Mandy Dandie's Pink Lemonade: The Story of a Secret Recipe

“Sherwood Neighborhood is coming apart at the seams,” yelped 10-year-old Mandy Dandie as she pedaled her pink bike past her neighbors on the street. She said it out loud because the words felt too heavy to keep in her chest.
            They did not even nod at her, much less say hello. A curtain snapped shut in Mrs. Bixby’s front window. Mr. Talbot pretended to be fascinated by his mailbox. Mandy rang her bell twice, bright and sharp, the way she used to when people actually looked up. No one did.
            “Nobody talks to each other,” she mumbled, turning into her driveway. “If anyone talks to me, all they want to do is pick a fight.”
            Her father came out from the garage, wiping his hands on a rag. Mr. Dandie always tried to look steady, but lately Mandy noticed little things—how he paused before opening bills, how his jaw tightened when the phone rang, how he stared at the kitchen calendar as if it might give him better answers.
            “Don’t worry about the neighbors, Mandy,” he said. “A lot of them have lost their jobs and are having a hard time finding new ones. The economy has been really tough for a lot of people. We just all need to help each other right now.”
            Mandy nodded, hugging him hard. Her mother had passed away when Mandy was an infant, and Mandy had no recollection of her—no voice, no smell, no warm hand on her forehead. Sometimes that made Mandy feel like their house was the only solid thing they had: the creaky front steps, the oak tree she loved to climb, the marks on the laundry-room doorframe that showed how she’d grown.
            “Why does everyone have to be so mean?” she asked.
            “I don’t know, honey,” Mr. Dandie replied, picking up the newspaper from the driveway and opening it. His eyes moved across the front page. “Ruben Gruff of Gruff Construction offers to buy the backyards of homeowners in Sherwood Neighborhood,” he read aloud.
            Mandy’s stomach tightened. “Buy the backyards? Why would anyone—”
            Her father kept reading, and his voice went flatter, the way it did when he was trying not to scare her. “Sherwood Neighborhood homeowners would earn an extra lump of much-needed cash,” he said. He lowered the paper and looked right at Mandy. “Oh, no.”
            “'Oh no,' what?” Mandy pressed.
            “Developers,” her dad said, scratching his head. “They’ll try to build extra houses in the neighborhood. It will be like living in an ice cube tray of cookie-cutter homes.”
            Mandy pictured rows of identical roofs and fences so close together you couldn’t stretch your arms without touching someone else’s. And then her mind went to the thought she tried not to think: if things “changed” enough, could they lose their house? If the neighborhood got “developed,” would their small white home still belong to them?
            “Does this mean he would tear down the trees?” Mandy asked, her voice smaller than she meant it to be.
            “Oh, Ruben will tear down trees and flower gardens for his new homes,” her dad said, and his eyes flicked toward their oak tree. “Built so close together that no one will be able to enjoy a picnic or a pool party.”
            Mandy’s throat burned. “I don’t want to lose the old oak trees I love to climb,” she blurted. Then, before she could talk herself out of it, she said the first idea that made her chest feel less tight. “Maybe if I had a lemonade stand, I could make money and give it to our neighbors. Then they might not take Ruben’s money.”
            Mr. Dandie’s face softened. “That’s a nice thought, Mandy.” He tried to smile. “Maybe the neighbors would rally round and help each other without resorting to Ruben’s destructive building project.”
            Mandy clung to that. Rally round. Help each other. Sherwood didn’t feel like Sherwood anymore, but maybe it could.

            She set to work building and painting a lemonade stand and opened it within the week at the end of her father’s driveway. She painted it pink because pink looked friendly even when people weren’t. She painted a sign in careful letters: LEMONADE! 50¢ A CUP.
            Her “secret recipe” was more sugar than water and bits of lemon rind, because Mandy believed extra effort deserved extra sweetness. The neighbors disagreed after tasting it.
            “This is awful!” Mr. Talbot complained, coughing into his hand. “It tastes nothing like lemonade.”
            Mrs. Bixby tried to help. “Honey, maybe… less sugar,” she said. “And maybe… no rind.”
            Mandy forced a laugh as if she didn’t care, but inside she felt hot with embarrassment. If she couldn’t sell lemonade, how was she supposed to stop a construction company?
            At the end of the hard week, Mandy counted her coins. The number was small enough to make her want to stomp her foot. She shoved the coins into her pocket and pedaled to the grocery store.
            “At least I’ll get some candy,” she decided. “I deserve it after all this effort.”
            As she passed a plant nursery, the owner was dragging a potted tree toward the curb as if he couldn’t wait to get rid of it. Mandy slowed. The tree’s fruit was…pink.
            Not pink like a trick. Pink like it belonged that way. And when the sunlight hit it, the air around it seemed to shimmer, as if the tree didn’t quite match the rest of the world.
            Mandy blinked hard. The shimmer stayed.
            “What’s this?” Mandy asked, stopping her bike.
            “A mistake,” the owner said. “An odd lemon tree. Nobody wants an ugly pink lemon tree. I’m done wasting space.”
            Mandy felt a tug in her chest, the same tug she felt right before a summer storm, when the sky turned green and everything got quiet. “It looks magical,” she whispered.
            The owner snorted. “Magic doesn’t pay rent,” he said. 
            Mandy dug out her coins and emptied them into her palm. It was all she had, and it was supposed to buy candy, but the tree glowed in a way candy never had. “Please let me have it,” she begged. “It’s a business investment.”
            “A business investment?” he repeated, eyeing the tiny pile of coins.
            “I need your pink lemon tree for my lemonade stand,” Mandy said quickly. “Business has been bad, but your tree will make it better. Everyone drinks regular lemonade. Pink lemonade will be original!”
            The owner stared at Mandy for a moment like he was deciding whether kids were always this dramatic. Then he shrugged. “Fine. Take it,” he said. 
            Mandy balanced the pot in her bike basket and rode home so carefully she barely breathed.

            The next day, Mandy set out her lemonade stand with her new pink beverage. She set the pink lemon tree on the stand like a crown. Her sign read: PINK LEMONADE! 50¢ A CUP.
            “I think my pink lemonade has magic in it,” she told her dad, because if she didn’t say it out loud, she might lose her nerve. “Who has ever heard of pink lemons?”
            Mr. Dandie stood beside her with a mug of coffee, trying to look relaxed. “Uh-huh,” he said, shrugging. “Don’t let customers stiff you.”
            The first customer—a lady Mandy didn’t know well—took a sip. Her eyes widened.
            “Wow! This is so tasty,” the lady said, dropping change into the jar. “Can I have more?”
            Mandy grinned. “Of course!”
            Then the lady’s mouth opened again, and a song poured out like it had been waiting behind her teeth. “I hate my job!” she serenaded. “I think I’ll quit in a few days!”
            The lady stopped mid-note, blinking in confusion. “Did I just… sing that?” she asked.
            Mandy’s heart thumped so hard she felt it in her throat. She looked at her father. He looked back at her, eyebrows raised.
            “Maybe your pink lemonade is magic after all,” Mr. Dandie murmured. “Everyone who drinks it starts singing their secrets.”
            Mandy’s skin prickled. It wasn’t just tasty. It was doing something. Something honest.
            Word spread fast. Neighbors wandered over “just to try it.” After a sip or two, they sang truths they seemed to have been swallowing for weeks.
            “I don’t know how I’ll pay the mortgage!” one man warbled, clutching his cup.
            “I’ve been snapping at my kids because I’m scared,” another woman confessed in a shaky melody.
            And then—strangest of all—after they sang, they laughed awkwardly and wandered off, lighter, as if the songs had carried something heavy away. They didn’t remember what they had sung.
            Mandy did, though. Every word stuck in her head like a note you couldn’t stop humming.
            That night, Mandy lay awake imagining her father reading bills at the kitchen table. She imagined the house being taken away—no more creaky steps, no more oak tree, no more proof that their life belonged to them. The thought made her stomach ache. If this lemonade made people tell the truth, maybe it could save them.

            Later that afternoon, Ruben Gruff strode down the street in a blue pin-striped suit with a clipboard, smiling like he was already the owner of everything he looked at. Mandy didn’t like him immediately, which made her feel proud of her instincts.
            He saw Mandy’s stand, tossed two quarters into the jar, and downed a cup of pink lemonade.
            Mandy held her breath.
            Ruben’s mouth opened—and out came a booming song. “My secret plan is to run a four-lane highway through the neighborhood!” he belted. “As soon as I get the neighbors to sign their properties away, I’ll take the contracts to a judge and argue that I own most of the neighborhood, so I can build whatever I want!”
            Mandy went cold. Not just houses. A highway. That meant noise, traffic, maybe fewer people wanting to live here at all. Maybe the value of their home dropping. Maybe her father forced to move them somewhere else, somewhere that didn’t feel like them.
            Ruben finished his song and smirked as if he’d only complimented the weather.
            Mandy sat very still. His song would have been easier to enjoy if it had rhymed, she thought weakly, because if she thought about rhymes, she didn’t have to think about losing her home.
            “Come back again soon,” she managed, even though her stomach felt sick.
            The second Ruben walked away, Mandy flipped her sign to BE BACK IN TEN MINUTES and sprinted inside.

            “Dad,” she gasped, “Ruben started singing his secret plan!” She spilled every detail, word for word, because she was afraid the truth might disappear if she didn’t say it fast enough.
            Mr. Dandie’s face went pale. He sat down hard. “I have no idea what to say,” he admitted. “Just… don’t tell anyone yet. Not until we see what happens.”
            Mandy stared at him. Don’t tell? Her whole body wanted to shout it from the roof. But her father looked frightened in a quiet, adult way, and that scared Mandy more than any developer.
            That evening, Mandy tried to warn Mrs. Bixby anyway—gently, without saying “highway” out loud.
            “Do you think… someone could trick people with contracts?” Mandy asked, pretending it was a random question.
            Mrs. Bixby smiled sadly. “Oh honey. People get desperate,” she said. “They’ll do anything for a little cash. Your daddy’s doing his best. Don’t carry grown-up problems on your shoulders.”
            Mandy walked home with her cheeks burning. Grown-up problems lived on her shoulders whether she invited them or not.

            At the city council meeting later that week, the room smelled like old carpet and worry. Ruben handed out contracts with practiced confidence. Neighbors took the papers with shaky hands. Mandy’s heart hammered.
            Her father leaned close. “Because of your lemonade, Ruben won’t remember what he sang,” he whispered. “Play dumb for now.”
            Mandy tried. She tried sitting still. She tried swallowing her words. But she could hear the future roaring in her head like traffic.
            Without asking her father, she stood on her chair and yanked a bullhorn from her backpack.
            “Ruben is going to run a highway through our neighborhood!” Mandy shouted. “Don’t sign away your backyards! Don’t do it!”
            The room froze. Some people gasped. Others frowned like Mandy had spilled juice on the floor.
            “She’s not on the agenda,” Ruben snapped, looking irate. “Sit down, little girl!”
            The council leader banged a gavel. “Mandy, you are not allowed to speak,” he said. “This meeting is for adults only. Please keep her quiet, Mr. Dandie. I need order.”
            Order. Like the order was more important than their homes.
            A few people chuckled—quick, uncomfortable laughs. Someone whispered, “Kids and their imaginations.”
            Mandy’s face burned. For a horrible second, she wondered if she was just being dramatic, if her fear had turned into a story in her head.
            Her father tugged at her sleeve, his voice low and pleading. “Mandy, please,” he said. 
            She climbed down, shaking. Tears spilled before she could stop them. She hated crying in public. 
            As the meeting continued, she watched neighbors accept Ruben’s papers and tuck them into folders like they were homework assignments. Next week, they would return them signed. Next week, her words would be too late.
            Outside, Mandy sat on the cold steps and pressed her palms to her eyes. Maybe she really didn’t have the right kind of voice. Maybe being age 10 meant you could see danger clearly but no one would believe you.
            She pictured her home again. The creaky steps. The oak tree. Her father’s tired smile. If she did nothing, she might lose all of it.
            Her embarrassment hardened into determination. She didn’t feel brave. She felt desperate.
            “I’m coming back next week,” she whispered. “I’m setting up my lemonade stand. I’m going to make everyone tell the truth.”
            Mr. Dandie’s face tightened. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” he admitted. “We might not be able to stop him.”
            Mandy lifted her chin. “I have to try,” she said. 
            After a long moment, her father nodded. “Okay, but… I might stay out of it. We might get in less trouble if I don’t show up,” he said quietly. “Sometimes, doing the right thing can cost you.”
            Mandy didn’t like that, but she understood the way adults feared consequences. Kids had consequences too—they just tasted like humiliation and helpless tears. 

            The next week, Mandy balanced the pink lemon tree in her bike basket and trailed her lemonade stand on a skateboard. Twice the pot nearly tipped, and she nearly toppled with it.
            “Come on, little pink lemon tree,” Mandy whispered, dusting gravel off the pot. “You just took a couple falls. You can’t die on me now.”
            Outside the council building, she set up shop. People crowded around for the bright pink drink.
            “Mandy Dandie’s Pink Lemonade!” she called. “Fifty cents a cup!”
            Neighbors admired the odd tree and dropped coins into the jar. After a sip or two, the singing began—first timid, then stronger.
            “I don’t want to sell Ruben my land…” one neighbor sang, voice trembling.
            “I need my backyard for my dog to run and play!” another pleaded.
            “I’d rather be broke than have anything to do with Ruben,” a small group harmonized, and Mandy felt something swell in her chest—courage, shared and multiplying.
            Only minutes later, Ruben arrived, watching the crowd with narrowed eyes. He looked amused, not alarmed, like he thought this was a silly trick.
            He grabbed a cup and drank a large swallow.
            Then he sang so loudly he was nearly shouting. “If I can buy just half the yards, the rest will fall—it isn’t that hard. I’ll build a highway straight through town, and once it’s there, prices go down. Then I’ll buy what’s left for cheap—the whole neighborhood will be mine to keep.”
            Mandy’s hands shook, but she forced herself to move. She pulled a small battery-operated tape recorder from her backpack—one her father kept in a drawer—and pressed RECORD.
            When Ruben finished, Mandy hit PLAY. His own voice spilled into the air again, clear as a bell.
            Ruben’s face turned beet red. “I didn’t say those things!” he shouted. “She’s a fraud!”
            He lunged toward Mandy, reaching for the recorder. Mandy stumbled back, heart slamming, clutching it like a shield.
            “Stop!” a voice thundered.
            Mandy spun. Her father stood there after all, eyes blazing, stepping between them.
            “Ruben, if you go anywhere near my daughter, I will have you arrested for attempted assault,” Mr. Dandie warned. “This is enough. Get out of our neighborhood once and for all.”
            Mandy’s throat tightened. She felt both small and powerful at the same time, like a match that could light a whole room.

            Inside the council meeting, not one neighbor submitted a signed contract. Not one pen touched paper. The truth was too loud now to pretend it hadn’t been heard.
             When the doors opened, neighbors poured out with faces that looked different—less pinched, less frightened. Someone laughed. Someone cried in relief. Someone hugged Mandy so hard she squeaked.
            Ruben stormed away, clipboard tucked under his arm like it had betrayed him.
            “Pink Lemonade saved Sherwood Neighborhood!” Mandy called to the crowd, laughing through leftover tears. “We can help each other! We don’t have to sell our home!”
            Her father kissed her cheek. “I’m proud of you,” he whispered, and for once his smile didn’t look tired.
            Mandy looked at the pink lemon tree—scratched, dusty, still glowing faintly as if it carried a small secret flame. Most people would have overlooked it. Most people would have thrown it away.
            Mandy understood it now. The tree hadn’t forced anyone to be brave. It had simply made the truth hard to hide.
            The next morning, Mandy painted her sign again, careful and bold:
            PINK LEMONADE! 50¢ A CUP
            EVERYONE NEEDS A LITTLE PINK LEMONADE NOW AND THEN
            When she pedaled down Maplewood Lane and rang her bell, Mrs. Bixby finally waved back. Then Mr. Talbot did as well. Sherwood didn’t feel perfectly fixed—but it felt like the seams were being stitched, one truthful song at a time. It might be ongoing work to fix the neighborhood, but Mandy was happy to do it. Maybe being ten didn’t mean she was small. Maybe it just meant she had less practice being afraid.

Copyright 2023, 2026 Jennifer Waters

Pen Jen's Inkwell Podcast version:

“Sherwood Neighborhood is coming apart at the seams,” yelped 10-year-old Mandy Dandie as she passed her neighbors on the street. They did not even nod at her, much less say hello. As she rode her pink bike up her driveway, she rang her bell several times in disgust.

“Nobody talks to each other,” she mumbled to herself. “If anyone talks to me, all they want to do is pick a fight.”

“Don’t worry about the neighbors, Mandy,” Mr. Dandie told her, coming out from the garage. “A lot of them have lost their jobs and are having a hard time finding new ones. The economy has been really tough for a lot of people. We just all need to help each other right now.”

“If you say so, Dad,” Mandy agreed, hugging her widowed father. Mrs. Dandie passed away when Mandy was an infant, and she had no recollection of her mother. “Why does everyone have to be so mean?”

“I don’t know, honey,” Mr. Dandie replied, picking up the newspaper from the driveway and opening it. “Ruben Gruff of Gruff Construction offers to buy the backyards of homeowners in Sherwood Neighborhood,” he read aloud the front-page headline. “Oh no! The developers are going to try to build extra houses in the neighborhood. It will be like living in an ice cube tray of cookie cutter homes!”

“How can we stop it, Dad?” Mandy asked. “I’ll have to think of something!”

“Sherwood Neighborhood homeowners would earn an extra lump of much-needed cash,” Mr. Dandie continued reading aloud. “Everyone must realize that Ruben will destroy the charm of our lovely neighborhood,” he stated, looking right at Mandy. 

“Does this mean that he would tear down the trees?” Mandy wondered. 

“Oh, Ruben will tear down trees and flower gardens for his new homes, built so close together that no one will be able to enjoy a picnic or pool party,” her dad explained, scratching his head.  

“I don’t want to lose the old oak trees that I love to climb!” Mandy cried. “Maybe if I had a lemonade stand then I could make money and give it to our neighbors. Then, they might not take Ruben’s money.” 

“That’s a nice thought, Mandy,” her dad admitted. “Maybe the neighbors would rally round and help each other without resorting to Ruben’s destructive building project.” 

Mandy set to work at building and painting a lemonade stand and opened it within the week at the end of her father’s driveway. Despite Mandy’s “secret recipe” of more sugar than water and bits of lemon rind, her lemonade hardly sold, especially once the neighbors tasted it. 

“This is awful!” the neighbors complained. “It tastes nothing like lemonade.” 

At the end of a hard week, Mandy counted her coins and headed to the neighborhood grocery store on her bike. 

“At least, I’ll get some candy,” she decided. “I deserve it after all this effort.”

As she passed a plant nursery, the owner rid himself of an odd pink lemon tree. When Mandy saw the lemon tree, it sparkled, and she knew there was something special about it.

“It looks magic!” Mandy insisted. “Please let me have it!” she begged the owner, emptying her pockets of all her coins. “It’s a business investment!”

“A business investment?” he questioned. “This ugly thing?”

“I need your pink lemon tree for my lemonade stand,” she told him. “Business has been bad, but your tree will make it a lot better. Everyone drinks regular lemonade, but pink lemonade will be original!”

The next day Mandy set out her lemonade stand with her new pink beverage. She set the pink lemon tree on her stand for advertising. Her sign said: “Pink Lemonade! 50 cents a cup.”

“I think my pink lemonade has magic in it,” she told her dad. “Who has ever heard of pink lemons?”

“Uh-huh,” Mr. Dandie agreed, shrugging his shoulders, overseeing her morning business deals at the lemonade stand. “Don’t let the customers stiff you for your lemonade, honey.” 

“Wow! This is so tasty,” one lady quipped, putting change into the cash jar. “Can I have some more, please?” 

Then, Mandy’s customers started singing and dancing in the street. 

“I hate my job!” the lady serenaded. “I think I’ll quit in a few days.”

“Maybe your pink lemonade is magic after all?” her father considered. “Everyone who drinks it starts singing their secrets! Business is booming!”

“I told you there was something special about that pink lemon tree!” she whispered. 

Surprised, Mandy listened to her singing customers without giving any advice, mostly because she was not sure what to say. What magic was in her pink lemonade that made the neighbors express their truths in song, feel better, and then forget they even said those things? 

“I’m so glad that you like my pink lemonade,” Mandy cheered, shocked at how much the neighborhood customers enjoyed her new beverage. 

“This recipe is going over much, much better than that last one,” her father pondered, humming. “I even feel like singing a love song.” 

Later that afternoon, Ruben Gruff strode down the street in a blue pin-striped suit with his clipboard. He saw Mandy’s stand, slung two quarters in her jar, and downed a cup of pink lemonade. 

“My secret plan is to run a four-lane highway through the neighborhood,” he belted out in song as Mandy listened. “As soon as I get the neighbors to sign their properties away, I’ll take the contracts to a judge and argue that I own most of the neighborhood so I should be able to build whatever I want on the land, including a highway. All the neighbors will lose their homes, and I will be a millionaire.”

Mandy sat in silence until every last word of Ruben’s song had finished. “His song would have been easier to enjoy if it had rhymed,” she whispered to herself, rubbing her ears. She felt sick to her stomach, realizing Ruben’s devious plot to destroy her home and community. 

“Come back again soon,” Mandy fibbed to Ruben as he left. She posted her “Be Back in Ten Minutes” sign at her lemonade stand and ran to tell her dad the strange news. 

“Dad, Ruben started singing his secret plan to take over the neighborhood,” she explained to her father, weaving in all the details that no one ever wanted her to know. 

“I have no idea what to say,” Mr. Dandie sighed. “Just don’t tell anyone for now, until we see what happens . . . so we can figure out what to do.”

Later that week at the city council meeting, Ruben handed out contracts for those neighbors who wanted to sign away parts of their land. Mandy and her father sat at the meeting in trepidation that they might not be able to stop Ruben’s horrid plan.

“Hi Mandy,” Ruben greeted her with a fake smile and handshake. “So glad your pink lemonade business is booming!” 

“Because of your magic pink lemonade, Ruben doesn’t remember telling you his plan,” Mr. Dandie whispered to his daughter. “Play dumb for now.”

Instead of playing dumb, Mandy decided to take the situation into her own hands. In an attempt to expose him, Mandy stood up on her front row chair and pulled a bullhorn from her backpack. 

“Ruben is going to run a highway through our neighborhood and push all of us out after we sign over our backyards to him!” Mandy exposed him. “Don’t fall for it! Don’t give him your backyards for a little cash.”

“She’s not on the agenda,” Ruben argued, looking irate. “Sit down, little girl!”

“Mandy, you are not allowed to speak,” the city council leader insisted. “This meeting is for adults only. Please keep her quiet, Mr. Dandie. I need order!”

“Sorry, ma'am,” Mr. Dandie mumbled. “Mandy, we should go . . .”  

As the meeting started, Mandy burst into tears. She watched the neighbors take Ruben’s deceptive contracts with instructions to return the forms at next week’s meeting. 

“I’m coming back to next week’s city council meeting,” Mandy advised her father. “I’m setting up my pink lemonade stand, and I’m going to force everyone to tell the truth.”

“I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” her father admitted. “We might not be able to do anything to stop Ruben. It’s a bigger problem than I originally imagined.”

“I have to try to do something,” Mandy decided. “I found the magic of the pink lemon tree at just the right time.”

“Okay, but I don’t think I’ll be able to help you this time,” Mr. Dandie explained. “We might get in less trouble if I don’t show up, but you could just sell your lemonade outside the meeting.”

The next week, Mandy set out on her bike with her pink lemonade tree in its front basket, trailing her lemonade stand on a skateboard. Several times she almost killed her pink lemon tree when it dumped out of her bike’s basket. 

“Come on, little pink lemon tree,” Mandy spoke to it, dusting it off from the gravel in the street. “You just took a couple falls. You can’t die on me now!”

When Mandy reached the city council meeting, she set up shop, and people crowded around for the refreshing beverage.

“Mandy Dandie’s Pink Lemonade for sale!” she announced. “Come and get it for 50 cents a cup!” 

“What an interesting tree!” the neighbors admired, marveling at the odd pink lemon tree, dropping their change into the cash jar.

After a couple sips of Mandy’s pink lemonade, everyone sang out the truth and neighbors all sympathized and encouraged each other. 

“I don’t want to sell Ruben my land . . .” neighbors sang with different melodies.

“I need my backyard for my dog to run and play!” another neighbor pleaded in song. 

“I’d rather be broke than have anything to do with Ruben,” a group of people harmonized. 

Only a few minutes later, Ruben showed up, observing the strange communication through song. Ruben smirked listening to all the secrets being revealed.

Without knowing it, Ruben drank his own large cup of Mandy’s pink lemonade, finally revealing his own devious secrets. 

“I’m going to own Sherwood Neighborhood,” Ruben sang so loud that he was almost shouting. “These people are so stupid, and I’m stealing everything from them!”

“Did you hear him say that?” Mandy pointed out, recording his admission of guilt on her handy battery-operated tape recorder. “I can play it back for you.”

Mandy played Ruben’s singing on repeat for every single neighbor attending the city council meeting as they enjoyed her pink lemonade. 

The more she played the tape, the angrier Ruben became, burning with rage, and trying to grab the recorder from Mandy. 

“I didn’t say those things!” Ruben lied with his beet red face. “She’s a fraud!”

“Ruben, if you go anywhere near my daughter, I will have you arrested for attempted assault,” Mandy’s father threatened, deciding to show up to the council meeting after all. “This is enough. You’re a rotten, horrible human being. Get out of our neighborhood once and for all.”

As the city council meeting took place, the neighbors banded together and rejected Gruff Construction’s plan. Not one neighbor submitted a signed contract to Ruben. 

“Pink Lemonade saved Sherwood Neighborhood!” Mandy called to all the neighbors as they left the meeting in triumph. “I’m going to develop my lemonade into a franchise! Everyone needs a little pink lemonade now and then.”

Mr. Dandie kissed Mandy on the cheek, proud of his daughter who saw magic in everything, even a lonely pink lemon tree that most people would have overlooked. 

 

Copyright 2023 Jennifer Waters

https://soundcloud.com/jen-waters/mandy-dandies-pink-lemonade

The Dilemmas of Daisy Dimple: Where Flowers Listen

Daisy Dimple believed that flowers listened.

Not to everyone. Just to her.

When she pressed her palms into the dirt behind her house in Primrose and whispered kindly, seeds trembled with excitement. When she smiled—especially when her left cheek dimpled—something in the soil seemed to wake up.

“My name is Daisy Dimple,” she often introduced herself to new neighbors, standing tall despite being only ten. “I grow gardens where gardens shouldn’t be.”

Sidewalk cracks. Mailbox posts. The dusty edge of the hardware store parking lot.

If there was dirt—even a sprinkle—Daisy could make something bloom.

Her older brother Billy did not appreciate this gift.

He preferred noise. Sparks. Anything that crackled.

“You and your weeds,” Billy muttered one afternoon, watching Daisy kneel beside a thin strip of dry earth near the driveway. Tiny green shoots were pushing upward.

“They are not weeds,” Daisy said carefully. She didn’t look at him. She had learned that looking at Billy sometimes invited trouble. “They are moon-petaled starblooms.”

“They look like lettuce that gave up,” he said. 

Daisy pressed her lips together. She wished, not for the first time, that her brother could see what she saw—the way each bud carried a promise.

Billy shuffled his sneakers on the pavement. Lately he had discovered that when he dragged his feet across the driveway in just the right way, tiny blue sparks snapped from his fingertips.

“Bet you can’t make flowers grow in Grandpa’s backyard,” Billy said suddenly.

Daisy hesitated.

Grandpa Blum’s backyard was enormous. Mostly bare. Patchy grass. Hard soil.

But Daisy imagined it—rows of color beneath the old wooden fence. Tulips along the shed. Sunflowers near the garage.

She could almost smell it.

“I could,” she said quietly.

Billy smirked. “You’d never finish,” he said.

The doubt landed heavier than she expected.

That evening, Grandpa Blum found Daisy staring at his yard through the chain-link fence. The grass seemed to brighten beneath her smile.

“What are you plotting, young gardener?” he asked, leaning on his cane.

Daisy didn’t like to call her ideas plots. Plots sounded sneaky. She preferred plans.

“I think your yard feels lonely,” she said.

Grandpa looked around. “Lonely?”

“It doesn’t have anything to look forward to,” she said.

Grandpa studied her face. When Daisy spoke about gardens, her dimple always appeared without permission.

“Well,” he said thoughtfully, “I am hosting the Fourth of July party next week. Suppose this yard could use some anticipation.”

Daisy’s heart fluttered.

“You mean—?” she interrupted. “I could plant flowers for it!”

“I mean,” Grandpa smiled, “if someone wanted to attempt a miracle, I wouldn’t stop her."

Daisy didn’t sleep much that night.

She made lists. She drew maps. She imagined where each color should live.

The next morning she began.

The soil was stubborn. Hard and clumpy. Daisy had to press with both knees to break it apart. Sweat trickled behind her ears. She told the seeds stories as she planted them.

“You’ll love it here,” she whispered. “There’s music sometimes. And lemonade.”

By afternoon her arms ached, but the first row was complete.

Billy appeared at the fence.

“You’re still doing this?” he asked.

Daisy kept her eyes on the dirt. “Yes,” she said, shielding the garden with her shoulder.

Billy hopped the fence and landed in the far corner of the yard. He dragged his sneakers back and forth until faint sparks flickered at his fingertips.

Daisy felt the air prickle.

She did not like the way Billy looked at the freshly planted beds.

“Don’t,” she said softly.

Billy grinned and clapped his hands.

A crackle of blue light darted from his palms into the soil.

For one terrible second, Daisy thought she heard something whimper beneath the ground.

She scrambled forward and pressed her hands flat against the dirt.

“Please grow,” she whispered.

The earth felt warm. Too warm.

Billy laughed and jumped back over the fence.

That night Daisy returned with a watering can and a flashlight. She knelt in the dark and listened.

The soil still felt unsettled. Restless.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured to the seeds. “I should have protected you better.”

The next morning, tiny sprouts had appeared—but they were pale and droopy.

Daisy’s chest tightened.

She could quit.

She could tell Grandpa it was too big.

She could let Billy win.

Instead, she went to the shed and found the old copper wind chimes Grandma used to hang from the porch.

She suspended them above the garden beds.

When the breeze moved through, the chimes sang.

Not loudly.

But steadily.

Daisy noticed something remarkable: whenever the chimes rang, the soil cooled from Billy’s sparks.

She returned every hour that day to hum along with them. Her dimple appeared as she sang. She imagined roots stretching downward, finding comfort in the music.

By the third day, the pale sprouts deepened to green.

Billy watched from the porch.

On the morning of the party, the yard had transformed.

Tulips leaned toward the fence. Sunflowers lifted their faces proudly. Irises lined the walkway like a parade.

Daisy stood in the center, hardly breathing.

She had done it.

Neighbors began to arrive. They gasped and clapped and asked questions Daisy could barely answer because her throat felt too full.

“Did you really grow all this in a week?” someone asked.

Daisy nodded.

She saw Billy slip toward the garden hose.

Her stomach flipped.

He twisted the nozzle.

Water burst forward.

Without thinking, Daisy ran.

She planted herself between Billy and the nearest flower bed.

“Stop,” she said.

Her voice shook—but she did not move.

Billy hesitated.

The hose sputtered. Water splashed harmlessly against Daisy’s shoes.

“You can’t guard the flowers forever,” Billy muttered.

“Maybe not,” Daisy replied. “But I can stand here right now.”

The wind chimes stirred overhead.

A low hum moved through the yard.

Billy glanced at the flowers.

For a brief moment, Daisy thought she saw something flicker in his expression—not mischief, not anger.

Uncertainty.

He lowered the hose.

The chimes rang again.

Daisy stayed where she was. Her legs trembled, but she did not move. The wind chime hummed above her. She didn’t need to shout.

One sunflower, tall and golden, tilted gently toward Billy and released a small cloud of bright yellow pollen.

It settled softly in his hair.

Billy blinked.

The sparks at his fingertips fizzled out.

He looked down at his hands, surprised.

Daisy didn’t smile triumphantly. She didn’t gloat.

She simply stepped aside.

“If you want,” she said, “you can help me plant more tomorrow.”

Billy scuffed his shoe against the grass.

“I don’t even like flowers,” he said. 

“That’s okay,” Daisy answered. “They might like you anyway.”

He didn’t say yes.

But he didn’t say no.

As music filled the yard and lemonade glasses clinked, Daisy felt something stronger than victory.

Not magic.

Not even pride.

Courage.

The garden shimmered in the late afternoon light, and Daisy understood something important: Flowers did listen.

But sometimes, people did too.

And that was the real miracle.

The wind chime rang once more. 

Copyright 2023, 2026 Jennifer Waters

Pen Jen's Inkwell Podcast version:

“My name is Daisy Dimple,” announced the 10-year-old girl, who turned parking lots and sidewalks into gardens in the small town of Primrose. She loved the fragrance and beauty of flowers so much that all she could do was smile. “I make flowers and smiles spring up in the most unusual places.” 

“Oh, you’re just Crazy Daisy,” bullied her 13-year-old brother Billy. He was jealous of her daisies and her magic “hypnotizing” dimple that caused people to do what she wanted when she smiled. “I hate your daisies,” Billy threatened, smashing her latest batch of flourishing flowers that grew through cracks in the ground. The white petals floated to the concrete sidewalk in bits. 

“You’re the crazy one, Lil’ Boy Buster!” Daisy replied, scattering more flower seeds in the trail around her neighborhood. “You stick your finger in electric wall sockets for the thrill of the little buzz, and then you try to shock people! You’re going to electrocute yourself and hurt someone else!”

With that, Lil’ Boy Buster ran himself into Daisy, slinging her onto his shoulders. He had enough electricity in his body from his latest wall socket charging that Daisy’s hair frizzed. 

“Beating me up is very small of you!” Daisy yelled as her bangs crackled. 

“I’m using you for tackling practice,” Buster joked, throwing Daisy to the grassy ground. She always had bruises from his bullying, but he claimed it was her fault because her flowers made him sneeze. “Achoo! I’m allergic to you and your petals!” he taunted. 

Laying in pain on the ground, Daisy wished she had enough courage to stand up to him once and for all—but Daisy was too nice to people and always tried to help them with their problems. Lil’ Boy haughtily ran into her family garage, laughing to himself, and slamming the side the door. 

Days later, after seeing all Daisy’s bruises, Grandpa Blum came up with a plan to help her look good to the neighborhood friends, who could keep Buster from attacking her again. 

            “Could you build me a garden for my Fourth of July party?” Grandpa Blum asked her with a daisy sticking from his ear. “Your flowers are so beautiful, and I need a garden for my party. I’ll pay you a bunch for it!”

            “I would love to build you a great and grand garden!” Daisy cheered, shining her glorious dimple at Grandpa Blum. “My earnings can go toward the end-of-summer class field trip. It’s a day at the beach! So, I can get away from Buster.”

The next morning, Daisy started by planting flowers along the fence in Grandpa Blum’s backyard. At first, Daisy was unsure that she could complete such a large task.

“This might be a bigger job than I thought!” Daisy sighed, looking at the rest of the empty space that needed flowers. 

“I am confident that you can finish the garden in time!” Grandpa encouraged her. “I secretly want to prove Lil’ Boy Buster wrong. You are definitely not crazy, Daisy.”

While landscaping Grandpa Blum’s yard, Daisy branched out beyond daisies with many different flowers, such as roses, irises, orchids, tulips, daffodils, buttercups, sunflowers, carnations, and poppies.

“I’m almost done,” Daisy collapsed in the garden next to a tulip. “I’m going to have to work through the night.” Finally, two days before the party, she finished the garden.  

“Oh, you think you’re so savvy,” Lil’ Boy Buster hollered, jumping over the backyard fence out of nowhere. “Crazy Daisy went crazy again planting more flowers than she knows how to keep alive!”

“Get out of here, Buster!” Daisy wailed. “Grandpa is going to find out if you cause any problems!”

Despite Buster’s threats, Daisy was so happy with the garden. “I think I’d like to live here!” Daisy delighted, watching Buster run away. 

“See you for the garden party on Saturday, Daisy!” Grandpa reminded, kissing her on the cheek. He walked out of the garage as Buster disappeared. 

“I’m so proud of all your hard work. Give these to your mother,” Grandpa heartened, handing her a bouquet of flowers. 

Daisy walked down the sidewalk, scattering seeds as she made her way back home for the evening. 

“I’m gonna get her!” Buster threatened, looping back around Grandpa Blum’s house. “You might as well say I’m a bulldozer.”

Overnight, Buster found the garden hose and stretched it into the middle of Daisy’s flower haven. He turned the hose on high and let the water run until a large pond took over the garden. Then, Buster unleashed a cage of rodents to eat any leftover flowers. 

“Go get ‘em!” Lil’ Boy whispered, opening the cage door into the garden. 

For a finishing touch, Buster sent an electric shock wave through the soil, sure to kill the roots of the flowers. “Take that!” the brat cried, as he zapped the entire garden with electricity.

In the morning, Grandpa Blum stood in shock at what had happened to his beautiful garden. “It looks like there was a bad storm!” he lamented, but then gazed at the neighbors’ backyards, realizing that their gardens were intact. 

“Only Lil’ Boy Buster would do this to Daisy!” he concluded, noticing the muddy footprints the size of Lil’ Boy Buster’s on the patio. “How do you prove it was Buster?” 

“What in the world happened!” Daisy cried, looking at the mess and throwing a handful of flower seeds into the air. Even her “magic” dimple was not enough to fix the mess. 

“We could still rebuild in time for the party!” Daisy insisted, as rodents scurried past her feet with flowers in their mouths. “Buster did this! He is the worst brother in the whole world. What is wrong with him?”

“I’ll help you go to the local garden store for new flowers,” Grandpa Blum said, grabbing his jacket and hat from the garage. He started up his green truck, and he and Daisy set off for more flowers. “This is just one more life lesson that we didn’t know we needed!” 

“A lesson in how to plant as many flowers as possible,” Daisy quipped, almost remembering the power of her dimple. 

Upon returning with more flowers to plant, Daisy set traps for the rodents and leveled the ground with new fertilizer. One by one, she planted the new flowers in the garden. 

As the stars came out for the night, Daisy stayed up until the morning, planting flowers and keeping watch over the backyard, hoping to catch Lil’ Boy Buster—but he never returned.

“If you want to sleep out here, it’s fine with me,” Grandpa Blum said, “but at least use a sleeping bag.” He unrolled a blue comfy bag with a flashlight tucked into it. 

The next morning, Daisy planted more flowers right up until the party, but she still wasn’t done.

“Could you help me plant these flowers?” Daisy asked each of the neighbors as they arrived until the garden was finished.  Her magic dimple made each of them say: “Yes.” 

“Maybe we could hire you to plant a garden for us?” the neighbors asked, wanting to hire Daisy to build them masterpieces of their own.

Then, without warning, Daisy spotted Lil’ Boy Buster with a water gun strapped around his body and the garden hose in his hands. 

“Don’t even think about it!” Daisy yelped, wrestling him to the ground and planting a flower on his head before he could shock her with an electric bolt.

As Daisy flashed her dimple, the flower took root, and Buster could not pull it out of his head. “That will teach you!” Daisy snapped. 

“Aaaah!” he screamed, running from his sister in fear. “What happened to my head? Someone, pull this flower out of my head!”

Despite Buster’s effort to remove the flower from his head, he could not expel it. 

“It’s going to cause me brain damage!” Buster screeched. “I can feel its roots!”

Later, when Daisy’s parents saw the wonderful garden in Grandpa Blum’s backyard, they were upset at Lil’ Boy Buster’s tirade.

“Buster didn’t get away with his bad behavior this time!” Mr. Dimple chided. “I saw the flower Daisy planted in his head. Oh, well, he can’t browbeat her anymore. I guess the flower will stay there until the seasons change.”

“I’m not sure what to do about the flower!” Mrs. Dimple commented. “Daisy, how long do you think the flower will stay in his head?

“I’m not sure, Mom,” Daisy answered. “I just planted it like everything else.”

“Can you make our backyard into a beautiful paradise as well?” her dad asked. 

“Sure, Dad, I’ll start tomorrow,” Daisy agreed, shining her famous dimple at him. 

“Lil’ Boy Buster can no longer call Daisy ‘crazy,’” Grandpa urged, looking at both of Daisy’s parents. “It’s not nice to call people nasty names.” 

“Daisy has never been crazy,” her father agreed. 

“She’s just enthusiastic about planting flowers!” her mom reassured. 

“Maybe Buster can replant the flower from his head in Grandpa’s garden instead of destroying it,” Daisy wondered, not knowing that Buster heard her, as he hid behind the shrubs in the backyard.  

Having a momentary change of heart toward Daisy, where he felt electric tingles everywhere, Lil’ Boy Buster removed the growth from his head and planted the awkward flower in Grandpa Blum’s garden. 

“I’m free of her stupid flower!” Buster groaned. 

Roots and all, the flower stood tall in his grandfather’s soil, and Buster slumped off in defeat. However, his momentary remorse did not last for long. “I’m gonna get back at Crazy Daisy for what she did to me! She planted a flower in my head, and it still hurts,” he vowed. 

“I’m so glad that I finally stood up to Buster!” Daisy relished in victory. “He is only my little bitty brother. He’s not going to torment me anymore.” 

“The garden party is a huge success,” Grandpa Blum triumphed.  

“I’ll have more than enough money for my class field trip,” Daisy told her grandfather with gratitude. “I’m going to donate the rest of the money to planting a garden at the local Community Center. Flowers need to take over the world!” 

 

Copyright 2023 Jennifer Waters

https://soundcloud.com/jen-waters/the-dilemmas-of-daisy-dimple

The Peaceable Kingdom: The Story of Shirley the Lamb

Shirley was eight years old when she began to believe a terrible thing: that she didn’t matter. Other lambs had tails that flicked like happy little flags. Shirley did not. When the wind blew through the meadow, their tails danced. Hers did not. Long ago, when she was smaller and softer, a lion had taken it from her. Ever since, she felt like a sentence without its ending.
            “I don’t belong anywhere,” Shirley cried one afternoon, running through the tall grass. “Everyone can see what I’m missing.”
            “You don’t have your woolly waggler!” her brother teased.
            Shirley ducked behind a thistle patch, wishing she could disappear.
            Then the hillside shadowed. A lion was coming down toward her. Shirley’s heart jumped—but his face was not cruel. It was kind.

“I think you’re beautiful,” the lion called. “You have the bravest tail I’ve ever seen.”
            Shirley blinked. “I don’t have one at all,” she whispered. The lion padded closer. 

“Then I love the place where it used to be, because it’s part of you,” he said gently. “My name is Roger.” 

When Shirley leaned against Roger’s warm mane, she felt something she hadn’t felt in a long time—safe.           

After that day, Roger walked beside her often. He never wagged his tail when she couldn’t wag hers. Sometimes he lowered his shoulder so she could climb onto his back. One evening, as the sky darkened, Shirley noticed his steps grow tight.
            “I’m afraid of the dark,” Roger admitted quietly. Shirley tilted her face toward the sky. 

“Then look at the stars,” she said. “When you can’t see the path, you can still see the promise.” 

Roger followed her gaze. There, stitched into the night, was a cluster of stars shaped like a lion.
            “We’ll call him Leo,” Shirley decided. “When it gets dark, he can remind you who you are.”
            But not everyone liked what was growing between a lion and a lamb. One afternoon, a cobra named Zachary slid through the grass and whispered to Shirley’s parents.
            “Lions and lambs are enemies,” he hissed. “This is how it has always been.”
            Later that day, when Shirley returned home, she heard her father’s voice thunder across the meadow. 

“You are not allowed to see that lion again,” her father said. 

Shirley tried to respond, but her words tangled inside her. So, she said nothing. 

For three nights she stared up at Leo alone. The stars did not change. But everything else felt different.
            On the fourth night, something tapped at her barn window. Roger stood in the moonlight.
            “I followed the stars,” he whispered. “I’m not afraid of the dark anymore.”
            Shirley pressed her forehead to the glass. “Meet me by the river at dawn,” she said.
            The meadow glowed pale gold the next morning. But a bell clanged sharply nearby. Chloe the Cow watched from the grass.
            “If anyone sees you, you’ll start a war!” Chloe warned.

“The Cobras love to stir up trouble,” Roger said quietly. His voice grew serious. “I came to tell you that the King is gone, and the Little Child—the one promised to bring peace—has vanished.” 

Shirley’s breath caught. She had heard the twilight stories: the Little Child who would teach enemies to lie down like tired friends.
            The grass rustled. Zachary rose from the stones, smiling. 

“Some promises,” the serpent purred, “are meant to be broken.” 

Shirley’s knees trembled. She wanted to run. But she remembered Leo. She remembered that Roger had walked through the dark to reach her. So, she stayed.
            “Where is the Little Child?” Shirley asked. Then, before her fear could answer for her, she stepped into the meadow. “I’m going to find him.”               

Zachary sneered. “Why would I tell a tailless lamb anything?” he asked. 

The words stung—but Shirley lifted her chin.
            “You’ve been feeding everyone fear,” she said. “Because fear makes it easier to rule.”
            Roger and the other animals followed her through the tall grass—the leopard, the wolf, the goat, the calf, the yearling, the bear, and the ox. Chloe’s bell rang, not in alarm, but in agreement.
            Just then, a small whimper came from behind the rocks. There, hidden in shadow, was the Little Child. His eyes were wide—but when he saw a lion and a lamb standing together, hope flickered inside them.
            Shirley stepped forward slowly. “You’re safe,” she promised.
            The Child looked at her as if he could see straight through her missing tail and into her heart. “You came,” he whispered.
            Shirley swallowed. “I didn’t think I mattered,” she admitted softly. “But I couldn’t let you stay lost.”
            The animals formed a circle—not of teeth, but of protection. Zachary slid backward into the grass, shrinking as fear lost its voice.
            They walked the Child back toward the palace hill beneath the faithful sky. That night, Leo shone brighter than ever.
            Shirley finally understood. Peace wasn’t only for creatures with perfect tails. It was for anyone brave enough to choose it. And in the Peaceable Kingdom, a lion and a lamb walked side by side—not because they were the same, but because love made room for both.

Copyright 2023, 2026 Jennifer Waters

Pen Jen's Inkwell Podcast version:

“I don’t matter to anyone,” 8-year-old Shirley the Lamb sobbed, running through the fields one day. “Who cares if I don’t have my tail because a nasty lion bit it off when I was younger! Why does everyone always have to make fun of me?”

“You don’t have your woolly waggler,” her brother mocked her, darting after her. 

“Leave me alone, and go pick on someone else,” Shirley cried.

“I think she’s beautiful!” Roger the Lion cub roared, bounding down from the hillside. “She has the cutest tail I’ve ever seen.”

“Roger, you would never bite off the tail of any creature, especially not an innocent little lamb,” Shirley sighed, rubbing her head on Roger’s soft fur. “You’re like a big pillow!”

When Roger walked beside her, he made a point not to wag his own tail since Shirley did not have one to wag. Sometimes, he even picked her up with his mouth and carried Shirley on his back. 

“I never told you this, Shirley, but I’m afraid of the dark,” Roger whimpered as the sun began to set in the meadow.

“The moon and stars can make the nighttime less scary,” Shirley suggested. 

“I know, but it’s still really dark outside at night,” Roger worried. “I always end up growling at everyone in the dark.”

“Can you look for constellations in the stars at night?” Shirley asked. “Then, you won’t feel as alone and scared.”

As the sun set, Roger noticed a group of stars in the sky that looked like a lion.

“Those stars look like me!” Roger told Shirley. “His stars are so bright!”

“Why don’t we name him Leo the Lion?” Shirley decided. “He will be your friend to keep you company when it gets dark.”

Roger kissed Shirley, and the two of them fell asleep together in the meadow. 

As Roger and Shirley got older, it became clear that their families did not want the two of them to remain friends. 

“Did you know that your daughter spends a lot of time with that lion named Roger?” Zachary the Cobra told Shirley’s parents one day in the meadow. 

The snake hissed as it slithered through the grass. “I just heard Roger’s parents tell him that if he sees Shirley again that he’d better not come back unless he eats her,” the snake lied.

“You are not allowed to be friends with Roger, Shirley,” her father yelled. “Lions and lambs are involved in an age-long feud.”

“Lambs and lions hate each other,” Shirley’s mother explained in a harsh tone. “You are forbidden to see him! Lions do nothing but eat lambs, and you’re lucky you only lost a tail.”

“I love Roger, and he loves me,” Shirley cried, retreating to the nearest shady tree. 

Tears rolled down Shirley’s face until she fell asleep that night, looking up at the stars and thinking of Roger. 

A few nights later, Roger appeared at Shirley’s barn window in the middle of the night.

“I conquered my fears of the dark, and the stars guided me to you!” Roger called. “I promise that we are still going to be friends, even if it’s a secret.”

“I miss you, Roger,” Shirley called. “I want to go run in the fields with you. Meet me in the high grass by the river three days from now.”

“I’ll be there with the dawn,” Roger replied. “I'd better go for now!”

Days later, Shirley and Roger met between the high grass without anyone knowing, except for Chloe the Cow with her cowbell necklace, which everyone could hear ring from a mile away. 

“Zachary is right!” Chloe mooed, sounding her necklace as loud as she could. “Go home before you start an all-out war in the Kingdom!”

“You are the one who can go home!” Shirley demanded. “Go eat a cow pie!”

“The Cobras love to fuel feuds between families,” Roger explained. “I figured it out.” 

“What did you figure out?” Shirley questioned, stroking Roger’s soft mane. 

“The Cobras want everyone in the Kingdom to riot and kill the Little Child who is the future king,” Roger roared. “I’ve been asking a lot of questions and found out that the Little Child’s father, King George, has been working hard to bring the land together in peace. The Cobra family wants to be in charge of the Kingdom and undo King George’s work.”

Snap! Zachary wicked out his sword-like tongue through the high grass at Roger and Shirley. “You will be sorry!” he threatened, as a group of animals joined the snake in the fields.

Joe the Leopard with his spotty fur pounced next to Roger with a bark. Gabrielle the Wolf howled, Bobby the Goat bleated, Leah the Calf bawled, Todd the Yearling neighed, Tansy the Bear growled, and Harold the Ox bellowed, as they joined Zachary in intimidating Shirley and Roger with grumbles: "Back down, or else!"

“I’m going to end this war!” Roger grunted, leaping next to Zachary, right after the vicious snake slipped away with the other animals. 

“How could you start this fight? Now the whole kingdom is against both of us,” Shirley argued with Roger. “My parents were right. I never want to see you again. Lions are dangerous!”

“No, lambs are weak!” Roger whispered, walking away with his tail between his legs.

The next morning, the Kingdom went into a fury when word got out that King George was murdered, and the Little Child had gone missing. Guards searched the entire kingdom for the Little Child and King George’s assassin. 

“I just heard that the palace guards found a bloody knife in a potted plant on the porch of Roger’s family cave,” Shirley’s father told her. “Roger is being held in suspicion for killing King George.” 

“Roger would never kill King George,” Shirley replied. “How did this become Roger’s fault?”

That night, Shirley slipped out of her barn window and ran in the dark to Roger’s family cave. She slipped into his lair and lured Roger into the field, where they could speak in private. 

“We need to search for the Little Child,” Shirley insisted. “I can help you look for him. I’m sorry for accusing you.”

“I forgive you,” Roger purred. “I’ve always loved you.”

Roger and Shirley set off into the starry night, looking for the Little Child. 

After hours of searching, the cobras surrounded them near a ravine in the meadow. The snakes had been hiding under nearby rocks and logs near the Cobra family den. 

One cobra pounced on Shirley, trying to bite her tail, only to realize that she did not have one. “I don’t have a tail,” Shirley screamed at the snake. “So, you can’t try to bite it off to kill me! Too bad for you!” 

“Free the Little Child now!” Roger thundered, biting Zachary so severely that he almost bled to death. 

Suddenly, out of the shadows, the other animals in the kingdom appeared in Roger and Shirley’s defense. Chloe the Cow sounded her cowbell necklace, signaling the animals to charge the Cobra’s den. "Freedom!" Chloe mooed. "Save the Kingdom!"

In apology for their ruthless behavior to Shirley and Roger, Joe the Leopard, Gabrielle the Wolf, Bobby the Goat, Leah the Calf, Todd the Yearling, Tansy the Bear, and Harold the Ox dashed into the Cobra den, squashing the snakes beneath their feet. 

"Long live the Little Child!" the animals sounded. 

“Get on my back,” Roger commanded the Little Child, after Joe removed the snakeskin ropes around the boy. The Little Child had been held captive in the Cobra's den long enough.

"Thank you," the boy cried. Beat up and bruised, the Child climbed onto the lion’s back and rode triumphantly into the fields. 

“I can’t believe that the Cobra family is so evil,” Chloe the Cow moaned in shock. 

“Well, believe it,” Shirley chided Chloe. “You can see it with your own eyes. We need to make sure that Zachary never does anything like this again.”

“Even if members of the Cobra family are still alive, we’re taking you back to the palace to rule in peace,” Roger announced to the Little Child, as they strutted through the meadow. 

“A long peaceful life is what you’re going to live, and so will the rest of us,” Shirley agreed, kissing Roger on the cheek. 

With the Little Child safely crowned, and on the throne, Shirley and Roger became heroes in the Kingdom. Never underestimate the love between a lion and a lamb. 

 

Copyright 2023 Jennifer Waters

https://soundcloud.com/jen-waters/the-peaceable-kingdom