Drink to This

There's not a lot action in a college campus coffee shop over the summer.  You have your regulars: a mix of people in the community; students who didn't go home for the summer; and the bare bones of the university staff.  You have your occasionals: the awkward teenagers "just checking it out", and their parents, who are eyeing you like you might give them some hint as to what this school does to its students.  You have your flash-floods: the random cheer-leading or band camp- but, as the name implies, they arrive quickly en masse, and then retreat just as quickly into the rest of their summer, where the campus will become, at best, the barely-noticed setting for their awkward sexual-awakenings.

In other words, I spend a lot of time leaning on my broom.  Especially when the manager's not around to chirp, "If there's time to lean, there's time to clean!".  Clean, sure.  But everything's so clean at this point that if I were to take a rag to anything it would be more like polishing.  And "polishing" doesn't make a cute little rhyme, and so I continue to lean, and to observe.

This afternoon, one of the last before the freshman will descend for their orientation, I'm observing one of the regulars as she makes her way across the quad.  I'm pretty sure she's one of the people-in-the-neighborhood, as it were, because she's about twenty years too old to be a student, but she sure as hell isn't a professor.  (Hey, it's a small school- I know most of 'em by sight, even if I'm not in their classes.)  She's particularly fascinating, because over the past couple of months I've watched her sort of... metamorphosize.

In the beginning she cried a lot.  Like, a lot.  But not really sad tears, you know?  More like... really angry tears.  Like crying was her substitute for stabbing.  Which was crazy, because she was definitely not the stabbing sort, to look at her.  I'm taking white capris and loose, flowy tunic tops.  A bit of "statement" jewelry, and mousy-brown hair neatly pinned at the nape of her neck.  Manicured nails, strappy-yet-conservative sandals.  Very suburban-mom-of-teenagers, you know?  Like she should definitely be drinking that nonfat vanilla latte shit.  But she'd come in, get a shot-in-the-dark (black like your bitter heart, I always say), and then sit in the furthermost corner to drink and write in her journal.  And cry.

As the weeks passed, the crying dried up, mostly.  And she started wearing jeans and t-shirts.  And not, like, perfectly-distressed $180 jeans, either.  Thrift store jeans, and no more of that ludicrous statement jewelry, either.  And a pair of shiny new dark green doc martens, which I complimented her on, because I know what a bitch they are to break in.  She gave me this little smile, and for the first time ordered an americano to go with her journaling, which she moved to a couch to do.

That was her standing order for a few more weeks, until she cut her hair off- and I'm not talking your typical mom-cut, either.  She cut it, like, aggressively short.  The sort of short that you cut your hair to give a giant fuck-you to that guy who liked to talk about how feminine long hair is while eyeing another woman.  And she dyed it burgundy, which, granted, is not the most rebellious of shades, in the grand scheme of things, but certainly edgier than a natural color, and I complimented her on that, too.  She gave me a big smile, and ordered a cafe au lait.  Sat right near the counter, too, and even made a little small talk with other patrons.

That was about two weeks ago, and now she's coming across the street, with this long, confident stride much better suited to those green docs, and I can't help but smile.  Lady actually looks happy, for a change.

"Hi Jessi," she says as she walks in.  Not sure when she learned my name, exactly.  Hers is Karen.

"Hey Karen," I say, and I'm about to ask if it'll be the regular when I notice something.

"New ink?" I ask, nodding to her shoulder.  There, peeping out from beneath her black tank top, I can see a bit of dark green script with that shiny look that only fresh tattoos have.

She grins.  Actually grins.

"Just got it yesterday," she says, and pulls the strap aside so I can see the whole thing.  It's her handwriting (after months of seeing her journal, I'd recognize it anywhere) right under her collarbone, right above her heart.  And it's just three words: 

Drink to This

"Nice," I say.  "And just what, exactly, will you be drinking while you drink to this?  Cafe au lait?"

She shakes her head.  "I think it's time to change it up again.  I want to try something totally different."  She tugs her hair nervously.  "What do you suggest?"

"Totally different, eh?"  I look her up and down, considering.  "Given your history, I'm gonna' rule out everything with coffee, then."

"Okay," she nods.  "No coffee.  But I still need my caffeine, so..."

"London Fog," I say.  "Totally different, still caffeinated.  You'll love it."

Another grin.  "I'll drink to that."

***
A recently divorced woman got these three words tattooed on her clavicle.

Lilian's Mother

Lilian wasn't sure when she first began to suspect that her mother didn't actually love her.  It had never popped into her brain in so many words, not until she was already quite certain of it.  It was just sort of a feeling, a feeling of... not-quite-right.

It would have been easy enough to discern, if her mother had beaten or neglected her, or been cruel in word or deed, or even been coolly indifferent.  But Lilian's mother had never done any of those things- had always been very careful, in fact, to praise and support Lilian, smile at and pet her, and generally find that perfect balance between strict and fair.  Lilian's mother never lost her temper when Lilian was around, never yelled at her for something that was not her fault.  Lilian's mother was always very, very correct in her actions towards Lilian, exactly as a loving mother should be.

And perhaps that's what finally tipped her hand to Lilian.

As Lilian got older, and realized that most humans erred at one point or another, she began to be unnerved by the fact that her mother never seemed to.  Not emotionally, at any rate.  And so Lilian began paying closer attention.  And that's when she began to notice what she privately thought of as the "cold flash" in her mother's eyes.

The cold flash always, always preceded Lilian's mother being especially kind or loving.  If Lilian saw the cold flash, she nearly always found herself enveloped in a long hug shortly thereafter.  There was nothing menacing or threatening about those hugs, no hint of underlying violence... but it seemed to Lilian that there was a certain sense of desperation.

And so Lilian began to observe more closely still, until she came to the conclusion that it wasn't so much that her mother didn't love her in particular, as that her mother didn't really seem to love anyone, or even anything.  So why was she pretending?  If Lilian's mother didn't love her, why was she trying so hard to make the world- to make Lilian- think she did?

This insight- and the questions it spurred- bothered Lilian right down to her core- but she could never quite bring herself to ask her mother about any of it.  After all, her mother might not have loved her, but Lilian still loved her mother, and she couldn't bear the thought of disappointing her by calling attention to the charade.

There came a day when Lilian's mother was diagnosed with a terminal illness and, as so often happens in the end, Lilian found herself keeping vigil by her mother's deathbed.  Lilian's mother sleeps often now, eyes moving rapidly beneath parchment-thin lids.  Every time those eyes close, Lilian wonders if they will re-open.  And every time, the wondering hurts.  Now Lilian sits, holding her mother's withered hand in her own, and she thinks how strange it is that her love for her mother makes this so unbearably painful- and yet also gives her the strength to keep coming back, day after day.

"You can ask me," the voice is soft, but there is no tremor in it.  Lilian's mother is meeting her death with the same calm acceptance she has always met everything.  "I know you've wanted to, for years now.  I could never quite understand why you didn't."

"Ask you what, mother?" says Lilian, smoothing her mother's denuded scalp.  She had had such beautiful hair, before: always braided and pinned so precisely.

Lilian's mother turns her face to her daughter, and opens her eyes.  "Ask me if it's true."

"If what's true?" says Lilian.  Her heart jumps, begins to race, but Lilian tries to keep her fingers light on her mother's, careful not to betray the adrenaline now surging through her system.  She knows, of course, exactly what it is her mother is talking about.  Lilian's mother flutters her hand beneath Lilian's in encouragement.

"This is your last chance to ask, my darling.  And I don't want you to have any regrets in life that could have been so easily prevented.  You already know the answer, I think."

Lilian takes a shaking breath, then looks deeply into her mother's night-black eyes.  "If I already know the answer, why would I ask that question?"

The corner of her mother's mouth twitches with amusement.  "Alright then.  Ask the question you don't know the answer to."

For a long time, Lilian is silent, searching her mother's eyes for the cold flash, or for anything that might explain without her having to ask.  All she gets back is her own reflection, small and haunted in a distorted hospice room.  At last Lilian breathes, "Why?" and she isn't even certain which why she means.

"Because you were mine," the answer is immediate and fierce, and suddenly Lilian sees something uncoiling in the depths of her mother's gaze.  This is not merely a cold flash- no, this is a burning cold so deep and terrible that it carves mountains into nothing; kills entire species; remakes entire worlds.  Lilian gasps, and the mini-Lilians in her mother's icy eyes do the same, unconsciously recoiling.  Abruptly the  eyes close, cutting Lilian off from her reflections, and from whatever it is that Lilian's mother has never allowed herself to be.

"I couldn't love you," her mother whispers.  "But I could protect you.  And I did."

Dear Me

Amalia sat, as she always did, at the far edge of the far table of the lunch room.  And, as she always did, she sat alone.

She was never quite certain if she was isolated because the other children didn't like her, or because she didn't like them.  Probably a mixture, if she was honest with herself.  And if she was really honest with herself, there was probably some pride involved, too.  Reaching out brought with it the chance of rejection, and she certainly wasn't going to bother reaching out to people who would reject her.

She eyed her plain black lunch bag with resignation.  She knew exactly what it held, because it held what she always packed: an almond-butter-and-honey sandwich, a small baggie of baby carrots, an apple, and a glass bottle filled with tap water.  Sometimes the apple was red, and sometimes it was green.  But other than that things stayed as they always did.

She opened the bag and reached in for the water-bottle- but her fingers closed on nothing.  Frowning, she groped further in, until her fingers brushed the bottom of the bag.  Empty.  She pulled the bag towards her and glared into its depths.  Had someone stolen her lunch as a prank?  But how could they have-

The bag wasn't quite empty, after all.  A small, neatly folded sheet of paper lay tucked into one corner.  A ransom note?  Amalia grabbed it between her fingertips, frown deepening into a scowl.  Should she even bother reading it?  Or should she just throw it out, to keep from giving the perpetrator any satisfaction?

In the end curiosity won out, and she unfolded the paper.  It was pale green, her favorite color, which only made her more angry.  The message took up half the page, but before she even read them she was struck by how similar the handwriting was to her own.

In fact, it was exactly like her own, when she took her time and wrote neatly.

Amalia felt a chill go down her spine.  Wasn't handwriting supposed to be unique?  She glanced at the signature, but it wasn't a name: it only said "You", and so she started from the beginning.

"Dear Me,

I'm sorry about taking our lunch, but let's face it, it was the same boring thing we always have, and I needed to get your attention somehow.  Plus it gives you the perfect excuse to go talk to Melissa.  Her mom always packs her too much food.  Trust me- I have your- our- best interests at heart, and Melissa is the key to everything.  Go talk to her!

Good luck!

You"

Amalia re-read the note, and then re-read it a second and third time.  It stubbornly refused to make any sense whatsoever.  Who thought she'd be dumb enough to believe there was a note from herself that she didn't remember writing?  She sat back in consternation, then glanced over at the table where Melissa sat, laughing with a few other kids.  Melissa wasn't exactly one of the Popular Kids, but nobody really seemed to actively dislike her, either.  She didn't seem like the sort to play a prank like this.  And she did seem to have a lot of food on her plate.

Amalia sucked in a deep breath.  What should she do?  She was hungry.  And, more importantly, she was intrigued.

Crumbling

The sun is not up, but she is.

Butter, sugar, vanilla.  Cups of corn starch and almond flour.  The hum of the mixer is hypnotic- it would lull her back to sleep, if she let it.

No it wouldn't.

Sleep does not come easy these days- it is, in truth, a relief to have an excuse not to be in bed, not to lay there obsessing over laying there.  Instead she can obsess about pulling the cookies out at just the right moment- a hint of gold on the raised edges of the creamy white crenelations.  Spritzgeback are delicate confections, easily ruined by even sixty seconds too long in the oven.

Everything has to be just so.

She will devote many hours to this task today, this careful mixing and pressing and baking and shifting and packing, creating layer upon layers of the traditional cookies her oma used to make.  Oma hasn't made them in over a decade, and for almost as long it has fallen upon her to provide far-flung family with that small part of the holidays so unique to their heritage.  She wonders, briefly, how that came to be?  If everyone cares so much for the old traditions, why is she the only one to keep them?  She who, when she is honest with herself, doesn't care at all any more.

What is the point of traditions, after all, if there is no one to pass them on to?

She lets the cookies cool, then carefully shifts them, one at a time, to the wax paper she's covered her kitchen table with.  They line up in perfect rows, not so much because that's important to the process, but just because the effect pleases her.  Order.  Control.  Sweet little soldiers, marching off to battle against... what?  The passage of time?  The loss of what once was?  Bitterness, she decides as she dusts them with confectioner's sugar.  It is only fitting they be marching off to battle bitterness.

She picks one of the cookies up, examines it.  It looks perfect.  She pops it in her mouth, letting the taste of butter, sugar, and almonds melt on her tongue.  Delicate.  Perfect.  She cuts the wax paper to line the tins, and begins to place the cookies in concentric rings.  One of them breaks, and she stares at it.

Delicate.  Fragile.  So easily broken.

She wants to scream.  She wants to throw the pieces across the room, throw everything across the room, to destroy and destroy and destroy... but she doesn't.  She just stares at the broken pieces, and then puts them in her mouth, where they too crumble into nothingness.

Snowfall

I have always felt most at home in winter- bundled up in layers, muffled in the quiet that falls across the landscape with the snow.  Last year at this time I became a layer myself- wrapped around you as you grew in my womb.  I felt you slowly spinning, like a snowflake, and I knew you would share my love of this season.

Your father wouldn't let me take you out for the first snow of your life- said it was too cold for you, too cold for your skin like sweet summer roses.  We kept you inside, kept you by the fire, through that first month of your existence- but this year he has finally relented, and here we are, your face tilted up to the soft silver-gray of the sky.  And I watch the crystals gather on the perfect copper sweeps of your eyelashes and I know that I was right to bring you out here.

I lay you down on an old blanket, beneath the twisting limbs of the old cherry tree, just as I did last spring.  On that day the white petals fell on you with every passing breeze, and you waved them away with your baby laugh.  I thought they must have tickled you, the way that the snowflakes tickle me.  But you do not wave away this shower of white.

I sit and watch it gather on your body, becoming a pale coverlet atop the dark wool of your blankets.  Soon you are a just another small hill in the silent woods, the many soft curves of your body smoothed until they are one gentle mound of snow.

That's the power of snow- it covers everything, making even the most terrible things beautiful- or at least bearable.  I know I should have buried you in the earth, but I how could I have stood to look at that ugly scar, day after day?  Every day reminded by the torn up soil, the lack of growing things...  It is better this way- you will become part of winter, and when spring comes again you will melt away... and so will my grief.

An Exercise in Dialogue

"Wakeup."
"Mmm?"
"Wakeupwakeup!"
"M'wake!"
"They're gone!  It's time to play!"
"Geeze, Rem.  You're acting like this doesn't happen every day."
"But it's happening now, Nico!  It's happening now!"
"That it is.  And it will still be happening an hour from now.  In fact, it will be happening for the next, oh, sixteen hours.  So I am going back to sleep, and you can wake me when the sun goes down.  In two hours."
"Fifteen."
"...what?"
"Fifteen hours, until the teacher comes back.  She comes in before the kids, remember remember?"
"I am glad to see that you've finally managed to master the basics of fourth grade math.  Now please let me go back to sleep."
"Okay.  I guess I'll just go run on the wheel."
"Really?  Really?  I ask you to let me sleep, and you're going to go run on the wheel?"
"What's wrong with the wheel?"
"What's wrong wi- for the love of cheese, Rem!  It squeaks!  It's squeaks more than you do, and that's saying something!"
"I guess I could take a bath instead..."
"Yes, do that.  Excellent idea.  When in doubt, groom.  Quietly."
"...Nico?"
"I am asleep."
"Yes, I know, but... my paw is stuck."
"How on earth did you- Rem, why is your paw stuck in the latch of the cage?"
"I, um... thought I might go out?  So that I could play without bothering you?"
"I thought you were going to groom!"
"I was!  Just... under a desk.  Sometimes they leaves snacks, you know!"
"Quit squirming.  How did you wedge it so far in?  I swear... And yes, I know they leave snacks sometimes- who showed you how to get out in the first place?  But aren't you forgetting something?"
"Ow! Thanks.  Forgetting something like what?"
"Like, oh, him?"
"The janitor?"
"Yes the janitor- just how do you think he'd react to a pair of rats running around loose in the classroom?"
"But he likes us!  Look, he's coming over to say hello!"
"Hey there, little guys!  Say, what's wrong with your paw there, little Remmy?  You hurt it or somethin'?  Nicodemus, you need to take better care of your little brother!  Well here, I brought you guys a treat.  But shhh, don't tell Mizz Rupert, okay?  She told me I'm makin' you fat with all these after-hour snacks.  But I say, how can fruit make you fat?  It's healthy!  So you just eat up... and I'll get back to work.  I'll leave a note for Mizz Rupert that somethin's wrong with your paw, okay Remmy?  Be good now, little rats."
"See?  He's nice!  And I love apples!"
"You love everything."
"I do!"
"...I guess I may as well stay awake now, to keep you out of trouble."
"You're so nice, Nico... can we go out and play now?"
"No.  Not until the building is empty.  You know that."
"Oh right... what will we do once we're out?"
"The same thing we do every night, Rem."
"Try to take over the-"
"No!  Quit saying that!  It was barely funny the first time!"
"...sorry."
"I wish the teacher had never shown the class that show, I swear.  We're just lucky we'd already been named... I'm sure I'd have ended up Pinky, with my luck."
"I like that show!"
"Of course you do."
"...so what are we going to do?"
"We're going to go look for mates."
"Why do we want mates?"
"You'll understand when we find them."

New Year's Eve

I don't remember my birth- but from what I understand, neither does anyone else. It was the dead of winter, or so they tell me- and the middle of the night. People drank champagne in celebration, and sang their heartfelt welcome.

Those first few days- what a whirlwind! By the end of the third day I was walking, and they say that by the end of the week I'd begun to speak. Again- I don't really remember any of this, so I have to take their word for it. My memories kick in sometime about halfway through January. And really it's more like impressions than actual memories. But February- oh yes, I remember February. I was long-limbed and awkward, but I didn't know it- my teeth too big for even my wide grin. Valentines day came and I had the biggest crush of my life- I knew I was in love. Of course, by March I knew I was in love again- for real, this time- and we used to drive for hours and hours, augmenting the early spring breeze in our hair with four rolled down windows. But I left for college less than a week later, and that was the end of that.

College! Oh how I loved college- so much to learn, so many people to learn with. I graduated near the end of March, and by April first I'd begun my career! Only apparently I hadn't... because I changed jobs several times that month, and it was at one of them that I met and married the love of my life. We welcomed our second child into the world in May, a month that was full of the ordinary living that seems to boring to those not doing it: raising children, rennovating our little house, settling into our true callings.

As exciting as the first half of the year was, I sometimes think that June was the start of the really good times. I watched our children grow into adults, and finally felt like maybe I'd earned the right to be called adult, myself. On the fourth of July I started thinking about retirement- still a bit off, but close enough to start calling to me. August strolled in, warm and tawny as a lion, and suddenly I was a grandparent! I looked at my first grandchild's fat little feet and wept that there could be such perfection in the world.

The autumnal equinox brought with it longer nights- and I started to feel my age in my bones. Retirement had left me with more time for my grandchildren- but the suppleness of their limbs only served to remind my of the creakiness of my own. By the time Halloween came, I was glad that no one expected a great-grandparent to chase after the multitude of costumed-progeny.

Thanksgiving was a wonder- had all this family actually sprung from my blood? Loud and laughing and comforting to a person who's true love has gone on to the final slumber. We shall pass, but they shall remain. And so shall it always be.

I spent most of Christmas dozing, and I know the time is coming for me to move on, myself. One of my great-grand-daughters is pregnant- maybe she's a little young for that, but she seems happy about it. She's due on my birthday, of all days. I'd like to stick around long enough to welcome this newest little one to the family... but somehow... I just don't... think... I...


(Happy New Year)

Finding Room

The problem with pregnant women is that they will not mind you. They are overflowing with the miracle and authority of creation, and convinced they know how things ought to be ordered in the world. We husbands can do little to dissuade them, and so when I came into the kitchen and found my wife sweeping yet again, I did not have much hope for meeting with good sense.

“Keturah,” I said, striving to keep my voice full of the patience our Lord commands us to have for our wives, “You should be in bed!”

“Manasseh,” she said in her sweetest voice, which I have learned means she is determined to have her own way, “I am a pregnant woman, not an invalid. And in case you had not noticed, the inn is overflowing and we can ill afford to let work start to pile up.”

“But all the guests are in bed,” I took the broom from her hands, “And I can do this. You can supervise if you are feeling restless. Sit there, put your feet up- please, please indulge your poor, beleaguered husband his neuroses.” Keturah sighed and worked her knuckles into her lower back: she still had a month left before the child- our first- was due, but I could not fathom her growing any larger. Finally she grabbed my beard and pulled my face down so she could kiss my cheek.

“Alright I will sit. But only because I do not like to see you so fretful.”

“Thank you, indulgent ruby of the midnight hour.” She swatted playfully at my arm, and I did not dodge the blow- I had also come to learn that she did not like to be reminded of how she was not as nimble as she had been.

“I wish we could have a census every year,” she said in a satisfied voice as she eased herself into the chair I’d gestured at. “Just think of the lovely new cloaks we will have this winter.”

“I could wish we had them only in years my wife was not pregnant,” I grumbled, and it was true. As good as the influx of travelers had been for filling our coffers, it had not done much for my stress levels. I wanted Keturah to be able to stay in bed (not that she would) and for me to be able to see to her every whim, rather than both of us having to look after a great herd of people who were thoroughly disgruntled about being commanded to return to their place of birth for counting. I did not see the sense in it, myself- why not count people where they were? But who is a simple innkeeper to argue with an emperor’s decree? I was just glad we had never left Bethlehem. I could not imagine having to travel anywhere with my wife in her current condition.

Once I had swept the kitchen out to her satisfaction Keturah beckoned me over and placed my hands on her belly. I felt our child press up against my palm.

“He’s excited tonight,” I remarked, and knelt down to place my forehead against the bulge. My wife’s fingers begin to work through my hair, gently unsnarling my tangles back into curls.

“Yes, she is,” she said. “she must sense something momentous about to occur.”

“More likely he’s just not used to so many new voices,” I said, and then smiled as she tugged hard on a lock.

“You have no imagination,” she scolded, and tugged on another one. “Maybe our daughter will be a great prophetess, and then won’t you feel sorry for doubting her in the womb!”

“Mercy, gentle wife!” I laughed. “No more of your torture. If you say our child is a girl, and a soothsayer at that, so it must be! You know we poor men can never hope to understand the great mysteries of life as our wise women do.”

“That’s right,” she said, but gave me another, albeit more gentle, tug. “And as a matter of fact-“

But she was interrupted by a knock at the door. I groaned.

“Not another one!” I’d already turned away seven that evening, and did not relish the idea of telling yet another poor soul that he had to keep going at such a late hour. Some men got so angry it was as though they believed I had deliberately sold all my rooms before they could get there. I sighed, got to my feet, and held out my hand to Keturah, to help her rise. “Take our little prophetess to bed, my wise wife, and I shall join you shortly.” She smiled and tilted her face up for another kiss.

“Be quick, husband.”

I opened the door to find a man maybe ten years older than myself standing there, holding a donkey’s lead.

“Sorry friend,” I started, my voice as sympathetic as I could make it. “But we’ve-” and then I noticed who was sitting on the donkey. A woman- barely more than a girl, really- more belly than anything else. She made Keturah look downright reasonably sized.

“…no more… room…” I trailed off. The man looked haggard, the woman swayed as though she might fall off the donkey at any moment.

“Are you sure, friend?” he asked, in the dull voice of someone who has already repeated his request far too many times. I knew that we were not the only inn overflowing with custom. These two had probably been turned away multiple times tonight. “I can pay well.”

“It’s not about the money,” I said, wondering if I ought to move closer, to catch the woman if she fell. “It’s this census- we’ve sold every room, every bed, every bench, even space on the hallway floors! I’d give you my own bed for the sake of your wife, were not my own pregnant wife already in it.”

The other man closed his eyes and turned to go, murmuring a thanks- and I thought of Keturah, and how I would feel if it were me unable to find a place for her.

“Wait!” I said. “It’s true I have no room left in the inn… but… I am almost ashamed to offer this…”

“Please, we are not so proud as to be offended by any kindness you might offer,” said the woman in a startlingly sweet voice.

“I have room in my stable,” I blurted. “It’s warm and clean, and the hay might make a soft place to lay down on, if you don’t mind sharing space with animals. I could bring you blankets…”

“We’ll take it, and pay you handsomely for the privilege!” the man’s voice held such relief I feared he might cry.

“No need for that,” I mumbled, thinking again of my wife sleeping in our bed, of the movement of our child beneath my palms. “I offer it on behalf of our unborn children. I pray they grow up in a world where kindness is not so rare we feel we must pay extra for it.”

“Thank you,” said the woman, pressing her hands to her belly. “I pray that, as well.”

How You View It

People associate all sorts of things with this season. Love. Family. Presents. Saviors. And negative things too, I guess- fighting. Loneliness. Suicide. But me? I don't take notice of any of those things. Because once that calendar flips over my focus gets taken over by my favorite holiday companion:

The eggnog.

Gruff

Once upon a time there was a tiny baby billy goat named Trevor who lived in a valley meadow with his mother, his father, and the rest of their herd. Trevor was much smaller than the other kids, and did not seem to grow even half so quickly. His parents were much concerned that he would sicken and die in the coming winter, so they took him to the wisest old nanny goat in the herd for a consultation.

“He’s been cursed,” she said in her no-nonsense tone. “He’s been cursed, and the only cure is for him to eat frostspun leaf. And he must go alone to find it, or it won’t do him any good.” Now Trevor’s parents were distraught to hear this, for frostspun grew only at the highest altitudes- and the only way to get to the highest altitudes was by crossing through troll territory.

It may be when I say “troll” you think of a small plastic doll with shiny naked buttocks and entirely too much rainbow hair sprouting from its inanely-smiling head. You must put this thought from your mind, because that is not what I mean when I say troll. Not in this instance. When I say troll, what I mean is something as big as a truck, with impenetrable skin the color of granite, and a mouthful of teeth both sharp for tearing and flat for crushing. I mean something with a wretched temperament, an insatiable appetite, and a special appreciation for goat meat. In fact, trolls were the reason that Trevor’s herd lived in the valley, rather than up on the slopes like good mountain goats should. They had lived there in the past, but once the trolls moved in to the neighborhood, the goats found it behooved them to just stick to the lowlands. It wasn’t the best grazing land, but at least they didn’t have to live in constant fear of being devoured.

So now Trevor’s parents were in a quandary. If they sent Trevor alone to get his cure, the trolls would probably eat him. But if they did not send him, he would probably die when winter came, anyway. Can you imagine what a horrible thing this was for them to decide? Which death would be better- becoming a quick snack, or a lingering illness? They did not know, and they stayed up late into the night, arguing about it. But Trevor, who figured it wasn’t their decision to make anyway, decided he’d just make it for himself and crept off into the night.

Trevor knew that his parents would come looking for him, and moreover he figured they’d figure he’d take the easiest, least-dangerous (although still not safe) path to the mountaintop. As such, he decided he’d go the more dangerous route- the route that would take him directly over a bridge that was a known troll-shelter. They’ll never think to look for me that way, he told himself, and anyway I’m so tiny and light the troll probably won’t even notice my crossing.

So that is the way Trevor went, with frequent breaks to catch his breath. He reached the bridge just after the sun rose, and stood staring at it a long time. He didn’t see any movement, and he didn’t hear any movement, and he didn’t smell- well, okay he did smell troll, but he’d been smelling troll for the past few miles, and there was nothing he could do about it. So Trevor took a deep breath, thought weightless thoughts, and began to cross the bridge.

Tippity-tippity-tip, went his tiny hooves on the stone. Trevor thought they sounded like little pebbles shifting. Tippity-tippity-tip. Perfectly ordinary noises! But then-

“Who’s that tippity-tipping over my bridge? I’m going to eat him up!” The voice of the troll was like the roar of an avalanche, and we cannot blame Trevor if his tiny legs began to shake in fear. In fact he was so frightened he couldn’t speak a word, so he just kept moving across the bridge, tippity-tippity-tip.

“Nothing to say for yourself?” yelled the troll. “No? Pesky wind, always knocking pebbles onto my bridge…” its yell deteriorated into a mutter, and Trevor felt certain the troll was settling itself back down to sleep. The moment his hooves hit the soft grass on the other side, Trevor took off at a much faster run than he’d ever accomplished before. Adrenaline will do that for a person, even if that person is a sickly little kid.

The rest of his journey was without incident, and he did eventually find a little patch of frostspun. As soon as Trevor began to nibble on the leaves he felt stronger, and by the time he finished the plant he suddenly knew what it was to feel normal. He spent the next few hours frolicking on the mountain-side, as a young goat is meant to, before settling down for a long, long sleep. It had been a long day, and even with his new energy he was exhausted.

The next morning he set back off down the mountain, until once more he was facing the bridge. He sucked in a deep breath and began to cross it with the same light footsteps as before.

Tippity-tippity-tap. Tippity-tippity-tap.

“Alright now, that does it! I know it’s not pebbles this time!” and with that the troll surged up from beneath its bridge to glare at whatever was disturbing its peace. It stopped short when it saw Trevor.

“Goat?” it said in confusion. “When did goats get so small? Oh well, it hardly matters- I’m going to eat you up regardless!”

“Oh!” squeaked Trevor, “You shouldn’t do that!”

“Whyever not? It’s been a long time since I’ve had goat. They don’t seem to come around much, anymore.”

“Oh, um, well, you see-“ Trevor’s mind was working overtime, “If you eat me, there won’t be any more, ever!”

“What? That’s ridiculous. How dumb do you think I am?”

“No, no, it’s true! See, my people miss the mountain- they think they’re growing too fat and delicious in the meadow, and they want to come back to their ancestral home, but they’re afraid the trolls are still around. So they sent me, the littlest kid, to go check. They said it won’t be much of a loss if I don’t come back, and if I don’t then they’ll know that the trolls are still around and there’s no point in returning to the mountain.”

“Hmm,” said the troll, sitting back on its haunches. “That does make sense. You’re so puny- who would miss you?” (Trolls are not known for their parenting instincts.) “Hah! I’ve had an excellent idea! Goat-baby, I will not eat you on one condition!”

“Anything, mister troll!”

“I will let you live, but you can’t tell anyone you saw me. Can you promise that?”

“Oh yes sir, I surely can!”

“Okay then. Get going. You wouldn’t even have been a full mouthful, anyway.” So saying the troll lumbered back down beneath its bridge, oblivious to the wake of drool it was leaving.

Trevor dearly wanted to faint with relief, but he made himself carry on back toward home.

***

It may surprise you to discover that Trevor kept his promise- he did not tell anyone about his interaction with the troll, or really much of anything about his journey. They were so relieved to have him back that they did not press, and his parents were utterly delighted when they realized he was starting to grow again. Soon he looked like any other healthy young adult goat, and no one feared for his untimely demise.

But then one day he grew listless again, so his parents took him back to the wise old nanny goat.

“The curse was not broken,” she told them, “only delayed a little. He must go again to eat the frostspun leaf. His destiny depends upon it.”

Trevor’s parents did not bother arguing with one another this time, for they knew that Trevor would make up his own mind. Sure enough, Trevor left at dawn, taking the same path as before. This time he reached the stone bridge when the sun was at its highest.

I’m still not that big, he thought. Perhaps the troll won’t notice my footfalls. And he began to cross.

Trippity-trippity-trap went his hooves. Trevor thought they sounded a bit like rocks rolling around. Trippity-trippity-trap.

“Who’s that trippity-trapping over my bridge? I’m going to eat him up!” But Trevor, who had realized the troll had a lazy streak, said nothing and continued on. Trippity-trippity-trap.

“I know you’re up there! You’d better… you’d better… aw, darn rockslide,” muttered the troll.

Soon Trevor’s hooves were again on soft grass, and he moved swiftly up the mountainside. This time he had to climb further to find any frostspun, but once again it immediately restored him. He ate twice as much as he had before, and this time when he finished he did not frisk about, but instead assessed his surroundings with seriousness.

It was a good place for goats. He could see why his people had lived there, and it was a shame they were exiled by the stupid, greedy trolls. With this thought in mind Trevor settled down to sleep, and had strange and wonderful dreams he couldn’t quite remember.

The next day he came once again to the stone bridge, and began to make his way across.

Trippity-trippity-trap.

“Ah-hah!” yelled the troll as it emerged from beneath its bridge. “Another tasty goat! I’m going to eat you up!” Then it paused and added, “You’re not as big as I’d been lead to believe. That little one said you were all fat and delicious now.”

Trevor thought fast.

“Oh, the other goats are all much fatter than me. I’m a runt where I come from- only the size of our mountain-dwelling ancestors. When the littlest kid came back and said there were no trolls between us and the mountainside anymore, our elders figured that maybe he was just too small to interest a troll. So they sent me, since I’m more what trolls are used to, and anyway if I don’t come back who’s going to miss a runt?”

“Runt, huh?” The troll eyed him speculatively. “Hmmm. So you’re saying that if you don’t come back, the other goats will know it’s not safe to come around?”

“Yep.”

“And they’re all fatter than you?”

“Much fatter.”

“Hmmm.” The troll and the goat stared at one another for a while, until the troll finally sighed.

“Alright, goat, I’m going to let you go. But only on the condition you don’t tell anyone about me.”

“Fair enough, sir.”

“In fact, I want you to tell those other goats how beautiful the mountainside is, and that they’d all better hurry up and move out there before the weather turns.” The troll nodded at his own cleverness. “Yes, tell them that. Emphasize the hurry part.”

“Absolutely, sir.”

And so Trevor returned to his people’s valley, and all was well. In fact it was better than well, for over the winter Trevor hit a growth spurt, until he became the largest, heaviest, strongest goat the herd had ever heard of, let alone seen. His muscles were hard and his hair was glossy, and two deadly-sharp horns curled down from his brow. Truly he was the most magnificent specimen of goat known to the world. And every night, he dreamed of the joy and peace to be found on the mountainside.

One day Trevor woke from his dream and went to go see the wise old nanny-goat. She smiled at his approach.

“Ah, little troll-tricker. How may I help you?”

“How did you know about that?”

“Kid, if you don’t think I know things I shouldn’t then why are you coming to me with such a serious look on your face?”

“I need advice about my destiny.”

“No you don’t,” she snapped, and butted him in the flank with her head. “You just need to go live it.”

***

And so Trevor found himself standing at the edge of the stone bridge yet again. The sun was low in the sky, and he knew it would be evening soon. Evening, followed by night, when trolls were at their most alert and dangerous. Trevor had no illusions about what his hooves would sound like this time, but he was no longer afraid.

Trampity-trampity-TROMP!

“Who’s that trampity-tromping over my bridge? I’m going to eat them up!”

“Somehow I doubt that, troll!”

There was silence from under the bridge, and then a furious squawk.

“What did you say?!” and the troll appeared.

Now, a troll at its ease is bad enough (Remember the size? The teeth?) but a troll in a rage is something else entirely. Any sensible creature would have turned and fled- but Trevor was not necessarily sensible, and he had come on a specific mission.

“Well well well,” said the troll when he saw Trevor. “Finally a goat of a decent size. Took you long enough. But where are your brethren? I’d hoped to make a right feast of you all.”

“Troll, you’re not going to be able to handle the one you’ve got!” and Trevor sprang at him with his curling horns.

In later re-tellings of the story Trevor’s descendents would confuse a few details. Perhaps the most important thing that was forgotten was that the troll did not go down easily: Trevor had to fight for his life. And in that fight the troll did manage to do some damage. In fact, at one point he managed to get a hand around Trevor’s throat, crushing it beyond repair. But Trevor slashed at him with his heavy hooves, and the troll was forced to let go. And while the troll was distracted by that pain, Trevor slashed again, this time with his horns, and blinded the troll. From that point forward the fight was more balanced, and in the end Trevor was triumphant. As he stood trembling over the troll’s crushed head, he heard a branch snap. He looked up and to his horror saw that he had an audience- at least twenty other trolls had been drawn from their lairs by the sound of the struggle.

“Come on then,” Trevor yelled- or tried to yell. His poor throat had been so mangled that his voice came out a hoarse rasp. He compensated by glaring as fiercely as he could; he knew he was about to die, but he did not intend to go out easily.

But the trolls did not move. They were whispering amongst themselves, and every once in a while Trevor thought he caught a phrase or two.

“…he’s alone… must be another runt…”

“…ven if he isn’t a runt… whole herd of goats even that size…”

“…just one… whole herd could do…”

“…whole herd…”

“…herd!”

Finally an even larger than average troll stepped forward.

“Goat, we have no quarrel with you or your people. We’ve decided to move on. Better eatings elsewhere, we’re sure. Just, uh… just move back on up the mountain and stay there. Definitely, definitely stay there. You and all your people. In one place. Where we don’t have to worry about accidently running into any more of your runts.”

And the trolls left.

Trevor, exhausted, hurt, and in a mild form of shock, began to limp his way up the mountainside to where the frostspun grew. He stayed there many days, recovering, until he felt well enough to make his way back to the valley.

When he reached the stone bridge he didn’t even pause.

Trampity-trampity-TROMP went his hooves over the bones of his fallen enemy. Not a single trollish soul was left to complain of the noise.

***

When Trevor found his parents they were being visited by the wise old nanny goat (who had a knack for being present at strange events). His parents were shocked and overjoyed to see him- he’d been gone for so long they’d all but given up hope. The elder, on the other hand, just looked smug.

“Mother, father, wise nanny” Trevor said in his now-roughened tones, “I’ve come to lead you and the herd back home.” And he told them all of his adventures. Before long others in the herd noticed his presence, and they ran up to greet him, demanding to know all that had happened. But the old nanny goat, seeing how much it pained Trevor to speak, cut them off.

“Come now, his voice is too grim and gruff for such a happy tale! We shall tell it for him.”

And they did.

Abandoned

i waited all day
but i guess your flight got canceled...

...and they forgot to update the computers.

i waited all night
but i guess you missed the next flight...

...because you got mugged, and your assailant stole your phone.

and threw it out.

and also hit you so hard on the head
you forgot my number
and maybe me.

in fact, you're probably in a coma
a mysterious Jane Doe
(because the mugger stole your wallet
with your driver's license)
so no one know who you are
or that i should be notified.

and i'd come looking for you
but with my luck you'd wake up while i was in the air
and you'd remember all about me
and you'd catch the very next flight
and tragically we'd pass one another in the sky
all unaware
and you'd get here
and i'd be gone
and you'd think i'd given up on you
and you'd feel so sad
and so

abandoned...

i could never do that to you.

so i'll just keep waiting.


(Abandoned)

Rebel Red

There once was a girl who loved her older brother very much. When he went off to fight the war of Northern Aggression, to keep her and her family safe from the tyranny of a government too remote to understand them or their lives, she was so proud she thought she’d bust. When he sent her an authentic artillery kepi, just like the one he wore while fighting the damn Yankees, she treasured it more than her little china doll. She wore it every day, in spite of her mother’s protestations, and was secretly delighted when she overheard herself being referred to as “that little red-cap girl”.

The war did not end as quickly as everyone had thought it would. Years passed, and during those years Little Red-Cap did a lot of growing up. When word came down that her brave older brother was missing and presumed dead, she did not join her family in mourning. No, indeed she did not. Instead she cut off her hair, packed up some vittles, and set off to find the Confederate Army wearing her regulation kepi. She knew that the other soldiers were too busy fighting the war to look for one who was lost, so she figured she’d just have to track him down herself.

As it turns out, she didn’t have much of a chance to look for him at first, being too busy learning to fight and then actually fighting alongside her fellow artillerymen. But eventually all her looking and listening paid off, and she heard tell of a man matching her brother’s descriptions being held in an enemy camp not sixty miles off. So off she went through the woods to find him.

She had not been traveling more than two days when she came across a young man who, unbeknownst to her, was actually a deserter. He began to chat with her, and when he discovered that she was on a rescue mission he thought to himself, Well now I don’t think this boy is a boy at all. But he did not dare do anything while she carried her rifle. So he acted amazed and said he knew about a soldier looking like the one she’d described, who had escaped from the Union and was making his way back to his comrades. The deserter said he’d encountered him not long ago, holed up in a little abandoned shack and regaining his strength. Then he gave Little Red-Cap a set of convoluted directions, and said he must be on his way, himself.

Now of course the deserted had never met anyone at all like Little Red-Cap’s brother, but he got himself as quick as he could to the shack he’d told her about, smeared his face with some ash, and hid all of himself but his eyes beneath some old rags. Soon enough Little Red Cap came along, calling out for her brother.

“I’m here,” said the deserter, making his voice weak. Little Red Cap put down her gun and rushed to his side.

“Oh brother, I knew you weren’t dead!”

“Is it an angel?” said the deserter. “Have you come to take me to heaven? Come closer, angel- I’m ready for you.”

Now, Little Red Cap did not entirely know what to make of this. Her brother had never been particularly religious (much to their mother’s despair) but she reckoned that war changed a man. Hell, it had changed her, hadn’t it? So she moved a little closer to him and said,

“I’m not an angel, brother. I’m your sister, come to take you home.” She laid a hand on his arm and said, “My, brother, the war has made your arms so big.”

“The better to hold you again, sweet sister,” said the deserter, and slipped them around her.

“And my, brother, the war seems to have sweetened your voice some.”

“The better to tell you how much I love you,” and he smiled at her. Little Red-Cap felt her blood turn to ice.

“And… and brother, it seems the war has replaced the tooth I knocked out when we were little.”

“The better- what?”

At which point Little Red-Cap jerked her knee into a most sensitive area of the deserter’s anatomy.

He howled in pain and anger, but did not release her, for he knew the moment he did she would make straight for the rifle. The two wrestled, but the unfortunate truth is that a man is generally stronger than a woman, even if she has spent the past few months marching as one. Just when it seemed as though things might go the absolute worst for Little Red-Cap, a rough drawl came from behind them.

“I’ll thank you to take your hands off my sister,” and the deserter found a revolver pressed firmly against his temple.

“Well I’ll be God da-” said the deserter, but he did not finish his blasphemy before Little Red-Cap’s brother blew his brains out.

If the Shoe Fits

Once upon a time there was a young widower with an unusually lovely and delicate daughter named Ellanore. Although they were very happy together, the widower felt his beloved child deserved a mother, and so one day he brought home a new bride. It just so happened that this new stepmother had two daughters of her own, neither of whom, unfortunately, was quite as pretty as Ella.

What’s that? You’ve heard this one already? Not this one, you haven’t. Trust me.

As I was saying, new stepmother, new stepsisters. Who knows how things might have gone, had the young widower not died, leaving the stepmother a widow twice-over, with three girls to raise. But he did die, and with him went all of their income, which resulted in most of the household being dismissed, as there was nothing to pay them with. As such, all four of the ladies did rather more of the household work than they would have cared to admit to outsiders. The stepdaughters (whose names, through no fault of their own, were Constance and Prudence) were both healthy, strong young specimens able to be of great help to their mother, especially in the gardens- although their constant exposure to the sun did no favors for their complexions. Ella, on the other hand, was so delicate that she was not able to handle more than the lightest of the household tasks- including sweeping out the fireplace. Her step-sisters might have resented this less if the girl did not insist upon calling herself, in martyred tones, “Cinder-Ella”. She spent much of her time daydreaming about how wonderful it would be to be rich again, with a house full of servants. So frequently did she prattle on about this (instead of doing the few chores she had) that Constance and Prudence eventually tired of it and began to avoid her at all costs: or if they could not, they took to bluntly telling her to shut up and be useful, for a change. This generally resulted in a bout of tears and accusations of them acting ugly towards her.

One day a proclamation went out from the royal palace- the young prince had come of age, and his parents were throwing a ball and inviting all the eligible ladies in the kingdom (the monarchs had very definite ideas about making certain their line did not fall prey to the perils of inbreeding). Of course, an invitation did one no good if one did not have the proper attire, and since they could no longer afford a private (or even public) seamstress, the step-mother and her two daughters immediately set about constructing their own gowns from the fine fabrics that had been part of the step-mother’s dowry. Ella was given a bolt of cloth of her very own, but since she had never really bothered to learn how to sew, and anyway it seemed like quite a lot of work to her, she did not do it, trusting instead that someone else would come along and help her (this was rather the story of her life, as it is for so many lovely young women). And it’s possible that one of her step-sisters might even have been willing to do so- had Ella not spent so much time alienating them over the past ten years. As it was, the night of the ball arrived, and Ella had no gown. Oh how she wept, but the fact remained that one could not arrive at the palace in ash-stained clothing, and so she was left behind.

As Ella was sobbing on the ground, feeling miserably sorry for herself, a kind voice said, “My dear, why are you crying?” Ella looked up and what should she see but a woman even more beautiful and delicate than herself! So shocking was this development that her tears immediately ceased, and she stared with mouth agape.

“You want to go to the ball, I’m sure,” said the fairy, for of course the woman was a fairy. Fairies are ridiculously attracted to beautiful things, people included, and they cannot stand not to meddle with them.

“I do,” sniffled Ella, “but I have no gown, and no way to get there- my cruel step-family took the coach and left me here in the dirt!”

“Your step-family? Oh, you mean those other, less attractive mortals that spend their time in the gardens? Oh how horrid. Well, stand up then. You are definitely the prettiest, and that means you should have the very best things!”

As the fairy made this pronouncement, Ella suddenly found herself wearing a gown so lovely it might have been woven from starlight. And on her feet were a pair of elegant glass slippers.

“Oh my,” she breathed.

“Oh my indeed,” said the fairy. “Now, as for a coach…” she looked around until she spied the vegetable patch Constance and Prudence had tended so diligently. “Ah, just the thing!” she declared, and the next thing Ella knew, a large golden pumpkin had become a small golden coach. A few moments later a handful of mice had become horses, a rat had become a coachman, and a pair of lizards were now footmen. All of them exceptionally attractive, of course.

“That ought to do it,” said the fairy, looking pleased with herself. “Now, one thing to remember- the spell will end at midnight, so make sure you’ve left before then, or it will be rather a long walk home. Farewell!” and with a sparkle of dust she was gone.

Meanwhile, Constance and Prudence were having quite a good time at the ball, in spite of the fact that the women out-numbered the men a good four to one. They were enjoying food they had not had to prepare themselves, and admiring the creativity that had gone into all the outfits. In fact they were feeling pleased that their home-made gowns, if not the finest to be seen, at least were not the poorest.

A sudden stir near the main doors of the ballroom caught their attention, and so they witnessed Ella’s grand entrance. They, along with everyone else in the ballroom, stared in absolute shock- although their shock was not so much over how beautiful the “mysterious stranger” was as the fact that they could not fathom where their step-sister might have gotten her hands on such raiment. More to the point, they could not fathom her having the wherewithal to keep it a secret until this moment.

To exactly no one’s surprise, the prince approached Ella and asked her to dance. They made a lovely couple, and to be completely fair Ella was a superb dancer. She was also exceptionally good at making flattering small-talk, and the prince thoroughly enjoyed his turn about the floor with her. After the song came to an end, Ella made her way over to her step-sisters, where she made a very big deal over never having seen them before in her life. Constance and Prudence, bemused by this bizarre behavior, nevertheless went along with it, pretending not to know who the “mysterious stranger” was. Ella gaily drew the prince over to their little circle, and did her best to prove how much more lively and entertaining she was than her step-sisters. This might have worked better had she not considerably less intelligent than either Constance or Prudence. It soon became obvious to the prince that, as gorgeous as his dance-partner might be, she had a certain lacking in the wit department. Moreover he noticed in her a tendency to give back-handed compliments that were really quite cruel. And so when his father the king swept Ella away for a dance, he stayed to converse with the sisters, and found that while they were not anything spectacular in the looks department, both of them had a sort of wry sense of humor that he found entirely refreshing. Especially Prudence, who also had quite a bit to say on the current political climate, and her personal theories on how the kingdom’s trade might be expanded.

The prince found himself obliged to dance with Ella again, but as they were sweeping around the dance floor the clock suddenly began to strike the hour of midnight.

“Oh no! I must go at once!” cried Ella, and took off at what was, for her, a swift run. The prince made a half-hearted movement in her direction, and then made a point of stumbling over his own two feet, thus allowing her to escape into the night. She’d managed to lose one of her delicate glass slippers, however, and the king immediately picked it up for safekeeping.

As the fairy had predicted, Ella had quite a trek home (single-shoed and in ash-covered clothing, no less), and by the time she finally collapsed in the entryway, her step-mother and step-sisters were pulling up in the family carriage. When they entered the house Ella made a big deal of “waking up” and asked them how the ball was, and whether or not anyone interesting had showed up.

“Oh it was excellent,” they assured her, rolling their eyes at one another. “Really such a shame you missed it. There was the most mysterious stranger who danced with the prince not once but twice! Everyone thought she must be a foreign princess.”

Ella smiled smugly at this, and then wandered into the kitchen to find something to eat. She was so exhausted, however, that she ended up falling asleep next to the fireplace.

The next morning the kingdom woke to a new royal proclamation. The king had decided that the mysterious stranger would be excellent for the royal bloodlines, and so all eligible ladies in the kingdom were to prepare themselves for a visit from the prince in the coming weeks, who would use the glass slipper to find his bride. Ella would probably have been thrilled to hear this, except she was still sleeping in the ashes. Constance and Prudence only sighed, and told one another that at least they’d finally get their step-sister out from under-foot.

Later that day there came a knock at the door. Constance and Prudence were in the garden, repairing the damage done by all the trampling feet from the night before (mice-horses and former-lizards and the like), so it was their mother who answered, and it was their mother who was shocked to her core to see that apparently “in the coming weeks” meant that very day. Burning with humiliation at her lack of wealth being so exposed, the poor woman nevertheless held her head high as she lead the prince and his retainers out to where her daughters were working.

The prince was astounded to see Constance and Prudence toiling in the dirt, but was gracious enough not to comment on the situation. As a royal scribe read aloud the proclamation regarding the slipper, the prince looked around at the house and the garden, and realized how hard these women must work to keep up their façade. Constance, being the eldest, was the first to sit and dutifully present her foot to the page with the slipper. It most definitely did not fit.

“Shocking,” she said dryly, and nudged Prudence. “Your turn to prove that you’re not a mysterious stranger. Prudence sighed and sat, but just as the page was approaching her with the slipper, a lovely voice came from the house.

“Oh ugh, my head. Why are you being so loud? Why can’t you just let me sleep?” and Ella appeared in the doorway. For a moment everyone was stunned by her beauty, but then the scribe remembered himself and stammered his way through the proclamation once more.

“Oh, may I try the slipper?” Ella asked, her eyes gone wide and innocent. “Even though I am but a lowly servant in this household?”

The prince looked at her, and then looked at Prudence, who was flipping the slipper nonchalantly on her big toe. It very obviously was not hers. He looked again at Ella, who was angling her chin down to make her eyes appear even larger. He looked at her delicate limbs and ivory skin, then at the hard muscles in Prudence’s freckled arms. He thought about the current political climate, and the weak trade-routes.

“Actually it appears I’ve already found my bride,” he said firmly. “As you can see, the slipper fits this maiden perfectly. Doesn’t it Reginald?”

The scribe, who was trained never to contradict his prince in public, turned a sort of choking purple before he managed to reply, “Perfectly, my lord prince. Never was there a shoe better fit.”

“Excellent,” said the prince. “And since we can all see how well it fits, I declare that never again shall my bride have to wear such ludicrous footwear.” So saying, he snatched the shoe off Prudence’s foot and hurled it into the ground, where it smashed into glittering shards.

“Whoops,” he said, and grinned at the woman who he knew would fit both him and his kingdom like to a T.

Death Gulls to the Rescue!

Okay, this entry really needs an explanation (or possibly an apology-in-advance) before you read it. See, Nathan's up in Aberdeen right now, and for today's shot of people/animals, he elected to take a photo of some of the seagulls. While we were chatting about the seagulls (some of my favorite birds, mind you) he mentioned that they were like deathgulls, because they were just fighting each other over everything. For some reason or another he was prompted to utter the phrase, "Death Gulls to the rescue!" and from there a long conversation ensued regarding the nature of these noble beasts, and what activities they might engage in. Later on he happened to mention that he'd taken a photo of a gull that... well, you'll see. Anway, that's how this silly little story came to be. Because we all need to let off a little Weird sometimes...

***

Gather 'round, my children, and hear the tale of Billy Bastion and the Death Gulls.

Billy Bastion was born on a dark and stormy night, amidst peril most foul. His parents, lord and lady to the land, had been betrayed, and their castle was slowly but surely crumbling to their enemies' siege. As the villains hammered upon the door of into the birthing chamber, Billy's mother sent a desperate prayer to her gods, offering up her life in exchange for the protection of her unborn child. A flash of lightning struck with the bargain, and thus was born our hero- and his unbreakable bond with those celestial saviors from beyond the sea, the Death Gulls!

The Death Gulls streaked down from above, killing everyone in their path, until only little Billy remained. Thus assured of his safety, they winged their way once more to parts unknown. Billy himself was found and raised by a healthy young farming couple.

The next time Billy found himself in mortal peril, he was six years old. He had, against his foster parent's orders, wandered too deep into the woods, and come face to face with an enraged bear! Before the creature could eviscerate him, however, winged death swooped to the rescue- yes, the Death Gulls remained loyal to the dying wish of Billy's mother! With their eerie green beams of light they cleared the area of all threats, leaving Billy un-threatened once more.

When Billy was fifteen, he got it into his head to see the world, and set off down the long road to adventure. Unfortunately there were quite a few other adventuresome young men on this road, and a pack of them had banded together as robbers! Our hero might have perished beneath their clubs, had it not been for the eldritch workings of the Death Gulls! As he cleaned the viscera off of himself, Billy decided he had had enough adventure. Anyway, with the money he took off the bandit's corpses, he knew he'd be able to get himself a fine wife. So back to his village he went.

Billy did find himself a fine wife, a young woman by the name of Marigold. And they married in high style, and had a passel of fine children. And one day Billy was out in the fields with the other men of the village, bringing in the harvest, when a snake reared up out of the grass, flashing its venomous fangs! Instantly the sky darkened with a thousand razor-sharp wings, and in a blinding flash of veridian, Billy found himself to be the only living creature for a square mile.

He began to realize that having the protection of the Death Gulls might not be the safest thing for his family.

As such, he decided to exile himself to the wilderness, trusting in the Death Gulls to protect him from peril. And so they did, until the fateful day that Billy Bastion found himself dangling by his fingertips from the edge of a cliff. The Death Gulls arrived, yes- but when they saw Billy's predicament they turned as one to fly away.

"Wait!" cried Billy, "Will you not save me?"

The smallest of the gulls turned back to him and said,

"Sorry dude. Pretty much we only kill stuff."

The Ugly Bugling

Once upon a time there was a mommy grasshopper. She was very excited. She had laid her eggs back in the autumn, pushing each one carefully beneath the soil to keep it warm all through winter. Now it was spring, and the time had come for her eggs to hatch!

(It may be worth noting at this point that the mommy grasshopper was a ghost- a fact only tangentially relative to our story.)

She watched with pride as one by one her babies tunneled their way out of the soil. Each one was a beautiful miniature version of herself (or her mate) called a nymph. The mommy grasshopper was feeling very pleased with the whole situation, and was just about to go ahead and follow the Light into her next incarnation when she noticed one nymph that just didn't look like the others. She moved over to it to get a closer look.

It was true that he had bold and dashing stripes like all of his siblings- and it was true that he had gloriously strong hind jumping-legs. But his body was oddly truncated- it looked almost humped, as though someone had just pushed his head and his tail toward one another. And speaking of his tail, he seemed to have a pair of... well, the mommy grasshopper wasn't sure what was protruding from the little creature's posterior, but she knew that no self-respecting grasshopper would be caught dead with them. And she should know because (as mentioned) she herself was a ghost!

The other nymphs soon noticed the ugly little bugling in their midst, and they immediately began taunting him. The ugly bugling started to cry- after all, he was only a very young bugling, and had not yet had time to grow accustom to the basic cruelty of the world. All he wanted was to be loved and accepted by his hundred siblings! Also he wanted some food, and the grass the other nymphs were gnawing on just didn't seem to do it for him. So he was sad, and he was hungry, and all in all a pretty miserable (and ugly) bugling.

Just then, a powerful creature landed in the thick of the nymphs and began casually eating them. The mommy grasshopper was, of course, horrified, but then she remembered the waiting Light, shrugged, and Moved On. The ugly bugling watched in terror as the nymphs were gobbled up one after another. He couldn't help but notice that the insect eating them was boldly striped, with powerful jumping legs- but no wings. The creature paused in its meal long enough to give him the eye.

"Oh hullo there," it said around the flailing leg of a grasshopper nymph in its jaws. "So sorry- didn't realize you were already here. Do you mind terribly sharing?"

"Sharing?" said the ugly bugling, still trembling a bit.

"Well yes- I mean, I realize that grasshopper nymphs are something of a delicacy, but I shouldn't think that a little lad like yourself would be able to eat them all without some assistance!" The larger insect chuckled and helped himself to another of the ugly bugling's brothers. Or possibly a sister- the ugly bugling wasn't sure.

"I wasn't... I mean, they're my siblings! I had no plans to eat them!" protested the ugly bugling, although now that the other bug mentioned it, it didn't sound like such a bad idea.

"Siblings? Don't be ridiculous! You're not a mewling little herbivore of a grasshopper! You're a proud and clever cricket, like me! We're omnivores, don't you know! Here, try one- you'll see what I mean."

The ugly bugling took a bite out of his closest non-sibling. It wasn't making fun of his stumpy body now!

"You're right!" he said, smiling. "They're delicious!"

And that's how the ugly bugling realized his destiny as a totally kick-ass camel cricket, and learned that the best revenge is eating your enemies alive.


(Cricket?)


(PS A special thank-you to Nathan for suggesting the title and inspiring the story. Also, he gets kudos for not saying "I told you so" too often when it turned out he was right about the original ugly bugling.)

Thinking Too Much

You probably already know my story- most people do. They've even gone so far as to take my youthful, idealistic mantra for their own:

I think I can, I think I can!

Well let me tell you what happens when you think too much. Once the Powers That Be realize they can get that kind of work out of you they'll never settle for less. Never mind that you're not built for it- never mind that it's not your job and moreover that there are those whose job it is. Never mind that it was supposed to be a miraculous, once-in-a-lifetime achievement, and to force someone to repeat it over and over again robs it of its specialness.

No, never mind all of that. Instead, day after day I would hear, "C'mon kid! We think you can do it! More importantly, we know you think you can do it! Ha hah!" and no one caring what the strain was doing to my body, to my mind. Never any thanks for the extra effort, because after all, that's what I did: overcame impossible odds.

Is it any wonder I broke down long before my time?


(All Aboard)

The Unicorn's Mate

I was five the first time I saw the unicorn.

I was playing in the basement of our split-level home when a flash of silver at the window made me look up. I didn't see anything right away, but being a child who was attracted to shiny things in general, I clambered up on the back of the couch to get a better view. The windows were set flush with the ground, so when I managed to peep my little nose over the windowsill, I found myself with a worms-eye view of... something.

Gradually I realized I was looking at an animal- a small, blindingly white animal. This in and of itself was not a big surprise- living as we did in the woods I was very used to seeing all manner of creatures go creeping about our property- and I knew that rabbits and foxes both could go white in the winter.

Except it wasn't winter; it was spring.

The animal cocked its head at me and I suddenly realized what I was seeing.

"Ohhh!" I breathed, for there could be no doubt about it- stubby as it was, the single horn spiraling out of the creature's forehead marked it unicorn. And a baby unicorn, at that! For three whole heartbeats I was frozen with delight- then I jumped down off the couch and went racing up the stairs to our front door.

It was gone by the time I got around to the side of the house, of course. And even as I searched through the surrounding trees I began to doubt what I had seen. I wanted very badly to believe in magic, in unicorns- but the truth was I had a bit too wide of a practical streak in me. By the time I turned back to the house I'd already chalked the sighting up to wishful thinking.

***

I was twelve when the unicorn appeared again, nearing the end of a girl's natural unicorn-obsession-cycle. I had not yet given up the posters and figurines that decorated my room, however, and I still had a battered old stuffy that I slept with- when I wasn't at a sleepover, anyway.

I would have remembered that day even if I hadn't had an encounter with a unicorn, because that was the day the long-anticipated Period arrived. Contary to popular-teen-magazine predictions, there had been nothing mortifying about the experience; I'd gone to the bathroom, looked down, and had a split second of irritation that my favorite underpants were ruined. Then the full force of what said ruination implied hit me, and I'd started grinning like an idiot.

My mother and father made just the right amount of Deal about the occasion- pride was expressed, a garnet ring bestowed, and a special meal prepared. But now I needed some time to myself, so as violet twilight settled on the woods I found myself walking alone and ruminating on my new role as A Certifiable Woman.

And then I wasn't alone. The back of my neck prickled and I knew someone was watching me. Not something (for I was long accustomed to the wary eyes of animals marking my passage): someone. I turned slowly, and found to my surprise that I'd been mistaken: it was an animal, some sort of- albino deer? I took in the graceful limbs, the liquid eyes- and then my gaze hit the spiraling horn, and it was as though I was five years old again.

"Ohhh!"

The creature tossed its head in what I would have sworn was a laugh, and then danced closer to me- but not close enough to touch. I remained unmoving, hardly daring to breathe. As of this morning I was officially no longer a child, and I knew that what I was seeing absolutely was not a figment of my imagination.

It took another dancing step towards me, and then another- until it was at last close enough for me to reach out and stroke- but still I did not move. I noticed a faint floral scent strangely reminiscent of curry and coconut milk... and then with a silver flash the unicorn was gone.

***

When I was sixteen I fell in love. His name was Dougie, and I had decided he was The One. Oh, he had his flaws- he was prone to secrecy and depression- but these traits just made me love him all the more, because I knew I was the only one who could keep his darkness at bay. He needed me- and I of course needed him. We'd told our parents we were going on a hiking picnic, and we were- but we were also planning much more than that.

We left the trail and found a secluded clearing to spread our blanket in. We didn't bother unpacking our lunch- that could wait until afterward. Dougie leaned over and began kissing my neck, and I closed my eyes in nervous excitement. Just then an errant breeze brought sweet and exotic smell to my nose.

"I like your new shampoo," I murmured. "It smells delicious."

"I don't have a new shampoo," he said into my hair. "Same as it's always been." I inhaled again as his hand crept under my shirt- there was definitely a new smell. But it was also vaguely familiar.

"Is it your cologne?"

"Mmm-mmm," came the negative reply. I couldn't keep my eyes closed anymore- the scent was too distracting, and to tell the truth his groping hands were suddenly annoying.

"Hold on a second-" I said, halting his progress.

"Are you okay? I'm sorry, I didn't mean to go too fast- I thought you wanted-"

"No, no it's fine. Just be quiet a second. I'm trying to remember." Dougie looked vaguely scandalized, as though I'd just thrown a bucket of ice water on him.

"Oookay," he sat back and ran his hands through his hair. I stood up, ignoring him, and inhaled deeply.

"Coconut milk," I muttered- and then a movement behind Dougie caught my eye. I turned towards it, and there was the unicorn, standing deep in the trees and looking at me with such sorrow I thought my heart would break. I could see now that the last time I'd seen him he hadn't been fully mature: he'd been slender and almost gangly then, but now he looked sleek and dangerous. It was like the difference between a boy's muscles and a man's. An echo of an academic voice came unbidden to my mind:

The unicorn will only allow virgins to approach it.

And in that moment, I knew Dougie was not The One. Because if he had been, he would have been worth losing the unicorn. But the sick feeling in my stomach told me he absolutely was not.

***

Neither were the next couple of boyfriends, as it turned out. Any time we'd start to go beyond kissing, I'd think of the unicorn and I'd realize that not a one of them was worth never seeing it again.

I know, I know- it made no sense. I'd only seen the thing three times, never even had a real interaction with it. It was probably some twisted manifestation of the patriarchy that was subconsciously convincing me that I had to remain "pure" to be of any value in society. I didn't care: I wanted that unicorn more than anything I'd ever encountered, patriarchal manipulation be damned.

Finally I gave up on dating. There didn't seem to be much point, since most of the boys I dated eventually wanted to have sex, and the ones who didn't struck me as... not good matches for me in the long run. It might have been easier if I myself hadn't been interested in sex- but I was, in theory. Just... not with any of them.

I'd taken to spending all of my free time wandering the woods in solitude. It was on one such hike that I was faced with the most important decision of my life. In the three years since I'd last seen the unicorn I'd decided to become a zoologist (with a minor in mythology) and I was returning to university in a few weeks. I wondered if I'd ever see the unicorn again, if they were a species found across the world, or if they were indigenous to the forests of Alaska (a scenario which seemed highly unlikely to me).

A silver flash in the corner of my eye made me smile. I didn't whirl to look this time, didn't freeze up. I twined my fingers together in front of me and turned my gaze to the pale blue sky.

"I was just thinking of you," I said.

"I know," came the reply, and I tripped in shock. The unicorn moved over to where I lay sprawled and lowered his head until his nose was by my own. Because as soon as I heard that voice, I had no doubt that the unicorn was male.

"You can talk," I choked.

"I know that, too," and I thought I saw a smile in his eyes.

"Wow," I pushed myself up into a seated position and tried to really appreciate what I was seeing. He looked exactly the same as he had when I was sixteen- well, maybe there was something a little wiser about the eyes.

"Kaitlyn, the time has come for you to choose."

"To- to choose?" I felt like an idiot, stumbling over my words, but the truth was that my brain was doing the best it could to deal with the impossible situation.

"To choose what you will be."

"I've already chosen what I'll be," I said. "I'm majoring in-"

"No, not what you'll do, Beloved. What you'll be." I didn't have a response for that- the unicorn had called me 'Beloved'. And it felt right.

"You have remained a virgin," he continued, and I blinked.

"Wait wait wait- is it true that's the only reason you'll get close to me? Because my stupid hymen is intact?" Again the look in his eyes that I felt was a smile, albeit an embarrassed one.

"That's not... strictly accurate," he said. "If you had given yourself to a mortal man, I could still approach you. There just wouldn't be much point."

"Excuse me?" The dazzle of talking to a real-life unicorn was wearing off, and mostly what I was feeling was irritated. The unicorn took a step back from my glare.

"I should explain better," he said.

"I'll say."

"Kaitlyn, every unicorn that is ever born is a male."

"That's ridiculous and impossible," I snapped, ignoring how ludicrous it was to make such a statement to a unicorn. "Unless you're like those amphibians that can change gender."

"No, we cannot change gender. But we must have mates, and so we seek them out. If we hope to reproduce we must find a female creature willing to give up her form for that of a unicorn's. But she cannot do that if she's given herself to a male of her own species. We believe in mating for life, you see."

"Well that's inconvenient," I said, suddenly feeling a bit fluttery in my stomach.

"It's not so bad," he said. "We never have to worry about inbreeding, for one thing," I couldn't help but laugh at that. I reached out a hand and touched his gleaming cheek- it was like cold silk beneath my fingertips, and he closed his eyes in response.

"What- what does that have to do with me?" I asked, although I already knew the answer. The liquid eyes opened again, and he pressed his head into my touch.

"I've chosen you, Kaitlyn. I chose you years ago, when we were both children. But now we are adults, and you must choose me in return."