Bedtime Stories: A Different Kind of Toy Story

Once upon a time there was a girl. She had very few toys to play with because her family didn’t have a lot of money. The toys she did have, she loved. She would take them everywhere she went. When she played outside, she would bring them along and they would have picnics or go on “field trips” to plants that were tree-sized to her toys. She would have them climb the “trees” and they would play underneath as well.

One afternoon she began to carry the toys back home, after a wonderful trip to the “mountain”. As she brought them down the hill, she tripped, fell, hit her head on a large rock, and lost consciousness. When she awoke, she couldn’t remember who she was, or where she was going. She looked at the toys laying where they had been scattered.

Her doll’s arm was in a position that seemed to be pointing toward the forest. I don’t know where else to go, she thought to herself. She didn’t know why, but she felt a strange connection with the toys. As if they knew the real her, and they cared about her.

She needed anything that might know more about her than she remembered. She started walking toward the trees.

As she entered the forest her heart started racing. Something didn’t feel right. A crow called out. Bushes rustled. She felt a chill run down her spine. Everything within her told her to stop. But the doll…she thought.

She moved on into the darkness. As if on cue, a tree branch snapped just when she was thinking of turning back. She looked toward the sound. A bear was staring at her. As she made eye contact, it charged. She turned to run and it was upon her. Tearing her apart. The last thing she saw was on the forest floor. There lay her doll, with its arm pointing out of the forest back to the hill.

Moral of the story: Sometimes a toy is only a toy. No matter how much you want it to be more.


92 thoughts on “Bedtime Stories: A Different Kind of Toy Story

      • Over MY head. Sorry I did not get back when we were conversing, long ago. I was at a convention, remember — got home and crached, which erased my memory. 🙂 So sorry. Where were we — Oh, I like cooking and you do not, or something. Ah well, I like humor and you sure can dish it out!

          • Well, not Startrek. 😀
            It was for home schoolers. Since I did that for a quarter century, they like me to talk about it. Lotsa needy moms out there who want their kids and home and need advice about the days when they have second thoughts, or the neighbors get antisocial, etc.

  1. Many many apologies for not getting to your posts until now, Hobbles. This story is AMAZING. Heartbreaking, clever, bittersweet, thought-provoking. Really really good stuff.

  2. Did not see it coming and really loved the ‘end’ or moral to the story.
    Hey Hobs: you are already writing a book. It’s a book of “children’s” and sometimes grownups stories, short ones, but it’s true.
    Think of the Grim Brothers – lots of short stories with a bunch of different tales – all in the same book.
    That might work for you. Bundle them all together and call it a short story book. Which works real good for bedtime.

    BTW: shortest story ever told? The one I tell people:
    “He lived. He died. The end.”
    if they complain I add:
    “He was born.”
    What else you want for a buck and a nickel, LOLing!

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