Story For The Week 4/6/2021

The Author        

Author sat at his deck, rubbing his forehead. It seemed he’d been rubbing it for days, waiting for inspiration to come. Maybe, just maybe, he exhausted all the fairy tales available. Maybe there wasn’t anything more to write about.

                “You could have written a nicer story about me,” Little Red Riding Hood said from behind his left shoulder. “I could have gone to the mall or something, like really.  Going to Grandma’s House with a wolf dressed as Grandma!”

                “That’s the story,” he said, somewhat impatiently. She’d been whining about her story since it had been written.

                “Do you see what I’m wearing?” she asked, holding out the sides of her dress in each hand, looking down at her checkered frock.

                “It’s how you dress,” he said. “It’s how girls dressed in your time.”

                “But you didn’t write me in my time,” she protested.  “You wrote me in your time but you still put me in this stinking dress. Like why?”

                “At least you aren’t perpetually in a nightgown,” the wolf growled, slinking in from the living room. “And a night hat.”

                “It’s called a ‘kirchief,” he said, more impatiently. “You know that.”

                “Still doesn’t mean I like it. You could have written me eating Little Red here,” he continued. “That is the moral of the story, you know.”

                “We know the moral,” Red said with a roll of her eyes. “Really!”

                “And you couldn’t have made me a nice wolf, you know. Sophisticated. Well-liked.”

                “Nobody likes wolves,” Little Pig # 2 piped up.

                “I ought to eat you,” snapped the wolf, “and I would have if you hadn’t run into Little Pig #3 house.”

                “Speaking of that,” Little Pig #2 said, “Why did my house have to be of sticks. Why couldn’t I have had the house of bricks?”

                Author slid around in his chair. “I wrote you all in your own stories. And that’s final.” He looked at Red. “No mall for you.” At the Big Bad Wolf, “No sophistication for you. You’re a big bad wolf, for crying out loud. And you, Little Pig, have the house you build. You aren’t smart enough to build the house of bricks.”

                Little Piglet #3 snickered. “Like I always told you, Millard,” addressing Little Pig #2. “Author has the story right. I’m the one smart enough to build from bricks.”

                Big Bad Wolf growled. “I’ll blow your house down eventually,” he said, lowering his head to stare right into Little Pig #3’s eyes.

                “All right, you all,” Author said, waving his hands. “No wonder I can’t write. All of you arguing all the time.”

                Snow White stalked in. “While we’re griping,” she said, “why put me with 7 short, dour, grumpy men. How about 7 Princes, huh? Did you think of that?”

                “Seven?” Prince Charming shot back. “How about me. Aren’t I enough? I have a hard enough time with you running off into the forest to sing to all the animals as it is,” he continued. “Just think what I’d have to worry about if you had six more of me around. I’d never get anything done!”

                Snow White rolled her eyes. “Yeah, yeah, if you weren’t so insecure…”

                “Insecure! You’d make anybody insecure,” Charming shot back and would have continued on if The Big Bad Wolf hadn’t sidled up to him at that exact moment.

                “I’ll eat her for you,” he said smoothly, “no charge and all your problems gone!”

                Prince Charming thought for a moment.

                Snow erupted. “You have to think about it? Really, Charming? You’d throw me to the Wolf?”

                “No, no, of course not,” Prince said, pulling his sword. “I’ll cut his head off for you, my dear.”

                Big Bad Wolf howled. “My head? How dare you!” He leapt at Charming and the two went down, tussling across the floor.

                Author sighed and turned back to his blank page, head in hands, as behind him the argument spread among the Fairy Tales until all of them were screaming and fighting.

                “I told you the troubles you would have,” Hans Christian said, seating himself on the edge of the desk.

                “I know, but you really didn’t make it clear how horrible they all are.”

                “Fairy Tales were horrible,” Hans pointed out. “A product of their time.”

                “Then why aren’t they bitching to you?”

                “Oh, back then they were content with their roles. It was all they had, after all. What else was a Little Pig or a Big Bad Wolf going to do?”

                They were silent for a moment, watching the fights. Prince Charming had pinned down the Big Bad Wolf and was trying to saw his head off with a dulled sword.

                “Good thinking, making his sword dull,” Hans commented.

                Author shrugged, pleased.

                “So what do I do?”

                “You’re just going to have to rewrite their stories again,” Hans told him, “to fit this new world.”

“I did that with Red and she’s still not happy.”

                “Oh for crying out loud, just let her go to this thing she calls the mall. Let the Big Bad Wolf eat somebody. That is all he wants you know, just to win once.”

                “But I can’t let him eat Red or the Little Pigs,” Author protested. “What would happen to their Tales?”

                “They would disappear, of course,” Hans replied thoughtfully. “An interesting idea. I wonder how many tales you could make disappear?”

                Author looked at the battling Fairy Tales again and then said, “I bet I can make them all disappear.”

                The Little Pigs were punching and kicking each other.

                Hans nodded. “There you go. They have become so sickly sweet in your age that I’m ashamed to have written them.”

                “Have no fear,” Author said, eager to get back to his writing. For the first time in ages, he felt the words stirring in his mind, eager to spill out onto the paper. Turning back to his empty page, he picked up his pen and started to write.

                “Once upon a time, there was a Big Bad Wolf who had never eaten anybody…”

JSW Writing Response 6-5-2017

Click To Claim Your Free eBook Of The Most Popular Prompts | Prompt | Dialogue | Writing | Inspiration | Read | Starter | Conversation | TFR’s Writing Prompts | Number 164 | Novel | Story | Writers Corner

“Really? Way back?”

He smirked.

“Like… you were born on the same day, time, space, and such brings such a deep connection…. Or, what? Maybe you met in Kindergarten and became fast friends for life?”

“No need to be snide.”

“I’d say there is definitely a need to be snide.”

He shrugged. “Suit yourself. Stay behind or come with, your choice.”

“But wait!  It’s a demon!”

“So? He’s a normal guy like all the others. Wants a house, family, two and a half children. Decent meal on the table.”

“Yeah, it’s the meal I’m worried about.”

Laughing, he headed down the hall. “You’re far too stringy and tough to have any worries. Trust me.”

At the door at the end of the hall, he knocked.  “Got to be polite.”

“Humph.”

The door cracked open. An eye peeked out. The door opened to show a small, wrinkled demon, barely four feet tall.

“Come in, come in.” He warbled and wheezed, motioning with one claw. “I’ve just built a gingerbread house. Would you like a nibble?”

Sunday Photo Fiction 4-16-2017

Each week a photo is used, donated by one of the participants of Sunday Photo Fiction, and the idea is to write a story with the photo as a prompt in around 200 words.

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If he couldn’t lower his wings and shut his mouth soon, he was going to pass out. Really. Truly. Right atop the clock, on-the-hour bongs shaking him to his toes. Claws? Whatever.

When darkness fell, he sagged in relief, working the ache out of wings and jaw.

“Long day,” Peatry remarked from his right, skillfully pointing out the obvious.

There was a grumble at the far end of the hall, but he couldn’t tell if it was Dowser or Downer; they looked so alike. Gargoyles. Couldn’t live with them, couldn’t smash them.

Stretching and gossiping, they flocked to the table from all sides, to the leftovers from the day’s flurry of sights and scent. To the tossed crust of bread, the forgotten french fry. A potato chip if luck was with them.

Before dawn, they returned to their places, full and ready for the coming day.

The time, he made sure his mouth was closed and his wings folded before the first streaks of dawn froze him solid.

Naptime!

 

Daily Post One Word Prompt – Recognize 2-8-2017 (Gone, Pt 4)

Recognize

Gone, Part 4

It hadn’t meant anything. She’d done her job. At least, they’d told her she had done a good job and making them happy was the fricking point of her entire existence. Or, so it felt. Regardless, she’d snared the bait and walked away. She done it so many time before, she could have been blindfolded.

Sometimes, she dreamed of an almost forgotten past; before the hurt and the pain, before the murder, before those men stepped in and saved her. Going from her family’s protection to protection by the government in what? An hour? More? It had been too confusing; all the screaming and gunfire, her father racked with bullets, his last gift falling dead over her body. Because she’d been under him, unable to move, the Cartel had assumed she was dead as well. She lay there until Conner found her.

She’s only been nine. How was she supposed to know one devil from another?

Different names, different hair colors, different lives. No where felt like home. She had nothing but the men who’d saved her, hidden her in the forgotten nooks and crannies of the world. And then, she found out what they wanted. They wanted her; they owned her. She’d never had a choice.

She lured men, and women, seduced them away from their families, from their lives, into a world in which they no longer existed. For all their families knew, they’d left for another woman or another man, never to be heard from again. The families would never find out different. They used the Bait until it died, or was so broken as to be useless.

Sometimes, she dreamed of the families left behind. Women’s faces. Men’s faces. Empty houses. Long dark nights and tears. Anger. Sometimes hate. Sometimes gunshots. Pills. Broken dreams. Broken lives.

For a long time, she’d believed they were right. Her life had been broken, destroyed, her parents, sibling, killed in front of her; a never-ending nightmare. What gave anybody the right to an unbroken life when she had nothing?

She’s come to realize, however, that no matter her broken life, she didn’t have the right to cause others the same pain. To abandon them to a fate more devastating than death.

The last one, he’d cried the night they took him away. Begged.

No right. No right whatsoever.

Clutching her bag, she strode towards Departure Gate B. They wouldn’t be looking for her yet, but as soon as they realized she’d fled, they would. She wanted as much distance and time between them as possible. She needed every minute to disappear.

“You coming, Miss?” asked the attendant as the last of the passengers were cleared for boarding.

Run. Run. As fast and as far as possible. So they won’t catch you.  You’ll be free.

She couldn’t. She didn’t. Instead, she turned back, exchanged her ticket, and while waiting, pulled out her phone. Texted a number not yet deleted from her memory.

Gone, Part 1

Gone, Part 2

Gone, Part 3

 

Sunday photo Fiction – May 15th 2016

The idea of Sunday Photo Fiction is to create a story/poem or something using around 200 words with the photo as a guide.

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To read more, click  Here

We boarded the skybus first thing Monday morning, just before it pulled away from the Fourth Street MetroSky station. Maria watched the wilderness outside the city’s wall.

“What’s down there?” she asked.

All cubs went through a phrase of fascination with the Wilds.

“Looks scary,” said the man beside me, only it came out “Looksssssss  ssssssssssscary.”

If lizards were meant to talk, God would have given them normal lips and tongue.

“It’s dangerous,” I said. It was never too early, or late, to remind cubs of the dangers in the Wilds.

“I want to go down.” Like every other kit and cub I’d ever known.

“The creatures would kill you and eat you.”

“Euuuuh!” Quick recovery. “But the airbus is safe?”

“Yes.”

“Can’t the creatures climb the poles?”

“They aren’t made to climb like your uncle Wally and his crew. It’s dangerous work, but impossible to bring down from below. That keeps little cubs like you safe.” I tapped her nose and she sneezed.

Next moment, she was curled up against me, fast asleep. I stroked her fur for a moment and then pulled out Farewell to Paws, settling in for the remaining hours of the trip.