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No book editors, correctors and any other kind of book worms, that sucks the blood of the poor unpublished writers can enter this story under treath of dead penalty!

[1,399 words]
Nik Siromah
[January 2007]
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The Revenge Of Baba Yaga
Nik Siromah


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No book editors, correctors and any other kind of book worms, that sucks the blood of the poor unpublished writers can enter this story under treath of dead penalty!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.
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 rope and went straight to the Enchanted forest. I was just kicking with my legs and gasping for air, when suddenly someone cut the rope.
“ Are you the Sleeping beauty?” prince Charming asked me and before I could stop him he kissed me. “ Forgive me my love for the waiting!”
At first I was ready to slap him, but than I fell aroused. Last time someone kissed me was Ivan the Woodcutter. He had so much vodka one night and he come to my house by mistake. Can you believe it, after giving everything from myself he tried to chop off my head? No, you want! Anywhere the prince lost patience because I wasn’t turning into the beautiful princess.
“ You are not the Sleeping beauty. “ Prince Charming said and jumped. “ You are that ugly, old witch, what was her name?”
“ Baba Yaga?”
“Don’t eat me please!” The prince cried and before I could stopped him he run into the Enchanted forest never to be seeing again. Poor Charming. He left the beast for the beauty but he didn’t know how much I would loved him. O, well.
The story of my lifetime. (Here is a time for a little melodrama pause and anyone feel like crying, he/she can do it now) Well, what is done – done, was time to move on.
“Now what smart-ass?” I asked myself. “You are coward, you can’t even kill yourself. But you can do something else.”
One traitorous idea come up in my brain box. I don’t know why.
Either because I was eating too many Baba Yaga Veggie-Burgers or either some bolt or nuts or whatever got loose in the great brain box of mine.
Anywhere I run to this place in the neighborhood. Was a small office, where people print business cards, fliers and all kind of things.
" Can you print me a wrapping paper?" I asked the old Chinese man.
" Ha", he said." Me print everything."
"How much you can print with this?" I show him all my chicken bonds, foreign and local currency.
" Me print lot." He smiled and his tongue jumped out from his mouth like a wild beast.
" Lot"
" Ok, what time?"
" Me busy today, you come tomorrow. Tomorrow you no sorry. Lot of paper!"
We shook hands and I left him.
I had one more thing to do.
I jumped on my broom and stopped at all small neighborhood groceries, carniserrias, coffee shops, laundromats and so on.
" I got a business preposition my friend" I told each owner. " I will give you a free wrapping paper."
The people thought I had lost my mind and gladly accepted.

Who will be laughing now, ah?
If I cant publish my stories I will print them on a wrapping paper, so people will use it to wrap up meat and other products.

Now they will have my revenge.
The revenge of the unpublished writer!

Coming soon:
The unpublished writer strikes back!

And last but not least:
The return of the unpublished writer

I know today the only one reading my stories will be the hungry street dogs, leaking the blood from the wrapping paper, but one-day.
One day I will be something, I promise you my friends.
I bet my old broom on that.

The end.

Notes from author: (change)

I know how everyone feels after being rejected so many time.

This is my revenge to all those critics and editors who killed my dreams.

The revenge of Baba Yaga.


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© 2007 Nik Siromah
January 2007

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