Tag: Drabble

Roads Traveled

Gretel did these interviews reluctantly. She hadn’t been a saint, far from it. She did what she had to after her stepmother kicked her and Hansel out. “We were homeless.” The reporter looked into Gretel’s eyes and seemed to reach into her soul. It was an uncomfortable moment. The reporter’s face softened. “But you… Somehow…”

“There was an older woman. When she died we made a go of the bakery. We built a home to shelter runaways.”

The woman wiped away a tear. “She was my sister. The black sheep in an old Wiccan family. She wasn’t all that kind.”

A Snow Globe Shakes

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Wind and sun rage,

hair shines black.

A figure dances,

silken smooth as kitten’s fur or slender morning grass.

A child, yet grown, watches.

Eyes intent with wonder,

they mouth questions,

love,

delight,

a searching soul

dreaming dreams in endless night.

A globe: a house, some trees, a forest deep.

A cataclysm shakes the frigid

orb. Though small, it breaks the world apart.

Snow shoots up, explodes as crystal ice on glass.

The simple juxtaposition lays bare the base. Flaking plastic drifts over

earth and rusting heaps of junk. The scene, innocently ambiguous,

innocence itself subject to a melting world.

Afternoon Nap

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Fleeting memories of something standing behind

me on a path. It catches up,

steps a crackling of gravel that grate,

disrupt, scatter the inner rhythm of the narrative flow.

Something omitted, textual. I keep

to the point, a crucial missing piece.

Pen in hand, letters to words.

Sentences slide past closed eyes, the ink dissembling,

thoughts assembling,

meaning transforms a tissue of dreams.

A new idea stands.

Can it survive the waking world?

Piercing

light delivers me from sleep. The ghostly paper vanishes,

the words, a memory.

The poem a floating fragment,

a vision, a fleeing image shrouded by forgetting.

Gnome Migration to Points North

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The gnomes stayed ahead of the snow melt, seeking higher ground to escape the heat wave. Sweat dripped from under red brimmed caps. Seven months pregnant, Svena raised her hand above her head. She stopped and sipped from a nearly empty animal skin. “It’s no good,” she said. “The forest’s been cleared. You see the stumps.”

The leader said, “We’ll go over the pass to the other side.”

“Dry and dead.” A murmur rose to the point of rebellion. They believed a full womb confers second sight.

“So where?” The man sat. He filled a pipe and lit it.

“North.”

Runaway

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Rigor mortis didn’t set in. Snow lay in front of the open door, a box of apples scattered beside her. She’d said nothing about her past, but the quality of her thick wool cape suggested she came from a good family. She told them fear had made her run away. 

When the doorbell rang she wanted to hide. When she realized that no one but her was home, she felt obliged to answer. Someone needed to take the Amazon delivery. In slo-mo, Wicked Stepmother brushed an apple against Snow’s lips. Snow’s last wish countered the poison, but not the spell.

What the Mirror Said

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Madge looked in the mirror. With all the money she’d spent on age-defying creams, she’d expected fewer wrinkles; soft, supple skin; and rose red lips, plump and full.

“Young lady,” Madge checked her watch. How annoying. It was so busy. “I’ve been waiting.” 

“So sorry, ma’am. Just a sec.” 

Madge watched the girl ring up a sale. The lines in the customer’s face told a story of many smiles. The girl’s skin was unblemished, smooth like a baby’s bottom. I’d kill for that face.

Madge checked the mirror again and it said, “No. Look deeper. Make-up won’t change your heart.”

Better Buildings With R&D

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The three Porcine brothers inhaled their lunch. It was nerves. If they killed on this presentation, business could be very sweet. Their R&D guy hadn’t shown up yet, so Arthur was sweating that. He checked his watch. “It’s time.”

A gale force wind blew the three pigs through the hall and neatly deposited them at the podium. Henry Wolf made his entrance dressed in a white lab coat. Arthur made a thumbs up sign.

The auditorium was full of chattering suits. Henry huffed them silent. “Listen, our buildings are guaranteed not to blow down.”

Arthur went to the first slide.

SweePea

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She flounced up to the desk, leaned on it with her elbows out, her fingers leaved together, and in a honeyed voice said, “My bed is unacceptable.”

The clerk handed a new arrival keys and turned to her. “I’m so sorry ma’am.”

“I want a new room, not a sniveling apology.”

“Sorry about that, too. We’re full.”

A gentleman approached, “I overheard and I’d like to offer my room.”

“Mr. Prince,” said the clerk. “How kind.”

SweePea liked what she saw when she looked at Prince. “I’ll try the bed. No point moving otherwise.”

Prince offered his arm. “C’mon honey.”

What If It Was the Mattress and Not the Pea?

Scullery Maid by Edme Bouchardon is licensed under CC-CC0 1.0

Cook observed that the less than princess would fail the test the Queen had set. The sous chef nodded.

The scullery maid said, “Only a corpse could sleep on those lumps.”

“You and your airs. Anyone but a true princess could.”

“Then I tell you, I’m a princess.”

Cook pinched the maid’s cheek. “You’re not meant to nap.”

“Not on that mattress pile. I’d rather sleep under a tree.”

Cook’s nose flared. “Tell the Queen. Maybe she’ll find you a husband.”

With a cheeky grin, the scullery girl said, “Or maybe if I complain enough I’ll win my prince.”

The Riding Hood Brigade

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The cool air stank down the dark steps into the underground. She pushed through a turnstile, onto the platform and hopped the subway at Prospect, intending to walk through Central Park to Fifth Avenue where her grandmother lived. Her mouth watered at the thought of Grandma’s gingerbread.

He winked at her and rubbed his crotch. She pulled her red hoodie up. Her thumbs flew over the keyboard on her phone, cycling through numbers, texting the others from her friend group. He followed her off the train. Her posse was there waiting. Watching. They made certain that there were no surprises.