Category: October Stories

Polite Turkeys

Photo by Monica McHenney

These turkeys were not plump. Their tail feathers didn’t fan behind them like traditional Thanksgiving birds in a children’s art project. I didn’t detect a red wattle around their necks. The ladies flock, soft spoken and prim. They make me question the news stories about grumpy, aggressive turkeys.

A mob of turkeys, a gang of turkeys, some turkeys might be felons, but not all of them. They’re not all alike anymore than people are all alike. It’s our diversity that saves us. I’d like to think so anyway. Still, we have a tendency to flock together, we birds of a feather.

Jack, the Giant’s Chef Extraordinaire

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Jack smelled promise in the beans before he traded them for his cow. He imagined a palette of flavors, a cassoulet fit for the king.

His mother fumed. “We need money now.” She tossed the beans into the Earth’s maw.

Overnight a beanstalk grew. It led straight to the giant’s garden where the giantess was weeding. She caught him red-handed stealing beans. “No you don’t.” 

“I only want to taste them.”

“Cook them well and you’re hired. Poorly and you’re dinner.”

Hours later, the ground shook. “Fee, fie, foe… what is that delicious aroma, Wife?” And the giant was satisfied.

Witches: Part Two

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She saw him coming, saw him in the future, saw the pain and the pleasure, the sad ending to a tale she might have rewritten if only he hadn’t stirred in her the promise that she could be, for once and only, like other girls. A woman, not a witch.

She carried the child. Raven black hair streaked white, the mark of witches. Intuition stirred through her to foretell truths that no one would believe, the Cassandra gene.

Some don’t believe us. Some call us witches. We know their vision is blurred by greed and power and they are wrong.

Witches: Part One

Photo by Andre Furtado on Pexels.com

Living as she did on the far side of the moor, there were rumors. She looked the part. Eastern European heritage, a penchant for layered gowns, mostly black. Clothes that simultaneously hide and suggest: witch. Circe, a witch. Glinda too. Healers and granters of wishes, witches all. A misunderstood bunch. 

They said her mother’s streak of white hair, a lightening bolt in the thick darkness of her waist length locks, appeared the night her grandmother died. Grandmother, like mother, like daughter, witches touched at birth, not by death, but by the second sight that grew with breasts, blood, and womanhood.

A Dog Who Purrs?

Photo by Monica McHenney

Kohnan is a dog, though at times we think he’s a cat. Like when he luxuriates in the sun and, swear to God, purrs. Snout out, a rub on the rug, all two feet of him stretch, roll, vigorous arch, turn over and repeat. Pure pleasure.
I rub his tummy and his neck. He deigns to hold court on the comfy rug because he’s royalty. Devotion is his due, right? His liquid brown eyes melt me.
But when I leave the room, he foreswears sunshine for my sunless office and settles at my feet. I guess he is a dog.

Autumn Chill

Photo by Monica McHenney
The dawn light has changed
to a grey gold cousin of the blue brilliance that brightened my summer. 
Max's golden lab fur blends into the tawny tall grass. 
He looks at me. “What do you want? The works? Right.” 
He pees again, strolls to the center of the meadow lawn, and squats to do his business. 

His business is to 
please. It is the thing he does best, most naturally. Despite arthritis, 
his portly, chunky body seems to yield. Face aging white, 
he's older than I am. Seventy-seven. 
At seventy-two, cranky and arthritic, I won't age gratefully or graciously.

Can’t We Play Nice?

Photo by Karolina Grabowska on Pexels.com

Tabitha gaveled in the annual meeting of WG&G (Witches, Ghosts, and Goblins.) “In all the years that I’ve chaired this meeting, there’s never been a time like this.”

Casper Ghost interrupted her. “You always look on the dark side. What about the Salem witchcraft trials? How about Attila the Hun?”

“You think this is better?” Tabitha sniffed. “Anyway, how would you know? You’re on World of Warcraft constantly. You need to be more serious.”

Casper turned pink. “Play calms our fears. Think Halloween. A chance at make believe might distract people from their feuds. Use your words, I say, “Trick or treat.”

Men In Heels

Photo by Ivan Bertolazzi on Pexels.com

“I simply must have those glass slippers.” The Prince was confident they would fit. The dancing lady was nervous.

As the clock struck midnight, as he led her to take a seat and remove the heels, as the spell began to reverse, Cinderella ran. She was oblivious to everything but getting away before her riches turned to rags.

The Prince was dumbfounded. He chased her from the hall, stopping only to retrieve the first fallen pump. When he looked up, a charlady met his gaze.

“Where did she go?”

What he didn’t see was one glinting shoe on her foot.

Supply Side Magic

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“Your cupboard is bare, Mother, and yours, too, Dame,” The Old Woman passed her teabag around the table.

The dog, the cat, and the children climbed up the shoe-house.

Old Mother Hubbard shouted. “What with the high price of kibble, I fear the dog will eat me.”

“Don’t even mention canned fish,” Dame Trot stirred her plain tea. “How do you manage with all those mouths to feed?”

The Old Woman opened her pantry for inspection. It was full of cereal, canned goods, and dry beans. “A charm for the cupboard and a curse on the Tory’s trickle down tricksters.”

Fish Story

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“You threw it back? Then wish us supper.”

To please his sister, the fisherman did exactly that. Voila! A table laden with delicacies appeared.

She sated herself. “Foolish man, we could have had a different life for that wish. Ask for a fine house and all that would sustain us in it.”

“Would that make you happy?”

“You”ll have one wish left if it doesn’t”

Without the posh accent, education, and manners to go with the lifestyle, she was miserable.

Her brother asked the fish for happiness. He was six again. She was five. Valued equally by society, they thrived.