Her favorite stories were full of wishes granted.  A girl was lost in the forest and met a creature in distress. A dwarf or a fairy. The girl would do the creature a kindness because she had a good heart.

Because she expected nothing in return, the creature would reward her with wishes.  She would be a princess, or her mother would be healed.

She walked through the clearcut, ran her finger across the stumps. She wished for wishes, but this ragged field was no forest. There were no creatures of any kind.

Besides, she would always expect wishes in return.

 

Friday Fictioneers

 

The bum sitting with  my brother was filthy, his grizzled beard stained with food and tobacco. He fixed me with his blue eyes.

“Got us a visitor,” he said through his gash mouth. He had no teeth and sounded like the gaunt prospector from some western.

“Who’s this old fuck?” I asked BB. ” Jesus? Solomon?”

The man sat up  His twisted left leg seemed to pain him when he moved. “Name’s Danny. I am holed up here for a spell. You brother’s a Samaritan. Been bringing me food and keeping me company.”

“Danny was friends with Pop,” said BB.  “In the Navy.”

 

Friday Fictioneers

Woody says look at em. He points to the Guess-the-Weight game.

I says they’s just people.

No, says Woody. They’s suckers. Why they stand in line for that nonsense?

Well, I says. It’s something to do.

You’re saying they got so much free time they got to fill it with trash.

Don’t know, I says. They look happy to me.

Woody gets mad and he won’t give me no more  cigarettes, so I walk off across the Midway.

Carsons moved Woody to the ring toss last week and he can’t work his old hustles no more. That’s why he’s mad.

O He, that Sis-Nancy, he all round everywhere. Got the best stories because he see everything.

You don’t see him, neither, sitting high up on the strings he build between the tree branches or the rafters of your hut.

Maybe catch him a fly. Maybe catch him a story, your own story.

You tell a story all the time, but you don’t know it.

Sis-Nancy, he see you telling it, catch him that story, wrap it up and keep it with all the others.

Maybe one day he bring it out, fit it in with the rest, but maybe not.

“Look, Daddy.  I don’t want to fight. I was just hoping you’d come. Most of the parents are coming.”

“Probably want to see where their tuition money went.”

“You were the one who said I could go.”

“I said you could, not that you should. Art school? What job exactly does this prepare you for?”

“There are lots of successful artists, Dad.”

“Way more unsuccessful ones. You know what your degree qualifies you to do? To come back and live at home. Forever.”

“You’ve made your feelings clear, Father. Fine. Don’t come. I doubt you would understand my piece anyway.”

 

Friday Fictioneers