• About

Within A Forest Dark

~ fiction and reflections by Margaret Sefton

Within A Forest Dark

Tag Archives: fantastical fiction

Naughty Bird

26 Monday Oct 2020

Posted by Margaret Sefton in Fantastical Village, flash fiction, original folktale, Stories with Talking Animals, writers in quarantine, Writers of Central Florida

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

fantastical fiction, original folktale, talking animals

Hungary and Its People…With Illustrations (1892), p. 207 by Louis Felberman, British Library digitized image, flickr

Now Katinka was the most efficient housewife in the village. Before the sun had risen overhead, she had finished the laundering and had set the bread out to rise. Her kitchen and rooms sparkled, and the hearth cracked with a bright well fed fire. It was her habit to air her home in the spring as she worked. One day, in flew a brown striped bird with a pink beak and a white breast. The tiny lark perched upon the back of a dining chair.

He then said: “You will have to do something about that husband of yours, Stefan. Surely he is cheating on you with the great and beautiful Georgeta, and everyone knows it. They talk of her beauty and her youth and how tasty she must be and how your husband is enjoying the fruits of two trees.”

“He is not, you naughty bird!” said Katinka, grabbing a broom and chasing the bird around her little wooden house.

But the bird escaped her broom and landed on the threshold of the open door. He sat long enough to chirp about the various sexual feats of Katinka’s beloved.

When she finally managed to oust him, she sat on her chair beside the hearth and cried. She cried so much that she made a salty soup with her tears, which she then put in the garden for the deer.

That night, in their marital bed, Katinka asked her husband, “Have I ever given you cause to be unfaithful?”

“No, of course not, my love,” Stefan assured her. “There is none more beautiful in all of the world to me. You are the only one of my heart, now and forever. You should not trouble yourself with such things.”

The next day, Katinka was hanging out fresh laundry. Out of the corner of her eye she spotted a brown striped bird bounding from branch to branch. Finally, it landed in her basket.

“I hope those wet clothes soak you so that you are damp and miserable,” said Katinka.

The bird only cocked its head to one side as it looked at her.

“Do you not remember that you were the bearer of evil news regarding my husband?” she said. “It was a falsehood. Were I not a kind woman, I would crush you and bake you into a pie.”

“At this very minute,” said the bird, “the king has entered the palace, the rowing has commenced across the moat, the snake is crawling its way to its hiding home.”

“That’s it!” cried. She threw a blanket over the basket, trying to catch the nasty animal, but it spirited away to the forest.

This encounter left her breathless and visions of what the animal was alluding to drummed through her head. How could it be possible? She believed her husband in everything he said. She was a good wife to him and had never even burned a piece of toast. And she was still one of the most beautiful women of the village, no small thing for a woman of her age, only a year younger than Stefan himself.

She made him ciorba that night for dinner, his favorite. She took extra care with the ingredients, adding the kefir that brings the tartness to the dish and whets the appetite. She wore a frock that complimented her figure and brought out the rosiness of her complexion. She brushed her hair a hundred times and wore her best combs. When she served Stefan the ciorba, she took care to bend so that he saw the beauty of her bosom and would catch the sweet scent of her perfume.

“You are beautiful tonight, my queen, and you have prepared my favorite meal for me. Whatever is the occasion?”

Katinka only smiled and sliced a generous piece of lipie for his plate. She watched him consume his dinner and then he took her to bed. They were happy as a man and wife and she could not be more satisfied that all was as perfect as the day they wed. “Nasty old bird,” she thought. “Tomorrow he will be bird pie, bird stew, bird bread. What is the meaning of all of his chatter?”

The next day she had to go to market. She was out of milk and butter and flour and she wanted to buy a string for his little bird neck. She would catch him and feed him to her husband who would be none the wiser. That would teach him.

On passing through the market she chanced upon the lovely Georgeta who was buying a wheel of cheese. She had the chance to observe the lass who seemed sweet and innocent enough, not at all the picture of debauchery painted by the filthy bird. It was just birds like this, thought Katinka, who created so much misery in the world. How many tears have I cried over his lies? I tell you, one teaspoonful is too much.

She built the bird a snare and to lure him, a mound of seeds. The next day, she found him in her trap, proving he can only be the bird brain she thought him to be.

When she pointed this out, he said, “But I have done nothing against my nature, Katinka. I have sung what is in my heart to sing. I have eaten the seed that my stomach craves. Mark my words: By next moon, you will be out in the cold and a new bird will fluff her feathers in your nest.”

And with that, Katinka wrung his little neck and put him into a pie and baked him in the oven, so displeased was she with the little thing. “I just hope the taste is not as bad as his words,” she thought. But the taste was as succulent a pie as she had ever made and her husband praised her and stuffed his face. He was passionate in bed with her that night, more passionate than he had ever been and she was pleased as a wife and could not help but smile at the memory of it the next day.

She found she missed the creature, however, oddly enough, missed the way his accusatory remarks had stirred her. Her life felt flat, somehow, plain. When her husband came home she was as dull as a worn pan. “What has happened to you?” he said and for many days thereafter he inquired after her missing beauty, charms, youthful demeanor. “Where is my fair bride?” he said one day and it struck her that he saw only the surface for he did not ask: “How is the heart of my beloved?”

And so doubt struck her for the first time since Stefan had declared himself her faithful husband. The bird had sung one note which now reverberated louder in her mind since taking the little creature’s life for their dinner. Stefan seemed to sing several notes which clashed: One a denial of his trysts, another his claim of an exclusive love for her, and yet a third his concern with appearances only and not the depths of her heart. This made it impossible for her to see him with a singular heart. What had happened to her dear, loving husband?

That night she collected tears silently by the bowlful and put them in the garden and the bowls outnumbered the deer necessary to take away her pain.

you will go out in joy

27 Saturday Jun 2020

Posted by Margaret Sefton in Florida fiction, Ms. Myska stories, original flash fiction, stories with talking plants and animals, writers in quarantine

≈ 2 Comments

Tags

fantastical fiction, sentient nature

2432786216_ce3aaf035d_o

Emma Forsberg, flickr

It had become ridiculous. Victor, a musca domestica, a common housefly, had gained passage into Ms. Myska’s apartment via the cellophane packaging of a crusty French loaf. The arrival of the groceries, having been scheduled to arrive at 11:00 a.m., had nonetheless caught Ms. Myska unawares for she had fallen asleep.

“Oh!” she said, starting bolt upright, realizing what had happened. Sure enough, the packages were on the threshold. All seemed well enough, however: All seemed in order and the milk and cream were cold.

Still, Victor had found his way in.

For days, he had bragged to Jasmine, the wild leg of a landscaping foundation plant and Ms. Myska’s porch plants – Flaming Katy and Donkey Ear – that he would find a way to observe what was happening inside and get fat from the dog food Ms. Myska put down for her little Coton.

What he hadn’t counted on was Ms. Myska’s sharp senses and reactions. Greedily, he had secreted himself away inside the cellophane for a quick snack of French bread crust while waiting for her to open the door and let him inside.

When Ms. Myska spotted him she shouted out in alarm, her second “Oh!” of the morning. She crushed him dead, instantly, while he darted about. His body was unceremoniously scraped away.

Though Ms. Myska hated this condition under which she would have to accept her bread, she acknowledged her responsibility.

Victor’s children were not far behind in gaining access for they had become concerned. He was a hard father to live with. He had never given them any breaks. Still, that did not mean they wished him dead. And he had meant his hard regimented style for their benefit as they would soon understand.

Like Victor, they all bragged to Jasmine and Donkey and Katie they would do what their father had not managed to do and live long and happy lives with Ms. Myska in their natural state of commensalism, giving birth to baby flies and getting fat.

What they had missed was the early cautionary and leavening influence of a mother who had died young while they were but pupae. “Know your limits” she would have whispered to them in their self contained infancy. “Don’t become too proud, for surely you will know death too soon.”

Victor’s children managed to ride in on packages and groceries, to squeeze in between cracks in the screened porch.

Ms. Myska kept her outside door open during certain hours of the summer to enjoy fresh air, to water and tend to her houseplants, Donkey, a succulent, and Katy, a Kalanchoe blossfeldiana, and it was mainly during these hours that Victor’s children managed to gain access.

Jasmine, the landscape plant on the other side of the porch, stepped in at times and said something. “Chillax” she hissed as she rode the waves of the wind. But they were too busy plotting their way to the grave.

“We all have self destructive tendencies,” Donkey Ear interjected sagely one afternoon from his place on the wrought iron shelf.

What did he know? thought Katy, laughing to herself. But it was so like him to sonorously opine with a wisdom beyond his abbreviated age. She allowed him this indulgence.

They would all die one day. Even Ms. Myska would die, thought Katy. They would all become husks while something inside would be set free.

Katy had heard a priest on tv read a revelatory passage from the text Ms. Myska read every morning: “You will go out in joy and be led forth in peace; the mountains and hills will burst into song before you, and all the trees of the field will clap their hands.”

Katy often wondered about this. She wondered how there were some people who thought carefully of the nature and future of the earth. She wondered if she would be celebrating along with other plants, humans, and geologic formations called mountains.

She thought the passage a little too hopeful, but she tried to stay open. Maybe there would be a new earth one day. She had to admit humans seemed insanely hopeful sometimes. But Ms. Myska seemed ok. If she wanted to read it in her book and believe it who was she.

Dirty Bird

28 Thursday Feb 2019

Posted by Margaret Sefton in Fantastical Village, original folktale, original stories

≈ Leave a comment

Tags

European village, fantastical fiction, folktale

sorrowful_tree_s_soul_by_nataliadrepina_d8oo0mx-fullview

Sorrowful Tree’s Soul by Natalia Drepina, Deviant Art

Now Katinka was the most efficient housewife in the village. Before the sun had risen overhead, she had finished the laundering and had set the bread out to rise. Her kitchen and rooms sparkled, and the hearth cracked with a bright well fed fire. It was her habit to air her home in the spring as she worked. One day, in flew a brown striped bird with a pink beak and a white breast. The tiny lark perched upon the back of a dining chair.

He then said: “You will have to do something about that husband of yours, Stefan, surely is cheating on you with the great and beautiful Georgeta, and everyone knows it. They talk of her beauty and her youth and how tasty she must be and how your husband is enjoying the fruits of two trees.”

“He is not, you naughty bird!” said Katinka, grabbing a broom and chasing the bird around her little wooden house.

But the bird escaped her broom; he perched himself out and landed long enough to chirp about the various sexual feats of Katinka’s beloved.

When she finally managed to oust him, she sat on her chair beside the hearth and cried. She cried so much that she made a salty soup with her tears, which she then put in the garden for the deer.

That night, in their marital bed, Katinka asked her husband, “Have I ever given you cause to be unfaithful?”

“No, of course not, my love,” Stefan assured her. “There is none more beautiful in all of the world to me. You are the only one of my heart, now and forever. You should not trouble yourself with such things.”

The next day, Katinka was hanging out fresh laundry. Out of the corner of her eye she spotted a brown striped bird bounding from branch to branch. Finally, it landed in her basket.

“I hope those wet clothes soak you so that you are damp and miserable,” said Katinka.

The bird only cocked its head to one side as it looked at her.

“Do you not remember that you were the bearer of evil news regarding my husband?” she said. “It was a falsehood. Were I not a kind woman, I would crush you and bake you into a pie.”

“At this very minute,” said the bird, “the king has entered the palace, the rowing has commenced across the moat, the snake is crawling its way to its hiding home.”

“That’s it!” cried. She threw a blanket over the basket, trying to catch the nasty animal, but it spirited away to the forest.

This encounter left her breathless and visions of what the animal was alluding to drummed through her head. How could it be possible? She believed her husband in everything he said. She was a good wife to him and had never even burned a piece of toast. And she was still one of the most beautiful women of the village, no small thing for a woman of her age, only a year younger than Stefan himself.

She made him ciorba that night for dinner, his favorite. She took extra care with the ingredients, adding the kefir that brings the tartness to the dish and whets the appetite. She wore a frock that complimented her figure and brought out the rosiness of her complexion. She brushed her hair a hundred times and wore her best combs. When she served Stefan the ciorba, she took care to bend so that he saw the beauty of her bosom and would catch the sweet scent of her perfume.

“You are beautiful tonight, my queen, and you have prepared my favorite meal for me. Whatever is the occasion?”

Katinka only smiled and sliced a generous piece of lipie for his plate. She watched him consume his dinner and then he took her to bed. They were happy as a man and wife and she could not be more satisfied that all was as perfect as the day they wed. “Nasty old bird,” she thought. “Tomorrow he will be bird pie, bird stew, bird bread. What is the meaning of all of his chatter?”

The next day she had to go to market. She was out of milk and butter and flour and she wanted to buy a string for his little bird neck. She would catch him and feed him to her husband who would be none the wiser. That would teach him.

On passing through the market she chanced upon the lovely Georgeta who was buying a wheel of cheese. She had the chance to observe the lass who seemed sweet and innocent enough, not at all the picture of debauchery painted by the filthy bird. It was just birds like this, thought Katinka, who created so much misery in the world. How many tears have I cried over his lies? I tell you, one teaspoonful is too much.

She built the bird a snare and to lure him, a mound of seeds. The next day, she found him in her trap, proving he can only be the bird brain she thought him to be.

When she pointed this out, he said, “But I have done nothing against my nature, Katinka. I have sung what is in my heart to sing. I have eaten the seed that my stomach craves. Mark my words: By next moon, you will be out in the cold and a new bird will fluff her feathers in your nest.”

And with that, Katinka wrung his little neck and put him into a pie and baked him in the oven, so displeased was she with the little thing. “I just hope the taste is not as bad as his words,” she thought. But the taste was as succulent a pie as she had ever made and her husband praised her and stuffed his face. He was passionate in bed with her that night, more passionate than he had ever been and she was pleased as a wife and could not help but smile at the memory of it the next day.

She found she missed the creature, however, oddly enough, missed the way his accusatory remarks had stirred her. Her life felt flat, somehow, plain. When her husband came home she was as dull as a worn pan. “What has happened to you?” he said and for many days thereafter he inquired after her missing beauty, charms, youthful demeanor. “Where is my fair bride?” he said one day and it struck her that he saw only the surface for he did not ask: “How is the heart of my beloved?”

And so doubt struck her for the first time since Stefan had declared himself her faithful husband. The bird had sung one note which now reverberated louder in her mind since taking the little creature’s life for their dinner. Stefan seemed to sing several notes which clashed: One a denial of his trysts, another his claim of an exclusive love for her, and yet a third his concern with appearances only and not the depths of her heart. This made it impossible for her to see him with a singular heart. What had happened to her dear, loving husband?

That night she collected tears silently by the bowlful and put them in the garden and the bowls outnumbered the deer necessary to take away her pain.

First published in One Thousand and One Stories

Margaret Sefton

Margaret Sefton

Margaret’s work has appeared or is forthcoming in Cowboy Jamboree, Corvus Review, The Journal of Radical Wonder, Shambolic Review, The Chamber Magazine, Tiny Frights, Demonic Household, Use Your Words, S/tick, A Thousand and One Stories, Flash Frontier, Writing in a Woman’s Voice, Blue Fifth Review, Bizarro Central, Honey Pot, Alyss, Best New Writing, The Dos Passos Review, Ginosko Literary Journal, Still Crazy, Asylum Ink, Quail Bell, Danse Macabre, Dark Sky Magazine, Chrome Baby, The Strange Edge, Beakful, Serving House Journal, Corium Magazine, Double Room, Emprise Review, Connotation Press, Atticus Review, Apocrypha and Abstractions, DecomP, The Quarterly Conversation, Get Lit: Round One Flash Fiction, A-minor magazine, Wufniks, 971 MENU, Trainwrite, State of Imagination, Pure Slush, Dark Chaos, Blink Ink, 52/250, Kaffe at Katmandu, Relief, and Colored Chalk. She received her BA in Literature from Wake Forest University, her MA in Adult Education from Denver Seminary, and her MFA in Fiction from Seattle Pacific University. Many of her stories are set in Florida, a place she has considered home since girlhood. Her work may also be found on Medium and Simily.

View Full Profile →

Enter your email address to follow this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.

Join 3,312 other subscribers
Follow Within A Forest Dark on WordPress.com

Follow me on Twitter

My Tweets

Blogs I Follow

Blog at WordPress.com.

Critical Focus

critiquing film

minor literature[s]

stuttering culture[s]

Electric Skull Press

James Milson - Writing & Things

May All Who Enter As Guests, Leave As Friends -- Because Together We Can Do So Much!

Courtland Avenue

Dave Gregory - Short Fiction

Stephanie Sanders-Jacob

Author + Artist

Experimental Film & Music Video Festival

Submit your film and get it shown at the festival that runs 3 times a month.

Ted Tocks Covers

Music is Life...Original Songs and Cover versions

davidscottmoyer

Photographer, Painter, Purveyor of Opinion

grammaticus

weekly posts on literature, languages, and learning

Mary Clark, Writer

Life is Art: Create Intuitively

Valheru Rides!

#Moto #Motorcycle #Travel #Motorbike #Adventure #Cheese #Meteor350

Crow Collective Workshops

Low Cost Online Writing Workshops

Annas Art - FärgaregårdsAnna

open mind art ;)

Pauline Shen

An emerging artist in London, Ontario.

Rumination on the Lake

Vast

A Literary Press

ROAD TO NARA

Rivers and Rural Communities : ँ : at the Heart of Travel

Irish Myths

plumbing the depths of Irish and Celtic mythology, legend, and folklore

Signe Maene

Writer | Audio dramatist | Short Stories | Folklore Blog

Club Plum

literary journal

Priscilla Bettis

Horror Author

The Florida Squeeze

Florida Politics, History and Society since 2013

SCAB

Milk Candy Review

We're here for your beautifully weird flash fiction.

Alina Happy Hansen

Writer in San Francisco, CA

ELJ Editions

Be Well. Write Well. Read Well.

Steve Toase -Wir essen immer bei Kerzenlicht

The Astounding Analog Companion

The official Analog Science Fiction and Fact blog.

The Galway Review

Galway's leading Literary Magazine

Gotham City Book Club

A beginner-friendly guide to Batman comics.

REVOLUTION JOHN

a journal of beautiful literature

BIG OTHER

"[B]eauty is a defiance of authority."—William Carlos Williams

Crow & Cross Keys

Two books in my pocket

Stuff I read and stuff I write

Zombie Salmon (the Horror Continues)

A blog about Horror fiction, Horror writing, and Horror criticism...a continuation of The Horror at Open Salon

Terror House Magazine

S O M E K I N D O F 5 0

Drawing a line through 50

Writing Genie

Editing and Creative Services

Site Title

Stephen Page

The Salty River Writer. - Alumnus of Columbia University, Bennington College, and Palomar College.

The Printshop Window

Caricature & Graphic Satire in the Long Eighteenth-Century

Punk Noir Magazine

The Only Crime Is Getting Caught

Unsolicited Feedback

Harry Katz's Blog

The Chamber Magazine

the strange and dark and beautiful

Antalgica Poetica

L'essenziale è invisibile e agli occhi e al cuore. Beccarlo è pura questione di culo

The Ghastling

The Fantastic Other

a place for the discussion of dreams, the analyses of fantasies, the prodding of popular larks

beach debris

Me and my South Florida

FIFA Football World cup 2022

Game for the World

  • Follow Following
    • Within A Forest Dark
    • Join 369 other followers
    • Already have a WordPress.com account? Log in now.
    • Within A Forest Dark
    • Customize
    • Follow Following
    • Sign up
    • Log in
    • Report this content
    • View site in Reader
    • Manage subscriptions
    • Collapse this bar
 

Loading Comments...