Tag Archives: short stories

The Turtle and The Hare…

9 Jun

My feet looked at me and said, “I’m tired of being the turtle!”

I laughed, sipping on my hot cocoa as my feet were elevated on the couch. “Too bad!” I retorted, though I felt the same way – I was tired of being the turtle, too.

“Get me some new shoes and I’ll show you what we can do,” my feet challenged.

A half smile snaked across my cheek. “But I don’t like to run.”

My feet chuckled mockingly. “How would you know if you’ve never tried? You’ve always had an excuse, but what you don’t realize is that once you start, I guarantee you won’t want to stop!”

Finding I was looking for a hobby, and not one to turn down a challenge, I narrowed my eyes and grabbed my old sneakers. “Let’s first give these shoes a try. I’m not buying you new toys if we won’t use them!”

My feet frowned, but found they had no other choice. I took them to the track and off we went.

At the end I stopped, breathing hard after only one mile.

“So?” my feet asked, practically dancing with joy.

I didn’t want to admit that I liked the feeling, so I just smiled and winked instead. “Yeah, we’ll see how I feel tomorrow.”

The next day I woke with the most veracious need to run.

My feet chuckled at me. “Told you so!”

“Fine,” I broke down. “I’ll get you new shoes.”

Little did I know that was the beginning of the end – the end of being a turtle, and the beginning of what would become my marathon training regimen.

We now run three miles when we go out and we barely break a sweat (well, can’t really say the same for my feet). Biking for and hour and a half seems like a stroll through the park, and weight lifting – a cinch! Life as a Hare is so much better! My feet were right!

It’s marathon season, folks! Get out, and get moving!

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Furniture Makeover: A Story of Old Clothes and Quick Fixes

26 May

Why was he staring at me like that? I didn’t like it…

I shifted my seat on the deflated couch, trying to turn my gaze away. Frowning, I began typing once more. I didn’t get very far before I felt his gaze dig holes in the side of my head. I glanced once again in his direction, his stance solid, determined.

I grumbled. “What do you want?”

He said nothing, just stood there in his stupid green outfit that did him little justice. It was an outfit he’d gotten in the ninties, and it showed.

“I’m aware that you hate what you’re wearing! What do you want me to do about it?”

He sat silently, showing me what he wanted by the decor that surrounded him.

“You want to wear black? What, are you goth now?”

Another stoney stare.

I sighed long and hard, shutting the computer on my lap and placing it on the bookstand beside me. With him staring at me like this, I was never going to get any writing done. I stood and marched up to him, his four friends surrounding him with their stubburn, spindly legs. His friends came from all over – Pottery Barn, and of course garage sales. They glared at me the same way, all except the Pottery Barn group – they were confident in their clothes.

“And I suppose you want new clothes too, huh?” I addressed two of his friends that were wearing a horrid pumpin pattern.

They gave me the same lip, and it drove me to give in.

“Fine! I’ll do it, but beware that I cannot guarantee a good outcome, but I’ll try my best.”

I marched to the door where I grabbed my keys and purse. When I came back, I had new fabric, and of course a quart of black paint. He was still staring at me. With a clenched jaw, I removed all his jewelry – the vases, candles, bobbles he wore excessively in his attempt to look more modern. It looked trashy instead. I then flipped him over on his back…

…and I removed his friends pumpkin clothes.

He giggled with happiness and I brushed him with a new coat – first a layer to cover the green, then another to cover streaks, then a third to make his new clothes shine like a leather jacket.

His friends watched anxiously, the pumpkin duo patiently awaiting their turn. While he was drying, I took the pumpkins and rehabed their October look. I drove staples into their flesh, but they didn’t seem to mind – they were seasoned plastic surgery patients – I could see the two previous scars of old changes on their undersides.

when I was done I sighed, seeing it was almost time for dinner. My day was a waste as far as writing went, but I was glad to see that He and his friends were happy.

“How’s that?”

they all stood with pride and thanks.

it felt good to help out…

The Quail Egg and the Garden: A Story of a King

24 May

Growing impatient, Egg fell from the nest, rolling downhill until it came to a rest in a patch of soft grass.

Mother shrieked as she saw Egg roll, fluttering after Egg as branches and vines slapped against her face. “My egg!” she cried. “My egg!”

Father heard Mother and quickly ran from the lawn where he had been snacking, following Mother’s voice.

“Mother! Mother! What happened?” Father came upon Mother, the white speckled skin of Egg resting on a bed of old pine needles.

“He rolled right out of the nest!” She screamed.

Father gasped. “But why?” Father then noticed the disturbed Earth around him, the small forest of sweet smelling shoots growing in a precise pattern of rows.

Mother and Father looked to Egg, it’s crown still fastened upon it’s head. “You found a garden, Egg.”

Egg said nothing, sitting there with pride.

“But, Egg, you are too young to claim your first kingdom!”

Egg stood stubbornly on the spot.

Father fluffed his wings in thought before leaning close to Mother. “Mother, shall we allow him to become the King of his own garden?” he whispered discreetly.

Mother’s eyes were filled with apprehension, but what could she do? She did not posses the use of opposable thumbs, she could not possibly push egg back up the hill to the nest. Egg’s future was already made. “I don’t think we have a choice!” she murmured in a harsh, shaky tone.

Father looked back to Egg. “Then the Kingdom of Garden is yours, Egg.”

Egg remained silent and proud.

“King of the Garden,” father whispered to himself. “I’m so proud.”

Mother and Father left Egg to fend for himself, walking back up the hill where they were greeted with a cold, empty nest.