Category: Fiction

Not a Fairy Tale

https://pixabay.com/illustrations/treehouse-forest-composing-fantasy-1308108/?fbclid=IwAR0JvQrhTYyN8VnUR_sicgsf1GqiK9p_AgW0vabKOIrLuLCejt7ADz_W4NM

Once upon a time…

Oh please, not that trite old beginning again!

Well it did happen once upon a time. How else would you like me to begin?

As I struggled for breath, I reflected on the events that led to my current situation.

O-kay…  Anyway, in an ancient oak in the center of an Enchanted forest lived a…

Don’t say fairy.

Fine. What do you think lived there?

A were-rabbit.

Is it at least a nice were-rabbit?

Sure, all were-rabbits are nice. Everyone knows that.

I see. Well, this were-rabbit loved living in the ancient oak. She…

He.

Sigh. He had been born in a cottage beneath its roots, behind a lovely yellow door that seemed to welcome everyone who passed by.

But behind the door lay a terrible secret.

Look here, who’s telling this story, me or you?

You, but you aren’t telling it very well.

Alright then, what terrible secret could a yellow door and a nice were-rabbit possibly be hiding?

The tree had been enchanted by an evil wizard. Whenever a visitor approached the door, the roots came alive and twisted above the ground.

Oh, I see. So the door drew people in with false promises and the tree ate them for supper.

No! Why would a nice were-rabbit love living in a tree that ate people for dinner? You’re scary, you are.

Right, right. Do please go on. You were just explaining the terrible secret behind the door.

I don’t know, this is supposed to be your story.

Alright then. The were-rabbit was such a nice rabbit that he needed to share his enchanted cottage behind the yellow door with everyone. He had paid an evil wizard to turn the roots into his special security system. Visitors became permanent residents in the warrens beneath, protected from themselves and their misguided desire to leave by the living, twisting wood crawling above them. Everyone lived miserably ever after except for the nice were-rabbit, who never lacked for dinner company as long as he lived. The end. Goodnight.

You call that a fairy tale? Tomorrow night I’m asking Dad.

The Watch

https://pixabay.com/photos/pirates-sailing-ship-frigate-ship-587988/?fbclid=IwAR08-VAraANP6PtUrRcss8D5uyFIsmu3AeirDIa_kmg2C4exS3IrzwVPhiM

The sound of the sailors’ feet shifting against the boards grated on the silence. A whispered prayer floated unintelligibly over the water, blending with the fog like something unearthly and dreadful. There should have been waves noisily licking below, the creak of rigging in the shift of the wind.

Edwin closed his eyes, his hands clenching on the railing. Why did the sun he could just make out blazing above not burn off the fog? Could it be the sea witches come to claim souls, as the old seaman claimed? He forced his eyes open and peered into the blanket of white. A good watchman might even see the witches in time to save the crew. Maybe.

A shadow flicked across the dull red glow that was the sun, then another. Whispers became mutters, and a hatch rattled farther up the deck. Edwin set his jaw. He would not abandon his post, no matter how cowardly his peers. He did wish for one of those fine pistols he’d seen while scrubbing down the captain’s cabin, though. He’d bet his shark tooth necklace that a bullet from one of those would even stop a spectre in the fog.

Were those shadows or just swirls in the fog? He swallowed. Maybe not his necklace, after all. He rubbed his thumb across the edges of the teeth, the sharp danger of it slowing his racing pulse. A deeper darkness spread like a great wing just beyond the grayness, and he opened his mouth to call the alert, unaware of the other wrapping soundless coils around his neck.

Checkers

https://pixabay.com/photos/general-store-old-fashioned-219655/?fbclid=IwAR2R0LBQDl6NiGOZ9r0WrusO3exBn_cAQ1BGulxzcrqjE7VKs2kXYj0COTE

He sat down across from old Fred, legs dangling even in the spindly little chair, and watched the old man with owlish eyes. As if his gaze exerted some sort of force, Fred raised his hat brim enough to peer under it at the boy. “Well?”

“How ’bout a game?” The boy leaned back and hooked his fingers through his overalls the way he’d seen the grizzled hangers-on at the store do many times.

“Aren’t you a mite young, Squirt?” Fred surveyed him as if he were a used car on the lot next door. “Yore head barely tops the table sittin’ up straight.”

‘Squirt’ merely shrugged and crossed his legs, staring off into nothing. He picked up a checker and spun it between his thumb and finger, shifting the gum in his mouth from one cheek to the other with his tongue and mock spitting into the dust by the porch.

Fred chuckled and sat up, adjusting his hat. “Well, might as well see what you’re made of, at that.” He cleared the board. “Don’t you be thinkin’ I’ll go easy on you, though. Man acts like a player he’s gotta prove his worth.”

The boy sat up and propped both elbows on the table, slapping his checker against the squares with a loud clack. His face serious, he adjusted the ball cap on his own towhead. “Black or white?”

Gods of Pompeii

https://pixabay.com/illustrations/fantasy-people-mysticism-mystical-2964231/?fbclid=IwAR0LIckvjtgh_uupE0bncIz5FgIOfw7VUJjs7WVLTMjxYKa06D471iBgmcM

“Tilda, I think we found another set!” Mario fiddled with a button on his shirt, waiting for his partner to dig herself out of her usual mound of paperwork. “I can’t imagine what they were doing way up here.”

“What strange poses!” Tilda observed, leaning over his shoulder to view the monitor. “I can barely tell which is which, but they seem like they’re upright.”

“Wait, did you see that?” Mario grabbed for the controls, trying to sharpen the image.

“See what?” Tilda’s eyebrows met in the middle, not that that was a stretch. “Hold up, you’re shaking the camera, you’ll destroy the site!”

“How many times do I have to tell you? There’s no camera and we’re not touching the site. We didn’t move anything. They moved!” He stared at the screen, twisting the button completely off his shirt.

“Well, if there’s no camera, how come we can hear sounds from down there? It’s shifting against the rock, I can hear it scraping.” Tilda reached for the controls herself, then froze. “Does – does that sound like – like words – to you?”

Mario’s tongue seemed glued to the roof of his mouth, the only sound coming out a whimpering moan. Voices like the whisper of falling sand and the cracking of gravel underfoot swelled and eddied within the lab. “Souls,” they said. “So long have we waited for sacrifice.”

Tilda opened her mouth, swallowed desperately, then tried again. “Sa- sacrifice?” She squeaked. The shapes on the monitor stretched in sinuous curves and began to glow a deep red. “I thought all our imaging was black and white.”

One of the stone bodies reached it’s cracked hands upward, impossibly locking eyes with Tilda. “We will wait no more.” The voices issued from Mario’s motionless lips, and the mountain beneath them rumbled. “We are so hungry!”

Blog Thursday Prompt: The Kettle

“It’s not my fault! The kettle began it!”

“Please, do go on. How exactly did the kettle begin it?”

“Weelll… it just sat there so… so… sitty!”

“I see. It was ‘sitty.’ And the problem with that is what, exactly?”

“Sitting is just so boring! How could it just not do anything?”

“So, you decided to make it do something.”

“Everything needs a little nudge now and then. All I did was fill it up with water.”

“Mm-hmm. And the kettle appreciated that, did it? Got up and danced a jig, I’m sure.”

“No! It just sat there drooling out its spout! Disgusting! I turned the stove on to dry it out.”

“- – -“

“What?! It started grumbling at me, and it just kept getting louder and louder. I told it to calm down but then it started screaming at me and smoke came out of the spout!”

“Imagine that. So you thought…”

“Obviously it needed some private time to adjust its attitude so I covered it with a towel.”

“Naturally it reacted well.”

“I guess it was dryer than I thought. You do always say where there’s smoke there’s fire.”

“I wish I could deny that.”

“Well, obviously I couldn’t let the kettle burn the house down, so I blew on it as hard as I could. Candles have much better attitudes, by the way.”

“I see. And that’s when you finally called me?”

“Yeah! That kettle needs to go to jail for arson! That’ll teach it what happens when it’s boring and stubborn.”

“I have a better idea.”

“What?”

“Stay away from the kettle.”

Desire

https://pixabay.com/illustrations/palace-starry-sky-clouds-candles-4320416/

Marble is dark, silent, and cold. My roots tenuous anchor hold.

Sing the song of the stars with me. Can you not hear our harmony?

Come with me, in the shadows dance. Stardust and bud, a sweet romance.

How shall I venture there alone? I fear the lure of earth and stone.

I cannot fly to you, my dear. Let tenderness assuage your fear.

My brethren, through the portals wind. Our nebulae in lanterns bind.

My sisters, petals open wide. This night am I to be a bride.

Sunset

https://pixabay.com/illustrations/rustic-secluded-cozy-serene-7907859/

The deep rays surrounded her, burning deep into her skin. Her tears were flame, paths of umber scoring her cheeks. She screamed at the sea below, at the calm waves whispering against the rocks. Her hands trembled on the railing, knuckles white and stiff against the gray wood.

Where was the peace promised? Where were the crashing waves swallowing the cliffs? Where was the roar of raging wildfire on the horizon? A silent disc floated on a raft of molten gold, bathing in her pain. The roar inside her soul grew, tinting the gently waving leaves with its inferno. Her eyes ignited in the sun, searing the tears from her mind.

The memory of his hand was a phantom on her shoulder and she whirled to empty air. Flame faded, leaving black emptiness. Charred and crumbled, she lay staring into the fading glow of stone that cooled but never turned to ash.

FWG Blog Thursday: Famous First Lines

This week’s response is provided by my kids. Following are two different stories using the prompt. Aside from a small amount of editing, these stories come straight from them and are written in their own voices. I hope you enjoy them.

Thor’s Hammer, by Isaiah

All this happened, more or less. I’ll fill you in on the whole story. I was sitting on the couch, veging out in front of the TV. All of a sudden I heard a CRASH. It was coming from the kitchen. Like any kid would do, I went to investigate. Now I don’t know what I was expecting but certainly not the hammer sitting in the middle of the kitchen floor. I cautiously advanced and slowly picked it up. It began to glow. Suddenly a bolt of lightning shot out of the hammer at the microwave. The microwave might have exploded. All I could say was “Uh oh!” When my mom saw the cracked tiles where the hammer hit and the exploded microwave, she was going to freak. Just then a dog appeared, shadow except for brilliantly white teeth. Suddenly more lightning shot out of the hammer, and the dog disappeared. Then it hit me: this was Thors’ hammer. And if it was, then I was his son.

Wild Thing, by Sarah

All this happened, more or less. School. I hate school. In a classroom with twenty other kids. Two are my friends. Five are my siblings. Thirteen kids that I don’t know. And Mama’s teaching. Mama’s great at teaching. I’m just tired. I hardly slept last night. Then, all of a sudden, I’m not in a classroom learning about World War II. I’m out on the prairie with a bunch of wild horses. I’m not even scared. I just run up and jump on one’s back. It’s immediately tamed. I’m riding out here on the prairie with my new horse. It’s wonderful! Then I’m back in the classroom again. Mama’s still talking about World War II. Class is almost over. Aw man!

Thump

A little boy was walking in the woods one day. He tripped over a stump and fell on his face with a thump. He started to get up and realized he had fallen at the edge of a pond. A giant bullfrog stared him right in the eyes.

The little boy reached to pet it, but the frog took a leap and landed right on his face. The little boy was so startled that he jumped backwards, tripped over his own feet, and landed on his back. His head hit the stump with a thump. The bullfrog croaked and blinked while the little boy rubbed his sore head.

Finally he sat up and peeled the frog off his face. Just then a baby bird fell out of the nest right on the top of his head with a thump. He threw the bullfrog back into the pond, carefully cradled the baby bird in his hands, and looked around for a nest.

On a branch just too high to reach, the mama bird scolded him, chittering angrily. The little boy climbed up, but just as he returned the baby to its home, the mama bird fluttered into his face, the branch he stood on cracked, and he fell to the ground with a thump.

Rubbing his sore rump and shaking his sore head, the little boy stepped carefully over the stump and went home. The bullfrog jumped out of the pond and landed on the stump. Thump.

(Author’s note: This story is a collaboration between my eight year old son and me. I gave him the word prompt “thump” and he told me this story. All I did was clean it up and embellish it a little. I hope you enjoyed it as much as I did.)

Candles

https://pixabay.com/photos/black-blow-burning-candle-creepy-2941843/

The dried up, decomposing vines brushed her skin, tendrils of the darkness that protected what was left of her soul and crushed the breath from her lungs all at once. The candles in front of her flickered, pitiful against even the promise of wind in a trembling leaf at the edge of vision. Only three. How had three broken candles been all she had to offer for a shattered life?

Hot wax rearranged itself drop by drop into the shape of glass cups, insulation to prevent fire. As if she wasn’t already burning, endlessly unconsumed but raw. As if it had been her skin stolen from her instead of… instead. How many days since she had been able to breathe? A week? Two?

Orange globes peeking from a sea of green. Teeming life. Life on the edge of death; the smell of rot was more appropriate. Death for death. Orange flickered with the flame, mocking, demanding. Only three candles.

People did light candles for death, didn’t they? The trembling leaf released its hold, a moth fluttering to burn, disintegrated, forgotten. No. Never that. How can a chasm be forgotten? There should be stars. If there weren’t enough candles there should at least be stars. Where were the stars? Grieving. Maybe they would die, too; that would be fitting. Stars dying for loss of her Star.

Goosebumps rose under her fingers. Vines whispered. Flames guttered and fell. Only three broken candles.