The blades of the oars seemed to slip silently into the water and then, as old Bear pulled the handles towards him, the rowlocks let loose a little squeak just to let you know you were moving. Bear didn’t talk much. He just kept a-stretching and unstretching his arms, breathing nice and slow and, if you listened real close, you might just catch a little humming. Bear’s old head was full of tunes and given a pretty girl and a jar of whiskey he’d dance and laugh all night long. When he was younger I heard tell he’d dance a girl till she begged to lie down and rest; that he obliged many a wish for a lie down and never a wish for a rest. But these days he’s just Old Bear – a big old twinkly-eyed beast of a man who runs a boat and will take you out on the bayou for fishing or hunting or seeking the all-seeing eye of the Vieille.
The Vieille lives far out in the bayou, surrounded by water and ungodly animals like snakes and gators and lizards and more snakes.
I asked Bear for an invite. It’s the only way. Only Bear knows where she lives on account of him rowing out there to take her food she can’t catch in the bayou.
I don’t know how long it took to get there. The sun was blocked out by the tops of the trees when we set out. When we left I had lost sight of it altogether. I had lost so much more, but of course I didn’t know that at the time. I was deliriously happy on account of her telling me I would find true love within the month and be married within the three and within the year, she had told me, I would hear the sound of my baby crying.
I paid her. Of course you got to pay her. She don’t use her all-seeing eye for you for nothing – you got to take gold or silver and you have to give her something your heart beloves so she can get the measure of your spirit. I gave her my Daddy’s old picture of him and me that Momma took and gave him. I found it stuck to the leather inside his old wallet after he died. I gave her that because my heart truly loved that picture and because I could close my eyes and see it even after it was in her hand so it didn’t feel like I was losing it when I gave it to her to keep forever.
I shouldn’t have asked for the lagniappe. The little extra they throw in when you buy something.
“Within the year” said the Vieille “you will know the true value of life.”
I thought she meant the gift of my little baby. Not the life my one true love lost in childbirth.
I should never have asked.
Archives: winner
The Immortal Budgie
Mrs Pargeter lived in 32B with an immortal budgie called Bob.
He was yellow and green and chirruped at odd intervals as though passing comment on the old woman’s behaviour. He would swing manically back and forth on a trapeze looking for the catcher in his dirty hexagonal prism mirror. The floor of his cage was littered with feathers, poo and Trill. He lived his lives behind thin, plastic coated wire bars.
Every now and then Bob died, the cage got a scrub in hot soapy water and a new Bob moved in.
Much, thought Mrs P., like Flat 32B.
Twelfth Night – Misunderstanding
These were written for the #SmallTales writing challenge on Twitter.
In celebration of the 450th anniversary of Shakespeare’s birth, and because the lovely @LiterallyGeeked who runs the show is a professional Wagstaffian, the triggers for this month are Shakespeare plays and a theme word.
I couldn’t decide whether to end on a positive note or not, so I’ll let you choose according to your mood !
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If music be the food of love play on But careful how you choose your lover’s fare The melodies you love alone may on Occasion drive your loved one to despair “Play on” I say but just don’t make me dance |
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On second thoughts don’t play for goodness sake The permutations are too hard to see The whole thing may just be a big mistake Love’s labour lost by errors aurally |
Perhaps I’m over-thinking, it has oft Been said of me I doubt humanity Her ardent heart by music be wrought soft Miss Right might be Miss Understanding see ? |
Hubris, Icarus
500 words for #FairyTaleFriday from the keywords Hubris and Icarus
Hugh loved a good circumcision.
The flick of the blade, the twitch of the father’s eye, the deep sense of religious duty done.
This one, he thought, was about an eight.
The chanting was rich and melodious, the infant’s mother was particularly fervent but Dad barely flinched, which kind of spoiled the snick. Maybe they had older sons.
He settled down in the window light, warming himself as he wondered at the skywalking dust sparkles that sauntered across the shaft of sunlight above him. Like all holy places, this one smelt of dust and polish – both wood and brass polish here. It was a smart joint. The kind of joint that attracted rich families and their babies – or poor families who wanted to mix with the rich and be thought of as wealthy. So pretty much everyone really.
The dust just walked around in mid-air – never seemingly in a rush, no particular place to go. Just mooching. It always seemed to get somewhere in the end; at least the old widows and their dead husbands’ torn up shirt dusters always seemed to find some. And flick, smear, brush – off it had to go, and however much seemed to be stuck to the cloth, there was still an inexhaustible supply of particles flying right back up into the light to pace the air.
Hugh wondered if you could eat dust. Someone had told him once that all dust was tiny flakes of people’s skin, and if it was skin from an animal it was basically meat. So it stood to reason that if you ate enough of it you were pretty much eating steak. When he tried it though, it just tasted of holy places with not a hint of sirloin.
I don’t suppose you should think of eating dust in a holy place what with all the dead people that came through it, but meat is just dead animal so …
Hugh shrugged and took off to the front of the place where a new family had gathered for their first born son’s bris. Hugh took a good long look at the father. This one was practically crawling with anticipatory dread. Flinch city. Excellent.
Old Rabbi Jacobs was as professional as ever – some mellifluous chanting, some words – some of them in the holy tongue, some of them not and then the flash of the blade and WHAT A TWITCH a full face cheek clench from the father and the mother was positively reeking with righteousness. “Ladies and Gentlemen,” thought Hugh, “we have a ten.”
He grinned the bold grin of a moth who has just watched the best show in town and didn’t have to pay for a ticket and set off up to the top table. What joy ! What a twitch !
What’s that gorgeous light ?
Hugh was awestruck – the flickering, dancing flame seemed to call him and up, up he flew to meet it. To meet the light. The candle flame engulfed him and he flared out.
THE END