Dennis dropped his gaze down to the bottom of the note that was written in too nice a handwriting for it to come from a four year old. Seeing the word “pantry” written in flat, bold letters with two lines drawn underneath for emphasis, Dennis let out a very theatrical gasp, which earned him a bout of giggling that was attempted to be quieted by a whispering “shhh” and the words “he’ll hear you” from the kitchen. 

Folding the note up and putting it in his pocket, Dennis stood from his seat in the living room, glancing towards the arch that led into the kitchen, where he saw Jane stepping away from the pantry, closing its squeaking door. She looked at him, her painted face breaking into a smile before placing a finger over her lips and gesturing to the door to the pantry, which was out of view. Dennis nodded his head, clearing his throat loudly. 

“My god! How ever will I be able to get this wicked witch three chocolate chip cookies baked specifically from Lady Jane! I’ll be on the road for weeks! Not to mention I’ll be traveling for weeks to get to the Deepest Darkest Forest and to the Spooky Tower!”

More high pitched giggling ensued. 

Jane laughed lightly, shaking her head. Dennis smiled, crossing the living room and walking into the kitchen where it smelt strongly of cookies. Jane had walked over to the counter where the chocolate chips had been sitting cooling for the past few minutes. Putting on a face, and accent, Jane lent against the counter and put her hands on her hips.

“My! Ser Dennis! It’s been a while since I’ve seen you here. What brings you?” She said loudly so the little witch in the pantry could hear.

“I have come for three of your best chocolate chip cookies,” Dennis replied, making up his own accent. “For I am in desperate need of them.”

“Whatever for?”

“To retrieve my cloak from the Witch Priscilla. She has taken it from me and will only return it to me if I bring her what she asks for.”

“That witch does have an appetite for my cooking,” Jane agreed. More giggles from the pantry. Jane smiled, glancing at the closed door before turning back to Dennis. “Alright, I’ll give you three of my best chocolate chip cookies. I have just made some.”

“As I can see.”

“But I won’t let them go for free, you know, they’ve built me up to what I am.”

“Whatever my lady asks from me,” Dennis said, bowing deeply at the waist, “my lady shall have.”

Jane scoffed, rolling her eyes at him as Dennis straightened up. They both beamed. Jane tilted her head, her eyes sparking. “How about a kiss from a handsome knight?”

“EEEEEWWWWWWWWWW!”

“My, did you hear something?” Jane asked, looking to the pantry door that was still closed.

“Must be the wind,” Dennis said with a shrug. “It’s known to have its temperaments in this part, as I’m sure you know.”

“Yes indeed.” Jane said, turning back to Dennis as the pantry giggled again. Jane then selected three cookies from the plate in front of her, setting them in a tupperware container and patting the lid. Dennis walked forwards, lent across the counter, took Jane's chin lightly in his grasp, and gave her a sweet kiss. 

“Many thanks,” Dennis said, drawing away. Jane smiled, handing him the container of the three best chocolate chip cookies. 

“Safe travels,” she said. Dennis nodded his head, turning to the pantry. 

It took five swift, light steps to get to the pantry door. Dennis reached for the handle of the door and yanked it open.

“Gotcha!” He shouted. 

Priscilla - the witch - was standing in the pantry, clutching his coat to her chest. She shrieked as he startled her, turning into a fit of giggles. 

“Witch,” Dennis said, holding out the container of cookies, dropping to one knee and bowing his head, “I have brought you the finest chocolate chip cookies the Lady Jane had to offer. I now ask that you return my coat to me so that I may - ack!”

Priscilla had raced forwards in the short space and wrapped her arms around Dennis’s neck, the force taking Dennis off guard as he quickly wrapped his arms around her and tried to not fall into a shelf filled with cans. Priscilla giggled as they righted themselves, smiling with her teeth as she took the container of cookies from his hands. She handed over his coat in a flourish.

“Here you go!” Priscilla proclaimed once she had stopped laughing. Dennis took the coat from her, nodding his head. 

“My thanks to you,” he said. 

“Hi mommy!” Priscilla said, her gaze going from Dennis to someone behind him - Jane - as she waved furiously. 

“Hello precious,” Jane replied. Dennis turned on his knee, seeing Jane standing against one of the chairs at the dining table, smiling nervously.

Dennis smiled, his eyes dipping to a small black box that she held in her hands. His lips parted, looking up at Jane who nodded her head and laughed nervously.

I rub the desk once, twice, thrice to get the last residue off, there is nothing quite like it. The literally sickeningly sweet cream is no longer present, but the desk is now sparkling. As the light reflecting off the desk seems to bask me in warmth, I soon recognize the light is growing in intensity. I do not blink, as the whispers told me not to blink when shown something so beautiful. Thankfully I didn’t, because I was able to witness a swearing genie come out of the desk, using many languages that the whispers translated for me. The whispers sure are smart. The genie was saying things like “That 🤬™ witch just had to trap me in a desk” and “Who the F*** even has such a specific curse” but such things didn’t matter. The whispers told me that it was a mythical being that granted three wishes, could be any being a god and could kill any being.

Green is not the color

That the oak tree takes in winter,

For frost will freeze its insides

If it chooses to live longer.

It dons a shade of stick-stark brown

That serves to block the winter out

As its leaves fall to the ground 

In red and gold and yellow.

The maple tree drops sticky sweet

From porous gaps

Pushed in by meaty

Hands that want to take the stuff

That flows inside the veins of trees.

The maples by their seedling posts

Like comatose donors

Arranged in rows,

Sleep through the act

But gloomy, they know

As they drip and drip and drop.

(If anyone has any edits/suggestions, they are greatly appreciated!)

He prefers not to speak to anyone, I can tell, even in his mother tongue. Rarely do I see him starting a conversation in Italian with his closest coworkers, unless his work demands it. He has an innate introvertedness that acts as a comically stark foil to our obnoxious head chef, also a man of Italy. So despite his neutral looks, I can recognize him by behavior alone, and I prefer him to most of my coworkers. He doesn’t need to scold me for things I do wrong, because he trusts that I know myself. All he needs to do is make a face that tells me he doesn’t approve, and I will correct my behavior. When he does speak, I know that it is with intention and meaning. It is not as if he is poor at English. He has a thick accent that I need to work through, but he is clean with his grammar and cadence, whatever insecurities he may have himself. If he tells me something I take it to heart, because I know that he took the effort to say it at all. He never fails to say “thank you” to anybody, which I would argue is a trait of most Italians and the ecosystem of our restaurant, but when he says “thank you nayyya” in a high pitch of enthusiasm, it never fails to but a grin on my face. Or when he goes out of his way to help, granted it is not often, but in acts of small service I know that I am one of the few employees who he appreciates and finds no qualms with.

His name could not be taken this easily. 

He knew this feeling well, it had been ground into him nearly from birth. The current Mr. Rogiolani, the head of the House, Marcello’s father, had told him, year after year, as they would walk the stone path through the misty compound, passing the towering hedges that surrounded the Castle Rogiolani, once every month, when his father was home from overseas from his visits to the many many people he knew, to possibly the mafia (who it was said he had good relations with), that the Rogiolani name was sacred, but many would want to taint it with mispronounce. 

Marcello Rogiolani, Duke of the Western East pasture of the East Side of South Colombia, who ruled over seven towns by the sea and had claim over a profitable island eight miles offshore of Dukat, knew, solemnly, that one day, it would happen to him.

He was accustomed to the mispronunciation of his first name, which was to be expected. Often, people of the common land with no connection to the nuances of the Italian “hard c” would pronounce it soft: Mar-sello. That, in itself, was annoying, but not disgraceful. The family name however, was something that required more thought when one went to say it. One in the presence of a Rogiolani could not just blurt out the first pronunce they think at the sight of the name written down, no. 

How taken aback was Marcello, when, in a class he knew, with his fellow scholars, when one he knew well, who he often talked with and did not ignore like some of the commoners among the bunch, said, as a joke of all things, that his prestiged family name sounded similar to one of a Pokémon.

Marcello had rid himself of his Pokémon cards long ago, and so plotted the doom of one Caroline Chute, as she chuckled softly and said again, Roggenrola. 

“How are we supposed to get this many rubber ducks?” Martin overhears.

They haven’t noticed him yet. With his curiosity piqued, he refrains from revealing himself.

“And do they have to be yellow?” 

Hm. Interesting. Not the content he was expecting to eavesdrop on. 

“Honey, we just don’t have the resources for this.” Martin’s father says, putting his head in his palm.

“We clearly don’t have a choice!” 

Okay, seriously, Martin just has to know what’s going on here. Pretending he just walked through the door and had in fact not been listening to whatever this outrageous conversation is, he preppily pops through the doorway, making his presence known to his heated parents. 

“Hey mom! Dad! What’s up?” Cheery enough as so it doesn’t raise suspicion, but it also makes it clear that he knows something is up. 

Upon seeing her son’s face, Martin’s mother takes a deep breath, and guides him to take a seat. 

“We have an- unfortunate circumstance.” she explains in her best ‘trying to conceal the panic’ mom voice she can put on. 

Martin’s mother pulls out a crumpled note that reads--

“We need you to send 29,000 yellow rubber ducks from China to the east coast of the United States. This is a ransom note. If not supplied by the end of January, 1992, then your home and your stable life will be completely uprooted, and you and your family will succumb to the evils of the world. Don’t contact anyone of government importance, it won’t go well for you. If you fulfill your task, the cost will be reimbursed, and we can all continue as if this never happened. Choose wisely.

Love,

Quack quack”

Oh no. Oh no no. This cannot be happening. Never before has something so bizarre yet so unlucky made it’s presence in Martin’s life. Now he understands how frantic his parents were. 

Little did Martin know, this would be the unknown origin story of the Rubber Duckie Spill of 1992. His family worked hard and managed to order 29,000 yellow rubber ducks from the country of China. They thought their work was done. They started to sit back and relax, moving into their normal routines again. However, the worst case scenario that the least expected, made itself into fruition.

On the news one cold evening, Martin’s father called everyone into the family room, with his jaw dropped and mouth aghast. The rest of the family followed suit, with movement leaving their bodies, moving still, silent, eyes glued to the tv. They had spilled. The ducks. The boat spilled. The cargo ship carrying only their rubber duckies had spilled, dumping all of them into the ocean. 

With their rubber duckies spilled into the sea, so so close to their final destination, they were simply unaware of what their futures had in store. 

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

We don’t know exactly what happened to them, but we do know their fate, as this is the first time this story has been revealed, and my fate after sharing it is unknown to me. There’s no telling where they are, and who was behind this note. Was it an evil regime of rubber ducks? Was this a play in the war between different colored ducks? Was this the work of a different high level organization? Was this work done at the hands of Martin’s family themselves? There’s just one thing we do know; the ducks are still out there.