“It’s not fair,” the melodious charm attached to the droning wail escaping from the creature cascaded through the air with the delicate nature of booming fireworks. The source of this cacophony was a tiny creature, a miniature form of humanity dressed in overalls. Dubbed George for better or worse, this diminutive figure embodied every faltering perspective poised to cause misery and shame. This attitude was matched by the pointed hat that topped off his head, falling short of perfection as it loped to the side. But Georges’s deciding characteristic was the rivers of dramatic overcompensation flooding his face, cascading with abandon.
A filtering bit of dazzling enigma fell like confetti with the potential of a bomb, a graceful descent creeping into the bowels of the area. “Whatever’s the problem?” a soft voice interrupted his fervor. As he looked up, he was graced with an afterthought of a smile, the unforgiving shadow of niceties present. The complete picture of a pink dress and hooped skirt stuck out with frilly designs to accent the fabric. A series of bouncing blonde curls danced around her head in subtle movements, a halo creating an effect she couldn’t match. Arriving from the sky, all the answers were about to slide into place.
A drought overcame his tear ducts, a desert in the thick of summer, as he straightened up to recapture some dignity. His emotions took their turn, spun the wheel, and landed between humility and embarrassment. In this state, he wiped away his embarrassment like nonexistent dirt from his overalls, eye contact a far-off thought.
“Life’s not fair,” George said dully as if this was an acceptable grievance, petulance forming his every word.
“Well, let’s see what we can do,” her face transformed into a deep concentration, warping her smile into a mixed bag of forced alternatives. With a hand on her cheek, certifying her process to the casual viewer, she undertook the challenge, appointing herself the superintendent of answers. Her face lit up a moment later as the ah-ha of it all warped her features into understanding. “This will help,” nodding for confirmation and self-assurance in every forward motion. “I will need the feather from a chicken.” There was absolute seriousness in its absoluteness while George searched the corners for the punchline, the moving minutes stalling his frame.
George walked randomly without fail, the wilderness giving way to more maintained places as civilization crept through the rabble. With the dirt road as his guide, he found homes dotting the area in perfectly spaced definitions. Their inhabitants were snuggly tucked away, dreaming of crops and such.
At that moment, the moon drooped down to bid him a goodnight with a smile. Small talk of the general sort took up a few moments before the moon jutted off to the sky once again, adventures to be had across the starry landscape. Left to his own devices once again, George came across a small farm. A short distance away, a chicken coop bathed in darkness squatted, wrapped in wire; it remained the fort knox of padded pens. Its inhabitants were tucked away in the safety of nonsensical dreams, dreamscapes of normality ebbing and flowing through their minds. Amid this peaceful interlude, a stark contrast stood in the middle of the courtyard. A single chicken marked with a blitzed-out expression as it stared upwards in a statuesque distinction.
BBEEECCCAAAWWW
A horrid screech was let loose, a terrible sound no natural creature could capture. Miming its rooster counterparts in a drastic interpretation, the ear-splitting travesty and faltering notes cut through the night with shrill certainty. George crept closer, jumping the fence without notice like a lith feline. His hand reached out, a slow and practiced movement as the seconds thrummed in his ears. Georges’s objective was achieved with a quick flourish; the flick of the wrist plucked a feather. One good turn and his luck ran out as the chicken jumped, in full panic mode as one little eye spied George, hatred blazing in those orbs.
Beeccaaww
Ouch
With one quick movement, its beak found skin and hammered without abandon. Relentlessly chipping away at Georges’s arm with crazed precision. A reckless dash for the fence, the chicken in hot pursuit. As he cleared the bar, the chicken turned its frustration on the metalwork, aggressively fueled by disappointment.
His peaceful abode was trampled on as the fairy creature appeared, echoing the former events. An eerie rendition gliding into view with that anemic smile. George handed over the feather, the piece of golden silk changing to shaking hands. Her eyes were ablaze at the sight, glowing as they fixated on the object. As her fingers grasped the prize, a crack wound across her face—a deep-set gash that left a twitch in its wake.
“Thank you,” her voice, a quivering show of its former self as passive indifference, returned to her face. “Now,” she cooed to the feather with a tender caress added. “I need you to solve the riddle of a koi fish and collect the prize,” all business, as a matter of fact, tone flowed with unwavering conviction. George was then forgotten as she sweet-talked her prize, a doting parent full of coddling and assurances as she floated away gracefully. George was adrift in the sea of questions, one particular question crashing over him, the words an inevitable force.
“Don’t koi fish live on the other side of the world?” his voice was high-pitched as the question hovered, a blurb clinging to the air. George trudged forth, toeing the line as colorful language and vivid words yielded an exciting picture. Bewitched by self-pity and morose ideas, his trek was sponsored by these ideals. As his former slice of a waning luminosity appeared, the beguiling tirade had to be paused. It dropped to hear the latest gossip and tripe; excitement loomed and pulsated with a newfound smile between its craters.
“Hello friend, what brings you out tonight?” The delicate blend of soft tones and gentle prodding unraveled George like nothing more than string waiting to be untangled, its cheerful exuberance threatening to blow the whole thing apart.
“I need to find a koi fish,” the dry, unenthusiastic nature of these words, mixed with an uncompromising set to his brows, left the moon puzzled.
“Aren’t they on the other side of the world?” the words nearly sprung Georges’s emotions from their gilded cage, the same conclusion mapping out the problem with the same pins, the push and pull of adversity deflated him, shoulders slumped in the same instant thundering bout of frustration flickered and clouded his face. The wild storms of uncertainty drowned his senses, rainstorms blinding and consuming.
“I can help!” the moon’s altruistic tendencies kicked in, thoughts blooming among the moonbeams as an enthusiastic nature grappled with hope. “Just hop on!” George positioned himself on the edge, clinging to the rough exterior. They shot across the sky at top speed, the inflight entertainment stretches of land and foreign sights. Arriving at an oasis of greenery, a spectacle of winding rivers and uncontained growth and vitality, overgrown moss creeping along to create a green utopia. The glowing, shifting rays wafted from every inch, filtering upwards with smoky distinctions. Dark corners developed around the edges of his vision, tiny triangles quickly consuming the window of his sight. The world shifted and swirling together into bramble-infested confusion of thick mists, his frame wobbling unstably.
Meanwhile, the moon looked on in horror and shock as its mind scabbled for a solution; panicked and desperate, it hurled itself toward his pal. George was consumed by the river for a few nerve-wracking seconds, breaking the surface and greedily gulping air in a matter of ticks. Confusion claimed his drenched frame, each drip mocking his plight. The shallow water trickled by and around his frame, passively sulking when a strange face broke the surface. An aquatic nomad in orange and white, beady eyes sternly staring at George.
“Excuse me, sir,” no excuse needed for the uppity tone draped in politeness that spewed from the displeased turn of its mouth. “I need to pass,” already onto the next series of everyday obligations that filled out his list for the day. Just about to descend into the nonexistent depths, George jumped into action.
“Wait!” he shouted, throwing himself forward and desperately reaching out. “Can I ask a favor first?!” the question intrigued the creature, stalling the moment with an air of mystery. “A riddle for a prize.”
The fish simply tilted its head forward, the subtle confirmation halfway to regret before he critically searched his brain. Anticipation held the moment captive, tension-filled atmospheric conditions moving into clarity when the fish’s face lit up with inspiration. “Let me see,” faining innocence in the name of the game as he rubbed his fins together. “What can’t talk but replies when spoken to?” pride entrenched these words, bemused by its intellect and chuckling with an edge of superiority. The silence built towners of amusement as the seconds turned nothing up, empty pockets refusing to produce anything of merit. But Georges’s brain went into overdrive, researching and computing rapidly. The blinking question mark in his brain buzzed and glowed, slight whiffs of smoke heralding his frustration. But with one swift breeze, the whisps cleared, and with miraculous clarity, an answer emerged.
“An echo,” the words fell from his mouth, tumbling forth with a quiet formation. The smile was instantly knocked from the fish’s face, sour grapes clouding his features.
Wounded pride carried the following words forward with slitted eyes. “Alright, moving along,” choosing to forge forward, slipping past subtle humiliation with expertise. “What is always in front of you but can’t be seen,” a competitive paranoia crept along the syllables, the fish’s eyes glued with manic glee. Confidence flooded Georges’s weak mind, straight to his ego like a shot to the arm. The tried and true scheme produces a smile, assurances of quick flashes requiring a hefty dose of musings where only a hole remained as he glanced at the fish. Georges’s mind claimed the prize, the anticipation a thrilling juncture.
“Time,” an ounce of nonsensical nonsense projected, inflicting the air with a slick griminess. The answer sullied the overabundance of those nefarious feel-good emotions, a cheap alternative filling the position.
“Wrong,” the koi fish hoped onto the opportunity, gleefully abandoning polite pretenses like mere guidelines. Basking in the confusion and balm of denial that marked Georges’s face, his reluctance was a clear threat to his composure. The tape over his confidence failed to stop the seeping, weeping gash ripped away as the truth became more apparent.
“Alright, alright, I’ll give you one more chance,” a stab of sympathy and mistaken empathy struck once the upper hand rested in his fins as it took on the role of the ever-gracious host. The forthcoming victory made an ever-patient figure out of the fish, an unwillingness to forgo the moment for a second longer. “Let me see?” more of the same prolonged conceit, a love affair with the anticipation. “What is full of holes but still holds water?” a contagious strain of pride found its way to George, filling the holes of uncertainty with cement as a fresh wave of callus conviction followed.
“A sponge,” he quickly said, flurrying with excitement, returning the fish to animosity. The straight line of its tight lips was a volume of unspoken sentiments ready to be unreleased.
“Fine, here,” a succinct follow-up before a pearl was tossed toward George with slight aggression. The smooth piece of perfection shimmered in his hand, the jewel a hard one victory.
Silently, George tossed the pearl. The cracks in her face jutted upward, surrounding an eye before the piece fell away, revealing a red eye encased in a layer of purple skin surrounding the socket. George could hardly look away from the fright.
“One more thing,” bypassing the obvious. “I need the broken hove of a horse,” a wispy tone airily strung out the words, and the narrative continued.
Trudging into the unknown, George meandered onto the sight of an orderly establishment, a silent racetrack alight with spectral bodies floating and dancing along every inch. He roamed to the back, where a paddock rested with the subtle ruckus of snores drifting from sleeping horses. This calm absence of consciousness weaved around the nightly chorus, the rhythmic notes of snores mixing beautifully in a classic composition.
Clip
clap
The curious sound strolled along the notes, ruining the intended course and drawing George closer to a specific area where a curious spectacle awaited. Erratic pacing and incoherent mumbling came from an obviously disturbed shadow. Distraction clouded its mind as George meandered closer, his steps a careless shuffling.
“Excuse me, sir,” curiosity carried his voice, a booming overture to the conversation. The words instantly halted the vague shadow, nearly disappearing into the background. “Can I ask you something?” careful words treading along strict lines, the spookable nature of the situation containing a flippant aspect.
“Yes?” a high-pitched voice trilled, curiosity tipping the scales as a large horse’s head appeared over the gate. A demanding tone filled with impatience hovered through the air, the thick lens of animosity clogging the air.
“Do you have, by any chance, a broken horseshoe?” The slim chance of far-fetched notions once spoken into life with silly implications was made worse by a warbling confidence that claimed his voice. With silent contemplation, the horse retreated, moving and sneaking around in the darkness. Its head popped into view a moment later, an iron piece dangling from its mouth. Spitting the object out, two distinct pieces landed at separate angles in an unceremonious event. Dissolving into the darkness with mumblings fitting its persona, a solitary pattern it melted back into gladly.
The same old patterns, the same situation ensued as the cracks weaved themselves into a pattern as she desperately grasped for the object. With its grasp clinging to the metal, its body toppled into a mess of rubble, with the horseshoe resting on top. Smoke drifted from the pile, floating upward as a quick forming picture. A distinct image became clear where black replaced pink, and a shock of the same color spouted from his head while dark blue frills decorated her dress. The broad smile completed the contrasting picture with pointed teeth and red eyes as added touches.
“Finally,” she said, stretching and taxing her muscles to demonstrate this newfound luxury. Now I must be off,” furthering her agenda as she jutted upwards in a single-minded self-centeredness. “WAIT,” Georges’s voice shot from his throat in utter desperation. “You said you’d help,” these words immediately halted her ascent, looking down at him with disdain.
“My dear, I never said I’d help you,” soft words delivering a subtle stab to the heart, carefully aiming with perfect precision. George reviewed the tapes in his head, playing and replaying them like they would change. Realization dawned across his face, the truth settling over him with distrust.
“Exactly. Now I must be going,” George gaped in disbelief while these words trailed after her departure, shenanigans, and plans of her own making were processed. The empty space brought rain to dry reserves, sprouting almost instantly. Finding that perfect spot, his previous corner of sadness became the ideal place.