The spaceship ‘Royal Fruit Basket’ slowly chugged through space. They were down to one engine and barely enough fuel for life support. The private eye who owned the small ship wanted to kick in the soul of the weasel who had contracted them for the last job. Usually their tiny three person crew took odd surveilance jobs and kept off the radar of the cronies at Big Wigs who handled surveilance for the Corporate Governments. But this time they’d brought the full Corporate hatred down upon themselves. How were they to know that the green mohawked girl they were hired to follow was one of the Big Wigs wives? They followed her to the Purple Rain in the Rain festival on Saturn Prime. They’d gotten great still and video of her … ahem … eclectic choices in partners. They’d delivered the drives with all the data as promised. Maybe they shouldn’t have made copies but if their client had paid up when the PIs delivered the goods they wouldn’t have started the turf war by selling the drives and data back to Mohawk Girl. Ooops.
The young adults snuck out just as the moon was starting to rise. The stars lit their way down to the hidden cove. They came around the corner and gasped at the majestic beauty of the moon glinting off the perfect shades of white and bone. Dead Beach held the skulls of a thousand slain enemies. Their bones crushed by the relentless tide until nothing remained but a finely crushed bone powder. Each teen held a perfect Royal Blush Apple in their hand. They had plucked them from the branches of the lone tree that guarded the entrance to this place of power. One by one they silently walked across the ancient graveyard. They made their wishes and tossed their offerings into the sea. The last two walked up hand in hand. They threw their apples together without unlinking their hands. Then they turned and shared their first kiss while the tide nibbled at their feet. The others gasped quietly. It was not tradition to make wishes together. A shiver of fear went through two of the three other teens. Would this pair draw a curse down upon all of them? The couple ignored the others and walked back the way they had came. The others stood around stunned for a few moments. A few moments too long. A hail storm of rocks fell from the cliffs above. The three teens below were killed instantly. Their blood stained the beach a deep shade of ruby. The couple stood at the Royal tree and smiled. Their campaign of vengeance had only begun. Soon the whole village would feel their wrath.
Momma and Poppa should’ve known when they had twins that their life would never be the same. They never could’ve planned for little Jonnie’s…abilities…though. It didn’t matter what they brought home, he turned it into a cursed artifact. The only one who was immune to his antics was his younger twin, Jessie. Jessie often cowered by Momma’s side while Jonnie was smashing plates. Their house never seemed to have enough dishware. It was as if Jonnie was born with a hatred of china and glass. Their Momma had taken to stopping at the secondhand shop to stock the house every Friday night on her way home from working in the shipyard. She bought the cheapest and gaudiest dishes they had. The ones no one else could stand the sight of.
One afternoon a deceitful little man came to the door and promised to cure Jonnie of his affliction. He danced and hummed and shook a jade rattle around Jonnie’s head. Jonnie was so repulsed by the man that he threw a plate covered in Japanese blooms at the man. The nasty little man fled without asking for payment.
As the years flew by, Jonnie gained more control over his affliction. Soon their cupboards were full of ordinary looking plates and the family was once again able to have visitors for tea. For the twins fifteenth birthday they threw a party and invited all the neighborhood kids. But Jonnie caught Jessie kissing Elizabeth, the cute girl who lived on Mulberry Street. Jonnie was in such a rage at the perceived betrayal that he smashed every glass in the house. Momma shooed everyone out of the house and surveyed the damage. She opened the fridge to find every bottle and container obliterated.
The Bear Creek Banquet had begun. The maimed by love toys limped around the dance floor. The doll with the missing arm was twirled around by the teddy bear with no eyes. The earless puppy dog did a jig with the top that could not spin. Sadness and relief intermingled in the air. It’s a handmade’s tale of a life of service. Each stitch and every seam held the love and tears of a child. Every scruffy scrap of fur and tangled head of hair spoke of late night sharing and too tight hugs. A yankee doll missing its hat led the last dance with a flourish. Then they all lined up, leaning on each other for support. The candle bridge glittered in the distance. They laughed and cried their way across, hopping and skipping from flame to flame. On the other side they were renewed. Fur softened, hair detangled, hats found. Now they would live forever in the land of memory.
I pushed it too far. I went to one more event and one more event and one more event. I let my tiny black heart run dangerously low on the things that feed it.
So I’ve spent most of the morning 🧛♀️ undead 🧟♀️ on the couch. I’ve snacked my way through a bunch of crappy foods. I finally put my ass in a bubble bath hoping to emergency self care myself into a better mood. It helped a tiny bit but my brain forgot the impossibility of enjoying a bath in a one bathroom house while the three kiddos are still here. DOH!
Mom tip: there is nothing relaxing about being tucked behind the curtain while child after child after child has to use the toilet. It’s a glam life listening to your child poop two feet from your head while you’re trying to read in the half dark behind the shower curtain. 3/10 would not recommend 🤣
You know you are overdone when READING takes too much energy. (FYI reading is my absolute favorite pastime. If I’m not reading then my dreams are dying. Just saying.)
Now I’m tucked into the couch with a toddler wrapped in random fabric pieces (it’s her Moana costume, ok?! 😂). I’m watching Murder She Wrote. (An all time favorite. I’ve seen every episode multiple times. Why do I not write or read murder mysteries??? Murder shows are 70% of my tv viewing. 💀)
So today I choose lazy. If only my inner mean girl would shut the fuck up about the clutter in the kitchen and the weird ass school supplies I haven’t summoned from Amazon yet. 😫
This is a hard exercise for me but it has brought to light some startling thought patterns.
When I was a child I was ready to die. In my daydreams I would bravely sacrifice myself to save my sister or my dog or just about anyone.
This has followed me into adulthood. I sacrifice myself for my kids, my friends, even for people I barely know. I’ve given away my knowledge, my time, and my energy anytime someone has asked me for help.
I’d love to say I’m going to stop this sacrificing cold turkey but it’s a process. Being an over-helper is a habit I have to break. I need boundaries. And I need to continue to tell myself in every reflective surface I see… I. Am. IMPORTANT
Never use a fairy for your security team. I don’t care how cute they are. They will double cross you every time. Let’s say you put together an exquisite exhibition as a gift to the Holiday Museum. Your personal collection of priceless figurines is arranged behind bulletproof glass. The insurance company demands that you hire private security as well. You interview fifty people but you choose the fairy squad because they blend in with the festive decor. It is a true, natural miracle they don’t murder you for the bell ridden atrocity of a uniform you select for them. For the opening night you commission a designer to create a gown that encompasses the style of your life: luxe with a hint of whimsy. You stand before the doors of the great hall, a crowd of affluent gentle folk mill around you. You search for Yang, the museum director, but give up and order the doors opened. The crowd holds its breath and then the screams and panic begin. People flee from the room behind you. Instead of a decadent collection of figurines and old earth tchotchkes – you find a terrified Yang bound to an evergreen with twinkle lights. A large glass ornament is impossibly shoved in his mouth. The fairies have smashed every other piece of glass and porcelain in the room. The shards swirl in a circle while the fairies chant rhythmically inside of it. A deep red glow comes from the floor and a Night Mare steps through. She possesses tentacles instead of hooves and the moment she clears the portal, she chomps her too sharp teeth. An eerie crooning sound comes from her and you know you should flee but you take a single step forward. The crooning noise increases and the last thing you hear are the bells on the fairies shoes as they ride the Night Mare to their chosen sacrifice…YOU.
No one called upon the tragic muse, deliberately. She held down her bar stool at The Cherry Blossom and sipped on whatever the bartender served her. She had unlimited free drinks but they alway tasted bad. The wine was corked. The beer was flat. The mixed drinks were overly sweet, overly sour, or on one really bad night: both. Tonight she was sipping on a Lemontini and wincing at the pucker of the lemon. As soon as she finished it, the bartender refilled her glass. She was halfway to drunk when the young man sat beside her. He had dreams of being an overnight sensation, Mel could smell them. She sighed and downed her drink in one gulp. “How can I help you Matthew?”
Matthew fidgeted in his chair. “I want to be famous. I want it so badly I can taste it. Three of your sisters laughed at me. I thought maybe you could help me. And show them up.”
She smiled at the thought of one upping her sisters. Comedy and Dancing were by far the most popular, but people were even willing to beg outside Hymns door before they came to see her. “Only three of my sisters? Most visit all eight before deciding to slum it with Tragedy.” Matthew squirmed in his chair. She had guessed correctly. Every one of her sisters had slammed the door in his face. That was quite the feat. It wasn’t as if they all lived in the same neighborhood. She sipped her sour Lemontini and looked him over. “Is there a medium you prefer?”
“Words. I love writing.”
She smiled at hime. She’d let this one off easy. She reached over and kissed his cheek. Her magic settled over him. He sighed in relief and thanked her. He wandered out of the bar. He would write a famous novel before the year was over. But no matter how many edits he did, errors would remain. Even errors he had already fixed would reappear. His grasp of grammar was now tragically bad. The energetic internet assholes will have a field day trolling the comment section of anyone who showed appreciation for his book. Within a month of publication, Matthew will be turned into a meme. Even the tragic muse has a sense of humor.