Paget Brewster Complains That I Wrote Her As A Hydra

Paget Brewster Complains That I Wrote Her As A Hydra

This story is a follow-up to Sourswirls. It is recommended you read that story first to make sense of this one, though “sense” is very loose here.

I was surprised that a B-list celebrity such as Paget Brewster wanted to discuss my stupid blog story with her. It was silly to think she would have read it, but she did. I had sort of a crush on her, after abandoning my old one on Kristen “Buzzcut” Stewart. Then I thought she’d be mad about it. Her? Mad? It was mad to think that way.

I knocked on the door, accidentally opening it.

Paget: “It’s open, come on in!”

Me: “Ah yes, Ms. Brewster. I brought a gift.”

Paget: “Wine! You shouldn’t have. Drink with me.”

Me: “I don’t drink alcohol, Ms. Brewster.”

Paget: “Enough of the ‘Ms. Brewster’ crap! Call me ‘The Hydra.'”

(long pause)

Me: “Okay, The Hydra.”

Paget: “Because you like hydras, dontcha? All those heads and bad tempers. What is wrong with you?”

Me: (sweating) “Excuse me?”

Paget: “You think because I’m a celebrity I don’t have feelings? How do you think all those stock models feel being turned into weird art for your stories, Mr. Raccoon-Turd? How do you think Uma Thurman feels?”

Me: “Uma Thurman doesn’t have feelings.”

Paget: (laughs viciously) “You’re alright, kiddo. Wanna ask me only one question about my career? Maybe Criminal Minds?”

Me: “No, Community.”

Paget: “Gotta be honest, I don’t want to recall that show.”

Me: “Then forget my question.”

(awkward pause)

Me: “Wait, okay. Do you prefer voice acting or acting?”

Paget: (takes a sip) “Work is work.”

(longer awkward pause)

Paget: “So why choose me? And why a hydra?”

Me: “You’re my new Kristen Stewart, my muse, so to speak. You seem like a lot of fun, and I never meant to insult you.”

Paget: (indignant) “I’m fun? So I’m easy, is that it? Hmph!”

Me: “You see? You’re not easy. You’re horribly complex. It scares me.”

Paget: “Know what scares me? Some creep on the internet writing a story about you as a hydra. Hydras are way overpowered!”

Me: “And that doesn’t resonate with you?”

Paget: “Oh, shut up. Your wine isn’t even good. It shows that you don’t drink, Rack-On-Tour.”

Me: “I’m sorry. For the record, that insult wasn’t even good.”

Paget: “Why not just stick to dragons? They can be elegant!”

Me: “Name one elegant dragon.”

Paget: “…Probably a Pokemon. You’d know, ‘Mr. I Write Two Pokemon Stories!'”

Me: “There’s nothing wrong with that.”

Paget: “Sadly, your better stuff uses real people and Japanese stuff! What is that?”

Me: (crying) “I want to leave now.”

Paget: “Look at this hydra photo! I’m a freak to you! A toy! I’m a damn woman, not a source of humor for your pleasure! Mr. Rock-On-Turn!”

Me: (sobbing) “That’s the worst one yet!”

Paget: “And so are you! Get out of my house! And take your wine with you! It’s not fit to wax my shoes with!”

As I left the Brewster estate, I wondered if Kristen Stewart would have been so mean. Probably. She hates everything.

But it made me think about celebrity worship and how we idolize those we don’t even really know. Does Uma Thurman have feelings? Was it worth dismissing someone over a haircut? One thing was certain: Paget’s cruelty made me want her more.

She was right. I am a creep.




The land of Sourswirls was no longer the rich, lush community it had once been. Since the hydra came, the people lived in fear and many starved. The beast ate many crops and just as many inhabitants. The stocks were down and many feared the worst.

Once, the hydra wanted a child sacrifice. When the people presented a watermelon dressed in children’s clothing, she whipped all the children in town with her massive tail, scarring them for life. She ate two of them, as the other five heads weren’t hungry.

The community rallied for a hero, so they sent a letter for one to the Knight’s Guild in Quireton. The knight the Guild chose was Orrick the Ready, who was ready to have his first battle with a serpent. The Guild corrected him, saying a hydra is a hydra, not a serpent, but Orrick just rolled his eyes. “Still ready to fight this creature,” he muttered.

He rode for six hours on the back of an ostrich, until he parked it over at The Ole Ales, a favorite of Orrick’s. Six more hours and he was ready to leave. The ostrich started to flail wildly.

“Sire, this isn’t even the right way to Sourswirls. Must we make this detour each time?”

Orrick laughed heartily. “Trust me, a good ale is what ails me!”

“Ails means it troubles you. Does the drink trouble you?”

“Shut up, steed. Just ride me to Sourswirls.”

The ostrich sighed. “We’ve lost 12 hours and we went in the opposing direction. Get it together, sire.”


They rode back and came upon a cliff.

“Okay, steed. FLY!”

“I can’t fly.”

“Just flap those wings.”

“I can’t fly.”

“Run back and–”

“I can’t fly!”

They waited for an idea to form.

“I’m climbing down. Toss down my armor.”

“Sire! It’ll get damaged like that!”

“Do you have a better idea?!” he snapped.

“No, sire. I’ll toss it down first so it doesn’t hit you.” He wanted to hit Orrick.

An hour later, Orrick was on the ground, picking up his helmet, cape, sword, and various pieces of armor.

“The people of Sourswirls need us, steed. We can’t be concerned with ourselves.”

The ostrich raised an eyebrow, if it had them. “What about the detour with the ale?”

“That was confidence-boosting alcohol, steed. I’m… nervous, yes? I don’t know how to defeat the hydra.”

The wind rustled. The ostrich was at a loss for words.

“Let’s get some shut-eye, steed.”

They rested.

In the morning, a swarm of bees loomed overhead.

“Did we sleep under a beehive, steed?”

“I think so.”

A woman wearing yellow and black leggings danced over to them.

“I am the Bee Queen!~” she sang. “I know how to kill a hydra!~”

The companions looked at each other in excitement. “What do you want for this information, your highness?” asked Orrick, gleefully.

“Oh, I didn’t even think about a reward!~ But now that you mention it, I’d like The Flute of Bees!~ It summons bees at your beck and toot!~”

“Where do we find this flute?” asked the ostrich.

“My stupid sister has it.~ She won’t let me have it!~ Find my sister, find the flute.~”

The ostrich whispered to Orrick, “How are we supposed to find this person?”

“Wait, steed. Doesn’t it look like she already has a flute?”

The Bee Queen began shaking wildly. Hair covered her eyes.

“I’m the sister you seek. Malinda’s the name. I will give you the flute in exchange for something.”

“Multiple personalities,” said Orrick, and his steed nodded. “What do you want, Malinda?”

“I want the head of a hydra,” she said. “Bring me one and I’ll give you the flute.”

The companions wandered off.

In the village of Persolia, Orrick asked around if anyone knew how to kill a hydra. No luck, no kindness. Some children made fun of Orrick’s stance and one threw a rock at the ostrich. They left quickly.

The outskirts of Persolia had renegade knights loitering in alleys. “Hey, you been askin’ around about hydras?”

“Yes! Do you know how to kill one?”

“What? You don’t know? Wotta loser!” They laughed at him.

“Thank goodness we don’t have to save this town. Let’s never look back,” said Orrick.

As they stepped outside the town boundary, the entire village of Persolia sank into the ground.

“What was–”

“No looking back, steed.”

Finally, Sourswirls was in view. The hydra’s back was also in view. She was quite large and in charge.

“Time to battle. My sword.” The steed handed him his sword.

“Sire, is this wise? We don’t know how to kill it. And cutting off one head grows two more in its place!”

Orrick laughed. “What a fairy tale, steed. Two more heads. I’ll cut off all the heads and we’ll see–”

“See what?” said the hydra.

The hydra’s body was giant. Giant, yellow, scaly, and each of the seven heads looked exactly like Paget Brewster, but no one in the world could have known that. The heads grinned menacingly at Orrick.

“So, they hired a hero. Tell me hero, do you want to die?” Each of her seven heads spoke in perfect unison. Orrick trembled internally, stood resolutely externally.

“I’m not going to die. You are!” He ran up to her second head and sliced it off. Two more grew in its place. “In a couple of hours. Wait here.” He picked up the head, mounted the ostrich and fled.

“What are we doing, sire… no, not sire. You idiot! She’s bound to take her rage on those townspeople!” He flapped wildly.

“I have the head. See, we give it to Malinda, who gives us the flute. The Bee Queen then tells us how to kill the hydra.”

The ostrich thought about this. “Brilliant.”

“I know,” he smugly beamed.

As they passed through the wasteland of Persolia, confused, the steed gained newfound respect for his master. Finally, they found Malinda.

“You have the flute?~” asked the Bee Queen.

“Where’s Malinda?”

“I’ve never seen her, actually. ~ She just leaves me notes.~ Nice head.~”

“Oh, great. We don’t know when she turns into Malinda.”

“And then we have to wait for her to turn back.”

The Bee Queen looked at the head. “It’s very pretty.~ I’ll tell you the secret for the head instead.~”

“Yes!” they said together.

“Bees.~ A swarm of bees stinging the hydra.~”

“Oh great,” moped Orrick. “Where are we supposed to get and control…”

“The flute!” shouted the ostrich. “May we borrow it?”

“Oh, well…~ You mean this yellow and black flute?~ Sure.~”

They rode back to Sourswirls and Orrick whipped out his sword.


He then remembered the flute.

“Bees, listen to this!”

He played a jaunty tune as the bees began to swarm the hydra.

“What are you doing, human?”

“Bees are your weakness, right?”

“No. Cut off my middle head and I go down. And I’m only telling you this because you’ll never manage it. I think you’re pathetic. Small. Weak.”

“Heroic!” He screamed, and jumped off the ostrich, diving into the center of the hydra. He split her middle head in two, down the center. The beast collapsed.

The people of Sourswirls cheered. The brave hero had done it! The two were lifted in the air. The priestess approached them.

“Brave sir Orrick, you have saved this land. However, we heard that the Guild also lends aid to devastated towns by supplying them with clean food and water, medical aid, clothes…”

“Oh, uh. That’s not really my department. You have to talk to someone in HR about all that, okay?”

“I see. Well, thank you again, Sir Orrick and his ostrich steed.”

As they walked back to the Bee Queen, Orrick whispered to his ostrich.

“Can you believe the nerve of that lady, putting me on the spot like that?”

“She doesn’t know our ways. We need to put out a Q&A or a handbook.”

They angrily returned the flute to the Bee Queen and headed home.

Tiny At The Dairy Barn

Tiny At Dairy Barn

How could this happen to Lauren Lockwood? She considered herself, as many do, to be a good person. She didn’t smoke, so it didn’t make sense that she shriveled up as she did.

She shrank to no bigger than a can of Coke. She knew this because she had been drinking a can of Coke when it happened, and it was laying on the ground next to her. Next time, Diet Coke for sure.

Thank goodness she was carrying doll clothes with her when it happened. Lauren put on the lensless plastic frames and the high heels, seriously doubting Barbie and her associates’ fashion sense. The doll laid next to her, undressed, as if to say “Good luck, kid. I’m going to wait here to be burned by a bored teen boy.”

She wobbled in the shoes, not used to such crap quality. They should make leather shoes for dolls, she thought. Clearly it’s time for an upgrade.

The Dairy Barn loomed overhead like a skyscraper. It hadn’t been doing the best business, but dammit, this was her childhood hangout. Now she was wondering if she should go back, or potentially sue. Who would listen to me like this? she wondered. I was short before and got ignored, but this…

As a child, she was on the petite side. The other girls would call her Little Lauren Lockwood and throw acorns. “Scoop them up, Little Lauren! Scoop them up!” She shuddered at the memory. That’s why she always wore pumps, to pump up her spirits. She would give anything to go back to being 5″4′.

Lauren heard rustling in the bushes. Was it a bird, or a squirrel? She started to run, but fell on her face. She crawled on the colossal asphalt surrounding the Dairy Barn. No Lockwood was pathetic enough to let themself get eaten by a creature.

The entity popped out. A beaver? In New York? That seemed unlikely. The creature sniffed at her shoes for a moment, then stepped back. Then the beaver lunged in the air at her. She crouched in fear, but the thing just fell on its chin. She watched as it struggled to rise, so she walked over and punched it in the snout six times.

The beaver cringed and shuddered. Lauren felt pity for the dam beast. She decided to exploit him. Slowly inching her way towards him, she climbed aboard the monster’s back, being careful not to pull out his fur. Then she kicked him to get him moving.

Across the asphalt she rode. She felt like Bastian from The Neverending Story riding the Luckdragon. She tried to ignore the smell. Coincidentally, the beaver tried to ignore her smell. She had been doused in some sugary drink and was sticky. He picked the tiny thing up and licked it clean, much to her chagrin yet slight amusement.

The tiny woman made it to the Dairy Barn window. The beaver followed her in what seemed to be an absurd attraction. He lifted her back onto his head and she climbed onto the window sill.


“Yes,” she squeaked. “I drank a Coca-Cola from your drive-thru…”

“Speak up please.”

“I said, I had a Coke from your store and…”


“Yo, da lady wants to go back ta normal size already, yeah? And I drank a Sprite and it made me a beaver!”

Lauren looked at him in shock. “You can talk? But then, why…”

The beaver smiled. “Would ya have let me lick ya if ya knew?” No, she would not have.

“This happens all the time. Just pee it out and you’ll be fine again. Please move ahead. Next!” With that, they left.

The following week, Lauren bought a Hostess Ring-Ding instead. She had gone back to normal size and felt confident going to Dairy Barn once more.

She wondered about Steven, the beaver who drank Sprite, but didn’t worry about him. After all, he came on way strong.

She saw a man sipping on a Sprite and he spotted her. Was it Steven? She didn’t wait to find out. Like Coca-Cola, she was done with him.

This story was sponsored in part by Pepsi. Pepsi: How do you know Coca-Cola products won’t alter your metabolism? Drink Pepsi.

Wallace and Gromit: A Grand Night Out

Wallace and Gromit Grand Night Out

Another night knitting. Knit knit knit. Gromit studiously worked on his new sweater for Wallace, who was busy on a new invention. Something about the pulse, maybe. Or was that impulse?

A large explosion rocked the foundation for the third time that week, and it was only Monday. Not again. But whether it was an explosion of success or failure remained to be seen.

“Gromit,” wheezed Wallace, covered in ash and soot. “Old lad. What am I doing with my life? I’ve fallen for three women in my whole life, including a murderer and a cheese-hater. I’m bald, Gromit. And I’ve blown up so many times, I have no eyebrows.”

Gromit looked at his friend with sympathy, but just wanted to get back to knitting.

“I’ve decided, old boy. We’re going to have a cracking night out, Gromit! No! A GRAND night out!”

Gromit rolled his eyes. Mid-life crisis? Or maybe that machine made him impulsive. He liked Wallace, but he really liked a quiet night.

“Oh, Gromit. We’ll go to a dog-friendly bar so you can really wag your tail at a lady! That poodle found a new owner and she moved, remember? I bet you’re quite lonesome!”

Yes, he couldn’t forget Fluffles. Her new owner was much more caring, and he didn’t want to get in the way of that. They still wrote, but it was clearly over. Maybe Wallace was right. Maybe a new woman could get him out of his funk.

Wallace left the house in a dapper suit and tie, while Gromit sported a scarf. They walked six blocks to get to The Crack in the Wall. They entered the bar and…

It was full of trendy young people. Wallace shuffled his feet.

“Oh Gromit, oh no! I don’t want to rob the cradle! Why, they’re practically children! Let’s go, lad.” As he turned to leave, an exotic young woman with a tongue stud pulled his arm.

“Hey man, like, hashtag great suit! I’m Kayla and this is my pug, Curie!” She grinned broadly. “Dance with me a bit, love?”

“Well… you only live once, right? Although I have been working on a reincarnation machine for years that– WHOA!” She pulled him onto the dance floor. He danced oddly, but she was polite and copied his moves.

Gromit approached the bar. A lady bartender approached him. “Pick your poison, doggie.” He pointed to the whiskey. She poured him a glass and added “On the house, Rover.” He inhaled the drink.

“Out on the town for a bit of love, love? I must warn you, tonight… the ladies are all dogs.” She wasn’t kidding. He hated pugs, but a bulldog? A chihuahua? Where were the Great Danes? He’d even settle for a labradoodle. He wasn’t only into looks, but everyone is entitled to liking their types.

The song ended and Kayla took Wallace to a table. “Like what’s your name, man?”

“Wallace,” he beamed.

“Cool. Cool. Got a last name?”

“Oh, yes!” he smiled.

A minute passed. “Okay then. So why are you here, Wallace?”

“Ah, to have a nice evening out. No, a GRAND NIGHT out!”

“I see.”

“What do you do for a living?” he asked.

“I’m an inventor. I created an app that makes dieting easier!”

“I’m also an inventor! I’ve created robot trousers, a space ship, a bed that drops you into your clothes in the morning…”

The hipster bent over the table and whispered something in his ear. He blushed.

“I-I-I-I-I couldn’t! The very idea! Sell my inventions! Ms. Kayla, they’re not public-ready!”

“So when will they be ready?” she posed.

Wallace paused. “I… I don’t know. My contraptions always have a bug in them.”

“Well, I’ve got to dash off. Nice meeting you.”

Back at the bar, the bartender was telling Gromit about her favorite dogs. “And huskies. Aren’t they gorgeous creatures?”

Gromit nodded wildly. Finally, here was someone else who got it right.

“Gromit, we’re leaving. Say goodbye to the nice lady.”

Gromit waggled his fingers, half-drunk from the free refills she gave him.

“Bye, doggie. Come back any time, yeah?”

At home, Gromit put his sweater aside and passed out on his bed. What a grand night out.

Not so for Wallace, who spent the night tinkering and clanking. He was going to sell one invention if it killed him.

The next morning, Gromit’s head pounded. He felt the night more than made up for it.

Wallace called him to the ground floor. Gromit trudged, each footstep pounding into his head. When would this nightmare end?

A small device covered in a cloth was displayed on the table. “I’ve checked this over and over. It won’t explode, attack, or fall in love with its owner. I present… The Grommie!”

He unveiled a robot dog that resembled Gromit.

“Watch this, lad. Grommie, sit.”

It sat.


It fetched.


It didn’t speak.

“I programmed it to be mute to be like you, lad.”

Tears welled up in Gromit’s eyes. He hugged Wallace, who was also crying.

“We’re going to live the good life now, Gromit. And I think that impulsive nature left me. But what say we visit The Crack in the Wall tonight anyway?”

Gromit rubbed his temples. Not tonight, it seemed.

I Do Not Want To Be Best Man At This Cat Wedding

I Do Not Want To Be Best Man At This Cat Wedding

Why did my mistress dress me up in a bow tie and take me outside? That is, I believe, animal abuse. Her and her nutty friends just HAD to marry off some cats today. Mews flash: Cats don’t get married! We prefer hiding in the dark and being nude. Oh well. At least it’s not a sweater. Mr. Meowpants didn’t get off so easily.

The worst part is that they chose me to be Best Man. Why not “Best Cat?” I’d wear that title with utter pride, mistress! But no, Julia gets to be “Cat of Honor.” Where’s the sense in that? She pooped outside the litter box last week! Where’s my honor, huh?

Best Man. Yeah, right. This Best Cat hates other cats, especially Julia. Like I’d lick her fur for that cat blog. That thing is a train wreck, mistress. I can’t believe you cried that you weren’t getting enough subscribers. Humans have weird problems.

I’ve met Tim and Missy. Their owner is my mistress’s best friend. Tim and Missy are okay. But here’s the thing: Like all cats, I hate all cats. Okay, that’s a generalization, but name a cat who immediately liked a new cat you’d brought into its domain. Is it zero? Cats can’t count, you know.

I really hated Julia when mistress introduced her. Still do. But at least Tim and Missy don’t bite or swat at me. I feel sorry for them. I wonder why anyone would marry off neutered and spayed cats when they can’t have kittens. I also wonder why anyone would marry off cats.

I spotted some of the humans crying. I mean, I guess it’s allergies, because I doubt most of the women met these cats at the risk of getting their faces scratched up. You have to be pretty lonely and vain to attend a cat wedding. I think it’s mostly women here, as I see more dresses than pants. I swatted at some skirts, and mistress picked me up. “Naughty Onyx,” she said, repeating the hated name. It sounded oddly pleasant coming from her, as usual.

They got a traditional priest, not a cat dressed as a Catholic priest, not a lady priest, not two stacked tables with a Bible on top. I think I heard Lili (the bride and groom’s mistress) that he’s her father. He looked very uncomfortable. More uncomfortable than me. I think I felt something called… pity? Cats don’t feel pity and cats don’t dance, I thought, looking at the dance floor they set up for an outside wedding.

I slinked over to Tim. I wanted to know what he thought of all this wedding stuff.

“Mew?” I phrased elegantly.

“Mrrrrrrr…” he growled like a barbarian.

Fine. Screw Tim. I guess he has cold paws.

That suit looked itchy, I thought. I guess there’s cats and humans who have it worse than me.

I curiously looked around at the guests, because I hadn’t been neutered yet. Tabby. Calico. Dog. Shorthair. DOG?!

Yes, some man brought his dog to a cat wedding. He was the big gossip discussion the whole time. “Why is he here? Did they get lost on the way to a dog birthday party?” No one knew, but I did hear Lili call the master “bro.” Was he her broker? What was that anyway? Mistress talked on the phone with hers a lot.

I listened to human gossip. It went something like this:

Pink Hair Woman: “Blah blah blah priest is Lili’s father.”

Blue Hair Woman: “Really? Blah blah blah problems with her lifestyle!”

Pink: “Blah blah blah with his cancer, he’s not blah blah blah weddings any more, but this was a special occasion!”

Blue: “Everything is beautiful. Hey, little kitten.”

I darted off.

Finally, the guests found their seats. The priest looked sadly at Lili and his son.

Priest: “Blah blah blah beloved, we are gathered here to… to… blah blah blah can’t do this. It’s a cat wedding! Lili, why won’t you ever get married blah blah blah?”

Lili: “Papa, not here, not now. Blah blah blah.”

Priest: “What is asexual anyway? Why don’t blah blah blah your mother happy?”

Lili: “I don’t believe in marriage?” I wasn’t sure if she was asking a question.

Priest: “But you make me do it, mocking the sanctity of God and love? Blah blah blah can make your own damn wedding.”

Commotion broke out. Lili fell into her broker’s arms and cried. The guest screamed, cursed God, cursed Christ, cursed Sundays. Mistress just looked down sadly.

I didn’t want her to cry. Then she would pet me with her long nails. (shudder)

I carefully walked over to the priest, who was hunched over.

“Oh, little kitten. You’re as unnatural here as blah blah blah.”

I meowed in agreement.

“I just… when my blah blah blah asked me to host a wedding for her, I was elated. But a cat wedding? Blah blah blah end my career on that.”


“It’s not right. But… it’s not Christian to break a promise either, blah blah blah. We’ll work out our problems another blah blah blah.”

I purred a little, then stopped just to tease him.

We walked back to Lili. “I’ll do it,” he told her. She clasped her arms around him.

The ceremony was awful. The nice priest was trying to remain dignified the whole time, but the couple started to tussle and Julia pooped on the altar. The cats in the seats meowed loudly for food, and I couldn’t get my bow tie off. Mistress ended up crying and rushed over to pet me (shudder). The broker spoke loudly on the phone to HIS broker, and the catering staff laughed the whole time. The dog, surprisingly, was very well behaved for his species.

When it came to kiss the bride, Tim licked Missy’s thigh. Close enough for these people.

The food was considerate. I assumed it would be (ew) vegan dishes, but there was fish! Chicken! Meat! Ten points to Lili!

As it turned out, the dance floor was only for the humans. Thank goodness. I assumed mistress was going to hold my paws and lift me on my hind legs! I really lucked out!

All in all, I’d say it was a normal wedding, but with cats.

I’d like to end off by saying, mistress, you better not marry me off to Julia any time soon.

My Husband Is An Asian Woman, A Pelican, And The Sleepy’s Man

My Husband Is An Asian Woman, A Pelican, And The Sleepy's Man

I really didn’t want to come home tonight. Not after what I’d seen happen to Eric. As I unloosened my tie, I heard squawking and Asian dialect in the other room.

He really shouldn’t have pissed off that wizard. It was bad enough that Eric mocked magic in general, but the comment about the wizard’s mother was too much and too far.

I slowly trudged into our bedroom where the two of us– rather, the four of us, sat down on the bed. I shuddered at the sight of him.

God. He was a wreck. First, the Asian woman. She was spouting off in Korean or Japanese, I don’t know what. She was mad at me for something and tossed a stiletto at my face. I felt like crying.

I tossed an anchovy into the pelican’s mouth. He could be hit or miss, like when he pooped in my hair. But tonight he was like my old hungry Eric.

Finally, the Sleepy’s man. Despite talking like Eric, I could never kiss him. This was Hitler-mustache Sleepy’s man, so it felt weird looking at him. I had to talk to this one to regain my sanity.

“Hey honey. How was your day?” I asked gently.

“Oh, you know. That Law & Order: SVU with Paget Brewster was on. I know you like her.”

How could he joke about that? I like men. I like Eric, not some big-nosed actress. Did I still really love Eric, though? He became three different entities because of that wizard’s curse, and the only way to break it was true love.

What was I going to do? I was losing my mind, my love. I hated myself for doubting him and her and it. Should I seek couple’s counseling? We didn’t really have the money for such things, but maybe… True love. That’s all it takes.

I went back to the wizard’s tent and begged him for more help. He asked for money. I handed him a twenty. He asked for more. I said that’s plenty. He said to go away. I handed him ten more. He then told me about the types of love, such as lost love, self-love, and false love. But true love is the most powerful.

“How does one express true love? You made it hard for me to love him.”

“Look, boy… girl? You sure are androgynous. The true love here isn’t between a man and a… person? It’s between the man and the woman and the bird. True love of the self.”

“So I have to make Eric love himself?”

“Truly love himself. Ten more and I tell you one more thing.”

I counted my change. Just enough.

“You must make all three love each other. Or else it won’t work. Begone.”

At home, I asked Sleepy’s Eric what would it take to love himself. “Probably something,” he mumbled. No help there.

I sat the three of them down at the table and pulled out my phone. I used an app that detected Asian woman Eric’s language. Vietnamese? Whatever. I made her speak into it.

“Finally,” the translator spoke. “I can tell you. I feel totally confused right now, and the fact that you’re so calm makes me angry.”

“Calm?” I wheezed. “I’m not calm! I’m torn up inside! I’m scared and confused too! Please, this isn’t about me. What’s up?”

“I just… hate what I’ve become. I’m so much and I’m nothing!” she yelled. “How can I love myself like this?”

“Yeah,” said Sleepy’s Eric.

“SQUAWK!” agreed Pelican Eric.

I thought. I realized. “You’re scared. You’re all scared. And that’s driving you deeper to depression. Eric, who saved that child from being run over in a marathon?”

“I did,” called Sleepy’s.

“Who massages my feet when I’m stressed and give me back rubs when I’m down?”

“That’s me,” said the Asian woman Eric.

“SQUAWK!” squawked the pelican.

“Right, a third example. You’re always there when someone needs you. And right now, you need you. So hug it out, okay?”

Awkwardly, the three Erics reached for each other. A light glowed and…


“You’re not Eric,” I fretted, although with his straight teeth and thick hair, I wasn’t complaining.

“Yes I am, Robin. I guess that true love did this to me.”

Well readers, after that I sure lived happily ever after. Eric never spoke Asian or squawked or sold mattresses ever again.

Follow The Money

Follow The Money

“Oy, what a cold day it is here in… MANHATTAN!” Fiveish sing-sung. “Ah, not a single smile. But I’m here to change that. By the end of the day, I’ll have made five people smile!” He grinned like a toothless idiot. “I am a five dollar bill, after all.”

He spotted a trendy young woman with a nose ring and thick glasses texting and walking. “Ah, my first customer,” he quipped. “Excuse me, ma’am!”

She froze in horror. “Um, yes?” Was this a guy in a costume, or real life?

“Do you have a five dollar bill?”

“Um… like, you are a five dollar bill.”

“I know,” he grinned. “I was hoping you’d set me up on a shidduch.”

Time crawled until she spoke. “Um, what’s a shiddock?”

“A shidduch, you know,” he wobbled, “it’s like a date.”

“Oh… um, I’m actually in-between jobs right now, so I don’t have any money.”

“‘In-between jobs?’ Isn’t that a fancy way of saying no one will hire you?”

The woman blubbered a bit, then ran off crying hysterically.

“I think I saw a smile…” Fiveish convinced himself. “What’s a shiddock? I gotta remember that one for the comedy club!”

Two blocks over, Fiveish spotted an arguing couple. “Looks like I need to take off my comedy hat and put on my love hat!”

“You never treat me right!”

“You don’t deserve to be treated well!”

“My mother…”

“Your mother…”

“STOP!” said Fiveish. “Friends, don’t you see that this bickering is not what the Torah had in mind? Shalom Bais, people! Love and unity and peace!”

“I’d LOVE to get a PIECE of YOU, Nitty.”

“Fiveish. Come one, come all, come on! Lovers?”

The two turned away and continued arguing.

Fiveish grinned to himself as he walked down the street. “They’re probably yelling about how great my counseling was. That makes three now!”

Spotting a homeless man with a dog, Fiveish toddled right up to him.

“Hello, good sir! May I treat you with a meal?”

“Oh, God. You wanna take me to one of ’em kosher places I bet.”

“Of course!” Fiveish beamed. “Kosher is fo’ sure no sure means of not being a Jew!”


“Kosher is a Jewish essential.” he muttered.

“No thanks. I used to be a Jew–”

“Once a Jew, always a Jew!”

“But I found out my birth parents weren’t. I never even got the ol’ snippity snap. So I chose to live like a non-Jew. Nothin’ personal to Judaism, just always wanted to try lobsters.”

“Snippity-snap is a Bris Milah?”

The man sighed. “Yer wastin’ yer time. Don’t you know that money can’t get you happiness?”

Fiveish froze in his tracks. Money? Can’t? Get? You? Happiness? The words circled and danced around in his head, each word growing with more and more meaning.

Was it true? As a genetically modified Jewish five dollar bill, was he wasting his time trying to make others smile? Money can’t get you happiness. What about tzedukah, charity? What about paying the therapist that final dollar bill because you’re finally cured? Wasn’t Lincoln happy to be on the five? Aren’t the fabulously wealthy happy? Was he even happy?

Finally, he collapsed against a brick wall, buried his face into his large gloved hands and wept. A shadow descended upon him.

“Smile and the world smiles with you,” said the large man with a gun, “cry and you cry alone. Hand over your cash.”

Fiveish paused his tears. It made perfect sense. It didn’t matter that he was made of money. He just had to keep smiling. He smiled at the man. The man recoiled in terror and ran off.

“I made EVERYONE smile today!” he sing-sung. “Because I am Fiveish, the greatest five dollar bill the world has ever known! Smile, world, smile! Oh, and do a lot of bikur cholem, visiting the sick! Not a lot of people really do it, REALLY do it, because maybe a Facebook post isn’t enough! Send a card, flowers, chocolate if they aren’t diabetic! Trust me, you’ll make their day and your own!”

“SHUT UP!” screamed several New Yorkers.

Fiveish smiled. “Right back at ya, my friends!”

Uma Thurman of the Owls

Uma Thurman of the Owls

“Have you ever seen Motherhood? No one has. It’s $1.99 online. $1.99 to see me act.”

The owls were trying to sleep, but she kept chattering on.

“My Super-Ex Girlfriend is $2.99. I don’t know. To me, they’re of a similar quality.”

She tried picking off feathers from the snowy owl with her toes, succeeding all too well. She held them in place.

“Ta-da! Quentin would have loved this. But forget him. Forever.”

She watched the largest owl fly away in what she perceived as something other than annoyance.

“Off to get us some worms, right bros?” She laughed nervously. The barn owl turned away from her.

Uma Thurman flopped onto her back. Why didn’t the other owls like her? Was it because she was so tall? Her size 11 (she claimed) talons? Her tired eyes? She identified as an owl now. She recalled what had happened.

As of today, she said in a public speech, I no longer feel like a human. I’m being watched and photographed all the time. I feel overly sexualized and criticized. Therefore, I will now live my life as an owl. I will move to an undisclosed tree with other owls and if you think I’m mad, you’re just a bigot.

Many people supported her in fear of being ousted as bigots. Uma bought five male owls and moved to the top of a dragon blood tree.

But now they hate me, even though I’m one of them. What did I do wrong?

The thought struck her. “I’m not a predator like my brothers! I need to use my talons to attack, and I’ve just been lazing about!”

She ran and ran and ran and jumped off of the tree, toes outstretched to grab an animal with. She fell and fell and fell and landed on Quentin Tarantino. He lay unconscious on the dirty ground. She stood up and realized he must have been looking for her.

A cruel idea struck her brain. What was the name of her big movie he directed? Kill Quentin? That sounded right to her.

That night, Uma fed an ambiguous meat to her brothers. “Eat up,” she said. She turned to the snowy owl. “Uh, those are for me. I eat the feet.”

The largest owl hooted. The roundest owl hooed. The snowy owl whoed. The barn owl whomed. The bland owl said nothing. The Uma owl said, “What are we going to do now, brothers?”

The owls picked her up with their talons and flew off. Over the forests flew the six owls, high in the sky, over the trees and beyond the clouds. Past rivers. Past valleys. Past the boundaries of the forest.

Finally, Uma felt like one of her brethren. Uma laughed in excitement, hoping this flight would never end.

They went into the human territories and stopped at a police station. Uma ran, barefoot, but the five owls’ strength was no match for one owl.

“I don’t want to go! I don’t want to go!” She panicked. “You can’t take me to jail over Quentin! Directors are creepos!”

“What seems to be the problem?” asked the sergeant. “Ain’t you Mia Wallace from Pulp Fiction?”

“N-n-no! I’m an owl! An owl!” She stomped frantically.

“That’s Uma Thurman, the self-proclaimed owl,” said a female cop. “I recognize her from Motherhood.”

“Oh, would you like an autograph?”

“I hated that movie. Worst waste of $1.99 I spent.”

The owls began to hoot wildly. To Uma, they seemed to be pecking a path of truth into her skull. She couldn’t withstand it any longer.

“I KILLED QUENTIN TARANTINO AND ATE HIM! But it’s fine, right? I’m an owl. You can’t arrest me.”

“Actually,” said the second cop, “an animal that attacks a human usually gets put down, and you killed one. Let’s send her to animal control.”

Uma froze. This wasn’t right at all. “I was only kidding. I’m not really an owl.”

“No, no. You made it clear. You’re an owl and we’re putting you down. Hello, animal control?”

“But I’m human! I have human children! My ex-husbands are human!”

“That so? Then we’ll send them to jail for bestiality.”

The animal control came in. “Which owl is she?”

“The big yellow one with the goofy claws.”

“But I am a human! I am human!” She kept on screaming it until the words couldn’t be heard.

At the animal control center, Uma was strapped down with leather ropes.

“You can’t do this! Kill Bill! Pulp Fiction! The Producers! I’m too famous for this! Too rich! Too… COME ON, I’m human for Christ’s sake! Quentin totally deserved being eaten! You can’t do this to another human being!”

“Stop hooting, little one. It’ll all be over soon.”

Uma shouted and wailed and cried, but to no avail. The needle pierced Uma Thurman the owl’s skin and…

The Animal Kingdom Scares The Wind

the animal kingdom scares the wind

In the Galloping Forest lived a happy community of animals. From the majestic deer to the diligent beaver, the playful rabbit to the wily fox, the creatures lived in harmony with one another. They never knew from hunger, from hardship, from…

“Hey… what’s that over there?” asked Mrs. Turtle, the elected leader of the Galloping Forest.

“It’s sort of cold and sharp,” said Dr. Badger.

A moose and a mouse that cohabited looked up at the sky. “It’s very cloudy,” they said. “Cloudier than a winter’s day.”

For this conundrum, they decided to call on the help of the mallards.

“We’ve seen this before,” they said. “It’s the wind, or at least a baby wind. It blows around and around, freezing you to the bone and scattering your harvest.”

Everyone got nervous. “I don’t like the wind,” said a baby bear.

“I’ll eat it up for you, honey,” said the papa bear.

“You can’t eat wind,” said the mallards.

“But maybe we can scare it off.” Mrs. Turtle was slowly pacing the lake. “It’s just a baby, correct? Well, maybe it can be frightened into never coming back.” Mrs. Turtle whispered her plan to the other denizens of the forest.

The baby wind wandered around the forest, blowing and breezing along. Then she saw it: Hundreds of animals with pots and pans, banging wooden ladles on them. There were also a number of signs that read “Down with Trump wind!” and “Stop killing each other sunny days!” and “Black lives Animal temperatures matter!” and “I Like Ike Wind To Go Away!” The forest had been littered with signs from various protests over the years and the animals crossed out certain words.

The little wind became scared of the signs (she was used to loud noises from her uncle Thunder, but was not used to being hated). Rain flew from her eyes and she flew off.

The animals cheered with pride. That ought to keep her out of their fur! The adults celebrated with a pint of ale.

One summer day, the animals noticed something odd. It was far hotter than usual. Kites stayed on the ground. Pinwheels just looked pretty. The animals went to complain to the leader, Mrs. Turtle.

“So it’s a little hotter and your toys don’t work! Big deal!” She sighed from the heat. “And anyway, it’s sunny and clear now! Don’t complain to me!”

Without warning, the sky grew dark. It became windy and the kites and pinwheels blew away. A loud booming voice and a small high-pitched one were arguing.

“Auntie Tornado, please leave them alone!”

“No one messes with my precious Windie!”

“They didn’t know no better! They’re just scared!”

“Good! I’ll make them really fear us!”

And with that, Tornado began stomping on trees, hutches, and caves.

“I have to stop her,” worried the wind. “But how?”

The little wind opened her mouth and aimed at Tornado. She blew… and blew… and blew! And do you know what happened?

It didn’t work, of course. How could wind, regardless of size, stop a tornado?

The next day, Tornado left but disarray remained. Wind helped to try and repair the destroyed homes, but it was no use. The animals split up and moved to different parts of the world. And that is why wind exists, but more importantly, why you don’t tamper with nature, but also, why animals don’t live in harmony anymore, but furthermore, why protesting something technically works.

The moral is, it’s okay to protest some things, but not the wind.

Vampire The Deejay

vampire the deejay

So tired. Always so tired. Aco hadn’t fed on a female in a week and a half. His blood levels were low, too low to be deejaying. And he spent his mornings trying to hire a prostitute, since he couldn’t leave until sunset. Problem was, prostitutes didn’t make house calls to vampires. They had a history of bleeding dry.

What was he going to play tonight? Perhaps some Skrillex? No, too mainstream now. He thought about the elf. Maybe she liked College. He played “Teenage Color” and swayed a little, partly due to enjoying the beat, partly due to the fact he was going to collapse any minute. He really had trouble standing. Aco hoped she’d be coming tonight.

Night came and the monsters rushed in. Gorgons, yetis, werewolves, even Frankenstein’s monster’s great-great-great grandson. He desperately glanced around the room. Was she here? Was she alone?

Aco played an awful lot of College songs, but no one was complaining. For a moment he forgot her, but she never escaped his mind.

Then she, the Asian elf with chestnut hair, spun into the room. Not just her dancing, but her very footsteps, spun. She also brought her rock-monster coworker, but he didn’t register her in his mind.

An hour passed as he watched her. He felt drowsier than usual. He shot up awake when she walked up to him.

“Hey man,” she had a bratty voice that he liked in a woman, “Can you play ‘A Real Hero?’ That one’s like, my fav.”

“Sure, I like that one too.” He smiled, exposing his fangs. She pretended not to recoil a bit, but he caught her. He closed his mouth, crestfallen. The elf pouted.

“I didn’t mean to get scared. Thanks, DJ Blooddrive.” She looked at him closely. “Like, are you okay man? You’ve been swaying a lot.”

Aco crouched. “Just fine, miss. One Real Hero, coming up!” He fell over.

“The name’s Karis.” She realized he was unconscious on the ground. “Hey, mister! What about my song?” She set her priorities straight. “Hello? The deejay fainted! Someone help!”

An hour later, Aco woke up. He had a sweet bloody taste in his mouth. Did someone puncture themselves on his teeth?

The paramedic tapped him on the shoulder. “You were very lucky. It’s not often an elf donates her blood for a vampire.”

Aco’s jaw dropped. “You mean the Asian elf with chestnut hair?”

“Karis, she said her name was.” He handed Aco a ripped shred of paper. “And she wanted you to have this.”

It had a phone number with a small heart on it and a note that read “Call me if you ever need blood!”

Aco grinned at the slip of paper. He didn’t feel too embarrassed about his fangs anymore. He did, however, wonder if he should call her up for a date.

Two years later, they were married. Aco and Karis had a mess of cute skeleton dogs. Aco never went hungry and, carnally, neither did Karis.