story whimsy

By Angie Bromeland Maisie was filled with contentment. She sat in her little canoe amid the floating lily pads. She knew she would have to go home eventually, but that wasn’t preventing her from enjoying her little escape now. A blue dragonfly—a damsel fly, Maisie remembered thoughtfully—landed on the lily pad closest to her. “Aren’t you a pretty thing?” Maisie smiled at the insect. Its wings fluttered quickly and they glinted like rainbows in the sunlight. Maisie knew some kids would shoo it away, or maybe even capture it to keep for a collection, but she thought that was mean. She loved nature. She never wanted to keep anything for herself—she’d rather enjoy it where it belonged. That’s why she never picked flowers, frightened away birds, or chased after bunnies. She was very intentional about this, for she knew these things held a special place in the world outside. Before long, Maisie noticed the sun lowering into the horizon. She sighed sadly. Maybe it was true to Dorothy from...

By Angie Bromeland Dev sat in the backseat of the station wagon plunking on his guitar. He had hitched a ride home for the family potluck this weekend. It couldn’t have come at a better time. Dev was homesick. He thought of piling his plate with his favorite foods: Curry, rice, a dumpling. He smiled at the thought. Dev had been gone to college for two months already. Bunking with a stranger had been uncomfortable at first, but now he and his roommate, Tim, were becoming friends. Still, it wasn’t the same as being with family. The car stopped. Dev looked around at the gridlock and sighed. He didn’t want to rubberneck, but this was crazy. They seemed lost in a sea of hundreds of vehicles. “You alright back there?” Kelly, the girl who was driving, turned to Dev. “It looks like we’ll be adding some time to our drive with this jam.” Dev nodded. “Yeah, I’m OK. I’ve got my guitar,” he said. “Play us some music?” Kelly asked hopefully, as she used the mirror to apply some lipstick. “That’s...

By Angie Bromeland Mr. Connelly was known as the disapproving neighbor all the kids feared. But Eleanora wasn’t quite sure why. It wasn’t as if he yelled “Scram!” when they played near his yard. He never slammed the door when a baseball went over his fence. In fact, the worst thing Eleanora could remember is Mr. Connelly never coming to the block party. Her family would be moving two towns away at the end of winter, so she set out to get to know Mr. Connelly. Eleanora didn’t bother getting her friends’ approval for this task. She knew how they felt about Mr. Connelly. Eleanora took a hot cup of hot chocolate, and marched to Mr. Connelly’s door. She knocked five times. He opened the door and asked, “Yes?” Suddenly, Eleanora didn’t know what to say. She always clammed up at the worst time!   She stood silently with the hot chocolate in her hand. Mr. Connelly didn’t know what to do, so he started to close the door. Eleanora snapped out of it. She rammed her hand against the clo...

By Angie Bromeland Geraldine Porcupine sat beneath her shade tree, out of the sunshine. “This is simply divine,” she said as she crunched and munched on some bark and vines. “What could be better than freshly peeled bark and a paw full of juicy vines? I declare, there is nothing on which I would rather dine.” Geraldine Porcupine was known in these parts for being rather fancy. The other woodland animals at Spiky Bottom liked to think that if they were to look in the dictionary to define “fancy,” they would see a picture of their friend, Geraldine Porcupine, smiling back at them. But they had learned long ago never to undermine their fancy friend. Indeed, it was just last spring that Geraldine saved them all. Geraldine Porcupine and her friends, Otto Otter and Merle Squirrel, had been enjoying another fine day at Spiky Bottom, when what should they see but a fox! They knew foxes to be cunning, and this one was no different. He walked straight over to the three friends and introd...

By Angie Bromeland Nina was toiling over her dollhouse. She had felt so spoiled when her grandfather gave the house to her. Even though shingles needed to be glued on, and the soiled wallpaper was peeling off the walls, and the staircase needed to be rejoined together, Nina loved the dollhouse. Two pieces of jet black hair curled like coils over her forehead. She blew them away and stuck on the last shingle. Then Nina turned to her pile of craft paper. She beamed. One of these patterned pages would make the perfect wallpaper for the dollhouse. She wasn’t sure if she liked the bubblegum pink paper with red cherries, or periwinkle blue paper with grapevines better. Finally, Nina decided on blue. She carefully measured and cut and pasted the paper onto the dollhouse’s dining room wall. She sat back, proudly admiring her work. After lunch, Nina gathered magazines and catalogs. She cut out pictures of sparkling lights and expensive sofas to add to the little house. She made a refrigera...

By Angie Bromeland Each time Larissa dove, she felt revived. It was the closest thing to flying she could do. It gave her such a thrill. Of course, it wasn’t always this way. When she was younger, she needed to be taught water safety and how to swim. She didn’t learn to dive until she was 9. Now, she was a diver. She could already do a forward tuck and pike, and was now working on her backward twist. Larissa was so lively. When she put all that energy into diving, it made people gasp with amazement. She was both graceful and powerful. Larissa was lucky that her family had a pool with a diving board, so she was able to practice often—even when she wasn’t in swim and dive class. At first, her mom chafed about her practicing so much, but she knew how much joy it brought Larissa. One day, as her mom sat at the pool, watching Larissa, she remembered how free she felt the first time she learned how to dive. She smiled and closed her eyes. She could easily picture the day. Her memo...

By Angie Bromeland My favorite season is spring. It’s when frozen things are thawing, growing things are hatching, and blooming things are blossoming for the first time all year. The grassy lawn goes from brown and crusty to soft and green. It’s finally warm enough that we can draw colorful pictures with chalk all over the driveway. Everything seems fresh and alive after the long cold winter. Dad tells me that’s a skewed version of things, just as spring seems chilly and wet compared to the middle of July, but I still think I’m right. Today, I’ve zipped up my favorite blue hooded sweatshirt, and slipped a notebook in my front pocket. I’m going on a spring walk, and I’m going to record every spring thing I find. I sing a happy song as I walk down the path to the pond. My older sister would say, “Stop, Hattie! It’s so awkward to sing by yourself outside.” But I don’t think so. I notice a mother red-tailed hawk gliding into her nest and feeding her chicks some bugs. I write it do...