Yesteryear Fiction

Two People with the Same DNA
By Donal Mahoney


I was out hunting mushrooms early one morning with my gunny sack and flashlight as is my wont when good mushrooms sprout like little penises. They go good with a fine steak, provided you know where to look for them and I do because my grandfather took me out in the woods many years ago and showed me his secret spot. He’s dead now as is my father but the mushrooms are always there. On the way, however, I stopped under a bridge to relieve myself and found I had company, a gnome with a bulbous nose and a severe case of rosacea leaning up against the abutment and rolling a joint.

“Howdy,” he said, his little triangular hat almost falling off his head.

“Howdy,” I said, affable fellow that I am.

Then he said, “You look like an intelligent gentleman. Maybe you can answer a question no other mushroom hunter has been able to answer all the years I’ve waited for them under this bridge.”

Not wanting to insult the only gnome I had ever met, I told him I’d try to answer his question.

He seemed very happy to hear me say that, took a deep breath and then said, “What two people have the same DNA even though no one in the world wants to debate this issue with me, maybe because they think I’m short on facts, no pun intended?”

Well, I’m no genius but I know that one’s DNA is like one’s fingerprints--singular to that person. No two people share the same fingerprints or DNA. So that’s what I said to the gnome.

“No two people have the same DNA. Scientists proved that a long time ago. Science is always right."

“You’re as dumb as the rest of them,” the gnome replied, taking a long drag on his joint and throwing his free hand in the air with obvious exasperation. His little hat almost fell off.

“If I’m wrong,” I said, "tell me what two people have the same DNA.”

He took another long drag, jumped up, did a little dance and shouted in a high-pitched voice, “Why Jesus and Mary, of course. But you can’t test them because they’re in heaven now waiting for the rest of us.”

I thanked him for his insight, picked up my gunny sack and headed for the mushroom patch, looking behind me all the way to make certain the gnome wasn’t following me. He wasn’t. Apparently he chose to stay under the bridge, rolling a joint and waiting for the next mushroom hunter to take his little quiz.


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Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.

Ruby Throat Madness
By Donal Mahoney


He paints hummingbirds not
for people to praise them,

ogle and grovel and buy them.
He paints them because

the birds come fluttering
one after another

and won't go away unless
he paints them, every hue.

They line up like planes
at a busy airport, hovering,

waiting their turn to be put
on canvas, made immortal,

one bird at a time,
framed and hung on a wall.

After hanging each painting
he cleans his brushes and whistles

and waits for the next one to come
and hover in front of his eyes.

He prays the last one will perch
on his brush and stay.


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Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.

Twin Girls, 1948
By Donal Mahoney


Beth was always different
marching as she did
to an armless drummer.

Her sister Kate marched
to another drummer,
one with arms on certain days

but never with a drum
that caught the sticks Kate
kept in the air flailing.

When the girls were young
their mom and dad took them out
for walks on Sunday

afternoons in summer.
The girls waved to butterflies
but never to anyone else.

It was hard for other kids
peering from porches
to understand the problem.

When the twins were small
they didn't call it autism.
It had no name on my block.

Now the illness has a name
and different medications
that sometimes temper

but never cure.
The girls are women now
old and living in a big home

with others in a small band
some still playing instruments
no one else can see.


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Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.

Horns Over Hooves
By Donal Mahoney


You meet all kinds of women in pubs,
women far different than women
you meet in church on Sunday
when you're in a pew with your wife

which is why I was surprised to hear
this beautiful woman two stools over
ask me if I believed in angels
before I had ordered a drink.

Well, as a matter of fact, I do,
I said, happy to get the small stuff
out of the way before we got down
to business, whatever that might be.

What kind of angels do you believe in,
she smiled and asked, sipping a Guinness.
Well, I believe in seraphim, cherubim,
principals, thrones, dominations, all

the different choirs of angels
listed in the Bible I studied in school.
What about guardian angels, she asked.
Do you believe you have one?

Indeed I do believe I have one, I said,
although I saw no reason why guardian angels
couldn't be women if angels had genders
which as pure spirits they don't have.

And what does your guardian angel do,
she inquired, getting rather personal.
Well, I said, my guardian angel is busy
from the moment I get up at dawn

till I fall back in the sack at night
because Satan or one of his minions
is always trying to worm his way
into my mind, memory or imagination

trying to get me to do things
forbidden by the Ten Commandments.
For example, whenever I see a beautiful woman,
Satan always says I should introduce myself

and I always ask my guardian angel if I should
and he always asks what my wife would say
and I always ask if I have to tell her
and he always says I should keep walking

while he does what guardian angels do
and knocks Satan horns over hooves
back into Hades, something he does for me
several times a day, especially when

I stop at this train station pub for a
root beer on ice when my train is late
and a beautiful woman two stools over
smiles and asks if I believe in angels.


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Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.

One Stark Trumpet Peals
By Donal Mahoney


At eve, old melodies unwomb,
old ragings wake
as crones,
stringy hair unbunned,
creep downstairs
to supper on a loin.
As they feed,
their fingernails
roll back
and so they gravitate
or, better, crawl
toward the dawn,
for in the din
that eddies in each ear,
they can hear
one stark trumpet peal
as they creep
toward the sun
a final time,
drawn by
ancient echoings.


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Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.

Jabberwocky Redux
By Donal Mahoney


After reading too much Aquinas

Would an aphid reside in an onager’s ear
if the onager’s master spoke Twi?
Or a Gascony scop with a leper elope
if a civet leapt out of a tree?
You doubt it? Read Thomas and see.

Would an addax in Denmark gyrate
if an emu in Sweden bore freight?
Or an eland in Chile complain
if jerboas in Goa refrain?
You doubt it? Read Thomas and see.

For really I thought ‘twas the onager taught
the aphid the tenor of Twi, and that
Gascony scops with Norwegians eloped
when Danes had lepers to tea.
You doubt it? Read Thomas and see.


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Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.

Blackbirds
By Donal Mahoney


A moment ago,
in a flicker of pique,
with a wave of the hand,
I dispersed them.

Glorious birds,
now they are back,
gold talons wrapped,
roosting.

Glorious birds,
high on a wire,
spearing the nits
in their feathers.


- - -
Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.

Reaction to an Editor's Suggested Revisions
By Donal Mahoney


Yours is the first email I opened this morning. I was surprised to see your name since I had forgotten about the piece I had submitted a year ago. Time does fly.

I appreciate your suggested revisions and invitation to re-submit the work once I have made the revisions. I can tell that you spent a lot of time analyzing my efforts.

I'm afraid, however, that I can't make the changes you suggest. Nevertheless I feel obligated to compensate you for your time.

It is to that end that I took your name to Rebecca. I showed her your suggestions and she said that your name would be introduced at the next gathering of her coven. She asked if I had any suggestions for revisions to your life. I said I did and that she might want to take notes.

I said I thought it might be best to have your organs rot one organ at a time. I added, however, that while your organs rot slowly in series, your heart should remain strong so you can die at a leisurely pace. We don't want to rush this.

She said that could be arranged although it was an unusual request. In similar cases in dispatching someone who has grievously insulted another, usually the insulted party wants the insulter eliminated immediately. I'm unusual, she said, in that respect.

I told her I didn't want to be heartless and have you die before you have a chance to put your affairs in order. And I reminded her not to inflict cancer on your pancreas too early because medicine has no certain cure for that. In short order, cancer of the pancreas usually means lights out.

I suggested she start with your gall bladder and move on to your kidneys and then your lungs and then your brain. That will keep the doctors busy while you waste away. I suggested she save your pancreas for last.

I also asked her to let me know when your pancreas becomes involved so I can make plane reservations to come and say good-bye.

In the meantime, may your next issue be stillborn. No reason to make it different from the last.


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Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.

Vertigo with a Touch of Syncope
By: Donal Mahoney

- -
I look in the mirror and I'm not there.
Where did I go? I don't know
so I look around and see my wife
with the dogs and kids.
Not one of them sees me.
Recliner's empty. So's the bed.
I must be somewhere; I always am.
Barber claims he saw me yesterday
and I won't need another trim
for a month or more.
Dentist says I have no teeth to fix,
that I should keep gummin' it,
so why would I go there?
Maybe I'll call my sister who knows
nothing about me now.
We haven't talked in 20 years.
When no one's in the mirror
they sometimes find me
behind the couch chompin'
on a Dagwood sandwich
but this time it's different.
Where am I? Heaven? Hell?
Somewhere in between?
I hear Hoagy on the piano
playing "Georgia on My Mind."
Text me on a cloud
if he plays "Stardust."
The drinks will be on me
for everyone in the house.


- - -
Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.

Sparrows Live Forever
By Donal Mahoney


He's a chef today but Raj Patel
was once a swami in another life
and a mongoose twice
in other lives as well.
All this occurred in Bangalore
before he came to Chicago,
he tells customers while bringing
cups of foaming Indian tea
and bowls of mango ice cream
to tables in his small cafe,
a steamy oasis on this
freezing Christmas Day.
"Drink up," he says.
"No charge for tea
on Christmas Day."

His regulars come to pay
homage to his chicken curry
as well as to his revelations
about the lives he's lived,
one life after another,
over many centuries.
Every time he dies, Raj says,
he's swept right back
in another guise and he'll
keep coming back, he says,
until he gets life right.
"Every man comes back
until he gets life right.
There is no other way."

Having been a mongoose twice,
and having killed a cobra,
Raj Patel prays every night
that he'll come back
the next time as a sparrow
because sparrows always
have enough to eat, he says.
"They fly around, copulate
feed their young and never die,
as far as I can tell.
Have you ever seen a sparrow
rotting in the street?
I have not but I'll keep looking."

Raj Patel says he'll believe
sparrows live forever until
he finds a fallen sparrow
somewhere in the street.
"Prove me wrong," he says.
"Bring me a fallen sparrow
and you will feast like a sultan
on chicken curry, basmati rice,
mango ice cream and chai tea,
everything absolutely free!
McDonald's will never offer
a deal as good as that!"


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Donal Mahoney lives in St. Louis, Missouri.