Sybil Bruncheon's "What's The Real Story?"...

…you pick your favorite to go with the picture:

1) Sister Mary Meow-ergretta looked out on the dazzling world whirling around outside the Konvent of Kontented Kitties and wondered, “What if?... What if I had remained on the street all those years ago, and risked one or two of my nine lives for a weekend of glamour, velvet pillows, heavy petting… and sardines? And perhaps, yes, even a sparkly collar with a tag… or a bell!”…

2) Madame Mousette watched from her perch on the Rue du Maquereau where the guillotine had been set up in the small park across the way. She knew, as did her fellow Revolutionaries, that heads would roll and with their help. They continued to claw the names of the guilty into coffee tables, sofa arms, and in unwinding rolls of toilet paper which they scattered on their atelier floors… for the authorities to find… and act on.

3) Pinky was very aware that his humans had taken away the strange holiday tree with the blinky-lights and wiggly-toys that hung all over it for him to bat at and pull down. He missed being able to jump off the sofa up into the branches looking for a squirrel, a bird, or maybe a piece of cheese or hotdog that might have learned how to fly… whatever. Sometimes, he secretly invited some of his neighborhood kitty-pals in through the little flip-door to jump into the tree, maybe to tip it over and break a vase… or wake up grandpa in his chair and make him screech. Pinky heard that the sparkly-star on top of the tree might even poke out a person’s eye, and that made his pals laugh and laugh. They all thought that would be funny to see. And the little house the humans put under the tree? With the tiny-people and animals?... he and his pals loved knocking them over... or worse… Pinky himself had chewed up a couple of cows, a sheep, a wise-man or two, and then thrown the baby out of the stick-bed and climbed in himself to take a nap. He was only sorry about one thing; the tiny-lady kneeling by the stick-bed… first of all, maybe he shouldn’t have chewed her head off, and then hidden her in the cat litter… and secondly, maybe he shouldn’t be pretending to be her in the front window… even if it DID make his pals out in the front yard laugh and laugh… whatever.

4) (to be continued)

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Sybil's "Tales and Tails"...

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Sybil Bruncheon’s Tales & Tails... cherche le chat...

...it was 1965 or so... and Paris had become yet again the center of edgy, arty, and definitely sexy sophistication, especially in film. London had pretensions to being the capital of "cool", but the British still had that awful cuisine... and those teeth!... and New York City would never be able to outweigh the enormous prairies of Presbyterians who still believed the Earth was flat... as flat as their backyards and their personalities. No, it was Paris that reinvented itself, decade after decade, century after century, war after war, revolution after revolution... somehow maintaining its fashion, its food, its furniture, it fabulousness and fantasies through one cataclysm after another. After all, wasn't it just 25 years ago that that brätwurst-blockhead Hitler had goose-stepped under the Arc de Triomphe, and yet only about five years after that the French were celebrating the New Look while the Third Reich's ashes were still smoldering in a muddy and filth-filled bunker somewhere in a burned out ruin called Berlin.

It was in that milieu that Jeanne and Alain in the "swinging sixties" ruled the hip-crowd with their glamour, their beauty, and their mix of continental blasé and bonhomie. It wasn't spoken of widely except in the very urbane and "intime" circles that both Moreau and Delon were so gorgeous and so uninhibited that they dabbled in romance with all races.. and even both sexes... And why not? To be an artist, certainly a performing artist, one had to be in touch with all parts of one's psyche, subconscious, and by extension, sexuality. If you can cry on cue in front of a million staring eyes in the dark, how could you not have explored what it was to be naked in front of any one of them as well... or even a couple of them... at one time!

And so it was... the first article came out as a tiny suggestive squib in a remote corner of Paris Match... some little veiled hint that "two movie stars have set up house-keeping in Marseilles with a third roommate for romantic getaways from the film sets on weekends!". A week later, "what glamorous blonde and her prettier pal have taken in a waif from the wharf... with a beauty mark on his upper lip?"... and finally, the ultimate scandal headline with lurid photos taken secretly by the gardener and a Croatian sous-chef... nudes of the three of them in a rumpled bed, empty champagne glasses, melted brie, cracker crumbs all over the fine Egyptian linens, sardine tins hurled against the far wall, and a kitty-comb full of fur... and those smirks of satiated sexuality... Jeanne, Alain, and Roger! And yes, Mademoiselle and Monsieur, when you say Roger's name, remember the "G" is soft... and purred.

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A New George Sweet Doorway Mystery… “A Door… ajar…" (Part One)

1990: To live large or to live simply. Do I start at the beginning, or at the end? I had finally moved out of my parents' basement in Ohio, and I suppose you could say I was whisked away to Never-Never Land when I stumbled upon what was reported to be one of Napoleon's many “stays” in Paris. With broad winks and sweaty giggles, Mme. Painne-d'épice, the plump landlady, pressed her great squishy bulk against me as she confided that one or two of the little corporal’s several mistresses might have lived in this very building… perhaps even in the attic which had been converted into the garret I was to rent. And while her cheerful chattering and chuckling faded into a soft jumble, I imagined that during his rise to power, Napoleon, “Le Petit Caporal” himself might have beheld much the same view of the enchanting, mesmerizing, fantasy world of Montmartre. … “You zee dat leetle house over dare?”, Mme. Painne-d'épice whispered as she nudged me... and she began the tale, the first of several about that little rooftop maisonette with the garden that I beheld just outside and below my window… the one with the door… slightly ajar.

1891: “The Cottage on Top” as it was then called appeared to be a peaceful haven in the city but actually was haunted by the soul of a wronged lover who committed suicide 100 years earlier… His name was Signor Claronce Bemmaliono, and he was a clown of great repute in the Garibaldi & Fritzheimer Circus Of Astral Wonders & Earthly Delights that toured most of Europe in the 1880s. His professional stage name was Bomba-Lino, and children adored him in over 14 languages. It was said that he was better known to the populaces of some countries than their own prime ministers were… and it was true. People passing by him in cities and villages alike would recognize him, even without his clown make-up, and rush up to shake his hand or even hug him, showering him with chocolates, cheeses, loaves of fresh bread, flowers, and love… oh, so much love.

And yet here he was, on that December evening in 1891 in his own little maisonette that once held such joy for him, reading her note for the umpteenth time. He still didn’t know why she left. He had given her everything! EVERYTHING!... and that everything was not paltry. As a star of the touring circus, he made a considerable salary. Certainly much more than a shoemaker, a blacksmith, a tailor, or a tavern owner would be able to give her. Many people actually thought that silly, jolly, roly-poly Bomba-Lino might be making as much as a lawyer or even a doctor… and his wife’s jewelry and clothes certainly looked like it.

He crumpled her note and let it drop, and looked down at his hands, his open palms seeming to plead for understanding, for solace, and then he stared at the floor beyond them… his focus going far away... and deep inside at the same time. There was no solace. No one came to comfort him. There was no loving whisper from inside… or from above. Nothing. And so he made his plan. He wanted Melba to be publicly embarrassed by the terrible torment she inflicted on him. For years afterwards, the neighbors would point down to the very spot on the terrace from where they said he had jumped to his fate… well, "jumped" might not be quite the right word. Not with all the damage to everyone’s windows and masonry.

You see he had shot himself out of a cannon in his dining room. The only witness was a neighbor who happened to be looking down from the garret just above. He told the gendarmes who rushed to investigate immediately after that he heard a tremendous explosion and saw the roof of the maisonette burst open with a flash of flames and projectiles! Then the golden glow dimmed, morphed into a blood smokiness, and vanished in a final platinum flash… The deafening roar echoed once, twice, three times off the surrounding blocks and alleyways, then vanished as well in the distance. A moment of stunned silence, and then the barking, yelling, screaming of all of those below and beyond… who only moments before neither cared nor even knew of the anguish that one solitary soul had decided he needed to escape from. And leave it to Bomba-Lino to have made his exit like a showman! A comedic showman worthy of the great Vaudeville houses or the Moulin Rouge itself; with an implausible flourish of theatrical flash and absurdity. No one had realized that the huge crate the workers had lifted to the rooftop maisonette was not a new piano for Madame Melba… NO! It was Bomba-Lino’s own circus cannon, painted with bright decorations of garlanded Greek gods and goddesses, stars and planets, and a full smiling moon peeking through clouds… presumably to indicate where the occupant would soon be visiting. Yes, Bomba-Lino. The Great & Belovéd Bomba-Lino had shot himself out of his own circus cannon! And the landlord decided that was a perfect time to install the skylight.

(End of Part One. Stay tuned for Part Two of A New George Sweet Doorway Mystery… “A Door… ajar…")

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Sybil Bruncheon's Poetical Pets & Proseries!... (with respectful apologies to T.S. Eliot)...

Kitty Cruthers liked to scamp and play his funny tricks!
Sometimes he’d give a savage scratch or maybe loving licks!

Hiding high up on a shelf to make a sudden leap!
And in the middle of the night, to wake you from your sleep!

Brushing china off the desk! And banging into glass.
Clawing silken sofa arms, or throwing up some grass.

Then laughing with his gangster pals who live down in the lane.
And yowling at a neighbor’s dog, who thought them quite insane.

Whene’er he peeked from 'neath a chair, no warning would he give.
Then Shriek and Hiss!... and flashing feet. Each claw a deadly shiv!

And now more laughter! Oh, what fun to maul a little boy.
And wreck Aunt Sally’s sandwich plate and chew the baby’s toy.

And snag a cashmere sweater now to pull it all apart.
Then rub and purr, and cuddle you, enough to break your heart!

But best beware that hiding wall where whiskers start to show,
For Kitty waits with eyes so black to have another go!

Oh, Lord above, why did you make a creature so malign?
Your judgment in this mystery we ne’er can quite divine.

(photo by Kathrin Federer)

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Sybil Bruncheon's TALES & TAILS:... up on the roof...

Myrtle Meowerson and Yaleen Yowlbeck often conferred with each other at the odd times when their human staff members were busy with their chores, duties, or whatever it was that those giant, clumsy walking-appliances do… preferably elsewhere! The girls heard a commotion coming from down the block on the Rue de La Chatte Derange and knew immediately it was a kerfuffle involving Yaleen's brother-in-law Ivan and some oafish dog he had cornered… or maybe a brat he'd roughed up in an alley for teasing and withholding an ice cream.

Of course, Thérèse, Yaleen's sister and Ivan's long-suffering but enabling wife pretended not to notice all the screeching and crashing, but then Myrtle always said that Thérèse was "as dumb as a spaniel... and nearly as drooly!"...

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SYBIL PREDICTS!!!... #10....

SYBIL PREDICTS!!!... yes, folks, it's that time again when I make my predictions for the New Year and those mysterious days lying ahead of us...

Prediction #10: In this next year, there will be some very good news! Increasing feelings of brotherhood between different races, religions, creeds, and nationalities will result in a huge wave of "humanism" first espoused by, of all things, ANIMALS! In Polka-Ma-Hola, Mississippi, in a surprise election coup, the new Grand Imperial Dragon Emperor Wizard of the National Ku Klux Klan will be an affable mixed breed named Scritchy. Belonging to the Hottler family of 1312 Sackett Lane, he will assume his new title today, New Years Day at 12 Noon. When interviewed by local news crews, Enid Hottler (11 years old) stated that no one in the family had known that Scritchy had ever been a member of the Ku Klux Klan, "..but then he often would go out by himself on weekend nights and not come home till Monday!".

Scritchy himself has told the press that his agenda in the Ku Klux Klan of the new millennium will be to turn all their attention away from Jewish people ("They always talk intelligently to cats about European literature and philosophy!"), African Americans ("They're great cuddlers and let you lick frosting!"), Catholics ("Who doesn't like Italian leftovers?"), and Gays ("They're obsessed with fabulous kitty-accessories! How do you like my new Grand Wizard cape...with the glitter-embellishments?")....

Scritchy also stated that the new Ku Klux Klan would now focus on civic activities like alleyway "sing-alongs”, extensive tree and leg rubbing, and human-face purring at 6 in the morning. He would also ask the national council to begin a reign of terror on objects that need to be gradually pushed off counters, on computer keyboards that need to be used as cushions, and on various garden bugs that need to be brought into the house and played with in front of shrieking owners.

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