Call Me Wolverine (Short short story)
I hate it that everyone assumes that the clothes I wear define who I am. That's so shallow. Noone understands me, especially not my mother. And so when she first told me that I needed to take a stupid picnic basket to grandma who was home sick, naturally I rebelled. My inner wolf reared its head, roaming the forests of my mind, and I assumed that this trip would be a waste of my time. How wrong I was! When I arrived at grandma's I quickly realized that her inner wolf had positively devoured her. I could hardly recognize her. And no, I don't think it was delirium. We connected on so many levels. I could tell her anything, and we talked until the middle of the night. Around midnight we felt like a snack, so we looked inside that stupid picnic basket my mom had sent with me, but all it contained were some healthy easily digestible foods. Blah! Grandma surprised me by unearthing a gallon of ice cream from her freezer, so we shared it straight out of the package. The only thing that could have made that night more perfect would have been if a handsome guy had suddenly burst into the apartment, and hunted me down. You may think that that is shocking for a visit to grandma's, but I got a feeling grandma wouldn't have minded at all. She gets me, even if she was originally the one who gave me that stupid coat that led to the nickname. Oh, how I hate it when people call me that! I am not little anymore, you know. Call me Wolverine! Girl power with long sharp finger nails.
Real Men Don't Lie (short short story)
I've learned the hard way to never tell a lie. My old man would twist my nose and pull painfully every time he caught me in the act of fibbing as a boy, so that I had afterward needed to check in the mirror to verify that my nose was not any longer than it used to be. But he was right you know: I've learned that real men don't lie. They don't have to. Once you grow old enough to use sarcasm, irony, and all that other bullshit to your advantage, you don't have to lie anymore because you can always obscure the truth so that noone knows what you are actually talking about. They call me Mr. P. Those who don't know me will ask what P stands for, and I suggest that they ask again only if they got a death wish. Noone asks me that question a second time because I'm known as the man who never tells a lie.
Fairy Tales: Where Are They Now (Short Short Stories)
Merging previous threads - will add new stories to combined thread.
Speaking of Unspeakable Things
I am not going to tell you what that woman who lived in that corner house down the block from our childhood home used to do. You don't need to know the details, and it would give you nightmares. Suffice it to say, she used to bake ginger bread cookies, and use them as bait to lure kids into her home. They say women are less likely than men to do this - well, my sister and I testified to the fact that statistics are at times overrated. We were shocked to find out from the police that we had not been the first kids lured in by her magic. However, unlike the others we made sure we were the last. Children, if anyone ever does anything unspeakable to you, make sure to speak up about it. Sometimes evil lives in a gingerbread house, but just because noone yet knows about it, and just because the evil appears nice, don't assume noone will listen to you just because you are kids. Sometimes I dream that we shoved her into an oven instead of getting her arrested, and the cleansing fire burned away her dirty deeds.