Author: suparnah

Suparna Hande is a junior majoring in Creative Writing & Literature and Asian Studies. Her current series, Frivolous Fairy Tales for Modern People, features short fiction written in the well-known fairytale form, but in a modern context. Her pervious series, Sagas Among the Arcana, included poetry and fiction based on weekly tarot readings. In her free time, she enjoys playing the violin and dancing.

Frivolous Fairy Tales for Modern People: My Voice, Which My Brother Never Listens To

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A/N: I’ll be returning to A Dalliance With the Sun next week. But for now, here’s a new story inspired by Sabrina Orah Mark’s Wild Milk. It may not seem like a typical fairy tale, but that’s how Mark’s storytelling is. It’s her own wild version of a fairy tale, and I tried to imitate that wildness here.

My brother wasn’t listening to me. But I continued to call his name, my voice rising at each call — until it rose so tall that I decided to use it as a ladder. At the top of the ladder, I was finally able to bellow down to him because my voice travels better down than straight. So I jumped onto my voice as if it were a hand glider. But he still didn’t hear me. My voice landed just a few steps away from him. The steps were faint in the sand and they were so easily blown away by the wind. They screeched as they were lifted and snatched away — “NoOOoooO!!!” That my brother heard. He turned his head toward the fading steps and brought his hand to his forehead, looking into the distance. I tried calling him again — this time in a violent cackle so that I was distinct enough to hear. The cackle bounced up and down, between the sky and the ground. But then it threatened to turn more violent. I was afraid it would knock my brother over, so I chased after it while screeching like the steps from earlier. I caught onto the cackle, but it didn’t stop bouncing, so I joined it for a ride. By the time it had ceased in its vicious aerial voyage, I was battered and bruised at my brother’s feet. Then, I called his name in a waver so weak that it landed only right before me, between my brother and me. And since he didn’t catch it, he slipped on it and face-planted right beside me. But he still didn’t see me, so I tried to grab his leg. However, by then he was up again, trotting across the sand, leaving me because I somehow lost my voice and I couldn’t find it anywhere in the sand — not it raised nor bellowed nor cackled nor wavered. And by then I had forgotten my brother’s name.

End

Frivolous Fairy Tales for Modern People: A Dalliance With the Sun (Part I)

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Naturally, as one does, Selene makes the trudge up 14 flights of stairs, up the tallest building in the city, to reach the Sun so that it will give her a son. The young woman yearned for a baby— she loved babies, always looking at mothers on the street and their tiny lumps of chubbiness with longing and envy. However, she had no interest in men and was sure that adoption agencies wouldn’t approve of her young age and the questionable state of her apartment. So against her better judgment, she delved into the deepest corners of the internet and found her solution.

“How to Get a Baby from the Sun,” that mysteriously enlightening article was titled. It was actually an old Tumblr post from ten years ago, but there had been one comment that convinced her. 

re: works. have twins now. but be weary of the outcome.

The message was ominous, but Selene was desperate. She wanted a baby to love and to hold. A baby that would always be hers. And what other outcome could there be than getting a baby?

Loneliness is truly a danger for the desperate.

With legs weak, but resolve stronger than ever, Selene stared up at the Sun. Its brightness was more oppressive than usual as if it sensed what she was about to do.

Step 1. Take an ant and kill it.

She drew a jar out of her bag. In it was a tiny black arachnid, it was harmless, the kind you’d find underneath your couch. But no one has sympathy when killing ants, and for Selene, it was an easy decision. Kill a tiny life in exchange for a cuter one. So she smashed the jar onto the ground and stomped on the ant before it could scramble.

Step 2. Light a piece of clothing (that you are wearing) on fire. 

She shrugged off her T-shirt, leaving her in the tank top she had underneath. Holding the shirt at arm’s length she brings out a lighter and ignites it. The fabric catches fire and shrivels to ashes rapidly. 

She’s so close.

Step 3. Pledge loyalty to the Sun.

When Selene initially saw that final point she was puzzled. There were no instructions on how to “pledge loyalty” — no script to recite or anything. It was what she thought about most— along with cursing the out-of-order elevator— while walking up all those stairs. What would she say to the Sun? 

It had to be good if she was going to be given a baby. But she also didn’t want to waste any time, and a lengthy monologue would likely seem overdone and insincere. So she finally decided on something concise.

“Great Sun,” her voice bellowed confidently. “I give you my body and soul, and for that, I would like a baby of my own!”

At that, the sky broke open.

Frivolous Fairy Tales for Modern People: Squirrel on Bar

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Misa brewed steamed milk as usual. She forced her eyes on the thermometer rattling in a milky whirlpool. 80 degrees. She chose to ignore the chipping behind her. That was an issue for later. 110 degrees. Someone else would fix it. 120 degrees. Maybe. 140 degrees. Chip! Chip! 160 degrees. Chip! Chip! Chip! Chip! Chip!

 

200 degrees!

 

Hot milk spluttered out of the steaming mug and splashed on her face. If she didn’t have her glasses on, her eyes would have burned just as the rest of her face did. They stung like a slap or a cat scratch. If only there were a cat, then it would eat that stupi—

 

Chip! Chip! Chip! Chip! Chip! Chip! Chip! Chip! Chip! Chip!

 

Behind her was that insolent squirrel chipping away furiously on its acorn lunch. The squirrel had been coming in for one week now. And as routine, it would start its chipping at 11 a.m. on the dot, right when she was steaming milk for a latte. And each time, it would cause Misa to make some ness of some kind. She never found out why it came and she never understood why none of her coworkers bothered with it. They ignored it and its chipping whenever it came. The worst thing was the fact that it always settled behind her. Its tiny beady eyes appeared so malevolent and judging as if it were plotting her demise by scalding milk. 

 

“Listen, you.”  This was the moment, Misa thought, that she would give in to insanity.  She was talking to the squirrel, something that was most likely a figment of her imagination. Her pride hurt in acknowledging its presence. “You better answer for yourself, before I drown you in the next drink I make.”

 

That was apparently the wrong thing to say, as the squirrel suddenly started to chatter angrily. Its beady eyes turned threatening, as if to say, how dare you challenge me!

 

The squirrel’s strange reaction frightened Misa. She worried that it would jump at her, so she took the foaming mug, full of hot steamed milk, and flipped it over on the squirrel, making a liquidy mess of the countertop. The method wasn’t ideal for drowning, but Misa hoped that the creature would die from the heat. 

 

However, such a hope was futile. The squirrel rattled within the mug, banging against its walls violently. Misa could see indents forming on the mug like ugly warts, ballooning dangerously. Surely, the squirrel would burst out at any moment and scratch her eyes out. These thoughts had Misa cursing her impulsive foolishness. 

 

Misa looked around for her coworkers, hoping for their help, but they all ignored her. It’s as if they couldn’t see her in her struggle. She begged them for help whenever they got closer, but they always walked past her. She was frighteningly alone with the rabid squirrel.

 

It squealed and rattled from the confines of the mug. Misa’s hand began to bruise. Wincing from the pain, she let go of the mug, and instantly jumped from the counter and hit her in the nose.

 

Then came the squirrel. It began to scratch at her face. Misa tried to pull it off, but it stayed in place, its tiny paws’ grip was strong on her cheeks. 

 

Misa screamed, but no one heard her. And when she ran out of the cafe with the squirrel attacking her face, no one saw her. Her plight was hidden from them all. She ran for days and days, but still, no one saw her, and still, the squirrel did not cease its assault. 

 

Misa should have thought before deciding to anger the squirrel, as even the smallest of creatures have the ability to cause great havoc.

 

Author’s Note: I’ve grown to love writing bizarre stories. Ones that are silly for the sake of being silly. I’ve stopped pressuring myself to write deeply and evocatively. Sometimes, all you need to do is write for the pleasure of whimsy and the hope of a reader’s smile.

Sagas Among the Arcana: So infused with it

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The knight of wands is pulled — passion
The ten of wands is pulled — burden

Look at her, so infused with energy she’ll do anything. She takes pleasure in it.
Wholly inspired by it. Some say she’s sick with masochism, but they’re
simply jealous of her activism, her idealism, her passion prison—
(yes, she’s built herself that prison, just wait till her light dims)
She sees the sun shining every day; still cloudy? She imagines
it anyway. (sometimes, she imagines those heated rays
burning her; sometimes she imagines serpents
slithering up her.) If you need anything
ask her anything. She’s a valiant helper
(never talking of how it burdens her.
Sometimes, she lays flat on rancid,
dusty floors, imagining herself
a carpet at the door. She never
minds being stepped on, she’d
just rather not be torn.
So she becomes worn).
Look at her, so
infused with
energy, she
‘ll do any
thing.
She
tak
es
pl
es
su
re
i
n
i
t.

Look at her, so    infused    with energy she’ll do anything. She takes pleasure in it.
Wholly inspired by it. Some say she’s sick    with masochism   , but they’re
simply jealous of her activism, her idealism, her passion prison—
(yes, she’s built herself    that prison   , just wait till her light dims)
She sees the sun shining every day; still cloudy? She imagines
it anyway. (sometimes, she imagines those heated rays
burning her; sometimes she imagines serpents
slithering up her.) If you need anything
ask her anything. She   ’s    a valiant helper
(never talking of how it burdens her.
Sometimes, she lays flat on    rancid,
dusty floors, imagining herself
a carpet at the door. She never
minds being stepped on, she’d
just rather not be torn.
So she becomes worn).
Look at her,    so
infused with
e   n   ergy, she
‘ll d   o    any
    thing.
She
tak
es
pl
es
su
re
i
n
i
t.