Words by Grace E Hall

I couldn't tell you exactly how it happened. You know how it is with chickens. I had the coop door slightly open, holding it firmly with my right hand while I reached for a tempting clutch of eggs with my left, and I nearly had it. . . My fingers brushed the crackly straw of the nest box. . . When I felt a movement near my leg, and looked down to see a stream of chickens scrambling happily forth to freedom. I yelped and slammed the door on the last few; but too late, the wonderful garden, towards which I had always felt a sort of distant but loving connection, was flooded with ravenous hens intent on destruction. “He told me not to—” I panted aloud, thrusting a stick between a rosebush and an incoming chicken. “If I had only listened—” I stabbed at a busily pecking Wyandotte. “If I hadn't tried—” I lunged for a rogue Rhode Island Red. “to get those eggs—” I stumbled after a group of cackling Barred Rocks. “I would have to deal—” I hurled myself at a marauding Beilefelder. “...

Thanksgiving (arguably the best time of the year: feasting and happiness, fall weather and everything) is here.  Please enjoy a yummy Pie and Turkey; for I will be enjoying some too and subsequently will not have a blog post.   I'm thankful for all my followers this Thanksgiving and all the other things God has given me in my life.  Is there something you are especially thankful for?  If you would like, feel free to share in the comments.   Whether eating cranberry sauce or stuffing, glistening boiled ham, a pudding alight with dancing flames and set amid a wreath of holly, or participating in a simple moment of gratitude, happy thanksgiving!

Snow is great, even though it is at this time of year a very obscure sort of concept, a thing which is used as an advertisement on coffee-shops and candy-wrappers long before it becomes a reality—if it ever does. I am used to this. Imagine my surprise therefore when I stepped outside of the school building on a bleak Monday to behold two or more flying flakes decorating the skies! Of course there was no chance that it would stick to the ground, but the grey atmosphere and piercing wind gave a pleasant wintry effect. I saw another flake, and another. A true flurry, a third flake drifted down after them. “O wow!” I could not help but exclaim, laughing and hurrying forward. A passing college student smiles down at me. “Yeah, I’m from Florida, so this is pretty unusual. . .” I didn't mention that snow in November was pretty unusual for us Alabamians too. I was too busy rejoicing inwardly.   Who knows? Perhaps the early snowflakes herald a nice cold winter for us! But what...

The endless street seemed more endless than ever, and the echoing crunch of their footsteps was a lonely sound. Even the strange patterns of the pipes and aqueducts were no longer quite the oddity of interest that they had been, and the blackened substance coating them had become sort of a settled mystery. Jingle longed for the procession of empty gaping doors and shadowy windows to end, and she longed to feel the sun on her face and hear the wind and birds; the “hollowness” of this place---it's deadened look and feeling—was giving her a nasty lonesome sensation somewhere near her stomach.   Beach marched slightly ahead, eyes locked grimly on the guiding tracks in the road, noticeably avoiding eye contact with the ancient structures surrounding them, while Gary straggled behind, jaw slack with wonder as he craned his neck to see into the shadowed corners and crumbling passageways. Jingle hovered somewhere in the middle, sometimes (like now) wishing dreadfully to be gone and...

“But Mr. Wilbur—I can't possibly get all these people done before eight!” I stared at the line of customers waiting for their orders to be taken. My manager, a stiff, balding man, merely raised his eyebrows. “Eight's closing time and we need everybody taken care of. I've got to get back to the make line.” The “Food Makers Italian Restaurant” was a busy place at this hour. As a new member of “Team Food Makers” I was finding myself a little bit overwhelmed. Great billows of steam rose from the pans of deep fried chicken and noodles. Cooks shouted different orders at different people. The customers in the dining room talk, laugh, and clatter their forks. Speakers blare the latest popular radio station. And Willy would not stop setting his pots down with a crash after washing them. I leaned forward over the register, trying desperately to hear the mumbling voice of my first customer. I had to get this right—if I called the manager again, surely I would be fired. “. . . ...

Mrs. Toadstool Haliflax stood watchful as a shepherd in the forest clearing.   “Remember, class: be sensitive and alert!” She called, and she raised a hand with the bell glimmering like a golden dew drop on her palm. “Return to your place when the bell rings again!” Olive Shroom stood on tiptoe. If she could win this, it would prove she was just as good as the sighted ones. Ding! The teacher rang her tiny bell and the foraging contest had begun. A chorus of excited scurryings and squeakings burst out as the class scattered into the undergrowth. Olive ran to keep up but the soft brown fur and pink tails of her fellow wood-mice had already vanished. Stumbling through bracken and pine needles, she felt the sun warm on her face. This must be a clearing. For unknown reasons Olive had been born with a hazy cloud obscuring her vision, and though her eyes were as black and bright as two glass beads, and though she could hear the excited squeakings of her competitors as they snatc...

How had this happened?   In one short moment, my life had gone from a normal and boring afternoon to sheer disaster; and I could see my entire evening collapsing before my eyes. I stood in the midst of a once-peaceful back yard, now flooded with an army of chickens who seemed intent on destroying everything they came across---including Mum's strawberries and the gardener's cherished rosebushes.   “He told me not to—” I panted aloud, thrusting a stick between a rosebush and an incoming hen. “If I had only listened—” I stabbed at a busily pecking Wyandotte. “If I hadn't tried—” I lunged for a rogue Rhode Island Red. “to get those eggs—” I stumbled after a group of cackling Barred Rocks. “I would have to deal—” I hurled myself at a marauding Beilefelder. “---with this. O bother.” I tripped over a root and collapsed in a sweaty heap on the opposite end of the yard, where I eyed the chicken coop door (swinging gently on its hinges) with a mixture of reproach and fury. ...

The stairs creaked in protestation of my stormy steps. The attic door swung open with a bang, knocking loose a cloud of dust into the candle-lit air. I flung myself down onto the nearest crate without bothering to check for spiders. After staring moodily at the opposite wall for several minutes, I quit trying to reason with my brain, which was composed of too many complaining voices to make sense of. Writing sometimes helps me to calm down, so I fumbled for some paper. Surely there was something up here I could write on. I spotted a horrendously old notebook in a corner and seized it. Swiping my ever-present pencil out from behind my ear, I scribbled furiously. My name is Elmer Creek, and in case you can't tell by my handwriting, Im angry. Swiftly I poured out the day's events onto the yellowing page. I had just received word from my parents that they had apprenticed me to the local blacksmith. All I want to do is read. It's not fair. Nobody understands me. I turne...

   The tall woman it turned out was named Alice Margaret Cake, to be called Ms. Cake, or Teacher for short. It was she who arrived early every morning to set up the classroom and make sure all was in order before the students arrived. “And then,” said Ms. Cake, as she dusted off the desks with a cloth and straightened the chairs (Janek still hovering nearby), “then, I teach the class all day until evening. And then, I make sure everyone has Cleared Out before the caretaker comes by to close up. And then—” She thrust a jar of pencils onto her own desk with rather more force than was necessary.   “and then, I when the day is done and night has fallen, then I take out my pencil—” She gesticulated energetically with the blackboard cleaner. “---and review everyone's work, beginning to end, every subject; even geology. And then—” She had been bending over (the better to scrub the blackboard) but now she straightened and gave Janek an appraising look. “---I grade. If y...

Good Morning everyone (or evening as the case may be) this has been a very busy week, and suddenly I find myself in the car, riding to lessons and Wednesday church, with about twenty minutes to come up with a blog post.  I apologize.  This is why only the first half of the story is being published today.  That is, I might call it a very optimistic half: it may be more like the beginning description that occurs at the start of a Story.  Anyway never mind this!  Here it is. Janet Wilson was convinced that nothing and nobody had warned him properly about the dangers of school; and if this is surprising, I must admit that he had had his expectations set rather the wrong way.  First of all, he had spent the months leading up to the first day of school buried in his chaotic and cluttered bedroom space, reading up on every subject he could think of.  Then, he had occupied his mental capacity on all other occasions with frightful anxieties that he would fail a...

I usually find that stories can start in several ways, and I am also very aware that I prefer stories to begin with a reasonable amount of descriptions and such, so as to get a good idea of what is happening; but when I set about beginning this one, I found there simply wasn't time to describe anything. I'm very sorry. But, since i am currently writing this whilst being harried, bustled, and asked questions by a constant gaggle of Company Participants of various importance, I have no time to describe my surroundings. Again I apologize. I am Jimmy Birch, Scribe For and General Manager Of the president of Morgan, and Co.---but I have no more time to elaborate! The Very Unsettled Contractor currently attempting to engage me in conversation chose this moment to seize me by the arm, making writing this narrative even harder than it already is, I might add.   “Will you stop and look at me!” Said the Unsettled. “Mr. Birch, I trust you understand that this is important!” “Sorry!”...

And, Fall is coming. I’m back in Huntsville! Other than getting sick at the end of the trip, it went well. I appreciate the short break from posting and I thank you heartily for your patience. I miss the cooler northern weather already; however, the fantastic flavors of fall are beginning to intermingle with the summer heat even here: my bedroom window is dark before eight o’clock at night, for instance; pumpkins and apples appear in advertisements, and every once in awhile I get a whiff of dried-leaves-smelling air. These all bring to mind Pies and turkey and wood fires and coats (and other promising things of that sort). Then, because it is, after all, only August, and Alabama, the sun comes out, the temperature rises, and the hints of coming happy autumn fade to the background. But it’s coming, slowly but surely, and the first day of fall is only a month away. The first day of fall is usually a celebration in our house. Fall decor is taken from the attic and set up, a trip to...

There has not been a post this week and there probably will not be one next week either; we have left on a trip and will not return until Thursday.  I am very sorry for this inconsistency and hope it does not cause too much inconvenience.

        All about me, flower beds Lift their shining, rainbowed heads Sparkling like the crystal dells Chimes like little golden bells Blossoming open, reaching high To touch the pinking, twilight sky Silver tinsel, creamy lace, Dew-drops on the daisy’s face Fiddleheads unfurl, roses dance, In the morning’s hopeful glance And like the golden sparkling streams Are the dawn-bird’s melodies. Misty sunrise, glimmering day, Last twinkling star-lights seem to say “O what pleasure! O what peace If mankind would cause to cease All their strivings and their wars, And pause to gaze in wonder, for Gilded trees, the grass, the sun, Made by the Almighty One, Shine majestically in Praise Of His great and glorious name. And what happy Joys would come If Man would cease their strife therefrom?”

The doors of the local WalMart swished opened and an outrush of warm air greeted us. We dashed inside at Ma's heels, waiting for the swish of the doors closing behind us to stop. I bounced up and down as my older brother Sam attempted to run in circles around the cart. “It's so cold out!” I burst out happily. It was Alabama, and cold weather meant feasting, gaiety, and general merriment to us. “And we're gonna get the Christmas tree tomorrow right, Ma?” said Sam as we went past the initial displays of candy canes and Christmas decor. The familiar tune of Jingle Bells Rock warbled in the background. “We sure are,” said Ma. Getting the Christmas tree was a much-looked-forward-to occasion, a sign that Christmas was really here. I squealed with excitement as I thought of it. I could almost see the tree, wrapped up in plastic mesh, and smell the piny smell as we stuffed it into the back of the van. . . hear the rhythmic scraping of Pa's saw trimming it in the thrillin...

Nobody felt like talking. All their focus seemed to be put into looking—looking both wonderingly at the surroundings and cautiously for unknown threats. Unconsciously they made every step as quiet as possible; the silence did not want to be disturbed, and every pebble clattering underfoot echoed dismally among the hollow stone structures. They followed the path of the carriage, two almost indistinguishable ruts in the ground, down and into the old city—more than old; incountably, magnificently old. The buildings were dark and stony obstructions on either side of them now. The view that they had had of the city's expanse was no longer there: but its memory remained, and they all knew that what they saw of it was only the slightest portion of what this city really was. Jingle chose not to stare too much at the darkened interiors of the buildings; they gave her a funny unpleasant feeling inside, and the blueish lights along the road were more interesting anyway. They were usuall...

At midnight, on a hot August night, I step quietly down the road to visit my grandparents house. Everything was dark. The stars glimmer overhead between the arching roofs of the houses. The street was still as still. I stare through the shadows and see two bright little blue eyes near the ground, staring back at me with curious interest. A long dark shape follows them around the corner and onto the cobbled street of Bendy Row.      MEEOOW!! I stopped and backed up so fast I tripped and sat down hard.   “Great heavens, stop that racket!” said a voice; and it was the sort of voice that was used to being soft and mellow, and now raised, it sounded well nigh squeaky. I peered cautiously around the corner and watched as the shadow moved along the side of a house. “You'll have the whole street awake in no time at all. What a way to begin.” “My infinite apologies, sir.” said a voice of very silky timbre indeed, and a second...

I plunged into the front seat of the van and turned it on. Instantly I flicked both heating dials up to their hottest extent as the cold outside air soaked through my winter coat. Swiftly I backed out of the driveway and away from home. As I had just got my license several months ago, driving the big blue van by myself still seemed strange and exciting. I grinned to myself as I turned left at the familiar stop sign, stretching my neck to see around our gigantic spiky clump of thistles lining the sidewalk.  No one was coming, so I pulled into the street beyond and picked up speed. I was on my way. I was supposed to drive down to the forest and pick up a load of cut strawberry seeds, the farthest I had ever driven on my own. It was winter, and we wanted the strawberries ready so that we could plant them early in the spring for next year. But, since both Ma and Pa were busy, it was me who had to go get them. This promised to be exciting.   However, after forty minutes...

  The silence was hollow.  It had a faint ringing echo to it that was indicative of a very enormous space indeed.  There was no way to know how big; since it was so dark; and that only made the place seem bigger and the action of stepping out of the iron carriage more daunting than ever.  They had known of the carriage’s existence for less than a day, and it was still a great mystery and wonder, but somehow, now it seemed like the only familiar thing they had; and the space outside altogether too strange and uncertain and unknown.  The carriage seemed safe in comparison; something solid and real amid a blank dark expanse of nothing.  None of them wanted to think about stepping out of the carriage into that horrible dark. The silence went on for a very long time – nobody knew exactly how long – before Gary’s voice spoke, trying to sound casual and failing badly. “Now what?” “I don’t know – I guess we have to get back,” said Beach’s voice rather shakily. Jing...