I’m sharing a piece of flash fiction… about Daffodil the Dragon and the Worst Handyman in the Galaxy.
DAFFODIL THE DRAGON TO THE RESCUE
Colleen knows the irksome handyman is in the front yard. It’s a Monday morning, and she’s been sweeping and now has her hands full of trash bags... and her head full of tasks to do. Despite her knowing the handyman has arrived, she isn’t thinking about him.
For months, the Worst Handyman in the Galaxy has been on Colleen’s property, working what seems as slowly as possible. She only hired him to close off an opening in the eaves, because a possum had been getting into her upstairs crawlspace.
In hindsight, when he told her that the siding and window frames needed caulking, and he started caulking without her permission, she wishes she said, “I only hired you to close off the possum cave. Finish it and go.”
Strangely, his caulking a window frame evolved into... his caulking all the window frames... and all the siding. It took months. In only a week or so it was obvious he was a straight cis dude who was extremely not a feminist and therefore not someone whose company she enjoyed, never mind that he wouldn’t stop talking, mostly bragging about his work. Originally he seemed nice and charming, and his talkativeness reminded her of her father.
It never seems to occur to him that she originally sat on the porch—laptop before her, since she was writing a play—because when people work on her house, she likes to be accessible and keep an eye on them. It isn’t because she is there to entertain a narcissist who enjoyed having an audience while he talked on and on about himself.
He kept running out of caulking guns, and she kept paying for more. She’d think he was done caulking... and he’d say, “I still need to caulk that back wall.”
Why isn’t he done yet? She wants his cooties off her property. His sexist microaggressions are escalating. It didn’t help that—rather oddly—while he was supposed to be caulking, he stopped to trim trees and bushes. First he said because of his ADD, he keeps stopping to do other projects. She didn’t want to sound prejudiced toward people who have ADD, so she didn’t complain. But he also claimed it was easier to get around without branches in the way... and next he claimed branches touching the house damage siding and shingles.
Her people-pleasing was in full swing, and she didn’t realize it until she couldn’t tolerate his cooties anymore.
Next thing she knew, he was taking his time replacing sun-damaged siding on one wall. She kept marveling at how ridiculously long it took him to get anything done. Today she wonders if this is deliberate, so she’ll pay him more. She’s beginning to suspect he never wants to get off her property.
The next step in Colleen’s process of domestic chores (which she tends to get out of the way on Monday, never mind that having no day job means she can do this stuff anytime) is taking out the trash to the bins, so she opens the front door.
“Hi!”
Colleen jumps, startled. The handyman’s voice is too loud and he’s right here on the porch.
The handyman gets chatty and asks her if she enjoyed the weekend. I hate small talk.
Unprepared to carry on a conversation while taking out the trash on a Monday morning, Colleen stood, swaying slightly, a few feet away from the handyman. “Yes, I did.”
Does he think this is cocktail hour? It's a Monday morning. Colleen takes another step forward, but it turns out he is apparently not done asking questions.
He asks, “What did you do over the weekend?”
Colleen doesn’t know what to say. Even an answer to something so banal requires processing. It doesn’t occur to her to simply say, “None of your business.”
She watches the ridiculously slow, leisurely way he brushed putty onto the wooden porch railing, exactly like someone who has all the time in the world and isn’t a professional handyman who is getting paid. Yeah, because he isn’t a professional, after all, and is only now about to take a test to get a license. Bastard.
Colleen manages to say, “Reading and writing.” She steps past him, making sure she doesn’t touch him but not caring if one of her bags of trash rubs against him or swings into him. Trash and trash mingling.
Once she slips past him with tense shoulders, she charges down the three steps and across the driveway to the trash, recycling, and yard waste bins. She pictures her comfortable living room, a place separated from the handyman by a door with a deadlock.
While he is working on the porch in his lackadaisical manner and she is putting trash in the bin, he asks, “What do you like to read?”
Colleen knits her brow and doesn’t know what to answer. She doubts this dude even reads books, and she’s certain he doesn’t read feminist books and would likely enough ridicule her for doing so. Why is he interrogating me? Maybe I just think he’s interrogating me because a narcissistic sociopath interrogated me to gather emotional blackmail material… or to, after I (bored) answered her questions, she could use my answering her questions as an excuse to project her narcissism onto me. She feels vaguely triggered.
Unfortunately, Colleen doesn’t process quickly. She’s learned over time this doesn’t mean she’s stupid or slow-witted: it means she’s an empath and an introvert, and this is simply normal for empaths and introverts. Never mind that some extroverts demonize introverts. Never mind that the narcissistic sociopath from her past claimed to be an extreme introvert… but used Colleen’s introversion as an excuse to demonize her.
Colleen wishes she could process quickly and come up with snappy comebacks under fire—that would be especially useful when someone is verbally abusing me. But it takes her time to think about what someone said and to have a good answer. She often conjures a great response she’s alone, or hours after she’s parted with the verbal attacker. Once she’s alone, she’s no longer under pressure… and regrets not saying that clever response at the correct time.
Anxious because a sexist jerk who’d been working on her property for waaay too long and who needed to get his cooties off her property as soon as possible… Colleen struggles to think of an answer. What do you read? I read a wide variety of genres and subjects, and I love feminist books. When I bring up feminism with people who aren’t feminists, they tend to verbally attack me—so I try to avoid that. I’m also into queer books and can anticipate a similar reaction and/or attempts to manipulate me out of the closet.
Aloud Colleen says, “Oh, I read lots of stuff.”
He apparently considers that too vague and says so. He chuckles and adds, “Are you playing hard to get?”
Colleen freezes beside the trash bin. She stares at Turd with utter disgust and horror. She doubts she’s heard that expression in over twenty years. She absolutely loathed that creepy, rapey, and manipulative expression even when it was fairly common to still hear it, circa 1995. What the fuck?! Colleen strongly suspects “playing hard to get” is an expression that came directly from rape culture. Instead of assuming women “play hard to get,” assume we’re not interested and not obligated to humor you, piece of shit misogynist.
At least, that’s what she’d be thinking if she could form thoughts in this state of shock.
Colleen is still frozen and staring at Turd, while he’s still babbling some douchey nonsense. She doesn’t even know what is coming out of his stupid, gross mouth. She can’t speak.
She rouses enough thought to remind herself that a friend arrived yesterday to visit. She pulls the bell out of her pocket and rings it.
Daffodil the dragon glides over the house—from the backyard, where she was munching on rhododendron leaves—and lands in the center of the front lawn.
Turd finally shuts up. He stands staring stupidly (of course, since the average blade of grass could outwit him) at Daffodil.
Colleen exhales, comforted by the calm and confident presence of her dragon friend. “Daffodil, be a dear and... could you please roast this misogynist?”
“Gladly!”
“Please take him out in the street. I don’t want the house to catch fire.”
Small, round puffs of smoke rise from Daffodil’s nostrils. “As you wish.” She lumbers up to the Worst Handyman in the Galaxy, who is still staring at her. He stutters before she clasps him in her front claws and flies the short distance to the center of the residential street. He emits a few high-pitched shrieks.
Colleen watches with a great deal of relief while orange flames roar out of Daffodil's jaws. In seconds, the Worst Handyman in the Galaxy is no more than a pile of ashes.
Colleen smiles gently. This is supposed to be her home and sanctuary from patriarchal narcissists like that handyman, not a place for such parasites to take over. After a few more deep breaths, she intends to cleanse the yard and house with sage bundles she keeps in a wooden chest in the shrine room.
Now back to Hauntings of Claverton Castle:
Chapter 1:
Chapter 23:
https://open.substack.com/pub/whimsicalwords/p/hauntings-of-claverton-castle-chapter-317?r=5m2is&utm_campaign=post&utm_medium=web&showWelcomeOnShare=true
Hauntings of Claverton Castle, Chapter 24
Samantha sucked in her breath and pressed the toes of her slipper on Uppington’s foot. She hastily pulled back her foot and stared at him. “With whom have you been speaking?” His comments were too near details only the Prendregast household—family and servants—could know.
“An old friend of mine.” The Marquis’s smirk was more open and even more repellent.
She wished she hadn’t agreed to dance with him. She imagined the moment when this country dance ended and she was curtseying to the Marquis and turning on her heel to leave him. If he asked her to dance again that evening, she would refuse and would therefore be required, for propriety’s sake, to sit out the remainder of the ball. Her lips drooped at the prospect of sitting alone and ignored for hours.
Samantha resumed dancing with her eyes cast down toward her feet. “Who would this friend be? I hardly think someone with such high social station as yourself would gossip with servants.”
“It pains me that you consider me a vulgar gossip.”
“I merely consider you the individual whom you have presented yourself to be.”
“You must fear that I shall inform others of the reprehensible way you became a houseguest here. You need not fear that. Well, not if—”
Samantha deliberately stomped on his foot this time. His smirk disappeared, and it was his turn to stare at her. Samantha sensed the dancers to her right glancing in their direction.
Samantha narrowed her eyes. “If I did not know better, milord, I would say you were threatening me.”
The smirk returned. “Be that as it may. I do not believe you are in a position to object.”
“You are mistaken.” She hoped he failed to hear the tremble in her voice.
She felt great relief when the set finished, and the Marquis bowed gracefully. She curtseyed, turned away, and marched off the dance floor. She blinked and realized she was now improperly unaccompanied by either a chaperone or a dance partner.
Recalling the garlic on the Marquis’s breath, Samantha rapidly scanned the great hall in search of anyone who resembled a vampire. She had met very few and only knew to seek extremely pale skin over blue veins. She resolved to find Aunt Thirza but caught the eye of Mr. Prendregast. Stepping toward her, he appeared to be glancing back and forth between the Marquis and herself with narrowed eyes and a faint smile. Wondering if he had watched them throughout the dance, she turned quickly away.
Samantha’s next dancing partner was a friend of Reginald’s, a gawky young man with pleasant eyes and blonde hair. He was more agreeable than the Marquis, but she found his conversation drab. He seemed obsessed with carriages, especially fast curricles. She had never even ridden in a curricle.
Samantha was dancing with a black-clad Druid priest wearing a large iron pentacle on a silver chain, when she espied Margot and Roland on the threshold of the double doors leading into the great hall. Her spirits abruptly lifted, and she smiled widely.
Margot looked stunning, uncharacteristically dressed in a gown: it was dark orange with many rows of orange braid on the bodice and skirt hem. The sleeves formed little slashed puffs at the shoulders and descended in silk chiffon to the elbows, where they ended in ruffles above her long white gloves. Blinking, Samantha felt vaguely aware of many eyes upon Margot and Roland.
Samantha tried to catch Margot’s attention, but she was turned to her chaperone, the Countess of Starcliffe, exquisite in yellow silk and dwarfed by the Montmorency twins. Roland, in a black evening suit, looked at Samantha. He smiled slightly and bowed despite their distance of several feet; Samantha smiled back and almost grinned at him before she turned away to keep up with the dance.
Within minutes, Roland met with Samantha and asked her to dance. She felt elated to dance with a friend, especially after the Marquis. For such a reserved young man, Roland danced very gracefully. She recalled this now, as they hopped confidently through an English country dance. No doubt a dancing master gave him expensive lessons.
“You certainly have been gadding about in society unaccustomedly frequently, Roland,” Samantha said.
“Yes, deplorable, is it not?” Roland sounded earnest, but his lip twitched.
“I cannot object. That is, I am glad to have your company here tonight.”
“Thank-you. The feeling is mutual.” He smiled faintly.
“It must not be easy for you. I know you disapprove of frivolous society.”
“Not entirely. I am highly exhausted by the energies and moods of others.”
“I understand that is the disadvantage of having strong Sensitive powers.”
Another dancer, a woman in a pale pink gown, giggled and lurched in the dance. Roland and Samantha dodged her, avoiding a collision. However, the woman’s dancing partner was less fortunate. She pushed him away from Samantha and toward another couple.
Roland raised his eyebrows and exchanged a look with Samantha, who chuckled. When he returned to her, his shoulders sank in relief. They danced in silence, before Samantha recalled what she wished to ask. “Would it be possible for you and Margot to stay a bit longer, perhaps a fortnight?”
“I fear not,” Roland said. “We must away to Devonshire, to a haunted family castle. It sounds suspiciously like a demon in need of banishment.”
“It might become urgent here, too.” Samantha raised her eyebrows. “I have encountered many ghosts since coming to Claverton Castle.”
Roland nodded calmly, confirming her suspicion that he sensed the specters’ presence. “Yes, Margot showed me the letter you sent her.”
“It is astonishing how much stronger these ghosts are than any of my previous encounters with the supernatural.”
Roland raised his eyebrows and squeezed her hand. “Do you think your own Sensitive powers may be strengthening?”
“Perhaps, but don’t you think it a bit late for that? I shall turn seventeen soon, and that typically happens among fourteen-year-olds. They suddenly develop new powers.”
“Yes, indeed.” Roland stared off into space without missing a step in the dance. “That was the age at which Margot and I developed more powers. Some Sensitives start earlier, at twelve or thirteen. Yet I see no reason why some might begin a bit later.”
“I hope that explains my increased powers. I wonder if I am starting late and shall be able to continue carrying on conversations with ghosts in the future, after I depart from Claverton Castle.”
“Would you be disappointed otherwise?”
Samantha raised her eyebrows. “Yes.”
Samantha and Roland shifted to opposite sides, so they briefly had different partners. When they stepped back together, Roland said, “We shall see how we can help. If I inform Margot of what you told me, she will be happy to return for a long stay after we resolve the issue in Devonshire. We shall then investigate the Claverton Castle ghosts.”
“Wonderful!” Samantha beamed at him, and he smiled.
She noted other guests eying them with raised eyebrows. A pair of girls her age leaned together and whispered behind their fans. Perhaps the gossips imagined that Roland and she would marry—or worse, were merely having a dalliance. Samantha esteemed him like a brother. She figured life would be less complicated if they did fall in love.
“The spirits of Claverton definitely intrigue me,” Roland said. “The house is very old and impressive.”
“I have no doubt Harriet—and Reginald—would not object in the least if you returned for a longer stay.”
“And Mr. Prendregast need not know that it is owing to the ghosts.”
She smiled. “Hmm, the demon of Devonshire. Most amusing.”
Roland chuckled. Samantha stared up at him. He was not one to chuckle easily.
After they finished dancing, Samantha led Roland to the refreshment table, where he handed her a glass of punch before helping himself to one. Samantha kept close to him as they slipped past the lively crowd and barely escaped a collision with a clumsy and intoxicated older man in knee-breeches.
On the other side of the row of archways, Roland and Samantha sat down on a sofa. The many voices speaking in the great hall were somewhat muffled here. Let people talk… unless they destroy our reputations. Mr. Prendregast might assume Margot and Roland’s return would be because Roland was courting her.