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New book now available: The House Across the Road and other Stories

The House Across the Road

a short story by dave schwartz

Kenneth and his grandfather watched from the front porch as the ambulance screamed its way through the neighborhood and backed into the driveway of the house across the road, where the woman lived. EMTs rushed, pushing a metal stretcher that reflected the sun’s sharp rays and looked heavy.

Earlier that afternoon, just before Kenneth called 911, he and his grandfather were enjoying the warm spring day and sipping sweet tea. They watched the woman’s oldest daughter park in front of the house and go inside carrying groceries for her mother, as she frequently did. After the screen door closed with a snap behind her, they heard her crying out.

Mama?

Mama, please, I need you to wake up!

Please, Mama. Wake up!

Please wake up!


Kenneth and his grandfather had passed years sitting together on that screened-in porch, since the roads were dusty, red clay, and you could still see the lagoon across the road. Decades earlier, when Kenneth was nine, he was still Kenny then, he went to live with his grandparents. His parents had decided to stop pretending that they loved each other and divorced. Shortly thereafter, on his ninth birthday, Kenny’s mom decided to stop pretending she liked being a mom and she left him with her parents. She had also decided she did not like being a daughter anymore and so Mimi and Pa and Kenny would never hear from her again.

Mimi and Pa, were loving people, and Kenny liked growing up in their house. Mimi shared her love for books and Kenny became a voracious reader. But more than anything Kenny loved sitting on the screened-in porch with Pa. In all but the worst weather, they watched the seasons turning and the neighborhood changing. And the porch was their island of two where the screens kept the passing of time at bay.

After dinner and on weekends they retreated to that screened-in porch. Sitting on wooden chairs with soft cushions that Mimi had made, Pa and Kenny took in ball games, the world news, and the Prairie Home Companion, on a dime store FM radio. And when they weren’t listening to the radio, they were talking. Pa was a thoughtful and insightful man with a sense of humor, and he shared his love for conversation with his grandson. Pa never talked down to Kenny, as if he were a child. It felt good spending time with Pa because Pa made everyone feel important and Kenny cherished it.

One summer the county paved the road. It was hard work in a hot Florida sun. The sweat poured and the new asphalt reeked. He and Pa stayed on the porch, cooled only by the shade and an old metal fan that squeaked out an odd rhythm. They listened to the Braves on the radio, drank sweet tea, and watched workers pave the road. On their last day of work, Kenny helped Pa give them each a beer.

Two falls later they watched as their view of the lagoon disappeared when a house went up. The house did not look like much. It was a plain rectangular blue box on stilts with windows. Its roof was a triangle. A single window on either side of the front door, along with the steps leading up to the front door and surrounding deck, created a face that made the house seem as if it might just get up on those stilts and walk, or jump away, like a witch’s house.

Kenny turned twelve when she moved in. He had finished riding the bike he had gotten for his birthday, and he was sitting on the porch with Pa when she pulled into the driveway and stepped out of a red, convertible Mustang. In the passenger seat Century 21 realtor’s Open House signs with her picture on them were tangled in a bunch. She did not look like a witch. A young forty-looking, she was medium height. She had big blue eyes that could be seen from across the road when she took off her sunglasses. She had long, soft wavy brown hair. Her big smile revealed even white teeth and deep dimples on her cheeks. When she waved and said, “Hey, Sweetie,” she had a soulful southern drawl that made Pa blush.

Kenny and his grandfather would come to know this woman, but only as neighbors get to know each other, at the end of the driveway or in the middle of the road, on the friendliest of terms, and without ever truly getting to know each other. Her name was Sarah.

Sarah was separated from her husband, she said, though she used the words separated and divorced interchangeably. It would be several years before she would stop using the word separated altogether. She was a real estate agent. She had two daughters that lived with their father and occasionally stayed with their mother. In time, the younger daughter would stop visiting entirely.

For years, even after the actual divorce, Sarah’s ex-husband would stop by, usually to pressure wash, or paint the house, or mend a front step. On occasion he would use his truck to help her move a new piece of furniture in or an old one out. Every so often he would spend the night. But at some point, he too stopped coming by.

Sitting on the porch, it did not take long before Kenny and Pa knew something certain about the house across the road. It was her secret to all but a few people in her life. And when those people stopped being a part of Sarah’s life, her secret grew smaller.

Just after Sarah moved in, there was a boyfriend. He was tan and tall. His hair was blonde from dye and expensively styled and he constantly wore a half-smile that was friendly but not kind. His white BMW, license plate 1RLTR1, often spent nights parked in her driveway, especially over the first three years that Sarah lived there. And then for a while his Beemer was not there nearly as often. And then it was not there for a long time, for more than a year. And then, briefly, they saw the Beemer parked there every day. And then Kenny and Pa never saw it again.

On nights the BMW was not there and throughout the years, Kenny and his grandfather had seen more than a few cars spending the night parked in the driveway across the road. Most belonged to men but some belonged to women. Every so often a car would return for a night or two, or a week, or maybe for a month. Most cars were not seen again in that driveway. But there were a few of the cars that they did get to know.

There was the maroon 1967 Plymouth Barracuda that, for a few years, seemed to stop by like clockwork every three months. He always wore a dark blue suit, light blue shirt untucked, and no tie. He would knock on the door. They would go for a ride, and he would stay for the night. Kenny and his grandfather loved that Barracuda, and they missed it when it was gone.

The Christmas she moved in, Sarah decorated her house with lights and angels and a nativity scene. She also decorated for Easter and Halloween that year and this became a tradition that the neighborhood anticipated as her decorations were so elaborate. And then one Christmas she did not decorate and never decorated again. It stopped around the same time that the Beemer left for good, and when Kenny was in high school.

For a long time after that Christmas, until he finished high school, Kenny did not see Sarah, just her car when it was parked in the driveway, and the lights when they were on inside her house. And then he went away to college.

Kenny spent his first summer break back home doing restaurant work. He worked late nights, until long after his grandparents had gone to bed. He did not have a social life and he did not mind. College had been fun. He was looking forward to getting back in the fall with money to spend. Each night, after work, Kenny showered and put on running shorts – the summer nights were too muggy for a shirt. He relaxed on the porch, listening to the radio, getting stoned, and smoking a cigarette or two before going off to bed.

On the night of the Fourth of July, Kenny had worked later than usual because of the tourists and the holiday crowd flocking to the beaches. It was just around one in the morning when he sat down on the porch. He tipped his head back and let it rest against Mimi’s soft cushion sticking up from the back of the chair. It had become perfectly fitted to his head over the years and it felt good. He closed his eyes, and he kept them closed when he heard her car speeding around the corner and up the road. He opened them after she swerved into her driveway, braked, and killed the engine all at once.

For several minutes Kenny watched Sarah sitting in the dark. When she opened the car door, he could see that she was wiping her face with her left hand, like wiping away tears, he thought. She got out of the car and closed the door. She was standing and looking in Kenny’s direction. The moon was bright, making Kenny visible as a dark form holding the red glow from the tip of the joint he was smoking. With her hands, she smoothed her short black dress that reflected bits of the moonlight when it moved.

“Do you have a cigarette?”

He thought he heard her correctly, but he was not sure. He did not want her to have to raise her voice this late at night and so he left the porch and walked quickly over to her. Watching him walk to her, she smiled, looking nothing at all like someone who might have been crying just minutes before.

“Do you have a cigarette, Kenny?” Sarah smelled good to him; her perfume was sweet. He might have noticed a hint of alcohol.

“I do.”

She watched him open his pack and start to pull out the last cigarette to give to her. She stopped him by putting her right hand on top of his.

“I’m not going to take your last cigarette, Sweetie.” She did not slur her words.

“No. It’s OK. I am going to get a fresh pack in the morning. Besides, I have a joint in the ashtray on the porch. Please, take it.”

She smiled and lit the cigarette with a lighter from her purse.

“When I moved here, I was taller than you. You’re tall, Kenny. And now you’ve already graduated high school.”

“Yes, Ma’am. I’m in college now. I’m just home for the summer.”

She took a long drag. She was smiling widely when she exhaled a thick cloud of white smoke.

“No more, Ma’am, OK, Kenny? In fact, no more Kenny. You’re too tall for Kenny. Besides, you’re a college man now. You’re a Kenneth…Go get your joint, Kenneth. Let’s smoke it inside.”

Kenneth almost said ‘yes, Ma’am’ but he caught himself and grinned. He ran over and grabbed his joint and ran back. He followed Sarah up the front steps. She opened the door, and he walked in behind her. It was his first time inside the house that he and his grandfather had watched being built. She gave him a quick tour without pausing too long in any one room.

Sarah’s house was very clean, and it smelled like peaches, the way she smelled. Each room had its own color theme. It reminded him of an ad for a home décor store. There were fake flowers and plastic fruit arrangements in every room and the small dining room was set and ready for an intimate party of four. On the walls ornately framed commercial prints depicted imagined scenes of Paris and Parisian café life in a style that was pleasing and also not quite art.

Throughout the house there were framed wall hangings bearing inspirational sayings. Some were vaguely Christian – God’s Love Begins With You; and others shared affirmations like – YOU are the SUNSHINE in EVERY DAY, and All You Are Is LOVE. Kenneth noticed that with the exception of a couple of pictures of her daughters, and a picture of her holding up a glass of red wine overlooking a French vineyard, there were no personal photographs, and no photographs of men. Inside it looked happy, but somehow, it did not feel happy.

Sarah had, however, made a point of showing Kenneth a wrinkled black and white photo of her mother in a yellowed metal frame on the stand next to her bed. “That’s my mama. Isn’t she pretty?” she said.

Her bedroom had French doors leading on to an enclosed porch overlooking the lagoon. It was air conditioned. The view was, despite new houses on the opposite shore, still very pretty and, as Kenneth had remembered it. Sarah disappeared and came back moments later. She laid a fresh hard pack of cigarettes on the coffee table in front of the futon they were sitting on. She was still wearing the black dress with silver glitter that she had been wearing when she got home. Kenneth noticed how petit the dress was when she leaned over to hand him a beer.

“Here you go, college man.”

Kenny thought she was teasing him innocently until she sat very close, with her hand on his bare shoulder.

It was past 4am when he got up to leave. Sarah was asleep on the futon. He walked past the kitchen. He saw her panties and bra on the floor by the refrigerator from when she had first gotten their beers. He closed the front door quietly behind him and he went across the road to sleep in his bed until it was time for him to get ready for work.

Late that night, when he got home from work, Sarah’s car was not in the driveway. And she did not come home before Kenneth finally turned off the radio and went to bed. It was not there the next morning. And her driveway stayed empty for more than a week. On a Saturday morning Pa and Kenny went out on the porch with their coffees and her car was parked in her driveway. Kenneth spent a good part of his day watching the front door of the house across the road with expectations.

Late that afternoon, just before sunset, they saw her walking quickly to her car, as if she were late for an appointment. She saw the two men, waved, and sent them a saccharine, “Hey, Sweeties!” She did not wait to hear Kenneth, or his grandfather return the greeting. She got into her car and drove off into the evening. She was wearing the same black dress Kenny had known. It was as if nothing had happened between them. And that is how she acted when she politely smiled and waved the few times she saw him in the weeks before he went back to school.

This time when Kenneth left for college, he stayed gone for a long time. He earned his degree, taught high school for a couple of years, and then he went to graduate school. And for a time, he only came home to be with Mimi and Pa for holidays and over the winter breaks.

The Christmas before he finished his dissertation, he and his grandfather were drinking coffee on the porch. It was Christmas Eve morning. Kenneth was surprised when Sarah opened her front door, sat down in a chair next to it, lit a cigarette and smoked it fast. She lit a second cigarette off of the end of the first one. She smoked it quickly also, and then she went inside, slamming the door hard behind her.

Sipping their coffees, Pa and Kenneth watched Sarah. Neither of them said a word. Kenneth had not seen her in a very long time and the person he watched sit hunched over and smoking those cigarettes he did not recognize at all. And even after he did see that it was Sarah beneath that strange face, he had to keep reminding himself.

She was gaunt. Her skin, no longer tan, was pasty grey, spotted, and hung loosely. The lines on her face from years of smoking were deep furrows. Her blue eyes were dull, with barely a spark inside of them. Her dark hair was oily and stringy, and hung straight down from her head, like it had weight that caused her shoulders to sink. She was wearing a faded pink house coat and silver glittered house slippers.

He looked at his grandfather who knew what Kenneth was thinking.

“After a while the only one ever to stop by is her oldest daughter, taking care of her ma and bringing groceries, running errands.”

Pa emptied his mug.

“Once in a while a friend from out of town stops by. But the only time I see her anymore is when she goes off to work or runs to the store for cigarettes and a box of that wine she drinks. I don’t think we’ve said hello to each other in five years.”

His grandfather was looking across the road. “Ignore it or not. That’s just how it is.”

The following year Kenneth was filling up his car to take his grandparents and his new fiancé out for dinner to celebrate Christmas Eve. Pumping the gas, he saw Sarah through the window of the Tom Thumb running the register. Interacting with the customers, her face was stern and stiff. She looked mean. He pretended not to notice her.

A couple of years later, Kenneth and his wife both got new university teaching positions. Before moving across the country, they spent spring and summer with Mimi and Pa. Kenneth’s wife adored them like her own and Mimi loved having another woman in the house.

It had been a long time since that Fourth of July night and Kenneth had nearly forgotten it had ever happened. Over the years following, he had grown indifferent to the house across the road and any cars that might be parked in the driveway, including her car. In every respect she was simply the woman who lived in the house across the road and who used to, for a time when he was a boy, decorate the outside of her house brilliantly for the holidays. It was nostalgia as much as anything that kept Kenny looking across the road.

One afternoon a couple of days after Easter Sunday, Kenny and Pa were out on the porch listening to a baseball game when an ambulance pulled into the driveway across the road. The ambulance had not been racing and its siren and lights had not been on. Medics went inside and carried her out on a stretcher and drove her away. Three weeks later, her oldest daughter brought her home from the hospital and helped her out of the car and up the front steps. Sarah was dragging her right leg. It seemed to hang from her side and dangle. Sarah’s daughter held her tightly all the way up the steps and through the front door.

After that, her daughter, rarely accompanied by her husband who waited in the car when he did accompany her, stopped by regularly, usually to bring groceries and cigarettes and boxes of wine. Sometimes when she was alone Kenneth heard cursing, or a dish breaking, or yelling, coming from inside the house.

Very late one night, Sarah’s granddaughter, with her boyfriend in tow, stopped by and there was arguing that went on between three loud voices. They started at the front door before eventually taking the argument inside. Other neighbors were disturbed by the yelling and a sheriff’s car drove slowly by without stopping. That had been a year ago, and Kenneth had not seen the two again until today, when they had parked exactly where the funeral home van had been, before it left with her grandmother zipped in a dark plastic bag.

Kenneth and his wife were visiting Mimi and Pa for Easter. The ball game had been on, but Pa had turned the volume way down when Kenneth called 911, and then he turned the radio completely off out of respect for Sarah. Sitting on the porch Kenneth and Pa did not say much and simply watched the ambulance and the funeral home’s van complete their business and drive away.

When Easter dinner was ready, Mimi came out to the porch. She had been cooking with Kenneth’s wife all afternoon. She was still wiping her hands with a hand towel when she told them dinner was ready. And then her face turned dour, almost sad, as she looked at the dark, empty house. Kenneth could not remember ever hearing his grandmother mention Sarah or the house before.

“I went to school with Sarah’s mama,” Mimi said. “Starting in the second grade when she moved here from Tennessee. We were friends in middle school and her name was Grace. But Grace got mad at me for something I can’t even remember. In high school Grace did what she wanted and came and went as she wanted. She was a pretty girl, so she got away with it. Grace dated who she wanted to date too. I’m not sure she even thought about it much. Her daddy had money and she was used to getting things she wanted. Then I went off to college and came back and married your Pa.

“Grace was just out of high school when she had that baby girl. And we all knew the daddy. He sold yachts down at the marina. He had a lot of money, and he was twenty years older than Grace. He was also a mean drunk, who knocked the pretty out of her. I can’t imagine being a little girl and growing up in a house like that. I can’t imagine Grace would have done much to look out for her daughter. I can’t imagine.”

Mimi paused briefly.

“Your Pa and I saw Grace at a bar one night. She was wearing clothes that were too young and dancing with men who were too young. She wasn’t there with her husband. Maybe he was at home. Sarah would have just been a teenager then.”

Mimi looked across the road at the empty house. She mumbled, but Kenneth heard what she said.

“With her own hands, the foolish one tears hers down.”

Mimi turned and the screen door closed quietly behind her. Pa and then Kenneth followed her inside to the dining room where Kenneth’s wife was just lighting the candles for Easter dinner.

The Prettiest Piglet

a short story by dave schwartz

In a pretty little valley, surrounded by pretty little mountains, and next to a pretty little stream that ran down from those pretty little mountains, there was a pretty little farm. And on that pretty little farm lived a pretty little piglet named Gwendolyn.

Gwendolyn liked being pretty and she liked being told she was pretty. What Gwendolyn didn’t like was being a piglet.

“You are such a pretty piglet!” everyone said. Gwendolyn knew it was true, but she did not like hearing the customary end of that compliment, “piglet”; she didn’t like being reminded.

“You are going to be a pretty pig, like your mom,” some animals also said. She knew her mom was pretty, but she didn’t want the other part to be true. She didn’t want to grow up and be a pretty pig. She just wanted to be pretty.

“Why do I have to be a pig when I grow up?” she would think to herself, so she couldn’t be heard, in a very loud voice. “I’m prettier than my mom!”

Gwendolyn worked hard to always look pretty. Beginning with the basics that her mother showed her, she became very good at applying makeup to her already pretty face. She would use a little makeup if she wanted to simply highlight how pretty she was. Or she would use a lot of makeup if she wanted to exaggerate her beauty.

And, depending on where she was going and who she might be seeing, or, more importantly, who might be seeing her, she could be very clever with her makeup. She could adjust her eyebrows and the makeup around her eyes in a way that pulled you in and kept you looking at her pretty face. She could make her face look fun, or serious, or adventurous, or silly, or happy, or all of those qualities at once. And no matter how she looked, she was always the prettiest piglet.

One morning, after breakfast, as they were walking away from the trough, her father, a very handsome pig in his own right, noticed pretty, piglet Gwendolyn.

“My dear daughter,” he said, “You look absolutely delightful this morning.”

It was true. That morning she had painted her face with the intention of looking delightful.

“Why,” her father continued, “I’d bet you are the prettiest little piglet I’ve ever seen on this whole farm.”

Her handsome father trotted away to roll in some fresh, soft mud.

“Of course!” she thought to herself loudly so no one could hear her. “The whole farm! It’s full of animals. I don’t have to be a pig. I can be anything I want, and I can still be the prettiest.”

Gwendolyn truly meant it. Except that she said, “I mean it,” defiantly, but in a whisper so no one would hear her.

The next morning she woke up early and decided she was going to be a chicken. She had always liked feathers. And so, she put on her makeup and a pretty, green dress covered with pink watermelon slices, that Gwendolyn looked pretty wearing, and she went over to the henhouse to be a chicken.

Realizing she was much too big to be a chick, she went to where the hens had gathered. They had been quietly chatting, gossip mostly, and pecking around the yard for their breakfast. When Gwendolyn walked over, there was a lot of fussing and flapping of feathers. All of the hens were excitedly introducing themselves to her, and Gwendolyn was excitedly introducing herself back.

There were more than a few, “You are such a pretty hen,” and Gwendolyn always returned the compliment, whether it was true or not. She never thought it was true.

The hens adored Gwendolyn. She always seemed to be smiling. And her eyebrows framed her bright eyes and that let you know that she was really listening. Gwendolyn was almost never really listening.

That first morning Gwendolyn followed the hens’ every move. She asked a lot of chicken questions, and she listened, intently. She was learning everything she could about being a chicken. She couldn’t let them know she was really a piglet. She went to bed exhausted, and she slept soundly that first night.

The next morning when Gwendolyn woke up, the other hens were already up quietly chatting, mostly gossip, and pecking about the yard. When she joined them, the hens were just as excited to see her as they had been the morning before. Gwendolyn loved the attention.

The next few days went much the same. She followed the hens around, did what they did, and talked about the things that they talked about, gossip mostly.

The hens, as I said before, adored Gwendolyn. She always looked so pretty and so happy, and she was fun to be around. And they all became good friends. One day Gwendolyn decorated the henhouse with a wreath she had made of straw and thistle. Another morning she filled a basket with grubs and fresh berries as a surprise treat for all the gals. She had made the basket out of straw and thistle. The hens loved her and paid her wonderful compliments all day long. They admired how pretty she always looked and what a sweet friend she was. Gwendolyn loved being the prettiest hen and having hen friends.

She quickly settled into hen life and one night, not long after she first arrived, she did not go to bed quite so exhausted because she hadn’t really learned anything new about being a hen that day. The next morning, she woke up earlier than usual to a very strange sound. The other hens had heard it too and were beginning to gather in the yard.

“You can always count on Rooster. It’s exactly sunrise,” her friend, Shelly said.

Gwendolyn saw that Shelly was fawning as she talked about Rooster. All of the hens were fawning over Rooster.

When Rooster crowed again, Gwendolyn looked up where all of her fawning hen friends were looking. And there he was.

Rooster was high on top of the barn, and strutting. When he puffed out his chest to crow and announce the new day, the hens went crazy. Gwendolyn found that she too was fawning over Rooster.

“I want to do that,” she said out loud.

She imagined herself strutting high on the barn, chest puffed out, announcing the day, all the hens looking up at her, a fawning crowd of admirers.

That night Gwendolyn didn’t sleep. She worked through the night on her makeup because she very much wanted to enchant Rooster. And in the morning when she was ready, she was one enchanting hen.

Just before dawn Gwendolyn climbed up to where Rooster was, atop the barn. He saw her strutting over to him and he saw that her makeup was enchanting. But Rooster would have rather spent the last twenty minutes before he had to go to work and crow, as he always had, deliberately drinking his coffee alone. But here was Gwendolyn.

“I just love listening to you! You are so talented! I want to try! Will you teach me?” She was extremely enchanting.

“No,” said Rooster ignoring how enchanting Gwendolyn was.

And then he said, “If you don’t mind, I need to prepare.” Rooster turned his back on her completely and returned to sipping his coffee.

Gwendolyn returned to the other hens. She was with them when Rooster crowed and they all fawned. She didn’t fawn. Her feelings had been hurt and she was mad, and she didn’t like Rooster at all. The hens didn’t notice that she wasn’t quite as chipper that morning because her enchanting makeup blended into her sad face and became a pleasant smile.

The next morning Gwendolyn woke up late. The hens were already pecking, and gossiping, mostly. Seeing them she decided she didn’t like them much anymore. She realized that they only had two legs each. Gwendolyn had four legs.

“Surely four legs are better than two,” she thought silently so no one could hear her.

Gwendolyn knew she could never live as a pretty hen. She needed to be pretty and four-legged. Only four-legged folks could truly understand her. All day she pretended to be a happy, pretty hen. But inside she was imagining what it might be like to be the prettiest on four legs.

That night, when all the hens were sleeping, she snuck out of the henhouse and back to the pig pen where she rolled in mud and ate from the trough and quietly rooted around all by herself. The next morning, she was the prettiest hen again, and the chickens were none the wiser.

Around mid-morning, a dog came bounding through the yard, frightening, and scattering all the chickens. Gwendolyn, trying not to laugh at the hens’ distress, was taken with the dog’s speed, and its smooth, shiny yellow coat. For a moment she imagined being a pretty dog. When at once, the dog heard its name being called and it obediently turned and ran back to the farmhouse. Every thought of being a pretty dog disappeared. The dog obeyed a command and Gwendolyn definitely did not like doing what she was told.

After she decided that she didn’t want to be a pretty dog, Gwendolyn spent the rest of the day by herself, unhappy with being a pretty hen, and coming up with all sorts of things she didn’t like about it. She hated the food. It had no flavor. And she hated chicken feathers that got all over everywhere and couldn’t help chickens fly anywhere. She wouldn’t even consider egg laying. That was something that Gwendolyn didn’t think was ever pretty. However, seeing the dog had given her an idea. And the next morning she woke up early, even before Rooster, put on new makeup, and left the henhouse for good, as a pretty cat.

Gwendolyn had long admired the cats. They seemed to be able to do whatever they wanted to do and go wherever they wanted to go. Sometimes they were alone. And sometimes they were together. They only talked if they felt like it. And they were constantly grooming themselves. She liked all of those things about the cats. When she was a hen, Gwendolyn recalled when a cat had raided the henhouse, terrorizing everyone, and sending useless feathers flying. That had made her smile.

Cats were cool and now Gwendolyn was going to be a pretty cool cat. When she had been putting on her makeup, she recalled that when she was a very young piglet, she had learned to mimic the slow confident stride of the cool farm cats. She was walking that way when she sauntered over to three cool cats loafing in the shade and not saying a word. Again, she was too large to be a kitten, so she decided to start as a cat.

At first, the three cool cats sat there indifferently, loafing. But, when Gwendolyn licked her front paws and stuck her curly tail straight up in the air, the cool cats leaped up excitedly and went over to meet the new cool cat.

“Such a pretty girl,” they purred and rubbed against her. “Such a pretty kitty.”

Gwendolyn and the cool cats spent the day getting to know each other and becoming fast friends. There was bottom scratching, and biscuit making, head butting, low impact wrestling, and they loafed everywhere they felt like it, all around the farm. When they all parted for the night, Gwendolyn couldn’t believe how close they had all become so quickly. She loved her cool cat friends.

“They get me. They really, really get me. They even wear makeup just like I do.”

Gwendolyn didn’t say it, or even think it, exactly. But she did feel it and she fell asleep feeling every bit the prettiest kitty. The next morning she put on her face and then cool, pretty kitty, Gwendolyn, went out to find breakfast and her cool cat friends.

She didn’t exactly know where breakfast would be, but she did remember that when she was a piglet she had gotten yelled at for eating a delicious bowl of food that had been freshly set out on the back porch of the farmhouse. She remembered being smiled at and told, “Pretty piglet. That’s not for you. That’s for the kitties, silly, pretty girl,” before being shooed away by a broom. And so off sauntered Gwendolyn, to the back porch of the farmhouse.

When she got there it was too late. The cool cats had already eaten all the food and they were casually licking their paws and grooming themselves. They also completely ignored her. Their makeup was perfect.

“Hey there cool cats.”

Without even a glance in her direction, the cool cats were ignoring Gwendolyn and each other.

“Say buddies, is there any more breakfast?”

Not a sound from the cats, who wouldn’t say a word or acknowledge each other that entire day.

Gwendolyn was very hungry, but she didn’t know what to do. She was quite new at being a cat. She thought about it and didn’t think she would look very pretty hunting and eating mice. Besides, even though her toenails were neatly painted, they weren’t quite long enough or sharp enough for killing. That night she went to bed very hungry.

The next morning, her hunger woke her up early, even before Rooster, and she was sitting, waiting politely at the back porch door of the farmhouse when the full food dish appeared. Gwendolyn couldn’t contain her excitement when she saw and smelled the canned food swimming in its own gravy.

“Oh, you pretty, pretty kitty. Where did you come from?” She heard the farmer say.

“You look famished, poor thing. Let me bring you a big dish of food just for you.” Gwendolyn could barely stand still, hopping from paw to paw and rubbing up against the farmer’s legs as he went back inside.

When he returned, the farmer set a new dish down in front of Gwendolyn, scratched her head, told her what a pretty kitty she was and then, went off to the barn. The other cool cats, arriving for breakfast, saw how cool and pretty Gwendolyn looked eating from her very own bowl, and they all became very excited to see her.

After they had all eaten a big breakfast, the cool cats spent the day just as they had done the day before yesterday, when they first met Gwendolyn, as best friends. When she said good night to her cool cat friends, she was tired, but she wasn’t hungry. Gwendolyn fell asleep quickly.

The next morning she woke up, found her food dish, and ate. But she couldn’t find any of the other cats all day, no matter where on the farm she went.

The day after that the cats were there during breakfast, but they were ignoring her again.

And the day after that they were all good friends.

And the day after that they had all disappeared.

Before she knew it, Gwendolyn didn’t like being a cool cat, and she found herself regularly sneaking back into the pigpen to root around in the dirt late at night, secretly, so no one would see her.

“I don’t think cats are very nice. I want them to like me all the time. Sometimes they just seem mean,“ she thought to herself. “The hens liked me all the time. I don’t know what to expect from the cats.”

Gwendolyn was becoming more and more bored pretending to be a cool cat. She didn’t like the cats anymore, even when they did tell her what a pretty kitty she was. And so, one morning, she woke up and put on her most ordinary makeup. She was still a pretty kitty, but it was subtle pretty kitty makeup, that, along with her cat-like finesse, wouldn’t attract notice as she roamed freely about the farm and gathered information.

That night, as Gwendolyn was falling asleep, she thought about everything she had observed that day. She learned that she didn’t want to be a dairy cow because they seemed to only serve others. She didn’t want to spend her life serving. Furthermore, and what she truly couldn’t understand is how they could all be so happy serving others when there was no reward for it.

Gwendolyn knew that she could never be an owl or a crow or an eagle. No matter how much makeup she put on, it would never be enough to make her fly. Besides, flying birds thought themselves too noble and didn’t care much for makeup and those who wore it. They are much too direct in their manner of speech, like Rooster had been. She would never get pretty words from their like.

Gwendolyn ignored the mice. She didn’t want to think about being so vulnerable all the time.

She discovered that the sheep were slow and boring, and they all dressed alike, and the rams were elitists. Gwendolyn wanted excitement and understanding.

Being around the horses had made Gwendolyn uncomfortable. They were beautiful and when they moved, they were elegant. Horses were kind and sensitive to each other’s feelings. They took their time doing everything. The stallions loved noticing the mares and the mares loved watching the stallions show off for them. That was all too much ‘nice’ for Gwendolyn. She couldn’t feign that kind of grace for long. And she didn’t even want to try.

For the time being, frustrated Gwendolyn got into the routine of being a pretty cool cat. She ate. She groomed. She ignored them when they ignored her. She patrolled her regular stalking path around the farm. And she slept at night and put on makeup every morning.

From time to time, Gwendolyn would sneak over to the pigpen, and, without makeup, she would frolic as a pig would. Because now, time had passed, and she was no longer a piglet. She was a fully grown sow, a very pretty, fully grown sow.

One morning she woke up and realized in a panic that she had only enough makeup left to highlight how pretty of a sow she was. Without more makeup, she wouldn’t be able to be a cool cat or anything else, including a pretty sow. And the only place she knew to go for more makeup was back at her home in the pigpen, from her mom, who had always bought Gwendolyn’s makeup for her.

It was late in the morning, long after Rooster had crowed, and Gwendolyn knew she would have to be more careful than she had ever been before, if she wanted to get back into the pigpen without being noticed. She put on the rest of her makeup, highlighting her already pretty, pig face, and she began to make her way back home.

She was just entering the pen when she heard a vaguely familiar grunt.

“Hello,” said the deep voice that followed the grunt.

Gwendolyn turned around. She was looking directly into the face of a large boar smiling at her. He wasn’t wearing makeup, but he was wearing thick glasses, and his brown hair was parted to one side. She found him to be handsome.

“I’ve known you for a long time, Gwendolyn,” said the boar. “The first time I saw you was over by that water barrel. You were with your litter, and I was with mine. I thought you were such a pretty piglet.”

She didn’t remember him, but she smiled and pretended she did. She looked perfect to him, and her smile convinced him that she did remember him.

“Are you going to stay this time?”

Gwendolyn was startled and didn’t know how to answer his question.

“This time,” he repeated. “Are you going to stay? I’ve seen you here at night. Now and then you show up. For a while I didn’t know who you were until one night the moon was full and I could see your face. And it was you, Gwendolyn. Every time I watched you rolling in the mud and slopping from the trough, all I could think of was how much I wanted a pretty sow just like you to spend the rest of my days with.”

And that’s when she remembered that this boar had been one of the piglets she had liked talking to when they were very small.

“Arthur!” she said, hugging him tightly. “I have thought about my old friend every day, wondering how you are.” She hadn’t really wondered how he had been but Arthur was easily convinced. Gwendolyn was smiling.

“You were always my best friend. You listened to my ramblings, and you always understood me.”

Arthur was dizzy.

Gwendolyn and Arthur spent the entire day talking and catching up. She told him that she had gone away looking for someone who could understand her and love her. She meant it. She only returned to the pigpen in secret because she had always felt drawn to come back, for a reason that was unknown to her, she told him. She also told him that it was probably the universe leading her back and wanting them to connect, and therefore she and Arthur were meant to connect. Gwendolyn didn’t mean it but she looked like she did.

“I understand you!” Arthur meant it, although he didn’t know it wasn’t true. “I watched you every night you climbed back into the pigpen. You were the prettiest piglet I’d ever seen. And I followed you into the woods, by moonlight, when you rooted for truffles that you ate by yourself. I understand you, Gwendolyn. You love being a pig more than anything else. And I love you more than anything else.”

Deep inside, Gwendolyn was embarrassed and a little upset that Arthur had been watching her. She didn’t like sharing her secrets with anyone. But she couldn’t help loving Arthur’s compliments. He paid them to her frequently and each one was unique.

Gwendolyn had only ever intended on sticking around the pigpen until her mom bought her more makeup. But after spending a few days with Arthur and his constant attention and adoration for her, she started to devise a new plan. And when Arthur told her how much all of the other boars envied him and wished they were Arthur who’s sow was the prettiest pig on the farm, Gwendolyn knew exactly what she wanted to be, finally.

A few weeks later Gwendolyn and Arthur were married. Gwendolyn never looked prettier and happier marrying Arthur. Her makeup was flawless. The wedding was the finest ever attended on that farm and everyone had a wonderful time celebrating what was the ideal union, a respectable boar, and the prettiest sow.

Arthur and Gwendolyn led very comfortable lives after that. They were well liked and admired in the community. Arthur spent lots of time with the other boars when he wasn’t telling his wife how beautiful she was.

Gwendolyn was adored every day by Arthur, who also gladly gave her lots of money so she could buy lots of makeup. And she received praise wherever she went, all around the farm.

“Gwendolyn, you are the prettiest pig anyone has ever seen. Your mom must be so proud.”

That was the polite way of saying that she was prettier than her mom, Gwendolyn thought.

And though they never had their own litter, Arthur and Gwendolyn never wanted for anything on that pretty farm by the pretty stream that ran down into that pretty valley surrounded by those pretty mountains.

Every so often though, when Arthur is fast asleep and snoring, Gwendolyn quietly puts on fresh makeup and she heads out far beyond the confines of the farm, to distant parts with new animals who haven’t yet seen how pretty Gwendolyn is.

Academic Papers

Second Life® and classical music education

This article originally appeared in the Journal of Virtual World Research, Vol. 2. No. 1. April 2009.

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Since January 2007, Music Academy Online, a web-based business dedicated to generating interest in classical music, has been developing a ‘Disney World for Classical Music’ in the virtual world of Second Life®. The virtual world provides a unique opportunity to teach classical music in an interdisciplinary fashion, the ability to reach out to a population that is hesitant to explore classical music, and a way for reaching out to those who have been disenfranchised by traditional educational paths. This has led to the development of iconography in Second Life that exploits the virtual world’s inherent ability to put seemingly disparate information together in a way that encourages questioning and discussion. But above all, this has led to the conclusion that the importance of human interaction and the Socratic method are the key elements in virtual world education.

The Integrity of Structure or the Structure of Integrity: An Analysis of Charles Ives’ Hallowe’en

A Dissertation submitted in partial satisfaction of the requirements for the degree Doctor of Philosophy in Music by David Thomas Schwartz

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“The Integrity of Structure or the Structure of Integrity: An Analysis of Charles Ives’ Hallowe’en” examines the compositional procedures employed by Charles Ives in Hallowe'en. Charles Ives described Hallowe’en as “one of the most carefully worked out (technically speaking), and one of the best pieces (from the standpoint of workmanship)” that he had ever done. First, what is the structure of Hallowe’en? Second, is this structure a thoroughly worked out and closed structure? If an analysis reveals that this is not the case, what could Ives have meant with his assertion about the structural integrity of Hallowe’en?