These stories are presented for your enjoyment. Please respect the author's copyright.
The Wood Cutter
He wanted to be gone before she woke. It was another of those dreadful
holidays they’d spend alone. They were used to being alone. Anything left
of family had scattered across the world years ago. Still he remembered the
days when they’d wished for time alone, time to make love. He used to relish
the way she bustled around the kitchen wearing that pinafore style apron and
nothing else. Her firm little ass peeking through the open back usually meant
something in the oven burned black and crispy around the edges. Take care the
wishes you make in youth.
He inched the little blue truck onto the road and headed for
Morningstar Trail. The old road wound through a thickly wooded
section of land where he’d cut enough firewood to keep them cozy
all winter. By the time he got back, the day would be nearly done.
They’d have something easy for supper like scrambled eggs or maybe
a little soup. She’d be wearing one of those long flannel jobs
sprinkled with blue flowers or pink cats that flowed from the chin
over the tops of puffy slippers that looked like small boats. They’d
climb into the big lumpy bed and find the depressions where their old
bodies fit. She’d whisper goodnight and he’d mumble something that
meant I love you.
He loaded the truck and headed home. The first thing he noticed
was the smell. Pumpkin pie and the aroma of slow roasted turkey. Sage
dressing, too, if his nose didn’t lie. She’d dressed the dining room
with candles, the good china and a bottle of wine in a silver ice bucket.
“Lily,” he called.
“In the kitchen,” she replied.
He found her there, her not so firm little ass peeking through the
open back of a pinafore apron.
© M. C. Elam
My Old Tree
I fell out of a tree when I was six. A stately, old oak with lots of low branches that grew just so
a kid could go climbing. Climb I did. A magic world lived in that old tree. Faeries and elves, princes
and monsters, storms and sunshine danced among the branches of the place I called My Old Tree. My
Old Tree grew in the center of an orchard, along side a hill, on a farm in Ohio. No one came to the
orchard until time to pick fruit, no one but me. The reason no one came is that besides My Old Tree
and the others that grew fruit, Nanny and Billy roamed the orchard. Billy butted Pop’s backside, and
Nanny chased Gramps. Gramps walked with a crutch and cracked Nanny right on top of her head. She had a
lump and left Gramps alone after that, but he still didn’t come to the orchard much. Granny never came.
She stayed in the house, wore an apron and made strawberry preserves with whole strawberries that I called
ladies. I liked to hold the ladies in my mouth until the jelly stuff dissolved and just the lady remained.
Summer was a million years long when I was six and fell from My Old Tree. A million years gone with one wee
slip that turned Summer to Fall. Granny packed my lunch with peanut butter and sweet ladies on home made bread.
Then one day, scrubbed and shining and wearing my best, Gramps waved goodbye and Pop saw me off while Ma shed
real tears. They sent me to school where teachers with witch-eyes and long fingernails painted fire engine
red made me sit straight, face front, and never speak. And, just like them, give up daydreaming. Not me. Not ever.
© M. C. Elam
Timberwolf's Quest
A way down past the Blackened Water Swamp and through the valley of Twally Waggles is a little country called
Asmagoria. Now Asmagoria is a land known to be made of magic by folk who can do magic. Some do good magic.
They are mostly the good fairy people who live high up in the highest place above the tallest tree on the Mountain
of Pinions. In fact they make their home among the pinions which in all probability is the reason they almost
always smell a bit like Christmas.
But some naughty goblin type folk, in the dark of the night, widdle and diddle and chant and rant and doodle
and boodle and skitter and fritter around doing all manner of deplorable deeds to all manner of clama-bama-forious
Asmagorian critters. And many there be.... Why there are Bunnies and Mice and Cats and Dogs and Sheep and Goats
and Horses and Gnomes. Oops, did I say Gnomes? Well never mind about them. They are part of another Asmagorian adventure.
This adventure is for wee people who believe in elves and about one special elf in particular named Timberwolf.
Oh, and before I forget, you do believe in magic, don't you? Well of course you do. Otherwise it would be a very
silly thing for you to be listening to this story right now when you could go right straight off to your bed and to sleep.
Ah yes. I knew I was right.
Now Timberwolf lived on the other side of Asmagoria. Far, far on the other side, through the Tumbled Down
Cactus and over the Prickly Pear Hills, and through the Bilogious Bog that everyone knows is the home of the
Cacophonous Croakers. Yes, Timberwolf lived across the Greenish Blue Meadow and straight on into the center
of the Whispering Woods. In fact he lived high in the branches of a tree by the name of Simon.
What is that you ask? Why was the tree named Simon? Well, I really cannot say. Perhaps because when something
is a made-up-along-the-way-story, Simon seems a very good name for a tree. Don't you think so, too? I suppose we
could as soon name it Clyde or Steven or Marshall or Cynthia or Martha or Hildegard. But I like Simon and I think
Timberwolf does, too. If he did not like the name Simon for a tree, I am almost certain he would find another
place to live. Of course, that would be a sad day for Simon since he would have no elf to call his own.
Now actually all of this talk of names is quite interesting since this tale of Asmagoria is about how Timberwolf
got his name. You see since first ever he could remember there was a question in his mind about how he came to be
called Timberwolf. He didn't think about it too often because it was a very difficult puzzle, and solving very
difficult puzzles might give you a headache. He knew it was a very difficult puzzle because he did not know the
answer on the spot. And so he put it away with other difficult things like cleaning up Simon, and polishing his
boots, sharpening his pencil, and learning long division, and let's not forget, washing behind his little, pointed elf ears.
One day when Timberwolf was sitting high in the branches of Simon he started to think. When
he started to think he started to whisper to himself. And what he whispered was this.
"Why do they call me Timberwolf?
I have no paws or tail,
And if I walk around by night,
I give no wolfish wail."
And then he spoke a bit louder to be sure it was exactly what he was thinking in his head so there would be no mistake.
"Why do they call me Timberwolf?
I have no paws or tail,
And if I walk around by night,
I give no wolfish wail."
When he believed it was truly what he was thinking in his head, he gave it a great and true shout so that all would know he was very sure of himself.
"Why do they call me Timberwolf?
I have no paws or tail,
And if I walk around by night,
I give no wolfish wail."
And at long last for no other reason than the fact that elves are very musical and love a good tune, he sang it
over and over again to get just the right feel about it.
Why do they call me Timberwolf?
I have no paws or tail,
And if I walk around by night,
I give no wolfish wail.
Simon, who was not quite so pleased with hearing the same song again and again in Timberwolf's loudest voice,
gave a warning shuttering shake, and then a quivering fluttering quake, both of which resulted in dislodging Angus,
a sleepy, flopcious tree snake, from his nap. Angus grumbled and groaned, and mumbled and moaned at the very idea
of being dethroned as he slithered all the way back to his favorite spot on the east side of Simon where he could
bask in the warm rays of the morning sun.
"And now you see," said Timberwolf to Simon while he eyed Angus with tremendous sympathy, "you see how what
you do affects others."
Simon could only drop a few leaves to the ground and creak a bit in response.
"Never mind," said Timberwolf. "I forgive you Simon. Besides I have decided to set off upon a very
important quest. Would you like to know what my quest shall be?"
Of course, Simon already knew what Timberwolf was questing about. Well perhaps not exactly because elves
decide one thing one minute, and something else the next, and still something else in their spare time.
But Simon was pretty, parsnitty, galoptagritty sure Timberwolf was going on a quest about his name.
Even so, he stood like wood for the common good because he knew that Timberwolf would tell him anyway.
And so, when it came out, he was not a bit surprised though he did manage to creak rather suddenly to show
he was surprised just to be polite.
"I am going on a quest to discover why my name is Timberwolf," said Timberwolf.
"Of course," creaked Simon.
"Absssolutely," hissed Angus.
"Be sure to write," twittered all of the birdies in all of the trees that stood in the grove of the Whispering
Woods and were cousins to Simon.
And so Timberwolf made ready for questing. First he wrote a list containing all manner of monumentally important
items he could not live without. He would need his
Summer clothes,
Winter clothes,
Spring clothes,
And
Fall,
His
Walking sticks,
Card Tricks,
Toothpicks,
And
Ball.
And oh! And my goodness! Golly and Gee! By higgidy, biggidy, snarly tralee! It simply and dimply just could
not be true. He nearly and clearly had almost forgot
His Watch,
And his Sword,
His Arrows and Bow,
His Pencils,
His Pens,
His Crayons and Chalk,
And a very firm sprig of a Celery Stalk.
He packed up his pouch right there on the spot.
He stuffed it and smashed it and bashed it a lot.
Then he hefted it up to his shoulder and smiled,
For he knew he was just the cleverest child.
Now Simon was wise. That much we do know. He looked at the tightly stuffed pouch and then he looked at Timberwolf
straining to hold it all up and still manage to stand. He wondered and wondered before he spoke up. At last he came
forward with some creaks and some groans.
"Timberwolf might I ask you please, something I've been thinking about? When is it, what time, how long will it
be, that you plan to be off on this quest for your name?"
"Well, Simon," said Timberwolf. "I am not really sure. Questing is serious and very hard work.
I think I can promise and hold to it firmly that I should be home by dinner time."
"Then," said Simon, not wishing to seem rude since Timberwolf had indeed finished a fine job of pouch arrangement and
packing, "do you think you will really need everything in your bag?"
And so Timberwolf sat down upon a knot on Simon's limb. He thought and he thought, and he wondered and mused until
finally with a flourishing leap he jumped to his feet.
"Simon you know I’ve been thinking again. I don't think I shall need a single thing in my pouch for just one day's
questing." So he set about working to take it all out.
Summer clothes,
Winter clothes,
Spring clothes,
And
Fall,
His
Walking sticks,
Card Tricks,
Toothpicks,
And
Ball.
And oh! And my goodness! Golly and Gee! By higgidy, biggidy, snarly tralee! They simply and dimply just must be
removed. He nearly and clearly had almost forgot
His Watch,
And his Sword,
His Arrows and Bow,
His Pencils,
His Pens,
His Crayons and Chalk,
And his very firm sprig of a Celery Stalk.
He unpacked his pouch right there on the spot.
Un-stuffed it, un-smashed it, un-bashed it a lot.
Then he hefted it up to its peg and he smiled,
For he knew he was just the cleverest child.
"I think I am ready," said Timberwolf at last. "But it looks like the sun is so high in the sky.
Simon, what do you think? Should I wait until after lunch to go on a quest for my name? You know
it might not be good to stumble and tumble and bumble about in the Whispering Wood, when my stomach
is growling and empty."
Simon, who was nodding his branches in the pleasant noonday breeze roused once more. Lunchtime, indeed that was true.
Trees did not worry about such as that, but elves had to be careful to eat right on time.
"Well, Simon, what say you?"
"Eat hearty, young Timberwolf," Simon creaked and he groaned.
"Yesss, eat hearty,” called Angus from under a leaf.
"Never miss lunch," sang all of the birdies in all of the trees that stood in the grove of the Whispering
Woods and were cousins to Simon.
And so he did.
He ate
Jam
And Bread
And Pickles
And Relish
And Strawberries
And Blueberries
And Spam
And Cheese
And Ice Cream
And Cake
And Green Beans
And Spinach
And Carrots
And Shallots
And Corn on the Cob
All topped off in style
By the biggest
And fullest
And freshest for sure
Icy cold glass
Of his favorite drink.
He ate and he ate until he was stuffed. And while he ate he thought about his name. Timberwolf was certainly a
very nice name. He clapped his hands as he said it.
"Tim - ber - wolf,” clap, clap, clap.
Three giggly, and sniggly, grand, and good claps. More better and more bigger,
more important for sure, than
"Si - mon," clap, clap.
Or, "An - gus," clap, clap.
"What is that," creaked Simon.
"Oh nothing," said Timberwolf. He was ever so, clever to, never seem an impolite elf when it came to his
tree. I am sure you understand how important it can be to be good and polite when you are at home and ten times
more so when you go out and about.
"You know I think it's growing quite late. Too late for quests today, don’t you think?" said Simon.
"Well, yes that is true. I was checking the time, half past the hour for naps I suppose, and everyone
knows right down to his toes that elves must take naps and that's how it goes."
"Then I suppose you should make ready for a nap."
"I suppose so," said Timberwolf.
"I suppose ssso," said Angus.
"We suppose so," sang all of the birdies in all of the trees that stood in the grove of the Whispering
Woods and were cousins to Simon.
Ah what's that you say? What about the quest? Timberwolf is sleeping now, solemn and snug, curled up
tight, safe in the branches high-up from the ground, a way down past the Blackened Water Swamp and through
the valley of Twally Waggles, safe and sound in the magic country called Asmagoria. Simon rocks him gently, and Angus
keeps watch, and all the birdies sing sweet, elfish lullabies. Tomorrow will be time enough for questing.
That is if he wonders about where he got his name and why. And if not that particular quest, then other adventures
are brewing and stewing deep within the Whispering Woods.
© M. C. Elam
