Stories for Kids

By Tyler Woods

The sun glistened on the shiny new spokes of Kelly’s old bicycle.

She loved that old bike. After the accident, when the man who hit her offered to buy her a new one, Kelly asked for new wheels instead. She ran a cloth over one silver spoke, then the next.

“I could ride all the way to China with wheels like these,” she said.

And just like that, she did.

On a mountain path in China, a warrior drew a silver-handled sword. A dragon backed against the rocks. Its scales flashed purple and green in the sun.

“Stop!” Kelly cried. “What has the dragon done to you?”

“Nothing,” said the warrior. “But its horn is worth a fortune. I am a great warrior. This is what I must do.”

Kelly’s heart was pounding. She remembered what her mother had taught her about the Buddha. When you’re scared or angry and feel like doing something right away, take one breath and look again.

Kelly breathed in. She could feel the wind on her cheeks. She breathed out. The dragon’s claws were scraping against the rocks.

“Look at its claws,” she said.

The warrior raised his sword a little higher.

“They’re shaking,” Kelly said. “So is your hand.”

The warrior looked at his hand. “I thought it would be easier once I drew my sword,” he said.

“Do you want to take a breath with me?”

For a moment, the only sound was the wind on the mountain. Kelly took another breath. The warrior took one, too.

Then he slid the sword back into its sheath.

The dragon unfolded its wings and flew so close overhead that Kelly felt the rush of air on her face. The warrior watched until it was a purple speck in the sky. His hand hung loose at his side.

“Kelly?”

It was her mother. “Would you like lunch with us, or shall I bring it to you?”

“Could you bring it here today, please?”

Her mother set a plate beside her. A fish sandwich. Kelly took a big bite and looked at the wheels again.

“With wheels this shiny, I could ride to a Caribbean island and catch my own lunch.”

* * *

Soon Kelly was sitting on a dock with a bamboo fishing pole. Something pulled so hard on the line that she thought she might have caught a whale. Up came a dripping old chest. When she lifted the lid, gold and silver coins spilled across the boards.

“Hand over that treasure!” cried a pirate. Three more pirates came clattering down the dock behind him.

“Would you really hurt me for a box of coins?” Kelly asked.

“Arrr! We’re pirates. That’s what we do.”

Kelly curled her fingers around a gold coin. For a second she wanted to scoop up every last one and race away. Then she heard a sound she hadn’t expected. The pirate’s stomach growled.

“Have you had lunch?” she asked.

The captain glanced at his crew. “We ran out of food yesterday.”

Kelly set the coin down. She knew how hard it was to think about anything when she was hungry.

“Would you like half my fish sandwich?” she asked. “You can set your sword down over there.”

One by one, the pirates put down their swords. They sat at the end of the dock, swinging their boots over the water. The captain took a bite, then tore off a piece for the pirate next to him. That pirate tore off a piece for the next.

For a little while, nobody reached for the gold.

“Kelly, would you like dessert?”

“What is it?”

“Cheesecake.”

Kelly loved cheesecake. She took a bite and thought about where the cheese might come from.

“I bet I could ride these wheels all the way up the Swiss Alps.”

* * *

High in the Alps, bells jingled as goats picked their way across a meadow. Kelly was helping the farmers carry fresh milk when two bandits blocked the path.

“Give us those barrels,” said one, “or we’ll push you off the mountain.”

Kelly stepped back toward the farmers. She was frightened, and she was angry. Who did these bandits think they were?

She felt the sharp words crowding behind her teeth. She took one breath. She still wanted them to move.

“Please step away from the edge,” she said. “You’re scaring us.”

The second bandit looked down at the steep drop and took a step back.

“Why do you want the milk?” Kelly asked.

“Because we’re bandits. That’s what we do,” said the first.

“Well,” said the second, “I also happen to like milk.”

“Do you like cheesecake?” asked Kelly. “If the farmers agree, you could help us carry the milk down to the bakery. Then we could make one big enough for everybody.”

“You’d share with us after what we said?” asked the first bandit.

“If you’re ready to help,” said Kelly. “And I’d like a little more room on the path, please.”

The bandits stepped aside. The farmers agreed, and together they loaded the cart. At a steep bend, one of the barrels started to roll. The first bandit caught it just before it tipped.

“Careful,” he said, holding the barrel steady. “That one’s for the cheesecake.”

Kelly followed the cart down the mountain, listening to the goat bells grow fainter with every turn of her wheels.

* * *

When Kelly set down her plate, her kitten came over to investigate. Kelly lifted her into her lap and stroked her until she purred.

“Do you like my shiny new wheels, Miss Kitty? I bet we could ride to Rome and back.”

In an instant, Kelly was in a Roman arena with five hungry lions. The crowd roared. So did the biggest lion.

“Come closer, little girl,” he said. “I’m going to eat you. I’m a lion. That’s what I do.”

Kelly remembered the warm weight of her kitten in her lap. This cat was big enough to put a paw over her whole head. She stayed behind the gate.

Her mother had taught her a wish she could make quietly, even when she didn’t know what to say out loud. May I be safe. May you be safe, too.

Kelly made the first wish for herself. Then she looked at the lion. His tail lashed every time the crowd shouted. She made the second wish for him.

“I hear you’re hungry,” she called. Then she looked up at the crowd. “Does anyone know where their keeper is?”

A keeper hurried down the steps. At Kelly’s urging, he opened the passage to the lions’ den and brought their dinner there. One by one, the lions padded out of the arena. The biggest lion looked back at Kelly before he followed. He dipped his head, just a little.

“Kelly,” said her mother. “Dr. Jordan is here to see you.”

* * *

Kelly set her kitten down. Dr. Jordan pulled up a chair beside her.

“Your mother says you’ve been looking at your new wheels,” he said.

Kelly looked at the shiny spokes. In her mind, she could still see the handlebars of her old bicycle. In front of her was a wheelchair.

“I want my bike,” she said. “I want to walk with the other kids. I don’t want to use this.”

Dr. Jordan waited a moment. “I hear you. Since the accident, getting around has been harder. This chair can help you go places while we keep figuring out what you need.”

Kelly ran her cloth over one spoke. “I can be mad about it?”

“You can be mad,” he said.

Kelly took a breath. She was still mad. She missed her bike so much that her throat hurt.

Then she noticed her fingers. They were trembling, just like the warrior’s hand. She loosened her grip on the cloth. May I be safe, she thought. And then, because it was what she needed to hear, she added a wish of her own. May I be kind to myself today.

Beyond the open door, Miss Kitty was lying in a patch of sun. When she saw Kelly looking, she rolled over and stretched one paw toward her.

“Could you show me how to get as far as the porch?” Kelly asked. “Just the porch today.”

Dr. Jordan helped her settle into the chair and showed her where to put her hands. Kelly felt the rims under her palms. She took a breath and gave the wheels a small push. One shiny spoke caught the light, then another.

Miss Kitty stood, stretched, and went ahead to wait for her.

The End

By Tyler Woods

Long ago and far away there was a magical forest where no human had ever set foot. Ah, it was beautiful. The grass was green, green, green, and the sky was so blue you could almost see into heaven through it.

There were bouncing, bubbling bunnies, tiny squirrels, lizards, birds, and owls. And there were trees, tall, tall trees. That, my friend, is where my story begins.

My name is Bertha Bunny, and my dearest friend was Tamsila. She was a gray bunny with a bushy tail you could spot a mile away. When she laughed, the whole forest seemed to laugh with her.

Early, early one morning came a knock at my door.

“Let me in! Let me in! It’s time to play!”

“Oh, Tamsila,” I said. “I haven’t even had my berry tea.”

Knock, knock went the door again.

“Bring your tea, Bertha Bunny!”

That was how most mornings began. Sometimes I wished she’d let me finish just one cup in peace. Then one morning I finished the whole cup.

The forest was ever so quiet.

“Oh me, oh my,” I said. “Where can my Tamsila be?”

I packed a lunch for two and went to look for her.

* * *

Down the path I met Larry Lizard warming his belly on a stone.

“Larry, have you seen Tamsila the bushy-tailed bunny?”

“Come to think of it, I haven’t,” he said, lifting his head. “Try farther into the forest. I’ll keep an eye out here.”

At the first pond I found Fredrick Frog. He jumped onto a lily pad and caught a fly.

“Have you seen Tamsila, Mr. Frog?”

“Ribbit, ribbit. It’s quiet enough to hear a fly coming today,” he said. “I haven’t seen her. Try deeper in the forest.”

Deeper I went, until I found Suzi Squirrel gathering nuts.

“Suzi, have you seen Tamsila today?”

Suzi set down her basket. “I saw a gray tail near the third pond this morning. Was it hers? I couldn’t be sure.” She tucked a handful of nuts into my lunch bag. “In case you find her.”

Deeper, deeper, deeper I went until my paws ached and I didn’t think I could go another hop.

“Oh, where could she be?” I cried.

“Who, who,” came a voice above me.

“Who is that?”

“Who, who.”

“Oh, Mr. Owl! Have you seen my friend Tamsila?”

“I have,” said Wise Old Owl. “Three ponds down and to the left. She’s sitting beneath the Tallest Tree.”

I stopped rubbing my sore paws. In our forest, when someone died, we went to the Tallest Tree to remember them.

“Her mother died last night,” Owl said softly.

My ears drooped. “What shall I say to her?”

“You could start with her name,” said Owl. “Then see if she’d like you to sit.”

I thought about how lonely my breakfast had felt with one quiet morning. Tamsila had a whole morning without her mother. I hopped as fast as my tired paws would take me.

* * *

There she was beneath the Tallest Tree, her face buried in her paws. I could hear her sobbing before I could see her clearly.

“Tamsila?” I said.

She looked up. Her gray fur was wet all the way down to her chin.

“May I sit with you?”

She moved her tail over to make room.

I sat. I had a whole speech ready about being brave and walking to the Mountain of Acceptance. Then Tamsila leaned against me, and I could feel how hard she was crying. I put the lunch bag down and stayed where I was.

Above us, the wind turned the leaves over, one by one. I felt the roots beneath my paws and took a slow breath. Tamsila breathed in, too, a little shivery breath that caught in the middle.

“I keep thinking I should go home and tell Mama where I’ve been,” she said. “Then I remember.”

I held out my paw. After a while, she took it.

“My mama used to sing when she walked,” Tamsila said. “Even uphill. Even when she ran out of breath.”

“Do you remember one of her songs?”

“Pieces of them.” Tamsila looked down the path. “Will you walk a little way with me, Bertha? Just to the bend?”

We went slowly. At the bend she stopped to cry again. I stopped with her. Then she began to sing, so quietly I had to lean close to hear.

Ahead of me lies a rocky road.
My paws are tired with this heavy load.
The mountain waits beyond the trees.
Come walk a little way with me.

My friends can travel side by side,
And my tears I will not hide.
Beneath the tallest tree I knew,
Mama, how I still love you.

At the pond, Fredrick heard her and joined in. Larry came down from his warm stone, and Suzi brought her basket. Even Owl hummed from a branch. Tamsila lost her place once, and we waited until she found it again.

We went as far as the pond that day. There we shared the lunch and the nuts Suzi had packed. Tamsila told us how her mother used to leave the last berry in her bowl and pretend she’d forgotten it. We laughed, and Tamsila cried a little, and nobody hurried her along.

The next morning came a soft knock at my door.

“Bertha?” said Tamsila. “Do you have enough berry tea for two?”

I did. And that, my friend, was the beginning.

The End

By Tyler Woods

If you look north to the horizon, you will see the bluest ocean of all oceans. The water is so clear that if you lean over it on a quiet morning, you can see yourself as if you were looking in a mirror.

Ripples and waves look almost too beautiful to be real. But, alas, this ocean is as real as you or me.

Colorful fish swim in schools, as if to teach the eye about color and grace. Dolphins leap from that blue, wet carpet, coming up for air and perhaps a squeaky greeting. Seagulls spread their long white wings above the water as though they were guarding its calm.

But look beneath the surface, my friend. That is where my story begins.

Many, many sunrises ago, an island rose from this crystal-clear ocean. Fruit trees bore enough for everyone, and great shade trees sheltered the animals that roamed freely. Brown and purple mountains rose so high you could almost touch the stars.

The people who lived there filled the village with songs and laughter. In fact, they say you could hear the laughter six islands over.

And some of that laughter was real. But if a child scraped her knee, someone would say, “Come now, give us a smile.” If a fisherman lost his boat, he was expected to make a joke of it by supper. And when someone missed a person they loved, they learned to wait until they were alone to cry.

The villagers kept their other feelings buried, like a treasure chest lost at sea.

Now, living on this island was the grand and mighty wizard Ora. He could call up thunder with a flick of his cape. He could also sit so still that a bird once built half a nest in the crook of his arm.

Ora saw what the villagers were doing. He felt sad for them, and after a while he grew angry. He asked them to talk about their troubles. They smiled, thanked him for his concern, and went on their way.

One night, when the first star appeared, Ora called everyone to the village square.

“My friends,” he said, “you would rather look at the flowers than see the weeds. But have you ever waited long enough to see a weed bloom?”

A voice called from the crowd. “Who are we hurting by showing only our happiness?”

Ora had an answer ready. Then he saw a woman reach for her neighbor’s hand, only to draw hers back when the neighbor smiled and turned away. He might have asked her what she needed. Instead, he raised his voice.

“I give you two days to think about it,” he said. “After that, I’ll take matters into my own magical hands.”

With that, the wizard vanished in a cloud of smoke.

* * *

Two moonrises came and went. When Ora returned, the villagers told him to go away.

“A sea captain can call the weather calm all he likes,” Ora said, “and the storm will come just the same.”

He raised his hands. Thunder shook the island. Rain swept through the square, and the ocean rose over the cobblestones.

“The village shall sink to the bottom of the ocean,” Ora declared. “You’ll find beauty down there beyond anything you’ve seen. My spell will let you live beneath the water without drawing breath. But if you keep turning away from what you feel, the spell will wear thin. You’ll begin to turn to stone.”

He swept his cape through the rain, and down went the village.

Under the ocean, blue light moved across the rooftops. Fish swam in and out of open windows. Bright plants waved from cracks between the cobblestones. It was more beautiful than anything the villagers could have imagined.

It was also frightening.

“Is everyone all right?” someone called.

“Of course!” came the answer, followed by a little burst of laughter.

A young woman near the well felt her knees shaking. “I’m afraid,” she whispered, so quietly that only she could hear.

She sat on the edge of the well and felt the cool stone beneath her palms. For a while the fear came in waves. There would be a tightening in her chest, then a little space, and then another tightening. In one of those spaces, she saw a tiny fish sheltering in the folds of her skirt. She sat still until it swam away.

When Ora appeared again, she called to him.

“I’m angry with you,” she said. “You frightened us.”

Ora opened his mouth to tell her why he’d done it. Then he sat beside her. For a while they watched the light moving over the square.

“I was angry, too,” he said at last. “I wanted you all to listen to me. I forgot to listen to you.”

“Can you undo the spell?”

Ora looked down at his hands. “I can send anyone who asks back to shore. But the spell has already begun, and I don’t know how to reverse what it’s done.”

“Then stay awhile,” she said. “Help me ring the bell.”

* * *

They rang the village bell, and its sound carried through the water. A man came to see what the matter was. One of his hands had turned gray and stiff.

“There’s nothing wrong with me,” he said. “It’s only a hand.”

The young woman moved over on the bench. “You can sit here if you like.”

For a long time, he said nothing. Then he told her he missed the sound of rain on his roof. His wife used to open a window when it rained so they could hear it better. She had died the winter before, and he had kept the window closed ever since.

The young woman sat beside him while he cried. After a while he lifted his gray hand and found he could bend one finger. He stayed by the bell until Ora could carry him to shore.

Others heard the bell and hurried past. Some said the young woman was making a fuss. Some were afraid that if they sat down, everything they’d held inside would come out at once. The young woman kept a place beside her for as long as Ora’s spell would hold her there. Then she let him take her to shore, too.

Over the years the tides rolled smooth stones out of the square and carried them into the shallows. On clear days you can still see the old bell tower beneath the waves.

* * *

It was a warm, beautiful day when I came across that stretch of ocean again. The water seemed clearer and bluer there than anywhere else. I stopped to look at the rocks. One had a white line running through it like the smile of a woman who used to give me fruit on my way home. Another lay half in the water, where the waves could reach it.

Ah, but I knew what those rocks were. I knew because I was the young woman who sat beside the well.

I still laugh when something makes me laugh. I still miss the people who used to laugh with me. Some days, standing at the water’s edge, I feel both at once.

Now I ring the bell. If you hear it, my friend, come sit with me a while. You can tell me what the tide has brought you today. We can watch it together.

The End

By Tyler Woods

Tick tock, tick tock. That is the sound you hear in the town just north of the longest river. It is a small town of red brick and cobblestones, with clock shops on every street. This is the town of Clocksvile.

Every skilled clockmaker in the country seemed to live and work there. People came from all over the world to buy handcrafted clocks they could find nowhere else.

There were sounds that chimed and rhymed. Sounds that chirped, rang, bonged, and sang. No two clocks sounded quite the same.

There were old English clocks and cuckoo clocks, clocks made of wood and clocks made of metal. There were clocks made from marble and precious stones. Clocks hung on walls, sat over doorways, and swung from chains around people’s necks. There were clocks for kitchens and clocks for parks, clocks for fun and clocks for work.

It was a charming town, and everyone always knew what time it was. No one ever lacked time, for time filled the town.

One Saturday, from the largest clock shop on the northwest corner, came a cry.

“Oh me, oh my!”

The young clockmaker from two doors down rushed over. “What’s wrong?”

“My splendid clock won’t work!”

“Perhaps you forgot to wind it.”

“I’ve checked that. I’ve checked the springs and the screws and the hands. It simply won’t tick.”

The young clockmaker looked inside and out. “I can’t find a thing wrong with it.”

“And it’s to go on display in the town square at noon on Monday,” said the old clockmaker. “Whatever shall I do?”

The young clockmaker had no idea, so he went back to tend his shop. The old clockmaker stayed at his workbench long after the lamps came on.

“Oh my, why won’t you tick, my splendid clock?”

“It’s those same springs again,” said a voice. “You’ve looked at them six times.”

The clockmaker jumped. “Did you say something?”

“Of course I did.”

“I didn’t know clocks could talk.”

“Oh yes. If you understand our language, we talk all the time. And we talk about all sorts of things besides time.”

The old clockmaker pulled up his stool. “You’re my pride and joy. I chose the finest stones in the land. Even your screws are made of the finest metal. You’re my last masterpiece. Why won’t you keep time?”

The splendid clock said nothing. The old clockmaker asked again, louder this time. Still nothing.

At last he waved his hands in the air. “I must be dreaming. I’m going to bed.”

* * *

Hours later, when the clockmaker was fast asleep, the splendid clock began to tick.

“I can tick whenever I please,” it said. “If only the old clockmaker would stop showing me off and telling me what to do, I might tick for him.”

The grandfather clock in the corner heard every word. “He’s proud of his work. I can see why you’d want him to hear you, too. Have you told him how you feel?”

“He ought to know,” said the splendid clock. It caught sight of its reflection in the grandfather clock’s glass. “Oh, look at me. I really am splendid, aren’t I?”

The grandfather clock let its pendulum swing a few times. “When my chime gets stuck, the clockmaker listens for the little sound beneath the big one. I wonder what you’d hear if you listened that way.”

“I’d hear a splendid clock,” said the splendid clock.

At sunrise the old clockmaker came downstairs and rubbed his gray stubble. “Good morning, my splendid clock. I had the funniest dream. You could talk.”

The clock giggled. “It was no dream.”

The clockmaker sat down on his stool. This time, when he wanted to ask what was wrong, he took a breath and waited. He heard a broom on the cobblestones and the soft swing of the grandfather clock’s pendulum.

“Yesterday,” said the splendid clock, “you told three people what my chime would sound like. You’ve never heard it.”

The clockmaker looked down at his hands. “I’ve been so busy imagining Monday that I haven’t heard a thing you wanted to tell me.” He pulled his stool a little closer. “What would you like?”

For a moment the clock wanted to say, “I’d like you to hear me chime.” Then the sunlight caught a jewel on its face, and it thought of all the people who would be watching in the square.

“I want a golden key,” it said. “Twenty-four-karat gold, hand-carved and fitted right into my side where everyone can see it. I’ll tick for you when I have it.”

“But you don’t need a key,” the old clockmaker said. “I’d have to change your springs and drill a hole in your side. And I’d have to use my savings to buy the gold.”

“A clock as splendid as I am deserves such a treasure.”

The clockmaker looked out toward the square. He could almost hear the crowd applauding. Before long, he had put on his walking shoes and was out the door.

* * *

The old clockmaker walked forty miles there and back to buy the gold. He spent his savings on it. When he returned, he melted the gold, shaped it, and carved little leaves along the stem of the key. He fitted new springs into the clock and carefully drilled a hole for the key.

It was late Sunday night by the time he finished. He looked more tired than the splendid clock had ever seen him.

“I think I’ll go to bed now,” he said, yawning. “I’ll wind you in the morning.”

The splendid clock watched him climb the stairs. “Tomorrow at noon I shall chime for him.”

“Did you see how his hands shook?” asked the grandfather clock.

The splendid clock had been looking at the key. It tried to remember the last time it had looked at the clockmaker’s hands.

“He’ll be pleased when he hears me tomorrow,” it said, though a little less certainly this time.

In the morning the splendid clock listened for footsteps. As noon drew near, it told itself that the old clockmaker must be polishing the key or putting on his best coat. It thought of the words it had almost said the day before. How easy it would have been to say them while he was sitting there on his stool.

Night came. A few clockmakers from across the street came into the shop, speaking softly.

“He died in his sleep last night,” one said. “They found him with a gold key in his hand.”

“They’ll lay him to rest tomorrow at noon,” said another. “I hear they’re burying the key with him. It must have meant a great deal to him.”

At first the splendid clock thought, “Without that key, I’ll never tick.” Then it looked at the empty stool and remembered how the old clockmaker had pulled it closer.

“I wish I’d asked him to sit with me a little longer,” the clock said.

The grandfather clock let its pendulum swing. “I miss him, too.”

The next day at noon, the clocks of Clocksvile chirped, rang, bonged, and sang as the old clockmaker was laid to rest. The splendid clock listened to every sound until the last one faded.

* * *

Days later, two clockmakers came to clear out the shop.

“Look at this splendid clock,” said one. “I wonder where its key is.”

“Without a key, we can use its parts to mend other clocks,” said the other.

And that is what they did. One spring went into a kitchen clock that had been quiet for years. A little screw helped a cuckoo come out of its door again.

Years have passed since the old clockmaker died. The grandfather clock is still around and ticking loudly. Late at night, he tells the other clocks the story of the splendid clock. When he gets to the part about the empty stool, he always pauses. In the quiet, he can hear the little kitchen clock ticking two doors down.

The story he tells is about a clock that admired itself so much that it never had time to tick.

The End

A Christmas Eve Rumble

On Christmas Eve, the North Pole workshop went clackety-clack, zip-zip, DING!

Santa went faster than all of it.

“Boots! Bells! Where’s my list?” he called, patting his pockets. His list was tucked into his hat. He found it when he bent down and it unrolled right into his cocoa.

“Now it says I’m supposed to deliver a pair of socks to a puddle,” Santa said.

He tried to laugh, but his shoulders had crept all the way up to his ears. There were toys to load, a sleigh to check, and one very important thing he was sure he’d forgotten.

The Elf by the Window

At the end of the workbench sat a wise old elf named Juniper. Her silver braid reached nearly to her boots. She was untangling a string of sleigh bells, one knot at a time.

“Come sit with me for a moment,” she said, nudging a stool toward Santa.

“Sit? On Christmas Eve?”

“Just long enough to hear one bell.”

Santa sat so quickly that the stool squeaked. Juniper rang a tiny silver bell. Its clear note grew softer and softer until Santa could hear the snow tapping against the window.

Then his boot started jiggling again.

“I think my boot has somewhere to be,” he whispered.

One Breath at a Time

Juniper set the bell on the workbench. “This is how I meditate. I feel my feet on the floor, and I notice one breath come in and go out. You can keep your eyes open.”

Santa felt his boots press against the wooden floor. He breathed in. His belly nudged his belt. He breathed out. His shoulders dropped a little.

Then a thought popped up. Did I pack the red sled?

“Thinking about sleds already,” Santa said.

“That happens to me, too,” said Juniper. “When I notice my mind has wandered, I come back to the next breath.”

So Santa did. The red sled could wait for one breath.

The Great Ribbon Tangle

Just then, CRASH! A basket of ribbons tipped over. Pip, the youngest elf, stood in a heap of red and green curls. A bow stuck to the tip of his nose.

Santa opened his mouth. “Who left that basket there—”

He felt his boots on the floor. He took one breath.

Pip’s eyes were filling with tears. Santa bent down. “Pip, are you all right?”

“I wanted to carry it all myself,” Pip said.

“I know that feeling.” Santa picked a bow off his own boot. “Would you get the green ribbons while I gather the red?”

Pip sniffed and nodded. “Can we count the one on my nose?”

The Next Thing

The clock still ticked. Santa’s list still had a soggy corner. He could read the first line, though.

“Check the sleigh latch,” he said aloud.

“I checked it!” called an elf from the doorway.

“Red sled?”

“Packed!” called Pip.

Santa looked at all the elves who had been helping while he rushed from bench to bench. “Is there anything you need from me?”

Juniper held out the string of sleigh bells. “One end, please.”

Santa held it steady while she fastened the other end to the sleigh. There was one bell missing from the string. Juniper slipped the little silver bell into Santa’s mitten.

Over the Rooftops

Soon the sleigh swept into a sky full of stars.

On the first rooftop, the wind blew Santa’s hat down over his eyes. He reached for it, bumped a reindeer hoof, and dropped a package in a snowdrift.

“Oh, snowflakes,” he grumbled.

He planted both boots on the snowy roof. In came one breath. Out went one breath, in a little white puff.

When he looked again, a corner of green ribbon was sticking out of the snow. He brushed off the package and read the tag.

“For Leo.”

From his pocket came the softest jingle. Santa smiled. “I heard you,” he told the bell.

The Last House

At the last house, a paper sign beside the cookies read, SANTA, YOU CAN SIT HERE IF YOU’RE TIRED. An arrow pointed to a chair with a knitted blanket.

Santa looked at the chair. Then he looked out the window. The reindeer had their noses buried in a bowl of carrots. They seemed happy to wait.

He sat. He felt his boots on the rug. He heard the old house creak. He breathed in and smelled cinnamon. He breathed out and felt the chair holding him up.

Before he left, he turned the sign over and wrote, THANK YOU FOR THE CHAIR. I NEEDED IT.

A Bell for Juniper

When Santa got home, Juniper was still by the window. Two cups of cocoa were waiting.

Santa put the little bell on the table between them.

“Did you remember to breathe?” she asked.

“On a rooftop,” said Santa. “And in a very good chair.”

He sat beside her and took a sip. Outside, the reindeer were settling into their straw. Inside, Santa could hear the steady tick of the workshop clock.

Santa reached for the bell. “One more?”

Juniper nodded.

He rang it once. Together they listened until the last bit of sound had gone.

One Quiet Moment

Try Santa’s little meditation whenever you feel like taking a pause.

1. Sit or stand in a way that feels comfortable. Notice what’s holding you up, like the floor or a chair.
2. Let one breath come in and go out at its own pace. You can keep your eyes open.
3. If a thought pops up, gently bring your attention back to your next breath.

You can also listen to a soft sound until it fades. What sound can you hear right now?