Sonnettics

Tweedledee and Tweedledum were having one of their usual quarrels in a sun-dappled glade in Wonderland. This time, it was about who could bounce a mushroom higher. Tweedledee swore he had achieved at least three feet, while Tweedledum accused him of exaggeration.  

Their bickering was interrupted by a peculiar sound: a faint *click-clack* followed by a whispery *whir*. They turned to see a wooden figure standing at the edge of the glade, painted in bright reds, greens, and golds.  

"Who are you?" asked Tweedledee, eyes wide.  

"I'm Matryoshka," the figure replied in a lilting accent, bowing politely.  

"And what do you do?" inquired Tweedledum.  

Matryoshka smiled coyly. "I do not *do*, dear sirs. I *am*. But if you must know, I contain multitudes."  

With a dramatic twist, Matryoshka's torso separated, revealing a smaller doll inside. The inner doll gave a polite nod before stepping out, leaving the next layer visible. This continued until five distinct versions of Matryoshka stood in a neat line, each smaller and more intricately painted than the last.  

The Tweedles clapped enthusiastically. "Marvelous!" exclaimed Tweedledee. "Do it again!"  

Matryoshka giggled, and one of her layers—a medium-sized doll with rosy cheeks and a mischievous smile—spoke up. "You two are quite charming," she said.  

The Tweedles puffed up with pride. "Why, thank you!" said Tweedledum.  

But the smallest doll, barely six inches tall and painted with a frown, crossed her tiny wooden arms. "I find them insufferable," she muttered.  

"Insufferable?" gasped Tweedledee, clutching his chest. "What have we done to deserve such scorn?"  

The smallest doll glared at them. "You're loud, you're foolish, and you argue over nonsense. It's exhausting just watching you!"  

"Well, I never!" Tweedledum exclaimed, while Tweedledee looked ready to faint from indignation.  

The medium-sized doll interjected. "Don't mind her. She's always been a sourpuss. The rest of us find you delightful."  

"But she's part of you," said Tweedledee, scratching his head. "How can you both love us and loathe us?"  

Matryoshka, now fully assembled again, gave a serene smile. "Ah, such is the complexity of the heart, my dear Tweedles. Each layer of me feels differently, yet together, we are one."  

The Tweedles exchanged confused glances. "So... you like us, except when you don’t?" asked Tweedledum.  

"Precisely!" Matryoshka said with a wink.  

The Tweedles, baffled but not displeased, decided to make the best of the situation. They spent the afternoon showing Matryoshka their favorite mushroom-bouncing techniques. The medium-sized doll clapped with glee, while the smallest muttered under her breath about their "ridiculous antics."  

As the sun set, Matryoshka prepared to leave, her layers sliding back into place. "Goodbye, dear Tweedles," she said. "Remember, love and loathing are just two sides of the same wooden coin."  

The Tweedles waved as she disappeared into the forest, still arguing about who had bounced the mushroom higher. Somewhere inside Matryoshka, a tiny wooden doll rolled her painted eyes—but even she couldn’t deny she’d had a little fun.

In a dimly lit lecture hall filled with twisting vines and oversized toadstools, the Caterpillar lounged on a massive, velvety mushroom that served as both podium and perch. The room buzzed with a strange energy, like the walls themselves were curious to hear what would happen next. A lazy swirl of smoke hung in the air, twisting into shapes as the Caterpillar puffed on an ornate hookah.
The students were an odd bunch, each stranger than the last. At the front sat Tweedledee and Tweedledum, identical in every way except for the tiny differences they insisted didn’t exist. Beside them, a card from the Queen’s court scribbled notes with one corner of its flat, red body. Toward the back, a dormouse balanced on a teacup, blinking sleepily but clearly determined to stay awake.
The Caterpillar exhaled a perfect ring of smoke that hovered in the air like a question mark before fading away. Leaning forward, the Caterpillar spoke, voice slow and deliberate.
“Who. Are. You?”
The students glanced at each other nervously. The question hung in the air, heavy and almost too big to grasp.
Tweedledee raised a tentative hand. “I’m Tweedledee,” he said, puffing up his chest.
“And I’m Tweedledum!” his twin added, like the universe needed this fact to stay in balance.
The Caterpillar’s antennae twitched. Was that amusement? Disdain? It was hard to tell. “Are you?” the Caterpillar asked, smoke curling around the words. “Or are you just parroting what you’ve been told? Names, my dear twins, are not identity. Who. Are. You?”
Tweedledee and Tweedledum froze, their mouths slightly open.
“We’re...” started Tweedledee.
“We’re us?” finished Tweedledum, but it sounded more like a question.
“How imaginative,” the Caterpillar said, exhaling another plume of smoke with a roll of its eyes. “Identity isn’t just about names or looking alike. It’s a journey—a messy, endless tangle of choices, actions, and the dance between freedom and responsibility. But don’t let me interrupt your riveting display of sameness.”
From the back of the room, the dormouse stirred. “I think,” it said softly, blinking its big, sleepy eyes, “I’m a dream. Or maybe the one dreaming. I’m not sure which.”
The Caterpillar tilted its head slightly, expression unreadable. “A dream and the dreamer. How profound—if only it weren’t so obvious. But remember, dreams shape the dreamer as much as the other way around. Do try to keep up.”
A rustling sound came from the side of the room. The card raised a corner of itself to speak. “If we’re shaped by choices, then what about the rules? What if I’m just following orders? Can I still be... me?”
The Caterpillar took a long, slow puff from the hookah. “Ah, the rules. How comforting for those who’d rather not think for themselves. You’re bound by them, sure. But even within rules, there’s space for choices. How you follow them, why you follow them—those things matter. They shape who you are, perhaps even more than the rules themselves. Though, clearly, you haven’t thought about it that far.”
Tweedledee and Tweedledum whispered furiously to each other, clearly trying to work out their next answer. Finally, Tweedledee stood up, looking determined. “We’re not just Tweedledee and Tweedledum. We’re ideas! Contrasts, reflections of each other, but also... different.”
The Caterpillar gave a small nod, though its expression was far from impressed. “Better. But let me ask you this: Is an idea still an idea if it’s never shared, never spoken? Or does it wither like a mushroom left in the dark? Don’t strain yourselves too hard answering.”
The twins sat back down, looking like they had even more questions than before.
The Caterpillar scanned the room, gaze landing on each student like it was peeling back the layers of their thoughts. “Who you are isn’t a puzzle to solve. It’s a question you live. Every choice, every failure, every little joy or heartbreak adds to the answer. And even then, it’s never finished. Now, think on that, and maybe next time, you’ll manage something less insipid.”
With that, the Caterpillar exhaled a final cloud of smoke that filled the room with shifting shapes: a question mark, a labyrinth, a pair of mirrored twins. Then it leaned back into the mushroom, clearly done for the day.
The students filed out, lost in their own thoughts. None of them said it, but every single one felt like the Caterpillar had asked the question directly to their very soul: Who are you?

Alice wandered further down the path, feeling a strange mix of confusion and curiosity. As she walked, the air seemed to shift, and the world around her grew quieter. In the distance, she saw a figure, silhouetted against a soft light. The figure hung from a cross, its form serene yet profound, radiating an aura of calmness and sacrifice. It was Jesus, his arms stretched wide, his eyes closed in quiet reflection.

Alice approached slowly, unsure of what to say or do. She had heard of Jesus before, but never like this. She had seen paintings of him, stories told of his miracles and teachings, but this… this was different.

“Excuse me,” Alice called gently, her voice trembling slightly.

The figure opened its eyes, and though Alice could not see his face clearly, she felt a deep sense of compassion and understanding in his gaze. The figure spoke in a soft, comforting voice that seemed to resonate with the very air around her.

“Child, why do you wander in confusion?” he asked.

Alice paused, her mind swirling with questions. “I… I don’t know where I am or what to do. Everything seems so strange. I feel like I’m losing myself.”

Jesus smiled faintly, a warmth spreading from his words. “The world is full of strange things, Alice, and yet, all of it is a part of the journey. Sometimes, you must lose yourself in order to find your true path.”

“But how do I know which way to go?” Alice asked, her brow furrowed.

He nodded thoughtfully, his gaze softening. “The way is not always clear, but it is always within you. Look within your heart, for the answers you seek are there. Trust in your own spirit, for it is stronger than you realize.”

Alice blinked, absorbing his words. “But what if I can’t find my way? What if I make the wrong choice?”

Jesus’ voice grew gentler. “Every path you take is a lesson, a part of your growth. You will stumble, you will fall, but you will rise again. Remember, I am with you, even when you feel lost.”

Alice stood in silence for a moment, feeling an unfamiliar sense of peace. She had been so consumed by her confusion that she hadn’t realized how much she needed guidance. She looked up at the figure on the cross, sensing both strength and tenderness in his presence.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

With a soft smile, Jesus nodded, his voice carrying a final note of wisdom. “Go now, Alice. The path is yours to walk, and you are never alone.”

As Alice continued on her way, she felt lighter, as if a weight had been lifted from her heart. The world still seemed strange, but now, she felt a little more ready to face it.

—

Robert paced the small parlor, his hands clasped tightly behind his back. The wooden floorboards creaked beneath his boots, their groans echoing in the stillness of the room. The air was thick with the mingled scents of beeswax and dried lavender, the latter carefully arranged in small bundles along the windowsill. It was Catherine’s way of bringing a sense of calm to the house, a subtle nod to the fresh start she would soon embark upon. She sat across from him in a high-backed chair, her needle poised over an embroidery hoop. Her fingers moved with precision, but her eyes betrayed her distraction, following his restless movements like a cat tracking a flickering shadow.

“Robert,” she said gently, breaking the silence, “if you have something to say, you ought to say it.”

Robert stopped abruptly, his face turned away as though the act of speaking would cost him dearly. He stood near the mantel, the soft light of the late afternoon casting a warm glow on the planes of his face. When he finally turned to face her, his expression was a mixture of concern and hesitation, the kind that made Catherine set aside her embroidery and sit up straighter.

“It’s about William,” he began, his voice low and deliberate. “We Blakes are honest people, and there are things you should know before you marry him.”

Catherine tilted her head, her brow furrowing slightly. “What things?” she asked, her voice calm but tinged with curiosity. She folded her hands neatly in her lap, the embroidery forgotten for now.

Robert sighed, his shoulders slumping as though he carried a weight he could no longer bear. He glanced toward the window, where the golden light of the setting sun filtered through the thin curtains. “You know how much I love my brother,” he began, his voice softening. “He’s a kind and brilliant soul, one of the finest men I know. But… he’s not the same as he once was. Not entirely.”

Catherine leaned forward slightly, her eyes searching his face. “Not the same? How do you mean?”

Robert turned away again, his gaze fixed on the small, flickering flames in the hearth. He spoke as though to the fire, his words tumbling out in a rush, as though afraid they might choke him if left unsaid. “It happened during the Gordon Riots, years ago. William was caught up in the chaos, as so many were. You know how he is – always outspoken, always willing to speak his mind, especially about matters of religion and justice. But that night… that night, someone mistook him for a sympathizer of the government’s policies.”

Catherine’s eyes widened, her lips parting in shock. “But William has never supported such things,” she said, her voice trembling slightly.

“No, of course not,” Robert said bitterly, his hands tightening into fists at his sides. “But when the army came to break up the mobs they didn’t care for truth. They only cared for “order,” as the government calls it.  He was in the wrong place at the wrong time and got struck in the head with a baton. They left him in the street, unconscious, as though he were nothing more than refuse to be discarded.”

Catherine’s hand flew to her mouth, her eyes shimmering with unshed tears. “How terrible,” she whispered. “But he survived that!”

“He did,” Robert replied, his voice heavy with emotion. “But he was never the same after that night. When he awoke, he spoke of strange things – visions of angels and celestial beings, of voices that whispered truths only he could hear. At first, we thought it was simply a feverish delusion. But as the weeks turned to months, it became clear that these visions were not fading. If anything, they grew stronger, more vivid. I think the head injury did something to his brain, his mind”

Catherine’s frown deepened, though her gaze remained steady. “You think his visions are a result of this injury?”

“What else could they be?” Robert asked, his tone edged with frustration. “Before that night, William was a dreamer, yes, but his feet were firmly planted on the ground. Now… now, it’s as though he straddles two worlds – one of flesh and one of spirit. And Catherine, I worry that he may lose himself entirely to the latter.”

Catherine rose from her chair, the fabric of her dress rustling softly as she crossed the room to stand before him. She reached out and placed a hand on his arm, her touch steady and warm. “Robert, I love William,” she said, her voice firm. “I love him for his kindness, his passion, and his boundless imagination. If these visions are part of who he is now, then I will embrace them as I embrace him. They do not frighten me.”

Robert looked down at her, his dark eyes searching hers for any sign of doubt or hesitation. Finding none, he sighed deeply and placed his hand over hers. “You are braver than I am, Catherine,” he admitted, his voice softening. “I only hope that your love will be enough to keep him anchored to this world, even as he reaches for the heavens.”

Catherine’s lips curved into a soft, radiant smile that seemed to light the dim parlor. “Love is not a tether, Robert,” she said gently. “It is a pair of wings. And I will fly with him wherever his visions take us.”

Robert nodded, though his heart remained heavy with worry. He released her hand and stepped back, his gaze lingering on her face for a moment longer before he turned toward the door. “Take care of him, Catherine,” he said quietly. “He is precious to us all.”

As he stepped out into the cool evening air, the weight of his words still lingered in the parlor. Catherine returned to her chair and picked up her embroidery, her hands steady and her heart resolute. She knew the road ahead would not be easy, but she was prepared to walk it, hand in hand with the man she loved. Whatever dreams or visions lay in William’s heart, she would face them with him, unafraid.

I gave ChatGPT the first two lines and told it to complete the sonnet. (meh)

**A billionaire is like a rotten cyst,**  
**And all the billions are like rancid pus.**  
**Their greed infects the world; the poor persist,**  
**While wealth swells up, diseased and poisonous.**  

**Their factories cough smoke like labored breath,**  
**The rivers choke on filth they never clean.**  
**They spread through laws, a plague that welcomes death,**  
**Consuming all and leaving nothing green.**  

**They starve the healthy cells with selfish need,**  
**A cancer growing faster than we fight.**  
**Each mansion built while countless mouths still plead,**  
**Is but a symptom screaming all's not right.**  

**Yet sickness fades when cures begin to thrive—**  
**The host must rise, or none will stay alive.**  

Intro: Winesburg, Ohio by Sherwood Anderson is a collection of short stories about life in a small town. One of the stories concerns a young lady named Louise Trunnion who has an “encounter” with a young man named George Willard. The chapter is titled: “Nobody Knows” and involves the “encounter” from George’s point of view. Clearly he is the one who is glad after the “encounter” that “Nobody Knows.” However, I wondered if there might be more to the story that “Nobody Knows.” Therefore, I took it upon myself to craft an additional chapter for Winesburg, Ohio based on one big supposition. I hope it does justice to Sherwood Anderson’s style and Louise Trunnion’s character.

CATALYST--Concerning Louise Trunnion's Unborn Child

The sky above Winesburg was gray and heavy, pressing down upon the fields that stretched beyond the Trunnion farmhouse. Louise sat by the window, her hands folded in her lap, staring at the bare branches of a tree that swayed in the late autumn wind. She felt the familiar weight of silence, the kind that settled over the house after her father’s muttered grumblings faded into the distance. He had gone to town early that morning, leaving her alone with her thoughts.

It had been weeks since her encounter with George Willard. The memory of that night lingered, sharp and strange. She could still feel the damp chill of the grass beneath her and the awkward, fumbling intensity of his touch. It had been something she’d both longed for and dreaded, an act that seemed to promise a connection yet left her feeling more alone than ever.

Now, sitting by the window, Louise’s hand drifted to her stomach. A faint, nagging suspicion had taken root within her, growing stronger with each passing day. Her cycle, always predictable, had not come. She felt no sickness, no physical change, yet there was a certainty in her that she could not shake. She was carrying George’s child.

The realization filled her with dread, not for herself but for what the town would say. Winesburg was small, its people small-minded. She could already hear the whispers, the sideways glances, the quiet condemnation.

Her father, John Trunnion, would be the first to judge her. He was a hard man, stooped and gray, with little use for words beyond what was necessary to curse the weather or scold Louise for her imagined shortcomings. Since her mother’s death, he had grown more distant, retreating into a world of his own. Louise had learned to live with his indifference, but she knew he would not forgive this.

Her mind drifted to her mother, a woman she barely remembered. There were faint images—a soft hand brushing her hair, a warm voice singing lullabies. Her mother had been the only warmth in the house, and when she died, it seemed the light had gone out. Louise’s life had become a series of endless chores and quiet nights, broken only by the occasional burst of anger from her father.

And then there was George. She had thought, for a moment, that he might be different. That he might see her as more than just a farmer’s daughter, as someone worth knowing. But their encounter had left her with nothing but silence. He had not come to see her again, nor had he spoken to her in town. He had taken what he wanted and moved on, as she had always feared he would.

Louise rose from her chair and crossed the room to the small, cracked mirror that hung on the wall. She studied her reflection, searching for some sign of change, some hint of the life growing within her. She saw only herself: pale, thin, with tired eyes and hair that refused to stay neat. She felt a sudden surge of anger—at George, at her father, at Winesburg itself. This town had nothing for her, and she would not stay to face its judgment.

That night, as her father snored in his chair by the stove, Louise sat at the kitchen table with a sheet of paper and a pencil. She tried to write a letter to George. “I am leaving,” she wrote, but the words looked hollow on the page. She tried again. “You are the father of my child.” The sentence felt heavy, impossible. She tore the paper into shreds and let them scatter across the table. George would not care. He had his own dreams, his own plans. She would not burden him with hers.

Instead, she began to make her own plans. She gathered what little money she had saved, hiding it in the lining of her coat. She packed a small bag with her few belongings: a dress, a pair of shoes, a photograph of her mother. She would leave at dawn, taking the train to the city. She did not know where she would go or what she would do, but she knew she could not stay.

The morning was cold and damp, the sky still dark as Louise stepped out of the house. Her father’s snores echoed faintly through the open window, and she felt a pang of guilt for leaving without a word. But she pushed it aside. He would not understand, and she owed him nothing.

The walk to the station was long and lonely. The town was quiet, its streets empty. Louise kept her head down, her coat pulled tight around her. She reached the station just as the train pulled in, its whistle cutting through the morning air. She climbed aboard, clutching her bag tightly, and found a seat by the window.

As the train began to move, Louise looked out at the fields and houses that had been her world for so long. She felt a strange mix of fear and relief. She was leaving behind everything she had ever known, but she was also leaving behind the pain, the loneliness, the suffocating weight of Winesburg. For the first time, she felt the stirrings of hope.

On the train, Louise sat beside an older woman with kind eyes and a warm smile. The woman introduced herself as Mrs. Harper and struck up a conversation. Louise was hesitant at first, unsure of what to say, but Mrs. Harper’s kindness put her at ease. They spoke of small things—the weather, the journey ahead—but Louise felt a comfort in the woman’s presence.

As the train carried her farther from Winesburg, Louise allowed herself to imagine the future. She pictured the child she would bear, a boy or a girl with George’s eyes and her mother’s gentle spirit. She thought of the life she might build, a life where she was not defined by her past or by the judgments of others. It was a fragile dream, but it was hers.

The fields gave way to forests, and the forests to the outlines of a distant city. Louise watched as the landscape changed, feeling the weight of her old life begin to lift. She did not know what lay ahead, but in that moment, she felt ready to face it.

The train rolled on, carrying Louise toward an uncertain future and away from the town that had shaped her. In the quiet of her seat, she placed a hand on her stomach and whispered, “We’ll be all right.” And for the first time, she believed it.

Why does he think he needs a fancy new expensive anchor?
It’s not that expensive.
Well it’s not money coming out of his pocket. That damn boat cost more than . . . more than a . . . it didn’t come out of his pocket either.
Maybe we need to get it in writing.
Don’t go bringing up the ‘need’ for that legal crap again.
I’m just saying . . .
You’re saying too much . . . as usual.
Sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you. Can I get you another cup of coffee?
How much is it?
Two seventy five.
The anchor, not the damn coffee. Jesus!
The anchor is two hundred and seventy five dollars.
Ha-ha! My venti cost two dollars and seventy five cents. Here’s the money for the coffee. And here’s the money for the damn anchor.
Thanks mom.
Just let him know that’s the end of it. Damn boat. Damn venti anchor.

Once upon a time there was a little girl named Alexandra. Only she wasn’t just a little girl, she was a Princess. Princess Alexandra loved to sit by her window in Light Manor Castle, which is where she lived, and listen to the birds sing and watch the clouds go by. She especially liked to watch the clouds as they formed into different shapes. Sometimes they were sailing ships or dragons or even a beautiful pony. She liked so much to sit and watch the clouds and listen to the birds singing in the big, beautiful maple trees which stood next to the clear, burbling brook which watered the emerald-green grass-she liked this all so much that she often forgot about her chores and lessons.
One day she told her nursemaid, Miss Kate, that chores and lessons were a waste of time for a Princess.
“A Princess should not work like a servant,” she told Miss Kate. “Princesses were made to appreciate all the delicate beauties of the land. The birds’ songs, the wonderful shapes of clouds, the great shady maple trees, the clear, clean, burbling brook, and the emerald-green grass.”
Miss Kate nodded her head wisely and replied, “Princess Alexandra, you are right-partly.”
“Partly?” Cried the Princess, indignantly.
“Yes, partly,” repeated the wise nursemaid. “Princesses should spend time appreciating all the beautiful things of the land. The birds’ songs, the wonderful shapes of clouds, the great shady maple trees, the clear, clean, burbling brook, and the emerald-green grass.”
Princess Alexandra smiled and nodded.
“But,” said Miss Kate, “There are things that Princesses must learn in their lessons, and there are things that only Princesses can do. Only a Princess can weave the magic fabric which is used to make the flags which protect our land from the Beast Beyond.”
Princess Alexandra wasn’t listening very carefully to Miss Kate’s lecture, she was too busy daydreaming near the window of her room in Light Manor castle, wondering what it would be like to be a bird flying high into the clouds above and singing beautiful songs to make young girls happy. When Miss Kate mentioned the flags made of magic fabric, however, Princess Alexandra noticed the ring of flagpoles far on the horizon.
“I know it’s important,” the Princess sighed, “I will try harder.”
The border of the kingdom, which was called Solitude, was protected from the Beast beyond by these flagpoles which flew flags sewn from magic fabric made by every Princess who had ever lived in Light Manor Castle. In order to keep the Beast from Beyond outside of the land, Solitude, the Princess had to weave enough fabric for one new flag each month. By paying attention to weaving lessons and working hard, most Princesses were able to do this task in two days by their tenth birthday. Princess Alexandra had just turned ten and it still took her a full week to make the fabric. Last month she spent so much time watching the birds and the clouds from her window that it actually took two weeks to weave enough magic fabric to make the monthly flag. This displeased her parents, the King and Queen of Solitude, very much.
The queen had to sew the flags once the fabric was woven. The King had to place the flag at the proper place on the border once the Queen had finished sewing it. Both the King and the Queen had very busy schedules and so Princess Alexandra’s dawdling created a lot of scheduling problems for them.
“If the fabric isn’t done by the end of the first week of the month,” said the Queen, “I have to cancel my Saturday riding lesson, shift my card game from Wednesday to Thursday, rearrange the visits from the courting ladies, and send Matilda to market with only half a shopping list. Honestly Alexandra, You must try harder. We are all counting on you.”
Princess Alexandra’s Father, the King, was even more stern with her. “We can’t have this dawdling anymore, young lady,” he barked gruffly at her. “If the fabric isn’t woven on time, the flag doesn’t get made on time. Then I have to create a hole in my soldiers’ training schedule so that I can get the flag out to the border. Troops can’t be kept waiting! Rank and file, Alexandra. Precision and bearing are crucial. Drill and ceremonies must be preceded by counsel and order. Duty! Honor! Country! Do you understand what I am telling you?”
Princess Alexandra hadn’t the foggiest notion what her Father was saying, but she looked him straight in the eye, gave her best military salute, and in her deepest voice (which wasn’t very deep at all) she shouted, “Yes sir!” That was the way she saw the soldiers respond to her Father and it seemed to please him when they did so.
The King frowned slightly, then smiled ever-so-slightly and said, “Just try harder, Princess. We are all counting on you.”
Princess Alexandra didn’t like to disappoint her Mother and Father, so she set about learning to weave faster until she could weave the magic fabric faster than any Princess had ever done before. Each month for the rest of the year the fabric was finished by noon on the second day of the month. This made the King and Queen immensely happy and they gave Princess Alexandra a beautiful pony for Christmas. Then Spring came once again. The big, fluffy clouds came out in all their wonderful shapes. The birds returned to sing in the great shady maple trees by the clear, clean, burbling brook which watered the emerald-green grass which Charley Horse (that was the name of the Princess’ new pony) loved to eat.
Princess Alexandra would ride Charley Horse out to the trees and the birds and the brook and the grassy fields every day. Then she would lie on her back beneath a great, shady maple tree and watch the clouds as the birds sang to her.
“If I were a bird,” she said to no one in particular, “I would fly up to those great, fluffy clouds and make big ice-cream scoops of them to eat all day long.”
Princess Alexandra was surprised when someone spoke back to her. “And if I were a little girl, I would wish for the exact same thing,” said a little voice above her. “But I would dearly love to ride through the countryside on a beautiful little pony.” The voice that spoke to her belonged to a blackbird who was sitting on the lowest branch of the maple tree Princess Alexandra was lying under.
The Princess was quite startled to be spoken to by a blackbird, but she was also very curious about this bird. “Riding a pony is very fun,” she admitted to the bird, “but, I imagine it is not as thrilling as soaring way up in the blue sky and flying right through the great, fluffy clouds.”
“Through the clouds!” exclaimed the blackbird. The suggestion seemed to upset the bird, who jumped form branch to branch with his feathers ruffled. It took a moment for him to settle back down. When he regained his composure he spoke with a little, nervous laugh. “Ha, ha. No, Princess, soaring through the clouds is terribly boring. Ha, ha. It can be dangerous, too. You can’t see where you are going very well, and your feathers get all wet so you have to flap harder. Ha. Ha, ha. It is much more exciting to fly around them. Ha, ha.”
“Hmm,” said the Princess, “I hadn’t thought of all that. I suppose you are right. But it’s all very pointless to discuss. I shall never be able to fly through or around anything at all.
“I could teach you,” said the bird. “I could show you how to soar as high as the clouds.” As he said this he jumped into the air, did a small loop and landed right back in the same spot as before.
The Princess started laughing and she began to flap her arms furiously to pretend she was trying to fly. “Oh, it’ll never work, you silly bird,” and she laughed some more.
“Well,” said the bird, “that’s a very dim view of things. I don’t suppose you’d even be interested in giving it a try my way.” The blackbird jumped up to a higher branch and set his wings to fly away.
Princess Alexandra was afraid she had upset the bird. She had never met a talking bird before and didn’t want him to fly away so she called out, “Oh, please don’t go. I’m afraid I’ve been terribly rude. I haven’t even introduced myself. I am the Princess Alexandra from Light Manor castle, and I should like it very much if you would stay and teach me how to fly.”
“Well, Princess Alexandra, my name is Scotch and I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”
Princess Alexandra curtsied politely and replied, “I’m pleased to meet you too, Scotch. Can you really teach me how to fly?”
“Well,” said scotch, “it’s not so much a matter of teaching you to fly as it is convincing the air that you are a bird. You see, if we can trick the air into thinking that you are a bird, the rest is easy.”
“How do we do that?” asked the Princess, who wasn’t sure if she believed this.
“You must give me a strand of your hair. Then I will pluck out one of my feathers. Next, you must wrap the hair around the feather. I will then take them up high into the sky and let them go. When the air smells them together it will become confused and not be able to tell the difference between you and me, and you shall be able to fly as freely as I do.”
Princess Alexandra thought that Scotch was loony and was making this all up, but she didn’t want to hurt his feelings again, so she agreed to give his plan a try. She plucked a long strand of hair from her head and Scotch plucked one of the feathers from his wing. The Princess wrapped the hair around the feather and tied it at both ends so it wouldn’t come loose. Then she gave it to Scotch, who disappeared with it in his beak, away up into the sky.
The Princess sat down beneath the maple tree to wait for Scotch to return. Soon, however, she fell asleep. As she slept, she had strange dreams of falling and floating and flying. She dreamed that the wind was tossing her through the air like a leaf. She awoke to someone calling her name.
“Princess Alexandra. He, he.” It was a funny looking small man sitting on her pony.
“What are you doing on Charley Horse,” she demanded.
“You had better get up before the cats come around. Ha, ha.” There was something familiar about his laugh.
“Who are you?” the Princess asked.
“Why, I am your old friend, Scotch. He, he.”
Princess Alexandra jumped to her feet, but found herself fluttering in mid air. Her body was much lighter than she expected. She stretched out her arms to steady herself and saw, to her surprise, instead of arms she had two black feathered wings. Scotch had tricked the Princess and he rode away on Charley Horse laughing aloud. “Fly away Princess. Fly away before the cats find you. He, he. Ha, ha.”
Princess Alexandra fluttered up to the highest branch in the tree and watched Scotch disappear in the distance on her little pony, Charley Horse. Suddenly she realized, “I’m a bird. I can fly!” And she took to the air and flew toward the castle.
The day was ending and night was coming on, and so it was difficult to see where she was going. In the distance the Princess saw a light. She thought it was a light in a window of Light Manor Castle, but as long as she flew, it never seemed to get any closer. Soon she became tired and landed in a tall tree to rest.
When she awoke in the morning she was completely lost in the middle of a forest. Light Manor Castle was nowhere in sight. She sat there in the tree and cried for a while, but instead of making a crying sound it came out as “Cheep, cheep. Chee-cheep.” A voice whispered in her head, “If you keep making noises you may attract cats.” And so Princess Alexandra did her best to stop crying and be brave. The voice in her head spoke to her again-she thought it was her own thoughts, although it sounded a lot like her nursemaid, Miss Kate. “Perhaps if you fly high into the sky you will be able to see where you are.”
Princess Alexandra knew that the best view of the land Solitude was from the highest tower of Light Manor Castle, so flying higher to get a better view made sense to her. Up into the air she flew, higher and higher. She flew up in a great big spiral until she could see all the way to the edge of the forest and beyond.
To the north were mountains she had never seen before. To the south was a great ocean. To the west she could see a broad prairie and to the east was a desert. The forest was still right below her, a great sea of green trees. But for as high as she had flown she could still not see her home, Light Manor Castle, or anything familiar from the land of Solitude.
As she was looking at the land below the Princess flew higher and higher until, suddenly, she couldn’t see things quite as clearly. Everything was getting misty and she realized she was in a cloud.
Suddenly, a large booming voice like thunder surrounded and shook the Princess. “You! How dare you come back here to ruin my artwork again!”
“Please,” the Princess called out, “I’m l-lost. Pleas help m-me.”
A large man with wings walked out of the mist and stood before Princess Alexandra. She wondered how he could stand on a cloud. He had a chisel in one hand and a hammer in the other. He also had wings on his back. He looked angry, and when he spoke to the Princess it was with the same gruff tone that her father, the King, used when he was upset.
“What sort of game is this? You say you are lost and need help.”
“Please, sir,” said the Princess, “I would greet you properly, but I do not know your name.”
“Don’t know my name, eh? Well I know yours-Scotch. You mischievous little gnome. I warned you that if you ever came back here I would . . .” the man shook his tools even harder in the air.
“Oh, no,” cried the Princess, “I’m not Scotch. He tricked me. I’m a Princess from Light Manor Castle in the land of Solitude. I’m not even a bird, really.”
“Princess? Bah! I don’t believe it. Prove it.”
“But how,” she asked?”
“Well, everyone knows that a gnome like Scotch can’t make rhymes. When a gnome tries to make a rhyme, his tongue gets tied in a knot and he can’t talk for ten days. So, if you really are a Princess and not that troublesome gnome, Scotch, you just make me up a rhyme for me to prove it.”
“Oh, dear,” said the Princess, “I’ve never made up a rhyme before. What should I rhyme about?”
“Ha! Quit stalling you little gnome. I knew it was you. You won’t fool me this time.” The man started toward the Princess.
“Wait,” she cried, “I’ll make you a rhyme about clouds:
When the sky is blue and bright
And filled with fluffy clouds of white
Then I close my eyes and dream
Of all the shapes that clouds can seem”

“Oh, that’s good,” said the winged man as he lowered his tools. “Keep going. Tell me ‘all the shapes that clouds can seem.'”
Princess Alexandra continued with her rhyming:
“Once I saw a cloud ride high
On the highway of the sky
‘That,’ I said, ‘looks like a horse
Although it is a cloud of course.'”

The winged man laughed. “Oh, yes! I love to make horses. They’re one of my favorite subjects. Go on, go on. Tell me what else you see when you look at the clouds?”
The Princess really felt like she was getting the hang of making rhymes and she continued with this one:
“A long, thin cloud once floated past
Its teeth were first, its tail was last
‘A crocodile,’ I cried, but realized later
That long thin cloud was an alligator!”

“Ho, ho,” the winged man laughed again. “One more, one more. You’re quite good at this game, I must say!”
The Princess rhymed for him again:
“The clouds were piled up so tall
I thought that surely they must fall
But, they must have had as good a planner
As the builders of my home, Light Manor.”

At the name of her home, Princess Alexandra burst into tears and began sobbing in the bird voice that came out as “Cheep, ch-cheep. Chee-cheep.”
“There, there,” said the winged man. Don’t cry Princess,” his voice suddenly lost all its thunder and became as soothing as Miss Kate, the nursemaid. “How is it that you came to be a bird, little Princess?”
Princess Alexandra told him the whole story about how she had been tricked by Scotch and how she had lost her way trying to get back home.
“Are you an angel,” she asked?
“Well,” said the man, “that depends on how you define ‘angel.’ I don’t guard anyone or grant wishes or play a harp or anything like that. I’m a cloud sculptor. By the way, what is your name?”
“My name is Princess Alexandra,” she answered politely.
“I am honored to meet you, Princess Alexandra of Light Manor Castle,” the man said as he bowed, “My name is Ali-sharif.”

( 1997 Scott Ennis

It was the kind of night that hummed with the electric charge of autumn. The air was crisp, laced with the faint scent of fallen leaves and pumpkin spice, and the campus quad was alive with laughter and footsteps crunching over gravel.

Tucked into a corner of the student union, past the bustling tables of pumpkin-carving contests and cider stands, sat the Candy Corn Oracle.

She was a vision of dark velvet and moonlight. Her long, wavy hair cascaded over her shoulders, catching the faint gleam of fairy lights strung above her booth. Her eyes were the color of molten gold, sharp and knowing, and her lips curved into a mischievous smile that made every college boy think, Maybe she knows something about me I don’t.

Her name was Mara. Or at least, that’s what the hand-painted sign leaning against her table said: Mara the Mystic: Your Fate in the Flick of Candy Corn. Beneath the sign was a carved pumpkin, grinning lopsidedly, and beside it sat a bowl piled high with the triangular candies.

One by one, the boys came, some with skepticism, others with grins full of bravado. She greeted them all with the same mysterious smirk.

“Five bucks for a fortune,” she’d say, her voice low and velvety, “but if you’re scared, I’ll understand.”

Ethan, a junior with a mop of curly hair and a perpetual smirk, was the next in line. He leaned casually on the table, trying to appear unfazed.

“Candy corn, huh? What’s next, reading fortunes from Skittles?”

Mara didn’t flinch. She picked up a handful of the candies, her slender fingers pale against the orange and yellow. “Candy corn is ancient,” she said, her tone carrying a hint of playful rebuke. “Each stripe holds a secret, and the way they land tells me everything I need to know.”

Ethan raised an eyebrow but slid a crumpled five-dollar bill across the table. “All right, Mystic Mara. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

Mara closed her eyes, muttering something under her breath—words Ethan didn’t recognize but felt in his chest. Then, with a flick of her wrist, she tossed the candy onto a black velvet cloth.

She leaned forward, studying the pattern with a furrowed brow. The room seemed to hush around them, the distant chatter fading as if the air itself were holding its breath.

“Interesting,” she murmured, tracing the edge of a candy corn with her nail.

“What?” Ethan asked, his bravado slipping.

“You’re at a crossroads,” she said, her eyes meeting his. “Two paths. One is safe but unremarkable. The other is dangerous, but it leads to something extraordinary.”

Ethan blinked, unsure whether to laugh or take her seriously. “That’s pretty vague, don’t you think?”

Mara smiled, a slow, knowing smile. “Maybe. Or maybe you already know which path you’re on.”

He opened his mouth to respond, but she wasn’t finished. She pointed to a single candy corn that had landed upright, its white tip gleaming like a tiny flame.

“That one,” she said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “It means someone’s watching you.”

Ethan glanced over his shoulder instinctively, but there was no one there. When he turned back, Mara was already scooping the candy back into the bowl.

“Next!” she called, dismissing him with a flick of her hand.

Ethan walked away, the smirk wiped clean from his face.

All night, Mara read the candy corn for boys who came seeking answers. Some left laughing, others quiet, their hands stuffed into their pockets as they walked back to their dorms.

But Ethan couldn’t shake the feeling that her words weren’t just for show.

Later that night, as he walked home through the darkened campus, he felt it—the faint, unmistakable sensation of being watched.

And in the distance, just beyond the halo of a flickering streetlight, a figure stood perfectly still, its golden eyes glinting like molten candy corn.