Words by Grace E Hall

Once upon a time there was an Organ. An organ is a musical instrument. It is a big musical instrument; but this organ in particular was rather small specimen, albeit formidable: two yellowing rows of keys, a multitude of pedals, and an intimidating array of copper-knobbed stops and buttons all over the console. This was only the user interface; the large pipes and small pipes ran this way and that all over the Onion-model (it was in the Onion-model) and filled most of it. The space as you might imagine was not very big to start with: the largest space was a cylindrical hallway down the center with the longest and biggest of the pipes situated along it. At the back there was the engine. At the front there was the console for the organ and the rest of the controls, and a round, porthole-like window that was the only window in the space-ship. The walls were paneled with wood and the fixtures for the pipes were copper. A low rumbling sound permeated the entire structure; take-off w...

A Celebration of Silence Smoke rose steadily from the sizzling fire-place in the castle kitchen. Three darkened figures stood at the board, one cutting onions, another plucking horse-grass, and a third pounding away at a mortar. A buzzing swarm of flies hovered near the lamp on the wall, and a row of pies was laid out on a shelf to cool.   The onion-cutter was the tallest figure, bony, and sporting the air of an old and slightly bedraggled dog. The onions had a none too cheering effect on her complexion. “Weather has been right disagreeable.” She sniffed and renewed slicing with slow and determined strokes. “Wet. Too wet.” The second figure was of middle height, red-faced and formidable, but with a placid, cow-like expression. “Well, it can't last long, Perra dear. The king is planning the celebration of silence already.” At this the third and smallest figure thrust the pestle against the mortar most violently indeed, and the light flickered. “Please, control yourself, Ar...

Once upon a time there was a space-ship. I believe it was the most dreadfully old-fashioned space-ship you could get at the time---an Onion-model—and no one had flown it in years. It was at the moment sitting in the launch center somewhere in the Third Empire on Dry Earth, with a pleasant view of the Great Sea and surrounding mountainous territory. It was positioned among several larger space-ships and atop a very old rocket-booster that had not been used because of suspected leaks. At that time space-travel was very uncommon indeed; there was no way to reuse the rocket-boosters, and it was extremely dangerous besides— there being only two ways to land at one's destination: an uncontrolled descent into a large body of water, or a long docking process at a flimsy and usually overcrowded satellite sending people down to the planet below in rockets. (There was also the method of securing an attachable rocket-booster beforehand at the satellite, so that the space-ship could be put do...

      Be Grateful Bob lived with his mother and father and three younger siblings in a big house that looked like it was made of gingerbread; walls of rich, yummy brown; vibrant, cherry-red shutters; and, at this time of year, a thick, fluffy layer of icing-white snow upon the roof. A fat chimney leaning against the side of the house puffed forth large quantities of woodsmoke and smells of good things; for Ma was inside cooking bread and pies and ham for dinner. Pa could be seen ensconced in the fire-side chair reading the newspaper and listening to radio, while Bob and his siblings (Jill, Jack, and Daisy) played video games in the loft. The scene was pleasant: already a fine set of things to eat was laid upon the counter-top—cookies, oranges, and a steaming bread-pudding—the fire crackled as it burned, and the shouts of the children at play drifted downstairs. Yes, it was the picture of a good home practically bursting with good things. The children were all red chee...

Today I would like to bring to your attention some of the changes I have recently made. Hopefully these changes will make the blog more interesting and available.  First of all, I have received several people saying that they cannot comment on the posts I make. This should now be fixed. To make sure please comment on this post if you can and that would be greatly appreciated.   Secondly there is now an email feature so that I can notify you when a new post has been posted; if you wish to partake in this feature, please share your email address so I can add you.  Anyway thank you for your patience and support, and hopefully there will be more stories to come!

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?”