Good story to read before bed

Home of the Brave – A Bedtime Short Story by Thom Brodkin – Reedsy Prompts

A mom’s job is never truly finished—Elise knew this instinctively when her son was born. For at least the hundredth time, she sat next to his bed in that chair mending his quilt. There was no way of knowing, the day she bought it at a flea market, that it would become her son’s most valued possession.

To call it a quilt stretched the definition as it was nothing more than a thousand pieces of oddly shaped swatches stitched together, layer after layer, until the whole of it was thick enough to hold in the warmth of a small boy's body as he drifted off to sleep. The person who pieced together this labor of love must have spent countless hours shaping the useless remnants into a usable blanket. Elise felt it was her duty to repair the inevitable rips as an homage to the unknown creator and as a manifestation of her adoration for the little boy who cherished it.

“I love how cool it feels when I first get into bed,” her little man observed the first night he wrapped himself in the old quilt. “But before long, it warms up, and I’m snug as a bug in a rug. Where did you get it?”

The question was one whose answer was too mundane to inflict on a wide eyed little boy, so Elise stretched the truth just a little. “It was brought over on the Mayflower by the Pilgrims,” she answered to her son's delight. “It’s made from pieces of fabric from all over Europe and is the first blanket used by the first Americans.”

It was just a little white lie, but it was also the beginning of a cherished tradition. As stitches unraveled and as tears ripped the quilt and the little boy's heart, Elise sat by his bed and mended the heirloom. Then she would continue the "true" story of how the quilt had found its way to her son.

“During the Revolutionary War, your quilt was captured by General Cornwallis and used to keep his legs warm on the cold winter nights.” Elise said, weaving a story as intricate as the blanket itself. “It wasn’t until the surrender at Yorktown that it was returned. ”

“Yorktown?”

“Yes, Yorktown,'' she said smiling, “George Washington took it from Cornwallis and used it during his eight years as president.”

“You mean my blanket has been to the White House?”

“Of course it has,” Elise answered with a wink. “But not because of George Washington, silly. John Adams was the first president to live in the White House.”

“Who then, Mom? ``The little boy asked., “Who took my blanket to the White House?”

“That’s a story for later,” Elise replied, kissing her son on his forehead. “Now you get some sleep, and I’ll continue the story next time.”

Elise, unfortunately, had far too many opportunities to continue the blanket’s tale as her son was given to debilitating headaches. At first, the doctors thought he was prone to systemic migraines, but the truth was much worse. Many nights, too many, the little boy would curl up in pain, his teeth clenched in a faux smile. The headaches were excruciating, only soothed by a cold wash cloth, his mother’s gentle voice, and the telling of the quilt’s tale as he drifted off to sleep.

There were also many a night where Elise would sit with her son as he slept, meticulously piecing back together the tears that threatened the blanket entirely, wishing there was a way she could also mend her son. The room would be completely quiet save for the sound of Elise’s song. It was something she had done since she was his age. Inadvertently yet intentionally she would let the air slip through her lips, creating a tune just for him that would live for that moment, replaced the next time by one equally beautiful and equally unique.

“As it turns out, the first time the quilt made it to the White House was just after Abraham Lincoln was elected president,” Elise said the next night, continuing the story from where they’d left off. The pain had become more frequent and more intense, requiring more chapters more often. The story's continuation, however, had the desired results, a distraction and a smile.

“Abraham Lincoln, he used my quilt, too?” her son asked, too young to doubt his mother.

“Of course he did,” Elise responded, tickling her son just to hear him laugh. “It’s a little known fact, but Mount Rushmore was actually created to show all of the presidents who used your blanket.”

Elise always had a basin of cold water by her side whenever she sat with her son. Very early on she learned that the coolness of the cloth would help quiet the pain in his head. It was her greatest joy to moisten the cloth keeping it cold throughout her story. The little boy’s head still throbbed, but while his mom was telling the story she would gently wipe his forehead with the cold cloth, and it was almost as if he forgot the pain for a time. If all went well, he would fall asleep listening to the tale of his blanket, as sleep was becoming his only relief from the pain.

“Did you know your blanket went to the moon?” Elise asked one day when her son seemed particularly down. “Neil Armstrong may have been the first man to set foot on the moon, but he laid out your quilt so he and Buzz Aldrin could have a picnic. ”

The idea of two astronauts having a picnic on the moon resulted in spontaneous laughter for both mother and son.

“Is Buzz Lightyear named after Buzz Aldrin?” he asked his mom, as both continued to laugh.

“As a matter of fact he was,” Elise replied with a smile. “If you must know, Buzz Aldrin presented your quilt to Buzz Lightyear as a gift which means your blanket has been…”

“To infinity and beyond!”

“Exactly,” Elise confirmed as she refreshed his cloth and placed it back on his head.

Day after day she would take her boy to doctors and then specialists and eventually to the hospital. Then, night after night, she would sit by his bed and tell the story of the quilt. Elise did everything she could to stretch out the story, and as each new adventure was passed from mother to son so too was hope, in the only way she knew how.

The night that she finished the story was, in so many ways, just like most of the other nights. Elise was home in her favorite chair next to her son’s bed. Her breathing was labored and her voice unsteady. “And then I stopped by a flea market on my way home from the store and there it was, your beautiful, wonderful blanket. I knew you must have it, so I scooped it up, paid the nice woman, and brought it home to you.”

Tears filled Elise’s eyes as she sewed the last stitch on the old quilt. Holding it up, she remembered the first time her son covered himself with the blanket. I love how cool it feels when I first get into bed.

“It’s finally fixed. It’s perfect.” Elise said out loud, tears continuing to flow. “I love how cool it feels, too.”

Summoning every bit of her strength, she lay the beloved blanket on the empty bed in front of her.

Being a mom is a job that is never truly finished, at least she had hoped so. With nothing else left to do for her son, she sat back in the chair and silently sobbed.

Grampa Owl and Grandfather Mouse – A Kids Short Story by Tanya Humphreys – Reedsy Prompts

“My father told me of the great massacre of Summer, 2020. ” Randolf’s grandfather began.

Randolf looked over at his twelve siblings, they were all spitting images of Randolf- wee ash grey mice squatting comfortably like furry little pom-poms. All twenty-four of their shiny black bead eyes were wide with raptness, Randolf joined them in their gaze towards the elderly, somewhat scruffy mouse with one torn ear and a kink in his tail.

Grandfather mouse continued when he had all thirteen children’s attention in full, he savored the dramatic pause, the flickering of the fire in the glowing hearth added dramatic shadows to the burrow walls.

He said, “Yes, the summer of 2020. Like you little ones, I too, had had twelve siblings. We lived in a hollowed-out log that was part of the Johnson’s cabin. They started out as just a couple, the cabin their vacation home. They came in the winter to do maintenance on the place, and at least once in the fall. Sometimes they spent whole summers, sometimes just the weekends in the spring. The human female was Rosie, her husband was Frank---"

Serafina said, “How did you find enough food to eat?”

Grandfather said, “Since they did not live there year-round, my siblings and I were taught to value every crumb dropped, and every cake left unattended. We stored enough during the visits to last us when the pantry contained only cans.”

There was a collective ‘grrrr’ amongst the wee mice. Cans were mean.

“The couple had a baby. And we feasted on a flood of tasty droppings. The pantry was stocked with cereals and jars small enough to be pushed from shelves.”

“Watch out for glass slivers!” Exclaimed Randolf.

“That’s right Randy, you’ve learned well… ummmm, where was I?”

“You were about to get to the part about the stinky man.” Said Serafina.

Randolf added, “Yeah, the mean, rotten, crazy one!”

“Ah yes…

There was a neighbor, through the woods, about an acre away. He lived in the woods all year round. The neighbor was a slob and a hoarder, his yard full of trash bags and Amazon boxes. The man smelled of pee and stink and crazy. The place would have been great for foraging except there were millions of rats, big mean ones.”

The rapt grandchildren mice inhaled as one. Rats were mean bullies, and cannibalistic. The mice shivered.

“The stinky man got a dog to catch the rats. A young, big black lab. The man starved the dog so it would be hungry enough to eat the rats. It grew thinner and thinner, tied to a rope outside, never inside was it allowed. It did indeed grow so hungry that it had to catch and eat rats---”

Millicent squeaked, “Grampa, I thought dogs were mans best friend. To be spoiled and cared for and loved…”

“Yes, sweetheart, but you see, the stinky man was not right in the head. That poor pup deserved so much better. I started going over there daily. Not to forage, there were still too many rats guarding the loot, but to check on the dog. He had bald patches where fleas had wreaked havoc, his eyes oozed with infection, and his dull coat was like plastic wrap over pointy, knobby bones.”

Randolf’s sisters wiped their eyes.

“One day, the poor dog could barely lift its head. He’d given up waiting for a kind word or a loving hand. His depression roiled off his emaciated body in sickly waves.

I had to do something.

I crept through the littered weeds as quietly as I could, to the dog. He looked up at me, but I wasn’t afraid. After all the abuse, I saw kindness, still, in his glazed over, sad eyes.”

“What did you do Grampa?” asked William.

“What any decent creature would. I chewed the rope. It was thick, but it was rotting too, from being outside and all. When the dog was free, I led him away from the fetid yard. He followed me to Frank and Rosie’s cabin. The couple were appalled at the poor pup’s condition.

Frank had said, ‘How could anyone do this?’

Rosie had sobbed and said, ‘It’s that man. That crazy one next door.’

Frank had said, ‘This must be the dog we heard barking last month.’

‘The poor thing is starving! And sick. Oh Frank, look at his poor eyes!’

Frank, Rosie, and the baby, named Josephine, took the dog to the town’s vet.

The next day some men went to the stinky man’s house and took him away. The dog was brought back to the cabin. My word! He did not even look like the same pathetic creature from just two days earlier! His coat was shiny, silky black and his wonderful kind eyes clear. He had steak for supper that night and even given a name. Jagger, named after some rock star, I believe.”

Sherry said, “The Rolling Stones! That’s the band Rosie listens to when she’s baking those yummy peanut butter cookies.”

All the wee mice went “Mmmmmmmmmm.”

Grandfather Mouse continued, “All was good. Everyone in the cabin was happy and healthy.

Then, in the middle of summer, Frank built a barn. A great big thing. You see, the couple were talking of moving into the cabin full time. Rosie was offered a teaching job at the elementary school, and Frank was going to restore old classic cars. He’d continue writing in his spare time.

The barn was rough wood boards, sturdy, and well insulated from the humidity and wet winter weather. It was his workshop, four cars at a time would fit under its high, vaulted roof. There were windows high under the eaves, to let in sunshine.

All was well, the change in plans was a win-win for all, including us mice. Tasty droppings all year round. And dog kibble…not as good as chocolate cake, but nutritious.”

“Ew, I don’t like dog kibble.” Randolf said and made a face.

“Well kiddo, you’d eat it if you were very hungry.”

William said, “I like the liver treats the best!”

“As do I” Grandfather mouse said, “Shall I go on?”

All thirteen grandchildren mice squealed, “Oh yes! Please!”

“Okay…so all was well and good. Then the barn owls came.”

Eight of the grandchildren mice cried, “No!” The other five gasped.

“Oh yes. Huge pale birds with razor sharp talons and wicked curved beaks. They swooped out of thin air like silent ghosts. They were evil, evil things. Sooo fast they were, by the time you saw them coming it was too late. There were two of them. They’re eyes were huge and rimmed with fire, nothing escaped their searching, keen, eyeballs. The eyes of devils.

Early in the day, my mother and father went out to the yard. They never came back. Later we got thirsty, our parents weren’t coming home, ever. So, eight of my brothers and I fetched some fresh puddle water from the dripping garden hose. I happened to look behind us and saw a shadow gliding over the yard, coming our way. I said, ‘RUN!’ And us nine raced as fast as we could. Not fast enough. Four brothers were snatched from the right of me, the other four at the same time from my left. The owl’s banshee screeching nearly shattered my eardrums.

When I made it to safety, into the drainpipe against the cabin, I looked up into the sky. It was just getting dark; the two killers were pale fliers like airplanes in the purpling light. I heard my siblings’ death shrieks, high pitched and full of terror. Each soaring killer had two wriggling mice in each wicked claw, Desmond and Dewey were pierced through their bellies but still screaming. The nasty claws were dripping with my family’s blood. The owls were laughing as they flew into the barn. It had been madness we now call the ‘Season of Slaughter.’ Only my sister Sophie and I were left of our big happy family.

“Grandfather, we won’t be able to sleep now.” Said Randolf.

Grandfather Mouse said, “Go have your Granny Sophie make you some warm milk.”

***

High in the rafters, in the nest of twigs and grass and soft green moss, an old barn owl with cataracts in his eyes and sparse tailfeathers sat on dry, cracked feet. They’d once been a healthy supple yellow, but with age had turned brown. His head nodded down to his chest as his large golden eyes slid closed.

“Grampa, Grampa! Wake up! You have to finish the story!” Cried a fluffball baby owl the color of cappuccino and milk.

“Yes, yes Caplan…I’m awake, just resting my tired ole eyes. Where was I?”

“Just getting to the Feast of August!” cried wee Caplan, his heart shaped face eager for the climax of the story. His eyes glittered with youth and joy.

“Ah yes yes, the feast. Let me see…well, your parents had just been born, they were our only owlet kids. They were voracious. Always had their beaks open the minute we came in through the window or big barn doors.”

Caplan looked down at the big double doors, nearly the entire front wall disappeared when they were both open. They had to be big, all those old cars had to fit through them. The human male, Frank, did not park under the nest. Simon felt badly for him but when you gotta go, you gotta go.

Grampa Owl continued, “The day started out fine indeed. We caught two of those stupid little mice, they live in the wall in the cabin and come outside to fetch water. They are dumb, but very fast---”

“And delicious!”

“Yes yes, mighty tasty, always been a favorite of mine. Anyways, we snatched up two of them. They were older mice, a little tougher than the young ones, must have been the parents. We figured that was it for the day. Then lo and behold, nine in the yard! Fetching water. I suppose they’d gotten so thirsty when their parents didn’t bring any home that morning.”

Caplan nodded vigorously, his mouth was watering, his shiny eyes glowing luminescent amber.

“Yes yes, so, there they were. Down by the garden hose, drinking from the puddle under it. Your grandma and I were quiet as kites, soaring in the twilight sky. We flew into the stars where the mice couldn’t see us, but we could see them. Oh yes yes, those were the days. We could see for miles around---”

“And even tiny mice far on the ground below…”

“Yes yes, our famously great eyesight runs in the family. So, there they were just lollygagging about…when suddenly, the one in the middle looks up and behind him. He spotted us and screamed. Then they ran for the cabin as fast as they could. They nearly got away, but I tucked in my wings like a bomber plane, and dove. Your Granma Elsa did the same. We were dropping to the earth at a million miles an hour!

Just atop those plump little mice, we spread our wings and soared back up…each with two mice in each claw.

“Wow. That’s so cool. Eleven in one day. Eight at one time is legendary!”

***

Frank’s honey colored workbench top was warm and polished by years of hand rubbed care and cleaning with an oily wood polish. It was scarred and chipped and smelled of the citrusy solution. A row of six red metal toolboxes lined the wall behind the bench. There were mugs and a collection of vintage steins holding paintbrushes and drafting pencils and small office tools.

‘If the old mouse was smart, he would be eating his snack on the bench. He’d be too fast for me up there, at finding a hidey hole.’ Thought the barn owl as it landed clumsily on the smooth cement floor. ‘Ouch. Not as spry as I used to be.’

The old barn owl hobbled over to where the old mouse sat, nibbling a tiny crumb from Frank’s lunchtime sandwich. It was yellow with mustard and smelled of ham.

The mouse looked up and said, “I heard you telling your grandkid about the Season of Slaughter---”

“Ha ha, you mean the ‘Feast of August’. ”

“Whatever.”

“Aren’t you afraid I’ll eat you now?”

“You won’t get the chance.”

The old owl was crumply with age, his bones creaky with arthritis. But he still believed mice were stupid. He lunged towards the old, nearly white mouse. The mouse was as old as the owl but had always been faster on the ground, he scootched backwards in a blur as the huge black dog caught the owl in his frosty colored jaws.

High in the rafters, a young barn owl screeched in distress.

cozy stories for the night • Articles on the website of the publishing house BOMBOR

Articles
January 13, 2021

Sleepy tales for adults: three stories to help you fall asleep.

More interesting things below

This story began when Katherine Nicolai, a 17-year yoga teacher from Michigan, noticed that daily bedtime stories helped her cope with her insomnia. Katherine created the Nothing Much Happens podcast with bedtime stories for herself and her friends. And hit the "bull's eye": the podcast became incredibly successful. Listeners from all over the world wrote thanks for the fact that for the first time in many years they slept through the night, without sleeping pills and nightmares.

Katherine's years of experience in yoga and meditation helps her seamlessly blend storytelling with brain training techniques. She knows how to relax the body, how to help the brain build new sleep habits, and how to make being awake as pleasant and serene as sleeping.

We have selected for you 3 cozy stories from Katherine Nikolay's book "Nothing Special Happens" that will help you sleep soundly and, most importantly, get enough sleep.

The instructions are simple: get as comfortable as possible in bed. You will go to the usual friendly place with a cute coffee shop and a small library where the seasons change, and at the local market you can slowly choose spicy herbs and fragrant pears for a birthday cake.

Inhale deeply through your nose and exhale through your mouth. And repeat. Inhale and exhale. Okay, let's start

The first story. Blizzard

The day before we were warned that it would snow all night and all the next day. They said they'd sweep up driveways and lanes, fields and intersections, and that it's best to stay safe at home. We agreed. The whole area and the whole town. Everyone supported this decision. Today we got hit by a snow storm.

I lay in bed in the dead silence of the early morning, thinking of the snow that had covered the ground like a thick blanket, lying on bare tree branches, on the roof above my head, and on everything else you could imagine.

I didn't move after waking up, I just felt my hands relaxed and warm under the covers, and I thought about how good it was to be a snowy day, and how wonderful it was to know that from last night. I slept soundly and woke up not remembering dreams, feeling that today everything would start from scratch. She slipped her feet into the slippers by the bed, pulled on a long thick sweater, and went to the window. She slowly pushed back the curtain and enjoyed a small spark of anticipation in her stomach as she looked at the snow-covered ground.

There used to be a lot of snow too. I have seen this a thousand times, reliving the same moment since childhood, how in the morning after a heavy snowfall I stand in my pajamas, pressing my nose against the cold window pane, but to this day it causes me admiration.

The morning light was faint and cast long shadows on the drifts, catching still-falling flakes in its smooth flight, and showing the crisp, untouched surface of the snow that covered the ground outside my old farmhouse. I lingered there for a moment, just watching the falling snow, shielding myself from the cold outside with my hands. Enjoyed a gift from mother nature.

As a child, snowy days were associated with excitement and running around with cups of chocolate to the warm kitchen and back. For adults, such days bring relief. You are forced to relax, no one expects anything from you.

In a hectic world that sometimes moves too fast, this respite is great medicine. I stocked up on everything I needed the night before: a pound of fresh coffee beans, a long loaf of bread for sandwiches and toast, a bag of muffins and muffins, a bag of winter oranges and grapefruit.

In the fridge was a jug of fresh juice and a huge pile of green vegetables, and in the pantry were neat rows of homemade canned tomatoes and pickles, jars of beans, bags of rice, bags of crackers and pasta. I looked out the kitchen window and told the snow, "Keep falling, I've got enough for a few weeks."

I started making coffee, rummaged through the cupcakes, broke off the corner of one and ate it. “If you are going to do this,” I thought, “then you have to do everything right,” and pulled out a waffle iron from the sideboard. After all, that was part of enjoying the snowy day.

There is finally time to do things that you normally don't, and there's no reason to avoid them. I poured a cup of coffee, took the right ingredients from the shelves and began to mix and beat them, heating the waffle iron. She settled down at the kitchen table with her favorite plate, napkin and fork. I had a flashback of what my aunt did when we were little. She had a special plate in her closet, painted gold in an old fashioned way and didn't match anything else. And, if you did well in an exam, or you had a birthday, or a bad day and you just needed to feel special and cared for, your aunt put her in your place.

When you sat down, you stood a little taller and felt her warm hand on your shoulder. And dinner turned into a delight.

This memory kept me warm as I poured batter into a hot waffle iron. It hissed, filling the kitchen with aroma, and I smiled. With pancakes and waffles, the rule of three always applies. Don't overcook the first, burn the second, and the third will be perfect.

When the plate was full, I sat with a cup of fresh coffee and a warm jug of maple syrup, enjoying my breakfast, watching the snow fall. I peeled the orange and ate the slices slowly between sips, setting the rind aside, thinking I'd add it later to a simmering pot with cinnamon sticks, vanilla and a couple of cloves. Let it simmer all day to fill the house with a sweet aroma and soften the dry air with steam. I rinsed my plate, tidied up the kitchen and began to walk from window to window, looking out into the street.

In the evening I brought firewood and put it in the fireplace: now it was ready to give warmth. She lit a long match and held it up to the paper and kindling, watching it burn. She added a few crumpled newspapers to the fire and squatted by the fire for a couple of minutes until her face and fingers warmed up.

Now the wind was blowing and I watched small swirling spirals of snow appear and disappear in the air. Maybe later I'll pack up and go for a long walk through the fields and woods, and then reward myself with a cup of something hot; but now I was not going to leave my cozy place. I imagined laying out a puzzle on the table and thinking about it while a movie was playing in the background, or reading for hours, or lying in a hot bath until the skin on my fingers wrinkled.

But first, having had my fill after breakfast and warming up by the fireplace, I stretched out on the sofa, covered my legs with a warm blanket, and felt that it would be best to close my eyes, listen to the crackling of logs, and forget myself in a long winter sleep.

Sweet dreams.

Second story. Night outside with a dog

I heard the soft rustle of dog paws when my pet stopped by the bed. My ears were already programmed for it. I heard him sigh at night or toss and turn in bed. And when he got up and quietly stood next to me, I heard it too. He is already an old dog with a gray muzzle, and his movements are slow and careful.

Our walks got a little shorter, but today he saw a squirrel running along the pavement and suddenly found some youthful canine energy in his limbs. He pulled me along, following the path. Fortunately, the squirrel was not caught, but he enjoyed the chase. He barked as she ran up the tree and teased him with the language of little animals who know how fast they are. I stroked his head and told him that he tried his best. Shouldn't we go to the park? I reached out to put my hand on it and lowered my feet to the floor, sleepy but understanding.

As he got older, he sometimes had to leave the house in the middle of the night. I didn't mind at all, wrapped myself in a dressing gown, slipped my feet into my slippers, and we went down the stairs to the backyard. Most of the time, I just let it out and came back a few minutes later, but as I opened the door this time, I felt something in the smell of the air pull me outside. It was pitch dark, deep night, about three o'clock. There came those weeks when the weather tossed between autumn and winter.

The cold air opened my eyes and I lifted them up to see a clear sky lit by stars and a moon that was barely more than half visible. Growing moon, I thought. After the dog returned to me, we stood very still and just listened. Summer nights are filled with the buzzing of beetles, the croaking of frogs, and some unreasonable buzzing that comes from nowhere and is simply present in the air. Maybe it's the fecundity of growing, swaying plants, or just the trace of life left after a day in the sun, but it certainly sounds loud.

There is a special sound that can only be heard in the middle of the night just before winter, a shocking silence. Not a single car passed by, no one was visible except us, and only the faint rustle of a very light wind stirred in the bare branches high above us. The earth was asleep, its creatures curled up in their burrows, preparing for the new season. The bulbs were deep under mulch and dirt, only dreaming now of the vibrant pinks, purples and yellows they would turn into in spring. We stood still for a while, and I let the cold air tingle my fingers and move up my neck, knowing that I would soon be back in a warm bed.

I took a few very deep breaths, and under the spicy scent of dry leaves, something clean and clear appeared in the air. I thought it might be snow. Tomorrow these clear skies may be thick with clouds. And if we get up again in the middle of the night, which we most likely will, we will be standing under the first falling flakes.

I leaned over and slowly kissed my old man on the top of his head, and then we turned and walked back into the house. He stopped to drink water. I drank too and slowly walked up the stairs back to the bedroom. He turned a few times and sat down on the large soft cushion. I covered the dog with a blanket and tucked it in from all sides. In a few seconds he will be asleep. We should all learn this from dogs: they can go from awake to deep sleep instantly and wake up just as easily.

I took off my bathrobe and slippers and pulled back the heavy blanket on the bed, slipped onto the sheets and straightened the covers. I felt the cold gradually leave my body until the tips of my toes were warm again. I thought about the change of season, the gentle breeze outside, and how grateful I was that the dog had taken me along. It's the magic that our friends give us: they take us to places we wouldn't go on our own and show us things we would otherwise miss.

I sighed slowly, rolled over on my side, pulling the blanket over my shoulders, and felt myself sinking into sleep, drawing part of today into my daydreams, falling asleep. The squirrel swept its tail high up in the tree. The leash was taut because the dog suddenly wanted to run. Growing Moon and sleeping Earth. Probability of first snow.

Yes, I'll probably wake up again tomorrow night, and the day after tomorrow, and so on, but it made me happy.

Sweet Dreams.

The third story. Winter day outside the window

From the window I watched what was probably the last big snowfall of this winter.

Snow lay in even layers on the lawns and rooftops of our block. I knew we all wanted spring now, but we could be coaxed into spending another day admiring the quiet charm of falling flakes, squeezing snowballs with gloves and making snowmen, sledding down the hillside in the park.

I didn't know if I wanted to go sledding, but I was ready to watch it from the cozy warmth of the living room, warming my feet with thick socks to the whistle of the kettle boiling in the kitchen. Watch how a small flock of neighboring children, wrapped from head to toe, dragged sleds and ice-boats on thin ropes. Even in boots and insulated thick trousers, they somehow skipped forward and called their friends and younger sisters to speed up their pace. The sledding hill was waiting for them.

As a child, there was one in the neighborhood, and I remembered with what delight we rushed from it, crammed into the sleigh two or three of us, holding on to their worn-out reins and each other, and shouted, picking up speed. We rolled over or crashed into a pile of snow, jumped up, shook snowflakes from our faces and raced back up.

Sometimes it was cold or someone's parents drove us back into the house to keep warm. We took off our wet coats and hats, put them on the radiator so that they would dry faster, and sometimes, without waiting, put them on again and raced up the hill.

I went into the kitchen, poured boiling water from the kettle into a cup, and tossed the tea bag in, shaking it slowly as I watched the reddish-brown color of the rooibos flow like ink into the water. She went to the sideboard and took out a pack of cookies, bought the day before.

Pushing a cart down the aisles of the grocery store, I was lost in the day's worries when I saw a familiar orange pack of cookies I hadn't eaten since I was a kid. It looked like windmills, light brown, with almond flecks scattered across the dough.

In the blink of an eye, I forgot about the confusion of thoughts that did not let me go, and reached for the pack on the shelf. The inscription was exactly the same as it had been when I was a child, thick and slightly smeared, as if it had been printed on an old-fashioned press. The company logo was a greased windmill and a family name, and when I turned the pack over, I saw that the cookies were still being made in a small town up north.

Suddenly, I felt immense gratitude that this delicacy had ended up here, on the shelf of a nearby store. She smoothed out the wrapper and peered through the cellophane at the cookies. It wasn't perfectly shaped, each a little irregular, some darker, thicker, or paler. They immediately migrated to my cart, and since then I have been looking forward to the moment to open them for tea.

I ate these cookies at my grandparents' house. Looking back, I couldn't remember trying them anywhere else. She took out a plate, placed a stack of windmills on it, and carried them back to the chair by the window. Sitting comfortably and tucking her legs under her, she put the blanket on her knees and took one of the cookies. I brought it to my nose and inhaled the sweet aroma.

There was some spice in it - I smelled the smell of cloves, nutmeg, cinnamon and a faint cherry-sweet aroma of almonds. I took a bite, the cookies were a little crumbly and dry, but the taste immediately brought me back to my grandparents' kitchen. Their house was small, with a tiny front porch, and nestled in a cozy spot among tall, old trees. Their shadows lurked in every corner, and the rooms were filled with paintings and toys that had once belonged to my father. But in the daytime the house was bright and full of sun.

Grandmother hid the “windmills” in the back of the cupboard, covering the cookies with a jar of flour so that grandfather would not accidentally stumble upon them. She and I would put a pack of biscuits on the table and each one would dip them into their drink, Grandmother into coffee and I into cocoa, and slowly ate it while watching the squirrels running along the fence.

Maybe I inherited a penchant for quiet contemplation from her. Looking out over the snow-covered yard, I raised my cup to share my memories of our time in the kitchen with her, then washed down the cookies with a slow sip of tea. A few more guys ran to their friends on the hill, and mittens dangled from strings on their wrists. I saw how the snow lay flat on the bare branches of a plane tree in a neighbor's yard and the slanting peach-orange rays of the setting sun spilled across the sky. Yes, I will be happy for spring when it comes, but I was happy to stay at home and watch the snow fall.

Sweet dreams.

More cozy stories, meditations to relieve stress throughout the day, recipes and crafts in Katherine Nicolai's book Nothing Special Happens. Cozy stories for restful sleep. Reclaim your restful sleep and all the joys that come with it.

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Nothing special is happening. Cozy stories for restful sleepCatherine Nikolay

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What to Read? - 10 books to read before bed!

1. "The Little Prince" - Antoine de Saint-Exupery
The tale told by Antoine de Saint-Exupery is wise and humane, and its author is not only a writer, but also a philosopher. Simply and sincerely he speaks about the most important things. About duty and fidelity. About friendship and love. About intolerance to evil.

2. "Post Office" - Charles Bukowski
15 years Henry Chinaski - and almost the same time the real Charles Bukowski, unpretentiously hiding under the mask of his hero - worked at the Los Angeles post office. For 15 years he eked out a miserable existence of a doomed person and, in fact, a slave, deprived of any rights... For 15 years he went to a hateful, stupefying and exhausting service every day... 15 years - until the day when he found the strength to free himself and leave: "After living in a cage, I dared to climb out of the hole and flew out - like a shot to heaven. Heaven?"

3. "Asphyxiation" - Chuck Palahniuk
Victor Mancini is a swindler who makes a living by acting out choking attacks in public places. Feeling their responsibility for the fate of the one who was saved from death, people willingly part with cash. Victor needs the money to pay for the treatment of his crazy mother, who has devoted her whole crazy life to the fight against public order. On one of his mother's visits, he discovers for himself something that turns his whole life, which has been useless to this day, upside down.

4. "1984" - George Orwell
The protagonist - Winston Smith - lives in London, works in the Ministry of Truth and is a member of the Outer Party. He does not share party slogans and ideology, and deep down he strongly doubts the party, the surrounding reality and, in general, everything that can be doubted. In order to “let off steam” and not make a reckless act, he buys a diary in which he tries to express all his doubts. In public, he tries to pretend to be an adherent of party ideas. However, he fears that the girl Julia, who works in the same ministry, is spying on him and wants to expose him.

5. "The Brothers Karamazov" - Fyodor Dostoevsky
This novel is not only a broad socio-philosophical epic about the past, present and future of Russia, refracted through the prism of "the history of one family", but in it, as in the Greek "Oedipus", the universal the tragedy of the unconscious desire for parricide. Psychoanalysts, such as Z. Freud and I. Neufeld, devoted entertaining essays to this novel. “It is interesting to note, says I. Neifeld, that the writer attributes to Ivan Karamazov before the court such an exclamation: “Which of us did not want to kill his father.” More precisely, it means: “I wanted to kill my father” ... As if the whole life of the writer completely filled with the struggle with this powerful attraction.

6. "Robinson Crusoe" - Daniel Defoe
A popular novel by the English writer Daniel Defoe about the amazing adventures of Robinson Crusoe, who lived for twenty-eight years all alone on a desert island.

7. "Roadside Picnic" - Strugatsky Brothers
"Happiness for everyone, and let no one leave offended!" Iconic words... A masterpiece of the Strugatsky brothers. A tough, endlessly fascinating and at the same time endlessly philosophical book. Time passes... But the story of the mysterious Zone and the best of its stalkers - Red Shewhart - still disturbs and excites the reader.

8. "Empire of Angels" - Bernard Werber
One of the most sensational books of the French writer. The novel begins in a very original way - on the very first page, a Boeing falls on the main character. The hero immediately goes to heaven, where he gets a job as a guardian angel. He is in charge of three diverse human souls: one of them, in the course of life, turns into a black top model, the other into a French writer (self-portrait features are obvious), the third into a Russian orphanage.

9. "Crimes of love" - Marquis de Sade
Madness of passions - this title characterizes the content of the book in the best possible way. Innocence and fall, fidelity and betrayal, deceit and lies - this is what the entire narrative of the Marquis de Sade revolves around and is touched upon in every single story. The natural process of "falling in love" that occurs in everyone is reflected in life in different ways. Someone will be faithful until the end of his days and ready to follow his beloved, someone goes crazy with passion and will not give up anything to satisfy his carnal needs.

10. "Murder on the Orient Express" - Agatha Christie
Winter. The famous Belgian detective Hercule Poirot, who is in Istanbul, urgently needs to leave for England. But all the seats on the famous Orient Express are suddenly occupied. However, the director of the company that owns the Express, Monsieur Bouc, himself travels on the same train and finds a place for Poirot. The next morning at breakfast, Poirot notices that in the carriage there are people of various nationalities who, quite by chance, came together on this journey. One of the passengers, an obnoxious suspicious American named Ratchett, offers Poirot to be his bodyguard for a handsome sum, as Ratchett is threatened with death, but Poirot refuses.