Finding My Wings : For Amy

Tonight,
I make this wish.
A wish for a friend.
A simple wish
For I have learned,
Those are the best wishes
Of all.

I wish  for you tonight
To find your heart and soul.
Your self.
The you that life intended
To bless this world with
On the day your were born.

It won’t be easy.
I speak from experience.
But that’s not really the point.
Nor is finding that answer
To the question
“Who am I?”

It’s a question I’ve been asking
Of this life
More than twice as long
As you’ve been alive.
And I truly don’t know
If there’s an answer
At all.

But I’ve learned.
It’s not the answer
That matters.
It’s the journey.
The walk.
And all the things that happen
On the way.

It was almost 2 years ago
When the journey I am on
Changed dramatically.
I’ve told you that before.
And that change
Was wrought with pain.
More than I have ever known.

But it seems to me
Sometimes
Pain is what we have to face
To take the next step
Down the path
Of the journey
Each of us is on.

I know to many souls
That stopped walking
Long ago.
The pain got in the way.
And they became afraid.
And settled for staying
Where they were.

They haven’t changed.
They haven’t grown.
In years.
Some of them in decades.

I know this to be true.
Not so very long ago
I was one of them.

But you,
My friend,
Have not let fear
Stop you.

I can’t imagine
What it took
To take the step
You took this week.

I wish I could tell you
What it is you’ll find
On this journey you are on.
But I know I can’t.
For it’s your journey to take
Not mine.

Life’s like that.
We’re each different.
We each walk
A different path.

But I’ve seen you take
Your next big step
Along the way.
And I can‘t help but feel
It was so hard to do.
And I can’t help but know
It’s what you heart told you
You had to do.

And that’s good enough for me.

Follow your heart,
Dear friend.
For written in your heart
Is the story of the path
Life wished for you
On the day
You were born.

If you listen carefully.
It will never lie to you.
It will simply be your guide
In life.

On your journey
To find you.

Tonight,

I make this wish.

A wish for a friend.

A simple wish

For I have learned,

Those are the best wishes

Of all.

I wish  for you tonight

To find your heart and soul.

Your self.

The you that life intended

To bless this world with

On the day your were born.

It won’t be easy.

I speak from experience.

But that’s not really the point.

Nor is finding that answer

To the question

“Who am I?”

It’s a question I’ve been asking

Of this life

More than twice as long

As you’ve been alive.

And I truly don’t know

If there’s an answer

At all.

But I’ve learned.

It’s not the answer

That matters.

It’s the journey.

The walk.

And all the things that happen

On the way.

It was almost 2 years ago

When the journey I am on

Changed dramatically.

I’ve told you that before.

And that change

Was wrought with pain.

More than I have ever known.

But it seems to me

Sometimes

Pain is what we have to face

To take the next step

Down the path

Of the journey

Each of us is on.

I know to many souls

That stopped walking

Long ago.

The pain got in the way.

And they became afraid.

And settled for staying

Where they were.

They haven’t changed.

They haven’t grown.

In years.

Some of them in decades.

I know this to be true.

Not so very long ago

I was one of them.

But you,

My friend,

Have not let fear

Stop you.

I can’t imagine

What it took

To take the step

You took this week.

I wish I could tell you

What it is you’ll find

On this journey you are on.

But I know I can’t.

For it’s your journey to take

Not mine.

Life’s like that.

We’re each different.

We each walk

A different path.

But I’ve seen you take

Your next big step

Along the way.

And I can‘t help but feel

It was so hard to do.

And I can’t help but know

It’s what you heart told you

You had to do.

And that’s good enough for me.

Follow your heart,

Dear friend.

For written in your heart

Is the story of the path

Life wished for you

On the day

You were born.

If you listen carefully.

It will never lie to you.

It will simply be your guide

In life.

On your journey

To find you.

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Fairies : Half-Breed

She just walked into the clearing by the lake one day. No one saw her coming. No one knew who she was. She had no name. She looked fully grown. And somehow, she looked like a little girl. With that little girl innocence. She had raven red hair, and the bluest eyes you could imagine.She was a fairy. At least she looked like a fairy. But there was something about her that wasn’t fairy like. There was a grace, an elegance that not even Rose had. Her wings were blue. And feathered, like the wings of an angel. But they were shaped just like fairy wings.

And, whoever she was, she was completely naked.

She walked across the clearing, to the edge of the lake, and knelt. She looked into the water, and she smiled. Then she began to cry. Quietly. With the same grace, and elegance everyone could see when she walked.

At first, no one knew what to do. Or even what to say. Rose, Dream, Flora, Fauna, Chrissy, Lilly and Sunshine stayed at the edge of the clearing, and watched. Musica, the eldest of the girls, took out her flute, and began to play. A quiet little tune that reminded every one of the sound of water in a mountain stream as it flowed across the rocks and boulders in its way. As she played, she walked from the edge of the forest, to the lake, until she was standing next to the stranger.

Musica just kept playing.

Sunshine walked out of the forest, and she too approached the lake. As she did, the sun itself seemed to shine down on the stranger as she cried. As if it was trying to comfort her. Calm her. Keep her safe, and warm.

Rose followed their lead. She flicked her wings, and floated just above the ground, across the clearing. She stopped when she reached the stranger, and while hovering there, gently placed a hand on the stranger’s shoulder. Then Rose used her wings, as only she could. She danced. In the sky. Just above the lake. Every now and then, letting a wingtip trace a pattern in the lake’s surface. Every movement she made matching the tune Musica played.

Sunshine placed an arm around the stranger’s shoulders, and she spoke. “I’m Sunshine. These are my sisters, Musica and Rose. We live here at the lake.” At least the tears no longer fell from the stranger’s eyes. “May I ask your name?”

“I haven’t got a name.”

Everyone knew that could only mean one thing. The stranger was special in some way. Like each of them. Unique. Different. And misunderstood. Abandoned by her parents. Her family. Each of the fairies remembered the pain they’d felt in their hearts and souls. Each of them remembered their own stories.

Sunshine stood, offering a hand to the stranger. “You are always welcome here,” she smiled. Then she looked at Musica, the tallest of the fairies, “Perhaps Musica can find you something to wear?”

And so the day began. The fairies found clothing for the stranger in their midst. It was too small, of course. After all, she was full-grown. The clothing barely covered her breasts. And the skirt wasn’t really a skirt at all. It was a bed sheet, tied around her waist. Both were blue and white. They couldn’t find any sandals that were large enough to fit her feet, so she went barefoot.

The fairies fed her berries, cheese, and jerky. Taking care of her. Making sure she had plenty to eat, and plenty to drink. The stranger smiled. And somehow, when she did, everything seemed alright.

The stranger was indeed full-grown. Her wings were fully developed, and she could fly. Not as well as Rose, of course, but the stranger could fly very well indeed. She couldn’t hover though. Not many fairies could. Rose was one of the few blessed with that much flying skill. But the stranger could ride the air currents. The fairies, even Rose, couldn’t help but notice the grace and elegance of every movement she made through the sky.

Everyone laughed. And had a wonderful time. They even went swimming in the lake. That night Musica let the stranger stay in her home, and Musica stayed with Sunshine.

The next morning, Mystica returned. She watched from her home on the far side of the lake as the fairies all woke up. You can imagine her surprise when the first fairy she saw wasn’t a fairy at all, but the stranger as she came out of Musica’s house. Mystica sensed no danger at all. The white magic indicated everything was safe. So, she stood on her front porch, and watched.

The stranger walked across the clearing, to the edge of the lake. There, she stripped everything off, and walked into the water, where she quietly bathed. Mystica noticed the elegance, and the grace in every move the stranger made.

Merlin, the black magic dragon, came out of the shadows, as he always did. Appearing out of nowhere. “Do you know what she is?” he asked of Mystica.

“I’ve never seen anyone like her? Is she a fairy?”

Merlin sighed. “Only in part. Only in part.” Merlin watched the stranger as she bathed. “She is very rare, White Witch. Very rare indeed.”

“In what way?”

“Let the white magic tell you. It will, if you ask.”

Mystica closed her eyes, and wished, “Who is this stranger in our midst?” The surface of the water of the lake began to change. It showed two pictures. One of a female angel. A real angel. The kind with feathered wings. The other of a fairy warrior. Mystica watched as the images told the story of the angel’s fall from the sky. Of the warrior finding her. Mending her wounds. Treating the broken bones in her wings.

It was the story of a forbidden love. Love between an angel and a fairy. The angel never returned to the sky above. The fairy abandoned everything he was. The two of them finding a home of their own in the ice and snow to the north. Where the elves lived. And with time, the angel bore a child. A daughter. Half angle. Half fairy.

Mystica realized the daughter of that angel and her fairy love was the stranger bathing in the lake.

Calling forth her white magic, Mystica floated across the water, hanging in the air next to the stranger. She smiled, and asked, “Do you have a name, dear one?”

The stranger smiled at Mystica, “I do not.”

“Why have you come here?” Mystica found her self asking. Knowing angels only appear when they need to.

“I am meant to be here,” said the stranger. “At this lake. With the fairy girls. And their Mother. Msystica.” She looked at Mystica. “My heart tells me this.”

Mystica smiled. “Then you are always welcome here, dear one.”

That morning, Mystica took the stranger into her home, finding clothing for her. It wasn’t much, and was very revealing. But it just felt right. As if the stranger were meant to be naked, not clothed.

From that day forward, the stranger lived with the fairies at the lake. Adopting Mystica as her mother. No one ever learned how old the stranger was. Or where she’d come from. She remembered nothing. Not even her name.

It was the first time the stranger went with Mystica to one of the villages to get supplies that the stranger got a name. When a male shop keeper saw her enter his shop with Mystica, looking for some cloth, and sandals, the male shop keeper could not help himself, and asked out loud, “Can I help you, Miss Hooters?”

Mystica had blushed. But the stranger hadn’t. She’d just smiled. “I like that.” She’d looked at Mystica, “I now have a name.”

And from that day to this her name as always been Miss Hooters. And no one save the fairies of her family, and the dragons, Merlin and Scream, know that she’s a half-breed. Half angle, and half fairy.

And no one at all, not even Miss Hooters herself, knew what her wild magic powers were.

There She Goes

As a guy, let me be honest. There are times when guys disgust me. Like when they gather in a group. One thing always comes right out. Sex. I mean, for example. Three or four guys at work go out to lunch one day, as a group. What do they do? Sit at the table, stuffin’ their faces, and commenting, quietly of course, about the women they see. Especially the ones waiting on tables. “Did you see the ass on that one? Momma! The way it moves from side to side when she walks?” And “Day-yum, how’d she get them jeans on?” And “I’d love to hug her ass that tight!” And there’s always that guy that says, “Oh, baby. Come sit them buns on my lap. I’ve got something for them.”

”Hey, guys! We have boobage over there!” Followed by the mandatory, “Come on, baby. Lean over. That’s it! Yes!” With one of the guys going, “Mmmmm. Now that’s what I call desert. A little whipped cream. A little chocolate. I could eat them.” And they all see the one that comes in wearing that barely there top, secretly wishing the buttons on it would give up the ghost. “Just to see those with nothing on ‘em would make my day.”

When they watch a hot chick eat, things get even worse.“Aw, damn. I’ve got something you can eat.”

There’s the body art guessing games. “Wonder how far that paint goes up her leg?” With his buddies going, “Wouldn’t it be fun to find out?” I mean, seriously. Trying to figure out if she’s wearing regular panties, a thong, or nothing? “She’s got a pierced tongue. Look.” As the guy next to him says, “I wonder what else she’s had pierced? Like maybe her knockers?” And the guy across from him adds in, “Maybe she has one of those rings?” One of them always asks the question, “Do you think she shaves?”

Then there’s the ranking system. “That one’s bang worthy. Oh, yeah, dude. I could bang that,” or “Cute, but not good enough. Wouldn’t bang that one.” As they all stare while one walks by, “Look, guys! Look! There she goes! There she goes!” As they all moan, “Awww, baby. Don’t leave.”

And they all know they’re never gonna a get a piece of any of ‘em. That women are too smart to play that game. That they’re just dreamin’.

And you say you wanna be a part of that? One of the guys? You want to belong? Boy, you just enjoy being the odd man out, ‘cause I’m tellin’ ya. You don’t know at all how lucky you are that you don’t have to play that stupid male game.

This piece was created for the 10th Friday Night Write, hosted on Sweet Banana Ink, where the prompt is music that acts as the catalyst for your creative muse. There are some amazing works there every week. Please go explore them.

If I Could…

There is a friend I have.
She’s been married
Less than one whole year.
She’s a Navy wife.
And the Navy called.
And he’s been gone
Since nearly April First.

He’ll be gone
For months yet,
Before the Navy
Returns him home.

She misses him.
I know.
I’ve seen that
In the pictures that she’s shared.
In the words
She writes.

The worst part of it all
Is how people treat her.
“It’ll be OK.
It’s just part of life.
You’re a Navy wife.”

Makes me want to bitch slap ‘em,
Knock their brains out of their heads.
They ain’t using those brains
Anyway.

She’s one of those I know,
Whose heart aches every day.
Whose soul cries tears of pain.
Until things just go numb.
And everything turns gray.

If I could,
I would.
Take that pain from her.
I’d carry it
As my own
For a time.
So she could have a break.
So she could catch her breath.
So she could finally smile.
If only for a little while.

There is a friend I know.
That denies she’s hurt.
She goes to church each Sunday.
And throughout the week.
She prays to God each day.
Religiously.

There’s nothing wrong with that
At all.
Never has been.
Never will be.

But she doesn’t see
The way the hurt she feels
Colors everything in life
For her.
She doesn’t see
The fear
That drives her every day.

There was her divorce.
When the one she loved
Betrayed her.
And abandoned her.
To raise their daughter
On her own.

Her Father
Whom she loved so much,
She still misses him.
Talks about seeing him once again
In Heaven up above.

“I have problems of my own”
She explains.
“Things I have to deal with.
Responsibilities in life.”
Then she smiles and says,
“I’ll pray for you.
That’s all that I can do.”

Did I tell you that she’s gone.
Avoids me completely.
I could speculate on why
For several days.
If that really mattered.

Would you stick around,
Call someone your friend,
When they wrote things on their blog
That you felt,
And believed,
Were attacking you,
And your faith in God?

I don’t blame her at all
For walking away
From someone like me.
She’s not the first that has.
She won’t be the last.

But I have to say.
‘Till my dying day,
If she ever asks for help
From me.
She’ll get it.

And if I could.
If there was a way.
I’d take away the pain,
And all the fear
I know she carries
In her heart
Each day.

Who would let a friend
Hurt that way?

Another friend of mine
Never lets you see
Anything she doesn’t want
For you to see
Of her.

She hides all her scars.
All her hurt.
And pain.
Behind a façade.
An image.
That she want’s you to believe
Is really her.

And everyone around her
Plays along.

She’s one of those
Social butterflies.
And all you ever see upon her face
Is a smile that says,
I’m fine.
I’m happy.
I’m OK.
Don’t you wish
You were as happy
As me?

But what happens to a wound
That’s left untreated?
A broken bone not set?
A cut left open and bleeding,
And never cleaned
Bandaged,
And healed?

If I could,
I’d set her broken bones.
I’d clean and dress the wounds
That I see so clearly
In her heart and soul.

I know that time heals things.
It’s true.
But I also know
That things ignored,
Or buried in the past,
Have a way of one day
Coming out
On their own.

And I know from from my life
There’ll be hell to pay
When that happens.

Oh, if I could
I’d show my friends
The lessons I have learned.
In the hope,
And with the prayers,
They would not have to hurt
The way I have.

But I know
Each of us walks
A path through life
That’s unique.
That’s our own.

And I can’t change that.

But there is one thing
That I can do.
And after all the years
I’ve been granted
In this life.
I’m finally learning it.

I can let them know
They’re not alone.
That I understand the hurt
They’re in.

And I will always
Be their friend.
Even if they never
Speak with me
Again.

Sometimes

Today, the isolation I live with
Cuts me to the bone.
Leaves me with a choice.

Sit here
And feel the pain
Of having no one to talk with.
No one to laugh with.
No one to cry with.
No one at all.

Or bury the pain
Beneath other things.
Housework.
Dishes.
Laundry.
Mowing the yard.
Anything at all
So I don’t have to feel
Alone.

She’s at work.
And will be.
For another 8 hours.
And many times
When she comes home
She’s tired.
And we don’t talk.

But I get to hug her.
If only for a little while.
I get to watch her.
To see her smile.
To see the light
Within her eyes.

I watch Twitter relentlessly.
Reading tweet after tweet.
Knowing all I’m doing
Is observing.
Knowing I don’t understand
The conversations going on.
At all.

I watch Facebook endlessly.
Waiting for a new post
To show up on my wall.
Even though I know
It won’t mean anything.
Anything
At all.

At times I wander
To the book store
Down the road.
Where I examine
Magazines.
And books.
Galore.

Sometimes I walk
Through the aisles
And displays
At the local Best Buy store.
Picking up,
And putting down
Items all the time.

Sometimes I even visit
A fast food restaurant.
On my own.
And watch other people there
Spend time with each other.

I think they call it socializing.
But I’m not really sure.

And all the while
My hands scream out in pain.
“Let us touch something
Alive!”

I gave up screaming
Many years ago.
No one ever heard.
There was no one to hear.
So I don’t scream
Anymore.

People tell you that the pain
Goes away with time.
And that with time
You make new friends.
Add more people
To your life.

They lie.

People group together
For a reason.
It feels comfortable to them.
They understand each other.
Each knowing
How the other feels.
What the other thinks.

They like the same TV shows.
The same movies.
The same restaurants.
Even the same drinks.

They know what to say
To each other.
How and when to speak.
When to laugh.
When to smile.
When to cry.

And they stay away from people
That can’t behave like that.
That just get it all wrong.
Or even not quite right.

They say,
“He’s just a little off.
Eccentric.
A little strange.”
And they avoid that person
After that.

Everyone just goes away.

They say,
“You can’t be that way.
You can’t do that.
You know what to do.
You know what you did.”
Even if you don’t.
And once they’ve said those words.
To them.
You’re gone.

Not one human heart I know
Wants to be alone.
Wants no one to talk with.
Wants no hand to hold.

It’s an endless isolation
I’ve lived with
All my life.

And every now and then
I find someone
Living with the pain
I live with
Every day.

I worry about them.
For they are not me.
They have not survived
The things I have survived
In the life I lead.

I know I’ll survive.
I know I’ll be OK.
I’ve walked through the depths of hell itself.
And lived to tell the tale.

But sometimes
Even I can feel
The isolation I live with
Every day.

It never really goes away.
Never has.
Never will.

Sometimes
All I really feel
Is pain.

Safe In The Darkness

I stood, lost in the darkness, outside the clearing. She nonchalantly waited for me there, knowing she was safe. Knowing I protected her. A wolf enter the clearing, saw her, tucked its tail, lower its head and quickly crossed the clearing, leaving her alone. After a time a fox quietly approached her. Crawling along the ground. Whimpering. She gently scratched behind it’s ears. And the fox returned to the darkness it had come from.

“I know you’re there.” Her voice had always been music to my ears. “Won’t you come talk with me?” I remained silent, within the darkness, as I would until her nonchalance had burned away, and she would protect me in her world, as I protected her in mine. If that day ever arrived.

Even if it never did, she would remain safe in the darkness of my world. I would see to that.

I created this piece for the 28th #SatSunTails, hosted by Rebecca Clare Smith. Please go read all the entries for this weekly Flash Fiction Challenge. They are all works of art crafted by artists that paint with words.

Because I Can

The last time I visited my doctor,
I took a copy of something
That I’d written.
And I had him read it.
Then, we spoke about it
For a little while.

I told him,
“If the people I once knew
Had said such a thing to me,
Things would have been
So very different.”

He just nodded,
And smiled.
Because he knew
That I knew
Why they hadn’t.

“But they couldn’t.
Not one of them could have.
Because the social rules
They live within
Get in the way.”

It’s true.
I’ve always know that.
Always heard that.
All my life.

“Do you know how strong
You have to be
To say the things
You say?
To do the things
You do?”

No.
I don’t.
The truth is
Until recently,
I’ve never understood
Why other people can’t.
And now that I do,
I find my heart aches,
And my soul cries
Tears of pain
For them.

How can people
Go through life
So very much afraid?

Yes, I am autistic.
Diagnosed with an ASD.
An ASD that does not
Define me.

I do that.
I define me.

And when I see
Someone around me
Hurt.
In pain.
In tears.

I do what I believe.
What I know
To be true.
What I wish
My friends would do
For me.
In the times I’m hurt.
In the times I’m blue.

But no one ever does.

It’s not that they can’t.
That they don’t know how.
That they don’t want to.

It’s the social rules
They live within,
That fuck things up.

The social rules
That cause them to
Back away
When someone’s hurt.
So they don’t get hurt too.
So they stay safe, and sound.

But you see.
I don’t have those rules.
They don’t exist to me.
I don’t feel them.
I don’t see them.

The very thing that stops my friends
From doing what I do
Simply does not exist
For me.

So it isn’t strength at all
That lets me do
The things I do.

It’s an unchained
Heart and soul.
Set free
From those social rules
That keep other people
Safe.

But as you can see,
I’ve learned enough
In my life time
That I know,
And understand,
What’s happening.
Why people are surprised
At some of the things
I can do,
And say,
And write.

And I could elect
To be like them.
To behave
The way they do.
For I know
Why they behave
The way they do.

But if I did,
I wouldn’t do
What my heart tells me to.
I wouldn’t do the things
I know to do.
The things I believe
Are true.

So I elect instead
To simply watch
How those social rules
Cause so much pain

In a world
I never made.

The 9th Friday Night Write : Somewhere Down That Crazy River

I watch people, you know. Yeah. I do. I watch everything they do. It’s something I have to do. Even though it’s really hard sometimes. That’s why I visited Nick’s at least once a week. Almost always late on Friday night. To watch. Groups of friends. Couples. And to wish. Just once. I understood them. I was like them.

Like that group at the table along the windows. Eight people. Eight friends. Laughing. Drinking. Eating chips and dip. Sharing stories. How’s that work? How do they know what to say? How to behave? When to laugh? When to be quiet? When to talk? I watch everything. I’ve turned my mind into a recorder, recording everything I see. So I can go over it. Take it apart. Analyze every motion. Every smile. Every word. Every laugh. Every look. Everything. How do they know what to do? How do they know when? I’ve never been able to figure that out.

Sometimes I think it’s useless. Like some part of me is missing. A part they all have. So I always end up watching. And never understanding. Sometimes I feel like I’m on a tiny life raft. In the ocean. With no fresh water to drink. Water, water everywhere. And not a drop to drink. People, people everywhere. And not one I understand.

There’s a couple in a booth along the wall. Holding hands. He leans forward every now and then, and kisses her. Right on the lips. In public. Everyone can see. She sits right next to him. His arm around her shoulders. Both smiling. Talking. Laughing. Flirting. Isn’t that what it’s called? Flirting? I think that’s what it’s called. I asked a girl once. What is flirting. She just grinned. And put her hand on my arm, and did that “push him away” kind of move. “Oh, you know,” was all she said.

But I don’t know. Is it flirting or something more? Will they walk separate ways when they leave Nick’s tonight? Will they go home to separate houses? Or will they get in the same car? I don’t know. I can’t tell. And I feel like everyone at Nick’s knows what’s going on with them.

Except for me.

There’s the five guys, sitting at the bar. One drinking. The others not. What’s that all about? I watch them. It’s like the one drinking is telling all the stories. Doing all the talking. And the others are there listening. Nodding their heads. “Yeah, man. That just sucks.” Did something happen to the one? Something bad? And the others are there, just being his friends? Or are they there, celebrating something? Getting a friend totally blitzed. I don’t know. I can’t tell. All I can do is watch. And wonder.

All I can do is watch.

And wonder.

And wish I was like them.

The 40th Motivation Monday : Parenthood

Wakefield Mahon hosts Motivation Monday each week. For the 40th Motivation Monday, the prompt was “How did you expect [pick a word] to react?” The story has to start with that. Please go read all the stories. They are great fun to read. Thank you, Wakefield, for hosting Motivation Monday. And yes, the pixies did return. I’ll have to write more about them.

 

“How did you expect him to react? Calmly? Reasonably? Rationally?” I flitted my wings, and landed on the roof of the car. “Seriously? Tie-died? In pink, aqua, magenta, and lavender? On a guy’s car?”

Sasha landed next to me. “I was just trying to add some color to his life! He didn’t have to go all Nordic Warrior on me!” She sighed. “Came at me with a broom handle and a trashcan lid, he did! Talk about unexpected!”

I shook my head. “But, Sasha. Turning the guy into a statue for 8 hours?”

Sasha shrugged. “I panicked. Did the first thing that popped into my head.”

I looked at the poor guy. Looked like he was trying to throw a javelin. But where the javelin was supposed to be was a bouquet of flowers. “A flower throwing bandit? Sasha? That just popped into your head?”

“Yes.”

I looked at the poor guy. “Oh, gods. Now he’s wet himself.”

Sasha looked down. “I’m sorry. I panicked. But I never really thought he’d be angry, Momma. I really didn’t.”

Ah, the joys of parenthood. My little pixie daughter was sometimes a handful. “I know. I know. It’s not like I didn’t make mistakes when I was your age, dear.” I placed my hand on her shoulder. “What say we clean this mess up?”

There was nothing else to do, but fix the disaster my daughter had made. We flitted our wings, and took back to the air. I looked at the car. It really was a pretty paint job. Sasha had done well. She’d just got the colors wrong.

“OK. Dear. Let’s fix the first mistake. The car. This is a car for a male. You used female colors. What colors would have been better?” Sasha thought a moment. Then she waved her hands, and tossed some pixie dust over the poor man’s car. The colors all changed, becoming basic black, silver, primary red, and blue.

“Very nice, dear. Those are much more appropriate colors for a human male.” We then flew over to the man, statuesque as he was. “And throwing flowers?”

“I know, Momma. I know. That’s not right either.”

“How would you fix that.”

Another wave of her hands, and tossing of pixie dust, and the man turned into a soldier out of one of the human races favorite video games. I believe they called it Halo. I smiled. “Nicely done, dear. Nicely done.” I patted my daughter on the back.

“I’m proud of you, dear. It takes a strength and courage to admit your mistakes.” We started home. “I want you to go out again tonight, and practice some more.”

Ah, the joys of parenthood.

The 38th Friday Picture Show : Never Pick A Fight With A Pixie

Jen De Santis hosts the Friday Picture Show flash fiction challenge each week (except when on vacation). For my entry last week, I wrote about the pixies for the very first time. Please go read all the other entries. It’s amazing the stories you can write in 150 words. Thanks, Jen, for holding the Friday Picture Show.

 

On Monday morning, a pixie tie-died my car, I went nuts, grabbed a trash can lid, and a

The Picture Prompt from the 38th Friday Picture Show

broken broom handle and charged her. It wasn’t a smart thing to do.

She giggled, and waved her hand, and I froze, like a statue. A black handkerchief covered my face. The can lid vanished, leaving my arm sticking out. The broom handle turned into a bouquet of flowers. She’d whispered in my ear, “It’ll wear off in 8 hours…”

I looked stupid. And gods, but I needed to pee.

Never pick a fight with a pixie.