Gallimaufry: A Collection of Short Stories, Poems, Lyrics, Memoirs and Rants

By Marsha Goldstein

According to the Merriam-Webster Dictionary, the word GALLIMAUFRY (gal-le-moh-free) is defined as a hodgepodge, and the example given is: the collection is a gallimaufry of poems, essays and short stories that have no apparent unifying theme.

The definition perfectly summarizes the writing herein. There is a range of short stories without a related theme, poems, song lyrics, memoirs and rants.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 6, 2015
• ISBN: 9781503540668

Marsha Goldstein

Author Bio coming soon

Book preview

Copyright © 2015 by Marsha Goldstein.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2015901810

ISBN:   Hardcover   978-1-5035-4067-5

             Softcover     978-1-5035-4068-2

             eBook          978-1-5035-4066-8

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,

without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance

to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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.

Rev. date: 02/06/2015

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

IN THE LAND OF MAKE-BELIEVE

Colors Of My Mind

109521

Chambray Eyes

A Lion’s Roar

… But I Play One On Tv

Flip-Flop.

Gasping For Air

Lily

RHYMES AND REASONs

STORIES AND SONGS

On Turning Sixty

Writers Rant

Storyteller

1-800 Mem’ries

Fire

Fade To Black

Falling

Enigma Variations

Fish Tale

Invisible Loyalties

Kaleidoscope

Nashville Autumn

Rush—Lyrics

Masquerade

Other Lives

Pendulum

Rhapsody In Blue

Rodin

Scream

Sink Or Swim

Pretzeled Logic

Wounds

Shattered Glass

… LIKE THE CORNERS OF MY MIND…

Raoul, The Terrorist

Stuffed

Brazen

Baby You Can Drive My Car

No Planes, Trains Or Automobiles

Shalimar

THINGS THAT GO GRUMP IN THE NIGHT

A Modern Modest Proposal

Primarily, Care

Flying By The Seat Of Your Pants

S(Pill) Your Guts!

THIS COLLECTION IS DEDICATED TO MY FAMILY, FRIENDS AND CLASSMATES; TO MY MENTOR AND SAGE, PROFESSOR NED JOHNSON, AND MY DEAREST FRIEND CHERYL CARLSON. I NEED TO THANK THE STAFF AT RIDGEMOOR STARBUCKS AS WELL!

I have two great passions in my life: writing and music.

I am a Gemini, so no one format or musical style suffices. Both my writing and my musical tastes are like a kaleidoscope: varying, colorful, ever-changing, especially as I learn.

According to the Merriam-Webster Dictionary, the word GALLIMAUFRY (gal-le-’moh-free) is defined as a hodgepodge, and the example given is: "the collection is a gallimaufry of poems, essays and short stories that have no apparent unifying theme."

The definition perfectly summarizes the writing herein. There is a range of short stories without a related theme, poems, song lyrics, memoirs and rants.

Some of the short stories are based on an exaggeration or variation of true events or experiences. Two are similar in nature and deal with tales of Holocaust survivors. One story stems from visits to the Nashville Veterans Hospital and others are simply the creation of an insomniac author.

When I first started writing, around the time I entered Kindergarten, I wrote mostly poetry that would make Hallmark cringe. Everything rhymed in couplets or four-line stanzas. In fifth grade I was introduced to free-form poetry and it opened a whole new world. I do not usually play with swirling shapes and forms, I just want to get the words and feelings on paper and let it be. However, I did attempt some variations on the flush left-hand margin I usually prefer.

Bowing to my Nashville roots I have also been experimenting again with writing for country music radio. I am working on the music to accompany the lyrics. I view it as just another form of poetry. I love the country songs of years ago, without the rock edge.

There is also a non-fiction section. Included are several memoir pieces ranging from childhood recollections to a memorialization of a deceased friend who was full of life. I have included several rants as well. Most are a stream of my feelings about various topics, and not editorially supported with documented facts and figures. They were a wonderful release of hostile feelings. Writing provides such a safe venue.

I am never bored when I am writing, and I hope the reader will feel similarly.

The More Than Divine Miss M

When I ponder my most talented writers, the first names that come to mind are always Mona Bethke, Justin Abrams, and David the Day. Now, a fourth name comes to mind:

Marsha Goldstein.

Regardless of genre, whether it be fiction, nonfiction, children’s book, poetry, or whatever, her writing evokes the full gamut of emotions. From the brutally graphic stories of the holocaust (the class will never forget her testicle torture segment) to the mistaken-identity humor of her husband being mistaken for a terrorist, Miss Marsha engulfs her readers into whatever universe she sees fit to place them. A true impresario of the written word, the pictures are painted vividly and the reader finds himself immersed in the storyline.

Moreover, Miss Marsha is the most decent human being I know. Her sensitivity knows no bounds, and she has ingratiated herself to not only the professor but to his family as well. Miss Marsha is the name given her from my daughter and grandchildren, who all seem to think she hung the moon. Maybe they read it in one of her stories.

A time will come when she decides to go full-blown into the publishing world, and the world will be a better place. Her work needs to be published; her work needs to be read; her work needs to be remembered.

Miss Marsha personifies what a writer should be and seldom is: completely devoted to the written word.

Professor Ned Johnson

St. Petersburg College

Tarpon Springs, FL

IN THE LAND OF

MAKE-BELIEVE

COLORS OF MY MIND

I see a new pattern of colors. Tonight they seem brighter as they start to whirl before my eyes. I lose my ability to see anything else around me. The colors are hotter tonight: reds, yellows and oranges. Perhaps I feel the influence of the fall season. Or, perhaps Lunador is angry with me.

The recording device sits on the piano bench, and I grope for both. I place my fingers on the piano. I haven’t recorded anything new in a while. The vibrancy of the colors increases. I shriek at Lunador and Ferraman. I must appease them. The music undulates from under my hands and I am unable to move from the piano for several hours. Finally, satisfied, I stop playing. I click off the recording device.

The colors are now muted, ebbing from my vision. Ferraman’s angry face has disappeared. The flickers of silver lighting that normally surround Lunador are dulled. I collapse, exhausted, on my narrow bed, and stare out at the pulsing neon lights of the hotel sign across the street from my barren studio apartment. Lunador spits at me before turning away and slinking off into some shadowy corner of my mind.

I reach for my pills. I should have taken them earlier. Perhaps then, my two demons would have been kept at bay. Perhaps then, only Auralie or Agalie would have surfaced. They are the twins… light and lovely. One is golden, the other silver, and they arrive when Lunador allows them to inhabit my mind space. Usually, it is when he is sated by the music. I am never quite sure.

I cannot hear the music. I am deaf.

Totally deaf.

I was born able to hear, but when I was three, I suffered a terrible bout of meningitis and I lost my hearing. There has been a parade of specialists, but they are all thwarted by my condition. All I can remember is my mother’s voice, and the sound of her playing the piano.

My mother is dead. I miss her. My father died too, but I do not miss him. My only family is the creatures in my head that never seem to leave me. I have the colors. They blind me when things get bad.

I live alone in my apartment. The doctors say I am crazy. They are probably correct. But I have been this way too long to care anymore. The only thing that is important is my music.

The piano is my mother’s. If I play really loudly, I can feel the vibrations through my hands and into my chest. The only time I seem to feel any real peace within, is when I am playing. The only times Lunador and Ferraman are appeased is when I am playing. Often it is a time-consuming process.

Lunador can be particularly menacing. He entered into my mind just before I reached my twelfth birthday. It was the day I started to bleed. No one prepared me for it. I guess my mother thought that being deaf precluded other normal bodily functions. I was home with my father. He leered and made fun of me and then he must have yelled because his face got all twisted and I could tell by the ugly purple color he turned. I thought I did something unforgiveable. He told me I could never sit next to a boy until I was old enough to marry.

That evening I locked myself in my room and something told me to cut myself. I tried with a small piece of glass. It hurt and I started to bleed from my arm. Then I heard a menacing sound, but I didn’t see anything. When I closed my eyes, Lunador appeared. Lunador kept urging me to continue cutting and I did. He is a gossamer sprite with an ugly green grin and reddish eyes, and very persistent. Eventually, my arm was shredded and there was blood everywhere in my room. My father found me and instead of taking me to a doctor or hospital, he smacked me across the face. I saw his mouth move, but rather than reading his lips, I saw a pinwheel of greens and blues. The colors spurted everywhere. I know my body started shaking, but I think I was overcome with laughter.

Anytime I did something regarded as wrong, Lunador popped out to torment me. My only solace was the piano, even though I could not hear. I knew how to read music and I learned to play everything between the covers of my mother’s music books. I was not allowed to stop playing until my unseen tormenter was appeased. Sometimes, that meant hours sitting at the keyboard, without eating or drinking or attending to bodily needs. Still, Lunador wasn’t satisfied. When I was fifteen, Ferraman appeared. Where Lunador was a translucent sprite, Ferraman was thick, obstinate and metallic. He too was never pleased. I could feel him tearing my stomach and intestines whenever things failed