The old decrepit house on Willows street was said to be possessed every Christmas eve. An eerie fog would gather around its gated premises and the normally dormant glass globes by the broken windows would glow a menacing red. Its previous inhabitants, a young family who settled in several decades ago, had been driven mad; the couple wound up in separate asylums and their children orphaned. Curiously, all the members had developed an aversion to pies of all things. The father’s insane ramblings oscillated between the gift of a divine custard and the devil’s hellfire that incinerated it. The mother reenacted the preparation of the same meal that would always end with an iron mold placed in the oven. The two children had night terrors about utensils and cutlery. The police couldn’t make heads or tails of the case until they hired an exorcist to treat the afflicted. When the priest finished his work, he asked the detectives, “have you found the friend?”
A young pigeon once asked his cell mate if there was life outside the cage. The older bird, having pecked away the button that once yielded sweet cakes gave a wistful look and replied
“These wings could fly me to places beyond the eye’s reach. Those cakes however ruined it all for I now only dream of cake and so keep waiting.”
“That seems quite sad, but I don’t fully understand” remarked the younger pigeon. “What does it mean to fly?”
The older bird sighed and said “To fly is to live”.
“Sell me this toothbrush and the job is yours” egged John with a smug expression. The position was for a high-paying sales role at a big firm.
Unphased, Tom the prospect quipped “When was the last time you brushed your teeth?”
“This morning after breakfast.”
“How long did that take before heading here?”
“About 5 minutes”
“What about after lunch?”
“The same, dentist’s recommendation”
“And at night?”
“Yes and floss”
“Have you ever missed a day?”
“Nope, not since several cavities developed years ago.”
Tom picked up the toothbrush, studied it carefully for a minute, and quickly snapped it in two by the neck. Holding the brush-head in one hand and pulling out a packet in the other he replied,
“I have pocket toothbrush, lightweight and portable for on-the-go use by the busiest of executives. Retail sales price is a dollar a head but for you, I’ll throw in a pack of mints.”
Tom won the job.
“It is but a flea in a haystack of manure” Tommy exclaimed. “Am I to rend all the speckles from your silverware too?”
“Yes” remarked Matilde with a slight haught and raised chin. “And despeckle the grainy bits from the photo collection afterwards. I expect the highest diligence from you without grievances. Do I make myself clear?”
“Grievances?!” yelped Tommy and turning red from the insult. “I’ll have you know you’ll be getting more grievances than diligence by the time I’m done!”
30 years later and ongoing
“Eeek! There’s a bug in my soup Tom. Get it out! Get out!”
“This one’s for the permanent collections :)”
Entry to this week’s Friday Fictioneers! Image courtesy of Rochelle Wisoff-Fields, our lovely host.
At the start of winter, the four gathered around the ring. Born into servitude, beasts-of-burden they were. If they did their work, a haystack would magically appear in the ring the following day.
Life was good until one Monday, the four woke-up to an empty feed. Bewildered, they redoubled their efforts in vain as the ring would stayed empty all week. By next Monday, three were in denial, believing things will improve if they stuck to their old ways. The forth left to find green pastures in the white landscape. By winter’s end, only one survived, no longer a beast-of-burden.
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Entry to this week’s 3LineTales. Photo courtesy of Grant McCurdy
Broken camera by the sea. Shattered and forgotten. The waves hunger.
But I saw you there. Corner of my eye. A glint of light on overcast day.
And you saw me. Whom the sea threw back. O’misty lens lifeline.
The trees… They used to walk you know. Across the land they roamed, over tall mountains, under deep canyons, beneath great lakes even. Drawn they were to the whims of a sun that could never sit still, forever rising, forever falling.
O’Mighty star, they implored. Won’t you be still and grant us reprieve? For we are weary of eternal march, trek, and quest. The sun who had heard their pleas grinned and acquiesced. Slowly it drifted to a halt, suspending motion and flight for as far as the eye could see. The trees, exasperated yet rejoiced, fell into an immense slumber, eager to rest and feed.
Eons had passed and the sun remained still; a drop in a bucket within one lifetime but a thousand generations in another. The trees had wedded themselves to the ground for their roots dug deep and their trunks grew tall. Asleep they all were when the destined day arrived and the sun imperceptibly moved. Little by little it accelerated, regaining the flight it once had ages yonder. And so the slumbering trees woke up to a frosty dew and a new witness. Day and night had been born.
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