Nimble Fingers

When I started this, I had a lot of childhood storybooks in mind. I could imagine someone narrating the scene, talking about poor little Finneas and mean Mr. Alexander. How the mice would scurry off with sugar cubes and thimbles filled with loose tea from the kitchen. Of how they'd take the needle and thread from the drawer and always returned it when they were done. Of how they believed everything within their walls was there's to own. It was their house, after all. They were the first to occupy it.

I also imagined poor Finneas all alone, the last of his family. Living in the walls, waiting. Waiting for what, he wasn't quite sure. But he knew he was to wait. Because all good things came to those who waited, his mother always said. And so he waited.

But most of all, I thought of the friendship between a man named Cornelius Alexander and the small rodent, one that Cornelius has nicknamed "Nimble Fingers." A story about two individuals that were very much the same, though they didn't know it yet. I'd love to write a short story about them.

Cornelius Alexander meets "Nimble Fingers," Finneas the mouse.

Cornelius Alexander meets "Nimble Fingers," Finneas the mouse.