Thanks to All for a Successful "30 Days, 30 Stories" project!

This year was our best year yet. Thanks to all who were brave enough to post stories and thanks to all who read. Also, a super special thanks to all who took the time to post comments too!

Stay tuned to the blog for another writing contest this June! It will be awesome (like last year, but even better!).

30 Days, 30 Stories: A Good Idea at the Time

"A Good Idea at the Time"

by Todd Diel

"Why did you agree to ride the stupid thing if you knew you were going to get sick?"

 

The man leaning over the trash can wiped the back of his hand against his mouth before answering.

 

"You really wanted to do it. It seemed a good idea at the time."

 

It seemed a good idea at the time. Story of my life. Or at least, story of why I found myself at a county fair in rural Illinois selling art prints. Well, ostensibly selling art prints. You'll see.

 

"Those are really weird."

 

The comment drew my attention back to my booth where two teen-aged girls stood looking at my wares. The blond was holding one of my prints at arms length, turning it this way and that with a quizzical look, while her redheaded friend scanned the booth.

 

"What are they supposed to be?"

 

"They're called stereograms," I said. They looked at me like I had spoken a foreign language. "Inside of that design is a hidden picture. If you focus your eyes just right the picture pops out."

 

I pointed to the sample slide I kept. On the left was a typical stereogram with its odd jumble of shapes and colors. On the right was the hidden image. The blond looked at the picture in her hand and squinted for a few seconds.

 

"I don't see anything."

 

"Let me try," Red said. Blondie handed it over. Red stared for a bit. I could tell she was trying too hard.

 

"The trick is to act like you're staring off into space," I said. "Let your eyes go slightly out of focus; like you're staring straight ahead but seeing something out of the corners of both eyes."

 

It only took a second. Her eyes relaxed just a tad, and then....

 

"I see it! Awe, it's a teddy bear holding balloons."

 

"Let me see that." Blondie snatched the print away. She practically glared at the picture, willing the image to come forth. Of course it didn't. Her friend, meanwhile, had gone immediately to the other prints. It was always entertaining to see the delight in their eyes as this whole new world opened up to them. If only they knew.

 

"Carly, I don't see it," Blondie said.

 

"Try this one," Carly replied, thrusting a second print into Blondie's hands, "it's Elvis!"

 

After watching her squirm for another minute I finally handed over the "cheat sheet." I suppose I could have done that immediately, but my instructions were very clear: those with aptitude are more likely to figure it out on their own - let them try, then focus your attention on the ones that succeed. Still, you get more sales if people can actually appreciate the product, and while I wasn't doing this for the money, the extra cash was nice. The cheat sheet had two black squares printed just above the picture. Most people can unfocus their eyes enough to get the two squares to turn into three. When that happens, voila! The picture appears as if by magic. It was no wonder one of the companies that did so well selling stereograms in the '80s was called "Magic Eye." Such poetic irony.

 

With the help of the cheat sheet, Blondie finally mastered the process. The girls spent another five minutes at the booth, pouring over the prints. They found a few they liked, but were hesitant about making a purchase. I sweetened the deal.

 

"Look, I'm running a special contest at the fair. See that big picture back there?" I pointed at the large framed stereogram at the back of the booth. It was hard to see in the shadows of the tent. "That stereogram is something really special. The frame alone is worth $300. Everyone who purchases a print gets a game sheet."

 

I pulled out a folded sheet of paper. A staple held the fold closed. On the outside of the sheet was a color picture of a beautiful forest scene. "You pull the winning piece, you get the prize."

 

The girls looked at the paper. "Is that what the picture in the stereogram looks like?" Carly asked." It's beautiful."

 

"And that's just a printout. The real thing is unbelievable."

 

"Can we see it?"

 

I frowned. "The real one is actually painted. The sunlight isn't good for it."

 

It took some more convincing, but in the end they took the bait and made the purchase. I handed them their game sheets, and they promptly tore them open to reveal identical stereograms.

 

"How do we know if we won?"

 

"The winning piece has a stereogram whose picture actually moves as you look at it."

 

Both girls looked at their papers. I could tell by their faces they hadn't won. I sighed.

 

"No such luck? Well, maybe next time. Why don't you keep the game sheets, show them to your friends? Maybe someone else will see what you couldn't."

 

It was a ridiculous suggestion, but each girl nodded in turn, their game sheets firmly in hand. They left the booth seeming somewhat dazed, a natural enough reaction given the circumstances.

 

The scene repeated itself often throughout the day. People made purchases and walked away with losing game sheets. It was rather depressing, really. Sure, I made enough dough to cover the cost of the booth and pocket some spare change, but that wasn't why I was here. And time was running out.

 

Soon the sun was down and the fair was closing down for the night. I sighed in frustration as I released the ties that held the front flaps to the booth open. Time was short. If I didn't find a winner soon....

 

"Hey Mister."

 

I turned to find a young boy, maybe twelve years of age, poking his head past the flaps. His bright red hair was sticking up at angles, and he was breathing heavily.

 

"Are you the one running the sterothingy contest?"

 

"I am," I said. "Why do you ask?"

 

"My sister showed me this game sheet she got here earlier. She says it's not a winner, but I think she's wrong. The clown is definitely waving his arm in this picture. At least, it does when I look at it."

 

My heart skipped a beat. No, it couldn't be. I looked at the boy more closely. Now that I took the time to study his face I recognized the family resemblance to that girl Carly who had stopped by earlier. They certainly shared the same hair. Carly had been a quick study. Was it possible?

 

"What's your name?" I asked.

 

"Simon."

 

"Why don't you bring the sheet in, Simon, and I'll check its number against my list."

 

Simon came into the booth, letting the flap close behind him. I took the paper, and then pulled a binder out from under the front table.

 

"That's the prize back there. Give it a look-see."

 

Simon wandered over to the large framed stereogram. I watched him intently as he went, dropping the paper to the table. I didn't need to look up the imaginary number. All of the game sheets were identical. It was the person who mattered.

 

Simon stood before the picture. There was a moment of stillness as his eyes refocused - then widened in alarm. Light spilled from the picture, casting Simon's features in an eerie green glow. He opened his mouth to scream.

 

A graceful hand darted from painting to stop abruptly, its index finger resting on Simon's forehead. Simon froze in place. After a moment the hand withdrew.

 

"Thomas."

 

The voice that called to me was all milk and honey, but I knew the truth of it. I made my way around behind Simon so I could see past him. Before me, framed in varnished oak, stood an arcane doorway to the faerie realm. The creature on the other side was beautiful in an alien way. On the outside, anyway.

 

"I am surprised, Thomas. I did not think this plan of yours would succeed."

 

If I had to be honest, I hadn't thought it would succeed either. But I wasn't going to tell her that.

 

"That's because you don't see things the same way as humans do, Queen Mab. When magicians use the Sight it is identical to the process used to view these pictures I've shown you. Since the Gate I placed on this painting can only be triggered by viewing it with the Sight, it makes sense that humans with magical potential who use the technique will trigger it - even though they aren't actively using magic."

 

At least, that had been the idea. Until now it had just been a theory.

 

"I care not for your explanations," Queen Mab said. "I care only for the terms of our bargain: your ability to wield magic in exchange for young magicians to mold to my will. This youngling makes one, Thomas. You owe me two, still. Think you capable of fulfilling the bargain in the allotted time?"

 

"Of course." I hoped.

 

"Do not forget, I would take you in their place." She smiled. The sharp beauty of it cut me to the core. I shuddered.

 

Queen Mab laughed, retreating back into her realm with the helpless Simon in tow.

 

So now you see.

 

"How could you?" you ask. "Whatever could have possessed you to make such a deal?"

 

The only answer I have: it seemed like a good idea at the time.

END

Check out Todd's short story blog:
http://toddsshorts.blogspot.com/

30 Days, 30 Stories: Puppetry's How-To Book

Puppetry's How-To Book

by Amy White

An Introduction and a Call to Arms:

To all adventurous souls! I come among you, asking only the bravest of souls to join me in an expedition of unparalleled risk. I ask that we journey as comrades, as fellow brave mortals in what will be heretofore known as one of the grandest of peregrinations. I fear it is a grave duty I ask you to complete. I come on bended knee, beseeching the best of you to sojourn forth, with hands held high and hearts ablaze, as we enter into an enchanted realm. A place where many have entered, and none have returned unchanged. I ask that you come with me, into this most powerful of lands, into the land of . . . Puppetry.

In our campaign, we, a band of mere humans, shall endeavor to unearth the roots of Puppet evolution, to reveal the mysteries of Puppet creation. And in the course of this most arduous of tasks, I pray that our feet shall remain firm and our faith steadfast as the mysteries of Puppet invention are discovered. We but need to believe in our limitless capabilities to gain access to the needed inspiration to overcome all trial and tribulation. We will not be stopped. No mistake or challenge will go unmet. And in due course, once the enigma has been unmasked, when we have come to that day when our challenges have become achievement, wherein the illuminating light of self discovery has opened its doors to our inevitable success, we shall stand triumphant. Our understanding of even the deepest of Puppetry secrets shall be made known.

Now, some may say that Puppets will one day rule our world. That by uncovering the mysteries of the Puppet, we are but paving the path to the end of our world as we now know it. But I say to you, such radicalization is heresy. It is understanding that will unite Puppet and Human. The future but requires that we practice the art of communication and that we trust in transparency, that we might get along as two oxen pulling in harmony, taking upon themselves their assigned burden, that we may carry out and achieve our shared destiny.

Come with me then,you brave individuals, on a journey that will change lives.

At hand! At hand! We begin anon.

Disclaimer:

The views held in this work are not necessarily the views held by our editor, production staff or anyone involved in the publication thereof. We are not responsible for any damages as a result of misuse of patterns, misunderstanding of ideology and, or malfunctioning equipment. If your Puppet creation does for some reason succeed in what is heretofore called the Pinocchio Paradigm, and succeeds in overtaking not only your workshop, your home, your family and your friends, to the point of supplanting and altering your very persona, we will consider you forewarned and sufficiently alerted by way of this notice.

30 Days, 30 Stories: Things About: Long Division

By Will Strong

Check out his blog: willstrong.blogspot.com

30 Days, 30 Stories: The Borogove Imperative

by Deren Hansen

T'was brillig, and the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe—always a bad sign. Somehow the toves know trouble's coming.

The sundial in the wabe showed four o'clock. I was thinking about what to broil for dinner—not many options, the cupboard was bare—when the mop I grabbed squawked.

I hate borogoves—miserable birds.

This one, its thin, wheedling voice more annoying than usual, said that while the feeling was mutual he needed me to do a job—seems he and his fellows were all mimsy.

A job's a job—and broiled borogove eggs are pretty good, if you hold your nose just right.

The borogoves' rookery was overrun with raths—mome raths my erstwhile employer assured me, because the green pigs certainly didn't belong in his neighborhood.

I hate raths, too.

Oh, they're cute enough until they outgrabe—something between bellowing and whistling, with a kind of a sneeze in the middle— and this lot were in full chorus. I could see why the birds were angry.

The borogove ruffled his already disheveled feathers. “Are you going to do anything about these things?” he asked as he aimed a kick in a particularly vocal rath nearby.

I was anxious to leave. “Let's find out why they came.”

It wasn't hard to follow the rath spore—they'd stampeded into the borogove rookery. A short stump over hill and through dale brought us to a tumble-down rath farm.

An old father—William was his name—rocked on the porch, grinning and humming to himself.

“Oh, the cheer,” grumbled the borogove, “it's more than I can stand.”

“Your raths, they’re mome,” I said, trying to be personable. It didn't come easy. “Why did you let them get away from home?”

William opened one eye wide and squinted at me through the other. “They didn't get away, but were driven, I say.”

His fences were down and there were some awfully big claw prints in the mud of the rath pens.

“Driven?” I took a half step back.

The borogove pressed his beak into the small of my back. “Remember, we have a deal,” he said.

Someday I'll learn to ask more questions before taking a case.

Father William jumped up and thrust his nose between my eyes. “Beware the jabberwock, my son! The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!” He thumped my chest with his pudgy index finger. “Beware the jubjub bird, and shun the frumious bandersnatch!”

I clapped my hand over my eyes and pulled it down my face. “Where's young William?” I asked, even though I knew the answer.

The old father chortled. “He took his vorpal sword in hand!”

“We've got a quester.” I growled at the borogove. “My fee just went up.”

“Long time the manxome foe he sought,” Father William called after us as I sprinted up the old forest path. The borogove flapped along glumly beside me.

It wasn’t hard to follow Young William’s trail. All the pine, ash, birch, and larch, within easy reach of the trail, and about the same diameter as a fat neck, had been felled or cloven with a single vorpal stoke—the sort of thing that makes a young man cocky enough to forget that a jabberwock isn’t as polite as a tree when it comes to standing still for a beheading.

I pushed on as fast as I could, but each severed tree we passed whittled away my hopes of finding Young William before he was nothing more than a red stain on the bottom of a bandersnatch’s foot or something a jabberwock might try to pick out of his teeth with the vorpal sword.

At long last we came out of the wood and found Young William standing under the lone Tumtum tree in the middle of the meadow, rubbing his chin and entirely lost in thought.

I didn't care a fig for his uffish thought and was about to give him what for when the borogove croaked.

There was something burbling through the trees at an unnerving clip.

I grabbed the miserable bird and ducked behind a stout oak as the jabberwock, with eyes of flame, came whiffling through the tulgey wood,

The boy just stood there as the beast crashed into the open and roared half the leaves off the Tumtum tree.

I couldn’t stand it and shouted, “Hey you idiot—”

That shook Young William out of his reverie.

It’s also, apparently, the worst possible thing to say to a jabberwock.

“If you need me,” the borogove squawked, “which shouldn't be for much longer, I’ll be in the Tumtum tree.”

He flapped away, a blur of feathers and impossibly long legs, as the jabberwock swung toward me.

“One, two! One, two! And through and through!” Young William shouted. Suddenly he and his sword were everywhere, and then the vorpal blade went snicker-snack.

The jabberwock never stood a chance. It was all over before the borogove reached the Tumtum tree.

“Thanks mate,” the lad said between ragged breaths.

“Me? Why?”

“You distracted it.”

I poked the carcass a few times. There was definitely one less jabberwocky in the tulgey wood tonight. We left it dead, and with its head we went galumphing back.

“And, hast thou slain the jabberwock?” Old Father William cried as we marched up to his hovel with the severed head of the beast. “Come to my arms, my beamish boy! O frabjous day! Callooh! Callay!” he chortled in his joy.

I elbowed the borogove. “They'll round up the stray raths in no time. Now about my payment?”

The borogove sighed and shook his head. “Strictly speaking, Young William solved the actual problem.” He ruffled his feathers and tried to look glum. “I'm not sure your fee is appropriate.”

I hate borogoves.

It took the better part of the next day—and the assistance of both the walrus and the carpenter—to get things sorted out to everyone's mutual dissatisfaction.

Back at my wabe-side office, I looked out at the sundial. T'was brillig, and the slithy toves did gyre and gimble in the wabe—always a bad sign ...

30 Days, 30 Stories: My Heart Left Empty

My Heart Left Empty

By Sharee Garcia

            I look at the deserted newspaper through the glass. Just like he would have left it. Discarded. Useless after the sports section had been devoured, and his coffee was nothing but a brown semicircle in the bottom of the cup.

My chest hurts. The smell of coffee does that to me now, sends a lingering pain through me. A persistent ache. I try to avoid it now, the smell of coffee, but today I’m in the mood for punishment. I gaze steadily at the abandoned paper, smelling the coffee, feeling the pain, remembering the smell of the rain on his skin, the way he would rub his cheek when he was concentrating, the jingle of his keys that day. Faces glide past me in the glass, the passage of time etched in images.

I watch as an employee picks up the newspaper, wipes off the table, pushes in the chair. My cheeks are wet. I brush them quickly with my shirtsleeve as I turn to go. I glance back over my shoulder and see my reflection ghost out of the glass.

30 Days, 30 Stories: Cramming

"Cramming"

Poetry by Caitlyn Byers

I’ve got to focus, got to focus!
Okay, deep breath. So it’s nine
at night and I have a test in
every
single
class
tomorrow and
I haven’t
studied
one bit, but I can do this!
a2 + b2= nigún. No, it’s
i before e except after c2.
Teddy Roosevelt was a stuffed toy,
no, the toy was named after him and Roosevelt
“ain’t nothing but a hound dog, crying all the time!”
How did that get on to my study playlist?
Roosevelt was
el presidente por la Estados Unidos,
and proved that an object in
motion stays in motion unless
it needed some food.
I’m starving! Dinner was forever ago.
Shoot! No wonder I’m hungry, it’s
eleven already.
Brain food, brain food,
Fish! Fish is a brain food.
Why didn’t I buy fishsticks?
Smarties! Don’t I have any
Smarties? Or Lucky Charms?
Maybe I should go to bed and
put my book under my pillow.
I’ve heard that works…
Okay, focus!
Need to write that paper on
Browning and Shelly,
or was it Seuss?
I’ll figure it out later.
In conclusion, poetry is
an art that will continue to flourish
unless acted upon by
an outside force like
the radius of a
triangle…

or something like that.
Look at the time!
Morning already.
Got to get to class,
got to get to class,
don’t forget the scantron, and
the all important
#2 pencil.
Made it! Test time!
I’m ready! I know everything!
I know… (yawn) I…I know…
Zzzz.

---------------------
Check out Caitlyn's blog: "Random Thoughts From Caitlynville" at caitlynbyers.com

30 Days, 30 Stories: Jerusalem

Jerusalem

by

Judith Torres

Every inch of earth,
In this sacred, Holy Land,
Holds a seed which is our future,
A past in root and sand.

My roots sink deep within the earth,
And tap the wisdom of the past.
My trunk holds stories in their rings,
Of this day, and of last.

My twigs grow into branches,
And send leaves that shimmer in the wind,
As though to listen to each word,
And catch each tale you send.

History lives within my roots,
Deep within this hallowed ground.
Each life and time so sacred,
Where all are safe and sound.

So please, send your stories on to me,
I beckon to the earth,
And I will place them safely in my trunk,
And tell all, of each your worth.

When I grow tired and need to rest,
I drop my leaves and sleep,
Nourished by your history,
Ever hopeful, yet for peace.

My blossoms waken me each spring,
In joy they call with color,
In voice they sing with scent.
New stories come to me, my flowers seem to holler.

So live your lives,
And worry not what future lies,
It’s held within my seed.
I will hold you one and all, as time goes marching by.

And if you ask me where this story came,
I will tell you, “I caught it on the wind,
As it went whizzing by, on way to leaf and tree,
I reached up to interrupt, and caught it with my pen.”

30 Days, 30 Stories: goldie@gary's.com

goldie@gary's.com

by Mary Ann Duke

Chapter One

I think that I’m like a box of Cracker Jacks. Lots of pieces/parts that are sweet, a little bit nutty at times, and if you dig deep into my heart, you might find a prize. That’s how I feel, today, anyway, about me, myself, and I.

             “Watch out! Dog poop!” I yelled as my brother, Todd, bounded through Mrs. Carter’s yard toward her front doorsteps.

            Todd braked his speedy feet, but his lanky body didn’t slow. “Dang it, Ashley, why didn’t you warn me sooner? Some’s on my new tennis shoe.” Todd hobbled to the side of the yard, into taller grass and scrubbed his spoiled shoe in high, thick blades. “You’d think people who loved dogs would keep their place cleaner,” Todd said.

            I tiptoed around the stinky, brown mound. “Yuck, it’s reeking stronger. You stirred it good,” I said. I pinched my nose.

My BFF, Karen said, “Ashley, remember my weak stomach? Why’d you invite me?” Karen skirted the heap of feces, stood behind my back and buried her nose in my shoulder.

            “I didn’t know. Never been to their house before. But, I know you love puppies.”

            Today was my brother’s 12^th birthday. We’d been to the mall, buying his new Reeboks and now we were about to get him his other present—a puppy.

            Karen unburied her nose from my shoulder and said, “I know that Mrs. Carter breeds Lhasa Apsos, but isn’t her son that creepy guy that works at the gas station near your house?”

            “Yeah, he’s the one. His name is Chase. People call him Chase “Chasing Cars” Carter,” Todd said, as he strode from the grassy area and sidled up beside Karen."

            I quit pinching my nose and sucked a breath before speaking. “He is one weird duck. When we buy gas there he…”

            Mom interrupted, “Shhh, they might hear you inside.”

            Karen said, “How come y’all are getting this dog for free? I thought they charged $400 or more for ‘em.”

            The four of us stepped with caution as we moved closer to the Carter house, hoping to prevent stepping in any unfortunate piles. Todd told Karen, “This puppy is not purebred. It’s a Lhasa and Poodle mix. It’s a female and we heard she was giving it away. If it’s free, it is for me.”

Todd walked up the front steps and reached out to ring the doorbell. Before he pressed the button the door swung wide and there stood Chase Carter. His hair hung in greasy, limp, strands. He wore dirty blue jeans and a wrinkled, blue plaid shirt. The top two buttons were unbuttoned. A rawhide string around his neck had a peace symbol and a rabbit’s foot hanging from it. He scowled at Todd. Then, he fixed his gaze on me. I felt uncomfortable as he kept staring. I put my hands in the pockets of my short and scrunched my shoulders up close to my ears. I sometimes do that when I feel embarrassed. What the heck? It’s Saturday afternoon. Why isn’t he working at the gas station? I wondered. I decided it must be his the day off.

Todd stood on one foot and then the other. He shoved his hands in his pockets, (must be a family trait) cleared his throat and said, “We came about the dog.”

Chase Carter pointed his bony finger in Todd’s face. “What dog? We ain’t got no dogs for sale. She only had one pup and it’s not right; not purebred. The mama got away from us and got in trouble.”

Mom spoke up, “I talked with Mrs. Carter, uh…your mom, on the phone. She said we could come over. She’s giving us that puppy.”

“She what?” Chase Carter’s face fired red. He sneered at Mom, stared freakish at me again, and then turned and stormed off into a back room. We heard loud voices but couldn’t understand any words that were exchanged.

A few moments later plump, middle-aged Mrs. Carter appeared. Wiping her hands on her faded navy blue apron and tucking strands of graying hair behind her ear, she said, “Come with me. The dogs are around back.”

Mom, Todd, Karen and I followed Mrs. Carter down the steps and into the yard. We tromped through grass that needed mowing and stepped around rusty, broken lawn chairs. We were careful to look for more poop, but didn’t find 

any. On the back porch, in a cardboard box, we found Todd’s new puppy and the Lhasa mother.

            “Oh, look, Ashley. She’s so cute,” Karen said. I agreed.

            Todd picked her up and nuzzled her neck. “Hey there, sweet girl,” he said. “You’re coming home with me.”

            Mom said, “Mrs. Carter, I can’t thank you enough for giving us this puppy. It’s a wonderful addition to our family, and a great birthday gift for my son.” She pointed to Todd who was completely engrossed in loving the puppy.

            “You’re welcome, Ma’m. I just can’t keep feedin’ something that ain’t gonna bring in no money.”

            Todd left the porch, strolled around the side of the house toward the car, carefully clutching his new pet. Mom gave Mrs. Carter $20.00 toward buying food for the mother Lhasa. As we backed out of the Carter’s yard I saw 

Chase peering out the front window. I thought I saw him make a rude gesture with his finger.

                                    ***                              ***                              ***

            Rattle, Clunk, Bang.

“Oh no, the church air conditioner has conked out again,” I whispered to Karen. Everyone sweated, even our Sunday School teacher.

 “It doesn’t believe in working on the Sabbath,” Karen said.

Rivulets oozed from my brow and flowed past my ear onto my already wet neck. The room was filled with various shapes and sizes of 12 year-olds, squirming, murmuring and fanning. The AC was not cooperating this Sunday morning.

“I’m sweltering,” yelled one curly-headed, hairy chested, heavyset boy who seemed to find any opportunity to interrupt the lesson. He made a show of loosening his tie and unbuttoning his shirt. That’s how I know he was hairy chested.

My mouth gaped at this exposure “Holy Cow,” I said when I found my voice. The teacher’s eyebrows raised, but she ignored him and me.

“You ain’t got muscles, nor tight abs, neither, so don’t be tryin’ to show ‘em,” yelled Richard, the teacher’s son. The teacher ignored him, too. She had more patience than Job.

Next, a tall, lanky boy stood and took off his tie, but he didn’t open his shirt. Instead, he took three Goliath strides that landed him at the window on the south wall. “Mrs. Zimmer, can I pull back these curtains and raise this window? It’s beginning to smells like pig sweat in here,” he said.

Wincing, Mrs. Zimmer said, “Okay, but, it might be a humid, barely-there breeze.” She tucked a hunk of brown, damp hair behind her ear.

The lanky boy yanked the drapes aside. The window seemed stuck, but with a loud grunt and strain from the tall one, it finally raised.

A smidgeon of air circulated, but I wiggled and struggled to pay attention to Mrs. Zimmer’s lesson about how we should uh… yikes, what? My mind was not on the lesson, nor humidity, nor the noisy classmates. It was on Clover.

            “Ashley, how can you show kindness to someone at school? Mrs. Zimmer’s voice jolted me out of my thoughts about Clover.

            “Well… uh…”More sweat beads popped out on my forehead—which wasn’t difficult in Florida with a broken air conditioner.

                  “I know,” Karen raised her hand and shouted. Karen was my best friend at school and church, always had good answers so I was happy that she was taking the teacher’s focus from me. “You can smile when you’re walking down the hall at school, even if your classmates are not. A smile can cheer people,” Karen said.

            “Yes,” said Mrs. Zimmer as she took a tissue from her black leather purse and wiped water beads from her brow. “That is another way to be kind. You never know when someone is having a bad day and a smile might be the thing that will boost them up.”

It seemed to me that Karen smiled perpetually and was always in a good mood, so I wasn’t surprised at her answer. She was the prettiest girl in our class with long, naturally curly, auburn hair. I wished my straight blonde braids were history and that I had curly reddish-hair like Karen. “Be happy you’re healthy,” my mom told me a hundred times. I was trying. Karen stood tall and curvy, whereas I was a shortie with no cute curves to speak of. But, I was happy that I was healthy.

Karen grabbed my arm and shoved it upwards, like I was raising my hand to answer. “Ashley has one,” she said. Although I wasn’t shy, and I often raised my hand, I couldn’t concentrate on the “kindness to people” lesson that day. The stifling heat was not the only reason.

            “Yes, Ashley?” Mrs. Zimmer closed the lesson manual and waited for my answer.

            Nervously, I twirled my braid. “Well, uh, uhmmm…we got a new dog. Actually my brother, Todd, got her for his 10^th birthday yesterday. Y’all know that I got a cell phone when it was my birthday and …”

The tall, lanky boy said, “Yeah, we all know about your cell phone ‘cause you text everybody in the world, so what?”

I ignored him and continued babbling. “Todd got this dog from the dog breeder, Mrs. Carter. She’s the mother of that guy that works at the gas station near our house, Chase Carter. You know Chase Carter?  Him and his mama breed Lhasa Apsos but this one is a mix—a Lhasa-Poo.” I felt silly broadcasting private details. Motor Mouth, that was me.

            “So, your answer to Mrs. Zimmer’s question is what?” Richard asked.

“Mrs. Zimmer, you say? What don’t you call her Mother? I’m going to answer your mother’s question, Richard. Give me time,” I said. “Since this dog wasn’t a pure breed they couldn’t sell it for a good price. So, it was our good luck to get her. We named her Clover and, uh…I can be kind to Todd and help him give Clover baths, feed and water her and stuff.”

            “Yes, being kind to ones siblings is very important in helping to create a happy home,” Mrs. Zimmer said with a smile. I thought my answer was good. I was on a roll.

            “Yup, and being kind to animals is good, too. God created all the animals,” I blurted out and then felt redness creeping up my neck and face.

            It was time for church to be over and I couldn’t wait to get home and see Clover. Mrs. Zimmer ended the lesson with a few concluding remarks and asked, “Ashley, would you give the closing prayer?”

“Yes, Ma’m.” As I stood and folded my arms I scrunched my eyelids together, but then I peeked to see if the rest of the class members had closed their eyes. Some of the boys still punched and poked one another. One girl was passing a red lollipop to Richard. We were all still slathered in sweat. Another girl pulled out a box of Cracker Jacks from her oversized bag and began eating. I started my prayer anyway. I thanked Heavenly Father for our teacher, our friends, the lesson, and especially for all the sweet animals in the world. I asked Him to please help our air conditioner get fixed.

I thought it was a good prayer, but a girl sitting on the other side of Karen gave me a weird look.

“What?” I said as I neared my seat and picked up my purse.

“You’re asking God to fix the air conditioner? Like he’s gonna come down here and do that?”

“Forget it,” I said.

Karen and I raced out of the classroom and dashed for the parking lot.

Once outside I felt the humidity hang all over me. “Oh, man, it’s hotter out here as it was in the stuffy classroom,” I complained. Just then a gentle breeze came.

Karen spread her arms as if to let the wind blow through her body. “Ooooh. Feels great,” she said.

“Can’t argue that,” I said. We ambled through the church parking lot weaving our way through the parked cars. We saw Todd sprint out the back door and dart toward our vehicle. Even though Todd was younger than me, he was as tall, and “as thin as a pencil” as Grandma always said. Every time we went to her house for Sunday dinner, she’d say, “Get in here Todd and eat some of my cookin’. I need to put a little meat on your bones. My word, you’re as thin as a pencil.”

Mom would smile, pat Todd on the shoulder and say, “Mind your Grandma.”

Todd had wavy, sandy brown hair, a few freckles on his nose and a tan from going shirtless in the Florida sun.

 Todd dashed past us, slinging his suit coat in one hand and his tie in the other. I tried to flick him on his ear as he passed. “Toad,” I yelled. He paid me no attention. I knew he was trying to get to the car first so he could get dibs on the front seat.

 Todd said, “I’ll beat you to the car.” And, he did.

When we arrived, Todd had hold of the door handle, even though the door was locked and we didn’t have a key. “I call shotgun. I got here first.”

            “Who cares?” I retorted. “Karen is coming home with us. We’ll be fine in the backseat, Mister Thin as a Pencil.”

I sometimes I used that moniker or, even worse, called him Toad when he annoyed me. Karen knew my habit. She yanked my arm. “Ashley, remember our lesson today—about kindness?”

I hopped onto the hood of our car. Karen did too and sat beside me. “Oops, I guess I need to listen better next time. It’s just—well, I kept thinking about Clover.”

Todd leaned against the side of the car. “Clover is the best present I ever got in my entire life.”

“Better than poopy Reeboks,” I said. “Karen, did you feel weird when Chase Carter answered the door yesterday?”

“I did. He’s a strange one.” Karen straightened her skirt and said in a hesitant voice, “I don’t want to scare you, Ashley, but I couldn’t help but notice that he kept staring at you.”

“Oh, yeah. I felt his creepy glare. I was glad when he went into the back of the house and left us alone.”

 “I heard that he had a Bipolar Disorder or something like that,” Karen said.

“I don’t know. I guess I would feel sorry for him if he’s not well, but all I know is, I felt weird when he kept staring at me.”

Todd had laid his coat and tie on the trunk of the car, had picked up stones and was trying to skip them across the surface of the little pond behind the church. He overheard our conversation and said, “Everybody stares at you ‘cause you’re so goofy looking. Forget about Mr. Chase ‘Chasing Cars’ Carter. All I can concentrate on is Clover.”

Karen said, “Why did you name her Clover? I’ve never heard of ‘Clover’ as a dog’s name.”

Todd stopped his stone-skipping and threw his handful of rocks in the grass near the pond’s edge. “Karen, my child, you’ve never heard of a dog named Clover? Well, now you have. I decided on that name because I think she’s 

better than any luck a four-leaf clover could bring.”

”She is the sweetest dog that ever had fur and four feet--or should I say four paws,” I said. “She’s now four months old. Just right to be weaned from her mother and ready to come to a family that will love her.”

“And, that’s us,” Todd said.

I suggested to Todd, “Since you named her Clover, don’t you think we should buy some barrettes, in the shape of a clover to clip in her hair?”

“Hmmm. Let me think about that for awhile,” Todd said.

Mom’s purple suede high heels click-clacked on the sidewalk as she came out of the church carrying her bible under her arm and her purple suede purse slung over her shoulder. She pressed the remote button on her key and unlocked the car. Todd grabbed his coat and tie. Karen and I hopped off the hood and we all piled in and buckled up.

“Mom, take the short cut. Go on the dirt road that runs through that pine forest near our subdivision. It’s a shorter way home,” Todd said.

As Mom backed out of her parking space she said, “I guess I can today, since it hasn’t rained in awhile. But during the rainy season, it’s so soupy on that road. I’m afraid of getting bogged down.”

When we got home and Mom drove into our carport, Todd, Karen and I jumped out before she shut off the engine.

“Hurry, Mom,” Todd shouted, “Unlock the door. Clover might be hungry. Or thirsty.”

“We’ve only been gone two hours,” Mom replied. “And, we left plenty of food and water in her bowls in the laundry room.”

“Yeah, but she’s not used to our house. We need to check on her,” Todd insisted as he jiggled the knob of the side door that led from the carport, through the laundry room, into the kitchen.

Title: goldie@gary's.com

Written by Mary Ann Duke, Ed.D.

Retired educator, Workshop Presenter, Sarasota, Florida

Mary Ann has three books and over 75 articles published

She's on Facebook, but gave up blogging and her Website a while back.

Email: DrMad92@verizon.net