(Narrative) Wanted: Combat Droid /Jaspin Model – Semi Working Acceptable/ – (Music) Woman



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By. Ryan Sonneville


Combat Droid Required, Will Pay Cash

I am in need of a combat droid. Preferably a 650 or 457 Jaspin model. It does not need to be fully functioning; it must have a working actuator, Techniatic limbs and mobility functions. Weston blaster and titanium sword would be advantageous. I have parts for most Jaspin models as a result of previous work.


I will be entering the Dark Zone on Mars next week. Recent news reports state that locals have attacked prospectors and I wish to avoid this fate. The droid should be able to compute basic instructions in English code translator; it must be able to process 5 simultaneous commands. Droid with previous expedition experience is desirable but should not have a history of emotional reckoning. At no point in its work history should it have been outfitted with an emotion processor (deep code analysis will be completed by myself prior to final purchase).

The droid will likely not be returned.

Ryan Sonneville is a writer and teacher in the Bay Area.

BläpDëli is a musician from Santa Rosa, CA.


Fictional Pairings Magazine – Vol 1. 2017


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(Cover art by Jackson Pollock)

In honor of all the great work submitted to Fictional Pairings over the past few months, we have compiled all of the published pieces into a single post.

We appreciate the interest and support we have received thus far and look forward to matching fresh new fiction, poetry and art with music in the months to come. Please see our Submissions Page for information.


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Art by Lesley Vance

Up the Hill – Roland Dodds
Your New BAM-AG Home – Maria L. Berg
The Post Modern Cat – Roland Dodds
Floating Over a Spider – Joshua Scully
I Guess We Are Too – Irene Meklin
The Giving Machine – Roland Dodds
The Processor – Ryan Sonneville


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Art by Andre Minaux

Seeing Her – Mary Claire Garcia
Do Not Enter Morin Woods – Ryan Sonneville
By Blood a Clown – Stephen D. Rogers
Baby Bird – Justin Zipprich
Mistakes Made – Pat Berryhill


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Art by Jean-Honore Fragonard

Flames of Vengence – Linda M. Crate
Snowslide – Joshua Scully
McKenzie’s New Boyfriend – Maria L. Berg
Before the Ende – Jenean McBreatry


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Art by Wassily Kandinsky

Sonam Snow-slide – Fabiyas M V
Lady Godiva – LindaAnn LoSchiavo
Various haikus by the editors.

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Art by John Singer Sargent

Near Town – Michael Spencer
Doorway – Ryan Sonneville
Shark – Michael Spencer
Turn – Jose Decant
Dark Dots – Ryan Sonneville
Rock – WolfmanDracula


(Poem) Lady Godiva — A Chant Royal (Music) Framey



By. LindaAnn LoSchiavo

Cut cruel instead of just, a mate who opposed
Those lives he should protect (as Leofric,
The Earl of Mercia and Chester) — — knows
His noble bride, her restless candlestick
Outlining fat upholstering his form.
He squeezes hearts as if to be re-born
By disconnecting his humanity.
— — “They must have bread, not taxes! He’ll agree!”
She vows and prays her fortitude won’t sway,
This teen whose innocence met misery,
One more pale boundary finely washed away.


Unfairness gripping her, the Lady chose
To pass the night rehearsing rhetoric
To rouse his sympathy, or shame impose.
So short a life of honor makes her sick.
All hunched in blankets, hairy his old form,
Who frightens servants with his facial storms,
A predator aroused by agony — —
Tenacious that grip, no apologies,
Assimilator of mice,.loving prey.
Godiva rides out dawn in Coventry,
One more pale boundary finely washed away.

June’s globe of light garbs better than her clothes,
Wild beauty flying all flags, hair so thick
It can’t unmake men’s awe. It helps expose
Her fully to bald lusts of Leofric.
— — “Come, do your duty, wife!” Called to perform,
Godiva spots her chance for tax reform.
— — “Our people will starve from such penalties!
Milord, hear me!” He yanks her from her knees.
— — “On one condition — — this then you shall weigh….”
About to hear, she’s full of Coventry,
One more pale boundary finely washed away.

Godiva‘s cheeks went pale, then color rose.
In bargaining, no longer would she lick
His ironclad complicity, exposed
To his blood’s “loyalties.” — — “Milady’s quick
To criticize. Ride out some morning shorn
Of jewels, embroidered gown, yourself adorned
Like naked truth, full nude — — then I’ll agree.”
Nobility of cause scales modesty.
Instead of blushing, she consents, names a day.
Her presence looms like one unbought, fresh tree,
One more pale boundary finely washed away.

Her husband snores, phlegm mustaching his nose.
Unloosening her braids, Godiva flicks
Her brush through tumbling tresses — — this day’s “clothes” — —
Dark, waterfalling, lifelong waves that pick
Their way ’round youthful curves of purest form.
July the tenth rubs off on muscles warmed,
Her braincells like a sugar orchard’s bees
Discovering new food: capacity
For good on empty-handed land where they
Will build the monasteries she foresees,
One more pale boundary finely washed away.

Unmounted, she romanced God’s employees,
Her key to fame (not just a mane). First, clothes-free,
This lady, Southam-bound, rode by surveyed
By grateful country folks of Coventry,
One more pale boundary finely washed away.
*** On July 10, 1040, Lady Godiva made her famous ride through Coventry, England.
Around Southam, an annual pageant still marks this occasion
— — — — — — — — — — — — —
— — — — — — — — — — — — —

Native New Yorker LindaAnn LoSchiavo, a dramatist and poet, is currently completing her second documentary film.

Dead Recipe is a band from Austin, Texas. 

(Narrative) Before the Ende – (Music) Human Frailty



By. Jenean McBrearty

Lord Mathew Chesney ensured he’d be seated next to Mlle. Genevieve d’Eon at tea. Lord Sutherland had whispered her praises during a recital of Handel’s Water Music, and Chesney was determined to verify Sutherland’s assessment. “A delicate flower, yet sturdy. Loveliness and loyalty, Mathew, in a divine combination, worthy of high regard.”

“Yes, yes, but there’s a willingness behind her coquettish countenance, is there not?”

Sutherland led him to the gentleman’s room, and apt stage for answering such an undisguised question. “Gordon Stevens has been engaged to paint her portrait. Visit his studio tomorrow at eleven o’clock and judge for yourself.”

Stevens had ushered him through the foyer, and upstairs to his windowed loft overlooking St. Alban’s Wood Street, gushing, “Welcomes,” and “Honored.”


“I’ve come about commissioning a portrait Lady Marie. Naturally, I want to see where and how you work, but you come highly recommended. And who is this that sits for you today?”

Though not a raving beauty, Mlle. Genevieve was a demur young woman with hair the color of corn silk and eyes of palest blue. A shawl of green velvet fell loosely about her shoulders, low enough to expose an alabaster neck-line.

“Lord Chesney, M’lady,” Stevens said.

“Afternoon greetings to you, Sir,” she said in a low voice that invited a man’s attention.
“How like you our fine city? Not too cold for you?”

“I find it comfortable outside and intriguing within doors,” she said. “Merci.”

Mathew stepped in front of the easel and saw Stevens had sketched her outline. On a side table lay his color pots and brushes. “I’ve interrupted your work,” he said with feigned regret. “Yet, how fortunate for me to have caught you at your chemistry. Send for me when it is done, and I will praise your artistry, if it be to my liking. Certainly, your subject is praiseworthy now. You must both come to tea this afternoon. He handed Stevens his card. “I’ll send my coach.”

“Delighted, Monsieur. Delighted.”

“And you, Madame? Leave your velvet here lest you shame the ladies.”

She cast her eyes to the floor. “You are too kind.”

He kept her display of modesty in his mind’s eye. Genevieve was no child, yet…the tinge of red on her cheeks revealed an innocent soul, arousing in him the manly virtues of respect and protection. “Has anyone tasted her sweetness?”

He asked Sutherland on their way to the smoking room of his London townhouse. His guest produced a pouch of the finest Virginia tobacco to share.

“Sadly, no. Only the sweetness of her company.”

“Then her virtue is authentic,” Mathew said when they settled into their chairs.
“Authenticity in a woman is a tedious piety verging on the anti-social.”

“Almost rude.”

“More’s the pity if she aspires to sainthood, Mathew. Don’t let her Anglo-Saxon complexion fool you. She’s a Catholic. What do you think about this business in the Colonies?”

But Mathew wasn’t ready to change the subject just yet. “I’ve heard Mlle. Genevieve is returning to France. The word negotiation was overheard. Could she be marrying?”

Sutherland gave him wink. “King Louis is not the secular pope of the French church. He may have tasted her sweetness.”

“Perhaps.” The thought was painful. “Do you think it’s possible France is supporting the insurrection in America?” Sutherland had finally snared his attention.

“Ahhhh. War is as trying as stubborn virtue. There’s no good reason for Louie to recall every French subject because he wants to have another go ‘round with George over the American causus belli.”


King Louie was pacing the palace floors. “What good does it do to have spies if they can’t be discreet? I thought you told me d’Eon had agreed to return to France with his cache of documents. Where is he? Getting his portrait painted! We have French painters. David. Delacroix. Who is this Stevens?”

“Your Majesty, please. Chavelier d’Eon couldn’t be expected to be celibate his entire time in England. So, he’s been having a love affair with one of his informants. So, what? There’s been no…shall we say, undercover work? He returned, and to the whole world he is Mlle. d’Eon, why not leave his admirer with a keepsake?”

Beaumarchais, former clean-up man to Louis XV, had now taken over the same duties for young Louis XVI. He’d successfully brokered a deal with Comte de Broglie’s man in London, Charles Genevieve d’Eon, whereby the esteemed Dragoon, Parliamentarian, and a holder of the Order of St. Louis, would return his majesty’s communications, which he hid in a trunk under his floorboards, in return for keeping his identity as a woman until death.

It was hardly a punishment. D’Eon’s first secret service assignment had been as a spy at St. Petersburg, posing as a maid in waiting. Expert marksman though he was, he was also known for his fluid gender. When rebuked for insulting the ambassador, he pleaded that it was his more feminine side that led to the imbroglio, and begged understanding from his well-born, well-placed friends.

“Do we not forgive female spies because of their sex? Should we not be as charitable to one who has chosen to follow his heart as a woman?’ Beaumarchais said in d’Eon’s defense.

Louie stopped pacing and smiled. “Perhaps this portrait makes his identity credible even to the unromantic English.”


At the pier, Lords Chesney and Sutherland bade good-bye to Mlle. Genevieve, who tearfully assured them she would never forget their kindness or Lady Marie’s biscuits. But the man to whom she gave the portrait of her youthful self, a gentleman who loved her from afar, the Prince of Wales, did not come to say good-bye and kiss her black-net gloved hand. Genevieve wasn’t the first Catholic the Prince loved, but she was the only one he never bedded. Rather, he had her portrait hung in the Dulwich Picture Gallery in Southwark and visited the gallery often. Genevieve was listed as spinster and carried the title until she died. Beaumarchais found her fascinating.

Jenean McBrearty is a graduate of San Diego State University, who taught Political Science and Sociology. Her fiction, poetry, and photographs have been published in over a hundred and seventy-five print and on-line journals. 

Peter Cavallo is a composer from Australia. 

(Poem) Sonam Snow-slide – (Music) Green in Blue



By. Fabiyas M V

A glacier gobbles Sonam,
the highest military post,
with its nine soldiers in
Arctic sleeping bags.
Lance Naik Thappa lies
in an air bubble as a fetus.
Sense becomes a wretched
thing. Bravery freezes.


After the sunrise, a radio
set at another post cracks
to life with his voice,
awakening the recovery
team. He resists the chill
with his will. Image of a
forlorn family frightens him.

Dozens of corpses are dug
out of blue ice boulders.
Thappa’s body is recovered
on the fifth day, with clutches
of death and a rare spark in his
eyes. Press corps move their
cameras, musing how to make
it more sensitive. A pair of
dry lips whispers holy words
before the door of ICU, while
death packs her soldier’s soul.

Pyre burns with flames of
pain. Ash of pride remains.

Fabiyas M V is an international award winning and widely published author from India.

Illuid Haller is a musician from Seoul, Korea.