GAS Featured Writer: Ken Poyner

 

Ken Poyner has ten books behind him; eight still in print that can be found at Amazon, Barnes and Noble, Sundial Books, and just about everywhere else.  He is married to a world class female powerlifter, and lives additionally with rescue cats and betta fish.  He retired as soon as he could from his government job, and now enjoys the thrill of getting lost during short travel trips.  Individual works have appeared in Analog, Furious Gazelle, Rune Bear, and many other venues.  Visit www.kpoyner.com.

AGGRESSION


He is going to find the owner of the cigar.  He has been smelling it ever since being abandoned on this bench.  The moment he was alone, the odor of it pierced him.  He can see no source:  left, right or in front.  Behind is a garden fence.  Thick stone, with concrete leveler.  He can only see over it if he stands on the bench.  Positioned, eyes barely past the fence top, he sees standing by an outgrowth of wild flowers the friend who had just left, smoking a cigar. He leaps from the bench, seeking a suitable throwing rock.

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EDUCATION
  

She asks again that the department store not dress the front window mannequins so scantily.  Full dresses, winter coats.  Nothing sleeveless.  Keep the neckline up, the hemline down. For heaven’s sake, no lingerie.  Our boys get ideas.  We have to drag them gawking sideways by those windows.  Leave them alone, and they stand at attention, imagining variations on this storefront classroom.  This department store leaves her so much to undo.  Don’t get her started about her husband and the silly nothings he brings home for her to wear.  It is not something she ever wants to explain to her daughter.

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ESTABLISHED


He wonders why a cricket outdoors is soothing, but one in the house annoying.  They are the same insect, they make the same sound.  Early evenings outdoors they are a joy, particularly in multitude.  Quibble looks forward to sitting on his porch, drawing strength from their sound.  Even by an open window, their voices leaking in pleasantly paper the heart.  Close the window, shut the door, and even one cricket stitching in domestic air is a challenge.  Half the night Quibble will chase the sound, rolled up newspaper in hand.  This is his house.  There will be no crackling defiance.

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LINEAGE


He can’t remember when his grandson became his charge.  One day the boy was here and that day no one came to pick him up.  Family what it is, Quibble took on the responsibility of raising him.  He converted the spare room, began collecting boy furniture and clothes and toys.  His wife was at first not pleased and required a terror of convincing. But she adored how Quibble doted on the boy, slid comfortably into the role of a grandfather.  Tasting his delight, she imagined he would have been a good father, had they not decided to have no children.

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PARANOIA


Quibble loves to watch clouds.  Long hours he lies on his back in his close-cropped yard and stares at them dancing with what he believes is purpose.  At times, he can be in the town square settled in one of the four uncomfortable public benches, fixed on whatever clouds, no matter how few, warble angrily above him. Most citizens think that, like everyone, he sees faces and animals, shoreline and suggestive whisps.  No.  Quibble worries the clouds mean him harm, make him part of their rain-dreary schemes.  At night, the clouds creep closer, they stitch themselves with moonbeams into malice.