I wrote this collection of microfiction back 30 years ago. The short fiction below (1 or 14 pieces in this book) is the one and only story for children I've ever written. I recall sharing with my own children back when they were kids and I recently read this story to my oldest grandson. Everyone seemed to enjoy, so it is in the spirit of children's literature that I would like to share with you. Here goes:
DOVE CUBES
Into the town square came a stranger holding a bird cage covered with silk. He stroked his wispy beard and pulled away the magnificent cloth revealing a cage full of marble cubes the size of marshmallows. With a quick movement the stranger opened the top, gathered the cubes in his hand, and tossed them upward. They tumbled and flashed against the sky, reached their apex, and turned to doves, each one a sparkling white. And after every toss more of those wonderful birds flew heavenward. Having emptied the cage, the stranger let out a series of whistles: the doves looped down; flapped their wings with a hurdy-gurdy whir; became crimson, gold, silver, green and white again; twirled in ever-tightening spiral; then turned back into marble cubes, clattering in the cage.
The stranger left by the gate leading to the country and was followed by a boy. It wasn't until he stopped in a remote glen and had a seat on a tree stump that the boy approached. The stranger looked into his youthful inquisitive green eyes. He handed the boy the cage and faded away as if made of steam.
After returning home, the boy took the cage behind a barn and tossed the cubes in the air, two and three at a time. Nothing. Not even one coo. No music, no colors, no doves - just the marble cubes. He tried day after day, hoping something, no matter how small, would happen. And even when he grew up, moved to another village, raised a family, moved again, this time as a lonely old man, he kept the cage by his side. He would try the cubes, never with any success, but enjoying the feel of marble in his palms and calloused fingers.
Many years passed. One winter he fell ill and knew death was near. One last try with the cubes, he thought. So the following spring, when he was well enough to at least stand on his feet, he hobbled out to a nearby field. The cage had the same feel in his shaking, bony hand as it had when he first carried it home many years ago. Removing the silk, he flung one of the cubes and thought he saw a glimmer of a wing. But the cube fell back to the ground, as much a cube as ever. He tried again. yes, it was a wing, the cube had actually sprouted a wing! And so, picking the cube up again with a knowing smile, the old man placed it back in with the others, covered the cage with silk, and set off for the town square.
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