So….aparently there are a few people who have expressed interest in my story: The Toothfairy. It was just me playing around. I like storytelling. Storytelling, to me, is just so cathartic. So The Toothfairy…. It’s not my usual story. Hell, it’s not my usual genre.
Several months ago (August?) I was informed of an open call for short stories of the “Creepy, weird or skin-crawly” variety. I don’t really enjoy the horror/suspense genre, I get bad dreams from such things. I still shiver when I think of The Dollhouse in the Attic. Even though I read it cover-to-cover, at least, fifteen times. But, for some reason, I felt compelled. I like a challenge. So what would I write?
I wanted to write a story that didn’t go the way you’d expect. And then I wanted to tell a story about something that never made sense to me as a kid. And I remembered how the whole concept of the Toothfairy never made any sense. Even as a kid, I had questions. But, hey, a quarter is a quarter (this was many, many moons ago).
My questions came from the fact that my dad is not exactly the type of person who’d tolerate someone creeping into our house and doing anything that might mess with or scare his children. My mom is not the kind of person who’d tolerate it either. I just think that in the grand scheme of things, mom would shield my brothers and I and dad would’ve charged in like a knight errant bent on a singular task: removing the perceived threat to his family. Trust me, growing up, dad was a flipping superhero. But don’t make any mistake, it’s not like mom wasn’t capable of defending us. She just would’ve been more than happy to let dad do his thing. Turns out, when it comes to my dad on this matter the sayings are true: Once a Marine, always a Marine.
So here I am, age six, I’ve lost my first tooth. I vividly remember it. I had just gotten to school when I stopped to get a drink from the fountain when I saw some blood. I pulled the tooth and kind of froze. Once I accepted that it was perfectly normal, and it wasn’t because I was a poor flosser (which I was), I took the now detached part of my face to my first-grade teacher. She – having seen this type of scene a million times, grabbed a few tissues, balled them up and pressed them into service to staunch the flow from my jaw. She then dutifully packaged up my tooth and told me she’d hand it over when the day was over. She was worried, as was I that I’d spend the day looking at it and eventually would lose it. She was most assuredly correct.
The next morning, there was incontrovertible proof of the existence of the Toothfairy. Where’d he (I always pictured this particular Fey creature as male) get the quarter? What did he do with the teeth? Was this the same Toothfairy as the rest of my classmates?
So I wrote the story and tried to answer those critical questions. Apparently a few people like it. I’m very glad for that. As far as the journal which put out the open call, they politely rejected it.