Happy St Patrick's Day 2015

Every year on St. Patrick's Day I share this little dialogue only tale. It isn't anything spectacular, but I had a fun time writing it. It may be better after a couple of green beers ;) Enjoy! Watch out for little people today!

Luck: A Short Story

by: J.J. M. Czep

“Stop yer squirming.  You’re only hurtin’ yerself fightin’ like that.  Just give me what I’ve rightfully earned.”

“Aye, an’ what be this thing you’ve earned by trussin’ up an ol’ man, eh?”

“Donnot try t’ play me for a fool imp.  I know the rules o’ your kind.”

“Indeed?  An’ what be the rules of an imp, then?”

“You must grant me a wish.”

“That be the rules o’ the little people, the Leprechauns, not old imps.”

“You know what you are!”

“Aye, but you said I was an imp.”

“Enough.  You’re a Leprechaun.  An’ I know that means you owe me a wish.”

“Aye, indeed, if that be what I am.  I owes ye a wish.  So what ‘ave ya?”

“I’ll ‘ave your gold.”

“Aye, ehm, well, for that ye’ll have t’ be lettin’ me go.”

“No way.  I know how tricky you folk are.”

“Aye, an’ still ye be a fool.  How am I t’ lead ye to me gold if’n I’m unable even to git there meself?”

“I suppose that is true.  But, what if I let you go an’ it’s all a trick?”

“That’s a chance you’ll have to be takin’.  If ye want the gold.  An’ you do want the gold, don’cha?”

“I want the gold.”

“Y’ could make a wish instead.”

“I’d wish for the gold, then.”

“Aye, well to ‘ave that wish you’ll have to do as I said previous.”

“Fine. Then, I’ll tie this ribbon to you so you can lead me an’ not run off.”

“If that be a way t’ ease yer mortal mind.”

“It be.”

“We’ve been walkin’ some time.  These woods are thick and it is getting’ dark.  This better not be a trick.”

“No trick, good sir fool.  You asked fer me gold, I be leadin’ ye right on to it.”

“Down there?”

“Aye, if ye wants the gold.  I’ll have to be goin down there to git it.  Your leash be a bit too short.”

“This is another trick.  If I let you down that hole you’ll not come back out.”

“Aye, now what good would it ‘ave done me t’ lead ye this far.  Ye sees the rainbow.  Ye sees it’s colours runnin’ right into that hole there.  So, it mus’ be so, the gold is there.”

“True.”

“There’s still time to change yer wish though.”

“Why would I want to do that?”

“Well, so it tis, then.”

“Just get the gold.”

“So you’ll be settin’ me free then?”

“Aye, but I am goin’ down there for the treasures.  I’ll not have you lock me away from it all by some magic.”

“Of course, of course!  I would not dream of such a thing, but if ye be insistent upon it, down with ye. I will keep well enough in this dark, an’ dangerous wood, all by my little lonesome.”

“Good then. Ah! Look at it! Jus’ look at it all! I’ll be comfortable for the rest of my years!”

“Aye, of course, of course, sir fool.”

“Leprechaun, help me out wit’ this load.”

“Now, see here then.  I helped ye t’ my treasures an’ travelled with a fool ribbon about my person to appease yer lack o’ trust.  Like some animal I was leashed t’ ye through a wood where I knows folks. An’ all this after ye tricked me int’ a trap of devilish devising. An’ now, ye needs my help t’ gets out of the hole ye got yerself into. Tsk, tsk, sir fool.”

“Leprechaun!  You tricked me!”

“No, no, my fool.  You ‘ave me gold as you asked.  I told ye to be lettin’ me go.  I told ye t’ be mindin’ yer wishes.  But, now, ye be havin’ me gold.  The ‘hole’ load of it.  Far too much fer one man, los’ in the wood, t’ be carrying back t’ enjoy.  Ye should’ve listened when I said to let me free. Should’ve made another wish at least.”

END

And The Girl Writes On

I sit at my desk, a cold can of Mountain Dew on one side and a huge travel cup of lemon water on the other, the sound of instrumental music streaming from my laptop, and tabs open to the tasks I have to do today. It is with a moment of clarity that I realize I sort of want to ask my thirteen year old self if she is happy now. I am exactly what she wanted to be.

I do not recall the date, because it doesn’t matter. I remember the keyboard though. It was not a fancy laptop, but it was where my fingers felt at home. That old electric typewriter, that weighed more than the scrawny girl who carried it from the office to the second floor apartment, was my whole world. It shook the entire kitchen table when I typed, and the letters often jammed together as ideas flowed faster than the tired keys could keep up. I have no idea how many times I had to stop and untangle the mass of metal arms that clung together in a mass of letters. That little teenage brat had some serious creative flow. And, she wanted so bad to live her life at that kitchen table with words as her trade. She swore she would live in a little apartment in California, with her cats, and live on sandwiches and canned soup. And she would be a writer. Yeah, seriously, that was my big dream at thirteen. Shoot for the Moon right?

Funny thing, she almost had it right. I am grateful that the apartment turned out to be a great little house in the suburbs, so that crazy teenager can cut her lunch from the garden in the backyard instead of relying on canned soup. It is still a favored comfort food though. She didn’t quite make it to California, but Arizona is still far from the tiny town in upstate New York. The cats she wanted are here, and a kid. She never thought about that one.

She also never thought about the path she would take to get to this crazy dream she had. Years of madness as a military wife and a stay at home mom, giving up on school so many times because it just didn’t fit into the schedule, following a manchild across the country because it was the right thing the do, and at least she would be out of New York, a failed marriage, and some seriously cliche storylines.

There are days I want to punch that little teenage brat. To tell her to ditch that bullshit scheme and get a real job. Those usually the days I see the bills in the mail rather than the checks from typing my fingers off. See she never thought about that. Writing is still working, and it doesn’t always pay well.

But then, I move my laptop to the kitchen table and I can just see her sitting across from me, looking over that damned noisy typewriter, a naive grin on her face, and stars in her eyes. Damn that kid’s smile. She did it. She’s a writer. And who cares if it is hard sometimes, it was a good dream, nothing crazy. Solid, realistic really.

Now, get back to work kid. Those words are not going to type themselves.

Writing Prompt: Cooking

This did not go like I planned....

In the past I have not been considered a great, or even a good, cook. My ex-husband and some of our mutual friends often mocked my cooking. Baking especially was not a forte. They still ate the food though, which was always strange. I just assumed they were hungry enough, and kind enough, to tolerate my disastrous kitchen offerings. This is why I found it so odd when I started to have friends who actually said nice things about the food I would throw together.

I went from being the kitchen leper to the one asked to bring that one amazing dish. I did not change. I was making the same things. I was doing the same processes. My still horrible baked goods proved that. I realized that it was not that my food was bad, it was that there was so little appreciation for it. I was no master chef, of course, but the food was made with love and a flair for the creative. I liked to add something a little different. Once again, likely the reason why baking, not my best sport.

After a while, the praise for my creations did something miraculous, I was becoming a better cook. I did want to make some of the more complicated treats. I offered to teach others as I learned. The interesting thing, some of those who I taught started to comment about how poor my cooking was, but over the same dish I had just helped them create. Classy right. That is when I knew it had nothing to do with my skills in the kitchen. This was about acceptance.

I am a decent cook. I like to made enough to feed an army, and fill tummies with comfort foods, so exotic fare is not my focus. This does not mean that I cannot whip up some interesting menu items, but it does depend on when, why, and who I am serving.

I am actually really proud to say that I am no longer serving the people in my life who only offered complaints and rude comments. I am thrilled to feed the stomachs and souls of good people though. I equally am happy to have these same friends bake for me, since, yeah, that is still a bit shaky.

There is a deeper meaning to food. We use it to connect with others, so if those around you are taking in what you are offering but only giving back negativity, stop feeding them. What does cooking mean to you? And what is your favorite dish to serve those you love?

I am also thinking about restarting the Nomday recipe posts. That could be a kick.