters left the teashop .Their afternoon had been ruined anyway.

You should eat more, she said, her eyes on his long, thin, black-trousered legs. Virtual reality doesn’t suit you.

Jane had remained quiet throughout.

She was new to the block of flats, new to the neighbourhood. They had invited her to dinner and there was no dinner. She found the world of Frank and Lydia and paper and black a little unsettling and strange.

Maybe they’re the same as us, she said quietly. They’re just people, aren’t they?

Frank narrowed his eyes at her.

You know what’s wrong with you women today? he said. You’re too kind.

*

An hour later they were standing outside the multi-storey car park looking up at the concrete levels. The Ballardists had hung ribbons and banners on the hexagons that divided their world from the rest. Inside, things glowed and strange music played.

Ugly isn’t it, Frank said. You can see why they want to blow it up. It’s just a reminder of all those things that went wrong, of the days when the bankers ruled and the poor got sold. No one wants to be reminded of that.

Lydia