Jenna and the Burglar

Let’s work together on this one! I started it — what should happen next?? Anyone? Give me an idea and I will write it – - -

Jenna and the Burglar

Jenna knew she was not supposed to take the short cut home from school, but she figured that this one time it be would OK since nobody saw her turn off at the corner. Her big brother and his friends all ran ahead of her right after they left the school yard, even though their mom said he was supposed to walk her home every night. Jenna didn’t care, she did not like having Joel and his creepy friends around. They always teased her and made her cry. It was much better walking home alone, and if she took the short cut, Joel would not be able to find her in case he remembered he was supposed to walk her home.

She scuffed her worn tennis shoes along the sidewalk as she headed toward the trees that backed up the post office and general store. Her house was just on the other side of the trees, and she only had to cut through a small part of the much larger forest to get home. The sun was hot and she knew it would be cooler once she got under cover of the trees so she hurried along, not noticing the puffy clouds with smoky grey undersides building up quickly on the horizon behind her. By the time she reached the edge of the forest, the previously slight breeze was much stronger, blowing her long brown hair into her eyes.

“Hey!  Where’s Jenna?” one of Joel’s friends shouted at Joel, who was busy looking into the general store window. He pretended he was looking at the display, but he was really looking past it, hoping to see the store owner’s daughter, Maxie, who was working behind the counter inside. “Huh?” Joel started. “What do you mean? She’s right behind us.”

“No, she’s not.” His friend replied.

Joel looked back up the road toward the school building. He did not see Jenna anywhere. “Oh crap! Mom’s gonna kill me.” Joel hated being his little sister’s keeper, but knew that his mom would be really mad if he did not walk her home every day. “You guys go ahead on home, I‘ll go back and get Jenna.” He turned and started walking back up the sidewalk toward the school, scuffing his feet on the sidewalk in just the same manner his little sister had done a few minutes ago on another sidewalk.

Jenna stepped off the roadway into the trees just as a gust of wind blew past, carrying an old envelope, some dirty leaves, and a sheet of newsprint with it. She brushed her hair out of her eyes and looked back at the rattle of the leaves and paper, shuddered a little when she saw the ominous clouds, and then turned back to the trees. “I better hurry,” she thought, “it might rain and I don’t want to get wet.” She moved quickly onto the faint path between the trees, shifting her backpack around from her shoulder to her back so it was easier to walk faster. It was starting to get a little darker with the approaching storm and Jenna wondered for a minute if she had made the wrong decision by taking the forbidden short cut. But soon she was hurrying along, secure in the woods she knew so well. She felt pretty smug about slipping away from Joel and was looking forward to seeing his face when he got home and she was already there.

Even with a storm brewing, the forest was relatively quiet. The wind had not penetrated the trees yet, and Jenna found herself enjoying her walk through the growing twilight. It was peaceful and she slowed her pace a bit to look around at the surrounding trees and bushes, hoping to see a rabbit or maybe even a fox. She almost forgot about the storm, Joel, and the fact that she was disobeying a direct order from her mom about walking through the woods alone. That’s why, when she first heard a rustling in the bushes ahead of her, she didn’t react immediately, but when the rustle was followed by a large boom of thunder, she jumped and screamed a little. She thought she heard something else, like a voice calling out, but could not be sure because of the crashing thunder and her own slight scream. She hurried on toward home, more watchful than before.

Joel looked all over the school yard, even went back into the school, calling Jenna’s name every once in awhile. “Where could she be? I was sure she was right here when we left.” He thought as he headed back through the school yard gate and started down the street toward the post office. He saw old Mr. Guthrie coming out of the post office and asked him if he had seen Jenna.

“Why, no, I haven’t,” Mr. Guthrie replied, “But you better get on home now, there is a heck of a storm comin’ on. You don’t want to get wet!” He started toward his car, parked on the street a few feet away, but turned back to Joel. “Oh, yeah! You might want to tell your mom that I heard Sara Jean over to the café tellin’ about a burglar she heard about from Old Lady Petrie. Said the burglar broke into her sister’s house and stole a TV! Tell your mom to be sure and lock up the house when she ain’t at home.” With that, he got in the car, started it up and drove slowly off, both hands firmly on the wheel, head held high, back straight.

Joel just stood there looking after the car, wondering just whose sister had her house broken into; Old Lady Petrie or Sara Jean. He shook his head and started toward home, worrying about Jenna and how she managed to get by him and his friends. He figured she got ahead of them somehow, and was already home. Boy, was he going to let her have it when he got home.

Because of the wind, now rustling through the tree tops and making a lot more noise, Jenna did not hear the footsteps coming toward her on the path. Her view of the last section of the woods was blocked by a curve in the path so she was totally surprised when a man stepped out of the trees just ahead of her. He was big, and was looking back over his shoulder, which is why he was just as surprised to see Jenna as she was to see him. “Oh!” she gasped when she looked up and almost ran right into him.

“Oh!” he answered, “Where did you come from?”

“I, uh, I just came…” she pointed back behind her, “from there…..”

“Humph!” the man said, peering closely at Jenna. “Where are you going?”

“There…” She pointed behind the man, clearly flustered. She did not know what to say, and seemed to have forgotten where she was headed.

“Well, then,” the man said, “maybe you should get going … to ‘there’ before someone figures out you are gone. Are you supposed to be in these woods during a storm?”

“N-n-no,” Jenna stammered, but the man was not listening. He was looking back the way he came again. “What are you looking for?’ Jenna asked timidly.

“Oh, no—nothing. You better get on home, young lady. It’s going to rain soon.” He started to move past Jenna on the path, but she stuck out her hand and stopped him.

“Don’t you want to get out of the rain, too? You can come to my house if you want. I live just over there, past the trees.” Jenna knew she should not be talking to strangers, let alone inviting them home, but she felt sorry for the man. He seemed so lost and maybe even a little scared. She wasn’t afraid of him anymore, she just wanted to help him.

“Such a nice little girl!” The man smiled at her. “Thank you for the invitation, but I really don’t think it would be such a good idea for me to go back there.”  He shifted a pillowcase on his shoulder that Jenna had missed before. It seemed to be filled with some bulky objects. Jenna gasped again, “It must be all his stuff! He must be homeless!” She thought, and was even more determined to help this poor man out of the storm.

“Come on, my mom will be home from work soon and she makes really good vegetable soup! I bet you are hungry, aren’t you?” Jenna hoped that the offer of warm food would change his mind.

‘No, I am not hungry, but thanks again. I must be going now, before the rain hits. You get on home, too!” He chuckled, then hefted the pillow case on his shoulder again, and walked around Jenna. He was whistling when he walked up the path into the woods.

Jenna shrugged, then headed off toward home. She felt bad for the man, but knew she tried her best to help him. In a few minutes she saw her back yard through the trees and broke into a run. The first rain drops hit her head and she wanted to get inside before she got really wet.

Joel walked in through the open front door of his house, calling out Jenna’s name.

“Jenna! Did you leave the door open?” There was no answer. He looked in the kitchen, then went on to the den – where he noticed that something was wrong. The desk lamp was tipped over on the floor, and several books were pulled from their places on the shelves.

“What happened here? Jenna! Are you here?”

“What’s all the hollering for?” Joel’s mom walked into the house, dropping her purse and keys on the hall table. “Hey, what happened in here?” She exclaimed as she walked into the den. “Where is Jenna?”

“I don’t know! She snuck by me after school, I thought for sure she was ahead of me and already home. I just got here and found this mess in here. Jenna is not here!” Joel was looking around frantically, trying to figure out what was going on. Who made the mess? Where was his sister?

“Wait a minute, you don’t suppose…” Joel was wondering as he gazed around the room.

“Suppose what?” His mother asked.

“Mr. Guthrie told me there was a burglary in town, he said he heard about it at the café.”

“Oh, Joel, don’t listen to that gossip . . . . where is the VCR? …and those movies that were next to it?”  She was looking around the room as she spoke.

‘Oh, man, we have been robbed!” Joel cried. “What else is missing?”

“Jenna!” they both said at the same time, staring at each other with wide, frightened eyes.

“What?” Jenna said as she came in through the back door.

Joel turned and stared at Jenna like she was a ghost.

“Where did you come from?” he asked, still shaken and trying to figure out what was going on.

“I um, well, I took the short cut through the woods. I would have been here before you, but I stopped to talk to a nice homeless man. I invited him home for some of your delicious vegetable soup, mom, but he said no.” Jenna rushed all this out in one big breath, hoping they would miss the part about taking the short cut. “He was really nice, but I knew he was homeless because he had a pillow case full of stuff, probably everything he owned!” She added, hoping they would share her concern for the nice man in the woods.

“More likely a bunch of stuff WE owned!” Joel sighed. “Oh Jenna, you made friends with a burglar! We were robbed today! Our VCR and some movies are gone. He probably wanted to use them with the TV he stole earlier from Old Lady Petrie’s sister. Or Sara Jean’s sister.”

Picking Dandelions

Picking Dandelions is an anthology of short short stories, poems, letters, and even a play by members of my family. It was written in memory of my mother, Mary Alice Johnston. If you are interested in the anthology, you may order it from Lulu.com or Off the Bookshelf under Bookselling Links to the right.

Skimble-skamble, Words from the Bard?

I have a fascination with words, and this morning I stumbled upon this combination: skimble-skamble. It appears that this hyphenated set of what I thought were nonsense words are considered to be an adjective that means just what they sound like: rambling and confused or senseless. An example sentence from Dictionary.com is a in quote from a theater critic expounding upon Lewis Carol’s Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland: “What a lark it is to tag along after constantly astonished Alice as she meets up with all those skimble-skamble Lewis Carroll creations.” The adjective, however did not originate with this enthusiastic critic, according to the dictionary, the most famous example of its usage is also from a passage in Shakespeare’s Henry IV. This example is also said to be the very first use of the words, therefore the origin is said to be the Bard himself. Here is the quote from Henry IV: (Hotspur is speaking of Mortimer’s father.) “Sometimes he angers me / With telling me of the moldwarp and the ant, / Of the dreamer Merlin and his prophecies, / And of a dragon and a finless fish… / And such a deal of skimble-skamble stuff….” What fun the ‘Olde English is!”

There is some discussion, however, about whether or not the Bard actually thought up this entire phrase for the first time. The words themselves tell us exactly what they mean, and there was another word that was in widespread use at the time: ‘scamble.’ This word meant ‘to stumble along.’ Do you suppose the Bard just added skimble to skamble (changing the c to a k) to make some alliteration to fit into the context of the speech by Hotspur? Is it possible that he simply took poetic license with the word, creating something from something that already existed? At any rate, it is a fun phrase, something I think we ought to bring back into the language – what do you think?

Tumbleweeds

I wrote this story several years ago. If you would like to listen to me read it, click on the Tumbleweeds Podcast link on the right side of the page. The full text of the story is below.

I noticed the tumbleweeds last Saturday morning. It was the first time I ever saw that many tumbleweeds all at once. They rattled toward me as I scuffed down the road past a field that looked as if it had been plowed a couple of weeks ago. I was heading home after spending the night with my best friend in the whole world. Normally, I would have gotten a ride home from her father after breakfast, but that day wasn’t a normal day. Not at all. Her father probably would never give me a ride home again. Matter of fact, at the time I didn’t think I would ever see her again – my best friend in the whole wide world. But I was wrong about that. Just like I was wrong about the tumbleweeds. I thought they were beautiful and free, the way I pictured my best friend, but they were really only scraggly, ugly, old weeds after all.

My friend (Juniper was her name) and I had a found an old volume of mystery stories and were looking for a quiet place to read them the previous afternoon when I looked out the window of her living room and saw her mother coming toward the house from the barn. We wanted to go out to the loft, but we had been told to stay out of the barn by Juniper’s dad. We snuck up to the loft anyhow, as soon as we saw that Juniper’s mom had gone in the house.

We ended up scaring ourselves reading those old mystery stories in the dimly lit barn. That’s why, when we found him in the barn, we were too scared to look real close to see if we knew who he was. Actually, Juniper was the one who saw him when she came up the ladder after going to the outhouse. She had been gone for quite a long time and I was just going to look for her when I saw her poke her head up through the ladder hole in the loft floor. She looked sort of scared, like she had seen something that didn’t belong there. I thought maybe she had seen the snake her brother said lived in the hole in the outhouse. (I never really believed him, though; why would a snake live in that stinky place?)

Juniper’s long, brown hair was all twisted up with straw from the bales we had been lying on, and when she jerked her head toward the floor of the barn, little golden bits flew all over the place, making me sneeze.

“Shhhhhhh!” she put her finger over her mouth, “There’s some guy down there!” Juniper’s voice was scary – kind of shaky but excited all the same.

I peered over the edge of the loft and saw – nothing. “Where? I don’t see anyone, Juniper, you’re just trying to scare . . .”

“There, in the empty stall next to that dumb ole mule you like so much.”

I leaned way out over the railing and thought I saw a deeper shadow in the murky light at the back of the barn. “Who is it? What’s he doing there? Did he see you?” I whispered, even though I still wasn’t sure I saw anything.

“I don’t know who he is. I just thought I saw something when I went down the ladder. I went to over to the empty stall and looked in and saw him, all crumpled up. I was too scared to look closer.”

“Oh, yeah? I bet it’s one of your brother’s friends trying to scare us. He’s probably just pretending to be asleep or dead so we’ll think he’s just some ole tramp or something.”

“I don’t know. Maybe you’re right.” Juniper’s voice was funny. Like she really wanted to believe me, but couldn’t for some reason.

“But if I’m not . . .maybe we should tell your dad. He won’t like some ole tramp sleeping in his barn.”

“No! we can’t tell anyone!” Juniper sounded frantic. “Remember, dad said for us to stay out of the loft because the ladder isn’t safe? We’ll get into trouble and you won’t be able to come over here any more.”

So we went back to the house without saying anything to anyone about the visitor in the empty stall.

Late in the night I heard someone yelling out in the yard and figured that Juniper’s dad had found the tramp and kicked him out of the barn. I looked toward the window and was surprised at how light it was. Then I realized the light was a strange orange flickery kind of color. And the yelling was Juniper’s dad all right The barn was on fire! I woke Juniper up and we hurried outside.

“Juniper, we better see if the tramp got out! He could burn up!” I was running toward her dad and the burning barn.

“Wait! He probably got out long ago. Don’t say anything to dad. You know how mad he’ll get if he finds out we were in the barn earlier! He might even find a way to blame us for the fire!” Juniper just stood there watching as the flames licked up the side of the building.

“I called the fire department! They should be here right away.” Juniper’s brother, Billy, was running from the house behind us. He grabbed the garden hose and yelled for Juniper to turn it on. She looked around at the sound of his voice, but ignored his instructions. It was she was in a trance or something, moving in slow motion. I ran to the spigot at the edge of the garden and turned the water on. Juniper didn’t say anything more, just watched awhile, then turned her back and walked back to the house.

“Cora, help me get some water to this side, where the hay rack is. I don’t want the fire to spread any further!” Mr. Marsh was yelling and running to the side of the barn nearest the garden. Mrs. Marsh looked around like she hadn’t heard him. She watched the fire for a few minutes, like Juniper had, then followed her daughter into the house.

“Sally, where’s Juniper?” Mr. Marsh apparently noticed me for the first time.

“She went back in the house.”

“You get in there with her! It’s to dangerous out here! Billy, aim that hose over here!”

A pick-up truck skidded into the yard, and I recognized the hired hands from the neighboring farm as they jumped out and rushed to help Billy and Mr. Marsh with the fire. Some other people were running through the yard with buckets of water. With so much commotion going on, I was afraid of getting trampled, so I went back into the house to find Juniper. She was so quiet in her bed, I figured she was asleep, even though I didn’t know how she could sleep with so much racket going on. I watched the fire fighters from the bedroom window as they got things slowly under control. It was soon dark again without the flickery light from the fire and I went to bed, but I could not sleep. I also couldn’t figure out why Juniper and her mom had acted so strangely.

In the morning, Juniper’s mother got us up and told me I would have to walk home. Her husband wasn’t there, and she said she didn’t want to leave the farm. She hurried me out the door before breakfast and said that she and Juniper were going to be real busy for awhile and not to come around for a few days. I tried to ask her why, but she shooed me right out the kitchen door and sent me right on my way.

I was curious (mom always said I was just plain nosey), so instead of starting right home, I snuck around the side of the house to listen in at Juniper’s bedroom window. Mrs. Marsh was talking to Juniper real fast like, but I couldn’t hear Juniper saying anything.

“Your dad’s been arrested. Seems your Uncle Bob showed up sometime yesterday or last night, passed out in the barn and burned up in the fire! The sheriff thinks your dad killed him in a fight and set the barn on fire in the process.”

Juniper’s Uncle Bob! So that was the ‘tramp’ we saw, and he was passed out, not sleeping! Why would Mr. Marsh kill his own brother? I tried to hear more, but I all I heard was Juniper mumbling something, then I heard her mom say, “We’re leaving here today. We’ll go to my sister’s place. She’ll know what to do.” I didn’t want to hear any more. My best friend in the whole world was leaving, and I’d probably never see her again. I ran out the gate and down the lane where the tumbleweeds slowly bumped down the blown-away little hill-tops between the plowed rows of the field.

When I got home, I looked for my mom to tell her what was going on, but she had already gone into town for the Saturday shopping. I went up to my room to get my diary. I remembered writing something in it a long time ago about Juniper’s Uncle Bob, and I wanted to read it again. It was when I first met Juniper and her family. They had just moved to the farm next to ours and we were both 9 years old. Three years before . . .

“I just met the nicest family. They moved into the old Jensen place down the road. There is a girl about my age named Juniper (what a funny name!), her big brother, her parents and another man. I think he is Juniper’s uncle. I hope we are going to be friends. There isn’t anyone else my age around here, except that weird kid up the road at the Monroe place – and he’s a boy, so he doesn’t count! . . .”

A few pages further on, I found the entry I was looking for. The ink was smeared on the page, but I could still read most of what I had written: “Today Juniper and I were down by the creek when her uncle came by. He scared me because he was so quiet. I thought he was sneaking up on us, but Juniper said he was just a quiet kind of guy. I don’t trust him, though. Dad said he was  a fighter and a drinker, but mom told him to keep quiet about people he didn’t know very well…”

The door downstairs slammed and I knew mom was home. I threw the diary down on the patchwork quilt covering my bed and ran to see what she brought home from town. I also wanted to share my exciting news about Uncle Bob and the fire at Juniper’s.

“Oh, Sally!” She sounded kind of our of breath. “I’m so glad you’re home. I just heard in town about the fire and Mr. Marsh, and, oh, how horrible it must have been for you! Are you okay?”

“I’m fine, Mom! But we saw Uncle Bob in the barn before the fire. At least I think I saw him and Juniper said she saw him, but she didn’t know it was her Uncle Bob! She thought he got out before the fire started.” I was talking so fast I started to stumble over my words. Mom turned away and started to put the groceries away.

“Now, Sally, why don’t you help me put these things away and just forget about what you and Juniper thought you saw. It really doesn’t do any good to dwell on things we don’t know anything about. Anyway the sheriff has arrested Mr. Marsh and everything will be over soon.” She started to unpack the paper bags from the market, acting like it was just like any other Saturday morning.

I wondered about Juniper and her family all afternoon, but mom changed the subject every time I brought it up. Finally, at dinner, I asked my dad what he heard about what had happened over at the Marshes the night before. Mom frowned and looked like she was about to say something when dad said, “Well, now, Sally, I was wondering when you were going to bring that up.” His eyes twinkled the way they did when he was about to tell me something he knew mom wouldn’t like. “I heard in town that Bob Marsh was back and I knew there would be trouble out at the Marsh place if Juniper’s dad found out he was here.”

“But why?” I wanted to know, “He was Mr. Marsh’s brother. Why should there be a problem with him coming to visit his brother?”

“Honey, I told you we shouldn’t be talking about things we know nothing about,” mom said, firing a warning look at my father before looking at me. That was the end of Dad’s discussion about the Marsh family troubles.

I had just barely dozed off later that night when I was startled awake by a rattle of gravel on my window. It took a few minutes for me to see who had thrown the gravel when I looked outside. It was very dark and the shadows beneath my window blended together. One shadow moved out into the weak light from my room. “Juniper! What are you doing here? I thought you and your mom left this morning?”

“I ran away, I couldn’t stay with her anymore. Not after I found out what she did!”

“What? No, wait! I’m coming out! Don’t go anywhere!” I opened my door and checked the hall. There was no light coming from under mom and dad’s door, so I quietly moved downstairs to the kitchen and back door. When I got outside, Juniper was waiting for me next to the gate to the vegetable garden.

“Now tell me what is going on? What are you going to do?” I couldn’t imagine running away and being without parents at our age. Juniper told me about her mom and Uncle Bob liking each other before her mom married her dad.

She said, “My dad was jealous of Uncle Bob, but he didn’t kill his own brother!” Juniper said her mom did it and was letting her husband take the blame for her.

“But why?” I didn’t understand why adults did such strange things.

“Because my mom was evil! She did it to get rid of both of them! I hated her!” Juniper was getting very upset and starting to shout.

“Shhhhh, you will wake up my parents. What are you going to do now?” I just realized she was referring to her mother in the past tense.

“Why, I’ll live with you, of course,” she replied, sweetly. Maybe too sweetly. “I know you would be like a sister to me and never hurt me the way they did.”

A tumbleweed blew across the yard just then, and I jumped. It was an ugly thing, all scraggly and dirty.

Trial Run – A Halloween Story for You

This is a fun little story about two sisters getting ready for Halloween. If you would like to listen to me read it, click on the Trial Run link in the podcasts listed on the right side of the page. The full text of the story is below.

Trial Run

Luanda was always late, even when whatever event she was attending was in her own home. She was always stopping on the way, distracted by something like a feather under the couch, then getting the dust mop out and dusting the room, then on to something else and before you knew it, she was lost again. This time her sister, Eloise, in the kitchen slowly stirring the contents of  the old black and warped cast iron pot, was more than usually irritated at Luanda’s tardiness. She needed to add that fourth ingredient at just the right time or the recipe would fail and Luanda said she knew where she could find it.

It was almost the first of October and the leaves outside were turning and falling from the trees. It was much cooler in the evenings now, and Luanda loved to sit on the porch, swinging in the old creaky swing, just watching the day go by. That was where she was right now, having forgotten all about Eloise in the kitchen with her pot. Something dashed out of the trees just at the edge of their property, catching Luanda’s eye but disappearing before she actually saw it. For some reason, the motion in the trees reminded Luanda that she was supposed to be looking for something for Eloise. She jumped up from the swing, setting it to thrash wildly on the rusty chains holding it to the porch roof, and scurried into the house.

“For gosh sakes, Luanda,” Eloise scolded as her sister came into the kitchen through the pass-through pantry from the dining room. “You know I need that stuff at exactly the right time, or this recipe will fail!” She turned, taking the long wooden spoon out of the pot, dripping over the top of the wood burning stove the drips sizzling and popping from the heat. “Now look what you made me do! I just cleaned the stove, too!” She was looking at the mess she was making and she did not see that Luanda had her hand out, a small jar in it, a smile on her face.

“Here it is, and just in time, too.” Luanda shook the tiny jar, rattling the contents to get Eloise’s attention.

“Humph! I don’t know how you do it, but you always do come through in the end.” Eloise smiled indulgently and took the jar from Luanda, opened it and carefully sprinkled the contents into the pot. There was a faint hissing sound as she slid the spoon back into the pot and started stirring again. “Thanks, honey. I am sorry I yelled at you. It is just that this is so important right now and you do tend to get distracted very easily, especially this time of the year.”

“I think I saw Skink out there just this side of the trees.” Luanda changed the subject, “It looked like he was running from something, or maybe just running because it is a beautiful evening for running,” she grinned, the thought of dashing about in the trees on a cool evening delighting her. “I’m going to go see if I can find him.”

Eloise shook her head, smiling quietly into the pot. She loved her younger sister so much, even if she was a scatter-brain. Satisfied with the cooking progress to this point, she took the spoon out, this time carefully putting it in the spoon rest so she did not drip on the stove top again. The big cookbook with the pages yellowed and curling in places was on the counter next to the stove and she consulted it, running her long, green, pointed fingernail down the list of ingredients to make sure she had all of them in order.

As Luanda came back into the kitchen, cradling a large black cat in her arms, Eloise gave the pot one final stir, turned and said, “I am so glad we decided to use crushed newt eggshells instead of eye of newt, aren’t you, sister? They work just as well and we didn’t have to boil the newts first.” Eloise smiled at Skink and rubbed his head, which was tucked into Luanda’s elbow. “Well, let’s get going, we have to get in at least four trial runs before the big night!”

The girls hurried out of the kitchen, swirling their long, black skirts behind them. Once they had their pointed black hats settled on their heads, they turned to the two long broomsticks leaning against the door jam. Eloise picked them up, went back to the kitchen and, first dipping the brushy ends in the pot of flying potion and swirling them around, handed one to her sister. They settled themselves on the dusty brown broom shafts, Skink behind Luanda, and waddled out the back door onto the porch. As the sun sank below the tree level, they shot off the porch, flying low at first, then, a bit wobbly, up toward the darkening sky, shouting and laughing. “I love the first trial run every season!”

“Me, too!”

Visiting Granny

The original character description (the first paragraph)  won a writing contest, the expanded version here did not win. I am actually a little scared to finish the story and might leave it right where it is.

Visiting Granny

Her veined and age splotched hands were barely distinguishable from the faded coverlet as she nervously picked at loose threads. Wisps of yellow-grey hair flew about her wrinkled face, her eyes darting from the window to the door as if she expected someone, or something to enter either opening. She gasped and jerked as a tiny sound, like pebbles on the screen, came from the window. The stained light green cotton bed jacket slid off her bony shoulders with the movement. Whatever made the sound was gone now, but she still stared fearfully at the window. It was growing dark outside and she became visibly more anxious as the light faded. She sighed, lips flapping over empty gums while her teeth rested in a glass of murky water on the bedside table. Her surprisingly bright blue eyes closed and she thought, “I’m afraid to sleep, afraid not to sleep.”

In the hall outside the room, Alice wondered if granny would even know her if she went in. Ever since she came to this place, granny was getting really creepy and now that Alice had her driver’s license her mom sent her every week instead of coming herself.  It wasn’t fair. She sighed heavily, pushing slowly on the door, hoping granny would be asleep.

Dusk was quickly giving way to darkness as the night crept closer to granny’s window. She stirred restlessly in almost -sleep as she tried to remember what she was afraid of. The door moved slightly inward, fingers with green polish on the tips wrapped around the edge. Granny dragged herself awake and shrank back into the bed, staring at the door as shadowed eyes under blue and orange hair spikes peered from above the fingers. She thought she saw a flash of something, anger? defiance? in those eyes, then they were just Alice’s eyes, sad and a bit resentful as she pushed the door wide and strode into the room. “Hi, Granny.”

“Alice, what are you doing here? Where is your mother? I thought you mother was coming.”

“Uh, Mom said she was busy and asked me to come.” Alice’s eyes skittered around the room, finally lighting on the dark window. She walked over to it and started to pull the yellowed curtain aside.

“No! Don’t open it!” Granny was pushing herself down into the mattress, trying to get as far from the window as possible.

“What?” Alice turned to her grandmother, quickly dropping the curtain back into place, but not quick enough. Granny thought she saw something in the window before the curtain dropped. Something that looked shiny-red or slimy-red or maybe just red. Anyhow, whatever she thought she saw was enough to startle a soundless scream from her throat.

Disgusted, Alice flipped the curtain open again, watching granny, her back to the window. “See? Nothing there, you crazy old …” The end of her sentence was swallowed up when the window exploded in a shower of silvery glass.

My First Date

When I woke this morning, I knew it was a special day. My Dad winked at me over the breakfast table.

“Don’t forget, today is your birthday, and I have a very special surprise for you.” Dad smiled as he finished his coffee and kissed Mom good-bye. After he left for work, I asked Mom what the surprise was, but she wouldn’t say anything.

All day in school I tried to figure out what my Dad could possibly be getting for me that was so special – and so mysterious. I asked Kathy, my very best friend, what her Dad got her for her 9^th birthday.

“Oh, I got the neatest new bike, and some clothes and junk.”

“But I’ve already got a bike, and I really don’t need any new clothes. What could he be getting for me that I need?”

I walked home from school with Kathy, and we parted at the corner. We usually talked for awhile, but not today. I just had to get home in a hurry.

“Mom!” I yelled from the front yard, “has my present come yet?”

“No, come on in and change your clothes. Help me get this salad ready for dinner.” Mom was in the kitchen washing the lettuce. I didn’t see any sign of a birthday cake, so I figured she had hidden it somewhere to surprise me. I was 9 years old today, almost too old for a birthday cake, but I guessed that Mom would have made one anyway.

“Why don’t you answer the door, Janie?” Mom said when the doorbell rang a few minutes later. I dashed to the door, knowing that it was for me.

A boy from the florist shop was standing on the porch with a box in his hand.

“Is Janie Johnston here?”

“Yes, I’m Janie, but why would you be bringing me flowers?”

“Beats me, kid, but that’s the name on this card.” He handed me the box with a big white envelope that was addressed to me. I opened up the card, it was from my Dad, and on the inside he had written, “I will pick you up tonight at 6:30. Wear your best dress.” The corsage in the box was made of beautiful lavender orchids with tiny white flowers and green lacy ribbons. It was the most beautiful corsage I had ever seen.

Dad picked me up at 6:30 sharp. He was wearing his new suit, and I had my pink dress with the white bows on. Mom said we made a striking couple. When we got into the car, I asked where we were going.

“Well,” Dad was smiling again, “I figured that you were going to grow up pretty soon and start going out with boys, so I decided that your first date should be with the first man in your life. We’re going out to dinner, and then dancing.”

How exciting! But he was wrong about boys: I sure wasn’t about to go anywhere with boys, at least not yet.

Sir Randall, the Amazing Tuxedo Cat

The following essay was written in 2005 for a contest sponsored by Linden Publishing. To hear it, click on the Podcast link to the right. The full text of the essay is below.

Sir Randall is an amazing cat. He hasn’t saved anyone from a burning building, nor has he trekked across the country in search of his home, but he is still an amazing cat. He is nine years old, and still wears the tuxedo he had on that day nine years ago when we first saw him in the cage at the animal shelter. The tuxedo is not faded or tattered, it is just as glossy black and brilliantly white as it was on the day we first saw him in the cage with his sister and his mom. That in itself is amazing, but that is not why Sir Randall is amazing.

He has a short tail. Not a bobbed tail, and not part of a tail, just a very short tail. It sticks straight up when he walks, about three inches tall, just sticks up. He sort of waves it as he moves along. We don’t know why his tail is so short, his mom and his sister had normal tails, but his is short. That is not why he is amazing, either.

We named him Sir Randall when we got him because he was born on Randy’s birthday. Randy was my little brother. He died in a car wreck many years before Sir Randall was born. The Sir part came because the little cat was dressed in such a fancy tuxedo. White spats and all. His chest is covered in a bright white, but a bit conservative dress shirt. Not a fussy ruffled shirt, but the kind with embroidered plackets down the front. His jaunty short tail is all black and he has a small white blaze on his face. He was an elegant cat, even when he was a kitten. But that is not why he is amazing.

My granddaughter, Ciera, was six years old that spring, and she picked Sir Randall out. She liked the way he just sat in the cage and blinked at her – as if to say, “I’m an amazing cat, choose me and you will find out why I am amazing.” He opened his mouth just a tiny bit, stuck the tip of is tongue out, and just sat there, never taking his eyes off Ciera. His sister, a pretty little grey tabby, bounced around the cage, showing off her long tail while she tried to get Ciera’s attention. Ciera ignored her and reached for Sir Randall. He allowed her to pick him up and cuddle him in her arms. And that, my cat loving friends, is why he is amazing.

We took him home and from that day on, he and Ciera were fast friends. She would dress him up in her doll clothes, put him in the doll stroller, drag him around as if he were one of her toys. She carried him all over the house, sometimes just picking him up upside down, his head hanging down and that short tail waving in the air. He did not care. He put up with her as if he knew she would not hurt him, and he simply resigned himself to being her version of a stuffed toy – one that purred. As he got bigger, she stopped dressing him up, but she still dragged him around the house as if he were a stuffed animal. When she watched TV, Sir Randall was her pillow. He would lay there on the floor, not complaining, just waiting for Ciera to move her head so he could escape. He seemed to sigh, as if to say, “Oh my. Here we go again.”

Ciera has become a teenager now, and rarely has time for her old friend, but that is OK with Sir Randall, because he has a new friend. Ciera’s little sister, Trinity, is now three years old. From the time she could crawl, she has understood that Sir Randall was an amazing cat. And he has understood that here was another little girl who loved him and needed him. Trinity lays on him when she watches TV, just as her big sister did. She tries very hard to pick him up and carry him around, but he is almost as big as she is, and by the time she gets him under the front legs and stands up, he is still sitting on the floor. She weighs about 33 pounds, and he weighs at least half that.

Trinity tries to put Sir Randall in her doll stroller, but he is too big. She loves to play in and with boxes and tries to get Sir Randall in the boxes with her. Sometimes she is successful, and he just sits there in the box until she lets him go. Sometimes she sits on the floor, holding him under the front legs while he just sits there and lets her hold him. He does not scratch, or bite. He just sighs, looks at me with those liquid eyes of his as if to say, “Oh my, here we go again.” Then he will go limp in her arms, purr contentedly, and wait. When she does let him go, he walks a few steps away, then lays down. He is, after all, nine years old and has lived a long life for a cat. Sometimes he hides under the bed in my room, but when Trinity finds him, he comes out and allows himself to be cuddled, carried, and dragged around. Just as if he were a big stuffed toy.

Sir Randall is the most mellow, amazing cat I have ever had the pleasure of being around. He allows all his cat friends to come in the house through his kitty door, watches as they eat his food, and watches again as they saunter out through the kitty door onto the patio. Then he talks my daughter, Ciera and Trinity’s mother, into putting more food into his bowl. The one and only time he got into a fight, he was injured quite badly and we had to take him to the vet. He got 27 stitches in his side and had to wear a lampshade to keep him from biting out the stitches. The fur over the scar originally grew in white and we thought for sure his tuxedo would forever look as though it was torn. The black grew back in though, and we cannot even see where the scar is now.

All our friends are amazed at how amazing Sir Randall is. They laugh when they see him sitting on his backside in the big chair in the living room, his hind legs splayed out, his front paws folded on his chest and his glorious white dress shirt spotless. He often sits that way right next to Trinity, both in the same chair, both limp as rag dolls while they watch TV. Sir Randall does not run when he sees Trinity heading for him, he just relaxes. Trinity runs when she sees him, though. No matter what she is doing, if he walks across the room and catches her eye, she drops whatever she has, and runs to try and pick him up. “Kitty!” she cries as she reaches for him. He stops, flops down on the floor, and waits for the inevitable. He doesn’t try to get away. He just lays there and allows Trinity to love him because he loves her, too.

He is truly amazing!

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Creative Writing Tip #10 http://janiewrites.com/2011/02/21/creative-writing-tip-10/

This is my final post in the series of Creative Writing Tips. Fittingly, this post will cover a variety of ways to end a story – and find a resolution to the conflict or crisis that was revealed in Tip #9. But, this is not my last post on these pages! Starting Wednesday this week I will post the first of 10 Tips for Nonfiction Writers. So, let’s go finish our fiction stories now and get ready to learn about nonfiction writing later this week!

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