Inkwell: Authors and Artists

    
ether garments to drape over unsuspecting pa-
  

    
pasan chairs.

But I dig-
  

    
ress, she thinks, arriving back in the present tense.  The doorbell is
ringing.  M-
  

    
any have rung, but few have entered.
My mind is tired,
my thoughts are splintered.
Oh, no, I'm thinking in rhyme again!"
she muttered to he-
  

    
rds of Tribbles now underfoot, nibbling at the cardboard cutouts, y-
  

    
ellow viscous heroes, and sparkling champ-
  

    
ionship rings.  "Squeek!  Squeek!" said the Tribbles.  S-
  

    
quelch! Squelch!" said the yellow viscous heroes.
The championship rings said nothing.

She wa-
  

    
tered the beanstalk outside the window and wondered when the bamboo out back
would be high enough to harvest. "A new crop of papasan chairs popping up
every few months," she thought, with satisfaction. She flicked a small bee-
  

    
hive hairdo into the hair on her knuckles, out of boredom, and hung
little placards marked "Jack", "jAck", "jaCk", and other variants onto
the beanstalk.

"Surreality's never been a friend of mine" she warbled ha-
  

    
ppily, hardly noticing how the worms tied to the tops of her feet
writhed in disagreement.   

Henry, now recovered sufficently from his recent electrical
enlightenment, shuffled to the door.  He peeked through the peephole
and mumbled, "I think it's Jack."  

He reached for the handle, and e-
  

    
veryone outside, dressed as either chickens or golden eeggs, yelled,
"Sur-".
He slammed the door shut.
"-reality!" squeaked a worm.

Henry glared at the worm.
He carefully open the door again.
Even the men out side were dressed in huge wigs and glittering evening
gowns.
"Sur-
  

    
reality, at your service sir--"   Bowing low, the foremost cre-
  

    
tinous blobs melted into a lemon-scented bat pie, and flew aw-
  

    
kwardly into a painting on the wall. It was a watercolor Henry had never
much liked anyway.

He had received it as a be-
  

    
ing of light and understanding, but really, it belonged in a hotel
room over a dubiously laundered be-
  

    
nevolent association's weekly take, lending ironic commentary t-
  

    
onight on your television.

"Back to you, Stan," the commentator smirked from the bedside tab-
  

    
leau, in which she was artfully posed as one of the Muses descending into
vanity press Hell.  Draped around her up-
  

    
thrusting their published tomes, parrying and jockying for position,
half a dozen writers hea-
  

    
ved with passion, or the most descriptive thing that could allude to
pas-
  

    
tilles, for which the more savvy of their number knew that most commentators
and editors cherish a hidden passion.

The candy store down the street was doing land-office business; the line was
nearly around the block. Shiny-jacketed hipsters stood among den-
  

    
tal floss models and fevered guitar slingin' her-
  

    
bal remedies, guaranteed to cure constipation, consternation, and
conversation or your money back.  And if they acted now, they were told,
they'd receive absolutely free this remarkable set of gin-
  

    
sburg signed first editions.  Those expecting copies of Howl, however,
were sorely disappointed upon reaching the head of the line and
discovering the promotional package to be the opinions of Ruth Bader
Ginsburg, US Supreme Court Justice, who had r-