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    Cynthia and the Blue Cat's Last Meow
    Cynthia and the Blue Cat's Last Meow
    Cynthia and the Blue Cat's Last Meow
    Ebook70 pages1 hour

    Cynthia and the Blue Cat's Last Meow

    By Jeffrey Penn May

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    About this ebook

    Written in a poetic style reminiscent of Richard Brautigan, "Cynthia and the Blue Cat’s Last Meow" is the first person narrative of young man who enters a colorful, anthropomorphic land that appears perfect, and Cynthia is the embodiment of that land. Gradually, the narrator sees his own tormented soul hidden beneath the natural beauty. He sees, but cannot readily accept, the demons gnawing at his heart. This story is about the unleashing and dissolution of his fears and his maturing perception of Cynthia. It is also about her guidance and the resulting changes that occur within her.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherJeffrey Penn May
    Release dateJul 16, 2012
    ISBN9781476115351
    Cynthia and the Blue Cat's Last Meow
    Author

    Jeffrey Penn May

    Jeffrey Penn May has won several short fiction awards. His story “The Wells Creek Route” received a Pushcart Prize nomination, and his novel Where the River Splits, an excellent review in the St. Louis Post-Dispatch. Merging his outdoor interests with his writing, Jeff has published mountain climbing articles, short stories and poems. He has also written education articles and technical writing guides. His work has appeared in the US, UK, and Canada. He wrote and performed a short story for Washington University Radio and was a consultant to a St. Louis theatre company.After earning his a B.A. in English and Psychology, a Masters in Secondary Education, and a Writer’s Certificate from the University of Missouri, Jeff worked as a waiter, hotel security officer, credit manager, deck hand, technical data engineer, creative writing instructor, and English teacher. He was the principal of a small alternative school where he organized a fund-raising, climbing expedition and appeared in television and radio spotlights.Born at Fort Ord near Monterey, California, and raised in St. Louis, Jeff comes from a family of all boys and has always been compelled to explore the outdoors, leading to many questionable “vacations.” His adventures include, but are not limited to the following: floated a home-built wood and barrel raft from St. Louis to Memphis, navigated a John boat to New Orleans, drove an old Volkswagen alone 8000 miles around the west, spent a month in a dirt floor shack in west-central Mexico digging for Pre-Colombian artifacts, climbed mountains from Alaska to South America, and spent several days in the Amazon jungle. Jeff teaches writing near St. Louis. Please visit www.askwritefish.com.

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      Cynthia and the Blue Cat's Last Meow - Jeffrey Penn May

      "To tell you that I LOVE your story seems grossly inadequate. I could not put it down. I gobbled it up.... This story will haunt me forever –but it's a good haunt. It is truly one of the best things I've read in years. The ending is just right. This story is very good. It deserves to be read and read widely." – Robin Theiss, writer, editor, former president of the St. Louis Writers Guild.

      Beautifully written--almost nothing I read is so clear & bright as it is, deserves to be at least as widely read as its competition. It reminds me somewhat of D.H. Lawrence, Mark Twain--with Hemingway clarity. That's good. I don't mean that it’s imitative. It’s something new, too. (The) persona is quite different from any of theirs. (Jeff is) an extraordinarily good literary artist. – Eric Chaet, writer, poet, American original, author of People I Met Hitchhiking On USA Highways.

      "What a nice, mystical little story! This was very evocative to me. I pictured a world set in the Missouri rivers of my childhood, with Arthur Rackham and J.M. Turner taking turns water coloring those pictures. As for the action, let's say . . . George Eliot was transported into the future and, dreaming, was visited by Steven King, O. Henry, and, very briefly, whoever wrote the screenplay for Splash." – Christine Frank, writer, editor, Christine Frank and Associates.

      I loved your book? Thank you! It is a ‘page burner’! I started it on the plane and couldn’t put it down until I finished it at the hotel pool. Honestly, I am amazed that a 25 year old man possessed the depth of understanding to write the book! – Mary Lu Sanders-Zinser, Intellectual Property Law Center. (Note from author: I'm not twenty-five anymore.)

      CYNTHIA

      And The Blue Cat’s Last Meow

      by Jeffrey Penn May

      Cynthia and the Blue Cat’s Last Meow

      Copyright © 2011 by Jeffrey Penn May

      All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

      Smashwords Edition License Notes

      This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

      Cynthia! I cannot tell the greater blisses...

      -- John Keats

      Choose a firm cloud, before it fall, and in it

      Catch, ere she change, the Cynthia of this minute.

      -- Alexander Pope

      Preface

      This is merely what happened. I only hope that whoever may

      read it will find a place where it will make good fish bait.

      I

      Cynthia’s cabin is nestled among trees next to a blue river. The river is alternately deep and shallow, running smoothly over amber stones, mottled by an occasional pearl white stone. Cynthia fishes the blue river. The path to her cabin is matted yellow and the nearby grass bright green.

      I was hiking into Cynthia’s land when a man, walking from the opposite direction, met me on the trail. He was short, bent over, carefully watching his step, and he wore a sailor’s cap tilted back. Slung over his shoulder, he carried a wicker basket held by leather straps, and he stared at the ground while he walked, nearly bumping into me.

      I greeted him, but he grumbled and stepped around me, then tottered off balance. The basket swung to the side and a fish spilled out. The fish was blue with bright orange cheeks. Its colors were vibrant even after flopping about and gathering a layer of dirt.

      The man hung his basket on a tree and began hopping after the fish. Maybe by emulating it, he hoped to catch it. The effort did not look promising and he was becoming frustrated, so I went over and, with my foot, pinned the fish against a tree trunk. Without offering thanks, he grabbed it and returned it to the basket. The basket was full of fish.

      Where did you catch them? I asked.

      Cynthia caught them, he responded without looking at me, then added, I help eat them.

      I didn’t understand, not knowing that there was not much more to understand. Cynthia caught them and he helped eat them.

      He slung the basket over his shoulder again, then leaned close, squinting his eyes and grinning. You’ve never been here before, have you?

      No sir, I haven’t.

      He winked, then whispered, Pay close attention to what you think you are, to what you see, what you hear, but pay no attention to me.

      With that, he tipped his cap, turned and skipped once, twice, and off he went, whistling, birds chirping and fluttering out of the trees.

      Is she home now? I called.

      Cynthia? he yelled back over his shoulder. She’s always home.

      Perhaps most of the time, but not always. When I met her, she was buying groceries at the general store in town. Cynthia talked about fish and we quickly became friends. She invited me to her cabin, which is accessible only by foot. I was skeptical at first, but she was sincere, even gave me directions. Anytime, she said, she was almost always home.

      The trees blocked the sunlight, and I felt as if I was walking through a tunnel, finally emerging into a

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