Short Story
                                                
                                                                                          by
                                                            Betty Jane Weigand

At midnight Ms. Author awoke. The characters in her book were having a talk-a-thon.

“Golly wobbles!” Miss Nonie, Buttonville’s expert gardener, exclaimed, “I think she’s finished it!”

“Yeah, and it sure weren’t easy fer her,” Lefty, the town outlaw, added, his brothers, Shifty and Slick, agreed.

“The problem now, as I see it,” worried Trusty, President of The First Bank of Buttonville, “is, will she be able to market it?”

“Don’t underestimate her, you three,” Sheriff Hank Shank came to her rescue, “I think she’s got determination and that counts for a lot.”

Deputy Darn-nit agreed. The dolls knew all about determination. That, along with perseverance and grit, got them to Buttonville in the first place. Discarded when the children who owned them grew up, they were rescued from dusty attics, musty cellars and yard sales by Hank Shank – the leader of the DDA (Discarded Doll Association) and now Sheriff of the little town of Buttonville.

“Personally, I worry about her spelling and her lack of, shall we say, punctuation?” said Miss Fancy, the town’s dressmaker. She adjusted her hat and raised her eyebrows. “Did you see chapter nine? Really!”

“Well,” said little Raggy, “that’s a difficult chapter with so many commas. I don’t think we should be so hard on her.”

“I diagnosed her years ago as dyslexic,” said Doctor von Ouch, polishing his stethoscope with a hanky. “It is my medical opinion that in her condition, commas are like clouds in the sky, just passing through.”

The three, straw-filled, scarecrows, Hairy, Lairy and Scary, walked into Ms. Author’s mind, leaving a trail of straw behind them. Miss Nonie had ordered them from the NSA (The National Scarecrow Association) when she’d discovered her watermelons were being filched.

Scary, the scarecrow spokesperson, laughed and straw flew around the room like dandelions on a windy day. “Chapter nine?” he said. “Is that the one we’re in or is that chapter five?” Hairy and Lairy looked blank. “As for her spelling, it looks okay with me. I haven’t noticed any problems. What’s a comma anyway?”

“A comma? Don’t ask me.” Lairy shrugged his shoulders, losing more straw.

Hairy scratched his head, puzzled. “I think a comma is when someone is sleeping and can’t wake up.” He smiled, pleased with himself.

Mayor Faux Button walked into Ms. Author’s mind and someone yelled, “Quiet! The Mayor wants to speak.”

The plump doll cleared his throat, “Fellow Buttonvillites, I think we are all missing the point.” He swiped a large white handkerchief across his .”

sweating brow. “You doll characters seem to forget all those years we spent locked up in Ms. Author’s head.

The dolls murmured, “That’s true, that’s true.” Bounder, the dog, barked.

The Mayor continued, “And, then we were in her computer for . . .”

“F-f-forever!” stuttered Homeless Button.

“Yes, Homeless, we should all be applauding rather than doubting her. Now we have homes and have become a community, we’ve got a place to hang our hats, so to speak – even if it is a computer.” He wiped his brow again. It was an election year and his job was at stake.

“Get off the bandwagon, Mayor, that’s just so much political fluff,” a doll yelled from the back of Ms. Author’s mind. In popped Miss Kitty, founder of BAPO (Buttonville Animal Protection Organization), with hands on her hips and a frown on her face. “What about her query letter?” she shouted in an angry voice. “What about that? Has she written one? Where is it? Has she sent it out?” Miss Kitty, tough as nails, looked like she’d swallowed one. “She’s got us sitting around in this computer while she goes off to lunch with friends. And she’s always having company. I mean, how much writing can she get done doing that? What about us? We should be out on paper.”

“Hold it!” Ms. Author yelled. “Hold it one doggone minute.” She ordered the characters back into the computer, onto the pages and into the chapters where they belonged. “And, stay there until I call you!”

With much grumbling, they slunk back to their respective chapters, giving chapter nine lots of room.

From the silence came a small voice. “Miss Author? Oh, Ms. Author?”

Ms. Author took a deep breath before answering. “Yes, what is it Miss Clee Shay?”

“Well, I can see you’re at sixes and sevens, and you’ve bent over backward trying to save the day. You’re probably feeling like you’re caught in a pickle and nothing I might say would do a world of good, but remember Rome wasn’t built in a day, every cloud has a silver lining, and every dog has its day, just do your best and leave the driving to us.” She took a breath. “I mean, laugh and the world laughs with you. There’s always light at the end of the tunnel, look on the bright side . . .”

“Say goodnight, Miss Clee Shay,” Ms. Author said.

“Well, excuse me! You needn’t get in a huff or as mad as a wet hen. I hate to leave you in the lurch but, if that’s how you feel, goodnight and don’t let the bedbugs bite.”

Ms. Author went back to sleep and dreamed about book signings.

 

          END

Betty Jane Weigand has worked as a feature writer for a newspaper in New York, published poetry in The Long Pond Review, and short stories in As I see it--Expressions and Impressions by Coachella Valley Writers and also Laughing Matters. She has won prizes for her work in various publications. Her poetry has previously appeared in Straitjackets Magazine.