Tag: short stories

The dachshund diaries: megaplex mischief

posted on tagged as , , ,

The revolving glass doors whir open with a hush of conditioned air and retail lust. Inside: the DoggyDoggie Fashion & Food Megaplex, 12,000 square feet of canine hedonism, where only the chicest beasts roam. And just as the scent of truffle-infused bone broth hits the air, they arrive.

First, Biancha Long-haired, flaxen like a Beverly Hills trophy wife if she’d been bred in Versailles. Struts in with a silk cherry blossom bandana tied like a scandal. Eyes narrowed, she surveys the concierge like she’s seen better valet service at a kennel. She’s not here for kibble. She’s here for collagen duck treats and to be seen chewing them, slowly, near the “hydration spa.”

Then comes Jasper. Piebald prince, red and cream like vintage leather and champagne foam. Short-haired and built like a race car that’s also a therapist. Jasper’s wearing a black leather harness stitched with raw onyx. He exudes aloof Euro energy—probably fluent in three languages, all bark dialects.

They don’t speak. They don’t need to. The black cards flick from their embroidered collar pouches, contactless. Cha-ching. Welcome to DoggyDoggie, bitches.

11:08 AM — The Tasting Lounge
Caviar dusted marrow bones. Goji berry puree served in a carved amethyst bowl. Biancha refuses the foie gras tartlet—“too derivative”—but demolishes the spirulina yak jerky. Jasper gets into a minor altercation with a Samoyed influencer named Flex. Something about branding infringement and tail envy. Security doesn’t intervene. This is art.

1:02 PM — Private Styling Suite
Biancha’s being fitted for a bespoke raincoat lined with vintage Hermès scarf fragments. Jasper’s lounging on an infra-red collagen mat while a Pomeranian stylist airbrushes his paw pads with lavender toner. Ambient music: Lo-fi remixes of Donna Summer. They do not share a dressing room. Boundaries.

3:15 PM — Barkitecture Department
They preview a capsule collection of modular travel crates made by ex-Balenciaga interns. Biancha chooses a brushed titanium “cocoon” with programmable scent pods. Jasper requests a minimalist fold-out chaise with room for three (no further questions). Another cha-ching. No one blinks.

4:49 PM — The Incident
They spot a corgi in last season’s limited edition Monchéri harness. There is a moment. A silence. Biancha tilts her head. Jasper licks his lips slowly. The corgi pretends not to notice. But the scent of judgement is thick. The air curdles. A sales associate faints.

6:00 PM — Exit Strategy
They leave with fourteen bags, a custom scent called “Pavement After Rain,” and a dinner reservation at Bone Appétit, the rooftop tasting room. Their chauffeur (a well-trained Borzoi named Pierre) pulls up in a matte black stroller convertible. Doors open like wings. They do not look back.

What was the day about?
Power. Aesthetic. Ritual. The reclamation of space. And the divine right of dachshunds to take up luxurious amounts of it.

Biancha yawns. Jasper grins, sly.

Tomorrow, maybe a vineyard. Or therapy. Or a silent retreat with wild deer.

But tonight? They dream of foie dust and fire hydrants shaped like Grecian urns.

The owl of three wishes aka josh’s baby

posted on tagged as , , , , , ,

No one in Bramblebundt quite remembered when the owl talisman first appeared at the village market. It sat quietly on a cracked velvet cushion, tucked between the braided bread stall and old Crystyn Coo’s award-winning bog cheese.

When I found it, the talisman felt unusually heavy for something no bigger than a tea saucer — cool as river stone, carved from amethyst, the owl’s eyes twin sparks of soft emerald.

“Choose wisely,” Crystyn winked, handing it to me with a slab of cheese and a still-warm loaf. “It grants three blessings. But it moves at its own rhythm.”

I hadn’t meant to ask for anything. But the secret wish had been stirring in my heart for months now — ever since the city walls began to feel like cages, ever since the dream of a little riverside cottage with lavender shutters first took root.

That night, I set the owl on my windowsill, made a cup of jasmine tea, and watched the stars flicker over Bramblebundt’s crooked rooftops. I didn’t even speak the wish aloud. I just felt it, deep and certain:
a home of my own, near the river, where I could dance, bake bread, and listen to the owls at dusk.

The next morning, everything began to tilt.

First came the letter — a dusty envelope at my door, from a solicitor I’d never met, informing me that a distant relative (so distant I could barely place them) had left me a “small, sentimental property.” In Bramblebundt. On the riverbend.

Next, while walking to the post office, I met a three-legged unicorn — well, almost. It was actually a goat with a singular long white horn tied to its head by the mischievous local kids, but still, it felt like a sign. The creature nudged me insistently toward a street I never walked down before in my life.

And there it was.
The cottage.

Whitewashed stone, lavender shutters, a small arched blue door. Wild mint and foxglove tumbled over the fence. The river whispered just beyond the apple trees.

Inside, it smelled of braided bread and clean water.
On the hearth sat a small, familiar talisman:
another owl, but this time carved into the stone itself, watching over the little home like it had always been there.

They say Bramblebundt’s magic is gentle but stubborn. Like the bog cheese — it takes time, it grows strong, and it lingers in all the best ways.

Now, I sit by the window in the evenings, sipping jasmine tea, feeling the warm life unfolding around me.
I think the owl is still granting wishes, even now —
not in flashes or fanfare, but in the slow, certain tilting of the world toward dreams already on their way.

If you find this, you’re toast

posted on tagged as , , , , ,

It felt like nothing was moving — until everything was.

A few weeks ago, in the thick of another sleepless night, I wrote myself a letter to the Universe. It was simple.
I am ready. Show me.

The next day, walking through the city, I found a feather at my feet. Iridescent, deep teal. It shimmered. I picked it up instinctively — a sign.

Then, strange things started happening.

I dreamt, vividly, of a little house by the water. Whitewashed walls, a big old oak tree in the yard. In the dream, a golden key was placed in my hand.

Two days later, I struck up a random conversation with a woman at a cafe after we both reached for the same pastry. We laughed, shared a table, and within minutes she told me she was moving abroad — and needed someone to take over the lease on her coastal cottage. It wasn’t even listed yet. She said, “I don’t know why I’m telling you all this… it just feels right.”

The rent was laughably low — and, weirdly, she didn’t care about proof of income. She just asked if I’d care for the space, because she loved it.

At the same time, small streams of money began to flow in. Refunds from overpaid bills. A surprise payout from an old class-action lawsuit I forgot I was part of. A random freelance client I had given up on suddenly paying me. My bank account, once a wasteland, began to bloom.

Tomorrow, I pick up the golden key — the real one.

I’ll be barefoot in my own home, music turned up, candles lit. I’ll dance across the hardwood floors like I’ve already lived a thousand lives here.

Because I have.

I called it in, and it came.