It had been eons, but in the life of a fairy, it was only a couple years to make the bulk of the population nervous. The Fairy Guardian had been missing for some time: off on holiday, the note on her desk had said. But it wasn’t written in her usual neat scrawl, but a hurried scribble with blotches of ink blurring the letters. Her office was a state of pandemonium, when before it had been as neat as well-kept flower garden. The fairies were always ones to have faith in their ambassador, whether the situation of her disappearance was odd or not, but the fairy king was getting tired and scared of relations falling through between his people and the large folk. So he, sent word to their oracle to ask what had befallen the beloved Fairy Guardian and who should save the fairy world. Word came back of a flower fairy known as Panachon. He was a small sprite, and of course an unlikely candidate to save the Fairy Guardian. But, the king had faith and sent his best knight, Damascus, to meet Panachon where he lived among the field fairies. Meanwhile, he would press the oracle for news of the Fairy Guardian and where she was held.
“But I suppose you knew all of that,” Damascus said politely as he took another sip of tea that Panachon had poured for him.
“I had heard rumors, but I didn’t know they were true.”
“Absolutely.”
“So I’m supposed to go with you to find her?”
Damascus smiled. “The king wouldn’t let you go alone. There’s also someone else I’d like to bring along, if it’s not too much trouble. She’s really much better at magic than I am.”
Ever polite, Panachon said, “Not at all.” But he had a sinking feeling that there was something he would need that the famous knight would not be able to provide. The knight smiled and excused himself from Panachon’s cottage.
“I’ll see you in three days, then,” Damascus said mounting his small Pegasus. “Prepare yourself for a long journey.”
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Although snuggled in perfect spot of land for a small town, Ignaria was anything but. The town had divided itself into two districts. The Northeastern end was known as the Rich District. The theater was located there, along with other arts facilities. Only the well-to-do were living in Northeastern Ignaria. The houses were all at least two stories high and the streets folded around them as if they were excusing themselves for bumping into such important structures. Everything was kept clean, even the courtyard where the church stood and occasionally, the poor would loiter if they thought they would get money. The dress maker’s shop was always busy on Thursday because, without fail, someone important would have a party Friday nights. The town hall was a large rectangular building with Roman columns and gothic ceilings. The floor reflected the mural ceiling like a mirror and the doors, equally shiny, reflected the color of the ceiling from the floor. The town hall was located near the center of the rich district and following that was the novelty shops: baker, grocer, and butcher.
The other end of Ignaria was called West End, although it was more south than west. The houses in West end were little more than cottages, the richest of the residences having a kitchen, which doubled as a parlor, and a bedroom upstairs. If you weren’t a farmer, then you were probably an inn owner, which was a good business as the river was the border of the town. The main road ran against the river about a mile the other way and secondary road going into town just missed the rich district by a quarter mile before turning straight for town hall.
If you were neither rich, nor a farmer or inn owner, or their subsequent helping hands, you were probably thief. These were usually children, orphans, who didn’t make their way into the rich district by singing, acting, or playing an instrument. These boys and girls merged themselves into several gangs, the most famous being the Band of Thieves. They were the first group to create their own private base as opposed to just meeting in the streets and sleeping in alleyways. Their popularity grew because they provided a roof over one’s head and food that eventually, restrictions were made on membership and only the elite could join. But occasionally, someone still wants to join so that they could have a place to sleep.
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The forest was wide and thick with rough-barked trees. Twitters of birds filled the spaces of silence. Dappled shadows moved upon the ground in a gentle breeze. In the middle of a particularly nondescript clearing was a small, tan cottage. The sun lit it from above at noon, illuminating the mossy green roof and concealing the crumbling sides. In the midday heat, it smelled like candy and damp laundry. A few wildflowers grew on the outside, soaking up the sun at sunrise and sunset from the rosy lavender sky.
The inside was like a dollhouse. The kitchen still had food in the icebox and molasses in the pantry. The dishes were clean and put away and a single glass cup was soaking in water from a water pump on the side of the sink. The kitchen table collected dust and crumbs. The living room had two sofas and a working, out-of-tune piano. The bedroom smelled thickly of mothballs and almost empty except for a single comforter folded at the foot of an empty mattress.
The kitchen door led to a small garden outside. It was mostly weeds, but a few remains of cucumbers, strawberries, and pumpkins fought for their positions in the patch. Impressively sized thistles and dandelions grew in between the rather large orange vegetables in fall, releasing their seeds into the wind. The only remains of a path through the garden were the stone reveled when heavy rains pushed away the soil before the mud pushed it back again.
The garden stopped when the rest of the forest began again. The dappled light spread out across miles of leaves and needles. The thickness of the trees ended at the river, which was dammed later on at the edge of a small town named after the woods: Huckleberry.
Huckleberry had a few houses and generally, the essential businesses. The mill was next to the river, followed closely by the baker, then church, then shoemaker and tailor. On the other side was the smithy and town hall. A rather well used road ran right through it and perpendicular to the river and over a shiny wood bridge. Many people had used that bridge to go to more bustling towns to sell wares and if it weren’t for the amazing talent of the town’s tenants, it wouldn’t have existed. But there was something special about the town and the forest that was its neighbor. Some said it came from the strange house, but others, not quite so naïve, believed it was a secret passed down for generations and perfected for longer than that and those who held such secrets, needed a quiet place like Huckleberry to practice them.
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Kari was writing out the list of girls in each class with her mechanical pencil, her nose a few inches from the paper. The candle on the desk was lit, but the smell was barely noticeable in the cold room. She sat up straighter and put the finished class list in the pile of finished registers. She re-did the ponytail in her platinum blond hair before starting on another list. She had a muscular frame, but she was thin and very tall for a ballerina. The phone rang and she answered it. She was concise and professional in the answers she gave on the phone. A few girls or their mothers came up to her and waited as she walked through the procedures of the dance studio she worked at. Smiling, she took a check or two, joked a bit with the regular girls or their mothers and then stood up in her fuzzy slippers to get ready for her ballet class.
Another dancer came into the studio, ready for class except for her jeans. She announced that she hurt her knee during cheerleading practice and couldn’t dance in class that day. Kari turned to her and started asking questions about how long ago the injury was and whether or not she went to a doctor. She took the girl’s answers into account and told her to wear a brace while putting a heating pad on it before she went to bed. The girl thanked her and sat down in a chair, while she waited. Kari had responded the same way when I had sprained my foot and always reminded me to take it easy. She told the girl the same thing as the dancer sat down.
I was extremely early to class as I always was on a Monday so I was watching some of the classes through the window. While there was a lull in the office work she had to do, Kari came over to join me.
“What’s up, Bri?” she asked me.
I told her I was tired.
“How’s school?”
There was a lot I could tell her, but I just said it was fine. Not the absolute truth, but not a downright lie, either.
“That’s good.” She went back to watch the girls perform across the dance floor; a few had faulty technique, but they worked hard to fix it.
I told her how much I hated the emphasis they put on college in addition to all the schoolwork in honors classes. She told me that she remembered what it was like when she was in high school. “I was in honors classes, too and I ended up not going to college,” she said with a smile. “And I’m fine and love my job.”
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Once, I was tired of having the same dream over and over again. So I packed my backpack with food and stuff and went with my teddy bear, Harold to see the Dream Maker. I was not a terribly intimidating kid, especially since I was a girl. I was short with brown freckles, brown hair, and brown eyes. I had on my blue footie pajamas and pink winter gloves. I put on my coat and boots and walked out the door.
As soon as I reached the top of the mountain where the Dream Maker lived I knew he wasn’t home. Harold started whining about how we should go home, but I just dragged him up with me and knocked on the door. Then we waited…for five days. Finally this old wrinkly man came up the mountain and upon seeing me, looked surprised.
I’m tired of having the same dream, I said right away. Harold was tugging at my leg, but I didn’t pay attention. “Oh,” the man said taking out a large key and putting it a high lock. “I suppose I’m the one to help you.”
I sat down on a large couch and he gave me cookies and milk and said that all I needed to do was get a new teddy bear. I looked at Harold and Harold looked at me. I don’t think I can do that, I said. The man just looked at me again. “Your teddy bear isn’t channeling my dreams very well. He just needs to be fixed. It will be quicker if you get a new one.”
I don’t want a new one, I said. Please fix him.
Harold whimpered a little and sank further into the cushions. The man sighed. “Alright, give me a moment.”
Well, that moment lasted another day and just waited and ate cookies and drank milk. By the time I had a big tummy ache, the Dream Maker came back out again with Harold all fixed. Harold was all smiles to see me again and begged to be taken home. He wouldn’t even let go of my hand. I told the man that if this didn’t work I would come back and kick him. He said it would work and rushed me out the door.
Well, that night I had the most unbelievable dreams and the next night it would be something else. I was happy, Harold was happy, Mommy was happy that I was getting sleep. And I think the Dream Maker was happy that he didn’t get kicked. The only other time I had to go back to the Dream Maker was to get Harold fixed again. But that was only when Harold was feeling sick and Mommy drove me. After that, I had the best dreams of anyone I knew. And whenever I got teased, I would just tell them they were jealous and if they were good they could get a magic teddy bear, too.
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Originally published on January 05, 2006
It was one of the biggest mistakes she had ever made. She was sitting nervously a large padded wooden chair in front of a balding old man. He had on a black cloak and was gently caressing a crystal ball, which he would occasionally call Aggie. It was her first time getting a reading and she was already nervous.
They had been having a conversation for the past ten minutes. The man was silent and reassuring as she checked her watched every minute or so in an attempt to signal that she wanted to go.
“Don’t be afraid, I haven’t even begun to talk about anything really unusual.”
“What are you talking about? I know that I’m going to have two kids, I’m going to marry a childhood sweetheart and I will spend the rest of my life in the police force, I don’t know how much freakier it gets.”
“Would you like to find out?”
She was taken aback, but still nervous. She looked down at the crystal ball, which seemed to stare up at her, smiling. “What the heck,” she said shakily, “might as well.”
“A year after your death, your daughter will be going to your grave with her children as they always do every year. You will have been ninety-three, a good life. This year however, when she gets home, her daughter will ask about your life. She will pause to think and cut her finger. When she goes to clean it up, her son will bump into the pot on the stove and send hot soup all over scalding himself. They will drive to the hospital while he is treated for some minor burns. Meanwhile, the rest of the family will come in for the annual Thanksgiving dinner and not see the family. They will however, see the knife and expect the worse. Shall I go on?”
She was pale and stricken; her hands were clutching the chair and pushing her body away from the man at the table. “Absolutely not!” she yelled and ran out of the tent.
He quietly placed Aggie on the table and closed the door to the tent. “You didn’t have to be quite so thorough, Aggie. You scared the poor girl to death.”
“You didn’t have to stop there, you could have gone on,” Aggie said.
Neither said another word and they left it at that.
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Originally published on January 01, 2006
A double post today because, not only is it the beginning of the month, but it’s also the beginning of the year! One of the things I’m going to try to do with my posts is not explain them and write a lot less on the top. But if I need to explain a few things, I’m not going to hesitate to tell you up here.
December placed his cards down face up on the table and reached for the bowl.
“Read ‘em and weep, little brother,” January said as she grabbed the bowl and emptied it onto her plate. Potato chips, tortilla chips, and onion rings, fell onto her plate before she replaced the empty bowl back in the center of the table.
“We can’t play anymore; you keep winning and I’m out of chips,” December said as he looked at his plate.
January smiled. “Alright. Here,” she said as she put some of the chips on her plate back on his. She shuffled the cards and set up a game of solitaire while December got up and turned on the television.
“Trouble all around, hey sis?” December said turning to face her.
“I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about,” she said laughing.
December turned around and faced the television again.
“You know what I mean,” he said, “a memorial?”
“It wasn’t a choice of mine, but I feel it’s a gift.”
“I wish I had your outlook,” December said as he shut off the television and climbed up the stairs.
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Originally published on December 30, 2005
I had absolutly no muse today (Calliope must be on break). I could not to save my life come up with anything. I finally wrote something I’m not happy with at all just to get the agony over with. If this reminds you a little bit about Lighthouse’s Tale, you’re not the only one.
If there was one thing I hated most of all the things on earth it would have to be fish. I can’t stand their lidless eyes that seem to get everywhere. I especially hate catfish; they have these flat faces and eyes on top of their heads that always look at you no matter where they are. On top of that they look nothing like cats! Myra is the captain’s cat and is one of my best friends. She’s such a lady that she never has her “sea-sickness bouts” on my decks. It’s bad enough I have termites and maggots on board; I don’t need cat vomit in my wood. I suppose I should introduce myself: I’m Wind Rider and I’m a navy ship for England. The year is currently 1606 and I’m traveling the Atlantic to America with a boatload of new explorers.
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Originally published on December 27, 2005
The king cowered in fear. One minute the bishop came straight towards him but the rook was able to get him out of the way. Now the knight was coming. His queen was dead and his army almost gone, he had nothing left to protect besides his own life. The rook died in vain.
“Checkmate!”
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“Everything has a rhythm.” Bounce, catch…bounce, catch. “The tooth brush commercials call it a pulse. But a pulse has only one beat.” Bounce, catch…bounce, catch. “One rhythm. But, rhythm can change.”
“It’s a broad category.” Turn, land…turn, land. “It can include a beat and the space between in a timely manner. It uses accents and meter to start a beat.” Turn, land…turn, land. “The beat is known as rhythm. But rhythm starts the beat.”
“But the beat can change.” Bounce, bounce, catch…bounce, bounce, catch. “And the rhythm changes with it. So the pulse is a rhythm, but not everything has a pulse.” Bounce, bounce, catch…bounce, bounce, catch. “This rhythm is a pulse.”
“A rhythm of straight time,” Turn, turn, land…turn, turn, land. “is not a pulse. Listen to your heart.” Turn, turn, land…turn, turn, land. “It doesn’t beat in straight time. It’s accented and then not, accented and then not. We call the phenomena of beating bird’s wings,”
“Bouncing a ball,”
“Controlled spins,”
“Rhythm: Everything that doesn’t fit into a pulse.”
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