Moon Rising: Stories and Poems

By Leonard Tuchyner

Except for the talking turtle, the author’s 2022 novel, Merlyn the Magic Turtle: A Story of Love and Justice, was entirely realistic. By contrast, this volume of stories and poems is based firmly in fantasy.

Talking animals and insects, numerous gnomes, and even talking vegetables are among the many colorful characters. Mother Earth gets psychiatric advice, there is a time-traveling sailing ship, and a trickster is tricked.

“Antigravity in the Graveyard,” by far the longest story, features a nerdy physics professor and his pretentious nemesis, the dean of the department. The latter gets his comeuppance, as it were, in a most appropriate way.

Jewish mothers figure prominently: sometimes cooking, often criticizing or complaining, but always loving and loved. One man’s mother even proves that clothes do make the man—or in this case, the woman, one with super powers and devastating culinary skills.

The author is an avid gardener, and vegetable gardens are featured in many of the stories. Granted, the non–human characters in those spaces are far from realistic. Among them are a flying deer, a bargaining ant, and even a talking beet. But all are described in such loving detail that the reader can almost imagine that they did indeed appear to the author.

So, for at least a little while, slip the bonds of everyday life and let yourself be transported to these many scenes of adventure: most of them humorous, a few of them melancholy, and all of them brilliantly imaginative.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Leonard Tuchyner
• Release date: Mar 31, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215110355

Book preview

Mother Gremlin

I had just laid my mother to rest in her eternal grave. It was a normal service as graveside services go. I had all the mixed feelings that come with burying one’s mother. They were, well, mixed. I loved her, of course. Of course I did. She was my mother, after all. But she could be a pain at times.

So why, you may ask, was I alone in the car? Well, it just so happened that my wife had sprained her ankle while walking off our porch headed to the driveway. It was one of those freakish accidents where the fall caused her to also sprain her arm, so she needed help getting back to the house. We were already running late. The only ones around to help her were our kids, Jeremy and Kimberly. I couldn’t be late, so I had to leave them. I saw Joan, my wife, crawling on her knees back to the house, with the two youngsters urging her on. I know now that the sprained arm and ankle were no coincidence.

Anyway, I was feeling bad about leaving them in that situation, but what choice did I have? When I got to the cemetery, I had to explain all of that to the significant others who were there to send my mother off on her eternal journey. Or so I thought.

As I was saying, I was driving home when suddenly I noticed a woman sitting next to me. That was very surprising, as there wasn’t anyone there when I entered the vehicle.

It was my mother!

I screamed. I screamed again. I kept screaming in terror. Obviously, my driving was a little erratic.

Are you trying to kill us? my dead mother asked. Why don’t you pull to the side of the road until you can drive like a normal person? You never drove that way before. Why now? You’re upsetting me. I think you must be going crazy.

My terror turned to anger. This was definitely my mother. I might have guessed that she couldn’t stay in the ground like a normal person. Oh my God, I was beginning to sound like her.

I pulled over abruptly. What are you doing here? I asked.

Is it so strange? Big deal. A mother wants to spend a little time with her son. Is that any reason to be driving down the highway like a crazy man?

I tentatively reached out to touch her, to make sure she was solid and not a ghost. It was a tentative, exploratory probe, with a forefinger on her shoulder.

Is that the way to touch your mother? Try it again.

I did, because my tendency was to do what my mother said I should. This time, there was no resistance, and my finger and arm went right through her. I gasped.

Make up your mind. I can be solid or not. What’s the difference? Just tell me what you want. I’ll be glad to oblige.

My heart was pounding.

Take some deep breaths. You’re going to have a heart attack. Is that want you want?

What and who are you?

I guess I’m going to have to explain it to you, dummy. I’m not human. I never was human. I’m a gremlin. There, now you know.

But—but you died. Do gremlins die?

Not usually. We usually go somewhere, like a computer, and rejuvenate ourselves.

But—but you gave birth to me. Do gremlins give birth?

Not unless we want to. I guess I’m going to have to give you the whole megillah. Pay attention. I don’t want to repeat myself.

Okay, tell me. Please, I urged. The last thing I usually wanted from her was to explain things. However, in this case, I listened.

I fell in love. Okay, maybe it was lust. So I married your father, Sam. He wanted children, so I conjured one up for him.

Wait a minute. I was born, wasn’t I?

Born, conjured, accidental. What’s the difference? I did the same when your sister came.

I just sat there. I was too stunned to move.

What’s happened? Cat got your tongue? she asked.

I broke out of my stupor. I think if I was conjured, I should know. There’s a difference between conjured and born. Was I conjured or born? I yelled.

Watch your tone of voice when speaking to your mother. Your birth was conjured. You just have to know how to work with genes is all.

Oh my God, do I have your genes? I cried.

Yes, yes. You’re half gremlin.

Oh, no. That’s terrible. What does that mean?

Only that you will be bad luck to people you don’t like. Maybe. We won’t know until you mature.

Mature? I’m 50. When do I mature?

Give it another 50 years, give or take 25. You’re not immortal. I can’t make you immortal. But you will be very long–lived. You may have to go through a funeral, like I did. Then again, you could trip and fall and break your neck and die at 51. Don’t ask me. I wouldn’t know.

This discussion went on for another thirty minutes, in which I learned a lot about gremlins.

So where does that leave us now? I asked after a while.

I’ve decided to live with you.

Not a chance. Joan and the kids would never understand.

I’ll make myself invisible to everyone except you.

Not a good idea. What other options do you have?

Some son you are! Won’t even let your mother live with you, she complained.

No. It won’t work. You can’t live with us. Especially not if you’re invisible. My family will think I’m nuts. I’ll slip. They’ll see me talking to you, but they won’t see you. How will that look?

Darling, they already think you’re nuts. And do you know why they think you’re crazy?

No. I can hardly wait for you to tell me.

Because you’re half gremlin. Halflings come across that way. Besides, I’ll live in your computer.

No, no, no. Not in my computer. Please, not in my computer! I began to cry.

It’ll be fun. You just wait and see. We’re going to have a wonderful time. By the way, don’t worry about Joan. She’s going to be fine.

Hobgoblin Breath

An old man now, I rest on my deck,

touched by late October Halloween’s breath,

spookily sighing out of the past,

stealing its way down the back of my neck.

Memories waft from a town long ago,

when goblins, pirates, witches, and ghosts

ran in feral, unfettered, festive packs.

We were spirits with fresh, wide eyes and hopes,

bursting with cauldron–bubbling energy,

haunting door–to–door with booty–driven greed,

alien immigrants to this old world,

and I gloriously amongst them.

I chuckle in my current old man’s costume

at the recall of such wonderful greed,

when filling my bag was my only need.

I thought it was candy–laden plunder

that drove me to such unfettered mischief,

but it was the crisp kiss of Hallows Eve’s breeze

that blew us screaming from house to house

and buoyed our spirits on witches’ broomsticks,

as we fled under the watching moon.

It is that Gypsy breeze that haunts me now,

as darkening twilight thrills my heart.

Those Halloweens were long ago.

They belonged to innocent, spritely souls.

With age, sometimes comes perspective.

Sweet treats were never the treasure.

The true prize is the memories

of flying through the eerie night,

as magic creatures free of sin,

swaddled in a world of love,

with lairs to which we would return.

Soon I’ll shed this threadbare costume,

to fly above a sundown sea

and wonder what next costume I will be.

The Coiffured Ghoul

Uncommon ghoul in pressed, clean pants,

polished black leather office shoes,

gravedigger’s pointed spade in hand—

no calluses or roughness there—

nor naughty strands on coiffured hair.

What strange evil toil brings him here

on this unnatural, hapless night?

Cold fog congeals to lonely clouds

that float their haunted, wispy ways,

without bodies to call their homes—

searching graveyard for newly dead—

enfolds gravedigger’s pale white flesh

with cloying, wet, smothering breath,

hoping he walks without a soul,

that they may seize his empty shell.

Dead, dry leaves whisper unholy secrets

on the tongue of a misbegotten breeze.

And creaking wood answers from ancient trees.

He wonders, Is the secret about me?

Chuckles rasp from evil, blood–dry lips.

A finger moon points to show the way.

"I’ll find you, Love. I know where you stay.

Your treasures will not be kept from me.

I will have them this eve, come what may."

Watching owl asks, Who– who–who?

Where’s My Sock?

Diane, did you see my sock?

Which one?

The one I left lying on the floor next to the bed.

Let’s see, now. Was it the black one that you left there yesterday, or the blue one you left before? I’ve picked up so many of your socks that you can’t expect me to remember which one I’ve seen anywhere and everywhere in this house. You’ll have to give me a better description than just a sock.

It seemed to me that maybe my wife was being sarcastic. I felt a little angry. I took a breath to gain perspective and decided that she had a point. I answered as though she were talking reasonably and asking a reasonable question.

The black one. I know I left it on my side of the bed. Its mate is still there, but not the other one.

How can you be sure it’s the mate and not the other one? she asked in a clearly derisive way.

Whichever one was there, the lost one is the other one, I answered with a twinge of anger.

Oh, that one. No. I didn’t see it. Why do you ask?

Because I need it to complete the pair, and I know I left it there, I said, beginning to lose it.

I’m sure that’s what you remember, but that isn’t necessarily what happened. I’m getting sick and tired of being responsible for your lost socks. Contrary to your belief, I don’t have a sock fetish, she said, and walked away before I could retort. That was probably a good thing.

I put the remaining sock in the hamper, intending to put it in my stray sock drawer, which was pretty full by now. Then I got on with my day and forgot about it.

A few days later, I was scrounging around in a remote corner of my closet, searching for a shoe, when I spied the lost sock. It was the other one, not the one that had found a new home in the lost sock drawer. It was stretched out on top of other debris. There appeared to be something inside it.

How in the world did you get in there? I asked as I reached for it. In my mind, I was accusing my wife of having put it there. I knew I hadn’t put it in a remote corner of a closet; she must have thrown it there. As I lifted the sock to examine it more closely, it sagged under the weight of whatever had found a home in it.

Hey! Be careful, the sock said.

Startled, I dropped it, anxious to clear my brain of talking socks.

Don’t drop me, the sock said in an irritated voice.

A small head popped out of the sock. It had a brown, pointed hat. It wasn’t the sock that had spoken. It was a tiny man within the sock.

You could have hurt me. Are you trying to kill me? the diminutive head said in an offended tone.

He crawled out of the sock, revealing a small, gnomish figure dressed all in shabby brown attire. The clothing consisted of a waistcoat with trousers held up by a tarnished metal belt. The toes of his shoes were pointed.

Who are you? What are you? I asked quaveringly.

Just your ordinary, garden variety homeless gnome, he replied, still with a touch of resentment.

I never heard of a homeless gnome, I said suspiciously.

We generally have a warning that a human is afoot, and then we disappear before we can be accused of something.

I didn’t accuse you of anything. Anyway, what were you doing in my sock?

I was sleeping. I had a rather wild time last night, and I guess my senses were dulled, or I would have vanished long before you discovered me.

That’s fine and dandy, but can I have my sock now?

No!

"What? No? Why not?"

"Because when a homeless gnome sleeps in a sock, he must sleep in it until its stink reaches a point where it is no longer possible to