Etton rushed along the corridor, smoothing his cravat and rolling his sleeves back down. He stopped outside the Provost’s office.
“Oh dear,” said Etton. “Now you’ve done it, Ett. You've really done it, gotten them good and angry and they’re going to chuck you out this time.”
He straightened his waistcoat, his hands trembling a little. Etton knew there were few things that an apprentice could do to merit being summoned to the Provost’s office, and all the bad, rule breaking things were serious enough to be thrown out of the fortress university for.
Unfortunately, Etton had committed no less than three such crimes.
He hoped that the Provost only knew about one or two of them.
Etton took a deep breath and knocked on the door.
“Come in,” called a mild voice, from the other side.
Etton grasped the doorknob. Gripping it tightly, he turned it and pushed the door open.
Baby's Bear
By Mattie Noall
I am a little stuffed bear who belongs to the baby.
But sometimes, the other siblings like to take me for a spin.
Big Brother uses me like a football. He throws me onto the couch then into the wall. Then he throws
me down the stairs. Crash! Bang! Bonk! He takes sister's jumprope and ties it around me. He drags
me all over the house. Bump! Bump! Bump! Then he takes me outside and straps me to the front of
his bike. Dirt and bugs hit me as he rides around the neighborhood. Splat! He then throws me in the
entryway of the house and goes back outside to play. Here I lay in the entry waiting for baby to come
along. But instead, here comes sister.
She picks me up and takes me to her room. She has a little tea party all set up. She dresses me up
in doll clothes. “Oh you look so pretty.” Then she puts a hat on me. Plop! She walks me around a
bit, then changes my clothes again. Zip! Unzip! Zip! Unzip! Then she finally gets tired of playing
with me. She leaves me in the hall. I wait for baby again. But brother reaches me first. Baby has
3 siblings. A Big brother, a sister, and a brother. Brother is always the hardest on me. He takes me
outside. I know where we are going. To the sandbox. He plays with me in the sand. First he digs a
hole with his tractor. I am sitting in the dumptruck. He fills the dumptruck with the sand. Then he tips
the dumper into the hole. Dump! Sand and all into the hole. Then he fills the dumptruck more and
dumps more sand in the hole. Shhhhhhhhhhhh! Then he drives more trucks and cars over me like I am
a hill. Brrrrrrrrrrr! He goes into the house and leaves me buried in the sand.
Mom is coming from her garden. She sees me and picks me up. Shake! Shake! Shake! She takes me
into the house. She doesn't take me to Baby. She takes me down to the basement. She puts me in
the washing mashine. Chlug! Chlug! Chlug! Then she puts me in the dryer. Rrrrrrmmmm! Clunk!
Rrrrrrmmmm! When I'm all dry and fluffy again, then Mom takes me to Baby.
Baby hugs me and loves me and kisses me. Mmmmmmm! I love being Baby's bear. She is nice to me
and gives me all the hugs I need. Aaahhh!
by Mattie Noall
mother of 6, home schooler, and aspiring writer.
Adventure of the Tumbleweed Travelers
Exploring the Mohave Desert
By Heather Nobles
He’s a rough, tough tumbleweed,
Rollin’ along the trail.
Lookin’ for a place to feed,
On a few lizard tails.
He makes a dusty whirlwind,
When the wind blows him along,
Through the brush and cactus,
As he starts to sing his song.
Cruisin’ the open spaces,
He picks up all his friends,
In his thorny branches,
That tangle, wind, and bend.
He’s singin’ his tum-tum-tumble,
Tumbleweed song.
Sonny, Ruthie, and Jorge
Just keep on holdin’ tight,
As they’re tossed all over,
Graspin’ with all might.
He’s singin’ his tum-tum-tumble,
Tumbleweed song.
Loud grumblin’ sounds are rollin’,
Along the darkened sky,
Sounds just like when my stomach,
Is hankerin’ critter pie.
He’s singin’ his tum-tum-tumble,
Tumbleweed song.
The sky is gettin’ darker,
The wind is pickin’ up,
Hold on, hold on tighter friends,
For soon we’ll be swept up.
He’s singin’ his tum-tum-tumble,
Tumbleweed song.
We’re on a wild river,
Rollin’ like a water slide,
We’re bein’ sloshed all over,
This hot, desert mudslide.
He’s singin’ his tum-tum-tumble,
Tumbleweed song.
OUCH! OH NO! What can that be?
A spiny thorn that’s scratchin’ me.
He’s singin’ his tum-tum-tumble,
Tumbleweed song.
The downpour is subsidin’,
The sun dries up the land,
The clouds are now a-partin’,
Were high up off the sand!
He’s singin’ his tum-tum-tumble,
Tumbleweed song.
Look, out there in the distance,
Watch the show high in the sky,
A bright, beautiful rainbow,
Take a deep breath and sigh.
He’s singin’ his tum-tum-tumble,
Tumbleweed song.
Be quiet, don’t make a sound.
It’s a BIG squawkin’ eagle,
OH NO! We’ve been found!
I wonder where we’ll tumble n
Guess I’ll Eat This Worm
by Jennifer Jones Smith
Monday is
Dance day
My tippy-toe-and-prance day.
I slipped, I tripped.
My outfit ripped.
I smashed the sack
That had my snack.
I wondered what to eat.
4 Comments on 30 Days, 30 Stories: Guess I'll Eat This Worm, last added: 4/12/2012
When the Forces of the Universe Combine to Show You that the World, Your Peers, Your Parents, and Your P.E. Teacher Hate You, but Drake Devlin Doesn’t
By Lynsey Mitchell
“I’m sorry, Coach! But I've got to pee, NOW!” Sun yelled as her screaming legs frantically carried her screaming lungs and her screaming bladder away from the field full of her screaming peers and towards glorious salvation--the cramped, disgusting, high school bathroom stall.
She really was sorry. Sorry she’d just lost her best mile time ever because of the truancy she’d just “gained.” Gaining something was supposed to be good! She was sorry her parents couldn’t stay put for more than six months, sorry she had no friends besides her pet bird, Pete, and most of all, she was sorry she had to pee so badly.
It was a shame then that she hadn’t reached the locker room bathroom five minutes earlier to observe the three giggling sophomore girls put an “out of order” sign on the door and then scurry back to their class.
“Lucifer’s beard, I have no luck!” she panted as she ran past the perfectly working bathroom, frantically calculating where the next nearest bathroom was in the unfamiliar territory of her new school.
Once again fate was against her, or so it would seem, as she turned right down the hallway while the
Mitch and the Meaning of Easter
by Lori Bulloch
The drive to Grandma's house seemed twice as long on Easter morning. Mitch kept squirming in his seat, feeling squished between the baby's car seat and a cooler full of food. He would have rather been in the back seat by his sister, Maggie.
As soon as Dad put the car in park, Mitch unbuckled, hurdled the cooler, and opened the sliding door. The spring sunshine felt so good! He stretched his arms and legs.
Grandma saw his family coming and met them at the door with hugs and kisses.
Mitch didn't waste any time, “When do we hunt for Easter eggs?”
Grandma smiled and told him, “This year, I'd like you to hide the eggs for the younger cousins. Uncle Jim just called to say they're on their way, so you'd better start right now!”
She handed him the heavy box full of plastic eggs. As he walked, he could hear the surprises shaking around inside.
The rest of his family waited in the house while Mitch found a good hiding place for each egg. He put some in the grass for the little cousins and others in places he hoped would be impossible for the older ones to find. As soon as he heard car doors slamming in the driveway, he shoved the last egg under Grandpa's lawn mower and ran inside.
The kids were grabbing from Grandma's basket collection and running out the back door.
“Woah, woah, wait a minute!!” Grandma laughed. “I want to give you some instructions first.
Each basket has a colored ribbon on it. Try to find five eggs that match your ribbon. Then find me and
we'll talk about what's inside. Oh, one more thing. Mitch, I'd like you to team up with Maggie. Help her
a little, but don't make it too easy...”
Everyone rushed out of the room leaving only Mitch and Maggie. They were twins and best
friends (usually). Maggie was always fun to play with and sweet to everyone and definitely the
smartest kid in their class. Her blindness was the only reason they stuck together today.
Mitch held out his arm and Maggie quickly linked hers in and said, “Let the hunt begin!”
It didn't take long to find the first pink egg. Mitch popped it open expecting candy, but a fuzzy yellow baby chick popped out. Maggie stuck out her hand and giggled when she felt the fluff. “It's a toy chick! How cute!”
Just as Mitch opened his mouth to complain, Maggie said, “I bet Grandma put Easter symbols in all of the eggs for us.”
They moved on and found more eggs under bushes, on the porch swing, and under the curled up garden hose. Mitch steered Maggie around the “impossible” eggs and noticed that they all matched his oldest cousin's ribbon. He liked hiding Easter eggs!
Soon, their basket held their baby chick, a package of seeds, a plastic caterpillar, mini rose bud blossoms, and a folded postcard picture of a sunrise. They were excited to be the first egg-hunters to go
inside.
Grandma was waiting with another hug for each of them. “Well done, you two!” She started counting, “Did you find all five pink eggs?”
“Good. Now as soon as you can tell me what each item represents, you'll get a basket full of candy, too.”
Maggie had all the answers. She'd been thinking as she and Mitch walked around the yard. Mitch and Grandma both listened as she described them: new life breaking out of its shell, seeds of faith growing from darkness to light, a creature changing into something beautiful and free, a heart opening, and the chance Jesus gave us to try again every day.
Mitch was quiet. Suddenly, getting candy didn't matter.
Grandma's tea
Walking Cemetery
by Melissa Stockham
Gerald Kingsly looked up at the theater before walking in. It wasnestled between two other businesses in the small downtown area,built when things were just one continuous building that spread downthe streets.
At the moment there was a production of Harvey going on,proudly announced on the marquee. Coming next was No No Nanette.
The owners wanted the ghost gone before “No No Nanette” opened.
He opened the door and walked into the cozy lobby, complete with redplush carpet and ornate wallpaper. They’d kept the old sconces onthe walls, and the big chandelier on the ceiling, giving it a niceold fashioned feel. One could pretend they were once part of therich and elite who could afford to go to the show.
One of the owners poked her head out of the office door and smiledat him when she saw him. “Mr. Kingsly?”
He walked to her and offered her his hand, his big beefy gripswallowed her small hand and he shook it carefully but firmly. “Jerry, please.”
“I’m Anne. Thank you so much for coming.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” he assured. And he wouldn’t. It waspart of the family job, or curse. When there was a ghost, you had togo. End of story. Even if he hadn’t wanted the job, in a few dayshis brain would be beating him into submission and he’d be thereanyway. At least this was a paying customer.
“What’s been goingon?”
She smiled, “All theaters are haunted, just ask anybody who spendsany time in one. Missing keys, props, things being mislaid, justlittle reminders that there’s a ghost about...it’s just a part ofthe atmosphere.�
The Sound of Flowers to a Boy
By Emily Simmons
Kyle strutted out of his house, knowing full well that the all the girls’ eyes were on him. His swagger was feigned; his stomach churned at the thought of talking to Talia in front of all
her friends. The girls clustered on the front porch of the house next door were gossiping and giggling the way 13-year-olds do. They ignored him so pointedly that he knew it was his name
they were whispering behind cupped hands. No one ignored him more than Talia, his next-door neighbor.
Kyle ducked into his garage and fired up the riding lawn mower his dad bought at a yard sale. The Snapper’s 12 horsepower motor was loud even without the blades engaged, but he refused to be seen wearing the protective earmuffs his dad wore. Today he was driving a lawn mower, but in only eight short months he’d have his learner’s permit and would be taking the old man’s Corolla out for a spin. Imagining that the Snapper was really a Lamborghini, he expertly maneuvered the mower out of the garage and over the shared side yard between the two houses. The giggling and ignoring stopped as he pulled the lawn mower in front of the porch where the flock of girls was roosting. Don’t say something stupid, he thought. Please, voice, don’t crack. “Hey Talia—does your dad want me to mow the side yard for him this week?”
Talia blushed. “Um, I don’t know. Do you want me to ask him?”
If she went inside to ask his dad, he’d be stuck in the front yard on a lawn mower with four teenage girls staring at him. No way, Jose. “That’s all right. I’ll just do it, it’s no big deal.”
“Okay, thanks.”
“No problem.” He drove away and engaged the blades, the roar of the mower silencing the girls’ chatter. They were probably dissecting every word he said to determine i
Foil-Wrapped Chocolates and Writing
by Rebecca Rice Birkin
I am a chocolate addict. My past candy-seeking behaviors include a month-long obsession over
a particular kind of chocolate. Not a brand, but anything covered in sleek, shiny foil. Whether
an egg or a bunny, there’s just something soothing about the quiet crackle, the smooth feel, of
unwrapping each piece.
What does chocolate have to do with writing? Not much. One is sweet, easy, and something I
may later regret. The other is rarely easy. The similarity is that I crave both.
Despite my compulsion to create stories, I occasionally want to bang my head against my
computer screen, questioning why I continue.
In the midst of my last writing-crisis, I attended the Writing and Illustrating for Young Reader’s
Conference. There, Sharlee Glenn encouraged us to write for the joy of it, quoting Madeline
L’Engle: “I had to write. I had no choice in the matter. It was not up to me to say I would stop,
because I could not.” I can relate.
Like L’Engle, I long to write, to create characters whose concrete needs resonate with real
people. Similar to the satisfaction found in unwrapping bright foil-covered chocolates, I suspect
writing is more meaningful because it’s isn’t easy.
Another WIFYR instructor, Martine Leavitt, taught us to own writing as our divine gift. She
said that since God gave her the writing talent and drive, she was going to do something with
that. Her words, along with Sharlee Glenn’s, encourage me to follow my college creative writing
teacher’s advice to “keep at this business.”
But how? I have a chronically messy home, a child with a developmental disability, and lots
of other excuses. I dream of a beach cottage, Gifts from the Sea style, and long blocks of
uninterrupted writing time. It rarely happens. Martine’s answer? “It’s hard to write, and that
never changes.” She suggested, “Do it every day, even for 10 minutes. Get up earlier. Do it first
thing. Put aside your other hobbies for now. Writing wants your whole life. Take your work with
you everywhere.”
I try to do this. When I can, I take my notebook computer with me. Other times, I’ve been caught
texting plot notes to my own phone. Most of all, I’m giving myself permission to write. Writing
is the one addiction I plan to encourage.
Rebecca Rice Birkin, JD, craves not only chocolate, writing, and beach time, but also books.She’s discovered housework is almost bearable if done while listening to a book on CD. She’swritten for The New Era, Segullah and Meridian Magazines, and has won several writingawards.
Chapter One
Castles, Oatmeal, & Strawberry Jam©
by Debi St.Jeor
Katie Sue stomped into the living room. She scowled as she searched behind the couch
and under her dad’s chair. She grumbled as she lifted the cushions and shook out the blanket.
“Someone stole my shoes!” she yelled at nobody in particular.
“Don’t be silly,” her mother hollered back from down the hall. “No one is going to take
your shoes.”
Katie Sue didn’t wake up grumpy, but she was sure grumpy now. And all because of the
jam.
Katie’s real name was Katrina but everyone called her Katie Sue. This suited her just
fine because Katrina sounded too stuffy. And besides, anyone called Katrina probably wasn’t
allowed to climb trees or dig in the dirt—especially when she was wearing her favorite pink
dress with ruffles and lace.
But right now, Katie Sue didn’t want to wear her favorite pink dress or climb in a tree or
do anything else fun. She didn’t even want to go to kindergarten. She was just plain mad. Dumb
jam!
The day had started out OK. When Katie woke up, she snuggled under the covers, not
wanting to climb out of bed. Then she remembered—it was picture day at school! And picture
day sounded very important. Yesterday, her teacher had reminded the class several times to
wear their nicest clothes. She jumped out of bed. Today was going to be great! She was sure of
it.
Katie ran into the kitchen. The other kids had already had breakfast. There were half
eaten bowls of oatmeal, honey dribbled across the tablecloth, some almost-empty glasses of
milk, and a couple of spoons dropped on the floor.
Her younger brother, Jeff, was under the table making “vroom” noises and playing
with his cars. The baby was still strapped into his highchair. He squealed with delight as he
threw dry cheerios around the room from up high. Other than that, the house was pretty
quiet. That meant that the twins, Chris and Shell, had already left for school. They were big—
in second grade. And when they were still home, things were not quiet at all. There was running
and yelling and sometimes even crying—but definitely not quiet. They always seemed to
have a hard time getting out the door in the morning. Katie was glad she didn’t have to go to
kindergarten until the afternoon. She had the whole morning to play before she had to start
running around trying not to be late for school. Katie was going to stay in kindergarten forever.
Mom hurried down the hall balancing a big pile of laundry that she dropped on the
couch. She always seemed to be in a hurry.
“Oh, good, you’re up,” mom said over her shoulder.
“Mom, it’s picture day!”
“I know. I’m washing your pink dress,” her mom said as she folded and stacked the
laundry. “Can you watch your brothers? I’m going to jump in the shower as soon as I get this
laundry folded.”
“OK,” Katie responded, and she headed back to the kitchen.
“And eat some breakfast!” her mom hollered after her.
But Katie didn’t really like oatmeal—especially cold. And she wasn’t very hungry anyway. So she
crawled under the table with Jeff. That’s when the trouble began.
The whole problem started with the castle they made. They ran and got a couple of
blankets that they draped over chairs next to one side of the table. On the other side, they
pulled the tablecloth down until it touched the floor. They didn’t mean to pull the cup of milk
"The Three Deaths of Devin Ochre" is an interpretation of the classic tale "The Three Billy Goats Gruff." It is one of the stories included in The Gruff Variations, a charity e-anthology edited by Nebula-winning author Eric James Stone. The anthology includes writing by Shannon & Dean Hale, Dan Wells, Rick Walton, Lisa Mangum, Mary Robinette Kowal and many, many others! The Gruff Variations is available from Smashwords, Barnes & Noble online, and amazon.com.
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The Three Deaths of Devin Ochre
by Juliana Montgomery
1.
Devin Ochre died exactly as he'd planned--in bed, sleeping, with no pain--as though the universe itself was afraid of disobeying his will. His secretary discovered the body, sighed, and made herself breakfast before calling anyone. Mr. Ochre, whose soul was still lingering in the corner, spat several expletives at her and told her she was fired. This was the first of many things he realized he could not control once he was dead.
As he drifted formless on the wind, he wondered idly where he was headed. Other ghostlike spirits appeared occasionally, joining him in a stream toward the unknown. As he drifted past a coffee shop, he reached out to take a doughnut from a woman who was trying unsuccessfully to keep three small children from running in every direction. She seemed to be having a rough day, but it couldn't be nearly as bad as waking up to discover you're dead. The sweet-smelling pastry slipped through his nebulous fingers and he cursed again.
5 Comments on 30 Days, 30 Stories: Three Deaths of Devin Ochre, last added: 4/3/2012
It was so much fun! I love being part of it!