Posted on by JenniferShelby

pirate’s map

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“Looks like a map to me,” said the boy.

The old man stuck his bottom lip out and squinted. “It’s a pirate map, indeed, matey.”

The boy leaned in for a better look. “How can you tell?”

The old man lifted a dirty, bony finger and traced the curves. “Arrr, I’d know it anywhere. It’s useless, boy, let it go. We’ll never find treasure with a map like that.”

“But grandpa, why not?”

“Well, you see where things get all squiggly here, that’s where the rum kicked in. Pirates are famous for drinking all the rum they can find. I stuck to tea meself in me pirate days. Called me a teetotaler, but here’s the thing: being sober, I was the only one who could draw a line to save me life. This here map’s been drawn by a drunk, look how it meanders about. I tell you the treasure’s lost as can be. Best forget about it.”

“Okay grandpa,” said the boy, and pretended not to notice as his grandpa cut down the bit of branch with the map and shoved it into his pocket.

Posted on by JenniferShelby

gestation period

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The tree appeared to be as pregnant as she. The woman reached out and traced the cracks of its bark with her finger. They felt like the cracks in her composure.

The tree listed a little in the wind. She touched her belly, then the tree’s, half-expecting to feel a kick and see a shadow of movement on the bark.

In a few months, she would have a baby in her arms. She wondered what the tree would have.

Posted on by JenniferShelby

mouse’s new neighbor

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She grumbled and grumped her way back inside her winter den. It happened every year, why should she be surprised? No matter how neat she left it in spring, the courtyard was always littered with leaves and bit of moss come late fall. At least there weren’t any mushrooms this time. A dark thought seized and she shuddered. What if – what if there were salamanders living in the walls again? The mouse swallowed, clutching her broom tighter. Nothing scared her quite like salamanders. Except for dragons. Dragons would be worse.

A wind blew past and rustled the leaves in the courtyard, making her jump. Last week she’d been bragging about her den in the country, but her summer city apartment didn’t seem so bad now. At least in the city the human screams would warn a mouse if there were dragons or lizards. Even another mouse. Here she was on her own. Vulnerable, and probably delicious.

She took a deep breath. She could do this. Her country mouse had simply grown dull over the her summer in the city. Dragons weren’t common, after all. She’d be alright as long as she didn’t let her imagination get the better of her.

“Oh, hi!” came a sudden, booming voice.

She turned.

A great green dragon stood before her, smiling and waving over a batch of fresh-baked cookies. “I’m your new neighbor! Moved into yonder cave a week or so ago. It’s wonderful to finally meet you!”

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a pirate’s sole regret

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The retired pirate stared out to sea, contemplating the events of his life. He mulled over his nefarious deeds, his terrible doings, and his piratical offenses with pride. They were the hallmark of a well-spent pirate’s life.

He’d escaped the plank more than once, battled with a sea monster and won, and stolen a baker’s dozen ships from the King’s armada.

Still, he’d also been far too bold to ever lose his heart, never had any children, and a lifetime of mistrust and paranoia made it hard to make friends. This made for a lonesome retirement, but everyone knows a pirate is not meant to live long enough to retire.

A splash in the water caught his attention. He watched the waves, his nerves on end and his fright real. They would never let him forget why he’d been cast from the sea. His one regret, the one thing he never could escape, was the day he tried mermaid sushi.

 

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the stork

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“Sure,” the marabou stork said, rubbing his foot against his leg in anticipation. “I’ll deliver the baby for you.”

As the man walked away, an insidious cackle erupted from the stork. He’d always wanted a child of his own.

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puddles of inspiration

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“Puddles and mud and tiny bird footprints,

silt dusted leaves and ripples of sunlight.”

The poet felt his poetry muscles growing warm.

His daughter waited until he turned to dig out a pencil and paper before splashing through his inspiration in her red rubber boots. She smiled up at him as his eyebrows shot skywards. “You comin’ in?” she asked.

He could not deny the temptation. “Maybe I should write children’s books instead,” he said, and hopped right in.

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beards of moss

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The old man’s beard moss hung heavy on the trees. I almost didn’t recognize the forest at first. “What happened to you?” I asked.

The eldest tree sighed, his shoulders slumping under the weight of his regret, or maybe just the moss. “Don’t ever make fun of a wizard’s beard,” was all he would tell me.