The Great Magician's Feather Pen: The Story of the Ink Fairies and the Evil Squid Ink

“I’ve run out of ink!” cried the Great Magician of the Kingdom of Reynes, tipping his jar upside down. Not a single drop fell onto the parchment.

He pressed harder with his feather pen. The line it made was faint and scratchy—more sigh than story.

Outside his tower window, silver-leaf trees swayed in the wind. A half-written manuscript lay before him. The final chapter refused to arrive.
      “Ink Fairies!” he called. “Where are you? I cannot finish without ink!”
      A shimmer of blue light flickered near the bookshelf.
      “Here, sir!” Pherenice descended first, her wings dusted with tiny blue blossoms. Moonshadow and Blossom followed close behind, each carrying glowing jars.
      “We brewed through the night,” Pherenice said, placing a jar carefully on his desk.
      The Magician exhaled with relief.  

“My faithful fairies,” he said. 
      He dipped the pen. Ink flowed rich and dark once more. Words formed. A forest. A lantern. A child at the edge of bravery.
      But Moonshadow did not leave.
      “There is trouble,” she whispered to the Magician.
      Pherenice unfolded a sheet of seaweed parchment on his desk. The letters shimmered black and slick. The Evil Squid Ink had written a letter.
      The Magician read the message slowly. The Squid claimed the Ink Press should belong to him. He said the Magician’s stories were childish nonsense. He promised to rise from Lake Doom and take control of the Timeless Library itself. He also wanted the Ink Press—the ancient machine that first stamped stories into being.
      “Half-rate,” the Magician murmured.
      The word clung to him like cold mist. From the tower window, the surface of Lake Doom churned black and restless, as if something enormous turned beneath it. 
      What if the Squid was right? What if stories were no longer needed? What if children preferred noise and clamor to quiet tales told at bedtime?
      His hand trembled slightly above the parchment.
      Pherenice hovered closer. “You look pale, sir,” she said. 
      “It is nothing,” he said. But it was not nothing. The doubt pressed against his ribs.
      A low rumble shook the tower.
      Ink splattered against the outer stone. Thick black drops slid down the windows like storm clouds melting.
      “The Evil Squid Ink is testing us,” Blossom cried.
      The Squid Ink Army had never come in full force to Reynes, though the Magician had long feared this day would come. 

Instead, squid tentacles stretched from the courtyard fountain, dipping into the moat and poisoning the water with darkness.
      “If the moat turns to ink, no stories can leave the tower,” Moonshadow warned.
      The Magician’s stomach tightened. The moat connected to the river that carried stories to the Timeless Library. If it blackened, the path would close.
      “Pherenice,” he said firmly, “take the silver vials. Pour them where the river bends.”
      She nodded once and flew through the open window.
      The Magician forced himself back to his desk. He must write. That was how stories survived—not through swords or spells, but through truth.
      He began drafting a new tale—one about a creature who envied light because he had none of his own. But the words faltered.
      What if no one read them?
      Below, in the courtyard, the tentacles thickened. The moat darkened further.
      Pherenice reappeared, splattered with silver droplets. 

“The first bend is cleared,” she panted. “But he’s drawing power from the old well.”
      The old well. The original source of enchanted ink.

The Magician noticed the slight tremble in Pherenice’s wings. She steadied herself before speaking. 

“I will not let the well fall again,” she said. “I have made enough mistakes.”

The Magician studied her soot-streaked wings. He had never heard her speak of failure before. If the Squid corrupted the well, the Magician’s pen would never flow again.
      He rose from his chair. For a moment, he considered sealing the tower doors and hiding his manuscripts. Protecting what already existed.
      But stories were not meant to be hidden.
      “They must be carried forward,” he whispered.
      All of a sudden, the tower doors burst open below.
      This time the Squid came in full force. Ink bombs splattered the spiral staircase. Tentacles coiled around banisters.
      “Write!” Pherenice urged again. “If you finish the story, it will weaken him.”

“And if it is not sealed in the Timeless Library before midnight,” Moonshadow added, her voice trembling, “its magic will fade by dawn.”

The Magician glanced at the clock carved into the tower wall. The hands were already nearing the eleventh hour.

He dipped his pen. There was no time for doubt now. He wrote of children who kept reading even when the lights flickered. He wrote of fairies who guarded ink at the cost of their own wings. He wrote of courage that did not roar but glowed quietly in dark places.
      The tentacles climbed higher.
      The chamber doors shuddered.
      “He’s nearly here,” Moonshadow breathed.
      The Magician’s heart thundered. Doubt pressed against him one last time.
      What if this story failed? What if darkness swallowed it whole?

What if he had written his last great story already?
      He thought of a small child somewhere turning pages beneath a blanket. He thought of laughter rising from a bedtime story.
      No darkness could erase that.
      He bent low and wrote the final lines:
      And so the creature who sought to steal the light of stories discovered that stories cannot be stolen. They must be shared, and shared they will be.
      “The End,” he said.
      The chamber doors exploded inward.
      The Evil Squid Ink slithered across the floor, towering and gleaming black.
      “You believe ink and paper can stop me?” the Squid hissed. “You never even read my story. You cast it into the depths because it frightened you.”

The Magician’s grip tightened on his pen. 

“Stories are meant to guide, not to terrify,” he said.  

The Squid’s eyes gleamed as his tentacles lashed forward, coiling around the Magician and squeezing tight.

“Stories are meant to command,” the Squid said. “To bend minds. To make the world obey. The darker the tale, the stronger I grow.”

The Magician tightened his grip on the feather pen.

With one swift motion, he pressed its enchanted tip against the Squid’s arm.

Silver light burst outward.

The Squid recoiled, smoke curling where the pen had touched him.

Outside the shattered window, Pherenice gathered the finished manuscript. 

“To the Library!” she called.

The fairies flew through wind and ink-streaked sky toward the Timeless Library—a towering hall beyond mountains and mist where shelves stretched farther than sight.

They entered through the Arch of First Words. Ancient lamps flickered awake. The Keeper of Time, robed in pages and dust, looked up as they approached.

“A story forged in battle,” he observed.

“It must be registered at once,” Pherenice said.

The Keeper pressed a golden seal onto the manuscript. Symbols shimmered across its cover, marking it under a rare classification: Stories That Guard the Light.

The shelves shifted, making space. The manuscript glowed briefly before settling into place among timeless volumes.

“Deliver it to a writer,” the Keeper instructed Pherenice. 

The fairy carried the glowing book across sea and city until it appeared beside a sleeping writer’s bed, a writer who had almost given up on stories. 

When the writer woke, her imagination shimmered like morning frost. She hurried to her desk, scribbling ideas that felt older than memory and brighter than sunlight.

Back in Reynes, the Evil Squid Ink retreated down the tower staircase, weakened by the silver mark blazing on his arm from the Magician’s pen.

With a furious splash, he vanished into Lake Doom.

The moat cleared. The river brightened.

Silence settled over the kingdom.

The Magician sank into his chair, exhausted but steady.

Pherenice returned at last, wings singed at the edges.

“It is done,” she said softly.

He looked at her closely. “You were brave.”

“We guard the ink,” she replied. “But you guard the stories.”

The Magician dipped his feather pen into a fresh jar. The ink flowed easily now.

Far away, he felt the ripple of pages turning.

A child was reading.

He smiled. Perhaps he had not written his last great story after all.

Copyright 2020, 2026 Jennifer Waters

Pen Jen's Inkwell Podcast version:

“I’ve run out of ink for my pen!” said the Great Magician of the Kingdom of Reynes as he dumped his ink jar. The Magician scratched his feather pen across the handmade paper, only to make a faded line. 

“Where are you, Ink Fairies?” he called out the window. “I need more ink. I have stories to write!” He looked at his stacked manuscripts sitting in his bookshelf, neatly bound with his leather and string. Like all magicians, the Great Magician had a special gift that distinguished him in the kingdoms—his was storytelling.

In fact, whether or not people knew it, he was responsible for writing all the stories in every kingdom of the world. 

After he wrote the masterpieces, the Ink Fairies took his work and put them in the Timeless Library, where all stories were saved despite space or time. Then, when an author or scribe needed a story, the Ink Fairies delivered the original book to their beside at night. 

When they woke in the morning, the stories had been inscribed in their memory through the Magician’s spell. Of course, only the Great Magician and the Ink Fairies knew this secret. If humans knew of the Magician’s power, they would be jealous and covet his magic, which they already thought was their own. 

“Here I am, sir!” said Pherenice the Fairy, who had heavenly blue flowers on her wings. “We worked all night on making a new batch of ink for you,” she said, dropping the latest batch of fairy ink on his desk with a thump. 

One after another the Great Magician checked off the names of the Ink Fairies as they delivered their full ink jars: Blossom, Cherry, Dewdrop, Euclea, Flutter, Glimmer, Moonshadow, Songbird, Twinkle, Veil, and Wonderspell.

“Fabulous!” the Magician said. “I have enough ink for my work next week, and all is well with the world.”

“Well, all is well almost,” Moonshadow said, who was so bright that she always had a shadow behind her.

“What is it this time?” the Great Magician said. “Let me guess! The Ink Press is broken again!”

“No . . . not exactly,” Cherry said. “It’s more like the Evil Squid Ink sent us a letter on seaweed parchment.” 

“What does he want now? Squid can stay at the bottom of Lake Doom; and stop trying to steal my stories!” the Great Magician said. 

“He’s always wanted your ink,” Blossom said, sitting on the Magician’s shoulder. “He can’t write stories like you!”

“I wouldn’t worry if I were you,” Dewdrop said, cleaning her ink bottle with her shiny wings.

“No, I would worry,” Euclea said. “The Evil Squid Ink is evil for reasons—he wants to take over the Ink Press.”

Flutter fluttered over to the Magician, handing him the threatening note on seaweed parchment, which he read:

“Great Magician: I am coming for you! I will take your Ink Press for my own. I am the Evil Squid Ink, and you are only a half-rate Magician who comes up with fairy stories that have taken over the minds of children and their parents for far too long. My ink will now be known throughout generations! Your Ink Press and Timeless Library will be mine! This is war. Leave the Kingdom of Reynes before I force you out with my Squid Ink Army. I am the one with the Ink. You’ve never been anything other than a plagiarizing fool. Truly, The Evil Squid Ink.”

“What shall we do now?” Glimmer said. “There must be a glimmer of hope somewhere. There always is . . .”

“We must secure the Ink Press,” Veil said. “And then we must prepare for a fierce and long battle.”

“I will call for the neighboring fairies to come to our defense,” Songbird sang, flying across the Magician’s office.

“None of that will defeat him!” the Magician said. “I must write what’s happening in a story, and it must get published in the human world, so they can know the lies of the Evil Squid Ink. It’s the only way to defeat him for good!”

“Then, he’d stay at the bottom of Lake Doom in hiding, fearful that the humans would destroy him,” Twinkle said, with a sparkle in her eye. “The story must make it to the Timeless Library by midnight of the last day of the month for it to be available to its author in this season. Otherwise, it has no chance to get published until next year.”

“This means that I have three days,” The Magician said. “I will need constant ink and no distractions! Then, you must deliver the story to the Timeless Library, and its author without delay! Telling this story is the only way to win.”

“Until you finish the greatest piece of fiction ever written, we’ll protect you!” Wonderspell said. “The Evil Squid Ink only wants to use the Ink Press and Timeless Library to promote his own meaningless and dark stories!”

“That will never happen, but we must deliver the story to an author who isn’t jealous of the Magician’s storytelling magic,” Pherenice said. “We’ll find the best author available and prepare to fight the Squid Ink Army.”

Day and night for the next three days, the Magician worked tirelessly on “The Story of the Evil Squid Ink.”

“More ink!” the Great Magician said, rubbing his sore wrist. “I must have more ink! Fairies! Where are you?”

In the meantime, the Evil Squid Ink descended on the Magician’s castle, throwing deadly ink bombs. As Pherenice delivered the jars of ink, the other fairies defended the Kingdom of Reynes from the evil Squid Ink Army. They sent fairy dust into the squid tentacles, causing confusion so they couldn’t throw the ink bombs.

Although the Squid Ink Army was relentless, the Ink Fairies didn’t back down, defusing the ink bombs before they could detonate and sending them back to the slippery squids. 

The Ink Fairies’ cleverness enraged the Evil Squid Ink, who wanted to kill the Magician. “I’ll settle this myself,” he said, growling. “The world will know my stories!”

As he made his way to the Great Magician’s chambers, the fairies fought him until he arrived at the wizard’s door. 

“I must finish this story!” the Magician said, placing his feather pen behind his ear. “I’m on the last chapter.”

He scribbled and scrawled as quick as he could of the horrors of the Evil Squid Ink, ending the manuscript with this sentiment: “And so the horrendous creature hid at the bottom of Lake Doom for the rest of time, never to use words against humankind. Instead, stories were only used for the good of men and women alike. The End.”

“Quickly!” the Magician called to the Ink Fairies. “Take my manuscript to the Timeless Library. Register it among the Books of Time, and then deliver it to its author and scribe among humankind. Hurry! There is no time to waste.”

As Pherenice and a group of fairies from neighboring kingdoms flew through the window to pick up the masterpiece, the Evil Squid Ink blew open the front door of the Great Magician’s chambers with an especially potent ink bomb.

“Fly as fast as you can!” the Magician said, sending the fairies on their way to the Timeless Library as the Squid Ink Army chased them with ink bombs. While the fairies took off, the Evil Squid Ink wrestled the Great Magician on the chamber floors.

“I will end your version of the story,” the Evil Squid Ink screeched, wrapping his tentacles around the Magician’s throat. 

“Never!” the Great Magician declared. “This is not your story to tell! I will not let you tell lies to the world.”

The Evil Squid Ink almost strangled the Magician with its arms until the Magician stabbed him with his feather pen.

“This pen is sharper than a knife!” the Magician said, as the varmint slithered into the hall, bleeding. 

Of course, the beast crawled away before the Magician could kill him, and it shrank back into Lake Doom with his army. 

“You got away!” the wizard said, stumbling into the hall. “I knew the only way to truly defeat you was to tell your story.” 

Meanwhile, Pherenice and the fairies expedited “The Story of the Evil Squid Ink” through the Timeless Library, registering it with a special code in a category all its own: “Stories that Save the Fate of Humankind and Their Children.”

Before the Evil Squid Ink could reorganize himself for another attack, Pherenice delivered the manuscript to the beside of Pen Jen, an American author who was well-known for her children’s magazine, Pen Jen’s Inkwell. 

When she awoke in the morning, she scribbled notes on paper by her beside and made an outline during breakfast. With the story at her bedside, the Great Magician’s spell overtook her imagination with vivid images and characters. 

“I’ve come up with the best story yet,” she told her mother on the phone. “There’s this magician with a feather pen, and he has ink fairies who give him magic ink to write classic stories for all humanity, and a squid that is jealous of the magician’s enchanted stories. It’s going to be marvelous! I’ll let you read it for typos when I have the first draft.”

By the time the manuscript was a published best-seller in New York City, the Evil Squid Ink was so afraid the humans would kill him and his Squid Ink Army that he stayed at the bottom of Lake Doom for eternity, never to threaten the Great Magician again. All the while, the Great Magician with the help of his Ink Fairies kept writing the stories that humankind loved. His magic feather pen had never been so delightful!

Copyright 2020 Jennifer Waters

https://soundcloud.com/jen-waters/the-great-magicians-feather-pen

"Cain & Abel," A GOSPEL SONG

VERSE:

Cain was able to walk in the garden, 

And able to eat from the trees.

He was able to drink from the river,

And able to work as he pleased.

REFRAIN:       

But Cain killed Abel,

‘Cause Cain wasn’t able to love.

VERSE:           

Cain was able to speak with the angels,

And able to talk straight to God.

He was able to dream of the heavens,

And able to give life a nod.

REFRAIN:       

But Cain killed Abel,

‘Cause Cain wasn’t able to love.

BRIDGE:         

He could have been,

His brother’s keeper.

Now his blood is on our hands.

Still no one understands,

His blood desires to have you and me.

VERSE:           

Cain was able to seek new beginnings,

And able to stand in the light.

He was able to fight back the darkness,

And able to do what was right.

REFRAIN:       

But Cain killed Abel,

‘Cause Cain wasn’t able to love.

                       

BRIDGE:         

He could have been,

His brother’s keeper.

Now his blood is on our hands.

Still no one understands,

His blood desires to have you and me.

(REPEAT BRIDGE)

REFRAIN:       

Cain killed Abel,

‘Cause Cain wasn’t able to love.

But Cain killed Abel,

‘Cause Cain wasn’t able to love.

Oh, Cain killed Abel,
‘Cause Cain wasn’t able to love.

TAG:                

A restless wanderer he will be.

A restless wanderer he will be.

A restless wanderer he will be.
A restless wanderer he will be.

Copyright 2016 Jennifer Waters

Bubblegum Taffy Hot Pink High Heels: The Story of Time-Traveling Shoes

“I’ve got on my Bubblegum Taffy Hot Pink High Heels!” announced 12-year-old Aiyana Mitchell from the back porch.
      No one answered.
      Her best friend Maya was at sleepaway camp for six whole weeks. The neighborhood kids were visiting cousins. Even the pool felt too big and too quiet without someone to race.
      Every summer day felt exactly the same.
      Wake up. Swim. Dry off. Repeat.
      Aiyana wanted something unexpected. Something different.
      “My time-traveling shoes,” she whispered, pulling the sparkling pink laces tight.
      Aunt Olivia had given them to her at the start of summer.
      “These belonged to a magical shoemaker in England,” Aunt Olivia had said with a wink. “I found them at Portobello Road Market years ago. They only work for someone brave enough to try.”
      No one else believed Aunt Olivia’s stories. But Aiyana did.
      Her mother definitely did not.
      “It’s better to stay in the present,” her mom always said. “Adventure is fine. Just don’t go looking for trouble.”
      Still, Aiyana had hidden the shoes in an old box under her bed. Just in case.
      Now she slipped them on.
      “Somewhere beautiful,” she decided. “Somewhere not boring.”
      She clicked her heels together three times, blinked twice, and said the rhyme Aunt Olivia taught her.
      “Two steps forward, three steps back,” she said. 
      Aunt Olivia had warned her of one rule: Never lose the shoes in another time.
      The air spun around her, tugging at her hair and sleeves, as if the world had grabbed her and pulled her somewhere else.      

When she opened her eyes, she was sitting in a wooden rowboat floating on a quiet lake. She wore a lace dress. A parasol rested in her hand. Swans glided past like drifting clouds.
      It looked like one of her favorite Impressionist paintings.
      For one perfect second, she felt important. Elegant. Brave.
      Then the boat tipped.
      The parasol slipped.
      The world flipped.
      Splash!
      Freezing water swallowed her. The lace dress dragged at her legs. She kicked and grabbed the side of the boat, coughing.
      And then she saw them.
      Her Bubblegum Taffy Hot Pink High Heels were sliding off her feet.
      They sank slowly, like two bright fish disappearing into shadow.
      “No!” she cried. “Come back!”
      They vanished into the dark water.
      Her heart pounded so loudly she could hear it in her ears.
      She wasn’t just wet. She wasn’t just embarrassed.
      She was trapped.
      “My lady! Are you hurt?” called a man in a striped full-body swimming suit from the shore. He dove toward her without waiting for an answer.
      “My shoes!” Aiyana gasped. “They fell to the bottom. I need them.”
      “Shoes?” he asked, treading water beside her.
      “They’re not just shoes,” she whispered.
      He nodded once and took a deep breath before diving.
      Aiyana clung to the rocking boat. The lake smelled like mud and old leaves. What if the shoes were buried in the sand? What if he couldn’t see their bright pink color in the dark water?
      What if she had to live here forever?
      No phone. No air conditioning. No Maya.

She might never get home. 
      The man surfaced, shaking water from his hair.
      “I cannot see them,” he said.
      Her throat tightened.
      “Please,” she begged. “Try again.”
      He studied her for a moment. 

“You do not belong here,” he said quietly.
      She froze.
      He dove again.
      This time he stayed under longer. Much longer.
      Aiyana squeezed her eyes shut.  

She didn’t want to run anymore. She just wanted to get home.      

Just as panic bubbled up in her chest, a hand burst through the water.
      Clutched in it were two sparkling pink heels.
      “I found them wedged between stones,” the man said, breathing hard. “You must hold onto what brings you home.”
      Home.
      Aiyana swallowed. 

“Thank you,” she said softly.
      She slid the wet shoes back onto her feet and tied them tightly—double knots this time.
      Before she clicked her heels, she looked at the man one last time. For a second, he reminded her of Uncle Herb. Or maybe someone she hadn’t met yet.
      “Will I see you again?” she asked.
      He smiled in a way that felt familiar. 

“You’ll see,” he said. “Time has a way of bringing people back.”
      She clicked her heels. Blinked twice.
      “Three steps forward, two steps back,” she said. 
      The lake dissolved into sunlight. The swans blurred. The boat faded.

In the blink of an eye, she was back on her porch in suburban Philadelphia.

Her mom called from inside. 

“Aiyana! Dinner!” she said. “Please set the table.”
      Water dripped from her hem as she walked into the kitchen.
      Her mother stared at the puddles. 

“Did you fall into the pool again?” her mom asked. 
      “Something like that,” Aiyana said.
      Later, she slid the shoes back into their box under her bed. She still wanted to visit the Roaring Twenties. The Renaissance. Even outer space. 

But maybe adventure didn’t mean escaping the present. Maybe it meant learning how to stand inside it—even when it felt quiet. 

She slipped on her flip-flops and went downstairs to help set the table.
      Summer suddenly felt a little less lonely.

Copyright 2020, 2026 Jennifer Waters

Pen Jen's Inkwell Podcast version:

“I’ve got on my Bubblegum Taffy Hot Pink High Heels!” announced 12-year-old Aiyana Mitchell, sitting on the back porch. 

She lived in the suburbs of Philadelphia and spent one too many summer days at the swimming pool.

“My time-traveling shoes!” she declared. “I can close my eyes and travel to places in the future and the past!”

As she pulled the laces tight on her sparking pink heels, she thought of where she would like to travel for the first time. Of course, the pointy stiletto shoes were a special gift from her Aunt Olivia, who had outgrown time-traveling with age.

“These shoes are now yours,” Aunt Olivia told her niece. “Have the time of your life! I’ve traveled enough for now.”

As the story goes, the shoes originally came from an era of magic shoemakers in England during the late 1890s. She bought them on a trip to England from the Portobello Road Market without knowing their magic powers until she put them on her feet. Her aunt had used the shoes to travel to so many places that it seemed like she was on a constant vacation. 

The family always said that her aunt was full of stories, and none of them could be true, but Aiyana always believed in her excursions and loved receiving her souvenirs. Now she was about to try the shoes for the first time for herself. Since her aunt didn’t have children, she gave the shoes to Aiyana, as long as she didn’t tell her mom about them. 

“It’s better to stay in the present—forget about the past and wait for the future,” Aiyana’s mom explained, rolling her eyes at her sister’s imagination. 

Despite her mother’s warning, Aiyana wanted the adventure and mystery of the time-traveling shoes. So, she hid them under her bed in what looked like a beat-up old shoebox, and her mom never noticed them. 

Now that she was ready to use them, she decided that she’d better try traveling some place calm and serene. 

“How about traveling to the early 1900’s to a lake with a boat and a fancy parasol and swans?” Aiyana asked aloud. 

Although the present was full of sunshine and blue sky, she was eager to research the earlier era. So, she put on the shoes, clicked them together three times—saying the riddle that Aunt Olivia taught her to say for traveling back in time—while blinking her eyes twice and visualizing a scene from one of her favorite Impressionist paintings: “Two steps forward, three steps back!”  

When she closed her eyes, she was transported to the other century, appearing wearing a lace dress and sitting in a boat on a lake. As she gathered her bearings, she grabbed the side of the boat with her left hand. The parasol slipped from her right hand.

“Oh, no!” she exclaimed, startled by the swans in the lake. Then, the boat capsized, and she fell into the lake with a splash. 

“This really does look like a scene from a painting by Pierre-Auguste Renoir,” Aiyana concluded, taking in the surroundings. 

Her once curly hair had lost its bounce when doused with the water from the lake. She felt like a fat sponge. In all the commotion, Aiyana’s time-traveling shoes slipped off her feet and sank to the bottom of the lake. 

“Now I’ll be stuck in the 1900’s forever!” she yelled, grabbing onto the side of the boat, kicking her feet. She pulled herself back up the side of the boat, sopping wet, and cried: “Someone help me get my shoes back!”

The lovely parasol floated on top of the lake as an upside-down umbrella across the rippling water.

“My lady! Let me help you!” proclaimed a proper gentleman in a striped, full body swimming suit, diving her direction. 

“I’m from the year 2020, and I lost my time-traveling shoes within a minute of being here!” she clarified for the man. “If you could dive to the bottom of the lake, and find the shoes, so I could go back to 2020, I’d appreciate it so much.”

“That is quite a story, young lady,” the man noted. “They must be your favorite pair of shoes to have such a story!”

“If you don’t find them, I’m going to have to scour the bottom of the lake by myself, and I can’t swim in this dress!” she worried. “And I will probably drown, trying to find my shoes! My mom expects me to be in the present for dinner!”

“Right away, madam! I’ll find those shoes. Then you can travel anywhere you want,” the man quipped, who looked a little bit like her Uncle Herb from the present. “I’m putting on my goggles, and I’m about to descend into the deep.”

As the man dove into the lake, Aiyana squeezed water out her lacy dress and paddled out to the parasol on the lake. 

When she raised the parasol, water dumped on her head, and she shook her head until she could see again. Then, the man swimming in the lake on her behalf popped his head above the water: “My lady, still no shoes!” He took a deep breath and went back underneath the water with a splash. A breeze blew over the lake. 

“Maybe I should have settled for the swimming pool!” Aiyana deliberated. “It might’ve been easier than all this adventure.”

From beneath the water, a hand arose with the Bubblegum Taffy Hot Pink High Heels, dripping wet.

“I found your lovely footwear,” the man celebrated, handing her the shoes with sand filling in the toes. 

“Thank you, kind sir,” Aiyana smiled, shaking the sand out of the shoes, and putting them back on her feet. “I’d rather live in the present. If I can come back to the past or brave the future, there must be a specific reason. I’m just so out of sorts.”

“Well, now you can go on your journey,” the kind sir proposed. “I’ll be swimming in the lake, if you return.”

Again, she put on the shoes, clicked them together three times, blinked her eyes twice, and this time repeated the riddle for traveling into the future: “Three steps forward, two steps back!” She visualized her mother’s swimming pool in her backyard.

With that, Aiyana returned to the present on the back porch in her Philadelphia home with her mother calling. 

“I’m so glad to be home,” she whispered, sighing with relief. “There really is no place like it!”

“Aiyana, come help me make dinner,” her mother prompted. “What have you been doing out there all afternoon anyhow?”

As Aiyana walked into the kitchen, she created a trail of footprints and a puddle of lake water that stunned her mom. 

“Did you just get out of the swimming pool?” her mom scolded her, wiping up the water with paper towels. “Please don’t tell me that you’ve been trying to figure out how to use those silly old shoes from Aunt Olivia.”

Aiyana ran upstairs to her bedroom before her mother could see her Bubblegum Taffy Hot Pink High Heels.

“Before I go time-traveling again, I need to ask my aunt for advice,” Aiyana considered. “It really has to go better next time. Maybe I should tie the shoes to my feet with ribbons. I’d really like to travel to all kinds of places, like the Roaring Twenties, the 50’s in America, the 1980s, the Renaissance, and future space travel. Time has no limit!”

With that, she put the shoes back into the old box underneath her bed and slipped on her flip flops—ready for the present. 

Copyright 2020 Jennifer Waters

https://soundcloud.com/jen-waters/bubblegum-taffy-hot-pink-high-heels

Sir Lion and the Lanky Giraffe: The Story of Roaring and Humming Out Loud

In the golden heart of the savanna, where tall grasses rippled like waves and acacia trees stretched toward the sun, Sir Lion padded proudly across his land. His mane glowed like fire in the sunlight, and he loved nothing more than to roar so loudly that the whole plain shook beneath him.

The Lanky Giraffe walked nearby, humming those strange little melodies he was so fond of. To Sir Lion, they sounded more like breezes than music.

“I like to roar as loud as possible and scare everyone far and wide,” Sir Lion said, lifting his chin.

“Why do you like to do that?” the Lanky Giraffe asked. “When I hum, I’m so quiet that everyone has to listen. It makes the whole savanna stop and think.”

Sir Lion flicked his tail. He could not imagine anyone choosing humming over a magnificent roar. Roaring felt powerful—important—exactly how a lion should feel.

“I’m the loudest!” he declared. “They will never hear your humming,” he added as he strutted away, certain he had made his point.

So, the two wandered the plains together—Sir Lion roaring, the Giraffe humming.

Sir Lion ROARED with all his might, delighted when the tall grass shuddered and shook beneath the force of his voice. Yes. That was strength. That was presence.

But every time he roared, he noticed something strange: animals who ran from his sound paused when the Giraffe hummed. They tilted their heads, listening as if the quiet tune pulled them closer. Sir Lion tried to hear what they heard, but the melody was so soft it barely brushed his ears.

One day, while the pair wandered through the bush, Sir Lion’s whiskers twitched. Someone unfamiliar was nearby. A poacher crept into the field, a gun slung over his shoulder.

“Quick! Hide behind this tree,” whispered the Lanky Giraffe.

Sir Lion squeezed in beside him, but blending in was never easy for a round, rumbling lion. As he shifted his weight, his paw landed on a dry branch. CRACK!

The poacher spun around and lifted his gun straight at Sir Lion.

Sir Lion’s breath caught in his throat. His paws tingled. His roar—his mighty roar—would not come. He had never felt fear freeze him like this.

Then, through the rustling leaves, he heard it: “Hmm . . . hmm . . . hmm . . .”

The Giraffe’s humming floated to him—steady, slow, sure. Something about the gentle rhythm loosened the tightness in Sir Lion’s chest. The humming wrapped around him like warm air, helping him breathe . . . listen . . . think.

“What is that?” the poacher muttered, stepping toward the sound.

As the man turned his back, the humming grew clearer. Sir Lion felt his strength returning—not wild and reckless, but calm and focused. He drew in a deep breath. His paws steadied. His courage rose.

With one perfect, powerful ROAR, Sir Lion made the ground tremble.

The poacher yelped, dropped his gun, and sprinted across the field as fast as his legs could carry him. Sir Lion watched him flee, his heart pounding but proud.

The Giraffe continued humming a soft tune, his eyes warm as Sir Lion padded toward him.

“Your humming helped me think,” Sir Lion admitted. “It made my roar stronger.”

“Sometimes,” the Lanky Giraffe said gently, “the quietest sound helps the loudest voice know what to do.”

Sir Lion nodded. He understood now. Roaring wasn’t everything. Strength came from calm as well as power. 

“Before I roar, I will hum,” he said. “Then, I’ll know I’m heard.”

And from that day on, Sir Lion learned that sometimes the quietest one in the jungle helped him become the most powerful of all.

 

Copyright 2016, 2026 Jennifer Waters

 

LOGLINE

When a timid moment leaves Sir Lion unable to roar, his quiet friend the Lanky Giraffe helps him discover that true strength comes not from being the loudest, but from listening, calming, and finding the courage within.

 

PITCH

When Sir Lion sets out each day to prove he’s the loudest animal in the savanna, his quiet companion, the Lanky Giraffe, follows along humming soft melodies that draw listeners instead of frightening them away. But when a poacher suddenly appears in the bush and aims his gun at Sir Lion, the mighty lion freezes—his roar gone, his courage vanished. Only the Giraffe’s steady humming reaches him through the fear, helping him regain his breath, focus his strength, and unleash one perfect roar that sends the poacher running. Grateful and changed, Sir Lion learns that the calmest sound can guide even the boldest heart, and that real power comes not from noise, but from knowing when—and how—to use your voice.

In the Fields of Boaz: The Story of Ruth

            A long time ago, there was a woman named Ruth who lived in the land of Moab. Ruth married Mahlon, whose mother Naomi came from Bethlehem in Judah. When famine came to Bethlehem, Naomi and her family moved to Moab to find food.

            Years passed, and Naomi’s husband died. Her house grew quiet. Too quiet. Then, her two sons died, too. One by one, the voices she loved were gone.

            Naomi was left with only her daughters-in-law—Ruth and Orpah.

            One day Naomi heard, “There is food again in Bethlehem.” 

            So, she decided to return home. Naomi turned to the young widows and said gently, “Go back to your families. May the Lord help you find new homes and new husbands.”

            Orpah cried and kissed Naomi goodbye. Then she turned to Ruth, and they held each other for a long moment before she walked away. But Ruth held Naomi’s hand tightly—so tightly it trembled—and would not let go.

            “Ruth,” Naomi pleaded, “turn back.” 

            Ruth lifted her eyes, steady and sure, and said, “Where you go, I will go. Where you stay, I will stay. Your people will be my people, and your God my God.”

            So, Ruth and Naomi walked the long road to Bethlehem together. 

            When they arrived, the town stirred with surprise. 

            “Can this be Naomi?” the people whispered. 

            Naomi nodded. “It is,” she said, and she introduced Ruth, the brave young woman beside her. “This is my daughter-in-law.”

            It was the start of the barley harvest. Ruth said, “I will glean in the fields, so we can eat.

            In Bethlehem, the poor were allowed to gather leftover grain after the workers passed through. That day, Ruth found herself in a field belonging to a man named Boaz.

            Boaz arrived and paused. His eyes rested on Ruth. 

            “Who is that young woman?” Boaz asked. 

            “This is Ruth,” the overseer said, “the Moabite who returned with Naomi.” 

            Ruth stepped forward. “May I glean here?” she asked softly.

            Boaz answered kindly. “Stay in my field where you will be safe. Drink when you are thirsty. No one will harm you,” he said. 

            Ruth bowed low, overwhelmed by his goodness. 

            “I have heard what you did for Naomi,” Boaz said. “You left your home to care for her. May the Lord reward you under His wings.”

            At mealtime, Boaz shared food with Ruth, and he told his workers, “Leave extra stalks for her—treat her with dignity.” 

            Ruth brought home grain to Naomi, and Naomi praised God. 

            “Boaz is family,” Naomi explained. “He is a kinsman redeemer—one who helps rescue relatives in trouble.”

            Weeks passed, and the harvest ended. Naomi knew Ruth needed a home and a future of her own. That night Ruth went to the threshing floor and spoke bravely to Boaz. 

            “Please spread your garment over me,” she said. “You are our family’s redeemer.”

            Boaz sat up, surprised but respectful. “You are a woman of noble character,” he said. “There is one redeemer closer than I am, but I will settle this today.” 

            At the town gate, Boaz spoke with the closer relative. The man chose not to marry Ruth and gave up his right, sealed by the giving of a sandal.

            So, Boaz redeemed Naomi’s land and married Ruth. In time, Ruth and Boaz had a baby boy named Obed. Naomi held her grandson close, her empty arms full again, and whispered thanks to God. 

            Obed became the father of Jesse, and Jesse became the father of David—the young shepherd who would one day defeat a giant named Goliath.

            And some say that Goliath came from the family line of Orpah—so that long ago, the paths of Ruth and Orpah met again—one in faith, and one in strength—on a field far from Bethlehem.

            Copyright 2026 Jennifer Waters

TEACHING TEXT:

Once there was a woman named Ruth who lived in the land of Moab. She had married Mahlon of Judah, the son of a woman named Naomi. When the famine started in her hometown of Bethlehem, Naomi and her husband Elimelek thought Moab would be easier, so they moved there. 

After ten years in Moab and the passing of her husband, Naomi knew she could not escape her problems in Moab. When Ruth’s husband, Mahlon, died, she had a choice. She could stay with her Jewish mother-in-law, Naomi, or she could leave Naomi and search for a new mate. Now there was a famine in the land of Moab, so it was a hard decision, especially since Naomi’s husband and two sons had died.

When Naomi heard of how God had provided food for the Jews in Bethlehem, she decided to return there from the land of Moab. Since both Naomi’s sons, Mahlon and Kilion were no longer alive, Naomi told Ruth and her other daughter-in-law, Orpah, to return to their families: “May the Lord grant that each of you will find rest in the home of another husband.”

Because the Israelites didn’t usually intermarry with foreign peoples, Naomi worried that Ruth and Orpah would not find husbands in Bethlehem. So, Naomi kissed her daughters-in-law goodbye, crying. “Never forget me,” Naomi said. “I love you.”

Ruth and Orpah had converted to Judaism when marrying Naomi’s sons. “Wait,” Ruth said,” holding Naomi’s hand, clinging to her side.  If Ruth left with Naomi, she would be leaving her whole way of life in Moab, but Ruth clung to Naomi and knew she must be a faithful friend.

Instead, Orpah kissed Naomi goodbye and left in tears. “Go with God,” Orpah said to the two women and headed off to her old life. At the time, although Ruth and Orpah didn’t have Jewish children, Orpah had four warrior sons later in life, including a giant named Goliath. 

“If I don’t go with you to Bethlehem, you’ll surely die,” Ruth said to Naomi. “You’re too old to make the journey alone, even if it means I remain a widow.” 

“Oh, my daughter,” Naomi said. “Let’s make the journey together.”

Ruth said, “Where you go, I will go, and where you stay, I will stay. Your people will be my people and your God my God.”

Despite any doubts, Ruth didn’t turn back after making this decision, and Naomi gave up trying to change Ruth’s mind. So, the two women traveled until they reached Bethlehem. When they arrived, the town was shocked to see Naomi with her new friend.

“Can this be Naomi? We thought she had died,” the townspeople said. 

“Yes,” she said. “As surely as the sun rises, I’m alive. This is my daughter-in-law, Ruth.”

As the barley harvest was beginning, the women made a new home on Elimelek’s land. 

“God will be good to us, Ruth,” Naomi said, preparing a morning meal for them both. 

Because of tradition in the land, Ruth gleaned the Bethlehem fields for leftover grain. After the harvest, the poor could glean the grain fields and vineyards. The custom allowed the needy to follow after reapers and pick up the fallen spears. As it turned out, Ruth was working in the field of Boaz. Boaz was a relative on Naomi’s husband’s side from the clan of Elimelek. He greeted the harvesters and overlooked his field. 

“Who is that young woman?” Boaz asked, looking at Ruth. 

The overseer said, “She is the Moabite who came back from Moab with Naomi.”

“Can I please glean your field?” Ruth said to Boaz in a soft voice. 

“Feel free to work with the women in my field, and do not fear harm,” Boaz said to Ruth.

“Whenever you’re thirsty, please, stop for a drink,” he motioned to her. 

Ruth bowed with her face to the ground, so thankful for his kindness.

“I’ve heard of what you did for Naomi after her husband died,” Boaz said. “You left your father and mother and homeland to come live with her.”

He looked at her with kindness, knowing she had suffered much for her choice.

“May the Lord repay you for what you have done,” Boaz said. “May you be richly rewarded by the Lord, the God of Israel, under whose wings you have come to take refuge.”

Then, Ruth shared mealtime with Boaz, eating what she wanted with some left over. She dipped bread in wine vinegar and feasted on roasted grain.

“Pull out stalks for Ruth from the bundles,” Boaz told his men in the field. “Make sure to treat her with dignity and respect when she’s working,” he explained.

At the end of the day, Ruth gave Naomi the grain that was collected. When Ruth told her that she had been gleaning the field of Boaz, Naomi praised God. 

“That’s the field of a close relative!” Naomi explained to Ruth. “I’m so relieved that you found a safe place to work,” she said. “Boaz is a kinsman redeemer with obligation to free a relative in serious difficulty.”

Among the Israelites, the kinsman redeemer often redeems property or a person, as a deliverer. “The Lord has not forsaken us, Ruth,” Naomi said, hugging her tightly. 

For the next few weeks, Ruth stayed close to the women of Boaz’s field as she gleaned. She gathered barley and wheat until the harvest was finished. As time went by, Naomi knew that Ruth needed a husband to fit in with the village life. Since Boaz was a relative of Naomi’s, she told her to approach him. 

“Put on perfume, dress in your best clothes, and go to the threshing floor,” Naomi told Ruth. Ruth did so and made her way to the threshing floor, praying in her heart. 

When Boaz finished eating, he lay down at the far end of the grain pile. Ruth approached him quietly, uncovered his feet, and lay down. During the night, Boaz was startled to find a woman lying at his feet. Ruth said, “Please spread your garment over me. You are a kinsman redeemer of our family.”

“All the people of my town know that you are a woman of noble character, but even if I’m a redeemer of your family, there’s another man more closely related,” Boaz replied. “He should be approached first before I agree to marry you. Sleep here tonight. In the morning, I will see if the man will redeem you from your troubles, or if I will.”

Ruth lay at Boaz’s feet until sunrise but got up before anyone saw her. Boaz did not want anyone to know that she came to him on the threshing floor. Before he went back to town, he poured six measures of barley in Ruth’s shawl.

“A wedding gift for Naomi,” Boaz said of his generosity. “Now run along home. Six days you shall do your work, and on the seventh day you shall rest.”

When Ruth went back to Naomi, she told her everything that happened. Naomi said, “Wait, my daughter, until you find out what happens. For the man will not rest until the matter is settled today.”

Meanwhile, Boaz went to the town gate and found the other kinsman redeemer. With ten elders of the town present, Boaz explained to the man Naomi’s situation.

“Since Naomi is selling her family’s land, you are first in line to redeem it,” Boaz said.

At first the man said he would redeem the land, but he did not want to marry Ruth. The ungracious relative said to Boaz, “Buy it yourself,” and he removed his sandal. 

In those days, a sale was final if a man took off his sandal and gave it to another man. A shoe—a symbol of law—made it a legally sealed process. 

So, Boaz married Ruth as his wife, and she conceived a son. When the baby was born, Ruth, a happy wife and mother, named him Obed. Naomi loved to care for her grandson and thanked God for him. Obed was the father of Jesse, who was the father of King David.

As a child, David triumphed over a Philistine giant named Goliath, the son of Orpah.

Copyright 2018 Jennifer Waters