Not based on true events

“I only wished for peace and quiet,” explained the queer woman by the sea, her eyes twinkling and not a wrinkle showing about them, despite her age. “ But why not go to a remote forest instead?” inquired a boy who, wide-eyed,  was standing before her amongst a ring of youngsters. He, on his part, did believe her habits to be rather strange, but he also believed that strange times called for strange measures. The woman, in return, looked rather sombre and replied that she had tried it. “ And fields, and mountains as remote as can be, but with each, either the natural growth of trees were marred by management, or the mountains were picked away by pleasure seekers, or the fields were destroyed for useless playgrounds. It did not matter where I went, the human lust for control and power and insatiable pleasure followed. No quiet was to be found.” “ But,” continued the lad, who was the sole member of his awe-stricken party who dared to speak to her, “ how is it any different here? Isn’t there ships and submarines here, just like there are sawed trees and scarred plains further inland?” “ There are, to a certain extent,” admitted the other thoughtfully, “ but very few. And the noise of everything vanishes in the sea, all except the cries of animals in the water.”  Here, she halted, and her bright eyes seemed to look far before her, as if to a heavenly sight, and all breathing slowed as she fell into this quiet state. For the woman saw as clearly as day, peace and solitude, unhampered by noise and ruckus, unreachable by many, but not by her. Therefore, the little boy had to repeat himself multiple times before her ears heard him, and when they did, she started and stared at him in disbelief. “You-you want to come?” she said in return to his innocent query. Then, her eyes softened, and again the distant appearance of her eyes returned as she said: “ So be it. Come at eight, when the sun sets, and I will show you.” Thus, at eight, the boy reappeared in the poor stone hut whoes sides streamed with water-weed, and whose occupant hung shells upon its walls. Normally, he would be beyond himself in excitement, but when he had taken the first step to this abode, a calm fell over him like a shroud, as if a solemn occurrence was to ensue. In the same mood did he find his friend within the hut, seated in a rocking chair, with a magical glitter in her eyes. Slowly, she arose and came forward like a queen, stretching her hand to his, saying: “Come. Let us depart.” And with all security, the lad took her grasp, and together they left the humble abode. The sun, at the time, had plunged in the sea to their left, and only a glow of warmth was seen on its horizon as they travelled along the top of the steep shore. One by one, the stars appeared and twinkled down upon them and the waves beneath soothed their hearts. At length, they halted upon a high point of land, overlooking the calm, indigo waters which lapped below, and the woman bent over the lad, and said in a whisper: “ Do you trust me?” The boy, holding her hand in a grip firmer than before, wordlessly nodded that he trusted her as deeply as the ocean. So, without a word, they both stepped forward as one and plunged in the depths. 

To be continued...

Not based on true events

decompose at the edges of its cap into a thick black liquid. Mr.Lilytoad looked at it at it now, and already half of the beautiful scaly cap was gone! With joy, he leapt up, straight up and down, for he had discovered a clock: a clock which did not rely on either colour or light. Barely could he contain the exhilaration  he felt at the discovery of this new invention, in fact , Mr. Lilytoad could not contain  it all. Therefore, he was quite glad when he landed, for there, beside him, for there beside him was Cana, the Red-breasted Nuthatch, groveling in the dirt for food. This was a rare occasion  to have a nuthatch on the ground, and the Wood Frog took advantage of it. Barely had the bird  said: “Hello there, Fredrick. And what makes you so joyful today?” when Mr. Lilytoad poured out the whole tale, and the  nuthatch was so fascinated that Mr. Lilytoad had even noticed that it took the mushroom a day to decay that he walked home with the Wood Frog, listening  to all he had to say. And that was the invention of Mr. Lilytoad the frog, a very useful one indeed! 

Not based on true events

Mr. Fredrick Lilytoad was a personage of mammoth importance and colossal intellect. He was a Wood Frog who would in the daytime ponder the mysteries of the world on a velvety cushion of moss situated in Little Red River Park. I can not tell you where in that park, for he would be much disturbed if any visitors appeared. Then, in the sombre evening, he would dream of the many inventions he would create when he awoke and how he would make them. Tadpole nurseries were created in these musings, and bridges across which insects could cross his pond, and houses of sticks in which Mrs. Lilytoad could shelter for the winter. These, indeed, were all grand ideas, surely, but there was only one problematic detail which marred them, and it was that they never got done. Yes, I am afraid so. All of these wonderful inspirations were created in Mr. Lilytoad’s mind and remained there, all but one and that came on a mild fall day when the leaves were tumbling from the trees like tongues of fire. But Mr. Lilytoad awoke to find that he could not witness their brilliant hues as he had before. Neither did the condition of the light affect his eyes whatsoever. But, being a light-hearted frog, he thought nothing of the change, but proceeded to search for centipedes for his breakfast. He found one presently, and another in a few minutes, and another after that. The trees around, though, slowly became shadowy and an inexplicable anxietude fell upon the wood frog. He immediately stopped where he was and looked left and then right and wondered whether it was  time to go home. He could not tell if the light about was dim, or if the sun glowed less on the leaves, and at this realization, he groaned. “ How will I ever tell how much time is left  in the day?” he cried and would have torn his hair if he he had had any. He did not, and therefore he only sat, perplexed and thinking. What was he to do? How could he tell if nightfall was nearing before it arrived? What would Mrs. Lilytoad  think of all this? He would be late  for supper, which they always hunted together. During these pensive thoughts, the eyes of the frog gazed  stupidly about at his surroundings until his eye lit upon a mushroom some paces away, shimmering in a ray of light whose colour he could not see. 

To be continued...

Not based on true events

I, the illustrious Wolf Willow, have sensed a change within the air. The skies are clear, that I can feel very well, but what has occurred to the sun? Has it been wounded by an arrow in the form of a wandering rebellious star that it so wanes? And the sounds:they are mild, with no buzz of happy insects, no songs from spritely warblers, but only the rustle of leaves and the chips of sparrows. Earlier in the day, I had a rather unusual visitor come to my stalk. It was a two-spotted ladybug who came, and she pleaded for shelter in which to hibernate, but what shelter had I? I told her that I was  unfit and unable to aid  her in her request, and that she should ask a Manitoba Maple instead.  But even as she left, I noticed  a worse change than before. At my roots, where the ground had once been damp and refreshing, it was now growing dry and hardened. At times, even when I reached out a rootlet to drink and partake of a meal which the day before had been present, I encountered something cold and smooth, but not wet. What it was, I could not say, but I soon became quite concerned as this scenario occurred more and more often. Finally , I could hardly believe the fact, but I could not stretch my roots anywhere! Where was I to have my liquid meal, unable as I was to move from place to place? Where would I be next spring, when all was lush and lovely? Would I be bent and scaly and deformed for want of water? What thoughts, such as these, pervaded my being, so much so that I could notice nothing else. Meanwhile, frantically, I reached out all the roots which I bore and felt the prison cell which was beneath the ground. The sun set during this time and a gilded autumn moon arose, and still my leaves fell in my agitation as I felt at the frost-bitten soil about.  Again, and again, and again and with each attempt, less hope remained until finally, I relaxed all my tendrils and gave myself up as lost. But even as I did so, I felt one minute piece of soil chip away from one of my roots. I immediately straightened in the cold light, and explored it. Yes, it was a tunnel in the soil, left by some earthworm of a summer past. This I permitted my root to follow, weaving in and out until suddenly I again touched something cold. Yes, cold-but wet, and the wonderful water which this thing was trickled and I ate my autumn meal with that one root, above which was a running stream that fed me all winter long. And what happened to me in the spring? Well, I discovered that I had grown more than a few inches, but that I will keep for another story.

Based on true events

There are times when the world is so still and beautiful that those within such times believe that they have been transported into a world of dream and fantasy. Such did I believe one day long ago, when I, a humble Eastern Phoebe, ended my peaceful day with one last sally from my perch to snatch a concluding insect, and set off to find a suitable tree in which to spend the night. One after another I passed, examining each to the very hue of their leaves, but either the branches proved too open or were so tightly entwined that they almost created a cage from which I could not easily escape if danger threatened. So, as the sun lowered into its bed of clouds, and all was enshrined in honeyed light, I fluttered from oak to elm to maple in my search, finding not one bough to my liking. At length, I wearied from my persistent search which had strayed too long into the evening, and spying a garden below me, winged myself into its confines and dropped within a palisade of flowers. There I huddled myself and rested my wings, and was at first so content within its safety that I forbore to look about me. But eventually I raised my head to the violet-pink canopy of florets which was spread above me so unmoved that they too seemed to be falling aslumber, and to my astonishment, noticed still forms clinging beneath them. What were these beings which hung tranquilly above me? Like earthly stars they seemed in the dull light, a friendly, a comforting presence in the dark. Slowly, in wonder, I raised myself to peer nearer to one, and beheld dark collars interspersed with red and yellow bands upon them. Yes, these peaceful beings were known to me, day after day cheering me with their frolics upon the blossoms, and dances in gardens. Yes, I knew that they were bees, but bees asleep, and I felt as if I could hear their slowed breaths, and with their lullaby of stillness, I grew still myself, and woke nought until the morning light.