Not Nobody: A Wing-Feather Fable

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There were three ways to get out and the great barn doors weren’t one of them. Fifteen years ago, the leprechaun had sealed them in a fit of pique and temper.

He was always a bit growly. His roommates didn’t mind, unless his moods influenced his cooking.

“Dumping pepper in the eggs again,” the blind cyclops muttered to the broken ballerina.

The leprechaun slammed pots. The cyclops retreated to a corner with his knitting. He had a knack for unique tea cozies shaped like unicorns or dragons. The ballerina hopped, first on one foot, then the other. She did this furtively, testing out her strength. She also checked the exits, in rotation: sewer grate, vine door, window. There was a problem with them all. The sewer stank like death. The vine door writhed with ivy. And the window swallowed heartbeats.

“You’re not planning to go out there?” The cyclops scrunched his forehead.

The ballerina shrugged.

“Are ya daft?” The leprechaun pointed one stubby finger at each exit in its turn. “You’ve a choice between suffocation, strangulation and base obliteration. Help the giant make his cozies. Stay out of trouble, girl.”

“But,” she said, “I hear things.” She pointed at the large barn doors. Light broke through the edges, searing. “Crying,” she said. “Children’s prayers. Drowned wishes.”

“Curses,” spat the leprechaun. “That’s what I hear, night and day. Rage, out there. And violence. The world has gone to shit, girl. Stay inside. It’s safe.”

“Is it?” she cocked her head. She’d arrived a hundred years ago with every single bone inside her body shattered. Every one. She knew the cost of outrage.

“In/Out. Stay/Go,” the cyclops timed his words to match the clicking of his needles. “What’s the opposite of safe?”

“Drop the philosophical bullshit.” The leprechaun half-bellowed. “That missing eye of yours? It’s absolute.”

The cyclops merely chuckled.

“Alive,” the ballerina whispered.

The other two turned toward her.

“Alive,” she said again. “For us, that’s the opposite of safe.”

Whispers crept around the barn doors. Please. Help. Please. War. Please. Home. Please. Lost. Please.

The cyclops put his yarn down, set his hands onto his knees and stood. “Some will surely hate us.”

The ballerina nodded, but the leprechaun protested, “There’s no more room for beauty, strength or magic in the rough seams of the world.”

“Then we shall make room,” said the girl.

“I can’t undo the curse,” he pointed at the barn doors.

“Not a problem,” said the cyclops.

He rubbed his palms together. The leprechaun turned off the stove.

When the cyclops broke those doors down, the explosion echoed over rooftops, rifles, sinking boats, politicians, bombs and riots. Light and mourning crossed the threshold.

Thinking of the hero who had maimed him, the cyclops bellowed in a voice that woke the stars up: “Not Nobody is here!”

“And we shall change the world,” the ballerina whispered. Every single bone ached, always.

“Ready?” said the cyclops.

The leprechaun grinned wildly, and the ballerina danced.

~ Photo by Brenda Gottsabend; Story by Lisa Ahn

Learn more about Wing-Feather Fables here

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Light Keeper, for Kate (A Wing-Feather Fable)

Photo by Brenda Gottsabend

Photo by Brenda Gottsabend

 

For Kate Arpano ~ March 13, 2009 – January 14, 2016 ~ always shining

The lighthouse keeper walked the borders of his island in a drizzling rain that smudged the edges of the world. The path he chose was crooked, spiked with rocks and sea-slick, but the keeper never stumbled. He knew the circuit well, had traveled it so often that his dreams would bring him here, the wave pulse like a heartbeat and salt rime on his tongue.

Still, he took his time, a wise precaution since the coast was humped and jagged like the boulder teeth of giants. From there, the land rose up in crumpled hills all seamed with grey rock. The only structure was the lighthouse rising in the north, its wide beam sweeping arcs across the ocean, warning ships to keep their distance. But he was not here for that light.

There! He saw a flicker deep inside a crevice where two blocks of granite leaned together. He knelt and cupped the small, translucent flame, radiant, in his palm. She was dazzling, luminous, stronger than the rain or wind or darkness. Still, he kept her close.

Soon enough, he reached the lighthouse, toed the kitchen door and slipped into a room so full of brilliance that it shimmered. Gold flames shone through sea glass votives. They covered every surface, from the floor up to the ceiling.

“Welcome,” said the keeper, as he gently set the newest light into a cup. He shucked his dripping coat off and poured a mug of coffee as the tower’s cats arrived from every nook and corner. There were too many cats to count, and too many lights to number, but arithmetic was not his job, and he had dwelt with the impossible for so very many years that its magic was a comfort.

In any case, the lighthouse amiably expanded to accommodate both cats and lights, as needed. Shelves appeared from nowhere. New rooms opened up. The flames arrived at odd hours and in unusual places, but the keeper always found them. After all, each small but splendid glimmer was the remnant of a life — not the body, nor the soul, but the good done on this earth, the generosity and warmth.

Take the newest flame, for instance. He could see she was a marvel, a miracle, in fact. Her starlight pirouetted, trailing sparks of purple-pink. The keeper caught at glimpses: a smile that never faded, laughter, hugs and music. Magic tricks and mischief. Flowers, games, and rainbows. Jokes. An iron will and easy temper. There was nothing small about her. And, oh, how she was loved!

“You are strong,” the keeper said, and he set her in a place of honor. He would watch the blessings of her light. He would see them ripple outwards, chasing shadows, bringing grace. Boundless joy swelled all around her. The keeper laughed, “To be sure, you’ll like the cats.” And the flame leaped like a bird song, unwavering and fierce.

~ Photo by Brenda Gottsabend; Story by Lisa Ahn

Learn more about Wing-Feather Fables here

In Plain Sight: A Wing-Feather Fable

Photo by Brenda Gottsabend

There was a dragon in the city, hiding in plain site, dressed up as a statue. It was a good disguise, effective. She looked like modern art, all angular planes and rivets. Very red, but harmless.

Edgar wasn’t fooled. He was twelve and, until recently, he’d been very good at disappearing into crowds and corners, folding down into himself until he wasn’t noticed. Then he hit a growth spurt that left him gangling and clumsy. Impossible to miss. All at once he was a tall boy holding onto baby fat, a boy with warm eyes, curved lashes and skin the color of good coffee. His parents called him Beau, because he was so beautiful. Everybody else just called him Mud because the boy was always reading, nose buried in a math book, apt to trip in puddles. It was worse out on the streets. There, he saw that strangers suddenly feared him, as if he were a hazard, a bomb that might explode.

The first time Edgar saw the dragon, he was so startled that he dropped his notebooks full of numbers and had to chase loose pages as they swished across the plaza. Then he looked around. No one else seemed bothered. No one was afraid. The dragon was inside the city’s largest courtyard, ringed with banks and mirrored windows. Cautiously, Edgar laid his palm against her crimson metal hide. He felt the rising heat, primeval breathing. He tilted back his head, caught the length and breadth of her, and wondered if the dragon liked geometry, the lullaby of shapes.

After that, he spent hours beneath the dragon, invisible again. Bankers, lawyers and brokers swirled like mites around them, but no one paid attention. And if Edgar listened closely, he could hear the dragon’s heartbeat. Once, he saw her blink.

He was happy.

Then Edgar grew again, six more inches, his legs and arms like wild scarecrow limbs. He had to crouch beneath the dragon and even then his feet stuck out, two gigantic canvas high-tops. People tripped on Edgar, and then there were complaints. The police came, hands poised on their holsters. No loitering, they said. Move along. Go home.

Edgar tried to show the men his math books. He got as far as, “But–,” before their hands were on his ankles, yanking, and Edgar’s head smacked back against the dragon, bounced against the pavement and his ears were ringing with such clamor that he almost missed the moment when the dragon shook itself and woke.

The earth quaked and stones cascaded as she pulled her body loose. Edgar’s ears were still messed up, and he couldn’t see well, but he felt the dragon nudge him. He sensed the wings above his head, the whiplash tail and talons. Before she picked him up, her metal arms a cradle, Edgar thought, Well, no more hiding, and then they were airborne, up above the city, the dragon’s cry so piercing that it shot straight through his heart.

~ Photo by Brenda Gottsabend; Story by Lisa Ahn

Learn more about Wing-Feather Fables here

Sprinkles for Max: A Wing-Feather Fable

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There were at least fifty coffee shops inside the city, and Max knew every one. If he heard about a new café, read the advert in the paper, he couldn’t rest until he’d tried it. He’d grab his Suze’s hand and they’d be off, a fedora and a pillbox hat, old folks on adventures.

He’d taken her to artsy joints with painted stools, where the waitresses had more metal in their faces than a scrap yard. There were yuppity salons with complicated menus, and bolt-hole dives, sludge in cups marked up with lipstick. Once, he’d brought her to a shop where every brew was made from beans extracted out of poop — elephant droppings, cat turd, or the crap of rare, endangered birds. Together, they had tried it all.

Now the sound of “widower” sat heavy on his tongue, and coffee wouldn’t wash it. He still went to all the shops — she might be keeping tabs on him — but everything was grey in taste and scent and texture. Max was never thirsty.

And then the Daily Grind appeared, a block from Max’s building. The trouble was, he’d never seen it, though the shop looked well-established. Hell, it looked as old as sin. And the strangest part of all? As soon as Max walked in, they hired him, right there on the spot. Before he knew it, he was in an apron, carrying a tray and taking orders with a fuchsia pen.

The clientele looked stunned. Each patron mumbled that the shop had just appeared. Out of the blue. They craned their necks to see the murals on the walls, the fairytales and myths — a wolf, a firebird, a castle, phoenix, unicorns and mice. The ceiling chimed with small glass balls, and the floor was made of marbles, pressed together into patterns.

The kitchen pumped out cakes and pastries, café mocha, cappuccinos and good old-fashioned brew, all with the flavor of happiness distilled, tailor-made for every heartache, nostalgia or inertia. Max delivered each libation and confection and then watched the slumping faces lift, transform, alight.

By the time the shop closed down at midnight, he felt as if he’d worked for years, shuffling through someone else’s dream come true. He collapsed into a chair decked out in feathers, and put his head into his heads. No Suze. Not now. Not ever.

When Max looked up, he had a cupcake and a mug, set out on a doily. The cupcake had a lot of sprinkles. The coffee was bright blue. Max shrugged. He took a bite, a sip. He scratched his head. The corners of his mouth twitched up. The cook gave him a wink. “Coming back tomorrow?” Max nodded, feeling lighter by the minute. When he put on the old fedora and headed for the door, he could swear he felt the pressure of Suze’s fingers on his forearm. Coffee really was a marvel. Outside the Daily Grind, the city caught his chuckle, like a swirl of cinnamon on foam.

~ Photo by Brenda Gottsabend; Story by Lisa Ahn

Learn more about Wing-Feather Fables here

The Stone-Bound: A Wing-Feather Fable

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They chose the former cable building because it was already wired for alarms. At first, the sirens howled every night, hours of screeching panic that shattered dreams and made a city of insomniacs. The noise was so hellish, so rending, that hospitals were deluged with fatal heart attacks. Babies born within those months have a peculiar tonal deafness. They are terrible musicians, prone to tics and schizophrenic mood disorders.

The sirens slowed, then stopped, once the executions started. By the time the jails were empty, swept clean and disinfected, the noise was just a bitter memory no one wished to claim. And if the city had completely lost its capacity to dream, no one talked about that either. No one talked about the Portal.

They were expected to forget, but Roslyn Withers did nothing but remember. She worked inside the building, Level One cafeteria staff, mopping floors and swiping tables with a noxious disinfectant. Her mother’s idea, from start to end. There were a lot of children of defectors in the building’s lower ranks, trying, like Roslyn, or her mother, to scrub the tarnish off their names. They all passed each day beneath the Guardians. Roslyn wondered if the others felt those eyes like bullets, aiming for the slightest tremble in the knees.

Did they know she could remember? Worse yet, had everyone else forgotten, truly, the world before the purge? All the history books described a time of chaos, promiscuity and indulgence dressed up in the guise of freedom. Too many choices, too much diversity and variation. The Guardians came and trimmed it all, cut away the random and the fluid, sent the ebb and flow of “freedom” to a place they conjured and contained, the world beyond the Portal.

(Roslyn heard the pulse of it, the steady, throbbing hum of exiled opportunity. It must be in her blood, she thought. After all, her father . . . well, he had failed like all the rest, jailed and hung, bodies swinging from the gates. )

Now, everyone was blessed with an ordered, tidy, metric life. (Pale, she thought, and shriveled.) People understood their place. No more striving, multiplicity, or indecision. No more pesky choices, like bees along the nape.

Roslyn wondered why they didn’t simply close the gate, seal it up with mortar, blast the opening to dust. Why leave the weak, the wounded, open to temptation? But, then again, she was her father’s daughter. Roslyn understood. This was the final, quiet stage of culling, a lure to catch the ones who are unwilling to forget.

Once or twice a year, alarms still split the night. She waits for them to stop completely. She waits for a silence that is definite and smug. In her dreams, she sees the Guardians complacent, unaware that she is coming. In her dreams, she splits the surface of the portal like an overripe and rotten fruit. She is drenched and nearly drowned in everything released. In her dreams, she sees the stone eyes weep.

~ Photo by Brenda Gottsabend; Story by Lisa Ahn

Learn more about Wing-Feather Fables here