Tag Archives: fight

A fairy tale: The old man and his three daughters

 

Once there was a little old man who lived in the woods with his three daughters. As he lay dying, he called them over to his deathbed.
“I am dying,” he said. “I am sure one of you has poisoned me, but I don’t want you all to fight, so I’m not telling you which one it was.”
“He’s lying,” the eldest said. “He just wants us to fight.”
“I have a small treasure buried under the house,” he said. “There is only one way to determine the successor. You must fight.”
“Goddammit, dad,” the eldest said. “Why is it always this?”
“Give a dying man his wish,” the father insisted.
“I’ll fight,” said the youngest daughter, who was the sweetest and most beautiful (anyone who’s ever read a fairy tale knows that the youngest child is always the best and most enabling child). “Since it is what father wishes.”
“Oh my god, what kind of man is she going to marry?” The eldest groaned.
“Okay,” said the middle to the youngest. “You and me. Let’s scrap.”
“Thank you, my children,” said the father. “Please, someone make popcorn. As a dying-wish favor?”
There was a throwdown. Hair flew, blood flew, molars flew. The youngest nearly lost an eye. The middle broke her arm. After a bitter struggle, the middle child triumphed.
She dug where the father pointed and pulled a purse from the dirt.
“A dollar thirty-eight. Really, dad?”
But the old man was already dead, a faint smile on his face.
“At least we were able to give him some joy before he died,” the youngest said piously.
“I hate my life,” said the eldest.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

Hold someone’s hand

Hold someone’s hand
Feel the comforting soul within it
Know you are not alone.

Life is a losing game.
We cannot dominate.
Hemmed in by death
Battling the inevitable
It helps
To have another living thing beside you
A reminder
That you’re not the only one
Holding fast
To this tenuous state.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


 

 

 

My neighbors

 

My neighbors

raise their voices to each other

at their front door

on a Saturday morning.

She shuts him out.

Let me in, he says.

Lana. Lana. Lana.

He calls her name

gently, patiently

with a trace of humor

and a deep seated

carefully masked

trace of Fear.

It isn’t long

before she opens the door.

He goes inside

acting

very

calm.

As if the most precious thing he had was

not

hinged upon his graciously handling

the delicate situation.