Chirpy T. Cricket: Part One

My newest short story. In two parts.

Part one:

First of all, I should probably tell you this story takes place in a barrel.

In a barn.

On a farm.

A farm pretty much like any farm you drive past on your way to Grandma’s house.

A barn that is big and delightfully shadowy with just the right mix of smells like hay and animals.

And a barrel once fine and strong. Oak. Well-seasoned and sturdy.

But now with a bottom well-rotted and non-existent.

Okay, normally, this would render a barrel pretty much useless.

But in this case, its bottomless state made it just the right home for the tunnels and burrows of a little orchestra of crickets.

And that’s where our story starts . . .

Chirpy was a cricket.

A sweet, little fellow. Full of good humour and kindness.

Very popular with all of his relatives and friends.  And much in demand when music was required.

Because Chirpy was the finest musician in the entire orchestra. Why, when he rubbed his wings together, pure magic was born.

No party or get-together was complete without the little magician of a musician on a stage or at least somewhere in the crowd.

Ready to provide entertainment.

With all of this popularity, you’d imagine that Chirpy was pretty pleased with life.

And Chirpy was pleased. For the most part.

But occasionally, he would feel down.

Because Chirpy, he of the sweet temperament and exceptional musical skill was . . . how shall I say this tactfully . . . less notable in the whole ‘jumping’ department.

In fact, his attempts at jumping were quite laughable.

Certainly the other young, male crickets in his age group thought so.

In particular, Chester (or Chet, as he was often, and affectionately, called) was quick to point it out.

Chet was the highest jumper of them all. Why, when he jumped, he nearly attained orbit.

Okay, I’m exaggerating, but you get the picture.

Yep. Whenever Chet’s group got together, strength was what mattered.

Who could jump furthest. Highest. Best.

Let’s face it, in this crowd, the guy with music in his wings, no matter how angelic and perfect simply wasn’t taken seriously.

It probably wouldn’t be a surprise if I told you that, though Chirpy was lauded from one end of the orchestra to the other for his music, what he really wanted was to be recognized for his jumping prowess.

I know. Weird.

To this end, Chirpy spent hours every day—practicing.

He would go to his quiet little spot, over behind the little dirt mound on the far side of the barrel, and jump.

And jump.

And jump.

Till his jumpers were sore.

But still, when the guys, and particularly Chet, got together to show off their moves, Chirpy finished a distant—and disappointing—last.

Sadly, the other young crickets began to make fun of his lack of ability in this regard.

“Hey, Chirpy. We’re taking the girls up to watch the sunset. Hop on up here to the rim and join . . . oh, wait . . .”

“Hey, Chirpy. Here’s a pebble. Let’s see you clear it!”

And, “Chirp, old man! A bunch of us are going over to impress the girls. Maybe you could come along. And play us some theme music.”

Each of these comments were always richly accompanied by derisive laughter. You know. The kind where not everyone is laughing.

Yeah. That.

Things got so bad that the ‘jumpers’ of the orchestra began to seek Chirpy out.

Just to make fun of him.

Chirpy got really, really good at . . . not being where they were.

His mom tried to sympathize and encourage, but she just couldn’t compete with that little voice in Chirpy’s head telling him he simply wasn’t good enough.

So Chirpy kept on practicing.

He got better. He did.

Still, when the young crickets gathered, Chirpy just couldn’t compete.

One day, when Chirpy was sitting in his room, half-heartedly rehearsing for an upcoming concert, his sister, Chirly, burst in. “Hey, Chirp! They’ve announced a contest!”

Chirpy looked at her. “Contest?”

“Yeah! A big jumping contest! All of the crickets in the orchestra will be competing!”

“Oh, goody.”

Can’t you just feel his enthusiasm?

“Think about it, Chirp! If you can win this contest, you will finally be accepted by all the Jumpers in the orchestra!”

Chirpy’s face got just a little bit flushed—a real feat for someone who is one basic colour—shrugged a tiny, little cricket shrug and turned back to his music. “Why would I want to, Chirl?”

For a moment, she was stumped for an answer. “Well . . . because.”

Hmmm. Not much of an answer.

“Won’t happen, Chirl.”

“But . . . but . . . it’s what you’ve always wanted!”

“Close the door when you leave.”

Chirly shrugged and turned to go. “I just thought you’d be interested.”

“Well, I’m not!!!”

Okay, show of hands. Who thinks he really, really wasn’t interested in competing in the big jumping contest?

Yeah, me, neither.

Tomorrow: The Conclusion
Will Chirpy enter the contest?
Will he *gasp* win the contest?
All will be revealed in the stunning conclusion to Chirpy T. Cricket.
Don't miss it!