Story #283 – Freckles’ Loving Cloak

One cold winter day, 12-year-old Miss Freckles came into a beautiful cloak while she was having an adventure to the forest.

“I’m not a simple cloak. I can sing. I can think. I can share with you a bed time story every night. Please put me on and let me be your shelter and warm you up.”

“That’s fabulous! How lucky I am to have such a precious gift like you!”

From that day on, Miss Freckles wore the cloak wherever she went. They were together all days and nights and never felt bored with each other. They sang by the rivers and sang to the trees. They cheered each other up when feeling tired climbing the mountains and treading through the field. The cloak tightly hugged Freckles for the whole winter and covered her body carefully when it snowed.

But as time went by, little Freckles gradually grew up. Her arms and legs became longer and her height increased day by day.

One night, after the cloak was giving Freckles a bed time story as usual, he breathed out a long sigh: “I’m afraid that I will no longer fit you, my dear Freckles. You have grown up. And the summer days are coming. You will get sunstroke with me.”

“But I love you, dear cloakie. I don’t want to grow up and lose you. If eating no food can stop me becoming taller, then I’ll do it.”

Freckles refused to eat any food from then on. She became skinny and weak as if a gentle breeze could blow her away. Her cheeks became sunken and her face turned pale. Her steps became more and more slowly and her head became dizzy.

“You must eat or you will die, Freckles. Leave me here and you just keep growing up!” asked the cloak anxiously.

“I would rather die in your arms.. I… I cannot imagine how boring life would be… without you by my side. Nobody else can… sing as beautiful as you, and … Nobody… nobody else can tell such interesting stories as you. You… you are irreplaceable… to me.” Freckles said exhaustedly.

In a scorching summer noon, after Freckles used up her final strength, she suddenly tumbled into the bush and lost her consciousness. Her cloak was scraped by the branches and were tore apart.

“Ouch! My skin!” The cloak yelled.

“Wake up, Freckles! Please! Wake up! The whole world would be dead without you alive! Wake up, my dear!” The cloak soared madly.

Just then, a hunter walked by and found Freckles.

“Poor little skinny girl. Why are you falling here. Drink some water and wake up! I’ll help you take off the ragged cloak so that I can see your wound and you will feel cool.” The hunter hugged her into his arms and gently poured water into her mouth.

Freckles feebly opened her eyes and said, “No… Please, please don’t take my cloakie away.”

“But you are too big for it. You will break it. And it is already ragged.” The hunter explained.

“He won’t be happy without me and in that case, me neither!” Freckle argued.

“Mmm… So how about this. I will take you and the cloak home. My wife can make fantastic needlework. She can fix it perfectly well and wash it clean. I have a baby girl as lovely as you. If you don’t mind, I can save this cloak for her.” said the hunter.

“Will you treat him like I do? He can sing and think. He can tell beautiful stories. He is so special.”

“Yes sure. I promise I will treat it well. But first, you need to take a good rest in my hut and start eating food OK?”

Freckles finally reached on an agreement with the hunter and accepted the fact that she no longer fit her loving cloak. But deep in her mind, she knows that the cloak will always be there, warming her heart and soul.

– nicolefantasy, Beijing

Story #282

Ett sällskap av fina fruar var på väg till kaffekalaset på Botbygårdsvägen ett. Fru Rosenmun dukade det lilla röda bordet i Barnkammaren med dockservisen. På serveringsfatet placerade hon bakelser, som hade samma storlek och, faktiskt, samma utseende och smak som russin. Till sin stora förskräckelse märkte hon plötsligt att hon hade glömt skorna!

– Vet ni vad, vi har glömt klackskorna!

Fru Rosenmun slängde sig på magen på golvet och ålade med bestämda tag in under sängen. Därifrån började det snart flyga ut små, fyrkantiga träklossar.

– Här. Fru Rosenmun log förnöjd mot sina medfruar. Vi sätter de här klossarna in i strumpbyxorna, precis under hälen, så har vi förtjusande klackskor, precis som alla fina fruar har.

Fruarna Glansklänning samt Plymhatt klapprade förnämt runt i Barnkammaren i sina nya klackskor. Fru Rosenmun anslöt sig till den glatt slamrande processionen, vickade sina höfter och utropade:

– Aah! Sannerligen! Förtjusande!

– Vad är det som är förtjusande, undrade fru  Glansklänning.

– Jag vet inte, men det är så här fina fruar pratar.

– Men jag vill i alla fall dricka kaffe nu, konstaterade fru Plymhatt och satte sig bestämt på en liten pall vid kaffebordet, och fick snabbt med sig de andra fruarna .

Fru Rosenmun hällde i de små kopparna vackert rosa kaffe, som doftade konstigt nog hallon, och med lillfingrarna förnämt utsträckta smakade fruarna på bakelserna.

– Hör ni flickor, spring ut och lek, solen skiner så fint.

Mamma kikade in i barnkammaren, log mot sina döttrar och gick sedan tillbaka till köket och symaskinen. Tre nya spetsklänningar till midsommarens festligheter var under arbete.

Undrar om en av ärmarna blev fastsydd upp och ner, funderade Mamma, medan fina fruar klapprade med sina klackskor mot hallen.

– Ta på er jackor, det blåser rejält, hojtade Mamma över det jämna surret från symaskinen.

– Aa, det blåser, fru Rosenmun blev glad.

– Då tar vi med oss plastpåsar och lite snöre.

Fina fruar slamrade ner för de tre våningar av stentrappor. De hann knappt glänta på ytterdörren, när den av vindens kraft öppnade sig på vid gavel med en dov duns. Sandrester från gångna vinterns halka virvlade runt vilt på gårdens asfalt. En skata försökte att flyga från fina fruars hustak till taket på ett likadant hus på andra sidan av gården. Vinden pressade skatan ur kurs och med ett illsket krax var den tvungen att nödlanda på gården. Fru Plymhatts hatt flög högt upp i luften och landade sedan mitt i en vattenpöl. Fina fruar band sina plastkassar hårt fast i sina snören. Alla vet ju, att fina fruar rastar sina tama drakar när det är blåsigt. Drakar älskar att flyga i motvind, och snurrade glatt runt i sina koppel när fruarna klapprande anlände till vattenpölen.

– Ska vi rädda den, eller ska vi ha den som vår tama anka?

Fruarnas funderingar blev avbrutna när fru Glansklänningens drake slet sig loss. Den flög med rasande fart mot Botbygårdsvägen, en bilväg! Fruarna ilade efter och med det samma närmade sig en stor sopbil dem! Förskräckta stannade fina fruarna, och med en djup suck brummade den tunga sopbilen förbi dem. Fru Glansklänningens underläpp började darra. Ingenstans kunde de se draken:

– Tänk om den där sopbilen trodde att draken var sopor och tog den med sig!

Fru Rosenmuns drake drog vilt i sitt snöre och drog henne med sig över vägen, mot en björk som växte vid vägkanten. De nyutslagna björklöven frasade roligt i vinden:

– Hej, här har du ju din drake, den har fastnat i det här trädet!

Nu följde en intensiv diskussion om hur drakräddningsoperationen bäst skulle tas om hand. Till sist ställde fru Rosenmun sig stadigt vid björkens stam. Fru Plymhatt lyfte stånkande och pustande fru Glansklänning upp på fru Rosenmuns axlar och därifrån kunde denne nå den nedersta grenen på trädet.

– Jag fick den, hojtade fru Glansklänning förtjust, när hon hade klättrat ända upp till draken.

I det samma bestämde sig fru Plymhatts anka att lämna vattenpölen, och flög med ett blött plask rakt på fru Glansklänningens ansikte. Med ett förvånat rop ramlade denne ner i famnen på fru Plymhatt, som i sin tur rasade ner på fru Rosenmun. Fruarna föll ner på gräsmattan, sprattlade en stund med glada fniss, ställde sig upp och konstaterade med en lättnad: alla hade hållit hårt fast i sina drakars koppel och även hattankan hade hittat tillbaka till huvudet på sin ägarinna. Glatt klapprande kunde fruarna fortsätta sin promenad medan drakarna följde snällt efter dem muntert dansande i vinden.

– Men kära hjärtanens, utbrast Mamma, när hon sorterade tvättkorgens innehåll på kvällen.

Av någon konstig anledning hade varje dotters strumpbyxor hål i båda hälen.

– Saila, Kil

Story #281

There are lot’s of benefits to being a tern. You get to spend the whole day by the sea and do really cool flying tricks, like hovering in one place and crash diving. And you get to eat yummy fish as fresh as they get.

But there are responsibilities, too. You have to take care when you dish out good luck. If you hit a human with your poop, that means good luck and not everybody deserves the good luck the terns can bring about with their air strikes.

But I know that we do.

One day I was walking along the beach in Fårö admiring the seastacks… and thinking of you. I must have wandered into the feeding ground of the terns. One of them hit me right on the chin! It was a really warm and wet bit of poop with a fishy smell. Yuck!

And that’s when I knew you would be alright.

– Martin Camitz, Stockholm

Story #280

she wants to become elegant and slim like its friend—swan, cute like little puppy. Actually,she’s a smart guy, whose score is the first in class. But ,what can we say, people is greedy. she wants more. She knows she should work hard for these. She does sports, reads fashion books. However, she just can’t hold herself, she can’t help eating more food than before, and also laughing loudly, doing some  rude things. She wishes she can be good, which is opposite to the real existent fact.

– Stupid Sheep, HeNan

Story #279

It all started in office. Just hi’s and hello’s and then a message on his birthday. He was surprised. After a week we started chatting off. The hats were explosive 😉 . and then on a friendships day. We first made out 🙂 this was August. Things were the same. Until January .. I decided to take it ahead and probe him. I MADE him propose me :p well he is a shy guy. I always need to push him to do things .. We were officially dating.

He decided to tell his parents. But his parents never agreed. Because I come from a lower caste. We both love each other like crazy. But the future is uncertain 🙁

– Anonymous, Pune

Story #278

I want to destroy the school! The college is absolutely not like what I expected! I thought every university has swmming pool, the library,and  at least a big auditorium !!! But ,there is nothing! I  hate  myself, who  was lazy and didn’t work hard! I hate…..

OK, I must admit I am a stupid guy, I suffer what I deserve! So, it’s a simple story about a foolish sheep, who has no ability and wants to  break what don’t satisfy her.

– Stupid sheep, He Nan

Story #277

I was awakened in the middle of the night by a beast which had entered my bedroom.

Through the bars of my crib i could see the pitch black fur against the drakness of the room. The beast was round like a ball, and hairy. It had neither a head nor legs, only a tail, flat and shaped like a leaf, stickning out from the top and slowly waveing back and forth. It was deadly quiet, waiting for me to touch the floor with my feet.

I reached out to touch the tail but at that moment, fear gripped a hold of me. I quickly pulled my hand back and curled up with the blanket over my head. In the morning when I awoke, the beast was gone.

– Martin Camitz, Stockholm

Story #275

Hi~I’m a cup from China. After two years of college life, I found that  the content  of my college course was repeated, defective and not systematic. Then I told my dean my query which is support by most of classmate. We want a answer. However!!!! He said “School just a platform in which you can touch something you want to learn. If you really want to learn deeply, you have to work hard by online courses, training classes or something else. God!!!!!!!! Can’t believe it! That’s why I go to college!!!!!!!!!!!! Now you know why I call myself  a cup. (Cup means a tragedy on network.)

– Cup, GuangZhou

Story #274

My father’s  cousin’s  grandchildren hav a cousin whose dog know a cat who knows a hedgehog who is adopted by a girl who knows Dylan o’brien and he is so Handsom i have meet him once it was wonderful. He is an aktorand he has Fairly short brown hair, he is kind and he likes the color purple.

– Terese Aldén, Västerås

Story #273

To be different in the town of Redistuo was to be an outsider, abolished from any place inside the shared opinion of the people and declared unworthy to belong. John was such a shunned man, though his name be plain enough and ambition to contradict small. It was the idea of what he wanted to do that cast him out toward the fraying parts of Redistuo, to a hill billowing above jagged hemlock and pine.

For years, John was one of them, eating their chestnut soup and drinking their mulled wine. He laughed when something was said to be funny and cried when told to be sad. But with every smile or mendacious tear, a part of John disappeared to a place long forbidden, until so much of him existed there it would be impossible to return again. Here he learned to breathe in and out the air of the unknown, as if this was the only way to survive. And maybe it was.

“What do you want?” Five sets of spectacled eyes had asked, squinting behind glares of glass while John fidgeted in a sun-dipped stool, a half-child of shadow and light sitting beneath the largest window of Redistuo Town Hall. Even in his yet-rooted mind he knew they inquired not because they cared but because they needed to gauge how much of a danger he might turn out to be.

“I want to fly,” he’d said – the worst answer of them all – and so was sent to a hill far away.

John didn’t dare visit the flat, pineless town of Redistuo until three years later, on the eleventh hour of the twentieth day in March, which presented itself as clearer and warmer than most. Never mind that it was the last day in winter or that a certain almost-spring sharpness had settled on the land; Redistuo was alive with Friday shoppers and John needed a net.

He walked along a long and narrow stretch of cobblestone named Vintner Alley, staying close to the shade of awninged storefronts and readjusting the hood around his head to remain undetectably alone.

The funny thing about being alone in Redistuo is that people never truly were. There was always someone baking Redistuo breads in a traditional, Redistuo-style oven nearby or a neighbor practicing her Redistuo trumpet to the tune of Redistuo Rhapsody in D minor at a house across the lane.

John, on his distant hill, was in every sense of what it could mean, alone. Strange then that he should find himself entrenched in the frenetic flitters of those he once knew and feel more un-alone than ever.

His name was Hector, just that hard-sounding and bold, and he stood on a ledge spitting something or other onto the sandy banks of the Redistuo River, which rambled easily by this certain section of Vintner Alley that John was passing at the present time.

“Get out.”

Of course the declaration came from Hector. With a man so bleak, pleasantries were vestigial organs of speech. He saw no need for anything but the point.

“I’m in town for a net,” John told him. “In and out. That’s it, I promise.”

“No.”

Hector was tall and burly as you’d expect, covered in coarse, dark hair on every part of him, including the tops of his fingers and the insides of his ears. He was a creature of midnight whiskeys and fat cigars, seldom seen in daylight hours except to occasionally hurl wads of saliva across the riverbank and to watch for outsiders like John, unwelcome visitors who exercised their penchant for perambulation upon the streets of Redistuo with a mind that they should.

There was nothing, when confronted with such complete Hector-ness, for John to do but keep walking across the cobblestones of Vintner Alley to Jacarma Road, which appeared at the next corner and would bring him to the fisherman’s shop.

The owner of the fisherman’s shop was called Mr. Penturian and he ran his store by the principles of order and education. Live bait were separated in large bins by size and usefulness. Fishing poles were lined, one inch apart, against the back wall, wrapped at each grip by a handwritten note describing any peculiarities, advantages or downfalls of that particular model. It is said the five spectacled men who made decisions in Redistuo could never send Mr. Penturian to the hills, though his temperament was saucy and loose, because no one else would know as much about the sport of fishing or its required instruments, and fishing was taught to be a favorite activity for those who were allowed to remain. Some other hobby might have been declared best so Mr. Penturian could disappear, but if the five spectacled men were anything, they were lazy creatures of how it’s always been.

“Have you come for your net?” Mr. Penturian asked John with a confidence that said he knew. Today Mr. Penturian looked elegantly disheveled, a grey fishing vest ill-fitting and slack across his broad but arching shoulders, as if the vest was meditating whether it should settle down or else rise to the occasion and float to warmer seas.

“If you still have it,” John replied.

Mr Penturian said without a doubt that he did, free of cost for the bravest John to leave this Goby fish excuse for a town. “I’d have left years ago if business wasn’t so good.”

A wink or two from Mr. Penturian followed the exchange of a net promised to be sturdy enough to catch even the most experienced man who might attempt to fly.

John left the shop with a wordless wave goodbye, slipping past Hector at guard by the sandy crust of the Redistuo River. Yes, Hector would follow him to the hill but what difference would it really make?

In John’s mind, everything was already mapped out, how his lungs would fill with courage as he climbed to the top, how his legs would gain strength from each upward step, how the town of Redistuo would appear, unimportant and powerless, from John’s grassy crest. He was, on his almighty hill, a crowned prince of pines at the precipice of lasting glory. From this height, those in Redistuo would be but a spectacle of the waning winter day. From this height, Hector’s eyes, gleaming red in the dissolving dawn, would warn of useless threats he could no longer defend.

The sky was deepening to an electric blush, the sun a sputtering band of dark gold on the horizon. John stood against the worthy backdrop, Mr. Penturian’s net already sprawled across a piece of flat land below, and without hesitation or regret, jumped into the airy unknown of all he knew, to a place where he could fly.

– Melissa, little word studio