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Very short stories to read at the bus stop.

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Velveteen will never make me real.

It doesn't matter how sick my boy gets, no matter how hard (and how long) I prayed for scarlet fever. For leukemia. For whatever mitochondrial disease Madeleine L'Engle gave Charles Wallace.

Nothing works. Nothing so far, anyway.

I've read six different versions of Pinocchio. Four different versions of the Pygmalion myth, not counting that 80s flick, Mannequin. But I've watched that twice.

They're all just stories. I hate stories now. But I read them all, just in case.

The crickets all shut up when they hear me coming. The only fairy in the house is the boy's dad, who seems to be overly fond of his wife's stockings and only gets hard if he can sneak a picture of David Hasselhoff into the room.

Magic wands in the house: about twelve remotes for various and sundry entertainment devices and some rubber-headed monstrosity that plugs into the wall and says Hitachi on the side.

I've hit all the buttons. Believe me.

No luck. I'm still fake. A plastic toy.

But I have a box cutter.


Posted by Laszlo Q. V. St-J. Xalieri

15th Aug 2008, 19:27   | tags:


I *love* this ending..
the story too, but this ending is special

15th Aug 2008, 20:00


What can I say? He's a very special bunny.


15th Aug 2008, 22:38

Helen says:

Ah man, and to think I cried for that bunny in the original story.

30th Aug 2008, 09:25