friday fiction

Fairy tales aren’t the only things I break…

The Feline in the Fedora

Come gather around, little children. Never mind the fish—they need their daily twenty minutes of fresh air, didn’t you know? No? Yet another thing the grownups didn’t tell you.

Well, we’ve had fun this rainy, rainy day. Aren’t you glad you opened the door?

But there is something I have to tell you, kidlets.

Sometimes your parents are right. But not for the reasons you think.

They tell you not to jump on the bed, yes? Warn you that you’re going to bump your head and there’ll be blood all over the sheets, the floor, your teddy bear, and you’ll have to go to the hospital and get stitches, just like your Uncle Ernie did when he was four.

What they don’t tell you is that if jump about in that Place of Dreams, your foot’ll punch a hole right through the door. And you’ll tumble right into those beautiful, nasty lands on the other side.

They tell you not to run with scissors. You’ll fall and drive the blades into your knee, they say. Or your foot. Or your eye. That happens, sometimes. Want to see my scar? Cool, isn’t it?

Except they’re not as afraid of you hurting yourself as they are of you putting a tear in the world. Snippety-snip, pokity-poke, and before you know it, purple-spotted monsters and tentacled trees and snake-birds are spilling into your reality.

And they told you not to open the door to the feline in the fedora. Last thing your mom said before she ran out to… where was she going? The gym? The grocery store? Who cares, right?

You thought she didn’t want you to have fun or mess up the house. But what she was really afraid of… well, let me show you. You want to see what’s in these boxes, don’t you?

The one with the clippity-cloppers and the sizzle-snip-snappers? This is Object A.

And that with the buzz-grinders and the buttery-cuttery-knives is Object B.

Stand back, children.

I’m turning them on.