Short Stories

GRANDPA’S SUGAR    (a little girl chats on)

My Grandpa smells like vanilla bliss bombs.When he shaves he scrubs nice smelly white soap onto his face, like the cream Granny squirted onto my cake …She put five candles on too that played Happy Birthday.Grandpa sings in the bathroom when his face looks like a cream cake. He doesn’t sing the birthday song though.

He makes me laugh.

Grandpa uses a fat paint brush. He told me it came from the end of a cows tail. It is nearly the same as my paint brush at school, only much, much fatter.

Lots of bubbles jump from his chin and splatter the mirror, some slide all around the sink. Granny gets cranky having to clean the mess. She likes patting his clean smooth face though.

So do  I.

I tell Grandpa he has sugar on his face. It sparkles in the sun. I think it collects fairy dust or sunbeams. I know it feels prickly when I kiss him.

He should shave the feathers off his chest ‘cause the breeze makes them tickle his skin. Some fly off and float up to his nose making him sneeze. That’s a loud, scary sneeze, exploding out of him as if he’s been shaken up like a can of cola.

My favourite play place is under the old creaky verandah where the dirt is cool and soft. Granny keeps pretty dolls for me when I visit,she makes drinks and teeny tiny muffins for my dolls and me to share. We have special cups and plates too.

Some floorboards are broken, I like peeking through when Grandpa sits in his big cane chair reading the newspaper, I see him take a big breath, then he screws up his face.

I know what will happen, I cover my ears …AAAH …Aaaah …CHOO!!

On Granny’s writing desk sits the most special piece of heavy glass. It’s smooth and round like a balloon, with twisted swirling colours inside, looking as if they’re struggling to get out, to be free. If they did get out, I could use those beautiful colours to paint my Granny a picture. Tiny bubbles are trapped inside too, I believe they are filled with magic dust.

Granny says it is a paper weight to stop her papers from blowing around.

Grandpa knows the papers under that paper weight are Granny’s private things. He told me never, ever to meddle with that paper weight, ‘cause he says magic might escape and that the papers under it are recipes for strange potions. He says Granny is really a witch, a good witch, who can cast interesting spells. He says both of us have to always be very good.

Of course I don’t believe my Granny is a witch of any kind.

I think Grandpa has been meddling and magic dust had escaped onto his face. Maybe that’s what  makes his whiskers look like silver sugar. I think he moves that paper weight and looks at Granny’s private stuff. Maybe she gets cranky with him for meddling, not really because he lift the bathroom in a mess.

I so much want to hold that glass paper weight, to see the sun shining through it. I want to see all those colours come to life, and let those bubbles burst open. I would dance in the magic dust.

“Granny, can I have sugar on my face when I’m old like Grandpa?”

“Sweetheart, you can have any magic you want in your life. Just believe and all is yours.


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