Issue Two

We save mince pies and Kitty her tapioca pudding to throw to the swans, but how they thrash and fight for our desserts. They churn the water in the pit into terrible waves and bash each other with their graceful necks.  "Stop feeding them," our keepers scream. "Any injury will affect the meat."

Edward Junior, the noblest son among us, disagrees. Edward Senior thrashed like the swans do, but it did not affect his meat. On a last Father's Day, at lunch in a restaurant’s darkest booth, Senior had moaned how very lonely he was. "Lonely like you, now that your wife has fled. Let us move in together, Son!" Junior chewed the idea and swallowed. "I will share my secrets with the ladies," the old man then promised. How he had won Junior's late great mother with lavender roses, coq au vin and crème brûlée, and, when the time came, ended their romance with a pinch of powder from a tiny vial. He  opened the menu. "Son, what is your fancy?" Edward Junior tells us it was Edward Senior, with pomme frites and gravy. We believe him.

At St. Anthony Among The Mad, memories are hungriest on Sundays when we sit at supper in the Great Hall. Platters of roast swan are set before us. We rock in our chairs and tear at our hair. We curse and confess over and over.

Neta and Neto are twins, the most eager of us inmates. We do not know why their names are so very strange. Their identical faces are the plainest we have ever seen. They finish each other’s sentences.  "Oh, you should have met our dear Papa!’ trills Neta. "He was the grandest man you could ever hope to meet," sighs Neto. "Handsome as a prince—hair black as a raven’s wing—eyes full of wisdom and kindness—admired by all, loved by all—always the perfect word to cheer and console, young and old alike—he loved us so much, so much—though we were dull to his shine."