Musings
an Online Journal of Sorts

By Alyce Wilson

This morning I dreamt that The Gryphon and I were at a big party with a bunch of our friends. My ex-boyfriend was there, drunk off his butt.

He had my dog, Una, with him and she was drunk, too.

Somehow, it had been arranged that he got custody of my dog, even though he'd never taken a part in her care. In waking life, she'd never been allowed in his apartment.

Una was trying to scrounge food from the buffet table, and she was confused from hunger and beer. That's when I decided to steal her back.

I picked her up and carried her off (which isn't too difficult, even in waking life). Her coat was matted near the collar.

When I woke up, I couldn't stop petting and hugging her.

A similar situation might have arisen. She was technically brought home for The Luser, the guy who lived off me, ran up huge long distance bills talking to Internet girlfriends and stole my CDs.

When I kicked him out, it was clear I was keeping Una. I'd always been the one who cared for her and paid for her vet visits. Plus, he was heading for an uncertain future of buses and hitchhiking.

The next day, I painted my windows shut so he couldn't sneak back in and kidnap her.

So The Luser is one reason I have an unlisted phone number. There are others. My life has been, as my French teacher would say, interesting. She had told us never to complain about food we're given in strange countries but to refer to it as "interesting."

In addition to The Luser, there is my ex-husband, who might try to hit me up for money or a place to stay. And there is Leechboy, the emotionally abusive waste of space who will no doubt one day meet his karmic comeuppance.

And then there are the people I don't even know.

While I was a small-town reporter, I acquired a stalker. He delivered newspapers for us, and I'd talked to him briefly on a couple occasions, even given him a critique on a short story he shared with me. This was nothing unusual; I'm always friendly with coworkers.

Then there was the day he parked his van next to my truck, with the sliding doors open. Inside, the entire back of the van was plastered with my articles. I told the police. They had a chat with him, warned me to start carrying pepper spray and to shake up my routine. My publisher fired him.

Just before I left town, he was arrested for trying to impersonate an EMT.

When a partner and I started Wild Violet, an online quarterly literary magazine, I determined we should get a post office box. I'm glad we did. You wouldn't believe some of the stuff we get in the mail.

First there are the "thriller" stories which end in sudden, pointless overly violent deaths. And of course, there are the obsessive, sappy love poems. Those are disturbing enough.

But then there are things like this:

If the poetry itself hadn't been bad enough to be scary, the above insert certainly was.

And considering I rejected Zoltar's poetry, boy, was I happy to be unlisted!

Copyright 2003 by Alyce Wilson

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