Fox in the Henhouse

The judge banged her gavel, more in frustration than to bring order to the court. The charge: attempted chaos. The jury had heard from Chicken Little who alleged the sky was falling. The police claimed Fox spread the rumor subliminally on his bedtime story podcast. He then lay in wait around the corner from the henhouse, where he assaulted Little. Big Old Fox denied having done any such thing.

Little cackled, “We will all perish.”

Fox asserted she was crazy. Ugly, too.

The judge adjusted her spectacles and searched among her papers. “We have a process. I’m sure it’s here somewhere.”

Smoking on a Wet Evening

You know the way it rains at night after the dogs been out. After everybody settles near the fireplace, shoes kicked off, feet warming. That kind of night when, like as not, a banshee’ll slip in through the cracks in the ceiling and make herself at home.

Don’t disturb her. She’ll get loud, then. Nobody dies if she stays calm. Don’t be alarmed when she squats, knees up around her head, haunches down on the floor. Offer her a pipe. The one you’re smoking. It’s likely why she came. After a heavy drag, she’ll nod and disappear up the chimney.

Wishing on a Glass Slipper

Cindy earned while her stepsisters played. Her stepmother said retail work builds character. And isolation. Cindy was the only one in the shoe store when a Ren Fair guy came in and asked for glass slippers.

“Like in fairy tale land? No. Never seen anything like that.”

“They carry you away. Wherever you want to go.”

“But I don’t think we have them.”

“Worth checking. Wish come true.”

Cindy found one pair, her size, on a dusty shelf. From thin air it appeared.

“You mean these?”

“Try them,” he said.

They were hard, slippery, “I can’t walk.”

“Wish,” he said.

If Hans Christian Anderson Were Writing Now

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Atticus Finch had never represented a bird. “So, let’s get this. You want to sue your adoptive parents.”

“I had a terrible childhood. Bullied, teased. They called me Ugly Duckling.” The swan had tears in his eyes.

Maybe they were real, maybe it was just good acting. Horatio Swan was a highly popular leading cob. His beak was a fixture on Netflix and HBO.

Atticus leaned back in his chair. “Why now? You’ve said publicly your tough childhood led to the success you enjoy.”

Horatio trumpeted, “I’ve learned things in rehab. The price I paid. My inner cygnet is traumatized.”

Sensitive Princess

“Priscella, the way you fuss, no prince will have you.” Spoiled. The king brought her silk from abroad. The Queen disapproved. “How many times has the royal seamstress made a pretty gown, only to have you give it to the chambermaid?”

“It itches, Mama. So bad.”

“But the ball’s tonight.”

“I have…”

“Not that old thing. The rag barely fits.”

“I won’t go. The canapés are disgusting.”

“Don’t you start with umami again.”

“Anyway, I couldn’t sleep last night.”

“Try the dress, Lola, there is not a pea in your mattress.”

“Must be a rock.”

“Show me a bruise, then.”

The Collective

She came straight from weeding her small plot of land in the community garden.

The fiery redhead marched to the podium and gaveled the meeting to order. “The first item, the only important one, is the proposal to buy a mill to grind the wheat.”

A large man barked. “No one else grows wheat.”

The crowd quacked their approval.

Her feathers ruffled, the redhead said, “You eat the bread I bake. Let’s turn the garden into a wheat field and mill our own flour.”

A catlike woman spoke. “Hannah, dear, we thought you liked baking. We don’t.”

Runaway

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

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.

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