Broken English Short Stories

“The Skazochnaya Strana forest?” the Russian taxi driver smiles with broken English. I can’t speak clearly, so I nod. His eyes flick over my shadowy face, “Ah,” he nods to himself, “The fairy tale forest.” I roll my eyes, “I do not believe in fairy tales. What’s your name?” Once a journalist, always a journalist. “Alexei,” he slowly enunciates. “Do you understand English?” I ask in rapid succession. “No, very little,” he grins at me. I smile grimly back, turning absently to my forest-streaked reflection in the window. “Have you ever given up on life, Alexei?” I sigh. “My mom died five months ago. You don’t think I’m running away do you?” Alexei nods politely. “I’m just taking a week off from assignment in the Syrian refugee camps. There’s so much pain. So much sadness.” He lifts an eyebrow and smiles, “You talk much.” “Yeah, it can get lonely. Sorry,” I chuckle dully.
My musings wander to the Skype conversation I had with my best friend Mia a few hours ago. “Charlie, are you sure it’s a good idea to hike alone so soon after your mom?” she exaggeratedly raised her eyebrows. “I know, but I can’t stand all the suffering, all the people.” Mia kept

“This,” Mischa proudly presents, “Is the beast my great-great-grandmother escaped from.” Slowly I reach out and stroke the time-stiffened fur, feeling a sensation course through my blood. I screech incomprehensibly, whispering voices of logic and imagination snaking in and out of my consciousness. Huddling on the floor, my incisors pulse pain through my body, the voices unbearably contorting my thoughts. I struggle for breath against the collapsing structures slowly burying me beneath splintered logic. Firelight flickers over my face, and I fall limp. On the edges of consciousness, I hear my mother’s gentle words, “Once upon a time,” and I laugh in the warmth of Little Red Riding Hood’s childhood