Fiction: Scorched Earth

Image: ZeroOne / Foter.com / CC By-SA

Trifecta weekend challenge, 33 words

I can't help wanting to explain, before ending your little planet. Breadcrumbs, Fritos, we appreciated them all. How could you know you were consorting with the enemy?

Ducks. Damned ducks.

War is hell.

Story: Caveat Emptor

(StoryADay continues, and gets weirder. This one feels unfinished, but its day is over!)

Once upon a time there was a boy who wanted a pink flamingo in the garden.

"What will the neighbors say?" asked his mother.

"It's an HOA violation," said his father.

"Pink?" asked his brother.

The boy went on eBay and bought a used pink flamingo as part of a package deal that included a plastic gnome and a bag of hose guides.

"It's dirty," said his mother.

"It'll get in the way of the mower," said his father.

"At least the gnome isn't pink," said his brother, and he took the gnome away to be a practice target for Archery Club.

The boy didn't care about the gnome. He didn't want to get in the way of the mower, so he filled a bucket with dirt and put it in his room and stuck the flamingo's legs in it to make it stand up and pointed his desk lamp at it for sunshine. He played music from the eighties for it because that was what his mother had and his father only liked classical and there was a skull and crossbones on the door of his brother's room and his brother meant it.

One night the boy had a dream. He was playing Devo, and the pink flamingo got out of the bucket and started to tapdance out of time in the spotlight of the desk lamp.

"You're getting dirt on the floor," said the boy.

"That's what your mother would say," said the flamingo.

"You don't tapdance to Devo," said the boy.

"That's what your brother would say," said the flamingo.

"What would my father say?" asked the boy.

"Your father would never dream about a pink flamingo," said the flamingo.

The next day at breakfast, the boy said "I dreamed that my flamingo tapdanced to Devo."

"Tapdancing is stupid," said his brother.

"Why are you listening to Devo?" asked his father.

His mother felt his forehead.

The next night the boy had another dream. His brother was sitting in a chair with an apple on his head, and the flamingo was loading a crossbow.

The next day at breakfast the boy said, "I dreamed that my flamingo shot Hugh."

"That's it; that flamingo's going to the dump," said his father.

"I'm calling the doctor," said his mother.

His brother left the breakfast table and went to the boy's room. He took the flamingo and carried it with him to school while the boy's mother was looking for the instant-read thermometer.

The boy didn't discover that his flamingo was gone until after he got home from the doctor and his mother had made him eat two bowls of soup. He was very upset.

"It's just as well," said his mother.

"It's probably home invaders," said his brother when he got home from school.

"Better get rid of that bucket of dirt," said his father when he got home from work.

The boy went to bed early without turning on the desk lamp.

The next day the boy woke up and the flamingo was back, standing in the bucket of dirt.

At breakfast, the boy asked, "Where's Hugh?"

"Hugh?" asked his mother.

"Who's Hugh?" asked his father.

"You know, Hugh. He sits there." The boy pointed at his brother's chair.

"Aren't you a little old for imaginary friends?" asked his father.

"If you invited someone to breakfast, you'd better leave some pancakes for them," said his mother.

The boy finished his pancakes and went to look at his brother's room. The skull and crossbones were gone and the room was painted yellow with white trim and there was a sewing machine and a quilt frame and his mother's autographed poster of Sting was on the wall.

That night the boy had another dream. This time the flamingo was hula dancing to Cindy Lauper.

"Do you give wishes?" asked the boy.

"Sometimes," said the flamingo.

"I didn't really want Hugh to go away forever," said the boy. "Mom would be upset if he never came back."

"She doesn't remember him," said the flamingo.

"What if I wished him back?" asked the boy.

"I don't like him," said the flamingo.

The boy didn't know what to say.

"I don't like your father either," said the flamingo. "And your mother is fussy."

The boy still didn't know what to say. The music stopped, and he put in a Pat Benatar CD.

The flamingo started to dance the hokey pokey. "Do you know what an HOA is?"

The boy said, "They make the rules about paint colors and shutters and trashcans and things."

The flamingo put his left foot in.

The boy said, "And lawn ornaments."

The flamingo put his left foot out.

The boy said, "I can't make the HOA change the rule about lawn ornaments."

The flamingo put his left foot in.

The boy said, "I guess I could try."

The flamingo shook his foot all about.

Image: By Forest & Kim Starr. Wikimedia Commons

Story: Recycling

Once upon a time there was a girl who wanted to make her mother happy.

On Monday, she made her mother a stack of silver-dollar pancakes with buckwheat flour.

"Were these made with Norwegian butter?" asked her mother.

"No," said the girl.

"Is the syrup from Maine?"

"No," said the girl.

"Oh," said the mother, and she read her paper.

On Tuesday, the girl brought her mother a bouquet of violets.

"Are these viola odorata? Only viola odorata have a scent."

"I don't know," said the girl.

"Well, why don't you find out, then?"

"I think they smell good," said the girl.

"There's a plant encyclopedia under the window seat," said her mother. And she read her paper.

On Wednesday, the girl made her mother's bed. She fluffed the pillows and sprinkled the sheets with lavender water.

"What is that smell?" asked her mother as she passed with her paper. "Maybe you should open a window."

On Thursday, the girl brought her mother a copy of the New York Times. "They say it's the best paper."

Her mother said, "That's Tuesday's paper."

The girl said, "They don't print it here. I had it shipped from Pittsburgh."

"Oh," said her mother, and she turned back to the local paper.

On Friday the girl made a papier mache bowl from the New York Times and painted the outside with red and green fish.

"Are those non-toxic paints?" asked her mother.

The girl didn't answer.

Her mother shrugged and went to read her paper in the garden.

On Saturday the girl baked a casserole of goose livers in the oven.

"Did you use grey French shallots when you browned the meat?" asked her mother.

The girl didn't answer.

On Sunday the girl chopped the livers and piled them in the papier mache bowl. She sprinkled them with parsley and put the bowl on the floor.

The cat was happy.

"What about me?" asked her mother.

Image: Wikimedia Commons.

Story: Bitter Oranges

Once upon a time there was a cat that was hungry. All the time.

He ate his Friskies, but he was still hungry.

He ate his kibble, but he was still hungry.

When his people were gone after breakfast, he jumped up on the kitchen counter and ate the leftover eggs and bacon and syrup-soaked pancakes and everything but the marmalade, but he was still hungry.

He came back later and ate the marmalade. He was still hungry.

He walked around the house with sticky-marmalade paws, and howled.

The neighbors complained and his people cleaned up the marmalade and took him to the cat doctor and the cat doctor said, "He's fine. Put him on a diet."

The cat was given no Friskies and half as much kibble and the breakfast dishes were washed clean and shining every morning, and the cat ate all his kibble and howled.

The neighbors complained and the cat's people locked the cat in the basement laundry room with clean water and half a cup of kibble and a soft throw rug and three cushions and the heat on just the way the cat liked it and two catnip mice and a bouncy-spring cat toy and NPR on the radio so the cat could hear voices. They petted him and told him stories every day before they went to work. And the cat ate all his kibble and the insides of both catnip mice and lay down against the bouncy-spring cat toy and howled. But no one could hear him, so the neighbors were happy.

On a Thursday, during Talk Of The Nation, the cat smelled something better than kibble or even Friskies. He looked up and he saw a mouse sniffing at the kibble bowl. And the mouse was what smelled better than Friskies.

The cat had never seen Friskies or kibble or eggs or even marmalade move. He felt a twitching in his paws and his stomach growled and his legs wanted to spring, and he watched the good-smelling mouse as it circled the kibble bowl and sniffed at the catnip-mouse carcasses and peered over the water bowl and took a lap of water. And then the mouse scurried to a crack under the baseboard and squeezed his head and his hindquarters and his tail underneath and the mouse disappeared.

And the cat sprang and scrabbled at the crack under the baseboard and sniffed the better-than-Friskies smell. And the cat howled.

It wasn't until the next Tuesday, during Fresh Air, that the cat smelled the better-than-Friskies smell again. The cat hid behind the Tide box and held very still and watched the good-smelling mouse snatch a crumb of kibble from under the dryer where the cat had been unable to reach it. The mouse ran with the crumb to the crack under the baseboard and squeezed his head and his hindquarters and his tail underneath and disappeared. And the cat twitched, but he did not spring or scrabble or howl.

And on Wednesday, the cat left one piece of kibble in his bowl, and all morning he watched the kibble, and watched the crack, and watched the kibble, and sniffed the kibble, and prowled around the bowl. And after Fresh Air he ate the piece of kibble and he lay down against the bouncy-spring cat toy and he howled.

On Thursday, the cat didn't eat the piece of kibble until Echoes came on. And then he attacked the bouncy-spring cat toy and tore its feathery head to pieces and lay down on the feathers and howled.

On Friday the cat was watching the piece of kibble during a pledge break when he smelled the better-than-Friskies smell. He hid behind the dryer and watched as the mouse squeezed under the crack into the laundry room. The mouse sat by the crack, and sniffed the air, and groomed his tail, and sat some more. And finally the mouse ran to the kibble bowl and scrabbled up its outside and down its inside and snatched the piece of kibble and tried to scrabble back up the inside and slid down and tried again and then he saw the cat above him and he squeaked and tried to hide under the piece of kibble.

The cat leaned into the bowl and licked the mouse's good-smelling fur until the mouse was neat and smooth, and then he lifted his head and admired the mouse.

And the damp mouse lay on the bottom of the bowl and pretended to be dead. His fur dried and the cat didn't go away and the mouse finally got up and ate his piece of kibble and the cat's legs twitched but the cat didn't spring. And the cat watched as the mouse ran at the side of the bowl and slid down, and ran at it again and scrambled over the edge, and ran to the crack under the baseboard and squeezed his head and his hindquarters and his tail underneath and disappeared.

And the cat lay down on the three cushions and he had a nap.

And the next day the cat left three pieces of kibble in the bowl, and during the weather report the mouse squeezed under the crack into the room and sat and sat, and groomed his tail, and finally ran to the bowl and climbed in and ate the kibble as fast as he could. And the cat groomed the mouse again and the mouse scrambled out of the bowl and went home.

From then on the mouse came every day. Sometimes he would stay and play until the end of All Songs Considered. And the mouse got fatter and the cat stopped howling and his people opened the laundry room door, and the mouse had children and his children had children, and the cat hardly ever ate any of them. And the rest of them lived happily ever after.

Image: By Amanda Slater. Wikimedia Commons.

Story: The Princess and the Caffeine

So I saw this StoryADay thing, where you're supposed to write and complete a story every day in the month of May, no matter how bad it is. I can tell that I'm not going to do it every day this year, but I wrote one. And here it is.

Once upon a time there was a princess who worked as a barista. (The King believed in a work ethic. Also, he scooped the tip jar every day.) All day every day, knights and peasants and bootmakers and jesters and pin-and-bead-and-shoelace salesmen demanded coffee and croissants and coconut dream bars and legs of mutton. They were all very badly behaved, throwing their cups and bones in the moat and telling ominous stories about the princess-eating dragon who lived three counties over. Sometimes after a few too many double espressos, they would flick damp sugar cubes at the princess's tall pointy hat.

The princess got rather tired of this, and complained to her father, who explained the principles of customer service before riding off to negotiate with the dragon. While he was gone and therefore unable to enforce any dress codes, the princess abandoned the pointy hat. She got tired of her blond curls collapsing in coffee steam and chopped them off in favor of a nice pageboy cut. She arranged for the long silken train of her gown to get caught in the dishwasher, forcing her to change into a pair of dragon-bedecked silk pajamas.

Word spread about the the short-haired princess in the shiny green pajamas. One day the dragon, lounging in his treasure hoard, caught sight of a picture of her in the Business section of the newspaper that was wrapping the panko-crusted fish dinner brought to him, as was usual on Saturday nights, by the King. For once, the dragon declined to bicker about the King's latest proposal, which tonight was an offer of the princess, the King's second-best horse, and a nearly-complete set of gold-edged china in exchange for three wheelbarrows of treasure of the King's choice.

Instead, the dragon looked up, dropping his fish, and accepted. Three wheelbarrows. Pick your treasure, park it in in the loading zone, fill out a shipping label, and get out. Shipment will commence when the princess is received. Scat.

The King, having expected a long comfortable autumn negotiating the sale of the princess and fishing in the dragon's swamp, rode home in a disgruntled mood that worsened at the sight of his short-haired trousers-wearing daughter. He complained all through her packing about the cost of the long blond wig that he'd had to buy for her for fear of a "not as represented" claim by the dragon. Off she went, after training the next sister to operate the milk steamer.

But unbeknownst to her father, the princess took away with her not only the key to the espresso machine, but the thermostat for the coffee roaster and the recipe for the King's favorite macciato. Worse, she changed the WiFi password, and so the populace streamed out of the coffeehouse, never to return.

The King received his three wheelbarrows of chosen treasure, achieving wealth beyond his dreams, but never again would he experience a hot beverage that tasted just right. He sank into a depression and spent his days polishing the dragon jewels and the rejected gold-edged china, while his remaining daughters quietly re-made the coffeehouse into an organic spa.

The princess? She threw away her wig outside the dragon's lair and marched in, short hair and silk pajamas and all, to scold him about the sins of consuming royalty, or for that matter women, or for that matter people, and, really, he oughtn't to eat the more intelligent mammals, like dogs and pigs and so on, either. But he'd read about her opinions in the Business section, and so she found him meekly eating fish and cheese. He mixed her a perfect chai latte with his own claws, and so started a beautiful friendship that continues to this day.

But he does eat bacon when she's out of town.

Image: By Joey Gannon. Wikimedia Commons.