Fenn’s Brave Little Bristle — Under the rooftop clotheslines, Fenn rubbed one bent straw on his broom and whispered, “Just one more ride.” The broom had been his aunt’s, with a red thread tied around its handle, and every bristle felt like a hello from her. Read the full story →
Under the rooftop clotheslines, Fenn rubbed one bent straw on his broom and whispered, “Just one more ride.” The broom had been his aunt’s, with a red thread tied around its handle, and every bristle felt like a hello from her. When the smallest bristle snapped loose and skittered away on a cold puff of wind, Fenn stepped past the warm chimney bricks before his knees could talk him out of it.
The night smelled of rain and soap from the drying sheets. Fenn climbed on, and the broom gave a nervous shiver. Over the roofs they went, low at first, then higher, where clouds looked like sleeping sheep and the moon curved like a silver bowl. The lost bristle twirled ahead, caught in a ribbon of air. Fenn reached for it, but his sleeve snagged on a weather vane, tearing a neat square from his robe. He swallowed hard. “Easy, old broom,” he said, though he meant himself too.
At last, the bristle floated into his palm, soft as a feather. Fenn tied it beside the red thread, not to make the broom perfect, but to mark the night he had followed a tiny thing into the wide sky. When the wind curls around his patched sleeve, can you spot the brave little bristle riding home?
