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

The Mary Nose Mysteries: The Story of Nosy Mary

            “Smile!” called 14-year-old Mary Nose, who loved to take pictures with her magic camera, inherited from her maternal grandmother Louise Jenkins, a famous photojournalist who took pictures all over the world.
            “Don’t miss the moment!” Grandma Louise would always say. “Make sure it lives forever. A smile is happiness you’ll find right under your nose.”
            Mary tried to do just that, but not everyone appreciated her enthusiasm.
            “Oh, Nosy Mary, you’re taking pictures again!” moaned her mother that morning as Mary swung her backpack over one shoulder. “Please take someone else’s photo. I don’t like to be in front of the camera. Why do you have to stick your nose into everything?”
            Mary pretended not to mind, but the nickname clung to her anyway. At school, it wasn’t much better.
            “Don’t get me,” a boy warned, ducking behind his locker door.
            “Mary, stop,” a girl groaned, covering her face with a sleeve. “I’m not ready for my close-up.”
            Mary lowered the camera slightly. “It’s just the yearbook,” she said, trying to sound casual, like her heart wasn’t thumping. “You’ll want these pictures someday.”
            “Sure, Nosy Mary,” someone muttered as they passed, and a few kids laughed.
            Mary kept walking. At least her larger-than-average nose hid behind Grandma Louise’s camera, and she now had a reason to feel special.
            Because the camera was magic.
            Mary had discovered it in her secret darkroom at home, the tiny space she’d made in the laundry room with a curtain, a red bulb, and a lot of stubbornness. With the very first photographs that Mary took from Grandma’s camera, extra people and things mysteriously appeared in the pictures when developing them.
            “What’s this?” Mary had whispered the first time, holding up a dripping print. In the photo, a shy girl’s sketchbook glowed faintly gold. In another, storm clouds hovered above a boy’s math worksheet even though the classroom had been bright. Once, a thin silver thread connected two classmates who pretended they couldn’t stand each other.
            Mary learned the camera didn’t change reality. It didn’t predict the future. It revealed what was already there: feelings, intentions, secrets hiding in plain sight. And it only worked when Mary used Grandma Louise’s camera and developed the film herself. If Mary used a school camera, the photos were normal. If anyone else developed Grandma’s film, Mary suspected the magic would disappear, so she never let anyone else touch it.
            She never told anyone. It was hard enough being “Nosy Mary” without also being “Mary Who Thinks Her Camera Is Magic.”
            “I see you!” Mary declared one afternoon, snapping a picture of Mr. Rockwell, her eighth-grade English teacher at Lancaster Valley Middle School. She meant it as a joke, but it came out bold.
            Mr. Rockwell looked up and smiled. “I’m so glad that you’re my yearbook editor. You have the nose for it!” he said, peering into her lens. “Since it’s my first year overseeing the yearbook, I don’t know much other than how to teach English. You know more about photography than I do. It’s time for you to shine.”
            Mary’s stomach flipped. “I’m not your best student, Mr. Rockwell,” she argued, unsure of her capabilities. “I’m more of a geek with a camera.”
            “You’re a leader, Mary,” Mr. Rockwell said. “Finish the yearbook by March 1st, so it can be ready for graduation. No excuses! Get the job done, and keep your nose clean, Nosy Mary!”
            Leader. Mary almost laughed. She felt more like a blurry photo, present, but not the main subject. Still, she nodded, because Grandma Louise’s voice echoed in her mind: Don’t miss the moment.
            The yearbook office was a glorified closet down the hall from Mr. Rockwell’s classroom. It had a desk, a squeaky chair, and shelves that leaned a little like they were tired. Mary called it her office anyway. If she said it like she believed it, maybe she would.
            Over the next few months, Mary photographed middle school dances, basketball games, cafeteria lunches, band practices, special assemblies, ski trips, swim meets, and more, even when students did not want their pictures taken.
            “Don’t turn up your noses!” Mary called to her classmates. “You’ll thank me twenty years from now that you have pictures of yourselves from your younger days.”
            Some days she felt proud. Other days she felt like an insect pinned to a bulletin board, noticed for the wrong reasons. When she was alone, she told herself the yearbook mattered. It was a memory book. It was proof that moments existed.
            At home, Mary developed film from Grandma’s camera whenever she could. The magic photos revealed all kinds of things, like who had a crush on whom, who was thinking of their dog, and who was worrying about their science test. Mary didn’t use the magic to embarrass anyone. She used it to understand them. If she noticed what other people missed, maybe that wasn’t nosy. Maybe that was… kind.
            Then the disturbances began.
            One afternoon, Mary opened her closet office and found the chair pulled out when she knew she’d pushed it in. Another day, her radio, which she used to keep herself company while sorting photos, was missing. She searched under the desk, behind the shelves, even inside a box of old yearbooks that smelled like dust and glue.
            “Where is my radio?” Mary asked Mr. Rockwell after school, confused, looking under the office table. “I was just playing it. Oh, where are those pictures I developed yesterday?”
            “I don’t know, Mary,” he replied, rolling up his plaid sleeves. “No one else uses the closet but you. I hardly even come in here because I am too busy.”
            Mary forced a laugh. “Maybe my office is haunted.”
            Mr. Rockwell smiled, but Mary’s stomach stayed tight. Haunted wasn’t the word. Used was the word. Like someone else had been here when she wasn’t.
            She decided to be careful. “I’m going to develop my pictures in my secret darkroom at home tonight,” Mary explained. “That way, I can keep track of my photographs until we find out where the missing items went.”
            Picture Day arrived with a cranky photographer from School Pictures USA named Frans Robert. He took photos of the students in the school cafeteria. 
            “Oui, oui, if you don’t want to smile for the photo, fine,” Frans snapped as he took pictures. “It’s no skin off my nose if you look unhappy in your lifelong portraits!”
            Mary took a behind-the-scenes photo of him for the yearbook. Later, in her darkroom, the developed print made her pause. A thin red gleam, sharp as a line, seemed to slice toward the stack of yearbook proofs in the background.
            Mary had seen red once before in a photo of two students arguing over a solo in band. Red didn’t mean “crime.” It meant heat, competition, jealousy, a feeling that wanted to win.
            “Is Frans mad about the yearbook?” Mary whispered. She pictured him stomping into her closet office, snatching her work like a villain in a movie. The idea was ridiculous… but the red gleam wasn’t nothing.
            The next day, Mary biked to school, forgetting the school camera at home, so she took pictures with Grandma Louise’s camera, which she usually carried in her backpack everywhere. A camera is a camera, she thought.
            “Smile, Hank!” Mary laughed, snapping a shot of Hank the janitor at lunchtime as he mopped a sticky patch of cafeteria floor.
            “Put that stupid camera away!” Hank yelled at her, holding up his fist.
            Mary’s cheeks burned, but she lifted her chin. “It’s my job to take your photo, sir!” she blurted out. “Mr. Rockwell put me in charge of the yearbook. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to return to my office.”
            That night, Mary developed Hank’s photo. A strange gray shadow swirled around Hank’s mop and bucket, thick as smoke that couldn’t find a way out.
            Mary stared until her eyes watered. “What is wrong with him?” she wondered aloud. “I have to figure this out!”
            During the next week, Mary paid attention. She didn’t chase Hank like a detective in a trench coat. She just noticed. Hank was often near the yearbook closet. Hank’s footsteps echoed in the hall after the last bell. Hank’s mop bucket appeared in the corner of photo after photo when Mary developed Grandma’s film—faint, ghostlike, almost like the camera was underlining a sentence.
            Mary laid the prints on the laundry room floor. Red gleam near Frans. Gray shadow around Hank. Missing radio. Moved chair. Bright closet door.
            The camera only revealed what was already there. But Mary still had to decide what it meant. Gray could be guilt. Or sadness. Or secrecy. Gray could be someone carrying something heavy.
            Mary tried not to jump to conclusions, because jumping was how people fell on their faces. Still, the closer March 1st came, the tighter her chest felt.
            At last, after hours alone organizing the perfect selection of photographs and captions, Mary decided she had completed the keepsake.
            “The yearbook is finally finished!” Mary announced, showing Mr. Rockwell right on time.
            “This is fabulous, Mary!” Mr. Rockwell exclaimed, hugging her. “I’m so proud of you! You’ve given your student body a wonderful reminder of this glorious year of school! I’m sending it to the printer tomorrow afternoon.”
            Mary’s throat felt thick. Proud. That was a word no one used about her very often. She imagined students flipping through the yearbook years later and saying, “There’s me! There’s you! There’s that day!” She imagined Grandma Louise nodding.
            Mr. Rockwell left the masterpiece on the desk in the yearbook office to show the principal the next day. Mary told herself it would be safe. It was just a closet, after all.
            In the morning, when Mr. Rockwell returned, the finished product was gone.
            “The yearbook has been stolen!” Mr. Rockwell announced over the school intercom. “If anyone finds it, there is a reward waiting for you in my office. Bring it to me immediately!”
            Mary sprinted to her closet office. Paper scraps. Empty film canisters. An open drawer that should have been shut. Her stomach dropped like an elevator.
            “What do you mean the yearbook has been stolen?” Mary cried, rummaging through the shelves. “I’m going to search the school! The yearbook has to be right under my nose.”
            Distraught, she searched through the entire school, taking pictures with Grandma Louise’s camera, looking for clues as to the whereabouts of the missing yearbook. The gym. The library. The band room. The main office hallway. Even the trophy case, like someone might have hidden it behind awards for fun.
            After school, she rushed home and developed the film with shaking hands.
            Hank’s mop and bucket appeared in every photograph that Mary developed. Not always big. Sometimes only a corner. Sometimes only a shadow of a shadow. But it was there, like an arrow pointing the same direction again and again.
            Mary swallowed. “All the clues lead back to Hank,” she murmured. Then she hesitated, thinking of the red gleam in Frans’s photo. “Or… am I missing something?”
            Mary didn’t want to accuse the wrong person. She could already hear the hallway laughs. Nosy Mary stuck her nose in it again. But she couldn’t do nothing. She had worked too hard.
            “I’m going to try to talk to him tomorrow after school before I come to any conclusions,” she decided, pressing her palm flat on the prints as if she could press the truth out of them.
            The next day, Mary waited until the halls emptied. She found Hank near the yearbook closet, moving slowly, like he didn’t want the day to end.
            “Hank, can I please speak to you for a minute?” Mary asked, trying to keep her voice calm and grown-up.
            “What do you want?” Hank raged, but his anger sounded tired, like it had been used too many times. “I have had enough of you and your camera.”
            Mary’s hands tightened around her backpack straps. “The yearbook is missing,” she said.
            Hank’s eyes flicked toward the closet door.
            Mary’s heart hammered. “Have you seen it?” she asked.
            Hank pushed her into the yearbook office and locked the door with his key.
            For a moment, Mary forgot how to breathe. “Wait! What are you doing? You can’t lock me here!” she yelled, flipping on the light. “Help! Someone, help me!”
            No one answered. The hallway swallowed her cry for help.
            Mary pounded once, twice, then pressed her forehead against the door. Fear buzzed under her skin. She imagined her mother’s face. She imagined Mr. Rockwell’s disappointment. She imagined never living this down.
            Then she noticed the corner behind the stacked boxes. A folded blanket. A small bag. A thermos.
            Mary’s breathing slowed.
            The gray shadow. The warm door. The moved chair. The missing radio.
            Hank wasn’t just near her office. Hank had been in it.
            Mary sank to the floor, hugging her knees. She still felt scared. Being locked in was wrong, and she was allowed to be afraid, but another feeling slid in beside the fear. Understanding.
            Maybe Hank wasn’t hiding a crime so much as he was hiding a need.
            Mary cried quietly, not because she wanted to, but because her body didn’t know what else to do with all the feelings stuffed inside her chest. Then she remembered Grandma Louise’s words and wiped her face with her sleeve. Don’t miss the moment. Even the awful ones taught you something.
            Eventually, Mary curled up and fell asleep to the hum of the building, the closet smelling faintly of paper and soap.
            The next morning, when Mr. Rockwell opened the yearbook office door, Mary stumbled to her feet.
            “What are you doing here?” Mr. Rockwell cried. “You look awful.”
            Mary’s voice shook, but she made it steady. “Hank locked me in the closet last night. He stole the yearbook.”
            Later that morning, Mary stood outside the principal’s office while the adults spoke in low, serious voices. Mary didn’t hear everything, only bits. Safety. Rules. Consequences. Help.
            When Hank finally stepped into the hallway, his shoulders sagged. He wouldn’t look at Mary at first.
            “I just liked the yearbook so much,” Hank mumbled. “I wanted to look at it. No one ever takes my picture.”
            Mary swallowed hard. Hank had done something wrong. Very wrong. But the gray shadow hadn’t been evil. It had been heavy. Lonely.
            Hank returned the yearbook, holding it carefully. Mary inspected it closely. “I don’t see a scratch on it,” she whispered, relief washing through her so fast her knees felt wobbly.
            The principal gave Hank a stern warning and told him he would have to meet with someone from the district. Hank nodded over and over, like a person trying to be smaller.
            Mary looked at Hank’s hands, rough, careful hands that had held her yearbook like it mattered. She made a decision that surprised even her.
            “You should be in it,” she said softly.
            Hank blinked. “What?”
            “You work here too,” Mary said, trying to include him. “That makes you part of the story.”
            Hank’s face crumpled for a second, like he was trying not to feel anything. “I’m sorry, Mary,” he whispered. “I acted really stupid.”
            Mary nodded. “Try not to rub your nose in it,” she said, and for the first time, Hank gave a tiny, embarrassed smile.
            That afternoon, Mary went home and developed one last roll of film from Grandma Louise’s camera. She had taken a picture of Hank in the hallway as he handed back the yearbook.
            As the image appeared in the tray, Mary held her breath.
            The gray shadow was gone.
            In its place was a faint golden glow, small but steady, around Hank’s hands.
            Mary blinked fast. The camera wasn’t excusing what Hank had done. It was showing a turning point, a chance to do better.
            The yearbook went to the printer that afternoon.
            At the next assembly, Mr. Rockwell hurried to the school’s loudspeaker and made his announcement. “The yearbook has been found!” he cheered. “Mary solved the mystery on the nose! Nothing gets past her! Order your copy today!”
            Students clapped. Mary’s face warmed, part embarrassment, part pride.
            When the printed yearbooks arrived, Mary flipped straight to the back. She had added one extra photo at the last minute: Hank the janitor, smiling shyly beside his mop bucket.
            Mary traced the edge of the picture with her finger. She still wasn’t sure if people would stop calling her Nosy Mary. But she knew something now. Noticing things didn’t make her annoying. Sometimes noticing things made her brave. Sometimes it made her kind.
            Grandma Louise had been right. Don’t miss the moment. Sometimes the biggest truths weren’t the loud ones. They were the quiet details hiding in plain sight.
            Right under your nose.

            Copyright 2023, 2026 Jennifer Waters

            

 

            Pen Jen's Inkwell Podcast version:             

            “Smile!” called 14-year-old Mary Nose, who loved to take pictures with her magic camera, inherited from her maternal grandmother Louise Jenkins, a famous photojournalist who took pictures all over the world. 

“Don’t miss the moment!” Louise would always say. “Make sure it lives forever. A smile is happiness you’ll find right under your nose.”

Mary tried to do just that, but not everyone appreciated her enthusiasm.

“Oh, Nosy Mary, you’re taking pictures again!” moaned her mother. It seemed that Mary’s friends and family always teased the gawky girl. “Please take someone else’s photo. I don’t like to be in front of the camera. Why do you have to stick your nose into everything?”

At least this time, her larger-than-average nose hid behind a magic camera, and she now had a reason to feel special. 

“What’s this?” Mary asked, holding up a developed picture in her secret darkroom. With the very first photographs that Mary took from her grandma’s camera, extra people and things mysteriously appeared in the pictures when developing them. “I just don’t know how that person ended up in my photo. He wasn’t there when I took the photo! I wonder what it means?”

Despite the unusual additional people and things that magically appeared in Mary’s new photos, she had obvious talent and a keen eye for what other people missed. 

“I see you!” Mary declared, taking a picture of Mr. Rockwell, her eighth-grade English teacher at Lancaster Valley Middle School.

“Well, since you see me, why don’t you apply to be yearbook editor? I think you have the nose for it!” he suggested to Mary, looking into her camera. “It’s my first year overseeing the yearbook, and I don’t know much other than how to teach English. You might know more about photography than I do. It’s time for you to shine.”

“I’m not your best student, Mr. Rockwell,” Mary argued, unsure of her capabilities. “I’m more of a geek with a camera.”

“I need you to be a leader, Mary,” Mr. Rockwell decided, giving her the school’s yearbook camera. “Your pictures are wonderful. Finish the yearbook by March 1^st, so it can be ready for graduation. No excuses! Get the job done, and keep your nose clean, Nosy Mary!”

The next day, Mary biked to school, forgetting the school camera at home, so she took pictures with Grandma Louise’s camera, which she usually carried in her backpack everywhere. A camera is a camera, she thought. 

“Smile, Hank!” Mary laughed, snapping a shot of Hank the janitor at lunchtime.  

“Put that stupid camera away!” Hank yelled at her, holding up his fist. 

Ignoring Hank, Mary took his picture anyway. Later that afternoon when she developed the pictures, Mary noticed a strange, ominous glow around Hank. 

“What is wrong with him?” Mary wondered aloud. “I have to figure this out!”

During the next week, Mary followed Hank around the school, taking more pictures.

“Give me the film from your camera!” Hank demanded. “I told you to stop taking my picture. Stop putting your nose where it doesn’t belong!”

“It’s my job to take your photo, sir!” Mary blurted out. “Mr. Rockwell put me in charge of the yearbook. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to return to my office.”

During the next few weeks, Mary noticed that the yearbook office—a glorified closet—was not always found the way that she left it. The closet was down the hall from Mr. Rockwell’s classroom, and the best office that he could find for the school’s yearbook editor. 

“Where is my radio?” Mary asked Mr. Rockwell one day after school, confused, looking under the office table. “I was just playing it. Oh, where are those pictures I developed yesterday?”

“I don’t know, Mary,” he replied, rolling up his plaid sleeves. “No one else uses the closet, but you. I hardly even come in here because I am too busy.”

“I’m going to develop my pictures in my secret dark room at home tonight,” Mary explained. “That way, I can keep track of my photographs until we find out where the missing items went.”

Over the next few months, Mary photographed middle school dances, basketball games, cafeteria lunches, band practices, special assemblies, ski trips, swim meets, and more—even when students did not want their pictures taken. 

“Don’t turn up your noses!” Mary called to her classmates. “You’ll thank me twenty years from now that you have pictures of yourselves from your younger days.”

The magic photos revealed all kinds of things, like who had a crush on whom, who was thinking of their dog, and who was worrying about their science test. She also oversaw Picture Day with a cranky photographer from School Pictures USA named Frans Robert. 

“Oui, oui, if you don’t want to smile for the photo, fine,” Frans snapped as he took pictures. “It’s no skin off my nose if you look unhappy in your lifelong portraits!”

After hours alone working on organizing the perfect selection of photographs for the yearbook, Mary decided she had completed the keepsake. 

“The yearbook is finally finished!” Mary announced, showing Mr. Rockwell in early March.

“This is fabulous, Mary!” Mr. Rockwell exclaimed, hugging her. “I’m so proud of you! You’ve given your student body a wonderful reminder of this glorious year of school! I’m sending it to the printer tomorrow afternoon.”

Then, Mr. Rockwell left the masterpiece on the desk in the yearbook office to show the principal the next day. In the morning, when he returned to the larger-than-life closet, the finished product was gone. 

“The yearbook has been stolen!” Mr. Rockwell announced over the school intercom. “If anyone finds it, there is a reward waiting for you in my office. Bring it to me immediately!”

“What do you mean the yearbook has been stolen?” Mary cried, running to her office. She rummaged through the desk and shelves, to find nothing but paper scraps and empty film canisters. “I’m going to search the school! The yearbook has to be right under my nose.”

Distraught, she searched through the entire school, taking pictures with Grandma Louise’s camera, looking for clues as to the whereabouts of the missing yearbook.

“All the clues lead back to Hank the janitor,” Mary quipped, as the magic pictures came together. Oddly enough, Hank’s mop and bucket appeared in every photograph that Mary developed. “I’m going to try to talk to him tomorrow after school before I come to any conclusions.”

“Hank, can I please speak to you for a minute?” Mary asked in a confrontational tone. 

“What do you want?” Hank raged. “I have had enough of you and your camera.”

Hank pushed her into the yearbook office and locked the door with his key.

“Wait! What are you doing? You can’t lock me here overnight!” Mary yelled, flipping on the light. “Help! Someone, help me! Hank is a thief! Oh, I wonder what Grandma Louise would do in a pinch like this?”

Mary curled up in a ball on the floor and cried until she fell asleep. 

The next morning, when Mr. Rockwell opened the yearbook office door, Mary burst into tears again. “What are you doing here?” Mr. Rockwell cried. “You look awful.”

“Hank locked me in the closet last night!” Mary mumbled. “He stole the yearbook. After I call my mom, I’m calling the police. My mom must be worried sick as to where I am.”

Later that morning, Mary’s mother charged down the hall, throwing her fist in the air. 

“Mom, what are you doing?” Mary questioned. “You can’t beat up Hank! I called the police. Please, go powder your nose and calm down.”

“He deserves a good reality check!” Mrs. Nose demanded. “What was Hank thinking? Mary, taking all these nosy pictures got you into a lot of trouble, young lady. Please give up photography. You could be a cheerleader instead. I was a cheerleader in high school!”

“Enough, Mom,” Mary insisted. “I am a serious photographer like Grandma Louise.”

When explaining how Mary figured out that Hank was the perpetrator, Mary left out the part about the magic clue-giving pictures that her grandmother’s camera made. She did not want anyone to think that she was imagining things. 

“Mary did a wonderful job on the yearbook,” Mr. Rockwell explained to Mrs. Nose. “I’m so sorry for this nonsense. I had no idea that Hank was so destructive. Everything is going to be okay.”

By noon, the police arrested Hank the janitor. Sadly, he had been homeless for months and had to sleep in the yearbook closet from time to time, which explained Mary’s missing items from the office. 

“Last night, I slept next to the school’s dumpster since I locked Mary in the closet,” Hank explained. “I just liked the yearbook so much that I took it with me,” he whispered, twisting the truth with a straight face. 

“Well, that’s a bit of a stretch,” the police officer declared, putting Hank in handcuffs. “Don’t cut off one’s nose to spite one’s face. Give Mary back her yearbook now!”

“I’m sorry, Mary,” Hank pleaded, returning the yearbook to its editor. 

“I forgive you, Hank,” Mary whispered. “At least you took good care of the yearbook. I don’t see a scratch on it,” she decided, examining it closely. “I didn’t know you were homeless. I’m going to hold a fundraiser for you through a special photography exhibit. Hank, you need a home.”

“Please let Hank go,” Mr. Rockwell explained to the police. “We don’t want to press charges. We just want Hank to promise to never steal again. Definitely never ever lock anyone in a closet again. Do you promise, Hank?”

“Yes, sir,” Hank agreed. “I promise.”

“Ask for help next time,” Mr. Rockwell instructed. “Hank, you need to speak to the principal to see if the school will allow you to keep your job.”

“I’ll try to do better,” Hank mumbled as the police took off the handcuffs. “I acted really stupid. I’m sorry. Try not to rub my nose in it.” 

“We love you, Hank!” Mary announced, snapping his picture for a special addition to the completed yearbook. “I just got your mug shot, and it’s going in the yearbook as one of my favorite memories.” 

Then, Mr. Rockwell hurried to the school’s loudspeaker to make an announcement.

“The yearbook has been found!” he cheered. “Mary solved the mystery on the nose! Nothing gets past her! Nosy Mary’s yearbook is the best yearbook ever. Order your copy today!”

 

Copyright 2023 Jennifer Waters

https://soundcloud.com/jen-waters/the-mary-nose-mysteries

"The Wreath and Candles," A MERRY CHRISTMAS CAROL

VERSE:

The Wreath and Candles Christmas Stamp

Was the first emblem of its festive kind.

It graced greeting cards and Santa’s letters.

By the Postmaster General, it was designed.

The seal sold out oh so very quickly!

The printer had to print many more.

So, the Christmas cards were decorated

By the time the post reached your front door.

 

CHORUS:

The postman’s motto or so it goes,

Neither rain, nor snow, nor sleet, nor hail,

Or Christmas traffic with the Western winds,

Shall keep the postmen from delivering mail!

 

VERSE:

Like a star on top of a Christmas tree,

The stamps were elegant and right on time. 

Each year after that, like fine artwork,

The new seals were drawn line by line.

Just a tiny red and green painting,

You stick with a lick of your tongue.

The stamps never became outdated.

Loved so much, there's a song to be sung.

 

CHORUS:

The postman’s motto or so it goes,

Neither rain, nor snow, nor sleet, nor hail,

Or Christmas traffic with the Western winds,

Shall keep the postmen from delivering mail!

 

BRIDGE:

Santa Claus delivers toys on Christmas Eve,

To all those who write him a magic letter.

Blessed with a holiday Christmas stamp,

The correspondence becomes all-the-better.

 

CHORUS:

The postman’s motto or so it goes,

Neither rain, nor snow, nor sleet, nor hail,

Or Christmas traffic with the Western winds,

Shall keep the postmen from delivering mail!

TAG:

The wreath and candles Christmas stamp.

The wreath and candles Christmas stamp.

 

Copyright 2023 Jennifer Waters

Old Faithful: The Story of Cheyenne the Horse

There once was a horse named Old Faithful. 

He could talk like a regular man.

The four-legged friend was so grateful.

His family called him Cheynenne. 

He was there when you needed him.

He was there when you called. 

If you wanted a ride somewhere, 

He was more than enthralled. 

The cowboys loved his strut and spark.

He escaped several deathly shoot outs.

He watched shooting stars fall at dark.

He liked flaming campfires, no doubts. 

If you hear about a brown horse, 

That sounds like it could be him,

Ask them if he spoke aloud, 

And if he sometimes took a swim. 

The tumbleweed burned in his blood.

Oh, how he liked to carry a tune!

If you fell off his leather saddle,

His neck worked just like a spoon. 

He never left you all alone.

No matter how lost you became. 

He was a friend to the friendless.

That’s how he got his famous name. 

There once was a horse named Old Faithful. 

 

Copyright 2022 Jennifer Waters