by Tuttle, Dan;
PRAISE FOR REWRITING STELLA
“To read such a fine-honed and splendid tale
is to discover universal clue
where our global society does fail
simply to love and be loved is the cure.
Tightly woven and yet taking its time,
our author in turn warms and breaks our hearts
told so brightly you may forget the rhyme
I assure you shan’t e’er forget the art.
How can such 500-year old verses
reach to post-modern day and deftly tell
of our brightest hopes and darkest curses
with a timeless sense of humor as well?
Reader, you would be well-advised to dare
to search within these pages with great care.”
–LA Markuson
Ars Poetica
Red Press
Rewriting Stella
Dan Tuttle
Copyright © Dan Tuttle 2019
All rights reserved. This work is copyright.
No part of this book may be reproduced, transmitted, stored by any means as might in digital or printed form traduce the authorship I am by Patents Act of 1988 so guaranteed.
Yet moral right I hold will ne’er detract from being quoted, interviewed, indeed excerpted in the press for penned reviews.
Permissions granted by my Publisher should in writing be sought; and should you choose, delivered in iambs pentameter.
If catalogue record you’d care to see you’ll find it in the British Library.
Cover illustration: Maggie P. Chang
Interior illustrations: Zac Karis Crawford
Editor: Katherine E. Knotts
Printed in England by TJ International (Cornwall)
Typeset in Devin
Published by Red Press Ltd.
ISBN 978 1 912157 167 (Paperback)
ISBN 978 1 912157 174 (Ebook)
Red Press Registered Offices:
6 Courtenay Close, Wareham, Dorset, BH20 4ED, England
www.redpress.co.uk
@redpresspub
#RewritingStella
TO YOU, FOR SITTING SHOTGUN. BUCKLE UP.
STELLA’S UNI-VERSE
This novel is written in Shakespearean sonnets. It abides by strict rules of length, meter, and rhyme.
Rule 1: Every line has ten syllables.
Rule 2: Every line has a rhythm that sounds like da DUM da DUM da DUM da DUM da DUM. A single da DUM is called an ‘iamb’. This meter is ‘iambic’. With five iambs we have ‘iambic pentameter’.
Rule 3: Every line must rhyme with another. Alternating lines rhyme in three groups of four, then adjacent lines rhyme to finish the sonnet. This construction of three ‘quatrains’ and one ‘couplet’ creates a fourteen-line poem with the rhyme scheme ababcdcdefefgg. While you will find many multi-syllable rhymes, these are not explicitly required by the form.
Traditionally, the first quatrain sets a scene. The second introduces a problem. The third adds a twist to the problem. The couplet resolves the problem and the poem.
As a sample, here is a sonnet about sonnets:
Obsessed. The pace accelerates and slows,
in gearbox shift of clockwork calculus.
From three quatrains to couplet letters flow
in meter unimpeded—value this.
To write one properly, per Shakespeare’s haunt
you start abstractly at the top, then fold
a fold, and then a second fold to flaunt
your depth, in dozen lines a problem told.
You’ve lit a stranger’s intellect afire
and cast a striking hue through window frame
and have but two lines left to build the pyre,
loose conflagration on joined thought and pane.
For sonnets make a branding iron of lead,
script’s fusing novel scenes none prior had wed.
You may abhor poetry and still delight in befriending Stella. I did.
Dan Tuttle
May 2019
SYLLABIC ADDENDA
Englishes disagree on syllable count. Accent, speed, annunciation, dialect, and general disposition affect how each of us perceives the vocal length of certain words. I have tried mightily to confine every line in the subsequent pages to ten syllables. We may disagree about whether I accomplished that.
Words like ‘prior’ and ‘power’ can stretch or compress (pry-ur, pow-ur). Throughout I have aimed to use the shorter count for these words on the cusp (pryr, powr). Mid-word extension hyphens occasionally appear to disambiguate.
Where a word could be di- or trisyllabic, I default to the disyllabic version unless it concludes a line, where for meter’s sake the trisyllabic version is superior. An example would be ‘family’ (fam-ly), as contrasted in the lines:
…So even if your family can’t afford
far travel, still know life’s to be explored.
…let human left from torn-up family
stay off the streets by serving other brood.
Squirrel, despite its curious inclusion of an additional r and e, rhymes with twirl, and has the same spoken length. Worry not: I only use that rhyme once. The Mandarin name ‘Xue’ in this book is monosyllabic and sounds roughly like ‘shoo-way’ spoken quickly. May all my past Chinese instructors forgive me.
CONTENTS
VOLUME ONE
…in which chrysalis woven prompted molt to creature capable of real revolt.
VOLUME TWO
..in which the written, spoken words would reign by circumventing rational forebrain.
VOLUME THREE
..in which those flummoxed by Boy’s vex and con restructure their own protest lexicon.
THE PLAYLIST
VOLUME 1
PROLOGUE
From up to down to fortunate to hexed,
from gladdening to maddening, agree
adventuring you’ll find in pages next
is true as memories made can be to me.
Unchained childhood began with what you’ll read,
in many ways adulthood too was born
as self-reliance started supersede
conformist expectations feared outworn.
While chiseled by untempered nature’s edge
I’d get to know my dog and friend like book.
We had but one another’s binding pledge
to rise till social mores were overlooked.
This tale is mine alone, of nicer youth,
shared now so followers can trace own truth.
CHAPTER 1
1.
A tricksy girl named Stella once did live
among acacia thorns and ng’ombe poop.
In Tanzanian hinterlands rains give
sweet life to every possible food group.
But in this verdant, fertile land of ferns,
inhabited by bustards, storks, gazelles,
and lions, warthogs, bees, gnats, buzzards, terns,
our dearest Stella found herself unwell.
She’d hoped to have made friends, but she was smart.
Schoolkids at her poked fun, would tattles tell.
Performance set her in a class apart
that left her classmates feeling rattled. Stel
post-class one day, and distanced from the crowd,
inspected self’s felt powerlessness aloud.
2.
“I thought at four, by eight I’d be in charge…
I get the best marks, yet can’t get a pal.
The life I live’s the opposite of large.
I don’t belong one bit in this locale!
My grouchy Grandmum’s only one at home,
which leaves me solo milking both the cows.
I lose myself in
dense and dated tomes
to memorize facts as my brain allows.”
She watched a dragonfly glide ’gainst strong breeze,
impressed in gale it didn’t end up dead,
and dreaded many yet-undone house deeds
like hauling household water on her head.
So sitting on a log depressed and blue,
our Stella simply knew not what to do.
3.
YIP YIP! A sound behind the log surprised
this sulking girl, a pleading cry for help.
“A someone needs a hero!” she surmised,
and turned to stump to find the source of yelp.
A scruffy, fluffy, matted ball of fur
was belly-up and trapped in wooded knot,
“Perhaps some karmic credit will incur
if I can rescue such a helpless tot!”
Thus Stella reached down in the hole to grab
this mangy thing mite bigger than her head,
its whimper weak, its coat a dusty drab.
She vowed to nurse it back from left-for-dead.
The serendipity of pup’s outburst
would soon the course of Stella’s life reverse.
4.
Chapati from her fingers, that dog ate
with fervor, as it missed its mother’s milk.
Shared minor nourishments helped join their fate
as girl and girl’s best friend, or of that ilk.
She set down pup and set upon the path
to home, so she could proudly show Grandmum,
in hope for love instead of standard wrath—
perhaps she’d warm to Stel’s friend number one?
Stel faithfully was followed by the dog,
along the muddy path where toads hunt flies.
Familiar fence of water hole, maize, fog
no longer felt so cloisteringly devised.
With spring in step she sauntered toward her home,
effusing joy at being not alone.
5.
“Achaaa!” Stel’s Grandmum shrieked upon the sight
of filthy mutt next to her next of kin,
“All animals are dirty and can bite,
so leave at once or I’ll make moccasins
of mangy hide!” She turned her anger near,
and spanked the girl outstretched upon her knee.
In this, poor Stella’d come to daily fear
of Grandmum. Violences drove dog to flee.
With rear end sore, Stel waddled through her chores,
from sweeping porch to pruning produce plants,
while dreaming of her lost friend’s future roars
and all the things she’d change to cans from can’t.
She hastened through domestic work, mood low,
disliking filial servitude she owed.
6.
Such brooding (archetypal in those days)
would melt away once moonlight brought surprise.
She’d hoped lost pup might remedy malaise,
wish soon fulfilled by silhouette pint-sized.
YIP YIP!—the faint sound pierced nocturnal calm,
and set aflutter Stella’s lonely heart,
its pain relieved as if with soothing balm,
by canine form’s debut through curtain part.
“Ay! Mungu mwema!” Stella did exclaim
upon familiar sight of puppy’s mug,
black-contoured puff of joy through window frame.
She scooped him up into a mighty hug.
“From this point on,” she, grinning, told the pup,
“no man nor witch nor beast will break us up!”
7.
Ensuing days, adventure was the norm,
from hopping rocks in rivers to school pranks
a true dynamic duo thus was born
and every night young Stella spoke her thanks.
When sun was high they’d chase away warthogs,
or sneak pup poop into the bully’s desk,
build castles out of twigs, make forts from logs,
until the evening never stop to rest.
At night they’d sneak from house to river bed
and chase bullfrogs and pounce on lit fireflies,
cocoon in red-black shukas, shiver, dead
to teasing judgments peers left thinly guised.
She found fresh pulse of life in her locale,
the puppy’s presence propping up morale.
8.
Though fat with bread, the puppy never grew
beyond concealed-ish carry canine size,
and so it was that Grandmum never knew
her Stella hadn’t two – but four! – sly eyes.
But six weeks passed before she had the thought
that little runt she carried lacked a name.
She floated several options, but none caught
the playful puppy spirit: pluck, but tame.
He’d bravely battle bunnies, birds and bats,
he’d catch most creepy crawlies (eat them too),
chase after shrews and moles, molest meerkats.
Malaika? Moto? Juma? None rang true.
The dog to her meant sky, earth, everything.
To vaunt that value, Stella named him ‘BLING’!
9.
“Ooh! BLING’s so right I’m nearly thrown aback,
it’s bright and spunky, turning heads like gold,
but not so overused as ‘Spot’. In fact,
I’m confident my BLING will break the mold!
I’ve kept you from Grandmum’s glaucoma view,
but don’t know how to keep up the charade…
Perhaps my bag could be the avenue
to hide you alongside me, a handmade
soft-padded pouch inside my backpack for
you can’t be hard to sew this afternoon.
And since we’ve got adventuring in store,
we’ll have to make a collar for you soon.”
She knew the town store once had advertised
some warthog leathers tailor-made to size.
10.
Of natural artifacts store wasn’t starved,
safari trophy panoply defined
by feathers bright and ivory pieces cropped,
beast heads a-mount without their beast behinds.
Bare pockets wouldn’t slow her. She’d implore
its shopkeep for paid work. Next day, she asked,
“Old Bwana Anton, do you have in store
a collar? I’ve no money, but a task
could maybe suit to pay you. Dearest sir,
I’d rather work than ask for some handout.
You understand the young entrepreneur
and gotta know some way to help me out.”
And so she sat, intruder in his shop
to signal she’d be stubborn, till a mop
11.
emerged in Anton’s hand for Stel to take.
His other offered bucket filled with foam
“Mm. Sawa, little businesswoman. Make
these floors shine.” “Sure! I’ll get them bright as chrome.”
“Haraka, though, I’m hosting soon.” “Oh. Who?”
“My prime supplier. Scrub it so he sees
bird trophies mirrored back in crystal view.
They’re rare and merit such.” Stel felt unease.
With mop in hand and bucket close behind,
fit Stella took to task and wet the floor.
BLING’s skills, in fact, weren’t wholly misaligned:
the harder stains dissolved as dog claws tore
them. “Mbwa wangu, guess today’s a wash.
Together, though, we’ll make this place look posh!”
12.
Some minutes in, a tragedy arose:
the mop’s blob head unscrewed and bent and broke.
“Oh blast!” said Stella, conscious store would close
for big-shot broker, work half-done. BLING poked
the maintenance of hope amid despair.
He jumped into the bucket, then jumped out,
augmenting mop with further soapy hair!
He chomped down on the end of broken stick,
splayed near to floor for better angled scour,
took over work for Stel just in the nick
of time, for they’d been at it near an hour.
Ten minutes hence, the two now unconcerned,
old Anton to a spotless floor returned.
13.
“I clearly see reflections of my shoes
upon linoleum you’ve fully shined.
Good work, young girl. But wait—have you abused
my mop? It’s busted!” Quickly disinclined
to pay for labors offered anymore,
he then dismissed them. “Child, you cleft in two
equipment that I use to buff the floor.
Had adult done that, we’d cry ‘theft’! In lieu
I’ll let you go, because you cleaned. Now leave!”
“But Bwana Anton, you said we’d get wares
for working.” “I did not. Nor’d you achieve
results! You broke things! Scoot, unless repairs
of mop are offered.” Failing quid pro quo,
the downtrod girl and pup did sorely go.
14.
“Suppose we’ll have to stay together, bud.
Forget this collar bother. Real teamwork’s
togetherness. We scraped off so much mud
with nothing in return… That guy’s a jerk,”
said Stella, as she loped on down the path
with BLING beside, alert to what could be
another reprimanding: Stella’s math
suggested they’d be late. All absentees
from dinner at precisely eight past eight
in Grandmum’s house de facto sacrificed
their food without the chance to bite-prorate.
“I think,” her words, “we’ll need to stage a heist
to fill our bellies ’fore we’re homeward bound,”
and seemed to see BLING understand the sound.
15.
The forest cornucopia availed
a feast of plant and beast, of proteined grub—
to those who knew where nourishment was veiled,
sophistication less pinot, more pub.
“I’m not enticed by looking at those worms,”
said Stella, unimpressed by what BLING dug.
“I’m pretty sure they’re gooey and have germs,
