Cap of Invisibility.
Dr. Rufus promised me that the invisibility cap works for two hours before needing to be re-charged.
Of course, charging the cap is not an easy feat. Just as the professor taught me, I begin with 22 chants, then spread a special lavender-speckled shawl over it, then enact a strange spirit dance for 33 steps. Continue reading
J..W. Waterhouse. / 1900
It happened at the dark of morning, when the sky turned from black to pewter to soft tangerine.
She rose from the surf, waterlogged, the seaweed and starfish whispering her name.
Sassas ignored their entreaties to return.
Once a sea creature, she’d long ago left that life, not of her own choosing at first, but now Sassas was comfortable on two feet connected to two tall long legs. Continue reading
My name is Pamela, and I am a middle-aged woman.
I’m not always middle-aged, and I’m not always a woman.
I never told my family this, but once, long ago and yet still now (on the time spectrum that surrounds us, even though most refuse to see it), I am the princess of an enchanted island. Continue reading
Oprah peers at me skeptically as I walk onto her new set. I hear the claps and cheers, even a whistle or two, making me glad I selected the short black skirt and cashmere soft pink sweater. Flattering, Danny told me, and he would know. He was my hairstylist before he became a fashion designer, and he always tells me what’s the best length for my hair, and my hemline.
But I digress. I silently thank Danny for his fashion tips and sashay up to the re-emerged talk show queen, who is looking glamorous and slim in black and purple today. We shake hands, but I can tell she’s a little worried about this interview. Continue reading
I met an amazingly ordinary couple this week. They own their own nursery, where they grow and sell day lilies and hostas, hydrangea and roses, astilbes and lavender.
My guy and I visited their little nursery in hopes of filling in some gaps where 8-feet of snow devastated some of our flowering bushes. Although the drive was not far from our village outside of Boston, the green-hooded winding lanes, acreages of pastureland with grazing cows, a farm here, another white-spired church there, made us feel like it could just as easily be 1940, or 1840, instead of 2015. Continue reading