Sonnettics

Tweedledee and Tweedledum were having one of their usual quarrels in a sun-dappled glade in Wonderland. This time, it was about who could bounce a mushroom higher. Tweedledee swore he had achieved at least three feet, while Tweedledum accused him of exaggeration.  

Their bickering was interrupted by a peculiar sound: a faint *click-clack* followed by a whispery *whir*. They turned to see a wooden figure standing at the edge of the glade, painted in bright reds, greens, and golds.  

"Who are you?" asked Tweedledee, eyes wide.  

"I'm Matryoshka," the figure replied in a lilting accent, bowing politely.  

"And what do you do?" inquired Tweedledum.  

Matryoshka smiled coyly. "I do not *do*, dear sirs. I *am*. But if you must know, I contain multitudes."  

With a dramatic twist, Matryoshka's torso separated, revealing a smaller doll inside. The inner doll gave a polite nod before stepping out, leaving the next layer visible. This continued until five distinct versions of Matryoshka stood in a neat line, each smaller and more intricately painted than the last.  

The Tweedles clapped enthusiastically. "Marvelous!" exclaimed Tweedledee. "Do it again!"  

Matryoshka giggled, and one of her layers—a medium-sized doll with rosy cheeks and a mischievous smile—spoke up. "You two are quite charming," she said.  

The Tweedles puffed up with pride. "Why, thank you!" said Tweedledum.  

But the smallest doll, barely six inches tall and painted with a frown, crossed her tiny wooden arms. "I find them insufferable," she muttered.  

"Insufferable?" gasped Tweedledee, clutching his chest. "What have we done to deserve such scorn?"  

The smallest doll glared at them. "You're loud, you're foolish, and you argue over nonsense. It's exhausting just watching you!"  

"Well, I never!" Tweedledum exclaimed, while Tweedledee looked ready to faint from indignation.  

The medium-sized doll interjected. "Don't mind her. She's always been a sourpuss. The rest of us find you delightful."  

"But she's part of you," said Tweedledee, scratching his head. "How can you both love us and loathe us?"  

Matryoshka, now fully assembled again, gave a serene smile. "Ah, such is the complexity of the heart, my dear Tweedles. Each layer of me feels differently, yet together, we are one."  

The Tweedles exchanged confused glances. "So... you like us, except when you don’t?" asked Tweedledum.  

"Precisely!" Matryoshka said with a wink.  

The Tweedles, baffled but not displeased, decided to make the best of the situation. They spent the afternoon showing Matryoshka their favorite mushroom-bouncing techniques. The medium-sized doll clapped with glee, while the smallest muttered under her breath about their "ridiculous antics."  

As the sun set, Matryoshka prepared to leave, her layers sliding back into place. "Goodbye, dear Tweedles," she said. "Remember, love and loathing are just two sides of the same wooden coin."  

The Tweedles waved as she disappeared into the forest, still arguing about who had bounced the mushroom higher. Somewhere inside Matryoshka, a tiny wooden doll rolled her painted eyes—but even she couldn’t deny she’d had a little fun.

In a dimly lit lecture hall filled with twisting vines and oversized toadstools, the Caterpillar lounged on a massive, velvety mushroom that served as both podium and perch. The room buzzed with a strange energy, like the walls themselves were curious to hear what would happen next. A lazy swirl of smoke hung in the air, twisting into shapes as the Caterpillar puffed on an ornate hookah.
The students were an odd bunch, each stranger than the last. At the front sat Tweedledee and Tweedledum, identical in every way except for the tiny differences they insisted didn’t exist. Beside them, a card from the Queen’s court scribbled notes with one corner of its flat, red body. Toward the back, a dormouse balanced on a teacup, blinking sleepily but clearly determined to stay awake.
The Caterpillar exhaled a perfect ring of smoke that hovered in the air like a question mark before fading away. Leaning forward, the Caterpillar spoke, voice slow and deliberate.
“Who. Are. You?”
The students glanced at each other nervously. The question hung in the air, heavy and almost too big to grasp.
Tweedledee raised a tentative hand. “I’m Tweedledee,” he said, puffing up his chest.
“And I’m Tweedledum!” his twin added, like the universe needed this fact to stay in balance.
The Caterpillar’s antennae twitched. Was that amusement? Disdain? It was hard to tell. “Are you?” the Caterpillar asked, smoke curling around the words. “Or are you just parroting what you’ve been told? Names, my dear twins, are not identity. Who. Are. You?”
Tweedledee and Tweedledum froze, their mouths slightly open.
“We’re...” started Tweedledee.
“We’re us?” finished Tweedledum, but it sounded more like a question.
“How imaginative,” the Caterpillar said, exhaling another plume of smoke with a roll of its eyes. “Identity isn’t just about names or looking alike. It’s a journey—a messy, endless tangle of choices, actions, and the dance between freedom and responsibility. But don’t let me interrupt your riveting display of sameness.”
From the back of the room, the dormouse stirred. “I think,” it said softly, blinking its big, sleepy eyes, “I’m a dream. Or maybe the one dreaming. I’m not sure which.”
The Caterpillar tilted its head slightly, expression unreadable. “A dream and the dreamer. How profound—if only it weren’t so obvious. But remember, dreams shape the dreamer as much as the other way around. Do try to keep up.”
A rustling sound came from the side of the room. The card raised a corner of itself to speak. “If we’re shaped by choices, then what about the rules? What if I’m just following orders? Can I still be... me?”
The Caterpillar took a long, slow puff from the hookah. “Ah, the rules. How comforting for those who’d rather not think for themselves. You’re bound by them, sure. But even within rules, there’s space for choices. How you follow them, why you follow them—those things matter. They shape who you are, perhaps even more than the rules themselves. Though, clearly, you haven’t thought about it that far.”
Tweedledee and Tweedledum whispered furiously to each other, clearly trying to work out their next answer. Finally, Tweedledee stood up, looking determined. “We’re not just Tweedledee and Tweedledum. We’re ideas! Contrasts, reflections of each other, but also... different.”
The Caterpillar gave a small nod, though its expression was far from impressed. “Better. But let me ask you this: Is an idea still an idea if it’s never shared, never spoken? Or does it wither like a mushroom left in the dark? Don’t strain yourselves too hard answering.”
The twins sat back down, looking like they had even more questions than before.
The Caterpillar scanned the room, gaze landing on each student like it was peeling back the layers of their thoughts. “Who you are isn’t a puzzle to solve. It’s a question you live. Every choice, every failure, every little joy or heartbreak adds to the answer. And even then, it’s never finished. Now, think on that, and maybe next time, you’ll manage something less insipid.”
With that, the Caterpillar exhaled a final cloud of smoke that filled the room with shifting shapes: a question mark, a labyrinth, a pair of mirrored twins. Then it leaned back into the mushroom, clearly done for the day.
The students filed out, lost in their own thoughts. None of them said it, but every single one felt like the Caterpillar had asked the question directly to their very soul: Who are you?

Alice wandered further down the path, feeling a strange mix of confusion and curiosity. As she walked, the air seemed to shift, and the world around her grew quieter. In the distance, she saw a figure, silhouetted against a soft light. The figure hung from a cross, its form serene yet profound, radiating an aura of calmness and sacrifice. It was Jesus, his arms stretched wide, his eyes closed in quiet reflection.

Alice approached slowly, unsure of what to say or do. She had heard of Jesus before, but never like this. She had seen paintings of him, stories told of his miracles and teachings, but this… this was different.

“Excuse me,” Alice called gently, her voice trembling slightly.

The figure opened its eyes, and though Alice could not see his face clearly, she felt a deep sense of compassion and understanding in his gaze. The figure spoke in a soft, comforting voice that seemed to resonate with the very air around her.

“Child, why do you wander in confusion?” he asked.

Alice paused, her mind swirling with questions. “I… I don’t know where I am or what to do. Everything seems so strange. I feel like I’m losing myself.”

Jesus smiled faintly, a warmth spreading from his words. “The world is full of strange things, Alice, and yet, all of it is a part of the journey. Sometimes, you must lose yourself in order to find your true path.”

“But how do I know which way to go?” Alice asked, her brow furrowed.

He nodded thoughtfully, his gaze softening. “The way is not always clear, but it is always within you. Look within your heart, for the answers you seek are there. Trust in your own spirit, for it is stronger than you realize.”

Alice blinked, absorbing his words. “But what if I can’t find my way? What if I make the wrong choice?”

Jesus’ voice grew gentler. “Every path you take is a lesson, a part of your growth. You will stumble, you will fall, but you will rise again. Remember, I am with you, even when you feel lost.”

Alice stood in silence for a moment, feeling an unfamiliar sense of peace. She had been so consumed by her confusion that she hadn’t realized how much she needed guidance. She looked up at the figure on the cross, sensing both strength and tenderness in his presence.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

With a soft smile, Jesus nodded, his voice carrying a final note of wisdom. “Go now, Alice. The path is yours to walk, and you are never alone.”

As Alice continued on her way, she felt lighter, as if a weight had been lifted from her heart. The world still seemed strange, but now, she felt a little more ready to face it.

—

Robert paced the small parlor, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. The wooden floorboards creaked beneath his boots, their groans echoing in the stillness of the room. The air was thick with the mingled scents of beeswax and dried lavender, the latter carefully arranged in small bundles along the windowsill. It was Catherine’s way of bringing a sense of calm to the house, a subtle nod to the fresh start she would soon embark upon. She sat across from him in a high-backed chair, her needle poised over an embroidery hoop. Her fingers moved with precision, but her eyes betrayed her distraction, following his restless movements like a cat tracking a flickering shadow.

“Robert,” she said gently, breaking the silence, “if you have something to say, you ought to say it.”

Robert stopped abruptly, his face turned away as though the act of speaking would cost him dearly. He stood near the mantel, the soft light of the late afternoon casting a warm glow on the planes of his face. When he finally turned to face her, his expression was a mixture of concern and hesitation, the kind that made Catherine set aside her embroidery and sit up straighter.

“It’s about William,” he began, his voice low and deliberate. “We Blakes are honest people, and there are things you should know before you marry him.”

Catherine tilted her head, her brow furrowing slightly. “What things?” she asked, her voice calm but tinged with curiosity. She folded her hands neatly in her lap, the embroidery forgotten for now.

Robert sighed, his shoulders slumping as though he carried a weight he could no longer bear. He glanced toward the window, where the golden light of the setting sun filtered through the thin curtains. “You know how much I love my brother,” he began, his voice softening. “He’s a kind and brilliant soul, one of the finest men I know. But… he’s not the same as he once was. Not entirely.”

Catherine leaned forward slightly, her eyes searching his face. “Not the same? How do you mean?”

Robert turned away again, his gaze fixed on the small, flickering flames in the hearth. He spoke as though to the fire, his words tumbling out in a rush, as though afraid they might choke him if left unsaid. “It happened during the Gordon Riots, years ago. William was caught up in the chaos, as so many were. You know how he is – always outspoken, always willing to speak his mind, especially about matters of religion and justice. But that night… that night, someone mistook him for a sympathizer of the government’s policies.”

Catherine’s eyes widened, her lips parting in shock. “But William has never supported such things,” she said, her voice trembling slightly.

“No, of course not,” Robert said bitterly, his hands tightening into fists at his sides. “But when the army came to break up the mobs they didn’t care for truth. They only cared for “order,” as the government calls it.  He was in the wrong place at the wrong time and got struck in the head with a baton. They left him in the street, unconscious, as though he were nothing more than refuse to be discarded.”

Catherine’s hand flew to her mouth, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “How terrible,” she whispered. “But he survived that!”

“He did,” Robert replied, his voice heavy with emotion. “But he was never the same after that night. When he awoke, he spoke of strange things – visions of angels and celestial beings, of voices that whispered truths only he could hear. At first, we thought it was simply a feverish delusion. But as the weeks turned to months, it became clear that these visions were not fading. If anything, they grew stronger, more vivid. I think the head injury did something to his brain, his mind”

Catherine’s frown deepened, though her gaze remained steady. “You think his visions are a result of this injury?”

“What else could they be?” Robert asked, his tone edged with frustration. “Before that night, William was a dreamer, yes, but his feet were firmly planted on the ground. Now… now, it’s as though he straddles two worlds – one of flesh and one of spirit. And Catherine, I worry that he may lose himself entirely to the latter.”

Catherine rose from her chair, the fabric of her dress rustling softly as she crossed the room to stand before him. She reached out and placed a hand on his arm, her touch steady and warm. “Robert, I love William,” she said, her voice firm. “I love him for his kindness, his passion, and his boundless imagination. If these visions are part of who he is now, then I will embrace them as I embrace him. They do not frighten me.”

Robert looked down at her, his dark eyes searching hers for any sign of doubt or hesitation. Finding none, he sighed deeply and placed his hand over hers. “You are braver than I am, Catherine,” he admitted, his voice softening. “I only hope that your love will be enough to keep him anchored to this world, even as he reaches for the heavens.”

Catherine’s lips curved into a soft, radiant smile that seemed to light the dim parlor. “Love is not a tether, Robert,” she said gently. “It is a pair of wings. And I will fly with him wherever his visions take us.”

Robert nodded, though his heart remained heavy with worry. He released her hand and stepped back, his gaze lingering on her face for a moment longer before he turned toward the door. “Take care of him, Catherine,” he said quietly. “He is precious to us all.”

As he stepped out into the cool evening air, the weight of his words still lingered in the parlor. Catherine returned to her chair and picked up her embroidery, her hands steady and her heart resolute. She knew the road ahead would not be easy, but she was prepared to walk it, hand in hand with the man she loved. Whatever dreams or visions lay in William’s heart, she would face them with him, unafraid.

I gave ChatGPT the first two lines and told it to complete the sonnet. (meh)

**A billionaire is like a rotten cyst,**  
**And all the billions are like rancid pus.**  
**Their greed infects the world; the poor persist,**  
**While wealth swells up, diseased and poisonous.**  

**Their factories cough smoke like labored breath,**  
**The rivers choke on filth they never clean.**  
**They spread through laws, a plague that welcomes death,**  
**Consuming all and leaving nothing green.**  

**They starve the healthy cells with selfish need,**  
**A cancer growing faster than we fight.**  
**Each mansion built while countless mouths still plead,**  
**Is but a symptom screaming all's not right.**  

**Yet sickness fades when cures begin to thrive—**  
**The host must rise, or none will stay alive.**  

Intro: Winesburg, Ohio by Sherwood Anderson is a collection of short stories about life in a small town. One of the stories concerns a young lady named Louise Trunnion who has an “encounter” with a young man named George Willard. The chapter is titled: “Nobody Knows” and involves the “encounter” from George’s point of view. Clearly he is the one who is glad after the “encounter” that “Nobody Knows.” However, I wondered if there might be more to the story that “Nobody Knows.” Therefore, I took it upon myself to craft an additional chapter for Winesburg, Ohio based on one big supposition. I hope it does justice to Sherwood Anderson’s style and Louise Trunnion’s character.

CATALYST--Concerning Louise Trunnion's Unborn Child

The sky above Winesburg was gray and heavy, pressing down upon the fields that stretched beyond the Trunnion farmhouse. Louise sat by the window, her hands folded in her lap, staring at the bare branches of a tree that swayed in the late autumn wind. She felt the familiar weight of silence, the kind that settled over the house after her father’s muttered grumblings faded into the distance. He had gone to town early that morning, leaving her alone with her thoughts.

It had been weeks since her encounter with George Willard. The memory of that night lingered, sharp and strange. She could still feel the damp chill of the grass beneath her and the awkward, fumbling intensity of his touch. It had been something she’d both longed for and dreaded, an act that seemed to promise a connection yet left her feeling more alone than ever.

Now, sitting by the window, Louise’s hand drifted to her stomach. A faint, nagging suspicion had taken root within her, growing stronger with each passing day. Her cycle, always predictable, had not come. She felt no sickness, no physical change, yet there was a certainty in her that she could not shake. She was carrying George’s child.

The realization filled her with dread, not for herself but for what the town would say. Winesburg was small, its people small-minded. She could already hear the whispers, the sideways glances, the quiet condemnation.

Her father, John Trunnion, would be the first to judge her. He was a hard man, stooped and gray, with little use for words beyond what was necessary to curse the weather or scold Louise for her imagined shortcomings. Since her mother’s death, he had grown more distant, retreating into a world of his own. Louise had learned to live with his indifference, but she knew he would not forgive this.

Her mind drifted to her mother, a woman she barely remembered. There were faint images—a soft hand brushing her hair, a warm voice singing lullabies. Her mother had been the only warmth in the house, and when she died, it seemed the light had gone out. Louise’s life had become a series of endless chores and quiet nights, broken only by the occasional burst of anger from her father.

And then there was George. She had thought, for a moment, that he might be different. That he might see her as more than just a farmer’s daughter, as someone worth knowing. But their encounter had left her with nothing but silence. He had not come to see her again, nor had he spoken to her in town. He had taken what he wanted and moved on, as she had always feared he would.

Louise rose from her chair and crossed the room to the small, cracked mirror that hung on the wall. She studied her reflection, searching for some sign of change, some hint of the life growing within her. She saw only herself: pale, thin, with tired eyes and hair that refused to stay neat. She felt a sudden surge of anger—at George, at her father, at Winesburg itself. This town had nothing for her, and she would not stay to face its judgment.

That night, as her father snored in his chair by the stove, Louise sat at the kitchen table with a sheet of paper and a pencil. She tried to write a letter to George. “I am leaving,” she wrote, but the words looked hollow on the page. She tried again. “You are the father of my child.” The sentence felt heavy, impossible. She tore the paper into shreds and let them scatter across the table. George would not care. He had his own dreams, his own plans. She would not burden him with hers.

Instead, she began to make her own plans. She gathered what little money she had saved, hiding it in the lining of her coat. She packed a small bag with her few belongings: a dress, a pair of shoes, a photograph of her mother. She would leave at dawn, taking the train to the city. She did not know where she would go or what she would do, but she knew she could not stay.

The morning was cold and damp, the sky still dark as Louise stepped out of the house. Her father’s snores echoed faintly through the open window, and she felt a pang of guilt for leaving without a word. But she pushed it aside. He would not understand, and she owed him nothing.

The walk to the station was long and lonely. The town was quiet, its streets empty. Louise kept her head down, her coat pulled tight around her. She reached the station just as the train pulled in, its whistle cutting through the morning air. She climbed aboard, clutching her bag tightly, and found a seat by the window.

As the train began to move, Louise looked out at the fields and houses that had been her world for so long. She felt a strange mix of fear and relief. She was leaving behind everything she had ever known, but she was also leaving behind the pain, the loneliness, the suffocating weight of Winesburg. For the first time, she felt the stirrings of hope.

On the train, Louise sat beside an older woman with kind eyes and a warm smile. The woman introduced herself as Mrs. Harper and struck up a conversation. Louise was hesitant at first, unsure of what to say, but Mrs. Harper’s kindness put her at ease. They spoke of small things—the weather, the journey ahead—but Louise felt a comfort in the woman’s presence.

As the train carried her farther from Winesburg, Louise allowed herself to imagine the future. She pictured the child she would bear, a boy or a girl with George’s eyes and her mother’s gentle spirit. She thought of the life she might build, a life where she was not defined by her past or by the judgments of others. It was a fragile dream, but it was hers.

The fields gave way to forests, and the forests to the outlines of a distant city. Louise watched as the landscape changed, feeling the weight of her old life begin to lift. She did not know what lay ahead, but in that moment, she felt ready to face it.

The train rolled on, carrying Louise toward an uncertain future and away from the town that had shaped her. In the quiet of her seat, she placed a hand on her stomach and whispered, “We’ll be all right.” And for the first time, she believed it.

Why does he think he needs a fancy new expensive anchor?
It’s not that expensive.
Well it’s not money coming out of his pocket. That damn boat cost more than . . . more than a . . . it didn’t come out of his pocket either.
Maybe we need to get it in writing.
Don’t go bringing up the ‘need’ for that legal crap again.
I’m just saying . . .
You’re saying too much . . . as usual.
Sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. Can I get you another cup of coffee?
How much is it?
Two seventy five.
The anchor, not the damn coffee. Jesus!
The anchor is two hundred and seventy five dollars.
Ha-ha! My venti cost two dollars and seventy five cents. Here’s the money for the coffee. And here’s the money for the damn anchor.
Thanks mom.
Just let him know that’s the end of it. Damn boat. Damn venti anchor.