Writing Challenge 15: Write a story about a mythical creature

The Mailman and the Babushka

It was an unusual request for the postman called Sasha, but when duty calls, you deliver. In this case, it was a few letters to an old woman who lived in a hut a bit out from town. He was the newest recruit in the post office, and as tradition, he had to handle the most menial tasks. He had to deliver to the ones with aggressive dogs or vehicle owners that didn’t care about safety for themselves or for their neighbours. The hut deep in the forest where you have to travel by foot since there were no roads for a vehicle was the newest addition to Sasha’s delivery-route.

The humidity and warmth didn’t make it any better and Sasha was sweating bullets, cursing whoever decided to live in such a place. As the forest opened up Sasha saw a wooden cabin, his destination. It was an old worn-out building, moss grew on the wood from the top of the roof to the bottom of the...chicken legs?

The postman rubbed his eyes and took a longer look at the bottom of the hut. The whole building was standing on top of thousands of chicken legs. Not the grilled ones, but the legs of a living chicken, yellow and with sharp talons at the end of each toe.

Sasha looked around the forest with dubious eyes, the co-workers might have tried to pull a prank on him. But no, the forest didn’t hide any cameras, or postmen sniggering in the bushes, and there were no mini-helicopters with GoPro’s attached floating in the sky. Only white clouds. And a small dot that grew in size with rapid speed.

Squinting, Sasha discerned it as something black, and it was heading towards him. He threw himself towards the dense forest and a few seconds after, a huge explosion was heard in the vicinity. As the frightened man turned around, he saw a giant black mortar, the thing you crush spices in, planted on the ground in a small crater. Before he managed to take another step he heard a sound and looked down only to notice a pestle, the size of a walking stick, rolling towards his feet.

“Ty che, blyad?!” screamed the mortar. It was a shrill high-pitched voice and it sounded offended.

Sasha swallowed hard as he grabbed the giant pestle and approached the talking mortar. The hands squeezed around the pestle so that the knuckles turned white, summoning almost the same amount of courage as when he asked for Anastacia’s hand.

“Hello?” he said. “Are you alright?”

“Angliyskiy,” muttered the mortar, then it switched to a language that was easier to understand. “Come. Help me lift this miska, I’m stuck.”

The growing tension in Sasha released and his shoulder slumped down. It was a person, not a talking mortar. He hurried forward and grabbed the turned-over object with both hands and heaved, grunting in pain due to its weight.

“Glupyy, use the pestik...the uhm...the pounder!” said the shrill voice from inside the mortar. “As, you know...leveredzh, you know leveredzh?”

Sasha got the hints and wedged the pestle inside. He angled the giant stick towards a protruding rock nearby and used it as a fulcrum. He put down his entire weight on the stick and the mortar opened up, revealing an old woman with streaky white hair crawling out with rapid speed, which was good since Sasha couldn’t hold it any longer and the mortar closed with a heavy thud.

The postman panted and heaved, gathering his breath and taking a look at the mysterious woman, who had crawled out from a giant mortar that had previously been flying up in the sky.

She looked like an evil granny, the thin white dishevelled hair, the crooked nose and the wrinkly yellow skin. Yeah, she looked like a witch alright. The granny wore a pink quilt over her shoulders, a purple blouse and a dark blue long skirt that ended in a pair of Mickey Mouse sandals.

“Spasibo Glupyy,” said the older woman. “Getting too old to fly with my miska.”

“You’re welcome,” said Sasha as he wiped the sweat from his brown. “You’re Mrs Yaga, right? I have a few letters for you.” He then handed over a few envelopes that he had inside the jacket.

The old woman took a sniff on Sasha’s hands and then squinted her eyes.

“I smell Russian in you,” she said with the same offended tone she had inside the mortel. “Why you no speak russkiy?”

“I never got a chance to learn it, we spoke english at home,” defended Sasha. He quickly added, “But I think it’s a wonderful language.”

“It is,” said the old woman and nodded in approval. “Sounds very good when swear, yeah?”

“Da,” said Sasha with a grin and they both explode in laughter.

“Again, Spasibo Glupyy,” said the old woman. “For… all this.” she waved towards the mortar and the crater. “You ever need lessons in russkiy, you come back here, okay?”

“I will,” said Sasha with a smile and waved goodbye.

Writing Challenge 14 - Write a story with the word "Salt" in 250 words or less

Letter to Chef

Dear Papa,

You always wanted to cook for important persons well now you have the chance to cook for God. Hope God is not too picky like I was. The kitchen still reminds me of you from the smell of homemade spices. It still tingles my nose because of the paprika. But it feels strange now that I don't hear you chopping veggies in the morning.

Me and mama are doing fine recently I even

Hey Papa, remember when you told me about salt and how it makes food better? Last week I learned that our tears had salt in them. Isn't that weird? Maybe it's to make one feel better after crying. I guess it kind of works. Crying made it a little bit better. But I had to pour out a lot of salt until it stopped hurting. It still feels very empty and sometimes I still wonder why you're not here anymore. But now I can leave my bedroom.

I tried one of your recipes yesterday and almost chopped off my fingers. I made a mess of the kitchen. Served the dish to Mama and she cried. Maybe it needed more salt. It's not that easy to cook without our master chef. I wish you taught me how to cook. I wish I spent more time with you.


We miss your food.
And we miss our super great chef even more.

With love,

Ellie