Category: Random scene

A day of peace

“What am I going to do with this day?” asked Benny the Bunny. “The sun is shining and the gooses are flying south for the winter.”

“That lot looks like they’re flying north,” said Charley the Chipmunk.

“Of course they’re flying north,” said Bruno the Blue Jay. “They’re Canadian geese. They’re heading home.”

“That doesn’t seem right,” Benny said. “Doesn’t it get colder in Canada in the winter, just as it does here?”

“They like it cold,” Bruno said. “I heard that from Greta the Goose her very self.”

“I hate to tell you,” Charley told Bruno, “I think Greta was pulling your leg. She told me they were heading for Nashville, and I don’t think she meant Nashville, Ontario.”

Everyone giggled, but Bruno looked a little crestfallen.

“Oh, don’t worry, she was teasing you,” Benny said. “We only tease people we love.”

All was well in the forest that day. Benny visited the little house with the bird feeder, where seed always spilled to the ground from up above, and he had his fill while Bruno flitted back and forth, trying not to attract the attention of the dignified old dog who lay nearby.

“I don’t think that dog cares enough to chase you away,” said Benny.

“I’m not taking any chances,” Bruno said, and he flew to a tree every time the old canine glanced his way.

“This story doesn’t seem to be going anywhere,” said Charley the Chipmunk, chewing nonchalantly on a chunk of cheddar cheese.

“I know,” Benny said. “Isn’t it lovely?”

A forest is not the nicest place for innocent creatures, and life can be scary for a bunny or a chipmunk or a blue jay. But on this sweet, sunny day, everything was downright peaceful.

I could introduce some danger just about now. Willie the Weasel and Calvin the Coyote were having a conversation not very far away, and maybe they were hungry for some lunch.

Why would I do that, though? It was too nice a day.

The Skeleton with a Frog on Its Head

There was this skeleton hanging from a porch, minding its own business, when along came a frog and perched on its head.

“Here, now,” said the skeleton. “What are you doing on my head?”

“There’s a funny story about that,” said the frog. “I was just hop-hop-hopping along, and it got to be a long day and I was tired, and what do you know but here’s a skeleton where I can sit a spell and rest my weary bones. No offense,” the frog added, in case the skeleton was sensitive about the reference to bones and all.

“None taken,” the skeleton replied to the frog’s relief. “It just seems to be a bit odd, having a frog on my head. Most of the skeletons around here don’t have such appendages.”

“Well, that makes you one of a kind, don’t you know,” the frog said. “People will pass the others by, and maybe they’ll say, ‘Oh, there’s a skeleton, there’s another skeleton,’ but then they’ll rise right up out of their car seats and exclaim, ‘How about that! There’s a skeleton with a frog on its head.’”

“Does that mean you’re planning to stay awhile?” asked the skeleton.

“Not necessarily,” said the frog. “I meant if anyone happens to pass by in these next few minutes or something.”

“I don’t mind the company,” the skeleton admitted. “It gets kind of lonely just hanging around all day. Having a frog on my head breaks up the monotony.”

“That’s right there what I was trying to say!” cried the frog. “I think it’s possible this could be the start of a beautiful friendship.”

And wouldn’t you know, the skeleton and the frog became pals right then and there, and as years went by people would pass by and say, “There’s that skeleton and his best friend, the frog.” You just never know.

Two friends diverged in the woods

(From the archives, Aug. 17, 2017)

“I can’t.”

The other man stopped short and whipped around.

“You WHAT?”

The first speaker swallowed and considered whether to repeat himself.

“I can’t,” he said finally. “This is impossible.”

The other man’s face turned red, and the first one braced himself for an onslaught, either emotional or physical. He winced.

But instead, the other man sighed.

“OK,” he said. “You stay here. I’ll go on.”

“Bring me something, would you? I –”

“I’m not coming back.”

“But –”

“Here’s the deal,” the other man said. “We’re going this way. It’s tough. Nobody said it would be easy, but you know what’s waiting out there. Here, this place, is where we were – we didn’t want to be here anymore. So here we go, or, I guess, here I go. You can stay here, but I’m not coming back this way again.”

“What will I do without you?”

The other man smiled.

“Anything you want. That’s the beauty of it,” he said. “Maybe I’ll see you over there someday.”

“Maybe you will. See you then.”

That was the last time either ever saw of each other. They remembered that day differently – one as the day he lost a friend, one as the last time he ever let himself say, “I can’t.”

Second scene of a short story set on a space station three-quarters of the way to the moon

(If you’re curious about the first scene, you can click here or buy The Man Who Crossed Whimsy Avenue here or wherever fine books are sold.)

The little coffee shop did not have much atmosphere, but they made the muffins fresh every 24 hours and the coffee was as good as any back on Earth.

“Settled in, then?” he asked, resisting the temptation to get lost in her eyes.

“Yes. I love what you’ve done with the place,” she said with a flip of her hair that made her look 20 years younger.

“You’d be amazed how much you can do with only an eight-figure budget,” he smiled. “Of course, most of the money goes toward staying alive.”

She looked down at her cup and then back into his eyes. Oh, those eyes …

“Do we need to talk about anything?” she asked.

“Not if you don’t want to,” he said. “I’m so glad to see you.”

“Me, too,” she said softly. “I’m sorry about what I said. I was so upset that you accepted this job. I was just focused on myself; I didn’t consider how much this opportunity meant to you.”

“I don’t blame you,” he said. “You must have felt like I was abandoning you. And I really kind of was. I couldn’t ask you to come with me.”

A shadow passed over her face.

“You could have asked.”

“Come on,” he said gently. “Would you have said yes?”

“I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do. Three quarters of the way to the moon? Make a life together here?”

“With you,” she said, “maybe.”

His eyes widened. “No. No, I couldn’t ask you.”

“But I could volunteer.”

“Why didn’t you?”

“I guess I was waiting for you to ask,” she said.

A few moments passed in silence.

“So — here I am,” she said.

“Yes. Here you are,” he said. “Isn’t the muffin to die for?”

They talked for hours.

Bar Fight Averted

Blue Man © Chaoss | Dreamstime.com

One last thing I believe and that I feel is the secret to being a successful fiction writer.

Have fun… If sitting alone in a room and making up a story you want to tell is not fun and challenging, you are doing it wrong.

— Dean Wesley Smith blog, 07/25/2025

The tall blue-skinned man hunched over his smartphone while his companion held onto his beer for dear life and stared across the bar at something 1,000 miles away. 

“Look here, mate,” said the blue-skinned man, showing his friend the tiny screen. “’Ere’s your whole problem. You’re not having fun.”

“Fun?” said his mate. “This is supposed to be fun? Are you nuts?”

“All right, boys and girls,” cried the blue-skinned man, raising his voice to be heard above the din.

The tavern quieted down. Over in the corner a reptilian woman with five tentacles wrapped around her pool cue looked up from the table in annoyance. Six mice playing poker on top of the juke box paused the game to see what the tall stranger had to say. Only a dog-faced man and his cat-faced date ignored everyone around them as they nuzzled each other’s neck out on the dance floor. Ah, love.

“My friend here is a writer,” said the blue-skinned man, clapping a hand on the shoulder of his friend, who winced. “He just took umbrage at my suggestion that he needs to be having more fun as he makes up his stories.”

“What’s an umbrage?” asked a blond young man a few seats down the bar.

“You dope, it’s like when you imitate a great piece of art to honor it,” his blonde companion said.

“That’s homage,” a haughty nearby patron sniffed.

“You’re missing the point,” said the blue-skinned man. “My friend thinks making stuff up and telling stories is serious business.”

“Surely you jest,” one of the poker-playing mice cried.

“I’m not even talking,” said the reptilian pool player, whose name was Shirley.

“Bah,” said the blue-skinned man, sitting down again. “Wisdom is wasted.”

The writer uttered an expletive, stood up and faced the room.

“Dad-gum it,” said the writer. “Next round’s on me.”

The room exploded in applause, and orders flew at the bartender. 

Over the excited din, the writer leaned up against his blue-skinned friend.

“Is that fun enough for you?” he growled.

The blue-skinned man grinned. “That’s the spirit, mate.”

A Train to Why

Train Station © Paul Hakimata | Dreamstime.com

Looking down at the vast waiting room, Theodore considered the meaning of life. 

“What are you thinking, Teddy?” Sally asked. “You are obviously deep in thought.”

“What is everyone waiting for?” he said.

“Trains, silly,” she laughed.

“Yes, but —” he said. “The trains will take them to a destination, and you could say that’s where they’re going, or even that that’s what they’re waiting for, but what do they hope to find there? Are they waiting to fulfill that hope?”

“You are thinking way too hard,” she said. “Sometimes a train ride is just a train ride.”

“Yes, but —” he said. “And sometimes a wait is just a wait, I know. We spend much time waiting, but not so much time wondering why.”

“Why what?”

“Actually, no, why wait? If something is needed, why wait for it?”

“Did I just hear you advocate for instant gratification?”

He looked out over the waiting room bustling with activity and rows of people sitting and waiting.

“I don’t think so,” he said. “I know that some things take time, including gratification. Now that I think of it, it even takes time to figure out our ‘why.’ Often we do without fully understanding why we do it. What I’m advocating is not to waste your time and to be always working to know why.”

“OK,” Sally said and looked out over the vast waiting room. “So, what is everyone waiting for?”

Theodore smiled. “Trains, silly.”

She laughed. “I told you so.”

“To know what everyone is really waiting for,” he added, “we’d have to take the stairs and ask everyone, one at a time. How many people are down there?”

“I don’t know, a few hundred,” she said. “Could be more than a thousand.”

“I agree,” Theodore said. “And so they are waiting for more than a thousand things. None of them is waiting for exactly the same thing, and they have more than a thousand reasons for doing so.”

“I don’t know why I talk to you,” Sally laughed. “My brain keeps exploding.”

“I do know why I talk to you,” he grinned. “I love to make your head explode.”

“Oh, you do, do you?” she said. “You are quite the explosive fellow.”

They stood in silence a little while longer until their train was announced.

Inspiration strikes

“I write only when inspiration strikes. Fortunately, it strikes at 9 o’clock every morning.” — attributed to M. Somerset Maugham and several other writers.

8:57 a.m. Monday

Three minutes until Inspiration is scheduled to check in — what will it bring me today? As I wait to tap into its offering, I listen and reach my brain receptors to receive what I can from the ether.

8:58 a.m.

Two minutes now, and the sun is shining and the dogs are lying peacefully to my left.

8:59 a.m.

One minute, and it’s so quiet in the house that I can hear the clocks ticking — and … 9 o’clock.

A revolutionary general — no, not wearing a red coat, but a general in a revolutionary army — but if this army has generals, is it really so revolutionary?

(Am I going to question my every word and phrase or roll with the flow?)

Still — What if this revolution leader declines the title “general,” as George Washington famously declined to be called a king and declined to run for a third term as president?

“I don’t want to be a general. I don’t want a military title,” said this leader. “I want my land to be freed from the tyrant and released from its bondage. We don’t need to raise an army to do that, and I don’t want to serve in such an army, even as its leader. I just want the tyrants gone — not dead, not obliterated, just gone. And I don’t need to be a general to drive them away.”

Is this general what Inspiration has given me for today?

“Cut!’ yelled someone from somewhere. “You don’t ask questions like that, you just roll with the flow!”

I’m just wondering if this character, this Leader Not a General, is the person Inspiration wants me to build a story around.

“Why don’t you try writing a story and see if it works?”

I don’t want to waste time on a character who can’t support a story.

 “Good grief,” said someone from somewhere. “You’re missing the point.”

No, I’m not. It’s only 9:10 and I’ve already met the leader of a revolution and a character I’ve named “someone from somewhere” who keeps interrupting my creative flow.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” said someone from somewhere. “OK, I’m sorry — carry on.”

Three.

“What?”

Now I have three characters. Hello, Pete, how are ya?

“Oh, now you’re just being silly,” Pete said.

I like silliness.

“Stop,” said Pete. “For my sake, just stop.”

Fine.