I heard from someone that Karla had died. Which was shocking because, Karla? Which is dumb because of course, Karla, or anyone else for that matter. We all die. But the thing about Karla was her youthfulness. She was a force, a verb, and frankly, a bit out of control. It took me a few moments to process that she was dead. She and Ted, they loved to party. The night Karla died, Ted kept bumping up against Marianne. She’d slapped him away a couple of times, but Ted never took such things seriously. Besides, Karla was flirting wildly with my husband. Those long legs of hers and that hair. You had to look at her. She was laughing and laughing at everything my husband said. He’s funny, but he’s not that funny. She’d put her huge mane into a ponytail at the very tip top of her head and strands fell over her forehead and into her eyes. It was a crazy look, but Karla could pull it off. I busied myself refilling carrots into the little bowls I’d set around the yard. Tina and Frank were dancing, and I felt a tiny bit hurt that Tina was a better dancer than me. I hoped she’d go home soon, didn’t she have a newborn to feed or something, and then I could dance with Frank myself. Frank was skinny and funny looking, but he had charm like nobody’s business. And besides, my husband was busy making jokes for Karla, and Karla’s husband was busy with Marianne. Anyway, that was the whole party, everybody left and then I heard that Karla had died. My husband told me later that she’d broken a leg chasing Ted, mad about Marianne. And that was that, the end of Karla. My husband got bought the following year and at parties I throw now with my new husband, nobody gets terribly wild, which is a shame, but so far, we’re all still alive.
Again, that dark humour Mary. You do it so well! That last sentence "nobody gets terribly wild, which is a shame, but so far, we’re all still alive" is the perfect example of this.
Passed from pillar to post. One look from those watery blue eyes and no man in our extended family could bear to disown her. Inevitably she was delivered to our doorstep by a fretful uncle whose stables she had burned; an accident, different from the one she described. The likely truth: A mid-coital kick, upsetting the lamp during a hay romp with one of the grooms. His smouldering body was carried out a day after. He was a servant, but loved, raised almost as a son. The uncle saw through her play of remorse. Still, what to do with her?
His decision: A few years deep under the roof of his brother, who was away fighting in a war and so would not be troubled by her presence. Down in the scullery to make amends, among the cinders of the bridges she had burned; just to remain in the legacy; to forestall being cast out into the streets where the effort of batting her eyelashes and opening her legs for a few coins would have been too great a burden.
“Watch that one,” wheezed Jánka, not my sister, as was so often assumed, but a distant cousin, her face marked for death by a plague that overreached and was extinguished before it could claim her.
Me, with my one eye and the scars of old burns down one side of my body, knew the girl all too well, and recalled how she laughed gleefully as I shrieked in the puddle of boiling water. Another accident.
A creature like that is never humbled. Within days she had befriended a neighbour; an elderly woman of means, with no children to call her own and no immunity to the deceptions of young girls. She lavished on her dresses and finery.
That evening at the ball, I watched her carefully stage her exit. I could have done no such thing. To leave a man wanting more, he must you first want you. No man will ever want me. When I forced my foot into that glass slipper until it fractured and was hastily removed before it could shatter, I longed for what I could not have: To reach up from the gutter, as she did, and effortlessly bring down the stars.
Once upon a time not so long ago in a land descended from the great Pangea lived a race of crazy people who hated leaves. Sometimes they talked like they loved leaves, "Oh, the colors, I just love fall," and would drive for hours in a thing called a station wagon to ooh and ah at the leaves. Crimson reds, and sunrise orange and saffron yellow. "So pretty, don't you love this time of year." Back home a worker starts a noisy machine to get rid of the leaves in their yard. Can't have leaves lying around on the grass, what will the neighbors think. Once a week the worker comes and starts his machine and the sound fills the neighborhood with madness. Back and forth he walks swinging the noise back and forth and the leaves have no choice but to flee before it, gather huddled and trembling in a corner. Rounded up and taken away, to somewhere, well away from the nice lawn. And those who love leaves look out on their leafless lawn and say, This is good. My world is clean and orderly and everything in its place as it was meant to be.
But then something happened. All the trees in the yard died and were cut down. No more leaves in the yard which was so boring and sterile with nothing to blow away. Those who loved leaves looked out on the leafless lawn and cried. We have to take a trip where there is real fall, where there are leaves they said. But they found out there were no more leaves anywhere to be seen, all the leaves were gone everywhere. Then a man came to the door. He showed them a movie of trees with leaves. Apparently the leaves had moved somewhere else and liked it, but they weren't telling anyone where. But, said the man, you can buy this movie about pretty leaves and that's what they did. Now they watch the movie about leaves all day long, and have no idea how unhappy they are, ever after.
Splinters of his boat washed up on the shore three days after young Jack went missing at sea. The other fishermen said they had seen his boat out by the jagged rocks in the distance.
Why would anyone go there, they said, surely he knew better.
Yes, the fish were plentiful near the rocks, but the place was haunted by water fairies. You could hear them sing when the storms blew fierce. And on calm nights you saw silvery flashes diving off the rocks into the water.
“My son!” cried Jack’s old mother. “What could have happened to him?”
The village-folk said the water fairies must have carried him off. There were tales, from days of old. Of how the water fairies had borne away young men from the village, to their lair in the deep.
Jack’s old mother walked the shores day and night, calling his name. The wind picked up her cries and carried them out to sea. And sometimes it seemed an answering call came back on the wind, but Jack never returned.
Even now when the gales blow and the seas rage, you can hear the old woman’s cries of “Jack! Jack!” and if you listen carefully you can hear answering cries of “Mother! Mother!”
Sometimes you can even hear the water fairies sing.
Once upon a time there was a kitten. It was a Siamese with bright blue eyes and a pink collar. The collar had diamonds on it, real diamonds, not rhinestones, valued at $10,000, but nobody knew that because cat collars don’t have diamonds. It ate out of a crystal plate, but nobody knew that it was Steuben crystal, valued at $800. Its travel case was made of leather with lace insets. The leather was suede and the lace was antique from a princess’s wedding gown. The kitten traveled around the world in its case, cast a watchful eye on the goings on around it, lots of music, dancers, and of course, its mama, the star.
One day, someone left the kitten carrier open backstage and the kitten, curious as to the goings on, popped out and scurried up the velvet curtain in the wings. Then when the show broke down, someone picked up the carrier and packed it, not realizing that the kitten wasn’t in it.
The kitten was all alone. The lights were cut. The theater was silent. The kitten called for its mama, but mama was gone. Then it called on its kitten fairy godmother. Poof! Godmother is there. “What is your problem, my dear?” “I’m lost and I don’t know how to get home.” “Ah, said the godmother, you must undertake an arduous journey over land and water, fight many enemies, resist the siren call of ogres and write a long epic about it, but you will get home, I promise.”
So the kitten pulled itself up by its whiskers and started off. Finally, after many miles and dangers, the kitten found its mama’s home in Manhattan. But when she arrived, her mama wasn’t there. “She’s not here,” the doorman said. “Try her Connecticut beach house.” So the kitten went to Connecticut. “Oops, you just missed her,” they said. “She’s in L.A. with her boyfriend.” Once again, the kitten dragged herself out of discouragement and trekked to California. “Oh, no,” they wailed. “She’s off to Denmark on tour.” “Look what I’ve done for love,” the kitten cried. “And I’m still alone. My epic needs a happy ending.”
“Well,” they said,” have you ever thought about being a football mascot? We hear they’re looking for one in Kansas City.”
Once there lived a boy who gravity did not touch. He was born to two ordinary people, a bit late in life. He was a surprise to them twice, first when his mother realized that two months had gone by without blood or cramp. Then, seven months later, he floated right out of her.
Both his parents had such an ordinary relationship to the magnetic pull of the earth that they had never really considered it. His mother liked to eat a full sleeve of cookies secretly while she cooked. She liked how it seemed to pull her down into her walnut chair at dinner. The boy’s father hated when he had to hammer nails up high. In the evenings, he dropped dramatically into his recliner.
Gravity could have been the main character in their lives, but they did not realize this until the boy was born and he hoodwinked their hero from his very beginning. Did this make him a villain? These were not the kind of parents who could believe that. They were the kind to become highly alarmed at first, which the doctors encouraged, as they supposed a rare disease to be more likely than a miracle.
Yet, for all the certainty about some brand-new disorder, doctors could not change the boy’s situation. So he lived out a nearly normal childhood, always tied to something by a rope. When he was ready to go into the world and seek his fortune, he realized he would need to continue tethering himself somehow. Not being of an age or of means to acquire real estate, he took out an ad on Craigslist. In this way, he met many odd people, the sort who scroll online late at night but also wish to open themselves to someone young and striking. He had many adventures from the end of a leash.
In the end, it was by a true accident, a simple oversight without malice, that his tether came untied. He was sleeping up on a roof, having gone up with a girl to watch the sunrise. They made love before daybreak and fell asleep before the first rays peeked in, which was just when he began shrinking into blue fathoms above. The last thing he saw were the girl’s eyes, fluttering open and shut like moths. Supposing it were only a dream, she rolled over and snoozed a little longer.
Thanks so much, David! So encouraging to get feedback here about which bits work - and isn't it always the way, they're usually the ones that involved the least intention/effort!
I read that sentence and immediately thought, wow, no matter one’s constraints or restraints, inner or outer, you are still free to have many adventures. (And you are right, Craigslist definitely harbors some odd and interesting characters!)
Thanks! And hehe, yes, somehow they formed themselves after the gravity-free child occurred to me.. I found myself, too, almost more fascinated by them.
I was half asleep by, enjoying the warm spring day, just minding my business, when I was fully awoken by an irritating sound, high and sing-song-y. I peered out to see a young woman in a crimson hoodie, skipping down the path and singing, and the smells of fresh-baked goods wafting from the basket she carried and drifting into my nose, making me realize I was hungry, very hungry, as if the aroma of the breads and cakes in her basket had crept into my stomach and taken away everything that I’d eaten the day before.
My mouth watered and the need to eat sharpened into pulsing raw red. I considered leaping on the woman, what was there to stop me? There in the distance, the scent of a woodsman, with an ax and a rifle. The bastard wanted to shoot me, but I wasn’t going to let him. I couldn’t eat the young woman and the goodies in the basket with him lurking in the bushes, waiting to ambush me.
I knew where the woman was headed, because she sang it. “To grandma’s house I go!” in her chirpy, irritating voice, the voice of spoiled privilege. The grandmother lived at the end of a new sub-division that had recently been built in the forest, taking away more of our home, mine and the other animals. None of us had a vote on it, but that is not part of this story.
So I snuck over to grandmother’s house, and, well, she was old and bitter. I think she wanted to die, and certainly the young woman in red’s parents would be happy she was dead, all the costs of keeping up her medical expenses draining away their inheritance in this land of no Universal Health Care. Grandmother’s meat was stringy and old, not that appetizing, so I waited for the plump, succulent young woman and red. And I didn’t bother dressing up as grandma and answering questions, simply leaped on her as she came up the walk and dragged her behind some bushes. A minute later the woodsman stomped up the pathway to the door, but he was too late. Fully sated by a delicious meal, I found a small cave to get back to sleep in.
Oh, here we go again. Where was he taking her this time?
Ainsley sighed. No use trying to guess what he was up to. Was this a free write?
Was her name still Ainsley?
What am I now? A talking hedgehog? A goat? (Please! No more goats! The fetid odor of musk still hung like fog over everything.)
“Ainsley needed a fairy godmother.”
I do? Why? Are we getting that desperate for a plot line?
“Her handsome prince had not arrived, and this was a problem.”
For whom? If I wanted a cardboard cut out, I’d tell you.
“So when the knock came on her door, she ran to open the door, her heart thumping, her pulse racing, and her stomach flip-flopping. This was it! She knew it!”
I haven’t even had coffee yet, I’m still in my pajamas and my hair is…well, let’s just say bedhead doesn’t begin to describe…Last night was a torrid entanglement with a—was he a gnome? He said Fairy King, but…Ok. I’m at the door. This better be good…
“The woman at her door was not quite corporeal. She shone at the edges. Carrying a substantial wand, and–
My god! My eyes. Does she have to shine like that? It’s 5 am, for godsake!
“when she spoke to Ainsley, her words sparkled in the air.”
Those are dust motes. Where’s the maid you promised, four false starts ago? That gnome last night left a trail of…what is that stuff on the floor, anyway? Sticky…gooey…
“May I come inside, dear?”
As opposed to standing out here freezing my butt off? Am I even dressed?
“Fairy godmother stepped inside and began chanting, calling forth beauty–”
Ok. How about intelligence?
“and intelligence. She paused. Looked around Ainsley’s house. What a mess! My dear, we need to redecorate! Tell me–do you like water? And what is your favorite color?”
I’ve always wanted a pool. And I love the color blue.
“A wave of the wand, and sparks, floating orbs and particles engulfed the room.”
Azure sky above sapphire water, lapping waves and a stunning array of bright purple, blue, and green. A small, blue-ringed octopus–canny and intuitive, glided across the surface of the reef.
Ainsley knew the writer could not resist wading into the surf. She would just wait here…
Mary, I love this prompt. I read the short stories after I wrote mine because I didn't want to be influenced. And I love the tiny winged Taylor Swift! Thanks for pushing us to think outside the box this morning. I needed this!
The moon was a ghostly galleon. Ok, maybe ghostly's over-egging it, but there was definitely a hint of the spectral as the golden orb sailed in and out of view.
It was cold and damp and that and the gloom was a reflection of my mood. Looking skyward again, I fancied the stringy clouds scored the moon with an 'S'. Stop?
I tried to convince myself it was the lunar signal that was making me uneasy. But I failed there and admitted I wasn't looking forward to meeting Bill. I liked Bill, he was a nice guy. And there the problem is summed up. Now, Zander, he was an entirely different cauldron of cuddles. Serial womaniser, insincere flatterer, vanity personified. I was desperate for a hook-up with Zander. In pursuit of that goal I was heading to meet Bill. To dump him.
As I continued along the lane, the figure leaning against the farm gate came into view. I recognised him straight off, the pipe, the waistcoat, the collarless shirt, the cap pulled low to meet those gimlet eyes. Shit, I knew what was coming. It was my father. He was looking well, actually very well, considering he'd been dead for 10 years. It had been a couple of years since I'd seen him, he'd turned up when the gambling had got out of hand and, once before that, around the time of the business with Eddie Hannah. I shook my head as I remembered Eddie, how on earth did I fall for that 'my wife and I are leading separate lives' and when I confronted him with the domestic sleeping arrangements, his insistence that it was a king-sized bed and meant minimum contact.
Now the old man was back. I drew closer. The eyes did their full gimlet routine. Searched, scrutinised, judged, sentenced.
Bill was in his usual good humour and he'd brought a present, a little box with a single chocolate, a 'too die for' maple praline truffle. He was at the counter buying coffee when Zander messaged, 'Got rid of that loser yet? Get here quick, I'm gonna fly you to the moon.'
Bill returned with the drinks, I halved the chocolate. We shared.
Thanks, Vishal. Originally from a 1906 poem by Alfred Noyes which was a standard for British schoolkids in the 1960s, must have stuck in my head. I checked out the song. Very beautiful. Thanks again. Terry
For her eighteenth birthday, a grandmother gave her granddaughter Katelyn a white Jeep, fully loaded with all the extras. Katelyn was driving it to work between her college classes one cold winter day when she had to stop at a redlight. To her left standing on a median was a man with a sunburned, chapped face, wearing a threadbare coat and clothes that looked dirty, as if he had slept in them for many days. He had a head of unkempt red hair and beard. Sometimes he did a ragged little jig, holding up a sign that said, “Will work for food.”
Katelyn saw the man staring at her out of the corner of her eye as she checked her phone for new texts.
“My gosh,” she thought, “I just gave some money to another man this morning.” She had indeed given a panhandler on another corner a few dollars. “I can’t give money to everyone who asks me.”
The light changed and Katelyn drove on, shaking her head, annoyed at the conundrum of how to help every person in need.
A few minutes later another woman named Lisa drove up in her 2014 Honda Civic and stopped at the same redlight. She was a single mother of two girls and was also on her way to work. Lisa was late paying her electric bill this month and was worried that the company was going to turn it off if she didn’t pay today. She planned to do this on a break. She had just spent her last few dollars on the breakfast from McDonald’s that perched on the passenger seat in its brown paper bag: A Sausage McMuffin with Cheese, a hash brown, and coffee.
The panhandler stared at Lisa. Lisa looked back at him.
“Oh geez,” she sighed. She dug out some change from where she kept it under the dashboard, opened her window and handed it to the man, along with the Sausage McMuffin and hash brown. She kept the coffee for herself—she wasn’t that generous.
The panhandler made a sound like a grunt, did his little jig, took the change and the food without thanking Lisa, and turned around to walk back to his post at the median. Lisa drove on to work.
Snow began to fall. As Lisa got out of her car and walked across the gray cement parking lot to her office, passing some dormant roses, they raised their brown heads and burst into bloom.
Let me add that I drew inspiration from The Three Little Men in the Woods by the Brothers Grimm. I am not trying to moralize here, I just loved how in that fairy tale the poor stepdaughter in paper clothes sent by her cruel stepmother to find strawberries in the snow finds them after sharing with three little questionable men in the woods. If I had more time I'd make the language richer but I actually write fairly simply most of the time anyway. Hope there aren't typos I missed.
I often do that too, though I did read them first this week. They're usually so good that it's always a fine line for me between inspiration and plunging into nasty inner critic whispers of "something that good already exists! why even bother!?" 🤦♀️
There are so many great moments in this! But my favorite is "a notebook full of ideas--which I ever look at again." So many stories to tell...(and that security thing makes me crazy!)
There once was a man who knew the answer to everything.
“I know it seems like magic,” he would say, “but really it’s just-”
But he was interrupted. At that stage of his explanation he was always interrupted.
No one wanted to be told the mechanics of it all. Something whispered inside to them, ‘how terrible it will be to know’, and they found a reason to break off the conversation and to leave him alone with just his answer for company.
So, he set off for the city, where he knew he would have a better chance of meeting people willing to learn the answers. He thought about taking the bus or the train, but he knew, of course, that passengers least of all wanted to hear. What passengers liked was to be left in their own silent rush of air.
And anyway, he preferred to walk.
On the way, he collected a companion. It was an owl, and he knew she was a tawny owl. She flew alongside him, from tree to tree where there were trees, from telegraph pole to telegraph pole where the trees were gone, and rode on his shoulder where neither tree nor pole populated the fields.
“Would you like to know how what type of owl you are?” he asked her one day. She tugged on his ear with her beak and flew off to rest in the rafters of an abandoned grain shelter. She did not like to know.
He knew the etymology of her name, he knew the angle of her twisting, he knew the oils in her feathers. She sat inscrutably blinking in the rafters, unruffled by not knowing.
It began to rain, and the drops channeled through the patchwork roof. A steady stream flicked dust up onto his trousers while he sat beneath her.
He thought she might like to know why her eyes were the rich brown of a horse chestnut. He thought she might like to know why the rain blew in from the sea. He thought she might like to know why he knew so much.
She waited patiently under the roof, waiting for him to know why she was so beautiful.
At one time or sometimes another, my godfather was a fairy. Don't laugh. No, seriously, calm down there. Do you numskulls even know what a fairy is? If my godfather was here, he'd soon teach you. Make you jump over the moon (watch out for flying cows). Put you to sleep for a thousand years. Make sure no beautiful prince.ss kisses you awake. Only a toothless old hag.gis with intentions you wouldn't want to know about.
So. All well and truly scared? A fairy tale has to be scary, or it doesn't mean a thing. (Listen up, Mary g.) People loved these stories for the thrill of fear that actually distracted them from famine, plague, fire, wolves, marauding feudal lords, and all the rest they had to deal with in their shitty lives. Nowadays, there's none of all that, just Trump, Putin, wars, the next pandemic, climate going wrong, more wars. So get scared and listen to my tale.
My Fairy Godfather was a prince of royal lineage, and a mighty warrior. Buck by name. Seven feet tall, ripped, a swordsman of great dispatch. Quite apart from which, he only had to look at you to turn you into a slice of cheesecake or a bowl of rice pudding which he would then eat, if feeling peckish. Such were his powers that I avoided calling on him for aid and succour, preferring to wait for the Big One, the really tough situation only he could fix. So I fought my own way through several wicked-witch poisonings, two ogre attacks, a colossal Arabian genie pile-on: Godfather Buck was proud of me.
Then I met a young woman who enchanted me. Sang I'll Put A Spell On You just like Nina Simone, (though some AI in there, probably). Yes, I was spellbound. It's very uncomfortable, depending on where you are when the spell is cast. I was in a place we are all forced to visit from time to time, so you can imagine. I couldn't move, couldn't even reach the toilet roll. "Ha!" said the young woman, revealing herself to be a wicked fairy of the REDACTED tribe, known for its devilry, "now you are in my power."
All I could do was send a thoughtwave to Godfather Buck: "Am thrall to evil fairy of REDACTED tribe."
On the instant he appeared in a glistening cloud perfumed with that stuff Johnny Depp does the ads for, and with one glance freed me from thrall and sent the bad fairy to her knees in wide-eyed supplication.
"Hmm," he said, ogling her, and they walked off together arm in arm. Her name was Bayley. It said Prince Buck and Princess Bayley on their wedding cake (happy end).
Just a side note: the cheap immigrant labor you reference needs to unionize and demand living wages. Thus a Mother Jones character or a Cesar Chavez/Dolores Huerta duo appears in the story. Fairy tales are complex…
Ultra Soft Aloe Vera Super Plus. Prince Buck advised Kimberly-Clark on the campaign bus that went from place to place inviting folks to come in and use the facilities then test the supreme comfort of Cottonelle. Exceptional bears being of course part of FairytaleLand, Buck also knew the bear that did what bears do in the woods and then used Charmin. Entire rolls were used and the paper flung with wild abandon over the forest floor. The organizers had to call in cheap immigrant labour to clear up the mess.
Sweet picture of Little Mikey. Brings back memories. My first writing class, 1973 from Dr. Jill Hoffman. We were asked to write a short one act play with two characters from a fairy tale or famous story or play. The reading assignment was Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead by Tom Stoppard. We also read stories by Donald Barthelme. The Taylor Swift story was great. From 2015! Thanks for the prompt. It was a great start.
Jack and the Beanstalk
It was Friday and Jack had just arrived at work when he was called over to his manager’s cube.
“Jack, we’ve valued your contributions here at Cube Farm for a long time now, but unforeseen circumstances have necessitated some changes and I’m sorry to say, we have to let you go. The Board has authorized me to offer you a choice of severance packages, either these 42 magic beans or 1000 shares of stock options.”
Jack was no fool and as he shifted from one foot to the other, he weighed the reality of the beans in the Ziplock bag lying on his manager’s desk and the ephemeral value of stock options.
“I’ll take the beans.”
“Okay. Stop by HR to sign your severance agreement and be out of the building by 10:00 AM.” He swiveled in his chair and turned back to his screen.
He phoned his mom and took the 17 Bus home. On the bus, he counted the beans and sure enough there were 42. When he got home, his mom was in the garden. He held up the baggie of beans and said, “Magic beans! It was either this or a thousand shares of stock options.”
“You fool,” she said grabbing the beans out of hand and tossing them over the fence.
Jack went to bed that night thinking about that bag of 42 beans. A little after midnight, he sat straight up in bed and exclaimed, “Those beans.”
He walked outside through the garden, out the gate, and into the alley, where he saw the beans burst through the plastic bag and start growing. But they weren’t growing like normal beans. The soil bulged as thick roots penetrated into the soil and huge intertwining stalks shot straight up. Once the rumbling stopped his eyes followed the stalks up until they disappeared into the stary night.
He knew exactly what to do and he started to climb.
Cleaning the counter this morning, wiping up drips of coffee, daubs of jam and accompanying crumbs, Devi couldn’t help but notice the lizard. Sitting right there on the granite. Surprising in a way, but then sort of not. The backyard was always full of fence lizards sitting on the rock wall doing lizard pushups while waiting for insects to eat. There’d never been one bold enough to come into the house before, but why not?
Devi scooped her into an empty mug and set her back outside as she left for work.
When she got home, Devi poured a glass of wine and headed to the tub for a long soak. Settling in, she closed her eyes and let the warm water and alcohol ease all her physical and psychological aches. She had just reached total relaxation when she felt her. The lizard. She was swimming; her little lizard claws tickling as she skimmed over Devi’s belly.
Devi sat up creating a wave which the lizard gracefully surfed. Riding the crest, she met Devi’s gaze straight on.
And, then she spoke. And spoke and spoke and spoke. The lizard was unstoppable.
“I want out.”
“What?”
“You heard me. I refuse to participate in this ridiculous story. You’ve got me in a tub with a motormouth lizard, which I suspect you’re about to name Eliza, with no clear path forward. And, for God’s sake, you named me Devi. Is this a set up to reveal me as a witch daughter of the Devil?”
“I do have a path forward, or at least I hope to find one soon. And, what’s wrong with you being a witch? Witches are all the rage right now. Between Halloween and certain presidential hopefuls being accused of witchcraft, there’s never been a better time to be a witch.”
“That’s the best you have? A hope of some sort of inspiration at some point to make this into a story that can ride the witch’s boom so to speak? No. You either start over right now and come up with something worthwhile, or I’ll cast a spell on you to make you put this on Substack just the way it is.”
“I have confidence in this. I won’t give it up.”
“Surrender and start over.”
“I won’t. But please don’t make me post it as is. It’ll be too embarrassing.”
Once upon a time, in a galaxy far, far away, there lived a prince who really wanted to impress Princess Arugula, of the neighboring kingdom. The reason for this was simple; he was a teenage lad and had seen a picture of the princess in Blue Blood Weekly, the magazine of choice for members of pristine standing in high society. The picture—a candid shot taken in the castle’s kitchen—prominently featured the princess’ impressive rack of spices; according to the article, she loved it hot. Her long, slender legs, cream-colored and smooth-skinned, visible through a well-placed part in her silken dress, helped her reach the cardamom on the top shelf without much ado. Her beautiful ass—her childhood pet, a donkey named Günther—firm and strong, could also be seen. It was a picture Prince Archibald had spent many hours studying while locked away in his private chambers.
So, one early Tuesday morning, right around 4:30, he slathered plenty of camo-paint onto his royal face, pulled his best shrubbery-helmet over his crown, grabbed his finest hunting gear, and made for the woods atop his trusty steed, Popcorn. Reaching the woods, the prince dismounted and made his way on foot deep into the forest. The farther he walked the darker it became, until, after many hours of traveling through the thick, gnarly underbrush, it had gotten so dark he thought the sun had forgotten to rise that day. When, suddenly, he came upon a small hut, reaching not much higher than his knees. It was made of sticks and stones and what looked like broken bones. Thick puffs of glittering smoke rose from the tiny chimney, casting a magical light onto the surrounding area. From inside strange, high-pitched voices could be heard arguing.
It was not long until the front door flew open with such force it ricocheted against the side of the wall. A fairy, small, green, and very angry, stepped out. “Women!” he huffed. The prince saw his chance. He jumped from behind the bush, grabbed the small woodland creature and ripped off one of his shimmering appendages. “AHA!” he yelled, holding his prize aloft, and then swiftly made his way to the princess’ castle.
When the princess saw his gift she blushed and gaily trilled: “Oh, it’s…it’s…a fairy tail.” They were married that very afternoon, and lived happily ever after.
The fairy, on the other hand, bled out in the woods. He left behind a wife and three children who never knew what had happened to him. His name was Ploppy.
Loved this one. That first paragraph - so good! And "atop his trusty steed, Popcorn".. this humor that feels so light, as if effortless, but is actually so precise in working so well!
Much appreciate your kind words, Danielle. Glad you enjoyed it and got a good chuckle out of it. I must admit, humor, in many instances, is the only thing that keeps me going in this world of utter confusion.
Horse Story
I heard from someone that Karla had died. Which was shocking because, Karla? Which is dumb because of course, Karla, or anyone else for that matter. We all die. But the thing about Karla was her youthfulness. She was a force, a verb, and frankly, a bit out of control. It took me a few moments to process that she was dead. She and Ted, they loved to party. The night Karla died, Ted kept bumping up against Marianne. She’d slapped him away a couple of times, but Ted never took such things seriously. Besides, Karla was flirting wildly with my husband. Those long legs of hers and that hair. You had to look at her. She was laughing and laughing at everything my husband said. He’s funny, but he’s not that funny. She’d put her huge mane into a ponytail at the very tip top of her head and strands fell over her forehead and into her eyes. It was a crazy look, but Karla could pull it off. I busied myself refilling carrots into the little bowls I’d set around the yard. Tina and Frank were dancing, and I felt a tiny bit hurt that Tina was a better dancer than me. I hoped she’d go home soon, didn’t she have a newborn to feed or something, and then I could dance with Frank myself. Frank was skinny and funny looking, but he had charm like nobody’s business. And besides, my husband was busy making jokes for Karla, and Karla’s husband was busy with Marianne. Anyway, that was the whole party, everybody left and then I heard that Karla had died. My husband told me later that she’d broken a leg chasing Ted, mad about Marianne. And that was that, the end of Karla. My husband got bought the following year and at parties I throw now with my new husband, nobody gets terribly wild, which is a shame, but so far, we’re all still alive.
fun! My husband got bought! Can I get that deal?
I have days when…
Ha!
My husband got bought
What a great line!
Thanks so much, Niall!
Horses, the original swing set. (We won’t get foaled again!)
That would be a great epitaph: "She was a force, a verb, and frankly, a bit out of control. "
Ha! you're right!
hahaha, didnt see that end coming! Love that Karla was a "verb". The swinging party was very 60's Cheever!
Those horses know how to party
So good at getting the sensuous into the story.
A tale of equine enmity.
Thank you for the "like." I hope this means you "got" my poor attempt at a pun.
Yes, i got it!! It wasn't poor--I liked it!
Again, that dark humour Mary. You do it so well! That last sentence "nobody gets terribly wild, which is a shame, but so far, we’re all still alive" is the perfect example of this.
Thank you, Imola! This little story was a regular story that I messed with and turned into a fairy tale of sorts. I like it better this way!
I love it this way!
'tis better to live longer than wilder then?
Hmmm. Excellent question.
Passed from pillar to post. One look from those watery blue eyes and no man in our extended family could bear to disown her. Inevitably she was delivered to our doorstep by a fretful uncle whose stables she had burned; an accident, different from the one she described. The likely truth: A mid-coital kick, upsetting the lamp during a hay romp with one of the grooms. His smouldering body was carried out a day after. He was a servant, but loved, raised almost as a son. The uncle saw through her play of remorse. Still, what to do with her?
His decision: A few years deep under the roof of his brother, who was away fighting in a war and so would not be troubled by her presence. Down in the scullery to make amends, among the cinders of the bridges she had burned; just to remain in the legacy; to forestall being cast out into the streets where the effort of batting her eyelashes and opening her legs for a few coins would have been too great a burden.
“Watch that one,” wheezed Jánka, not my sister, as was so often assumed, but a distant cousin, her face marked for death by a plague that overreached and was extinguished before it could claim her.
Me, with my one eye and the scars of old burns down one side of my body, knew the girl all too well, and recalled how she laughed gleefully as I shrieked in the puddle of boiling water. Another accident.
A creature like that is never humbled. Within days she had befriended a neighbour; an elderly woman of means, with no children to call her own and no immunity to the deceptions of young girls. She lavished on her dresses and finery.
That evening at the ball, I watched her carefully stage her exit. I could have done no such thing. To leave a man wanting more, he must you first want you. No man will ever want me. When I forced my foot into that glass slipper until it fractured and was hastily removed before it could shatter, I longed for what I could not have: To reach up from the gutter, as she did, and effortlessly bring down the stars.
This! You should write a book of fractured fairy tales!
Gorgeous ! I love this remodeling- didn't see it coming till the very end! Truth depends on POV.
So poetic! The last line "To reach up from the gutter... and effortlessly bring down the stars" really got me. Just beautiful.
I love, love, love retakes on Cinderella. This is superb! Great twist on a plot line that just deserves to be messed with--over and over again!
Once upon a time not so long ago in a land descended from the great Pangea lived a race of crazy people who hated leaves. Sometimes they talked like they loved leaves, "Oh, the colors, I just love fall," and would drive for hours in a thing called a station wagon to ooh and ah at the leaves. Crimson reds, and sunrise orange and saffron yellow. "So pretty, don't you love this time of year." Back home a worker starts a noisy machine to get rid of the leaves in their yard. Can't have leaves lying around on the grass, what will the neighbors think. Once a week the worker comes and starts his machine and the sound fills the neighborhood with madness. Back and forth he walks swinging the noise back and forth and the leaves have no choice but to flee before it, gather huddled and trembling in a corner. Rounded up and taken away, to somewhere, well away from the nice lawn. And those who love leaves look out on their leafless lawn and say, This is good. My world is clean and orderly and everything in its place as it was meant to be.
But then something happened. All the trees in the yard died and were cut down. No more leaves in the yard which was so boring and sterile with nothing to blow away. Those who loved leaves looked out on the leafless lawn and cried. We have to take a trip where there is real fall, where there are leaves they said. But they found out there were no more leaves anywhere to be seen, all the leaves were gone everywhere. Then a man came to the door. He showed them a movie of trees with leaves. Apparently the leaves had moved somewhere else and liked it, but they weren't telling anyone where. But, said the man, you can buy this movie about pretty leaves and that's what they did. Now they watch the movie about leaves all day long, and have no idea how unhappy they are, ever after.
this is a very sad story.
"and the sound fills the neighborhood with madness"! Oh and how! A truly spooky tale.
speaking as a Big Noisy Leaf Blower
"Sorry, really sorry. I do the best I can."
End of Discussion.
Splinters of his boat washed up on the shore three days after young Jack went missing at sea. The other fishermen said they had seen his boat out by the jagged rocks in the distance.
Why would anyone go there, they said, surely he knew better.
Yes, the fish were plentiful near the rocks, but the place was haunted by water fairies. You could hear them sing when the storms blew fierce. And on calm nights you saw silvery flashes diving off the rocks into the water.
“My son!” cried Jack’s old mother. “What could have happened to him?”
The village-folk said the water fairies must have carried him off. There were tales, from days of old. Of how the water fairies had borne away young men from the village, to their lair in the deep.
Jack’s old mother walked the shores day and night, calling his name. The wind picked up her cries and carried them out to sea. And sometimes it seemed an answering call came back on the wind, but Jack never returned.
Even now when the gales blow and the seas rage, you can hear the old woman’s cries of “Jack! Jack!” and if you listen carefully you can hear answering cries of “Mother! Mother!”
Sometimes you can even hear the water fairies sing.
So sad and yet so lovely. Hope Jack falls in love with one of those water fairies.
The Trek
Once upon a time there was a kitten. It was a Siamese with bright blue eyes and a pink collar. The collar had diamonds on it, real diamonds, not rhinestones, valued at $10,000, but nobody knew that because cat collars don’t have diamonds. It ate out of a crystal plate, but nobody knew that it was Steuben crystal, valued at $800. Its travel case was made of leather with lace insets. The leather was suede and the lace was antique from a princess’s wedding gown. The kitten traveled around the world in its case, cast a watchful eye on the goings on around it, lots of music, dancers, and of course, its mama, the star.
One day, someone left the kitten carrier open backstage and the kitten, curious as to the goings on, popped out and scurried up the velvet curtain in the wings. Then when the show broke down, someone picked up the carrier and packed it, not realizing that the kitten wasn’t in it.
The kitten was all alone. The lights were cut. The theater was silent. The kitten called for its mama, but mama was gone. Then it called on its kitten fairy godmother. Poof! Godmother is there. “What is your problem, my dear?” “I’m lost and I don’t know how to get home.” “Ah, said the godmother, you must undertake an arduous journey over land and water, fight many enemies, resist the siren call of ogres and write a long epic about it, but you will get home, I promise.”
So the kitten pulled itself up by its whiskers and started off. Finally, after many miles and dangers, the kitten found its mama’s home in Manhattan. But when she arrived, her mama wasn’t there. “She’s not here,” the doorman said. “Try her Connecticut beach house.” So the kitten went to Connecticut. “Oops, you just missed her,” they said. “She’s in L.A. with her boyfriend.” Once again, the kitten dragged herself out of discouragement and trekked to California. “Oh, no,” they wailed. “She’s off to Denmark on tour.” “Look what I’ve done for love,” the kitten cried. “And I’m still alone. My epic needs a happy ending.”
“Well,” they said,” have you ever thought about being a football mascot? We hear they’re looking for one in Kansas City.”
try her Connecticut beach house! I love when the familiar finds its way into a fairy tale
Hahahahahaha! Poor kitty cat! What she did for love!
What a good one! I love how it felt perfectly scaled into flash-fiction size with all the fullness of a fairytale delivered - so satisfying!
I love the description of the kitten’s “accoutrements!”
Once there lived a boy who gravity did not touch. He was born to two ordinary people, a bit late in life. He was a surprise to them twice, first when his mother realized that two months had gone by without blood or cramp. Then, seven months later, he floated right out of her.
Both his parents had such an ordinary relationship to the magnetic pull of the earth that they had never really considered it. His mother liked to eat a full sleeve of cookies secretly while she cooked. She liked how it seemed to pull her down into her walnut chair at dinner. The boy’s father hated when he had to hammer nails up high. In the evenings, he dropped dramatically into his recliner.
Gravity could have been the main character in their lives, but they did not realize this until the boy was born and he hoodwinked their hero from his very beginning. Did this make him a villain? These were not the kind of parents who could believe that. They were the kind to become highly alarmed at first, which the doctors encouraged, as they supposed a rare disease to be more likely than a miracle.
Yet, for all the certainty about some brand-new disorder, doctors could not change the boy’s situation. So he lived out a nearly normal childhood, always tied to something by a rope. When he was ready to go into the world and seek his fortune, he realized he would need to continue tethering himself somehow. Not being of an age or of means to acquire real estate, he took out an ad on Craigslist. In this way, he met many odd people, the sort who scroll online late at night but also wish to open themselves to someone young and striking. He had many adventures from the end of a leash.
In the end, it was by a true accident, a simple oversight without malice, that his tether came untied. He was sleeping up on a roof, having gone up with a girl to watch the sunrise. They made love before daybreak and fell asleep before the first rays peeked in, which was just when he began shrinking into blue fathoms above. The last thing he saw were the girl’s eyes, fluttering open and shut like moths. Supposing it were only a dream, she rolled over and snoozed a little longer.
So well done! I hope he finds his people up there.
Thanks! And ooh that didn't even occur to me - now am hoping the same for him!
“He had many adventures from the end of a leash.” This sentence feels profound. Beautiful story!!
Thanks so much, David! So encouraging to get feedback here about which bits work - and isn't it always the way, they're usually the ones that involved the least intention/effort!
Right. Because the mind is free when we’re not trying so damn hard.
Amen!
I read that sentence and immediately thought, wow, no matter one’s constraints or restraints, inner or outer, you are still free to have many adventures. (And you are right, Craigslist definitely harbors some odd and interesting characters!)
Such a fascinating concept. There are so elements of our existence which we never really think about.
Thanks, Deborah! (: And yes, that's so true!
love this. Love the gravity happy parents!
Thanks! And hehe, yes, somehow they formed themselves after the gravity-free child occurred to me.. I found myself, too, almost more fascinated by them.
Young Woman in a Crimson Hoodie
I was half asleep by, enjoying the warm spring day, just minding my business, when I was fully awoken by an irritating sound, high and sing-song-y. I peered out to see a young woman in a crimson hoodie, skipping down the path and singing, and the smells of fresh-baked goods wafting from the basket she carried and drifting into my nose, making me realize I was hungry, very hungry, as if the aroma of the breads and cakes in her basket had crept into my stomach and taken away everything that I’d eaten the day before.
My mouth watered and the need to eat sharpened into pulsing raw red. I considered leaping on the woman, what was there to stop me? There in the distance, the scent of a woodsman, with an ax and a rifle. The bastard wanted to shoot me, but I wasn’t going to let him. I couldn’t eat the young woman and the goodies in the basket with him lurking in the bushes, waiting to ambush me.
I knew where the woman was headed, because she sang it. “To grandma’s house I go!” in her chirpy, irritating voice, the voice of spoiled privilege. The grandmother lived at the end of a new sub-division that had recently been built in the forest, taking away more of our home, mine and the other animals. None of us had a vote on it, but that is not part of this story.
So I snuck over to grandmother’s house, and, well, she was old and bitter. I think she wanted to die, and certainly the young woman in red’s parents would be happy she was dead, all the costs of keeping up her medical expenses draining away their inheritance in this land of no Universal Health Care. Grandmother’s meat was stringy and old, not that appetizing, so I waited for the plump, succulent young woman and red. And I didn’t bother dressing up as grandma and answering questions, simply leaped on her as she came up the walk and dragged her behind some bushes. A minute later the woodsman stomped up the pathway to the door, but he was too late. Fully sated by a delicious meal, I found a small cave to get back to sleep in.
Love this point of view! So much fun to read. And that ending! It's happy, though....
Really liked this prompt, and the Taylor Swift story, wow, really did capture the surrealism of Donald Barthelme..
The revenge of the subdivided. Lovely!
Well said!!
“Once upon a time.”
Oh, here we go again. Where was he taking her this time?
Ainsley sighed. No use trying to guess what he was up to. Was this a free write?
Was her name still Ainsley?
What am I now? A talking hedgehog? A goat? (Please! No more goats! The fetid odor of musk still hung like fog over everything.)
“Ainsley needed a fairy godmother.”
I do? Why? Are we getting that desperate for a plot line?
“Her handsome prince had not arrived, and this was a problem.”
For whom? If I wanted a cardboard cut out, I’d tell you.
“So when the knock came on her door, she ran to open the door, her heart thumping, her pulse racing, and her stomach flip-flopping. This was it! She knew it!”
I haven’t even had coffee yet, I’m still in my pajamas and my hair is…well, let’s just say bedhead doesn’t begin to describe…Last night was a torrid entanglement with a—was he a gnome? He said Fairy King, but…Ok. I’m at the door. This better be good…
“The woman at her door was not quite corporeal. She shone at the edges. Carrying a substantial wand, and–
My god! My eyes. Does she have to shine like that? It’s 5 am, for godsake!
“when she spoke to Ainsley, her words sparkled in the air.”
Those are dust motes. Where’s the maid you promised, four false starts ago? That gnome last night left a trail of…what is that stuff on the floor, anyway? Sticky…gooey…
“May I come inside, dear?”
As opposed to standing out here freezing my butt off? Am I even dressed?
“Fairy godmother stepped inside and began chanting, calling forth beauty–”
Ok. How about intelligence?
“and intelligence. She paused. Looked around Ainsley’s house. What a mess! My dear, we need to redecorate! Tell me–do you like water? And what is your favorite color?”
I’ve always wanted a pool. And I love the color blue.
“A wave of the wand, and sparks, floating orbs and particles engulfed the room.”
Azure sky above sapphire water, lapping waves and a stunning array of bright purple, blue, and green. A small, blue-ringed octopus–canny and intuitive, glided across the surface of the reef.
Ainsley knew the writer could not resist wading into the surf. She would just wait here…
Mary, I love this prompt. I read the short stories after I wrote mine because I didn't want to be influenced. And I love the tiny winged Taylor Swift! Thanks for pushing us to think outside the box this morning. I needed this!
Yay! I love what you did with this one!
Too funny and such fun to read!
Thank you. Such fun to write.
So much fun! A character in search of a *different* author!
The moon was a ghostly galleon. Ok, maybe ghostly's over-egging it, but there was definitely a hint of the spectral as the golden orb sailed in and out of view.
It was cold and damp and that and the gloom was a reflection of my mood. Looking skyward again, I fancied the stringy clouds scored the moon with an 'S'. Stop?
I tried to convince myself it was the lunar signal that was making me uneasy. But I failed there and admitted I wasn't looking forward to meeting Bill. I liked Bill, he was a nice guy. And there the problem is summed up. Now, Zander, he was an entirely different cauldron of cuddles. Serial womaniser, insincere flatterer, vanity personified. I was desperate for a hook-up with Zander. In pursuit of that goal I was heading to meet Bill. To dump him.
As I continued along the lane, the figure leaning against the farm gate came into view. I recognised him straight off, the pipe, the waistcoat, the collarless shirt, the cap pulled low to meet those gimlet eyes. Shit, I knew what was coming. It was my father. He was looking well, actually very well, considering he'd been dead for 10 years. It had been a couple of years since I'd seen him, he'd turned up when the gambling had got out of hand and, once before that, around the time of the business with Eddie Hannah. I shook my head as I remembered Eddie, how on earth did I fall for that 'my wife and I are leading separate lives' and when I confronted him with the domestic sleeping arrangements, his insistence that it was a king-sized bed and meant minimum contact.
Now the old man was back. I drew closer. The eyes did their full gimlet routine. Searched, scrutinised, judged, sentenced.
Bill was in his usual good humour and he'd brought a present, a little box with a single chocolate, a 'too die for' maple praline truffle. He was at the counter buying coffee when Zander messaged, 'Got rid of that loser yet? Get here quick, I'm gonna fly you to the moon.'
Bill returned with the drinks, I halved the chocolate. We shared.
"his insistence that it was a king-sized bed and meant minimum contact." So many good lines in this one, and what a blast to read!
Nicely done, Terry! Your opening line reminded me of Loreena McKennitt singing The Highwayman.
Thanks, Vishal. Originally from a 1906 poem by Alfred Noyes which was a standard for British schoolkids in the 1960s, must have stuck in my head. I checked out the song. Very beautiful. Thanks again. Terry
Yes, she is wonderful at singing poetry. Also sang Lord Tennyson's "The Lady of Shalott."
Ooh. The "judged and sentenced" leapt out at me--and the literal sensation of "to die for..." Well done!
For her eighteenth birthday, a grandmother gave her granddaughter Katelyn a white Jeep, fully loaded with all the extras. Katelyn was driving it to work between her college classes one cold winter day when she had to stop at a redlight. To her left standing on a median was a man with a sunburned, chapped face, wearing a threadbare coat and clothes that looked dirty, as if he had slept in them for many days. He had a head of unkempt red hair and beard. Sometimes he did a ragged little jig, holding up a sign that said, “Will work for food.”
Katelyn saw the man staring at her out of the corner of her eye as she checked her phone for new texts.
“My gosh,” she thought, “I just gave some money to another man this morning.” She had indeed given a panhandler on another corner a few dollars. “I can’t give money to everyone who asks me.”
The light changed and Katelyn drove on, shaking her head, annoyed at the conundrum of how to help every person in need.
A few minutes later another woman named Lisa drove up in her 2014 Honda Civic and stopped at the same redlight. She was a single mother of two girls and was also on her way to work. Lisa was late paying her electric bill this month and was worried that the company was going to turn it off if she didn’t pay today. She planned to do this on a break. She had just spent her last few dollars on the breakfast from McDonald’s that perched on the passenger seat in its brown paper bag: A Sausage McMuffin with Cheese, a hash brown, and coffee.
The panhandler stared at Lisa. Lisa looked back at him.
“Oh geez,” she sighed. She dug out some change from where she kept it under the dashboard, opened her window and handed it to the man, along with the Sausage McMuffin and hash brown. She kept the coffee for herself—she wasn’t that generous.
The panhandler made a sound like a grunt, did his little jig, took the change and the food without thanking Lisa, and turned around to walk back to his post at the median. Lisa drove on to work.
Snow began to fall. As Lisa got out of her car and walked across the gray cement parking lot to her office, passing some dormant roses, they raised their brown heads and burst into bloom.
Let me add that I drew inspiration from The Three Little Men in the Woods by the Brothers Grimm. I am not trying to moralize here, I just loved how in that fairy tale the poor stepdaughter in paper clothes sent by her cruel stepmother to find strawberries in the snow finds them after sharing with three little questionable men in the woods. If I had more time I'd make the language richer but I actually write fairly simply most of the time anyway. Hope there aren't typos I missed.
What a lovely story. And one we can all relate to, unfortunately.
Love this tale! I do like “she wasn’t that generous.” No one comes between me and my coffee.
Same!
PS: I also refrained from reading the stories, will do that when I have time. Didn't want to be influenced either.
I often do that too, though I did read them first this week. They're usually so good that it's always a fine line for me between inspiration and plunging into nasty inner critic whispers of "something that good already exists! why even bother!?" 🤦♀️
Se souvenir: chasing a lost identity
When instagram banned my account I managed to get out of bed after seven days.
Someone from the World Wide Web, whose Face I had never seen
Told me they know a person who can retrieve it.
This person’s number was in Indonesia, said Google.
I somehow imagine him to look like an Oompa Loompa from Willy Wonka— the one with Gene wilder where they have orange faces and green hair.
The Oompa Loompa tells me I have to pay him first.
How? I ask
He sends me a link to a website that sells game cards in denominations of $50.
“Three” he says.
It takes me a while because the website sends me a verification email
Then another.
Confirming identity is never ending
“But your account is in the highest security,” he tells me, later.
He needs more advanced software to bypass the security,
Which means more payments.
This time the website doesn’t allow me access.
So he sends me to another which rejects my payment.
The Oompa Loompa says he will take bitcoins too.
Does one draw them from an atm like cash?
I don’t know this world anymore
But I do know there is a Game Shop half a mile away where they sell those cards—
Thanks to Google
But I’m disabled, I whine when he asks me to hurry there.
I cringe that I use that word but in moments of calamity,
It works. People shut up.
Normally, I’d have said: I’m doing much better. I see the silver lining.
But not the Oompa Loompa.
Time was of utmost urgency for him.
So I go…
I don’t know how.
When you’re determined you can do anything I suppose.
A taught me that.
In the end, of course, it doesn’t work.
I lose three hundred dollars
I lose my instagram account which took years to build
I call him a liar.
He calls me a witch
I just laugh and save the conversation to write a short story about later on—
A notebook full of ideas— which I never look at again
First I know I’d have to ward off the faint for days
Then I might have to call the acupuncturist; because the doctors have done nothing.
Then I’d have to figure out how to get to the kitchen to heat soup.
And finally, when courage runs out, you just have to take the plunge—figure out how to be
with this
In this
Real world
Oh, yes, the real world. Crazy that so many of us have lost our way! (and thank god I quit Instagram a long time ago...). Nice job with the prompt!
There are so many great moments in this! But my favorite is "a notebook full of ideas--which I ever look at again." So many stories to tell...(and that security thing makes me crazy!)
Lovely all the way through, and leading to such an unexpected-yet-perfect final note!
Thank you
There once was a man who knew the answer to everything.
“I know it seems like magic,” he would say, “but really it’s just-”
But he was interrupted. At that stage of his explanation he was always interrupted.
No one wanted to be told the mechanics of it all. Something whispered inside to them, ‘how terrible it will be to know’, and they found a reason to break off the conversation and to leave him alone with just his answer for company.
So, he set off for the city, where he knew he would have a better chance of meeting people willing to learn the answers. He thought about taking the bus or the train, but he knew, of course, that passengers least of all wanted to hear. What passengers liked was to be left in their own silent rush of air.
And anyway, he preferred to walk.
On the way, he collected a companion. It was an owl, and he knew she was a tawny owl. She flew alongside him, from tree to tree where there were trees, from telegraph pole to telegraph pole where the trees were gone, and rode on his shoulder where neither tree nor pole populated the fields.
“Would you like to know how what type of owl you are?” he asked her one day. She tugged on his ear with her beak and flew off to rest in the rafters of an abandoned grain shelter. She did not like to know.
He knew the etymology of her name, he knew the angle of her twisting, he knew the oils in her feathers. She sat inscrutably blinking in the rafters, unruffled by not knowing.
It began to rain, and the drops channeled through the patchwork roof. A steady stream flicked dust up onto his trousers while he sat beneath her.
He thought she might like to know why her eyes were the rich brown of a horse chestnut. He thought she might like to know why the rain blew in from the sea. He thought she might like to know why he knew so much.
She waited patiently under the roof, waiting for him to know why she was so beautiful.
What a perfect ending!
At one time or sometimes another, my godfather was a fairy. Don't laugh. No, seriously, calm down there. Do you numskulls even know what a fairy is? If my godfather was here, he'd soon teach you. Make you jump over the moon (watch out for flying cows). Put you to sleep for a thousand years. Make sure no beautiful prince.ss kisses you awake. Only a toothless old hag.gis with intentions you wouldn't want to know about.
So. All well and truly scared? A fairy tale has to be scary, or it doesn't mean a thing. (Listen up, Mary g.) People loved these stories for the thrill of fear that actually distracted them from famine, plague, fire, wolves, marauding feudal lords, and all the rest they had to deal with in their shitty lives. Nowadays, there's none of all that, just Trump, Putin, wars, the next pandemic, climate going wrong, more wars. So get scared and listen to my tale.
My Fairy Godfather was a prince of royal lineage, and a mighty warrior. Buck by name. Seven feet tall, ripped, a swordsman of great dispatch. Quite apart from which, he only had to look at you to turn you into a slice of cheesecake or a bowl of rice pudding which he would then eat, if feeling peckish. Such were his powers that I avoided calling on him for aid and succour, preferring to wait for the Big One, the really tough situation only he could fix. So I fought my own way through several wicked-witch poisonings, two ogre attacks, a colossal Arabian genie pile-on: Godfather Buck was proud of me.
Then I met a young woman who enchanted me. Sang I'll Put A Spell On You just like Nina Simone, (though some AI in there, probably). Yes, I was spellbound. It's very uncomfortable, depending on where you are when the spell is cast. I was in a place we are all forced to visit from time to time, so you can imagine. I couldn't move, couldn't even reach the toilet roll. "Ha!" said the young woman, revealing herself to be a wicked fairy of the REDACTED tribe, known for its devilry, "now you are in my power."
All I could do was send a thoughtwave to Godfather Buck: "Am thrall to evil fairy of REDACTED tribe."
On the instant he appeared in a glistening cloud perfumed with that stuff Johnny Depp does the ads for, and with one glance freed me from thrall and sent the bad fairy to her knees in wide-eyed supplication.
"Hmm," he said, ogling her, and they walked off together arm in arm. Her name was Bayley. It said Prince Buck and Princess Bayley on their wedding cake (happy end).
Sauvage 😂 (Johnny Depp cologne or whatever. He looks terrible in that ad.)
He looks desperate. Desperado, they should call it.
Just a side note: the cheap immigrant labor you reference needs to unionize and demand living wages. Thus a Mother Jones character or a Cesar Chavez/Dolores Huerta duo appears in the story. Fairy tales are complex…
not scary enough, says mary g. But super fun! (Are you feeling better, John? I hope so.)
The nasty ancient-virus thing is slowly disappearing, thanks.
I checked out the vax you mentioned, Shingrix. I have to wait a year after this attack to get the first shot. Which I mean to do.
Glad to hear you are improving.
But what about the toilet roll?
The process of disenthralment greatly improved its qualities of softness and resistance. It helps to have a Fairy Godfather.
Thus Cottonelle and Charmin were born?
Ultra Soft Aloe Vera Super Plus. Prince Buck advised Kimberly-Clark on the campaign bus that went from place to place inviting folks to come in and use the facilities then test the supreme comfort of Cottonelle. Exceptional bears being of course part of FairytaleLand, Buck also knew the bear that did what bears do in the woods and then used Charmin. Entire rolls were used and the paper flung with wild abandon over the forest floor. The organizers had to call in cheap immigrant labour to clear up the mess.
This is all true, it's in Wikipedia.
Sweet picture of Little Mikey. Brings back memories. My first writing class, 1973 from Dr. Jill Hoffman. We were asked to write a short one act play with two characters from a fairy tale or famous story or play. The reading assignment was Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead by Tom Stoppard. We also read stories by Donald Barthelme. The Taylor Swift story was great. From 2015! Thanks for the prompt. It was a great start.
Jack and the Beanstalk
It was Friday and Jack had just arrived at work when he was called over to his manager’s cube.
“Jack, we’ve valued your contributions here at Cube Farm for a long time now, but unforeseen circumstances have necessitated some changes and I’m sorry to say, we have to let you go. The Board has authorized me to offer you a choice of severance packages, either these 42 magic beans or 1000 shares of stock options.”
Jack was no fool and as he shifted from one foot to the other, he weighed the reality of the beans in the Ziplock bag lying on his manager’s desk and the ephemeral value of stock options.
“I’ll take the beans.”
“Okay. Stop by HR to sign your severance agreement and be out of the building by 10:00 AM.” He swiveled in his chair and turned back to his screen.
He phoned his mom and took the 17 Bus home. On the bus, he counted the beans and sure enough there were 42. When he got home, his mom was in the garden. He held up the baggie of beans and said, “Magic beans! It was either this or a thousand shares of stock options.”
“You fool,” she said grabbing the beans out of hand and tossing them over the fence.
Jack went to bed that night thinking about that bag of 42 beans. A little after midnight, he sat straight up in bed and exclaimed, “Those beans.”
He walked outside through the garden, out the gate, and into the alley, where he saw the beans burst through the plastic bag and start growing. But they weren’t growing like normal beans. The soil bulged as thick roots penetrated into the soil and huge intertwining stalks shot straight up. Once the rumbling stopped his eyes followed the stalks up until they disappeared into the stary night.
He knew exactly what to do and he started to climb.
And the story lives on!
Cleaning the counter this morning, wiping up drips of coffee, daubs of jam and accompanying crumbs, Devi couldn’t help but notice the lizard. Sitting right there on the granite. Surprising in a way, but then sort of not. The backyard was always full of fence lizards sitting on the rock wall doing lizard pushups while waiting for insects to eat. There’d never been one bold enough to come into the house before, but why not?
Devi scooped her into an empty mug and set her back outside as she left for work.
When she got home, Devi poured a glass of wine and headed to the tub for a long soak. Settling in, she closed her eyes and let the warm water and alcohol ease all her physical and psychological aches. She had just reached total relaxation when she felt her. The lizard. She was swimming; her little lizard claws tickling as she skimmed over Devi’s belly.
Devi sat up creating a wave which the lizard gracefully surfed. Riding the crest, she met Devi’s gaze straight on.
And, then she spoke. And spoke and spoke and spoke. The lizard was unstoppable.
“I want out.”
“What?”
“You heard me. I refuse to participate in this ridiculous story. You’ve got me in a tub with a motormouth lizard, which I suspect you’re about to name Eliza, with no clear path forward. And, for God’s sake, you named me Devi. Is this a set up to reveal me as a witch daughter of the Devil?”
“I do have a path forward, or at least I hope to find one soon. And, what’s wrong with you being a witch? Witches are all the rage right now. Between Halloween and certain presidential hopefuls being accused of witchcraft, there’s never been a better time to be a witch.”
“That’s the best you have? A hope of some sort of inspiration at some point to make this into a story that can ride the witch’s boom so to speak? No. You either start over right now and come up with something worthwhile, or I’ll cast a spell on you to make you put this on Substack just the way it is.”
“I have confidence in this. I won’t give it up.”
“Surrender and start over.”
“I won’t. But please don’t make me post it as is. It’ll be too embarrassing.”
“Too late. You just hit Post.”
LOVED this one!!! Too funny and too true!
This is so meta! Loved it!
BTW, not sure if you know, but Devi means goddess in some languages. As in the middle name of a certain presidential candidate. 😊
I did not even think of Devi as goddess - but it is perfect for a certain someone's middle name. Thanks!
Once upon a time, in a galaxy far, far away, there lived a prince who really wanted to impress Princess Arugula, of the neighboring kingdom. The reason for this was simple; he was a teenage lad and had seen a picture of the princess in Blue Blood Weekly, the magazine of choice for members of pristine standing in high society. The picture—a candid shot taken in the castle’s kitchen—prominently featured the princess’ impressive rack of spices; according to the article, she loved it hot. Her long, slender legs, cream-colored and smooth-skinned, visible through a well-placed part in her silken dress, helped her reach the cardamom on the top shelf without much ado. Her beautiful ass—her childhood pet, a donkey named Günther—firm and strong, could also be seen. It was a picture Prince Archibald had spent many hours studying while locked away in his private chambers.
So, one early Tuesday morning, right around 4:30, he slathered plenty of camo-paint onto his royal face, pulled his best shrubbery-helmet over his crown, grabbed his finest hunting gear, and made for the woods atop his trusty steed, Popcorn. Reaching the woods, the prince dismounted and made his way on foot deep into the forest. The farther he walked the darker it became, until, after many hours of traveling through the thick, gnarly underbrush, it had gotten so dark he thought the sun had forgotten to rise that day. When, suddenly, he came upon a small hut, reaching not much higher than his knees. It was made of sticks and stones and what looked like broken bones. Thick puffs of glittering smoke rose from the tiny chimney, casting a magical light onto the surrounding area. From inside strange, high-pitched voices could be heard arguing.
It was not long until the front door flew open with such force it ricocheted against the side of the wall. A fairy, small, green, and very angry, stepped out. “Women!” he huffed. The prince saw his chance. He jumped from behind the bush, grabbed the small woodland creature and ripped off one of his shimmering appendages. “AHA!” he yelled, holding his prize aloft, and then swiftly made his way to the princess’ castle.
When the princess saw his gift she blushed and gaily trilled: “Oh, it’s…it’s…a fairy tail.” They were married that very afternoon, and lived happily ever after.
The fairy, on the other hand, bled out in the woods. He left behind a wife and three children who never knew what had happened to him. His name was Ploppy.
oh my god, hilarious and such fun to read
I’ll post a slightly extended version on my profile.
Loved this one. That first paragraph - so good! And "atop his trusty steed, Popcorn".. this humor that feels so light, as if effortless, but is actually so precise in working so well!
Much appreciate your kind words, Danielle. Glad you enjoyed it and got a good chuckle out of it. I must admit, humor, in many instances, is the only thing that keeps me going in this world of utter confusion.