Home is where the fire is

It was a chilly night, the kind autumn sends to make sure you remember it has arrived. Brendan showed up late to the party. He hung back a moment, unsure of himself. A small fire crackled in an iron pit on the patio; people clutched plastic cups and laughed manically at jokes that weren’t all that funny. The men wore fedoras and artfully torn jeans, the women tank tops or skirts; they all shivered or rubbed their hands vigorously, having chosen to underdress and be stylish rather than warm.

He walked up to the patio; he made it all the way to the steps before anyone realized someone new had arrived. A chorus of loud greetings assaulted him. He smiled wordlessly. He hadn’t seen most of these people since high school.

The hostess, an old friend, appeared from inside the house carrying a camera in one hand and a drink in the other. “Brendan!” she shrieked, nearly dropping both items as she raised her arms to hug him. He had never understood why some people feel the need to start and end every encounter with a hug, but he complied. “Ooooh,” she said pulling back and winking at him. “What’s that I felt in your pocket?”

He pulled out his two staves. “I spin fire these days, remember?” he said. “I was told you wanted me to spin tonight.”

“Oh, will you, please?” she said, batting her eyelashes. He smiled again, a little charmed despite himself.

He had no idea why he was here. He was starting to feel like it was a mistake as he accepted an apricot beer from someone he didn’t know. This wasn’t his crowd. He’d moved out of state right after school because he’d never felt like this was home. But his cousin had talked him into the party. These people were talking politics. These people were worried about their weight. These people had children. None of them had ever seen anyone spin fire, or any of the other things he could do.

He finished his beer, stepped into the modest yard, and began arranging his things. The moment the poi were alight, he felt more at ease. Out here, he couldn’t see the faces of the other party-goers. They fell mostly silent, though occasionally they yelled at him good-naturedly. He started to spin, slowly at first, but gradually gaining speed and complexity. Just like always, a dozen camera bulbs began to flash. He was home, after all.

Outcast

Glaring at the post, Blikkerd morosely rubbed his sore tooth. Those jerks would get it one day, he thought, pounding one green fist into the other with a satisfying fleshy smack. Oh sure, they could point and laugh now, but Blikkerd was certain that he’d hit his growth spurt one day and grow three times bigger. Then he’d finally stand nose-to-nose with the ogre bullies, those arrogant debonair dudes who had all the girls falling over themselves for attention. Then he’d be the one tying people to posts by their teeth and winning misty-eyed female gazes.

Surely he couldn’t remain a shrimp forever.

He kicked a tree trunk in anger; its bark split a few inches. He roared in frustration. If any other ogre had kicked a tree, it would have fallen with a magnificent crash. A squirrel sat in high up the tree, skritching away at a walnut and eyeing him curiously. He roared again. The squirrel barked back at him and stuck out its tongue.

Blikkerd sighed heavily and walked on through the woods. It would be days before he could show his face back in the caves. No one would soon forget his flailing arms and unmanly shrieks when they’d tied him to the post. No, he’d need to let that effect wear off before returning home.

Feeling rather lonely, he walked for hours, barely noticing where his feet led him. As it grew dark, he started to look for a glade where he could sleep. He was NOT afraid of the dark, not at all. He had a severe allergy to darkness, was all, and the only cure, unfortunately, was sleeping near others. It was not going to be a good night, spent all alone.

He stumbled through a thick patch of fragrant pine and stopped dead at what he saw. In the clearing there lay sleeping three beautiful faeries. Their skin glimmered like snow in the late evening sunshine; their diaphanous wings caught the light and reflected prisms of color. Their lunch, clearly stolen from humans in the nearby village, lay snugged by the nearest faery. But most beautiful of all, an ogre slept against a tree, part of their little group. The ogre was ridiculously small… barely bigger than Blikkerd himself.

Blikkerd could hardly contain the feeling of hope that set his heart to hammering. He crept into the circle and settled against a tree across from the other ogre. He would wait until they awoke. Maybe, just maybe, they wouldn’t tie his teeth to a post when they discovered him.

Nest

Spring cleaning fever set upon me in early March. Something about chartreuse buds peeking from behind the russet film of winter triggers an innate need to tidy our human nests. I scrubbed, I donated, I reorganized and folded. I turned my gaze to my little lawn, where my wrath fell upon the blight embodied by a giant rusted satellite dish.

I had no idea how to get rid of the thing myself; it was far too large and I hadn’t the proper tools to dig it up. So I posted an ad online. “Free to the first taker: scrap metal in the form of old satellite dish. Must remove it personally.” Within hours I had four replies and wondered if I should have charged people for the service. I arranged for someone to remove it while I was away from the house.

When I got home, I strode purposefully to the spot where the satellite dish had once darkened my yard. A deep hole was the only indication it had ever been there… except for a bird’s nest. Tiny naked creatures with yellow bills and bits of brown fuzz filled the nest. Anguish rose in my chest. I hadn’t even considered the time of year, the likelihood that a bird might choose the satellite dish as a safe place to lay her eggs.

I tried to leave the nest alone to entice the mother back. But when it became clear the mother wouldn’t (or couldn’t) return to the disturbed nest, I dug worms and tried to feed the birds. I fed them sugar water. I frantically telephoned animal rescue outfits within a hundred-mile radius; they all told me there was no chance of saving birds so young.

Days later, all options exhausted, my husband put the dying creatures out of their misery, tears streaming down his face. After burying the tiny bodies, we held each other, shoulders shaking, gazing at the nest and wondering why the stupid satellite dish couldn’t have waited another month.