Red Skies at Night (a very short story for preteen & up)

 Red Skies at Night

After dinner Aunt June and I went out for a walk. It was strange for just the two of us to go for a walk. Usually everyone goes. Everyone likes to go because Uncle Mark lives on the beach. I hadn't seen her in about a year since she moved to Arizona, but she flew out here for our annual family reunion. So, it was weird to be out for a walk with just my aunt.

At first we did the usual going-for-a-walk-on-a-beach things. Touch our toes in the water and scream at how cold it is, pick up a few shells, and look for sea glass. Then she started talking about when she and my mom and Uncle Mark were kids. I already knew they grew up in Portland and that Grammy and Grampy owned an ice cream shop near this beach. 

I started to lose interest. Why do grown-ups always talk about the happy times when they were kids? I was distracted by the most amazing red skies sunset. 'Red skies at night, sailor's delight.'  

I couldn't believe there can be so many colors in the same sky. The sun was a blood red dome on the water. Pinks, purples, peaches and reds splotched across the horizon and deep blues washed into the lightest baby blues the higher you looked. I was about to tell Aunt June about my art teacher and how the blue looked like watercolors but the reds looked like spilled tempera paints. 

She was saying something about Uncle Mark wanting to be a dentist when he was a teenager. That was news to me. My family doesn't really talk about their teen years. I was wondering on that when I was about to say I want to be an artist (of course she already knew that) exactly when she said 'artist.'

"Jinx!" I thought but didn't say because I hadn't actually said anything out loud. Aunt June continued talking as if I wasn't even there and she was talking to herself. Which, to be fair was true, since I wasn't really listening. But I was now. 

At first I assumed she was talking about me, but she wasn't. It took me a few minutes to realize she was talking about my mother. I was absolutely speechless. My mother never showed any interest in art, and barely any in my art. Questions stormed around in my head. I just let Aunt June continue her remembering. Uncle Mark never became a dentist, mom never became an artist, and Aunt June never traveled across the country (except for moving to Arizona, I thought). She sounded so regretful that it made me sad.

Suddenly she stopped and grabbed my hand and smiled. She said something about how my family was very good at letting things go.  That was true, I supposed. She never would have been saying these things if the others had come for the walk with us. Something about the way she said it, though, made me feel like it was a warning. I had no idea what to say to that.

We turned for the walk back up the beach.  The sky had turned darker. Red skies at night is supposed to mean a lovely day ahead. Instead I felt like changes were coming. And for some reason I felt older. Neither of us said anything on the way back. But I made some decisions. I was going to paint my mother the red skies at night. And I was going to ask her why she never mentioned wanting to be an artist.  

 This story is for young teens and up.

This story uses anthropomorphism. Literature is full of this technique. What other stories do you know that contain non-living or non-human characters? I recently read Olivetti by Allie Millington, which I highly recommend! 

While it contains rhyme and meter, this story is purposely written in paragraph form. Read it as if written in normal sentences and don't try to force it into poetry.  I did not start out with the idea to write this story this way. A common thing you hear from writers is that the story decided how it would be written. This is very much true. 

What other life experiences or wishes could I have included in Zephyr's grants to the little girl? Why might I have chosen not to name any of the people? What questions do you have about this story?

 

A Zephyr Tale

     Early afternoon on a seaside hill, daisies and lupines standing still. 

Summer heat rises toward noon, families settling for lunch soon. A 

zephyr is born, begins to stir, brushes the cheek of a little girl. "It's 

time to eat," daddy calls his child, "Put down your flowers and take a 

seat." She picks one last one, and another, then under daddy's watch 

is reluctantly done. 

     Little girl tosses her flowers down, jumps over stones, all on her own. 

Zephyr follows with gentle air, matching its new friend's independent flair. 

Ruffles the dress of the skipping child, better watch out, Daddy, this one is 

wild. The little wind whispers into her ear, "Listen to daddy, you'll have 

nothing to fear." Then wishes the daddy all its best, looks for something to 

borrow, but leaves the rest.

     Zephyr grabs a napkin from the picnic lunch, lifts one up but not the bunch. 

It needs just this, just one small token to start the wish. A zephyr knows this 

job by heart, how to plan, its secret part. Toward the nearby little park, where 

they'll next go to play, Zephyr brings the napkin and lets it lay. Not to worry 

the napkin will be found, what matters is the future, one that will pass along 

this ground. 

     In the park a pinwheel suddenly spins, dizzy with childhood games and 

grins. This little breeze unseen, joins the fun just as keen. Wishes a girl a life 

of fun, friendships and laughter, joy and hearts to be won. The zephyr weaves 

through slides, dips under swings, and knows the good life that play brings. 

Some day a young girl will be here, to dance, to sing, to catch the goodwill 

a gentle breeze brought near. 

     Over at the schoolhouse a flag flutters, in a room where Zephyr's child 

will someday study. Books and lessons galore, errors and corrections and 

more. A wish for learning is deeply inspired, all the best teachers found 

and hired. Zephyr whispers his scholar's name, will watch her grow, she 

will learn the things she needs to know. Papers rustle to the floor as a little 

breeze heads to the door.

     Zephyr meanders through the seaside town, senses another wish that 

must be set down. It rings the chimes on a door of a shop, searching around 

and doesn't stop. And there it is a scent so sweet, daddy's favorite perfume, 

on a lady so pretty, kind, and neat. She feels a wind upon her cheek, is sure

 there is someone she must seek. Our girl and her daddy have each other, as a 

bonus Zephyr has found our young girl a new mother.

     Happy and content and feeling free, the breeze picks up a slight speed. 

Down to the beach it goes, under umbrellas, tickling toes. Good health cannot 

be forgotten, nor rest and relaxation unto those best begotten. Fresh air and 

sunshine, shovels and castles, splashing and dashing, as the tide measures time. 

Zephyr lifts a kite forever it seems, carries skyward the girl's hopes and dreams.

     Even the wind knows when to let go, leaves the kite as it drifts down low. 

The ocean is a place to reflect, the horizon calls our hearts to inspect. Zephyr 

looks out to sea, wishes wisdom for this tale's small family. The soft breeze is 

welcome on the hot sands, but bigger winds will sail the boats to other lands. 

Somber or thrill, serenity or courage, the difference is knowledge, and a girl's 

will is the wind's will. 

     Zephyr spies a church made of stone, heads back to town but not alone. It 

tosses the hair of a quiet young boy, is now ready for this part of the story. They 

both quietly go inside, with hushed steps of respect for those who have died. 

Zephyr whispers into his ear, "I know a girl you will hold so dear. She will heal 

your heart in a place that's near." It lifts the tie of the little boy kind and true, a 

perfect match for when the time is due. 

     There is so much more of life to live, so much more to wish and give. Our little 

breeze prances on, looking for treasures to grant upon. The feathers of chickens, the 

tail of a dog, blankets on clotheslines, and rain in the fog. Smoke in a chimney, letters 

to send, the steam of a stew, and clothes to mend. The sounds of children and years 

that fly, Zephyr grants them all and more to the girl and boy, with nothing at all left by.   

          

     A little wind is but a gentle breeze, barely felt and never seen. It is hardly felt 

upon your skin, but do not ignore it among life's din. Wishes and dreams are light 

as air, zephyrs are too and almost always there. Perhaps one will take hold of 

something yours, fall in love like ships to shores. Take note of the tiniest breeze 

passing along, love neither can be seen, but believe it can be just as strong.

     Zephyr sweeps up a hill, bends down the grass and is suddenly still. Ahead there 

is a graveyard scene, with wildflowers growing, precious and serene. Several of our 

story's beloved will rest here, deep and covered. Zephyr stirs a bit once again, with 

wishes for peace, to finish the plan. All stories must end and so must this, no matter 

the sorrow or the bliss. 

     Past the graveyard the dying little wind blows, toward picnickers heading down

 in rows. With baskets and lunchboxes and packs, sunhats and children upon their 

backs. Zephyr searches for its young friend and her daddy, but can no longer go on, 

sadly. It watches from afar as it scarcely sways. "I love you," the zephyr calls but 

here it must stay. 

     "Wait!" calls a child we know, "I need my flowers before we go." Back up the 

hill she skips, daddy follows tries not to slip. Back to the spot, the stones jumped 

over, the flowers tossed down, resting in clover. Zephyr reaches up, brushes her 

cheek, ruffles her dress and tries to speak. It has no words, it's just a breeze, can 

not grant wishes, love or weep.

     Zephyr watches as she turns away, rests on the ground to finally lay. Then 

suddenly she glances with a thought, "Daddy, I felt a breeze," she says and again 

she turns to leave.  "Let's go to the park," the daddy says, and Zephyr's end is 

not so dark. Into each day the wind may blow, when and where we never know. 

Daisies and lupines standing still, late afternoon on a seaside hill. 

 

 

Blue Shaker (fiction)

“Pass the corn, please.”
Kami passed the corn.
“How was school?” asked Dad.
“Fine,” said Kami.
“Boy, everyone is so talkative tonight!” laughed Mom.
“Just tired, Mom. Pass the salt, James,” said Kami.
“More like bored,” complained James as he grabbed the salt shaker and started to hand it to Kami. Instead of handing it to her he decided to slide it across the table, hard.
The lighthouse-shaped salt shaker slid, then tipped, then spun and flew off the table. It crashed to the floor, breaking and spilling salt in an arc across the tile.
No one moved. “James, just because family dinner isn’t exciting enough for you is no reason to break things,” said Dad.
“I didn’t mean to, Dad! Seriously, it’s just an old salt shaker! Of a lighthouse, for cryin’ out loud. We live a thousand miles from an ocean! ” He got up from the table to clean up the broken pieces.
“Stop,” said Mom, “Everyone just stop. James, I’ll get that in a minute. Sit down. I want to tell you something.”
“Great, a lecture,” said James.
Dad raised his hand and started to bring it down as a fist onto the table.
“No,” said Mom, “Not a lecture. A story.” Everyone waited.
“My grandmother gave me these shakers when I visited her in Maine when I was ten. She died the next year.” Tears welled up in her eyes.
“Sorry, Mom,” mumbled James.
“It’s okay, James. I’m not really sentimental about stuff. It’s just stuff. It’s just that you reminded me of a story.” She pushed her plate away and leaned forward against the table.
“Grandmother collected salt and pepper shakers. She had a tall glass cabinet full of them. I loved how different they all were. Some were identical pairs, like these lighthouses. Some were things that go together, like a horse and a cart.” She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “She never put salt and pepper in the collection shakers. Anyway, the shakers we always used at the table were very plain. The salt was in a blue bottle and the pepper was in a red bottle.” She twisted her napkin.
“Looks like no one’s hungry anymore,” said Mom.
“I’m going to collect salt and pepper shakers,” said Kami. Mom smiled.
“That’s a wonderful idea, Kami, but there’s more to the story. When your uncle and I were really little, about four years old, Grandmother babysat us while my mother was at work. We had this little game. Uncle Will liked pepper on everything. He’d sing 'I’m a red sh-shake-er!' Looking back, I think he put up with pepper on his food just so he could use the red shaker. He loved the color red.”
Mom took a sip of her water then continued. “So, I was the blue shaker. I couldn’t let him out-do me, so I’d dance around, shouting 'I’m a blue shaker, shaker, shaker!' We’d pretend the salt and pepper were talking to each other.”

“That is so lame, Mom,” said James.
“Is not!” answered Kami.
“Well, we were little,” said Mom, “One day the blue shaker fell and broke. I cried and cried. Grandmother tried to calm me down, but I was inconsolable. She said I could choose a set from her collection, but I wanted to be a blue shaker. It was like the blue shaker was me, broken on the floor, and my brother was still on the table, without me.”
Dad reached over and held Mom’s hand. She smiled.
“But it was just a salt shaker, right Mom, not you,” said Kami.
“Right, Kami. And we’re a family. James, you are more important to me than that lighthouse.”
Dad squeezed Mom’s hand and said, “But there’s a piece of you inside that will always be a blue shaker.”
James got up from the table and picked up the broken lighthouse. “I’ll glue it back together, Mom.”
“Yeah,” said Kami, “Or the pepper lighthouse will be lonely.”

White Socks (fiction)

White Socks

The car ran out of gas again today. That’s why we’re staying in this shelter tonight. It’s just for one night, though. Mom said my Uncle George in Ohio will send some money.

She must be reading my thoughts, because she says, again, “Uncle George will send money.” She says it like saying it will make it true.
Then she says, “Go wash up for bed, Ben, but don’t talk to anyone in the men’s room…and be quick.”

She worries about me too much. I’m ten, and I know how to take care of myself. We’ve had this problem with restrooms for a few years. When I was little, she took me into the women’s room, but of course that won’t work now. Technically, my dad took me into the men’s room, mom told me, when I was potty training. But I don’t remember that. Or, him.

I take my toothbrush and soap to the men’s room. There’s an old man with a scruffy face staring into the mirror, rubbing his whiskers like he’s thinking hard about something. He looks kind of sketchy, so I stand sort of near a guy that looks like dad material.

“Here, son,” he says, “have some toothpaste.” He explains that a donation of travel-size toothpastes came in today. I accept the toothpaste and check under the cap for a seal. I brush quickly while the guy lectures me on the best way to brush. I leave before he tries to adopt me.

Back at our room, Mom is talking to a lady about whether we left our car in a safe place. That seems like a pointless conversation. Like we had a choice where to leave the car. I crawl under the itchy green blanket on my cot and hope this place isn’t too noisy. Someone in the next room coughs a lot. I’m glad there aren’t any crying babies. I can hear sirens in the distance, and the wind rattling the window. What I really want to hear is sleigh bells. Because tonight is Christmas Eve.

I know I probably won’t get any presents. We’ve had tough times for a while. Well, really since my dad died of cancer when I was three. It has only been extra bad since mom lost her job and couldn’t pay the rent. There’s always hope, though. Santa has a hard time finding kids in shelters, but I’ve been especially good, for Mom. So, I go to sleep as quickly as I can.

I dream about my cat, Socks. It’s a lame name, but honestly, he does look like he’s wearing socks. He’s all black except for his white feet. Santa brought Socks when I was five. He’s my best friend, and I dream about him every night. Tonight in my dream he’s chasing after a string I pull along the kitchen floor. He pounces on it with those sock feet then I pick him up and snuggle him. He tucks his head under my chin and purrs. He is nothing but softness and warmness. Suddenly he is crying. He is trapped in the neighbor’s window searching for me and calling for me to come get him.

I cry out and wake myself up. I look over to the next cot to see if I have woken my mom. Luckily, she is still sleeping. If she had woken, she would have said, for the hundredth time, “Ten-year-olds shouldn’t be homeless. You’re too young to know so much about heartbreak.” It takes a long time to get back to sleep.

Mornings come early in shelters. The last one sent everyone out at 6:00 am. Mom is shaking me, so I think we’re heading out, probably to see if our car is still there, and maybe to get some money from Uncle George, whoever that is.
“Ben,” she says, “Santa came! He’s here, in the lobby! Let’s go see, maybe he brought something.” She says that last part carefully. I know by now she means Santa might not know we’re here. Since, we got here late last night.

I put on my shoes and we go down to the lobby. Everyone has some sort of new item that stands out against all the old, used, and dirty. A little girl, about 6, has a little plastic doll and an even littler boy has a truck. The guy who gave me toothpaste has a striped hat and gloves.

Santa turns around and looks at me with a surprised face. I know right away he’s just a Santa’s helper. His beard is fake and his buttons are done up wrong. The fake Santa goes to his beat-up Toyota out front and comes back with a package.
He pats me on the shoulder a little too hard, hands me the package and says, “Sorry, Dude. Merry Christmas.”

Inside the package is a 3-pack of boys’ white socks, size medium. The toothpaste guy says, “Man, that stinks. No kid wants socks for Christmas! I’ll take ‘em if you don’t want ‘em.”
The lady Mom was talking to last night starts a loud argument with him. I give a pair to the little boy with the truck, since he isn’t wearing any and his sneakers are holey. Mom is crying, and I tell her, “Mom, it’s okay, I like the socks, really.”

I want the lady to stop arguing with toothpaste guy, so I give him a pair, although I doubt they’d fit. Then she starts arguing with me to take them back. I tell her, “No, it’s perfect, see? I still have a pair for me.”

I sit down on the floor to prove it. I pull off my shoes and old socks. The bare tile is cold. Everyone is watching me like they’ve never seen someone get socks for Christmas.

The new socks feel like heaven. They’re soft and cushy. The whiteness reminds me of laundry and something about home. I look at my white feet and all of a sudden I know something.

I’ve heard the saying about knowing something is going to happen, knowing it in your heart. But, I think I know it in my feet, too. I know it is true with all of me. Everyone is still looking at me. I look at Mom and say, “I think we’re going home.”

My throat is too choked up to say it out loud, but I think it. “I’ll be there soon, Socks. I’ll get you home soon.”

Picking Yellow (fiction)

Dad parked the van in the Home Depot parking lot and we all climbed out and dashed through the rain to get inside before we got soaked.
I lifted Annie and Charlie, my four-year-old twin sister and brother, into the double seat section of the big orange racing car cart. My seven-year-old brother, Ethan, climbed into the merchandise section.
“Stay on your bottom,” I reminded him.
He answered back, “You’re not the boss of me, Hannah Banana!” I ignored that.
“Orange!” said Annie, “Let’s paint your room orange!”
“Ugh, no!” said Dad and I. We laughed. She sure likes those carts.
“Hannah, you can go look at the paint. We’ll be in the garden area,” said Dad.
I was glad to go look at paint alone. It had been raining for five days straight and I was really tired of my siblings. I was also glad mom stayed home while we went out. She was tired from being sick so much.
I always liked looking at the little colored cards, all neatly arranged, that showed the paint color choices. So many choices.
I studied the cards for a while. I could never decide. Dad said whatever I picked, I would have to like it for the next six years, until I left for college. I finally took a card with ‘clear sky blue’ and a card with ‘fresh cut grass’ then went to find my family.
It wasn’t hard to find them. I could hear Annie and Charlie chanting, “Yell-ow, yell-ow, yell-ow!” from three isles away.
Dad was putting yellow potted lilies into the cart and the twins cheered. “Ethan,” he said, “You need to get out of the cart now. What color flowers do you want to get mom?”
“I want yellow, too,” he mumbled, climbing out of the cart.
Annie called him a copy cat, but Dad put some yellow marigolds into the cart. I knew I wanted to get mom some miniature roses. Since it looked like the thing to do, I picked yellow.
On the way to the checkout lanes I showed everyone my paint color cards. Dad said green walls would probably not be a good idea, since my carpet is green. “Clear sky blue sure sounds good, though!” he said.
“Does color have a sound?” asked Charlie.
“No, stupid!” said Ethan.
We all just looked at him. He stared at the flowers, scowling like it was our fault he was grumpy.
Suddenly Ethan’s eyes widened. He picked a rose right off one of the plants. “Oh!” he said.
I was about to scold him, but Dad said, “What is it, Ethan?”
“Hannah should paint her walls blue, and paint yellow flowers all around, like a garden. Then it will be like her carpet is grass, and we could go look at her room when we get tired of too much rain, and in the winter we can remember mom’s birthday garden.”
Annie and Charlie chanted “gar-den, gar-den, gar-den!”
I liked his idea so much I gave him a big bear hug. He smiled.
We bought enough blue to paint my ceiling blue too, a small can of green for the stems, and a can of sunshine yellow for the flowers.
The rain had stopped. As we walked to the van, the sun began to poke through the clouds. My heart felt warm and happy and I knew we made the right choice.

by Dawn Bonnevie copyright 2009

Green Day (fiction)

Bryant slid open the hallway closet door and peered inside. His sister had told him to get the green bags for Mom.
"I don't see any green bags, Mom!" he hollered to her in the kitchen.
"I need the shopping bags, Honey," she hollered back, "but they aren't green."
"Becka said they're green," he mumbled to himself. He found the blue canvas bags with the white rope handles. They reminded him of the sails on Grampa's boat, except the bags said GO GREEN on the side.
On the way to the grocery store Bryant felt like he was on Grampa's boat. A sudden thunderstorm made the ride rough as Mom drove around deep puddles. Trucks splashed waves onto the windows.
"Mom," Becka said, "Bryant looks a little seasick."
"You do look a little green, Honey," she said. "We'll be there soon."
At the grocery store, Bryant went straight to the restrooms and checked his face in the mirror.
"Mom, my face isn't green at all," he said when he came out of the restroom.
"I'm glad," said Mom, "but saying you looked green meant you looked sick."
He thought for a minute then asked, "Then why do the shopping bags say GO GREEN on them?"
Mom laughed and said, "That kind of green means something that is good for Earth. The bags help us make less trash."
"Oh," said Bryant. "Hey, look! I see my favorite kind of green. Pistachio ice cream!"
Mom smiled and put a carton of ice cream in the cart. "Grampa likes that kind,
too, and he's coming over later."
In the checkout line, Mom said to Becka, "I forgot some greens, can you go grab some please?"
"But, Mom," said Bryant, "we got brocolli, peas, and pistachio ice cream. Isn't that enough greens?"
"Wow!" said Mom, "We are having a green day, aren't we? Greens means leafy vegetables, like lettuce."
"When Grampa comes, I'm going to tell him about the green day, and share my ice cream with him," he said.
"Good idea," said Mom as she opened her purse. "Here, you can give the cashier some greenbacks!" and handed him several twenty dollar bills.
"Gee," said Bryant, "Green sure is a busy color!"

Finding Purple (fiction)

“This apple is red. And juicy and sweet,” my friend Sara said.
“My banana is yellow, and mushy, and peels,” I answered.
“Keep going,” said my mom.
We were in the back seat of the car riding back from the beach.
Mom gave us the snacks because we were tired of the long drive.
“Keep going where?” I asked.
“Sara said three things about her apple, and she started with a color, then you did the same thing. Keep going! See how many things and colors you can say”
I looked out the window.
“The grass is green. And it’s growing and tickly,” I said. “Your turn, Sara!”
“The sky is blue and high, and empty,” she said.
Then I did brown for the telephone poles and she did yellow for the sun.
I did black for the road and she did white for a house.
Pretty soon we had named every color we could find except purple. It was my turn.
Sara asked my mom, “Are we almost home yet?”
I kept looking for purple.
Sara asked my mom if we there yet again.
Mom said, “Let’s all look for purple together. Are any of the beach toys purple?”
“No,” I said.
“How about the towels?”
“No,” Sara and I both said together, “Jinx!” we laughed.
We looked at signs, other cars and trucks, and even gardens. No purple.
We were so busy looking for purple that we didn’t even notice we were on my street.
When we pulled into the driveway, my mom said, “After you help unpack the car you can go look for purple in the house.” Sara and I groaned.
We all climbed out of the car and Mom started laughing.
“What’s funny?” I asked.
“Look,” she said, pointing to her purple flip-flops. “Purple helped us get home!”
“What do you mean?” Sara asked.
“Well,” explained Mom, “I told you to keep going. Your color game helped us handle the long drive, and my purple flip flops were on the gas pedal.”
She went into the house, laughing at her own joke.
“I don’t get it,” said Sara.
“It is funny that we looked so long for purple and it was right there the whole time,” I said, “But not ‘ha-ha’ funny.”
“Yeah, grown-ups,” Sara said rolling her eyes.
We brought the stuff in the house and Sara asked my mom, “Is it dinner yet?”

Spring Cleaning (fiction, family life)

It was Saturday. Not just any Saturday. It was the first Saturday that it hadn't rained in a month. And it was spring. Time for baseball!
“Can I go over Ryan’s house today?” I asked my mom.
She said, “No, Ben.” I had to help with spring cleaning.
“How about if I pitch a clean sweep at Ryan’s house?”
She just scowled. She has no sense of humor.
We started with the yard, since it was so sunny out. Mom trimmed branches and I piled them up by the street curb. Dad raked and my little brother Jack picked up the little rocks off the yard that the snow plow pushed there.
After a couple hours of that, we worked on the garage. While Mom and dad moved stuff out of the way, Jack and I swept the greasy, grimy floor.
When it was almost lunchtime, Mom said that Jack could be done, since he was only eight. I wanted to be done, too. Ryan wanted to practice pitching.
“Mom," I asked, "Can I go to Ryan’s after lunch?”
She looked at me, and my clothes, and sighed. I just knew she was going to give me one more chore.
“Yes, Ben” she said, “But I have one more spring cleaning job for you.”
I knew she was going to say that.
“Please take an April shower!”
Okay, I guess she has a little sense of humor!

copyright 2009 Dawn Bonnevie