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Tag: flash fiction

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F is for Fairy Doctor, Flash Fiction

This flash fic bit originally appeared on my old blog, and was a post in the “Blogging A to Z challenge.” For the month of April, participants in the challenge write a post starting with that day’s letter (working sequentially through the alphabet.) For my theme in 2012, I chose fairies and mythological creatures.

*A Fairy doctor- is someone that has within them the ability to communicate with the fairy folk.  People would often enlist the help of a fairy doctor when they suspected they were having difficulties with their Good Neighbors.  The fairy doctor would tell them how to appease the fairies. (I’m not making this up. They really exist/existed…uh…the fairy doctors, I mean.)

I pulled up to the small farmhouse at noon on Sunday.  It was a charming little place, white with quaint green shutters.  The yard and driveway were lined with big, mature trees and rows of flowering bushes.  As I slid out of the car, a light breeze ruffled my hair, washing me in the scent of flowers and fresh cut grass. The whole place had a relaxing vibe, and I felt my shoulders drop and my breathing slow, despite my nervousness.

I braced myself and hiked my purse up on my shoulder, still feeling foolish about this whole endeavor.  Who in their right mind believed in fairies?  My feet crunched loudly on the gravel path as I made my way to the front door, my head turning to and fro as I took in the wealth of growing things lining the path.  I started up the front steps, pausing as a voice drifted on the wind.  I followed the soft song around the corner of the house to find a woman taking laundry off an old clothesline.  

Her long, wavy silver hair drifted about her shoulders in the breeze and her song became a muffled hum as she stuffed a couple of wooden clothes pins in her mouth.  She deftly folded the shirt she had just taken off the line, and dropped it into a big wicker basket, before removing the clothespins from her mouth.  I cleared my throat to let her know I was there, and she turned to me with a warm smile. 

“You must be Anna,” she said as she lifted the basket and headed my way.  “Let me just bring this in the house and I’ll get you some tea. Then you can tell me about your wee fairy problem.”

I didn’t say anything, just followed her up onto the porch.  She gestured to a table and chairs.  “If you’d like we can take our tea out on the porch.  It’s such a beautiful day.”

“That would be nice,” I said, dropping into a chair.  

She was back a few minutes with an honest to God tea service, complete with a couple of big, lumpy scones. “Now then,” she said, taking a sip of her tea.  “What is it that’s bothering you?”

I cleared my throat nervously and stared into my teacup.  Was I really doing this?  A softly lined hand slipped into my line of sight, patting my hand familiarly where it rested, curled around my cup.  “I know it’s a pain, but we’ll get them sorted out and everything will be right as rain.”

I met her blueberry eyes.  “Do you really believe in fairies?”

She snorted and withdrew her hand.  “Dear, my family have been fairy doctors for ages.  I can’t blame people for not believing what they can’t see.  But I can see.  I have no excuse to play ignorant.”

I took a deep breath.  “I think there is something living in my house.  It… well I swear sometimes it folds my laundry.  I’ll find things put away in places where I wouldn’t have put them.  Mostly its harmless- even helpful.  But lately it’s like having an angry three year old in my house.  I find cupboards emptied, movies and books pulled off the shelves.  My house is a mess!”

She only smiled.  “It sounds like you have a house sprite.  They are incredibly beneficial and kind- you’re lucky to have them.”  She wagged a finger at me.  “But even they have their limits.  Have you been putting milk out for him? Or maybe bits of bread?”

I frowned and shook my head.  “What?”

“I’ll come and pay you a visit later this week. Once I know just what kind of sprite it is, we’ll know what it is that he wants.”  She shrugged.  “Then you can mend your relationship with him, and he’ll go back to tending your house.”

I shook my head.  A live-in maid that I couldn’t see all for the price of a bowl of milk?   

 

Originally published on the Write Me blog, April 6th, 2012

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A is for Abatwa flash fiction

This flash fic bit originally appeared on my old blog, and was a post in the Blogging A to Z challenge. For the month of April, participants in the challenge write a post starting with that day’s letter (working sequentially through the alphabet.) For my theme in 2012, I chose fairies and mythological creatures.

A is for Abatwa…

The tiniest creatures of human form in existence. They coexist peacefully with the ants in the anthills of Southern Africa and eat plants. They are very shy but they tend to reveal themselves to very young children, wizards, and pregnant women. (Source)

      I woke to the sounds of the ants. My roommates were always moving, filling the hill with a perpetual hum of energy. I climbed out of my nutshell bed and straightened my little alcove before heading out to the main tunnel. An ant rounded a corner in the tunnel and I hastily flattened myself against the earthen wall, getting out of his way. It’s not that my companions weren’t kind, but he was carrying several times his body weight worth of seeds, taking them to the deeper parts of the hill where the young ones would soon be hatching. He tilted his head curiously as he approached, and I hummed a little tune to tell him who I was. Ants have terrible eyesight, especially in the dark recesses of the tunnels, where they find their way by memory.

      The ant trundled on by and I peeled myself away from the wall. I set off, following the tunnels that sloped upward. Unlike the ants, I could see just as well in the pitch dark as I could in daylight. Once I reached the surface, I took a moment to survey the grassland before stepping out into the light. My people were easy pickings for birds and lizards, and I shuddered at the thought that you never knew what was lurking just outside the hill. 

      I once met an abatwa whose hill had been devastated by an anteater. He had described waking to the walls falling around him, narrowly missing the long, sharp claws that destroyed his home and the whip-like tongue that devoured his comrades.

      Taking a bracing breath of the dry African air, I set off, my pouch slung over my back. I would return with it full of seeds and grasses for the ants to eat. I patted my stone hunting knife, comforted by its weight at my hip. If I was lucky, I would find some grubs and smaller insects as well.

      Most hills were kept by a family of abatwa, who looked after the ants in exchange for shelter. In my hill it was just me. My parents had died long ago, and I hadn’t found a suitable mate. Unattached males traveled in the spring, looking for a home. I hadn’t seen another of my kind in at least three seasons, and I wondered if I would always tend my hill alone…

Originally published on the Write Me blog, April 1st, 2012.