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Very Short Stories

Very Short Stories

Through My Eyes

Life isn’t about someday or yesterday. It isn’t about what could have been or what may someday be. It’s about today, right now, this very moment. It’s about falling in love with the world around us every day. For me, it’s about the way I see the world through my eyes . . .

My favorite squirrel, Sweeper

As I watch this little guy flirting with me through the open sliding glass door, I can’t help but smile. I often feel as if he were sent to me as a special gift, something to make me stop what I am doing several times a day and just enjoy the moment.

Beautiful yellow flowers after the rain

When I take out my camera and see scenes like this one through my lens, the world goes silent around me. I no longer hear the distant sirens, heavy traffic, and Air Force jets over head. It’s as if someone took the sunshine from the sky and painted this beautiful mural for me.

Male Northern Cardinal

When this stunning Northern Cardinal comes for a visit, he always catches my attention. He is a little bit camera shy though, and he has a habit of closing his eyes the very moment I take his picture.

Purple flowers after the storm

How can I possibly spend even one second complaining about the rain when it leaves incredible shots like this for me? The tiny drops of rain gleaming on the petals sparkled like diamonds in the afternoon sunlight after the storm. I wish I could have captured it in this picture for you, but I did capture the memory in my heart. 🙂

White-winged dove

My favorite White-winged Dove followed me on my excursion today. I have a feeling she just wanted to make sure I returned to the balcony to put fresh food out for her.

dandelion

Some people see weeds when the dandelions begin to bloom.

I see summer.

Cricket Walker

Very Short Stories

Sound of the Mourning Dove

Mourning Dove

I woke to the lonesome sound of the mourning dove
Drawn to the sight of her, resting on the branch
Cautiously watching the others all around her
Yet she remained there, separate and alone
Calling out for something . . .

Tears burned my eyes, but did not fall
Softly I whispered to her
I know little bird
I know . . .

Cricket Walker

Very Short Stories

The Voices Within

hope

The Voice of Hope . . .
The voice of hope still believes in fairy tales and happily ever after. It is often quickly smothered by the voice of reason, and ridiculed by the voice of darkness and doubt. But somehow, no matter what happens in life, this voice continues to survive.

Yeah, sometimes the light dims to barely a spark, but something keeps it alive, keeps it believing . . .

Darkness and Doubt . . .

The Voice of Darkness and Doubt . . .
The voice of darkness and doubt often believes that it is the voice of reason, that it is simply knocking some sense into me, forcing me to accept reality. This voice takes great joy in reminding me that I will never be quite good enough . . .

Over the years I have gotten better at recognizing this voice, but it is a cunning voice that can disguise itself in many ways.

Reason . . .

The Voice of Reason . . .
This voice assures me that although I have made mistakes and taken many wrong turns in my life, right now, in this moment, I am exactly where I am supposed to be. I am neither good or bad, I’m just me.

 

Cricket Walker

Very Short Stories

The Darkest Hours

stormy

Now and then, I find the darkest hours before dawn to be the most difficult. It took me a few moments to realize what woke me up, a few moments before I heard the wind howling, gusting at more than 50 mile per hour, branches scraping the side of the building.

It’s ironic that I love watching the power of the storm, yet at the same time find myself still craving the sound of a soothing voice, telling me it’s just a storm, assuring me it will soon pass.

Feeling silly about my apprehension, I walked out on the balcony, wanting to be brave, somehow needing to know if the storm was as bad as it sounded. Standing there in the darkness, listening and watching, I sensed an emptiness inside of me, the realization that there was absolutely no one I could reach out to, not one single person that I could call and say, I am afraid . . .

Maybe in these moments we find the strength to depend on ourselves.

Cricket Walker

Very Short Stories

Ignoring the World

Playing Her Guitar

One voice, one girl
Sitting all alone
not caring who you are
She’s ignoring the world
and playing her guitar

Don’t want to do anything
but sing and play
The stress and the drama
it all goes away
Not worried about makeup or nails
instead she sings about her trials and tales

One voice, one girl
Singing with her guitar
ignoring the world . . .

Haley

Very Short Stories

This Strange Old Man

Every community has one. Ours does. He is the community stranger. Ours is an old man, a strange old man. His old suit is well mended and clean, but he seems a bit different than you and me. His gruffy, scruffy dog is always at his side.

We are not sure where he comes from, or where he goes to, but every day, he walks for miles and miles through the town and country. Rain or shine, hot or cold, we see him walking. Day after day, month after month, year after year, we seem him walking.

As I watch him, he stops by the edge of an open field and begins to preach to an imaginary crowd. His sermon seems long and well thought out. He goes from calm and collected to highly animated and back again. Some stop and stare, while others look away nervously, as though he is as invisible as his congregation. A few pause briefly and say, “Good morning preacher, how are you this fine day?”

Today, however, there is something new. On the corner, across from the field, several of the town folk are talking ugly about the old man and his dog. As they talk, they seem to attract others.

One says he is crazy. Another says he is scary and mean and she won’t let her children come near him. One is sure he looked right at her with evil in his eyes and, she adds, even the dog seems nasty.

A businessman in a fine suit proclaims somewhat arrogantly that the old man is a poor reflection on the community and urged everyone to consider his impact on those who might want to move here.

Each seems in agreement . . .

He does not fit in, does not belong and something must be done.

Then I notice. She is small and I had not seen her. But she is there, standing only about 15 feet away at the bus stop. She is a little girl and I can tell she is listening intently.

And the more she hears, the more her face expresses her disbelief. But as I watch her, a change happens. She remembers her daddy’s words telling her to stand up for what she believes and to have the strength to speak up when things just aren’t right.

Her face changes from one of disbelief to one of determination.

Mustering up all of her courage, and probably praying for more, she marches up to the group of gossiping town folk. Slowly, looking each one in the eye as she stands straight up, even stretching a little, she challenges them to consider. Maybe he is just a kindly old man with a heart and feelings. Maybe he has been through rough times in his life. Maybe he just decided to march to the beat of his very own drummer.

She asks them, as they begin to feel shame, why they are not living the life they teach their children to live every day. She asks them how they would feel if others decided they did not fit in and did not belong.

Then, she tells them she has talked to the old man many times. She explains that he has done nothing wrong. And even as she admits he seems odd and a misfit, she explains how he adds character to the town and how she would miss him if he were gone.

Then, stretching just a bit higher, she tells them how she had heard people call him names, to his face, and had heard others call him “preacher” because they did not know what to say.

Proudly, and just a bit louder, she tells everyone that she greets him with respect and with his name. She likes this strange old man.

Cricket Walker

Special Acknowledgement
I struggled with writing this story for weeks. No matter how long I worked with it, I just couldn’t get it right. It was important to me that this story was told, so I turned to James Huggins of The Eclectic Power Company for assistance. He has this magical ability of taking the words from my heart and making them all come together on paper.

Thank you James!