THE HEART OF A PRINCESS by June Dordal

“Is he dead?”

“I certainly hope so.”

“Jory! How can you say such a thing?”

Jory shrugged as she glanced at the body on the ground. “Well Daye, he was trying to kill you.”

“No, he wasn’t.” Daye bent over and gingerly touched the body. It jerked. “He’s alive!”

Jory rolled him over and felt for a pulse. She poked him with her sword and he jerked again. She sighed. “You’re right. He lives.”

“What should we do?” said Daye.

As the twelve-year-old younger sister with little experience of the world, Jory thought Daye worried about the most inconsequential things. “Go home and see if Cook has made her scrumptious cinnamon rolls?”

“Jory! How can you be so heartless?” Daye hunkered down and put her hand on the boy’s chest. “His arrow was meant for the deer. It scampered off after you . . . after you struck him down.”

Jory shrugged again. “He is just a peasant and should know better than to hunt in our woods.”

Daye glared at her fifteen-year-old sister and heir to their father’s throne. “You will be a horrible queen!”

Jory hung her head. Daye may be naive and soft, but her opinion was the only one that mattered. “Help me put him in the cart then. I guess we can bring him to the Healer.”

They wrestled him in as best they could practically folding him in half to get him to fit. The buckets of apples they just picked had to be left on the side of the road. Jory swore under her breath.

The cart jerked and bounced over ruts and roots on the overgrown path leading to the Healer’s hut. The boy never made a sound. When they finally arrived, Daye leaped out and banged on the door with both fists. “Help, a boy has been hurt!”

A bent and graying person of indeterminate age and gender opened the door and hobbled out. After a cursory look, the Healer declared, “This boy has been run through. It is too late.”

Daye couldn’t contain her tears. “Please! You must help him. It was an accident. Jory didn’t mean to . . .”

“It was not an accident,” Jory huffed.

The Healer stared at Jory for so long, she began to feel a prick of uncertainty in her gut. Finally, the Healer turned to Daye. “There is a way. But it requires a . . . sacrifice.”

“What kind of sacrifice?”

“A heart for a heart.”

Daye thought for a moment. “Does it have to be a human heart?”

The Healer pointed to Jory. Her faced paled as she clutched a hand to her chest.

“No!” Daye cried, horrified.

“Healer,” the boy suddenly moaned. “I consent.”

“Are you certain?”

Daye planted herself in front of her sister. “I will not let you harm the future Queen!”

“But she cannot be a queen without a heart!” The Healer plunged a hand into the boy’s chest, pulled out a glowing ball of light and thrust it into Jory.

Daye screamed as Jory collapsed. She lay like death on the hard ground. After an eternity, she struggled to her feet and for the first time in her life, tears flowed down her face.

“What did you do?” Daye whispered.

“The boy did it,” said the Healer.

They looked in the cart. The boy was gone.

“He saved you, future queen” said the Healer.

“Saved me?” Tears still pooled in Jory’s eyes. “Saved me from what?”

The Healer paused a moment then smiled sadly. “From yourself . . .”

ATTACK OF THE KILLER BROWNIES by June Dordal

GRACIE’S TO –DO LIST

1. Feed Gracie.
2. Wash Gracie's face.
3. Play with Gracie. Her favorite is the little bus driver so make sure he doesn't get lost.
4. Help Gracie put her toys away.
5. Put on Gracie's pajamas and brush her teeth.
6. Read Gracie a bedtime story and kiss her goodnight.

Easy peasy, Charlie thinks as his mom whooshes out the door leaving him in charge of his two-year-old sister for the first time ever.

“How hard can it be to watch a baby for a couple hours?” he says as he reads the to-do list. “Piece of cake and fifteen bucks to boot.”

Gracie giggles.

“Time for supper.” He puts her in the highchair and tries to shovel the ground up carrots, kale and Lima beans into her mouth.

“Yukky!” The grey-green mush ends up smeared on her cheek.

“What’s the matter?”

“Yukky,” Gracie says again.

He takes a sniff then tastes the bit clinging to the spoon. “That definitely is yukky!”

Gracie scrunches up her nose and giggles.

“But Mom said you are supposed to eat this for supper.” Charlie scoops out another spoonful and tries a different tack.

“Zoom, zoom. Here comes the airplane!”

“Vroom, vroom, a race car!”

“Neigh, neigh, a horsey!”

Gracie giggles but keeps her mouth shut tight.

“You have to eat something,” Charlie says.

Gracie points to the Mickey Mouse cookie jar on the counter, which only ever contains chocolate fudge brownies.

“You can’t eat brownies for supper.”

Gracie’s lower lip trembles, her eyes well up, and a sound like a siren and a foghorn combined bursts out of her mouth. Charlie covers his ears but the piercing sound slithers through the cracks between his fingers and pummels his eardrums.

He stumbles to the counter and grabs a handful of brownies out of the jar. “Here, here!” he cries as he throws them at his bellowing sister. She stops instantly and flashes her brother a beaming smile.

“Don’t ever do that again.” Charlie rubs his ears trying to stop them from ringing.

She giggles as crumbs tumble out of her mouth. The brownies disappear in a flash.

“What am I going to do with your supper?” he says. “Mom will not be happy I fed you brownies instead.”

Gracie giggles and points to him. He squeezes his eyes shut as he shovels the gruesome concoction into his mouth. “You owe me big time, baby sister.”

He has her out of the high chair before he remembers he was supposed to wash her face, which is covered in wet brownie particles. He gets a damp washcloth then spends the next twenty minutes chasing her all over the house.

“No, no, no!” she screams in a pig-squealing, one-hundred-decibel screech.

He finally plops on the sofa, the washcloth abandoned on the floor as he once again rubs his throbbing ears.

Gracie pulls at his hand. “Play wif me, Chaw-wee.”

He sighs as he slides to the floor. She is rolling her school bus back and forth on the carpet. “This shouldn’t be too hard.”

“Waaaaaa!” Gracie’s screams ricochet through the room and bounce around Charlie’s head.

“What happened now?”

“Bus dwiber gone!”

Charlies spends the next half hour crawling from room to room as Gracie wails. He is about to give up and start crying himself when he spots the AWOL toy jammed into the sofa cushions.

The next hour drags by in a painful, slow-motion blur as Charlies tries to get Gracie to clean up, put on her pajamas and go to bed. The tooth brushing fiasco will forever be branded in his brain as the worst experience of his life.

“Oh my,” says their mom when she finally comes home.

Charlie is sleeping in the middle of the living room. Brownie bits cover him from head to toe.

“Hi, Mommy,” says Gracie. “Brownies all gone . . .”

THE WATCH by June Dordal

“What is this place, Luna?”

Luna jumps. She did not expect to see her sister here. “I . . . um . . . I think it is the place of Those Who Came Before.”

“Bee-for?” says Soleil.

Luna keeps forgetting she knows things her sister does not. “I mean, Those Who Are Not Here.” 

“This place is for them,” says Soleil. “Our place is home with Mother and Father.”

Luna sighs. Her sister is fond of reciting the rules, although she does not know that word either. Here, there are no ‘rules’. There is only The Way Things Are.

“Let us just see what there is to see.” Luna glances at her sister sideways to see if she will agree.

Soleil looks skeptically at the rusting shelves and moss-covered floor. “All right. We can look.”

She doesn’t know Luna often slips away and comes to this place. She would not understand. Nor would anyone else in the village. The Way Things Are may not be called rules, but Luna learned that is exactly what they are. And then some.

Her sister followed her here and Luna had to pretend she came across the place by accident. ‘Pretend’ is a word she learned in this place from the box with buttons in neat rows and a bright light on one side.

‘One’ is another word she learned from the box. Once she discovered it could talk, she learned many things. Most especially how to read.

In Luna’s world, the sun comes up and the sky shimmers with light. The sun goes down and stars twinkle in the dark. Up and down, and up and down it goes. The box told her of the ‘moon’ that used to float among the stars. It is also the meaning of her name.

In Luna’s world, rain falls and snow melts. Crops grow tall and leaves turn brown. People are born and people die. They sing, and dance, and eat, and sleep. There is no tomorrow or yesterday. There is no today or tonight. There is no before or after. There is only Now.

A few months ago, the box taught Luna about a great and horrifying mystery — numbers.

They terrified her so much, she ran away from the place and vowed never to return.

Numbers are the reason Those Who Are Not Here left.

No, not left — destroyed themselves.

The few who survived created The Way Things Are and passed them down as armor against another apocalypse. In the Now, there are no numbers because if you cannot count, there is no less or more. If there are no numbers, you cannot try to hold time at bay. You cannot count high enough to be enough. This is the greatest lesson Luna learned from the box.

But she cannot stop herself from coming back and . . . ‘wanting’. . . ‘more’.

“Luna, what is that?” Soleil points to a sparkly thing on the ground.

Luna picks it up. It is round and fits in palm of her hand. She sucks in a breath. “I think this is a . . . a watch!”

“Watch?” says Soleil. “Watch is what you do when the pot is on the fire.”

Luna gulps. “Yes, of course it is.”

“Do you feel well?” Soleil scrunches up her eyebrows and stares at her sister. “You are saying strange things.”

Luna barks out a laugh. “I am just being silly.”

Soleil shakes her head. “Let us go home. I am hungry.”

“You are always hungry.”

“All- waay-z? There you go again.”

“Sorry,” says Luna. “It is definitely time to go home.”

“Tie-mmm?”

Luna links her arm through her sister’s as she drops the watch on the ground. They skip home, talking and laughing about nothing. Soleil forgets about the place and the strange words her sister said. If it is not in the Now, it does not exist.

The watch lies on the floor of the building — a ‘library’ — that belonged to Those Who Came Before.

The force of the fall rattles through the gears and when Luna comes back, she will hear it tick, tick, ticking as she watches the hands slowly move around, and around, and around. . .

HALLOWEEN BLUES by June Dordal

“Your name sounds like throw-up!”

“Does not!”

“Ralph, Ralph, Ralph.”

Ralph socked his brother in the stomach.

His brother, well, ralphed.

Their mother came in and saw the mess all over her freshly mopped floor. “Rooms. Now.”

Ralph made a bee-line to his room. He knew better than to argue with his mom once she brought out the one word sentences.

His brother hobbled to the bathroom first. Ralph heard him, well, ralph again. Then his brother tottered into their room. Yeah, they shared a room. One of the great mysteries they often pondered in the dark of night was why their mom banished them into a room together whenever they got up to shenanigans. Since they spent an awful lot of time in their room, it didn’t strike them as an effective disciplinary tactic.

“Sorry, Dead,” said Ralph. His brother’s name conveniently rhymed with lots of words more fun than his given name — Fred. Last week it was Read, except Ralph called him Read as in, ‘Go read a book’. It was a complicated system.

Fred eased himself down on his bed and rolled onto his back. “It’s okay. I’ll probably live.”

“That’s good, otherwise you’d really be Dead.” Ralph considered himself a comedian despite all evidence to the contrary.

“We better cool it or Mom won’t let us go out tomorrow,” said Fred.

“She wouldn’t do that,” said Ralph.

Fred shrugged. He was eighteen months older and knew a thing to two about moms. Ralph looked anxiously at the closed door. Mom would never stop them from going out on Halloween, would she?

“I think that’s a violation of our Constitutional rights,” said Ralph.

“You go right ahead and tell her. I’m going to go down and apologize.” Fred grimaced. “As soon as my stomach stops rolling.”

“I really am sorry, Dead,” said Ralph. “And not just ‘cuz we might not get to go Trick or Treating.”

Fred pushed himself up. “Don’t worry, she’ll forget about it by suppertime.”

Sure enough, their mom called them down for supper and all was well. Ralph even managed to choke down three brussel sprouts before she told him to stop. He was turning a Halloween-ish shade of green and she didn’t want to mop the floor again.

“Do you have your costumes ready for tomorrow?” she said as they shoveled hot-fudge and ice cream covered brownies into their mouths.

“I’m going as a real-estate magnate,” said Ralph.

“I’m going as a political candidate,” said Fred.

Their mom shook her head. “Can’t you go as a bloody, ax-murderer, or a brain-eating zombie like normal kids?”

“Nope,” said Ralph.

“Boring,” said Fred.

“Give me strength,” said their mom.

The next night, Ralph and Fred donned the best real-estate magnate and political candidate costumes that $11.53 could buy.

“Good luck,” said their mom as they traipsed out of the house.

“Why’d she say that?” said Ralph.

“Beats me,” said Fred.

Eighteen minutes later they returned, empty-handed and out of breath — their eyes bulging, their faces frozen in fear.

“Want to talk about it?” said their mom.

Ralph shook his head. Fred opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

The doorbell rang.

“Trick or treat!” said a chorus of voices.

“Oh, my, don’t you look scary,” their mom kept saying as she dropped miniature candy bars into the Trick or Treaters jack-o-lantern buckets.

“Can we change into our bloody, ax-murderer and brain-eating zombie costumes from last year?” said the boys after she shut the door.

“I tried to warn you,” said their mom.

“I guess our real-estate magnate and political candidate costumes were just too. . .” Fred shivered.

Ralph gulped. “. . . scary.” 

TOOTH FAIRY TROUBLES by June Dordal

Flash-back to when I was seven:

I was trying to answer test question number thirteen: Who was the second President of the United States of America? I couldn’t remember who the second President of the United States of America was, so I chewed on the end of my pencil because sometimes that helped. And it did. I went to write down John Adams and there was my tooth stuck in the eraser.

The kids around me screamed because some blood gushed out and landed on my test paper in perfectly round splatters. Mrs. Johnson marched over to see what all the fuss was about.

“Mr. Peters,” she barked. “What did you do?”

“I lost my first tooth!” I waved the tooth pencil over my head like a trophy.

She got me a wad of tissues, which I chomped down on to stop the bleeding. She did not give me a new test paper. I guess teachers don't let a little blood slow them down.

Jimmy told me I had to tell my dad because, apparently, there is some mysterious protocol you must follow in order for your tooth to morph into cold, hard cash. He also told me he got five dollars for his first tooth. Charles said he got twenty, but he also said he had a llama in his basement.

“Dad! I lost a tooth!” I said when I got home from school.

“Let me see, Son.”

I showed him my tooth pencil.

“Yep, that’s a tooth alright.”

Apparently, I didn’t follow proper protocol because the next morning the only thing under my pillow was the tooth pencil.

“The Tooth Fairy didn't come last night,” I said to my dad at breakfast.

“The Tooth Fairy?” He choked on his coffee and some dribbled down his chin. “You better, um, check again.”

I stood up.

“After breakfast!” He mumbled something under his breath as he stumbled out of the kitchen.

Sure enough, when I checked again, there was a quarter under my pillow. One, lone, dull quarter.

Flash-forward to now:

I’m eleven and just lost my last baby tooth. Am I excited? Let’s just say, the Tooth Fairy has left me a grand total of ninety-five cents in exchange for nineteen teeth. Which comes out to a whopping five cents per tooth.

“Lost my last baby tooth,” I tell my dad.

“You still had a baby tooth?” he says.

I put the molar under my pillow because I guess hope never dies. It has a silver filling in it because after I kept getting stiffed by the Tooth Fairy, I quit flossing in protest, which didn’t get me anything except a silver filling in my molar.

The next morning, I look under my pillow and lo and behold . . . nothing.

“Gotta run,” says my dad as he barrels out the door.

I grumble as I eat breakfast. I grumble as I brush my teeth. I grumble when I go to my room and grab my backpack. I grumble when I look under my pillow one last time because, apparently, I like to torture myself, and lo and behold . . .

A hundred dollar bill!

And a note:

Sorry I was derelict in my duty all these years. Hope you can forgive me. Sincerely, The Tooth Fairy.

On a side note, apparently the Tooth Fairy writes just like my dad . . . 

BACK TO SCHOOL by June Dordal

Arana** sighed. It wasn’t fair. She loved her old school. Their raggy home. The small, dark neighborhood where she and all her friends lived. Sure, it was out in the boonies surrounded by trees and stony crags, but that just meant no one bothered them. They had free reign over their tiny slice of heaven.

Then mom had to go and get herself transferred.

“It’ll be fun,” said her mom after she broke the news to Arana.

Arana just rolled her eye.

“Think of all the new people you’ll meet,” said her dad.

“Oh yeah, that will be super fun,” Arana said.

Her parents looked at each other and shrugged. Arana always had a hard time making friends. She was shy and a bit awkward, but once people warmed up to her, they liked her just fine. It just took a bit for the warming-up part. Mostly because of her one eye situation.

“Everything will be okay, Punkin.” Her dad tucked her into bed. “I’ll walk you to the first day of school tomorrow if you want.”

Arana did want, but she was going into sixth grade. She couldn’t have her dad bring her to school like she was some baby fifth-grader. “Thanks, Dad, but I can go by myself.”

After her dad closed the door to her bedroom, she threw back the covers and scrabbled out of bed. One of her legs got caught in the sheets and she tumbled to the floor. She held her breath for a moment, expecting her parents to come barreling in, but they didn’t.

She checked her brand, new backpack for the twenty-seventh time to make sure everything was in order. Her crisp school uniform hung in her closet ready for the big day. She just wished she was ready for the big day. . .

“How’d it go, Punkin?” said her dad after she plunked her backpack on the kitchen counter and clamored up one of the stools.

“Great! I met this one kid who is pretty cool.” She plucked a treat out of the cookie jar and started munching.

“Well?” said her dad. “Don’t keep me in suspense!”

“You probably didn’t know, but I was kinda of nervous about going to a new school and all because of . . .” she paused and waved all her arms around. “. . . my only having one eye thing.”

Her dad blinked all his eyes rapidly. “Your mom and I are so proud of how strong and resilient you are.”

“I know that. Don’t get all mushy.” Arana smiled in spite of herself.

“So tell me about this ‘cool’ kid.”

“Don’t freak out, Dad, but he is . . . different.” Arana paused. “He’s only got two of everything.”

Her dad gasped, then tried to cover up his shock with a round of fake coughing. “Really? That’s . . . that’s interesting.”

“And he thinks my one eye is awesome.”

Her dad took a deep breath. He’d heard of these kind of anomalies before, but never came face to face with one. He shivered. Sure, Arana was different, but not that different.

“I can’t wait for you to meet him,” said Arana.

“Me either,” said her dad with more than a little trepidation.

“Great! Because I brought him home with me.”

“Oh. Oh!” her dad stuttered. “You mean, he’s here? Now?”

Arana opened the door and hollered, “Come on in and meet my dad.”

Her dad fixed all his eyes on the door and held his breath. He would not embarrass his only child by treating her new friend with anything but kindness and courtesy. But he couldn’t stop his heart from beating just a little bit faster.

“Dad,” said Arana when the two legged, two armed, two eyed and eared creature stepped through the door. At least it only had one mouth. And what in the world was that protrusion in the middle of its face!

“Dad,” Arana said again. “This is Tyler.”

Her dad gulped down a lump as he realized his daughter was barreling into a brave new world without a second thought. He stood up and vowed to follow.

“Hey,” he held out his hands. “Nice to meet you, Tyler.”

** Means "spider" in Spanish. . .

GHOST STORIES by June Dordal

            “It was a dark and stormy night. . .” I say in a low, raspy whisper. Three pairs of eyeballs stare unblinking at me. I almost laugh.

            Emma Two shivers. “That flashlight under your chin makes you look so creepy, Zoe!”

            Emma Three says, “Yeah, super creepy.”

            There are three Emmas in our class. Emma One is a genius and, fortunately, helps us with our homework— if we bring her chocolate-frosted brownies.

            “You Emmas are a bunch of scaredy-cats,” says Jade.

            “Do you want to hear the story or not?” I shine the light into each of their eyes.

            The Emmas squeal and cover their faces.

            Jade sighs. “Just get it over with, Zoe. You promised us s’mores.”

            “Lightning crackled and thunder boomed,” I continue in the same scary voice. “Two girls huddled under a small umbrella as they made their way through the pouring rain.”

            “This isn’t going to be a super scary story, is it?” says Emma Three.

            “It can be a little scary,” says Emma Two.

            Jade rolls her eyes. “I don’t think you have anything to worry about.”

            I shine the flashlight in Jade’s face. She crosses her eyes and sticks out her tongue.

            “Don’t make me laugh,” I say. “I am trying to tell a super, scary story.”

            The Emmas squish closer together in the already cramped tent.

            “In-between the cracks of thunder, they heard a soft squash-squishy sound coming from behind them. But every time they stopped and whirled around for a look, all they saw was shadows flickering in time to the flashes of lightning.”

            Emma Two screeches. “Something pinched me!”

            Emma Three shrieks. “Something super-pinched me!”

            “I was just having some fun.” Jade snickers.

            The Emmas glare at her. I lower my flashlight so they can’t see me grinning.

            “The girls walked faster as the squashy sound got squishy-er. Then a grumbling, gurgly, grunting joined the squish, squash, squishing. The wind suddenly howled down and blew them to the ground. Their umbrella flew up into the air and out of sight.”

            “This is super, super-scary!” says Emma Three.

            “Yeah!” says Emma Two.

            “Do you want me to stop?” I say.

            “No!” say the Emmas.

            “Please.” Jade yawns. “Stop.”

            “They huddled together as a gigantic shadow— dark, cold, deadly— loomed over them. They tried to escape, but they were frozen to the spot. Their screams died in their throats as the monster . . .”

            “Cut it out,” says Jade.

            “What?” say the Emmas.

            “You pinched me.”

            The Emmas shake their heads.

            “Don’t look at me,” I say.

            “Ow!” says Emma Two.

            “Ow!” says Emma Three.

            “Ow!” says Jade.

            “Ow!” says me.

            “If you didn’t pinch me. . .” Jade says to Emma Two.

            “And you didn’t pinch me. . .” Emma Two says to Emma Three.

            “And you didn’t pinch me. . .” Emma Three says to me.

            “AAAAAHHHHH!”

            We tear open the tent and charge into my house.

            “Backyard too scary?” says my dad as we tumble into the kitchen.

            “Go on up to my room, girls,” I say breathlessly. “I’ll be up with some treats. I think we earned them!”

            They huddle together in a clump and don’t move.

            “It’s okay,” I say as I lock the door. “We’re safe now.”

            They shuffle out of the kitchen, still in a clump.

            “What the heck happened, Zoe?” says my dad.

            “Oh. . .” I put a pair of pliers back into the junk drawer. “Just a little ghost story. . .”

FUN HOUSE by June Dordal

“Charlie is a chicken!”

“No, I’m not!” I say, but really I am.

Sam, my older brother by exactly twelve months, is eleven and thinks he’s so cool. It’s bad enough we have to share the same birth date, but we also have to share our birthday celebrations.

Every year, we are each allowed to invite two friends to our shared party. Mom says taking six boys on an outing is all she can handle. After last year’s camping fiasco, I kinda see her point. This year, Sam got to pick. He picked the fair.

“You have to do what I say, Charlie,” says Sam. “So we are all going into the Fun House.”

“All right,” I grumble. “Better not be any clowns in there,” I add under my breath.

“I hope there’ll be clowns,” Sam says.

I take a deep breath and barrel though the mouth-shaped door. I figure I better go first because if Sam’s in front, he’ll cook up a scheme to scare me.

I know it’s not supposed to be scary— hence the Fun House name— but I got lost in one when I was five and I still have nightmares.

“Oooh! Aaaah!” Sam and his cohorts howl from behind me.

“Just ignore them,” says friend number one.

“Yeah, they're just trying to scare you,” says friend number two.

And doing a pretty good job, I think. “Come on,” I say. “This place is boring.”

We go past the mirrors that make you look weird. And the shifting walkway—I trip. We make it through the barrel-rolling tunnel, the shooting blasts of air, the stupid clowns, and last, but not least, the ball pit.

I heave a sigh of relief as I clamor across the gauntlet of colorful, slippery balls. “Help me out,” I say to my friends, but they are looking at something behind me and gesturing wildly.

“Look out!” they manage to sputter. But it’s too late.

“Got ’cha!” Sam grabs my legs and yanks me back into the pit.

 “Aaargh!” I screech.

He smirks, “Can’t outsmart me, little brother.”

I don’t say anything as I scramble out because my oh-you-think-you’re-so–clever older brother forgot one important detail . . .  next year, I get to pick.