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    Syzygy
    Syzygy
    Syzygy
    Ebook107 pages1 hour

    Syzygy

    By Cat Oars

    ()

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    About this ebook

    Six stories by six authors on the Jungian theme of Syzygy: The merging of the masculine and the feminine, two mates into one force. A wife is ready to leave on business, but her rather 'slimy' spouse is a little lustful ... A lonely man wins the woman of his dreams, but can he keep her? ... A Hungarian immigrant remembers one of the lovers of his youth, after he fled his native land for the United States ... and more ...

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherCat Oars
    Release dateMay 31, 2011
    ISBN9781465937032
    Syzygy
    Author

    Cat Oars

    Cat Oars has rowed the rivers and stalked the squirrels. Cat Oars has sang, danced, laughed and loved. We are a group of like-minded writers of all shapes and sizes, colors and creeds and what we've written will change the way you feel about the universe and the life you've already lived and the life you have yet to experience.

    Read more from Cat Oars

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      Book preview

      Syzygy - Cat Oars

      SYZYGY

      _______

      A Cat Oars

      Publication

      SMASHWORDS EDITION

      Copyright 2011 Cat Oars

      This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only and lending to friends as commonly allowed. This ebook may not be re-sold.

      Thank you for respecting the hard work of these authors.

      Contents

      Introduction

      Francais

      Adam and Ava

      Writeorbust

      The Couple

      Train Whistle

      Where the Petals Go

      Cufflink

      Reaping Ode

      Laiadevorah

      Topz and Trowzers

      Francais

      Chew Toy

      R Toady

      Introduction

      Francais

      HOW DID I conceive this theme? It was December, and the time to announce the Valentine’s Day project was approaching. I remember where I was standing: at the bottom of the stairs, in my dining room, in front of the kitchen. I remember tossing around some ideas in my head, liking some, rejecting others. But I can’t recall how I settled on love stories filled with Jungian archetypes: Jung Love, I thought it would be called at first, but then it became this book, Syzygy.

      So I asked Cat Oars veterans and anyone else on the Craigslist Literary & Writing forum to compose love stories, but love stories with Jungian archetypes: Characters, such as the wise old man, the loyal dog, the mysterious cat; myths, such as creation and apocalypse; and concepts, such as anima, animus and syzygy.

      It was a leap. It’s impossible to summarize Jung’s theory of the collective unconscious and how the archetypes inform our personalities, our conception of ourselves, our world. Entire schools of thought have developed from exploring the mysteries of the archetypes. So I wasn’t sure what kind of results my call for submissions on this theme would produce.

      What developed was a collection with an intensity that I think is comparable only to what I feel are the best in the Cat Oars series, and the best anthologies anywhere.

      Writeorbust tells of a man and woman maturing together, but in an unusual dynamic. Train Whistle describes a couple at the end of their long road. Cufflink paints a lyrical picture of a man who longed for a woman and her beautiful voice, but is conflicted now that he has her. Laiadevorah wonders why she couldn’t make a cosmic connection – or even a less-than-cosmic connection. I tell the story of a man who looks back on his experience of that combination of opposites, his hallucinatory immersion into the woman he loved – in the context of his life as a refugee. R Toady explores the existential dilemmas of a contemporary shopping mall, the creation of art and the search for love – with a tip of the hat to Beckett’s Waiting for Godot.

      Toady asked if the book would be dedicated to Miss Conception. I told him it would be, and also to my friend Don H. Perfect, he responded: a double dedication, a man, a woman, they merge – syzygy.

      I just wish they were both still here to read the book. That was not to be. But I’ll remember them always.

      Adam and Ava

      Writeorbust

      NEXT THERE WAS THE PAIN IN HIS BACK, a twinge, as if a dull needle had passed through the base of his spine. As pains went, it was easily relegated to a growing list of minor symptoms, all of which combined might add up to something, but singly were each insignificant and tolerable. The loss of hair, the soft slackening of his skin, for instance, both caused Adam more alarm than the weak ache in his spine.

      Ava was not without sympathy. It is all part of it, she told him, speaking to his image. She sat at the vanity, straightening her long black curls into something fashionable and sleek. Beneath one raised arm, the reflection of Adam turned over, struggling to rise from the bed.

      Maybe you pulled something, she suggested, A muscle or something.

      The weight of years, Adam grunted, hefting himself upright, is what I've pulled.

      She watched him from beneath lush, dark lashes. The mystery of those eyelashes had captivated him, their implied secrets stunning him into giddiness in those early days when she was a fresh young thing and he was already a man with too much past. Now there were new mysteries hidden in her eyes, and Adam realized the lashes were only spiked bits of hair after all.

      Now he read the news. He read books and magazines, went to museums and the theatre. She was filled with career and children. He watched movies, listened to music, dabbled. She went to the gym, took Spin classes. Now he knew her by the things she did not know, and did not care to know. It was an overflow of lake water carving the Grand Canyon.

      Ava ran down the list of her day, subtly disparaging his weight of years. Her mouth was moving. She was saying something. But his skin had gone clammy and his spine had melted, and he could no longer understand her meaning, and he understood there was no meaning. Nothing she said required a response.

      Inch by inch, he left the room. Ava seemed not to care that he had become a snail, or that only habitat and behavior separated him from a slug. Did she know that only the thin luxury of his shell, the hollow shelter he carried with him always, kept him from going about exposed and slithering through the world? Perhaps in her mercy, she allowed the shell. Adam shrugged through the hallway, down the stairs, taking infinite time to curl and uncurl over the precarious edge of each step.

      Ava passed Adam on her way out the door. He sat drinking coffee at the kitchen table, reading the morning paper. Peering up at her, his eyes appeared moist, bugged out under the magnification of thick reading glasses. He was a disheveled, silly dear, she thought. She did not regret her marriage. She felt for Adam a genuine affection, and a true regard for his well-being. His stability allowed her to settle, yet paradoxically to spread and grow. And growth, she had learned, was her core strength and cottage industry. As her business thrived, their children grew taller every day, all tendril vines carefully tended and trained to a trellis.

      Are you off again? Adam noted the small travel suitcase, which she wheeled perpetually after her like a vendor's pushcart.

      Off again, she agreed. I told you all about it a minute ago. You never listen. I'll be back on Wednesday. The twins have a recital on Tuesday, so you'll have to cover that. Will you remember?

      Certainly. His eyes dilated on the ends of their ommatophores, taking in the long expanse of her legs, the curve of her ass. He turned his eyestalks upside down and peered up her skirt.

      Adam! What are you looking at?

      You. He retracted his eyes. She smiled indulgently at his open admiration. Adam reached for her and she opened her arms, folding him into a fragrant cloud of affection. She smelled humid and ripe.

      I'll miss you, she said. She mussed his remaining hair, kissed his pate, the skin tattooed with sun and age. Unique patterns were beginning to emerge.

      His radula scraped a subtle buzz saw across the succulent skin of her chest. Yes, she was grown to ripeness now. The razored tongue pulled a tiny ribbon of flesh. He savored its cool sweetness. A bit like cucumber, he thought.

      Ava laughed and pushed his hands away. She wheeled her suitcase out the door behind her with a cheerful wave. She would not miss the small bite he'd taken. Not this time. Not yet.

      The Couple

      Train Whistle

      GILLIAN SAW DARKNESS, felt it pressing on her chest. She heard voices calling for IV’s and stretchers, backboards and help. Above the blare of sirens someone said, Ma’am, Ma’am, can you hear me?

      Gillian felt arms reach under her, lifting her onto something hard and flat. A man’s voice, very close to her ear, said, "It’s gonna be alright Ma’am. You’re gonna be fine. This is an oxygen

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