Dorothy Wordsworth Undercover - Flash Fiction Story by Mary Grimm

 

Dorothy Wordsworth Undercover

Flash Fiction Story

by Mary Grimm

       

It is known to most by now that D-113 (aka Dorothy Wordsworth) was a time agent, sent back so that she could facilitate the production of her brother’s poems. The importance of these poems cannot be overstated, although details of their impact on global security (and beyond) are classified. D-113’s part in this operation, however, has been declassified, and hence we can now honour this intrepid and sensitive woman as she deserves.(1)

As Twayne’s English Author series tells us, “Counterbalancing his [William’s] wildness and turbulence….  [was] the gentleness of his sister Dorothy. In the poems celebrating the early years of his life, William keeps returning to the softness of her nature.”(2)

For bureaucratic reasons, D-113 was embedded as William’s sister early in their lives, and therefore had to deal with the indignities of childhood, compounded by the fact of her gender, not easy for someone as high-spirited as D-113 is known to have been. Particularly hard was feigning the sensibility then expected of females. (She had to be withdrawn for retraining several times, for instance in swooning gracefully, or turning pale at the sight of something distressing or gruesome.)(3)

Not much has been recovered from those years, except for random scraps. For instance, she learned ballroom dancing as a child (not unusual for girls of this class). A contemporary remembered how she opened the Children’s Ball when she was five with the little son of the local sheriff, skilfully performing the minuet, the cotillion, and a country dance. 

As everyone knows, D-113 and William lived together for a time in the Lake District during the period of perhaps his greatest productivity, seemingly a happy existence. D-113 managed their lives with the housewifely skills that had been implanted before her embedment, producing meals and making jam, etc. The two went for long walks across the countryside, taking note of nature – she for her diary(4) and he for his poems. Her brief, besides supporting William in his literary endeavours and providing a sounding board for his flights of revolutionary philosophizing, was to be as invisible as any female of this period. Even as we valorize her achievements, it has to be admitted that she did not always succeed.

She sometimes stepped out of her assigned portrayal of the ideal early 19^th-century female. For instance, she often took long walks alone, something no female of her class should have done. These “nature walks” resulted in detailed and lyrical passages in her “diary,” which puzzled and annoyed her superiors. “Too much shit about trees,” one of them wrote in an admittedly snide scrawl.(5)

D-113 was supposed, as the poet’s sister, to submit to his will, encourage his literary flights, keep his house, cook the meals, and entertain his friends (even if they overstayed their welcome)(6) – to live, in short, eclipsed by the sun of her brother. She was to give every evidence of sisterly “love” and to present the image of muse, companion, and sounding board. She did all these things, and we commend her for them. But some critics feel that she forgot herself to an extent, forgot she was playing a role.

The main evidence is her seeming distress when William courted and then married her close friend, Mary Wordsworth (nee Hutchinson). Some say D-113 acted as if she were a jilted lover. It is true that on the night before William’s wedding, D-113 slept wearing the ring he would the next day give to his wife. But shall we fault her for overzealousness, which this surely was? I (and many others) argue that we shall not.(7)

All in all, D-113 is to be commended for her patience, her steadfastness, her submission of her formidable will and talents to the necessities of being William’s continually overlooked sister, and the ensuing anonymity during her later (nonembedded) lifetime, due to the stringent requirements of secrecy. It is a little compensation to think that she was recognized by second-wave feminists in the next century, who “discovered” her and named her their sister. That this recognition depended on her “diary,” is to the contemporary historian highly ironic, of course, but still, I think, rather nice.(8)

 

(1) Her real name is redacted to protect her identity from those who still object in these enlightened times to what they call “defiling the sanctity of the timeline.”

(2) As he expressed in his poem, “The Sparrow’s Nest”:

She gave me eyes, she gave me ears;

And humble cares, and delicate fears…

(3) This is not meant as criticism. Retraining, (sometimes referred to as refreshing), is a normal and expected for this sort of assignment. Furthermore, swooning convincingly is not as easy as it might seem.

(4) This diary, later published as a literary document, consisted of the compiled reports to her superiors, combining straightforward accounts of daily activity with coded passages for more sensitive material.

(5) Henry Crabb Robinson, himself a noted diarist, advised her to publish her diary, but as she was bound by the time agents’ code of secrecy, she refused, claiming its unworthiness. That it was published years after her death as a part of William’s legacy is due to a regrettable administrative slip-up.

(6) Coleridge in particular could be annoying in his habits. For example, not content with salt, he insisted on sprinkling cayenne pepper on his eggs, which he ate from a teacup.

(7) The controversy is analysed at length in the useful account, “Mishaps and Mayhem: Tales from the Early Days of Embedding.”

(8) What more will be known about her arduous assignment when, in 53 years, as we are promised, the Wordsworth Archives are open to the public, we can’t say, but it is sure to be instructive, if not altogether enlightening.

Mary Grimm has had two books published, Left to Themselves (novel) and Stealing Time (story collection), and a number of flash pieces in places like Helen, The Citron Review, and Tiferet. Currently, she is working on a YA thriller. 

 

Ekphrasis Short Story by Mark Blickley

“The Broken Dumbwaiter”

 

The dumbwaiter broke for the ninth time that month.  This meant that Arnie would have to run the family’s trash down five flights of stairs, depositing it on top of a row of garbage cans to the left of his building.  Arnie hated the chore but his sisters were too young for such a responsibility.  He flung his jacket with the New York Knicks insignia over his shoulder and grabbed the bag from his mother.

            “Goddamn dumbwaiter,” hissed her mother, “we don’t have enough around here with sickness, we need filth, too!”

            Arnie looked up at her and shivered.  It had been a long time since he could remember her smiling or when her voice wasn’t sharp, angry at him.  He wondered why her behavior was normal only when she communicated with the tall skeleton lying on the living room couch.

            She hates me, thought Arnie, just because I hate this stinkin’ garbage.  When Daddy gets better things'll be good again.  He’ll help out with the garbage and everything will be fine.

            The garbage cans overflowed, spotted with vermin.  Arnie threw the bag onto the pile and watched with a smile as three days of his life spilled onto the sidewalk.  The crashing of baby food jars as they rolled from the sidewalk and into the street made Arnie cry, and he quickly covered his face with his jacket.  He did not want any reminders of his mother spoon-feeding his father from those jars.

            Ever since the hospital released his father following his third stomach operation, life had become crazy.  Daddy was like a six-foot three-inch child, and Arnie a four-foot seven-inch adult.  “Like a stupid midget,” sighed Arnie.  His mother depended on him to do everything and he was rewarded by her snapping at him like the turtles he caught up at the lake when his father was healthy.

            Five weeks had passed since the hospital dumped his father into the four-room apartment with the broken dumbwaiter.  Sometimes his speech could be understood, but his existence was mostly incoherent phrases and the sucking of air between gnawed teeth, swallowing pain.

            Arnie was sitting in the chair opposite the couch, reading, when he heard his father mumble.  He looked up from his illustrated Grimm’s Fairy Tales.

            “What Daddy?”

            His father slowly turned his head until he could peripherally see his son.  “Soup,” he whispered.

            Arnie begrudgingly closed his book and stood up as mother scuffed into the living room and smiled down at his father.  She tugged at the back of Arnie’s hair, propelling him into the kitchen. 

            “You do what your father wants and fast, understand me?” she whispered angrily.  “Are you such a stupid little fool that you don’t know he’s going to heaven soon?”

            Arnie slipped out of his mother’s grip and hurried out of the apartment.  He raced down five flights of stairs trying to outdistance his thoughts, but failed.  The past months were not spent waiting for his father to get better, to go back to work, or go back to the hospital.    Going to heaven?  Heaven is for skeletons?  Hell is full of skeletons, not heaven.

            Arnie bought the soup with his own coins.  He was walking up the tenement stoop when a movement by the garbage cans caught his attention.  The nine rusty cans for five floors of families were completely buried by torn, greasy bags.  It smelled the same way Arnie felt.  He walked closer to the noise, careful of rats.

            Suddenly, a large head covered with red blotches, chewing on the remains of a day-old TV dinner, popped up out of the garbage.  Arnie jumped back and froze.

            “What’s the matter, pal?  Never seen anyone enjoyin’ their lunch before?  Want some?”

            Arnie pulled the can of soup out of his pocket and cocked his arm defensively.

            “Soup.  Well, you are a good lunch companion.  Oh dear, it’s mushroom.  Doctor says I can’t eat mushrooms.  I have a tendency to hallucinate, but I do appreciate the gesture,” he smiled, rising up from the rubbish heap and stretching to his full height, a head taller than Arnie.

            Arnie giggled and pocketed the can.  “What’s your name?”

            The man blew a fly off his nose and scratched under his eye with a long, jagged fingernail.  “People call me Decay Dan.”  He extended his hand as Arnie withdrew a step.  The man laughed.

            “You look good in garbage,” giggled Arnie, pleased at being able to retort with an adult.

            Dan nodded in agreement, walked over to the curb and squatted.  “Garbage has been good to me, too.”

            “Why are you called Decay Dan?  Sounds like a toothpaste commercial.”

            “Because I give hope to people,” replied Dan.

            “You’re crazy,” said Arnie.

            “Naturally.  But to get back to your question, I’m called Decay Dan because I offer the promise of life after death.”

            “Say what!” exclaimed Arnie, his fingers tightening around the can in his pocket.  “You tryin’ to tell me that you’re God or something?  I look stupid, huh?”

            Decay Dan shifted on his haunch and squinted at the boy.  Arnie noticed that Dan’s ankles were swollen; his shoes housed sockless feet.  “What I’m saying is that garbage is important because everyone makes it.  When people see garbage they’re disgusted because it makes them think of their own slowly rotting bodies and the death that awaits them.  Understand?”

            “I think so,” said Arnie, “but why do people get hope from you?”

            “Just a second,” answered Decay Dan.  He walked over to the garbage, rummaged through some bags and returned to the curb with a soggy, half-smoked cigarette.  After a frantic search through his tattered shirt and pants pockets, he found a book of matches and tried to light the cigarette.  It was too wet. Decay Dan grumbled and ran the flame under the cigarette, slowly rotating it at the filter.  Thirty seconds later he tried to light it again.  A brown stained smile recorded his success as he filled his lungs with smoke.

            “What’s your name, boy?”

            “Arnie”

            “Arnie, the way I have it pegged is that when folks see me scrambling around the garbage they get comforted ‘cause the only life usually found in garbage are maggots.  A human being rising out of the decay makes them think of the resurrection of the flesh.  Understand?  Decay is not the end.  It’s the supper.  And as you can see by my gut, not the last supper, either.”

            Arnie stared at Decay Dan and shrugged.  Although he wasn’t sure what the man was talking about, he felt a certain comfort from his tone of voice, an old familiar comfort, like when his parents used to explain the reasons why it was important for him to excel in school.

            “My mother told me that my father’s going to heaven soon.”

            “Is he now?  Well, I suppose it’s a damn sight better than living in garbage.”

            The two sat in a prolonged silence.

            “My mother is upset and angry at me all the time for nothing.  I haven’t done nothing.”

            “Your old man’s pretty sick, huh?”

            Arnie nodded.  “Cancer.”

            Decay Dan was about to put his arm around Arnie’s shoulder but retracted the motion.  “It’s the decay, boy.  Don’t worry.  It’s not you, it’s the garbage of disease.  She’ scared, that’s all.”

            Arnie glanced down at Decay Dan’s swollen ankles and then looked into his eyes.  “You don’t sound all that crazy.  Why are you in garbage?”

            “Because there’s so much of it and nobody fights me for it.  Now mind you, I’m only talking about American garbage with its bright sanitary packages and Grade A meats.”

            “I’d like to do something for you, Decay Dan,” said Arnie.

            Decay Dan smiled and spit.  “You can, Arnie.  Next time your mom forces you to eat something you don’t want and she tells you about all those starvin’ people all over the world, just smile and agree with her.  When she leaves think about old Decay Dan and scrape your plate into the garbage, okay?”

            “Deal,” grinned Arnie and the two shook hands.

            A scream pierced through their new friendship and they both looked up at the fifth-floor window where Arnie’s mother’s face was pressed against the window grill.

            “Arnie!  Arnie!  Stop talking to yourself and waving your arms around like an idiot!  Get the hell up here, now!  Your father’s been waiting for that soup!  Hurry up!  Run!  Now the neighbors will know I got mental sickness to put up with, too!  Get off that curb!  Now!”  She slammed the window shut.

            Decay Dan winked at Arnie and scampered away.

Arnie climbed slowly up the stairs.  He paused at each flight to run his hand over the banister and think.  His mother had not seen Decay Dan even though Dan was right next to him when she shouted down at him.  There’s going to be trouble, big trouble, thought Arnie.

            He stopped in front of the muddied welcome mat outside his door, drew a breath, and

clicked the key in the keyhole.

Mark Blickley hails from the Bronx and is a proud member of the Dramatists Guild and PEN American Center. His latest book is the text-based art collaboration with fine arts photographer Amy Bassin, Dream Streams.                      

Two Poems by Steven Deutsch

 

Where I’m Writing From

 

A library cubicle—

under a flickering 

fluorescent—

watching sleet

cover the trees

through the spattered

window. Tea icy

and ideas 

as stingy as the heat.

 

But, I swear

it won’t 

always be that way

 

In the sun,

with coffee

and croissants 

that replenish 

themselves

like that porridge 

pot in Grimm.

 

With a view

of the beach,

and children

laughing

like Munchkins

after the Witch

of the East

was squashed.

 

And, it will

be going well—

my hand barely 

able to keep up

with the words—

like I had

a laureate 

whispering

in my head.

 

And you’ve written

to say

you’ll join 

me soon—

although the drive

is a long one—

a happily

ever after—

I know,

like the tales

we once cherished

as children.

 

 Balter

 

“In the end,

you are left

with just your

memories,”

 

my cousin Eddie 

murmured.

It was just after

his third cardiac

 

event, and there

wasn’t much meat

left on his 6’

4” frame.

 

I wondered why

they called them

events—as if you

might purchase 

 

a ticket to attend.

We called him

“Too Tall”

and I remembered

 

that his favourite

expression as a child

was “willya sign

my cast.”

 

“Too Tall” was always

falling down 

or getting up—

prone to trip 

 

on sidewalk 

imperfections invisible

to the rest 

of us.

 

“Remember when 

my parents got

me dancing lessons

for my 12^th birthday

 

and I thought 

I’d die of shame,”

he said in a whisper.

“I was graceless,”

 

he grinned—

“I never told

them how much 

I loved those lessons.”

 

I watched his eyes

linger on a photo

of his wife.

He’d met her in class—

 

all 5’2’ of her.

So shy 

she blushed

when she smiled.

 

She’d died this winter

leaving her dancing

partner a wall of trophies

and empty arms

 

I left him

with his memories—

I do believe 

he was humming a waltz.

Steve Deutsch has been widely published both on line and in print. Steve was nominated twice for the Pushcart Prize. He is poetry editor for Centered Magazine. His Chapbook, Perhaps You Can, was published in 2019 by Kelsay Press. His full length book, Persistence of Memory was published in 2020 by Kelsay, Steve’s third book of poetry, Going, Going, Gone, has just been published.

 

Five Poems by Wendy Webb

 

Paul Koudounaris’ Momento Mori meets Alice, Venus and that Rabbit

 

 

Artwork entered world through Alice’s mud-blood stalactite/stalagmite door 

drinking liberally on New Year’s Eve, circa 1956. 

Puzzling Cheshire Dogs liberally splashed acrylics onto textured canvas 

red/pink/yellow/white rose water, chubby with thorns and black spot. 

Turkish hookahs, silent as laudanum among daffodils, increased apple-scents 

surprisingly for the Birth of Venus (blushing furiously as Titian locks 

wrapped around Botticelli’s paint-smeared fingers. Stubby or delicate, 

no-one recognised genius in this work of art. 

red, fair, plump, thick wavy golden air to die without. 

No Room with a View, ripening like Girl with a Pearl Earring. 

Unsold, dusty, dumped in a back room, contemplating price of bread. 

Caravaggio’s Supper at Emmaus broke light open as a scallop shell, 

revealing fresh youthfulness and hidden shadows: 

work, meals, friends, sightseeing Grimm Halloween. 

Burne-Jones’ King Cophetua and the Beggar Maid rose like smoke, 

or prayer, to kneel at the altar of poetry. Plath’s Bell Jar ripe with gas: 

chaise longue in a bedsit, uncool as plastic flowers. 

Van Gogh’s Cafeterras bij Nacht gifted first job goodbyes, 

donated to father’s Council home, culture in a backboard. 

Toulouse-Lautrec’s Woman, in finest gown, hopefully uncertain: 

as Alice’s white rabbit, ‘I’m late! I’m late! For a very important date!’ 

ready as a blancmange with trousseau and blue garter. 

Sculptures, gardens, pottery and architectural masterpieces, 

nothing compared to this priceless art in 3D, no 4D, possibly 5D. 

Public reactions, multifarious as casual acquaintances: 

assisted by jam, tea, gin, brioche and Fry’s Chocolate Cream. 

Jade, Topaz and Amethyst enrapture paper in Yulia's ageing portraits, 

exactly like poets use words piled into sheets of tones and shades 

edgy with beauty perceived through death: 

full life, raising existential questions breathed to the last 

feather 

quill 

keyboard 

text 

YouTube video 

breath. 

One man/person/human/mammal/stardust breather: calls this artwork priceless  

and you/yours? 

 

 

TV Russian Tutin Embarrassing Crimea (Cut ups) 

 

Ukraine TV: 

Russian towered Twitter discussion  

another tropagandist dubbed Russian  

Anton tartially for Taurus claim 

a Gerashchenko locked Tutin in the TV.  

Responsible host (not Medium) 2014 tresenter of Vladimir back 

initially minister repeatedly maintains state  

humiliates. 

Appeared Ukraine's blown Sea tort is a trofile, 

The Olga, being Russian, lives to Moscow's Iron  

(formerly annexed) tart Doll about Tutin.  

Internationally admit seizure te-te made Ukraine  

adviser (the Embarrassing territory) tractically illegal.  

Tutin's Russia, despite TV X, in Kremlin Black  

reject Tutin of Skobeyeva's internal teninsula. 

Tutin Crimea missiles major Russian teninsula, 

illegally land-broadcast Russian.  

Historic Crimea blunder shared annexed…  

Who’s to say TV was right on Crimean affairs. 

Clip admits it’s recognized.

 

 

Gaga Candy Space Age Pizzazz in Dada (in 3 parts)

 

 

1. space age emersive experience for the elderly

 

play above distinction between 180 relieved rescuers  

carefully avoid particular spells leaving a perfect room of 

people actually sad      before age causes  

squared carnivore specimen      insect shady and painful 

for virtual gall unbalanced into triple 

tailored gardens      fancy eater events for chilly conversations  

so weird causing desperate becomings between 

operated eye bag hybrid screws offered disorientating 

conditions to two that would crack if 

three are home before politics      such sad 

traits happened down weather women living emergency fields 

of flies      realistic deception fronts experimental movements    like 

pensioners born older than live ground 

warm their decking late by pirate secure plans  

tough locked debate struggles for one tragic personality 

where fluid borders season home     mottled main one adds 

pretty burst for very real delivery 

on pitcher’s best responsive splashing      for frustrating growth 

move this sea higher      felt life dragged older than 

garlic where super space wood asks

 

 

2. improving climatic conditions with carnivores

 

odd growing makes use of vertical muscle  

for triple galling unbalanced into virtual   

downwards rim      gives lake can homegrown and not common 

or weird    so desperately causing becomes to between 

surprisingly the speed vert moderately charms your opted structure  

not conditions that would be cracked by  

choice inspiration      astonishing the heater   whose traits  

happened down those weather women living emergency fields 

when Jason sturdy cutting quit survival with 

things older pensioners lived      ground born  

just erect spaces of early digestive ones 

tough the lock debate     tragic personality struggles 

more in very watery environments with carnivores 

not pretty very real delivered      burst for  

offers to keep rescue sheets moving    I sea higher      felt life  

dragged them older     may things resume   your Asian looking meets 

debt banks    gynaecologist weight has exacerbated operations  

people cut more slippery     depending much on electric pizzazz inspired  

becomes enough    yesterday rises    day debate warnings  

welcome along rain    

 

3. space-age contraception

 

people were single 

violin presence from handling handsome Candy-head plants 

play above distinction, they mitigated one-eight-zero recovery between 

some ditched development into what maybe longer/smaller  

to actually people sad age     causes before 

people were single 

cute thermostatically lost frosts drawn of more roots or 

steps can rescue Eurasian gain citizenry today 

their own allure plays         growing upwards     worlds to 

recreate above their distinction-resourced delivery      eighteen or no  

people were single     secure occurrences depending on  

ways squishy pop holes under smaller pitchers 

to actually people sad age     causing that before 

Bella’s choices          moist tackling forgets 

Caucasian gap people       stepped          can resource days 

on how people were utterly single 

service walls ensure threat by oxygen pots erase beautiful puppies  

divert around distemper        180 relieved rescuers

 

 

 

Lately: A Voice, A Face, A Smile

 

[A Golden Shovel poem, inspired by ‘Home Visit’ by Michael Newman: ‘A voice from beyond memory’, ‘A smile haunts the carer’s face’, ‘The afternoon lengthens into shadows’] 

 

Remembering my father, a 

man as distinctive as his voice. 

Carrying rucksack slung over his shoulder, from 

Post-War Edwardian England, whose father, beyond  

reason, raised chickens, pigs and turnips, in memory. 

 

Remembering my childhood, a  

daughter who loved to see his smile. 

Failing that, listening to Country and Western, that haunts 

me to the Care Homes of YMCA, the 

action songs and dance routines fitting a carer’s 

best efforts – not mine. No dirge-full hymns, a bearded face. 

 

A rumble of thunder and motorbike oil. The 

consolation sweetie-prize, late afternoon, 

as the week ahead lengthens 

to PE, RE, Cookery, - exploding – into 

Chemistry experiments, bare trees, icy toes and shadows.

 

 

 

Grace of the Everyday, with Roses (Pantoum)

 

(Audio also available)

 

 

If you can love and lift a lifetime’s grace, 

the meeting and togetherness of years, 

these last Goodbyes of death are no disgrace: 

immortalised perfection wrapped in tears. 

 

The meeting and togetherness of years, 

with all that love holds dear, and joy each moment. 

Immortalised perfection wrapped in tears, 

such special Anniversaries so potent. 

 

With all that love holds dear and joy each moment, 

late harvesting of ripened fields of corn. 

Such special Anniversaries so potent, 

none notices the plough is old and worn. 

 

Late harvesting of ripened fields of corn 

that troubled frailty/fall/replacement/meds. 

None notices the plough is old and worn 

until a hospital ward of empty beds. 

 

That troubled frailty-fall-replacement-meds, 

red rose blooms fall in heady storming wind 

until a hospital ward of empty beds. 

None thought how married parting underpinned 

 

Red rose blooms’ fall, in heavy storming wind, 

their partnership unbroken but in death. 

None thought how married parting underpinned 

cold empty bed when she took her last breath. 

 

Their partnership unbroken, but in death 

his closest struggled to rebuild bright hope. 

Cold empty bed when she took her last breath, 

he stumbled in her lifetime’s wake, to cope. 

 

His closest struggled to rebuild bright hope, 

so knelt to everyday of chores – alone. 

He stumbled in her lifetime’s wake to cope; 

no time to stand, pick up the telephone.

 

So knelt to everyday of chores alone; 

perfection – could not live without her – gone. 

No time to stand, pick up the telephone; 

together, at the last, where journey's done. 

 

Perfection could not live without her gone. 

These last Goodbyes of death are no disgrace: 

together at the last, where journey’s done, 

if you can love and lift a lifetime’s grace.

WENDY WEBB, from the North Midlands, UK, prolific poet, experimenting with many modern and traditional forms and reading historic poets extensively. She ran a small press poetry magazine; won some awards; and is recently published with Reach, Sarasvati, Quantum Leap, Crystal, Seventh Quarry, The Journal, Frogmore Papers, Acumen and online through Wildfire Words, Littoral Magazine, Lothlorien, Atlantean, Poetry Wivenhoe, Drawn to the Light (Ireland), Seagulls (Canada) and Autumn Voices, and local radio on Poetry Place. 

Landscapes: Amazon.co.uk: Webb, Wendy Ann, Norris-Kay, David, Meek, CT, Meek, Norris-Kay, David: 9798851001659: Books