48 Hour Short Story Contest

"But I don't want to be a clown, I want to be a ballerina," Giselle whined, scrunching her nose as the matron applied white greasepaint to her face.

"Quit grimacing, the paint will be all crooked," her teacher chastised, forcing Giselle’s face towards the mirror with firm, yet gentle hands. "You're good at clowning. You make people laugh from the moment you appear in the ring."

"They laugh AT me! I want people to watch me with mouths open in awe at my skill, like they do the faeries who dance the ballet royal, not roaring with laughter at my painted grin and clomping oversized shoes."

"Dear, clowning is a respectable, honorable career for one such as yourself. Accept your nature and be proud of your ability. You bring joy to those who observe your art.”

“What, be proud of being a laughingstock for those high-brow faeries! I’m not going to do it!” Giselle jumped up, sweeping the bottles of greasepaint to the ground as she removed the red toadstool affixed to her nose. “I’m old enough to know what I want, and young enough to learn it,” she retorted. Kicking aside pots of cured herbs, spilling their paint, with her oversized shoes, she clomped out of the dressing room.

“Teacher, wait!” she called, tripping over her shoes as she rushed to allay the gardener. “Teacher, is it possible for one to build a career at my advanced age”

“Well, ten isn’t too old to learn, but you’ll have to apply yourself; what is it you would like me to teach you, woodcutting, cobbling,…”

“I don’t need you to teach me, but to help me.” Giselle stopped at the edge of the ring, standing fast in front of the gardener, blocking his entrance to the forest. “I want you to make me a ballerina.”

“I don’t know the art of dance. I’m the master builder. I merely maintain the portal between the exalted and mundane worlds. I craft openings that are hidden from predators but easily accessible to members of the faerie ring.”

“And for that you have tools, I’ve seen them, from the mundane world.” She said, holding his eyes with her own as she stopped one step short of grabbing his hand to restrain him, a punishable act she wasn’t quite ready to try, yet.

“I want you to take the pounding tool and make me shoes like the ballerinas, so I can twirl on toe-tips and jump high, even into the mundane world.”

“Your feet, my dear, are not the type for ballet slippers,” he answered, turning to step around her towards the forest.

Giselle shifted a foot sideways, blocking his access.

“Dear, there’s nothing I can do to help you.”

“Yes there is! You will build me into a dancer. I’ve watched their movement, I just need their tools.” Giselle turned and walked along the path to the builder’s shelter, knowing he must follow; where else would he go as dusk neared, but home at the edge of the faerie ring.

Once she reached the entrance, Giselle removed her shoes before stepping into the builder’s toadstool. She gazed in awe at the array of metal tools before grabbing the clawed hammer and ducking out through the opening, wincing at the crunching sound overhead.

“What is up there, chewing on your portal?” she asked the builder.

“Not to worry, it’s just a grasshopper nibbling. An herbivore by nature, he has no taste for gnome flesh. Sometimes a seed or some pollen atop my toadstool intrigues him, but he prefers the thistle and crabgrass I’ve planted to conceal our faerie ring in the mundane world.

“Hmm, prefers thistle, you say. Well, maybe you won’t have to bend my toes into shape with your pounding tool. Giselle returns the hammer to the master builder, replaces her clown shoes, which allow the tiniest bit of toe wiggle, and marches back to the faerie ring, scrunching her face, this time in contemplation.

That evening, at dusk, the faeries and gnomes gather to give thanks for the day just passed, and welcome evening’s revelry. Giselle, in full clown regalia, sporting a brand new nose cap, hops and prances about the faerie ring, this time exulting in the laughter of her fellow gnomes, and even the faeries. A grass flute announces the main attraction. Giselle steps to the side, taking a final bow, and watches each faerie pirouette across the ring.

As one by one they cross the threshold to the forest, arms upraised to encircle headdresses of thistle, she gives them a boost to kick their flight just a bit higher, through the builder’s portal. Seven faeries rise to awe-inspired gaping, and when none of them return, the gathering draws towards the portal, enamored of the rhythmic reverberation coming from without.

The multitude’s gasp soon becomes one of horror, as decapitated faeries drop graceless from the skies. Their headless forms soon float back up in pieces as mere faerie dust, clinging to the grasshopper crunching thistle tiaras. Obviously not a dainty nibbler, he drops bits of bone through the portal as he crunches away. Then, sated, he wipes his jaws with lanky, nimble limbs and with a hop leaves the toadstool portal to find his safe nightly repose.

Though the builder and maybe even the matron suspected there was more to the show than the multitude saw, no proof could be given as all had been watching the dancers. Now, in the aftermath the faerie dance was restricted to low-lying tumbles and low flying twirls, rather an anticlimax to the ribald clowning.

“Maybe it’s not so bad being a clown, at least I don’t bore them when I do my act.” Giselle smiles at the matron as her face takes on its painted grin. Moments later, she takes her bow, kicking up her clown feet as she begins to twirl and prance. She laughs with the faeries and gnomes enamored of her clowning dance.

“They may think they’re laughing at me, but I had the best laugh.”


Word Count = 1005 w/o title

for May 2009

48 Hour Short Story Contest  (18+) 48 hours to write a short story to a prompt. Enter to win great prizes. #1199662 by Legerdemain

One scene in the story must include an argument.

Three objects must appear in the story:
a grasshopper
a hammer
a shoe

One character must be a clown.

Your comments welcome, I think ~ "Dancing Shoes ~ or The Best Laugh" 

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