You were three.
Maggie was twelve.
She cocked her head from side to side, planted firmly on her four feet, watching as you chose the dog biscuit and proffered it.
You wagged your index finger at her, ordering her to sit. Then begged.
Still the tail wagged. Still she stood.
Elizabeth Hone wrote this story.
Ummm, my favorite part of the day is when I colored on the table.
I touch things with my yucky hands.
I spill milk on my sister’s bed.
Listen to your Mom and Dad and listen to policemans or else they’re gonna put you in jail and don’t get cavities.
This story was written by three-year-old Chase Sciacchitano. He told his mother that he will win and she will not. (Mommy hasn’t submitted yet. She’s not sure she can compete!)
I had been holding the hammer too long not to use it.
The urn shattered as I brought the hammer down, and fragments of porcelain exploded amidst a cloud of ash.
Mommy cried something about grandma when she saw it. Daddy just told her to move grandpa up a shelf.
Chris Griglack was born and raised in Massachusetts where he has lived for 23 years. He graduated from the University of Massachusetts Dartmouth in 2012 with a degree in Writing, Rhetoric, and Communications.
“Blow out the candles, Fraser! Yay!”
Fraser Wendel Summers shook his chubby hands in delight. Two years old!
He’d been born February 22, 2009, but had taken an “aging break” in the spring of 2010. He hadn’t liked having a February birthday.
July wasn’t his favourite, either. Next time he’d aim for August.
His initials are FWS. Get it? Get it!?
It’s been a great two years. Thank you to everyone who’s been reading my stories and sending in submissions of their own! You all deserve some birthday cake, courtesy of my wife and me.
I’m really looking forward to recharging for Year Three, which I’m planning to start on August 1, 2011. Until then, enjoy some more great guest stories.
Dad was jolted awake and screamed. Then he screamed again, but differently.
Mom ran in. Dad lay face-down, groaning.
Little Samantha stood beside him, holding a sparking wire.
Dad raised his head, and Mom saw… a toddler’s face?
“Samantha, what did you do?!”
“I electrocuted him,” she grinned.
“Aww, where’s mommy?” they teased. “Is baby homesick?”
And she dried her tears and lied to them.
“I’m not homesick,” she shouted, and that wasn’t the lie.
“I don’t care about my mommy,” she protested, and that wasn’t the lie.
“Leave me alone!” she screamed, and that was the lie.
This story was based on a title suggested by Dan Hingston through the Facebook page.
“Now I know my ABCs,” crooned the little girl, “next time won’t you sing with me?”
“Awesome!” said Paula Abdul. “You’re going to Vegas!”
“But I wan’ go home!”
“No.”
“Isn’t this exciting, folks?” enthused Ryan Seacrest. “Little Kimmy’s going to be our next finalist on American Idol: Toddler Edition!”
The cowboy walked up to the toddler, who was sitting on the cowboy’s hat. “Howdy!” he said.
“Doody!” said the toddler.
“Baw haw haw!” said the cowboy. “I love Howdy Doody! Great minds think alike, pardner!”
“Doody!”
“That’s right, you’ve–” The cowboy sniffed. “Aw, crap, little pardner. In my hat!?”