Typical

A Magpie Tale

New York at Night, Vivienne Gucwa 

Shimmering Northern Lights
should have been visible,
south to Seattle, be-
cause of a flare--
but for a closer storm,
tempestologic'ly
drenching my lashes, ob-
scuring my stare.

In Memoriam

A Magpie Tale

self-portrait, Francis Bacon

"Can I help you, son?"
"Uh, yes, sir.  I missed my grandmother's funeral--"
The undertaker raised a disapproving eyebrow.
"I was deployed, sir," Nick explained.  "And now I want to pay my respects."
The undertaker whipped out his phone, and started scrolling through a list.  "Well, then, what was her name?"
"Ruby Poole."
"Poole, Poole . . . Oh, yes!  Come this way."
They walked along the path between plots of close-clipped grass.
"She's the first in a new section we've opened.  Your grandmother was a very progressive woman."
Nick chuckled.  "That she was.  Always excited about new things.  We used to call her Grandma Gadget."
"I think you'll like this, then.  Right over here."
A shiny black headstone stood apart from the mottled granite memorials.  Nick thought back to his geology merit badge training.  "Is that obsidian?"
"Even better.  It's interactive."  The undertaker brushed the blank stone with a long finger, and words appeared on it.

RUBY POOLE

1935-2014

"It's a screen?"

"It's a beauty, isn't it?  Solar powered, with very efficient storage batteries.  Sealed tight against rain, extreme temperatures, impact, and hacking.  Go on, touch the menu."

Nick crouched before the screen and chose the slideshow.  Black-and-white images of solemn faces crossed the screen.  He sat, entranced, watching his grandmother grow from a long-gowned infant to a smiling bride, to a colorful grandmother.  "Hey, that's me!  What a family reunion.  Grandma was so excited about her new GPS that she forgot the hot dogs . . . "

When the slideshow ended, Nick chose the genealogy button.  He watched a pedigree tree grow from his grandmother's name, in both directions.  "Cool."

"Some of my colleagues are offering similar information through a QR code etched on a regular headstone, but how long is that technology going to be in use?  I prefer this self-contained unit.  And here's the best part."  The undertaker pointed to a menu entry.  "Personal messages from the deceased."

"Really?"  Nick chose his name from the list of grandchildren.  His grandmother's face appeared.  She looked older than he remembered, but still had a gleam in her eye.

"Oh, Nicholas, I am so proud of you.  You've always been brave and true in your service.  I'm just glad you're listening to this message before you meet me on the other side.  Now that you're back, I hope you'll find a nice girl and settle down, stop worrying your poor mother.  You're a good boy, Nick.  I love you."

The undertaker looked back at the cemetery's flagpole as the Nick blotted his face with his sleeve.  Nick cleared his throat and stood up.

"Did you, uh, record this?"

"Yes, right there in my office.  When the iStones catch on more, I hope to build a proper recording studio.  But, except for your impressive grandmother, such things mostly appeal to the young.  And the young tend not to plan this far ahead."

"That's for sure.  I joined the Marines, did all the training, went to Afghanistan.  I never thought I could actually die.  Until my buddy was gone.  None of us did."  

The undertaker handed Nick a tissue.  Nick blew his nose loudly.

"Do you have a card or something, sir?  I know a few guys who might be more interested in planning ahead now."

"Of course.  I'll go fetch you some flyers."  The undertaker strode back to his office.

Nick settled down in front of the stone again.  He scrolled through the menu.  There were messages for his Grandpa, his mother and her siblings, all his cousins.  And more.  He picked the "Minister" entry.
"Thanks for all your support, Randall.  You've been a good shepherd.  But don't forget, I wrote the best church newsletters this congregation has ever read.  They'd better give me a big vote of thanks.  And I'll be rolling in my grave, right here, if you let Doris Howard get her hands on the newsletter.  She'll make everything rhyme, and she can't even spell 'Deuteronomy.'  You listen to me, Randall . . ."
Nick snorted.  That was the way he remembered his grandmother.  He scrolled past messages for the doctor and the paperboy, the piano tuner and even a favorite librarian.  Then Nick's eyes widened.  He knew it wasn't his business, but he couldn't ignore the category "Old Boyfriends."  He picked the name Willie Gottlieb.
"Oh, Willie, you came!  You always were a sweet one.  All my best to Janice and the kids."
Well, that was nice, Nick thought.  He tried Lee Rutter.
"How dare you darken my grave, Lee Rutter!  You still can't leave a girl alone!  Get thee hence, you--"
Nick hastily stopped the message and sat back.  Leave it to Grandma, he thought.  Who else would cast the first iStone?

Cardboard Christmas

A Magpie Tale

The Ice Cutters, 1911, Natalia Goncharova

Lisa reached into the back corner of the closet. She stood on her toes and tugged with her fingers, and finally the box came free. She carefully pulled it out and stepped down from the chair. The last box. She hoped it was the one she wanted.

As she set it next to the other boxes on the floor, Lisa heard little feet coming down the hall. Was naptime over already?

“Mommy, I waked up,” Josh announced. “What’s in the boxes?”

Caleb followed his brother on loyal little legs. “Peasants?” he suggested hopefully.

“No, not presents. Just some things we haven’t unpacked yet.”

Josh peered into one box and pulled out a tiny sweater. “Whose is this?”

“You used to wear that when you were a baby. And so did Caleb. Put it back, please.”

Caleb toddled over to Lisa and patted her belly. “Baby.”

“Yes, the new baby will wear it, too. But not for a while.”

Josh was already investigating the clothes in another box. “Did I wear these?”

“Yes, but–”

Caleb pulled a skirt out of a third box, and knitted his blond brows together. “I wear this?”

“No, that’s mine.”

“Mommy was baby?”

“Mommy wore that before you were a baby, and hopes she’ll be able to wear it again someday.” Lisa sighed, and refolded the skirt. “Anyway, I’m not looking for clothes right now. I’m–no, don’t touch that one!”

Lisa swung Caleb away from the box containing the equipment and remnants from her stained glass class. Someday she’d get back to that again, too, but it was not a safe hobby to practice with toddlers in the house.

“What are you looking for?” Josh asked.

“Christmas ornaments.”

“Kiss-miss?” Caleb repeated.

“Yes. I’ve looked through all the boxes but this one. Shall we see what’s inside?” Lisa picked up her scissors and slit the tape. Her heart thumped with anticipation. The bright colors, the familiar shapes, must be right there beneath her fingers. She opened the flaps.

Papers. Kevin’s college notes. No wonder the box was so heavy.

The little boys looked inside. “No Kiss-miss?” Caleb stuck out his lower lip.

Lisa sank to the floor. “No. The movers must have left my box of ornaments in Grandma’s garage.” She wiped a tear from her eye.

Josh wrapped his arms around her shoulders. “It’s okay, Mommy. Come on, Caleb. Let’s play trains.”

“Choo-choo!” Caleb hooted as the boys pattered back to their room.

Lisa knew she should put away the boxes and prepare the room for guests. But she felt drained after her fruitless search. She went downstairs for a glass of water, hoping Kevin would be home soon to help with the lifting.

She looked around the small living room. It was comfortable, but not very festive. She had hoped to be all ready for Christmas before Kevin’s parents came to visit. She’d bought the groceries and done most of the cleaning. But Kevin had been working late, training for his new job. He was too tired to decorate when he came home. They had not even bought a tree.

Lisa brightened. Maybe Kevin’s parents could find the box of ornaments and bring it along tomorrow. She gave them a call.

No answer. They must be still at work. Lisa left a message, and hung up with a little more hope.

It had been a blessing to live with Kevin’s folks, Dale and Donna. They had invited the young family to stay after Kevin graduated, just until he found a good job. The few weeks he expected had turned into two years, though, as Kevin applied for position after position. He worked some odd jobs during that time, and played with the little boys, but he’d spent more and more time grumbling about the economy and playing video games. Lisa was grateful that they’d had a comfortable place to live all that time. They’d never gone hungry. But she knew her husband hated depending on his parents.

Everyone was thrilled when Kevin was hired. Lisa loved the fresh sparkle in his eye, his new sense of purpose and responsibility. She also looked forward to setting up their own home, having their own space, and starting their own traditions.

As the moving van rolled away, scattering the fallen leaves, Donna pulled Kevin into a tight squeeze. “We’ll miss you so much, but we’re so proud of you.”

“That’s right.” Dale gave Josh a tickle before buckling him into his car seat. “But you’ll be back for Christmas, won’t you?”

Lisa looked at Kevin with concern. His parents’ Christmas celebrations were too glitzy for her taste.

“I won't earn much leave by then,” Kevin said. “We’ll probably be staying in our new home.”

Lisa breathed a small sigh of relief as she buckled her own safety belt.

“Then we’ll come visit you,” Dale declared.

“You bet,” Donna agreed. “It wouldn’t be Christmas without a child in the house!”

Kevin waved as he drove the car away, but Lisa felt frozen.

She’d had some time to thaw over the past couple of months, and had determined to show her in-laws a Christmas her way. A nice dinner on Christmas day, not a Christmas Eve extravaganza. Homemade cookies. Singing carols around the–well, someday she’d get a piano. Singing carols around the CD player, then. And a real tree. A small one, to be sure. Expense and living room space dictated that. But she looked forward to arranging her small collection of ornaments on a sweet-smelling fresh tree. Lisa closed her eyes, imagining the aroma.

“Behold the conquering hero!”

Lisa’s eyes flew open as the front door slammed. Little feet pounded down the stairs, and cries of “Daddy!” filled the air. Lisa struggled up from the couch.

Kevin swung the two boys into the living room, then caught Lisa in a hug. “I’ve completed my certification. I'll meet my first client after Christmas!”

Lisa gave him a kiss. “That’s wonderful, dear,” she said. “Oh, look at the time. I haven’t started dinner yet.”

“No big deal,” Kevin said. “Let’s pick something up on the way.”

“On the way to where?” Josh asked.

“To buy a Christmas tree.”

Lisa and the boys cheered, and the family piled into the car. After supplying everyone with hamburgers and fries, Kevin drove straight to the tree stand in the mall’s parking lot. The brightly colored lights turned off as they approached. Kevin stepped out to talk to a man who was sweeping pine needles.

“All sold out, sir,” Lisa heard him say. “They went fast this year. You could try the supermarket, or the lot on Old Holly Road.”

There were no trees left at the supermarket, either. Lisa and Kevin had different ideas about how to find Old Holly Road, and it took them a while to reach it. When they finally found the tree lot there, it was empty, too.

“Maybe this is why Mom and Dad use a fake tree,” Kevin said, leaning on the steering wheel. “Is it normal to run out the day before Christmas Eve?”

“I don’t think so,” Lisa answered. “Where I grew up, most lots had a few scraggly trees left even after Christmas.”

“Huh. Well, we’d better take the kiddos home.” Kevin nodded at the boys. They were asleep in their car seats, and Caleb was losing his grip on a handful of fries.

After helping Lisa set up the guest room, Kevin spent most of Christmas Eve shopping. Lisa wondered if he would come home with a fake tree. If he did, she’d be stuck with it, probably forever. Ugh. But having no Christmas tree would be worse.

She tried not to think about it as she rolled out sugar cookie dough. She helped Caleb wield a star-shaped cookie cutter with his pudgy fingers. Josh cut out a cookie and held it up. “Is this what our tree will look like?” he asked. He wiggled the tree shape until it broke and fell to the counter, leaving just the point in his hand.

“Probably so.” Lisa squished the dough together and rolled it out so Josh could try again.

“Will we put up a 'table?” he asked.

“This is the table.”

“No, a Christmas 'table.”

Lisa frowned, trying to read Josh's mind. “Oh.” She remembered that Dale built an elaborate train set on the coffee table each Christmas. “You mean like Grandpa's? We don't have anything like that.”

"Why not?"

Lisa slid the cookie sheet into the oven, and the front door opened.

“Don’t look,” Kevin called, sweeping past with something held behind his back.

Josh covered his eyes with his hands. Caleb put his hands on his own face, but missed one eye.

“Did you bring a tree, Daddy?” Josh shouted.

Kevin looked around the corner. “No, but I have an idea. Come here, kiddos.” They followed him to the living room, and he shut the kitchen door.

Lisa finished baking the cookies and started some soup for dinner. A pair of headlights swept up the driveway as she stirred. Donna's sweater sparkled as she came through the door. “Merry Christmas Eve, Lisa, honey,” she said with her usual broad smile.

Dale followed her inside, carrying a box. “We couldn’t find your box, Lisa, but we thought you might like these.” He set the box on the table.

Lisa’s face fell as she looked inside. Instead of the treasures her own grandparents had sent each year, or the cute ornaments her crafty aunts had made, there were packages of silver bells, violet balls, strings of blue lights, and a huge silver star. They had never been opened.

“We can’t use these.”

“Sure, you can! We bought them all on clearance last January,” Donna said with a wink.

“But we don’t have a tree.”

The kitchen door opened. “Yes, we do,” said Kevin. “Come see.”

The little boys rushed at their grandparents, who paused for hugs and tickles. Kevin took Lisa by the hand and led her to the living room. On the floor she saw that a large moving box had been cut in the shape of a fir tree. The boys had obviously been coloring it, with large swathes of green ink and little patches of green crayon.

Tears came to Lisa’s eyes. Kevin put his arm around her. “It doesn't smell great, but I think we can have some fun with it. Okay?”

Lisa wiped her eyes and smiled. “I’ll go find the construction paper.”

After supper, Kevin led the way to the living room, flexing his muscles. “So, I cut this tree myself, and hauled it all the way from the shed with my bare hands. Let's dress it up.”

Dale frowned. “That's not a tree. That's a tree by-product.”

“Start producing some decorations for it, then.”

Dale chuckled. “I'm no artist. You kids go ahead without me.”

“I'll help you.” Josh handed his grandfather a piece of orange paper. “Draw around my hand, Grandpa.”

“Me, too,” insisted Caleb, and the decorating began.

           Donna snipped lacy snowflakes to tape to the cardboard tree. Lisa tied yarn into bows. The boys colored their handprints, then drew stars, train engines, and more abstract shapes.

           Dale traced his own hand, colored it like a turkey, and cut it out, too. “I call it, 'Self-Portrait,'” he said, taping it onto the tree.

           Donna rolled her eyes. “That's you, all right. Full of stuffing and nonsense.”

           Kevin searched the Internet for origami instructions, and busied himself with sheets of aluminum foil. He showed Lisa his creations.

           “Christmas cranes?” she asked.

           He grinned. “Silver swans a-swimming.”

           Soon the flat tree was covered with colorful, fanciful, utterly original decorations.

           “This certainly is unique,” Donna said, surveying their work. “I'll never forget this little tree.”

           “Neither will I,” Lisa agreed. “But how will it stand up?”

           “Got it covered,” said Kevin. “Make me another big bow, will you?” He looped some yellow yarn through a hole near the point of the tree. After attaching Lisa's bow, he hung the loop on a hook in the ceiling. The cardboard tree dangled, swinging slightly in the breeze from the heating vent.

           “Pity,” said Caleb.

           “Yes, it's a very pretty Christmas tree,” Lisa said, hugging her sons, “though I feel like I've forgotten to do something.” She yawned.

           “What about a 'table?” Josh asked.

           “Not now, Josh.”

           “The tree is just fine this way,” Kevin declared, “and you're tired. Go ahead and get the boys into their pajamas. I'll take care of the dishes.”

           Lisa woke with a start. “Did you hear that?” Kevin did not respond. How could he not hear it? Lisa shook his shoulder. “Kevin, what's that sound?”

           He rolled over and grunted at the darkness. “Huh?”

           “That rustling sound. Listen.” Lisa sat up, heart pounding. “There's a light on, too.”

           Kevin raised himself up on one elbow. “I doubt our presents would attract burglars,” he said.

        “Well, probably not.” The gifts they had set out, after tucking the boys in, made a pretty meager pile.

           “I bet it's Mom and Dad, sneaking some more packages downstairs. Go back to sleep.” He rolled over again.

           Lisa lay down, breathing deeply, willing her heart to stop racing.

           She woke again to the sound of giggling. Weak sunlight glowed around the edges of the window blinds.

           Kevin sat up. “It must be Christmas morning,” he said, grinning.

           Lisa pulled on her robe and headed for the boys' room. “I wish your dad wouldn't tickle the boys awake.”

           “He was already awake, weren't you, little man?” Dale laughed along with the toddler.

           “Merry Kiss-miss, Mommy!” Caleb called when he caught his breath.

           “Merry Christmas, sweetie. But where's Josh?”

           “I dunno.” Caleb collapsed in a fresh round of giggles.

           Lisa walked down the hall to the guest room. “Josh, are you bothering Grandma?”

           Donna put down her magazine. “He's no bother, but he isn't in here.”

           Lisa grabbed handfuls of her own hair. “Where's Josh?”

           Kevin looked out of the boys' room, surprised. “What do you mean?”

           “He isn't there, he isn't here.” Frantic, she hugged herself. “I heard noises last night. Maybe someone took him!”

           Kevin put one hand on Lisa's shoulder, and smoothed her hair with the other. “Calm down, Lisa. He's probably getting a head start on the presents. Let's take a look downstairs.”

           Caleb and his grandparents followed silently as Kevin led Lisa down the stairs. At the bottom, she closed her eyes, afraid of what she might see. Kevin stepped out into the living room.

           Soon he returned and took Lisa's hand. “Come and see,” he said quietly. Lisa let out the breath she was holding, and followed him.

           The gifts had not been disturbed, but there was a mess beneath the dangling cardboard tree. Josh lay curled there in a nest of crayons. Lisa dropped to his side, giving his round cheek a grateful kiss. Josh's blue eyes opened in the pale morning light.

           “What are you doing down here?” she asked. “You gave me such a fright.”

           Josh looked surprised. “Sorry, Mommy. In the night I waked up, and I made the 'table you forgot. Look.” He pointed to a folded piece of cardboard, standing near the trunk of the swinging tree. Lisa picked it up.

           Brown crayon marked walls and a roof. A yellow star with eight or nine points shone at the top. Smiles split the round faces of three figures within—one wearing blue, with long hair, one with a pointy brown beard, and a small one between them, balanced on an X. Curly-hided animals stood nearby, smiling, too.

           “The stable. You're right, that's just what we need.” Lisa wiped her eyes.

           Caleb knelt down next to her, and pointed reverently to the central figure in the drawing. “Baby.”

           Lisa sat on the couch, sipping hot chocolate. She watched as Dale chased Josh through a tunnel of empty moving boxes. She leaned her head on her husband's shoulder. “The boxes were a great idea, dear.”

           Kevin grinned. Dale poked his head through a window in one box. “They're just like you. No matter what we gave you, you'd just play with the boxes.” Then he roared, and crawled after Caleb while Donna snapped photos. 

           Lisa looked around the room. She could barely hear the Christmas music from the CD player. The cardboard tree swung. Wrapping paper, crayons, and packing peanuts littered the floor. It was not quite the vision she had had for Christmas morning. But it was perfect. She picked up the cardboard Nativity and studied it again.

           “Your mom was right, Kevin.”

           “Huh?”

           “It just wouldn't be Christmas without the Child.”

For more Christmas tales, see my Anthologies page

Dear Uncle Theo

A Magpie Tale

Keene Township, Ohio

May 25, 1893

Dear Uncle Theo,

     I hope this letter finds you safe and well in the big city.  We all miss you, though none so much as Archippos.  Mother mutters that he must be a faithful hound indeed to whine and howl at the absence of such a master.  She has not forgiven you for taking your journey during the planting season.  "Any able-bodied man . . . " she says when Archippos barks, glancing at Father in the corner.  "I shall never understand my brother."

     I understand, of course.  And the young man you hired to take your place on the farm is quite agreeable.  Abel speaks politely and works hard, and the crops are coming along quite well with his assistance.  Still, you had not been gone a week before Mother turned Abel out of your room and installed a lodger there.  Abel nodded and said, "Yes'm," and took his little bundle out to the hayloft.  John, though, was furious.  You know my brother's temper.  He told Mother that if Abel was to sleep outside, that he would, too.  Mother simply shrugged.  I almost envy the boys out there, with no one shushing them after prayers.  Mother would probably let out John's room, too, if she could find a soul desperate enough to live in his musty garret.  

    I do not trust the lodger, Mr. Schneeman.  He leers at Mother with his coal-black eyes and sniffs his sharp nose before every blessed thing he says.  I think Mother hoped he'd pity us and help out on the farm, but he does no such thing.  He claims to be a traveling salesman, and leaves the homestead with his mysterious painted cart every morning.  He must not travel far, though, for he returns to the supper table promptly every evening.  When we're washing up, Mother grumbles that Mr. Schneeman eats far more than his share, but she won't say a thing to him.  She is afraid to lose his money.

     Archippos is howling again.  I am sure he does miss you, but I think there is more to his distress.  The hens have been acting most peculiarly, and even placid Bossy has been skittish in the milk stall.  I think the pixies have gotten in again.  Mother won't hear anything about it, though.  What shall I do?

     Father shakes his head and says that none of this would ever have happened if Mr. Buchanan had not been reelected.  But that is what he always says, so no one pays him any mind.

     Have you found what you were seeking?  I wish I could join you and see the great Columbian Exposition, but I cannot leave Mother now.  She would likely rent my little room out to someone even more disagreeable than Mr. Schneeman.

Your faithful niece,

Susannah

P.S.:  Who wants to play the Letter Game?

Just Try It.

A Magpie Tale

Beware of Dog, by Justin Morris

Hop my fence.
Toe my turf.
Burrow beneath.
I'll show what I'm worth.

Rap on my gate.
Invade my space.
Worm your way in.
Look at my face.

My sidekick's seething,
gnashing the air.
Try to get past us--
double dog dare.

A Prophet's Dream

A Magpie Tale

photo by Mark Haley

wandering through
a dreary world
one bright spot ahead:
a tree
with fruit
of joy

at the summit of
a narrow path
steep, uneven, long
flanked by an iron rail
those who lean on it
won't stray

Choose:

make your own track
through dark mists,
distractions,
vain heights and filthy depths

or

cling to the way
that leads to where
God's love, bound in sweet flesh,
hangs on a tree
free for all who come

one taste begins
to right all wrongs
and dry all tears
not shed for joy



The prophet's name was Lehi.  He lived around 600 B.C.  You can read the vision in his own words, and explore its interpretation from his son.

To hear what a prophet has to say today, click here!

Winner!

My story, "Escape," is a winner in the 2013 Epeolatry Contest!  The challenge was twofold: write a non-romantic story using words from a list of romantic terms, and to do it in only 600 words.  The second part was more difficult for me.  The version I posted here is a bit longer, but I kept chipping away until my submission was exactly 600 words long.  It was quite an exercise.  Anyway, the 600-word version is on display at Satyr's Garden, along with two other winners.  Check it out!

Moth

A Magpie Tale

The Moth and the Lamp, Cesar Santos 

orbiting the glow

of friendship and warm caring--

swatted yet again.

will she find her own someday?

hold it tight and never stray . . .

On Holiday

A Magpie Tale

Laree hoisted the pack off her back, and sat at the picnic table.  She pulled out her guidebook, and the paper-wrapped lunch she had purchased from the tight-lipped proprietress of the village pub.  The sea breeze blew her hair awry, and flipped the pages of the book.  It's quiet here, she thought.  Just a little too quiet.

Tired of the clamor of city life, sick of deadlines and traffic and pretending to please people, she'd thought a self-guided walking tour of the Shetland Islands would be a perfect vacation.  She could explore at her own pace, think, write, dream, and get some good exercise and fresh air, too.  It was beautiful, and she relished the freedom, but the first couple of days had been a bit more lonesome than she'd expected.

Laree curiously unwrapped her packet.  She'd ordered the Ploughman's Lunch, thinking it sounded appropriately rustic.  She was a bit disappointed when it consisted entirely of a baguette and a wedge of cheese.  Oh, and a foil packet of chutney.  What was chutney, anyway?  Opening the packet, she sniffed it, and still didn't know.

"Mind if I join ye?"

A stocky man approached the picnic table, lunch bucket in hand.  A few grey hairs stuck out at odd angles from under his cap.  From the chaff stuck in his thick woolen jersey and the muck on his wellies, Laree guessed he might be an actual ploughman.  She wondered what he'd have for lunch.  "Be my guest," she said, waving at the other side of the table.

"You'll be mine, more like."  He chuckled as he seated himself, then gestured toward the field nearby.  "This is my place," he said, puffing out his chest slightly.  "Been in the family for generations." 

He opened a Thermos and Laree smelled the tantalizing scent of curry.  She swallowed her envy and bit off a chunk of her bread.

The man eyed Laree's pack.  "You're on a walking holiday, then?"

Laree nodded, her mouth full.  This bread was tougher than she'd expected.

"Will ye be headin' across the troll-below?"  He pointed at the sandy strip leading to a green island.

Laree frowned, and consulted her guidebook.  She swallowed quickly.  "This says it's a 'tombolo.'  'St. Ninian's Isle is tied to the Mainland by the largest active tombolo in the UK.'"

The farmer shook his head dismissively.  "Well, we call it the troll-below.  See, long, long ago, there used to be a bridge out to that island.  Folks would let their flocks wander across in the morning to graze, then send the dogs to round them up at night.  But if a goat crossed a little too early, or a little too late at dusk, a troll would jump out from under the bridge and catch it."

"A troll?"

"Nasty bugger, he was.  Some of the big billy goats could butt him into the water, but most of the little ones didn't have a chance.  It got to be pretty bad.  The villagers were losing kids left and right, and they didn't know what to do."  He took a long drink from his other Thermos.

"So, what happened?"

"Well, St. Ninian came along to convert the heathens.  But they were frettin' about the troll, and wouldn't listen to his sermons.
Finally he called the village together by the bridge, and told each person to dump a pail of sand on it.  They were scared to go on the bridge even in daylight anymore, but they bucked up and did it.  Then the good saint raised his hands and chanted.  Before their very eyes, the bridge sank into the sea, and sand covered the whole way to the island.  'The troll has gone below,' St. Ninian declared.  'You need not fear for your flocks.'  For good measure, he planted leeks on the island." 

"Leeks?"

"Trolls don't care for goats with onion breath, see?"  The man's face crinkled as he laughed.  "They still grow out there.  Should be blooming, as a matter of fact."  He packed up his lunch again.  "Well, have a nice time, miss.  But mind your step on the troll-below.  That troll hasn't been seen for centuries, but you never know..."

Laree wrapped up the rest of the tough roll and walked across the sand.  Stray sunbeams highlighted the ruined chapel, and set the sea sparkling.  She spent the afternooon exploring the island, with its oddly-named features.  She didn't see any seals in the Selchie Geo, but there were plenty of fat sheep at Baaberg.  She took pictures of the cliffs and holms, and gathered leek blossoms in the meadows.  It was a glorious day.  Finally, as the sun dipped low, she decided to head back to the mainland.  She was skipping across the sand when she heard a voice.

"Who's that trippin' across my bridge?"

Laree skidded to a stop and looked around.  A wild figure crouched on the strand, a dozen feet away.  Its sandy hair whipped in the freshening breeze.  Burlap sacks covered its back.  Laree's heart thudded.  There's no such thing as trolls, she told herself.  Right?

"And don't say you're goin' across the bridge, up the hill to eat grass.  I've heard that one before."

"How about leeks?"  She brandished her bouquet.

The figure laughed and stood up.  A tall young man stood before her, swinging the burlap sacks to the ground.  His jersey and wellies were cleaner versions of what the old farmer had worn to lunch, and his eyes sparkled like the sea.

"My dad thought you might be hungry after your ramble.  Would you like to come back to the house?  Mum makes a mean billy goat curry."

"Goat?"  Laree's mouth watered at the thought of curry, but was it a good idea to go home with a troll impersonator?

He laughed again.  "Actually, I think it's chicken today.  Come along.  And bring the leeks.  They might come in handy."

He swung open a gate, and Laree followed, thankful for new friends on the wild Shetland coast.

Escape

A Magpie Tale and an Epeolatry Contest entry

Cornelius Lawrence Fortinberry IV placed his ticket in the upper pocket of his suit coat and used the change to purchase a newspaper.  He climbed into the train and slipped into the gap between two stout businessmen.  He opened the newspaper and held it in front of his face, and no one paid him any attention.  Corny breathed a sigh of relief as the wheels began to roll.  He'd had a busy morning.

Just yesterday he'd seen his parents off on the Queen Mary.  In all the pre-travel flurry, they seemed to have quite forgotten their young son.  Still he stood on the pier and waved obediently when Nanny told him it was time.

"Don't you wish you could go with them?" she asked, a wistful look in her eyes.  "To see the opera?  Maybe even the Queen?"

Corny shrugged.  Opera held no allure for an eleven-year-old.

Nanny gave his shoulders a squeeze.  "You'd rather stay here, nice and safe with Nanny, wouldn't you?  Come along."

Corny wrinkled his nose.  Who needed Europe when the Wild West was only a train ride away? He kept his mouth shut and reviewed his scheme.

This morning, he dressed himself while Nanny drank her tea. He did not wince when she pulled his necktie too tight. None of his shoes could strictly be called comfortable, but he chose the pair that pinched least. When she had finished making up his bed, they walked down the long staircase to breakfast. Two steps above the marble entryway, Nanny halted. She pressed a hand to her ample bosom.

“Are you all right, Nanny?”

“I'm fine, dear. Just a trifle woozy.” She closed her eyes and slumped forward.

Corny ran to the kitchen. “Help! Nanny has collapsed!”

The servants froze.

“What's that?”

Corny wrung his hands. “Nanny! Come help!”

The cook set down her tray, the chauffer dropped his mug, and the housekeeper followed them out of the kitchen. Corny watched them go. It was the work of a moment for him to steal the stack of cash from the housekeeper's accounts drawer, pick up the satchel he'd stashed in the pantry, and leave by the back door.

On the train, Corny tried to read the newspaper he'd bought. He knew his father read it from cover to cover daily, but he couldn't imagine why. The financial news was duller than his Latin text, and even less comprehensible. He folded the paper and reached into his satchel. He had only packed a few essentials. It had been difficult to leave his chemistry set behind, but it had served his purpose. He made sure his pop-gun and pocket knife were safe, then pulled out his travel guide: Wild West Weekly. He balanced it behind the newspaper. The stuffy old men still ignored him. Pleased with his covert arrangement, Corny read his hero's latest venture until his stomach issued an audible groan.  He folded the newspaper into a neat square, in case he needed any tinder, and made his way to the dining car.

Charles watched the boy stare at the menu.  He seemed to be  comparing the prices with the contents of his purse. A spiffy suit like that, and a budget? Interesting. He poured the boy a glass of water.

“Are you waiting for your father, young man?”

The boy looked up, too quickly, his eyes a little too innocent. “No, he's waiting for me, in Chicago.” He shifted in his seat, and something fell to the floor.

“Allow me,” Charles said as he scooped up the magazine. Wild West Weekly. The boy must be a runaway. Charles could respect that. His own great-grandfather had run away on a different sort of railroad. He wasn't sure what kind of oppression this boy was leaving behind, but it was an escape nonetheless. Charles smiled. He'd allow the boy some freedom, at least as far as Chicago.

“Can I recommend the chicken and dumplings? We have a special price for early diners.”

The boy nodded gratefully, then buried his nose in his magazine.

“Ride on, cowboy,” Charles whispered as he took the order to the kitchen.