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Fiction Short Story

by Maureen Green

It’s Great to Be Me

When Grandma comes to stay my heart grows so big in my chest I think it is going to pop out. I like being spoilt. I know it’s not supposed to be good for you, Mum and Dad say it isn’t but it's such a wonderful feeling, being the centre of attention and so important.

After my nightly story, (more than one if I keep on at her), Grandma tucks me into bed and plants a big sloppy kiss on my forehead. "Night night, sleep tight. Don't get up until it’s light."

She’s been saying that since I can remember. I can hardly bear to wait for morning so I can crawl into her bed, snuggle up and have her tell one of her stories.

When I wake, the room is dark, so I cuddle Benji my bear and fidget and toss and turn. My heart skips a beat, I sit up and lift the corner of the curtain, but all I see is dark. With growing impatience, I call into the dark, "Come up, sun, hurry up, sun, rise," then, on tiptoes I creep down the hallway and quietly slip beneath Grandma's blankets and wait and wait for what seems forever.

Sometimes I fall asleep, but most times the wait is too much for me, so I wriggle my feet against Grandma's back. Then I put my face up close against her forehead, tickle her nose and watch to see if her eyes flicker while I whisper, "Grandma, Grandma, tell me a story."

"The sun's not up," she mumbles, so I keep still and quiet for as long as I can while listening for the first sounds of the birds. At their first chirp, I lean over and call excitedly, "I heard a bird, Grandma, G-r-a-nd-ma, I heard a bird."

She opens one eye, looks around and burrows lower under the blankets. "It's not light yet."

"But the rooster's crowing and the birds are calling. Can you hear them?" I pull the blankets away from her ears and lift the lid of her eye. "G-r-a-n-d-m-a, tell me a story."

"Still dark," she says in a muffled voice.

I shuffle on my bottom across the big bed and lift the corner of the curtain hoping the sun's rays are chasing away the dark. "Grandma, look, the sun is in the sky."

Grandma sort of mumbles and stretches her arms. "What story do you want?" she asks, her eyes half closing.

"The Three Little Pigs, Three Little Pigs," I shout bouncing on my knee on the mattress.

"Not again," Grandma groans. "I've told you pig stories over and over."

"But I like the ones you tell. Come on, Grandma, tell me one of your pig stories. I like your stories more than. . ." I search my brain to find the things I like the best in the world; “banana sandwiches."

Grandma laughs a happy chucky laugh, the kind that makes people want to laugh with her. In the half-light she raises her eyebrows. She always raises her eyebrows before asking a question, "Banana sandwiches?"

"I love those best in the whole world, but not more than you or mum."

“Oh dear," she sighs, "a pig story, I'll have to think," and lies quiet and still again. The sounds of birds calling to one another drifts into the room and the roosters begin crowing excitedly as the sun rises higher into the sky. Just when I think she is going off to sleep again, and I start to say, “G-r-a-n-d . . .,” she opens one eye.

"How about the English pig?"

"Yes," I shout, as I slip beneath the blankets and nuzzle up close.

Grandma props herself on a pillow, screws her eyes up as if she is turning on her brain and the story begins.

"Once upon a time, long ago when animals roamed free," she recites, "a sow had three young pigs."

"Was one black, one white and one brown?"

"Almost," she says with a smile, "White, black and brindle."

"What's brindle?"

"A brownie blotchy mottle color, the same as your tabby cat."

I do so love it when Grandma comes to stay.


About the Author
A recently retired school principal, Maureen’s family coaxed her to record stories she’s spun to grandsons aged, seven, six and two. Her forty years in the education sector afforded opportunities to produce monthly columns for local newspapers, design newsletters and publish community reports. For the past eighteen months she has engaged in weekly writing workshops where Jane Beckenham, a published New Zealand Romance writer, critiques her work. The first of her children’s manuscripts, Magic in the Air resulted in a contract from an American Children’s Literacy Agency. Four Dragons, her second children’s manuscript, was included in a compilation of works, and Maureen’s upcoming novel, Consequences, has been offered a publishing contract.