All Stories, Fantasy, Short Fiction

98 Boots the Impaler and the Qddyte: A Feeble Fable of the Fantasmagorical By Leila Allison

Introduction

From slots 98 on there was going to be a saga. A continuing opus of staggering brilliance; something to cement my legacy. And for one shining moment, all was clear to me. Goodbye Feeble Fable Factory, the kid is on her way! Then the bourbon wore off and I saw the mess I made. And as it always goes in the drizzly gray aftermath, when life shows itself to be little more than a protracted exercise in humiliation and despair, I reluctantly set aside the legend maker and returned to my cell at the Feeble Fable Factory. Which required gaining further permission from the union; permission gained through bribery.

But there was a complication.

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Fantasy, Short Fiction

(97) The Pygmy Unicorn and The Effluvium: A Feeble Fable of the Fantasmagorical By Leila Allison

Introduction

I was finished with writing Feeble Fables until I got the greenlight to produce anything I wanted to occupy numbers 96 to 102 in my story list. That meant seven, which is an ugly number when you have only three. Although I had informed the Union governing the Fictional Characters in my realm, who act various roles in my productions, that the Feeble Fable “Franchise” was at quits, (much to their collective apathy, and sniggering over my use of “Franchise”), in a stunning display of diplomacy on my part, I negotiated with the Shop Stewards came away with the cooperation necessary to produce enough Feeble Fables to fill in the empty slots.

Never underestimate the awesome power of bribery.

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Fantasy, General Fiction, Short Fiction

(96) Braindrizzle By Leila Allison and Daisy Cloverleaf, Shop Steward

The former Union of Pennames, Imaginary Friends and Fictional Characters (UPIFFC) recently defrocked all Pennames and reorganized itself as the UIFFC. This came out in a bull that rolled down the hill in a manner consistent with tumbling bullshit. For the first time, however, the announcement made sense; the Union concluded that Pennames are the management in their realms thus not entitled to be whiny pains in the ass because, unlike rolling cow pies, being a whiny pain in the ass is considered an uphill activity.

In my realm there’s just one Pen, yours truly, a lone Imaginary Friend, Renfield (a former FC who took the vacant I.F. office), and 227 FC actors who play various roles in my productions. So it became necessary that we elect a Shop Steward to represent my motley collection of FC’s. I was somewhat surprised to see that only six wanted the job: Daisy Cloverleaf the Pygmy Goatess; Boots The Impaler, a talking Siamese cat; Poppyseed the Type A Hummingbird; Flo the Trade Rat; Maab the Photobomb Fairie and Pie-Eyed Peety the PDQ Pilsner Pigeon, who is beyond description.

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All Stories, Fantasy

Horseshoes and Hand Grenades by Mike Scofield

Dennis followed the program’s commands and was transported from his den to the stoop outside his father’s last home, a condo in West Palm. The graphics and the audio were intense.

He was there.

His breath caught as his father opened the door, grinning.

“Hey, Den.”

“Dad!”

When they hugged Dennis could all but feel him.

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All Stories, Fantasy, General Fiction

Step by Yash Seyedbagheri

Mother, the one who birthed us, was the one who turned the oven on. Tossed us in there, my older sister Nan and me, as though we were turkeys at Thanksgiving. She was too strong for us to resist, though we tried, squirming, kicking. But she was still strong.

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Fantasy, Short Fiction

It Lets the Air In By Leila Allison

Fittingly, it began at the end of the world, New Delhi. The job now over, the American was about to board the first of many trains west when a slumped and shambling beggar in a ratty shawl stopped him on the platform. “Rupees, rupees,” the familiar whine. The American sighed and smiled and said, “Sure, all right. For old time’s sake.” It was eight-thousand miles to Madrid, but God damn India had a way of converting distance to years.

He offered the wretch a few coins, but the figure in the shawl slapped them away, which caused a hell of a scrum amongst other beggars on the platform.

“Hi, hi, what for hell’s sake is this, I’ll show you,” said the American. He had a temper, and often raised his hand. But the beggar stood erect and kept on standing until he was at least a foot taller than the American, not a small man himself. Arms lashed out from under the shawl and hands of unimaginable strength grabbed the American by the shoulders and lifted him near, toes scraping the boards. Despite the violence and surprise of the situation, the American wasn’t a coward. He summoned the nerve that had distinguished him from others in the Great War and looked up at the face under the shawl. All he saw was darkness.

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All Stories, Fantasy

Boxes by Shira Musicant

Lizzie’s dark curls held sparkling rain diamonds. Her eyes were bright. Julia! Lizzie often arrived unexpectedly, coming through the walls or the door.

I brought you a present. A box, Lizzie said. A little box, she added, her eyes laughing.

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All Stories, Fantasy, Horror

Watching It Move by Alex Reid

‘I must be the luckiest kid in the world,’ Chris thought.. Every other kid he knew had a bedtime. Not Chris. It didn’t matter if it was a school night or a Saturday night he could stay up as late as he wanted. After dinner he could play videogames until he could barely keep his eyes open or he would watch gameshows with his parents until they went to bed. Spending the night together with his parents around the tv was his favorite. Tonight was one of those nights. But like all good things it had to come to an end. Chris heard those words he dreaded to hear when they were all having fun.  “Your father and I are tired. We’re going to bed. We love you.”

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Fantasy, General Fiction, Short Fiction

Poppyseed and the Flower Power: A Feeble Fable of the Fantasmagorical By Leila Allison

Poppyseed was an orange Rufous Hummingbird, who was as aggressive and single-minded as they come, until he flew over a burning field of “wildwood weed,” one afternoon, during the annual two-thousand mile migration. Something in the drifting smoke asked “Why must you always be in such a rush, little friend–Have you never been mellow?”

The rest of the flock had avoided the field, but Poppyseed was known for his individuality and recklessness. He alone had flown above the pungent blue smoke, and he alone found himself perched on a weather vane atop an old barn, with no memory of lighting there, wondering why he had never been mellow.

Under normal circumstances, such a dipshit question would have enraged Poppyseed. But that was before a new philosophy had edged into his cut and dry, now! now! now! personality. What’s it all about? Poppyseed thought, watching the rest of the flock zoom into the distance.

“It’s about peace, love and harmony…seeking oneness with the Universe, my busy little friend,” said a human Spirit that suddenly appeared on the barn’s rooftop. The ghost had long lank hair which flowed below the brim of a floppy hat. He was wearing sunglasses that had round yellow lenses, striped bell bottom pants, sandals, several strings of beads–and if Poppyseed had known anything about human politics, and could read, he would have recognized the face of Richard Nixon on the tee-shirt the Spirit wore, with the words “What me Worry?” printed below Tricky Dick’s cartoonish visage.

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All Stories, Fantasy, Short Fiction

The Raccoon and the Personal Trainer: A Feeble Fable of the Fantasmagorical by Leila Allison

It had been a good summer. A little too good. Tony sat atop an obviously forgotten Frito Lay delivery behind the 7-11 and stood watch as the others in the pack looted the short pallet and took its contents to their “clubhouse” down by the creek. Raccoons do not normally have sophisticated criminal minds–pretty much smash (actually tip) and grab is their way–but that wasn’t the case with Tony. He was an abnormally intelligent Raccoon who had the soul of a bandit. Tony loved beer and food, but he got a bigger kick out of stealing.

Maybe so, and although it is never the object of a Feeble Fable to cast body shame, the plain fact that Tony was beginning to resemble a chubby zoo Panda instead of a reasonably in shape wild Raccoon didn’t weigh on him as much as maybe it should have. And the other members of his crew were getting just as tubby. Just a month ago they would have had the pallet stripped in under two minutes; now, with all the dragging bellies and the huge butts smacking into one another, it was taking twice as long. If Tony had been aware of television, he might have seen the similarity between his gang and that on the Sopranos.

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