A reclusive astronomer posts and ad for an apprentice and receives a reply from an unusually articulate frog.
This is an experiment where I wrote the same story in various lengths, starting with 50 words and doubling the word count for each version. I'm currently working on the 3200-word version.
Click to jump the the version you'd like to read:
50 Words
100 Words
200 Words
400 Words
800 Words
1600 Words
50 Words
Each night, Foo left her mountainside observatory to post star readings on the village board. This time, she added a note seeking an apprentice pinned with a star-shaped earring. Unbeknownst to Foo, the village relied on her updates—especially a prince in disguise, who answered: “Will you accept a humble frog?”
100 Words
Foo flew down from her mountainside observatory and updated the village board, as she did each night. This night, along with the star report, she added a new note:
“Seeking Astronomy Apprentice: curiosity required.”
She pinned it with a tiny star-shaped earring, its twin long-lost, and wondered if anyone would care enough to answer.
Unbeknownst to her, the villagers relied on her updates to schedule harvests and festivals. Even Prince Gorl, disguised as a frog, read the board faithfully.
That evening, Foo returned. A crown-shaped tack held a note that made her heart leap:
“Will you accept a humble frog?”
200 Words
Foo descended from the observatory perched on the mountain’s shoulder; its dome caught starlight and gazed over the quiet valley. Each night she flew down to Willowwink and updated her sandwich board near the fountain.
She wondered if anyone ever read her notes. She might have an answer soon. After pinning the weather and star updates, she posted her very first note that requested a reply.
“Seeking Astronomy Apprentice: Experience unnecessary; curiosity required. Reply if interested.” She pinned it with a star-shaped earring whose twin had vanished long ago. It sparkled in the lantern light.
Unbeknownst to Foo, the board steered the village nudging plans, subtly as shifting wind. Harvests, festivals, even market days bent around her updates.
Prince Gorl visited Willowwink daily; its observatory was the only one in his kingdom, and he used her information to keep his realm running smoothly.
He liked to travel disguised as a frog — people demanded more of a prince — but when he read Foo's request, he resumed his human form long enough to reply with his own question.
That evening, Foo returned and found a reply pinned with a tiny crown-shaped tack. It read: “Would you accept a humble frog?”
400 Words
Foo descended from the observatory perched on the mountain’s shoulder; its dome caught starlight and gazed over the quiet valley. Each night she flew down to Willowwink and updated her sandwich board near the fountain.
She wondered if anyone ever read her notes. She might have an answer soon. After pinning the weather and star updates, she posted her very first note that requested a reply.
“Seeking Astronomy Apprentice: Experience unnecessary; curiosity required. Reply if interested.” She pinned it with a star-shaped earring whose twin had vanished long ago. It sparkled in the lantern light.
Unbeknownst to Foo, the board steered the village nudging plans, subtly as shifting wind. Harvests, festivals, even market days bent around her updates.
Prince Gorl visited Willowwink daily; its observatory was the only one in his kingdom, and he used her information to keep his realm running smoothly.
He liked to travel disguised as a frog — people demanded more of a prince — but when he read Foo's request, he resumed his human form long enough to reply with his own question.
That evening, Foo returned and found a reply pinned with a tiny crown-shaped tack. It read: “Would you accept a humble frog?”
800 Words
High on the mountain’s shoulder, the brass-domed observatory kept watch over the village of Willowwink. Inside, Foo had nearly completed the evening’s observations when Mentor drifted in.
He would have helped, but every chart was sorted, every lantern lit, every lens polished. “Already finished?” he asked, sounding impressed and faintly lost.
Foo continued scribbling. “You've taught me well.”
For Mentor, something clicked. After a moment, he walked over and nudged her elbow. “Ask me.”
Foo stopped writing and rolled her eyes. "Mentor –"
"Ask," he instructed.
Foo sighed, going back to her notes. "What is the meaning of life?" she asked, the question routine, the answer always different, and never quite right.
He smiled. He had it this time. "Not to only observe, but to experience."
Foo looked up, uncomfortable with a truth that reverberated in her bones. "Huh."
“Ah," he said, her reaction confirming what he already knew. "At last, I’ve earned my promotion. I am now named Guru. And as my promotion means yours, congratulations, Head Astronomer!”
Guru'd spoken of ascending for years—but Foo was still flummoxed. “Tonight?”
“The stars rarely consider our human timelines,” he said, squeezing her shoulder. “You’ll lead the observatory beautifully.”
He drifted off to gather his things.
Later that night, as Foo descended from the observatory, she turned, briefly, to watch Guru ascend. She felt lost. Not sad, just bereft. Above, the sky glittered. She turned back toward Willowwink.
Guru's sandwich board stood near the fountain. It was hers now, she supposed. She replaced the previous night’s weather prediction and horoscopes, and then took out an extra note. She often wondered if anyone read her notices, but she might soon find out. The note read: “Seeking Astronomy Apprentice: Experience unnecessary; curiosity required. Reply if interested.” She pinned it with a star-shaped earring whose twin had vanished long ago.
Unbeknownst to Foo, Prince Gorl visited Willowwink daily; its observatory was the only one in his kingdom, and he relied on her information to keep his realm running smoothly. He liked to travel disguised as a frog — people demanded more of a prince — but when he read Foo's request, he resumed his human form long enough to reply with his own question.
That evening, Foo returned and found a reply pinned with a tiny crown-shaped tack. It read: “Would you accept a humble frog?”
The next morning, Gorl found that his question had been answered with a question. He laughed, transforming long enough to reply: “Frogs can’t give you warts. You’re thinking of toads.”
When Foo read the frog's reply, she was relieved, but embarrassed. She was proud of her knowledge of astronomy, astrology, and weather, but was fully aware of her ignorance in almost every other arena.
She hoped that she'd learn as much from her new apprentice as he would from her.
A couple of weeks later, the great telescope hummed softly as Foo adjusted the eyepiece, tracing faint stars along the ridges. Beside her, Gorl crouched on the desk, using the modified lettering armature to transcribe that evening's board update from Foo's observations.
Foo sat up straight and stretched. "I don't even know if anyone reads these things," she murmured.
The scratching of ink on paper came to an abrupt halt as Gorl stopped manipulating the armature. "Are you jesting?" he asked.
Foo looked over at him. "Well, I know that you do—or at least happened to when—"
“Foo, the entire village reads your board every day,” Gorl interrupted, hopping in agitation. “Even I -” He stopped, staring at her. “Foo…do you really not know?”
A little alarmed by Gorl's passion, Foo fumbled with the telescope, feeling self-conscious. It was like everyone in the village had been reading her soul for years, but she had no sense of theirs.
She realized she didn’t know anything about Gorl, either. She had known Guru her whole life — she had never had to get to know anyone before.
She frowned. How did one go about that? She searched for a question. Something personal, but not too personal. “So… ‘Gorl,’ huh? Were you named after the prince?”
Gorl was still staring at her. He blushed, his tiny webbed toes curling slightly. "Um. Yes." He closed his eyes and his whole body shook. "But wait, you're changing the subject. Do you really not know how important your notices are?"
Foo shook her head. "It's not like anyone ever answers back — until you."
Gorl couldn’t cock his head, so he tilted his whole body. "I answered a question. You should leave another one."
That night, her hands trembled as she pinned up the weather, the horoscopes, and then one more note. A question, tacked to the board that had brought her Gorl.
She lingered, gazing over the moonlit square, wondering if anyone would answer.
1600 Words
High on the mountain’s shoulder, the brass-domed observatory kept watch over the village of Willowwink, its curved panels glinting like a half-peeled moon. Inside, gears ticked in steady counterpoint to the hush of the great telescope, and the enchanted star maps glimmered faintly.
Foo stood on a brass balcony, inside the dome, peering through the small spotting scope. “Clouds gathering near the western ridge. Light frost by dawn — nothing troublesome. Should burn off by noon.” She jotted the note down.
Mentor leaned against the railing, his back to her. “Very good, Foo. And the river fields?”
Foo tapped her weather chart, which chimed gently. “With the moon waning and the north wind steady, the soil will stay damp enough for sowing greens and grains, but too wet to lift potatoes or cut the wheat.” She sketched a crescent moon and a frost symbol.
Mentor looked around the observatory. Every chart was sorted, every lantern lit, every lens polished. “Are we already finished?” he asked. It wasn't even midnight.
Foo continued scribbling. “You've taught me well.”
For Mentor, something clicked. After a moment, he walked over and nudged her elbow. “Ask me.”
Foo stopped writing and rolled her eyes. "Mentor –"
"Ask," he instructed.
Foo sighed, going back to her notes. "What is the meaning of life?" she asked, the question routine, the answer always different, and never quite right.
He smiled. He had it this time. "Not to only observe, but to experience."
Foo looked up, uncomfortable with a truth that reverberated in her bones. "Huh."
“Ah," he said, her reaction confirming what he already knew. "At last, I’ve earned my promotion. I am now named Guru. And as my promotion means yours, congratulations, Head Astronomer!”
Guru'd spoken of ascending for years — but Foo was still flummoxed. “Tonight?”
“The stars rarely consider our human timelines,” he said, with a laugh. "I expected this years ago, and you, I suspect," he said squeezing her shoulder. “Thought it would never happen."
He laughed at her blush and drifted toward the storage alcove where his belongings were tucked neatly into a traveling satchel.
Later that night, as Foo descended from the observatory, she turned, briefly, to watch Guru ascend, growing smaller and smaller as he floated away. She felt lost. Not sad, just bereft. As if a third arm had just decided to detach itself, in order to follow its own destiny. Above, the sky glittered, a deep river of silver constellations sliding overhead. She turned back toward Willowwink,
The village unfolded beneath her, roofs huddled together in soft colors, chimneys dark and still. The air carried the lingering scent of fresh bread and the metallic tang of cooling iron from the blacksmith’s yard.
She crossed the square. The fountain was ridiculously elaborate for a village this small. It featured a statue — a woman, who turned her back as Foo approached. Foo, accustomed to the stone woman's shyness, didn't take it personally.
The sandwich board stood near the fountain, its wood polished smooth by years of weather and Foo's monthly care. She replaced the previous night’s weather prediction, rolling it neatly for archiving. She pinned the fresh page in its place. On the other side, she exchanged stale horoscopes for fresh ones.
Before leaving, she took out a third note. It read: “Seeking Astronomy Apprentice: Experience unnecessary; curiosity required. Reply if interested.” She pinned it with a star-shaped earring whose twin had vanished long ago. She often wondered if anyone read the notices she posted on Guru's board — her board now. If anyone responded to her note, she supposed, she'd have her answer.
Unbeknownst to Foo, Prince Gorl visited Willowwink daily; its observatory was the only one in his kingdom, and he used her information to keep his realm running smoothly. He liked to travel disguised as a frog — people demanded more of a prince — but when he read Foo's request, he resumed his human form long enough to reply with his own question.
That evening, Foo returned and found a reply pinned with a tiny crown-shaped tack. It read: “Would you accept a humble frog?”
The next morning, Gorl found that his question had been answered with a question. He laughed, transforming long enough to reply: “Frogs can’t give you warts. You’re thinking of toads.”
When Foo read the frog's reply, she was relieved, but embarrassed. She was proud of her knowledge of astronomy, astrology, and weather, but was fully aware of her ignorance in almost every other arena. She hoped that she'd learn as much from her new apprentice as he'd learn from her.
A couple of weeks later, the great telescope hummed softly as Foo adjusted the eyepiece, tracing faint stars along the ridges. Beside her, Gorl crouched on the desk, using the modified lettering armature to transcribe that evening's board update from Foo's observations.
Foo sat up straight and stretched. "I don't even know if anyone reads these things," she murmured.
The scratching of ink on paper came to an abrupt halt as Gorl stopped manipulating the armature. "Are you jesting?" he asked.
Foo looked over at him. "Well, I know that you do — or at least happened to —"
“Foo, the entire village reads your board every day,” Gorl interrupted, hopping in agitation. “Even I -” He stopped, staring at her. “Foo…do you really not know?”
A alarmed by Gorl's passion, Foo fumbled with the telescope, feeling suddenly self-conscious. It was like everyone in the village had been reading her soul for years, but she had no sense of theirs.
She realized she didn’t know anything about Gorl, either. She had known Guru her whole life — she had never had to get to know anyone before.
She frowned. How did one go about that? She searched for a question. Something personal, but not too personal. “So… ‘Gorl,’ huh? Were you named after the prince?”
Gorl was still staring at her. He blushed, his tiny webbed toes curling slightly. "Um. Yes." He closed his eyes and his whole body shook. "But wait, you're changing the subject. Do you really not know how important your notices are?"
Foo shook her head. "It's not like anyone ever answers back — until you."
Gorl couldn't cock his head, so he cocked his whole body as he thought. "There's not much to say to a notice. I answered a question. Maybe you should leave another one and see if someone answers you."
"I suppose," she said slowly, thinking about it as she spoke. "I have a lot of questions for them. Maybe I could leave one tonight...."
That night, Foo posted her weather and horoscope updates, and left a question. Her fingers trembled as she pinned it with the same star earring that she'd used for the apprentice inquiry.
It read:
'Honored Villagers,
I am Foo, Head Astronomer, and I have a question for those of you with sheep expertise. How do you wear a fresh sheep's wool without getting blood all over you? Or is blood part of the effect? Also, what do you do about the smell? Please forgive my ignorance. I am no fashion expert.
Best Regards,
Foo'
The next morning, so early that even the fountain was still asleep, mist curled along the cobblestones as Bo approached, carrying a shepherd's crook in one hand and a duck named Sally under one arm.
She stopped at Foo's bulletin board. “Hm. Clear skies tonight," she said. "Frost on the orchard roofs. Lunar arc unusually sharp."
Sally clucked uninterestedly, as Bo went around to check the horoscopes.
"You're a Libra, right? Ooh, another note — I wonder if the observatory is looking for another apprentice. Oh!" She cried. "It's not a notice, it's a question about sheep!" She read the note and laughed. "Goodness gracious, imagine wearing a sheep's actual flesh as clothing." She plucked a feather from Sally’s flank.
Sally squawked and leapt from her arms. “Hey! Rude!” She flapped angrily toward the fountain. “That’s the last time I ask you for a ride to the village….”
“I’m sorry,” Bo called after her. She winced. She should have asked. She’d just been so excited to reply. No one ever asked her about sheep, and she knew so much. She pulled out a small whittling knife and sharpened the feather. Then she looked around. Ink… There — a mud puddle. Perfect. She dipped her pen into it.
Foo had left space at the bottom of the page for a reply, so Bo wrote:
'Honored Astronomer Foo,
I believe there’s been a misunderstanding. We don’t wear sheep. We shear them — just wool, no skin. If blood is involved, you’re doing something wrong.
If you ever wish to see how it’s done, you’re welcome to visit the lower pasture at first light. The flock is calm this time of year, and I make a decent pot of tea.
Respectfully,
Bo
Shepherdess of the Western Hill'
She stepped back and read her reply. Sally had woken the statue and was squawking about her poor treatment. Bo sighed, walking toward the fountain. Sally was going to be impossible on the walk home if Bo didn't apologize, immediately and profusely.
That night, Foo stood before the board, staring at Bo's reply. It was splotched with mud, but the writing was precise, if a bit more elaborate than Foo's own hand. Her gaze lingered on one phrase: "...you’re welcome to visit...".
The observatory waited above her, quiet and precise. The western hill lay in the opposite direction. After a moment, Foo turned to look thoughtfully toward the western hill.
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