All Stories, General Fiction, Short Fiction

99 Maab and the Rehab Spirit: A Feeble Fable of the Fantasmagorical By Leila Allison

Introduction

Maab is my first FC to name herself. She was simply the Photobomb Fairie until she began to talk. When she called herself “Mab” the first time, someone pointed out that her name has been used by Shakespeare and others, and hardly original. It turns out that Mab is as common a name among Fairies as Taylor is in cheerleading.

No one remembers how the second A landed in the middle of her name, I’m guessing a typo. But Maab liked it and told everyone to call her Maab, and that she would hear it if you omitted either A.

Physically, Maab is four inches long, mostly iridescent green and is a very attractive mix of a Dragonfly and a Tinkerbell sort of person. Like everyone else, Maab moves at various speeds, but unlike the rest of us she is able to hop dimensions and seemingly disappear from common sight and yet still be “there” when captured by a camera–hence the title Photobomb Fairie.

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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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Latest News, Short Fiction

Week 355 – Jesus Speak, Teribble Speling, And Withdrawal Isn’t Just Inconsiderate Birth Control.

Here we are at Week 355.

This is my last posting of the year. We have a couple more specialised ones and one I think from Leila next week.

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All Stories, General Fiction, Short Fiction

1975 b.c.e. By Leila Allison

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A Saturday Morning, 1975 b.c.e

One, two, three, four, five…

One, two, three, four, five…

One, two, three, four–

As she lay in bed, Tess shoved the early morning hum of the street and small under-noises in the apartment out of her mind and focused solely on the little clicks she heard in Anna Lou’s room.

Tess knew about Anna-Lou’s habit. Her mother was a careless telephone gossip, especially when in her wine, which was pretty much always. “The doctor’s been feeding her Percodan and God knows what since they shot Lincoln.”–or something similar, was what Mom said to friends on the phone when the subject was Great Aunt Louise. For some boozy reason, Mom believed if she lowered her voice to a confidential tone that neither of her children would make a special effort to listen.

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Literally Reruns, Short Fiction

Literally Reruns – Lamentation by A. Elizabeth Herting

Just exactly what consciousness is has yet to be adequately explained. Endless reams filled by bright minds are dedicated to the subject; some get close, but in the end the actual definition is as elusive as that of time. Consciousness and time are two elemental particles of reality that defy concise explanation because they are made up only of themselves.

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Historical, Short Fiction

WEEK 354: The Fine Art of Failure and a Saturday Special

According to the people at Guinness World Records, the world’s least successful writer (during the paper manuscript era) was named William A. Gold (1922-2001). He wrote eight novels and a vast amount of articles and shorts, but sold just one piece for fifty cents. 

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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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Literally Reruns, Short Fiction

Literally Reruns – Try, Try Again by L’Erin Ogle

L’Erin Ogle’s Try, Try Again underscores her ability to quickly weave a story thread into something three dimensional. She begins now then curves in some ago and presses on toward next. Her stories make clear sense, but they do not always take a linear path.

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