By: H. Jane Fairchild
 Feminine Truffles
   Turkey Jane!
By: H. Jane Fairchild
                      An Introspective Perspective, It Is In The Stars

         As I lay in my hammock on my deck, I stare at the western night’s stars far above

my reach and way beyond my comprehension. I introspect about what I want to be when

I grow up. True, I am forty something, with a husband and two perfect children. Even

so, I laugh to myself as I consider in a comical sort of way, I’m far from being grown up.

Therefore, I sit and determine my human nature, my personality, and that which makes

up me.

         Often, I think I should be a writer, as feelings flow onto the paper for me, but they

are just melodramatic and vain emotions. When I opt to write something with depth, I

realize that procrastination is the only word I can spell consistently, and writer’s block is

the only concept I can relate to, so I reconsider.

         Sometimes I think that I should be an interior decorator because I am so obsessive

about straightening a crooked picture on the wall or fluffing a disarrayed couch cushion.

Also, I decorate compulsively though sparsely, gracing the old and weathered dresser top

with an occasional new and fresh nick-knack aiming for the eclectic yet admittedly

affordable look.

         Gazing at the “Big Dipper,” I move on to ponder about life after death, but only

briefly. Unlike my mother, I do not believe in reincarnation. She is bent in believing that

she was once a tiny Chinese man in a former life. These notions do not interest me.

        I am a dreamer though, this much I do admit. I create the illusion. I imagine I

live with horses due to the fact that riding boots and a good Stetson hat suit me. Or

perhaps I once imagined I was a horse, because to this day, I cannot resist a good carrot

feeding session, especially with ranch dressing!

        As I look at the vast expanse of the universe in the night sky, I am fascinated with

the prospect of other life out there. If not aliens, maybe there are angels. I would make a

good angel as I am always looking to the heavens for definition. Then I modify the idea.

I would be a lazy angel, because by day, I picture myself hidden without a stress, nestled

asleep in the great billowing clouds. Besides, I admit in disgrace, I am not deserving of

such a position. More than likely, I would make a more suitable butterfly if I wish to be a

creature that flies. It is generally accepted that butterflies are a little capricious with no set

destination, and this I have noticed to be a prominent extension of my personality, to be

unstable, fickle.

        I guess this characteristic of not being able to decide what I want to be when I

grow up at the age of almost forty something comes from my upbringing. I was raised in

a scientific community, the home of the atomic bomb, where everyone’s father was a

Ph.D. nuclear physicist who not only spied the stars regularly, but also however,

scrutinized them in a way that would make Stephen Hawkings proud.

       In college, I admit my scientific side would have reveled in having a cup of tea

and a chat with Albert Einstein. Though, in a lab, under the microscope, my stained

piece of celery looked more like a dead green and purple caterpillar than a plant

simulating growth processes throughout its’ every cell. In turn, my arthropod looked like

a blob of potting soil. What does E= mc squared mean again?

       I am stimulated, but not to the degree that I should be. Yes, I analyze, but I am

not a strategist. I do not permeate and dissect. So Carl Sagan would bow his head in

disgrace for not taking the stars apart to their very atom. How prestigious the life of a

scientist seems. Even so, because the hard work ethic frightens me like the plague, H.J.

Fairchild, Ph.D. seems like just a little too much labor for me to attain. So my thoughts

drift back to admiring a constellation and the idea of the butterfly flitting without a care

from flower to flower.

       Yes, I like flowers. But I do not perceive them as monocots and dicots having

petals, sepals, anthers, and carpels. They to me are not transitory, blooming either as

annuals, perennials, or biennials. They are just fragrant and beautiful. And I leave it at

that. So am I not a chemist, or a biologist, a physicist, or a scientist in any form? I am


        Again searching the stars for a sign, I focus momentarily. Where does my love

lie? Admittedly, it lies in this planet, noting unique creatures and the Godly pristine. So

does this constitute a career of scooping up animal poop or picking up trash on my

beloved Earth? I think not.

        Yes, the possibility of saving a species near extinction appeals to me, but more so

to rank in the same league of respect as Jane Goodall, whom I’ve actually had the honor

of meeting in person. I desire the glory in recognition, but I don’t possess the guts to

accompany the lifestyle of living in the jungle with a bunch of gorillas.

        Instead of simulating Jane herself, I am more like one of her apes, studying my

hand and thumb without comprehending the infinite combinations of uses between them,

I just disregard them as aesthetically appealing, or maybe good for at least nose picking.

So am I not intelligent? I stare at the dullest star I can find. I realize that even the basic

crossword puzzle stupefies me on my best days.

        What am I? With my gaze still following the bleak star, my contemplation and

introspection continues along the lines of the absurd. I imagine I am a cat. I am a loner.

I love to sleep and dose, and I am incredibly lazy. Just a touch can soothe me into a purr.

The innate circadian rhythms accommodate me to love to watch the stars late into the

night, but cause me to wince at the light of day.

       Going with that same feeling and beat, I pretend I am a bat, another nighttime

creature, why not? I love dark tunnels and cave spelunking anyway. It is also a fact that

any deed that I perform is strictly non-altruistic in nature, so I expect the favor returned

just as a vampire bat might. Perhaps I might even enjoy hanging upside down until I get

dizzy. As a child in the midst of a temper tantrum, I’d hold my breath until I’d faint,

what a high!

       A star off to the North is blinking. It must be an airplane instead. What do I want

to be when I grow up? My thought processes shift gears to something more genuine in

consideration. Can I be like a man? Sure! I have the fearless expectation of a male. I

know what selfish zeal is. In my dreams, I am the male sexual partner experiencing

climax, not as I do awake and as a female. I catch myself following the blinking object

move across the sky, and for an instant I am puzzled. Is this strange to want to be like a


       My line of sight leaves the night-flyer and goes beyond it, looking at the deep

black void behind the blue dots. I question myself if this is an oversight on my creator’s

part? Once again focusing and finding the luminous nature of the stars, I come to the

realization, no, it is not. I am in love with my femininity, the stirring of sensuality and

sexuality. I love the emotion, the complexity, and the empowerment of being a woman.

It is a true blessing to be a female. No I do not want to be like a man, too basic.

        With this, my eyes follow a path to the brightest star I can see in the New Mexico

sky, Venus. I then measure myself on a more serious level, and find an answer in it all.

A feeling of peaceful tranquility and resolution comes over me. I suppose that Albert

Einstein should have a cup of tea without me, and Mr. Sagan with Stephen Hawkings will

have to explore the black holes alone. As well, the angels can do their good deeds

undisturbed, without the laziest angel tagging along behind. Finally, the primates can call

Jane Goodall ‘mom’ and me ‘absent’, because I have decided what I want to be when I

grow up! Simply, I am portrayed as, written down and specified as due, a luminary in my

own right, H. Jane Fairchild, distinctive, whatever that may be. I can’t be wrong in my

conclusion. After all, it is in the stars!

 Feminine Truffles
Stacy’s Pearly Girls
By: H. Jane Fairchild
Stacy The Stigmata                                    …

       Stacia took out her paper, pens and ruler as she had done so frequently before.

Laying out the paper, she measured and lined her familiar checkerboard pattern, squares

appearing exponentially under the dim desktop lamp as she etched the lines in darker and

more definite. With her grid now complete, she sighed as she began to definitively color

the corner block in pen as she had always done before either to move away from troubled

thoughts or to help herself get back to sleep. Oh how many instances in frantic scribbling

had her sketching utensils and paper been a party to! It was a bad dream that disturbed

her most this time, a nightmare really. As she motioned the pen, she thought to herself

haphazardly as she always did, ‘Stacy Stacia’, ‘superior vile person’. Her middle name

she solely referred to in dark episodes such as this just as her mother had done when she

was a child, using the iconic tone ‘Stacy Stacia’ only when she was angry with her.

Stacia had become her symbol, her stigma, just as dark and black as the square she now

delved into with pen to paper.

       The dream that provoked this episode of manic drawing, occurred in the early

morning hours when the moon is still setting, and the people of the town had all crawled

into their crevices, for a deep sleep with only a few neighborhood household lights still

flickering like lanterns, a network of domiciles distanced from her prophesied dream.

       Stacia wanted to avoid her light REM sleep for these were the dreamful periods

that were more often than not self-revealing periods she analyzed. She longed for more

of deep dreamless sleep some nights, especially on this night to avoid the horror of

herself, her own image, left for her to stew over.

The Dream:

       It was a ‘quasi erotic’ fantasy. It was in the heart of ‘Germandom’, the room was

stale with the stench of war and death, like smoke singed fabric that offends the nostrils.

This is where Stacia sat poised gingerly, sensually, upon his bed, with the deep ‘V’ of her

negligee revealing the apex of her breasts. She watched him, as he arbitrarily medicated

himself to keep the psychosis from setting in, or else to coax it to come, she did not know

which it was. Was it because her family was in Auschwitz? Was she the sacrificial virgin

to a military monster now undressing and getting into bed with her? Why was she in this

boudoir in the first place? His breath had a horrible odor, reeking like sewage, as he

breathed heavily upon her, examining her more closely. Then, as her heart quickly raced

looking into those sinister eyes , an example of the occult, him neglecting to look at hers,

instead, savagely he threw open her lingerie, exposing her, and then enveloping her like

a vampire that mockingly takes the jugular of his victim, he took her! Thus, the dream

was brought to a hysterical close. It was over as fleetingly as it had begun, but with

poignant impact on its recipient. Stacia awoke, sweaty, agitated, and vehemently

ashamed of herself for having such a vision so grotesque as to be with Adolph Hitler!

        She had absentmindedly scratched a hole into the paper while filling in the sixth

box second row in red pen. Now the memory was gone as she studied her hypnotically

healing grid and noticed where she had slightly gone out of the lines.

        She used ‘white out’ on the stray marks and taped the aggressive hole in the sixth

square. She then examined her black and red checked pattern and put it into the drawer,

atop the sheet of the one she drew last month only of gleeful colors of white and yellow

strewn in swirls and stars of dark blue. She smiled at herself as she glanced at that

drawing, recalling its provocation.

        In that wee early morning dream, it was the angels that she spent time with, the

sky meeting the Earth like a stranger, as if for the first time ever. It was a lit up star filled

epiphany of Heaven talking to other planets and the outcome was Stacy being touched in

a profoundly spiritual way. It started with her looking up at the clouds on a moonlit night.

Suddenly, like fireflies, small dots of light began to develop around the edges of the

clouds sporadically. First, one small light, then another, and another, until the entire

linings of each cloud were not etched in silver, but in gold, gold luminous lights from

somewhere else. Stacy recalled that her son, very young at the time, was by her side in

the dream. She took his hand, as the entire night sky was alight like a huge map of our

globe. It was the most awe-inspiring dream she had ever had as both she and her son

humbly looked to the heavens.

        And for the following three days afterwards, she caught numbers of three of one

in a series always, looking at her clock ‘1:11’ (pointing to monitor your thoughts

carefully), license plates of cars she followed to work as ‘444’ (means you are

surrounded by angels), telephone numbers starting in ‘555’ (major life changes are in

order), and addresses she had to run errands at addresses such as ‘999’ (which means

completion), so on and so forth.

        It has long been perceived that numbers in series seen such as these are indicators

that the angels are in touch with you, watching over you. Stacy (the good persona), not

Stacia (the wicked) truly believed this theory.

        Looking at the clock, now after four in the morning, currently relaxed, Stacia,

now back to Stacy, thought briefly of her next days work with her crew, her co-workers

and friends, the ‘Pearly Girls’, the horizon of her morning now taking on new shape and

color. Then frowning, crinkling her eyebrows in disdain, she picked up the book that had

fallen aside carelessly, now rumpled into her bed linens, and placed that which she had

been reading prior to falling asleep that night onto the floor underneath her nightstand,

then proceeded serenely to a deep last hour sleep in finality of that bi-polar episode. The

book, ‘The Diary of Anne Frank’, still sits, remaining under that nightstand, left alone to

collect dust.

Feminine Truffles
  Cantha’s Thistle
By: H. Jane Fairchild
An Acceptable Age
       As told by:
‘The’ Ginevra L. Tallerico
                                                            Cest La Vi
      Imagine if you will, a fifth floor studio apartment in New York City,

in a semi-white-collar district, or a white 'collaa' district, as Cantha would

say. Cantha speaks with the inbred New York accent that runs out the letter

'r', wasted in every word, to make it almost disappear completely using

instead a long letter 'a' or even doubling the 'a' sometimes. Then, add a

Southern New Orleans Cajun type drawl to it and you get something like,

"Paark the caar in the back yaard, but not ova the clova y’all!" That is

Cantha talk.

      Our apartment is stacked atop four other floors, each of which

contains a pair of our acquaintances and friends as roommates. Our

tenement sits above everything in surveillance of all that goes on in the

bustling street below. Specifically, our place is decked out with the doilies

and plastic covered lampshades of obvious and physically 'elderly' women.

This is the best that Cantha's designer efforts get. Martha Stewart she isn't!

Although we are only sixty something at heart, the two of us, we are just

peeking over the edge of middle age in my opinion.

We are in the prime of our lives. All right, I'm sixty-three, big difference!

We come across in personality and appearance, I think, like the thespians B.

Arthur as myself, with Olympia Dukakis as Cantha. Cantha however, will

quickly pester me and correct me not to refer to us as lesbians!

      The only lesbian that I know of lives one floor below. Her name is

Francis Edith, and yes, she is the spitting image of the actress Jean

Stapleton, only huskier! For the parody of namesake, there is no other way

to put it. I tried calling her Frank or Franc once, thinking she would

appreciate the attempt to neuter her, but she objected. Too much association

with Hitler's German reign I guess. I think she is Jewish, although she

doesn't practice the religion faithfully. Maybe she has more Polish in her.

Anyway, so we stick to calling her Francis, which she prefers. She smokes

Cuban cigars like 'tupelo honey', and boy can she deal a mean hand of poker,

Chicago style, where the high spade in the hold splits the spot every time!

        Her roommate is the mild natured woman from Brisbane Queensland

Australia, who has me hanging on every wonderful Aussie slang word she

says, like when we take to the dirty in conversation after a few honeymoon

wheat ales, barley wine, about 5.9% alcohol by volume during one of our

card sessions. After five each, nothing is sacred, including talk of a "bloke's

apricots!" It is infectious. Patsy, portrayed, looks and acts a little like the

actress that played the wife on the "Barney Miller" series several years ago.

I can’t remember her name, but I can picture her with a ‘mousy’ kind of


        Although, because Patsy is such a mothering sort, with a daughter

living in Milwaukee, and is independently strong also, I don't suspect that

there is anything going on between Francis and Patsy in that way, as

Francis’s sole love seems to be day trading on the stock market.

        In this semi-professional district and resting at the feet of the

skyscrapers beyond, our avenue is dotted with many shops down the way,

including Patsy's corner market at the end of the block, in which Francis

helps her with security and inventory now and then. Patsy is always in

competition with the Asians' market two blocks over. It has become a

vehement full-time battle for her to undersell them on everything, thus,

getting and keeping more clientele, but yet, trying to stay in business herself.

        A floor below them, on the third floor, resides Settia, like poinsettia.

She always wears her hair in a tight bun, temples etched in silver. How she

gets that bun of hers spiked into the shape of the flowered red leafy plant by

the same name is totally beyond me! She is Philippine, and speaks and

chatters in a high pitched and quick Tagalog dialect frequently. And yet,

who would've thought once enthralled in our weekly wicked game of poker

that she was anything so short of "Miriam of Happy Days!" Her cursing in

Tagalog is an art form in itself! She has a daughter living in Idaho or

California or some state that is white captivating. Her daughter was shipped

over from the islands with a child on the way. My only complaint about

Settia is that she wears entirely too much sparkly eye shadow, whether it is

green, blue, or effervescent white, which instead of highlighting her eyes

just makes her look like an alien! And don't you believe that she has 'come

in peace', as she'll take you for every dime you have with her mean poker


      Settia's roommate is about as bluntly demonstrative as a hooker. She's

only fifty-six, the youngest of all us. This age differentiation is a substantial

reason for her to think that makes her equivalent to "Priscilla, wife to King

Elvis," like we should bow to her immanence walking in 'Graceland' every

time she struts through the door. I figure she must've hit pay dirt at one

time, attitude and all.

      This image comes complete with haut monde cosmetic face lift and a

boob job, which the latter is always glad to protrude, flowing over her shirt

tops during the summertime, and tightening her cashmere sweater collection

come winter. Her buxom build, is a cornucopia of flesh for any primeval

man to gawk over! As well, I swear she is a chain smoker of Pall Mall

brand cigarettes, or 'smokaa' to Cantha.

      She tries to impress us with her ability to speak "Igpay Atinlay, ethay

anguagela", or Pig Latin in gouache. She thinks it is cute. Cute! She speaks

it out of jealousy apparently. Too many of us worldly nationalities gathered

together in this melting pot of an apartment house, it cooks her insecurities.

When we gather for our weekly game, she gets so she pouts when we start

talking in our tongues. She almost looks like our pet goldfish, "Mr. Bogart,"

all puckered up with collagen in her lips! Her name is Crystal Blanche,

(Anchblay) and she is just that to me, opaque and yet completely transparent.

      Cantha herself pronounces her own name like someone with a lisp

trying to disparage the fact that they have cancer…"Caantha." I notice this

every time we are in our café across the street, in which we purchased

together years ago, owning as partners, though I put in more, but I don't hold

that over Cantha. She was leery of this endeavor in the beginning. She is

always that way is seems about 'too much commitment'. We bought the

place because our apartment had a bird's eye view of our future investment.

It is Italian in cuisine, which I am proud to say is my specialty as the head

chef there.

      My master works include authentic dishes straight from Italy and

courtesy of Grandma Maria Sophia, Pasta alla puttanesca, Pizzoccheri,

Risotto alla Parmigiana, and Timpano di Maccheroni. All handed down

through the generations of our proud family.

      Cantha serves as the accountant for the bistro and as head hostess,

which she is suited for, as I don't have the patience. On occasion, I serve as

a translator if I am available, as Cantha greets our patrons, introducing

herself as 'Caantha.' And don't get me started on how she mangles my menu

entrees in redneck Italian! One time, a partially tipsy client took me aside

and whispered "Cantha?" I just responded by saying, "Think Pyra, from the

fire thorn family!"

      Our ristorante is called "De Ginevra!" Cantha may have leniency

when it comes to furnishing our apartment, but I name the restaurant, my

masterwork thank you very much!

      If Cantha had her way eons ago, she would've titled the place

"Cantha's Chimera, Italian Style," "Ginevra's Gazpacho Grotto," "Cantha's

Cannolli Castle," or else "Cantha's Italian Prickle," which I assure you

would've gone out of business within a year of it's opening with names such

as these.

      My motto is to always keep things straightforward. And why

shouldn't I? "Sono un goddess, non mancante mai, in nessun bisogno di

spiegazione, io sono Ginevra". After all, it is true I am a goddess, never

lacking, and in no need of explanation. I am Ginevra. This is my life with

Cantha Mae Dupree', praise be to God, and curse the day I ever set foot on

this Earth with that unorthodox crony in tow!


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