The White Goose stood tall on a rock at the top of The Falls, the only flat rock protruding from the water. Today it was his rock and his alone.

The Old Green Turtle climbed onto the rock.

“Hey you up there. I’m down here,” the Old Green Turtle said.

The sound surprised the White Goose and he looked down and said, “What is it you want, Old Green Turtle? Stop bothering me for I am watching out for you.”

“Whatever do you mean, White Goose. Watching out for me? Our Creator looks after us without your help. He gave us a hard shell, the ability to go into the water for a long time, and we can just disappear into our shells at the first sign of danger. We are well protected without your help, Mr. White Goose.”

“But you’re only a slow Old Green Turtle. And powerless. Stop bothering me. I’m helping you. Can’t you see that?”

The Old Green Turtle said, “You are on my rock, White Goose. It is where I and many of my friends and relatives sunbathe. We take turns climbing up here to worship our Creator and bask in His glorious sunshine.”

“I will agree that it is the perfect place to enjoy the sun. It is but one of the reasons I’m here. That, and to protect you. And what will you do if I fail to leave this lovely rock of yours?”

The Old Green Turtle was silent for a minute and said, “One command and I will summons a thousand of my kind to make their way here. Big, small, and everything in between. What happens after they begin arriving, I cannot tell you because I do not know for sure myself. But know this, it will not be good, and you will not be able to say I didn’t warn you.”

The White Goose looked out over the shallow and calm water in front of The Falls.

He said, “And what is this command of yours that will summons these turtles as you say, for I do not see a single turtle within a mile of here? Maybe five miles. My eyes are ever so keen.”

“Just because you have keen eyes, doesn’t mean we are not there.”

The White Goose stood tall once again, proud that he had made his point.

“Let’s fly!” Old Green Turtle shouted.

“Let’s fly? That’s funny,” White Goose said. “Turtles can’t fly. They can barely swim or walk, but fly? This must be an unfunny joke you tell.”

The Old Green Turtle said nothing but slowly turned around to face the still waters. The tiny splashes were imperceptible at first. But as the White Goose kept watching the water banks, the splashes were becoming hard not to notice, not the splash themselves, but the sheer number of them.

“You can still fly away, White Goose, while you still can. I can give another command to halt the first wave. Choice is still yours. I do not know what will happen, but it will not be good for you. And I have no idea what will happen in Wave 2. Last chance, Mr. White Goose.”

The White Goose continued to watch the tiny splashes along the shoreline, and the volume increased.

“Good bye, Old Green Turtle,” the White Goose said, lifting off from the flat rock. “It is not my fault you are stubborn and ungrateful.”

As he watched the White Goose fly away, the Old Green Turtle turned to the turtles dropping into the water and yelled, ‘Lilypad delight!”

The banks of Falls began to empty faster. Instead of dozens of turtle splashes per second, now there were hundreds. Hundreds.

“Oh dear,” the Old Green Turtle said. “Wrong phrase. Now, what was that halting command again?”

I finally went outside to plant my magnolias and gardenias when Bradley appeared on the opposite side of the chain-link fence.

“Whatcha doin’, Mr. Peters?” Bradley asked.

“Oh hi, Bradley, I’m painting white clouds in the sky and mowing the lawn. Why do you ask?” Long gone were the days of pretending I didn’t want to be sarcastic. As I was turning into the curmudgeon many said I already was, my sarcasm was in full throttle.

“Ah, you’re just funnin’ me, Mr. Peters. I can see you’re plantin’ flowers.”

“Well, that and painting the clouds. I hid my paint brush.”

“Can I help paint the clouds, Mr. Peters?”

“Don’t you have some video games to catch up on or maybe even help your Mom tidy up your room?”

“Naa, she kicked me out and said I was bothering her. Can you imagine that, Mr. Peters, my own mother saying I was bothering her?”

“Hmm,” I said with a grunt, knowing my sarcasm this early in the morning could get me into more trouble than it was worth.

“Pity, I would think that at this stage in your life, you need your five hours of video games and…”

“Video games?” asked Bradley. “Who plays video games anymore? You must be real old to think like that.”

“You’re right about that, Bradley. Come on over and I’ll put you to work, how’s that sound? You like digging in the dirt, don’t you?”

“I dunno. I’ve never done that before. Think my mom would be okay with that?”

“Six years old and never dug in the dirt before? Why, I….Oh never mind. Go ask your mom first.”

“Ok, be right back. Don’t go away.”

Within two minutes Bradley was at the fence again, peering through the chain-link.

“Mom said it was okay and that you might teach me a thing or two about dirt and stuff.”

“Well, she’s right about that. Come on over then.”

Bradley raced the length of the fence, got through the gate and ran up alongside Mr. Peters.

“So, this is dirt and this is a spade,” I said.

“Hmm, doesn’t look like a spade on one of my Dad’s playing cards. Is it the same thing?”

“Mmm. Same word, different meaning. This spade you use to dig with. You sure you’ve never played in the dirt before?”

“Nope, never.”

“With this spade, I’ll dig 12 holes about three inches around. I need it to be about six inches deep. Look at that first hole over there. That’s about how I want all of them, but three inches apart.”

Bradley sat on the grass and folded his legs. He breathed out a heavy sigh.

“Confused? Tell you what,” Mr. Peters said. “Come with me to the garage, and I’ll get another spade. Then we can do this together. Sound good?”

“Yeah, I’d like that. Two inches and three inches and six inches. I guess I just don’t know anything about anything.”

“Oh, you will. But you have to get your hands dirty.”

“But I’m a little worried. Is this dirt good for you?” Bradley asked.

“More than you can possibly know, Bradley, more than you know.”

Every 10 minutes or more, Claire checked her watch. Her husband, Ted, had officially been in the ER for five hours and in the area past reception for four. She had already asked Kelly the receptionist to check on him, but her response had been “These things take time.”

Ted and Elaine came to the ER because he had a pain in his chest. It didn’t feel like a full-blown heart attack but just wanted to rule it out. At 64 the chances of it happening were higher, and since his family had a history of heart disease, it was better to be safe than sorry.

Several of the day shift were leaving, exhausted but glad their day was ending. An equal number were coming through the entrance and ready to take on whatever health challenges life threw at people.

Claire checked her watch again and then rubbed her forehead.

“What is taking them so long with him?” she whispered.

When Kelly saw Claire approaching this time, she picked up the phone and punched in a few numbers.

“Terry, I’m checking the patient with the last name Lumberton, Theodore Lumberton. Sure, I’ll hold.”

Kelly held up a finger to Claire and smiled.

Four minutes later, Kelly said, “Yes, I’m here…oh, okay. Sure, I’ll tell his wife.”

“Mrs. Lumberton, your husband will be out in a few minutes. Just buttoning things up now.”

“Thank you,” Claire said as she turned towards her seat. “Sorry to be such a bother.”

“Eh, you’re good, Mrs. Lumberton. I’d be just as worried.”

When two attendants wheeled Ted out a few minutes later, he was joking with them as they continued to apologize about an incident.

“Ah, don’t think anything about it, guys. Could happen to anyone. Ah, there she is, my Bride.”

A tall attendant smiled and said, “Sorry for the delay, Mrs. Lumberton. I’m sure your husband will tell you all about it, but please accept my apologies on behalf of the ER staff. We sincerely apologize.”

Ted rose from the wheel chair and held out his elbow.

“Shall we, Mrs. Lumberton?” he said.

“Wha, What?’

“Later, my dear, later, but I believe these are for you.”

He handed her six gift cards: two cash, one for a steak and seafood restaurant, two for coffee, and the last from Amazon.

As Ted was about to go through the revolving door, he turned around and said, “Thanks for everything, guys, and thanks for the good news too.”

When they got to the car and with both doors shut, he breathed out a heavy sigh.

“First, I have no heart problem at all. No signs whatsoever. That’s the great news. What took me so long was they left me in the MRI machine for about three hours. After they did a scan, things got busy, some heart case and some other trauma patient, yada yada. But there I was in the machine staring up. Then I fell asleep. Three hours later the machine pulled me back out and then the apologies started. Oh man, I’ve never seen so many apologies. Two doctors came and then several nurses and at least four technicians. I couldn’t hear much of the side banter but they were trying to figure out who was responsible. They ended up loading me down with these gift cards…and they’re not the $20 types either. The Amazon card alone was $400 plus the steak and seafood place was $200.”

“I was worried stiff about you but you don’t seem to be upset by it.”

“Upset? Why would I be upset? I no longer have claustrophobia and I had the best sleep I’ve had in years. Really, I think they were thinking I might sue so they loaded me with the gift cards. I still could but why would I? Honest mistake and no harm. Plus no more claustrophobia. Maybe I should be gifting them cards?”

“Don’t go overboard, Ted. You’re treating me to steak tonight.”

Henry leaned over the edge of the counter, frowning at the sheet of paper in front of him. His pencil hovered above a half-finished school assignment.

The topic: Write a short essay on an important decision you’ve made.

His grandfather shuffled into the kitchen wearing old slippers. He carried a newspaper under one arm and a cup of hot coffee.

“You look like a statue,” Grandfather said.

Henry sighed and said, “We have to write about a big decision.”

Grandfather sat down at the table.

“Ah,” he said. “The famous crossroad. ‘To be or not to be.’”

Henry glanced up and his eyes narrowed.

“We’re not doing Shakespeare.”

“Everything is Shakespeare if you squint hard enough,” Grandfather said.

Henry slumped lower. His sighs were even heavier now.

“The only big decision I made today was whether to eat the last waffle or save it for tomorrow.”

Grandfather leaned back in his chair and asked, “And what did you choose?”

“I ate it,” Henry said.

“Then you’ve already lived your essay,” Grandfather said. “You chose ‘to be.’”

Henry blinked.

“That doesn’t count.”

“It counts if you write it dramatically enough,” Grandfather said. “Say the waffle called to you like destiny calls you. Say the syrup gleamed like a golden sunrise. Say you were brave enough to answer.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“So is life. And somehow, it works out.”

Henry tapped his pencil against the paper.

“You ever make a big decision?”

“Once,” Grandfather said. “I stood at the bus station with a suitcase in one hand and a sandwich in the other. I had to choose which to trust: my future or my appetite.”

Henry tilted his head.

“Which did you choose?”

Grandfather smiled.

“I ate the sandwich on the bus. You can be practical and adventurous at the same time.”

Henry began to write. The pencil scratched steadily across the page as he spoke aloud.

“I had to choose between saving the last waffle or eating it. Some decisions shape history. This one shaped my breakfast.”

Grandfather nodded and said, “That’s the spirit.”

Henry set his pencil down and looked at the paper. He nodded.

Grandfather sipped his tea and glanced toward the toaster.

“Next time, let’s make two waffles,” he said.

Henry grinned.

“Then I won’t have to choose.”

“Exactly,” Grandfather said. “Real wisdom is knowing how to skip the hard questions entirely.”

Eleanor stood in her backyard wearing her sunhat.

Above the petunias, a small drone hovered.

She waved it off with a gardening glove. It didn’t flinch.

Across the fence, her neighbor’s grandson fiddled with a controller, tongue on the left side of his mouth.

“Kevin,” she said.

He didn’t look up.

“Kevin,” she said again, louder.

He blinked.

“Oh. Hi, Mrs. Cartwright.”

“Your flying machine is in my airspace.”

“It’s just mapping terrain.”

“My terrain is currently pulling weeds and would like privacy.”

He tapped a button. The drone buzzed upward.

Eleanor returned to her flowerbed, muttering about satellites, surveillance, and “back in my day” statements.

Two days later, the drone was back.

This time it carried something.

Eleanor watched it lower into her yard and drop a folded note onto the grass.

She opened it.

Sorry for the invasion. Drone says it’s deeply regretful. Would like to make peace.

Underneath was a doodle of a flower.

She glanced at the fence.

Kevin waved, smiling.

She wrote a reply on the back of the note.

Peace accepted. But your drone owes me a rose.

The drone zipped back to him carrying the message.

The next morning, a long stemmed rose sat on her porch with a bow tied around it.

No drone in sight.

Eleanor picked it up, sniffed, and smiled.

It was a good apology.

Still, she looked up at the sky.

“If that thing comes back during my slingshot class, I’m taking it out.”

And she meant it.

As the anesthesia wore off from Rachel’s tonsillectomy, everything was blurry and fuzzy. As she gazed up, two women – girls, really – stood on each side of her bed. She knew she was in a hospital, what with the bed rails and the dark blue scrubs the nurses were wearing, but didn’t remember much else.

The redhead said, “Welcome back to life, Rachel. Surgery went well. It seems that the doctor has said you can have a milk shake if you want.”

“Yeah, only if you want,” the other lady, the one with multiple piercings and multi-colored hair, said.

Rachel shook her head from side to side, closed her eyes, and said, “Sleep. More sleep.”

“Sleep’s good, Rachel,” said Red. “But Rachel, are you absolutely sure you don’t want a nice thick milk shake, chocolate, say? We’ve heard chocolate is your favorite flavor. We could get it to you in about three or four minutes, tops. You wouldn’t have to do anything but sit back and enjoy that nice…chocolate….shake.”

She still nodded her head from side to side without saying a word.

“Chocolate shake,” her nursing partner said. Then she leaned over the bed and was six inches from Rachel’s face. She whispered, “Rachel, here’s the deal. When we make you a shake, we get to make a little extra, you know, for the trouble and all. So, you get one and we get one too, at no extra cost to you and your insurance.”

Rachel smiled, her eyes still closed.

Certainly the medication was wearing off and she was coming to her senses. These two girls, a few years older than she was, were doing what she might’ve done had she been in their situation. Under normal circumstances, she would’ve said, “Bring me two shakes then!” and nobody would have questioned her because that was Rachel Bruno to a tee: generous and a chocolate lover.

“Sure,” Rachel said. “You can have mine too.”

The girls high fived each other across the bed and headed straight to the door. Standing there and watching it all was Rachel’s parents, nudging past them on the way out.

“What was that all about?” her father asked, as the two nurses practically ran down the hall.

“Hi Dad. Just trying to make someone’s day!”

“Here’s your paperwork,” the receptionist said. “Just fill it out and fax it over to the lab when you get home.”

“Fax it?” the patient asked. “Who does faxes anymore?”

“We do. The lab obviously does. That’s the only way the Lab will do business these days. They’re getting scammed and spammed at every turn.”

“Can’t I just scan it and PDF it instead?”

“Sorry, sir. I’m just reading their instructions. They make the rules for new patients, and their rules say ‘Fax it’ over.”

Rory stared down at the lab paperwork, then looked around the office.

“Where am I going to get a fax machine?”

“The local copy and office shops have them, and can fax for a small fee, per page I believe it is,” said the receptionist.

He handed the paperwork back to the receptionist.

“Eh, my bloodwork can wait another year.”

“Are you su…”

Rory held up his hand and said, “Positive. O positive, like my blood. See you next year. Perhaps you can put in a word with the lab to update their process. Not your fault. And thank you for putting up with me.”

The dent Pavel made on Sheri’s foreign import wasn’t big, not really. Backing out of the stall, he hit Sheri’s car while she waited for pedestrians in the crosswalk.

Pavel swung open his door and headed straight to the driver’s side, screaming and motioning for her to roll down her window. She dropped it a few inches, not trusting this man who had rushed her car.

“Why didn’t you move, Lady?” Pavel asked. “Can’t you see that I was…”

“I was waiting for those people over there. I was stationary. Bigger question is, why’d you back into me?”

She grabbed her camera and purse and opened the car door. She was hunched over, and held her back as she made her way to view the damages.

“No way,” he said. “No way that I did I do that to you, Lady. I don’t know who you are, but you’re not going to trump up some whiplash charge. It’s just a small dent, tiny even. I’ll fight this tooth and nail. I’ve got a rearview dash cam and it recorded everything. I hit you but it was in no way head on and couldn’t have caused you to be in pain like that.”

Sheri snapped a few pictures of the damage with her phone. She was still hunched over and holding her back. Considering her car was 18-years-old and full of various dings, dents, and imperfections, the damage he made was negligible and wouldn’t affect resale value in the least. She was planning on running the car into the ground before replacing it.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir. Whiplash? Oh this?” she said, touching her back. “I just got out of the doctor’s office about this. Strained a muscle picking up my granddaughter yesterday. You must be having a bad day to think like that. You’re good. Just relax a bit and have a little patience with us older folks.”

Rachel, a high school sophomore working her first paying job, smiled and said, “Welcome to Treaster’s. How may I help you?” The woman behind Rachel patted her on the shoulder.

Patrick continued to scan the menu rubbing his gray beard and making a hundred choices before settling on one.

“I think I’ll go with the fish combo, medium fries, and can I get an unsweetened iced tea?”

Rachel searched her screen. The trainer, Tanya, looked over her shoulder but didn’t say a word. Tanya then raised her eyebrows at Patrick and smiled.

“Sorry it’s taking so long,” Rachel said. “First day on the job.”

“Oh, take your time, uh, Rachel. Take your time.”

“Thank you,” Rachel whispered and her shoulders relaxed.

“Um, sir, we don’t have fish but it appears we do have cod. Is that…okay?”

In the split second it took to analyze her words, Patrick thought of a dozen things to say, none of them funny or helpful. He could see she was nervous and being trained.

“Oh, I think cod would be perfect today, Rachel. You’re doing great.”

Tanya smiled at Patrick’s words. She knew what he was doing and mouthed her own ‘Thank you’ in response.

“Thanks,” said Rachel. “So many things to learn.”

“Well, one thing at a time, young lady, one thing at a time. Pretty soon you’ll be managing this place,” Patrick said, inserting his credit card into the machine.

She chuckled and said, “Your order will be out shortly. Thanks for your patience and kind words.”

The text with a selfie of Sylvia came in just as Trevor was ready to start the car.

“Does this dress make me look big?” she asked.

Trevor smiled.

One of the only pieces of advice his father gave him before he passed away at a young age was to answer ‘No.’ No other response would ever suffice.

Ever.

His father said, “Even if you have to lie, the answer is always always always ‘No.’ Trust me on that, Son. And you will eventually be asked. Defend that answer to the death!”

Presently, Sylvia had gone clothes shopping and was trying on new dresses for an upcoming wedding of an old college friend.

“I got this,” Trevor said out loud and then started the car.

“Nooo,” he texted his reply.

Before he could pull out of the garage and shut the garage door, his phone dinged several times, indicating several texts had come through.

“She must be giving my comment several hearts. Cool,” he said, knowing he could certainly use bonus marriage points.

When he arrived at the auto parts store, he checked his phone and had 17 incoming messages, all from Sylvia.

“What!!”

“How could you say something like that???”

“I might not even come home today!”

And several more texts from Sylvia, mostly unprintable for polite audiences.

He scrolled up to where it all started.

“Does this dress make me look big?” read the text, plus a selfie of Sylvia.

Whether it was autocorrect or just plain fat fingers, Trevor realized the problem and the dozens of roses he’d have to buy to begin dousing that raging fire.

“Moooo,” was his unedited response.

The black ski mask hid his face, but his intentions were clear: he was stealing a car.

He checked the door and it opened easily. A woman in her 30s was in the passenger seat.

“Yeah, gotta run. Something’s come up,” said the woman into her cell phone.

“This is a carjacking, Lady,” said the car jacker.

“Obviously. Can I get out first?”

The thief squinted as if it were an insane question and said, “No, you cannot get out first. There’s no need to be frightened though.”

The lady sighed. “Frightened? In this neighborhood? Pfft. You must be new here. Careful though. Carjacking’s one thing. Taking me along for the ride is kidnapping and I’m pretty sure that’s a felony. Might wanna rethink this plan of yours.”

“Shut up, Lady. You gotta name?”

“Marcia. And I’ll thank you not to talk to me like that. Still think you should rethink…say, you got a name? Doesn’t have to be real, I mean if we’re gonna be together until the police come, I’d rather not say ‘Hey you’ all the time.”

“Ricky,” he said. “And don’t jinx this by saying that word police.”

“Nice to meet you, sort of.”

“Likewise I’m sure,” Ricky said.

He shut the door and put his foot on the brake, but lifted several pieces of trash. The entire floorboard was covered with wrappers, cups, cans, and empty bottles.

“How can you live like this, Lady, er Marcia? I can’t even put my foot on the pedals”

“Not my car. Not my problem. Not my monkeys, not my circus. You know the drill. It’s my sister’s and she is really gonna be ticked that you stole her car.”

“She got kids? I mean, look at all this junk on the floor here.”

“No kids, just a single female cop. A bit overweight, but aren’t we all? That might account for all the potato chip and cupcake packages down there.”

“No, we’re not all overweight,” Ricky said. “Some of us take pride in our healthy diets.”

“Well, aren’t we the special one? Say, aren’t you a little hot in that mask? It must be 95 out there today.”

“No, I’m not hot. And I’m not gonna show my face. Nice try. Wait, did you say your sister’s a cop?”

“Sheriff’s Deputy. Why, are you rethinking your plan yet?”

“Nope. I’m committed now.”

Ricky started the car and it roared as it idled.

“Seems like your sister’s car has a problem,” said Ricky the carjacker. He looked in the rearview mirror and a plume of white smoke appeared.

“Not really. Just a little noisy. And it uses a fair amount of oil, 10W30 if I recall correctly. Ricky, I know it’s none of my business, but why are you jacking a 20-year-old domestic? Why not go big with the Italian or German imports? Even the luxury vehicles would be easier to offload and worth more.”

“You’re right. It’s none of your business. I like cars I can fix myself. The foreign ones are all computerized and the parts are hard to get to.”

“I’ll say one thing, Ricky. You sure are a practical thief. You’ll feel right at home in this car. She’s put lots of money into it. I’ve told her…”

“Will you just shut up, Marcia? I’m trying to think.”

“All right, all right. Don’t get so testy.”

“Your sister. She a good cop?”

“Good cop, bad cop. Who really knows? It pays the bills for her so that must account for something. Good Christian woman. Why, you thinking to bribe her?”

“Bribe her? You must be out of your mind. I may be a thief, but I’m an honest one.”

“Yeah, I’ll need time to process that one…”

As sirens sounded in the distance, Ricky looked out the window to his left, and Marcia said, “Okay, Ricky, get out of the car right now.”

The gun she held was pointed right at Ricky.

“But, but…I thought….”

“That’s the problem, Ricky, if that’s your name. Dispatch heard every word you’ve said and are sending a squad or two our way. I was on the phone with them about another matter when you opened the car door.”

“Then your sister…

“My sister’s a nurse. I’m the law in my family.”

Two squad cars pulled up and four officers jumped out with guns pointed directly at Ricky.

“You okay in there, Marcia?” one of the officers yelled.

“Yeah yeah, no problem,” she shouted through the driver side window.

“Where’d you concoct such a story, Marcia? I’m impressed,” the officer said.

“Heard everything, huh? Comes natural, I guess. Maybe I missed my calling as a comedian.”

The Old Man never liked the idea of electric vehicles much less electric bikes.

“Lazy. Just lazy,” he said to no one in particular when the first bike passed him on the sidewalk sprinting 25 miles an hour.

“They shouldn’t be on the sidewalk anyhow. Kids nowadays.”

It was always “kids nowadays” as the Old Man got older.

Back in his day, there was no electric anything except for lights. And even then, he had to go out and buy bulbs every year.

The EV craze puzzled the Old Man at first until a neighbor offered him a ride in one.

“It’s like turning a light on and off. One second nothing and the next it’s full power,” the neighbor said.

The Old Man merely grunted a response, thanked the neighbor for the lift, and got out just as fast.

“It’ll be the death of us all,” he said. “Give me a car I can control is what I say.”

“Maybe,” the neighbor said. “But having an EV is the least we can do for our planet.”

The Old Man kept his thoughts to himself because he knew he was in the presence of someone who didn’t understand logic or reason. The Old Man had gotten in more than his share of arguments, scuffles, and heated discussions to know when to just shut up about climate change and other hot political topics. This was such a time.

Presently, a small gang of electric bike riders zipped past him as he watched from his porch rocker. They were easily going 30 on the straight road.

The Old Man shook a fist at them because he knew they were going faster than the limit on a residential street. They waved as they passed, and the Old Man was sure they’d be back for another pass. They wore helmets but had no license plates on the bikes. He doubted they were old enough to drive regular cars.

But kids will be kids, so the Old Man leaned back on his rocker and dreamt of a day when there were no cell phones, home computers, or electric anything except maybe for lights and air conditioning.

Those were the good ol’ days.

He wasn’t long for this world but the Old Man would shake his fist at the fast-paced and confusing environment he lived in. He wasn’t liking it, no, not a bit, but he was desperately trying to accept it.

Just don’t ask him about this current generation’s music. Then you’ll get an earful.

The merry-go-round at Marlin Park hadn’t turned in years. The city stopped maintaining it after someone’s dog had gotten its leash tangled in the gears. That was three Summers ago. Since then, the paint had peeled, the horses had developed their own personality, and it was in desperate need of oil.

Mr. Greeley, who walked the park every morning at seven with a bag of sunflower seeds, always paused beside it. He never sat, but just looked at the chipped eyes of the horse closest to the bench.

On Thursday, 12-year-old Maisie discovered that the merry-go-round now spun. Not by much, just a few slow inches if you leaned on it just right. She tested this carefully, first with a stick, then with one foot planted firmly on the grass.

It groaned and turned.

By Saturday, word had spread. Three neighborhood kids brought sandwiches and dared each other to sit on the lion. The lion had one ear and no tail, but it was still solid. When they pushed the platform, it moved half a rotation before grinding to a halt.

Mr. Greeley paused again. He watched them from his bench.

“I wouldn’t do that,” he said.

“Why not?” asked one of the boys.

“It’s temperamental,” he said.

The children stared at him, unsure if that was a threat or a vocabulary quiz.

Maisie climbed onto the dolphin.

“It can’t hurt us, can it?” she asked.

“Not intentionally,” Mr. Greeley said.

She narrowed her eyes and said, “Going in circles isn’t dangerous. We’ll be careful.”

“I know you’ll be careful. Just reminding you of the danger.”

The dolphin gave a wobble.

By Monday, someone had painted the horses’ eyes white. No pupils, just plain white. The town council hadn’t approved it. No one knew who did it, though Mr. Greeley was seen carrying a paint can that morning. He claimed it was for his porch.

By the end of the week, the merry-go-round had started turning on its own in the evenings. Slowly. Steadily. As if it had remembered why it existed.

Maisie stood beside it just before sunset and looked at Mr. Greeley.

“It still works,” she said.

He folded his newspaper.

“It always worked. Just needed someone to coax it along.”

She stepped up, chose the lion, and sat. The merry-go-round began to move, so slowly she wasn’t sure it had started at all.

Mr. Greeley tipped his cap and stood.

“Well,” he said. “Keep your elbows in. Less drag. You can go faster.”

She smiled. The lion creaked.

By the time the sun dropped below the trees, the merry-go-round platform had made a full turn.

Maisie blinked.

The park looked exactly the same.

But the dolphin now had its tail back.

Later that week the town council sent a maintenance crew to oil the ride.

Someone was sure to skin a knee or break a bone now that it could turn freely, as the machine had undoubtedly done many times over the years.

Mr. Greeley had warned them but was glad for the newfound freedom the merry-go-round had. After all, what use is an unused and stationary ride?

The Old Man shuffled along the cracked sidewalk each afternoon at three, plastic grocery bag dangling from his wrist. The park pond waited beyond the iron gate, its surface dotted with lily pads and the occasional ripple from a jumping fish. He had followed this route for years, ever since retirement.

The Duck spotted him from the far bank. It paddled across the pond, cutting a vee through the water.

The Old Man eased onto the bench facing the pond. The wood had weathered, and one armrest wobbled under his weight. He opened the bag and pulled out a handful of frozen peas. His own doctor found out about his park ventures and forbade him to feed them bread months ago, claiming it swelled in the birds’ stomachs. Peas, the doctor said, were better.

The Duck arrived and climbed the slope of the bank. She stopped a few yards away, waiting.

The Old Man scattered a few peas onto the grass between them.

“There you are,” he said.

The Duck waddled forward, pecking each pea with stabs. It kept one eye on him the entire time.

A pair of teenagers tossed a frisbee nearby, their shouts carrying across the water. A woman walked her spaniel along the far path. The Old Man noticed none of it. His attention stayed on The Duck.

The Duck finished the first handful and looked up, expecting more.

The Old Man tossed more peas, closer this time. “Greedy today, huh?”

The Duck quacked once, perhaps thanking The Old Man, perhaps just quacking because that’s what ducks do.

He worked through the bag slowly, rationing the peas so the ritual would last. When only a dozen remained, he cupped them in his palm and held his hand out flat.

The Duck hesitated, then stepped forward. It took the peas one by one from his hand, its beak cool against his skin.

The Old Man watched her eat.

“My Margaret used to bring you oats,” he said. “She claimed peas were rabbit food.”

The Duck finished and gave a small shake, settling her feathers.

The Old Man brushed his hands together.

“All gone. Doctor’s orders.”

She lingered a moment longer, then turned and waddled back to the water, slid in without a splash, and paddled toward the center.

The Old Man remained on the bench. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a single slice of crustless bread, wrapped in tissue. He had saved it from breakfast, defying the doctor in this small way.

He tore off a corner and tossed it onto the group, knowing full well that The Duck or her friends would find it in short order.

“Rabbit food,” he said to no one.

The Duck floated in the middle of the pond, content and unaware. The Old Man folded the rest of the bread back into the tissue, and returned it to his pocket.

Tomorrow he just might unthaw the peas to make it easier for The Duck to digest.

The Old Man was just in one of those wild moods

.

Diane had been planning the candlelit dinner for a week. She dusted off the fancy tablecloth with the lace trim, polished the good forks, and even ironed the cloth napkins, though she was certain Frank wouldn’t notice.

She placed a single tall candle in the center of the table. It was ivory but unscented. She lit it with a match and stepped back, admiring the dancing flicker.

Frank arrived precisely at six, holding a bag of dinner rolls.

“Smells good,” he said, sniffing. “Did you make meatloaf?”

“No,” Diane said. “It’s eggplant parmesan.”

Frank blinked.

“I’ll try not to complain,” he said.

They sat. Diane poured water into the glasses and tried to ignore the shadow his baseball cap cast across the candlelight.

“Do you have to wear the hat?” she asked.

He reached up and touched the brim.

“Sorry, I forgot it was on.”

She raised her eyebrows.

“I’ll take it off,” he said, setting it on the chair beside him. His hair stood up in all directions.

They ate in silence for a few minutes. The candle gave the room a soft glow that made the old wallpaper look romantic. Diane reached for the salad bowl. The flame flickered.

Then, without warning, the smoke detector screamed.

Frank flinched so hard he dropped his fork.

“What’d you do?” he asked.

“It’s the candle!” Diane stood on a chair and waved her napkin under the detector. “It always does this. I forgot it’s directly under it.”

Frank stood and opened the window. A breeze rushed in and blew the flame sideways.

“I think it’s dying down,” he said.

The detector gave a final chirp and went silent.

They sat again. Diane stared at her salad. Frank picked up his fork and turned it like a baton.

“I think,” he said, “this dinner is trying to sabotage us.”

Diane snorted.

“Maybe next time I’ll just light a flashlight and call it romantic.”

Frank grinned and said, “And maybe next time I’ll surprise you with flowers and chocolates and no hat.”

“That’s sweet of you, Frank,” she said. “I’m just grateful there’ll be a next time.”

Arriving back in the States only three days ago from mainland China, Max had recovered from the jet lag and was ready to put his four years of living and working in China into action. Immersed in the culture there, Max embraced the challenge of learning Mandarin, taking intensive language courses and practicing daily with locals. His day job involved collaborating with Chinese engineers, which solidified his fluency. Within two years he was speaking effortlessly and it took him the remaining two to be able to read basic Chinese characters.

He had never been to the Silk Road Noodle House, he was sure of it. He would’ve remembered its slogan: Authentic Flavors that Travel. But there was a first time for everything. Before going there with friends, Max wanted to try it out to see if indeed it was authentic and close to what he had experienced in China.

After being seated and served hot tea and water, Max opened the menu and began reading the characters.

With a smile, he browsed the items, not really sure what he was hungry for.

“Something spicy,” Max said to himself out loud. “Think I’ll go with “General Cho’s Chicken with a side of fried rice and a few dumplings.”

The waiter, a short thin man named Ray, arrived at his side with a pen and pad in hand.

“I think I’ll have General Cho’s Chicken with a side of fried rice and a few dumplings,” Max said in his best Mandarin Chinese.

Ray said nothing but tapped the top of his pen on the pad.

Max looked up at the waiter and ordered again in Chinese.

Ray scratched his eyebrow.

“What?” he asked in flawless and accentless English. “I’m sorry, Boss, but I don’t speak Chinese. I’m third generation from Thailand.”

The old porch creaked under their feet as the late afternoon sun leaned low against the horizon. Grandpa leaned back in his chair, folding his hands over his stomach. Jasper sat cross-legged on the porch steps, holding a half-eaten apple.

“Grandpa,” Jasper said, squinting up at him. “What’s the secret of success?”

Grandpa tapped his chin with one finger.

“Ah,” he said. “The famous question. Philosophers, kings, and very determined squirrels have wondered the same thing.”

Jasper frowned and asked, “Squirrels?”

“Of course,” Grandpa said. “Have you ever seen a squirrel give up on a bird feeder? No. We call that persistence.”

Jasper took a bite of his apple.

“So, the secret of success is being like a squirrel?”

“Partly, but if you want the full secret, you must listen closely.”

Jasper leaned forward.

“Success,” Grandpa said, “Comes from three things. Showing up, doing the work, and keeping your pants out of puddles.”

Jasper blinked and his eyes darted from side to side.

“Pants out of puddles?”

Grandpa nodded.

“When a person who stands in a puddle too long, he starts to shiver. A shivering person doesn’t build bridges, finish his homework, or lead great adventures in the wild. Dry feet, clear head.”

Jasper studied his own shoes.

“What if it’s sunny out?”

“Then keep your shoes untied. Go bare foot for once. Your feet need a little breeze. You need a little breeze.”

The wind rattled the porch railing.

“But Grandpa,” Jasper said, “what if someone’s already better than me?”

“Then you keep going until they wonder how you caught up.” He paused. “Or they trip on their own untied shoes.”

Jasper grinned. “That’s not very nice.”

“It’s not mean either,” Grandpa replied. “It’s just gravity at work.”

They sat quietly for a while, watching a cloud drift toward the treetops. Jasper took another bite of his apple. Grandpa shifted his weight, making the chair creak.

“So,” Jasper said, “I just have to be a squirrel with dry feet.”

“Exactly,” Grandpa answered. “And one day, when you have your own porch and a very puzzled child, you can give the same advice.”

Jasper stood up, brushing off his knees. “What if they ask why?”

Grandpa tapped the side of his nose. “Then you look wise and pretend there’s a reason.”

Jasper laughed. “That’s your real secret, isn’t it?”

Grandpa leaned back again.

“Busted, Jasper. Ya got me.”

Harold liked to say he had never missed garbage day in 32 years. He said it to his neighbor, to the mailman, and to anyone who paused long enough near his driveway to hear it.

So, when Wednesday morning came and Harold found himself staring at his trash can, which was still tucked behind the garage, he didn’t panic. Not at first.

He checked his watch. It was 7:06.

“Plenty of time,” he said, already dragging the can across the gravel.

Then he heard it, the unmistakable engine of the garbage truck turning onto his street.

Harold’s eyes widened. He started to jog. The can rattled behind him, bouncing over the uneven driveway.

The truck was already two houses down. Mr. Bentley’s recycling can had just emptied into the metal belly.

Harold picked up speed. His slippers flapped against the pavement. His robe billowed. He passed the mailbox and swerved, half-lifting the can, trying to save precious seconds.

He reached the curb just as the truck braked just shy of Harold’s house.

The garbage man, a young fellow with earbuds and a half-zipped hoodie, gave him a small nod.

“Morning,” Harold said, catching his breath.

The neighbor’s recycling can was hoisted, emptied, and thunked back down in under four seconds.

The truck rumbled off, bypassing Harold’s container completely.

Harold placed his hands on his knees and exhaled. He had no energy to chase the driver and show him the error of his ways. A leaf drifted lazily onto the pavement beside him.

He straightened and turned around.

Two joggers had stopped across the street. One gave him a thumbs up.

Harold raised a thumb in reply, trying to look casual.

As he walked back to the garage, he turned back towards the street.

“Thirty-two-year record down the drain,” he said with a sigh.

He passed the mailbox, paused, and looked at his watch.

It was Tuesday.

Timmy grabbed the old bamboo pole his uncle handed him, its line tangled from years of neglect. Uncle Ray, a large man with a graying beard, led the way down the muddy path to the lake. Timmy’s sneakers squished in the damp earth.

“Best spot’s right here,” Uncle Ray said, pointing to a dock that jutted into the still water. He baited his hook with a live worm, then helped Timmy. The boy winced but threaded the bait carefully.

They cast their lines in unison. Plops echoed across the lake. Timmy settled on the dock’s edge, legs dangling. Uncle Ray sat beside him, pulling a thermos of lemonade from his tackle box.

Minutes stretched into an hour. Dragonflies skimmed the surface. A heron watched from the reeds.

“Any bites yet?” Timmy asked.

Uncle Ray shook his head. “Patience, kid. Fish don’t punch a clock, at least not the same one we do.”

Timmy nodded but his stomach growled. He reeled in his line slowly, checked the bait, then cast again. The hook sailed farther this time, landing with a satisfying splash.

Uncle Ray grinned.

“Nice throw. You’re getting the hang of it.”

Another hour passed. Timmy’s arms ached from holding the pole steady. He watched his bobber float motionless. Uncle Ray hummed an old tune, reeling in occasionally to recast.

Suddenly, Timmy’s line tugged. The bobber dipped and then vanished.

“I got one!” Timmy yelled, jumping up.

“Easy, easy,” Uncle Ray said. “Reel it in slow. Don’t muscle it in.”

Timmy cranked the reel. The pole bent. Whatever pulled fought hard. Uncle Ray stood, ready with the net.

The fish broke the surface: a small sunfish, scales glinting gold.

Timmy beamed.

“Look at that, Uncle Ray!”

Uncle Ray netted it and said, “Fine catch for your first real day out.”

They admired the fish, then released it back into the water. Timmy cast again, energized.

As the sun dipped lower, Timmy felt another strong pull. This one dragged his line sideways. He braced his feet against the dock planks.

“This one’s big,” he said with a grunt.

Uncle Ray leaned over.

“Steady now.”

Timmy reeled. The fight lasted minutes. Sweat beaded on his forehead. Finally, the catch neared the surface.

Up came not a fish, but Uncle Ray’s old baseball cap, the one he’d lost while boating in that same lake last summer. Muddy water dripped from its brim. A rusty hook from some long-abandoned line had snagged it perfectly.

Timmy stared, then burst out laughing.

Uncle Ray scratched his head, chuckling.

“Well, I’ll be. You caught my hat and half the mud in the lake.”

Timmy held it up triumphantly.

“Guess the lake decided to give it back.”

Uncle Ray took the soggy cap, rinsed the mud from it, wrung it out, and plopped it on Timmy’s head. It drooped over his eyes.

“Looks better on you anyway,” Uncle Ray said.

Timmy adjusted it, smiling.

“Best fishing trip ever.”

They packed up as the sun set. No fish in the cooler, but Timmy carried the hat like a trophy. Uncle Ray glanced at him.

“Next time, we’ll aim for actual fish.”

Timmy nodded. “Or maybe the lake’s got more goodies for us.”

Uncle Ray laughed and said, “With you casting, I wouldn’t bet against it.”

They trudged home, the boy wearing the oversized cap, already planning the stories he’d tell about the day he hooked the biggest catch of all.

It’s just how real fishermen roll.

The busker arrived at the corner of Bridge and Market every Saturday just after noon. He unfolded a small camp stool on the pavement, set down an open violin case lined with velvet, and tuned his instrument.

His name was Levi, though few passers-by knew it. He wore a wool coat patched at the elbows and a flat cap. Gray hair emerged around the edges. The violin itself looked older than he did, its wood darkened by years of handling.

Shoppers streamed by. Levi lifted the bow and began with a slow tune, something minor and sad that rose above the city noise.

A young woman in a red scarf paused. She stood just outside the flow of foot traffic, listening. Coins clinked into the case from others who did not stop.

Levi’s eyes stayed half-closed as he played. The melody shifted into something lighter, almost playful. A small girl in a blue dress and yellow boots tugged her mother’s hand and stopped directly in front of him. She stared at the dancing bow as if it were alive.

The mother smiled and tried to move on, but the girl planted her feet.

Levi noticed without breaking rhythm. He eased into a simple folk tune, something children sometimes danced to in village squares long ago. The girl began to sway, boots scuffing the pavement.

More people gathered now, a loose semicircle forming. Phones appeared, held high to record. Levi didn’t mind. He finished the tune with a soft flourish and let the final note linger.

The girl clapped three times, loud and certain. A few adults joined in.

Levi bowed his head slightly in acknowledgment. He reached into his coat pocket and drew out a single wrapped candy, the kind with twisted plastic ends. He held it out to the girl.

She looked at her mother, who nodded. The girl took the candy carefully, still unsure.

“Thank you,” the mother said.

Levi answered by beginning another piece, slower this time, something that was peaceful and serene.

The crowd thinned as quickly as it had formed. The girl and her mother moved on, but she was skipping now. Coins lay scattered across the velvet: copper, silver, a few folded bills.

When the church clock struck three, Levi played one last phrase and lowered the violin. He gathered the money without counting it, closed the case, and folded the stool.

A teenage boy who had lingered at the edge stepped forward.

“That last one,” the boy said. “What’s it called?”

Levi thought about it and said, “Um, I don’t know. It doesn’t have a name anymore.”

The boy nodded as if that made perfect sense.

Levi tipped his cap to the corner, to the street, to the empty space where listeners had stood. Then he walked away, violin case swinging lightly at his side, the faint scent of rosin trailing behind him like a memory no one quite caught.

Another day, another improvised tune. One day Levi might actually put it down on paper and market it.

But today? Today, he’ll just delight audiences one Saturday afternoon at a time.