Archive for the ‘Children’s Stories’ Category
Posted on September 26, 2014 - by Gary Applegary
Slowpoke Cowpoke
SLOWPOKE COWPOKE
Deep in the heart of Dallas Fort Worth
Lived the fastest cowpoke in all of the Earth.
Zebedee Zoom was snappy and stealthy.
It kept him sharp, and it kept him healthy.
Whenever a job had to be done,
Everyone knew that old Zeb was the one.
Yes, Zoom was the man—he was faster than fast!
He got things done before a moment had passed.
He’d wake up the instant the alarm bell had rung.
And his breakfast was gone without touching his tongue.
He dressed in a flash, used his toothbrush and comb,
And herded every last herd before the cows could come home.
He talked much faster than anyone else could.
Then rushed off, before he could be understood.
Zoom’s quick-draw was smooth, and it kept getting slicker.
No one messed with him; there was nobody quicker.
One day as old Zebedee went rushing past,
A voice yelled “Whoa, Cowboy! Don’t go so fast!”
“Slow down, old cowpoke—mosey and amble,
No need to rush, try a drawl and a ramble.”
The fellow that spoke was an ordinary guy,
But Zebedee listened; I can’t tell you why.
When I say he slowed down, well, he REALLY slowed down.
Zebedee Zoom became the slowest man in the town.
He’d have breakfast at two, at the Café De La Banquet.
And his coffee would be cold by the time that he drank it.
His drawl was so slow, it was torture! It was boring!
When he finished a sentence, most folks would be snoring.
It was really quite sad, what Zebedee Zoom had become.
He couldn’t be counted on to get anything done.
And his quick-draw? Forget it. He had no more speed.
It was painful to watch him, very painful indeed.
Then came the time one sad afternoon.
When things didn’t work out well for Zebedee Zoom.
Big Bad Bart Burly came to Dallas to eat.
He growled at Zoom, “You! Get out of my seat!”
Now naturally, old Zeb moved with no hint of haste.
And that just wasn’t quick enough for Big Bad Bart’s taste.
“I’ve had it with you!” everyone heard Burly shout.
“You and me outside, right now, and we’ll have it out!”
Three hours later, Zeb had moved 50 feet,
To meet Big Bad Bart Burly in the middle of the street.
Everyone felt bad for Zebedee Zoom
For they knew that this shootout would be the old slowpoke’s doom.
Burly said “Listen! I’ll count to three, and we’ll draw.”
The crowd knew what was coming, and they all said “Awww.”
Sure enough, three seconds later, Zeb was filled with lead.
From his boots, to his vest, to the hat on his head.
He was flat on his back staring up at the sun.
And he hadn’t even halfway unholstered his gun.
The townsfolk scraped poor old Zeb up off of the road.
He had one last request: Apple pie, a la mode.
The whole town shut down so the folks could all grieve,
But the end of the tale is quite hard to believe.
It took Zebedee Zoom 896 years, 7 months, a week, 4 days, 9 hours, and 37 minutes to die.
And I can’t even begin to add up all the pie.
This is the part of the story, you’ve probably been guessin’,
Where you find out the tale of old Zoom had a lesson.
Things need to get done: Sometimes fast, sometimes slow.
But only you know at what speed you should go.
So, just keep on moving, choose your own pace,
And don’t always listen to what everyone says.
Just do what you do, and do what you should.
And have pie with ice cream – it’s really quite good!
Posted on May 25, 2013 - by Gary Applegary
Fangpaste
FANGPASTE
Slow Sammy Sidewinder woke up late
His breakfast was cold by the time that he ate.
Eggs and bacon, muffins, melon.
Sammy’s body started swelling.
Mum could see Sammy was stuffed.
“Sammy,” she said, “you’ve had enough.”
So Sammy slowly slithered to the TV set,
But Mum said “Sammy, what did you forget?”
“Go brush your fangs!” He knew she’d say.
She told him this three times a day.
So off he clambered to his room.
Then sidled back, and somewhat soon.
“Mummy,” said Sammy, “I’ve got bad news.
I have a fangbrush I can’t use.”
“The bristles are loose and limp and flat.
I can’t brush my fangs with that.”
“You can take care of that,” said Mother
“Go down to McWiggily’s and buy another.”
“I need a couple of other things too.
Hold on, I’ll make a list for you.”
“Don’t be in such an awful rush,
We need corn, and lemons, oh, and your brush.”
“Oh and one more thing, so you aren’t always late..”
Mother wrote down “One roller skate.”
“I won’t need a list,” Sammy said.
“I can remember four things in my head.”
Silly Sammy slowly slithered out the door,
Up a tree, down the block, through the park, down a slide, around the pond, over the golf course, under the bridge, across the sidewalk, through the arcade, and FINALLY to McWiggily’s store.
Sammy got a basket at the front of the store.
And realized he’d forgotten what he’d come there for.
He got the corn, and lemons, and brush,
But then his memory turned to mush.
McWiggily came rushing across the floor,
Perhaps he could help get just one thing more.
Sammy tried explaining as best as he could.
Hissing and rattling his tail real good.
McWiggily smiled, while Sammy hissed.
And said “I don’t speak Snakish, but I’ll try to assist.”
“It appears there’s something you forgot.”
Sammy nodded. “Just what I thought!”
“I will show you all around the store,
And maybe you’ll remember what you came here for.”
When McWiggily guessed wrong, Sammy would frown
Then grab the wrong thing and swallow it down.
Bowling pin and garden rake,
Gulp! Gulp! They went in the snake.
Not a lampshade, a hanger, or mirror.
Sammy made them all disappear.
“Is a radio or a TV set
Perhaps the thing you need to get?”
No and no. Neither was right.
And both were gone in just one bite.
A chrome carpet cleaning robot
Was not the thing Sammy forgot.
“A bunch of bananas? A bunch of grapes?
A measuring cup? A measuring tape?”
“A xylophone? A set of spoons?
Peanut butter? Macaroons?”
“Potted sunflowers? Curtain rods?
Decorative clay arthropods?”
“Frozen spinach. Can of peas?
Gigantic wheel of nacho cheese?”
And so it went on and on and on,
Until nearly everything was gone!
Sammy ate and ate and ate.
Then McWiggily guessed “Roller skate!”
Sammy’s face lit up with a great big smile.
And he slithered off to find the right aisle.
McWiggily helped him to put the skate on.
Bagged up his groceries, then he was gone.
It was getting close to dinnertime,
But Sammy and his skate were flying!
He got home just as quick as he could,
Put the groceries away, and Mum said “Good.”
“I hope dear Sammy you learned your lesson.
Next time you won’t keep McWiggily guessing.”
“For next time son,” his Mummy hissed,
“Next time, you will take a list!”
THE END
Posted on May 16, 2012 - by Gary Applegary
A Letter For Lincoln
Time travel to prevent a presidential assassination. A novel idea. I had a few notes regarding a story on that subject scribbled in a notebook. The notebook went in a drawer, waiting for the Future Me to rescue it.
Recently, a well-known author who I will not mention (however, he is a King of thriller fiction) released a novel whose plot revolved around, you guessed it… Time travel to prevent a presidential assassination. He either read my mind or my notebook. Or possibly used a time machine to spy on me scribbling my notes all those years ago.
Regardless, my original story is much different than the novel available at your local bookstore (or possibly on your King-dle.) My version is a 900-word short story intended for middle -grade readers, and as always, grownups as well.
Without further ado, I hope you enjoy:
A LETTER FOR LINCOLN
Time travel isn’t rocket science. I wish it was. I’ve had success in the past with rockets. Mostly. At this particular moment in time, Professor Headstrong is chewing me out royally. “Clifford King, the animal rights people are NOT happy! Posting your little time travel experiment on MyVideo was foolhardy!” (He uses that word a lot.) “And now, it’s gone viral! WHERE is the rabbit, Clifford? Where did it go?”
I wish I knew. I liked that rabbit. He was fine when I sent him in the time travel pod, but now it came back empty. Not good.
Amber gives me a hug. It makes me feel a little better. Right now I need answers, not pity. But I graciously accept her hug.
The man at the pawn shop is to blame, not that I can tell anyone. When he accepted my bicycle (“walking would be good for you”) for his one of a kind Where And When Machine, he swore me to secrecy. Then he gave me a look that emphasized the seriousness of the matter. Mr. Okoto gave only simple instructions regarding the pod. It goes WHERE you tell it; it goes WHEN you tell it. It will only take inanimate objects if accompanied by a living creature. It will return in one hour. It takes pictures. It is harmless.
For the record, I’m against using animals for testing. I’d have tried the pod myself, but it’s no bigger than old-school game system. That wouldn’t work. This SHOULD have worked. Where IS the rabbit? And the carrot, for that matter?
“Bugsy’s in his cage!” my lanky friend George Ganglia announces, coming upstairs. I’m relieved. So are my ears, since Headstrong stops shouting, at least momentarily.
“Are you sure, Gangly?” I ask, even as he produces the rabbit, looking just fine, perfectly healthy.
Professor Headstrong has an opinion, of course. “Now, this makes perfect sense! Bugsy is HERE because he couldn’t be THERE. He didn’t belong THERE. He didn’t exist THERE.”
“THEN, you mean,” I say. I enjoy correcting the Professor.
A loud buzz comes from the darkroom, announcing that the pictures from the Where And When Machine (the “Double W”) have been developed. Why doesn’t it have a digital camera? I hadn’t asked Mr. Okoto.
The pictures are unbelievable. There’s Bugsy. There‘s the carrot. There’s a bearded man eating the carrot. Not just any bearded man, though. It’s our sixteenth President, Abraham Lincoln! Who knew he liked carrots from the future?
“Time for Phase Two!” I cheer, moving quickly, before Professor Headstrong can object.
I have my specially addressed warning letter ready. There’s cold sweat running down my back. I’m excited and anxious at the same time. I’m about to prevent my favorite historical figure from going anywhere near Ford’s Theatre and meeting his well-known fate. As an afterthought, I put another carrot with the letter, and type in the coordinates into the Double W.
I press GO… almost. Amber stops me. “Bugsy,” she says. I slap my forehead. I had nearly sent the pod without him! “In you go, Bugsy.”
NOW I press GO, and Bugsy goes THEN. And THERE.
One hour is a long time to wait. Especially when Professor Headstrong is busy lecturing on the “foolhardiness of time travel,” and explaining his personal belief that “history protects itself.” He will get no credit for saving President Lincoln. Normally, Gangly and I would be merrily engaged in a game of “Punched you last,” and Amber would be rolling her eyes at us, but all of us are too nervous to do anything but sit and wait. And keep waiting. Not to mention the waiting. It’s like torture. And the orange Liven Up! soda we’ve been guzzling is only making us all more jittery. Nothing slows Professor Headstrong, though. Now he’s rambling on about sugary syrupy drinks with little nutritional value.
Everyone is tense. THEN, the hour is up!
Silence. Nothing happens. “ Well, Clifford? WHERE is the pod? WHERE is the rabbit?” This time I’m glad I left my videocam off. Though it would be nice to capture the shade of purple that Headstrong’s face is presently turning.
Gangly is first down the stairs. “Bugsy!” Sure enough, he’s back in his cage, nose twitching, a bit like the Professor’s. No carrot.
We are all pondering possibilities. I look past Amber at Gangly; he has every brain cell working on this mystery.
Just then, the doorbell rings. A delivery man is standing outside with a letter in a leathery envelope. It looks centuries old. None of us need to guess who it is from.
The letter inside will be displayed in a museum in the future. It says in fourscore and so many words that Mr. Lincoln got my message. He expressed appreciation for the warning, and commended my ingenuity. But it also makes clear that he does not wish to alter events which lead one day to such an “advanced new civilization.” He wishes the “unknown scientists” good health, and announces that he is dismantling “the odd machine which mysteriously appeared.” His closing is unforgettable. “Thank you for the carrots. Yours very truly, A. Lincoln.”
“Well then,” says Headstrong triumphantly. “History does protect itself. You’ve accomplished nothing, except for losing your pod-thingy. This was all for nothing.“ I just laughed. “All for nothing? Are you kidding? I’ve got a letter from Lincoln!”
THE END