Authors: Devon Monk
Tags: #Fantasy, #fiction, #Short Stories (Single Author), #General
Thimble pulled at his ears. “We make mischief, not messes, you ignorant clod.” And even as the words were out of Thimble’s mouth, he knew he had gone too far.
The ogre snarled and spit and raised his fists. But instead of crushing Thimble, the big oaf looked Thimble in the eye and picked up a chair. He smashed it against the table top.
“Wait — ” Thimble said.
The ogre picked up the other chair and smashed it.
“Don’t —”
The ogre clomped over to the wall, and chunks of dirt bigger than Thimble fell to the floor.
“Stop —”
But Thimble’s protests only seemed to fuel the ogre’s tantrum. He stomped over to the sink and picked up a plate. He threw the plate in the sink and bits of clay shattered onto the floor.
“That’s it!” Thimble gathered his magic in both hands and threw it at the ogre.
The ogre reeled like someone had just whacked him across the head, but that wasn’t enough to stop the raging brute. He glared at Thimble and picked up a cup.
Thimble flew at the ogre. “If you smash that cup, I will patch it so fast, you won’t know what hit you.”
The ogre bared his teeth and threw the cup in the sink. Thimble dashed down after it. Just before the mug hit the sink, he threw a handful of magic at it, and the cup bounced safely, and landed whole.
The ogre grunted and picked up the bucket in the sink. He heaved it against one wall. Water spilled across the floor.
Thimble flew over the spill. With a flick of his wrist, the water was gone, and so was the dirt beneath it.
The ogre grunted again and kicked the leaf pile around. Thimble sent a breeze to push the leaves back into a pile in the corner.
The ogre grunted several times, a sound strangely like laughter, and picked up the table.
“Oh, for the love of wands, you wouldn’t.” Thimble braced himself. The table was too big for him to catch when it fell, and it would probably explode into a million messy splinters.
Still holding the table over his head, the ogre stopped, tipped his head to the side and shrugged one shoulder. “Too hard to fix?”
And that’s when Thimble noticed it. The ogre wasn’t scowling, he was smiling.
“Uh, yes. That’s a bit much.”
The ogre nodded and put the table back down. He stomped over to the trunk that held his clean, folded clothes and looked over his shoulder at Thimble. When Thimble didn’t say anything, the ogre cleared his throat.
“Right,” Thimble said, more confused than angry. “Don’t you dare.”
The ogre grunted and busied himself wadding up shirts and breeches and throwing them around the house.
Thimble tried to stay out of the way and do some thinking. The ogre liked making messes, and he liked cleaning. And from the wicked glint in the ogre’s eyes, he knew the old boy had other tricks up his sleeve. Staying here would be madness.
But it certainly wouldn’t be boring.
Thimble grinned and scratched at the itchy dress. Maybe this wasn’t so bad.
“Fine,” Thimble said, trying to sound angry. “You mess everything up, but I will clean it. Every night while you sleep, I will wake and make your house fresh as a spring day.”
The ogre grunted. “You’ll never be able to clean everything before I start wreaking havoc.”
“And you’ll never be able to ruin everything before I start wreaking order.”
They glared at each other, then Thimble nodded. The deal was set.
“Good then, I’m off to sleep. See that you don’t keep me awake with your smashing and bashing, or I’ll pinch you so hard, you’ll be black and blue until your birthday.”
The ogre grunted several times. “You don’t scare me, Pinkie.”
“You don’t know me very well, Ugly.”
The ogre chuckled again.
Thimble scratched at his thigh and trundled over to the corner by the door.
“See you in the evening,” Thimble yawned.
But the ogre followed Thimble to the corner and held his hand out.
“What?” Thimble asked, hoping the big behemoth didn’t want him to shake on the deal.
“Give me that ridiculous dress.”
“Make me,” Thimble said. Bad move. The ogre plucked him up by the wings and stripped the pink frock off him quicker than skinning a grape.
Thimble kicked and bit and pounded on the ogre’s hand to no avail.
The ogre put Thimble back down on his feet and patted his head. “When you want it back, you let me know.” The ogre pulled at a key on a string out from beneath his coarse tunic, and unlocked the only cabinet in the house. Thimble saw a flash of gold, a wink of jewels, then the ogre tossed his dress in there and locked the door.
“Monster,” Thimble grumbled without much heat.
The ogre shrugged and went about crushing sticks into sawdust.
The truth was, now that he was out of that dress he felt much better. More like his old self. Free to make his own choices and to come or go as he pleased. And besides, now he could go back to dreaming about a proper set of clothes, maybe with a hat and matching shoes — comfortable shoes. He felt better than he had in years. Thimble curled up, with nothing but dry leaves for a bed, and chuckled. “Crazy as an ogre,” he muttered.
The ogre just grunted in reply.
Written to the read-out-loud challenge theme “Christmas Gifts,” this story takes a look at what gifts we truly cherish and the bravery it takes to give with all our heart.
CHRISTMAS CARD
Tommy inched across the carpet
on his belly and elbows, coming ever closer to the wrapped packages under the tree. He had stared at those gifts for so long, his Mom had said there ought to be eye holes in the wrapping. He’d checked. No holes. Even though he wasn’t allowed to touch the gifts, he had found another way to make the packages move. The dog, Pufferbelly, worked like magic.
“Here, kitta, kitty,” he whispered at the neighbor’s orange tabby who had just stuck her head in the empty window pane beside the front door. The cat’s eyes were gold as old coins, and wide with curiosity. The cat wasn’t purring, but she slid her head side to side, then slipped through the empty pane. She cautiously approached him.
Right on time, Pufferbelly came through the open back door, barking with all his might. One loud dash past the tree — the cat screeched out the window — the dog pushed the front door open on its loose hinges, leaving packages scattered in his wake.
Tommy grinned and swallowed down the evil laughter he’d been using since Halloween. This was working perfectly this time.
He crawled the rest of the way to the tree, careful to follow Mom’s “don’t touch the gifts or so help me you’ll be grounded” rule.
The green box was for Dad — the one that looked like it held a shirt or sweater. Tommy had found this same present under the tree two years ago, and last year too.
On top of the green box was a weird little gift wrapped in red. It frightened him a little because he didn’t recognize it. It was round on one end, like a ball, then long and looped on the other, but the whole thing was only as big as his hand. He paused, breathing quietly against the carpet as the unfamiliarity of that gift came over him cold, like a silver thaw. He must know what that gift was. He always knew what they were.
The package tipped off of dad’s gift and hit the floor with a sweet jingle. Tommy smiled. Baby Elli’s rattle, of course.
He glanced around to make sure Mom wasn’t looking. The house was dim. The fireplace full of wood that had gotten dusty from never being lit. Even the tree was no longer green. But that didn’t matter. What mattered was that Mom hadn’t come out of the kitchen to see what all the commotion was yet.
Tommy scooted over to the package for Mom. He knew what was in this one even without looking. He’d been there to help Dad pick it out for her. It was a bathrobe, with red and blue stripes. Tommy had liked it best, even better than the pink one, because it was soft as a brand-new teddy bear before the new gets rubbed off of it.
One last gift to find. It had landed close to the door. Tommy moved between dusty tree ornaments. The gift was almost in reach and yes! there was a tear right down the front of the wrapping. Perfect!
Forget scooting, forget the warnings he knew by heart. Tommy sat on his knees in front of the gift, concentrated, and picked up his present. It was a medium-sized box with snowmen wrapping paper. Tommy pulled the lid off the box. A blue hat, matching mittens and scarf were inside. Pretty dull stuff. But the thing he’d been hoping for, wishing for, was nestled right in the middle of the scarf and hat. Doppelganger-Swapper cards. Rare version with an Extralife card!
Tommy grabbed the cards and looked through them quickly. They were smeared, like someone had taken a big eraser and rubbed them blank. But one card was still good — the one he hadn’t tried yet — the Extralife card.
Tommy carefully placed the Extralife card on top of the deck and set the deck on his knees. Then he put on his hat, gloves and scarf.
It was magic. As soon as the hat was settled on his head, and the cards were in his hands again, the room lit up. The fire crackled to life behind him. The ornaments were off the floor and on the tree, sparkling like they had just been hung.
“Couldn’t wait?”
Tommy tried to look guilty, but couldn’t hold back his smile. He stood and ran to his mom. “Thank you! This is the coolest Christmas ever!”
Mom smiled. A car horn honked outside and Mom tucked his hat closer over his ears. “Daddy and Elli are waiting for us,” she said, and Tommy felt sad. That was familiar, too. He’d been sad today before.
“We need to be on the highway before the storm hits,” Mom said. She zipped up her coat and Tommy was sure he saw dust puff out from it.
He shook his head. “I don’t want to go to Grandma’s, Mom.”
Mom knelt and helped him put on his coat. He slid his arms into it, and it was cold, damp. She zipped it tight around his body. He shivered.
“I know, honey, but Grandma’s getting pretty old. This might be the last Christmas we can see her. And besides, someone already got his gift.” She raised an eyebrow, but he knew she wasn’t really mad.
“I still don’t want to go.” He waited, hoping Mom would do something different this time, maybe listen to him and say they could all stay.
Mom took his hand and opened the door. “The ice will be here in a couple hours. We don’t want to be on the road when the storm hits.”
Nothing. Nothing different. Tommy felt the cards in his hand grow warm. One Doppleganger-Swapper card left. His last chance to change tonight.
“Tommy,” his mom said, “don’t worry. We’ll come home in time for Santa to fill our stockings tomorrow night.”
For a moment, Mom’s hand felt warm in his and she smiled.
Maybe everything was already okay. Maybe just finding the cards, and putting the Extralife on top fixed everything.
Tommy looked over his shoulder at the stockings on the mantle. They had holes in them and were covered with spider webs. The living room was dim again, dusty. The tree was brown and brittle.
Soon the storm would bring screeching tires, Mom’s scream, Dad’s yell and the awful sound of crushed metal. Then cold and silence. He had already used Reset, Swaptime and Slowplay.
Nothing left but one Extralife.
Tommy pulled the deck out of his pocket and glanced at the top card. If he held real tight to it, he might get to live a real life again. Maybe the emergency team would pull him out first, and he would still be breathing.
And what about the rest of his family?
“Mom,” he said, “Merry Christmas.” He handed her the card.
She smiled a puzzled smile, but took the card and put it in her pocket.
“Merry Christmas. Now, stop worrying, honey, everything’s going to be okay.”
Tommy nodded and walked with her out the door. Maybe this year, Mom would be right.
Back when I was experimenting with how to write quickly, a friend issued a challenge: write three stories in six days. This very short story was one of the tales that fell off my fingertips. Even though it’s short, it hints at a much bigger magical world. I’ve often found myself wondering what happens next with this boy.
DUCKS IN A ROW
I didn’t have the gun in my hand yet
. Another boy, about twelve years old like me, walked away from the carnival booth and a little kid, maybe six, put down his nickel. There was room for three people to play but the other two guns were gone, leaving empty chains swinging over the booth’s edge.
I’d never been to the carnival before, never seen a real shooting gallery. But I was real good with a gun, or at least that’s what my dad would say if he were alive. So I waited my turn even though my ankles hurt, the blisters on my hands were sore, and a storm was brewing in the hot August sky.
The stuffed toy prizes, hanging in a drift of blue and pink and green on a rod above the booth, whispered to the kid with the gun, but I don’t think he heard them the way I did.
“Low,” they said, “slow.”
The kid aimed high, missed twice, and winged one duck, which made a funny quacking sound, but didn’t tip over like it should. The boy looked pretty disappointed and dug in his
pockets, but didn’t have any money left. He looked up once at the toys, then walked away.
My turn. The guy behind the booth held out greasy hands.
“Nickel for three shots, Sonny,” he said.
“Say we make it an even four?”
The man shook his head. “Rules say three, or go try another game. There are folks waiting their turn.”
But there wasn’t anyone behind me. The wind picked up and the stuffed toys swayed a little more. There was anger and storm in that breeze, coming up big and soon.
If I wanted my shots, I’d best take them now.
So I put down my nickel and the man flipped the lever beneath the lip of the booth to set my gun up for three shots. The gun wasn’t much more than a toy rifle, slick and light with a sight on it that was shiny on the top edge and bent pretty bad. I held the rifle up and tucked the stock in tight against my bruised shoulder. I sighted down the barrel to get a feel for the thing even though holding it made the broken blisters on my palms sting.
All the while the ducks clicked by, dragged by a chain wrapped round their feet that clattered over hidden spokes. I shifted how I stood, taking some of the weight off my worst foot.
Painted yellow squares filled the spaces between the ducks. When I looked at them real close, I realized they were shaped like headstones.
“Gonna shoot, or you gonna look at them all day?” the man said.
I thought about flicking the barrel over at the man, pop a BB in his cheek, but this gun didn’t have no BB’s in it, only air. I put my finger against the trigger and sighted the ducks. Once I squeezed the trigger, air would pop out. If I missed my shot the ducks would play a tape recorded ping or ricochet sound.
If I hit just the right point on the duck at just the right time, the duck would tip over and I’d win myself some respect. And a little justice for all.
I waited, took a deep breath, squeezed, readied for the recoil. My dad would have thought I did a real good job. The one thing he told me I was good at was handling guns. Taught me all he knew himself.
The ping rang out and a sharp ricochet echoed. I’d had the heart of the duck clear in my sights but I didn’t even graze the wooden bird.
That wasn’t right. If there was one thing I did well, it was shoot.
The wind blew harder until the toys above me rocked, creaked.
“Aim low,” the toys whispered to me as inanimate objects often did. “Wait for the last moment. The man, the man slows the chain.”
I thought it was right kind of the dead toys to give me advice and all, but I wasn’t sure I should take advice from something that had been hanging by its neck since the carnival opened six days ago. Still, I sighted again, waited for the ducks to rock up over the edge of the shooting gallery like a locomotive cranking up a switchback, and started counting.
I had good rhythm. It meant the difference between getting a fist in the eye or the chin and knowing how to dodge the worst of my dad’s whip at my back. When I counted out the duck’s pace and put the sight where the duck’s heart — in just three beats — should be, I knew I was gonna hit it dead on.
Out of the side of my eye, I watched the guy behind the booth. He looked bored, like he was watching the rest of the carnival: the snake girls, and balloon clowns and folks with half eaten corn dogs and ice cones.
But I knew he was looking at me out of the corner of his eyes, just like I was corner-looking him. I took a deep breath, squeezed the trigger, and saw the fella’s hand twitch beneath the lip of the booth.
Ping! Ka-zing! The duck quacked, but damn-sure didn’t fall over.
I made an exasperated sound. The wind was building up right along with my anger.
“It’s a challenge,” the man said, “but you look like a fine strapping boy with a good eye and a steady hand. Last shot, you’ll have it sighted. For another nickel, I’ll load you up three more shots.”
The air smelled like hot iron and the clouds rumbled like bellows feeding fire. There’d be a hard rain soon. Another whopper of a storm to clean away my sin. Something hot and loud. Something big as the one that came up yesterday while I was pulling the gun out of the attic. Thunder roaring so loud it covered the shots of the .30-06. Something that would bring rain to soften the dirt and make for good grave digging all night long even if all you had was one shovel and your bare hands.
I hunched my bruised shoulder against the stock and tipped my head a bit to see if I could hear any of the toys talking again. They all just swung there uncommonly quiet as dead things should be, the way I wished my dad had been. I nodded at the man.
“Keep your finger off the lever, and I’ll take my last shot.”
“Oh no,” the toys gurgled.
The man tipped back on his heels, then up again, looking like my dad used to — smiling like the dickens and still mad enough to hit my face into the back of my head.
“This game ain’t fixed, boy. Nothing but the lever to load the gun back here. I’d show you so, but you’re not allowed to lean over this edge. Now take your shot and get on out of here.”
“Low,” said the toys above me.
“Quack, click,” said the ducks being dragged by the chain.
“You saying you’re an honest man?” I asked. “That this is an honest game and I could bring me a sheriff, or lawman back here and they’d see there was no wrong doings?”
“Sure thing, Sonny. Bring all the law you want.”
I nodded again, real slow, like my daddy used to when he talked to the law and told them there wasn’t nothing strange about my bruises, wasn’t nothing wrong about my broken ankles.
“Just so long as we have a reckoning of things.”
“Fire your shot, Sonny, and get your britches home to your mamma.”
“Low,” said the toys, “slow.”
I licked my lips and sighted the ducks.
Click, click, click, the ducks rounded the edge, dragged by the chain around their ankles, cutting their flesh and bone with every step as they stumbled behind their daddy’s pickup. The ducks staggered forward, ready to get shot, maybe even thinking it would be a relief. I counted, took a deep breath.
The fella flicked his finger under the counter. The ducks slowed. I pivoted so the gun was aimed at the middle of the man’s forehead. His eyes opened so wide his eyebrows got hung up under his greasy hair. I squeezed the trigger. Thunder boomed.
He jerked.
Ping! Ka-zing! The ducks quacked. And all fell over.
I held the rifle there at the man’s head, feeling the long straight line of power that poured from the end of the gun to the bone in my cheek and right on back to where the stock was tucked up against my heart. It felt warm. Powerful. Strong. Like a man should feel, my dad would say. Except I wasn’t sure I wanted to feel like that kind of man.
The gun went heavy and cold in my hands.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” the man asked.
I tipped the rifle down a notch, so the barrel was pointed at his mouth and crooked teeth. Truth was, I suddenly didn’t like the gun in my hands at all. Thunder rumbled again and I knew the storm was coming to me.
“You owe me four prizes.”
“Bull crap.”
I motioned to the ducks with the gun.
He looked over. Sure enough, all four of the wooden ducks were tipped over, flat as a widow’s heart.
“You didn’t hit those with your shot, boy. You cheated.”
“Not likely. This here’s a fair game. We agreed on that. I’ll take my prizes now.”
He glared at me. “The wind blew them over.”
“I aim to take what I’ve earned.”
“Get out of here,” he said. “You’re not getting anything from me.”
I raised the rifle again, swallowed hard so my voice came out even and strong.
“Mister,” I said, “you know you cheated. You know I shot those first two ducks clean just like the kid in front of me did, and the kid in front of him did. And you know I knocked down those four ducks while this rifle was aimed at your head. I’m a good shot, that’s what I’m saying. And if I’m good with a toy gun, you better believe I’m good with anything I put my hands on.”
I don’t think he understood what I was saying, but he got enough of my drift to snarl at me and pull two toys down by their haunches. “Take your damn toys, but don’t ever play this booth again, hear?”
I put the rifle down with full gratefulness and rubbed the feel of it off my palms before taking the two dogs from him. “These are fine, and I’ll take them to the kids you cheated in front of me. But I want the ducks too.”
“Get the hell out of here, boy.”
The wind kicked up and got the booth rocking so hard, all the toys fell off the bar and went rolling like cotton candy tumbleweeds down the dirt and sawdust lane, bouncing into tents and booths along the midway. The man made a grab for the toys, but none of them blew his way, happier, I suppose, to take their chances on the wind. The plywood bolster board of the booth above him fell and darn near crushed his fingers, except he jumped back fast and howled, so I think he mostly got scraped.
Off his footing, he flailed back into the ducks. The chain broke. Ducks and wooden headstones fell to the ground.
Which was all right with me. Every living thing deserves to be free. My daddy never said that, but I know it’s true — now that he’s dead.
Me, I just turned away, leaned into the wind, and started walking. I planned on finding those boys and giving them the prizes they’d earned. I planned on handing out a little justice for all, and then leaving this town to try being good at something else. Maybe try being someone else. Someone free.
The four ducks waddled up behind me, like inanimate objects sometimes do, wooden feet making clack, clack, clack sounds against the dirt, wooden wings flapping as the thunderstorm finally rang out and pulled a good strong rain out of the hot August sky.