The Hopeful Wanderer 13 – Doughnut Offerings

In which the Wanderer shares sweets. #microfiction

building-commuters-daylight-940365

In a distant train station on a snowy afternoon, a fellow traveler passed me by. Shoulders hunched, hands in pockets, expression distant. For my part, the spring in my step threatened to launch me into the clouds — I had a paper sack of pastries in hand and a new destination ahead.

On the crowded platform, he sidestepped me, his foot landing square on a patch of ice. Hands flying from his pockets, feet sliding out from under him with a gritty scrape, he started to fall.

We both whooped in surprise. I snagged his upper arm, keeping him upright despite the slush. For a moment, we froze, him half-suspended in mid-air, me still as stone to prevent us both going down. Then he clambered up my shoulders, righting himself on shaking legs.

“Thank you,” he gasped.

I helped him over to a nearby bench, standing next to him while he caught his breath. An engine roared in the distance, fast approaching. As he steadied himself, I reached into my paper sack, withdrawing a fresh jelly doughnut. The warm scent of sugar and fried dough cut through that of sharp, cold air. I offered the confection to him wrapped in a napkin.

Eyeing the pastry, he waved a hand. “Oh, I couldn’t eat your doughnut!”

Before he could protest further, I tipped the bag to show him the chocolate doughnut nestled in the bottom. “Don’t worry, I saved the best for myself.”

My new friend accepted my offering. “One could argue I got the best,” he said, and took a huge bite.

Licking the sweet, sticky glaze from my chilled fingertips, I hustled off toward my approaching train, cautious of the slush. Over my shoulder, I tossed him a grin and a wink. “One could argue,” I agreed.


I’m always tired, so please consider buying me a coffee to keep me awake while I write the next story. To read more free original short fiction, hit that follow button, subscribe through email, or throw a like on the Word Nerd Scribbles Facebook page

The Hopeful Wanderer 12 – Artificial Illumination

decoration-lamps-lanterns-67568

Between one town and the next, I spied in the distance twin lanterns casting steady, white light into the night, throwing tree limbs and grass blades into sharp, black relief. One lamp hung above the other, appearing like the eyes in a face cocked sideways. Perhaps in curiosity, perhaps madness. No matter how close my steps drew me to them, I never quite reached the house I thought the beacons must illuminate. No turnoff marked the way to them. Eventually, I passed by, expecting to plunge back into utter darkness.

Yet the path ahead of me remained bright, like the cast of an LED flashlight. My own shadow wandered before me, lengthy and alone. Even the furthest reaches of light should have faded by now.

Two sounds reached me at once: water gurgling against rocks, and a strange, electric hum. I dared not look back, knowing I would see those lamps, one cockeyed above the other, following behind, homing in on me like spotlights. Heat radiated against the back of my neck where they stared. That humming grew louder and louder until it buzzed in my ears and down to my bones.

I broke into a run. With little chance of stumbling on that daylight-bright path, I stretched my legs as far as they would go. Satchel thumping against my back. Metal jangling behind, the hot scent of burning filament in my nose. Closer, closer.

The path dipped and then I was splashing into cool water up to my knees. Mossy rocks rolled beneath my feet and I fell headlong into the shallow river. When I resurfaced, however, gasping and bruised, the lanterns had vanished, replaced with natural moonlight and the hum with the throaty croak of nearby frogs.


I’m always tired, so please consider buying me a coffee to keep me awake while I write the next story.

The Hopeful Wanderer 11 – Unrooted

architecture-austria-clouds-33670

An ornate greenhouse existed not only far from civilization, but smack in the middle of an already existing forest. Enormous, though in height rather than breadth. Craning my head back to gaze upward at its towering, clear walls, I wondered what must grow within.

So I went inside.

Warmth blanketed my face like an unpleasant breath, filling my lungs with dew. The warring scents of growth and rot assailed me. Lush green plants grew in clay pots set upon plastic bench tops, rows and rows lined up neat from the door to the back wall. Some small enough to fit in my palm, others taller than me. None of them explained the reason for such a tall building.

But there, in the center. Looking like a shaggy Christmas tree, an enormous Douglas fir rose toward the glass ceiling, roots knotting deep into the dirt. I saw no one else, so I approached the fir. The only sound was the crunch of gravel beneath my shoes.

When I stopped before the  fir, a deep, timber creak rumbled over me, shaking leaves and rattling pots. “Are you a plant?” the tree asked me.

“Not at all,” I replied. “I’m the opposite.”

“A wanderer, then,” the fir sighed. “You have arrived at last.”

My eyebrows rose. “Where is here?”

“Your last stop,” said the fir. “All in my greenhouse once wandered, but they took root here, and now they’re safe.”

With new eyes, I took in the plants around. So many wanderers. All trapped in pots, unable to even touch true earth. A shudder rushed through me. “I’m not staying.”

All the way to the exit, roots followed me, breaking the earth threateningly behind my feet. Fir needles rustled in hissing laughter at my back. “When you weary of wandering, you will return.”


I’m always tired, so please consider buying me a coffee to keep me awake while I write the next story.