Author: Monica McHenney

Monica lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with her husband and two foster dogs. She taught parents how to raise their toddlers for twenty-five years before retiring in 2015 to write. The secret to toddlers is to make sure you get enough sleep. Monica hasn't found the secret to writing, yet, but is diligently working at it. See links to her on-line stories on the publications page.

The True Story Behind the Princess and the Pea

Open Media Library

The pea was the best part of that night. 

The Queen said, “Rest well my dear. Eighteen mattresses should be comfortable .” But the wooden ladder the princess climbed to reach the top had splinters that pricked and lodged in her hands. She squeezed and pulled with her fingernails to remove them. She couldn’t sleep; the mattresses swayed every time she moved. 

So she brought a quilt to the floor and tried to sleep beside the bottom mattress where she smelled a pea. It exuded a delicious smell, earthy and sweet. In the morning she asked where she could find more.

Owl

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

It was dark when I opened the door for the dog to go out. A few minutes later, the silhouette of a Great Horned Owl appeared, silent on the phone wire. No wing beats announced it. The markings, bars, eye rings, all were obscured by night. Only the size and the tufted ears gave it away.

The owl looked down as Kohnan walked into the open back yard. I followed, worried the dog might look appetizing. I called to him. He had no fear, but I’m a coward. I grabbed him, pulled to get him inside while he squirmed, insulted.

Throwing Stones

Photo by Los Muertos Crew on Pexels.com

A burley soldier shoved Hansel aside. The soldier had taken his father’s leather, paid nothing, and laughed when Hansel’s father said they’d starve if he made no shoes. The soldier said, “Old man, we fight for you.” 

Fight! But everyone wanted peace. Food and peace. Gretel, his sister, Jakob, his uncle, even his stepmother, though she gave no peace herself. Hansel stooped; straightened, stone in hand. In anger, he threw a rock at the swagger of a man. All of Hansel’s feelings, hopes, and fears flew with it. At the moment of impact, the world exploded into a forest path.

Red Riding Hood, Through the Dewey Decimal System

Photo by Ivo Rainha on Pexels.com


When Red Riding Hood arrived at 823.8 Carroll, she knew she’d lost her way. The hatter invited her for tea, but seemed too mad to give directions to Grandma’s house. He liked to make things complicated. She dead-reckoned into the 500 section where a path led to an oversized book with a European temperate rain forest template at the back.

Mammals- 589 was permanently closed. She took a detour. Soon after, she found a wolf. They walked through Berlitz, chatting in multiple languages, and arrived at 398.209 where they located Grandmother’s cottage.

“Do you play chess,” Grandmother asked, pouring tea.

The Beauty and the Mime

Open Media Library

It had been ages since the mime had smoked. He sat in the shade of a spreading tree, sipped a mimosa, and wondered how he might pay for breakfast. 

The most beautiful woman he had ever seen walked into the cafe. She sat, alone, at an adjacent table. The mime signaled a waiter, who brought a mimosa to the woman.

Her eyes sent an invitation. He rose, sat. The tips of their cigarettes glowed together, their fingers touched, made a slow circle. A crowd gathered, electrified by their mirrored movements, the chemistry between them, and the promise of young love.

The Donkey and the Skateboard

Photo by Wendy Wei on Pexels.com

The donkey brayed a breathless alarm at a skateboard whizzing past its enclosure. The rider screeched with abandon, a bullet speeding down the hill. The sound itself was a warning. One after another, pedestrians on the path moved to give way. Old ladies in saris and young mothers with toddlers moved slowly, but move they did.

With a clear path around the pond, the skateboarder took the incline fast. He leaned, leaned too much and landed in the drink. He sputtered algae, happy the day was warm, undeterred by the sudden spill. Past the donkey he trudged to try again.

Exponential Celebration

Photo by Pixabay on Pexels.com

Word spread fast. One juggler tossed two primary colored clubs in the air. Four more brought sixteen hoops. 256 arrived with torches. 4096 watched. The park filled; the street was jammed with merrymakers.

The mayor juggled two, four, sixteen apples from his shopping bag in a continuous cascade of 256 rounds without dropping a single pomme. Someone took a picture that went viral.

The governor attended in a wheelchair. She motored over grassy ground, glad-handing as people made way for her under a sky filled with balloons. Above the crowded scene, an airplane drew Exponential Celebration so all could see.

Mold From Outer Space is Growing in Her Bathroom

Photo by Fabien Burgue on Pexels.com

It started as a small patch of mold in the corner of the shower. She meant to clean it before she went to Chicago on business, but then the trip was moved up and her toddler had an ear infection. So many things to do and so little sleep.

On the plane she remembered the mold. She called her husband, but he didn’t pick up. Her phone overflowed with messages when she landed. Her family had fled. The paper published above the fold pictures of infected mold and space aliens. She was completely amazed. She’d never had a green thumb.

Chekhov’s Gun Meets Occam’s Razor

Photo by cottonbro studio on Pexels.com

Mary’s gone crackers. It’s her husband’s fault. Occam thinks the world is an orderly place. He believes in simple, direct solutions.

Mary disagrees, she believes in Chekhovian twists and turns. What’s more, she expects that if there is a gun, it will go off in the end. She is correct.

Mary bought a gun safe for the pistol that belonged to Occam’s grandfather. For months, she nagged Occam to lock it up. She pleaded, she threatened. The simplest solution was to stow it herself. She looked everywhere for the gun, only to find Occam out shooting at zigzagging jack rabbits.

Secret Hoards

Adam73, CC BY-SA 3.0, via Wikimedia Commons

I couldn’t find the dog’s bowl. I’d looked in the normal places, sorted through jam-packed cupboards filled with paperware, ceramic plates, cardboard boxes from blenders and other appliances. It had to be somewhere. We never threw anything away. I had no choice but to go into the archives.

In a room stacked floor to ceiling with broken chairs, science projects, NYT and Safeway circulars from 1974 to present, and countless historical documents, I found the bowl. The dog must have dragged it into his secret hiding place because there it was, between his paws, cradling his head while he slept.