Crooked Cottage

This is just a little piece of flash I wrote.

 

 

Crooked Cottage

 

I pause at the gate, taking in the slant of the thatched roof and pale patchwork stone. The sign says ‘Crooked Cottage,’ and I know I am at the right place. Smoke winds its way from the chimney, catching in my throat. 

I raise my hand to the door knocker, but there is a sign reading, “Do no knock. I will see you.” The temperature drops a good ten degrees, I’m sure. Suddenly, I’m aware of my nerves. My heart thumps behind my ribcage. Tanya had better be here already. The prospect of being alone with this house and its owner sends a shiver up my spine. 

When the door opens, I am greeted by an old woman with violet eyes and wild grey hair. “Come in, dear,” she says, in a voice so soft I can barely hear. I start to say thank you, but she puts her finger to her lips and instructs me to hush.

Instinct tells me to run away, but greed for the revered chocolate hangs over me like a spell. Tanya has not stopped talking about it all week. 

“Is Tanya here yet?” I asked the witchy-woman as she leads me through the house.

“Shh,” she replies, “Quiet.’

“Why are we whispering?” I ask.

As she motions for me to sit, she smiles and begins to explain. “This chocolate is the most perfectly silky, sweet, magical chocolate. Whatever you want from it, you will get.” She pauses briefly, then says, “The secret ingredient is fairy dust. But fairies are timid, they are easily frightened, so you must be quiet around them.”

With a sceptical hand, I reach for the chocolate and put some in my mouth. Instantly, I understand. My mouth bursts with sweetness, and all thoughts of apprehension dissipate as I groan my appreciation. A happiness I haven’t felt since childhood floods my veins. Licking my lips,  I turn to the old lady and whisper, “Thank you. Can I come again?”

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Miracles

 

Do you believe in miracles? Speculate on your idea of a miracle you’d like to see happen.

Do I believe in miracles? In short: no. Sorry to be boring and unimaginative, but I don’t. I believe we all control our own lives. At least, that’s when we don’t have someone oppressing us and controlling our lives for us. But, I do believe that if we want something, we have to do whatever needs to be done to move closer to that dream. The kind of people who really annoy me are those who whine constantly about how much they hate their lives, and how they want a better job, more money, etc. But they change nothing. They don’t look for another job. They don’t ask their boss for a raise, or more responsibility. They just keep everything the same, and expect change to fall into their laps. That annoys the hell out of me. Especially, when I know people who have worked their butts off to get where they are. Continue to work their butts off. So, that’s my realistic take on miracles. 

Despite my thoughts above, I remember constantly wishing for a miracle when Dad was slowly dying of cancer. Especially, in the last couple of months. I would see him growing weaker and weaker, and I would hope—beyond hope—that he would be one of those people you hear about who make sudden, miraculous recoveries when they are within days of death. A part of me genuinely thought he would. Until the last week. I had to keep hoping. But it didn’t happen. Because miracles aren’t real.

If I could have a miracle, though, it would have to be world peace. I would make everyone tolerant of everyone else. People could live alongside one another, knowing their beliefs are different, and be happy to call them neighbours. The whole world would get along. Now, that would be a miracle. I really don’t understand why it can’t be that way. I don’t understand why people who pray to different Gods must be enemies. I know it’s been the case, like, forever, but I don’t get it. I really don’t.

Alternatively, I would make chocolate the healthiest food on the planet. Ooh, world peace or healthy chocolate . . . tough call.

Busted!

Busted!

Ed’s car is in the garage already. That means I’ll have to be quiet. I prise open our front door and hold my breath, listening for an indication of his whereabouts. I take off my shoes and creep along the hardwood floor. No sign of him downstairs, so I take the risk. I have no choice. It’s calling me. I open the pink cardboard box, and the intoxicating, sweet scent fills my world. The first bite of crumbly, chocolatey heaven-sent cake explodes in my mouth. “Nicki,” I suddenly hear, “What happened to the diet?”

 

• This is my attempt to write micro fiction. It’s 95 words long. So much harder to write than you would think.