Welcome to the April 2021 Storytime Blog Hop!

This April, I am delighted to share with you the next story in the Tarot flash fiction series. For the last blog hop, in February, I shared III – The Empress. I have been less neglectful of my blog than in the past, so IV – The Emperor and V – The Hierophant have already been posted. I am leaving them up in case you missed them.

VI – The Lovers

It’s always a pleasure to come to Heritage Park in the springtime, when the birds are singing, and the flowers are blooming. All kinds of flowers pop out as soon as the rains in April have finished, and the air is fragrant with dew and lilac. I have come in my best suit, to avoid the decisions waiting for me at home. Life seems to be just an infinite string of endless possibility, and yet I need to decide. Three large envelopes came in the mail today. I was hoping to talk it over with Valerie, but she was gone, visiting her aunt in another state. What do I choose? Music at Saint Olaf? Russian at the University of Illinois? Or pre-law, like my dad wants, in Madison, WI. I shake my head, adjust the guitar on my shoulder, and head up the path that leads to the pond.

A group of kids is there, playing tag. I sit down on a bench overlooking the water, and pick up a smooth stone. It’s a great skipper. I raise my right arm, and let it fly, watching as it jumps out of the water once, twice, three times . . .

Time. I haven’t been paying attention to the time, but the sun is setting. I hear boots behind me and turn to see Karen. I haven’t seen Karen in some time, not since Val and I started going out. I fling another stone. Karen sits down next to me, her dark hair whipping in front of her face. I hadn’t realized it was windy.

“Haven’t seen you, Adam,” she said.

“Yeah.”

We sit in silence. I toss another stone. She tosses one, too, but she doesn’t know how. It just goes plop in the middle of the lake.

“I, um, I’m staying here. Going to Heritage University.”

“Heritage?” Why couldn’t I make a decision as easily as she has? Just go with what’s here? Just follow the mainstream? Do what my dad wants?

“Yeah, they have a great early education program.”

I nod. She’d make a great elementary teacher. I toss another rock. One, two, three, four.

“I don’t know, Karen,” I say. “I want so much. I want to make my dad proud, want to keep learning Russian, want to make something of my singing. I want it all. I know I can’t have it all.

“Come here,” she said getting up off the bench. “I want to show you something.”

I follow her back to the main entrance of the park. “Look.”

Two old men are playing chess, swearing in Russian. A woman in a red dress is playing a polka on an accordion. And two college students are debating health care.

“No matter where you go, you will find what you need.”

Then she is gone. I go back to the pond and take out the guitar. I know what I will do.

The End.

Want to read more? Check out the next story in the blog hop!

• Grit Nearly Succeeds by Bill Bush
• Love’s Sweet Prick by Sabrina Rosen
• For a Breath of Air by Nic Steven
• Pitch by Sandra Llyn
• Bees by Barbara Lund
• Unknown Title by Juneta Key
• Bullied by Elizabeth McCleary
• A Day to Remember by Katharina Gerlach
• Were’s the Rabid Rabbit Jemma Weir

Or, if you want to read the first five stories of this collection, you can find them here:

0 – The Fool

I – The Magician

II – The Priestess

III – The Empress

IV – The Emperor

V – The Hierophant

V – The Hierophant

My, how time passes. I am still living in the castle we built after the garden was completed, and people have come and gone. Family. I don’t remember getting married, but suddenly, I have grandparents and great-grandparents, what seems to be millions of cousins, and children and grandchildren of my own. I don’t even feel old enough to have grandchildren. Wasn’t it just yesterday that I was a bored teenager, chafing at the banality of my country life? And yet, as I speak of family, my mom is not here.

But Spot, the dog has family here, too, and the garden has changed over time. No longer the strict French garden I crafted the last time we spoke. There are still sculptured hedges and geometric patterns, but now there are overgrown areas with little niches for privacy, and a few areas where new wildflowers have sprung up. Yes, wildflowers, not weeds.

And there is a little cottage surrounded by a copse of birch trees. The Elder lives there. I don’t know when he showed up or how long he has been there, but he writes in a ledger every day, making note of the changes and the things that have remained the same. And now, it is time for me to talk to him because I think he knows our own traditions better than I do, and I’ve received an offer for the garden and the land. I don’t want to sell. We’ve made this place our own, but it’s true, there are starting to be some struggles. The young ones want to make everything modern. The grandparents don’t want to change anything at all. We need to find a way to move forward without giving up what makes this us. We need to know which traditions to keep and which to let go.

But when I get to the Elder’s cottage, I find the door open and the room empty. Oh, there’s a bed and covers, a well-stocked kitchen, no sign of hurried packing . . . and yet, there is no Elder. I make my way to the back porch, where I know he likes to swing on the porch swing, but nope, not there either. Is he out in the garden? I am about to leave when I come face to face with the door. The entrance door, but now, the exit door. And it has a mirror on it. I see my face: old, wrinkled, with a twinkle in the eye. And I understand. There never was an Elder. I am the Elder.

I return to the main room and take out a large black binder. In it are all the comments I’ve made over time. I know now that I’m the one who has to decide: this is a tradition we are keeping. This is an area where we can modernize. Ethics and family are of utmost concern. After that are the little idiosyncrasies that seem purposeless to the newer generation, but that I know links us together. That is their purpose.

Everything else can go, but these, this is how we do things in Heritage Park.

The End.

IV – The Emperor

So, maybe I’ve let myself go a little. I mean, a lush garden is wonderful, and I love all greenery, but the weeds are all mixed in with the plants, and it’s getting a little unmanageable. Yes, I said it, weeds. Yes, I know I always said there wasn’t such a thing. I know I said all plants were valuable, and that there were no weeds, only wildflowers. But I can kind of see your point — maybe there are some plants that want to strangle the life out of others, and it’s getting a little unbalanced with all these super-dominant plants. Maybe some kind of order would be good.

There’s also the matter of the animals. I love the deer and the rabbits, but they keep eating the plants and defecating all over. So, that’s the first step. I need to build a fence. It pains me to cut down the trees: I hear their screams as my blade whacks into their skin. But I need wood for the wall, and there isn’t enough loose wood around. It needs to be tall enough that the deer can’t jump over. After I cut the trees, I make the wood into boards and construct the fence. Obviously, I need a gate; I don’t want to imprison myself here.

When the fence surrounds the garden, and a gate allows entrance and exit, I know I need to turn my attention to the plants. I’ve been avoiding this. It was once my nature to just want to nourish them all, to just let them grow wild. But now, things have changed. It is overgrown and unruly, from my lack of discipline. While it hurt to cut down the trees, it feels just as wrong, at first, to want to shape these plants into my own image. But once I get started, I begin to find the ways to tame the wildness without oppression. And always I am rewarded, not just by the beauty of the sculpted shapes, but also by the sudden exuberance expressed by the plants. It’s as though they have been waiting for this, for someone to give them shape, purpose, structure.

Maybe they didn’t want to run wild.

When I am done, I have neatly trimmed hedges in exact geometric patterns. I have bursts of color in just the right place. Complimentary colors balancing each other: blue and orange, purple and yellow, and here and there bright red blooms against the dark green leaves. There are paths for walking and fountains for melody and stone benches for resting. Fragrant flowers are far from each other so the different smells don’t intermingle or overpower. Everything has a purpose and reason, and it is beautiful in its symmetry and order. And far from stifling growth through unnatural oppression, this new order has made the garden flourish in a different way than it did before. So, welcome to my garden. May it bring you peace and calm, and a sense of balance and rightness with the world. All is as it should be.

The End.

III – The Empress

The cold wetness of a tongue awakens me. The dog is jumping up and down, but all I see is barren land. Just dirt. Within myself, I know instinctively that this land isn’t sterile, just dormant with potential. Someone or something has stomped out all the dreams and just abandoned it. I stand up, seeing myself clothed in a skirt of green leaves, and a top made of red flower petals, the only spot of brightness here. But I am sad; I don’t belong in this place that is so dead.

I walk around the dirt in the pale morning light of dawn. There is nothing for miles and miles.

Even the air smells like dust.

I am tempted to walk away. To find my real home, because this is not it. I belong with lush greenery and humming insects, not this dead land of nothingness. But even as I turn to go, I can’t. I can feel the pull of the land, the potential it still holds. Knowing that it has been abandoned again and again means that I can’t abandon it now. Not even for my true home.

I hunch over and cry.

I cry for all the lost children, all the abandoned pets, all the gardens gone to fallow. I cry for those who’ve lost those things, too: the parents standing at too-small graves, the little boy crying out the window for his cat, the woman in the nursing home watering a single plant every day with the same attention she once paid to a huge vegetable garden.

As I cry, I notice something. Under my hand, where the tears fall, a small sprout has timidly peeked its head up. Maybe that’s all this place needs: someone to care.

I care.

I feel the watery pools behind my eyes as I take in the world’s sorrow.

I just let it all rain out of me. Rain, rain, rain nourishing the land.

In no time, this once barren place has become home, my real home.

The dog yips and dances around, then disappears into the undergrowth. I am alone now, but no, never alone.

My tears dry and my face lights up in joy, as I once more stand straight and tall. I smile at a bud of an iris, and it slowly blooms, proudly presenting its golden beard against its deep purple petals.

I whistle to a bee, and it begins to dance. As I watch and continue to whistle, hundreds of bees join the first and follow a choreography brilliant enough to dazzle the world’s most prestigious ballet company. I sit on a stump and a shy rabbit hops up to my feet, then settles in my lap. A butterfly flutters over and kisses my nose, then kisses several of the most upstanding gentlemen flowers, then flies off again, coquette that she is.

All this land needed was compassion and tears and feeling. A mother. I have come home again.

The End.

Welcome to the October 2020 Storytime Blog Hop!

This October, I am happy to present a darkly humorous short story by V. S. Stark, A Perfect Match. Perfect for Halloween in the time of COVID, too! I hope you enjoy it as much as I do, as well as the other stories featured during this month’s blog hop! I even have one of my own this time!

A Perfect Match

“I’d been worried that Jerry would have nothing to do when he retired” Shelly said. “but he’s gotten so into gardening and cooking, I just can’t believe it.” The other women nodded politely, utterly bored by now with stories about Jerry’s latest creation. Shelly smiled to herself. The shelter-in-place order was starting at midnight. She was going to look after her “invalid” sister for the duration, as domestic help was not considered essential. The freezer here at home was packed with lovely meals, all garnished with a little bit of the “herbs” from the garden snipped over the top. Jerry never cooked or gardened, just watched tv and drank beer. She would be at her sister’s when he died. With the expected death toll, nobody would look too closely at a heart attack in an overweight, middle-aged man. All of her friends would confirm that he did the cooking since he retired.

Jerry settled back into his recliner. He’d done a good job on her capsules. You couldn’t tell that he’d tampered with them. She’d die at Alice’s house, serve her conniving snake of a sister right. All of his buddies would commiserate with him, given how often he’d told them about begging her not to buy supplements on the internet. Besides, all eyes were on the Covid numbers right now.

“Goodbye, darling!” they called to each other as Shelly drove away.

II – The Priestess

As the sky turns golden, then crimson, then turquoise, the crescent moon appears in the western sky. A silver trail, too bright to have come from the moon, sparkles off in the distance. A howl rises in the night. Somehow, I know it is still the same dog I’ve been following, now enchanted by the moon. What mystery is this? I need to know, and something in me knows I just need to listen.

Crickets, owls, the rustling of leaves, distant yips and howls from wolves or coyotes accompany me down the silver path. These sounds are the expected music of nighttime in the woods. But as I walk the trail, I hear a chant. Dissonant and ethereal, it grows louder the further along the path I go.

Eventually, I arrive at a cave. A small stream flows out of it, back down the mountain, growing from a slender tendril of water into a raging river. A sense of the tides and waves rising and falling in my blood awakens me to the ancient primordial flow of river to sea to clouds to rain to streams to river . . . One of the Mysteries I needed to learn — but the longing still drives me forward along the silver path, right into the large opening of the cave.

No, not a cave. A cathedral. The walls rise high, to a point, with elaborate stalagmites and stalactites reaching toward each other, the sacred pillars of the Earth. Water drips, and the sound echoes off the earthen walls, giving percussion to the chant, which continues to grow while the other sounds of the night are hushed, smothered by the darkness. And I too am smothered, devoured.

In the center of this cavern is a small pond, the source of the stream. An opalescent stone seat faces me from across the pond, drawing me forward. As I approach, the mournful melody surrounds me.

It is too much; I fall onto the stone, the song infusing me, somehow nowhere and everywhere. Trapped, and yet longing, I begin to sing, my voice creating a descant harmony rising above and below the melody of the stone. My vision blurs; I no longer see the cave, but something beyond. Shapes form in the water of the pond as the light of the moon dances across the surface. A blue ball becomes green, gardens grow, my mother smiles as she stirs soup, the spotted dog leaps from the cliff — I see everything up to this point, and then the dog again, now in a lush green garden, jumping and bouncing at the skirt of a golden-haired goddess clothed in red.

I am leaning too close to the pond. As I fall in, the world dissolves, and I know where I am going. I have been granted a Mystery of the future: the Garden of Life.

The End.

Welcome to the July 2020 Storytime Blog Hop!

This July, I am happy to present a magical and very enjoyable short story by VS Stark, The Right Tracks. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do, as well as the other stories featured during this month’s blog hop!

The Right Tracks
by VS Stark

The key to living among humans successfully is attention to detail. This definition of ‘success’ means never having to flee from an angry mob. It takes some work but is, overall, far less work than providing all one’s needs for oneself.

When I first began trading with human groups, it took me some time to work out the right type of approach. I had to figure out what factors made a stranger acceptable. As a solitary traveler, I needed a glamour that made me look strong enough not to be immediately attacked, but unthreatening enough not to spark distrust. My own physical appearance so closely resembles a nine-year-old human female that I must disguise it to be taken seriously.

The shortest of interactions will tell you that a lone male, while less likely to be attacked than a lone female, will attract suspicion. Over decades of experimenting with glamours to counteract that, I found the optimal attractiveness, wealth, size, and cover story varied somewhat, but stayed within certain parameters. Usually.

One cold autumn day, heading south, I approached a small village to buy supplies. My appearance was adjusted to resemble the size and coloration of the locals. I collected the usual number of stares as I entered and looked about me. The place was too small to have an actual store, just a few houses built around a small square. A couple of men approached me to determine my intentions. They became much friendlier when I showed them my coins.

A few women, venturing into the small square, set out blankets and laid items on them for sale. One woman was quite young, just into her childbearing years. She smiled openly at me. A man of about her age hovered near her, glowering. There were a few children peering from the tiny homes. One of the boldest ventured near and was chased off by the young man. Once his back was turned, the child made such a face at him that I nearly laughed. Both of them saw my reaction. The child was pleased. The young man was not.

At the conclusion of trading, everyone was happy except for the young man. The young woman had been chatty. I had bought a belt pouch from her and complimented the work. Her smile became wider. I suddenly had the appalling idea that she either found my glamour attractive or wanted the young man to think she did.

When I was ready to leave, the young man stepped forward, clearly in a rage. “How do we know this isn’t fairy gold?” he demanded. “What if, tomorrow, it turns out to be stones?”

The first two men glanced at each other. One rolled his eyes a bit, but the other frowned and asked me “Why not stay with us tonight? Take a rest from your travels. The air feels like snow.” The tone was still friendly.

I smiled at them. “I would be happy to stay in such a pleasant village. Where shall I sleep?”

The man relaxed while I cursed inwardly. The coins were quite real. It’s easier that way. Glamours take work for me to hold this far from Elfhame. Holding my appearance all night would be unpleasantly tiring. The young man was no happier – he had wanted me gone.

After a decent evening meal and tales told around the fire, I stretched and yawned. Shown to my bed, I gave the impression of a man wanting nothing more than sleep. Not that I got any, for fear of dropping the glamour. As soon as my host began to stir next morning, I quietly packed my bedroll and made myself ready for travel. I accepted a hot drink and a small breakfast, enjoying the luxury of having them prepared for me. After a few pleasantries, I walked out of the village.

A light dusting of snow lay upon the ground. I made fresh tracks through the unbroken expanse of white. Passing the last house, I stopped near a large rock and turned to look back. The same bold child from the day before was staring at me, his mouth actually dropped open. I saw that he had followed me, stepping into my tracks. My tracks were not the size of the boots my glamour wore. They were child-sized.

Cursing inwardly, I winked at him and held up a coin. That snapped him out of his trance. “Run all over this area. Make many tracks.” I set the coin on the rock and moved around it.

He still looked shaken but mustered up a grin and nodded. I walked on. When I looked back again, he was running back and forth, filling the space with prints.

I have avoided snow ever since.

Want to read more? Check out the next story in the blog hop!

The Guardian of the Sandsnake’s Temple by Katharina Gerlach

The Last One by Jemma Weir

The Pooka Plays Pool by Nic Steven

The Longest Night by Sabrina Rosen

Near Death by Bill Bush

Alexa by Barbara Lund

What They Wanted by Karen Lynn

Night at the Museum by Vanessa Wells

TRIBULATION Culled, eclipsed by COVID19 (A Poem) by Juneta Key

Welcome to the October 2019 Storytime Blog Hop!

I don’t have a story this time, so check out my past entries, which are also the first two flash fiction pieces of my Tarot collection:

0 – The Fool

I – The Magician

Then hop along to the other stories. I’m sure you will find something you love!

Loney Lucy by Bill Bush
The Traveler by Barbara Lund
Evening by Karen Lynn
Man Of Your Dreams by Gina Fabio
The Undertaker’s Daughter by J. Q. Rose
The Road by Elizabeth McCleary
Storytime Blog Hop by C. T. Bridges
Storytime Blog Hop by Warp World Books
The Exception by Vanessa Wells
Number 99 by Juneta Key
Edda’s Second Chance by Katharina Gerlach
Very Thin Line by Rebecca Anne Dillon
Henry Moves House by Nic Steven
For The Ghost The Bell Tolls by James Husum
Never Alone by Melanie Drake
The Neighbor by Meghan Collins

Many of these stories will also be featured on Holly Lisle and Rebecca Galardo’s podcast, Alone In A Room With Invisible People

They are reading several flash fiction pieces aloud for their Halloween episode.

I – The Magician

The first time I jump, I fall into darkness. Then I wake up. The ground is hard, but I don’t feel bruised, so I don’t know how I got there. It is dark, but off in the distance, I see a bright light. I feel the dirt below me and hear drips. I stand, shaky, and test out my legs. I feel young and alive. I walk toward the light, letting my eyes adjust, but when I exit, it is still a shock. The sun is overhead, but seems to be all around, and yet somewhat filtered by tall trees, both hardwoods and evergreens. When I turn around, the cave is gone, just the edge of a mountain rising behind me, and no door or other entrance. But I’m used to that by now, and suddenly, I want to do something.

All this time I have been following, being guided, but now it’s time for me to act, not merely react. Even though I don’t know where I am, I see a clearing in the distance and head that way. The clearing is unusual because there is a table in the middle, but no one around. On the table are various tools I have never seen before. A shining brass plate inscribed with leaves. A silver chalice filled with some kind of sparkling liquid. Along the top edge lies a curved sword. And right in front of me a golden stick with two gems, one on each end. I pick it up.

I like the heft of it in my hand. One end is blue and the other red, but as I watch, the colors swirl and change. Yes. I can do something with this. I can make something. But first, I need to stake my claim on this place, so I set it down again, and pick up the sword. With the sword, I draw a circle in the dirt around the table, and then a star. I don’t remember my name, but I know I came from the stars, so I make it my signature.

I want to create life, a plant, a tree to grow in this clearing long after I am gone. One that will greet anyone else who comes out of that cave. Back at the table, or perhaps altar is a better word, I pick up the wand with the glowing tips. I raise it to the sky, pointing the other end down toward the brass plate. I feel the sunlight hit the tip of the wand. It is warm and electric, and I almost drop it, but I’m so excited about the plant that I manage to hold on to it. It gets hotter, almost too hot.   I stand firm, and as I watch, the lower gem turns bright emerald green. A stream of life bursts forth, bursting off the brass plate, blinding me. I close my eyes against the brightness, but keep my hand grasped firmly around the wand. It shudders for a moment, but then, it steadies and cools.  The painful light outside my eyelids recedes into delicious coolness.

When I open my eyes, I see a tiny hawthorn sapling sitting on the brass plate. I point the wand at an area of dirt near the altar, and watch as a hole appears, just large enough for the sapling. I set the wand down, and plant the sapling in the hole, covering it with dirt. I look back at the altar. Something seems incomplete and I realize that I have used all the tools except the cup. I take a drink from the cup — pure fresh water that is somehow magical. But as I move away from the altar, the altar begins to shimmer. It is translucent; I can see the grass and dirt through it, and soon, it has disappeared. I am left holding only the cup.

I pour the rest of the water over the hawthorn. In just seconds it begins to grow, growing and spreading until it is fully grown. In the distance, I hear a dog barking, and out of the corner of my eye, I see a glint of silver from the chalice. I rest beside the hawthorn a moment, but I know I cannot stay.

It is time for the next adventure.

The End.