life, the universe, and a few-odd other things
A fly buzzed against the window as slowly, outside, the rain dripped off the eaves.
“It’s kind of cozy,” he said, pulling the blanket closer around his shoulders.
“I know,” his friend replied. “I don’t know if I can stand it much longer.”
It glittered. The corner of the basement glittered. Naila was sure of it this time. She shook her phone to turn on the flashlight and shone it into the corner. The glitter vanished. She turned the light off, and there it was again, glittering like a million tiny, faint stars gathered in the corner of her basement behind the canning shelves.
She had never been quite sure what to make of it. There it sat, on her kitchen table, sparkling up at her in its silent fashion.
“It sure is ugly,” she remarked to the cat, who went on cleaning his back end as if he didn’t care one bit. Which he didn’t.
“I mean, where is it coming from?” she continued. “Every fifth of the month, there it is. On the kitchen table. Shining and sparkling and glittering and, and—just sitting there. I mean, what is it?”
PS: No, I don’t know what it is, either. Do you?
They came around the corner, and there it was in front of them. The blossom, enormous like a vast bowl, more than six men could span. The soft pink of the petals had a velvet sheen to it; in the centre, the golden richness of the stamens beckoned.
“The Giant Water Lily of Medulisan!” Mardrom breathed, once again exercising his proclivity for stating the obvious.
She took the lid off the sugar bowl and absentmindedly reached in for a sugar cube. She’d really have to get herself some sugar tongs.
“Oy!” cried an indignant little voice from the bowl. “Do you mind?”
She gave a startled glance into the sugar bowl. A tiny man stared up at her from under a pointy blue hat, clutching a sugar cube in front of him which was unsuccessful at hiding the fact that he was butt naked.
“I beg your pardon!” she said politely. “I didn’t realize you were using my sugar bowl for… for… What are you using it for?”
“I’m too tired,” the witch said.
“Aw, c’mon!” the wizard wheedled. “Just once? Just one teeny, tiny time?”
“No.”
“Pleeeeease?” He batted his long, silky eyelashes.
The witch sighed.
“Oh, fine.” She raised her short, stubby black wand. “Bibbety-boppety-booh!”
Sparkles shot out of the end of the wand and rained down on the wizard’s hat.
“Wheee!” he trilled, clapping his fingers together and spinning in the glittering shower.
Reluctantly, the witch gave a smile.
The little boy came running into the room, coat tails flapping.
“Quick!” he cried, “hide me! They’re after me!”
Olive put down her embroidery.
“Who is after you?”
“Them!” the little boy wailed ungrammatically as he wiggled his way under the sofa. “The chief mages!”
“Watch out for the cookabon—“ Olive broke off as a loud yelp came from under the sofa. The chief mages, huh? If they were after that boy, that might explain the proliferation of such creatures as the cookabonna dragon under the sofa. They never could figure out how much of an effect their promiscuous spellcasting had on the whole community. Or perhaps they just didn’t care.
Olive hung her head upside down in front of the sofa.
“Tell the cookabonna there’ll be some biscuits available presently,” she said to the vague shapes scuffling around beneath. “And don’t worry about the mages. They know better than to come in here.”
It was a clear, sparkling day, and under the sofa the cookabonna dragon sang its melancholy tune. Olive sighed. She would have to dust under there again.
“I do not believe it,” the rabbit said, twitching his nose.
“Suit yourself then,” his wife replied, smacked her back legs against the ground and vanished into the burrow with a white flash of her tail.
“Do not believe what?” the prince asked politely.
“That there is a fo – fo-fo-fo-fo-fox!” the rabbit screeched, and after turning around in a few frantic circles, he too vanished down the burrow.
“Ah well,” the prince said, philosophically stroking his long whiskers with a forepaw. “There goes another lunch. One of these days, my manners are going to be the death of me.”
Words. Words, words, words.
Hamlet and everything.
They just wouldn’t come today, those words. Not the right ones, anyway.
Oh, there were words alright – lots of words. Jumbling together in her head; crashing together like bumper cars at the fair; bubbling up like a screen saver and then floating around, changing colour, gently tapping against each other, jiggling around, vanishing with a swipe of the mouse.
But not the right ones, not the words she needed.