First, there was a pair of pants to be made. Zip-offs. A bit tricky. Time consuming.

Then, there were animals to feed. An ornery goat to convince to take her medicine.

Two loads of laundry followed.

Next was a trip to the airport to drop off my husband. And while I was out, a stop at the store to pick up some hardware for the stilts my daughter is making.

When I got home, there was helping to make those stilts.

Next thing I knew, it was time to give the goat her medicine again.

And by the time I finished that, it was time to make dinner.

After dinner, there was a movie to watch.

In the middle of the movie, a dog leaped in through the living room window (which was, unfortunately, closed).

The dog was followed closely by the elephant, who didn’t exactly fit through the window. The elephant sort of took out the wall.

Which naturally let the herd of wapiti in. That was okay. They just wanted to watch the movie. It was the elephant who caused trouble.

She wanted a bath, so I had to pause the movie and go fill the tub for her.

But she needed bubbles, so there was the quick trip to the store for bubble bath.

By the time I got back, she had flooded the bathroom floor.

Which of course, meant the dining room got flooded, too.

When the water started spilling into the living room I got worried, but thankfully it was able to drain out the hole in the wall.

But it’s a cold night, and what, with the hole in the wall, it got chilly indoors. All that water froze, and the wapiti decided to have an ice skating party.

Well, partying wapiti are nothing but trouble. They got into the wine, and next thing you know, the police were knocking on the door—something about a bunch of animals doing burnouts on the road outside?

That took a while to sort out. I had to take the car keys from the wapiti. They were pretty annoyed by that, but by that point, they were all drunk. I drove them all home, including the elephant.

When I got back and assessed the mess, I found that the elephant had not only flooded the house and used an entire bottle of bubble bath, but she had used every single bath towel in the house to dry herself off. There’s a mountain of laundry to do tomorrow.

I did get the hole in the wall boarded up, sort of—the wapiti had broken the kitchen table anyway, so I figured, why not use it?

I’d just hammered the last nail in, when the dog came into the room with a sheaf of papers in his mouth.

It was the story I was writing for today’s Saturday Story! I tried to snatch it from him, but he ran off. I tried to follow, but slipped on what was left of the ice. I fell and broke my arm on an empty wine bottle the wapiti left behind.

Getting the cast on didn’t take too long, I suppose, but by the time I got home three hours later, there was nothing left of my story but a mass of soggy pulp the dog had vomited back up. Guess it wasn’t a very good story.

And now it’s terribly late and I’m struggling to keep my eyes open.

That’s why I’ve got no Saturday Story for you today.

Sorry. It really wasn’t my fault.

The dog ate it.

 

“Grandma! I dreamt last night that I could fly!”

“Yes, child. Of course you did. All those born of our ancestors do.”

“Why is that, Grandma?”

The old woman sighed. “Because once, we could fly.”

“Fly? How could we fly?”

“Many, many years ago, before I was born, before my grandma was born, before even my grandma’s grandma was born, the People had wings. We spent all day in the sky.”

The girl gazed upward while the old woman continued. “We soared with the kettles of broad-winged hawks in the autumn and kept the arctic tern company on her long migrations. We flitted with the chickadee amidst the winter-bare branches, and swooped silently with the owls in the night.”

The old woman chuckled. “We challenged the peregrine falcon to races—and always lost. We danced with the woodcocks in the air. We explored every bit of this land, from mountain to sea. We followed the Great River to its source in a small trickle welling up from the ground, and then to its wide mouth at the sea.”

The ancient eyes no longer looked at her granddaughter—their vision was focused far away.

“Then the Flightless came, with their treasures from the earth—gold, silver, precious gems. They worshipped these treasures, and taught the People their value. The Flightless showed us how to dig and mine, how to extract these treasures for ourselves. We forgot the sky. The silver ribbon of a river glinting in the sun was replaced by silver chains. The glitter of the northern lakes was lost to the glitter of polished stones. The golden rays of sunset gave way to the gold sheen of metal.

“We fashioned jewellery from these treasures. Bird-shaped earrings, necklaces of delicate feathers, pendants showing our own forms with wings outstretched. But we forgot what those wings were for. The tern flew alone, and the falcon raced only the wind. We dug and we delved into the dark earth, forgoing the sky.

“We began to crave the bright treasures. Those who found more than their share hoarded them jealously. Those who found less, stole.”

“When Albatross came to ask for our wings, we gladly cut them off our own backs. Wings were in the way in the underground mines. We could dig much easier without them.”

“Albatross took our wings and put them on his own back. He flew off, never to return to land again. He soars forever now over the sea, exploring the world, and landing only when he must. He lives with ease and dies with a sigh of contentment, for he has seen the wonders of the earth. Meanwhile, we live in toil, and die with our bodies and spirits spent. Rarely do we even look to the skies. We have forgotten the wind and the sun, the pull of stars, the sight of all the world spread out below us.”

Grandma smiled wistfully and sighed. “I suppose it is just a legend…a legend of flight.”

“But, Grandma…I know I flew last night! I went up and up until our house was just a speck, and the fields were wrapped around it like the quilt on my bed. And the forest was so dark and cool-looking, and I could even see the sea off in the distance, and the sun sparkled off the waves, and…Oh Grandma, it was so beautiful!”

“Yes, child. Don’t ever forget it.”

“Now, would that be who I pledge to, or whom I pledge to?” muttered Jane chewing on the end of her pen. “Or should it be to whom I pledge?” She sighed and threw the pen down. “This is never going to work.”

“What’s not going to work?” Jane’s colleague, Babs appeared around the corner of her cubicle, munching an apple. She sat on the corner of Jane’s desk and looked down at the paperwork spread out on it.

“You still working on that wedding?”

Jane nodded.

“I don’t get why it’s so hard to stop a wedding. Just pop off the bride or the groom. I mean, that’s what we’re trained for. It’s what being an assassin is all about.”

Jane sighed. “But I’m supposed to be killing love, not the people involved in it.”

“What kind of stupid job is that?” Babs spoke with her mouth full, and droplets of apple juice splattered across Jane’s desk.

“Well, how many real assassination jobs have we had in the past six months?”

“Um…”

“Exactly. Assassination isn’t stylish anymore. It isn’t the trendy thing to do like it was a couple of years ago. Have you seen the ad the boss ran in the paper last week?”

“Nah, I don’t bother with the paper.”

Jane picked a folded newspaper out of her recycling bin and paged through it to the classified section.

“Here,” she said, handing the paper to Babs and tapping at a quarter-page ad.

“Assassinations Incorporated—more than just bodies,” read Babs. “You’ve trusted us to eliminate your enemies and loved ones for over 35 years. Now Assassinations Inc. has expanded our services to meet all your killing needs. Sick of the cat? We can take care of that! Got roaches? No problem. Tired of undying love? We’ve got you covered. We can kill the lights, the fatted calf, the goose that lays the golden egg, and even two birds with one stone. Need to dress to kill? Let our sartorial staff help. Want to kill with kindness? We have gifts for all occasions. Trying to kill the clock? Let our sports team step in. We’ll even kill time for you, if that’s what you need.” She threw the paper down in disgust. “What is this shit?”

“It’s the brave new world, I suppose,” said Jane, shaking her head. “Anyway, the King of Baumgarte has hired us to stop his daughter marrying that poet guy—Julius what’s-his-name.”

“Julius VonStrueben? I love his stuff!”

“Yeah, well, apparently so does Princess Kalla. But the king can’t stand the guy. Being a thoroughly modern monarch, he doesn’t want to tell Kalla she can’t marry him, but he wants to make sure she doesn’t.”

“So, why not just kill the guy?”

“Kill the national poet of his own country?” Jane shook her head. “Every woman in Baumgarte is in love with the guy—the king would have a popular revolt on his hands if he did that.”

“That’s what our Confidentiality Prime service is for—to guarantee no one ever knows who ordered the job. Surely a king can afford the extra for that?”

Jane shrugged. “Maybe, but like I said, assassination just isn’t fashionable anymore. He’s only asked for us to kill the love, not the lover.”

“And so how are you planning on doing that?” asked Babs as she picked up one of the papers off Jane’s desk.

Jane snatched the paper back, but not before Babs had gotten a good look.

“You’re writing poetry?” She sniggered.

“Well, he’s a poet. I figured that if she happened to find some poems he wrote to other women…”

“And you think you can write poetry like Julius VonStrueben?”

Jane sighed. “I suppose it was a bad idea. But how else would a poet express himself to a lover? How else can I convince Princess Kalla that VonStrueben’s a two-timing jerk?”

The women were silent for a moment. Then Babs’ thoughtful expression turned to a smile.

“There’s more than one way to skin a cat. What if you convinced her that VonStrueben was, in fact, completely besotted with her?”

“How would that help?”

“What if VonStrueben were to write poetry for Kalla? Really bad poetry.”

“Huh?”

“Think about it. How would you feel if your boyfriend—”

“I don’t have one.”

Babs dismissed the technicality with a wave.

“Assuming you did, how would you feel if your boyfriend smothered you with really awful love poems?”

Jane wrinkled her nose.

“You see?”

“Yeah, but I’m not a princess. Aren’t princesses supposed to like that sort of thing?”

“Maybe if they’re good poems, but what if Kalla began to think that VonStrueben hadn’t actually written all those poems he’s famous for? What if she thought she was in danger of marrying a guy who not only couldn’t write, but who had become famous by claiming someone else’s writing as his own?”

Jane considered the idea for a moment.

“Not quite as sure as the philanderer tactic.”

Babs picked up a paper off Jane’s desk and read it aloud.

How many ways do I love thee?

I love thee like a tree.

I love thee like a bee.

I love thee like a well-ripened brie.

“You’ve got to be kidding me. Poetry this bad addressed to someone else? She’ll dismiss it for what it is—a ploy to make her ditch VonStrueben. But I’m sure he writes poetry to her—all you’d have to do is exchange the good poetry for your bad stuff, and she’d begin to look for a way out. Half a dozen poems like this, and she’ll be running for the door.”

“You think so?”

“I’m sure of it.”

“And if it doesn’t work?”

Babs shrugged. “You’re an assassin. You’ll figure something out.” She patted Jane on the shoulder and left.

Jane sighed and picked up the poem Babs had read aloud, reading it again to herself.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have included the brie,” she muttered. She tossed the paper aside, pulled out a clean sheet, and got to work.