Summer Bird Stories

Family-Friendly Short Stories, Cartoons, and Illustrations

Automatic Self-Walking Shoes

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The day had finally come. Roger gleefully opened the box and pulled out his new pair of automatic self-walking shoes. They looked amazing. They had led lights and high quality Velcro, and they were lined in fake sheepskin. So classy. He’d even paid a little extra for the ones painted silver.

He used his phone to set a pre-determined route. How fast? Well, it’s not like he was really doing the walking. He set a pretty fast pace. Time to dress in his new running gear and join the neighborhood runners.   This was awesome.

Unfortunately, if you don’t want to fall flat on your face, keeping up with the shoes meant constant movement to adjust to the change in position. It was a little like being stuck on a treadmill or something. By the end of his driveway, Roger was done running.

Unfortunately, it is very difficult to breathe and run fast and use your phone.   Roger made a valiant effort, but ended up swiping and poking at his phone without really looking at the screen in his panic. He nearly dropped his phone.

Fortunately, he did not drop his phone. Fortunately, he did not set the speed any higher. Unfortunately, he managed to engage the AI function and it was set to explore. At least the pace was slower.

Roger went past the local park, the bakery, the pet store, the car wash, and the library. He walked thirteen blocks and completely missed dinner. He had somehow locked himself out of the walking program after engaging the AI and he’d left the preset password at home.

He’d tried calling the customer service department, but they were in another country and already closed for the day. He tried hugging a tree, but ended up falling down and being dragged by his shoes for a few feet. He’d been able to get up again when they paused so he could admire a Laundromat.

His phone died. His blisters had blisters. It was getting chilly and he was dressed in thin slippery running clothes. This had been the worst idea ever. He was tempted to just pull off the shoes and wait for them to finish their tour and come home. But then someone might steal them, and he was really looking forward to returning them with a very angry note. And getting his money back so that he could buy a box of doughnuts. Or maybe a doughnut store.

He was daydreaming of setting up his bed right next to the doughnut-making machine, when suddenly he stopped. “Error…Error…Error,” the display screen on his left toe said.   Roger looked around. He had no idea where he was.

It was dark out now, and the street was lit with streetlights. He was next to an unfamiliar park. Teenagers huddled around a bench and looked up as he walked by. They watched him silently, their eyes following him. He looked over his shoulder. Were they getting up to follow him?

He tried to limp away more quickly on his sore, blistered feet. Maybe he should throw the expensive shoes at them and they’d leave him alone? Or his phone. He looked over his shoulder again. He didn’t see them. Were they in the bushes? Could he hear footsteps behind him?

An elderly man appeared, illuminated in the streetlight just ahead.   He was walking one of those little noisy dogs. His white hair glowed in the light and his shoulders were a little hunched over. He looked like an angel. “Please help me!” Roger said.   “I am so lost! Can I use your phone to call for help?”

“I don’t have a cell phone,” the man said. “But there is a gas station two blocks that way that’ll still be open.”

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” Roger said.

“Well, go on then,” the man said. “You need to get in out of the cold. Next time bring a coat.”

Roger just nodded and smiled. It wasn’t worth trying to explain. If the man didn’t even have a cell phone, he wouldn’t understand the wonder of automatic self-walking shoes. Roger wasn’t even sure he himself understood the wonder of automatic self-walking shoes anymore.

He arrived at the gas station and found someone willing to lend him a phone.   His sister laughed and laughed, but she came to pick him up. He just knew this would come up again at Thanksgiving dinner.

Roger was so happy to get home. After a bath and a big dinner and lots of band-aids, he pulled out the paperwork that came with the shoes. Unfortunately, because he’d worn them outside, and they hadn’t malfunctioned, he couldn’t return them for a full refund.

He could, however, receive store credit. Tethered to the wall, he checked his still-recharging phone.   According to the website, he had lots of choices like glow in the dark socks or electric mittens. Well, with how much store credit he’d be getting, Christmas presents would be easy, and this way he’d be able to find everybody if the lights went out while he was visiting. All’s well that ends well, right? Right.

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The Dog in a Beret

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It was snowy and cold and the children were bored. They stared out the front window and watched the snow fall.   And then Michael saw something strange. “Look, Jane,” Michael said. “It’s a dog in a beret. We should invite him in!”

“Yes, let’s!” Jane said.

They raced to the door and threw it open. “Come here, dog in a beret. Come inside and play!” Michael said.

“Do come,” Jane said. “We’ll have lots of fun today.”

The dog stopped and looked at them. “ I don’t know you, you don’t know me. This isn’t safe at all. Where are your parents? Don’t you have safety rules to follow?”

“I completely agree,” a soft bubbly voice said behind them. “But they never listen to me.”

“When the cat came to play, everything went fine,” Jane said.   Michael pouted.

“Why don’t you just play a nice game or read a book?” The dog asked. He straightened his beret.

Michael sat up straighter and smiled. “Yes, that’s just it! A game!”

“Do you have any things in a box?” Jane asked.

“I don’t have any games with me. I was just out for a walk. Now I really must be going,” the dog said.

“Goodbye,” said the burbly voice. “Now close the door! You’re letting the cold in!”

“Wait! Stop!” Jane yelled.   “We’ll come outside to play!”

“Yes! Do you have paint? We could color all the snow!” Michael said.

“This really is ridiculous. Fine.   Let’s build a snowpup,” the dog said.   “But you must dress warmly first.   Coats, mittens, scarves and hats.”

“The cat was funner,” Michael muttered.

“It’s more fun!” the voice said. “And no he wasn’t. The cat was a menace.”

“This is better than watching snow fall,” Jane said. “Come on, Michael.”

The children dressed warmly and came out and waited. “Why are you just looking at me?” The dog in a beret asked.

“We’re waiting for you to do something,” Jane said.

“Don’t you know how to play in the snow?” the dog asked.

“Well, yes, but you’re here now,” Michael said. “Do something funny.”

The dog rolled its eyes. “Each of you go roll some snow into a ball. You really need to learn to entertain yourself.”

“He sounds just like mom,” Jane whispered.

“Or the fish,” Michael whispered back.

“I can hear you,” the dog said. “Get going. The snow won’t roll itself.”

“Fine.” Michael said. Off the children went. Pretty soon, the dog was directing them as they assembled the snow pup. They found leaves for ears, a stick for a tail, and rocks for eyes.

“I think that was kind of fun,” Jane said. “What’s next?”

“Now you go in and warm up and maybe read a book,” the dog in a beret said, brushing snow off his paws. “And I finally go home.”

“So, do we need to smash the snow pup?” Michael asked.

“You can if you’d like, but there’s no need for it,” the dog said.

“But then mom will know!” Jane said.

“You shouldn’t really be keeping secrets from your mom. If you’re not supposed to play outside, it will be hard to hide anyways. Your hats and coats and scarves and mittens are wet. There are footprints everywhere in the yard. Even if the snowpup is smashed, the snow will never look the same,” the dog said.

“And the fish will tell,” Michael said. His shoulders slumped.

“I think this talk with your mother is long overdue anyway. Good luck! Good bye!” the dog said. And then he left, with a tip of his beret.

“He really wasn’t very fun,” Michael said.

“Yeah.” Jane said. “Let’s go inside.”

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Charlie’s Room: The Light

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The morning Charlie left for his camping trip with his cousins, he raced around the house trying to find everything he needed.   “Where’s the flashlight? What’s a mess kit? Why would I want a compass?” Marianne was out meeting with a client or sponsor or something, so Isaac tried to follow behind Charlie and help him out.

In the end, he left with a lumpy backpack, a sleeping bag and pillow, and a smile. ‘Thanks, dad!” he called over his shoulder. “Oh, by the way, my light’s out. I think it needs a new light bulb.”

“Wait!” Isaac said. Charlie paused, halfway into Marianne’s sister’s minivan. “You didn’t give me a hug.” Charlie rolled his eyes and ran back.

“I love you, Dad,” he said, but it was all muffled in Isaac’s shirt.

Isaac understood anyway. “I love you too, Charlie,” he said. He waved until the car turned the corner. He waited a little longer, because maybe they’d come back for something Charlie forgot, or maybe Charlie would decide not to go after all.

But they didn’t come right back, and Isaac went back inside. It was the start of a four-day weekend. The house was a mess and the weather was beautiful.   Isaac forgot all about the light bulb.   He did get the house picked up before Marianne got home, though.

The next evening, Marianne had some sort of conference to go to. Isaac puttered around the house, looking for something to do, when he remembered the light bulb. He grabbed a box of light bulbs and a stepladder and had to juggle them a bit to open Charlie’s door.

He left the new light bulbs on the bed and struggled a bit with the ladder.   “It’s too bad Charlie’s not here,” he thought. “I could ask him how many dads it takes to change a light bulb.”

He paused. “Just one because we’re awesome like that.” Isaac laughed out loud and reached for the bulb. It made a strange shuffling sound as he unscrewed it. It was surprisingly heavy. Was there something inside? He shook it gently and it shuffled some more.

He set it on the bed and put in a new bulb. The light worked fine. He held up the old bulb. There was a lumpy shape inside, as big as a golf ball. Hmmm. Time to perform surgery.

He found a hammer and chisel and set the bulb in a pie plate on the table.   With one big swing of the hammer, the end of the light bulb was gone, leaving a round glass ball with a slightly splintered end. He picked it up and looked inside.

It looked like there was a funny-shaped gray rock inside. He tipped it out into his hand. Some bits of wire hit his hand first, and then he caught what looked like a lizard statue. It was cold and hard.

He held it closer to his face. It twitched. He nearly dropped it. How had a lizard ended up in the light bulb?   How had it survived the heat inside without drying up into lizard jerky?

Perhaps it was some sort of fire lizard. Isaac was pretty sure he’d read about something like that. They lived in volcanoes or something. He turned on his desk lamp and made the little lizard a bed out of foil. He pushed the lamp as close as he could and left a dish of water nearby.

He watched for a bit, but nothing happened, so he left to make dinner.   When he came back, the lizard had somehow crawled into the lamp and curled around the bulb. “That hardly looks comfortable. I’d offer you the oven, but we can’t keep it on all the time.”   The lizard squeezed the bulb a little tighter.

Should he call the zoo? Were fire lizards common? What did they eat? Moths and bugs attracted to the light probably. “Do you need me to find you some moths?” he asked the lizard. “You know, to help you get your strength back up?”

The lizard squeezed itself even tighter around the bulb and suddenly, pop!, it was inside. “Oh, that’s how you do it!” Isaac said. “That’s amazing. I really should learn more about lizards sometime.” But, he had other projects planned for the evening.   By the time Charlie and Marianne were home, he’d forgotten all about the little lizard. Until months later when his desk lamp needed a new bulb.

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New Venice

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Centuries ago, New York perched on the East Coast, just as it does now, but there was no New Venice. Instead, there was a place called California. It had farms and deserts and mountains and forests.

It was beautiful in places, and overcrowded in others. Everyone who lived there knew that someday a “big one,” a massive earthquake, might come. But they all hoped it wouldn’t happen in their lifetime.

Of course, eventually the time ran out. There was a chain reaction of earthquakes and tsunamis and sinkholes. California became the New Altantis, sinking below the waves in a day.

It was tragic and horrible, and not as many survived as should have. The mountains were now islands, and desert sand was now beachfront property. There was a year of mourning. People came from far away to toss flowers and letters into the waves.

Eventually, people began to rebuild. First on the islands, and then in-between. They built over the water, a New Mexico City, spreading far and wide. The more they built, the more they learned.

Soon there was a New California, built over the wreckage of the old. People sent expeditions to the bottom of the ocean, to bring pieces up to add to the structures above. There were pieces of the old Los Angeles and Sacramento and San Diego in the new cities being built.

There were bridges of course, running between the new towns, but boats were always the most direct and reliable transportation.   When an old-fashioned gondola service became popular, people began to talk about the New Venice. And over time, the name stuck.

As New Venice built out into the Pacific, Hawaiian developers began using the new technology, much to the dismay of those who hoped to keep the traditional culture of the islands. Protestors fought each advance outward, but in the end, the developers had deeper pockets.

There were a few areas that were left alone, new national parks and monuments, but eventually, Hawaii began to reach out towards New Venice. People began to try to calculate when they would meet. Workers from all over the world flocked to New Venice as construction sped up.

Finally the day came. The bridge that first connected the two states was called New Junction. A large golden nail was hammered into the edge of the bridge and crowds on boats and in the narrow streets all cheered. Backpackers flooded through on the last leg of their coast-to-coast trips.

Now that the pace of construction began to slow again, developers turned their eye further westward. A few of the more enterprising souls put together a team and traveled to Japan. They were politely, but firmly told no. Japan would be happy to look into the technology on a limited basis, but they preferred the buffer of the ocean and the traditional lifestyle it supported.

They tried elsewhere, all around the world, but the answers were essentially the same. The great New Venice project would remain unique, at least for now.   And in time, what was new and different became old and commonplace.

California is now synonymous with tales of myth and legend. If stories are to be believed, in California cowboys were the ancestors of a city of artists, and the streets were paved with stars. Will another “big one” come again someday? Hopefully not in our lifetime.

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The Mission

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Flitwing piloted his craft, trying to blend into his surroundings. He’d managed to obtain the necessary cargo. It was enough food for everyone waiting back at camp. It wasn’t his first time making the supply run, but traffic was especially heavy today and it was making him nervous.

“Flitwing to base. There is hardly any space here to maneuver. Is the mission still possible?”

A crackle came through the speaker above his instrument panel. “Flitwing you worry too much. If you continue to be careful, everything will be fine.”

Perhaps there was some holiday The Others were celebrating. It was difficult to live alongside a culture that was complex and obviously intelligent, but completely incapable of communication.

Well, not incapable of communicating with each other it seemed, but researchers had never been able to decipher their signals or make any meaningful contact with The Others. Perhaps they were unwilling to communicate with anyone else. In any case, without real communication, there wasn’t much that could be done.

So far, the only real workable policy seemed to be to hide under the surface of their society and pretend to not be a threat. The sheer size and numbers of The Others was enough to convince even the most foolhardy that this was a battle they could not win.

So they hid in plain sight and scrounged for leftovers. In the dark, in secret, they built defense measures, honed by generations of their greatest minds. This vehicle was one of their finest achievements. If it fell into the wrong hands, everything was over.   They would no longer be able to hide, and the safety of their civilization would be in jeopardy.

Flitwing felt the pressure of not only the hungry waiting for him in camp, but also the urgency to remain hidden. He couldn’t stand out. He’d studied The Others for years and still didn’t really understand them.

He always felt their eyes on him when he was out among them. Even hidden inside the vehicle, he could feel the glances, the stares. He could hear their whispery signals and wondered if they meant anything threatening.   Were they suspicious? Had he been caught?

He was jostled and his vehicle lost hold of the precious cargo. Flitwing nearly collapsed in fear. He pushed it down and tried to regain equilibrium.   One of The Others reached out to steady his ship and reloaded the supplies with a tap, tap. Did it mean something, this tap on the side of the ship?   It seemed friendly. He responded with what he was told was a friendly signal and walked a little slower to make it easier to maneuver through the traffic.

He had finally entered the wilderness area where his group had made camp.   Once he’d distributed the supplies, he’d park and secure the vehicle and rest for a bit. He wasn’t in the scouting group today, and he was grateful.   His nerves were stretched thin.

“Flitwing to base. I’m nearly there.”

“Good job, Flitwing. I have confirmation that the area is secure and your group is waiting. Check in again when you are ready to return the vehicle to base.”

The unusually large crowds seemed to follow him almost to the deserted corner they’d claimed. While the area was still clear, he maneuvered the craft and distributed the food over a wide area. He docked the ship nearby, set the ship on “snooze” and opened the cockpit and flew out.

He closed up the ship again to keep it hidden, and fluttered down to join his flock, already pecking at the seed. He preened his feathers and looked back. The ship dozed, looking like an elderly Other resting on one of their perches by the out-of-the-way path.   The secret seemed safe for yet another day.

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The Inheritance

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Larry’s Great-uncle Mortimer finally died.   Larry had kind of thought he’d live forever. But he hadn’t. However, he had amassed a strange assortment of things in his later years and left them to his many, many relatives.

Larry’s mother received a cuckoo clock that played a lullaby every hour. “I’d forgotten that mother used to sing that to me,” she said, trying to mop up her tears with a crumpled paper napkin she’d fished out of the bottom of her purse. “How thoughtful!”

Larry received a locked box with a note. It said that he had to prove that he’d opened the box completely on his own in order to keep what was inside. His grandfather would hold onto the box in the meantime. “How am I supposed to do that?”   He asked his mother. “It’s locked. Should I buy some sort of blowtorch?” He tried to pick up the box to shake it, but it was too heavy.

“Of course not. You’d damage what’s inside,” his mom said. “You know Larry, you’ve been at loose ends since you graduated.” She blew her nose with the paper napkin.   “Maybe you could train to be a locksmith?”

“I have a job, mom.” Larry rolled his eyes. He really didn’t want to go back to school. Ever.

“I think you’d be able to adjust your work schedule around your classes,” his mom said.

“I don’t want to go back to school.” Larry scowled.

“It’s not really school. I doubt there will be many papers or multiple-choice tests.   There must be something good inside the box. Uncle Mortimer had a knack of giving just the right gift.”

“Really?”

Mom smiled. “He’s the one who sent you Blue Bear.”

Jake looked up. “I loved Blue Bear! He’s the best. Blue Bear was from great-uncle Mortimer?”

“He sent me those weird fish earrings as a graduation present,” Mom said. “I wore them to a dance years later…”

“And Dad asked you about them and that’s how you met,” Larry said. It was a story he’d heard far too many times. And the earrings were from Great-uncle Mortimer? Who knew?

“Alright. I really want to know what’s in the box now. What do I have to do?” Larry said.

“We’ll figure it out,” his mom said.

Larry started his training and then later survived an apprenticeship, and he found that both were far more interesting than he’d expected. Sometimes he went weeks without even thinking about the box. And then sometimes he’d daydream about a box full of diamonds or keys to a sports car or a dozen stuffed blue bears.

It took two years, but Larry showed up at his grandfather’s house one evening and presented his locksmith license with a flourish.   He then pulled out his kit and quickly unlocked the box. “Well done, Larry!” Grandfather said.

Inside was a deed to a storefront in a nearby town.   A note said that he could rent it out or start his own business. “What will you do?” Grandfather asked.

“I think I’ll start a locksmith shop,” Larry said. “They don’t have one there and the town is growing. I actually like being a locksmith. It’s helping people and solving puzzles. I guess Great-Uncle Mortimer knew what he was doing. Again.”

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