Oldcat and Ms Puss

Joe Taylor


Synopsis:  "Joe Taylor's novel is the most original thing to come down the pike in many long years. It's the tale of very human beings living their lives in an ever more complicated world. What makes the book memorable as well as pleasurable is that Mr. Taylor has invented or fabricated or conjured a remarkable new style of language." Eugene Walter

ISBN: 978-1-881320-72-3    Hard Cover  $23.00  Sale price   $10.00  



176  Pages

  About the Author:  Joe Taylor spent a good part of his life in Kentucky, where he earned an undergraduate degree in philosophy at UK. He worked as a waiter in West Palm Beach before moving to Tallahassee to earn his Ph.D. in creative writing.





Excerpt from the Book:

Feminist Deconstruction

     It rain so hard one night that Ms Puss think she Ms Noel. Her imagine standing on Ark's gangplank, say, "Hurry, hurry, you animal." She think, looking over long gruesome line and all them claw fights and ripe rump droppings: Maybe what if I forget to take a few, and in that way repair Godman's plan--which obliviously not work all great shakes anyhoodle or there be no need of Flood, yes?

     So she kick elephant turd overboard with a grunt and plan plans to work Godman's action a little better. After all, maybe if she just stick to losing a trio of pesky animals, Godman not notice: A: She gonna squash them two mosquito when they flitter all dandylike up plank. Just cause male drink nectar, so what?  There plenty birds and bees do that. Bees? Hmmmm. No, leave bee be. The real B. be snakes. Yes, snake done got us into lot of trouble once time, and him ever since slink about all lowlike looking for ankles, rabbits, or mousies. Mousies and rabbits pretty furry nice--and ankles just fine, thank you. Yes, that snake gonna drop. How it reproduce, anyhoodle? Where its thingy?  Maybe its thingy really be its whole body. Mr Noel sometime think his thingy be his whole body after all.

     Ms Noel laugh at that, but her laugh not funny. Rather, her eyes slit lowlike as two deer strut by and plank clatter. She peer through large rack of moving antlers toward Mr Noel on fo'c's'le screaming and swearing at Ham, Japheth and Shem. Him then trip over crocodile tail and rip up ark plank to throw at Daughter Number One who only bending down to reassure confused mama crocodile, who herself after all only trying to locate proper hatch to go into.

     Why is it, come to think, that Mr Noel no give names to their daughters, anyway? Calling them One, Two, and Hey You!, not particularly nice. And why him even want stupid crocodile on board if he so clumsy him going to trip over such an obvious green tail?

     Ms Noel count more animals and sweep overboard more dung:  then she notice her three sons throwing coiled rope at Daughters Number Two and Hey You! just as Mr Noel had at Number One. One daughter scream and fall, and sons laugh.

     Ms Noel's breasts rise against the coming rain, her eyelashes squeeze until they slice wet air like knife blades. Her look backwards at mucus green clouds tumbling toward ark, her look forward at fo'c's'le and Mr Noel gripping wine bottle in one hand while shoving ark's detached wheel with his shoulder, trying to jam it back on the tiller--him must have had crocodile tantrum and ripped wheel off when she wasn't looking. She press hands to throbbing temples as Mr Noel angrily heave wheel overboard: Now he done it. How we ever going to steer to Mt Ararat?

     Somewhere. Somewhere on other side of Mr Noel's wine-drunk ranting and those menacing rainclouds float moonbeams, she think.  Her hear from sailor stories how worst sea storms always visit at night, maybe have something to do with moonbeams seeding clouds, no one knows--but no matter either, for it sworn to be true.

     Ms Noel suddenly remove hands from throbbing temples. Yes, she think. No matter that the tiller torn. She know how to steer. For, enlightened, she's envisioned the most lovely, most

seaworthy C to fill out her deadly trio, the final link to turn Godman's plan perfect, just as it should be: Yes, one typhoony Monday Football night when Shem, Japheth, Ham, and Mr Noel out on quarterdeck in their winecups and shivering their tall timbers, she and Daughters One, Two, and Hey You! will padlock all the hatches. Sooner-later, all four males will wash overboard to join mosquito and snake, adding final C to A + B.

     No more males. Ms Noel sway like happy mast in wind and pat purring Bengal Tiger on snout while humming to self and envisioning that happy, peaceful test-tube baby sea.

     --Of sudden, Ms Puss awake, hearing Oldcat pull into driveway after Oysterhead Lounge night. It still raining to beat Flood outside, and she sure garage door going to stick, cause Oldcat been promise to phone the repairman for at least eleventy-five weeks. SCREE-chunk! It do stick and she hear Oldcat stumble-curse from car, to lift the door himself. GRU-unk! GRU-unk! She giggle, wondering what happen if he not get it open. Maybe she collect double indemnity after him wash into street's sewer drain. Her then remember dream and Ms Noel standing on deck petting the Bengal tiger: And just who say women can't be practical? Ms Puss chortle. Test-tube baby sea? Yes, that good Biblewoman's plan certainly promise more efficient future than any Godman's shimmering, lying rainbow.