Rachel Small: The Story of Cartwheels That Took A Girl To the Ocean

            Rachel Small was the tiniest of all her brothers and sisters. Her shoes were the smallest, her hands were the littlest, and her voice was soft—but full of wonder.
            One morning, Rachel said, “I want to see the ocean.”
            She had read about it in books and watched it on the television. She knew the ocean from stories—especially the ones her grandfather told. Her grandfather was a fisherman and a seashell collector, and he spoke of rolling waves, sparkling water, and the sound the sea makes when it laughs against the shore.
            Rachel’s brothers and sisters had all seen the ocean before. But Rachel had not.
            “It’s too far,” her parents said. “It would take days to get there.”
            “And you’re too tiny,” her father added. “Your feet are much too small to walk all that way.”
            Rachel listened carefully. Then, she smiled.
            Because Rachel believed that small things could do big things.
            One morning, as the sun rose, a soft light slipped through Rachel’s window. The light wrapped around her—warm and gentle—filling her with strength.
            Rachel looked in the mirror and blinked. She was a little taller. Not tall—just tall enough.
            She tried something new. A cartwheel. Then another. Soon, Rachel was cartwheeling through the house, down the path, and onto the long road ahead.
            She cartwheeled past fields and towns, past miles and miles of sky, all the way to the ocean.
            When she reached the shore, Rachel stopped. The waves crashed and shimmered, stretching farther than she could see. High above, a lifeguard watched from his tower.
            Rachel smiled and did one last cartwheel—a perfect round-off—landing with both feet in the sand. She stood very still and listened to the sea.
            Then, she laughed and ran into the waves, up to her knees, splashing and shining. She laughed at every voice that had ever said, “You’re too small.”
            Because Rachel knew the truth.
            She was not too small for anything.
            She was Rachel.
            And her faith was big enough.

Copyright 2015 Jennifer Waters

LOGLINE

When the smallest child in her family is told she’s too tiny to reach the ocean, a determined girl discovers that faith, wonder, and a little magic can carry her farther than anyone imagined.

 

PITCH

Rachel Small is the tiniest of her brothers and sisters, but her dreams are anything but small—especially her wish to see the ocean she knows only from books and her grandfather’s stories. When her parents say the journey is too far and she is too little, Rachel’s quiet faith fills her with courage and strength, and she sets off on an extraordinary cartwheeling journey toward the sea. Along the way, fields, towns, and miles of sky roll past until Rachel finally reaches the shore, where crashing waves prove what she has believed all along: no one is too small to follow a dream when faith is big enough.

 

 

The Runaway Piano: The Story of A Piano on Wheels

Once there was a grand piano that sat quietly in a piano store. It dreamed of an owner. It longed for a musician to play sonatas on its beautiful black-and-white keys.

One day, its shiny wheels rolled onto a moving truck. At last, the piano thought, my music will be heard. As the truck headed down the highway, the piano bounced with every pothole. Its strings shivered. Its lid rattled.

Suddenly, the driver slammed on the brakes at a stoplight. The back door flew open. The truck lurched forward, and the grand piano slid backward, tumbling onto a busy road filled with cars and trucks.

“Watch out! Piano on the loose!” the driver shouted, running down the street after it.

At full speed, the piano rolled faster and faster, fearing its life was finished. Its strings tensed. Its lid clanged and banged against its body. As it raced downhill, the hammers struck the strings—clang, bang, twang!

Not even the piano pedals could stop its motion.

The driver ran for a mile, then another. Finally, he stopped. “Goodbye, my friend!” he called, watching the piano roll on.

Down one hill and up another, the piano passed homes, stores, and factories. At last, it slowed in a quiet neighborhood. It rolled into the driveway of 345 Penny Note Lane and didn’t move an inch farther.

“Hannah, I think the mailman is here,” Mr. Henderson called to his daughter as he mowed the lawn. Then, he turned around and jumped. “A piano?” he said. “What is a piano doing in our front yard?”

Hannah ran outside and gasped. A grand piano on wheels had arrived just for her.

“I prayed every day for a piano,” Hannah said. “I knew I was meant to play music. The piano found me.”

She dragged her bed out of her bedroom and onto the driveway. Neighbors peeked through doors and windows as Hannah rolled the piano inside.

Her father said nothing. He turned the lawn mower back on and finished cutting the grass.

That night, Hannah let music fill the room. She curled up beneath the piano’s shiny black body. Above her, the keys waited. And the piano, at last, was home.

Hannah slept beneath the piano, with no room for a bed—only melodies.

 

Copyright 2015 Jennifer Waters

 

LOGLINE

When a runaway grand piano tumbles from a moving truck and rolls through town, it unexpectedly finds its way to the doorstep of a young girl who has been praying for music—and discovers where it truly belongs.

 

PITCH

When a lonely grand piano dreams of finding a musician, fate intervenes in the most unexpected way. After tumbling from a moving truck, the runaway piano barrels through streets and neighborhoods until it comes to rest at the driveway of Hannah Henderson, a young girl who has been praying every day for a piano of her own. Certain that music is her calling, Hannah welcomes the wandering instrument into her home, even giving up her bed to make room for it. 

Happy Face Pancakes: The Story of Debby Davis and Her Sweet Secret

Every morning, five-year-old Debbie Davis woke up ready for pancakes. Not omelets or waffles or oatmeal or blueberry muffins, definitely not toast, but pancakes. According to Debbie, the secret to a good day was making a happy face on her pancakes with breakfast food. Debbie believed that if her pancakes smiled, her day would smile back.
            There were many ways to make faces on pancakes, so it never got boring. Bananas, kiwi, oranges, blueberries, and of course chocolate chips could be used for eyes. On some mornings, Debbie used sunny-side-up eggs as eyes on her pancakes. Strawberries were best used for the nose, along with cherries, pears, or a clump of raspberries.
            Sometimes a pat of butter could be used as a nose, although it would eventually melt. Whipped cream with a bunch of chocolate chips and sauce made a wonderful smile.
            Sitting at her kitchen table, Debbie looked at her pancakes, almost as big as the plate.
            “I’m hungry!” she said to the pancakes as she poured glistening maple syrup over the hot stack.
            No matter what the day would bring, Debbie always tried to start it with a smile on her pancakes. That way, she could usually keep smiling throughout the day, even if it was a hard one.
            “Smile as big as you can!” she said, deciding how to construct a face on her cakes. She positioned her sunny-side-up eggs as the eyes.
            “Yellow googly eyes taste so good!” she said. She thought about using whipped cream and chocolate chips for the mouth when her mom set a plate of bacon on the table.
            “Now for some bacon,” her mother said, kissing her on the cheek.
            “Bacon makes a beautiful smile,” her father said, “but not as beautiful as yours.”
            “It’s crunchy and salty, not as sweet as fruit or candy,” Debbie said, bending the bacon into a grin anyway. It was the perfect smile.
            Depending on the nearest holiday, Debbie used special treats for pancake smiles. Peppermints in winter. Candy corn in fall. During the Fourth of July, she made a red, white, and blue grin from ear to pancake ear with pastries and food coloring.
            If Debbie ever ran late and could not make a pancake smile, it was never a good day. On those days, she came home from school upset or quiet.
            One afternoon, Debbie dropped her backpack on the floor and crossed her arms. “I missed my spelling word,” she said. “And I spilled paint on my picture. I don’t like school today.” Debbie knew she should have made her pancakes smile that morning.
            The next day at lunch, Debbie told her friends about her magic pancakes. “If you’re sad,” she whispered, “make happy face pancakes. They work every single time.”
            “Sssh! It’s a secret,” she added. When her friends didn’t believe her, Debbie invited them over for pancakes for dinner.
            “Hooray! I don’t have to eat leftover lasagna,” Debbie said, hugging her friends.
            Even vegetables could make happy faces with stacked whole-wheat pancakes. Broccoli, squash, peppers, and carrots made large, glowing eyes. A big sausage made the best dinner pancake nose. Green beans, spinach, or peas carefully placed could form a wide smile.
            “I can’t believe the magic of Happy Face Pancakes!” her friends said, asking for seconds. Debbie could tell they had a good night after eating them.
            “If you know someone who feels sad or blue,” Debbie said, “share the magic.” She smiled as wide as her pancakes, knowing that some smiles were even better when they were shared.

 

Copyright 2015 Jennifer Waters

LOGLINE

A five-year-old girl believes that starting her day with smiling pancakes can shape everything that follows, and when she learns to share her joyful breakfast ritual with friends, she discovers that happiness grows best when it’s passed along.

 

PITCH

Every morning, five-year-old Debbie Davis begins her day by creating a happy face on her pancakes, convinced that a smiling breakfast leads to a smiling day. Using fruit, candy, bacon, and even vegetables, Debbie’s pancake faces become a joyful ritual that carries her through school and life’s little disappointments. When she skips her pancake smile one morning and has a rough day, Debbie realizes just how important her ritual has become. She soon shares the secret of her “magic” pancakes with her friends, inviting them over to make happy faces of their own—and discovering that the greatest magic of all is sharing kindness, creativity, and joy with others.

Too Amazing For Me: Clap Your Hand Over Your Mouth

An eagle in the sky,

A snake on a rock,

A ship on the sea,

Too amazing for me.

 

A man with a maiden,

A servant who is king,

A woman who is loved,

Too amazing for me.

 

Then there are the ants,

Creatures of little strength.

Then there are the badgers,

Creatures of little power.

Clap your hand over your mouth.

Too amazing for me.

 

A lion that is mighty,

A strutting cockeyed rooster,

A he-goat that is fearless,

Too amazing for me.

 

Then there are the locusts,

Who never ruled a kingdom.

Then there are the lizards,

Who can be found in a palace.

Clap your hand over your mouth.

Too amazing for me.

 

Have you ever seen a king 

With his army all around him?

He retreats for nothing.

Isn’t that something?

 

Clap your hand over your mouth.

Too amazing for me.

 

Clap your hand over your mouth.

Too amazing for me.

 

Copyright 2015 Jennifer Waters

Emily Friendly: The Story of a Creative Girl

One summer morning, after finishing the laundry, Emily Friendly’s mom leaned out the laundry room window and called down to her daughter.

“Honey, will you grab the pins and hang the clothes outside?” Mrs. Friendly said to Emily. Mrs. Friendly glanced at a basket of wooden clothespins beside her.

“Sure, Mom!” called 7-year-old Emily, sitting outside and reading in the sun.

Emily was buried in stacks of books, with pens poked in her hair. Sometimes she read. Sometimes she wrote.

She placed her bookmark at her stopping point and pushed three pens behind her ears. She climbed from her chair and ran up the back steps. All she could think about was how the book she was reading might end.

Even with her racing mind, she piled her mom’s wet clothes into a plastic laundry basket. She kissed her mother on the cheek, as her mom finished cleaning up. 

“Love you, Mom!” Emily said, as she grabbed a cushion of sharp pins and put them in the basket. She looked at the wooden clothespins, but thought, “Pins are pins… right?”

Emily left the wooden clothespins on the counter. Then, she ran down the back steps and darted out into the warm mid-morning sun. 

“What beautiful tall trees!” Emily said, walking right past the clothesline hung between two Elms. She pulled the pincushion from the basket and pinned the wet clothes to the trees.

One by one, she stuck pins through the shirts, pants, skirts, and even underwear into the tree bark. Then she stood back, in awe of her wonderful artistic creation. It was almost as though she painted the trees with clothes, and they charmingly blew in the wind. 

The shirts flapped like flags, and the socks hung from branches like fruit. The underwear fluttered like birds. Emily felt so proud. 

“What in the world did you do with my clothes?” Mrs. Friendly yelled from the window. “Why didn’t you hang the clothes on the clothesline like you’ve seen me do for years?”

“I did exactly what you said to do, Mom! You told me to grab the pins,” Emily said. “I only did what you said!”

“Oh, Emily,” her mom sighed. “You read too many books—and you have too many pens.”

“I know you can see the beauty in my art!” Emily yelled, as she plopped herself on the ground. She could hear her mother laughing from the window. 

Sitting in the grass, Emily thought about her mother’s request. There was always a new story to read and write—and the ending was never what you expected.

“I know my words matter,” her mom said, walking into the backyard. “Let’s do the laundry together.”

“I’m going to turn this misunderstanding into a story,” Emily said.

“And maybe next time,” her mom said with a smile, “the clothesline and the trees can share the job.”

 

Copyright 2015 Jennifer Waters

LOGLINE

When a book-loving, literal-minded girl is asked to “grab the pins” and hang the laundry, she turns a simple chore into an unexpected work of art—teaching both child and parent that words matter, and creativity can be found in the most ordinary moments.

 

PITCH

Seven-year-old Emily Friendly spends her summer days buried in books and scribbling stories, so when her mother asks her to “grab the pins” and hang the laundry, Emily does exactly that—using sharp pins to attach wet clothes to the tall backyard trees instead of the clothesline. Shirts flap like flags, socks hang like fruit, and Emily proudly admires her accidental masterpiece. At first frustrated, Emily’s mother soon realizes the misunderstanding was her own and that her daughter’s creativity deserves understanding, not correction. Together, they redo the laundry and discover that clear words—and a little imagination—can make even everyday chores a shared story worth telling.

 

 

 

Strawberry the Cow: The Story of Miracle Milk Straight from the Udder

On the edge of the meadow, just beyond a crooked wooden fence, there lived a very quiet cow.
            She was black and white and moved as slowly as the drifting clouds above her. All day long, she grazed on sweet green grass and flicked her tail at the flies that bothered her. When the sun grew warm, she wandered down to the brook and drank water that slipped over stones and moss with a silvery sound.
            The neighbor girl often stopped to watch her.
            She liked the way the meadow felt calmer when the cow was near, as though the world took a deep breath and rested for a moment.
            One summer afternoon, when the air smelled of hay and sunshine, the girl crossed the field with a small tin pail swinging at her side. Inside were strawberries—round and red and warm from the sun. Her father grew them every year, and she believed they were the finest strawberries anyone had ever tasted.
            She reached through the fence and held one out to her four-legged friend.
            The cow lowered her great head and sniffed her fingers. Her nose was cool and soft. When she tasted the strawberry, she closed her eyes and chewed slowly, as though she were listening to something lovely.
            The girl smiled.
            From that day on, the cow waited for her by the fence. 
            Each afternoon, as the shadows grew long, the girl returned with strawberries. The cow always knew when she was coming. She lifted her head before the girl reached the fence, and the meadow seemed to grow quieter when they met.
            Then, one morning, something extraordinary happened.
            The girl heard Mr. McCorkle calling out across his farm. Neighbors gathered. Cups were filled. And there, glowing softly in the sunlight, was milk the color of early dawn—pink as a summer sky.
            “Strawberry milk!” Mr. McCorkle exclaimed in his overalls. “Straight from my cow!”
            The girl watched from behind the fence, her heart fluttering.
            She knew, of course, what had happened.
            The strawberries had found their way into the milk, just as gentle things sometimes find their way into places they are needed most.
            Mr. McCorkle said it was a miracle, the sort that belonged in old stories told by firelight. He said his farm was blessed. The girl smiled and kept her secret tucked safely inside her chest.
            When autumn came, the strawberry plants faded, and the girl’s pail stayed empty. Soon, the pink milk disappeared. Visitors stopped coming. Mr. McCorkle grew worried and walked the fields with heavy steps.
            The girl watched and wished summer back again.
            When it returned, so did the strawberries—brighter and sweeter than ever. The girl brought them faithfully to the cow. And just as before, the milk turned rosy once more.
            Mr. McCorkle named the cow Strawberry, certain the name had always belonged to her. He told the newspaper that Strawberry made her milk only in the warm months, when the fields were green and hopes grew easily.
            People came from far away. They said the milk tasted like happiness. They said it reminded them of simpler days.
            The girl grew older, as all girls do. But each summer, she still crossed the field with strawberries in her pail. And Strawberry, gentle and patient, always waited.
            She never told the farmer the truth.
            Some wonders, she believed, are not meant to be explained. They are meant to be cared for, shared kindly, and left just a little bit magical.

 

Copyright 2015 Jennifer Waters

 

LOGLINE

A quiet neighbor girl discovers that kindness and strawberries can create a summer miracle when a gentle cow begins producing strawberry milk—so long as the magic is lovingly kept alive.

 

PITCH

On a peaceful farm, a thoughtful neighbor girl befriends a gentle black-and-white cow by feeding her sun-ripened strawberries each summer afternoon. When the cow mysteriously begins producing strawberry milk, the farmer proclaims it a miracle, drawing visitors from far and wide. As the seasons change, the magic fades and returns again, known only to the girl who quietly tends it year after year. The girl celebrates small acts of kindness, the beauty of quiet secrets, and the enduring magic that grows when wonder is cared for rather than explained.

Cupcake the Walrus: The Story of Lilith Flores and Her Freckles

            Seven-year-old Lilith Flores spent every noontime recess alone on the playground. 

            She had very fair skin and light orange-blond hair that shone in the sun, but her freckles stood out boldly across her face. Sometimes, when she caught her reflection in the shiny metal slide, Lilith wondered if they were the reason the other children never asked her to play.
      They ran past her without stopping. They whispered and laughed in groups. Lilith tried to ignore them, but the feeling of being left out followed her wherever she went.
      So Lilith went to the swings.
      The swings made her feel better. When she pumped her legs just right, she could soar high into the air, higher than the jungle gym, higher than her worries. On that day, just as she reached the top of her arc, Lilith noticed something very unusual.
      A walrus was sitting on the swing beside her.
      Lilith blinked once. Then twice. The walrus was large and round, with long white tusks, thick whiskers, and wrinkled brown skin. He rocked gently back and forth, his swing creaking beneath him. No one else on the playground seemed to notice him at all.
      He looks lonely, Lilith thought. That feeling felt familiar.
      She slowed her swing and spoke softly. “Hello. My name is Lilith. I’m in the second grade.”
      The walrus smiled and let out a warm chuckle. He hopped off the swing and waddled toward the slide, reaching underneath it.
      “My name is Cupcake,” he said. “Cupcake the Walrus.”
      From beneath the slide, Cupcake pulled out a pink lunchbox covered in stickers. He opened it with care.
      “Would you like a cupcake?” he asked. “I have plenty to share.”
      Lilith’s eyes widened. “With sprinkles?” she asked.   
      “Of course,” Cupcake said.
      Inside the lunchbox were cupcakes of every flavor, each one topped with swirls of frosting and showers of colorful sprinkles. Lilith smiled so wide her cheeks ached.
      From that day on, Lilith and Cupcake met under the slide every recess. They shared cupcakes and stories. Lilith talked about school and quiet lunches. Cupcake listened carefully and offered napkins when frosting dripped onto her hands.
      Before long, other children began to notice.
      “Can we have one?” they asked. “Where did you get those cupcakes?”
      Lilith hesitated, then remembered how lonely Cupcake had looked on the swing. She scooted over and made room.
      “There’s enough for everyone,” she said.
      And there was.
      Soon the playground felt different. Children laughed together. Games formed. Hands reached out to Lilith and invited her to join.
      No one mentioned her freckles anymore.
      Lilith didn’t mind. She had decided something important.
      Freckles were like sprinkles—bright, cheerful, and impossible to ignore. And just like cupcakes, they made the world a little sweeter.
      Especially when shared with a walrus named Cupcake.

 

Copyright 2015 Jennifer Waters

 

LOGLINE

When a lonely seven-year-old girl befriends a cupcake-sharing walrus on her playground, she discovers that kindness—and the courage to share it—can turn feeling different into belonging.

 

PITCH

Seven-year-old Lilith Flores spends every recess alone, convinced her freckles make her invisible to the other children, until she notices a gentle walrus named Cupcake swinging beside her on the playground. Through their daily ritual of sharing cupcakes under the slide, Lilith finds a friend who listens and understands, and when other children are drawn in by the sweetness of Cupcake’s treats, Lilith learns that generosity can open doors to friendship. By the end, Lilith realizes that the very things that once made her feel different—like her freckles—are something to celebrate, transforming loneliness into connection.

Mr. Ferret and the Preposterous Porcupine: The Story of Weasel and a Rodent

Once there was a weasel named Mr. Ferret who liked to tell a rodent named Mr. Porcupine that he was the most preposterous creature he had ever met.

Every morning Mr. Ferret would pass by Mr. Porcupine’s tree and say, “You are preposterous! You are prickly and fat!” Mr. Ferret shouted, “I am slender and sleek. I hunt rabbits while you sleep all day and chew twigs all night!”

Mr. Porcupine pretended not to hear Mr. Ferret. Of course, the porcupine was supposed to be asleep during the day. Every ounce of Mr. Porcupine’s flesh wanted to throw his quills at the ferret. He knew how to send his sharp spines like daggers, but he was afraid someone might get hurt.

He didn’t understand why Mr. Ferret insisted on pointing fingers at him every morning. Mr. Porcupine had never done anything other than offer clover and bark, and when leaves and herbs did not calm him, he stayed in hiding, especially after Mr. Ferret left behind his rotten-egg smell. So, Mr. Porcupine kissed Mrs. Porcupine and drifted back to sleep.

One morning, Mr. Ferret passed by the porcupine’s tree. Mr. Ferret called out all sorts of taunting insults like his usual banter. Mostly, Mr. Porcupine had ignored Mr. Ferret, feeling sorry for him. 

On this particular dawn, Mr. Porcupine called back to him: “You might want to keep an eye open for the wolves. I saw them late last night. They were scouring for food under the blood-red moon and would love to catch you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. They would surely eat you instead!” Mr. Ferret cried. 

Mrs. Porcupine whispered: “Maybe this is how we get rid of Mr. Ferret once and for all!” 

“Honey, don’t say that. One day he will see the error of his ways,” Mr. Porcupine said. He tried to warn Mr. Ferret. It would be Mr. Ferret’s fault if he did not pay attention. All of a sudden, a pack of wolves came over the bank, growling in anger.

As Mr. Porcupine looked from his tree, every quill on his body rose in defense. The wolves charged through the forest, heading right for the weasel. 

“Mr. Ferret, watch out! Run for your life,” Mr. Porcupine cried to him. 

Instead, Mr. Ferret started a little dance–the weasel war dance: “I will dance past all my enemies, and they will do me no harm!” So, he hopped and bumped sideways, clicking and hissing, showing his teeth.

Mr. Porcupine shook at the thought of Mr. Ferret’s being eaten. Although he could not stand Mr. Ferret, he would miss their morning routine. Oftentimes, Mr. Porcupine wondered if Mr. Ferret really wanted to be friends, but he didn’t know how to properly express his true feelings.

As the wolves approached, Mrs. Porcupine covered her head under the tree branch and cried. In anguish about the wolves and their teeth, Mr. Porcupine took a deep breath and sent his quills spinning from the tree through the cool morning air. He secretly hoped the sharp spines would stop the wolves in their tracks, and Mr. Ferret could have enough time to run away before he was devoured. 

Of course, Mr. Ferret’s weasel war dance did nothing but make him look like an easy target. As Mr. Porcupine’s quills flew toward the wolves, he hoped he had good aim. Before the wolves knew what happened, the quills hit the pack like daggers. 

The lead wolf said: “Why didn’t you see that preposterous porcupine out on the limb?” 

As the wolves whimpered back over the bank, Mr. Ferret kept dancing. 

“The weasel war dance works every time!” he said. 

Befuddled, Mr. Porcupine didn’t know what to say. 

So, he climbed down the tree with not a single quill intact and said: “It was I, not your silly weasel war dance, that saved your life.”

“Leave my husband alone. You are full of trouble,” Mrs. Porcupine called to Mr. Ferret.

“Oh my,” gasped Mr. Ferret. “I’m sure he’s lying!”

Of course, Mr. Porcupine was hoping for a better response than that. So, he climbed back up his tree, and he shut his own eyes. He was so glad he had a big heart. Otherwise, he might not be able to bear the nasty comments from Mr. Ferret.

“Never do anything like that for him again,” Mrs. Porcupine said. 

“Oh, Mr. Porcupine, you are the most preposterous creature I have ever seen! You’re naked! And you have no way to defend yourself. What happened to your quills?” Mr. Ferret yelled. Then Mr. Ferret took a step backward and landed on a single porcupine quill: “Aah! Mr. Porcupine, you are preposterous! Preposterous! You are so preposterous that you just might be my best friend.” 

Mr. Porcupine was already snoring on a tree branch, hoping his quills would grow back soon. He decided to ignore Mr. Ferret, like he did on most mornings, and maybe one day the weasel would save his life in return. And it would not be with the weasel war dance—because it didn’t work anyway. 

 

Copyright 2014 Jennifer Waters

Pen Jen's Inkwell Podcast version:

Once there was a weasel named Mr. Ferret, who was a lifelong bachelor, and he liked to tell a rodent named Mr. Porcupine, who married for true love, that he was the most preposterous creature that he had ever met.        

Every morning Mr. Ferret would pass by Mr. Porcupine’s tree and say: “You are preposterous! You are prickly and fat! I am slender and sleek, and I have beautiful pink eyes and a stunning mask. I wake up at dawn every morning and work until dusk. You sleep in the day, and you are up all night! What a lazy thing! At least I go hunting for rabbits. All you do is eat twigs! You and your quills are always bruising someone!”

Mr. Porcupine pretended not to hear Mr. Ferret. Of course, the porcupine was supposed to be asleep in the day. Every ounce of Mr. Porcupine’s flesh wanted to throw his quills at the ferret. His father had taught him to send his sharp spines like daggers at ferrets, but Mr. Porcupine was afraid that Mr. Ferret might get hurt, or in the very least someone around him might lose an eye. 

He didn’t understand why Mr. Ferret insisted on pointing fingers at him every morning. Mr. Porcupine had never done anything other than offer him clover and bark, and when leaves and herbs did not calm him, Mr. Porcupine stayed in hiding, especially when Mr. Ferret left behind his potent body odor of rotten eggs. So, Mr. Porcupine kissed Mrs. Porcupine and drifted back to sleep.

One morning, many mornings later, Mr. Ferret passed by the porcupine’s tree. Mr. Ferret called out all sorts of taunting insults like his usual banter. Mostly, Mr. Porcupine had ignored Mr. Ferret, feeling sorry for him. 

On this particular dawn, Mr. Porcupine called back to him: “You might want to keep an eye open for the wolves. I saw them late last night. They were scouring for food under the blood-red moon and would love to eat you.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. They would surely eat you instead!” Mr. Ferret cried. 

Mrs. Porcupine whispered: “Maybe this is how we get rid of Mr. Ferret once and for all!” 

“Honey, don’t say that. One day he will see the error of his ways,” Mr. Porcupine said. He tried to warn Mr. Ferret. It was the ferret’s fault if he did not pay attention. All of a sudden, a pack of wolves came over the bank, growling in anger.

As Mr. Porcupine looked from his tree, every quill on his body rose in defense. The wolves charged through the forest, heading right for the weasel. 

“Mr. Ferret, watch out! Run for your life,” Mr. Porcupine cried to him. 

Instead, Mr. Ferret started a little dance–the weasel war dance: “I will dance past all my enemies, and they will do me no harm!” So, he hopped and bumped sideways, clicking and hissing. He squeaked this way and that, showing his teeth, and leaving hairballs at his feet. 

Mr. Porcupine shook at the thought of Mr. Ferret’s demise. Although he could not stand Mr. Ferret, he would miss their morning routine. Oftentimes, Mr. Porcupine wondered if Mr. Ferret really wanted to be friends, but he didn’t know how to properly express his true feelings.

As the wolves approached, Mrs. Porcupine covered her head under the tree branch and cried. In anguish about the wolves and their teeth, Mr. Porcupine took a deep breath and sent his quills spinning from the tree through the cool morning air. He secretly hoped that the sharp spines would poke out the eyes of the wolves, and Mr. Ferret could have enough time to run away before he was devoured. 

Of course, Mr. Ferret’s weasel war dance did nothing but make him look like an easy target. As Mr. Porcupine’s quills flew toward the wolves, he hoped he had good aim. Before the wolves knew what happened, the quills hit the pack like daggers. 

The lead wolf said: “Why didn’t you see that preposterous porcupine out on the limb?” 

Another wolf said: “Me? Why didn’t you see him? I can’t do everything at once.” 

As the wolves whimpered back over the bank, Mr. Ferret kept dancing. 

“The weasel war dance works every time!” he said. 

Astounded and befuddled, Mr. Porcupine didn’t know what to say. 

So, he climbed down the tree with not one quill intact and said: “It was I, not your silly weasel war dance, that saved your life.”

“Leave my husband alone. You are full of trouble,” Mrs. Porcupine called to the ferret.

Mr. Ferret gasped! “Oh my, your husband must have seen that I had shut my eyes while dancing. I’m sure he’s lying. His quills would never be sharp enough to save my life.”

Of course, Mr. Porcupine was hoping for a better response than that. So, he climbed back up his tree, and he shut his own eyes. He was so glad he had a big heart. Otherwise, he might not be able to bear the nasty comments from Mr. Ferret.

“Never do anything like that for him again,” Mrs. Porcupine said. 

“Oh, Mr. Porcupine, you are the most preposterous creature I have ever seen! You’re naked! And you have no way to defend yourself. What did happen to your quills?” the ferret yelled. Then Mr. Ferret took a step backward and landed on a single porcupine quill: “Aah! Mr. Porcupine, you are preposterous! Preposterous! You are so preposterous that you just might be my best friend.” 

Mr. Porcupine was already snoring on a tree branch, hoping his quills would grow back soon. He decided to ignore Mr. Ferret, like he did on most mornings, and maybe one day the weasel would save his preposterous porcupine life in return. And it would not be with the weasel war dance, because it didn’t work anyway.

 

Copyright 2014 Jennifer Waters

https://soundcloud.com/jen-waters/mr-ferret-and-the-preposterous-porcupine-the-story-of-a-weasel-and-a-rodent-spoken-word-narrated-by-jen-waters

The Other Side of the Basement: The Story of Tabitha Rainwater and Gentleness the Dragon

Tabitha Rainwater is my whole name.

I’m age 12 if it matters to you, all the same.

I might as well live in Timbuktu.  

My town is called Sunshine, even though I’m blue. 

‘Cause down the stairs and into the basement,

My parents hide things that need replacement.

At first glance, it’s a normal room, 

With a table, a couch, and a short wicker broom.

But then a door lingers with its handles and hinges.

When I look at its size, my little toe cringes.  

On the other side of the basement door, 

Is a dangerous place that you fear to explore. 

Tractors need parts; benches need screws.

Carpets need cleaning—so much to reuse.

Trunks store old clothes. Piles of chairs. 

Bed frames are bent. Guitars need repairs.

It’s supposed to store things like boxes and books.

The last time I looked, I found a dragon with hooks. 

His toenails were so long that he could hang from the ceiling. 

As hard as I tried, this gave me a really bad feeling. 

I tried to tell Mama. I tried to tell Dad. 

No one would listen. It made my heart sad.

One day its tail slid beneath the door. 

Mama wasn’t watching the basement floor. 

I wondered if the monster needed a snack. 

I had to keep him kind, or he might attack. 

So, I ran up the stairs to the kitchen table. 

I grabbed a banana to keep him stable. 

I ran back to the basement and stood by the door.

I hoped I would live another month more. 

I creaked open the door and peered into the dark.

The room looked scary, mean, and stark. 

I stood there for a moment, searching for the dragon.

All I saw was my broken three-wheeled wagon. 

“Where are you, Dragon? I brought a treat!

I thought you might need something good to eat.”

Then I felt a thud, a scrape, and a smack.

Every time he moved; the dragon got flack. 

He stepped from the corner and hung his head. 

Mounds of trash fell, and his right wing bled.  

Before he could breathe wrath and fire, 

I gave him the fruit and tried not to perspire.

Then I looked for a bandage to mend his wing.

I used ten newspapers and hoped it didn’t sting.

I wanted to ask him how he found my basement, 

Especially the other side that felt like displacement. 

If he had a tunnel that led him back to his cave,

Maybe I could go with him if I was feeling brave. 

Then he stepped to the side, and I saw a hole.

It must have been his tunnel that he dug like a mole.

I dove down the passage without a second thought. 

Who cared about the junk that my parents had bought!

All of a sudden, he followed my lead.

I tried to walk slowly, but he had his own speed. 

When I came to the end of the long, cold channel,

I wished I had brought my jacket with flannel. 

I poked my head into his dark, empty den.

He had no Mama or Papa. I looked again. 

No wonder he liked the other side of the basement. 

He was probably waiting for some sort of placement. 

He needed a buddy to dig in the dirt. 

I imagined his feelings must have been hurt. 

It’d been more than a day since he flew in the air,

And somehow that seemed sort of unfair.

So, I jumped on his back, and we took to the wind.

I knew Mama and Daddy would soon be chagrined.

I held on tight and tried not to look down.

My family and home would now be renown. 

We soared ‘bove the clouds and up to heaven.

The minutes it took to get home were seven. 

I counted the seconds on my hands and my toes.

What the dragon was thinking, nobody knows.

He set foot in my yard and caused a great quake.

The front lawn was split. The whole house did shake. 

Mama opened the door, and loudly she cried,

“Why me? Oh my gosh! I feel like I lied.

The dragon was hiding in the basement for years.

I didn’t tell you in case you shed tears.

Your father disliked him and locked him away.

He piled high broken things to keep him at bay.”

In a moment, the trash in the house all made sense. 

My daddy thought the mess would be used for defense. 

But really, we missed out on a two-winged friend. 

Now I had a pet, and the nightmare could end. 

Tomorrow, I would call for a big garbage truck. 

The other side of the basement would be no more amuck.

Gentleness is now my pet dragon’s name,

So, no one can play a game of shame or blame. 

My dragon will have his own bedroom and nest. 

We’ll be one happy family with monster-sized zest.

 

Copyright 2014 Jennifer Waters

https://soundcloud.com/jen-waters/the-other-side-of-the-basement-spoken-word-narrated-by-jen-waters

Dedicated to my parents, Darlene and John Waters, for giving me their other side of the basement as inspiration. 

Kisses: The Life of Milton S. Hershey

Milton Hershey grew up on a small farm in Pennsylvania, where the fields rolled wide and the work never seemed to end. Each morning, his mother, Fanny, read from the Good Book, her voice steady and calm. Milton listened closely. He liked the way the words sounded—full of hope, even when times were hard.
      His father, Henry, was a dreamer. He tried one business after another—oil, fishing, inventions—always believing the next idea would work. Milton watched him fail again and again, and though it worried him, it also taught him something important: dreaming mattered, but so did learning how to make something real.
      Milton wanted to make candy.
      As a boy, he found work in a candy shop, stirring kettles of sugar and cream until his arms ached. He loved the way caramel came together—how patience could turn simple ingredients into something rich and smooth. For years, he apprenticed, learning every step. When he finally opened his own caramel company, he believed it would succeed.
      It didn’t.
      More than once, Milton lost everything. Each failure felt heavier than the last. Still, he remembered his mother’s words and his father’s courage. When a British importer placed a large order for caramels, Milton knew it was his chance. A local banker loaned him the money to fill the order, and Milton worked day and night to make sure every piece was perfect.
      This time, it worked.
      As the Lancaster Caramel Company grew, Milton traveled to sell his candy. In New York, he met Kitty Sweeney. She was bright and kind, with a laugh that made Milton feel instantly at ease. Their courtship was quick, joyful, and full of plans. Milton imagined a home filled with children and warmth and laughter.
      Success followed him again—but life did not follow his plans.
      Milton became fascinated with chocolate. He experimented endlessly, determined to create milk chocolate that was smooth and creamy, something ordinary people could afford. When he sold his caramel company, he poured everything into chocolate. He built a factory in the cornfields of Pennsylvania, close to dairy farms, because he believed good milk made good chocolate.
      The factory grew, and so did the number of workers. Milton didn’t want them to struggle as his family had. He built homes, schools, churches, and a hospital. He built a town and named it Hershey. As he walked the streets, he felt proud—not just of the chocolate, but of the lives being built there.
      At the factory, he created chocolate bars and small drops of chocolate wrapped in silver paper. Someone called them “kisses,” and the name stayed.
      But while Milton’s work flourished, Kitty grew weaker.
      They could not have children, and Milton saw the quiet sadness she tried to hide. One evening, she shared an idea that lit her face with hope: they could open a school for orphaned boys. Milton listened, imagining boys who needed guidance, education, and care. He thought of the lessons his own parents had given him—faith, effort, kindness.
      Together, they founded the Hershey Industrial School.
      Milton took pride in watching the boys learn and grow. He believed in teaching them to work hard and live by the Golden Rule. Kitty loved the boys deeply, as if they were her own.
      Her health continued to fail.
      While resting near the ocean, Milton was called away on business. He left reluctantly, trusting Kitty would soon follow. During the journey home, she grew dangerously ill. When Milton arrived, she was fading fast. She asked for a glass of champagne. By the time he returned, she was gone.
      Milton fell to his knees, overwhelmed by grief.
      In Kitty’s memory, he made a decision that surprised the world. He gave his entire fortune to the school they had built together, determined that it would last forever. When bankers tried to take control of his company, the scheme didn’t work. The stock market crashed, the deal fell through. The town, the factory, and the school remained Milton’s—and the people’s.
      During World War II, Milton found another way to serve. His factory produced chocolate for soldiers overseas, giving them comfort and strength in dark times.
      By the end of his life, Milton Hershey was known not only for chocolate, but for generosity. He never became a father in the way he once imagined, but he became something else instead—a father to generations.
      All it took was one man who believed that kindness, like chocolate, was meant to be shared.

Copyright 2014 Jennifer Waters

Pen Jen's Inkwell Podcast version:

Milton Hershey grew up a simple farm boy in Pennsylvania. His mother Fanny read the Good Book to him every day. His father Henry taught him to dream and take chances. Milton watched his father struggle to make money in oil and trout fishing. So, his first job was in a candy shop, where he could learn to make caramels.

After years of being an apprentice, Milton opened his own caramel company. His Aunt Mattie believed in him so much that she paid to set up the business, but business was tough, and Milton ended up going bankrupt more than once. Milton finally got his caramel company going when a British importer made a large order. A local banker gave Milton the money he needed to fulfill the shipment of candy. After that, business started booming, and Milton tasted sweet success. 

While selling caramels in New York, he met a beautiful woman named Kitty Sweeney. After a whirlwind romance, they married and planned to have many children. With the success of Milton’s Lancaster Caramel Company, he started to make chocolate. He made creamy milk chocolate that melts beneath your tongue and was as rich as butter. After he sold the caramel business, he built the Hershey Chocolate Company. He based his factory in the cornfields of Pennsylvania, where dairy farmers raised cows.

At his new factory, he made chocolate candy bars and kisses. The factory had so many workers that he had to build a town. So, he founded the town of Hershey for his workers and their families. The town had a zoo, a trolley, a baseball field, a school, a hospital, and churches. Each worker had an original home, distinct and unique. As Milton’s chocolate company became more and more successful, Kitty’s health began to fail, and she could not have children. She was so sad; she wanted to start a family with Milton.

Then she had the idea to start the Hershey Industrial School for orphan boys. Boys applied from all over the country; Nelson and Irvin were the first boys accepted. Milton aimed to raise boys that were productive members of society with good virtues. He taught them to work hard and live by the Golden Rule: “Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.”

Milton’s Wall Street competitors became angry that he gave money to orphans. They told him to stop being so generous and try to make a larger profit with his money. Kitty loved the boys so much, as though they were her own children. However, her body deteriorated, and she could no longer walk and rode in a wheelchair. One day when Kitty and Milton were resting at the ocean, Milton got called away for business, and he left Kitty at the beach house with her nurse. Kitty got restless and decided that she should go back to Hershey with Milton.

As her nurse drove home, Kitty forgot to roll up the windows. She could not feel the cold air on her skin, and her body became frostbitten. The nurse stopped the car at the closest hotel and got a room for the night. By the time Milton arrived in the morning, Kitty was close to dying. She asked him for a glass of champagne, and when he returned, Kitty had passed away. Milton dropped to his knees crying and crying; he was stricken with grief.

In Kitty’s honor, Milton gave his entire fortune of $60 million to his orphan school. He wanted the school to last for many years to come. Milton’s competitors and Wall Street bankers were so jealous of his successes. The bankers wanted to destroy his town and company. They tried to put themselves in charge of his company by buying the controlling stock. The scheme didn’t work though; because the stock market crashed, the deal fell through. Milton was so happy that outsiders never took control of his town and company.

In time, Hershey Chocolate reached enormous global success. Now Milton was known for his generosity all over this great big world. During World War II, Milton even found a way to serve his country with chocolate. He produced Ration D Bars and Tropical Chocolate Bars for the U.S. military. Today, the Hershey Company is a global leader in chocolate production. The Milton Hershey School serves many orphan boys and girls. Milton has been a father to many generations through his sweet milk chocolate. All it took was one man with a big dream, and a heart full of love and kisses. 

 

Copyright 2014 Jennifer Waters

https://soundcloud.com/jen-waters/kisses-the-life-of-milton-s-hershey-spoken-word-narrated-by-jen-waters

Singing Lessons: The Life of Helen Keller

       Fourteen-year-old Helen Keller bustled through Grand Central Station. Although she could not hear or see, she sensed her surroundings. Everything felt new—rough edges, rushing air, and the sharp bite of big-city fumes.
  Her trusted teacher, Annie Sullivan, guided her carefully through the crowd. Years earlier, Annie had taught Helen to communicate through sign language, spelling words into her hand with fierce determination. Like Jacob wrestling with the angel in the Bible, Annie had struggled with Helen for days, refusing to give up until Helen received the blessing of language.
  Helen remembered the first word she learned—W-A-T-E-R—spelled into her palm at the pump in her Alabama yard. After mastering the manual alphabet and Braille, she longed to speak aloud. When her speaking voice finally emerged, it sounded harsh and strained, as though her mouth resisted her will. Still, Helen wanted more. She wanted her voice to move freely. That desire brought her to the Wright-Humason School in New York City.
  Of all her classes, singing lessons seemed the most frightening. At church, Helen knew that people sang psalms and hymns together, lifting their voices without fear. She, however, dreaded making a sound. Even a joyful noise felt dangerous. What if others laughed? Singing lessons would be the most intimidating of all her studies—but also, she hoped, the most rewarding.
  At the start of each lesson, Helen sat beside the piano and pressed her cheek against its wooden body. She felt the vibrations ripple through her skin as she touched the pedals and keys. The piano became her companion. She embraced it, sensing its rhythm and beauty, hoping one day her own voice might share its music.
  Her teacher, Dr. Thomas Humason, guided her breathing with patience. Helen placed her hands on his throat or rested them on the piano as he played. She tried with all her strength, yet progress came slowly. Often, she confused one note for another. The sounds tangled inside her, refusing to form clearly. Frustration tightened her chest.
  Helen struggled to breathe deeply, drawing air from her stomach instead of her chest. She had heard people describe opera singers as bluebirds, their voices light and soaring. She wondered what an eagle’s cry felt like and tried to summon it herself. No matter how much she practiced, embarrassment followed her efforts, and doubt crept in. Some days, she wanted to quit.
  While Helen labored through her lessons, Annie studied new techniques, determined to help her student succeed. She encouraged Helen to place her hands on Dr. Humason’s lips as he spoke. Though Helen’s understanding improved, rapid speech still escaped her. She longed to talk and sing as others did. At times, she felt trapped within her own body, confined by the limits of her hard-won language.
  Between lessons, Helen’s teachers took her on outings meant to inspire her. At the symphony, she felt the music rise through her feet and swell inside her chest, lifting her spirit until she felt almost weightless. On Washington’s birthday, her class visited a dog show at Madison Square Garden. The barking vibrated through the floor, not unlike the orchestra, though rougher and more playful. Helen found the bulldogs most fascinating, their barks deep and unmistakable.
  After the show, Dr. Humason brought Helen to the Metropolitan Club. Among the wealthy guests, she felt out of place and withdrawn. Conversation passed beyond her reach, so she returned to what she understood best—the piano. Sitting beside it, she felt its steady pulse and familiar rhythm. On the walk back to school, Helen asked if she might also learn to play. Perhaps piano lessons, she thought, would help her singing.
  Before each lesson, Helen practiced at the school piano, humming softly as she touched the keys. She tried to draw the tone up through her body and into her voice. When frustration overwhelmed her, she struck the keys harder, imagining herself someday composing beautiful songs.
  One Saturday, the teachers planned a special outing: a visit to Bedloe’s Island to see the Statue of Liberty. Though Helen could not see the great figure, its meaning stirred her deeply. Liberty—a woman standing tall, torch raised high—felt real to her in ways sight could not explain.
  Helen climbed the narrow staircase step by step, determination building with each turn. By the time she reached the top, she felt stronger than ever. She wanted to sing clearly—not for approval, but for herself. When she emerged into the open air, the sun warmed her face and the wind rushed through her hair. In that moment, she felt free.
  Helen understood then that her voice did not need to sound like anyone else’s. It was enough that it was hers. From that day on, she imagined her singing as beautiful, unburdened by judgment. Like Lady Liberty, she claimed her freedom—not in silence, but in song.

 

Copyright 2014 Jennifer Waters

Pen Jen's Inkwell Podcast version:

Fourteen-year-old Helen Keller bustled through Grand Central Station. Although she could not hear or see, she could sense her surroundings. All the feelings and smells were new–rough edges and big city fumes.

Her trusted teacher, Annie Sullivan, helped her stumble through the crowd. Only a few years ago, Annie taught Helen to speak through sign language. Instead of spoken words, she used hand signals to communicate. Like Jacob wrestled with the angel in the Bible, Annie fought with Helen for days. Annie would not give up until Helen received the blessing of communication.

Helen spelled her first word, W-A-T-E-R, to Annie at the pump in her Alabama yard. After learning the alphabet for sign language and Braille, Helen wanted to learn to talk. Although her speaking voice appeared miraculously, it sounded harsh and forced. So, Helen decided to study at The Wright-Humason School in New York.

More than any class at the school, singing lessons would help Helen learn to talk better. Everyone at church sings Psalms and hymns. Helen was always nervous to make a noise. Even with a joyful noise, she was too afraid that the congregation would make fun of her. Singing lessons would be the most intimidating of all Helen’s subjects at school, but they would also be the most rewarding if she could master the subject.

At the beginning of each singing lesson, Helen sat at the piano and felt its vibrations. She put her cheek on the soundboard to sense its rhythm and pressed the pedals. She embraced the piano as a friend and sensed its music, hoping to share in its beauty. At every lesson, her teacher, Dr. Thomas Humason, directed Helen’s breathing. Although she gave her best effort, she made very little progress. She was so disappointed. She kept her hands on Dr. Humason’s throat or on the piano as he played. Helen became confused easily, mistaking one note for another. She needed to learn better control of vowel and consonant sounds. 

The young student struggled to breathe from deep in her stomach, and not her chest. She longed to sing and had heard about opera singers who sounded like bluebirds. Helen wondered what the call of an eagle sounded like and tried to mimic it. Despite much practice, she was embarrassed and unsure she wanted to continue. 

As Helen struggled with her singing lessons, Annie became friends with other professors. She studied new techniques to help Helen learn more clever ways of speaking. Instead of just placing her hands on Dr. Humason’s throat, Helen placed them on his lips. Although her lip-reading improved, she still could not understand rapid speech. Helen wanted so much to be able to talk and sing like other people. Some days, she felt trapped in her own body, limited by her simple sign language. 

In between her singing lessons, Helen’s teachers took her on fields trips for inspiration. Helen visited the symphony, where she could feel the music through her feet. The orchestra welled up in her soul, and she felt lighter than air. On Washington’s birthday, Helen’s class went to a dog show at Madison Square Garden. The barking sounds of the dogs felt almost the same as the orchestra to Helen. She found the bulldogs the most fascinating with their unique bark. 

After the dog show, Dr. Humason took Helen to the Metropolitan Club. Helen felt as though she did not fit in with the wealthy New York crowd. She found it hard to communicate with them, so she sat next to her friend: the piano. Instead of talking to the crowd, she enjoyed the piano’s pulse and rhythm. On the way back to the school, Helen asked Dr. Humason if she could take piano lessons. Helen thought that the piano lessons would help her progress in singing. Before each singing lesson, Helen sat at the school’s piano and hummed notes. She tried to feel the tone from the piano so that it would come through her voice. As she pounded on the piano in frustration, she imagined writing wonderful songs. 

One Saturday, her teachers planned a special trip for the entire class: A visit to Bedloe’s Island to see Bartholdi’s Statue of Liberty–a free woman. Liberty was a gigantic figure in Greek draperies that held a torch in her right hand. Although Helen could not see Liberty, just the idea of her gave Helen motivation. She put one foot after the other up the staircase of Lady Liberty. As she walked straight to the top, Helen was more determined than ever to sing clearly. Even though Helen wanted other people to approve of her voice, as long as Helen liked her own singing, it did not matter what anyone else thought. When she reached the top of the stairs, Helen felt the sun on her face. As the wind blew through her hair, she embraced the freedom to sing.

Even though Helen could not speak the same way everyone else did, it was all right, and she was good enough. She was free, just like Lady Liberty. At every singing lesson from then on, Helen imagined that she had a beautiful voice. No one would judge her anymore; the freedom of singing was enough. 

 

Copyright 2014 Jennifer Waters

https://soundcloud.com/jen-waters/singing-lessons-the-life-of-helen-keller-spoken-word-narrated-by-jen-waters

Inspired by my fifth grade English teacher Miss Miller, where I studied about Helen Keller and learned the sign language alphabet.