Poppycock is Tested

“I shouldn’t worry too much,” said Mr. Periwinkle, cradling his snifter of brandy lovingly, “She’s always a little bit gloomy anyways.” “But that’s just the point, Mr. Periwinkle,” Professor De Busque shook her golden hair in frustration, “Professor P’ohlig may always be a little gloomy, but right now she is a lot gloomy!” Mr. Periwinkle and the Professor looked thoughtfully out the window of the Poppycock kitchens into the back garden, where Maude was attempting to take Molly for a turn among the petunias, with little success. “She does keep falling over,” Mr. Periwinkle murmured, aware that he himself often fell over, but that was generally from the teensiest bit too much gin. He seemed to be steadier on brandy, but Professor P’ohlig was drinking neither gin nor brandy, not even pink champagne for that matter. Both Emily and Mr. Periwinkle winced as Molly crashed headfirst into the trellis, with poor Maude helpless to stop her. “That’s it,” said Emily, putting her dainty foot down quite firmly. “No more nonsense, we’re calling Dr. Murthiyrakkaventharan.” Mr. Periwinkle raised his eyebrows as Emily picked up the lovely old phone on which Thomas Edison used to make crank calls to Nikola Tesla. * It had all begun some time ago, you see. Professor P’ohlig, always renowned for having a deceptively hardy constitution for one who looked a bit consumptive, had begun to have rather queer fainting spells. At first she blamed them on too many late nights with Mr. Periwinkle, and then too many nights of enforced gaiety in attempts to move past her curious financial affair with the avuncular Mr. Denning. However, even after cutting out the late nights and gaiety (and even Mr. Denning seemed to be aiming to be reinstated in his old position) she seemed to be toppling over at an alarming rate, and Emily, Maude, and Mr. Periwinkle were increasingly alarmed at how often they found her on the floor in various rooms of the house. Once she had collided with a rather large bookcase that had belonged to W.H. Auden on her way down, and if the shelves hasn’t been largely empty at the time owing to Maude going through quite a poetry period, well, let’s just say it would have been Leonard Bast all over again. Emily had to launch a sneak attack by bringing Dr. Murthiyrakkaventharan to the house without Molly’s knowledge; she was notoriously skittish around doctors, especially when they were handsome and had difficult-to-pronounce last names. * “Well, I think it’s perfectly ridiculous and I don’t mind saying so!” Molly shouted unhappily. Dr. Murthiyrakkaventharan or no Dr. Murthiyrakkaventharan, she was not going to submit quietly. “I absolutely cannot see how all of these wires are going to make me stop falling down.” “Well, you’re right, Professor P’ohlig, they’re not,” the doctor said gently, attaching another electrode to Molly’s head. “They’re just going to help us figure out why you’re falling down.” Molly grumbled quietly, but let the doctor keep putting electrodes on her head while Emily patted her hand, Maude rubbed her feet, and Mr. Periwinkle fed her spoonfuls of Greek yogurt and very expensive Swedish granola. She really was the most frightful patient. “So we’re to make sure she keeps them on for 72 hours?” Emily nibbled her lower lip prettily and Dr. Murthiyrakkaventharan blushed a little bit. “Y-yes,” he stammered, wrapping what seemed like an overly cautious amount of gauze around Molly’s head. “Just see that she doesn’t excite herself too much and I’ll be back in three days.” Molly glowered in her chair and refused to shake hands, so the doctor picked up his doctor’s bag and headed for the door. “And oh,” he called over his shoulder from the foyer, “No showering or bathing.” Molly opened her mouth and prepared to scream, but Mr. Periwinkle was ready with an extra large spoonful of yogurt and granola. * The next two days around the Poppycock offices were trying. The office itself was closed, as an invalid Professor P’ohlig required all hands on deck. The media room alternated a steady stream of BBC miniseries mixed with Korean family dramas. Maude was in charge of finding online videos of small animals to distract Molly with when her hair began to itch, and Mr. Periwinkle was on sustenance and libation duty to keep her spirits up, and Emily was always at the ready to stamp her foot and admonish when Molly began to behave badly. And when it was evening and Maude had been sent to bed, Mr. Periwinkle and Emily took turns reading “Fifty Shades of Grey” aloud in funny voices for amusement. And thus Poppycock held it together for three days. * “He’s at the door,” Molly said, looking up from her morning coffee. She was allowed the treat of the special Isak Dinesen blend from the farm in Kenya. “What?” Maude reached for the laptop, just in case that meant she was getting ready to scratch her head again. Just then the doorbell rang. Everyone gave Molly a funny look as Emily ushered in Dr. Murthiyrakkaventharan. “Good morning, Dr. Murthiyrakkaventharan,” Molly said without her usual stumble over his name. Even he was surprised. “Good morning! You seem to be feeling much better.” As he bent down to retrieve a stethoscope from his bag, Molly bounced from her chair and executed a tidy cartwheel. “Much better, thanks! You’re the one who should see a doctor, that sore throat’s not getting any better,” she said, smoothing her suspiciously clean hair down over the electrodes. “H-how did you know about my sore throat?” the doctor croaked uncertainly. “You know, I’m not sure? I just seem to have quite the handle on things this morning,” Molly said airily, like there was nothing amiss. “Oh, Maude, did you answer that letter from your solicitor? And Mr. Periwinkle, if you’d like to go home and phone your mother, that’s quite alright.” “How do you know all of these things all of a sudden?” Emily put on her Agatha Christie spectacles, which meant she meant business. “And why are you so clean if you haven’t had a bath in three days?” Molly looked from one puzzled face to the next, about to burst. She was hopeless at keeping secrets. “Alright!” she shouted. “I had a bath! I couldn’t take it any more! I was like decrepit creature from a Zola novel. And I think the electrodes didn’t like it because there was a bit of smoke and I think I might have fainted for a moment, but when I opened my eyes I felt perfectly well. Absolutely well.” Everyone stood by sternly as Dr. Murthiyrakkaventharan checked her over and looked at the results of the test. “Well,” he said finally, “I wouldn’t recommend it to any future patients, but it seems that the patient has cured herself.” Molly smiled triumphantly. “The mild electrocution she received seems to have shocked her brain back to normal, and there’s no traces of any abnormality. However,” Dr. Murthiyrakkaventharan paused uncertainly, “There seems to be a peculiar side effect.” “What side effect?” Emily asked. “I think I’m psychic!” Molly shouted happily. “Dr. Murthiyrakkaventharan, isn’t there something that you wanted to ask Professor De Busque? I mean, you can certainly arrange the dinner date for when your sore throat has improved. Mr. Periwinkle, do call your mother, she has some news about your sister. And Maude, answer the phone.” That was when the phone began to ring. Everyone stared at Molly open-mouthed. Hopefully this was to be a temporary side effect. After everyone recovered from their initial shock, Emily put a hot compress around Dr. Murthiyrakkaventharan’s sore throat, Mr. Periwinkle made everyone hot buttered rum, and they all settled down to watch “The Far Pavilions”. They’d all seen it before, so Molly wouldn’t spoil it for everyone by shouting out what was going to happen next.

Poppycock Moves On

Bright sunlight streamed in the front window of the Poppycock offices, and, after passing through the eyelet pattern of the delicate muslin curtains (Elfriede Jelinek had sent them in thanks for understanding that not everyone likes to go out of the house or use the telephone) made a quaint, fluttering field of flowers on the floor, which Maude was busy sweeping. Professor De Busque was doing a lot of writing and crossing things out in a rather frazzled manner, crumpling numerous papers into the wastebasket that Professor P’ohlig had recently snitched from the post office near Stefan Zwieg’s former house. Professor De Busque had recently suggested an Austrian theme for the office as sort of a last resort, but Professor P’ohlig had taken it a little too far, and had taped pictures of Egon Schiele portraits all over her desk, as inspiration for the new skeletal ideal she was currently aspiring to.

There was a delicate tap at the front door which could have been mistaken for the approach of a timid mouse. Emily and Maude held their collective breath as the door creaked open, but it was just dear Mr. Periwinkle peeking around the corner, struggling with a large number of packages. “Is she here?” he whispered.

“She’s gone out to post more letters,” Maude said, grabbing Mr. Periwinkle’s arm and hustling him in. “She got too impatient to wait for you about an hour ago.”

“Oh, heavens preserve us,” Mr. Periwinkle said, mopping his brow with a suspicious looking handkerchief he’d picked up from Molly’s cluttered desk.

“Mr. Periwinkle, what are those stains on your handkerchief?” Emily said sternly, looking over the rims of her glasses (she didn’t really need spectacles, but they looked so very fetching).

Mr. Periwinkle peered at the handkerchief, which indeed had a number of rusty red stains.

“Drop it!” shouted Maude, and Mr. Periwinkle was so startled that he did. “That came yesterday.”

Emily gasped. “Not from --”

“Yes,” Maude whispered with a shiver. “From the estate of the Moors Murderer Myra Hindley.”

Mr. Periwinkle shrieked and swooned, and was carried quickly off into house to be revived.

***

“Something simply must be done,” Emily declared, pounding her adorable fist on the kitchen table. Mr. Periwinkle put a protective hand over his strengthening glass of gin. “She cannot be allowed to be continue in this fashion.”

Maude and Mr. Periwinkle nodded solemnly. The ‘she’ in question, of course, was Professor P’ohlig. She was having a dreadful time of it. After a few anxious months with Poppycock’s financial advisor, Mr. Denning, they had a series of furious rows, and Mr. Denning had behaved quite badly. He swore that never more would he darken the threshold of Poppycock Enterprises and returned the large file holding all of their receipts. Molly, who was apt to turn into a bit of a Bertha Mason in Mr. Rochester’s attic, screamed at him most unprettily, and hurled at his feet the box containing treasured mementos of him which she had saved over the years. For several days she kept to her room, not seeing anyone and leaving the dinner trays they brought untouched outside of her room. For several days after that she haunted Mr. Periwinkle like Giselle haunted Albrecht, asking hourly in a pathetic voice if perchance there was any more post to be had. But it was the several days that had occurred since that were the trouble. Molly had taken to working feverishly from dawn until dusk, running errands all over the city until she fell into an exhausted sleep. She had been in contact with a most unsavory new author who was working on a grand compendium of female serial killers. Now, Professor P’ohlig had always nourished a taste for the macabre, but she had gone completely overboard. Sandwiched in between the sickly Egon Schiele figures were crime scene photos, and she had written to the estates of a multitude of murderous ladies, requesting any information or documents that they could spare. Her desk was now piled high with mementos of a more gruesome kind: Mary Ann Cotton’s bonnet, a tiny, moth-eaten sweater knitted by Amelia Dyer, Belle Gunness’ porcelain teeth, and some leather gloves that had belonged to Elizabeth Báthory. This last item was crusted with a substance that no one apart from Molly particularly wanted to think about.

Everyone was worried. Their cheerful Professor P’ohlig (alright, she was sarcastic and gloomy much of the time, but she was definitely cheerful sometimes) had entirely disappeared. Mr. Periwinkle poured gin for everyone (yes, even a tiny drop for Maude).

“Couldn’t we plead our case before Mr. Denning?” Maude said hopefully, sniffing the gin experimentally.

“Absolutely not,” said Mr. Periwinkle with uncustomary sternness. “If he can’t appreciate the Professor, well, then I pity him, but there must be something wrong with his character.”

“Indeed,” agreed Emily. “No doubt he is even now buried in a pile of newspapers, pretending that everything is perfectly fine. He is no longer our concern. It’s he who has ruined everything. It’s Professor P’ohlig that needs our help, and help her we shall. All of this murder business is only prolonging her misery.”

“And it’s beginning to give me nightmares,” said Maude. Mr. Periwinkle tried to pat Maude’s head, but missed. He had had a lot of gin before he’d even arrived, as he was having nightmares too.

“But what to do?” Emily sighed. At that moment, Molly’s storming footsteps were heard entering the house and pounding up the stairs.

“Don’t bother me the rest of the day,” she shouted. “I’ve got lots of research to do, in my room, by myself!”

No one spoke for a few minutes. Everyone had more gin, except for Maude, who thought it tasted like Christmas tree needles, which is quite nice in theory, but not so much in practice. Then Mr. Periwinkle cocked his head, listening, and a small smile appeared on his lips.

“She’s not working at all,” he said.

Everyone listened hard, and then everyone began to smile.

“She’s watching “Brideshead Revisited”,” Emily said. “She’s not as far gone as we thought!”

The kitchen turned into a whirl of activity. Maude made coffee and sandwiches to sober everyone up, and they began to formulate a plan.

***

“It certainly is odd that Mr. King has stopped responding to my letters,” Molly said, furrowing her brow under her sharply cut bangs.

“Mm, yes,” said Emily, trying not to smile. She was very good at writing cease and desist letters when the occasion called for it. “Have you any appointments today?”

Molly flipped through a tattered calendar book, which now rested on a desk devoid of skeletal Schieles or bloody photographs. “Ever so many, really. And curiously, they seem to be all with young, unmarried, male writers.”

“That is curious,” said Maude, sliding a little black address book under a sheaf of papers. Life had really been so much more pleasant the last several days.

“I think I’ll start looking for a new financial advisor,” Molly said suddenly. Everyone looked up, and Mr. Periwinkle dropped a book of stamps.

“Oh, it’s not that I wouldn’t prefer to have....He-Who-Shall-Not-Be-Named back,” Molly said with an unhappy sounding laugh. “Because I would. But he’s not here now. Sometimes things don’t happen like they do in your favorite books. Wouldn’t it be wonderful if they did?”

Everyone nodded quietly, for everyone has at least one something in their life that they secretly long to be different, and Mr. Periwinkle, Emily, and Maude were no exceptions.

“But our finances need attention, dammit!” Molly said with a bit of her old sparkle. “So let’s see what can be done, shall we?”

Their old Professor P’ohlig wasn’t exactly back, she was a sadder, wiser Professor P’ohlig, but it was close enough for the moment. Everyone rushed over to give her a hug, and then they had a delightful cream tea with champagne while they watched “Cranford”, and then everyone had a very satisfying nap, with not a nightmare between them.

A Disruption at Poppycock?

“I’m afraid I need to be off this afternoon, I’ve got another long lunch with the Vikrams!” Maude tossed over her shoulder as she breezed out the front door of the Poppycock offices, winking saucily at a befuddled Mr. Periwinkle who was on his way in.

“Who on earth are the Vikrams? Some new rock and roll band, no doubt,” he said, placing equal handfuls of mail on both Professors desks, adding to already precariously teetering inboxes.

“Seth and Chandra,” Professor De Busque said, trying to clear a tunnel through the stacks of letters before her. “More Indian novelists desperate to be seen with Maude before her memoir comes out next week.”

A phone was heard ringing in a muffled manner from somewhere on Maude’s desk (an exquisitely spindly desk carved from mangrove, a bequest from the estate of Rabindranath Tagore). “She’s not here!” shouted a harassed-looking Professor P’ohlig, who then swiftly went back to grumbling “What the.....?” under her breath and shuffling papers like someone who has no idea what they are doing.

“My word, she has been quite the social butterfly lately,” said Mr. Periwinkle in a distracted fashion, but perking up as he seemed to remember something, continued hopefully, “Speaking of butterflies, it’s such a chilly day out, mightn’t this be a good moment for a bit of....hot buttered rum?”

The Professors exchanged glances over the stacks of paper separating them, then both jumped up at once. Mr. Periwinkle tipped the Trollope, as all three dashed for the secret door to the house, and he shouted, “I’m bringing my mail bag, so we can pretend like we’re working!”

***

Two goblets of hot buttered rum (apiece) later, and the professors had begun to be a little more charitable about Maude’s new-found popularity.

“She’s a young girl, she should be out enjoying herself instead of always answering our phones and our correspondence,” Molly said, thoughtfully nibbling a fingernail and adjusting the volume on the “Brideshead Revisited” soundtrack. “Although if she’d paid a little more attention to detail we might have another book on the shortlist this year, instead of just the three.”

“Precisely!” Emily shouted in a voice a bit louder than usual, which startled everyone including Emily, so she motioned for Mr. Periwinkle and Molly to come closer so she could continue (it took a minute, but they eventually gathered around). “The thing is....we are not receiving manuscripts in a timely manner anymore, because someone isn’t opening the mail when she should.”

Molly and Mr. Periwinkle gasped. For Emily, this was tantamount to an accusation of murder.
“You could garnish her wages?” Mr. Periwinkle suggested, sloshing the tiniest bit of rum onto the rug (which had belonged to Thomas Hardy’s secretary/wife Florence) and promptly sitting on it so no one would notice. Molly and Emily shook their heads.

“We don’t exactly give her wages, Mr. Periwinkle, so we can’t exactly garnish them,” Molly scolded, hitting him over the head with a brocade pillow that had belonged to a very great Turkish writer who had lived a good many years ago whose name no one could quite remember, not even the Turkish writer’s group that had made a fuss over giving it to Poppycock. It was very good for hitting people over the head with, in any case.

“We must stop all this,” Emily said sternly, if a little slurrily. “She is our Maude and that’s the way it shall stay unless something happens to tell us otherwise.” Molly and Mr. Periwinkle looked duly chastened. “Now, let’s get down to this mail.”

Molly sighed and thunked down next to Mr. Periwinkle, who sighed and handed her the first letter from the top of his stack. He handed one to Emily, kept one for himself, heaved an immense sigh, and they all commenced tackling the mail as, just like in all the best BBC miniseries, the rain outside began to rain with great force and gloominess.

***

Two hours later, the mail had been read through, more buttered rum had been drunk, the rain was still drenching, and Emily and Mr. Periwinkle were sprawled in front of the fire. Emily was trying to work up the enthusiasm to begin reading Volume 1 of a modern retelling of “The Remembrance of Things Past” by Hanif Kureishi, but she thought perhaps the idea of setting it in a laundromat was a little ahead of its time. Mr. Periwinkle was idly wondering whether he should tell the professors that the electric company had sent another letter reminding them that the bill was past due, but decided maybe he’d have a little more rum first. Molly was standing holding an intricate-looking letter in front of her, clearing her throat repeatedly, waiting to be noticed. It took a minute.

“What’s that letter?” Emily said, raising an eyebrow, “I do like the look of it from here.”

“I think you might be quite impressed by the sound of it as well,” Molly said, and began to read. “Dear Esteemed Professors De Busque and P’ohlig, I send you greetings from the blistering summer of far off Carolina of the North. Allow me, kindly, to introduce myself. My name is Kiran, and I am a marvel of a twelve-year-old. I prefer to spend my days wrapped in intellectual and artistic pursuits, although I also play a mean game of Guitar Hero. My dilemma is this: Middle school is not exactly providing me with the stimulation I require. I would very much like to open up a restaurant in which you order not food, but a book, and the book arrives with a meal created by a collaboration between a master chef and a librarian, a meal that will complement and enhance the reader’s experience of the book. However, after making the initial inquiries, it seems that no one will grant a twelve-year-old a restaurant license.

And so I turn to you, Poppycock. I am enquiring whether you might be in need of an intern. I am exceedingly well-read for my age, and can answer phones and correspondence with a professionalism that belies my years, to an almost alarming extent, in fact. No task is too small, neither is any too large. I have followed your dazzling work with great interest and would be honored to join, as an apprentice, the hallowed, venerated offices of Poppycock Enterprises, Ltd.

I await your reply with nearly breathless impatience.

Yours, ever,

Kiran”

There was a stunned silence, after which Molly fairly collapsed to the rug with the others.

“Twelve?” Emily squeaked. “That’s the vocabulary of a twelve-year-old? She sounds....”

“Wonderful,” Molly breathed, patting the letter reverently.

“Do you think she’d find bringing in the drinks cart beneath her?” Mr. Periwinkle said, in a purposefully offhand manner. “She did say no task was too small.”

“But there’s not possibly room for two apprentices,” Emily said, looking around the spacious library, then adding, “At least not in the office. It’s tiny.”

“Oh dear me no, there’s certainly not room for two,” Molly agreed hastily, then wistfully looked at the letter again. “So accomplished.”

A hush fell, during which nothing was heard but the cracks and pops from the fireplace. Everyone was thinking the same thing, but no one wanted to be the one to verbalize it. Maude had been dreadfully inattentive to her duties as of late, and everyone was worn out with picking up the slack. Emily and Molly had daily arguments over who would answer the phone, and who would carry the thesaurus across the room. Mr. Periwinkle was at a complete loss for new places to file incoming mail, and the stacks were threatening to overwhelm the tiny office. Agatha the cat had nearly been lost forever under a stack of manuscripts.

Just then, as everyone was in danger of slipping into a guilty reverie of the wonderful calm which someone like Kiran would no doubt restore to the office, Maude popped her head around the corner of the door. Three fire-warmed faces turned towards her and the smell of cooking which now wafted towards them.

“I canceled my meeting with the Vikrams to make you all lunch instead. I’m sorry I’ve been so scattered lately, my new-found fame has quite gone to my head. I am going to spend the whole week catching up and returning everything to it’s proper order.” And she darted back to the kitchen.

Mr. Periwinkle heaved himself up off the floor and pulled up the professors. As they each leaned down for their glass, Maude’s little voice came from down the hall, “And you just leave all that, I’ll clean it up later!”

***

Everyone was a bit fidgety during lunch for reasons that they preferred to keep to themselves. During the afternoon, the Poppycock office was humming with activity, and everyone worked hard to make things shipshape once more. Maude was grateful for the excessive amount of hugs and squeezes she received, for she really didn’t feel she deserved them. Everything, it seemed, was back to normal.

***

Late that night, Molly, in a billowing nightgown that had belonged to Emily Brontë (it was heavily ink-stained and in need of mending) crept with a candle down to the office. She could of course have just used the desk in her room and the full benefit of electric light, but this was so much more romantic. She took out pen and paper, and, Agatha purring at her bare feet, began to write.

“Dear Miss Kiran,

We were all quite overwhelmed by your wonderful letter. Your accomplishment is so great, and your years so few. While we of course were immediately desirous of snapping your services up at once, before some rival wordsmithery agency poaches you, we admit that your young age gave us pause. It is true that our current apprentice is of tender age, but she is a poor divorced orphan and must work for her keep. While Poppycock would benefit immeasurably from your presence, we fear it would be to your parents’ detriment.

That said, Miss Kiran, we dearly hope that you will keep us in mind for future employment. Someday, inevitably, Maude will move on, and we shall be greatly in need of an assistant once again. We hope that someday, when your parents can spare you, you will once again consider bestowing upon Poppycock your literary wisdom, wit, and marvelous vocabulary.

Until that day, we remain, ever your devoted,

Poppycock Enterprises, Ltd.”

A Fish Called Stray

If there was one thing that Morton Capgras enjoyed, it was the immutability of routine. Every day ran like a well-oiled machine, and that was because it was a routine that Morton had tweaked and finessed for many years. On Mondays he arose at 7:15 and immediately breakfasted on muesli, orange juice, and black coffee while perfecting the week’s online grocery order. He fed his fish, Stray, and did twenty minutes of exercise with a Jane Fonda VHS tape. The morning was devoted to his work stuffing envelopes for a mail-order dandelion company. A BLT for lunch, and Monday was Bette Davis day, so there was one film right before a nap, and one right after. When the second film finished, Morton Capgras called his mother. Dinner was a frozen tv dinner eaten at the dining room table. After dinner there was reading (new library books were dropped by on Fridays, exchanged for the previous weeks’ tomes) and a classical music record. Mondays were Mozart.

Each day had it’s own specific tastes and flavors: English muffins on Tuesdays with strawberry jam, grapefruit on Fridays, French chanson songs on Wednesdays and strictly musicals on Saturdays. Rain or shine was no difference to Morton, as the shades were closed and covered with posters of English pastoral scenes. A number of lamps for seasonal affective disorder gave him all the light he required, and Morton’s little apartment was its own little world, made by Morton entirely to his own specifications. Everything he needed was delivered, and the only time he stepped outside of his apartment was for his yearly checkup, which he dreaded, but could at least rely on to occur on the first Monday in September every year. And as long as the health food store around the corner kept delivering his vitamins on the third Tuesday of every month, well his doctor said that there was no cause for concern, he was as healthy as a horse.

He wasn’t lonely. He had his nightly call to his mother in her retirement home in Florida, which was close enough for both of them, thank you very much. They were terribly fond of one another over the phone, but the last time they saw each other in person, seventeen years previously, there had been so much screaming that a neighbor had called the police (they were having an argument over who was a worse mother, Mrs. Capgras or Joan Crawford). There were several regular delivery people that he almost enjoyed. When Elaine came from the library, he sometimes stood and chatted with her for a whole five minutes. He carefully pronounced “Hola” whenever Diego came up with his groceries. Once, he even told Nevil from the pet store a joke. Not that there weren’t those he hated with the white-hot intensity of a thousand miles. DaMon, for instance, the postman. And naturally, Morton received an awful lot of mail, so DaMon visited every day but Sunday. Most times, Morton didn’t even remove the chain on the door. DaMon would say he was just a friendly guy, Morton would say that he was just nosy. Asking questions about every single piece of mail that he passed through the crack in the door. Morton often wished that he could live in England, with slots in the door so the mail just dropped to the floor, but when he asked his landlord about it, Mr. DiFazio told Morton in no uncertain terms that mail slots were not allowed. It wouldn’t have really been practical anyway. The dandelion company refused to ship the catalogs he stuffed into envelopes via UPS, so once a month he definitely had to open the door so DaMon could bring in the new boxes and take away the stuffed envelopes. Always tried to get a peek past the foyer too, the little sneak.

But, slight annoyances like DaMon aside, Morton’s life was going according to his plans. He knew early on that the daily rigors of a nine-to-five job, not to mention the commute involved, were too much for a gentle soul like himself. Growing up, he’d suffered terribly from asthma, allergies, and a veritable host of nervous bowel disorders. Since shutting himself off from the world at large, his health had improved by leaps and bounds. Predictability agreed with Morton.

One Thursday in July he awoke at 7:15 as always and smartly shut off the alarm. He checked just to make sure, as he always did, that the automatic coffeemaker had started itself, which it always had. Morton enjoyed a brisk shower, wrapped himself in his pin-striped Thursday robe, retrieved his paper from just outside the door, and settled into Thursday’s breakfast of plain yogurt, muesli, and two bananas. He opened the paper, discarded the sports section, and read the rest, taking particular delight in the day’s “Prince Valiant” cartoon, which involved the introduction of forks to a medieval society that had no knowledge of such things. Morton preferred the non-humorous daily comics, the soap opera-like “Apartment 3G” and the informative nature story “Mark Trail” were particularly good, but the historical “Prince Valiant” was his favorite.

Still chuckling to himself over the picture with forks studding the castle grounds, Morton disposed of his banana peels, rinsed his bowl and spoon, and popped them into the dishwasher, making a mental note that it should be run at 2:30, during his nap. Morton found the hum of the dishwasher quite soothing. He adjusted the knot of his Thursday robe, and padded in his Thursday slippers over to the fishbowl to give Stray his breakfast. He double-checked the calendar, just to be sure, and yes, the last time he’d been fed was Tuesday. Morton made an x in red ink on the Thursday box, and uncapped the bottle of Total Goldfish Flake. He poised his arm above the bowl and looked at Stray, who was just coming around the corner of his little fish castle. Morton squinted and bent closer, then straightened up again. He put the fish food down again, placed a hand on either side of the bowl, and pressed his face against the glass. He could feel beads of sweat forming at the pudgy small of his back, his armpits, other damp unmentionable places with folds and crevasses.

It wasn’t Stray.

Morton, still crouched in front of the bowl, screwed his eyes up tight until he could see little red and green starbursts blossom against the black of his eyelids. He opened them again. He watched the goldfish, who was now weaving little figure eights around the two little men in their diving helmets, just like Stray always did. Morton turned the bowl this way and that, and could see that this goldfish even had the same scar on his right side. Two years ago, Morton had the terrible idea to purchase a companion for Stray, a female goldfish named Piggy. It was a disaster, and after weeks of patient suffering on Stray’s part, Piggy had nipped a small chunk from his side. Stray retaliated by eating Piggy.

Morton ran to the book table beside his recliner and came back clutching a large magnifying glass. It was hard to get the angle right to see properly through a magnifying glass, fishbowl, and water, but the fish eventually was still enough for Morton to maneuver the glass into position. He couldn’t even put his finger on what was wrong. He looked like Stray, he acted like Stray, but Stray he most definitely was not. He just was not.

To say Morton was shaken would be a vast understatement. His world was on the verge of collapse. So he did something he only did in the most stressful of times: He walked into the kitchen and poured himself a whiskey. Yes, it was early in the morning, but, desperate times and all that. He sat at the kitchen table, clutching the tumbler with both hands and jiggling his left knee up and down at warp speed. He tried to take a few calming breaths, but to no avail. He hated to foul up his schedule, but he decided to call his mother. Doing so would necessitate going back in the front room though, so he had a large gulp of whiskey to fortify himself. He shuddered and rose.

He took his slippers off and placed them by the chair, because Stray always turned around at the gentle thwap thwap they made. Heart pounding, he crept along the wall and into the front room. He could see not-Stray’s tail through the castle window, twitching lackadaisically. Morton moved slowly and quietly until he was nearly in reach of the phone, and stretched out a trembling arm. he knocked a pencil onto the floor. He froze, and so did not-Stray’s tail. For a moment, neither moved, but when the tail began to move again, so did Morton. A few millimeters closer and the phone was in his sweaty hand. He retreated the way he’d come, never taking his eyes from the fishbowl. Whoever not-Stray was, he was a clever bastard, pretending that he didn’t notice that Morton had definitely noticed.

Morton heaved himself into the kitchen chair with a sigh of relief. He waited for his heart to slow and pressed #1 on speed dial. She answered on the 2nd ring.

“Morton what’s wrong? Are you hurt? Are you sick? Do you need help? Dear God, what’s wrong?” Each question was louder than the last, like Morton’s mother was running closer to him in his time of need.

“Mother,” Morton hissed in a rasping whisper, “I need you to stay calm. If you aren’t calm, neither am I.”

“Alright, Morton,” she came down a few steps, but her voice was still dancing with panic. “But what on earth is going on? Is it your heart?”

“It’s Stray,” Morton hissed, “Or rather, it’s not Stray.”

There was a long pause during which Morton could hear his mother fumble for the remote control and turn off SoapNet. “I don’t think I heard you right, Morton, say it again.”

“My goldfish, Stray, he’s....he’s not him,” Morton eyed the bottle of whiskey.

“Stray’s not...who?”

“He’s someone else!” Morton picked up the cap. If he’d put the cap back on, then he definitely wouldn’t have anymore. But the cap was still off, so maybe just a little more? He reached for the bottle.

“Morton, have you been drinking?” Morton let go of the bottle, but it was only an inch off the table, so it just made a thud and a little rock back and forth, sloshing about the sides.

“Mother, I-- Mother, the problem is not with me, the problem is with Stray! I think he’s,” Morton lowered his hiss another few decibels, “I think he’s been replaced.”

“Who has?”

“Stray!”

“Who’s Stray?”

“My goldfish!”

“So?”

Morton hung up. He knew she would just call back, and the phone was indeed already mid-ring when Morton silenced it. Bitch. He should have known she would be of no help. He poured himself an even larger glass of whiskey than the first one. Still gripping the bottle in one hand, he wiped his brow, which wasn’t so much bathed in sweat as swimming in it. What on earth was he going to do? How had this happened? He stood up and began to pace, unshod feet clinging stickily to the linoleum. He looked at the clock. 10:37. He looked at the calendar. Thursday, July 14th. Bastille Day. All of a sudden, Morton felt like a prisoner himself. Clutching both bottle and tumbler, he backed himself into the corner of the kitchen between the pantry door and the bookshelf full of cookbooks, and sank to the floor, his robe snagging on the molding behind him so he sat on the floor in just his underpants. Normally, he would have found this incredibly distasteful. But this was not normally.

He could feel the presence of not-Stray in the other room. He knew that the fish couldn’t see him, but he could feel him thinking at him. Could feel the presence of not-Stray’s cold, dead eyes swimming around in poor Stray’s bowl. What was this? Was this hell? Was he being punished for some unknown sin? Had Stray been transported to an alternate universe? Who was the impostor in the next room? A changeling? A dybbuk? The ghost of his father? Morton felt the walls and ceiling of his apartment, of his comfortable cage, begin to crash down upon his head, and he began to scream uncontrollably.

***

Morton had been wrong, it wasn’t the walls and ceiling of his apartment falling on him, it was the latest box of catalogues from the dandelion mail order company. Already resting precariously on the top of the cookbook shelf, Morton’s panicked slide to the floor had dislodged them and they landed smack on the top of his head. Ceiling or dandelion catalogues, this proved too much for Morton. That very evening, acting on the insistence of Morton’s mother harassing them all the way from Florida, two firemen broke down the door of the apartment. Morton Capgras’ body lay slumped in the kitchen corner, eyes staring, lap full of dandelion advertisements.

“Must have had a heart attack, poor guy,” said the burly blond man crouched in front of him, as he closed Morton’s staring eyes with surprising tenderness. “Anyone else here?”

“Nah,” said his partner, ambling about the room. “Wacky set-up he’s got here, huh? Shut-in or something. Wait, there’s a goldfish here.”

The blond firefighter joined his partner, looking down at not-Stray. The partner picked up the bowl. “You want it for your kids or something?”

“Nah, they’d never feed it. You wanna flush it?”

“Yeah,” said the partner, heading for the bathroom, where a moment later, a rush of water was heard, followed by a flush. He came out and placed the empty bowl back on the table, and the two firemen went back to their fire engine to call the morgue.

Not-Stray was gone, but gone too late to save Morton Capgras, who died in a fearful existential agony of such dazzling proportions that one can only hope its like is never seen again.

Poppycock-Approved Apps

Now and then, Poppycock Enterprises, Ltd. has been accused of not moving with the times. One would think that, steeped in literary tradition as it is, Poppycock could be excused from such fripperies as technology. But, one must stay abreast of modern developments in order to bring the reading world the very newest writers, even though we would sometimes prefer just to stick to the old.

So although Poppycock prefers to use a 1915 Stromberg-Carlson candlestick telephone previously belonging to one Eugénie Renouf, a young lady who spurned Joseph Conrad’s affections, well, we understand that young people today would prefer to use an iPhone, a cold, history-less device with no nostalgia or romance about it. Fine. If that’s what they want, they can have their iPhones.

We do hope, however, that there are some conscientious young people who, while plunging into the frightening, somewhat devilish world of technology, would like to keep one foot firmly planted in the past. Poppycock has always done its best to bridge the gap between past and present, and yes, even delve a tiny bit into the future as well. Which is why today we bring you Poppycock-Approved Apps. Unfortunately, these are not actual apps which can be purchased as yet, as Poppycock obviously doesn’t know the first thing about programming or any of those other things. But, should some enterprising young soul care to invent them, why, we will be more than happy to endorse the following:

1. Middledarch: Do you love Middlemarch? Or course you do, lonely girl! Connect with other Middlemarch lovers with this app that alerts you to all lovers of George Eliot’s finest within a 5 mile radius. Never again spend a lonely evening wistfully wishing you were debating the virtues of Will Ladislaw versus Tertius Lydgate, or just why Rosamund is such a simpering idiot. What are you, Mr. Casaubon?

2. PR Generator: That doesn’t stand for public relations, that stands for Pre-Raphaelite! This nifty little app requires just a few simple photos of yourself to be uploaded, and then prepare to have your lovely face inserted into all your favorite Brotherhood portraits! Do you fancy yourself as Ophelia or more of a Proserpine? Do you like the fellow in The Hireling Shepherd, or is it the Knight Errant you fancy? Pop yourself in the painting and find out!

3. Lonely Publet: Care for a drink at your local, but don’t feel like dealing with your fellow clientele? The Lonely Publet app finds bars and restaurants in your area where you can get a drink and read your book in peace. Bonus: Purchase of this app comes with a complimentary “Do Not Disturb” sign to hang around your neck.

4. The Petticoater: Are you going for a shapely Victorian nanny look or heading to Shibuya for the afternoon? The Petticoater will determine just how many petticoats that outfit requires.

5. Fantasy BBC Miniseries: Mix and match your favorite costume drama regulars with your favorite classic authors and historical characters in this literary take on fantasy sports leagues. Compete against other players: your epic yet staid Rossetti family biopic starring Shirley Henderson and Rufus Sewell as Christina and Dante could be pitted against a radical retelling of “Jude the Obscure” with Cillian Murphy and that girl from “North and South” as desperate hipster cousins with nowhere to turn in modern-day Williamsburg. So choose wisely.

6. Cranford: A near-genius app. When used in conjunction with a heart monitor, your phone will be able to recognize those pulse-raising situations in your life which merit an audio clip of “This is Cranford!” A less important situation may merit an Imelda Staunton or Eileen Atkins, but for key moments in your life, only Judi Dench will do.

7. The Bravery Substitute: A little shy, are we? Suffer no more! Next time some rude peon on the subway tries to stand where you’re already standing, this app will have your back, and loudly proclaim, “Excuse me, good sir, but if you do not remove your man-bag from my kidney area forthwith, I shall have no other recourse but to give you a hearty shoving.” Other situational responses are included for line butters, cat callers, and middle-aged ladies on public transport who stare for no reason whatsoever.

8. Brontë Death Match: Lonely Girls like video games too. In this laudanum-fueled frenzy, it’s every Brontë for themselves as a quiet Haworth sitting room turns into the sort of bloodbath that can only result from sibling rivalry. Watch out, Bramwell has a switchblade.

9. The Budget Japanifier: I won’t even ask if you’ve always wished you were Japanese, I’m already pretty sure that’s the case. Living, dressing, eating, and playing like a Japanese girl has never been more expensive, but this app will help you find that Commes des Garcons frock for less, where to buy smoked squid in bulk, and precisely which minimalist salon will give you the sharpest razor cut-bangs for your buck.

10. AromaKindle: Poppycock doesn’t take the kindest view of the Kindle, although we admit that you can get an awful lot of books on that thing. But you cannot deny that it is missing one key element which gives the traditional book its romance: book smell. This nifty little app diffuses a subtle perfume from your phone, depending on the genre and era. Your Hemingways will be dusty and your Forsters with a touch of gin; Sir Walter Scott will make you sneeze and Jane Austen will smell of the libraries of your childhood. We can’t do anything about the cover though, or the fact that there is no lovely feel of pages, so we still recommend you just read a regular ol’ book.

Twenty Six Things to Worry About

It is once again time for the Poppycock Institute for Tropical Maladies to release a comprehensive, A to Z list of the most obscure, yet highly devastating diseases, syndromes, and neurological disorders on the face of the planet. Our team of researchers have scoured the corners of the globe for the tiniest microbe that you, Poppycock Reader, could be in danger of. Please, if you find yourself suffering from any of the symptoms mentioned here, seek help immediately. And pack plenty of books, because you’re going to be in the hospital a long, long time.

Acute Pepysm: a mental deficiency leading one to believe that one’s inner thoughts are of the utmost importance, and must be recorded for posterity. Sufferers are likely to be found scribbling on receipts, bookmarks, and other scraps of paper which they will be reluctant to part with.

Blue blush: Lonely girls are highly susceptible to Blue blush syndrome, which comes as a consequence to repeated embarrassing situations. Instead of blushing an attractive pinkish hue, the patient will turn a deathly pale blue. Don’t call an ambulance, she’s just sad. Unfortunately, the only effective treatment at this point is total seclusion.

Cranial madidus: Literally, boiled skull. The most recognizable symptom is a soft, squishy spot on the back of the head, caused by too much reclining against a variety of soft pillows, generally while reading epic historical sagas.

Dissociative bibliophilia: Characterized by an intense devouring of books, to the extent that the sufferer will read the same book over and over, unaware that it has been read numerous times already (while inconvenient at times, may not actually be a detrimental syndrome, just a time-consuming one).

Eglantine sensitivity: A pervasive allergy to roses and all products made thereof, especially bouquets of one dozen red roses presented to the sufferer in lieu of romantic creativity. Sufferers are often heard to remark that roses “smell bad”.

Febrile foot: Most often occurs in quiet, bookish girls placed in an uncomfortable situation. Instead of being able to merely extricate herself from said situation, the girl in question goes into a trance-like state, with all energies poured into a constantly moving, and subsequently feverish, left foot. May be exhibited through bobbing, tapping, jiggling, shaking, etc.

Galloping Wolfism: A hereditary tendency to over-dramatize the teensiest little thing, like, say, a simple trip to a lighthouse, or the events of a day before a garden party. Outbursts of histrionics are not uncommon, and patients often romanticize certain of their physical features, a large proboscis.

Hebridean mouth: A peculiar branch of Tourette Syndrome, wherein the afflicted hurl insults and obscenities with a pronounced Scottish accent.

Ichthygenufidelia: The persistent belief that one has fish-like knees. Intense psychotherapy is necessary to convince patients that their knees are not covered with iridescent scales.

Jujube syndrome: A little understood dental affliction which results in the slow sticky-fication of teeth until they are merely little white lumps melting down the gums.

Kimchispiritus: Chronic pickle-breath.

Lawrence’s dilemma: A particularly nasty form of depression. Involves a lot of mooning about in nature, leaning one’s head against trees in despair, and muttering the word “loins” to oneself.

Moby’s lament: Male pattern baldness, accompanied by a perverse desire to be clad only in tracksuits and be pretentious. Irreversible.

Netherfield pull: The all-consuming desire to live on a 19th-century English estate. Sufferers will result to any means necessary, often resulting in complete bankruptcy, followed by total nervous breakdown.

Optic Selleckaphilia: A hallucinatory disorder characterized by constant visions of Tom Selleck in one’s everyday life. Generally affecting women, victims have been known to put themselves in highly dangerous situations, i.e. walking across train tracks, jumping into open elevator shafts, in the attempt to speak to one of these phantom Tom Sellecks.

Pantomorbidity: Exceedingly rare, but lethal, pantomorbidity is every single disease at one time. All of them. All at once. There’s nothing you can do for that.

Quivering limb: A nervous condition brought on by minor stress, resulting in twitching, bird-like movements of all limbs, although it is most concentrated in flapping hand gestures.

Rushdian egomania: A belief that one’s talents are infallible. The onset of the disorder is difficult to pinpoint, as the afflicted present such a sweet, sleepy-eyed countenance that any bragging is initially overlooked.

Sea salt hysteria: A digestive abnormality in which the stomach cannot process sea salt in foods, instead reacting as if the body were drowning. In the event of a sea salt hysteria incidence, perform CPR, place the victim in a life jacket, and wait for the sea rescue team to arrive.

Toxic tender foot: A skin sensitivity leaving the top of the foot, rather than the bottom, susceptible to tickling. Most worryingly, this is generally paired with an overactive set of reflexes, and has resulted in several unsuspecting ticklers being kicked in the face.

Umbrellamnesia: The inability to remember to bring an umbrella when leaving the house, or to retrieve on that has been left elsewhere. A more serious ailment that one would think, as it may result in an increased number of colds resulting from hours spent in wet clothing.

Varius capillus: A head of both straight and curly hair in one, sometimes the straight and curly bits will change places with no notice at all, making hairdressing a trial.

Winnow-fidget: Another nervous disorder, evidenced by the compulsive peeling of labels, stickers, decals, tape, etc. from any item that presents itself. Is more annoying to those around the sufferer than to the actual sufferer.

Xerophobia: Fear of donuts.

Yeats’ delusion: A mental affliction in which the patient believes that for many years of one’s life they have been wildly in love with an unattainable Irish woman named Maud.

Zimmerconsistence: Related to the Japanese phenomenon Hikikomori, this is the German version of the malady wherein reclusive young men retreat from society, eventually regressing through varying degrees of isolation until they refuse to leave their bedrooms. Unlike in Japan, German sufferers can usually be lured out after two or three hours by their mother’s wienerschnitzel.

Nine Too Many

After getting my ninth tattoo, it was time to find a job. I spiffed up my resume and sent it all over the state. After a few weeks, I had an interview lined up.

I woke twenty minutes before my alarm, having only slept sporadically the night before. Interviews turn me into a quivering mess, even though I’m usually a very confident person. I’m just not very good at self-promotion, I prefer to let my work speak for itself. I showered quickly and stood in front of the closet in my underwear, pondering its contents. I’d laid out a smart, understated dress the night before, but was having second thoughts. In the line of work I’m pursuing, suits aren’t really the way to go, but on the other hand, neither are jeans and tee-shirts. After rifling through several options, I decided that maybe the dress was the best option after all.

After moisturizing thoroughly, I slicked my long hair back into a bun and put on just a dusting of makeup, waiting to put my dress on until the last minute so I didn’t nervously sweat all over it like a circus strong-man. Not that they usually wear dresses to sweat on. Even my metaphors were nervous and confused. I sat on the edge of my bed for a moment, willing myself to calm down. Good opportunities in my field were rare, and this interview could really make or break things.

I was finally ready to go. I hopped in my tiny car and willed myself not to speed. Parking wasn’t too bad, and I arrived with five minutes to spare. The interview was being held in one of those big beige trailers that they use for overflow for the really poor kids in shitty public schools; the kind of trailers that always look dirty, no matter if they’re brand new.

The door creaked as I went in. Three women looked up from a line of metal folding chairs. A bored guy who sort of looked like he was dying was shuffling some papers at a cruddy desk next to a door leading to the rest of the trailer. He didn’t really look like he was in charge, but he was the only one with a desk, so I walked over to him and waited patiently until he looked up.

“I’m Naomi. I have an appointment at ten?”

“Is that a question?” he sneered, and I could see that his yellow teeth matched his jaundiced skin, beneath which you could faintly see blue veins and just the hint of gray bone.

“Um....I have an appointment. At ten.” Not off to the best start then.

“Yeah, well, take a seat,” he said, going back to his papers and waving a skeletal hand towards the chairs.

I paused, thinking about asking him if there were any forms to fill out, but no one else seemed to have any, so I went and sat in the only empty chair, which teetered slightly as I sat. The room was quiet and empty, and I hadn’t brought a book, so the only thing to do was try and steal surreptitious glances at the other three applicants. The one on the farthest end kept getting up and pacing, so she was easy to see. Tall and slender, she would walk three steps then rise up on her toes, then back down, and repeat. Next to me was an enormously fat woman. I could tell this without looking at her, as part of her thigh was in my seat, and she breathed the phlegmy, wheezey breath of the enormously fat. I couldn’t see the woman next to her, for obvious reasons, but I could see the giant rolling suitcase that she’d brought with her.

The inner door opened and we all looked up, and then readjusted our gaze downwards about three feet.

“Naomi?” the tiny lady said in a tiny voice. “Would you like to come in?”

I hastily gathered my things and stumbled over to the door. Was I meant to bend over and shake hands? Wave? Just say hello? Luckily, she made the decision for me, brightly saying “Good morning, close the door and let’s have a seat.”

I shut the door and shuffled over to my chair. The tiny lady climbed a stepstool to hers, which had a stack of pillows to raise her to my height.

“Naomi, I’m Louise,” she trilled. “That’s a very impressive resume you have there, schools and training and internships. You’re very accomplished for being so young.”

“Thank you,” I said, nibbling at my lip a little bit. “It, um, it helps to have a family in the business.”

“And such a well-known family at that.” It was hard for me to concentrate, because I felt fairly hypnotized by the voice, which was so high that it was almost hard to hear. “But I’d like to be sure, Naomi, that you can perform on your own merits, and not just rest on your family’s laurels.”

I nodded vigorously. “Of course, of course. Is there anything I can--”

“You can start by removing the dress so we can take a look.”

“Of course,” I said, and pulled it off over my head. The tiny lady, Louise, I supposed I should call her, slithered down off her perch without bothering with the stool.

“Now, tell me about your legs first,” she said, coming right up to the left one.

“The right leg is the mystery of the Marie Celeste, with the boat drifting in the sea.”

“Mm,” she said appreciatively, walking around my calf, “I like the rope trailing down to your ankle.”

“The left is the legend of the Flying Dutchman, with the mirage boat suspended over the other.”

“Of course, of course,” she murmured. She skibbled across the room to drag the stepstool over. “And your tummy?”

“That’s Lord Carnarvon opening Tutankhamen’s tomb.”

“Delightful detail, here, is that the mosquito? Oh, wonderful!” she clapped her tiny hands together and motioned for me to turn around. “And the back is...wait, let me guess...the wandering Jew! Beautiful, look at that beard! Arms next, please.”

“The left arm is Agatha Christie in her hotel room, and over on the right is Amelia Earheart.”

“And who are these charming fellows here, nestled below your collarbone?”

“Those are the princes in the tower, Edward V and Richard--”

“Of Shrewsbury,” she sighed happily. “And now please tell me about the beautiful family portrait on your face.”

“The Romanovs,” I said proudly. “All seven of them. And Anna Anderson over by my ear.”

“Well, my girl,” Louise said, throwing her arms wide, “These are just the most beautiful tattoos I’ve ever seen. Did you know I was an amateur history buff?”

I smiled and shook my head. I was in there. There was no way I was missing out on this job. But then Louise’s face clouded.

“The thing is, dear, you’ve chosen a bit of an obscure subject, historical mysteries. I myself would hire you on the spot, if I could be sure that the audiences were going to be as erudite as either one of us. But I’m afraid that Alan Pinkney’s Freak Shows just don’t attract a particularly bright clientele.”

I stared, my mouth open.

“They’d be confused, dear,” she said gently. “I think you might be better off trying more of a metropolis. There are some very clever circus people in New York.”

She thanked me for my time and I left. I couldn’t bear to look at any of the three women or the skeleton man on the way out, so I just walked straight to my car, got in, and wept. Nine tattoos and my life savings. All for nothing.