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stories
happily ever after
direction
at sunset
fun with science
untitled (the box story)
works in progress
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Happily Ever After: A Short Story
Long, long ago, in a land far away (no, not that one), there was a place far different from any existing today. It was a happy, prosperous land, for the most part, despite the occasional bother with a rampaging giant or dragon.
The peasantry kept themselves occupied with farming, making shoes when the elves weren’t too busy, stealing oddly-named lettuces from witches’ gardens, and assorted other pursuits. A surprising number of woodcutter’s sons and fair maidens were lost in the woods every year, only to come back with amazing new wealth or magic jewelry.
Of course, you can’t throw a bunch of maidens and young men into a forest unsupervised without expecting something to happen, so they would often return with a toddler or two along with the fairy gold.
The nobility of the land’s various small kingdoms, duchies, and principalities acted much as nobility did everywhere: they spent their time building elaborate castles, inviting the wrong fairies to their children’s christening, and jousting at each other.
And in one such kingdom, at the tip-top of the castle’s tallest tower, a Princess sat at a spinning wheel, pouting. She was an exceptionally lovely and intelligent Princess, which isn’t really all that impressive when you consider that Princesses, as a group, are usually as beautiful as they are dumb.
And she was very put out by the way her new spinning wheel was working.
“Honestly, you’d think that for as much as I paid for this wretched thing it’d work properly,” she said, giving the wheel a kick. “ ‘Straw into gold, guaranteed,’ he said. Not bloody likely!”
From the far side of the room, what appeared to be a sideways crescent moon with teeth spoke. It had a funny kind or purr in its voice. “Oh, don’t fuss so much, Cinderr-bottom. Most maidens in this kingdom can’t manage copper wirre, and you’re turrning out a perfectly rrespectable silver thrread.” As it spoke, a face and body faded into view around the moon with teeth, revealing a large, furry, purple-and-pink-striped... oh, you know. “Besides, I told you not to buy anything from a salesman who won’t tell you his name.”
“I think that was a personal thing, actually. And I’ve asked you before not to call me that.” She gave up on the wheel, and dragged it to a far corner of the tower room. “Anyway, this stupid wheel is the least of my problems.”
“Rrreally?” The Cat sounded amused. “What could be wrrong, poorrr darrling?”
The Princess pouted. She was quite a good pouter. “I think my Prince Charming’s been running round on me. Here, look! A poisoned apple, and certainly not mine.”
With a smirk (not that he had any other expressions), the Cat replied, “Don’t complain to me about it. Tell your fairry godmother if you’re rreally worried.”
“Oh, I can’t. She’s gone to the beach with her bridge club- won’t be back for a week or more.”
“That’s a pity,” said the Cat. “She always brrrings me fish when she visits. Ah, well.” He began to fade away. When only his grin remained, he said, “I’m going to see what the Dormouse is up to. Farrrewell!” With that, he vanished entirely.
The Princess scowled. “I knew I should have gotten a basilik or a dragon instead.” It didn’t matter much to her that she had chosen the Cat because she wanted a pet she could talk to; besides, basiliks turn you to stone if you don’t change their water regularly, and when pet dragons get indigestion all you can do is fireproof the tapestries and stay out of their way until they’re feeling better.
********
The Princess turned to her embroidery. “At least that silver thread can go to some good use,” she mused. After an hour or so, she heard a faint knock at the tower window.
She opened it, and a tiny will-o-the-wisp figure drifted in, settling in a shower of sparkles atop the spinning wheel.
“Hello, Cinder,” said the little person. “I was wondering if you knew the recipe for that marvelous angel’s-food cake your godmother makes. Peter and the boys have been pestering Wendy for it since they had some at the last ball, so she sent me over to ask.”
“It’s here somewhere, I’m sure,” said the Princess. “But I must tell you, Godmother’s had the castle cook do the baking for the last few balls. She’s getting older, and, well, you know how it is.”
“Magic wand isn’t what it used to be, hmm?” the fairy asked sympathetically.
“Exactly.” The Princess stood, brushing the wrinkles from her skirts. She opened a cupboard and began to rummage through the assorted papers and spell components inside. “Godmother tries, but she can’t do things the way she used to. I mean, she still conjures a lovely coach, but the inside’s rather squishy and smells of pumpkin. And the coachmen all have tails!”
“I don’t think you should worry about it too much, Cinder. These things happen, you know?”
“Absolutely. Anyway, that’s the least of my problems, what with my Prince Char- ah, here it is!”
The Princess produced a rather battered-looking sheet of parchment. “Can you carry it all right, or should I send a footman with you?”
“I’ll be fine, thank you. What was that about your Prince?”
“Well, you’ll probably think it’s silly, but. . .” She hesitated, then blurted out her worry. “I think he’s been cheating!”
The fairy gasped. “No!”
“Yes. Maybe. I don’t know!” The Princess pouted again. “You see, I found this-- this horrid apple last night, and he’s been spending an awful lot of time away from the castle.”
“Oh, dear.” The fairy leaned forward conspiratorially. “This sounds awfully familiar, I’m afraid. You know the Sleeping Beauty and her Prince, three kingdoms over?”
“You’re joking. Really?” The fairy nodded. “What happened?”
“Well, apparently he’d been spending a lot of time out of the castle, coming home at all hours, that sort of thing. So she followed him one morning to see what he was up to. He headed for the Deep Dark Woods, straight from the castle, and went to the little house those dwarf brothers keep. She followed him in and found him and the dwarves’ housekeeper ripping off each other’s clothes!”
“The housekeeper? Why, that little tramp!”
“You’ve heard of her?”
“I’ve met her stepmother, and that poor woman has been at her wit’s end over the girl. She sent her to live with the dwarves, but apparently it hasn’t helped a bit.”
“Clearly.”
“So I suppose that my Prince has been up to the same thing. Oh, what shall I do?”
“Well, since your godmother won’t be much help, I think your best bet is to confront him. That’s what Beauty did, and she says things are going much better now.”
The Princess sighed. “I suppose.”
Just then, the clock chimed the hour. “Oh dear, I’ve got to fly!” the fairy exclaimed. “Wendy’s waiting for me. Good luck with your Prince Charming!”
“Thank you- oh, and tell Wendy to give me a call on the magic mirror if the recipe works out.”
The fairy rolled up the parchment and bundled it under one arm. With some difficulty, she fluttered her wings and flew unsteadily out the window. She dropped sharply when an errant breeze caught her of guard, but soon regained her balance and altitude. The Princess closed the window, and went back to her embroidery.
********
A few hours later, the Princess heard hoofbeats in the courtyard below. Looking out the window, she saw a man, who was attempting to maneuver a large box as he dismounted from his horse. He handed the reins to a footman and looked up at her.
It was her Prince!
The Princess hurried down the tower stairs, taking the steps two at a time. This proved a mistake, as she soon tripped over her skirts and landed in an undignified heap at the foot of the stairs.
“Darling!” Her Prince dashed towards her, still carrying the box. “Are you all right?”
He set down the box and helped her to her feet. “Yes, love. I’m fine. I think I’ve broken a slipper, though.” Sure enough, the glass heel had shattered, and cracks ran through the sole.
“We’ll call your godmother on the mirror for a new pair as soon as she gets back from the beach. But look, I’ve got something to show you!”
He opened the box, and rummaged around in the packing material before producing a large object wrapped in cloth. Removing the cloth, the package turned out to be an elaborately carved marble statue. It was inlaid with gold and jewels, and it depicted an elegantly dressed couple dancing together. The Princess looked closer and saw the tiny glass slippers on the girl figure’s feet-- “Why, it’s you and me!”
A broad smile appeared on the Prince’s handsome face. “I ordered it from those dwarves in the Woods- they’re marvelous craftsmen, you know.”
“The... dwarves in the forest?” Of course! He hadn’t been gallivanting about with that hussy at all!
“I’d thought... never mind. It’s lovely. Wonderful.”
She embraced her Prince, missing entirely the look of relief that crossed the Prince’s face. The Princess did, however, notice something else.
“Darling, your jacket’s all ripped. What did you do to it?”
The look of relief was quickly replaced by one of fear. “I, uh, must’ve caught it on a branch or something.” He changed the subject. “Don’t we have a ball to get ready for?”
“Oh, how could I forget? I’ve got to find something to wear!” Cinderella hurried back into the cattle, muttering something about her second-best slippers. The Prince heaved a sigh, much relieved. He fished an apple out of his saddlebag and fed it to his horse, who keeled over in a dead faint.
“Whoops. Guess that was one of the poisoned ones.” back to top Direction: A Buffy the Vampire Slayer Story
Buffy falls asleep almost instantly, several steps past exhaustion. She's been tired for months, but this feels different from the bone-deep weariness that has plagued her, body and soul, since she came back to the world.
This feels like the tiredness she felt in high school, after some big, world-threatening battle. The battlefield was the inside of her head, this time; the waxy-faced, bug-eyed demon a small challenge compared to giving up sanity, normalcy, and her mom for good.
She's physically and mentally drained, but somehow Buffy knows she will recover. She likes this certainty-- it is a old friend she wasn't sure that she would ever see again.
With it comes another friend who's been missing since her swan dive. Buffy dreams her old confusing dreams, for the first time since she came back. She's seen the heaven she left in her sleep almost every night, but this is a dream like she used to have, nonsensical and frustrating with a glimmer of something not of her own subconscious.
In her dream, Buffy lies awake in bed. Her room is dark at first, but someone pulls up the blinds and floods the room with sunlight. Buffy squints her eyes shut and pulls the covers over her head-- the brightness stings. Slayers are nocturnal creatures, her mind tells her.
A voice makes it through the blankets, gently chiding. "C'mon, B. This place is a mess-- we're nowhere near ready."
Buffy is suddenly standing, fully dressed, at the side of the bed; the transition from almost-asleep to frowning at Faith has been neatly skipped over.
"I though we were done with this. The countdown's counted, and I really need my beauty sleep." She sits down on the bed--or tries to, at least. The room shifts, and she finds herself landing on a chair across the room. "And stop playing games!"
"Don't be such a baby." Faith grins at her. "Christ, B, you look like-- excuse the language-- death warmed over."
Now Buffy feels a little sheepish. "I know I don't look my best. But weirdly enough, I feel better than I have in ages."
"That's why I'm here." Faith smiles her Cheshire-cat smile again. She starts tossing pillows to the floor and tugging at the blankets.
"Did you bring a friend?" Buffy stands and walks to the window. Outside, she sees the harsh sunlight of the First's desert, but something's changed. It looks like... springtime. "She can't be happy about all this."
"She's not, but she'll adjust. She always does. That's why she sent me-- to speak for her, and tell you to get your rear in gear already!"
Buffy lends Faith a hand, straightening the bedspread and giving Mr. Gordo a place of honor among the pillows. "Wasn't this supposed to be for Dawn?"
Faith looks up at Buffy, and for the first time Buffy notices the pale scar on Faith's stomach, visible underneath the hem of her belly-baring shirt. It looks old, as if it healed a long time ago. "It was, but that's done with. Like you said-- that clock's ticked down. But you have to keep on going anyway."
Buffy groans. "That wasn't in the job description. Don't I get a map, at least?"
"There's no map for you anymore. I think you get a compass, though." Faith gives the bed a last pat, and turns to the window. "You'll do okay. She thinks so, too, even if she won't admit it yet."
Buffy can deal with that. She's surprised, and she's not at all sure she understands it, but she can deal with that. She still wants to know one thing, though.
"So who's gonna be sleeping here, anyway?"
Faith laughs. "Not my place to tell you, B. We just wanted to give you a heads up, let you know things'll work out."
Faith turns, and is out the door before Buffy can stop her. Without getting up, Buffy knows there is no point in following-- Faith is long gone, and she has taken the green desert with her.
When Buffy wakes up, she is smiling.
back to top At Sunset
The end of a long day: the stretched-out sunset shadows match the feeling of interminable time; the sensation of a moment held in amber. A man s l o o o o w l y fills a gas tank, to carry (scattering curses and flammable droplets all the unsteady way) back along the three miles of country road to his stalled car. There, his teenage daughter waits and watches the growing dark, trying not to remember tall the ghost stories she’s heard (they all really happened, to a friend’s brother’s college roommate’s cousin) that start just like this. back to top
Fun With Science
Let this be a lesson to you: Beware the Ice-Cream Maker. Abandon Hope, All Ye Who Enter Into This Stupid Science Project, Especially If Small Children Are Involved. Don’t Try To Make Ice Cream in Ziploc Baggies With a Bunch of Third-Graders. Ever. Just Don’t. Please?
See, some of the Ziploc baggies have holes in them. So when you pour the Vitamin D-enriched whole milk (for healthy bones and teeth!) into the Ziploc baggie, the Vitamin D-enriched whole milk will pour right back out of the Ziploc baggie. Right onto your feet, where it obligingly fills every nook and cranny of your favorite flip-flops, and leaves you smelling like sour milk from the knees down for the rest of the day.
Eventually, each of the fidgeting eight-year-olds will finally have their two plastic baggies; one filled with sugar, vanilla extract, and the accursed Vitamin D-enriched whole milk; the other filled with salt and ice. The milk bag is then sealed inside the ice bag, and large quantities of sticky tape are used to ward off further milk baths for your much-abused feet. Then the third-graders, whose attention spans are already shorter than that of a crack-addled gnat, have to shake the the baggies for at least five full minutes, to allow time for ice cream to form.
If the sound of ice cubes being shaken for five minutes straight by seventeen third graders does not drive you insane (and keep in mind that this sound is only slightly more soothing than the Michael Flatley Rainstick and Irish Dancing Troupe), the constant chorus of “It is done yet?” “Can I eat it?” “My bag broke!” “Hey, that’s mine!” will finish the job. Then you will slip in one of the numerous puddles of condensation on the floor, hit your head on a chair, and drift into a blissful coma.
In conclusion: If the third-graders want ice cream, just go to 31 Flavors.
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untitled (the box story)
A few times every year, my mother used to take us to see our great-grandmother at the nursing home. Mom always made sure we saw her before we left for sleepaway camp every summer; I got the impression that she was never sure if Great-Grandma Frances would still be around when we got back. Though my sisters were a little uncomfortable around Grandma Frances (her teeth wobbled when she talked, after all, and her apartment smelled funny, like talcum powder and old cheese), I never really minded seeing her. I remembered little of the years when she was still active and alert, but I had heard enough family history to know that we were only seeing the tail end of a full and exciting life.
The real worry was my great-aunt-- my mother's mother's sister, Biena. Unlike Grandma Frances, Aunt Biena had always been a little vague and loopy. She had never held a real job, never been to college, never learned to drive a car or pay the rent or even how to cook, which was simply unheard-of in my family. My mother's relatives paid the rent for two apartments on opposite sides of the nursing room hall: one for Grandma Frances, where she and Aunt Biena spent most of their time, and a second, little-used apartment for Aunt Biena. I only ever saw the place once.
Aunt Biena had asked my sister and I to come over and visit with her. We walked across the narrow hallway and into the other apartment, where we were surprised to find rooms filled with boxes, many stacked higher than I could reach. We wandered around the narrow spaces between boxes while Aunt Biena bustled around the little kitchenette, fussing over food we would politely refuse.
I asked my mother, later, how long Aunt Biena had been living in that apartment, wondering if she had just moved in and hadn't yet unpacked. My mother sighed, and, with a look on her face I could not understand, said "Years."
When I finally got up the nerve to accidentally-on purpose knock the lid off one of the boxes (expecting treasure, perhaps, or the bones of long-lost second cousins), I was disappointed to find nothing but a stack of brittle yellow newspapers, their headlines announcing the election of a president I had never heard of. I lifted them up, trying not to brek the old pages, and under them I made my real discovery. I found a tarnished silver makeup compact, larger than my hand, with spidery initials engraved on the lid. I opened it, and found that a trace of powder still clung to the edges, covering the mirror with a fine layer of flesh-colored dust. It smelled faintly of perfume.
The rest of the box was less exciting. Old magazines, dead batteries, empty shampoo bottles-- Aunt Biena, it seemed, kept *everything.*
I had eagerly turned to another box, which was labeled PLATES but looked to be full of leather-bound photo albums and 45 RPM Pat Boone records, when my sister announced that she had to go to the bathroom. Rather than use Aunt Biena's (what if it, too, was full of boxes?) we trooped back across the hall to Grandma Frances's apartment, the compact in my hands. I presented my find to my mother, who prononced it real silver, and told me the engraved initials were my great-grandmother's. It had been a gift from my great-grandfather in the thirties, Mom said, when her own mother was a little younger than me.
I was appropriately impressed by the compact's age and value, so Aunt Biena said that I could keep it. Then she gave me some (allegedly fun) activity sheets from the supermarket. We went home a little while after that; I haven't been in Aunt Biena's apartment since then.
My great-grandmother died a few years ago, and now Aunt Biena lives alone. To my knowledge, she still hasn't unpacked her boxes.
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work in progress: the girl with wings
There was once a girl with wings.
She came into the world pink and plump and squalling, like any other newborn; and she was like every other newborn in every respect but one. For she had wings, protruding from her shoulder blades, bare of feathers like a hatchling's. She was of normal size for an infant, but very light; her bones were hollow as a bird's. The doctors were astounded, and could offer no explanation.
Her parents were shocked as well, for such a thing had never been seen before in the world. For years after their daughter's birth, they bickered over whose side of the family was to blame, pointing fingers at every twisted branch and bad apple on the family tree. Nonetheless, they loved their daughter just as much as they would have loved a normal child, and protected her fiercely from the rude and the curious.
For most of her childhood, the girl seemed no different than any other. Her wings were stubby, incapable of flight, and were easily hidden beneath her clothing. She was a happy child, running and playing and always climbing trees; never happier than when her feet were off the ground. She had a few more trips to the hospital than was usual, for her bones were very brittle, but children heal quickly; besides, she liked drawing Magic Marker trees and clouds on her plaster casts. No attempt was made to remove her wings-- her parents would not hear of it.
The girl grew, and her wings grew with her. When she was ten, thick silver feathers began to appear throught the white down that covered her wings. Soon, she had to cut holes in the backs of all her jackets and t-shirts. The media, who had mostly lost interest in the girl when it became apparent that she was not the result of a government DNA-tampering scheme, and nor was she an angel sent to Earth, began hiding in the bushes and snapping pictures once again.
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work in progress: extra strength
[Scene: Two fashionably dressed young people are having a Serious Conversation on a park bench. Random extras walk around in the background.]
GIRL: Oh, how could you betray me like this?
GUY: But I would never dream of hurting you, darling!
GIRL: Don't lie to me-- I saw you with her!
[One of the extras seems to have had enough. With a sigh, he approaches the couple and taps the young woman on the shoulder.]
EXTRA #1: Excuse me, miss? It was his evil twin you saw at the coffeehouse. Don't get all worked up about it. Oh, and that mystery guy at your mother's funeral was-- surprise-- your long-lost brother.
GUY: How do you--
EXTRA #1:Don't worry about it. You two kids just run along and have some fun before sweeps start and things get ugly. [More than a oittle confused, they leave. The EXTRA rolls his eyes.] Honestly, you'd think they'd know we read the scripts. [He sits down on the park bench and stretches.] Now that that's taken care of, I've got a few things to say. For a long time, nobody's paid much attention to us extras. We're not real to you-- just Guy With Frisbee, Second Girl From Left, Autopsy Subject, Jane Doe. Sure, we wander down dark alleys and get horribly killed, but does anyone ever look at the people behind the corpses? No, you don't. But now you're gonna.
[EXTRA #2 enters and sits down beside EXTRA #1.]
EXTRA #2: We've been suffering in silence for years now. And that's the biggest problem-- silence. We never get any lines! Sometimes we laugh at the protagonist when he's humiliated by his nemesis, and maybe once in a while we get to scream and run away. But what does that really tell you about us?
#1: I know a guy who got to yell "Food fight!" and get hit in the face with a sloppy joe.
#2: Really? [He nods. She's awed and impressed.] Wow...
EXTRA #3: Guys, off topic. [EXTRA #3 enters, sits down. Anyway, that only proves our point. What does a faceful of ground meat tell you about someone, other that that they're gonna smell like chili for a week?
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