story whimsy

By Angie Bromeland Charlie pulled at the drawer. It was squeaky and difficult to open. The handle wobbled, and Charlie told himself to remind his dad it needed to be screwed in tighter. Finally, the drawer slid out with a loud “Screech!” It was Charlie’s favorite drawer: the junk drawer. It was the place where every odd and end came to be. Nubby pencils, heart shaped erasers, paperclips, and scraps of paper were strewed about the drawer. He saw a picture of his dog that he drew when he was 4. Charlie smiled. The drawing wasn’t good, but it wasn’t awful, either. Now, Charlie couldn’t even remember what he had opened the drawer to get! Instead, he had a new idea. He hadn’t drawn in ages, and now he wanted to. Charlie scanned the drawer again and withdrew the sharpest pencil and the piece of paper with the fewest scribbles on it. Now, the question was, what to draw? Charlie walked through his house thoughtfully. He could draw Scruff, the dog, again. Or he could try Meow, the cat. ...

By Angie Bromeland It had to have been a misprinting. That’s what Antoine told himself. He was at the County Fair showing his pig, Yorkie. Yorkie had been on his best behavior all week. He showed like a real pro. He was the picture of refinement. Yet here was a poster reading Melvin had won Best in Show. It made no sense. Melvin was the meanest swine in the barn. He squealed and whined so loudly Antoine had to cover his ears. Antoine and some of the other County Fair kids talked about it in secret. They thought Melvin should be fined for his bad behavior. Their own pigs were getting nervous just being around Melvin. Truly, that pig was the definition of “nasty.” Melvin’s owner, Brad, said Melvin didn’t like the confinement of his stall, and that’s why he behaved so poorly. But Antoine and the other kids thought that shouldn’t matter—a good pig is a good pig, after all. (And a bad one is a bad one.) After all, none of the other pigs were acting up. So needless to say, when Bra...

 By Angie Bromeland Norah and Finn took turns digging with the spade they found in their dad’s gardening supplies. They were hunting for treasure. “It’s sure hot out here,” Norah said. “Just be glad we’re in the shade,” Finn said. “It could be worse.” Norah agreed. Late last night from their bunk beds, Norah had invented a story about fabled treasure being buried there. She and Finn persuaded themselves it was true. “Maybe we’re in the wrong spot,” Finn finally said. He stood and looked around the yard. “Let’s check under the lilacs, instead.” “Good idea,” Norah enabled him. They filled in the hole and started on a new one. A shadow from a crow passed over them. “That’s a lucky sign,” Finn promised. Norah wasn’t so sure, but she nodded anyway. “Want me to dig a while?” she asked. “Nah, I’ve got it for now,” Finn answered. Then he smiled. “Besides, you’re too feeble.” Norah really rolled her eyes at her teasing brother, now. She was as strong as him, and th...

By Angie Bromeland “Well, there’s always room for improvement, Quinn,” Dad said. He was holding the car I had carved. “But it’s really quite good!” He smiled at me, then asked, “What is it?” “Well, at first I was going to make it look like a tram, but I changed my mind. It’s a wedge of cheese!” We laughed together. Since I strived for perfection, I took the car outside and used sandpaper to remove every rough spot. I weighed the car. The numbers flashed at me: 101 grams. It needed to be heavier. I grabbed the drill from Dad’s workshop. He had taught me how to use it last summer. Then I jammed the car in a vice grip so it wouldn’t move while I worked on it. I drilled a hole in the back of the car to fill with weights. But what could I use that would be both heavy and small? Pebbles weren’t the right shape. Marbles didn’t weigh enough. That’s when Dad came out to check on me. I told him what I was doing. He held his chin in his hand thoughtfully, then said, “I have just the th...

By Angie Bromeland Brad lived in the city, but dreamed of having horses and cattle. When he got the opportunity to attend Cowboy Camp, Brad couldn’t wait.   “Sun’s up!” came the wake-up call on the first morning of Cowboy Camp. “Stop robbing daylight, cowboys. Let’s go!” Brad happily leapt out of bed. A few of the other campers were moping around like they didn’t care if they’d get to rope cattle or ride horses today. Brad stepped outside and breathed in deeply. He smiled at the communion he felt with the ranch. Then, the camp director pointed out a few cattle bobbing away in the open field. Brad watched as two cowboys roped the cattle and brought them back in the gate. He couldn’t believe it. He knew roping cattle was difficult, and these guys made it look easy. Afterward, one of the cowboys came loping over to Brad and tipped his hat at him. “Morning,” is all the man said. “Wow, mister, that was really something!” Brad said. “Well thank you kindly,” the man said...

By Angie Bromeland “She entertains herself so easily, doesn’t she?” Grammy said. I smiled and nodded. My little sister, Melly, was a sweet little girl. And Grammy was right. On spring afternoons, sticks became wands, leaves became hats, and wild rabbits became pets. “She wanders, though, so we have to keep an eye on her,” I reminded Grammy. Grammy clicked her tongue. “Of course,” she said. Grammy and I were on her front porch sipping apple juice from glass jars. I could see Melly from my chair next to the planter on the porch. “Hear how she chants! I wonder what she’s saying,” Grammy said. I smiled because I knew. It was our little prayer—mainly asking to show us where the fairies were. It was Melly’s and my secret, though, so I didn’t tell Grammy. Instead, I pretended to wonder, too. I watched Melly pick up a stone to count the ants beneath it. Grammy sipped her juice and sighed. She closed her eyes and said, “It enchants me, it does, to see a little girl fixed in the ma...

By Angie Bromeland I never had the ability to sneak up on people. I’ve crept up behind my sister. I’ve leaped out from behind a door at my mom. I’ve peeped through the keyhole to my brother’s room until he was about to fall asleep and swept in to surprise him. But they were never scared. One time, my sister said, “Zayne, just give up. Maybe you’ll really scare one of us someday. And then you’ll feel bad.” And she was right. One cold day in January, when I knew my mom would be returning from town, I waited in the garage. There was a shaded corner full of Dad’s rakes and other tools. I stood there and made myself as flat as I could. When Mom drove in, she didn’t see me. When she opened the trunk and filled her arms with grocery bags, she didn’t see me. When she hummed a song and started walking toward the door to the house, she didn’t see me. That was my moment. I jumped out at her with my arms up and yelled “BOO!” Mom freaked out . The grocery bags went flying. She screa...

By Angie Bromeland The snail followed the trail to scale the hall wall. He’d seen the spider do it earlier. It looked so easy, but the snail supposed all things were easy when you had eight legs. That was eight legs more than he had. The lowly snail had little to be proud of. Unless, of course, you counted his cute, bouncy antennae, and of course, his pearly shell. Thinking about that, the snail perked up a bit. He wasn’t so unlucky after all, he thought. The snail knew he didn’t have much time. It’s a terrible thing to know when you’re a snail. This is, of course, because snails are known to move so very slowly. But the mail had just been delivered, so the snail had exactly three minutes. If someone saw him, they would knock him into a pail, and dump him back outside. A hail storm was coming tonight, and he didn’t want his shell getting damaged. Thinking speedy thoughts, the snail began to slink up the wall. The spider was slung on his web in a corner, and he cheered. “Come...

By Angie Bromeland Joey stood at the front of the boat, casting his line far and deep into the lake. His grandpa was chuckling while fixing the tangled hooks of a fishing lure. “Boy, I’m sorry to tell you so, but that beast only exists in your mind,” he told Joey. Joey had just described the fish he hoped to catch: 10 feet long, with a mixture of rainbow colored scales, a golden tail and silver fins. His grandpa shook his head. Joey was 8 years old, but he still had a wonderful imagination. Even if most of his ideas did still consist of imaginary creatures.   “What did you use for bait?” his grandpa asked. “An earthworm,” Joey said. “And a leech.” “Eh, mixing the bait again,” his grandpa said. “Yep,” Joey replied. “I think that’s what the giant rainbow fish likes to eat.” His grandpa nodded and dipped his own line in the water. He couldn’t resist asking, “Who do you think will get the first bite? Should we put some money on it?” Joey checked his pockets. “I have a...