GO! CATS, GO!
[PB Rhyme 532 words]
Lily is a little sprout,
her busy spoons go
WHACK! WHACK! WHACK!
She has that drummin’ fever
as one hand goes CLICK,
the other CLACK.
And when she finds some sticks outside,
she grabs those sticks
there on the ground,
and clicks & clacks
and BITTA — BITTA baps,
and loves that BITTA — BAP kind of sound.
But things are mighty lean right now,
no money for
a brand-new drum.
But still that Lily has a dream,
and two little sticks and a
RATTA —TAT-TUM.
And then one sunny afternoon,
she meets an old gal with a spoon…
[illus. class goes to assisted living center]
The tippy-taptap! rings in the air,
with a Chikka—Chikka—Chik
in the dining hall.
Old Dottie taps her coffee spoon
right on the chair, her legs!
The wall.
Then Lily plays some tippy tap too,
which makes that Dottie stop real quick.
“Cats, listen to that drummin’ gal,
she’s making magic with a stick!”…
BIRDIE’S HOUSE
[PB 474 words]
Oliver loved the old house by the river that had settled where it was most comfy. Which was a little to the left.
Birdie’s house.
“I ever tell you that story about our juggling pig?” Birdie asked one summer while Oliver weeded her garden.
“Yep,” he said. “But tell it again.”
He listened and laughed while he worked.
Birdie gave him cookies. “Tell your mama to keep the plate. And Oliver, take these old kites you like. Now go play your baseball.”
“Oliver,” Ollie said [to Birdie’s cat]. “She’s kicking me out.”
“You little rascal!” Birdie squeezed her eyes shut in a Birdie smile.
Oliver picked apples in autumn. Birdie told stories and sewed.
“Can you deliver these quilts for me?” she asked.
“Sure,” Oliver said. “If I get one.”
“You little…”
“Shortstop?” Oliver said and they laughed.
He shoveled snow in winter.
Higher
and higher
the piles rose.
Until one day the snow was taller than the tip of his winter hat...
The BOOTS!
[PB Rhyme 248 words]
So long, Ms. Mittens,
And a kiss for the kittens,
Kit’s going to the park in—The BOOTS!
And he’s singing a song,
Toe-tapping along,
Oh, his tootsies belong in—The BOOTS!
Now he’s swinging so high,
People say “Oh, MY!
What’s up in the sky?”—The BOOTS!
Kit goes down the slide,
But his hide doesn’t glide,
What gets in the way?—The BOOTS!
But CALOOH! CALLAY!
He always finds a way
To HEYO! stay in—The BOOTS!
When his truck needs a road
In the sand with a load,
What saves the day?—The BOOTS!
When he struts to the water
His brothers say, “Pardner,
You better take off—The BOOTS!”
But CALLOH! CALLAY!
He always finds a way
To HEYO! stay in—The BOOTS!
At lunch when the table’s
too tall, he is able
to sit on the heels of—The BOOTS!
And he’s singing a song
Toe-tapping along
Oh, his tootsies belong in—The Boots!...
Cat Tales Detective Agency
The Case of Slick, Slime & Slugg
[Chapter Book 2,500 words]
Dear Kid,
So, you want to hear about my slimiest case, huh?
It was a dark and stormy night. Thunder rumbled outside like music in a cheesy spy flick. I didn’t know Slick was there until he was breathing down the hairs of my neck.
“Mr. Tales,” the wolf whispered. “You need grooming.”
All I could see was his toothy grin. All I could feel was the room starting to spin. All I could smell was the fur on his chinny-chin-chin.
“The door was open,” the wolf said. “So, I let myself in. Slick’s my name.”
Slick, I thought, what’s your game? But I shook the paw that he offered, to be polite. “You look hungry,” I said. “Want a bite?”
“Not tonight,” he answered. “My pants are already a little tight.”
He grinned again and it made the cat fur on my spine tingle.
“I would’ve given you a jingle,” Slick said. “But my phone doesn’t work. It’s enough to drive me berserk!”
“I see,” I said, backing up from that oily smirk.
“But that’s not why I came, Mr. Tales,” Slick murmured. “It’s about the slug. And the snail. I need them followed.”
“You need the slug and the snail tailed?” I swallowed. Did I hear the wolf right? He came closer. The room felt a little tight.
Kid, I could tell it was going to be a long night…
Buttercup Biddle in the Middle
The Case of the Blue Shoe Burglar
[Chapter Book 5,000 words]
Chapter One
The Wailer
My name is Buttercup Biddle and I have a secret. But I won’t tell my older sister, Daisy. Even though we share a bedroom. Which I love and Daisy used to love.
I was laying on my birds and butterfly bedspread. It was Saturday. Outside, the sun was as yellow as an egg yolk. I was thinking of food.
“If the kids in our family were a hamburger,” I said to Daisy, who was painting her toenails. “You would be a bun.”
“What are you talking about?” Daisy kept painting.
“And Weed would be a bun,” I said, rolling over on my side with my hand propped on my chin. “But I would be the YUMMY hamburger!”
“MOM,” Daisy yelled. “Buttercup’s calling me a bun!”
Daisy and I used to do things together. But now she’s always painting her toenails. Or texting. Or telling me that middle children are annoying and always copy. But I can get my OWN ideas.
“If people had eyes on the side of their heads,” I said, lying on my back now, my hands behind my neck. “They could only walk sideways.”
“MOM!” Daisy yelled, turning her back, and her toenails, to me. “I need my own bedroom!”
I looked over at Daisy’s back. “Would you rather have a short wide neck or a weird long neck?”…
JULIP & the FireThread
[MG Fantasy 48,000 words]
The old mansion had been rebuilt for smaller animals centuries ago, the winding staircases, high ceilings, candles flickering in the slightest breeze. Shops, homes, everything in the towns and countrysides were right sized now. After the Great Distress, ManGiants (hoo-mans they called themselves) made a mad dash over Kismet Cliffs and were never seen again. Good, some animals said. Riddance, others added. Do the ghosts of ManGiants still haunt the halls of the mansion Ravencliff? Who knows, but it would be a tight squeeze if they did.
The ManGiants left one thing behind though: their ability to talk. Most animals learned it as a second language. Although there were still those who used their fangs and claws to talk instead of their words.
Now Ravencliff was a boarding school: Saint Misery’s School for Mice.
Saint Miz for short.
Julip Cloverpaws scurried down the back stairwell there trying to be as brave as a honey badger, even though she was a dormouse. A dormouse isn’t a mouse at all, the rudest mouse at the school teased her every chance he got. Her claws click-clicked on the stone steps. A tiny noise in the dark and damp. But she didn’t mind her furry tail and big ears. Didn’t mind that she was related to squirrels or that she was small.
Small was mighty!
But the fur trembled above her little heart when the kitchen door creaked open. She hurried inside anyway. If she was going to escape tomorrow, and she was, she really was, she’d need three things for her journey: …
HOPE STREET
[MG multiple POV ~43,000 words]
1.
ROOK
bike bike bike
The first night before his uncle left for work, he told him, “Don’t worry about the noises, Rook, it’s just the house settling.” Which he knew really meant don’t worry about brain-eating zombies. So, for the past seven days at every hiss, THUD, pop or clank he sat alone not worrying about brain-eating zombies. Or aliens. Or robbers. Or killer robots. And the more he didn’t worry about them, the more the shadows played against the tree branches outside and floated in the night air like ghosts.
Which was another thing not to worry about…
2.
THE DUNFER BOYS
So what
Dakota Dunfer knew how to tie the bowline knot, the knot of knots, the king of knots.
He brushed his hair behind his ears. Dishwater blond, that’s what his dad called his hair. He didn’t pay attention to most of what his dad said but dishwater blond sounded grubby and dull and every time he looked in the mirror those words, grubby dull, looked back at him.
So, what…
3.
HARPER
Deep down
I can’t concentrate tonight because my stomach is in knots about the bike. I wonder if this has anything to do with the dream I had the other night. Eyes, eyes, everywhere in my closet, backyard, under my bed, eyes all over in the Haunted Woods. Maybe it was a premonition nightmare because I know it should’ve been MY eyes on my bike and I’m getting madder the more I think about it and I should have told the Professors right away but I haven’t because I don’t want to disappoint my dads OR get a lecture because they ARE professors after all, and have told me a MILLION times not to leave my bike outside unlocked and yes, Lady Luck is getting too small but I still love her with my whole heart.
I wonder if it would be easier to tell a mom…
The Honest Tale of the Lies I Told
[YA - WIP]
1.
I didn’t start out as someone who lies for a living. I wanted to be a ballerina. But by the time I realized for that to happen I would have had to start dancing lessons at I six months old, and my family wouldn’t have had the foggiest notion where to send me or let’s face it, the moolah, or the inclination because the only two dance moves they knew were Stayin’ Alive and Disco Fever, it was too late.
The gym teacher made my line in high school do our Swan Arms in front of the whole class three times, though, when we were learning a little ballet. I’m pretty sure it was because of the way my arms glided (glid?) through the air like a real swan. Which, I imagine, was very close to looking like what a ballerina might look like. I was breathtaking, I felt it in my wings. Or heart. Arms. It was the sole reason we had to do it three times in a row because of the way Ms. Tygg was watching me even though I was too humble to ever mention it. Inside I felt superior, though.
I still do the Swan Arms in front of the mirror sometimes. It was me, for sure. So, I could have been a ballet dancer. Or a swan. But it’s too late for lessons now.
(Or was it Dove Arms?)
2.
If Haley hadn’t just HAD to go to that dance, and I didn’t just HAVE to see if Rick Lindvikson liked her, and he just HADN’T had to answer the phone when I called, this whole thing would NOT have happened.
That’s the way things start.
Someone just HAS to find out something, and you’re the one (except it’s me I’m talking about here) who just HAPPENS to be that someone’s (Haley’s) best friend, and then you (me) just HAPPENS to call the someone that is your (my) best friend’s hopeful “Someone”, and that someone (Rick) actually answers, and says he doesn’t KNOW who Haley (she) is, but he knows who you (me) are, wouldn’t you (I) end up telling a teeny-weeny-smally-wally little fib? Like saying Rick said he’d love to go to the dance, as a matter of fact if he wasn’t going with Marcia S. he would definitely consider going with her (Haley).
Can you imagine the look in Haley’s eyes? The heavy breathing?
The life of a liar takes SO much memory! I had to keep the web going in, out, around, sticky, sticky, sticky situations until I was feeling like a spider who was the exact OPPPOSITE of Charlotte (You know, Wilbur’s friend who dies in the…Oh, never mind too much foreshadowing!!!). My little dove arms were tied. Or my spider legs. Or swan wings. Or something whatever I was. It was anything but breathtaking …
CONFESSIONS
Essays that might be untrue but probably aren’t
[Adult Non-Fiction essay WIP]
… The mystic, Julian of Norwich, said where we see sin God sees pain. I whisper that to myself and can’t help but marvel at the hope in those words, the lifeline, the truly-ness. Where we see sin, God sees pain.
I end the Our Father with deliver us from evil and add and into enlightenment because nothing, especially a heavenly prayer, should end with evil, should it? Ending the prayers with evil and the hour of our death in the Hail Mary kept us cowering when we were little. Sitting in the pews at morning Mass, shivering in the cold, evil lingered somewhere up in the rafters, looked over our shoulders, rose up from the dust of the kneelers, came in through the cracks in the drafty church. We felt it in our skinny little bones: Evil took notes.
But I loved my drafty church. The incense swirling to those rafters and down into my senses, holy-holy-holy we sang as bells rang reminding us to stay awake, aware, the smell of beeswax in the air, I was mystified by the ritual, candles burning wispy smoke trails to heaven, the golden rays of the monstrance, splayed, arrayed like a star, holding the host of the Almighty. The smells, the bells, the all is wells from the mystic Julian. As a young girl my church was simply the way of the world for me. It stood in for my own cultural heritage because we were “German, Dutch and Irish, and a little bit of Scotch” but we didn’t celebrate any of those cultures. Except the scotch. Grandpa drank that right up.
It was a mortal wound, leaving the church, as if someone came along whistling, threw a match on the scaffolding of who I was and walked away as stick by stick the whole thing burned to the ground, all the while praying for the salvation of my soul.
What if Jesus hadn’t come to teach us about the hour of our death and evil? What if he was here to teach us about living all the hours of our lives?
And love?
In the beginning was the Word and what if the word about the Word was slightly skewed in the fourth century or so? Packaged to us slightly wrong? What if the emperor Constantine told us a modified story that benefitted his political goals and not our spiritual roles? What if Jesus wasn’t the only enlightened child of God. What if they forgot to tell us that we all are? …