All at once the woods fell silent. There were no planes, no sounds of traffic, just silence and the forest. Time appeared suspended. As she wandered through the forest, how tiny felt the thread that held her to her time. It seemed as possible a knight in a suit of armor might come crashing through the bush as a plane might fly overhead. She lingered there, playing with the threads of time, more than willing to believe she had a choice.
Old Mr. Snodgrass lived near the garden on the hill. His failing eyesight and his funny bulbous nose made him a favorite among the local widows, who flocked to his side with little cakes and books he could not read. Mr. Snodgrass, who had trained as an anthropologist and yearned to remain relevant, saw his chance. He hired an assistant and dictated his theories. Together they created his masterpiece; a book entitled The Mating Rituals of Aging Widows.
The local widows were horrified. They stopped bringing him little cakes right away. Mr. Snodgrass lost several pounds before he realized how much those cakes had meant to him. He relented at last, and married the woman who had brought his favorite cakes. Soon after the wedding he discovered she bought them at a corner store. They do not discuss his book.
At her foot lay a four leaf clover, colored purple so she couldn’t miss it. It looked ragged and strange, but she didn’t mind. She considered luck to be a rather tricky thing, so she hid the four leaf clover away in a book about folklore.
Inside, the clover pressed between the pages of a story about trolls and used up its luck burrowing into the story. She still has the book, so if you’d like to crawl inside a story and meet a troll or two, just ask. She’ll show you the page, pack you a lunch, and send you along the clover’s trail.
The Captain kicked at the ground and grumbled to himself. His crew made him furious. They were lazy and clumsy and ruined his best sails. He came across a spider and watched it for a while. His anger ebbed as he marveled how the spider rushed onto a web with ease to catch its prey, despite it flapping in the wind. An idea occurred to the Captain.
The next day the harbour hummed with strange tales of a mad sea captain who replaced his entire crew, save the cook and the cabin boy, with a clutter of spiders. No one knew what to think as they watched the ship sail out to sea with flawless symmetry, each sail just so and the rigging just right.
When she’d had enough, she boarded her petaled boat and sailed away on a convenient tide. She took her magic with her, willing herself not to care that the land would soon be empty of stories and hungry for wonder. She set her course by a shooting star and the memory of a waking dream. Where she might end up she did not know. This, of course, offered half the adventure and all the fun.
These are battle-weary warriors of late summer, scorched in the heat and short on rain. Their stories seldom told, their tattered bodies litter the landscape as their lives come a close. I asked her of the battles she fought, but she turned from me and sighed. She kept her secrets for another generation to spill and left me full of questions.
He believed it his destiny to be king of the world. Such is the ego of a frog in a pond. His power grew so great tasty morsels of fly flesh buzzed by him for dinner and his servants croaked in unison when he called them. He lost his crown somewhere in the shallows, but who could forget his amphibious face, his regal bearing? He had the makings of a legend and when his chance came, he would not miss it.
Every so often he donned his best camouflage and peeped at the world above to see if it was ready. He sniffed at the air and poked at the soil, checking for seasoning, marinade, and a full-bodied flavor. It wasn’t quite to his liking just yet, so he settled back into Below. After a million or so years of waiting, he saw no point in rushing dinner now.
The children were hungry, so their father sailed low over the orchard. It was a risky venture in the daylight. If they were caught, who knew what havoc would be wreaked by their presence. He tried not to think about it as he cast his net. When he pulled it up a handful of apples tumbled out. His children leapt upon them and ate their fill as he steered them to the safety of the clouds once more, his heart pounding and his sails full.
This baby hydra first appeared on the shores of the Bay in the summer of 2016. Most people looked upon it with an idle curiosity. Others, perhaps with some ancient Greek DNA hidden away, felt a shiver despite the August heat. Most important: no one did anything about it, and the hydra was left to grow, safe and hidden away in the cool depths of the Bay.
Jennifer Shelby 