Got my newest drabble posted on thedrabble.com – go check out the site; it’s great!
By A.R. Frederiksen “I wish they’d just take it,” her mother said. “It can’t be worse, can it?” Julia looked from her coffee cup to the fridge. A myriad of notes, all A4 with no post-its in sight, sat plastered all over the appliance, the lettering dark and big and bold. Too big and too […]
via Making Light of Dark —
His hair drew me to him, so curly and so soft. You don’t suspect something like that to turn on you – why would you? – which is why I never felt the curls worming their way into my heart until the day that they hardened, becoming screws, drilling me to pieces.
The note in her hand didn’t glow rays of golden light, nor did it emit the scent of everything good in the universe. It had no beautiful calligraphy, no seal, and no instant redemption jumping up at you from the paper – which was fine, really, because when had a divorce ever been golden?
The reason for monogamy: housing prices?
She wants to be a model, but she is born into a family of butchers.
At age twenty, she sleeps with a God of Egypt. He reaches up and touches her, bringing her through the nights with whiskers that poke her cheeks. One day, life grows inside of her. She calls him Moses, but one night Mr. Jackal pushes in too hard, and he takes Moses back; Moses will bring no plagues to Egypt. She changes her name to Nefertiti, a Queen of old, believing that this will leave no room for butchers – and yet, she knows, Mr. Jackal stays.
(Inspired by this poem of my own – also, this is a piece of fiction; I’m not out to bash religions or some such nonsense, m’kay? It’s pure creative inspiration, that’s all.)
“Son? I’ve been sterilized for decades!”
When we were small, we had in our backyard what we thought of as a field of sugar canes. It wasn’t that, of course, except for in our imagination. We have sugar beets, not canes, here in the Scandinavian North. Up until this day, I don’t know what those imagined sugar canes truly were – maybe bamboo or a type of weed? – but I do know that they were tall, green, round and juicy, and I also know that they made this delightfully crisp sound when we harvested them with our makeshift play-scythes. I remember those days vividly and with fondness, but I understand now, sister of mine, that you perhaps never saw those sugar canes, but that I, and only I, was the one who did.
Once upon a time, there was village on top of a hill. It was small village, a friendly village, and it was surrounded by trees as thick and tall as palace towers. Every other month, food and water would be brought to the village from faraway lands and the village would fill with lively chatter and children’s laughter. And yet, no matter how happy the villagers were, they did not leave the top of the hill, because at the very bottom of that selfsame hill lay the forest – and the forest grew thick and strong like weed underneath the sun. The forest was safe only to the merchants who traveled with the lights of their lanterns to guide their way. At night, if the moon sat high on the sky like a perfectly round pearl, you could see the moving shadows of the forest as it circled the hill. Some villagers said that the forest was haunted by evil spirits who would grab you by your ankles and drag you into the heart of the earth unless you screamed loud enough; others said that the brushwood was so thick that you fell straight through, no evil spirits needed!
The village sat on a hill, surrounded by forest as far as the eye could see, and nobody walked off the hill.
As for those who did?
Those we do not speak of…
(illustration done by me)
Something lives in the basement.
It is my daughter who first tells me this, her eyes earnestly blue and so unlike my own.
She stands on her tiptoes and grabs my hand when I drop the fatty dough on the tabletop, flour rising up in an endless cloud of white – swirling, forever turning.
Who tells you this, I ask her, patiently, to which she replies that it was daddy, yesterday, during storytelling time. I say nothing. While I don’t believe that she’s speaking of our basement, I do believe that she is speaking of monsters, but as through the mouth of her father.
As to whatever that means…