story whimsy

By Angie Bromeland “Well, there’s always room for improvement, Quinn,” Dad said. He was holding the car I had carved. “But it’s really quite good!” He smiled at me, then asked, “What is it?” “Well, at first I was going to make it look like a tram, but I changed my mind. It’s a wedge of cheese!” We laughed together. Since I strived for perfection, I took the car outside and used sandpaper to remove every rough spot. I weighed the car. The numbers flashed at me: 101 grams. It needed to be heavier. I grabbed the drill from Dad’s workshop. He had taught me how to use it last summer. Then I jammed the car in a vice grip so it wouldn’t move while I worked on it. I drilled a hole in the back of the car to fill with weights. But what could I use that would be both heavy and small? Pebbles weren’t the right shape. Marbles didn’t weigh enough. That’s when Dad came out to check on me. I told him what I was doing. He held his chin in his hand thoughtfully, then said, “I have just the th...

By Angie Bromeland Brad lived in the city, but dreamed of having horses and cattle. When he got the opportunity to attend Cowboy Camp, Brad couldn’t wait.   “Sun’s up!” came the wake-up call on the first morning of Cowboy Camp. “Stop robbing daylight, cowboys. Let’s go!” Brad happily leapt out of bed. A few of the other campers were moping around like they didn’t care if they’d get to rope cattle or ride horses today. Brad stepped outside and breathed in deeply. He smiled at the communion he felt with the ranch. Then, the camp director pointed out a few cattle bobbing away in the open field. Brad watched as two cowboys roped the cattle and brought them back in the gate. He couldn’t believe it. He knew roping cattle was difficult, and these guys made it look easy. Afterward, one of the cowboys came loping over to Brad and tipped his hat at him. “Morning,” is all the man said. “Wow, mister, that was really something!” Brad said. “Well thank you kindly,” the man said...

By Angie Bromeland “She entertains herself so easily, doesn’t she?” Grammy said. I smiled and nodded. My little sister, Melly, was a sweet little girl. And Grammy was right. On spring afternoons, sticks became wands, leaves became hats, and wild rabbits became pets. “She wanders, though, so we have to keep an eye on her,” I reminded Grammy. Grammy clicked her tongue. “Of course,” she said. Grammy and I were on her front porch sipping apple juice from glass jars. I could see Melly from my chair next to the planter on the porch. “Hear how she chants! I wonder what she’s saying,” Grammy said. I smiled because I knew. It was our little prayer—mainly asking to show us where the fairies were. It was Melly’s and my secret, though, so I didn’t tell Grammy. Instead, I pretended to wonder, too. I watched Melly pick up a stone to count the ants beneath it. Grammy sipped her juice and sighed. She closed her eyes and said, “It enchants me, it does, to see a little girl fixed in the ma...

By Angie Bromeland I never had the ability to sneak up on people. I’ve crept up behind my sister. I’ve leaped out from behind a door at my mom. I’ve peeped through the keyhole to my brother’s room until he was about to fall asleep and swept in to surprise him. But they were never scared. One time, my sister said, “Zayne, just give up. Maybe you’ll really scare one of us someday. And then you’ll feel bad.” And she was right. One cold day in January, when I knew my mom would be returning from town, I waited in the garage. There was a shaded corner full of Dad’s rakes and other tools. I stood there and made myself as flat as I could. When Mom drove in, she didn’t see me. When she opened the trunk and filled her arms with grocery bags, she didn’t see me. When she hummed a song and started walking toward the door to the house, she didn’t see me. That was my moment. I jumped out at her with my arms up and yelled “BOO!” Mom freaked out . The grocery bags went flying. She screa...

By Angie Bromeland The snail followed the trail to scale the hall wall. He’d seen the spider do it earlier. It looked so easy, but the snail supposed all things were easy when you had eight legs. That was eight legs more than he had. The lowly snail had little to be proud of. Unless, of course, you counted his cute, bouncy antennae, and of course, his pearly shell. Thinking about that, the snail perked up a bit. He wasn’t so unlucky after all, he thought. The snail knew he didn’t have much time. It’s a terrible thing to know when you’re a snail. This is, of course, because snails are known to move so very slowly. But the mail had just been delivered, so the snail had exactly three minutes. If someone saw him, they would knock him into a pail, and dump him back outside. A hail storm was coming tonight, and he didn’t want his shell getting damaged. Thinking speedy thoughts, the snail began to slink up the wall. The spider was slung on his web in a corner, and he cheered. “Come...

By Angie Bromeland Joey stood at the front of the boat, casting his line far and deep into the lake. His grandpa was chuckling while fixing the tangled hooks of a fishing lure. “Boy, I’m sorry to tell you so, but that beast only exists in your mind,” he told Joey. Joey had just described the fish he hoped to catch: 10 feet long, with a mixture of rainbow colored scales, a golden tail and silver fins. His grandpa shook his head. Joey was 8 years old, but he still had a wonderful imagination. Even if most of his ideas did still consist of imaginary creatures.   “What did you use for bait?” his grandpa asked. “An earthworm,” Joey said. “And a leech.” “Eh, mixing the bait again,” his grandpa said. “Yep,” Joey replied. “I think that’s what the giant rainbow fish likes to eat.” His grandpa nodded and dipped his own line in the water. He couldn’t resist asking, “Who do you think will get the first bite? Should we put some money on it?” Joey checked his pockets. “I have a...

By Angie Bromeland Mason quietly walked down the hallway. It was an understandable and appropriate thing to do, given that Mason’s literacy tutor lived two doors down. He hadn’t exactly been enjoying their studies lately. But sure enough, Miss Violet’s door opened just as Mason got to it. She just happened to be leaving for her meeting with the apartment association. What luck. “Why, Mason! How nice to see you,” she said with a smile. Mason smiled back nervously. “Hi Miss Violet, ma’am,” he said. He really hope he wouldn’t be snagged into an extra lesson. “You can walk with me to my meeting,” Miss Violet said. “Tell me. How many pages have you read this week?” Mason sighed. “I’m not exactly sure, ma’am,” he said. It wasn’t inaccurate. He hadn’t been recording the number of pages he’d read. But he also knew there weren’t many pages to record. “Well I certainly hope the number of pages you’ve read is greater than the number of minutes you’ve wasted on media,” she nagged. ...