Tag: fantasy

The Rainbows

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Maybe you’re familiar with the story of The Rainbow Bridge?
Kitty Heaven, a place to visit
It’s not quite true.
Rainbows do soar over the meadows of Heaven, majestically, but not at any bridge.
They wait for the storm to pass, the Lord’s tears dry, and they look down at the world, searching.
Like Valkyries searching for the bravest of the fallen, they seek out those who have loved and been loved the greatest.
And guide them to where that love is eternal.
No pot of gold at the rainbow’s end, but a greater treasure awaits.
The rainbows search anew.

Bottle

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Wanna hear something spooky?
I have an oversized novelty Coke bottle in my den. It’s been there for years, up on the shelf, gathering dust.
Last year, when I picked it up to dust it, it rattled.
There were a bunch of pennies in the bottle.
The thing is, it’s still had the bottlecap on it.
Sealed tight.
When I got it, it didn’t have any pennies in it.
Okay, last week, I dusted it again, and I swear, it had more pennies in there.
How are the pennies getting in there?
Who’s putting the pennies in there?
And why?

Back In The Bottle

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They say you can’t put the genie back in the bottle.
This is not true.
First, you have to club the genie in the back of the head, knocking them unconscious.
Then, slit their throat with a knife.
Cut them up into smallish pieces that will fit in an industrial blender.
Finally, with the blender set on Liquefy, render the genie into a slurry.
Oh, and you might need a plastic kitchen funnel so you don”t spill any.
I used to dissolve genies with acid in my bathtub, but it’s so much easier to pour them straight from the blender.

Keep a little bit of fog

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Jackie keeps a little bit of fog in a jar on her kitchen shelf, and she watches it swirl around from time to time.
How she captured it in there, I don’t know, but I’m sure it wants out from the way it lashes against the glass.
“Don’t let it go,” she says. “It brings me good luck in here.”
She’s never burned anything in the oven, nor has any of her pots ever boiled over.
Without even trying, her pasta is perfect.
Still, I watch the fog, and wonder if it is suffering.
Oh well. It’s time for dinner.

The Butter River

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In the morning, we walk to the river of melted butter that runs through our village.
Others are already there, waiting for the Buttermaster to proclaim the river clean.
He inspects the flow, confirms that our upstream neighbors are still neighborly, and measures some samples in his testing apparatus.
A light shines green.
“Safe!” he shouts.
We cheer.
Lined up on the shore, we dip our toast and biscuits into the river and savor each bite.
“The river is good,” I say.
My family grunts their agreement.
Nobody double-dips here – that is impolite, unsanitary, and a crime punishable by flogging.

Dragonhunters

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A team of dragonhunters came to town the other day.
They’d heard that we held a lottery every year to choose a human sacrifice for the dragon that lives in the forest.
Truth is, we do it to figure out who gets stuck giving the dragon his annual scrubdown.
If you think the dragon stinks, you should smell the soap we use. Only a wizard can understand how the two produce “clean dragon” instead of “deadly, toxic stench.”
We’ll let the dragon finish these clowns off.
I just hope I don’t get stuck washing their corpses out of his scales.

Gertrude

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As we wait for the water to boil, Old Gertrude pulls glass jars down from the shelf, lifting lids, taking a pinch of this, a pinch of that.
“I’m glad you finally came to see me,” she says.
Sally, crying, holds the baby and mumbled “Thank you” in between sobs. I twist my wool cap in my hands.
Gertrude mixes the leaves and herbs, sprinkles them in a cup, and pours the water from the kettle.
We dip a rag into the tea and put it to the baby’s lips.
She won’t drink. She’s not breathing. She’s…
We’re too late.

The Dusty Siren

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Wearing white lace, just like when we first met.
I chased her into the desert in the heat of the moment.
She sits there, beckoning, just out of reach.
Look again. A ragged sheet, blown across a dead tree stump.
Did I imagine her? Or did she imagine me, begging for one final kiss?
I can’t reach her. Too weak to crawl. Too damn weak to crawl.
Reach for me. Reach out to me and pull me into your embrace, my love.
She sits there, watching.
One final scream, a groan into the wind, and my mouth fills with dust.

The Symbol

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I saw the eagle symbol on her wrist.
Eagle symbols are for good luck and strength, but usually the eagle’s got the beak pointing to the fingers.
Hers points to the elbow, so I know it’s a fake.
It’s got the right colors, and it’s very well done.
But it’s a fake. It’s covering up another symbol.
While she sleeps, I look closely at it… the outline of something is under that eagle.
Weasel? Owl? Snake?
It’s some kind of criminal brand, something she got from the Eagles before they threw her out of their camp.
What has she done?

Goodnight

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When it was time for me to go to bed, my mother would read to me from the book “Goodnight Moon.”
Even though she read it every night, it was a thrill to hear every word.
When I learned to read, I read along.
One night, when I said “Goodnight Moon,” the moon replied: “Good night.”
“Did you hear that, Mom?” I asked.
“Hear what?” she said.
“The moon was talking to me,” I said. “It said… Goodnight.”
She closed the book, patted me on the head, and left me there in the dark.
Alone.
With the wicked, sinister moon.