Light Fiction

There are times when my mind wanders for a long moment. I might stop and watch a magpie hopping along the grass before taking flight. A snail slowly making its way across a stone can be strangely captivating. I have often wondered if a bottle on the kitchen table aspires to be something more. Sometimes I need to practice my craft in a carefree way. Other times, I just want an excuse to write something creepy or disturbing. These moments are the essence of flash fiction and inspire my short writings. As for their composition, I follow these strict rules: a maximum of eight hours to write each piece and a maxium of four hours for the revision.

Gnomes #5: Spring Cleaning:
18 April 2026

The broom whizzed across the floor, swirling dust bunnies into the air. The bristles traced an arc, coaxing the dirt towards an old dustpan. The broom slowed to swerve around the ramshackle legs of a dining room then zoomed off again, leaping like a ballet dancer at the opera house. Touching down gracefully, the broom pushed the grime towards the plastic recipient. Gliding, sweeping, scrubbing and scouring, the dynamic cleaning tool pumped like a locomotive’s coupling rod. The tireless sweeper halted his weapon of choice when the bristles skittered over the dustpan. Edwin rested his chin on the tip of the broom handle. “What’s the point of all of this spring cleaning when a week from now the house will be dusty again?” Diana stopped polishing the bookcase shelves and lifted her head. “You can’t be serious.” Edwin shrugged. “I’m not saying we shouldn’t sweep and dust, I just don’t see the point of moving all of the furniture around.” “You didn’t move the dining room table an inch.” “Well, the legs aren’t very stable,” Edwin said. “You know, after table number nine disappeared last week, I didn’t have the heart to make up a decent one. I still can’t figure out what is happening with our tables. Maybe we should call the police and report the multiple thefts.” Diana stood up and glared. “You aren’t calling the police on the gnomes.” “We can’t really be sure it was gnomes that stole the tables,” Edwin said. “We don’t have any hard proof.” “We have more than enough proof!” Diana exclaimed, waving a rag over her head. “We have the video recording and the disappearing snacks. And I know what you’re doing. You’re trying to change the subject because you said something incredibly stupid and you don’t know how to take it back.” She crossed her arms. “Go ahead, finish your thesis on the logic of not cleaning our house.” Edwin cleared his throat. “What I meant to say is, what’s the point of cleaning behind things like the dresser and credenza? No one will ever know.” “I’ll know.” “But it’s not like you ever look behind them,” Edwin said. “I just did when we moved the dresser,” Diana said. “I’m not living in filth just because you hate spring cleaning. There was enough dirt packed between the dresser and the wall to plant a flower bed. Speaking of flower beds, as soon as you’re done sweeping the dining room, we need to clean the yard.” Edwin groaned. “Come on Di, it’s Saturday!” “It looks like the scene of some low-budget horror movie out there,” Diana said, pointing to the window. “The rose bushes are being choked by the ivy, there are more weeds growing in the interlocking path than there are stones and the grass in the yard is knee high. A small child could get lost out there and starve to death.” “Can’t we hire a landscaper?” “So I can throw money away for someone to do a bad job?” Diana said. She shook her head. “No way. I like my yard to be just perfect for summer lunches. I’m directing the show. Now finish sweeping and let’s get out there.” Edwin grumbled and returned to pushing the broom. He swept up the last bits of dirt into the dustpan and emptied it into the bin. He rolled his eyes when Diana pointed to the back door. He trudged slowly with Diana pushing him along. He threw open the door and his jaw dropped. “Diana, what in the world?” Diana shoved her way past him, jumped over the three steps and landed onto the small patio with a thud. She put a hand to her mouth as she turned around in a circle. The interlocking path was free of weeds, the roses were budding without a single clinging, ivy stem and the grass resembled a green carpet. “Eddie! Oh my gosh! The gnomes cleaned up our yard!” “No way. It wasn’t the gnomes. It must have been our neighbour, Mr. Kim. You know he’s good with plants. Di, where are you going?” Diana rushed past him and up the steps. “To fix the gnomes a thank you snack!” The oak log workshop’s doors opened with a creak. Tiny hands reached up and hung a scythe on a hook and took an apron off the wall. The short, stocky gnome tied the apron behind his back and lumbered over to a low workbench. He picked up a pair of garden shears and set them in a wooden vice. He stroked his beard, adjusted his cap and rolled up his sleeves. He picked up a file and began the slow strokes required to sharpen the blades. He completed his last stroke, set down the file and jumped when a shrill voice startled him. “I must say, that was a grand gesture,” Penkeltod yodeled. “I didn’t think you would ever lift a finger to repay the humans for all those snacks.” “Penkeltod, you scared the life out of me!” Temtom exclaimed, clutching his chest. “Don’t you ever knock?” “Why, if the door is wide open?” Penkeltod said, shuffling across the dirt floor to stand next to Temtom. He peeked over his shoulder. “What are you doing?" “Maintenance,” Temtom said. He put a drop of fragrant oil on the garden shears and rubbed gently with a finger. “After all of that work I did this morning, I need to keep my tools in tiptop shape.” Penkeltod leaned his bulbous nose to the shears and sniffed. “That oil smells too wholesome to be used on tools. Where did you get it?” “I found it in the cupboard where the humans keep their honey,” Temtom said. “I think it should work nicely to fry up the dozen eggs I took from them.” *** Gnomes #5

Stars and Sand Stick to the Soul:
04 April 2026

The wind rushed in from the angry water carrying the odour of crackling salt and rotting fish. The ocean rocked with seething waves after the evening’s storm. Dead seaweed and driftwood were piled along the hightide line. The sun ignited millions of sand grains into powdery flares. A lone jellyfish dehydrated slowly under the ruthless star. “What would make you feel better?” he asked. “I don’t know,” she answered. She kicked up a cloud of scorched, dry sand. “Everything is so confusing.” “What do you mean by that?” he asked. He dug his feet into the sand and flexed his toes. She stopped and frowned. “What are you doing?” “The sand is burning my feet,” he said. “Can we walk along the shore?” “It’s full of sticks and slimy seaweed,” she said. She pointed to the desiccated jellyfish. “And we might get stung.” “I’ll take the risk,” he answered. He lifted a foot and winced as he tiptoed towards the ocean. “I can walk on the wet sand and you can walk next to me on the safe side.” He scuffed his feet on the cool, hard packed shore next to the withered jellyfish. She smiled and put her feet next to his. Her feet were small with flaming red, painted toenails. His were large with bent big toes. They looked out at the ocean, waves higher than they were tall. The water roared like thousands of blue dragons. “I don’t mean to get you down, but things have been hard,” she said. “I know, a lot of crazy stuff has been going on.” “Yeah, I need to sort it all out,” she said. She reached for a flailing lock of blonde hair that had escaped her ponytail. She flinched when it whipped her in the eye. “Ouch! Well, that figures.” “What figures?” “Nothing. My hair. Let’s just keep walking. I’d like to stand in front of the lighthouse since the beach is empty today.” At the end of the pier of rocks and concrete the lighthouse surveyed the ocean. It was slender and whitewashed and capped with a red dome. It was the ocean’s rocket ship, spewing out giant, wet waves instead of billowing out puffy, smouldering flames. The base of the lighthouse was flooded by the storm, but the stoic beacon remained shining and resolute. He cupped his hands around his eyes. “I can see its light even under this crazy-bright sun.” “What? I can’t hear over the waves.” He leaned and spoke in her ear. “I said I can see its light.” “Yeah, the lighthouse is like a little star here on earth.” He pointed up at the sky. “They say that there are more stars in the universe than there are grains of sand on the Earth.” She wrinkled her nose. “That doesn’t seem very believable.” He shrugged his shoulders. “Well, it’s what the scientists say.” She nodded and looked up, shielding her eyes with the flat of her hand. She bent down and rubbed the fines grains of sand off her shins. “I think that the stars are where we came from and the sand is what is left of the people who walked here before us.” He raised an eyebrow and broke out in a laugh. She returned his laugh and put her head on his shoulder. He stretched out his arm and wrapped it around her waist. They gazed at the thundering ocean that bridged the expanse between gods and man. *** Many thanks to Solange for keeping the candle lit in the poetry group La Fiamma di Brigit.

Purple Books on a Black Mushroom:
07 March 2026

Never in twenty years of hiking had I come across a knee-high mushroom with a cap the size of a wagon wheel. The improbable specimen was as black as pitch, flat-topped and had a thick, tapered stem. Stranger still were the two small chairs on the far side of the enormous, black mushroom. Strangest of all were the seven purple books, two chalices and two dark bottles sitting on the cap. If I hadn’t been in the middle of a forest, I would have expected a bookstore presentation. The black mushroom grew in between two large oaks. The oaks’ gnarled branches formed a canopy above the scene, like a springtime festoon. I padded softly towards the black mushroom and took a deep breath. Its nutty, damp smell contrasted with the resinous vanilla scent of the books. The chocolate-coloured bottles stood in waiting with their corks lazily pressed in half way. The two chalices sparkled in the hazy light. “Welcome.” I nearly jumped out of my skin at the resonant greeting. My hand went to my heart and I gasped out feeble response. “W-ho’s there?” “I didn’t mean to frighten you,” the man said. He walked out from behind a great oak and smiled. The man had auburn hair and a finely manicured, dark beard. His smile was kind, his eyes were soft, and his age was impossible to guess. He wore a grey, wool suit with a brown shirt and a blue paisley tie. His black, high heeled boots gleamed. The man sat at one of the twisted chairs. “Will you join me for a glass of forest nectar?” For a moment I just stared at him as I pondered his words. His deep, melodious voice seemed to come from the forest itself. I found myself suddenly attuned to my surroundings. My fingers tingled as the sap flowed. My ears buzzed with the crackling of photosynthesis. The chirping calls of the swallows were no longer haphazard. I picked out their rhyming code. ‘Drink with him,’ the birds sang to me. “Yes, I would like a glass of forest nectar.” “An informed choice,” the man said with a wink. A pair of swallows descended on his arm which swayed like the boughs above him. He uncorked a bottle without disturbing the birds and poured the purple-blue nectar into my glass. The swallows chirped once and took flight, circling around me. Their skyward dance was like the flow of the sapphire nectar that the man poured. The two soul-mates flew off when both glasses were full. The man raised his chalice. “I'm out here celebrating my birthday, you know.” I sat in the chair made of oak branches and reached for my glass. I raised it high. “Happy birthday! Is it today?” He drank deeply before responding. “No, it was the 30th of February.” I set down my azure-stained chalice and chuckled. “Unusual date.” “Not so unusual around these parts,” the man said. His liquid voice filled the space between us like a fine gauze of cotton candy. “What brings you here?” “I was hiking. I do it when I need to clear my mind.” “Do you need to clear your mind often?” I could hear the crickets now. Their rasping legs urged me to speak. “Recently I’ve been troubled. I’m struggling to make—to make, some important decisions. Come to think of it, I’m really confused and unhappy.” “It seems like you arrived in the nick of time,” the man said. His voice draped over me, like a thick, pleated quilt. He picked up a purple book and smiled. “When I find that life is poking and prodding at me, I find I can reclaim my focus by reading a good story. Would you like me to read to you?” I could feel my head bobbing. “Yes. Yes, I would like that very much.” “Settle back my friend for I have a tale or ten to tell.” The man with the voice like a century old cello read to me from the purple book. I closed my eyes and breathed in the stories. The words had texture, like cashmere and river stones. Each story had its own special flavour, like apples and cinnamon. And for an endless moment I floated on a narrative sea. *** Thanks to Paola for giving a voice to local writers in her latest anthology and to Carlo for his splendid reading.

Gnomes #4: Tahini:
28 February 2026

The fridge door opened with a squeak. Edwin’s eyes roamed over the contents for a full minute before he frowned. The bottom shelf was crammed with lettuce, tomatoes and enough cucumbers to feed an army of men who would probably sooner starve than eat them. Up a shelf there were stacks of containers filled with leftovers and pre-cut vegetables. The next shelf up had a delicious half-rack of lamb, some cheese and other odds and ends. On the top shelf his favourite beer made him smile. He rifled around the condiments on the fridge door and looked up at the ceiling. “Di, where’s the Tahiti sauce?” “Tahini, not Tahiti,” Diana said from the dining room. She appeared in the doorway with a spoon in each hand. “It’s food, not a country. And it’s seed butter, not a sauce.” “Whatever it is, it’s good,” Edwin said, closing the fridge door. “Where is it?” Diana turned beet red. “I’m using it with bread and honey to attract the gnomes.” Edwin moaned and leaned on the fridge. “Di, are you crazy?” Diana tossed the spoons in the sink and grabbed Edwin’s hands. “Listen to me, the chocolate milk didn’t work. Neither did the cookies, but maybe honey will attract them.” “That’s insane.” “No, it’s applied logic,” Diana said. “Gnomes like sweet things, I just have to find the right sweet thing. Then they’ll come through the portal to have a snack and I’ll finally be able to ask them about our missing tables.” “Then why the Tahiti sauce?” “Tahini seed butter.” “Whatever. It’s not like it’s sweet.” Diana folded her arms. “Gnomes need their fats, carbs and proteins, too!” “How do you even know that?” Edwin said with a heavy sigh. “Even if there were such a thing as a gnome, and I’m not saying that there is—actually, I’m positive there is no such thing as a gnome—how can you possibly know what they need to eat?” “Because they are still made of flesh and blood, dummy,” Diana said, tapping her temple. “Of course they need a balanced, nutritious diet. They might as well get it from me.” Edwin opened and closed the fridge door. “Diana, I’m hungry. Can I please have some Tahini seed butter? And now that I think about it, the bread and honey, too.” “See what I mean?” “I’m not a gnome!” “But you admit that it’s delicious and nutritious.” “This conversation is not about a gnome’s diet! Look at what you made me say!” Diana walked into the dining room and shrieked. “The slice of bread with the Tahini and honey is gone! And I missed it thanks to you!” Deep in the green and willowy forest the breeze blew softly. The Spanish moss draped over the trees looked like the manes of the majestic Hill Unicorns. Squirrels leapt from branch to branch with acorns clutched in their tiny claws. A kaleidoscope of butterflies fluttered through the patch of woods in search of a flowering field. Lounging on a bed of moss and leaves, two gnomes munched contentedly on their hard-earned lunch. “Goodness me, this honey is delicious,” Temtom said. “What variety is it?” “Acacia honey,” Penkeltod responded. “It’s exceptionally sweet. Much better than that chestnut honey you’re always trying to feed me at dinner.” “Yes, but chestnut honey is better for you,” Penkeltod said. “Acacia is really only for snacks. This is an exception.” “This honey is slathered on some sort of nutty paste,” Temtom said. He ran a finger along the cream and dropped it in his mouth. “I’m not sure what it is, but its quite rich.” “It’s likely high in fats,” Penkeltod said. He looked at Temtom’s bulging stomach. “Something you have more than enough of.” “I wonder what it’s called,” Temtom said, stroking his beard. He tossed the last piece of fatty, honeyed bread into his mouth and swallowed without chewing. “I hope the humans slather it on our next snack.” “What did you leave them in thanks?” “The empty plate.” *** Gnomes #4

A Tiger on the Roof:
31 January 2026

There was a tiger on the roof. She had a long, muscular body with orange fur and black stripes, under her muzzle she had tufts of white hair. Her large paws were splayed just enough to show very sharp claws. She sat with her eyes half closed facing the sun. Her ears were turned back and they twitched every so often. I tried to figure out if there was a pattern to her twitching ears, but there was none that I could see. She yawned and I jumped back from the window when I saw her big sharp teeth. She turned her head. “Child,” the tiger said. “Open the window and speak to me.” I felt my throat close up tight as I trembled. The tiger was on a low roof right below my classroom. With a single bounce she could reach my window. I wanted to run but then I thought the tiger could have just jumped through the thin glass if it had wanted to. My hand twisted the creaky knob and I pulled the window panes towards me. They made a sucking and popping sound like the tiger would if she crunched my bones and licked up my blood. “Child, why were you watching me?” the tiger asked. “I wasn’t, I swear! I was only walking past the window!” The tiger gazed at me with her flaming orange eyes. She snorted from her pink nose. “You’ve been watching me for some time. Just because I didn’t turn my head don’t think I didn’t see you. Or hear you. Or smell you.” The tiger sniffed the air. “You smell like cinnamon and cloves. Not to my taste.” “Are you going to eat me?” The tiger snorted again. “I just said you are not to my taste. Now tell me, why were you watching me?” I was mesmerized by the tiger’s round, fuzzy face with its fine whiskers. I swallowed when I saw her muscles ripple as she shifted her weight. The terracotta roof tiles creaked and tinkled as her body settled. I pulled on my hair and smoothed my sweater. I took a deep breath to speak. “I think I wanted someone to talk to.” “You think or you know?” “I know.” “Ah, now we are getting somewhere,” the tiger said. “What do you want to say to me?” “What is my place in the world?” “Whatever you make of it,” the tiger responded with a flick of her ears. “I don’t understand. The world is a terrible place of suffering. Arguments and domination and killing. I hate this world! What can I do about it?” The tiger blinked and tilted her head ever so slightly. “My child, you cannot combat the world and change its ways no more than I can dress in green stripes or hunt the moon. You have incarnated in this world to walk your own path. Do not think beyond that for you do not know what will happen tomorrow. Blaze your trail and know that if you do so with unfailing sincerity others will choose to join you.” The tiger turned her head away from me and spread out her forepaws as if mimicking the Sphinx. She yawned lazily, showing a great many teeth. She shook her head and faced the sun. Her eyes were again half closed. As I shut the window I thought not of myself but of the tiger. She lounged on a roof and lived like there was no tomorrow. *** Thanks to the students of EMAHO Lucca.

The Old Radio:
10 January 2026

The old radio sat in silence on the top shelf of a carved, antique bookcase in a very old cafe. Her wooden casing was scuffed but still remarkably smooth. Half of her face was a cloth covered speaker; the other half was a tuner with frequencies. The three black plastic dials hadn’t been turned since last she had been plugged in. The old radio was silent, but she had been listening for many years. While she sat up high, below her the world advanced at breakneck speeds. Fashions changed, electronics changed but the sound of the people remained. She had witnessed the bustle of the patrons and their conversations in the plush booths from the first day she was brought into the café. The people used to drink filter coffee, today they drank espressos. Bitter black tea gave way to fruity herbals. The radio knew many secrets, but she kept them to herself. She hadn’t been turned on for decades and couldn’t even remember the sound of her own voice. Not that it mattered to her. She had broadcasted for many years and was fine sitting and listening in silence. She even paid attention to the modern sound system that blared music ten times her own modest decibel range. Observing the bustle, her invisible eyes fell on a person. This was the only soul that she wished she could still speak to. He came in from time to time, walking slowly and leaning on his cane. His skin sagged and his bald head was normally hidden under his Irish cap. He wore tweed suits that must have been fifty years old. In the winter he wore a heavy overcoat, mittens and a scarf. When he came in, he ordered a bitter black tea and plain biscuits. He always sat alone. The old man took his seat almost directly under the radio. He was served his tea and biscuits by a waitress who dallied long enough to ensure he didn’t drop the scalding cup. He sipped his tea slowly and then munched on a biscuit. Every once in a while, he would look up at the bookcase. His eyes would scan the books as if searching for something new. Sometimes he would creak to his feet and take one down. But it was always the same book that he read from, and only a few pages at a time. The old man finished his tea and sighed as he looked up. His gaze was on the same shelf where his favorite book was. He did not look high enough to see the radio sitting on the top shelf. She wondered if he remembered her. When he was a young boy, he would come into the cafe to eat ice cream and listen to the sports broadcast that she played. She remembered how happy he used to look with his friends, cheering on his favourite team. She couldn’t help but see how sad he looked all alone now. The old man did not know that he still had a friend. He only needed to look up a little higher to find her.

Christmas Savior:
03 January 2026

The hard snow was soft and shapeless in the dark. Gentle curves like frozen sand dunes covered the fields. Evergreen shrubs poked out of the drifts with hanging heads and heavy boughs. Thirty or so paces from the two-lane highway stood a single house in the entire snowy expanse. I was watching that house. My car was parked with two wheels on the road and two on the incline of a small snowdrift. I left it running, certain I wouldn’t need to watch the house for very long. It was nearly full dark. The front yard looked like a fabled wonderland of ballooned, nylon, mythical creatures. The air pump was well hidden and its gentle whine was swallowed up by the snow. I counted three snowmen, a reindeer with his arm (or maybe leg) around one Santa’s shoulder, a half a dozen other Santa Clauses of various shapes and sizes, a Christmas tree, a sleigh, the Nutcracker, the Grinch and a Merry Christmas sign. There were also a lot of other unexpected creatures. A flying pig, a dinosaur eating a present, Harry Potter, a blue, dog-like thing, Yoda (or maybe Grogu), a ten-foot-tall skeleton, and a pink creature-girl lying flat in the snow and looking up at the dark sky. I considered righting the pink creature-girl, but she was semi-deflated and I couldn’t find the courage to intervene. I shivered as I waited. It was well below freezing and the rising wind had me flicking glances at the warm interior of my car. The ice on the windows was little more than slushy water running down and puddling on the road where it tried in vain to freeze despite the tons of rock salt. I stamped my feet and turned my head as a car drove by, splashing grimy salt water on my legs. The heavy clouds hid the stars. I blinked the exact moment that the winter wonderland twinkled to life. If the scene was garish with the lights off, it was positively jarring to see the entire yard lit up in conflicting colours all at once. The multicoloured lights that had been half concealed under ice and snow glowed with every colour of the rainbow. The lights twinkled in conflicting patterns thanks to unsynchronized timers. The mellow glare of the nylon army looked like an alien invasion. I imagined a UFO hovering above, dropping glowing, puffed up soldiers to storm the house. As I drove away, I wondered about the poor little creature-girl lying face up and staring with sightless eyes. Though barely visible, she too was part of the fabled wonderland. I couldn’t help but wonder if her owner would stumble out in a housecoat and boots and set her upright. Maybe he would tape over the invisible tear in her lining and inflate her enough to stand. During my long drive back home, I couldn’t picture any of the other Christmas creatures clearly, but I could see the poor little pink thing, face up, waiting for her flannel-clad savior. The thought might have made me sad, but it was Christmas. I knew sooner or later he would track across the yard, pick her up and nestle her under the protective arm of the Nutcracker.

Gnomes #3: Where’s the Portal?
20 December 2025

The stack of books hit the ground with a dull thud and sent a plume of dust in the air. Diana sneezed delicately into her sleeve and sniffled. She reached into the bookcase and took out another armload of books and piled them behind her. She now had twelve neat stacks of books and an empty bookcase. She ran her fingers along the shelves and into the corners. She tapped the back of the bookcase and strained her ear. She sniffed the air and sneezed again. She shook her head and frowned. “Hon?” Diana called. “Can you come in here for a minute?” Edwin appeared in the living room and grimaced. “You can’t be serious.” “It has to be here somewhere,” Diana said. “And it only makes sense that they would have hidden it from us.” “Di, there is no gnome portal in our house.” “Of course there is,” Diana exclaimed. “How do you think they got in and stole the tables?” After table number seven had disappeared, there had been a reprieve for several weeks. Edwin had built a new table using plywood for the top and old pallets for the legs. He used a board to brace the sides and it had been fairly solid. It did shake a little, but Diana could tell that he had been proud of it and so she had showered him with compliments. It hadn’t been a pretty table, but it had that rustic, do-it-yourself, I’m-tired-of-buying-tables kind of look. But Edwin’s hopes of having an everlasting table had been a false hope. Table number eight had disappeared and Diana was actually quite pleased, though she tried not to show it around Edwin. “What makes you think the portal would be in the bookcase and not somewhere else, like the kitchen?” Edwin asked. “Because this is the room where the tables disappear from,” Diana said. “And besides, I looked everywhere I could in the kitchen. I even moved the fridge! By myself I might add, since you didn’t offer any help.” “I was watching the football match.” “There’s not football match on now, so roll up your sleeves and give me a hand with the search!” The sun shone obliquely through the great oak leaves. The light breeze cast ever changing shadows on the ferns below. A ladybird buzzed and landed clumsily on a large leaf, just out of range of a praying mantis. A frog hopped along a small path and splashed into a gurling brook. Observing the placid forest were two gnomes sitting on a toadstool. They smoked serenely from long pipes. “You know, those humans aren’t so bad,” Temtom said. “They gave me another table to sell at the market. This one has a nice flat top. Though the legs are rather wonky. Why would anyone build a table with a bunch of slats for legs? I had to cut most of them away.” “Don’t ask me,” Penkeltod said. “I don’t know anything about carpentry.” “But still, it was a thoughtful gift.” “I told you humans are kinder than they seem,” Penkeltod said. “You know, when they aren’t clubbing each other to death.” “Penkeltod, when you’re right, you’re right,” Temtom said. “I never thought that they’d keep supplying us so readily.” “It’s only logical. They did build their home right on our portal to their world. Fair is fair.” “So true,” Temtom said sucking on his pipe. “I thought their big, ugly home would be a great nuisance for travel, but it isn’t. You know I don’t like showing my papers. But they never ask to see them. I just walk right past them and into the yard.” He grimaced. “Though there is that annoying cat to be watchful of.” Penkeltod blew out a puff of smoke. “You really ought to thank the humans for their kindness. Why don’t you leave them a gift?” “I did,” Temtom said. “I left them the dust and the wood mites.” Penkeltod gave him a sidelong glance. “All, well then, I guess you’re even.” Temtom stretched and settled back into the toadstool. “I’d say so.” *** Gnomes #3

The Moon in the Field:
29 November 2025

The Moon saluted the Sun and took her role as sentinel of the night sky. She rose silently upwards, like a silver coin tossed above the clouds. High above the Earth she sailed, like a captain guiding her sailors down below. A pure thought whispered up from the Earth. The Moon caught it in her mind and she looked down to see a small girl waving. The girl’s thoughts took form in the Moon’s mind. The Moon looked at the tired Sun. “Dear Sun, what is happening down below?” “Human things,” said the Sun peeking above the horizon. He yawned and stretched his solar flares. “They’ve spent all day preparing for the Silver Festival.” “The Silver Festival?” the Moon said. She looked down at the field bustling with activity. Humans brought chairs to tables and put food onto large platters. “That certainly sounds like something suitable for my silvery-white self. I think that’s why the little girl asked me to join them.” The Sun shook his corona. “You must be mistaken. Why would a little girl call you down to them? And even if she did, I’m afraid you’re a little too big to fit in the field.” “But she did call me,” the Moon said. “Certainly, there must be a way for me to join the Silver Festival.” The Sun shrugged as well as the Sun could. “Ask Polaris. Now, if you don’t mind, I’m quite tired. Nighty-night.” And with this the Sun disappeared under the horizon leaving the moon to light up the sweet darkness. The Moon cast her gaze upwards and called out. “Great unmoving star, eternal beacon of the Earth, can you tell me how I can join the humans in their Silver Festival?” Polaris raised a brilliant eyebrow. “You wish to settle yourself in the field with the humans?” “Just for one night,” the Moon said. “A little girl called me down. I saw her hand wave and I heard her wish in my mind.” “Hm,” Polaris said. “Very well then. Close your eyes, dear Moon and project yourself downward into the field. Fear not that you will be both in the sky and on the Earth. For one night I shall grant you this wish.” The Moon Closed her eyes and imagined herself in the field. She could smell the chopped, cucumber scent of the grass. She could hear the clinking of glasses and the rolling of laughter. She could feel a warm breeze; unlike anything she had felt in the vacuum above. She opened her eyes and saw the humans dancing and singing. She sat quietly until the small girl appeared before her, pulling at her pigtails. The Moon smiled. “You are the one who called me.” “Yes,” the girl said. “Thanks for coming.” “Why did you ask me to join you during this Silver Festival?” “Because you are beautiful,” the girl replied. The Moon gasped at the compliment. “But I’m just a cold, pockmarked rock. I’m nothing compared to the warm and brilliant Sun.” “Oh no,” the little girl said, shaking her pigtails earnestly. “My grandma says you help the farmers with the seeds and give the tides to the fisherman. She said that you give us the monthly feminine cycles and make the night a beautiful thing.” The Moon blushed, which for the Moon meant she went from white to, well, a shade of off-white. “Thank you.” The little girl nodded and skipped away. The Moon pondered the little girl’s words as she watched the people dancing and singing. She heard them say how proud they were of the Silver Festival. Many years together and many more to come. She felt herself swell at the thought that she too helped the Earth find its balance. The Moon imagined the tides ebbing and flowing, the seeds sprouting, and humans sleeping peacefully under her watchful eye. END Thanks to Ivo for pointing out the gigantic moon that I missed, and to the girls of Korus for a splendid evening in September. Happy 25th anniversary to Korus Adv.

Gnomes #2: Gnomes Aren’t Fairies:
22 November 2025

Penkeltod picked up the dull moon rock and frowned. “What is this doing down here?” Temtom swung around and bumped into a fern. A hanging pinna knocked off his gnome cap revealing tufts of diamond-white hair. “Look what you’ve made me do! It took me all morning to set my cap at just the right angle!” “It was hardly a jaunty angle,” Penkeltod said. “But it was the right one,” Temtom replied. “Tem, just forget about your cap for a moment,” Penkeltod said. He held up the moon rock. “What do you make of this?” “It’s a moon rock.” “I know that, but what is it doing here?” “Or the better question, who shrunk it down?” Temtom asked with a raised chin and quizzical eyes. The grumpy gnome was a master at making those eyes. Penkeltod stroked his long beard. “That’s a good question. It fits in the palm of my hand as though it were a pebble, but it is clearly a rock.” Temtom adjusted his hat. “How do I look?” “What look are you going for?” Penkeltod asked. “Cheery, but with a touch of foreboding,” Temtom replied. “Why the foreboding?” “You know I hate to walk through the scrummy-scum!” Penkeltod put a hand on his whiskered chin. “Well, then I think you need to tilt it forward a little.” “Like this?” “Can you still see where you are going?” “No.” “Then less.” Temtom slipped his cap back one and a half toad-fingers. “How about this?” “Perfect!” exclaimed Penkeltod. “Cheery, with just a touch of trepidation!” “I wanted foreboding.” “They’re synonyms.” Temtom took a moment to consider his friend’s linguistic dexterity. “Fair enough. Shall we be off?” “But what about the moon rock?” Penkeltod protested. Temtom sighed. “You really want to go speak with them, eh?” “I think it’s important,” Penkeltod said. He dropped the pebble sized moon rock into his pouch. “This is a strange place to leave a shrunken down moon rock.” “Alright,” Temtom said. “Certainly better than traipsing through the scrummy-scum.” Penkeltod hobbled forward and put out his gnarled hand. He nodded to his companion. “Well, go on. Take it.” Temtom curled his lip. “You can’t be serious.” “Of course I can,” Penkeltod said. “You know this is how we are supposed to present ourselves.” “Hand in hand?” Temtom said, recoiling. “They’ll think we’re—we’re, well, fairies!” “How do you figure that?” Penkeltod asked. “We don’t have wings.” “Yes, but, well—you know what they’re like!” “What are they like?” “They’re like, well, fairies!” Penkeltod lowered his bushy eyebrows until they nearly closed his eyelids. “What’s wrong with being a fairy?” Temtom crossed his pudgy arms. “They wear stupid hats.” “Maybe you can talk some fashion sense into them,” Peknkeltod said. Temtom pondered this for a moment then gripped Penkeltod’s hand. “Just wait ‘til I show them how to set a cap at the right angle!” Hand in hand, the two gnomes turned left at the cross-path and skipped merrily into Fairy Land. *** Gnomes #2

Teetering on the Edge:
08 November 2025

“Push, my love, push!” “I can’t,” she whined. “It’s too hard!” He gave her his best look of loving encouragement. “Oh, stop being so dramatic. You aren’t the first one to go through this, you know.” She scowled up at him. “I don’t care, I don’t want to do this anymore! And you can wipe that stupid smile off your face!” He could see her pout slicked with sweat. He really did think she looked her best when she felt overwhelmed, but he bit his tongue to avoid a swat. He pondered before making a second attempt to coach her. “You can’t give up, you need to push harder. Come on, love, you’re teetering on the edge.” She bristled. “I’m ‘teetering on the edge?’ That’s all you can say? All of my effort to lug this around and all you can say is that I’m ‘teetering on the edge’?” She gave him the swat he had been trying to avoid. He bit his lip to stop a laugh and hoped she hadn’t noticed. “All right, bad choice of words. Now save your breath and push. Come on, you’re almost there!” “I’m too tired!” she cried. “Really, I can’t do it anymore! Please let me stop and rest.” The man shook his head. “It doesn’t work that way. Our bundle of joy isn’t about to wait while you take your sweet time.” He immediately regretted his words. “I’m not taking my sweet time, I’m carrying your baby!” “It looks like you’re about to give up and drop my baby on the floor.” “That’s it!” she shouted. “I’m leaving and you can push!” “Are you out of your mind?” He snapped. “I’m on the wrong side and I’m not obviously not equipped to push!” She threw down her gloves. “That’s not my problem! The next time you want someone to push one of your ‘bundles of joy’, call a crew!” His jaw dropped as he watched her storm down the flight of steps. It took all his strength to hold onto the finely carved, alabaster sculpture on the ramp of stairs that led up to the display room.

Gnomes #1: Table Number Seven:
25 October 2025

Edwin walked into the small dining room, stopped and blinked. “Diana!” He turned to the kitchen and shouted “Diana! Come in here!” He saw her look up from the yard and race into the kitchen. She nearly collided with him as she skidded to a stop in the dining room. Diana put her hand to her mouth. “Not again!” Edwin wiped his eyes. “At least this one only cost me fifteen pounds.” Sitting in the middle of the dining room floor was a crocheted doily, a vase of flowers and two beeswax candles. Four chairs loomed over them as though guarding against an intrusion. But there was no table. “Eddie, where are they taking them?” Diana asked. “The portal has to be connected to another realm.” Edwin didn’t know what to think. When the first table disappeared shortly after they moved into the cottage, Edwin thought one of his mates had played a practical joke. He refused to entertain Diana’s thoughts that there was a magical portal in their home. A magical portal where magical beings stole their dining room tables. It was nonsense. Seven tables later, he was thinking he might lose his grip on reality. “I don’t understand,” he said as he crouched down and gently ran a finger over a rose petal. His head snapped up and he stared at the video camera in the corner of the ceiling nearest the window. “The camera should still be recording!” The two raced into the small studio, nearly knocking each other over to reach the laptop. Edwin unlocked the computer screen, then he selected the video camera programme, opened up the last file and scrolled through the images. His hand stopped and he expelled a breath. “There! That’s the moment the table disappeared!” “Put it back ten seconds!” Diana exclaimed. “I think I saw something.” Edwin clicked the mouse and let the video run again. All was still and suddenly the video image twitched and sputtered. There was a moment of white noise and then the table was gone. “There’s something there!” “Slow it down, Eddie!” Edwin ran the video again at the slowest speed. The twitch became a wave; the sputter became a languid, pixelated quiver. A tiny hand appeared. Then a pointy hat. Just as a small figure began to take form the image went snowy white and then the table was gone. The doily sat neatly on the floor with the flower vase and candles sitting on top. Edwin grimaced as he looked at the triumphant Diana. “Di, it’s not what it looks like.” “It was a gnome!” Diana hooted. “I told you so!” The voices rose in the village market as the plump and doddering figures gathered together. Fists clenched gold coins. Long beards were pulled. Pointy hats were adjusted when they fell over bushy eyebrows. In the middle of the chaos a small, burly gnome waved his arms. “Alright, alright, lend me your pointy ears!” Temtom shouted. He adjusted his cap to appear more business like. “I present to you table number seven. The finest I’ve brought into Pumpkin Corner.” He ran a hand over a rough table leg. “Ah, yes, it has character. Look at the fine scuffing! Admire the stains from that terrible brew that humans drink in the morning—only Odin knows how they can drink that sludge. Admire its perfect slant. Once the legs are cut down to size an entire family of twelve can comfortably sit around it.” Temtom gave the crowd a smug smile. His eyes twinkled. “Let the bidding begin!” *** Gnomes #1 Thanks to Nadia, Solange and all the magical creatures.

Banano Three – Jimmy’s Dream:
09 September 2025

*** Series begins with “Banano and The Magical Market” *** A soft dusting of light tickled Jimmy’s nose. He scratched it once, then twice, then opened his eyes. He sat up in his bed and blinked at the strange, colourful dust. Jimmy watched it waft in from under the door. He slid out of the covers and put his feet on the tiles. He took soft, tentative steps forward until he was inches from the door. He rested his fingers on the knob and then quickly drew his hand back. It tingled. Jimmy screwed up his courage, put his hand on the knob and twisted. Clowns and unicorns and rainbows and gnomes and gummy creatures and a brilliant green field met his eyes. The sky was a light violet and the sun was an orange so intense it smudged. A silvery-blue river flowed uphill and disappeared into the horizon. Jimmy left his room and cautiously crept into the meadow. He gasped as a small rainbow with balloon-hands beckoned to him from across the river. Jimmy walked across a small, pink marble bridge and the rainbow shot up into the sky. He stepped onto the other side and barely managed to dodge a group of cartwheeling clowns that whisked by him. The rainbow whistled at him from above and pointed to a silvery-white tree with black diagonal smudges on its trunk and blood red leaves. Sitting below the tree was a boy whose colours mimicked the tree. The boy waved a hand. “Well, hello,” said the boy. “Welcome to your dream.” “I’m dreaming,” Jimmy whispered. “That’s why there was no hallway when I opened my door!” “You’re as sharp as a tack, Jimmy,” the boy said. “And you’re only eleven years old.” Jimmy stared at the boy with the glittering blue eyes, red flecks on his cheeks and black smudge across his face. “How do you know my name?” “It’s easy for me to figure things out in Dream Land,” the boy said. “I can’t do very much in the waking world but I can do a lot in the sleeping one.” Jimmy considered the boy for a moment. “What’s your name?” “My name is Banano,” he replied. “Banano,” Jimmy rolled the boy’s name on his tongue and was surprised to find it tasted of chocolate covered bananas. He scratched his head. “Why are you in my dream?” “I thought you would like some company,” Banano said. “I know you have been very sad lately.” Jimmy hung his head. “I haven’t said anything to anyone.” “I know,” said Banano. “And even now you don’t have to say a thing. Why don’t we watch the gnomes shoot fireworks for a while?” Jimmy sat next to Banano under the black and white tree with the blood red leaves. He watched gnomes not more than two feet high scurry back and forth. One gnome began frantically shouting and pointing and tugged at his oversized cap. A small group of gnomes burbled out a response and set down a series of colourful wooden boxes. The gnomes jumped back as one of the boxes hissed and whined as a rocket shot up into the air and exploded in a shower of rainbow light-dust. The other boxes shook as rockets fired and the purple sky was lit with yellows and greens and blues. “Wow,” Jimmy said with his mouth hanging open. “I guess I know where the colourful light-dust came from.” “Like I said, you’re as sharp as a tack,” Banano replied. “You made this dream, didn’t you Banano?” Banano offered up a sly smile. “How do you know?” “Because I love fireworks, but I never ask for them anymore, because…” Jimmy looked down at his hand with two missing fingers and sighed. “It doesn’t matter.” “Let me tell you something about being different, because I am very different myself,” Banano said. “Do you know I live with a clown family?” Jimmy sat up straight. “Really?” “Yes indeed,” Banano said. “There is Pepita and Babba and Davy and Alice the NOT clown.” Jimmy arched an eyebrow. “How come a NOT clown in a clown family?” “It’s a long story,” Banano said. “But the point is that everyone in the family is accepted and everyone is very different.” Jimmy sighed. “But I was normal before the accident. Now the kids at school make fun of me.” “All of them?” asked Banano with a raised eyebrow. Jimmy shrugged. “Not all. Not Francesca. She doesn’t care that I’m not normal.” “You were normal, were you?” Banano pursed his lips. “Hm. Because you had all your fingers and toes?” “Well, yeah,” Jimmy replied. “Do your parents love you for your fingers and toes?” Banano gave Jimmy a sidelong glance. A polka dot batch of fireworks lit the sky as Jimmy thought. “Well, no. I mean, I think they love me because of who I am.” “And Francesca is your friend because of your fingers and toes?” “Well, no, she’s my friend because we like to talk to each other,” Jimmy said. Banano gave a satisfied nod. “It doesn’t really matter what kind of different you are, or what kind of normal you are, or if you are somewhere in-between. What matters is who you are, Jimmy. And I know you are a good boy who loves his dog and listens to his parents,” Banano gave Jimmy another sidelong glance. “Most of the time.” “Sometimes I guess I talk back,” Jimmy sighed. “After a hard day at school when I get teased.” “Why do you think the children tease you, Jimmy?” Banano looked him in the eyes. “Do you really think it’s only because of your missing fingers?” Jimmy scrunched up his face. “I’m not sure.” “Are happy children cruel to other children?” “No,” Jimmy said. “Happy children would be nice to me.” Jimmy looked at Banano. “You think the children who tease me are unhappy?” “What do you think?” Jimmy was silent for a moment. “Maybe. But what can I do about it?” Banano sighed. “It’s not easy and I can’t give you a solution for the Waking World. But now that you have a different perspective, maybe you can think of something.” Jimmy shrugged. “I could try to be nice when they are being mean.” “Sounds like a good idea!” Banano smiled. “Thanks, Banano!” Banano leaned against the tree trunk. “This is your dream, so it’s time to have some fun.” He pointed to the field. “Uh-oh, the gnomes are wheeling out the whale-sized box of fireworks. We should probably use the parasols before we are showered in dust.” Jimmy took an iridescent parasol from Banano “Can’t you stop them?” Banano gave Jimmy a curious look. “If there is one thing you should learn about Dream Land, it’s that nobody controls the gnomes.” The two boys leaned against the tree with their luminescent parasols over their heads. Gnomes hooted and hollered as they ran around in circles. A deafening growl erupted from the box and an ark of light-dust shot up and painted the sky in so many different colours that Jimmy couldn’t keep count. As the dust fell on the parasol, Jimmy had the biggest smile on his face. END

Banano Two: Maison Sweet Maison:
16 August 2025

*** Series begins with “Banano and The Magical Market” *** One fine morning, Babba the Clown was busy sculpting the side of the Clown Maison with his chainsaw. It was an unusual sort of tool for remodelling, but not for Babba. He knew how to finesse a chainsaw like a snake charmer could tango with a king cobra. But Babba was distracted. This was not good when holding a chainsaw. The last time he had daydreamed while cutting carrots for dinner his decapitated head had flown across the kitchen and into the hearth. It had taken Pepita the Clown several frantic minutes to put the flames out of his hair. Then she had reminded him that without her help his burnt head would be looking perpetually backwards. Babba could do without the nagging. Babba put down the chainsaw. He admired his work. The newest clown face carved into Clown Maison was a nice touch. It fit right in with the other forty-seven clown faces he had carved. Yes, the Clown Maison was coming along nicely. Sculpted clowns and demons and gnomes and unicorns. It truly was a castle fit for a king. Even though it was a Maison for the Clown Family. But Babba couldn’t spend all day admiring his handywork, he had other things on his mind. Babba stepped inside the Clown Maison and his yellow eyes fell on Davy the Clown. “Why has my son been dusted with flour? Are we baking him for dessert?” Alice the NOT Clown grunted and groaned as she pushed the rain barrel to the centre of the room. Luckily, it had been fitted with wheels for just such an occurrence. She blew a sigh into her bangs. They billowed about and fell back into her eyes. “Dad, you did it again,” Alice said. She scowled at her father. “You forgot to close the window before sculpting and Davy was watching you.” Babba searched his dimensionally challenged mind for a philosophical escape “And you didn’t close the window?” asked Babba with his hands on his hips. Perhaps he could shift the blame of who really was responsible for having showered his cherished angel with dust. Alice pointed to the closed window. “I did, but not in time.” She picked Davy up by the ankle and dunked him into the rain barrel. She pulled him up and he giggled. She dunked him another two times and Davy and Alice laughed like only brother Clown and sister NOT Clown could. Alice narrowed her eyes at her father. “Next time remember to close the window before sculpting the Clown Maison.” Babba nodded. Maybe he should have closed the window, but he had been throttled by his muse. It really wasn’t his fault. His muse jumped on him from behind and practically started up the chainsaw for him. Yes, that was it. He wasn’t to blame. He didn’t have time to think about open windows and small children being coated in dust. His muse had shouted out for a clown face and he had answered. He was, after all, an artist at heart. “Wife Pepita,” Babba called into the kitchen. “Where’s Banano?” “Right where you left him,” Pepita Clown replied. “And where would that be?” “In the Room of Dolls, of course,” Pepita said. She frowned. “Husband Babba, you’re such a scatterbrain. If I didn’t remind you where you left your head every time you cut it off, you’d lie perpetually on the floor without it.” Babba sighed. It would seem that he wasn’t immune to nagging even when he had kept his head. “But this time I didn’t cut it off,” Babba protested. He neglected to tell her there had been a close call when he was carving clown number forty-eight. Pepita raised an eyebrow. “I’m sure,” Pepita said with a peculiar note in her voice. “Well, go on up and see what Banano is up to.” Babba ignored her sarcasm and walked up the flight of stairs with his chainsaw. Then up another two flights. Then he opened a small window and crawled out onto the ledge. Then he slithered along it until he reached an outer door which had once been an inner door. Babba slipped through the inner-outer door and climbed up the spiral staircase until he was dizzy. Finally, he reached the Room of Dolls. It was incredibly inconvenient. If only he hadn’t carved all of those clown faces into the East Wing. Then he would still have a fully functioning East Wing, not to mention an inner staircase and door to reach the Room of Dolls. But there was no sense in crying over chipped stones. He did have his clown faces, after all. “Banano, my young friend,” declared Babba. “It’s time for a makeover!” Banano stared at him with glittering blue eyes. Babba was certain that he had seen a glint of approval. Banano was in his new home, and what better time than now to get a make-over? “Just hold still, Banano,” Babba said. He started up the chainsaw and with a bold stroke sheared off his own head. Blood spurted all over Banano, or so Babba hoped. He couldn’t really see what was happening because his head had fallen face down. His hands fumbled around blindly searching for his severed head. “Hands,” mumbled Babba’s severed head. “I felt you touch my hair. A little more to the left.” Babba’s fingers just barely managed to pinch a strand of hair. Luckily, Babba’s severed head was unusually light and the strand of hair didn’t snap. Two gloved hands hoisted his head upwards and set it on his shoulders. With a flick of his wrists, Babba screwed his head on in the right direction. Or so he hoped. Babba looked at Banano smeared in blood. The boy was a masterpiece that not even Hieronymus Bosch could surpass. “Banano, my boy, so far so good,” he said. Babba reached for his richest blackest pigments and smudged a perfectly straight smear across Banano’s face. “Ah!” exclaimed Babba with his bloody and sooty hands held high. “You’re perfect! Come on Banano, time to show you off to the Clown family.” Babba retraced his steps with Banano in his arms. Going down the spiral staircase wasn’t as dizzying as going up. Things were a bit complicated on the ledge outside of the remnants of the East Wing, but surefooted as a mountain goat in his gigantic clown shoes Babba flopped to safety. He slipped inside the small window and slid down the three flights of stairs to a thump. “Ta-da!” proclaimed Babba. “May I present to you Banano clown-style!” The Clown Family oohed and aahed. Banano was a masterpiece. Scarlet and white and black. Babba was certain that he even surpassed his own handsomeness, which was rather challenging considering Babba was a monster like no other. “I love his new look,” said Pepita. She looked at her husband with blood-love. They held hands via the chainsaw. Pepita ran a finger over the swirl on her nose and then touched Banano. “I especially love the diagonal smudge across his face.” Babba frowned. “What do you mean by ‘diagonal’?” he asked. “I smudged a straight, black line across his face.” “No dad, you didn’t,” said Alice. She sighed. “It looks straight to you because you screwed your head on at a forty-five-degree angle.” “So that’s why I’m staring at the corner of the room instead of at Banano!” Babba gave his head a quick twist. “Ah! Much better!” Babba gazed at Banano with blood-love. Yes, the smear wasn’t a straight line as he had planned, but it was perfect on him just the same. He could feel a twinkling sensation from Banano and he knew the doll was happy. Now it was Banano’s turn to work his own special dream magic. END.

Banano and The Magical Market of Gently Used Things:
26 July 2025

Banano was a dream maker, even though some might be tempted to say he was nothing more than a doll. After all, he was made of cloth and stuffing and plastic. But Banano was much more than the sum of his stitching. He was very unique indeed. Though silent in company; he could communicate by dropping balls or tipping cups when no one was looking. And he could speak in dreams as only magical souls can do. Where did Banano come from? No one knows for certain, but we do know when Banano decided to become a dream maker. Certainly, Banano could have always entered the realm of dreams, but before meeting the Clown Family he had no reason to do so. Then one fine day, the Clowns and Banano met. So, let me say something about the Clown Family. There was Pepita the Clown with her red, devilish curls, her spacey eyes, and the ever-present swirl on her nose. Yes, the swirl was very important, but don’t ask me why. Not yet at least. Pepita fancied many different colours, but the day she met Banano she dressed in rich black and blood red. Babba the Clown, Pepita’s loving and chainsaw-wielding husband. His flaming, flat red hair, his yellow eyes and his black and white mottled face. No one remembers what he was wearing the day he met Banano because he had been splattered with blood. But we’ll get to that later. Their son Davy the Clown. With his blue eyes and golden-blond hair, he was the most beautiful boy. His infectious laugh would cheer anyone’s heart. He was the kind of boy that any parent would want. No one can remember if he was there the day when Pepita and Babba met Banano. But that hardly matters as Davy and Banano became fast friends some time later. And then there was their daughter, Alice the NOT Clown. Yes, a NOT Clown in a Clown Family. I know it sounds absurd but it’s true. She had a slim build, shy smile and perfectly cut bangs that hung over her eyes. She was very pretty. Not even Pepita and Babba could match her prettiness. And the Clowns were very beautiful, if you like monsters and ghouls. But I digress … One fine day, Wife Pepita and Husband Babba took a trip to the Magical Market of Gently Used Things. And maybe Davy went with them, but no one remembers. But not Alice the NOT Clown. She didn’t go. We’re sure about that. Anyway, the market may not sound spectacular, but it truly was. It was filled with crystals and baubles and magical things like pink unicorns and time-traveling goats and pigeons that could recite the Kama Sutra backwards. While winding their way through the thick of the people, Pepita and Babba (and maybe Davy, but not Alice) found themselves completely bottlenecked like a cork gone in the wrong way. Normally under such circumstances, Pepita would take the chainsaw from Babba and cut her way through. The splattering blood and flying limbs were rather messy, but the path through the forest of bodies was very advantageous. Just as Pepita was about to pull the starter cord, Babba (or perhaps Davy, but definitely not Alice) pointed to an unusual man. He was swarthy of complexion and handsome in a brooding kind of way. Pepita was nudged by Babba. “Wife Pepita,” Babba said. “Why do you make of him?” Pepita set down the limb-severing chainsaw. “Husband Babba, he looks like he might be a charmer. Or even a dazzler.” Babba nodded. Then he cocked an eyebrow. “Do you think he has something we need?” “You mean like a spare chain for the limb-severing chainsaw?” Pepita asked. “No,” said Babba. “I was thinking something more magical.” Pepita ran a finger over the swirl on her nose. “I guess there’s only one way to find out.” Babba and Pepita, and maybe Davy, but definitely not Alice, walked up to the mysterious man. “Ho there, seller of magical wares,” Pepita called. “What is your trade?” “Gypsy,” he replied. “Hm,” said Pepita. “Isn’t that an ethnic group?” “It’s that as well,” said the Gypsy. “We Gypsies like to wear many hats.” Pepita and Babba looked at each other and shrugged. The Gypsy’s answer was as good as any. Why couldn’t a Gypsy be both an ethnic group and a trade? But I digress … “What can you show us, fine Gypsy, sir,” asked Babba. “Perhaps I can interest you in a mechanical peacock that can rise from the ashes,” the Gypsy said. “Don’t you mean a phoenix?” Asked Pepita. “It’s that, too,” said the Gypsy. Pepita and Babba looked at each other and shrugged. The Gypsy’s answer was as good as any. Babba’s yellow eyes looked over the magical cart. “What else can you show us?” “How about a time-traveling bracelet?” The Gypsy held out a long, brass bangle with a clock and gears and coils and strange vials of colourful liquids. “How far back in time can it go?” asked Babba. “Six minutes,” said the Gypsy. “We already have one that goes back seven minutes,” said Pepita. She tugged on a flaming red curl. “Don’t you have anything else?” The Gypsy pointed to a large rack. “I have these dolls.” “What do they do?” asked Babba. His yellow eyes roamed over porcelain and cloth and painted faces. “It depends,” said the Gypsy. “Depends on what?” asked Pepita. “It depends on what you want,” said the Gypsy. Pepita looked at Babba. Her mismatched swirly-cross eyes met his yellow ones. Pepita rubbed the swirl on her nose. “What say you, Husband Babba?” Babba nodded. “Wife Pepita, I think we should get one,” he looked at her with blood-love. They held hands via the chainsaw. “Mr. Gypsy, we’ll take a doll!” Pepita declared. To celebrate she started up the chainsaw and whirled it around accidently cutting off Babba’s head. But fear not, Babba was very able at screwing it back on. If the Gypsy was perturbed by the sudden decapitation he didn’t show it. Not even after he had been splattered with blood. “Which doll?” he asked. “I’m not sure,” said Pepita. She rubbernecked. “Husband Babba, where did you go?” “Wife Pepita, my severed head is down here.” “Where?” “It rolled under the market stand.” Pepita fished about under the staves of wood and pulled out his bloody head. She held it up to stare lovingly into his yellow eyes. “Husband Babba, which doll shall we choose?” “It’s hard to say when I’m staring into your beautiful, mismatched eyes,” said Babba’s severed head. “Oh right,” Pepita rotated his blood-dripping noggin towards the dolls. “There you go.” “That one,” said Babba’s severed head. Though he could only point with his eyes, the Gypsy understood. “A fine choice,” said the Gypsy. “How do you know?” asked Pepita. “Because your husband chose it,” replied the Gypsy. Pepita looked at Babba’s severed head with blood-love. Babba would have hugged her but he didn’t know where his arms were. “We’ll take it,” said Pepita. “How much?” asked Babba’s severed head. “Ten pieces of gold,” said the Gypsy. “Sounds like a bargain,” said Pepita with a peculiar note in her voice. Babba’s severed head ignored Pepita’s sarcasm. “Mr. Gypsy,” he asked. “What is the doll’s name?” “Ah,” said the Gypsy. “Now that is the question. But it is not a question you can ask me. You must ask the doll.” Pepita and Babba’s severed head looked at each other. The Gypsy was truly wise. “Husband Babba,” said Pepita. “Pay the man.” “Wife Pepita, I would if I could, but my body’s lying on the floor somewhere behind me.” Babba’s severed head tried to roll its eyes to point behind him, but they only managed to look up. “Husband Babba, why are you looking at the sky?” Pepita asked. “I’m not,” said Babba’s severed head. “I was trying to point behind me, but it’s rather difficult when you don’t have any arms.” “Fair enough,” said Pepita. She put his severed head into his flailing hands. With a twist Babba screwed his head back on. “Wife Pepita, why do I only see cobblestones?” “You’ve screwed your head on backwards,” Pepita sighed. “If I didn’t remind you how to screw it back on right, you’d always be looking behind you. Or staring at cobblestones.” Babba gave his head a one hundred eighty-degree twist. “That’s much better.” He stood and reached into his satchel. Babba counted out ten pieces of gold. “Thank you,” said the Gypsy. Babba lifted the doll. “Well, my fine boy, what’s your name?” He put his ear to the doll’s unmoving lips. Babba closed his eyes. After a few moments he nodded. “Banano. The doll’s name is Banano.” Pepita stroked the doll’s head with blood-love. “Banano.” With Banano in their arms, Pepita and Babba (and maybe Davy, but definitely not Alice) walked into the sunset. Or they tried to, but there were too many people in the street blocking their way. Pepita started up the chainsaw. But that’s a story for another time. END. Many thanks to Pepita, Babba, Alice and Davy. Thanks to Camilla for the time traveling bracelet. And an extra special thanks to Banano the dream maker.

Marsh Wisp

16 May 2025

Luck belongs to the young and to the insane, my father used to say. I'm neither, so I couldn't count on racing through the marsh in the hopes the wisps wouldn't get me. Each step I took would have to be careful, bold but supple. I would need to use a tabby's paws through the bog, as improbable as it sounds considering cats don't like to get wet. But this is what I thought as I gently put one foot in front of the other, my head swivelling to catch sight of a wisp. My father said the wisps hadn't always inhabited the swamps. I think of all the old dangers. They all seem to have been there since the beginning of time. Old stories with no beginnings. Spun yarns that are doughy and indistinct like jellyfish tendrils. But not with the wisps. The wisps hadn't always been there, my father said when I was a boy. He told me he remembered crossing the bog with nothing more than thigh-high oil skin boots, a lantern and a stick. He told me how his own father had said the wisps meant no harm. Yet one day the wisps took my grandfather in the bog. This was before I was born. I grew up with the terror of the wisps, trembling before their faint, dim forms hovering over the marsh. They didn’t seem evil, their languid movements like poplar seeds on a spring breeze. The wisps were almost impossible to see during the day, but their hazy luminescence was easy to spot after dark. From then on, all crossing had to be done at night. My father said there were many who voiced against it. Many said the night crossing violated our old religion. I regained my senses. It was dangerous to daydream during a crossing. I was probably halfway through the bog by now. There were no markers as the swamp swallowed everything we staked down during the night. My father said it was the work of the wisps, but I found that strange considering they had no form. No hands to grab, no substance to pull the stakes into the wetlands. Yet somehow all markers disappeared over the course of the night. Counting steps had been proposed, but it never worked when you had to dodge around lumps of earth, snarled roots, and of course the wisps. The wisps were slow and unaffected by the wind, so it was easy to dodge them. But their meandering movements meant that crossings required differing paths each time I journeyed. The only way to know where I was in the bog was to get close enough to the far shore and use the fog torches to guide me. I was exhausted with the weight of the sacred gift tied to my back. Shallow boats and rafts had been tried to ease the burden, but they had caused the disappearance of too many men. Only slow, careful plodding was possible. With luck, perhaps in a few hours it was possible to cross over the bog. But luck was only for the young and the insane. I was never lucky, so crossing meant an all-night journey with the terror of not making it before the break of dawn. There was no more dangerous time than sunrise as the wisps became completely invisible against the glare. I saw wisp was moving towards me. A billowing, undefined, glinting swirl. With the new moon the wisp was easier to see and it gave me plenty of time to change my path. But as I moved sideways, I stared into its haziness. The dancing thing was undefined beauty. I couldn't see how it could be harmful; it was glittering and twinkling light, golden and warm. It was so close I could almost touch the wisp. I could speak with the wisp. It was listening to me and I could feel it speak in my mind. Join me! Join me! It called out. I am your grandfather, the Wisp! Fear not and cross over with me! My dearest grandson, welcome home!

I Am Speaking to You

02 May 2025

You, dear reader, are reading about my life. So, I will speak to you, only to you and especially to you. You ask, why ‘especially’? Dear reader, I could speak only to myself as I’ve done it many times before. But today I will speak to you. You, the man sitting on the green park bench with a dog at your feet. You, the woman curled up in her bed, the lights dimmed and a chocolate covered strawberry pinched guiltily between your fingers. I am speaking to you, the teen riding on the subway with one earbud falling out because it just won’t sit right. I am speaking to you, the girl who is alone in the schoolyard because she thinks she has no friends. What is so special about my life that I can speak to you? Well, I don’t live amongst you anymore. Ah, you say, you are dead! No, I respond, I am not dead. In fact, I have never been more alive. But how, you ask, if you don’t have a body? And what does a body, I respond, have to do with life? Here you stop and ponder. Here you wonder to yourself if the man who is alive but also dead could be right. You ask yourself if you need a body to be alive. You ask yourself if you need a body to be dead. You come to the conclusion that you need a body for both states. Now you see me shaking the head I don’t have and squeezing my invisible lips. You are mistaken, you see. I know what you are saying to yourself. What a presumptuous ghost! How dare this ghost say to me that he knows more about life and death just because he has passed on. Ah, I say to you, but I haven’t passed on, have I? Here I am, speaking to you these silent words and there you are reading them one by one. Line by line. Paragraph by paragraph. Gobbling up everything I have to say. You are confusing me, you shout! How, I ask. You are saying things that have nothing to do with life or death, bodies or not! So am I. Perhaps I jest with you but let me assure you, I am not laughing at you. For I, dear reader, am only saying what is true from the milky black void that is the beyond. You are still skeptical. A milky black void, you think. This is an oxymoron, a vile form of chicanery, you proclaim. Ah, no, dear reader, I respond. This is pureness and light in the chaos and in the darkness. This is the beginning, for now I too am the Alfa and the Omega. I am waiting for you dear reader. I am patient because I hold the infinite.

Blackbird

26 March 2025

The old man sat heavily in his chair and sighed. It was nearly dusk in early summer and the sun hung low in the sky. He finished packing the tobacco in his pipe and reached for his matches. He struck the flame and puffed to start the embers. He tamped it down and gave a second light and drew in a deep, retro inhale and smoke billowed from his nose. Just as he puffed his preferred cadence, the old man looked up with a raised eyebrow as his grandson trudged past him silently. “What’s wrong, my boy?” He called out. The boy stopped and shrugged. “Nothing, grandpa.” The old man tapped his free hand on his knee. “Come here for a minute.” The boy sloughed forward and the old man reached for the boy’s hand. “Tough day at school?” The boy squirmed and lowered his eyes. “There’s a boy who’s picking on me.” “I see.” The old man inhaled deeply and blew the smoke over the boy’s head. He offered his grandson a wry smile. “It’s getting late, and you should be getting ready for bed.” He put a finger under his chin. “But before you brush your teeth, would you like to hear a story?” The boy nodded. “Sure, grandpa.” The old man puffed casually and settled into his chair. “Many years ago, I was in the yard cleaning up before dark. As I walked back to the house, I startled two blackbirds that were perched on the lemon tree.” He gestured to the century old tree off the back porch. “The female flew in a circle before disappearing into the leaves, and the male flew up on the roof. The male blackbird began tweeting furiously.” The old man smiled. “Now, I couldn’t understand what he was saying, but I could see he was mad, and I knew why.” The old man paused and looked down at his grandson and puffed patiently. The boy tilted his head and was silent for a moment. He shrugged his shoulders. “Why was he mad?” The grandfather sighed and pinched his grandson’s cheek. “Well, think about it. There could be only one reason, really. They were nesting and I had intruded on their territory.” The boy cocked his eyebrow. “But it’s your yard.” The grandfather grimaced and mumbled, “I think you need more than one lesson, my boy.” He shook his head. “So, I cautiously backed away and out of the corner of my eye I looked at the lemon tree. It was dark, but I thought I spotted something. I tiptoed back inside, grabbed my flashlight and from a distance scanned the tree. Sure enough, the female was watching me through the leaves sitting in her recently woven nest.” The old man pointed to the lemon tree. “It was low enough that I could reach out and grab it.” “Did you?” The boy craned his neck as he looked at the tree. “No, I carefully walked back inside.” He took his grandson’s hands. “I want you to think about what the blackbirds did.” The boy looked up at his grandfather and to the old man’s delight he answered wisely. “They were defending the nest from you.” “Exactly!” The old man chortled. “The male tried to distract me so I wouldn’t see it, and the female took her spot on the nest to defend her eggs.” The boy nodded slowly. He looked at the lemon tree and then turned back to stare at his grandfather. “You said the nest was low, so you could have taken the eggs.” His big brown eyes were unblinking. “What could two tiny blackbirds have done to stop you?” “Nothing, my boy.” The grandfather hugged him close. “All that mattered was that they stood their ground. With that one courageous gesture they won my love and admiration.” The boy nodded and he turned again to look at the lemon tree now bursting with summer fruit. The old man watched him carefully, certain that the wheels were turning in his young mind. He gave his grandson another hug and was warmed to feel the boy’s small arms grip him fiercely. He released his grandson who smiled broadly and waved as he walked into the house. With a satisfied grunt the old man puffed deeply from his pipe and lost his gaze in the lemon tree.

More Than Dead

14 February 2025

I am dead. That is what they told me when they brought me here. It wasn’t a long journey, but it took just enough to make me think that they were right. I can’t feel my heartbeat, nor can I sense my pulse. I tried breathing out on the silver back of my watch as it passed by my face, but I could see no moisture clinging to the steel. Much to my relief I could see myself casting a shadow. You might think casting a shadow is a strange relief, but being dead is one thing, being a vampire is another. I wondered if I could be a zombie. I looked at the man standing in front of me, but I felt no hunger. This was also a small consolation prize. Can you imagine eating someone’s brain? It’s fine in films, but if you sit and stare at the man next to you – I mean, really stare – can you imagine yourself eating his brains? What a horrid thought! I could rule out being a zombie and a vampire. This was a good start, but it wasn’t enough. Death begs a very important question: now what? I can’t be dead forever, can I? Is my thought a contradiction, an oxymoron or just plain nonsense? It’s hard to say which grammatical rules apply in death. Do they all apply? Just some? Which ones? How am I supposed to figure this out now? I looked at the man in the room but I’m not sure if he truly sees me. I’m certain he sees something of me, but I’m no more than a body to him now. Somehow that doesn’t feel right. If I’m dead, then I must be something more. I can’t deny that most of me stops, but now there is something other part of me that has started. Before being dead I would have assumed that after death I would have been less. It is quite refreshing to have suddenly realized that I am more. But how do I communicate being 'more'? I figured the most logical step would be to call out to the man and say, ‘I’m something more now that I’m dead!’, but my lips won’t move. I tried to raise a finger, but no luck there. It should have been easy enough to wink, but my eyelids would not take my commands. I could feel my frustration growing as the man left my peripheral vision. Even though I was more, how could I communicate it to the world? “Hello.” “Oh, hello. Where did you come from?” “From over there.” “From where?” “From over there.” “Oh, I see. Wait, you can see me! That man could see me, but he couldn’t really see me, if you know what I mean.” “I know exactly what you mean.” “That is such a relief! But please, be honest. Can you really see me?” “Oh yes, I can really see you very well. You are more, after all.” “Yes, yes! I am more! I’m glad someone finally recognized it! You have no idea what it’s like to be underappreciated.” “You’d be surprised. We all felt that way for a time. It’s not easy being more.” “We? There are more of us that are more?” “There are lots of us.” “Can I meet them?” “Of course you can. Come with me. It’s time for you to be more than dead forever.”

Time is the Soul

27 January 2025

"Yes! Yes! It's a success!” The artist raised his tools in triumph. “A grand success, I tell you!" "How do you know it’s a success?" The wizened scientist peered intently at the creation. "What else could it be?" "A failure." The artist gaped at his colleague and then curled his lip in distain. This was all you could get out of a scientist, he thought. Black or white. One or zero. Left or right. The scientists never could understand the artistic in-between that the rest of the world lived in. No, they made all of their calculations and when they had finished, they expected that one plus one would be two every single time. And then two plus two must equal four. But that just wasn't how the world worked. Once again, he was tasked to explain this. "Don't you see it?" He put his tools in his apron and pulled on the scientist's sleeve. "Tilt your head and look at it." The scientist frowned. "It looks the same." The artist snorted. "You aren't even trying! Come over here. No, over here!" He yanked the scientist's arm and steered him to a mark on the floor. "Exactly. Stand here and now tilt your head." "My head is tilted." "No! You have to tilt it more, don't you see? Like this." The artist inclined his head severely and gestured at the scientist. "You see how I’m doing it? Do the same. Exactly, yes! Now what do you see?" The scientist massaged his neck. "I see the same thing. A failure." The artist reached into his apron, grabbed his tools and threw them on the hard tiles as he cursed. "You aren't even trying to see what I see!" "That's because I have to see what is actually there." The scientist rested a hand on the work of art. "It has to stand the test of time, and this will not." The artist grabbed the scientist's shoulders and shook him violently. "How can you say that? You don't even understand what time is!" "Of course I do." The scientist gave the artist a smug look. "Time is a measurable period where an object or action exists." "Bah! Nonsense!" The artist flailed his arms. "Time is nothing of the sort! You have no soul! That's why you cannot understand time." "There is no such thing as a soul." "Now you are sounding foolish! Completely silly! I was only being facetious when I said you had no soul. Of course you have a soul!" The artist paced as he ranted. "How could I have created this if I had no soul? How could you have unjustly criticized this masterpiece if you yourself were just a cog in the machine?" "That's all we are." The scientist bowed his head to the invisible universal laws that tugged at them. "We are just cogs and sprockets." "No! You heartless fool! We are so much more than that!" The artist covered his face with his calloused hands and whispered. "How can I make you understand?" The artist paced and flailed his arms above his head. He stopped and chewed on his nail. Then he bit his thumb. Then he winced in pain and paraded to and fro. The artist thought it was all so futile. Scientists were simply too dimwitted to understand the soul, or Time, let alone grasp his masterpiece. The artist felt pressed under a granite block with a spark jolted his mind. He stopped suddenly and raised his index finger. "I have it!" The artist crowed. "I know how to make you understand!" "How?" The artist grinned ferociously as he put his hand on the immaterial masterpiece and bellowed with scarlet intensity.

Answers From Death

07 December 2024

I stared at the tombstone as hard as I could. Despite my efforts I couldn’t crack the granite, nor could I cause the earth to heave and buckle. It all stayed in place, still like twilight. There were answers deep inside the resting place. The hard part was pulling them out. Once I got the answers, I was sure I would know what to do with them. “You won’t get any answers from in there.” “How do you know I’m looking for answers?” “I can just tell. But you’re looking in the wrong place.” I ignored the advice and continued to stare. If you couldn’t get answers from the afterlife, where else could you get them from? This living world has only given us half-truths and confusion. But I wouldn’t look elsewhere. I would look where I knew I would find the answers I needed. “You’re still hoping and staring. Like I said, there are no answers in there for you.” “I’m not hoping. And why do you keep saying I want answers?” “You do. Like I said, I can tell.” The tombstone continued its silent vigil over the underworld. It was stubborn and stoic. Even the grass at its feet had a steely glint. Like millions upon millions of ringlets that held the answers fast. Everything about the sepulchre seemed to say that it would keep its secrets. It was a vault with no combination. It was untroubled by my stare. “You don’t give up easily, do you?” “Why did you say ‘there are no answers in there for you’?” “Got your attention, didn’t I?” Maybe there were no answers in there for me, but I knew this was the right place. So, what was the problem? Was I afraid that I couldn’t get in, or was I afraid I wouldn’t find anything if I did? Maybe I was afraid that after searching for so long I would find nothing. Maybe I didn’t really want to know what happened after. “You should give up now. It’ll make everything easier later on.” “How much later on?” “It won’t be much longer. Trust me, I know these things.” His strange negations gave me hope. He tried to dissuade me but now I knew I was where I should be. I wanted to reach out towards the tombstone to feel its rough surface. There were answers in there, I was sure of it now. I had only suffered a moment of dim panic, thinking I would find nothing. I was sure I would find everything. “You’re as tough as nails. Maybe you will find your answers after all.” “Is it time?” “Yes, it’s time. Come with me.”

Dream Tree

20 November 2024

I was so tired from the efforts of the day that I couldn’t help but rest my head. The gnarled, exposed roots were an unexpected cradle for my aching bones. My body relaxed as I slouched and leaned against the tree. I thought I would just watch the sun set, but nestled in the roots I found myself with heavy eyes and a nodding head. As the slanting rays warmed my face, I fell asleep at the foot of the great beech tree. I was permeated by the sensation that I was sharing a dream with the tree. I knew I was asleep as the tree infused me with its nature. I felt it tap my consciousness lightly in the depths of my mind. The beech tree retained its familiar shape, with its silver-grey bark and dark green leaves. In the dream the tree had an unexpected scent of honey gold that heightened my perceptions. The tree allowed me to feel the birds tousle my hair and the earthworms wriggle between my toes. I felt the sap running through my veins as it pushed higher and higher up the canopy. The deeper I slept, the more the great beech shared. The beech allowed the changing seasons to wash over me. Crisp autumn, icy winter, tepid spring and sultry summer. The beech never spoke a word in my mind, but led me along by the hand, its branches caressing me as I floated forward. It dropped its leaves in the meadow next to a bouncing chipmunk. It pointed bare branches to the icy ground at its roots. It strained its buds towards the heavens to show me a floating butterfly. It rustled its leaves to bring my attention to a deer as it drank deeply from the brook. I awoke more rested than I had been for ages. There was no fatigue in my limbs and my mind was clear. I thanked the tree by placing a hand on its smooth trunk and walked through the meadow back to my car. I turned back often, hoping to see a sign of recognition from the giant beech, but it stood silent and watchful at the edge of the forest. For years I wondered what the tree had wanted to say to me. Season after season I would return but no sleep at its trunk brought other shared dreams. Over time my bemusement changed acceptance. I embraced the idea that in that one moment the tree had simply wished to share its life with someone. When I return to visit the beech tree, I place my hand on its trunk and say a silent thanks for having been the chosen one.

Light Fiction

Gnomes #5: Spring Cleaning: 18 April 2026

Stars and Sand Stick to the Soul: 04 April 2026

Purple Books on a Black Mushroom: 07 March 2026

Gnomes #4: Tahini: 28 February 2026

A Tiger on the Roof: 31 January 2026

The Old Radio: 10 January 2026

Christmas Savior: 03 January 2026

Gnomes #3: Where’s the Portal? 20 December 2025

The Moon in the Field: 29 November 2025

Gnomes #2: Gnomes Aren’t Fairies: 22 November 2025

Teetering on the Edge: 08 November 2025

Gnomes #1: Table Number Seven: 25 October 2025

Banano Three – Jimmy’s Dream: 09 September 2025

Banano Two: Maison Sweet Maison: 16 August 2025

Banano and The Magical Market of Gently Used Things: 26 July 2025