Category: July Stories

A Hidden Prince

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As long as the children were hidden, there was hope. A tiny woman, nursemaid to the princess, spirited the girl away when an evil wizard tricked his way into the palace and cast a spell on the land.

The nursemaid, a witch, had warned the queen. At her behest, the prince was sent to live in a neighboring kingdom. He grew up to be that mage king’s most valuable assistant. When the time came for him to find his sister and break the spell, the kindly king produced  three magical items: a feather, a flute, and a cloak.

(To be continued)

What to Bring for Writer’s Workshop

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Packing list: 

Five outfits that try, but not too hard
Light jacket
Late night reading snacks
Late night reading
Extra pillow for maximum comfort
Decent sleep
Talking points
Listening ears
“Yes, and,” improv
Elevator speech for work in progress
Courage 
Pages and pages of stories, read and absorbed
Positive outlook
Notebook for lectures
Crosswords for downtime
Laptop
iPad
Paper
Pen
Yoga mat
Intention 
What will I bring to each day, what can I take from each day, what will I give to others each day
Small talk
Significant talk
Insight
Creative grit
Sturdy walking shoes 
Walk in others shoes
Breathe

It’s Been Nearly 250 Years

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It’s time to come together. It’s been nearly 250 years since those guys in Philly signed that treasonous document, declared those self-evident truths. Yesiree, we’ve had a good run. Gone from hick colonies to hip leader of the free world. Freedom of speech, freedom of the press, freedom of association. Exercised any rights lately?

Rights are a muscle. You need a dig-your-heels-in protest mentality when rights are taken away. Don’t take your rights for granted. Check to see, empty your pockets, are your rights still there? What about your neighbor’s and their neighbors? We need each other in these times.

Hedgehog, Harlequin, Hummus

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The falafel place got hopping around seven. All sorts would come. Teens in balaclavas and tweens blasting K-pop. Some had coffees, particularly the matrons who clustered in little groups and read the menu.

At the end of the line, the harlequin stood in a multicolored silk suit, a hedgehog perched on his shoulder. 

“Is it all prickly?” A child, barely twelve, looked up at the painted face of the man and the sweet animal on his shoulder. 

“Not really.” Harlequin cupped it in his hands.

“Can I hold it?”

The hedgehog was amenable. It sniffed.

“I think it smells hummus.”

Making Up Stuff

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There are house elves in my basement. My therapist says this is a delusion. But, she’s not here at night when they clatter around in the kitchen making noise. My partner rolls her eyes. 

What makes them think the elves are not real? This is totally likely, aside from the fact that we have no basement and no decent place for an elf to set up housekeeping or raise a family. I ask you, how can dishes get done and meals cooked while I stay in bed dreaming? My therapist thinks it’s my partner and my partner agrees. They’re deluded. 

Mold From Outer Space is Growing in Her Bathroom

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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

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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.

Elemental

Photo by Monica McHenney

Solstice has come and gone. The days are waning now. Invite the neighbors in for summer watermelon and ice cream sundaes. See out the sunset together. Recall an evening savored for its late fading light, light that illuminates gatherings on porches where people jawbone until after dark.

Remember when kids played keep away on a night like this? Or they brought their mitts out to catch and throw across the street? They’d stop to let a car pass. Maybe you were in that car. On the way home. Maybe someone on the porch hailed you. “Come up, bring the family.”