Tag Archives: sunday strange

Hopeless Grace

775px-Barber_suspense

Suspense by Charles Burton Barber

Beads of sweat dotted her forehead as she crouched, trembling under a makeshift shelter of cardboard panels. Her swollen belly tightened as surging bolts of excruciating pain crushed her frail frame. 

After hours of agony she birthed not one, but two baby girls. “Two too many mouths to feed,” she thought. She swaddled them in rags and placed them in a tattered basket, scratching a note to the good sisters. “Please care for them”, she wrote, “I cannot.” 

Before dawn she stumbled into town leaving them at the abbey door. As she watched from a distant doorway, the sisters of St Gertrude’s Orphanage took the twins in just as she had hoped they would.  

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The sisters named the babies Hope and Grace. Hope was the quieter of the two. She rarely made a sound and seemed to prefer observing life as it passed before her. Grace, true to her name, was a delightful, good natured bundle of joy. She quickly caught the attention of a barren couple who visited the orphanage hoping to find a child to call their own.

The adoption fee was quite high, but it ensured the means of prospective parents and their ability to provide for the children placed in their care. The sisters never mentioned that Grace was a twin for fear that the couple might change their mind. Finally the papers were signed and fees paid. Grace became a daughter that day, while Hope remained behind.

Seven years passed. Grace thrived in every way. Her wealthy parents showered her with love and comfort, seeing to her every need and want.

While at the park one spring day Grace noticed a girl, strikingly familiar, amongst the orphans that came to play every week. She approached the girl.

“Hello,” she smiled, “my name is Grace, what’s your name.”

Hope looked up, her eyes widening. It was like looking into a mirror. “I’m Hope,” she replied, “you look just like me. How can that be?”

The girls became fast friends. Grace begged her nanny to take her to the park on the days when the orphans would be there. She told Hope about her lovely home and family, her dog, Button and her kitten, Scratch. Hope, in turn, told Grace about her life at the orphanage. The sisters were kind and loving in their own way, but they were not a mommy and a daddy; something Hope longed for.

Overcome with compassion for the orphan, Grace had an idea. “you know Hope, you could be me and I could be you. I’m sure no one would be the wiser. Then you could see what it’s like to have a mommy and daddy.”

Hope thought for a moment. “That’s a fine idea Grace! I could do as you say. No one would be able to tell. If you are willing I would love to do it.”

The girls agreed to trade lives for one week. They swapped clothes behind a huge oak tree. Grace joined the other children as they lined up to return to the orphanage. And Hope skipped over to the nanny who was sitting on a park bench nearby.

Their plan worked like a charm. No one ever suspected. After a week’s time, while enjoying breakfast in bed, Hope decided she rather liked being a daughter with parents and a dog and kitten. There is an old wives tale about twins that says there is always a good twin and a bad twin. Hope definitely fit the latter description. What she was about to do to Grace was very bad indeed!

From that day forward she resisted the nanny most vehemently when she offered to take her to the park. There Grace returned week after week, waiting and watching for her doppelgänger to no avail. Eventually she realized she had been deceived, feeling helpless to fix the mess she’d gotten herself into. Surely no one would believe the truth were she to tell it. So she didn’t.

Poor hopeless Grace spent the rest of her youth with the good sisters of St. Gertrude while an imposter lived the life she forfeited for having too kind a heart.

-kat – 13 April 2017

For Jane Dougherty’s Sunday Strange Microfiction Challenge based on this painting called

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The Princess and the Troll

Theodor_Kittelsen_-_The_Princess_picking_Lice_from_the_Troll_-_Google_Art_Project

Theodor Kittelsen – The Princess picking Lice from the Troll

Once upon a time there lived an eccentric princess by the name of Sarala. Each week a smelly old troll named Tohopka came to visit her in the castle veranda.

Princess Sarala was a young girl when she first met Tohopka. She had been searching for salamanders and pollywogs along the creek beds.

Tohopka had studied the princess and the gentle way she handled the tiny creatures. Though trolls are typically dim-witted, he managed to devise a scheme. He would use the princess to gain advantage over her father who sought to kill him and all the other trolls in the land.

Mustering every ounce of charm he had, a mere wiry ear-hair’s worth, he presented himself to her, meek as a lamb.

“Good day fair maiden,” he hissed from the shadows.

“Oh my goodness!” Sarala gasped, “you gave me such a fright! Are you not a troll? My father warned me about the likes of you.”

Before she could cry for help Tohopka appealed to her, “I am indeed a troll, just as you say but I have been much maligned by rumors. In truth, I long to live peaceably with one and all. But you see, I am beset by a most horrible infestation of lice! It is their constant gnawing and slithering that makes my skin crawl and my behavior so surly. If only I could rid myself of them.”

Feeling compassion for the beast Sarala replied, “Oh, how awful for you. Maybe I can help. Come closer so I can pluck these pests from your pelt.”

Tohopka was delighted to comply. It had been easier than he imagined to deceive the girl. Bit by nit, he weaseled his way into Princess Sarala’s trust.

When the people learned of this they appealed to her father, “Oh great king, you must do something! We fear for Princess Sarala’s life and our own for we have it on good authority that she has befriended a troll!”

Alarmed by this, the King summoned his daughter immediately. “Is it true Sarala? What is this I hear about you and a troll?”

“Oh father, you don’t know Tohopka as I do. He is quite gentle and harmless, not at all the raging beast you claim he is! I beg of you father, please believe me, he means us no harm. He is my friend. Please don’t kill  him father, I would miss him so!”

The King, though fierce in battle, was putty in his daughter’s hands. “Fine,” he said, “you may have your wish to remain friends with this Tohopka. But he shall be treated like a house pet and only under the watchful eyes of my royal guards.”

This turn of events played right into Tohopka’s plan. He was allowed access into the palace grounds. Years passed and the royal guard grew complacent to his presence. His evil ruse was working!

When he’d had enough of the princess’s nit-picking, Tohopka decided to end the wile. On that day, he sauntered through the gates nodding smugly at wary villagers and past the guards. But unlike the times before he did not purr when Sarala drew near. His back stiffened and he let out a terrifying howl that bellowed from his fowl mouth as he snarled revealing rows of sharp, green teeth.

“What troubles you Tohopka?” the princess innocently inquired, oblivious to the danger she faced.

“What troubles me, you ask? What troubles me Princess, is how stupid you are! To think you believed you could transform me from who and what I am by your kindness. I loath kindness. I loath you in fact! I am a Troll! What did you expect?!” he growled as he lunged toward her.

Just inches from overtaking her, the beast let out a bone-chilling scream, falling to his death in a heap at her feet. Behind him stood her father, crossbow in hand. With this last troll dead, there would be peace once more in the kingdom.

‘Twas nit-picking that eventually exposed the beast’s true nature. Princess Sarala learned an important lesson. Trolls make lousy house pets.

~kat – 27 March 2017

For Jane Dougherty’s Sunday Strange Microfiction Challenge based on the painting above by
Theodor Kittelsen called The Princess picking Lice from the Troll.


Penny’s First Word

For Jane Dougherty’s Sunday Strange Challenge based on this painting by Ford Madox Brown.

Ford_Madox_Brown_-_Pretty_Baa-Lambs_-_Google_Art_Project

Painting by Ford Madox Brown – Pretty Baa-Lambs

“Pretty Baa-Lambs” her mother said, “baa, baa, baa. Penny can you say it? What do the pretty lambs say?”

Penny was not having it. Her mother called her stubborn. Maybe she was, but Penny did not like this new game her mother always wanted to play.

“Momma,” her Mother would say, leaning in closer, eyes bulging, mouth puckering, smacking the syllables in a grotesque litany of sound bites, “Maaa…mmm…aaa…mAAA…mmmm…AAA.”

It was a never-ending battle. Everything, it seemed had a name. There was a word for each want. “Why wasn’t crying and cooing enough? It had always worked in the past. What was it with these people?” Penny thought to herself as she continued her resistance.

Then one day she heard a lovely word. An amazing word! It was not her mother, but her father who uttered it loud and clear for Penny to hear.

“I like that word.” Penny thought. She decided to say her new favorite word the next time her mother started one of her sound-it-out-say-it, ‘momma’ rants.

For her very first word, Penny smiled innocently at her mother, eyes wide with excitement, as she curled her tongue back and set her top two teeth into a perfect overbite…”FUCK!”

Penny had never seen her mother react so. It was wonderful! So wonderful, she repeated it over and over again, “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” She was a proud baby that day. Very proud indeed!

~kat – 23 March 2017


Fading 


It was a fading memory. Strobing fluorescent lights, the rat-a-tat-tat of a sticking stretcher wheel, the hot sting of a needle piercing her skin, the cool rush of fluids pulsing through her veins, unfamiliar agitated voices and strange words; pleural cavity, intubate, pulse ox, edematous, code blue, call it.

“9:24 pm”, was the last thing she heard before a flash of light and a whoosh sent her drifting feather light above where her body lay. Through walls, upward, upward until she floated just above the clouds, dots of artificial light twinkling like stars from the sleepy city below.

She drifted there in the in-between for hours, maybe days, it’s hard to know. The inconsolable wails of loved ones breaking through the veil like whispers held her captive. She extended her hands toward them as if she could touch the sound waves, and so, touch them one last time.

But the light was calling to her. She felt its warmth on her back and turned her head slightly away from the fading gray for just a second. And then she was gone. Just like that, a fading memory.

~kat – 15 March 2017

For Jane Dougherty’s Sunday Strange Challenge based on this mysterious painting.