Star Dust: A Wing-Feather Fable

Fables-41 Aileen Murphy’s brother was stone-cold sober when he lost his left hand and his faith in the machinery of a fortune cookie plant. The sobriety, if nothing else, was entirely Aileen’s fault. Seamus was an amiable enough drunk, never fought or whored. Deep in pints, he bought his sister roses, knock-off Hermes scarves, and a white mouse in a gilded cage. It was the mouse that forced her hand, red eyes and midnight chitters. Their mother always said that nothing good could come of rodents. Aileen had to act.

Later, she wished she’d never lit those candles at St. Vincent’s, whispering her brother’s name three times into the flames. The miracle came quickly, Seamus off the drink and even wearing ties to work. He’d gotten her the job at Lucky’s, half a life ago, flipping small, soft pancakes from griddle to conveyor, watching as they vanished toward the plates that pressed them into butterflies. Seamus worked the batter vats, lifting, pouring, mixing, the muscles of his arms like seams within a rock.

They were the remnants of a family, sole survivors of a quiet dying-off. Each night, Aileen pressed her ear down to the floorboards and listened to the hollow clink of bottles. Once the miracle occurred, she was gratified by silence. It was hard to not feel smug.

Three weeks sober, then three months, and Seamus started reading brochures from the night school. He was buoyant on the line, and management took notice. Aileen felt their mother smiling down at her from Heaven.

Once, when she was barely out of diapers, her Da had pointed at the stars and described to her a world in constant motion, spinning planets, twirling suns, a vast, incomprehensible ballet. This is what she thinks of on the morning Seamus nearly dies. How many times before he fixed the line with Guinness in his veins.

In her memory, it happens in slow motion, his fingers in the gears, the awful stutter-grind and crack, a weight released, a massive lurch and bellow, fragmented bone, a slick of blood, strings of ligament and muscle.

In reality, the shearing-off was quick, a nearly-instant snap. The sirens keened, red lights swirled in puddles, and the paramedics carted him away like potatoes in a famine.

Seamus lived, but lost the hand that had delivered roses, scarves, a mouse. It was not what she intended, when she bent her knees to pray.

Back inside the shelter of the church, Aileen noticed shadows reaching, fingers splayed into the light. Stained glass glittered like a coded map of truth. Arches rose and crossed. Seamus sat beside her in the pews, quiet, sober, bandaged. There were so many pieces of this world that she didn’t understand — the hollowness of bird bones, the single-mindedness of ants, fortunes cast inside a butterfly of pancake. Miracles and mice. It was all fallout from the stars, she saw, bits of straw and sweepings from the dance floor, small confetti sifting, music, dusted from the skies.

~ Photo by Brenda Gottsabend; Story by Lisa Ahn

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Andrew Windershins Finds His Talent: A Wing-Feather Fable


Andrew Windershins had failed at everything he tried. Even as an infant, he was a total disappointment. While other mothers bragged of babies sleeping through the night and gobbling their mush, poor Mrs. Windershins could only wring her hands and bite her lip. Andrew caterwauled from dusk to dawn and tried to snort his gruel. Violet asked her sister, “Do you think there’s something wrong?” but the sanguine Polly said, “He simply hasn’t found his talent.”

Mrs. Windershins was patient. But Andrew didn’t find his talent in the nursery where he jumbled all the crayons and spilled the paint, or in kindergarten where he consistently confused the letter B with 7s and tried to eat the blocks. First grade was no improvement. In fact, his entire elementary education was a mulligan of missives from exasperated teachers and clocks that somehow sprung their gears whenever Andrew was around. “It’s an unmitigated ruin,” said Mrs. Windershins. “Don’t exaggerate,” was Polly’s answer. “Wait until he finds his talent.”

After high school — a hash of nettled girls, botched chemistry experiments, and rank humiliation — Andrew tried to join the gypsies. They wouldn’t take him. “Our insurance premiums are through the roof. We can’t adopt a proven menace.” Luckily, the circus was less inclined to wade through public records. Beneath the big striped tent, Andrew tried — and failed — at acrobatics, clowning, and elephant waste removal. Finally, in a fit of desperation, the ringmaster tossed a bucket full of balls at him. Imagine his astonishment when Andrew — Hopeless Andrew! — started juggling like a pro.

“I told you so,” Aunt Polly murmured. He was twenty-one and an overnight sensation. Headlining every show in far-flung, exotic cities, Andrew juggled not just balls, but tangerines and lollipops, wicker chairs and ottomans, Hummel figurines and tightly-swaddled children. No object was too difficult for his gobsmacking pitch and twirl.

By thirty, Andrew Windershins was bored. “After the cactus and the armadillo, what’s the point?” he complained to his mother and his aunt. “Blather,” said Polly, “you just haven’t found your bête noire.” Andrew shrugged while juggling his lunch, taking bites of Shepherd’s Pie at every pass.

When the circus reached the Mirrored City, Andrew found his beast. In a metropolis built entirely of reflections, the population is not easily impressed. Andrew lobbed fire balls and scimitars before a bored and blasé crowd. He tossed sea urchins and hedgehogs, priceless violins and pythons — to polite, restrained applause.

It was nursery school all over, but without the blocks and paint. When they failed to marvel at a brace of beehives spun in tandem with forked lightening, Andrew set his talent loose upon the Mirrored City. Slowly, colonnades and cornices began to rise and spin. They were joined by fountains, gates, and stairways, and the audience in their seats. Andrew Windershins juggled up the City, swirling in his hands.

Now, he’s got it,” Polly said, and beside her, old Ma Windershins smiled from ear to ear.

~ Photo by Brenda Gottsabend; Story by Lisa Ahn

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Broken Hearted: A Wing-Feather Fable


“Ain’t nothin’ easy ’bout fixin’ broken hearts.”

Poor advice, but it was all that Grandma Lucy gave her when she died. That, and Spangle’s Heart Repair, the family business. Grandma Lucy had been sour, but that didn’t mean she had a market on the truth. Natalie picked up a wrench, set out to prove her wrong.

She’d grown up inside the wheels and gears. She knew the many ways that hearts can break and how to grease the chains, replace the shattered bearings, polish off the rust. Still, she eased in, slowly, mending hearts that weren’t much more than knocked about, no substantial damage. There were spurned accountants, teenage girls crushed out on teachers, boys who lost their hamsters. Natalie tinkered with the casings and the pins. “Good as new,” she said. They were. She built a reputation.

The challenges got harder. Widowers came, peering through the grimy window, lifting their fedoras. There were runaways and vagrants, soldiers who had “Dear John” letters crumpled in their pockets, nuns who’d lost the sight of God, bakers weakened by remorse, pianists sunk in sorrow. Tough cases, every one — and yet they each left whistling, healed. Word began to spread. Customers came flocking. Natalie often winked at Grandma Lucy’s ghost, transparent in the mirror.

She fell in love, and more than once. Eventually, she married. And yet, with all of that, her own heart stayed untroubled, like a lake without a ripple. She had a child, a daughter marked with wild hair and sparkling eyes. Natalie named her Sunshine, and took to mothering with ease. All those years repairing hearts had set her up to soothe the early hurts of childhood, skinned knees and purple bruises, the cracks of minor disappointment. So many injuries could be fixed with kisses, a Band-Aid, a lollipop or cookie.

And Sunshine was a natural, gifted. Tucked beneath her mother’s wing, she learned to disassemble heartache, tally up love’s follies, replace the engine oil and fuses.  Natalie was proud, replete, and so, when she felt the first awful, wrenching pull, she didn’t recognize the cause. She didn’t know her heart was breaking.

Sunshine had become. . . less sunny. She tripped and fell more often, broke places that a bandage couldn’t reach. Her fingers shook, and her spark forgot its language. Sunshine . . . .wasn’t, and Natalie could not save her, no matter how she bent herself, contorted, thrashed or prayed.

“Ain’t nothin’ easy ’bout fixin’ broken hearts.” Grandma Lucy squinted from the mirror. Natalie didn’t need to ask her what she meant. Her own heart was a lake that roiled, thrashing, inconsolable, bereft.

The fact is, she should have known. Broken mothers never came into the shop, never asked for her repairs, never splayed their shattered mainsprings. They held tightly to their wounded children, hands pared down to iron bones, no matter. They did not release the broken hearts that rived them to the core.

Natalie dropped her wrench. She took hold of Sunshine, and she

~ Photo by Brenda Gottsabend; Story by Lisa Ahn

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Fairy Godmother Gone (A Wing-Feather Fable)


Noelle goes to Booker’s every Monday at eleven. She sits out on the patio, if it’s nice. She’d rather sit inside, but Tookie likes the brick-paved terrace with its wrought-iron chairs and half-leaf roof, sun-dappled. Today, the fairy godmother is late.

Fudge, fudge, fudge,” Noelle whispers. She checks her watch, smooths her list out on the table, checks her watch again. Her eye begins to twitch.

“She couldn’t really mean it,” Noelle says, “could she?” Last week, Tookie said, “I quit, dear. You’ve worn my wand out. Enough’s enough.” The fairy godmother tugged the lacy edges of her sleeves, hummed off tune, and looked up at the bluing sky. Noelle laughed, sure it was a joke.

Now, there’s a new waitress refilling Noelle’s coffee. “Fairy godmothers are usually precise,” she says, “They say exactly what they mean. Otherwise, with all those spells, there’s bound to be big trouble.”

“But,” Noelle tries not to wail, “she can’t desert me now?” The waitress shrugs and plunks more creamers on the table.

Tookie has been fixing Noelle’s life for years. First, there was a prince to snare, and then the kids came — one, two, three — and, after that, problems multiplied like rabbits. There were always sore throats, missing mittens, dust bunnies, dirty dishes, floors to mop and clothes to fold and homework, incomplete. Every Monday, Noelle brought a list and Tookie waved her wand, ta-da.

“Every girl deserves a rescue, now and then,” she whimpers, staring at the empty chair. The waitress clicks her tongue. “What?” Noelle demands. She doesn’t get an answer.

It’s one-o’clock, and Noelle is late for kindergarten pick-up. Tookie is still missing. “Fudge,” she tries again. Of all the rotten timing. On Friday, the kids came home with lice. Noelle spent the entire weekend scrabbling through scalps, picking nits and washing laundry, vacuuming the couch, boiling hairbrushes. It really was too much.

In the filtered light, the fairy godmother’s chair makes crisscross shadows on the bricks. It looks warm, inviting. Empty. Noelle re-checks her list. There’s the lice, of course, and Juju lost her favorite toy. Evan’s failing math, and Audrey watches too much tv. The dishwasher is on the fritz, library books are overdue, and Noelle would like to lose some weight. “What’s next?” she bleats.

As if in answer, the empty chair shoots forward, bumps against her knee. Noelle tries to scoot away, but the chair shimmies to the left and blocks her. They dance like this for twenty minutes, until Noelle is out of breath. The chair is obviously determined. Noelle gives up and switches seats.

All at once, she pictures Juju, the last child left at pickup. She’s got to hurry. After school they can check the library for a manual on dishwasher repair. What has she been waiting for? Noelle thinks, and then she’s gone.

The new waitress crumples the forgotten wish list in the trash. She hums off tune. From her apron pocket, a silver wand tip winks. Ta-da.

~ Photo by Brenda Gottsabend; Story by Lisa Ahn

Learn more about Wing-Feather Fables here



Peter Rabbit Remix (A Wing-Feather Fable)


“You can’t be serious.”

“Nope, that’s it.”

“That can’t be the Gate. It’s an office door. A lawyer door.”

“That aint no law room.” McGregor spat into the pine needles, thin and brown and crisp. The door was in the middle of a forest, like an island lost, misplaced. Stark light spilled through slats, illuminating bark and fern.

Peter scratched the stubble on his chin. McGregor was chewing on a carrot. As a guide, he was supposed to be the best, though definitely eccentric. His walking stick was a garden hoe, and he sang show tunes as they hiked.  And now, this door?

“This can’t be it.” Peter muttered.

“Suit yerself.” McGregor started on a wedge of cabbage. How did he keep those damn veggies fresh?

Peter ran grimy hands through sweat-stuck hair. He sat down, wincing as he unlaced his boots. His feet were fish-white, blistered. Exhausted from the searching, he reached inside his pocket for the comfort of a worn brass button. His mother’s. Maybe it was better she was dead. She’d missed the crazed trajectory of his life, the rocket-rise and epic crash, from high-price lawyer to heroin addict all in the space of a blink.

She was the reason he’d started for the Gate.

“You sure that’s it?”

McGregor’s eyes were bloodshot, rheumy. “What you come here for, boy? If it’s redemption, then walk through. But if you’re just a gonna sit there like a scared rabbit, well, I got stuff to do.”

Peter closed his eyes. Redemption? What a joke. He had no idea why he still chased the Gate. Maybe just to prove it false. Ha! That had worked out well. What next?

Rain fell, cold and dreary. It made him sneeze and open up his eyes. The old man was gone, with his veggies and his hoe. Just disappeared, like that.

The light spilling through the door grew brighter, casting shadows from above. It was a blunt light, bald and somehow heavy, as if it had a certain gravity of its own. He peered between the slats. On the other side, a white cat perched near water, a flash of golden-orange between its paws.

Peter dropped the button as if he were the fish, trapped and gasping. It was his mother’s button, the one he’d ripped off when, drunk and crazed, he’d knocked her down and down and down the stairs. She’d landed in a broken heap, jet-dark tea pooled all around her. Now he watched the button fly right through the Gate as if there were no barrier.

The white cat waited, paws around the fish. Forward or back? On bare feet, Peter hobbled to the doorway, reached out for the knob and turned it. A long sigh rustled ferns and needles. He stepped across the threshold, and felt the button in his palm again. It blinked up at him, an orangey-gold. Peter gasped, washed through with grief and gratitude simultaneous, as if he’d gotten home, at last.

~ Photo by Brenda Gottsabend; Story by Lisa Ahn

Learn more about Wing-Feather Fables here