“Please, do go on. How exactly did the kettle begin it?”
“Weelll… it just sat there so… so… sitty!”
“I see. It was ‘sitty.’ And the problem with that is what, exactly?”
“Sitting is just so boring! How could it just not do anything?”
“So, you decided to make it do something.”
“Everything needs a little nudge now and then. All I did was fill it up with water.”
“Mm-hmm. And the kettle appreciated that, did it? Got up and danced a jig, I’m sure.”
“No! It just sat there drooling out its spout! Disgusting! I turned the stove on to dry it out.”
“- – -“
“What?! It started grumbling at me, and it just kept getting louder and louder. I told it to calm down but then it started screaming at me and smoke came out of the spout!”
“Imagine that. So you thought…”
“Obviously it needed some private time to adjust its attitude so I covered it with a towel.”
“Naturally it reacted well.”
“I guess it was dryer than I thought. You do always say where there’s smoke there’s fire.”
“I wish I could deny that.”
“Well, obviously I couldn’t let the kettle burn the house down, so I blew on it as hard as I could. Candles have much better attitudes, by the way.”
“I see. And that’s when you finally called me?”
“Yeah! That kettle needs to go to jail for arson! That’ll teach it what happens when it’s boring and stubborn.”
Two weeks ago we embarked on a new adventure by adding six chicks to our flock of three. I grew up with chickens; I thought I was prepared. From day one these birds set out to prove me wrong.
To begin with, I didn’t realize how small four week old pullets were under all those brand new feathers. We left the house for two hours the first evening, and when we came back after dark all six had blissfully jumped through the dog wire of their run and bedded down two feet outside of the fence. I managed to pick them up three at a time and snuggle them in my shirt tail back into their appropriate sleeping area.
After adding chicken wire to the entire perimeter the next morning (while continually chasing escaped chicks), I heaved a sigh of relief. It was taken as a challenge by those overly curious toddler birds. I had built their run attached to the existing run for socialization, but separated by mesh that I could easily cut out later. By afternoon they had found a way through a gap in the mesh barrier and delightedly raided kitchen scraps under the indignant beaks of their elders. I managed to chase them back through their convenient hole and close it up before bedding them down for the night.
Problem not solved. Not a day went by for the next week that didn’t find me chasing houdini pullets and closing up microscopic escape routes. In the meantime, like all toddlers, they emptied their (supposedly chick-friendly) feeder all over the ground, turned over their water dispensers repeatedly when they weren’t kicking grass and bedding into them, and made a mess of their sleeping quarters.
It wasn’t all bad; the amount of time I spent corraling those birds meant they got used to me. By the end of a week they would call back to me when I talked to them, and when I let them out in the morning they would squabble and flutter so close to me that their wings hit me. When I brought food they would rush the gate so I had to be careful not to step on them. For a day or two they seemed to have settled in.
Then they discovered how to breach the blocked holes. Peck until the thing moves, then scratch it out of the way. Fly higher and find the hidden gap at the top. Dig a new hole! Me and those pullets spent a whole lot more quality time together. They started to argue with me and throw themselves at the door to their little coop when I didn’t open it fast enough to suit them. They started trying to eat my shoes and investigating my clothes.
We settled again for a day or two into a routine; all the escape routes seemed to be managed, and I started thinking about raking the big run in preparation for joining. I didn’t reckon on just how devious my little friends were, and I set myself up for what had to be the funniest chicken story ever.
I headed out to bed them down, but I knew as soon as I rounded the corner of the house something was amiss. I could hear them from much farther than usual, and couldn’t see them in their run. Yep, you guessed it. All six pullets were in the big run, merrily exploring in and out of the big coop. It might have been a boring story if they had stayed there.
They heard me coming. All six rushed to the gate, chirping madly in greeting. Their elders were already asleep, having the sense to know it was nearly dark, but not them! Did I mention the gate to the big run is dog wire? By the time I could get it open, those overly excited birds had pushed through and were running circles around the pen, cackling wildly. I called for reinforcements: extra hands and food.
The food was a dismal failure; they weren’t the least bit hungry. They were, however, delighted to stay up late and intended to keep that illicit privilege in spite of me. My eight year old son covered himself in glory by catching three by himself; my husband caught one. The others came to see what all the fuss was about and that was one battle won.
The next was to get them in the coop; they were gonna sleep with their elders because I wasn’t even trying to get them back through whatever new hole they discovered. I carried the food inside followed by chicks. By now they had already pecked up my shoes and tried to burrow under my shirt tail while I squatted trying to keep them contained as we caught them. They had finally realized it was bedtime, had decided I was mom, and as far as they were concerned I wasn’t leaving. Three surrounded my foot and snuggled up, one fluttered up the roost and perched on my wrist, and two curled up on my back as I bent over trying to reach things. They weren’t moving.
Once again my son came to the rescue. He closed the door so they couldn’t get spooked and escape, then moved them off me one at a time. While they were flapping around complaining about it, we ducked out and locked them in. By then it was completely dark and I wasn’t sure what gifts had been left on my shirt. In case the solar-powered but temperamental door decided to actually open at sunrise the way it’s supposed to, we hung a blanket over the gate until I can add chicken wire. What would you like to bet I find those chickens in the yard tomorrow morning anyway?
(I’d like to thank my kids for their contributions to this week’s prompted flash fiction. Sometimes the real life conversations are far funnier than any story I can come up with.”
“Hey, kids, y’all wanna give me story ideas? They have to connect to this lighthouse picture.”
“Me, me, me! Let me see the picture! How about the Lighthouse Girl? A girl was travelling, trying to find a magical world that doesn’t exist. Instead she found the lighthouse, and lived in the lighthouse and made friends in the little town.”
“But what does the lighthouse have to do with a magical world? You can’t just throw things together that don’t connect and call them a story.”
“I don’t know.”
“Oh, I have an idea! It has a lot of rooms, and people are fighting inside!”
“Why were they fighting inside?”
“Because it was raining. When the rain stopped they ran down all the stairs to the bottom, but the door was locked and the key was lost! It was a dark house! And there was a little girl running like Sonic to find the lighthouse, but she found the dark house instead, and there was a Shadowman!”
“My turn! There was a town with a lighthouse. The lighthouse had always made people feel safe. One day a woman became the principle of the local school, Lighthouse Public School, but she was really mean. She gradually took over the town and named herself queen, making everyone in the town her miserable slaves. She decided she needed an army to conquer the world, so gathered all the townspeople…”
“What does the lighthouse have to do with all this?”
“She had shut down the lighthouse. When she was about to march and conquer all of Mississippi, the lighthouse suddenly came to light, brighter than ever before. The woman was revealed to be a demon and faded away.”
“Ummm… Once upon a time there was a little girl and a lighthouse. She and her father owned the lighthouse and kept it running until one day it broke down. They tried to fix it but they couldn’t, so her father threw the keys in the trash. The little girl was very sad and did everything in her ppwer to get the lighthouse running again.”
“Did she succeed?”
“Um, it took her a few months but she did succeed. Everyone in the town was very happy. The end.”
“Hmm, something about Christmas.”
“In a lighthouse? On a summer day?!”
“Once upon a time it was Christmas Eve. This little girl and boy and their dad went to cut down a Christmas tree. They found the perfect one and cut it down, and brought it into their house.”
“Hold on, what does this have to do with a lighthouse?”
“The lighthouse is their home. They decorated their tree, but the star was missing. They bought one and it arrived that day.”
“Is that the end?”
“No. Hmm. They opened the box, got a ladder, and put the star on top. Also they built a fire, and beds, blankets, and pillows. And they were comfortable happy ever after. The end.”
A most unusual present shows up under the tree on Christmas Eve and begins to wreak havoc! Presents get eaten, the feast gets stolen, even the decorations are shredded. No one knows what to do! Even Alice Jayne finally locks that croc in the cellar where he can’t destroy anything else.
But no one should be cold and alone on Christmas Eve! First Alice Jayne, then the rest of the family (including Aunt Figgy whose toes were bitten) joins the crocodile in the cellar with their own little piece of Christmas comfort to share. No one realizes the disastrous truth until morning brings a new surprise.
This book is the perfect holiday book for little kids. The funny, silly, and unexpected plot will have kids giggling uncontrollably, and the colorful illustrations will keep them busy while parents handle all the Christmas secrets. That is, if mom and dad aren’t reading and laughing along with them.
Kitty is the boss of the house. At least, until a host of scary and unusual creatures show up at her door! But wait, those creatures have delicious candy! Kitty forgets to be scared, and decides to be very, very bad!
This fun story with its colorful pictures will capture children’s imaginations while teaching the alphabet. Bad kitty and her scary new friends will increase your child’s vocabulary with their silly alphabetical behavior as well! From daring and loopy to hideous and putrid to quashed and extinguished, there’s no end to the thrills.
Halloween may be over, but Bad Kitty and her antics are still a daily source of giggles at my house. Even my older kids forget to pay attention to their own tasks when Kitty and her friends show up to play. We’ll certainly be looking for more of her adventures by Nick Bruel.
It was the worst excuse for a map I had ever seen. Trust Lin to come up with something like this. Too much imagination, not enough sense, that girl.
That square might be the airport, I thought. Or if I was holding it upside down, maybe it was the fairgrounds. Given the giant question mark in the middle, I wasn’t holding it upside down.
What was that question mark about anyway? Who uses punctuation on a map? Lin would probably call it a challenge, but seriously. I just want to get where I’m going, not waste half an hour and twenty bucks worth of gas playing guessing games.
Next time I should probably just ask for written directions. Although, knowing Lun, she’d find a way to make that just as pointless. Could a map be written in poetry? If not, she’d probably try.
I wadded the fake parchment with unnecessary vigor and tossed it into the back seat. Time to ask for directions. “Excuse me, could you direct me to Knight’s Row? It must be, I’m supposed to look for the fourth gate west of the Great Hall. No, I’m not trying to be funny. Wait, come back! Hey, I just need directions!”
The address, Lin. Next time, just tell me the address.
“Look there,” Dagda pointed out suddenly in a hushed voice. “Be quiet and move slowly; try not to draw eyes to us. With any luck we’ll slip by unnoticed.” I followed his gaze to see a pair of dwarves supervising a small group of what I could only assume were elves. Another pang of disappointment rewarded my observation. These elves were slender with the pointed ears I expected, but they were far from beautiful. Barely taller than the dwarves, they were unkempt, with tangled hair flying wildly around their ears. They fawned at the feet of the dwarves, who appeared to be giving orders with the aid of blunt spears used to poke and prod any unfortunate elf who did not please them. The elves were sullen as they tended the trees in the orchard under the scowls of their masters.
As we passed uncomfortably close to a small group working near the road, one elf who was heavily laden with what appeared to be a bucket of dung tripped over a root and landed hard on his belly with his face in the bucket. The dwarves roared with laughter, insults indistinctly heard even at our distance, and prodded the poor fellow mercilessly until he rose to his feet. One even thumped the unfortunate creature over the head with a spear point, producing a yelp of outraged pain. A scowl covered the elf’s face along with globs of manure and a trickle of blood from his mouth where he apparently had bitten his tongue, and without warning he dumped the entire contents of the bucket over the head of the closest dwarf. The dwarf, stumbling about yanking on the bucket now stuck on his head, howled with rage, and other elves ran to the support of their fellow laborer, gabbling angrily. We tiptoed by, slowly moving from tree to tree just off the road to try to escape notice.
The Word Worker 