When Things Have Gone Amuck

I can share this now. This was my latest Flash Fiction entry for a contest. The parameters were a comedy, set in a fairyland, with a flow chart and of course 1000 words I am proud to say it came in 11th place. This was part two of the contest. My first one was Ironsides (https://shannonmccauley.com/2022/07/28/adventure-awaits/), which did not rank most unfortunately. I loved it and the judges loved it – but it did not meet their parameters of a fairytale. This only means that I did not advance to the next round, but I don’t mind as I learn something each time I write.

In the forest amongst flora and fauna, sat a miniscule clandestine fairyland, where earth fairies flourished. A tall mushroom, four stories high held the offices of AAB – Agriculture and Botany. There, G. Stiltskin worked, always in a three-piece suit, miniature spectacles, white wings outlined in bold black – never a hint of color. Stiltskin was president of AAB. Millions of employees worldwide respected and feared him, none more than Jim R. Stetson III.

 Jim arrived each day, dressed innocuously. He managed the European branch of AAB. Jim avoided attention. He did his job well, mitigating problems. Today, an employee in Holland went rogue. Jim was at a loss. Fairies couldn’t be fired, just reassigned. To reassign a fairy required the assistance of G. Stiltskin himself. That was a problem.

Jim nervously approached. Mr. Stiltskin was a formidable man when things went amuck, and things were definitely amuck. Jim knocked softly on the ornately carved door. Rumor said the door was carved using the bones of a wayward employee. Jim shuddered.

            “Yes?” Mr. Stiltskin replied in a wizened voice, a reflection of his eight-hundred years.

            Jim hesitated.

            “Come in,” commanded Stiltskin.

            Jim opened the door and cleared his throat.

            “Ah, Jimothy,” croaked Mr. Stiltskin. Truthfully, he was fond of Jimothy, but would never let on. His employees feared him, making them productive. “Out with it boy. What do you need?”

            Jim cringed. No one called him Jimothy and boy? Sure, he looked young for 210 years, but boy?

            Mr. Stiltskin harumphed, the long, white hairs of his eyebrows, mustache, and beard stood straight off his tiny face.

            “Sir,” Jim spoke rapidly, “Wehaveaprobleminsector8.”

            “Jimothy, slow down. Whippersnappers, always in a hurry.”

            Jim started again, “Sir, we have a problem in sector 8, the tulips in Holland?”

            Stiltskin furrowed his brow, nodding his head toward the diminutive white boards surrounding his room.

            “Don’t you think I know where sector 8 is? You think I’m too old to do this job? I’ll tell you, Jimothy R. Stetson III. I was doing this job when your grandfather worked here, when your father worked here, and I will still be doing this job if you ever find a woman desperate enough to marry you and give you offspring!”

            “Y….ye…yes sir. I mean no sir – that is, you’re not too old.”

            Mr. Stiltskin turned to his computer, pulling up flowcharts used to manage millions of employees, muttering to himself, scanning the screen.

            “No one wants to do their jobs. No accountability, no professionalism. Jimothy, get me Sabhaircín!”

            “Sabhaircín, sir?”

            “Yes, the new girl in Holland – Sabhaircín Prim. In my day people named their children Snowdrop, Honeydew, Oak. I had at least seven friends named Maple. You knew what to expect from a Maple. Sabhaircín, indeed!”  Stiltskin peered overtop his spectacles, “Go!”

            Jimothy flew out of the room to put in the request. Travel in the fairyland moved rapidly, she would be there soon.

            Sabhaircín Prim didn’t fly into the office, she glided. She had dark black hair, streaked pink. Purple suspenders, over her black and white striped top, held up the tiniest black miniskirt. Her black lace tights were torn, ending just above checked sneakers. Her wings were a riot of deep reds, iridescent blues, and royal violets.

Jim was shocked. She was young, about 150, and either very brave or very stupid to come to a meeting with Mr. Stiltskin dressed like that.

“Sabhaircín Prim?”

“Yeah?”

“You’re here to meet with Mr. Stiltskin?”

“The old man summoned me, so like, here I am.” 

“Try……be professional.” Jim warned.

“Sure, gotcha,” Sabhaircín winked, giving two thumbs up.

Jim escorted Sabhaircín to Stiltskin’s office.

“Come in.”

“Sir….Sabhaircín Prim.” Jim ushered her into the room and turned to leave.

Stiltskin stopped him. “Jimothy, stay.”

“Me? I mean yes sir!” Jim sat next to Sabhaircín, who sat sideways, legs dangling over the arm of her chair, chewing gum loudly and popping bubbles.

“Young lady!” Stiltskin shouted.

“What’s up pops?” Sabhaircín turned her attention to him, noticing the nameplate. “G. Stiltskin? George, Gulliver? No wait, you’re like an old dude. Geranium?”

Stiltskin hid his smile under his bountiful mustache – no one dared speak to him like this.

“Grumple…” he answered, quietly.

Sabhaircín began to giggle, her laughter growing until she doubled over with mirth.

“Wait, oh my Mother Nature, wait…. Whew,” she said, holding her sides. “Grumple? As in Grumple Stiltskin, like the old dude who stole the baby?”

Jim smothered his laughter. Stiltskin eyed him suspiciously.

“It’s a family name.” Stiltskin proffered. “Enough! Please tell me why I have purple, black, and blue tulips among fields of brightly colored?”

“Umm they’re pretty? Those designs are boring. I fly around, waving my hands, same colors every day. Bright and cheerful, blah, blah. What about dark colors – dark and mysterious? They’re beautiful too.”

Stiltskin harumphed.

“Listen, old dude. I didn’t ask to be assigned there. I just got stuck there by some… accident of birth.” Sabhaircín waved her hands in the air, bracelets jangling. “I don’t do bright and happy. Look…” She took an apricot hellebore from the vase on Stiltskin’s desk, waved her fingers, turning it a stunning midnight black, leaving only the center yellow, offering the flower to Stiltskin.

“Stilts… can I call you Stilts? These flowers ward off evil, judgmental people. You’re welcome.”

Jim was dumbstruck, Stiltskin undaunted. Surprisingly, he liked the little spitfire.

“Ms. Prim, you’re a rebellious, disrespectful, disruptive chatterbox!”

“Thanks, Stilts.”

“But… I like you. Your flowers are unconventional – I’m reassigning you to Salem, where unconventional is beautiful. Stay out of trouble.”

“You got it! You’re alright, pops!”

Stiltskin glared.

“I mean, you’re pretty okay Grumple… Mr. Stiltskin,” Sabhaircín laughed, gliding out of the room.

Jim turned to follow.

“Jimothy?” Stiltskin said.

Jim turned; positive he would be fired.

Mr. Stiltskin looked at Jim and winking, raised the pant leg on his three-piece suit revealing the brightest orange and purple socks Jim ever saw.

Jim smiled. Maybe things going amuck wasn’t such a bad thing.