Too Much Juice
April 25, 2023 by Kidd Wadsworth in category Infused with Meaning by Kidd Wadsworth tagged as flash Fiction, kidd wadsworth, short story, weird dreams, Witches
Too Much Juice
by
Kidd Wadsworth
I suppose there were opioids in my IV. I remember eating a three-foot-long, hot-pink centipede. I was a trifle worried. It was Lent. Does centipede count as meat?
While I chewed—centipedes are a might gristle-ly—there appeared by my bed three women. They “poofed” in; I thought them witches. Like a Hollywood wind machine was in the room blowing only on the three of them, their wild, flaming-orange hair and amethyst robes flowed out behind them.
They spoke, talking on top of each other, one starting before the other stopped.
My southern upbringing immediately identified them. Must be Yankees, I thought.
“Oy vey can you believe…,” said the first witch.
“Without her hair cut…,” said the second.
“She came to the hospital, and there’s people everywhere…,” said the third.
“…and her hair…,” said the second.
“You can’t cut your hair?” said the third.
“I know a place…,” said the first.
This started such a discussion about which place.
I picked up the small hand mirror Mom left for me on my bedside table.
I do need a haircut.
“My tante Zelda…,” said the first witch.
“What?” said the second witch. “Your tante? Why she’d be better off having her hair cut by monkeys at the Bronx Zoo.”
And the third witch nodded, her bangle bracelets clinking, her crystal earrings casting rainbows on the ceiling.
“Do you have any mustard for my centipede?” I asked.
“Why yes,” said the third witch, pulling a jar from her pocket. “Grey Poupon?”
As I spread spicy brown mustard on my centipede, the first witch called her tante Zelda on the phone, “How’s next Wednesday, Dear?” she asked me.
I hesitated, trying to remember when I was scheduled to be discharged. “I don’t know.”
“You’ve got to go,” said the first witch. “You have some gray, no offense…”
To which the second witch said, “But not to Zelda. Anyone but Zelda.”
I’m a Sci Fi fan—live long and prosper, dude. One of my favorite TV shows features evil aliens with glowing eyes. As I struggled to remember my upcoming calendar, I looked out the door of my hospital room. In the room across the hall, I saw my doctor. He turned toward me—and his eyes glowed.
“Oy vey, you don’t look so good…,” said the second witch.
I paused a bit of mustard covered centipede halfway to my mouth. As my doctor started walking across the hall to my room, the witches grabbed their light sabers. I dropped my fork and pressed the button on my IV.
Time for more juice.
Title Photo by Stephen Andrews on Unsplash
Kidd Wadsworth’s Books
Hunted
March 25, 2023 by Kidd Wadsworth in category Infused with Meaning by Kidd Wadsworth tagged as Adult fantasy, dragons, Hunted, kidd wadsworth, novelsPrologue
The dragon lay on a bed of cooling lava, the black cracked surface revealing, in thin meandering channels and small pools, the fiery red molten rock beneath. The heinous creature was stretched out on its belly, its four legs extended outward to each side. The dragon’s long snout also lay flat against the harsh, jagged rock, its mouth open, its black tongue extended and uncurled. If not for the horned spikes running down its back, its huge wings, its lethal, razor sharp tail and reeking breath, it might have been a pup flopped on a rug in front of a fire.
My adult fantasy novel, HUNTED, is complete. At the bottom of this prologue you’ll find a link where you can read the entire book for free. Enjoy!
Willing herself not to faint, Saoirse (Sur Sha) took a step forward, the cooling crust crunching under her booted feet. Countless hours spent watching her father came to her rescue. She lifted her chin and spoke, her voice unwavering and resolute. She was more a monarch in that moment than ever her father had been a lord. “I will come to you as we agreed,” she said. “But first repeat to me the oath you have taken.”
Its voice full of respect, the dragon spoke. “Saoirse Togair, this day, I vow, if you give yourself to me, I shall not kill Aonair or any Laoch. I shall not harm Alyse. I shall not kill your family. I shall treat the people of these lands with gentleness. I shall govern them well.”
“Saoirse!” A loud cry came to her across the water.
“Aonair?” She swiveled around to see him riding toward her across the sea; joy filled her soul. “Aonair!”
“He can’t save you,” rumbled the dragon.
“No,” she spoke without looking back at the beast. “But he’s here. I shall hold him and kiss him once more before I die.”
Boredom emanated from the dragon. “Why? Why torture yourself?” A long smoky sigh puffed out of its snout. “Why torture him? You don’t really want him to witness this, do you?”
The haughty lift to her chin returned. She was disdain. “How kind of you to show such concern for Aonair.”
Aonair’s huge warhorse made landfall and, with giant bounds, traversed the steep, northern side of the volcano’s cone. Seconds later, Aonair jumped from Rith’s back. For long precious moments, the lovers embraced, neither speaking. Saoirse, her eyes closed, tried to soak up every sensation: his warmth, his scent—which was hay and sweat and horse. The peace of his aura settled upon her comforting her even now, and in her ears sang his color sound, so hauntingly sad.
Remembering their one night she spoke, “You were happy once.”
“We can kill it together,” he whispered. “I brought the dragon claw.”
She found her courage in the love in his eyes. “No, Aonair. We can’t kill it. You, Alyse, even Fallon, you all tried. It’s impossible. No one can kill a dragon.” With her magic, she pulled free the claw tied on his back, disarming him. For a moment, the claw blinded her. Effortlessly, she wrapped it in magic and dropped it in the front pocket of her dress. “This was always my fight, not yours. But instead of facing the dragon, I ran.” With each word certainty curdled the already horrible dread which filled her belly. “I was hiding, don’t you see? I was hiding in your love.”
With her magic she bound him.
Confusion filled Aonair’s eyes. “No.” He struggled violently against the magical chains. “No!”
“You were willing to give your life to save me. But it’s me that . . .” Her regal facade cracked.
She stepped backward toward the beast, the newly cooled earth fissuring under her, opening pools of red molten muck, blocking her retreat. She walked backward, her eyes never leaving Aonair’s face, each step taking her farther from the man she loved and closer to the dragon and death.
Unbidden, the mage’s words came to her, “We cannot see love’s destination, before we travel love’s path.”
But I can see my destination. I’m going to die.
She couldn’t breathe. Her whole body shook. She took another step, and another.
Magic brought to her eyes the beauty of the world. Even here on the rim of a volcano, life glimmered a thousand shades of green in the sea and twinkled in the smoke filled air. And in the center of her gaze stood Aonair, his wondrous aura sparkling with love.
I don’t want to die.
Behind her, the heat from the beast and its awful breath stinking of sulfur, told her she was but a step away from her death. Casting her voice upon the wind, she whispered, “I love you, Aonair,” and put her left foot on the tongue of the beast. A single tear wet her cheek. Shifting her weight, she put her right foot on its tongue.
Then as if it was a frog and she a fly, the dragon rolled up its tongue and swallowed her whole.
And Saoirse Togair, the last magical person, slid down the dragon’s throat and into the belly of the beast.
If you do want to read on the complete novel is available free on Royal Road at:
https://www.royalroad.com/fiction/59915/hunted/chapter/1023242/chapter-1-magic
Kidd has short stories in the following anthologies.
Featuring Kidd Wadsworth, Author of the Month
February 28, 2023 by marianne h donley in category Featured Author of the Month, Infused with Meaning by Kidd Wadsworth tagged as Featured Author of the Month, kidd wadsworth
Kidd Wadsworth writes to bring to life our magical, fire-breathing world. She believes we are super heroes. It’s time we put on our capes.
You can read Kidd’s monthly column, Infused with Meaning, here on the 25th of every month. More information about Kidd is found on her website, make sure you take the time to read her “about me” section.
A selection of books that include Kidd’s short stories.
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The Gifts by Kidd Wadsworth
February 27, 2023 by Kidd Wadsworth in category Infused with Meaning by Kidd Wadsworth tagged as fiction, kidd wadsworth, Seasons Readings, short story, Short Story Award, short story contest
She placed the three gifts on the mantle, each beautifully wrapped: one in gold foil paper with a white ribbon it’s bow a dove, the second in green and white striped paper like a mint candy cane was topped with a green paper pine tree, the third in classic red and white Merry Christmas paper was adorned with three large red bows. Otherwise, the room and house were undecorated. She couldn’t bring herself to carry all the boxes of ornaments and lights down from the attic. Mike used to that. He would shout, “Ho, ho, ho and where’s my hot toddy!” Christmas decorating had always begun the same way with Mike carrying box after box down the stairs and her in the kitchen juicing lemons and then screaming, “I forgot to buy bourbon!”
By the time she returned from the store, he’d have the tree up, Christmas music playing, and strings of lights spread out on the floor. “Did you buy replacement bulbs?”
She turned on the gas fireplace. It was cozy room—a lonely room. She pushed down the yearning inside of her soul. “Don’t go there,” she whispered.
She bulwarked heart with memories of other Christmases. Presents and more presents, how rich her parents had been. And each Christmas morning ended the same way, with wrapping paper strown about and delicious smells of ham wafting from the kitchen, and presents, so many presents and not a single gift she liked: clothes, all in shades of navy and mauve, clothes she would never wear, high-heeled shoes that hurt her feet, make-up—didn’t her mother ever look at her face? She didn’t use makeup. At her church they had a Christmas tree with tags on it: stuffed animal, girl’s coat size 8, mittens, boy’s backpack, etc. Surely her Christmases were like the Christmases of those children. All the gifts bought by people who didn’t know them, who didn’t really understand them. Year after year, she slowly learned. Don’t get your hopes up. No one knows you. You are their daughter, but they don’t see you.
Now twenty-eight years old she understood. She had reconciled her expectations to the reality of the world. It was impossible to really know another human being. So, every Christmas she bought herself presents. All sorts of wonderful things like copper cookie cutters and an antique bookshelf. She cooked what she loved including pumpkin pie with extra cloves. She never offered anyone a slice of her pumpkin pie. That would have been cruel—too, too cruel.
And every Christmas she put Mike’s gifts back up on the mantle and dreamed of what could be inside. Their first Christmas together he had stormed out when she refused to open his present. “Please understand, I just can’t be disappointed anymore. What we have is so special, I don’t want to damage it. I can’t bear knowing that you’re the same as my parents. That you don’t really get me.”
He had come back, of course he’d come back. He’d held her.
The next Christmas she’d put the green and white striped present on the mantle, and their third Christmas the present with the red and white Merry Christmas paper. By then Mike had adapted. He brought home hundreds of small things for her. A new mixer, he’d gotten her the red one to match the paint she’d picked out for the kitchen walls. A cup holder for her car that expanded to hold her giant coffee mug. Caffeine and cloves, yup! He was Santa all year long.
“Someday you’ll trust me,” he’d said. “Someday, you’ll open the gifts.”
But that someday didn’t come—no one is supposed to die at twenty-six. She looked up at the gifts on the mantle. “The last two probably just have rocks in them to make them rattle. I mean he wouldn’t keep wrapping up stuff knowing I wasn’t going to open the presents.”
She turned away and turned back again.
“My memories are all I have, Mike. I don’t want to find out that it wasn’t really as good as I thought it was. I don’t want to know that you were only human. You tried hard. I know you did. And this way, I can keep on pretending that you loved me, that you really understood.”
She sipped her hot toddy.
This is the beginning of a story I’m considering for the Bethlehem Writer’s Group new anthology. By the way, did I mention the Bethlehem Writer’s Group’s short story contest is now open for submissions? Click here for details: https://bwgwritersroundtable.com/
Kidd Wadsworths Stories
Featuring Kidd Wadsworth, Author of the Month
February 21, 2023 by marianne h donley in category Featured Author of the Month tagged as Featured Author of the Month, kidd wadsworth
Kidd Wadsworth writes to bring to life our magical, fire-breathing world. She believes we are super heroes. It’s time we put on our capes.
You can read Kidd’s monthly column, Infused with Meaning, here on the 25th of every month. More information about Kidd is found on her website, make sure you take the time to read her “about me” section.
A selection of books that include Kidd’s short stories.
0 0 Read more
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