A Mistake

This Week's Fiction [Friday] prompt:  Why did the Tooth Fairy fail to deliver coins one evening?

A Mistake

Jake woke up early. His room was still dark, a maze of shadows. He stretched out, throwing his Star Wars comforter on the floor, and rolled over onto his stomach. He slid one hand under the pillow and felt around. There it is. Jake tossed the pillow off the bed and grabbed the little blue envelope. It was too dark to see the blue fairy printed on the front, but he knew it was there.

He jumped up, envelope in hand, and hopped over the scattered toys and action figures to his closet. He pulled the string. He had to squint his eyes at the light from the uncovered bulb. As soon as they adjusted he carefully untucked the flap. He peered inside.

"What the . . . ?" Jake said aloud.

Jake tipped the envelope and let the small tooth fall into his hand. He looked at it in wonder, examining the creamy white surface and inspecting the blood-tinted spot where it had clung to his gums.

He stomped down the hall to his parents' room and stood next to his mother's side of the bed.

"Mom. Mom." Jake gently shook his mother's shoulder.
"Jake . . . what is it? What's wrong?"
"The Toothfairy didn't come last night." Jake held the tooth out in the palm of his hand.


- - - - -


"What's that?" Clara sat straight up in her bed.

She looked around, trying to get her bearings. When she saw the mound of covers next to her, she realized she was safely in her bed. She had been dreaming of a carnival. Halloween was only a month away and she hadn't even started making costumes. She knew the dream was stress-related. They all seemed to be lately.

Clara tried to remember what had awakened her, but couldn't get the image of a bearded lady dressed as the Toothfairy out of her mind. That's when it hit her. She noticed the faint light coming from the hallway and knew that Jake was already awake. I can't believe I let this happen.

What will I tell him? she asked herself. A list of bad ideas ran through her mind: The Toothfairy was sick last night. We all get sick sometimes and there's that stomach bug going around. The Toothfairy couldn't find her way past the mess in your room. She couldn’t help smiling at that one. Maybe she was running late. Too many kid's loosing teeth yesterday and she’ll get you tomorrow . . . Clara heard the sound of determined footsteps in the hallway.

Unsatisfied with any of her answers, she decided to fake sleep instead. She laid her head back down on the pillow and pulled the blanket up around her face. Jake's footsteps got heavier and she had to resist the urge to remind him of their neighbors downstairs. Clara held her breath and tried not to squeeze her eyes shut too tight.

"Mom. Mom." Clara felt Jake's small hand on her shoulder.
"Jake . . . what is it? What's wrong?" She rolled towards her son. She could see the disappointment in his face.
"The Toothfairy didn't come last night." Jake held the tooth out in the palm of his hand.


- - - - - 


Santina hovered outside the window. She could tell by the warmth on the breeze and the sliver of golden light on the horizon that the sun would soon rise. She was late and she knew it.

"Give yourself a break, Santina. It is your first night after all," She heard her mentor's voice in the rattling leaves.
"I know, I know. I'll get this last one and the night will be a success."

She pushed the amber curls out of her eyes and prepared herself to phase through the window. Phasing was the hardest skill to master. She needed all of her concentration to do it correctly. She didn't want to get stuck again, like she had at the Mendleson girl's house. Santina cleared her mind and worked to block the sounds of the world around her.

She heard a clicking noise. Her concentration disturbed, she opened her eyes. She looked around, but no one was outside at this early hour. She turned back to the window and that's when she saw it: a light. It was coming from the boy's room.

She sped up her wings, raising herself to the branches of an oak tree. She decided to rest there for just a moment. She tried not to dwell on her failure, but she just had to see it. Seeing was her best subject and she just had to know what was going on inside that room.

Santina slowed her breathing and waited for her eyes to cloud over. It was easy. Soon she was looking through the haze. She saw the boy standing in his closet. His face was so sweet and expectant. She watched as he opened a small, blue envelope.

"Oh I'm saved," she said aloud. “I just love it when the parents play along.”

She watched as he turned the envelope up, letting the contents spill into his open hand. She looked into his palm. It was his lost tooth. She saw the look of disappointment on the boy's face and felt a tightness in her chest. He stepped out of the closet, leaving the exposed bulb dangling. She watched as he traversed the scattered toys.

In her mind, Santina followed the boy down the hallway, his footsteps getting louder and louder. He entered his parents’ room. In the faint light from the hallway, she could see the boy pause and look down at his mother's face before beginning to wake her.

"Mom. Mom." The boy said as he tried to shake his mother awake.
"Jake . . . what is it? What's wrong?" The woman sounded concerned and confused.
"The Toothfairy didn't come last night." The boy said as he held out his hand.

Santina couldn't watch any longer.

She shook her head, her long curls swirling around her face. She lifted her hands from the branch and wiped them on her lap, not caring about mussing her new uniform or snagging the pink tulle on the jagged bark. The sun began to rise, the squirrels ventured out to find their breakfast, and the blue jays began vying for attention. She sat there watching, surprised that the world could still awaken.

One Day When the Snow Lay Thick on the Ground . . .

This Pillow Book entry is inspired by The Pillow Book of Sei Shōnagon, translated and edited by Ivan Morris. Sei Shōnagon was a courtesan in 10th century Japan who kept a diary of the goings-on at court and concealed it in her wooden pillow. She made lists under various categories of specific, often quirky things.

One day when the snow lay thick on the ground I rise early for my morning walk. It's January in the small town of Walnut Ridge, Arkansas. This unusually cold winter has just dug in, stretching its frosty tendrils into the ground, and warning us of the long, cold days ahead. In the wee hours of the night a real, ground-covering snow has enveloped the small campus of Williams Baptist College.

I dress in the dark quiet of our small apartment, careful not to wake my sleeping husband and 3-year-old son. I put on my winter coat, scarf, and gloves. The snow, undisturbed, glistens in the moonlight. I follow the small road leading away from student housing. The red brick buildings grow smaller and smaller until they are swallowed whole by the dark. My footsteps crunch in the snow beneath me. The only sound in a sleeping world. I pass the small park at the entrance to campus. The swings are still and the large oak's limbs sag under the weight of its load. I follow the road that leads away from the school. It is lined by corn fields long ago harvested. The dry, withering stalks crushed under tillers. Today the fields are a blank slate of snow; the white sheet masking the decay sleeping just below the surface.

I am utterly alone, trudging through a white wilderness. I am reminded of a story by Jack London, "To Build a Fire." The story of a man, alone in the Yukon, surviving. Man against Nature. The man makes a fatal mistake, but his soul refuses to give up. The driving instinct of survival, innate in all of humanity, compels him to continue, even when he knows he will not succeed.

In my mind, I am this man, or a version. I am alone in a frozen wilderness, refusing to let nature conquer. I take a deep breath of the winter air and look to the East. A pink sunrise is beginning to take shape on the horizon as I reach my mile mark. The stars are faint dots in the Western sky. I stop. I move my fingers and toes, making sure they are not frozen. Turning around I retrace my footsteps, the only thing marring the smooth, white surface.

Behind me something stalks. A beast following patiently. Its long, deep growl breaks the silence. It waits for the moment when I let down my guard or start to slow my pace. The instinct kicks in and I'm moving faster. My footsteps are unsure. My shoe slides in the mushy ice of a footprint. I am forced to slow down, but my heart still races. I can hear the hurried thump in my ears, feel it at my temples. I know if I slip the beast will overtake me, and I am not yet willing to concede defeat.

The wind breaks against my face. I pull the scarf up to cover my mouth and nose. My breath is a hot mist, wetting my scarf and melting the frost. I close my eyes against the frigid air. When I open them I see that the sun is rising over the fields. The snow catches the light: a bright, white sheet sprinkled with glitter.

I round the turn at the campus entrance, setting each foot down carefully. A low growl follows. The beast has slowed its chase. Some invisible barrier has kept it at bay, but I can feel its longing, its disappointment, its unwillingness to give up its prey.

My heartbeat slows and I count the steps . . . one, two, three, four . . . until the rhythm matches the pulsing in my neck. A robin calls out from his perch in the oak tree. The world begins to wake.

As I near my home, the sound of an engine roaring to life startles me. My neighbor's pick-up hums, spewing a blackish fog into the crystalline landscape. The spell is broken. Cold and damp, I know I have survived some great adventure. I am alive and unconquered.

The Toothfairy

Writing Exercise: Switching Points of View

This sounded like a fun exercise so I decided to give it a go. The instructions:

Step One

• Write a one paragraph scene based on this week’s [Fiction] Friday prompt: Why did the Toothfairy fail to deliver coins one evening?
• Ensure the scene involves at least two characters (you may choose to have more than two if you wish).
• Write from first person or limited third person POV (point of view) so you are actually writing someone’s perspective.
• Take no more than ten minutes to write.

Step Two

• Take the original scene and write from the perspective of someone else present.
• Again limit yourself to no more than a paragraph and ten minutes of writing time.

Step Three

• Write the scene for a third time but this time, write from the perspective of someone outside of the ‘action’ in the scene, someone who has not been seen or mentioned in either of the previous paragraphs.
• Same time and length limitations apply.

 The Toothfairy

Step One:  

James woke up early. Even though it was just another school day, he was excited. The sun hadn't come up yet and his room was still dark, a maze of shadows. He stretched out throwing his Star Wars comforter on the floor and rolled over onto his stomach. He slid one hand under the pillow and felt around. There it is. James tossed the pillow off the bed and snatched the little blue envelope. It was too dark to see the blue fairy printed on the front, but he knew it was there.

He jumped up, envelope in hand, and hopped over the scattered toys and action figures to his closet. He pulled the string and then had to squint his eyes at the light from the uncovered bulb. As soon as they adjusted he carefully untucked the flap. He peered inside.

"What the . . . ?" James said aloud.

James tipped the envelope and let the small tooth fall into his hand. He looked at it in wonder, examining the creamy white surface and inspecting the blood-tinted spot where it had clung to his gums.

He stomped into his parents' room and stood next to his Mother's side of the bed. She was sleeping so peacefully that he almost didn't want to wake her, but his focus was on his missing prize.

"Mom. Mom." James gently shook his Mother's shoulder.
"James . . . what is it? What's wrong?"
"The Toothfairy didn't come last night." James held the tooth out in the palm of his hand.




Step 2:

"What's that?" Clara sat straight up in her bed.

She looked around, trying to get her bearings. When she saw the mound of covers next to her, she realized she was safely in her bed. She had been dreaming of a carnival where everyone was wearing the most ridiculous costumes. Halloween was only a month and a half away and she hadn't even started making costumes. She knew the dream was stress-related. They all seemed to be lately.

Clara tried to remember what had awakened her, but couldn't get the image of a bearded lady dressed as the Toothfairy out of her mind. That's when it hit her. I can't believe I let this happen, Clara admonished herself. She noticed the faint light coming from the hallway and knew that James was already awake.


What will I tell him? she asked herself. A list of bad ideas ran through her mind: The Toothfairy was sick last night. You know we all get sick sometimes and there's that stomach bug going around. The Toothfairy couldn't find her way past the mess in your room. She couldn't help laughing a little. He'll never buy that one. She was running late. Too many kid's loosing teeth yesterday . . . Clara heard the sound of determined footsteps in the hallway.


Unsatisfied with any of her answers, she decided to fake sleep instead. She laid her head back down on the pillow and pulled the soft, flowered comforter up around her face. James's footsteps got heavier and she had to resist the urge to remind him of their neighbors downstairs. Clara held her breath and tried not to squeeze her eyes shut too tight.

"Mom. Mom." Clara felt James's small hand on her shoulder.

"James . . . what is it? What's wrong?" She rolled towards her son. She could see the disappointment in his face. He looked so young, so trusting. Clara closed her eyes and fought back a sob.  

"The Toothfairy didn't come last night." James held the tooth out in the palm of his hand. 

Step 3:

Santina hovered outside the window. She could tell by the warmth on the breeze and the sliver of golden light on the horizon that the sun would soon rise. She was late and she knew it. This was her last stop tonight. 

"Give yourself a break, Santina. It is your first night after all," She heard her mentor's voice in the rattling of the dry leaves. 

"I know, I know. I'll get this last one and the night will be a success."

She pushed the amber curls out of her eyes and prepared herself to phase through the window. Phasing was the hardest skill to master. She needed all of her concentration to do it correctly. She didn't want to get stuck again, like she had at the Mendleson girl's house. That was so embarrassing. Santina cleared her mind and worked to block the sounds of the wakening world around her.

Just then, she heard a faint clicking noise. Her concentration disturbed, she opened her eyes. She looked around, but no one was outside at this early hour. She turned back to the window and that's when she saw it: a light. It was coming from the boy's room. 

She sped up her wings, raising herself up to the branches of an oak tree. There she decided she could rest for just a moment. She tried not to dwell on her failure, but she just had to see it. Seering was her best subject and she just had to know what was going on inside that room.

Santina slowed her breathing and waited for her eyes to cloud over. It was easy. Soon she was looking through the haze. She saw the boy standing in his closet. His face was so sweet and expectant. She watched as he opened a small, blue envelope. 

"Oh I'm saved," she said aloud. "His parents have taken care of it for me. What loving parents this little boy must have."

She watched as he turned the envelope up. letting the contents spill into his open hand. She looked into his palm. It was his lost tooth. She saw the sad look of disappointment on the boy's face and she felt a tightness in her chest. The boy's look turned. It was no longer just sadness, it was tinged with a determination. He stepped out of the closet, leaving the exposed bulb dangling. She watched as he traversed the scattered toys in his room. 

In her mind, Santina followed the boy down the hallway, his footsteps getting louder and louder. He entered what she thought must be his parents room. A man and a woman were sleeping soundly under a thick comforter. In the faint light from the hallway, she could see the boy pause and look down at his mother's face before beginning to wake her.

"Mom. Mom." The boy said as he tried to shake his mother awake.

"James . . . what is it? What's wrong?" The woman sounded concerned and confused. 

"The Toothfairy didn't come last night." The boy said as he held out his hand.  

Santina couldn't watch any longer. 

She shook her head, her long curls swirling around her face. She lifted her hands from the branch and saw how dirty they were from clinging to her improvised seat. She wiped them on her spotless new uniform, not caring about getting messy or snagging the pink tulle on the jagged bark. She sat there for a long time, watching the sun rise in the East, the squirrels scurrying to find their breakfast, the blue jays vying for attention, surprised that the world could still awaken.    

  




 

Home

This week's [fiction] Friday prompt:  Use one or more of these words in your story (but resist the temptation to look them up first!)

• Periapt
• Vilipend
• Embrangle

Home

"I don't know why you insist on embrangling me in your quarrels with Becky."
"The word you're looking for is entangle, Mother," Sandy said.
"I am not a child, young lady. I said just what I meant to say."

Victoria crossed the room and pulled her word-a-day calendar from the top drawer of her desk.

"See. It's right here. May 17th. Embrangle."

Sandy set her iced tea neatly on a coaster. Heaven forbid she leave a ring on Mother's precious coffee table. She pulled herself up from the overstuffed sofa and followed her mother's path across the den. She stood, back propped against the rolling wooden chair, and extended her hand with a huff.

"What's this?"
"It was a gift from Henry."
"Of course it was."
"Don't be petty. He says it will broaden my horizons."

Sandy rolled her eyes and began flipping through the tear-out pages.

"There it is: embrangle. Oh and there's more: vilipend . . . esoteric . . . magniloquent . . . trivalent . . . periapt."

Sandy started laughing.

"What's so funny?
"Broaden your horizons? What was that old man thinking?"
"He was thinking it would be a very thoughtful gift."
"He was probably thinking how funny it would be when you blurted out a word like magniloquent at your next garden party."
"Now you're just being mean."

Victoria snatched the calendar out Sandy's hands and shoved it back into the drawer.

"Why do you have to be so hateful?" Victoria said.

Sandy thought that her mother's voice sounded more sad than angry. She watched as her mother walked over to the bay window. The mid-morning sun was pouring through the glass, creating slender rays of light. Victoria watched the specks of dust sparkle in the sunlight. She could hear the call of a mockingbird coming from the wide Live Oak outside the window.

Things were so much more peaceful when Sandy was away at school. It was only the end of May and Victoria was already exhausted by the constant chatter, the mess, and the need for confrontation. She was even tired of the bouncy energy she had once admired in her youngest daughter.

Three more years of college and Sandy would be out on her own, leaving Victoria alone in the big, empty house. She remembered this stage with her other three girls. Somehow her two boys had been easier. Soon enough Sandy would mature and gain some wisdom, some idea of how the world really worked. Until then Victoria would bite her tongue and send up a few more silent prayers.

Sandy came up behind her mother and wrapped her long, thin arms around her, squeezing. She rested her chin on her mother's shoulder, letting her straight blonde hair fall across her face. Victoria brought her arms up over her daughter's. They stood there silently for a while. Victoria watching a squirrel turn an acorn in its front paws. Sandy keeping a count of her mother's steady breathing.

"I'm sorry, Mom."
"I know."

It is Getting So Dark

This Pillow Book entry is inspired by The Pillow Book of Sei Shōnagon, translated and edited by Ivan Morris. Sei Shōnagon was a courtesan in 10th century Japan who kept a diary of the goings-on at court and concealed it in her wooden pillow. She made lists under various categories of specific, often quirky things.

It is getting so dark. And fast. A tropical storm has rolled off the gulf. It has crossed Northern Mexico and is sending black, ominous clouds up into Texas. Three hundred miles from the coast and our town is awash in the grey of it.

Sometimes the rain pours down on scurrying cars. Sometimes the wind holds its breath. When it exhales again we watch the storm clouds move across the sky. Standing still, the huge masses rush by. Looking up, I am dizzy at the sense of motion.

A wild gust looses a dance of leaves. They encircle us in a leafy whirlwind. I reach out to touch them. Some the warm green of Summer. A few have turned orange, impatient for Fall. They settle at our feet atop the unearthly-hued grass.

I drink in the smell of it. The dark wall of clouds to the South lights up. A light show muted by grey curtains. I can hear the thunder growling in the distance, a deep throaty groan. A raindrop lands on my cheek, a wet kiss, a warning.

What Happened to Albert

This week's [fiction] Friday prompt:
"Albert is Dead"
Along with romantic scenes, many writers find writing a scene which involves killing a character a challenge. Here is your chance to write a scene where a truly objectionable character dies.
Step 1. Go read "Doggone" -a Friday Fiction first draft piece from a week ago.
Step 2. Decide who, what and how Albert dies. It may be accidental, a blundered break in, monster attack - or by one of the many characters within the short story who may or may not have a motive.
Step 3. Now write . . . You can choose to be as graphic or lyrical as you like, choose to show but not tell - or just tell it all.
The only rule is - Albert must be dead by the end of the story.

What Happened to Albert

Albert was meticulously labeling his collection of discs, printing names across the shiny surfaces with a thick, black Sharpie. When he got to the last one, he tried to remember the name of the newest offender. A blonde twenty-something girl with one of those purse dogs. She insisted on letting the spindly creature defecate and urinate wherever its little heart desired. 

“Not on my lawn, missy,” Albert growled.

Albert turned in his chair and stared at the monitors of his security system as if he would find her name there. Sasha . . . Simone . . . Amberly . . . oh what is that silly girl’s name? He mulled it over. He knew it was some trendy piece of work. She was just the type with that fashionista look and those sweat pants with the word “juicy” scrolled across the ass. What was she even doing in a nice neighborhood like this? She should be out in Cali looking for her next sugar daddy. The thought of it made him cringe. He hated that gold digger type. 

“Ansley! That’s it.” Albert wrote the name across the last disc and pushed his chair back from his desk. He had decided that a hard afternoon’s work of monitoring the neighborhood had earned him a short nap. Before he could will himself out of the chair, he noticed that one of the monitors had gone black.

“That’s odd,” Albert said. He had meticulously wired each and every camera himself. There was no good reason that this one screen should be showing up blank. He cursed under his breath as he forced his back to straighten. He slowly rose and made his way to the kitchen door. The house was unusually quite with Linda out and he could hear the ice cubes dropping into the tray in the freezer. 

Albert opened the door and had to shield his eyes from the harsh light of the afternoon sun. The August heat was overwhelming and he could see steam rising from the wet grass.

“When is Linda going to fix those sprinklers?” Albert growled. “The heat of the day is not the time to be watering the grass. Look at those puddles everywhere. If the sprinklers were timed right, the flower beds wouldn’t be huge lakes of mud every afternoon. It’s a wonder anything lives around here. Incompetence.”

Albert never would have left the cool comfort of his air conditioned home if it hadn’t been that one camera that was out. The one that pointed towards Marco’s house. He needed to keep tabs on Linda’s little fling. She thought she was so smart, trying to pull something over on him. Oh she’ll see . . . one day . . . she’ll see. Albert followed the wet footpath to the corner of the house. There it was, his faulty camera, poised on the edge of the gutter.

From the footpath Albert could see the loose wire. Not a problem, he thought. Albert stepped into the flower bed and his white canvas shoe sunk into the mud.

“Piece of crap.” Albert pulled his foot up out of the mud. He realized he should have grabbed the step stool from the kitchen, but his shoe was already covered in mud. Albert let his foot sink back into the wet soil. He stepped his other foot over the row of dahlias and resigned himself to ruining his shoes. The water seeped up out of the mud creating a little brown puddle.

“Hi there neighbor.” He was surprised by the girlish voice calling from the street. He turned to look and saw that it was her, Ansley. She was jogging in one of those couture sweat suits with her little rat on a studded pink leash. 

“Afternoon, Ansley,” he begrudgingly called back as she approached.

Albert turned back to his task. Standing in the flower bed, he realized that the water had rose up above his socks and was wetting his exposed ankles. Soon it would tinge his white slacks with its murky brownish color. He let out a grunt. He had to stretch to reach the camera. He put one hand on the camera to steady it and pulled the other hand up to grasp the disconnected wire. As soon as his fingers curled around the wire, he felt it.

A jolt. All of the muscles in his body contracted at once and he could smell something burning. Hair, he thought, now that’s odd. He looked out into the neighborhood for something. He wasn’t quite sure what. The last thing he saw before losing consciousness was the word “juicy” in swirling pink letters across Ansley’s tight ass.