Not based on true events

Once, in the city of Westend, there was a Least Weasel named Winter, and this weasel thought he could be victorious in a war against the world, and come from it without a scratch on his tiny body. That was a very foolish thing to think, for, after all, he had not performed any more spectacular feats than catching mice and running across intersections when the walking signal was displayed. Yes, these were displays of intelligence and skill, but it would hardly defeat the world. Yet he persisted in believing it was so, and dreaming that it was so while he slept in his crinkled tin can in a remote alley. Foolish little weasel! He was soon to discover that it was not so! This lesson against self-flattery began when Winter had an unpleasant awakening to an unpleasant smell. At first, the morning about was dim and unclear, for the sleep had not yet left his eyes, but when it sharpened, it refused to brighten. With a start, Winter leapt up and nearly tumbled down again upon the uneven surface which supported him, and there was a clank of cans at his movement. Far above was an opening in which the fresh sun shone, and looking about at the few places where it painted his surroundings, he realized what a pickle he was in. He was within a garbage truck! No wonder there was the stench and darkness and rust! His little can bed must have somehow been picked up by this monster of trash without awakening the bundle inside which was he. Winter immediately flew into a panic and dashed round in circles like a frantic dog, and attempted to leap up through the opening above, but all in vain. The motor continued to churn and the vehicle continued to plow forward. Suddenly, it came to a halt, nearly throwing Winter against its hard insides. The opening above widened and lengthened as a new load was prepared to be tossed within. Winter saw his chance, and took his chance, and with the effort of fear, he flew from vehicle, past the dumbfounded waste employee, and out into the open where he encountered- the world. The awful large, loud, metropolis world, with the feet stamping everywhere, motors roaring past, voices yelling and yammering, music blasting and blazing billboards of light illuminating the sky. He was in the thick of a crowd upon the walkway, and cowered down and nearer to a wall nearby with the thought: “ This is the world.” At first, poor Winter was petrified to the very concrete, and dared not move. But then he was forced to, for there came, screeching into view, a small red-hued car, and on its side was the words “ Animal Control”. Directly before him did it come to a clamorous halt, and two men, intimidating in appearance, leapt out and came towards the weasel who pressed himself nearer and nearer to the wall. Winter’s eyes widened as the one reached down to him with a gloved hand, and in the blink of an eye, dodged the grasp, and was away. Where he was to go, neither you nor he was to know, but all he could recollect was that he crossed a street without the walking signal being displayed, he dodged a dog whose vicious fangs were far larger than his own, and he ran headfirst into a cat who leapt at least three meters in the air in the surprise of the moment. As he rushed madly on, the streets quieter and less crowded,  until barely a vehicle or a person could be seen, but he passed through without noticing, his eyes and mind fixated on the patch of green a small ways away. It was a park, a nature park, where the trees were permitted to grow and pass on their knowledge to their young, and die naturally, and the shrubs were allowed to be shrubs and were not manicured into unnatural shapes, and the birds and animals were free to roam without being labelled pests and nuisances, and without any encroachment on their homes. Yes, there were people, but they were not there to blast music, but to listen, not to scroll on their cellphones, but to watch the ants march by, not to make money off of strange commercial ventures, but to make peace and tranquility in their heart. They understood that  the lucrative business was not a peaceful one, and they came to escape. It was in here that Winter finally came to a halt, whizzed about, and lay low in the grass to see if anyone had followed him. There was no one in pursuit. All was quiet and peaceful, and the joyful songs of numerous birds came to his ears. His rapid breathing then calmed, and he again felt his heart return to its natural rhythm, and knew that there was no need to conquer the great loud world. He was content with what peace left untouched.

Not based on true events

Today, for a change, I will write about what I see, smell, hear, and feel while sitting peacefully on the lush grass in my backyard. Whether it will be an interesting account, I do not know, but here I start. Upon my entrance of the space, I first hear and see a grey, middle-sized bird burst into flight and off to the safety of a greenspace. I am sure it is an American Robin, for I soon hear robin calls in the trees a little ways away, fluting sweetly and chattering fiestely to the sky. I did not seat myself in the most peaceful of places evidently, because, in a moment I spy a tiny black ant in the grass very near to me, heading home with a mouthful of what appeared to be a tiny spider. As it comes up to me I feel it inspecting me, which is a very ticklish feeling indeed, and I am forced to move to permit it passage. The wind then rises, and the catkins of our Columnar Aspen rain down, like a million squirrel tails, light and grey, to land with a surprisingly loud clack and thump on concrete and grass. Then the call of a Common Raven comes to my ear, and I raise my head to a sky white with smoke, and behold, there it is, flying far above me, with its wings partially closed. It calls hoarsely again, and with a spectacular whish! spins deftly in the air before spreading its wings once more, and gliding out of sight. About this time, a Chipping Sparrow begins to buzz its call, and our pair of crows enter the scene, landing in two separate trees and croaking love songs to each other. I hear a mysterious loud peeping noise and behold the red of a Seven-spotted Ladybeetle land upon the deep green of the grass. I smell the dust of a dry spring in the air, sweetened by the scent of grass and tree, and I behold a form, white and black, in the boughs of our spruce, and I know that our latest visitor, the Rose-breasted Grosbeak, is finally here.

Not based on true events

Mr. Meihker was a very strange character who wore nought but yellow clothing. Golden yellow, lemon yellow, yellow ochre, yellow lake: he had every shade imaginable and washed them and then hung them in his yard to dry. All the neighbours had a good laugh when they beheld his suits, and pants, and shirts and shorts bouncing up and down on his clothing line like sheets of honey and meringue. But Mr. Meihker evidently was not the only one who liked yellow. He made this discovery one washing day when, removing the hanging garments, he discovered that a tie and a glowing sweater was missing. This, indeed, caused Mr. Meihker to fret, for they were hued in his favourite shades. He searched all about his yard in case they had blown away in the wind but, though he scoured the bushes in his yard as well as those in the yards of his neighbours, he beheld not a sign of them. Finally, Mr. Meihker gave up the search, and took down his remaining garments with a drooping heart. The next day, what was his immense surprise at finding that, though he had cleared it, the line still had articles of dress on it, yes, a dress, I mean, of the brightest red shade and billowing in the breeze. He walked to it with eyes wide with astonishment, and looked about for the perpetrator of the act, but none could be seen. Thus, knowing that it certainly did not belong not to him, he left it on the line, and his neighbours had an even jollier time at sight of it than usual. A few hours later, he passed his line once again with a glance at the dress. He was still puzzled about the mystery, but left  it to undo itself. That was indeed his plan when he went off for a walk, but when he returned, Mr. Meihker found that such a plan was unfeasible, for, what was on the line beside the dress, waving most cheerily but a suit ruffled from top to bottom, and of a brilliant cherry tint! Now, at that, the man’s jaw simply dropped in surprise. Then, like a startled rabbit, he dashed through his door and shut it with a bang. Standing with his back to it and a crazed look in his eyes, he wondered what on earth was happening. What was going on with that line of clothes? His chest heaved with gasps as if he had been running a race, and he knew that he did not want to deal with whatever had caused this phenomenon. Instead, he tried to live his life like a normal gentleman, and ignore the annoying swap altogether. But thereafter, on each washing day one or two of Mr. Meihker’s yellow clothes went missing, and one or two bright red pants, socks, shirts or ties were added inexplicably, until one day he had but one cream suit left, and that was the one he was wearing. Mr. Meihker was not at all the character he had been. He was restless, nervous and fidgety, and was always walking aimlessly about the city, mumbling and murmuring to himself. Those who beheld him in this state pitied him and shook their heads, but then stopped. For  he had stopped for what passed his feet with a zip and a zup but one of his own yellow shirts propelled by a mysterious force! Like a shot, he bolted in pursuit as it whizzed down streets and avenues, passed houses and stores. Thus, Mr. Meihker garnered even more laughs than ever, but did he care? Not one bit. No, not even when he had left the city and even the cattle mooed their cheers at him. No, his only aim was to keep his shirt in sight to the last breath. Well, at least until it stopped, actually, and this soon occurred and it whipped itself into a hollow within the base of a tree which stood alone in a vast field. Mr. Meihker, immediatly fell to his knees, and thrust his eye against the opening. There, nestled into a pile of yellow and red clothes was a creature as ruddy as the clothes which had appeared on Mr. Meihker’s laundry line. With a second look, the man saw that it was of all animals a Red fox deep in slumber. That evening the citizens of the city were treated to a victory march. There, tramping triumphantly back to his home was Mr. Meihker in a golden shirt and a lemon-coloured pair of shorts with all of his yellow sunshiny clothes clutched tight in his arms, while back at the den was the fox, curled most contendly upon what looked very much like the pale cream suit. 

Not based on true events

Once in an orchard of monstrous Apple Trees, bearing monstrous flowers, there were two Sweet Cherry Trees, one heavy with white blossoms, and the other heavy with black knobs encrusting all its branches. But the latter was content with its lot, while the former never was. “ Next year,” said it, “ I will burst into a hundreds more blooms than this year, and all of the apple trees will forever admire me. They will not even come close to my beauty!” The knobby cherry tree listened patiently, and glanced at  the Black-Rot of Plum which encrusted its twigs. But it immediately caught itself in the act, and looked away. No, it was determined not to be jealous. So, the spring waned and summer arrived, and to the sorrow of all the trees, their petalled jewels fell, and they appeared as decently plain as before, and they stopped in the bragging. But the knobby cherry tree was as joyful as before for it had no blossoms to begin with. Finally, after summer came autumn, and buds burst into fruit with luscious juice, and children came to the orchard to pick both berry and apple. It was now that the knobby cherry tree felt the sting of its ailment, for the children flocked about its companion like bees to a flower but only looked in disgust at its own coated branches. Then, to dismay, it overheard the words of its planter nearby: “ That old tree? Eh, it’s never been healthy. May as well be cut down.” Cut down! Could it just not to be left? It was doing no one harm! It had not infected any other tree for years! But how could the knobby cherry tree tell the planter that it was yet alive, and good? How was it to escape this fate? Then, a chill breeze came, and before long, winter blew into its dominions. All was still and quiet, draped in white. None of the trees could brag about anything now, for, since they were unblossomed, they thought themselves the ugliest things, which was quite untrue. But the frost on the knobby tree was most striking of them all. One of these chilly days as the planter was sipping his coffee in his comfy cottage-like kitchen full of pattern and colour and the smell of cooking and wise old wood, he was shocked to have a handyman burst into the door and run breathless towards him without even removing his boots. “ It’s a miracle!” the workman cried breathlessly, pointing energetically out of the window, “A miracle! It’s a miracle!” “ What is?” said the other crossly. “ I can’t explain it! You must go outside! It’s a miracle!” The farmer, with a sigh of resignation, arose, put on his coat and stalked out of the door behind his worker, who continued to repeat “ It’s a miracle! It’s a miracle!” It was probably only that the old rickety shed which he had wanted to tear down had been blown to bits by the wind, thought the farmer. But, with that thought, he stopped, for before him, tipped with hoarfrost, and twinkling with icy diamonds, was a flower, a blossom, a bud open in the winter, which had not been there before. The knobby cherry tree shivered under the farmer’s gaze , for it was its ornament  upon which his eyes were resting. Then, with a touch as tender as that of the smallest child, he fell to his knees and whispered, “It’s a miracle.”

Not based on true events

To live in Aardvarkia is a nightmare come true for the ants of Africa, and a double nightmare come true for us termites! We are not Magnetic Termites, but Cathedral Mound Termites who build immense mountains for homes. But the home in which I dwell is in the territory of Aardvarkia, where aardvarks made daily raids of our homestead. It is a constant struggle against death and fate, but so is survival in general, therefore it is not much different from living outside of Aardvarkia. It is irritating, though, to have walls which were worth days of work and clean tunnels being invaded by a sticky tongue. Therefore, I, the queen, in my laziness and ample free time, and desperation, racked my brains for a defensive plan. And though my brain is a very tiny one, I managed to formulate a plan. Immediately, I told of it to my husband, and he laughed at the ingenious stratagem. Then, with a cry, he gave orders to prepare it to the workers who attended our throne room. With a “hup”, they ran obediently off, and spread the instructions to the rest of the colony and altogether they excavated a few new passages and dragged a minute stick into the mound. Then, we all waited, quite patiently, until we heard the tramp of the approach of the aardvarks’ feet. After came the fateful messenger, and she informed us that the gluey tongue had appeared in one of the entrances. “ Good,” said I with satisfaction, “ Make sure the worker in the side passage is prepared. “ Indeed, that termite was, and by my orders, it tickled the intruder with a stick which was captive in her jaws. Immediately, the deadly follower changed course and pursued her, and she scurried off further into the tunnel. My plan was working perfectly! As I heard each act of it, my spirits rose a little higher. At length, she turned down another passage only to find at its end another aardvarkian fishing line! Surely, this was the end for the worker! Where could she go, with no more passages to the right or the left and two living traps coming towards her from behind and before?  Thankfully, it was still part of the plan, and right before the tongues took her captive she took another step, and plunged through a vertical pit, down, down, to the bottom of our colony home. There she landed, and bounced quite unharmed, and lived happily ever after. But the scouts who kept an eye on the situation outside saw that the aardvarks were not so lucky. There, below these loyal subjects, were two aardvarks side by side and each believed that they had caught an unusually large-sized prey, when in fact, they had caught – well, they saw what they had caught when, stung each in the bottom by those of my subjects positioned for the task, they pulled their tongues from out of the mound, toppling some of its wall and dashed off in pain, their tongues attached in the middle like a jump-rope. I am afraid many of the aardvarks were tripped by this apparatus, as reported by some scouts, and that no others were eager to be tongue tied. Therefore, they came never again. But if they did venture to do battle with me, the queen, again, they would not only become tongue tied, but would have to suffer a tongue twister too!