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Stories

Stories to illustrate

I would like to receive your drawings to illustrate theses stories. You can send me them by e-mail :
remarques

The grandmother and her cat

A hurricane arrives at a village. All the residents have gone to the neighbouring village, to prepare a big feast with the other residents. The village is empty. There is only a grandmother, who is knitting next to the window. Her black cat, who has a sixth sense, comes up to her. It purrs and rubs the grandmother's old legs. The grandmother leans down to pet her cat. That’s exactly what it was waiting for, to talk to her, because it has a soft little voice and the grandmother is a little deaf.
- « Grandma, we must find shelter because a hurricane arrives. Come with me, I know a secret place, well-protected, in the forest».
The grandmother trusts her cat. She puts away her knitting, closes the shutters and the windows, and also the doors and goes outside with her cat, whispering goodbye to her house.
Crossing the square, they see a little girl with big curious eyes, next to the window, which is half open. The cat jumps up on to the windowbox full of geraniums, opens the window the rest of the way with its paw, takes the little girl by the back of her neck and jumps again to the middle of the street.

- « We must find shelter, Little Girl », says the cat.
- « A terrible hurricane arrives », adds the grandmother.
The little girl smiles with gratitude and they go all together.
The cat takes its rôle as a life-saver very seriously : « why did you stay in the village? » it asks the little girl.
- « Because I wanted to see what would happen. I’ve heard the grown-ups talking together, saying that everybody must go to the neighbouring village to prepare the feast, that only one person can stay in the village and the….. after that, I didn't hear anything more, because they spoke in undertones, will come, bring…. , they spoke again in undertones, for the feast. So, I hid, and finally I pretended to leave with my friends, and then I hid again and I stayed, » answers the little girl.
The grandmother smiles. « I’m the person who must stay in the village, Little Girl. One day it will be your turn, but before that happens, you have to learn….. »
« Neigh, neigh, neigh! » A welcome whinny interrupts the grandmother's words. In front of them stands a beautiful and shining unicorn. The little girl doesn’t believe what she’s seeing. The unicorn, the grandmother and the cat seem to be good friends, very happy to be together again. Everywhere, trees are rustling, leaves slide, surrounding the trio, flying from one ear to another, with fragrant petals, giving sweet and perfumed messages.
The unicorn crouches graciously, the grandmother sits on the unicorn's hindquarters, the cat and the little girl sit in front of her. The protecting forest waits for them and the sky begins to be very dark and cloudy.

The Watering-Can
Some people open the faucet all the way. Others let the water flow until I just can’t hold any more. I’m always splashed. They take me, the fill me, they empty me, and then put me away. Without looking after me. It’s my life, the life of a watering can. Over time, I have felt all sorts of hands. Some strong, hardened and calloused; some weak, and sickened with sadness. Some hands are indifferent too, and they only come to life with a signal from the calendar, in the middle of fall. My life flows on...sometimes empty, sometimes full. I lean over the flowers. I water them. A thousand little drops of life gush from the rose of my spout. At night, when the flowers thank me with their perfumes so delicate, and my nights are filled with fragrant dreams. In the cold season, or when the rains soak the paths, I feel neglected. My floral friends have disappeared. Only a few chrysanthemums look at me steadfastly, stuck in their pots, without understanding what is happening to them. Sometimes, they fill me to welcome a new plant. Tilted toward it, I wish it welcome to our spot. We'll live there together, each according to our eternal rythm. It's the summertime when everything happens. The old door creaked, opened itself and stayed there, without daring to close. The little girl came in- I have never known her name. She looked around her, and advanced in little timid steps as if I were forbidden, and then she chose me. I felt her thin fingers around my handle, clinging to it to lift me. I should have made myself lighter; I was so heavy in her frail arms. She advanced, then searched thoroughly, and arranged the dirt. I said hello to the corollas of the flower petals. The next day, she returned. At the same time. Together, we made several trips, from the faucet to the flowers. Half-empty, I was less heavy. Less heavy than her sadness. How could I forget the gold of her hair in the sunlight ? Every day, my old carcass felt the earth move. It was her step, announcing her arrival. The door creaked. The little fingers caressed me. I experienced a strange sort of happiness, although imperfect, as it seemed to me impossible to console her. Her eyes were oceans of sadness. She leaned over, crouched close to the flowers, and spoke. She told the story of her life as a little girl: her games, her friends, her new dress. She told it with tear-soaked words, her little girl's despair, her losses, her sadness.	At the end of the summer, before putting me away in my spot next to the faucet, the little girl gazed at me earnestly. I didn't understand at first. But I think now it was her way of bidding me goodbye. The next day, I waited for her, in vain. At night, surrounded by dancing lights in the vapor, I look at the rock over there. Dark and cold. Rigid among the marble and and granite, gray and black. I see nothing but that rock, where the little girl came to cry. I missed the little girl. I missed her a lot. Isn't that stupid for an old watering-can like me? But perhaps the heart choses the tune that makes it beat. It was voice of the little girl that had given me that. And I dream. I dream of the little girl. I have found my place in her dreams too. I know that in those dreams, she grips her fingers around my handle. Since then, the years have givien me whole armfuls of chrysanthemums. I’m aging, more and more. I’m becoming battered and worn. The time to replace me is coming, with fancy new watering cans, showing off their flashy plastic colors. They don’t imagine that any child will ever play with them. The creak of the door startled me. She had grown up, cut her hair, and looked greatly changed. But behind her new allure as a woman, I recognized the little girl, the little girl from a summer long ago. She didn’t even look at the other watering-cans. She was looking for me. Together, we repeated our same journey. The flowers had resown themselves. They had drunk, at the pleasure of the rains or other visits. I found again my old role of giver. My old carcass vibrates anew with the sound of her approaching steps. When I hear the church bell tolling, I know well that a hand will come and open the faucet. I dearly hope now that the hand will prefer a newer watering-can. She’s the only one for me, and I’m the only one for her. Now, when she crouches down among the flowers, she doesn’t talk about her little friends or her games. She only talks about adult things now. But her voice still trembles and dies into sobs. Her wants and losses do not come from her age. Yesterday, she asked the guardian of the cemetery if he still needed me. I believe he understood the kind of tenderness that united us. For the first time, that night, I didn’t sleep at the foot of the graves. The seasons follow, one after another. Sorrow has not dried up. But little by little, I find that I am still useful for watering other flowers. And there, where we lean over the rock at the end of the row, the sound of a child’s laugh floats over my droplets. From under the earth, From the deep, What do we know about life’s continuity ?
Copyright : Bernadette Nozarian

The small earthworms adventures

A small earthworm
Very curious, and tired of the darkness underground
Suddenly heard a strange splashing sound.

He kept very still
And listened very carefully.
No doubt
Rain drops
Invited him to explore the world.

He wriggled on one side,
Then on the other,
Crossed lumps of earth
Dry and hard
Some softer, then wetter
And arrived, suddenly, into the open air,
Dazzled by the welcome of the sun and the rain
Together above him
At the same time, the flowers,
Charmed by his pretty color
Bathed him in their perfume.

Very happy and excited, the small earthworm danced about
In which direction should he begin, what to see, what to smell, what to taste, what to hear ?
What a great adventure he will start !

Everybody can follow the story, so I’m waiting for your texts and pictures.

© Bernadette NOZARIAN

The ladybug and the rose

I'm a small rose
still a bud
not yet ready to bloom

oh, some plant-lice
are on my stem
then on my bud !

they suck my sap
to make their honeydew
and the ants protect them

Sweet Ladybug,
Help me, help me,
Sweet Ladybug !

Be quiet, don't worry
Small rose bud
I'm flying to you

I'll get rid of
these gluttonous plant-llice
in ten morsels.

Thank you Ladybug
I feel much better
perfumed and beautiful.

© Bernadette NOZARIAN

Children books

I've imagined, written and published children books, with the pseudonym of Elizabeth Reichling

- SpringTime Baby, 1995 : a dialogue between a foetus and its mother.

You can have a look at this children book on this website, page : http://www.mangerbio-eatingorganic.net/z/newsletter.html, it is illustrated by Caroline Fontaine, with the pseudonym of Lancelotte Fontaine. She has also illustrated the Balthazar's books : http://catalogue.editions-hatier.fr/siteseducation/

- Dear Santa Claus, 1996 : a child writes a letter to Santa Claus....., color book (sold out)

- I'm gardening too, 1997 : a tender story between a child and his flower, color book (sold out)

- Embroided handkerchief and the milk drops, 1997 : A breastfeeding story of an embroided handkerchiefs voyage around the world, and the many kind of milk drops that it tasted.

Writting workshop at school

In the town where I live, two teachers from elementary school organised a writing show : Livre-toi, (Discover/create books)The first year, the topic was : Frighten me. Different prizes were given : the first : best illustration, best stories, logic of story, most beautiful cover, participation, poetry and theater. The next year, the topic was : Children from here and elsewhere. 18 books were written. Each time: An exhibition of these books took place at the library of the town, public lectures were given and articles were written in the municipal and departmental newspapers. Each week, I came to the class with my daughter. Children were 6 or 7 years old. We invented, wrote, and illustrated the story. Decided the order of the pages, where to put the drawings, created the cover. We had to imagine the characters, and to give them names that everybody agreed on, everybody participated depending their talent. We were all very proud of the end product. Books were often big, with very colorful covers. It made a very nice exhibition on the library. The two classes that I was involved in wrote : The nice meeting of Alexandra in 1997/98 and Lulu's Fright in 1996/97.

Letter writing days

In May 1997 the Postmaster in the small town where I live asked me to help him to organise the Letter writing days event which takes place throughout France. With my friend Caroline, who has illustrated Springtime baby, my childrens book, we did an exhibition in the post office which consisted of a nice small desk and a hanging clothes line . People came, sat at the small blue desk, wrote letters, mailed them or hung them on the line as though they were clothes . Many people came to the post office during this week. People came to see if there was a letter for them hanging on the clothes line. Some classes came too, to write and to hang letters. People discovered again the pleasure of writing and of receiving letters. Like the 10 imprescriptible rights of the reader, from Daniel Pennac in his novel, I invented the 10 letter writing pleasures and the postal workers distributed them in all the mailboxes in town.