Station WIL ~ What It's Like

“Empowering stories for young readers and adventurers!”

Category: AWI ~ Adventure Writers Ink

CC ~ Talking to Spiders

Talking to Spiders

Written by Cara Dancer & Illustrated by Driss Chauoi

Morning sunbeams danced through sheer lavender curtains as I dug furiously in the timothy hay that was both snack and bedding. Tears dampened the amber strands as they flew from my crate.

An unfamiliar voice interrupted the mayhem. “Why are you crying?”

Startled, I tumbled backwards. My best friend Sofia, a ten-year-old girl, should be at school. The house ought to be empty. Motionless, I scanned my surroundings. “Who said that? Where are you?”

“It’s me, Sabio, here above your food dish.”

Squinting, I connected the voice with a slender eight-legged body dangling inside her crate. “I’ve seen you before but you never speak.”

“True, but I always listen. When I heard you sobbing, I knew it was time.”

“I’ve cried before and you never spoke. Why now?”

Sabio hesitated. “I sensed a deep grief that requires more than a tantrum to satisfy.”

Agitated, I challenged him. “You’re a spider. What do you know about grief?”

Sabio lowered himself to the food dish. “Most spiders live as phantoms, unknown to the rest of the world. Yet, when seen, it is often our fate of to be trampled. It is a matter of survival that keeps us hidden. Until recently you and your friend were always planning adventures, reading, dancing, laughing. Not now.”

Abby burst into tears. “Yes, my friend is always angry. After school, she yells at her family. Then she runs in here and yells at me. Even worse—no cuddles. I feel like a rabbit, no longer a friend and I don’t understand why.”

Sabio’s eight eyes focused on my own. “The answers aren’t buried in your hay. We need to dig into your friend’s anger. Once we root out the cause, we can try to restore her happiness.”

Still doubting this eight-legged Freud, I suggested we chat somewhere cozy. Rattling the crate door, I suggested we meet under the bed. “First, can you help me get out of this locked crate?”

“Hold out your paw.” I extended my front foot and watched Sabio weave silk threads between paw and latch. Finally, “Okay, I want you to pull, slowly, very slowly.”

The latch lifted as I tugged the silky rope. The crate door clanked open. I couldn’t believe it. “Wow, this is great.” Shaking off the webbing, I scurried under the bed.

Sabio swung from crate to bedpost. “Tell me everything.”

“Last month, my friend came home with a nasty scratch on her arm. When I asked what happened, she said she fell into a rosebush. Then she said a strange thing. ‘Don’t tell Mama.’”

Sabio crossed two of his legs. “Why is that strange?”

Clearing my throat, I explained “You know that my friend and I can talk to each other. The rest of her family only hears bunny noises. Why would she say ‘Don’t tell Mama,’ when she knows I can’t talk to her mother?”

Sabio nodded thoughtfully.

“And last week, I heard her arguing with her mother about a jacket. Afterward, she ran in here, slammed the door, burst into tears and buried herself under the bedcovers. When I hopped on the bed to snuggle, she pushed me away.”

“How distressing for both of you.”

“Yes, I thought I was her best friend but now I’m just a caged rabbit whose bond with a special friend is broken. I don’t know how to fix it.”

Sabio hesitated, then whispered. “We need help.”

The afternoon ticked away while we remained hidden under the bed. When family voices interrupted our thoughts, I hurried into my crate. “Oh no, what about the door? We don’t have time for another rope trick.”

Sabio returned to the top of the crate. “Maybe she won’t notice.”

I shuddered when the bedroom door slammed shut. Sofia dropped her backpack and pounced onto the bed. I could hear sob and sobbed in her favorite pillow.

Abby crept onto Sofia’s bed. She tugged at a strand of brown hair. No response. Next, she nudged Sofia’s arm. With a big sniff, Sofia pulled Abby close. “My sweet Bun-Bun. I’ve been mean to you. I’m sorry. I’m a mess and I don’t know what to do.”

Gently nudging my friend’s cheek, I offered support. “I can help.”

Through glassy eyes, Sofia offered a sad smile, “You’re just a rabbit. What can you do?”

In a stern voice, Abby disagreed. “I am not just a rabbit. I am your friend. Don’t we have lots of adventures? I’m not good at math but I look great in my pirate outfit.”

Sofia laughed. “Stop. Those things are true but this is different. You don’t understand.”

In a cross voice, Abby poked at her friend. “Help me understand. Your happiness switch is broken. I want to fix it.”

“I thought I had real friends, school friends. Now I don’t know what to think.” Abby watched as Sofia buried her head again. “You can’t help. Please go back to your crate.”

Sofia’s nighttime routine included refilling Abby’s water bottle. Without a word, Sofia crawled into bed. Teary-eyed, Abby mouthed goodnight to her unhappy friend. She dozed fitfully until Sabio tickled her nose.

“Wake up. My friends arranged for us to meet a pixie named Elida. She specializes in helping distressed creatures. She will be here at midnight.”

The pair dozed as hours passed. A faint tapping signaled Elida’s arrival. Abby stared at the hummingbird-sized fairy dancing across Sofia’s scattered schoolbooks.

She watched as Elida turned to Sabio. “Thank you for reaching out to me. There are many cases like Sofia’s. If we’re going to help, we must work quickly.” Waving her tiny wand, she swept shimmering green fairy dust over girl, rabbit and spider.

Elida settled next to Sofia’s ear. “May we come into your dream?”

Abby and Sabio waited beside Elida. Finally, a troubled voice answered. “It’s dark in here.”

“I know.” As she spoke, a green glow surrounded Elida. “I travel with my own light. Join us. Your bunny and her spider pal are here. They are worried about you.”

A surprised voice responded, “I didn’t know my bunny had a spider pal. Spiders are scary.”

Elida quicky responded. “Yes, like spiders, many things are scary; some deserve our fright, some deserve our understanding.”

From the darkness, “Why are you in my dreams?”

Elida offered a simple answer. “To listen.”

And there was a simple but testy reply. “Listen to what? My snoring?”

Abby chuckled but Elida persisted. “No dear, I’m here to listen to your sadness. You have isolated yourself. Your family, your bunny—they don’t understand why you are unhappy. That’s spider-scary for them.”

Sobbing from the darkness, “You don’t understand. Spider-scary is easy. You just stomp on them. I feel trapped and don’t know how to explain—not even to myself.”

Before the pixie could stop him, Sabio broke in. “Hold on, I’m a spider. How do you think I feel? Stomping is easy unless you’re the spider.”

Elida pointed her wand at Sabio. “Shouting doesn’t help.” Elida turned to the darkness. “Let’s try to understand … together. Tell me what’s going on.”

Abby heard shuffling in the shadows. The voice sounded closer. “I thought I had a best friend at school. She encouraged me to share secrets, clothes, food. Sharing—isn’t that what friends do?”

Elida agreed. “Sharing is a part of friendship. So, what changed?”

After school, I told her I got an ‘A’ on our math test. She called me a nerd, then pushed me into a thorny bush. Instead of helping me, she skipped away. My arms were scratched but I’m okay. She said it was an accident.

Another day she said she wanted a pair of shoes for her birthday. She knew I didn’t get a big allowance. When I suggested another gift, she told everyone I was poor. She said, ‘If you don’t have money then give me something you already have—like your new jacket.’ I didn’t want her friends to laugh at me, so I gave it to her.”

The distraught voice continued. “She also took cookies from my lunchbox. Of course, I didn’t stop her. She was hungry. But the next day, she ate my whole sandwich. I wanted to be a good friend, but I was hungry, too.”

Sabio interrupted Sofia. “Wait, wait. That’s not right. “Hiding in the dark can’t change the truth. Shoving, demanding, taking—that’s not sharing.”

Elida rapped her tiny wand. “You’re a pushy little bug, aren’t you?”

Elida shushed a giggle from Abby. Sabio is right. Friendship is more than sharing. It’s about kindness and acceptance. It’s time for you to come out of the shadows.”

After a grand swoosh of Elida’s wand, Abby and Sabio were standing off-stage. From behind heavy crimson curtains, they peered at an audience full of spiders.

Elida and a rabbit-sized Sofia stood center-stage. A large yellow and black spider dangled over the podium. “Welcome to the Biannual Garden Spider Conference. Tonight’s topic is Recognizing Friend from Foe. Please welcome our friend Elida, and our guest speaker, Sofia.

Elida fluttered over the microphone. “Friendship isn’t always easy. Your enemies come in many forms. Sometimes it’s a robin and sometimes it’s the smell of cinnamon.” An ooh rippled through the audience.

“Sofia, a human, is struggling with her ability to recognize friends. Please keep an open mind and help me welcome her.” Abby heard several grumbles above the faint applause.

As Sofia shuffled forward, she pleaded with Elida. “I can’t speak to a bunch of spiders.”

Elida drew Sofia to the microphone. “You have a voice, and you have a story that needs to be told. These creatures rely on their ability to tell the difference between friend and foe. For some it’s easy, but for many it’s difficult. Your struggle with friendship issues may help them.”

“Spiders are scary. No, no, I can’t do it.”

“Remember, this is a dream. With one swoosh, I can swap your parents for the spiders.”

Sofia shook her head. “Please, not my parents. I’ll talk to the spiders.”

Abby remained offstage, close to Sofia, while Sabio made his way to an empty seat.

Elida reassured Sofia. “Don’t be afraid. Speak about your feelings.”

Staring at Elida and loud enough to be overheard by the audience, “All I feel is afraid.”

A jeer came from behind Sabio. “How do you think I feel? You and I hide in the dark. You’re afraid of friendship. I’m afraid of big feet.” Surprising everyone, Sofia walked to the edge of the stage. Abby thought she looked taller. Sofia bent toward the taunting spider, “We’re both afraid. hiding in the darkness . . .” Sofia nodded toward Sabio, “Thankfully someone reminded me that hiding doesn’t change the truth.”

Sofia explained. “Fear can protect you and warn you of danger. Or it can trap you. It can keep you from seeing and doing the right thing. It can suck the happiness right out of you.”

Sabio jumped to the back of his chair. “Wait, wait. Are you talking about darkness or friendship? Darkness isn’t always a bad thing. I live most of my life in the dark.”

“Sabio, you’re right.” Sofia nodded. “That kind of dark protects you. But for me, even in the sunshine, I felt dark inside where my feelings got all muddled. I’ve been so confused about my friendships that my world became a sad, angry and lonely place.”

On hearing this, Abby reached out to her friend. Before she was shushed away by Elida, Abby mumbled, “You’re not alone.”

Sofia smiled and turned to Elida. “My bunny is right. I’m not alone. I have her and I have a great family. The hard part is admitting I made a friendship mistake.”

Suddenly a small spider skittered toward Sofia waving several bright orange legs. “What mistake are you talking about? In our world, a mistake can mean life or death. We don’t get many second chances. Sounds like you do.”

Sofia stood motionless, her mouth open without words. The audience froze. Sofia’s body was changing. Her arms and legs were longer, her body bigger. With both hands over her heart, she bowed toward the audience. In a soft voice, she apologized. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think . . ..”

Waving its legs, the spider interrupted again. Abby chuckled to herself; this feisty little critter isn’t giving up. The spider continued, “You didn’t think. It’s easier not to think, not to care, easier to stomp without considering the consequences. I don’t want to be mush on your shoe!”

With applause from the audience, Sofia bowed again and retreated from the stage.

In a harsh voice, Sofia confronted Elida. “When you brought me to speak at this conference, you said I could help them discover friend from foe. I didn’t do that. These spiders are a scary bunch, and they know about fear.” She paused. “I didn’t help them; they helped me.”

Sabio climbed on Abby’s back as they listened to Sofia. “I was afraid of losing a friend I never had. She stomped on me without thinking of the consequences to me. And I let her do it. I didn’t stand up for myself.” She gently stroked Abby’s ears, “The more I hid the confusion and hurt inside me, the darker it got and the smaller I felt. Hiding those feelings didn’t make them go away.”

Everyone watched as the spider audience faded in the soft glow of dawn. Elida turned to Sofia. “When you wake, you may remember talking to spiders. And you will recognize your real friends, those who love you.”

It was Sabio’s turn, “Don’t be spider mush on someone else’s shoe.”

With a swoosh of fairy dust, Abby heard Elida whisper, “Time to wake up, friends.”

Feeling the warmth of the morning sun, Abby stretched and watched as her silent friend, Sabio, added a silvery strand to his web. When Sofia’s alarm sounded, Abby bounded onto the bed. After a toothy yawn, Sofia pulled Abby close, “Good morning, Bun-un.”

“Good morning, Sleepyhead. No school today. What’s the plan?”

Abby moaned when Sofia held up three fingers. “I hope one is an adventure.”

Sofia held up her thumb. “Number one: Yesterday Mama asked me to clean my messy closet. I want to surprise her.”

Abby frowned. “I like your mother but that doesn’t sound like adventure.”

“Two, I’ve decided to find new friends.”

“Maybe we can find them in the closet.” Abby touched Sofia’s nose. “What’s number three?”

“I need to tell Mama how I lost my jacket. She might be angry but I need to tell her the truth. Will you come with me?”

“Of course, Sofia. What are friends for?”

THE END

December 18, 2025
CC ~ Hattie and Whisper

Hattie and Whisper

by Cara Dancer

Trying to conceal the bright orange spots that dotted my dark body, I nestled deep into the vivid green, heart-shaped leaves I called home. Slow moving and leaf bound, I longed for the moment when I could be free of my family. They spent their days eating pipevine leaves, talking about eating them, then crunching and munching and eating some more. Pipevines, that’s all their tiny brains were wired for. I wanted more.

One evening a mysterious sound drifted through the garden, unlike the threat of bird calls or the rapid beat of wasp wings. It was mellow and soothing with the scent of jasmine carried on an ocean breeze. Every night, I waited—listening, hoping to hear that tender melody again.

My family didn’t understand. Anything that didn’t involve eating pipevines was un-caterpillary, a waste of time. Their bit of encouragement was to stop listening, stop dreaming, and start eating.

This morning, something scary and spectacular happened. I had seen the giant before. It often arrived with the morning sun, moving quietly through the garden, fussing over every flower. I decided to name it Whisper.

My short legs were great for crawling, not great for standing like Whisper. My body was long spikey. I wanted to be tall and slender like the giant. Grasping the pipevine trellis to hoist myself upright, I teetered back and forth, swaying wildly until I tumbled to the ground. “Ouch!” There really is safety in numbers, all sixteen of them.

Whisper must have seen my nosedive. As I scooted up the pipevine, the giant approached, now nose to caterpillar. Although Whisper often talked at me, nothing made sense. Today was different. Among the giant’s mumblings I heard a sound I understood—just one word. “Cello.”

Stunned, I realized that I could repeat it. That one sound, one word opened a magical connection between our worlds, between caterpillar and giant. I looked into Whisper’s dark eyes and shouted in my best caterpillar voice, “Cello!”

Whisper stumbled backward over pipevines, trampling bee balms and milkweeds. She quickly stood up, stared at me for several seconds, then ran from the garden.

“Oh, no. What have I done?” I pleaded for her to come back.“Stop, please!” My tears quickly evaporated in the warmth of the summer sun. Confused and hungry, I tried to understand what happened. A nibble of pipevine satisfied the ache in my belly, but not the pain in my head and heart. What was this cello? Why did Whisper run?

Wishing desperately for answers, I decided to rest to clear my thoughts. As I curled up in the leafy shadows, my antennae twitched. These short appendages alerted me to changes in the air, whether an approaching storm or winged danger. It was neither wind nor wasp. It was the haunting melody. It was back.

Wide awake, I crawled to the edge of my leafy home. I wanted to find the source of this enchanting sound as it wafted through the pipevines. To my surprise, Whisper sat in front of the garden trellis. Her eyes, level with mine.

Staring at me, Whisper stroked a wand back and forth across an oddly shaped box. Here was the source of that magical sound. Whisper smiled and murmured one word, “Cello.”

Mesmerized by the music, I couldn’t move. Finally, a gush of words spewed from my mouth. “I named you Whisper. You can call me Hattie. I love the sound of this cello. Can we be friends?”

The giant smiled and nodded. “I like the name, Whisper. And yes, I’d like to be your friend.”

Every day Whisper ran to the garden to chat with me. Our morning conversations were brief. A quick, “Hello, dear friend,” then Whisper would hurry off to prepare for school. Our evenings together were more pleasant. After her meal and homework, Whisper came to the garden where she extended her hand. When I crawled aboard, she said my orange spines tickled her palm. She often giggled and called me her little porcupine.

It was my favorite place, stretched out atop Whisper’s shoulder. I listened as she completed her homework or practiced music lessons. We were an unlikely duo, sharing a bond inspired by the love of music—a bond that blossomed into a friendship filled with language and laughter.

Tonight, instead of curling up on Whisper’s shoulder, I clutched her hair like a rope, climbing from her shoulder to the top of her head. Perched there, I felt my body was changing. Risking a scold from Whisper, I yelled, “I’m hungry. Do you have any pipevine stew or juicy green salad?”

Whisper put down her math book. “Hattie, pipevines are good for caterpillars but not for people. Hang on to my hair and we’ll check the pantry. Maybe we have something tasty you could eat.”

Whisper’s mama was busy dancing around the house with her new vacuum cleaner. She didn’t seem to notice us poking through the pantry shelves. My sixteen legs marched in place as I anxiously waited for Whisper to complete her search. She shuffled through cans of veggies, bags of fruit, and packages of pasta before grabbing a box of cookies.

Whisper lifted a chunk of chocolate chip cookie to her head. “Taste this.”

One bite was enough for me to know I wanted more. “Wow, these are yummy.” I clamored from head to shoulder, leaving dandruff-like crumbs in Whisper’s hair. I continued from shoulder to arm before crawling deep into the open cookie box.

Just then, Whisper’s mama yelled “Get out of the pantry. You’ve had your dinner.”

Wham! Hattie cringed as the pantry door slammed shut. Mama continued to yell at Whisper. “It’s past your bedtime. Wash you face, brush your teeth, brush your hair, put on your jammies, and kiss your daddy goodnight.”

As I listened to Mama’s instructions, I imagined her finger pointing toward Whisper’s bedroom. A “But Mama” cry from Whisper was quickly followed by “No buts, young lady,” from Mama. Whisper huffed before I heard her footsteps running from the kitchen.

Hmmm, what to do? I’m trapped in the pantry surrounded by chocolate chip cookies and my friend will be gone until morning. What to do? I sighed. Afterall, I am a caterpillar. I had to do what caterpillars did—eat.

Exhausted from all the munching and crunching, I curled up next to a bag of lemons. After hours of tossing and turning, a scream jolted me awake. It was Whisper’s mother. “Eek! There’s a big, fat caterpillar in our pantry.”

Mama clenched the pantry door and yelled for her daughter. “Get in here now and take this prickly pickle of a bug back to the garden. When Whisper arrived, still in her pajamas, she ducked under Mama’s outstretched arm. I didn’t have a chance to yell surprise before Whisper grabbed me and ran to the garden.

“Oh, Hattie, I’m so sorry you were stuck in the pantry all night.”

“That’s all right, Whisper. I ate a lot of cookies.”

Whisper dropped me off on the trellis, said goodbye, then left to get ready for school. Alone again, I noticed my body had grown, longer and wider. I overdid delicious. What if those cookies affect my transformation to a butterfly? What if my adult body is shaped like a cookie? What if my wings have chocolate chip spots instead of yellow ones? Worried about my future, I looked for a cozy place to hang out and think.

Whisper’s family had just returned from a week-long vacation. As soon as daddy unlocked the car doors, Whisper ran to greet her caterpillar friend. But Hattie was not daydreaming on the pipevine trellis. After inspecting every leaf, Whisper began again. Glassy-eyed, she hoped her friend was playing a game of hide-and-seek. After an hour of searching, Whisper panicked. “Hattie, I give up. Where are you? Please answer!”

Leaves rustled in the late-day breeze. No longer holding back tears, she hurried through the garden. “Oh no, oh no.” What if she was eaten by a bird or stung by a wasp?

Exhausted from the search, Whisper ran into the house. When she told Mama that Hattie was missing, Mama tried to calm Whisper, “Maybe her family took a vacation too. It’s time to get ready for bed. Hattie will probably be waiting for you tomorrow.”

That didn’t help. As she pulled her favorite green blanket under her chin. Closing her eyes, she pleaded for Hattie’s return. “Please, please, please be safe, little friend.” With that, she fell asleep.

Tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap.

What? What was that sound? Was it a dream? Whisper rubbed her eyes.

Tap, tap, tap.

She checked the window—maybe hail from a midnight storm? No, the window was dry. She turned from the window. In the glow of her nightlight, she spied a tiny figure on her desk.. Cautiously, Whisper slipped out of bed. She thought it looked like a hummingbird.”

Tip-toeing closer, Whisper realized it wasn’t a bird. “Am I dreaming? Are you a fairy?”

The tiny creature nodded. “My name is Dancer. Do you like my sparkly shoes? I just got them from the fairy cobbler. Dancing is part of my job. I do it to get attention. Listen.”

Sleepy and confused, Whisper watched as the fairy danced on her desktop.

Tap, tap, tap. Tap, tap, tap. “Aren’t they great? They have such a snappy sound.”

Still sleepy, Whisper tried to be polite. “Your shoes are very nice. but why you are here? Why are you dancing on my desk?”

“Easy. I am here to give you a message from your caterpillar friend. While you were away, her body needed to change. She couldn’t wait for you; her little body couldn’t wait for you. Before caterpillars become butterflies, they must rest. They do this in a snug little hideaway called a chrysalis. Hattie asked me to tell you goodbye.”

Tears filled Whisper’s eyes. Sobbing, she asked, “Will I ever see my friend, again?”

Dancer didn’t answer. She sat quietly staring at her shoes. At last, “Hattie asked me the same question as she tucked herself into her chrysalis. Her body had a lot of work to do as it converted from a long crawly thing into a delicate flying thing.”

Dancer explained that the bond between caterpillar and girl was unknown to fairies. They couldn’t guess if Hattie would remember Whisper when she emerged as a butterfly. “Hattie may be lost to you forever. Or one day you might spy her flitting from flower to flower, enjoying the sweet springtime blossoms. Yes, it’s sad to be forgotten, just remember that during your special time together, your differences didn’t matter. You loved her like a sister, and she loved you like a caterpillar.”

Whisper woke to a room filled with sunshine. She threw off the bedcovers and declared, “I have a plan.” Quickly dressing, she called for her father. “Daddy, I need your help to build an airplane.”

In a dark corner of the garden under a half-eaten milkweed leaf, I stirred to free myself from my snug cocoon. Shaking off the dampness of my newborn wings, I eased my way into the sunlight. I was born to fly. I wanted to travel, but first things first, I needed to eat.

After draining the nectar from a nearby honeysuckle blossom, I was ready to fly, to soar as high as my wings could carry me, riding on the glorious ocean breeze. No bags to pack, no family to kiss goodbye. I tested my flight readiness with a few lifts and landings. Yep, good to go.

The higher I rose, the more breathtaking the view. I relished my airborne freedom as I darted from flower to flower, sampling their luscious flavors. Exhausted from this first outing, I settled onto a familiar vine. Its musty taste stirred memories of my life as a caterpillar. Nothing made sense: strange sounds, unusual places, enormous dark eyes.

A short rest didn’t clear the puzzling images nor did it relieve my hunger. I spotted the purple blossoms of a bee balm plant. Settling on its colorful petals, I sipped the flower’s sweetness. As I enjoyed this morning treat, my antennae twitched, not in a good way. Something wasn’t right, but what?

I tucked my wings into the shadows of the bee balm. Motionless, I struggled to identify the sound. Like the approach of a thunderstorm, leaves swirled, flowers flew. I was thrown from my hiding place, landing upside-down on a nearby pipevine. Frightened but curious, I righted myself. Quietly stealing from leaf to leaf, I spied a huge contraption rolling through the garden.

Thud! The pipevine shuddered as the wooden heap crashed into the garden trellis.

Startled, I watched as a vaguely familiar giant emerged. It moved back and forth through the garden, its eyes scanning every flower. I gasped when the giant bent toward my hiding place.

In a soft voice, it spoke. “Cello, my sweet friend.”

My heart raced, my memory stirred as the giant continued, “I am Whisper.”

In that instant, I recognized my friend—the dark eyes, the music and laughter of my dreams. With one huge butterfly leap I landed on Whisper’s nose. Best friends together again. I bounced up and down with excitement, “Cello, Whisper, cello.”

THE END

December 18, 2025
CC ~ Tossed and Found

Tossed and Found

by Cat Fiasco

“I’ve seen a lot of crap, Gram.”

Her silver hair framed a weathered face, her graying eyes still twinkled with childlike impishness, her gentle hand warmed me like an angel’s caress. Gram nodded. “I’m sure you have, sweet thing. Tell me about it.”

She stroked my head and waited. I considered whether retracing my journey would rekindle past pain or release me from it. It was time. Squirming closer to her side, I began.

“It was a stormy night, but not a Mother Nature kind of gale. This bitter storm raged inside a small, wood-framed ranch house. The thunder of angry voices, a brutish hand around my neck, I knew my fate was writ when I was stuffed into a dark plastic bag. Barking, growling, pleading for mercy, all useless. I wanted to live. I just needed to figure out how.”

Gram patted my shoulder. “You’re a fighter, aren’t you?”

Without reply, I continued. “It happened quickly. The speeding car, the sound of rushing air, the bone-crushing landing. Looking back, it was a small blessing to land on a clump of muhly grass rather than on unforgiving pavement. With a broken leg and barely enough air to breath, my teeth tore furiously through the plastic shroud meant to be my coffin. Bundled like garbage, discarded like trash, I squeezed myself through a ragged hole, a rebirth of sorts, into the moonless night. Although racked with pain, I managed a bloody smile, then out loud I yelped, Tomorrow I may live or die—either way, I am free.”

A tear drop dampened the scruff of my neck as Gram stretched for the tissue box, never far from her nose. After a honk like the call of a migrating goose, she sniffed and whispered. “The pain of rejection can linger long after the ache of broken bones. It can torture the soul.” For a fleeting moment I wondered what secret agony hid in her aging body.

“Yes, Gram, except for the rousing warmth of the morning sun, I would have surrendered to my predicament. Awake and squinting into the daylight, I assessed my wounds: my left eye swollen shut, front leg crippled, my body cloaked in bruises. As I scanned my surroundings, my gaze was distracted by a welcome whiff of food that drifted on the breeze. Luckily, my undamaged nose guided me toward a nearby drainage ditch, hopping, and hoping, for breakfast. A paper sack tangled in roadside brambles offered a few stale breadcrumbs.”

Gram slowly stroked my side, as if counting each rib. “That doesn’t sound like much food.”

“You’re right. It wasn’t enough to satisfy my hunger. Oddly, the nightmarish ordeal made me appreciate those few morsels more than any tasty bowl of canned food. Afterward, I stretched out in the sunshine to warm my aching bones. My bulging left eye was worthless, probably crushed when I hit the ground. The right eye slowly focused on an end-row building, its brick wall splashed with paint. Intrigued, wounds forgotten, I pulled myself out of the ditch and hobbled forward.

Hunger and pain aside, I sat mesmerized by colors I’d never seen, colors that changed in the shadows of passing clouds, colors that stirred my imagination. Unfortunately, something else stirred—the pain in my left side. I needed a place to rest, perhaps a place to die. Trembling and with no shelter in sight, I struggled to dig a shallow bed at the base of the wall.”

Gram pulled me into her lap. “Did you dream?”

Staring into her eyes, I mused, “An odd question, Gram. I guess I slept fitfully, over hours or days; I’m not sure. My thoughts and, yes, my dreams fixed on that wall, on the mingling of light and dark, on the freedom with which each color danced across that hard surface. I remember waking to a cold downpour. Struggling to move and with nowhere to go, I decided to stay close to the wall, it’s bold colors warmed my spirit if not my rain-soaked fur.

By morning, mud-caked, hungry, and hurting, I tried to stand. Not good. Yelping, I fell back against the wall. That’s when I heard voices. Fearful and unable to walk, I waited and listened.

Two voices approached. ‘Let’s see how it held up in the storm.’ As they rounded the corner, both stopped and stared. I was hoping their gaze was on the wall. The freckle-faced gal lifted her hand to stop the approach of her auburn-haired friend. In a harsh voice, ‘Wait, Misha, I think it’s a rat. Don’t get too close. What if it has rabies?’

Misha pushed her friend’s hand aside. ‘Don’t be silly, Becky. It’s a chihuahua. That’s why it’s so small.’ She continued to talk, her voice soothing, as she reached out. ‘Hey sweet thing, what happened to you? How about a bath and some food? Oh my, your eye looks bad.’ I barked when she touched my damaged leg. ‘You poor thing. Let’s get you to a vet.’

The wall seemed to be Becky’s focus. ‘Misha, what about our artwork? The street festival is next week. I don’t see any storm damage but it needs some finishing touches. Why don’t you get that ratty thing to the vet and I’ll finish our mural?’

Misha agreed. ‘Thanks, Becky. Don’t forget to sign it.’ I whimpered in pain as she lifted me to eye level and asked, ‘What shall I call you?’

Mocking my size and appearance Becky chuckled, ‘How about Stinkerbell?’ Both girls laughed before Misha disagreed. ‘No, maybe something shorter. Tink it is. Let’s get you some help.’”

“My memory of the vet is hazy – warm bath, flashes of color, masked faces. I woke up groggy and alone in a small wire cage, my neck bound with a collar so big I couldn’t see the rest of me. Although my pain was gone, a different loss overshadowed that welcome news. I was trapped; my freedom was stolen once more. If dogs could cry … I begged the universe to set me free.”

I heard Gram laugh quietly. “It sent my granddaughter instead.”

“Yes, it did.” We both laughed out loud. “Gram, I could use a snack.”

Always accommodating, she agreed. “Sure, chewy or crunchy? I’ll top off my coffee.”

“Yes, please, to both.” From the time Misha introduced us, her grandmother and I have had a magical connection. At our first meeting, she sat in a yellow-cushioned rocker, book in hand, a blue pen stuck over her left ear. Setting the book aside, she leaned toward me and stared, her two blue-gray eyes to my single dark one, then whispered, “Come here, sweet thing.” I hobbled forward, a black patch over a worthless eyeball and a pink cast bracing my left leg. When she lifted me to her lap, like super-glue, we bonded. From that time forward, she has been my confidant, my sage, my voice and interpreter of all things human.

When Gram returned from the kitchen, hot coffee and treats in hand, I hopped into her lap and quickly snapped up a crunchy biscuit. “Where were we?”

After a loud slurp of caffeine, Gram replied. “I think we’re at the point where Misha brings you home from the hospital.”

“Right. Confined again, I freaked out during the car ride home. Too many terrifying flashbacks. I pawed, I gnawed, I trembled and whined for the entire trip. I didn’t calm down until Misha pulled me from that soft-sided prison she called a pet carrier and put me in front of you, announcing, ‘Meet Tink.’”

I stretched my body as Gram swept her warm hand across my back. “My apologies for laughing at your name. Misha explained its origin and I had to agree.” She chuckled, “Yes, Tink’s freedom came at a high price but it opened a new kind of independence, one of self-determination. When I first looked into your sad little eye, I saw flashes of color, flames of a creative soul—an artist waiting for inspiration.”

I pressed my paw on her wrinkled hand. “Thanks, Gram.” After a bite of my blueberry-flavored chew, I continued. “But I didn’t see flames in your eyes. I saw a tunnel, swirling with brilliant colors, inviting yet frightening, pulling me forward into your world.”

Gram sighed, “Yes, in that instant our worlds collided, our souls, our destiny forever entangled. Now tell me about your art.”

That’s quite a leap, Gram, from your eyes to my art.”

Gram chuckled, “Yes, it is. I can recite Misha’s stories from the time she could lift a crayon. Her techie job only served to help her achieve her dream of owning an art gallery. I know her art history. Continue with yours.”

After a long sigh, “My painful recovery took three months but offered a few surprise benefits. Misha kept me close, handfeeding me and tending to my injuries. Best of all, she tucked me inside her jacket as we toured art museums, galleries, libraries and murals around town educating ourselves as we went.

Over time, I developed an abstract style that Misha described as canine Jackson Pollock. Lots of bold tail-strokes, usually after breakfast when I had lots of energy. My bedtime art tended to be sweeping and rhythmic like a queen’s wave. And I always signed my work with a pink swoosh.

When I appeared in public, people adored my uniqueness, a black patch over one eye and a pink binding over my gimpy leg. One gallery visitor declared ‘Aww, what a cute little pirate.’ From then on, people asked about the Pink Pirate. Everyone, especially me, loved the name.

Gram patted my head. “Names don’t usually change, but nicknames adapt to character. My birth name is Sofia but now everyone calls me Gram. Tink suited you at the time of your rescue. Now you are the Pink Pirate, resourceful, daring and colorful.”

I nodded agreement, “Yes, the nickname fits.”

Thoughtfully, I explained. “I literally stepped into art. Most evenings Misha laid several canvases on the floor with jars of paint and trays of brushes scattered around them. From my cozy bed, I studied her color choices, and brush techniques.

One late night, Misha knelt before a primed canvas, the usual clutter of paints and brushes nearby. In a hurry to get to the doggie door, I figured the shortest path to relief lay between the canvas and Misha. In my haste, I stepped from her mixing tray onto the canvas. Trying to shake off midnight blue, I knocked over two jars: teal and lemon-yellow. Slipping, sliding, mixing colors with my butt, I skidded across the canvas. Shrieking, Misha grabbed me and raced to the sink. After a scrub, and a scold, we returned to the canvas. Misha stuffed me in her oversized smock pocket and stared at the chaos of colors. She smiled then said ‘I like it! Let’s try another.’”

What began as an accident lit the fire that was my calling. Misha and I loved painting together. At first, people only saw me as her save-the-animals project, a one-eyed, limping dog. My art exposed them to the true dog inside, to the creativity that was my heart and soul.

After years of murals, street fairs and party sketches, Misha resigned her techie job and bought a studio to display our work as well as that of other artists. I barked constantly on our road trip to the new location. When she lifted me from the car, I was stunned. Before me stood a solid brick building with a faded, yet familiar, mural on its west wall. A sad homecoming. I suppose fate is the artist.

As Misha lifted me out of the car, she asked, ‘What do you think?’ I hopped out of her arms, trotted to the wall and peed on it.”

Gram chuckled. “A strange baptism, indeed.”

“For weeks, Misha struggled to name her new studio, names like The Barking Brush and Pawsitive Art. When she suggested Tossed and Found, a tribute to my journey, I barked agreement. Misha gathered me in her arms and together we danced. The choice was made.

At our opening gala, I wandered through the crowded gallery, accepting pats on my head. Small crowds would gather to remark on tail-strokes, color and composition. My signature piece hung in the entryway. “Misha labeled it First Steps because I trotted all over the canvas, mixing colors as I raced for the doggie door. I called it Relief.

Our masterwork had stormy grays, dark blues, ominous black with red splotches meant to be teeth marks. No tail-work, only paws and claws digging a hole through the canvas. Misha titled it Rage; I called it Rebirth. Another canvas filled with streaks of every shade of blue completed my contribution to the show. Misha labeled it Rain; I called it Tears. Amazing how the same image evokes such different reactions. Isn’t that the power of abstract art?”

Gram nodded. “Truly.”

“I don’t have enough paws to count the dog years since Misha rescued me. The early ones were filled with pain, the middle years with art and accolades, and my senior years with love and reflection. Throw in several dog biscuits along the way and I’ve had a good run. Funny how the brain doesn’t seem to recognize the passage of time the way the body does. It’s been a joyful and art-filled life. Sadly, my vet recently declared I have a failing heart. I’m dying, Gram.

Now, I want to end my life with dignity. Your granddaughter is talented and sentimental. She has given me a wonderful life and does not want to let me go. I love her for that, but prolonging my stay means enduring the bittersweet pain of living. I need your help. Will you tell her it’s time for me to go? Will you stay with me when I die?”

Gram hesitated then pulled me close. “Yes, sweet thing, I will look into your eye and watch the brilliant colors you love draw you, once again, into a miraculous new world.”

“I’m ready, Gram.”

December 18, 2025
CC ~ Murder of Crows

Murder of Crows

by Cat Fiasco

Exhausted after a harrowing flight from Dallas and soaked from a late-night thunderstorm, I decided to check in at police headquarters. Dripping wet, I greeted the bleary-eyed night owls who had the dusk to dawn duty. They rarely spoke but always acknowledged my arrival with a nod or a hoot. Making my way upstairs, I felt small comfort in seeing the hole I called an office.

My door was always open. That wasn’t part of any worker-friendly policy; just that stacks of unsolved case files overflowed into the hallway blocking the door. City lights twinkled in the distance offering enough light to make my way around the reams of paperwork. Drat! Candy-wrappers littered my desk. Those damn squirrels downstairs were using my space again. I could only hope for better accommodations when the new branch opened this Spring. Right now, I needed a Texas gully-washer to do some housekeeping for me.

Time to visit the night-shift officers. I had one or two bird brains on my team, but most were capable investigators. Russell, my sergeant, was a tough old coot who spent his career working homicide. He wasn’t a high-flyer, but he had a keen sense of right and wrong. And he was good at his job. As I perched on the edge of his desk, he got a caw. At this late hour, that usually meant trouble.

Minutes later, Russell and I arrived at the edge of the heavily wooded city park. The steady downpour and a flickering streetlight offered little help in sorting out the scene. We examined the sweet young thing lying motionless in the middle of the well-worn path that stretched the length of the park. Who was she? How did she die? Why was she here? Was it accidental or intentional? I needed answers.

Russell pointed to the tire tracks across her sleek, lifeless body as I watched raven-colored quills drift into a nearby ditch. Must have been something heavy. Likely hit and run. As we surveyed the dark landscape, Russell spied a second feathered body deep in the rain-soaked weeds. Yes, tonight we had a murder of crows. I needed coffee.

After two hours of waiting, a sliver of sunlight signaled the end of the midnight storm and the arrival of the forensics team – more like a forensics pair, an MD named Tom and his no-name sidekick. Tom, a seasoned crime scene investigator with a taste for tragedy, waved as he approached. One of the local cops lifted the crime scene tape deferring to Tom’s gruff manner and imposing figure – large frame, heavy jowls, and dark piercing eyes. His sidekick hefted the tools of their trade.

When Tom joined Russell and me beside the tire-marked body, he handed me a small bag. “Here you go, Hawkeye.”

Even though it was a routine Tom and I had established in our early years together, the satisfaction of this small gesture never diminished. Neither did my desire for coffee. Quickly I opened the sack and chucked down my first coffee bean of the day. I liked them raw and one at a time. It was an acquired taste, like working homicide.

Tom squatted to examine the wounds on the first victim as I turned to Russell. Who, how and why thoughts raced through my head. “Beside two dead bodies, what do we know? Any witnesses? How about who called it in?”

Russell hesitated. “I think we have a witness. Well, maybe not an eyewitness. He’s a petty thief that we’ve dealt with before; goes by Snake. He says he spoke to this young bird right before she died. Do you want to talk to him here or at the station?”

“Bring him here. Let’s do it now before those vultures who call themselves reporters show up. And tell the locals to get rid of that gaggle of onlookers. They display no concern for the living but show up with a morbid curiosity for the dead and dying. I hate that.”

A tough flight, a sleepless night and two dead bodies added up to a rough day ahead. Hoping for a sorely needed energy boost, I popped another coffee bean. As the caffeine buzz grew stronger, I watched Russell yank the skinny small-time hood from the departing crowd and push him my way.

This guy didn’t want to make eye contact, but I insisted. “Look at me, Snake. You might be our only witness. Or you could be our only suspect. I need to know what you know. Talk to me now and maybe you can slither back under that rock you call home.”

He decided to talk.

“Okay, okay. Like I was telling your sergeant, her name is Flora. And that pile of feathers in the weeds is her boyfriend, Chi. They’re always together. Anyway, I don’t know about him, but I heard Flora scream. It was raining hard and by the time I got to her, she was barely breathing. Her eyes were closed but she managed to whisper one word.”

Snake paused. What’s with this lizard? My blood pressure was climbing. “Okay, drama queen, I’ll bite. What did she whisper?”

“My hearing’s not so good but it sounded like ‘Nevermore’.”

I stumbled backward as I shouted. “You’ve got to be kidding! What kind of bird brain quotes poetry as a dying declaration? Get out of here. And go get your ear buds cleaned.”

Snake seemed anxious to oblige but my sleep-deprived, caffeine-charged rant wasn’t finished.

“And don’t leave town. You’re still on my radar. Go, before I change my mind.”

After Snake skittered away, Russell poked at me. “Hawkeye, maybe he’s right. If they were lovers, it’s possible her last thoughts were about Chi – about losing him. Think about it.”

Trying to ignore him, I turned for an update from Tom but Russell persisted. “I’m not finished. Quit popping those coffee beans. They’re not helping. You’re jittery and not thinking squarely. You need to rest. I don’t care where – just get some shut-eye. I’ll check with forensics and then find us some breakfast. Be back in an hour.” Then he was gone.

It’s hard to do a self-assessment in the middle of a meltdown but he was right. My heart was racing, and my thinking was muddled. The hundred-year-old red oak shrouding the crime scene had my name on it. I needed sleep.

Hasty decisions often lead to negative consequences. My snap choice to doze near the crime scene provided welcome relief for my weary body. But – there’s always a but – I woke up to what looked like the mouths of hungry chicks, ten microphones begging for attention. No way to escape. And so, the questions began.

“Detective, are you okay? How do you feel? Can you tell us what happened? Who is the victim? Was it an accident? Was it gang related? Why were you sleeping? Did you pass out? Are you injured?”

I pushed the microphones away, swearing to myself that if one more reporter asked me how I felt, I would rip their heart out. How I felt didn’t matter. What my next steps were, did.

Pushing my way through the gauntlet of questions, I told them “Dead is dead. Two bodies, no answers. I’ll get back to you.” I left them to gnaw on those slim pickings.

Thankfully there was one important question they didn’t ask, and one I forgot to pursue. Who reported it? Snake wasn’t the answer. Then who? Witness, accomplice or murderer; I needed to find out.

Feeling refreshed and clear-headed, I caught up with Tom and no-name preparing the bodies for the trip to the morgue. Their preliminary investigation must be complete. I shouted at Tom. “What have you found?”

“Glad you’re back among the living. Your sergeant should return any minute with donuts. As for the victims, one scenario fits. They had to be close, perhaps embracing. The boyfriend took a direct hit from an unknown vehicle. That sent him sailing into the thistle. With no time to react, she was crushed by whatever rolled over her. Heavy rain washed away most of the evidence except for a few remaining tread marks. Not sure if they’ll be much help. Oh, I have a surprise for you.”

I yawned and waited. Yet another drama queen. There was no good reason to aggravate my esteemed teammate. Instead, I begged for an explanation, “Prey tell.”

My dark humor wasn’t lost on the good doctor. He chuckled then said, “They weren’t hit last night. It had to be 20 to 24 hours ago. Rough guess, mid-morning yesterday.”

“Doc, that doesn’t line up with our witness account. Snake said he heard Flora scream last night just before he found her.”

Tom shrugged his shoulders. “I’m just telling you what the science says.”

Still stunned by Tom’s revelation, I didn’t notice Russell’s return until he shoved a French cruller in my face. “Hawkeye, maybe Snake didn’t hear Flora? What if the scream came from our mysterious caller?”

God, I thought, Maybe I should give up coffee beans. I quickly discounted that idea. Beans or no beans, Russell was on to something. I decided to test his recall.

“Think, Russell, what exactly did the caller say?”

Before he could answer, one of the officers guarding the crime scene interrupted. “Excuse me, detective. This little lady needs to speak to you. Says it’s urgent.”

Without waiting for agreement, a tiny, blue-coated thing introduced herself. “My name is Betty Lou Byrd. I live at the south end of the park but we’re moving two streets north – lots more room.” She pointed over my shoulder, then continued. “Last night I was returning from a late meeting with our contractor. As I flew through here, I saw this poor dead thing in the short grass; nobody else around. All I could do was scream and hightail it home to call you folks.”

I smiled. We had our mystery caller. “Thank you. You did the right thing. If you think of anything else, please let us know. Russell, give the lady a jelly donut and help her on her way.”

Before a crumb touched her lips, Betty Lou shouted, “Wait, there is something else. This path has been overgrown for weeks, until three days ago. Someone’s been mowing the grass. I don’t know about you, but I think that could be dangerous.”

I wanted to hug Betty Lou Byrd. Instead, I waited until she left then hugged my sergeant. “Russell, I know what Flora tried to tell Snake. Remember he admitted his hearing was bad. It wasn’t nevermore. She was trying to warn him. I think she said new mower.”

An odd look of disappointment crossed Russell’s face, perhaps he had a romantic heart.

Unfortunately, my joy was tempered by a sad reality. Even if the crime guys could help us find the vehicle, there was little we could do. I decided to create a new file for hit-and-runs like this one. They don’t belong in the Closed pile or the Unsolved stack. I need one labeled Unpunished.

“Get the public safety guys to put out the word. Folks need to know about the mowers in the park. Maybe we can avoid more incidents.”

After a restless night dreaming about the doomed lovers, Flora and Chi, I made my way to the office. My early-bird sergeant leaned against my door frame. Doesn’t this guy ever go home? “What? Another case already.”

Russell grinned. “No, boss. But we may have trouble; there are rumblings of a conspiracy. It’s the Ravens, that gang that hangs out by the city reservoir. Apparently, they’re talking to other neighborhood gangs. They’re threatening to dive bomb, and lay it on, any lawn mowers that come through the city park. What should we do?”

I paused to take a deep breath—my turn to be a drama queen. “Wish them Godspeed.”

December 18, 2025