Stories – Page 5 – tim mcmurdo

warren doesn’t like girls

Posted on August 2, 2011 by Tim McMurdo

Warren had heard the story since he was a tadpole. Evidently there was a princess and she was looking for a prince and when she found a frog with a crown on its head, she kissed it and voila in a puff of smoke, he became a prince, blah, blah, blah. Warren's problem was that every young girl for miles around had evidently heard the same story.

Every year, a fresh crop of young girls would show up at the pond looking for their prince. They would come in pairs or small groups but, never alone. As they approached the water, the girls would giggle and laugh as they looked for frogs and in the event that they found one, they would dare each other to kiss the poor amphibian. The girls never ever kissed the frogs. Eventually, when they were finished playing and had lost interest, they would dispose of the frog by dropping it unceremoniously back into the water. The quick dismissal was what really bothered Warren the most. The girls were completely immersed in their own desires and never thought of the frog. The frog was just a prop in their games. They were all the same.

Not once had warren ever been kissed and in all probability he never would. That my friends is why Warren didn't like girls.

jeanne’s new hat

Posted on July 31, 2011 by Tim McMurdo

Jeanne Clauson is a handsome woman. Though Jeanne is not a prideful woman, she does like to wear pretty things. And so it was with her new hat. The hat was mad of straw and had a nice wide brim that would keep the sun out of her eyes. Wrapped around the black crepe band and trailing down the back was a lovely green silk ribbon. The front was adorned with a matching bow and button. It was a fine hat and she loved it. Her husband had given it to her as a birthday gift though, Jeanne suspected that the extraordinary gift was as much birthday present as it was an attempt to help her through the first anniversary of their daughter Ellie's death.

The last year had been hard on them all but, slowly they were beginning to heal. She missed Ellie terribly and as the anniversary approached, her eldest child was in her thoughts more than usual. The more she thought of Ellie and missed Ellie, the quieter she had gotten and she knew that Asa, her husband, recognized the import of her silence and worried about her. The hat was an extravagance but, she loved him for the gift and the kind thought behind it. She loved her husband. Asa was himself a very quiet man and the hat spoke volumes about the feelings he had for her. Such a pretty hat, the green ribbon was her favorite color and Asa was well aware of that!

One year. Twelve months were not a lot of time to deal with this kind of grief. Still, she was better than she had been a year ago. Unfortunately, Jeanne was not alone in her pain. Two more little girls had been killed. One each, during the winter and spring. Two more children in the ground. Two more families in pain. She did not know the little girl from New Carlisle. She did know the family of Cassie Turner. They were regulars at her church and Cassie and Ellie were on playing terms. No one had seen or heard the beast that had mauled the poor girls.

After each death, hunters and trackers had taken to the fields, the woods and the river beds. All to no avail. No tracks had been found. Nor had they found any sign at all of the animal that had killed her little Ellie and the other two poor little girls. The families in this rural area were becoming alarmed by the cruel and violent loss of three girls in a single year. Children were being kept closer to home and fathers and mothers were vigilantly watching their children, just as she and Asa kept a close eye on their remaining girl, Stella.

Jeanne had her new hat and she thought it was a fine and lovely hat. More than something pretty to place on top of her head, she knew it was her husband's love and kindness that she place upon her hair. The straw and ribbons could not make up for the hard year that lay behind her but, she could smile none the less when she pulled the hat out of its box and straightened the ribbon with her fingers.

Here are the links to the entire series of Elli Claussen stories:

For those that wondered but, were not sure, that the stories might be connected, they are. I have most of the plot worked out on paper and will continue to post new parts of the story as the images become available. This sometimes means that weeks can pass between installments and I am sorry for that. However, I hope you agree that the images help to make the stories come alive.

Thank you once again for your feedback and encouragement. If my story telling is improving and I am becomming more confident, it is only because you have made me more comfortable. Don't hesitate to ask any questions or make comments if you have them.

Tim

the great herds of our ancestors

Posted on July 19, 2011 by Tim McMurdo

Listen my son and I will tell you of the great herds of our ancestors, in the time before the yellow haired gods ruled our lands. Your great great great grandfather walked the lands of the north and lived the ways of our elders. In those days, to prove himself a man, a young warrior needed to walk the great herds. You have seen the long necked birds from the cold north called geese. They are common even today but, in the days of our fathers, the Canada Goose roamed the plains in herds of enormous size. As they moved from one grazing ground to another, their shadows darkened the ground from sunrise to sunset without break.

It was one of these herds that the young warrior must walk within. Approaching the geese from downwind, the boy would walk quietly among the big birds looking for the largest of them all. Once found, the warrior must pluck a single feather from the bird's tail feathers. Silence and patience were the key to the Young man's success. If the birds became startled, they would begin to run over the grasses in a huge stampede. The mass of startled and angry birds would run for hours, until exhaustion took them and forced them to collapse. All the while, they would trample anything in their path, including the warrior.

The stampedes of Time have trampled the great herds and they are no more. Also gone are most of the traditions so revered by our ancestors. In my dreams, the herds still rome and I am a young warrior on the verge of becoming a man. I walk the herds in my dreams… feather in my hand.

ted’s dry run

Posted on July 19, 2011 by Tim McMurdo

When I woke up this morning, the weather was nasty. The temperature had already reached 80 degrees and the rain had filled the air with with moisture. I took a deep breath and it felt like I was drinking water from a glass. After letting the cat out, I headed to the kitchen to make some coffee and put together some toast. This was part of my morning routine and my body could go through the motion on its own, while my brain wandered. The hot and humid weather reminded me of another time right after I got home from the war.

The summer of 1947 was a terribly hot summer and everyday that it would rain, the humidity would come out fighting just like it had this morning. If I remember right, it was a Saturday morning and I had nothing planned. I decided to head on down to the pond with my fishing pole. I didn't really care if I caught anything, the idea was to sit on the edge of the pond and dangle my feet in the cool water while I enjoyed the shade. So, I got my pole and tackle together and headed for the watering spot out near Stanton's Farm Road.

It wasn't long before I was settled in, watching my bobber floating on the still water. Soon, I caught sight of a turtle on a log. From where I sat, he looked like he was stuck in mid air. His feet were flying but he wasn't going anywhere. He looked likable enough, so I offered to lend him a hand.

"Mr. Turtle, can I offer you a hand into the water?" To my complete surprise, the turtle answered me back!

"No thank you" said the turtle, "that will not be necessary." Holy cow, a talking turtle!

"You can talk!"

"Yes, I can speak he said" between gulps of air. All the time, his legs never stopped. They just spun and spun like a whirligig. "It is a curse."

"A curse? It seems like a blessing to me, Mr. Turtle." By now, I had put my pole down, I wasn't interested in fishing anymore. "Why would it be a curse?"

"Well, now that I can speak, my big mouth keeps getting me into the worst of trouble. I just bet the catfish that I could cross the pond to the other side."

That threw me for a loop. Of course he could cross the pond, he was a turtle after all.

"Mr. turtle, that seems like a sucker's bet to me, of course you can cross the pond, you are a turtle."

"Oh no" said the turtle. "And call me Ted"

"Ok Ted, it is. And what seems to be the problem, you will surely win that bet."

Ted just turned his head and looked at me with a worried expression. "I can't swim and the catfish knows it!" His legs were still turning as fast as he could make them go. "But I got a plan!"

With that, Ted rocked his way off the log and into the water. I gasped, he could drown! But it wasn't to be. Ted's legs were spinning so fast that as he hit the glassy water, he shot across the surface like a skipping stone. Ted skipped eleventy seven times, enough to land him into the cat tails on the opposite side of the pond. I had never seen anything like it in my entire life!

I stood up to see if I could see Ted on the other side but, I couldn't spot anything other than some movement in the tall plants. I was a little disappointed. I wanted to congratulate Ted on winning the bet.

Unfortunately, I never saw Ted again. I just suppose that is the way it should be. Still, I give a chuckle when I think about Ted flying across the pond. Sometimes, I just bust out laughing to myself. When that happens, my wife looks at me like I have lost my mind. She doesn't know about Ted and his bouncing flight across the pond. She has no idea that what really makes me bust out loud is that, though I never found Ted again, I did see the look on the catfish's face when Ted skipped over his head and won the bet.

meet walter doogan

Posted on July 18, 2011 by Tim McMurdo

Uh oh, after some research, I think that "Walter" is a female stag beetle.

Walter Doogan was a different kind of Beetle to be sure. He liked classical music, knit caps and sandals, while the rest of the bugs his age were listening to rock and roll and dressing like clones of each other. His mother called him eccentric but the rest of the world just called him odd.

His friends liked the way he marched to his own drum and were able to look deeper until they saw the generous and loyal friend that he was. To them, he was brave and unique in his willingness to be his own bug and ignore current trends. While he was being teased by others for not conforming to the current norms, his close knit group of friends admired the audacity of his difference.

Even so, his friends did think his penchant for climbing was a little strange, even for him. Walter would climb anything that was tall and towered into the air. He seemed to see the sky scraping heights as a sort of personal challenge. His conversation would revolve around his latest target for days ahead of a big climb. The building excitement always insured that Walter had an audience to cheer him on. The actual climb seemed to last forever as Walter raised one leg at a time and pulled himself up the vertical surface. moving onward at a slow and deliberate pace.

You have to wonder what drives Walter upwards? What inner fire motivates him in his quest to conquer the heights? We may never know the answer. We can guess that this is yet another part of the beauty that makes Walter different.

arthea’s flight

Posted on July 12, 2011July 5, 2015 by Tim McMurdo

There were three of the hulking Gh'rull thrashing through the forrest floor behind Arthea. She had heard them coming long before she could see them and had sensed them long before that. As a Long Guardian, it was her job to report this news back to the queen before the Gh'rull became a danger to the tribe or caused damage to the grove.

The Gh'rull were clumsy and dull witted but, Arthea would still need to be careful. If she were to fly straight back to the grove, the creatures would follow her pixie trail. Instead, she would have to fly a winding path through the forrest to lead them astray and then dart back to the grove while they were confused. The Queen and the rest of the tribe would have no problem finding them again.

As her gossamer wings beat a soft hum, Arthea put her plan into action and sped through the trees, away from the grove for the time being. Twisting and looping through the moonlit forrest, she had the Gh'rull confused in no time at all. As she turned towards the grove, Arthea could hear the creatures frustrated confusion as they attempted to follow her interwoven trail before it faded into the dark.

the hunter

Posted on July 11, 2011 by Tim McMurdo

Look at her and listen to her. Not a worry or a care in her life. But, I could change that pretty quickly. While she inanely babbles about her perfect life, I can read the address on her driver's license sitting along with her credit card on the counter in front of her. She can't even see me, I am invisible to her.

716 West Raym… that is all I can read. No problem, I'll bet that is West Raymond Street on the north side of town. Nice neighborhood. Big houses sitting on perfect lawns that huddle on quiet streets. Tonight, that is going to change. How will all of the neighbors like all the noise and red lights in their front yards? I'll bet they won't like it very much at all.

I haven't had a red night in a long time. Tonight it is, I feel like playing and I think I just found my playmate. I hope she likes my toys! heh heh… This is going to be a red night.

bunnies in love

Posted on June 30, 2011 by Tim McMurdo

Beatrice loved Peter with all her heart. He was handsome with his long ears and soft, glistening coat of fur. His bright blue eyes seemed to see into her soul, warming her and lifting her up. Yes, she loved Peter and better yet, she knew that the feeling was mutual. Beatrice remembered when they had woven their hearts together in the Spring daisy celebration, announcing to their families and friends that they had bonded and had committed themselves to only each other for the remainders of their lives.

Now the couple was ready to start their new life as a family in the thicket near the brook. This would be a good home and a happy home. The thicket was secure and surrounded with wild flowers and sweet meadows of grass.

I hope that Beatrice and Peter live long fruitful lives and have lots of children. Just leave Mr. Tom's garden alone!

the journey

Posted on June 19, 2011 by Tim McMurdo

We began the journey on the Great Lake in the morning fog. We had far to go and the early start would mean we would arrive at the camp before sunset.

Along the way, the lakes shore was clouded in the dense mist. Occasionally we would see a bird or a fish feeding in the coolness of the morning.

The lake was dotted with small islets and presented a spectacular view.

As we passed close to some of the islets, we could see that each was its own world, complete with birds and other wild life

What seemed like hours later, we had crossed the Great Lake and entered the mouth of the river that would lead us to camp. After the expanse of the lake, the river's banks felt confining. As they closed in around us, we left the lake behind.

Up river two hours, we pulled the boat onto the banks. With our packs loaded onto our backs, we headed inland. As the forrest began to swallow us whole, I turned for one last look at the river and we disappeared into the dense growth.

che roostara

Posted on June 18, 2011 by Tim McMurdo

As the head of the ghost like organization Peoples Army of Carriage Hill (PACH) Che Roostara has called for the overthrow of the Friends of Carriage Hill governing board. Roostara and his chicken guerilla fighters have been terrorizing the rest of the Carriage Hill animal community with hit and run raids on the farm's cracked corn supplies. After each assault, PACH melts into the surrounding forrest and disappears.

The governing board has issued a commission to Lt. Colonel Sarah, the resident barn cat, to hunt down and destroy PACH and its leader Roostara. Perhaps soon, Che Roostara will be caught and Carriage Hill can return to peace.