Read Online Fairly Wicked Tales by Armand Rosamilia, Hal Bodner, Laura Snapp, Vekah McKeown, Gary W. Olsen, Eric Bakutis, Wilson Geiger, Eugenia Rose - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Armand Rosamilia, Hal Bodner, Laura Snapp, Vekah McKeown, Gary W. Olsen, Eric Bakutis, Wilson Geiger, Eugenia Rose
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malcontent. She had a way with words, though most of them he didn’t understand. In fact, he was pretty sure the majority of the names that fell from her puckered lips were illegal across most of the country.
Her eyes widened. The countryman realized he’d made an error he wouldn’t hear the end of for some time. “That’s very scurrilous of you, husband. What do you think I’m up to? You think I’m having it away with somebody behind your back?”
The thought had never crossed his mind. He didn’t know anyone willing to take her off his hands, at least not for free.
“I shall be back some time before dark. And if I find out those mangy puppies have been in my parlor, I’ll no doubt throw a right fit.”
In the corner of the room, the puppies winced. Even they knew better than to mess with the mistress of the house. On the odd occasion the countryman spoke out of turn, they could be found hiding beneath the dirty—and often damp—sheet they had been afforded. The mere sound of her shrill voice caused the fur to rise on their flesh, leaving them resembling a litter of hedgehogs rather than dogs. Neither the mistress nor the countryman claimed them as their own; the poor creatures the canine equivalent of a ginger middle child.
“Don’t worry,” the countryman said. “The puppies will be outside when you return. All three of them.”
“Well, make sure they are. I’ll probably want to go straight to bed, and the last thing I want to be doing is chasing a trio of mongrels around the house.”
This, the puppies thought, was not quite fair. They belonged to a single breed. The mistress was simply angry her own origins were indeterminate.
“Okay, so I shall come and see you out?” the countryman said, trying not to sound excited at the prospect of a few hours’ peace. He could do anything while she was gone. There was a deck of cards with his name on, and a flagon of wine in the larder, enough to render him sufficiently senseless to pretend he loved her when she returned. With the wine in him, he might be befuddled enough to try his luck, and if she wasn’t in the mood, at least he wouldn’t feel the punch until morning.
He followed her to the door, where they said their goodbyes. From the kitchen, the puppies listened intently.
“Do you think she’s getting some how’s your father behind the countryman’s back?” one of the puppies asked. He was the darkest of the three, with tan spots. If the owners cared enough to name it, it would have been something like Dusty, or Bandit .
“Are you serious?” another said. “I understand the priest at St. Martin’s refers to her as a troglodyte.”
“He’s right,” said the third and final puppy. “Got a face like a smashed crab, that one. You think it’s a coincidence whenever she’s around I have trouble with my gag reflex?”
“Fur-ball?” would-be-Bandit asked.
“You do realize I’m not a cat, don’t you?” Three replied.
Suddenly, the front door slammed and the countryman returned to the kitchen. The puppies looked up at him, as if butter wouldn’t melt. “You’d better not be talking about me,” he said.
“What would we ever say about you?” One said. “It’s that bush-pig of a wife of yours we’ve got a problem with.” Though, what the countryman heard was: Yip, yap, yap, grrrrr, snerfff.
“Well, that’s all right then,” the countryman said, pretending he could speak dog. He wished they understood him. Oh , the conversations they would share. He could take out his misery on them with more than just a rudimentary kick. He would unleash it all, burden them until he was as light as a feather. They would, he thought, be suicidal by the end of the day, tossing themselves down the well at the bottom of the garden simply to be rid of the torment.
“Is he alright?” One asked. Two and Three exchanged glances. The countryman smiled to himself as if stricken with wind.
“Maybe he’s plotting to knock the old witch
Her eyes widened. The countryman realized he’d made an error he wouldn’t hear the end of for some time. “That’s very scurrilous of you, husband. What do you think I’m up to? You think I’m having it away with somebody behind your back?”
The thought had never crossed his mind. He didn’t know anyone willing to take her off his hands, at least not for free.
“I shall be back some time before dark. And if I find out those mangy puppies have been in my parlor, I’ll no doubt throw a right fit.”
In the corner of the room, the puppies winced. Even they knew better than to mess with the mistress of the house. On the odd occasion the countryman spoke out of turn, they could be found hiding beneath the dirty—and often damp—sheet they had been afforded. The mere sound of her shrill voice caused the fur to rise on their flesh, leaving them resembling a litter of hedgehogs rather than dogs. Neither the mistress nor the countryman claimed them as their own; the poor creatures the canine equivalent of a ginger middle child.
“Don’t worry,” the countryman said. “The puppies will be outside when you return. All three of them.”
“Well, make sure they are. I’ll probably want to go straight to bed, and the last thing I want to be doing is chasing a trio of mongrels around the house.”
This, the puppies thought, was not quite fair. They belonged to a single breed. The mistress was simply angry her own origins were indeterminate.
“Okay, so I shall come and see you out?” the countryman said, trying not to sound excited at the prospect of a few hours’ peace. He could do anything while she was gone. There was a deck of cards with his name on, and a flagon of wine in the larder, enough to render him sufficiently senseless to pretend he loved her when she returned. With the wine in him, he might be befuddled enough to try his luck, and if she wasn’t in the mood, at least he wouldn’t feel the punch until morning.
He followed her to the door, where they said their goodbyes. From the kitchen, the puppies listened intently.
“Do you think she’s getting some how’s your father behind the countryman’s back?” one of the puppies asked. He was the darkest of the three, with tan spots. If the owners cared enough to name it, it would have been something like Dusty, or Bandit .
“Are you serious?” another said. “I understand the priest at St. Martin’s refers to her as a troglodyte.”
“He’s right,” said the third and final puppy. “Got a face like a smashed crab, that one. You think it’s a coincidence whenever she’s around I have trouble with my gag reflex?”
“Fur-ball?” would-be-Bandit asked.
“You do realize I’m not a cat, don’t you?” Three replied.
Suddenly, the front door slammed and the countryman returned to the kitchen. The puppies looked up at him, as if butter wouldn’t melt. “You’d better not be talking about me,” he said.
“What would we ever say about you?” One said. “It’s that bush-pig of a wife of yours we’ve got a problem with.” Though, what the countryman heard was: Yip, yap, yap, grrrrr, snerfff.
“Well, that’s all right then,” the countryman said, pretending he could speak dog. He wished they understood him. Oh , the conversations they would share. He could take out his misery on them with more than just a rudimentary kick. He would unleash it all, burden them until he was as light as a feather. They would, he thought, be suicidal by the end of the day, tossing themselves down the well at the bottom of the garden simply to be rid of the torment.
“Is he alright?” One asked. Two and Three exchanged glances. The countryman smiled to himself as if stricken with wind.
“Maybe he’s plotting to knock the old witch
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