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The revenge of Baba Yaga (standard:humor, 1471 words)
Author: siromahAdded: Jan 13 2007Views/Reads: 2222/1352Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
Its January 10, 2007 and I ran out of wrapping paper. This good website was so kind to let me print my story here. Thank you, thank you good people. Let all the spirits bless you. Content Advisory Warning: warning: warning: Warning: warning: warnin


Its January 10, 2007 and I ran out of wrapping paper. This good website
was so kind to let me print my story here. 

Thank you, thank you good people. Let all the spirits bless you. 

Content Advisory Warning: warning: warning: Warning: warning: warning: 

No book editors, correctors and any other kind of book worms, that sucks
the blood of the poor unpublished writers can enter this story under 
treath of dead penalty! 

The revenge of Baba Yaga 

Hi. My name is Baba Yaga.  Stop, someone will say.  Aren't you the
same Baba Yaga from the Russian folklore who ate all... those kids? 
Before you judge me, let me tell you this. First: I am vegetarian. 
Second: I never ate any kids. And third: I am a writer. After years of 
lies and deceptions I decided to come out of the shadow and tell the 
real story of baba Yaga. Here we go. Last month I hit the jackpot. Mr. 
Tumbolino from " Happily ever after" publication house told me that my 
book was accepted. Before I could jump on my broom and tell my sisters 
about the good news, my book come out and climb to N1 ( faster than 
Tenzing and Hillary on their way to the top of the Himalayas) spot on 
the New York best seller list. The next day I woke up and my beautiful 
dream vanished. Awwww! I looked the pile of rejections. " Not in this 
moment", " great story, but not for us, and so on. You got the 
picture, right? I bet is not pretty. Anywhere I don't surrender too 
easy, so I sat down and wrote a letter to the last publication house, 
where my hope was undressed again. Instead admitting that my Hope is 
naked, I simply wrote: "Dear Mr. Chucky Cheese I want to tell you that 
unfortunately I cant except your rejection notice. I can except so many 
of them. My chicken house is pilled up to the very ceiling and I don't 
have a place to put a needle, not to talk about a rejection note. (I am 
sending you a photograph, so you won't say that I am a liar). I will 
report to your office Monday morning and discuss how to publish my 
story." How did I get in the office of the Mr. Chucky Cheese? To make 
the long story short, I was thrown out of the office like a dethroned 
king out of his castle. Lucky for me I saved myself from the necktie 
party. Is so hard to find a proper tie when you have a bonny neck. 
Well, I said to myself. I can try the next publication house. This one 
sounds promising. How did I get inside? This time I decided to try more 
inconvenient method. Since my butt-chicks were still pink-blue and the 
rest of the colors of the rainbow( I don't know which one because is 
hard to see your butt-chicks without a mirror, you know!) from the last 
dethronement, I come up with something ...special. 

" Who you? " asked me the man on the door. He was on one else but Ivan
the Woodcutter from the Russian Falk story. I was surprise to see him 
here, but was even more surprise because I didn't see his axe. (Don't 
start me on this one, I still have bad dreams about his axe). I didn't 
want to map the floor for the 1001 time (Shahrzad wasn't around anymore 
to save my ass) so I said the true. " I am delivering this box. Your 
boss ordered some shoes." " Ok", he said it and opened it. I could see 
the disappointment on his face. I bet on my old broom that if was a 
pizza, would never get to his boss. " Go." I didn't move even a hair 
but he didn't let me think again. " You heeeer? Goooo." I had to leave. 
Or put even more ice on my butt-chicks. Anywhere I went straight to the 
closest cathedral (in cathedral you have more chance to see Angels) and 
prayed to the all holy spirits of any religions ever existed. I prayed 
the Holly and Molly, Polly and Dolly and forgot whom else and went 
home. What was in the box someone will ask? Was it really a shoe? Of 
cost my friend. I send the editor one old shoe. Why one? Because I am 
stingy. And why old? For a good luck. Inside the box I put a letter 
plus my novel. My letter started like this: " Dear Mr. Lukas 
Paprilukas. Since I got my shoe on your doorstep, let me introduced 
myself properly. My name is Baba Yaga and I am a starving writer. Yes, 
starving I admit because no one wants to publish my stories. Until 
today 38,773 publication houses denied me.  I am not counting the small 
ones. Anywhere I decided to try my luck here..." I don't know what 
happen because I never got an answer. Anywhere I took the other pair 
and sold it to some homeless men for 12 cents, scraped all the 
rejection notices for paper and got myself $ 154.34 cent.  This is the 
end. I told myself and decided to end it for good. I bought myself a 

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