Fictional Fairy Tale
Jennifer Flaten

I think I’ve mentioned once, maybe more than once, that I am an only child. I grew up deep in the Northwood of Wisconsin, where the Hodag roam and deer-hunting season is an acceptable reason to miss a week of school.

Although my great-grandparents did their best to raise me, well, I always had the feeling this wasn’t how they expected to spend their golden years, looking after a rather rambunctious child.

My mother, Betty, brought me to live with them after her marriage fell apart. She’d struggled as a single mom for a couple of years and felt it was in everyone’s best interest if she left me up north for a few years.

A few years turned into twelve. When I was very young, my mother visited often, making the long trek, from Milwaukee, at least once a month. As I got older, those trips dwindled down to once every couple of months.

My great-grandparents had very little to say about my dad or, if they did have something to say about him, it was usually in fierce whispers behind closed doors. I really didn’t pay much attention to them I was too busy watching the A-team and imagining that someday I would grow up to be Hannibal and lead a pack of crazy for hire mercenaries.

I can guarantee I am the only woman in the whole world, who at age twelve ran around saying, “I love it when a plan comes together,” and pretending to smoke a cigar. If it isn’t obvious, I spent a lot of time alone as a child.

I was alone, a great deal, mostly, because the closest kid my age lived about two miles away, also because the only games I knew how to play were Yahtzee and Hearts. I place the blame for my lack of board game skills squarely on my great-grandmother. Instead of teaching me how to play Monopoly, she insisted I fill for any absent guests during her weekly card party.

For the record, I blame my fondness for television shows, such as “Dallas” and “Falcon Crest,” on my great-grandparents, too. On the plus side, I can scale and filet a fish like nobody’s business, as my great grandpa was an avid angler.

I did have one girlfriend, Lisa. She was the only girl within ten square miles. It was only natural that we would play together a lot. It also was only natural that we would fight a lot. Many play dates ended with one of us taking our ball and going home.

We could go weeks without speaking to each other. Luckily, I had very rich imagination. I know you are so surprised. On the days when Lisa and I weren’t speaking, I often pretended I had a sibling. Yes, that is different from having an invisible friend.

I decided I had an older brother. I sketched in a back-story that would explain why he didn’t live with me. He was about 13 years older than I was and when my parents divorced, he went off with our dad. Taking a page from my favourite primetime soaps, I determined I was born shortly after the divorce and he never knew of my existence.

For my season finale, I had my brother finally learning of my existence and driving in his very awesome sports car to rescue me from my so-called Mayberry life.

Sadly, that never happened; no network, there were only three then, picked up my television show pilot. Life went on. Eventually, Betty invited me to live in the big city with her. Hey, Milwaukee is a big city compared to Tomahawk.

I did the usual stuff, school, marriage, the herd of animals and kids. I nearly forgot about my brother. Amazingly a few weeks ago, I was reading a column by Matt Seinberg, on GrubStreet.ca, and I thought, “This guy seems familiar.”

In a cliffhanger sure to upstage “Who shot JR,” I think Matt Seinberg may be my long lost imaginery brother.

See for yourself, click here to read a column by Matt Seinberg