Quotable 429

The best thing about writing fiction is that moment where the story catches fire and comes to life on the page, and suddenly it all makes sense and you know what its about and why you’re doing it and what these people are saying and doing, and you get to feel like both the creator and the audience. Everything is suddenly both obvious and surprising … and it’s magic and wonderful and strange.
– Neil Gaiman

Fiction: Hansel and His Visit to the Enchanted Part of the Forest

Once upon a time, in a little town in a beautiful valley, there lived a boy named Hansel. No, not that Hansel; it was just a common name. He lived with his father, a cobbler; his mother, a life coach, or busybody as they called them then; and his older sister, Hilde (see, not that Hansel), whom Hansel was convinced was the apple of their parents’ eyes as she was never compelled to do a lick of work around the house but helped out anyway.

The valley was surrounded by a deep forest, part of which was enchanted. There were signs clearly marking where the enchanted part was, and everyone entering the forest kept well to either side of the signs just to be safe. All the adults of the town and the nearby farms warned their children, and sometimes each other for good measure, to stay out of the enchanted part of the forest.

One day, Hansel’s father sent him out to chop wood for the fire. Hansel grudgingly shouldered the heavy axe and trudged toward the door.

“Remember not to enter the enchanted part of the forest,” his father said, and Hansel said it along with him in the insolent manner of children everywhere. His father threw a boot sole at Hansel’s butt, which made Hansel yip in an undignified manner and spoiled his insubordinate mood.

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Fiction: Folding Money

The police sergeant closed the door to the interrogation room and waved the other man to a seat.

“Now, Mr. Legier, as I said on the phone, I believe we have found your missing wallet which was stolen from you five weeks ago,” Sergeant Kaplan said. If you could just describe it for me, please.”

“Certainly. It’s a simple brown bi-fold wallet. Rather well used; it’s not new. It had my name in it.”

“Anything … unusual about it that might help further identify it, Mr. Legier?”

“Well, not really,” he said, and paused. “I mean, it had my driver’s license and grocery store club card and library card and such things.”

“So there’s nothing, shall we say, peculiar … at all … about this wallet? Mr. Legier?” Sergeant Kaplan lowered his head and looked over his glasses at Mr. Legier. His eyebrows were up in his hairline and there was great meaning in his stare, which Mr. Legier understood.

“Well, it …” He stopped. “It makes money,” he admitted quietly.

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