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Return to Scribblers and Ink Spillers Home Page by Jude Tulli Oompta. Oompta. Oompta. Oops, that's not it. Can I start again? I'm starting again. Oompta. Oompta. Oompta. Oompta. Oomp. . .
No no no pretend you didn't just see me fall. I'll get it this time for sure. Na na na.
Don't look too close; the knees aren't as springy as they ought to be for this part. Na na na. Na.
Of course it doesn't help that my ballet teacher was only funded part-time. The Sugar-Plum Fairy Vision Division didn't want to pay the royalties for the music either, hence my impromptu humming if you're generous enough to call it that. Oh, I know Tchaikovsky doesn't need to be paid anymore in your world, but we can track him down if only through some questionable friends of Rachmaninoff, and it's considered the right thing to do if we were to use a full score soundtrack in a holiday extravaganza like this one would have been if I had my way. Nowadays there's just no support for the arts, and that makes it hard for my muse friends to inspire people, let me tell you. Used to be a spark of an idea would be enough to set a person in motion. So many these days refuse to lift a quill feather without a contract in place. Calliope blames capitalism. So how did your fantasy date go? Oh, that's too bad. Sometimes the outfits are irregular and they do turn to ashes early. Even fairy magic isn't immune to shoddy craftsmanship anymore, and in the case of our summon-on-demand clothier, the decline in quality has predictably reared its split-stitched head just as the customer service department has been let go. No one wants to listen to complainers these days. Who am I?! You have no idea how tiring it gets answering the same questions over and over. Have you ever heard of the writer's adage, "show don't tell?" Here, grab my hand. Up we go! Whatever you do, don't look down. You might experience a spat of nausea, vomiting (in which case, please do aim down but for your own sake keep your eyes closed), dizziness, lightheadedness, fainting, and in rare cases, sleep-kayaking without memory of the whitewaters, heart attack, stroke or even the D-word. I'm kidding; those last three are just an old fairy joke. Took your mind off the ascent, though, didn't it? Now quick—bite down like you're a T-Rex and your first meal since hibernation just walked into your mouth. I'm kidding you again; I don't know if they hibernated or not, but you didn't burn up breaking through the Doubt Cloud so I must have done something right. Sorry if I squeezed too hard. No, not really; you're still alive, aren't you? Well, what do you think? This is the multiverse I call home when I'm not working. Oh yes, we fairies certainly do have lives outside of catering to the whims of humans. We don't cease to exist just because we vanish from your little psyches in the morning light! All right, so my new twog hasn't garnered any intercepts yet. There's always time to grow an audience, but I always say you have to live an interesting life first, if only so you have something worth broadcasting. I have other interests too, you know. Oh, not sorry, but I'll explain: a twog is a thought wave log. Emits straight from the noggin; other fairies tune in as they see fit. Usually everyone's too busy twansmitting their pet plans and dinner peeves to listen to what anyone else is twinking. No, the sad truth is it's always that way. I blame the head-hopping super-highway. Well, you're here! What would you like to see? No, no, no, stay away from the welcome committee over there. They have trouble tattooed behind the wings. Why else do you think they expend so much attention on their looks? I don't have to squeeze so hard, but if I lose you, how am I going to explain it to. . .whoever would miss you in the morning if you never returned home? Ah, here we are. This is the garden where I grew up. See that hydrangea bush over there? That's where I was born. Of course the exact blossom that nourished me as a little faembryo has long since been dried and pressed into my baby book by my— What's that? I'd love to show you her house but believe it or not that's one fairy with a gigantic dirty secret. If you lean in real close, I'll tell you what it is. But only if you're really sure you want to know. I'd hate to taint your media-induced idealization without some measure of complicity. All right, lean in just a little closer. Oof, not quite that close; remind me to find you a toothbrush or at least a mint leaf floss. There, that's. . .somewhat better. You really do want to know, don't you? SHE'S A CARTOON BECAUSE SHE DOESN'T EXIST IN REAL LIFE! Made you wince, didn't I? I'm afraid I'm not sorry in the least that I'm laughing up a rainbow. That trick never gets old! Well, I suppose it might for you if you remembered, but for all you know it's the first time you've fallen for it. I guess that's just what you get when you ask after fictional characters as if they're breath and gossamer. No, truth be told, I don't think gossamer's a material, but if it were I bet it would be quite extravagant. Like silk, only with a much higher thread count and (one hopes) not made by worms. Now to your right is the secret society where I gave up my heart's desire in exchange for the wish-delivery trade. Steady income and all turns out to be more important than dreams most of the time, if not a touch more often than that. What's that, sweetheart? How do I know you won't spoil the secret of my secret society? Oh, no, I'm not laughing at you, it's just that I'm already quite sure the secret's safe with you. You didn't think income mattered in our world? Neither did I until I came of age and didn't have any. See, a fairy can only live in a two-bloom suite on a multi-dwelling branch for so long before it starts to grate on the nerves. And let me tell you, my luck with neighbors is nothing short of abysmal. No, I said abysmal. Not absinthe. We can't visit the Green Fairy, she doesn't exist, either. And shame on you for thinking any fairy's mission would be to promote substance ingestion as a glamorous way of life. That's a job for sirens and minor demons, and they're unionized. But I have a real treat for you. Hold onto my shoulders and don't let go. Yes, looking down is not only encouraged this time but it's sort of the point. You see that pit of mambas in the Sandmen's (and Sandwomen's, of course) nightmare supply exhibit straight below us? That's exactly what I was flying over when I shed my baby wings. Oh dear, must you go now? You always pick such strange times to fall back to earth, don't you? I think saying, "don't worry," would be a little optimistic, but I am right behind you if that means anything. I know, it feels like their poison's burning through your circulatory system, but it's uncommon for them to bite hard enough to do permanent damage to a dreamer. Me? Oh, that's kind of you to be concerned but since my first brush with them I found a delightful perfume that's also a mamba-repellant. Everyone says the fragrance is just "me." Well, everyone but you; you've yet to comment on it at all. Look out for the mongooses! (You would think it should be "mongeese", but it's not. I have no idea why.) No, they shouldn't bite us; they're just warehoused here for release into snakes' bad dreams. See if you can fall more to the left. Let's not test our luck with the lions. I said LEFT! Quick, close your eyes! Don't complain; I wouldn't exactly be a friend to you if you knew why I was pinching your nose this hard. Just thank me and we'll both get on with our lives in about five seconds. Four. . .three. . .two. . . Whew. Got you home, safe and. . .well, safe is all that counts if you really think about it. And, cue the waking. Very good, get up and brush those teeth. Sorry I forgot to help you with that while you were still asleep. No, this time I really am sorry. You don't want to see the tooth fairy when she thinks someone's mocking oral hygiene in any capacity. Why are you staring at your reflection? Is that a glimmer of memory striving to push through the dimness in your earthbound eyes? No, just a beetle on the mirror, huh? Oh, that's nice of you to carry it outside and make sure it lands on its feet, even though it has no idea who you are and I guarantee it won't remember you in ten or twenty seconds, tops. Sigh. Welcome to my world. END Come back next month to find out what she's up to. Copyright 2009 Jude Tulli This website and all its contents are Copyright 2009 Scribblers and Ink Spillers, LLC. No copying in whole or in part is allowed. You may link to this page. |