Tag: shortstory

Charlie’s Room: The Favorite Mug

It was a day where the weather seemed determined to remain dreary. The sun threatened to peek through the clouds, but never did. It was too warm for thick coats and too cold for thin coats. The snow didn’t melt all the way, but remained slushy. It spilled onto the walkways and mixed with mud and brown, dead leaves that stuck to everyone’s shoes and froze their feet and ankles.

Charlie wanted to collect pine cones for a school project. Marianne had paperwork to do, so Isaac and Charlie walked to the park nearby. Once they arrived, Charlie forgot all about his project and ran over to the swings. He reached out for the closest swing and paused.

He whirled and frowned. “They’re all wet.”

“You could try to shake the water off.”

Charlie trudged through the slush back to the path. “That’s no good. It won’t work.”

“Well, let’s just go look at the big pine tree then.” Isaac led the way to the tree. He had to jump to pull down the lowest branches. They found two pine cones.

“That’s not enough. Are there any other branches you can reach?” Charlie looked around the park. “What about those bushes? They look like they might be little pine trees.”

“Let’s go see.” Isaac followed Charlie this time, trying to step on the firmest bits of mud or snow. His jeans were soaked halfway to the knees. He couldn’t feel his toes.

Charlie found five more little pine cones on the bushes. “Do you see any more?” he asked.

Isaac looked at the bushes. “No. Do you have enough for your project?”

“I guess so. Let’s go home.”

They changed out of their muddy shoes and clothes and into pajamas and slippers. Isaac was sure he’d be grateful to feel his toes again, once they stopped hurting. Charlie met him in the kitchen.

“Can we have hot cocoa? It was cold outside.”

Isaac smiled. “Of course we can. Let me get out the cocoa mix.”

“I’ll get the mugs and spoons.” Charlie opened the cupboard and started rummaging around. “I want the red one. Where’s yours?”

“It should be in there.” Isaac turned on the stove and started to heat some milk.

“Here it is. Oops.” There was a loud crash.

Isaac turned around. “What happened? Are you okay?”

“I’m fine.” Charlie was standing next to the shattered remains of Isaac’s favorite mug.

Isaac turned around to turn the stove off and took a deep breath before he turned back to Charlie. “It’s fine. I’m glad you’re okay.”

“Do you think we can fix it?” Charlie reached for one of the pieces.

“Stop, it’s sharp. I’ll clean it up and make the cocoa. Why don’t you show your mom those pine cones, and I’ll call you in when it’s done.”

Charlie’s eyes watered and the edges of his mouth pinched. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to break it.”

“I know. It’s okay.” Isaac gave him a hug and then a little push towards the door. “Go on. I’ll call you back in soon.”

Isaac looked down at the splintered remains of his sky blue mug. It looked like a bit of summer sky lay broken in pieces on the kitchen floor. With a sigh, he got the broom and swept it up. Then he made the cocoa and called in Charlie and Marianne.

Isaac tried to mostly forget the mug. A few days later, he was shuffling through the cupboard for mugs for cocoa again, feeling a little sad. He found Charlie’s red mug and Marianne’s black and white mug. He was reaching for the green mug that no one liked, when he saw something sky blue near the back of the cupboard. This was odd, because his mug was the only sky blue dish they had, and it was broken into tiny pieces and gone. He moved the other cups, and pulled out a sky blue mug.

Was it fixed by brownies or elves like in the story about the shoemaker? Did he need to leave out a saucer of milk to say thank you? Or did modern elves and brownies prefer something else? Orange juice? Cocoa?

Maybe the mug was self-repairing. Did that mean it was sentient? Did it mind being a mug? How would he ask its opinion? It did return to the cupboard, so it must not mind that much.

As Isaac was holding the mug and trying to figure out what happened, Marianne finished mixing up the cocoa. “Oh, I see you found the mug. Charlie insisted we had to get you a new one. We had to go to three different stores to find one just that color.”

Isaac smiled. The mug shone bright in the dim kitchen, just the color of a summer day. When Charlie came in, he gave him a hug. “Thank you for getting me a new mug.”

Charlie smiled. “I’m glad we found one that color. It’s your favorite, right?”

“That’s right.”

They drank their hot cocoa and laughed and talked. Even though the weather was just the same as it had been all week, in their kitchen it felt like the sun had come out at last.

The Fourth Little Pig

Once upon a time, there were four little pigs. I’m sure that you were told that there were only three. Don’t feel bad. Everyone makes that mistake. Perhaps you will understand why after reading this story.

It begins just like the story you have heard so many times before. Little pigs set out to seek their fortune and build themselves homes, each possessing various levels of patience and common sense.

The first pig buys straw bales and makes a house-shaped structure. Perhaps he’s clever enough to look up modern construction methods and use the straw bales for insulation, plastering the straw bales inside and out to prevent mold and decay, and building overhanging eaves to keep the rain out. Perhaps he didn’t. In any case, the story says he finished building rather quickly.

The second pig built with timber. Was it a rough log cabin or something more modern? Did he use durable wood and treat it to protect it from moisture and pests? The story doesn’t say. Pig number two also finished building rather quickly.

The third pig buys brick. It takes him a long time to build a sturdy home. I assume every necessary protection was in place, although apparently his chimney was large enough for a full-grown wolf to crawl inside. This implies that he neglected a chimney cap or that it wasn’t securely fastened in place. He was lucky that flying embers didn’t ignite a house fire before the wolf arrived.

And the fourth pig? Well, I’m sure you can guess. Each pig in this story spends more time building his house and making it more secure. The fourth pig was no exception. He built a castle from stone, surrounded it with a moat, and hired squirrels as archers.

The castle keep was large enough to house and protect many small animals and their families. In exchange for the promise of shelter, they shared guard duties during the construction process. The wolf didn’t stand a chance, and he knew it. He stayed well out of range of the squirrel archers and visited the other three pigs instead.

Their story continued much as you know it. He came, blew down their houses with magical wolf breath or a portable jet engine or a wrecking ball that didn’t work on brick. The three pigs made their final stand in the third pig’s house and won against the wolf.

And the fourth pig learned about the whole mess from their Christmas newsletter. He complained to a nearby sheep that no one ever tells him anything any more, and that they didn’t even mention him once in the newsletter. And then he realized the sheep was really a wolf in sheep’s clothing.

In the fuss of getting that resolved and requiring the security guards to undergo more training, the whole thing was forgotten. He didn’t send out newsletters that year, and so everyone only heard about the three little pigs and their adventures. The fourth little pig was fine with that.

Of course, wolves aren’t the only woodland predator. Humans also stalk the woodlands, searching for tiny structures to use in their miniature golf courses. The brick house, which had stood so valiantly against the magic wolf breath or whatever it was, was no match for humans and their house-stealing tools.

The humans rejoiced when they found the castle. They spent days dodging the flaming arrows from the squirrel archers and the boulders sent by catapult. The little animals knew they wouldn’t survive a siege. Humans had more resources, and humans collecting for miniature golf courses were relentless.

Under the cover of the archers and catapults, they dug their way out, surfacing in the woodland not far away. The humans had won. The archers and the last of the guards joined them, collapsing the tunnel behind them.

It was time to build again, perhaps somewhere farther away from human civilization and its miniature golf courses. On their way to somewhere else, they met the three little pigs. “We’re going to build again,” the second pig told them.

“This time, we’ll all build with brick,” the third pig said.

“No we won’t,” the first pig said, looking surprised. “My house was perfect, if it wasn’t for the bad luck with the wolf.”

“Like that would happen again,” the second pig added.

“But it could,” the third pig said.

“So could humans, and we can’t protect against them.” The first pig looked stubborn.

“Well, I’m going to protect against what I can,” the fourth pig said. His friends cheered in agreement.

They went their separate ways. The three little pigs built the same houses again, and their story repeated. The fourth little pig took a lesson from the wolves and he and his friends dressed in human clothing. They built a little village to live in, called it a miniature golf course, and charged admission. Every year, they got another Christmas newsletter from the three little pigs telling the same story, wolf and all. The fourth little pig never bothered to send out any newsletters.

Squirrel Guard

The Wicked Baker of the North

Martha was a marvelous baker, of course. Everyone in her little town knew she would grow up to be a baking prodigy by the time she was five and selling masterful macrons at a roadside stand when the other children were selling lemonade. Her petit fours were winning competitions just a year later, and Martha dreamed of someday baking for kings and presidents before retiring to write a bestselling cookbook and starting a legendary culinary academy.

Unfortunately, when she finally opened her own bakery, business was slow. People in town did their own baking, unless it was for an important occasion. And when those occasions arrived, they all wanted a nice, big vanilla cake with buttercream frosting and some kind of filling.

Martha liked cake, but she wanted to create crusty croissants, buttery brioche, and sugar-dusted scones. When the grocery store opened a bakery and started selling cheap baked goods that tasted mostly of flour, her customer base was cut in half. Things had reached a crisis point.

Something needed to change. But what could she do? If only she could move to a bigger city where more people might appreciate a well-crafted croquembouche or an elegant eclair. Yet, in order to move, she needed funds, and money was in short supply.

Martha would not accept defeat. She had known since she was three years old that she would grow up to be a world famous baker. Those strange dreams of dancing sugarplums had to mean something, after all.

And so, she cooked up an amazing plan. She would do some sort of newsworthy publicity stunt. People would come to her bakery to see whatever it was and spend money. Once she had enough money, she would move her bakery to somewhere much more bakery-friendly and live happily ever after.

All she needed was that publicity stunt. One day, while she was biting the head off of an unsold giant gingerbread man, the idea came to her. She could build a life-size gingerbread house, one big enough to live in. If she lived in it for a week or two, surely that would break some kind of record, and the world would beat a path to her door.

Now that she had a plan, all of Martha’s considerable focus was directed to building a gingerbread house, one cookie brick at a time. She went all out with frosting décor and giant gumdrop furniture. It was the house of her dreams, if she’d been dreaming of cookie houses instead of dancing sugarplums.

The townsfolk watched in wonder, uncertain whether Martha had finally gone crazy. A kind looking woman walked up one day to warn her that cookie houses weren’t very practical. A well-meaning doctor asked if she’d been feeling overwhelmed or stressed lately.

Martha persevered. She had a plan. And when the house was nearly complete, she alerted the newspapers in all the big cities and sent invitations to every celebrity she could think of. This was going to be big. She baked superb snicker doodles and beautiful baklava in anticipation of the crowds.

The night before she was going to move into the completed gingerbread house, she was in her bakery working late. The moon was full, and the kitchen windows overlooked the nearby forest that towered over the cookie house at the edge of the bakery lawn. It was picturesque.

Or, it would have been, if not for the mob of small children devouring the gingerbread house by moonlight. Martha thought that werewolves or vampires or zombies would have been preferable. People were willing to travel long distances to hunt for supernatural monsters, and that might be an even better publicity stunt. The gumdrop bed wasn’t very comfortable, after all.

But no one would travel any distance to see a gang of kids with a sweet tooth. Those were not rare at all. Martha stood up straight and reached into the nearby closet. She would not stand by and watch her amazing plan get gobbled up.

She burst out of the door shrieking and waving a broom. The children screamed and scattered, running away as fast as they could. The damage wasn’t easy to repair, and the house was still unlivable when the reporters and celebrities arrived. Her tales of ravenous hordes of children were met with confusion.

“But where are the children now? I would have expected an army of children with such delicious delights on offer.” The reporter gestured to the table of sweet samples Martha had prepared for her guests.

“They’re probably afraid I’ll bake them in my giant commercial-grade ovens,” she joked. The reporters all nodded and wrote her response. “That was a joke,” she pointed out. “I’m not a wicked witch. Maybe just a wicked baker.”

Everyone looked at the table of tasty-looking treats. “Are they poisoned?” A famous author asked, sounding oddly hopeful.

“Of course not, who do you think I am?” Martha asked angrily.

She found out soon enough. The tale was twisted and told out of context. Some local children named Hansel and Gretel told some outrageous fairy tale to the reporters after her interview. They called her the Wicked Baker of the North.

The locals steered clear of her bakery after that. Luckily, out-of town visitors swarmed the bakery, hoping for glimpses of the witch. Martha pretended to be her assistant and told everyone they’d just missed her.

Within a year, she was able to close her bakery and move to a larger town under a new name. There she proficiently peddled profiteroles and never looked back. In fact, whenever she saw Hansel and Gretel’s tell-all tale in bookstores, she hid the books behind a nice cookbook and pretended she hadn’t seen them. She lived happily ever after.

 

Calling In an Expert

“And you’re sure you’re a real landscaper?” the man asked, scratching his bearded chin.

“Yes, I studied landscape design in college,” Martin said. “Didn’t you read my bio on my website, Mr….”

“Jacobs.” The man straightened up. “I looked all through your website, but there wasn’t a picture. And you look so normal.”

Martin just managed to avoid rolling his eyes. “What did you expect a landscape designer to look like?”

Mr. Jacobs waved his hand around vaguely. “Oh, you know, magical. Maybe with a staff and a long white beard. Like Merlin, you know?

“Well, I think most people who spend a lot of time working with plants like to keep their hair out of the way. Long beards tend to get caught on things.”

Mr. Jacobs nodded seriously. “That makes sense.”

Martin coughed to muffle a laugh. “So. What would you like help with?”

“Your website said that you design rock gardens?” Mr. Jacobs looked at Martin and waited.

Martin nodded. “I have designed several very lovely rock gardens. Do you have anything in mind?”

Mr. Jacobs grinned and pulled a tattered piece of lined paper out of his pocket. It was covered in smeared pencil smudges and illegible scrawls. “I wrote it all down here.” He held up the paper.

It was a mess. Martin leaned forward and squinted. He could maybe decipher a few letters, but that wasn’t very helpful. “Why don’t you read it to me?” he asked.

Mr. Jacobs turned the smudgy paper around. “I’d like to plant the marble around the outside of the yard like a hedge.” His finger traced a circle on the paper. “Have you got the Italian kind?

“Italian what?”

“Marble. I’ve heard that it’s better. But if it doesn’t grow well here, I’ll take whatever kind works best.” Mr. Jacobs drew his finger across the top of the page. “I’d like some beds of pumice in the back. I think something light would really open the space up. But you’re the expert.”

“It’s good that you’ve picked out the rocks you’d like in your garden. Have you thought about what plants you want to have grow around them?” Martin asked. “You said there was an Italian plant you wanted? I don’t think I caught the name.”

Mr. Jacobs looked confused. “I just want whatever plants grow the rocks. You know, like whatever grows marble or amber or obsidian or pumice. I was thinking I could harvest and sell the rocks if I need to.”

“Rocks don’t grow on plants,” Martin said. “People dig them up out of the ground or find them laying around.”

“Well, yeah, that’s what normal people do. That’s why I need your help. You create rock gardens.” Mr. Jacobs waved his hand around like he was holding a wand. “As long as you get it started, I think I can keep it going.”

Martin couldn’t tell if Mr. Jacobs was joking. “I use rocks as a garden feature. I design where the plants and rocks go in the garden to highlight the contrast between the delicate plants and stronger, more permanent rocks. I don’t grow rocks.”

“Then you’re not a real landscaper.” Mr. Jacobs looked disappointed.

“Yes, I am. I design landscaping. I went to college for years to study this. I have my diploma framed and hanging on my wall at home. I am a real landscaper.” Martin suddenly realized he was starting to yell. He cut himself off and folded his arms, feeling his face grow hot in embarrassment. “I am a real landscaper,” he repeated in a quieter voice.

Mr. Jacobs held up his hands in a calming gesture. “I’m sure you are. Just like magicians can do magic tricks that make it seem like they have magic. But they don’t really. They aren’t real wizards. You put out rocks to make it look like you grew them. I get that. I’m sure it looks lovely. But I want a real rock garden. Do you know anyone who does real landscaping and not just landscaping tricks? You know, an expert landscaper?”

Martin shook his head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Jacobs. I’ve never heard of rocks growing on trees. I’m not saying it can’t happen, but I’ve never heard of it, so I really can’t help you.”

“All right then. Sorry to bother you. Thanks for your time,” Mr. Jacobs said.

They shook hands and Martin drove off, thinking that was the end of it. Six months later, Martin was in the same neighborhood on a job and remembered Mr. Jacobs. On a whim, he drove by. The yard was surrounded by a large marble wall that had an irregular, organic texture. He could see a few trees with amber-colored leaves that glowed in the sunlight peeking above the wall .

Martin parked by the curb and knocked on the door. No one answered. He left his business card with a note to call him wedged in the screen door. Mr. Jacobs never called, and Martin still wonders about his rock garden. Did he find an expert landscaper after all? The kind that could grow real rock gardens?

The Misfit Pirate

Bob, the terrifying pirate captain, had four sons. He was proud to introduce them to all the frightened sea vessels he happened to cross paths with. “Prepare to be boarded by Bob the Terrible and his crew. And have ye met my fine sons Grog, Hunter, Alex, and Saber?”

Grog was on his way to being a fine second-in-command. He could load and aim a cannon while blind-folded and still hit a seagull flying leagues away. Hunter was a daring swordsman who could fight off twenty men and walk away without a scratch. Saber was still young, but he could sight an approaching ship on the horizon without a spyglass, and then steer to meet it unaided, even through the middle of a howling storm.

But Alex just didn’t seem to fit in with the other pirates. He tried. He was an excellent jewelry appraiser and could talk for hours on carats, cut, and clarity. He was a fine navigator, with a good knowledge of longitude, latitude, and degrees.

Yet if there was a fierce battle to be enjoyed, somehow Alex was somewhere else. When they were telling stories of adventure on the high seas, he looked bored. And after he’d appraised the treasure, he had no more interest in it, and never looked at it again.

“Did ye drop the lad on his head one day?” Bob asked his wife.

She hit him on the head with a spare wooden leg. “How could you say something like that? Alex just has different interests, like you did.” Then she sent him to peel potatoes while Saber took over steering the ship for a while.

Sitting in the galley peeling potatoes gave Bob a chance to think about the past. Bob’s parents were accountants. They loved to add up columns of numbers and fill out spreadsheets. They took their children on trips to the library and chess tournaments. While his brother Steve loved chess and numbers and books, Bob did not.

“Why can’t we go to the beach?” Bob asked one day. “I don’t want to be an accountant. I want to be a pirate.”

His mom laughed. “Lots of little boys and girls say they want to be pirates when they grow up. But then they find something they like better.”

“But I really do want to be a pirate,” Bob protested.

“Of course you do, dear,” she said. “But robbery and mayhem is a terrible career path. Why don’t you look into engineering? It pays well and is legal, too.”

Bob snorted as he finished peeling the last potato. Piracy paid just fine. But maybe it wasn’t for everyone. If Alex didn’t want to be a pirate, then Bob wasn’t going to insist on it. That wasn’t the pirate way.

And so, after dinner, Bob joined Alex on deck. Alex was looking out across the water, frowning. Bob patted him on the shoulder. “Son, do ye want to be a pirate or not? Because accountants are okay too, even if they’re terribly boring.”

Alex looked up. “Being a pirate is nice.”

“But do ye love it? It’s not a career for the half-hearted.”

Alex sighed and looked out at the waves again. “I don’t love it. I don’t like it when there’s fights or things get loud. I think treasure is boring. And sometimes, when the weather is bad, I get seasick.” He looked back up at Bob and whispered, “Are you mad at me?”

“Of course not.” Bob smiled and ruffled his hand through Alex’s hair. “Ye can’t help being who you are.”

“So now what?” Alex asked.

“We’ll write to your uncle Steve and see if he can recommend a good school for you.” Bob smiled as Alex hugged him.

Alex let go with a frown. “But if I go to school, I won’t see you and Mom and Grog and Hunter and Saber any more.”

Bob laughed. “Of course you will. Pirates never give up their treasures, and you and your brothers are my real treasures. You’ll see us. We have to find someone to appraise the rest of the treasure, after all.”

Alex smiled. “Someone else might cheat you and ignore obvious inclusions that affect the clarity of the gems.”

Bob nodded. “Yeah, that. So we’ll jump out from the shadows when you least expect it.”

Alex leaned against the railing. “I’d hate to get out of practice. Jump away.”

“That’s the plan. I guess someone in the family had to be respectable.”

Alex looked up. “Thanks, Dad. I love you.”

“I love you too.”