Contest | Fiction | Winter/Holiday (December 2006)

[Icarus]

Old Man Winter, if he hasn’t already snowed you in, is just around the corner. It’s December, and we want to see some winter and holiday themed stories. Below you will find four pictures. Choose one and use that as a prompt for a story with a maximum of 1,000 words. The pictures are labeled A, B, C and D, so be sure to clearly indicate which pictorial prompt you have chosen so there is no confusion for the judges.

You have until December 22nd to post your submissions. Good luck!


A



B



C



D

[starrwriter]

This story runs about 1,200 words, but I'll take the penalty because I can't cut it without omitting some of what it needs to be told correctly:

Soup and Sandwich

Located in the old section of town two blocks from Main Street, the Friendly Diner had a cozy atmosphere and an orange neon light hanging in the front window. The owner, an old man with a full head of snow-white hair and a bushy white mustache, wore an apron when he worked as cook and waiter for the few customers who came in at night. He left the dirty dishes in the sink for the dish washer to take care of in the morning. Most his business was breakfast and lunch, but he often stayed open until late at night because there was no one waiting for him at home.

The diner was empty of customers when the boy entered and shook the snow from his coat before taking a seat at the counter. He looked nine or ten years old and his hair was cut in a flat-top. He ate supper at the diner a couple nights every week and he always ordered the same meal: a bowl of Heinz bean soup and a cheeseburger.

"Where's your mom tonight?" the old man asked him, slapping the burger patty onto the grill.

"In the bar across the street."

"She doesn't cook much, does she?"

"Not when she's drinking."

The owner shook his head. "First the man takes a drink, then the drink takes a drink, then the drink takes the man. Only it's a woman in your case."

"Don't you drink?" the boy asked.

"I used to, but it doesn't agree with me anymore. Also costs too much. One drink is too many and a hundred is not enough."

"You talk funny."

The old man opened a can of bean soup and poured it into a pan. "I didn't invent those words. They're quotes from experts."

The boy nervously rearranged the salt and pepper shakers in front of him. The old man used a match to ignite the gas under the pan of bean soup, then he lit a cigarette with the same match and took a sip from his coffee cup. A moment later he flipped the burger patty and turned to face the boy.

"Where's your old man tonight?"

"He don't live with us."

"Why not?"

"They got divorced."

"I see. How come you decided to live with your mom?"

"My dad has a girlfriend. She don't like kids."

"You didn't want to live with your dad?"

"I didn't say that."

"But it's what you meant."

"I'm not a mamma's boy."

"Take it easy, son."

"I ain't your son, either."

"I know." The old man took a photo from his wallet to show the boy. "This is my son."

"He looks old."

"He's forty-five."

"That's pretty old."

The owner laughed. "Not when you're my age."

"How old are you?"

"A hundred and twelve."

"I don't believe you."

"I feel that old sometimes."

He flipped the burger again and placed a slice of cheese on top. Crushing his cigarette out on the floor, he poured the soup into a bowl and pushed it across the counter.

"I hope I die before I'm thirty," the boy said.

"What a damn fool thing to say."

"I don't care."

"You should care. Your life doesn't really start until you're thirty."

The boy slurped a spoonful of soup.

"What do you want on your cheeseburger?"

"Nothing."

The old man served the sandwich on a small plate. "How come you always order a cheeseburger and Heinz bean soup?"

"Heinz is better than Campbell's. The grocery store doesn't have Heinz."

"What about the cheeseburger?"

"I like cheeseburgers," he said, taking a bite.

"You never talk much when you come here."

"I'm not supposed to talk with my mouth full of food."

"It doesn't bother me," the old man said, wiping the counter with a towel. "Tell me, how old are you?"

"Eleven."

"You're kind of small for eleven."

"I'll be eleven in July."

"So you're ten."

"What's the difference?"

"Seven months, if I can still add."

The boy ignored him and worked on his sandwich.

"You like school?"

"Nobody likes school."

"I did. It got me away from the farm."

"You grew up on a farm?"

"It was mostly hard work and not much fun. You're lucky you live in town."

"I don't feel lucky."

"Yeah, I can tell. You have a dog or a cat at home?"

"They don't allow pets where we live."

"Too bad. A boy needs a pet."

"Why?"

"Helps to have something to take care of and keep you company."

"I like it better alone."

The old man leaned across the counter. "Bullshit."

"I do."

"You're just a kid. You don't have to be so brave all the time."

The bite of cheeseburger seemed to stick in the boy's throat. He couldn't swallow and tears began to form in his eyes.

The owner was embarrassed. "Forget what I said. I've got a big mouth."

The boy turned away and swallowed, but he couldn't eat anything else. He stood up and took some money out of his pocket.

"Aren't you going to finish your meal?"

"I'm not hungry anymore. How much do I owe you?"

"It's on the house."

"Why?"

"I'm feeling generous tonight. How about a paper cup of hot chocolate to drink on the way home? It'll keep you warm."

"No thanks."

The boy headed for the door.

"Hold on, I'll close up and walk with you for a few blocks. I'm not going to get any more customers tonight anyway."

"I don't need company."

"Well, I do. I'm an old man and it's slippery as hell out there. I might fall and break my neck."

He took off his apron, slipped into his coat and turned off the overhead lights. After he locked the door, they started down the street in a snow flurry with slush was gathered ankle deep on the sidewalk.

"You left the neon light on," the boy said.

"I always do. It helps the street look cheerful, especially on a night like this."

They turned a corner and walked to the end of the block.

"This is where I live," the boy said.

The old man examined the apartment building. "Doesn't look bad."

"It's a dump."

"What floor is your apartment?"

"Second floor."

"Well, at least you get a view from up there."

"I can see the lake from the roof."

"Is that your only entertainment?"

"I watch TV a lot."

"Don't you have any friends?"

"Not really."

"I have a feeling you're not ever coming back to the restaurant. Am I wrong?"

"I don't know."

"I wish you would."

"Why?"

"I need the business. I'll make sure to charge you next time."

"You have plenty of customers."

"They aren't good conservationalists like you are."

"You're crazy."

"Listen, I'm sorry about what I said earlier. I know you're mad at me, but I didn't mean to upset you."

"I'm not mad."

"Then I'll see you at the restaurant?"

"I guess."

He watched the boy climb the steps and enter the building. Pulling up his coat collar against the wind and snow, he began back-tracking to his car parked behind the restaurant. About half way there he slipped on an icy patch of sidewalk and hollered "Damn!"as his shoulder banged a street light pole. He regained his balance and cursed again under his breath. In his hurry to leave the restaurant he had forgotten to put on his rubber boots, which stood in one corner beside the coat rack.

[coconut]

Picture C

SMALL SLAM

©2006 Patrick Lennon

It looked like we had enough to make a small slam and my partner bid three hearts just as a gust of wind whacked the hangar rattling the doors and windows. It was a typical winter night in Goose Bay Labrador.
Sergeant Williams scraped away frost on a window and checked an outdoor thermometer. “It’s thirty-two below.”
Lieutenant Frobisher one of our opponents uttered some unintelligible comment about the weather, folded his cards and passed.
I raised the bid to four no trump and my partner raised his eyebrows and smiled. Our other opponent, Chaplin Thompson, doubled my bid.
Out side the Caterpillar generator hummed monotonously as it powered the lights, teletype machine, UHF radio, record player, coffee pot and the electronic equipment needed to maintain the F-102 jet fighter sitting in the center of the one-airplane hanger. Every half hour the snowplows and snow blowers screeched and growled as they, kept the runway and taxiway cleared.
The teletype bell rang and a rat-a-tat of a message spit out of the machine. Airman Donovan ripped it off and handed it to me.
Ceiling 100 feet, visibility one-sixteenth of a mile, tops of clouds 30,000 feet, wind 30 miles per hour with gusts to 50, blizzard conditions, drifting snow, temperature 35 degrees below zero. Weather not expected to improve for 3 days.
My partner, Major Osborn, bid five hearts. The LP on the record player finished the Third Herd’s rendition of ‘You’re my Thrill’ and started ‘Perdido’ when the klaxon sounded.
“Shit,” Major Osborn said. “This is the best hand I’ve had in six months.”
I placed my cards face down on the table, grabbed my helmet and raced to the boarding ladder of the F-102, affectionately known as the ‘deuce.’ I vaulted into the cockpit, slipped my arms through the straps of the backpack parachute, fastened the leg straps and secured the lap belt and shoulder harness. While I was doing this Airman Donavan switched on the motors that opened the front and rear doors of the hangar. Sergeant Williams powered up the auxiliary generator to start the jet engine. When he signaled it was ready, I flipped the toggle switch and listened to the mournful whine of the J-57 turbo come up to speed. When the engine ran smoothly, Sergeant Williams unplugged the umbilical and removed the chocks. I closed the canopy and moved out of the hangar onto the taxiway. The tower cleared me for immediate takeoff and gave me the radio frequency to contact Ground Control Intercept. After checking the instruments and setting the gyro, I began the takeoff run. Few of the runway lights were visible and they quickly became a blur as my speed increased. At 100 knots, I engaged the afterburner and immediately began a 10,000 foot per minute climb.
GCI vectored me to a heading of 300 degrees and reported the ‘bogie’ level at 35,000 feet and range 200 miles. When we had bad weather, the Russians frequently made incursions into our defense zone to test our response. We returned the favor when they had bad weather. It was a high stakes game of ‘chicken’ played out over the frozen north. I also thought it was ironic that we fought some of the Cold War over the North Pole.
At 30,000 feet, I popped out of the clouds into a night sky blanketed with a million stars and a full moon. Viewing the firmament from the cold and clear stratosphere is inspirational. The thought ‘Peace on Earth’ flashed through my mind even though I was possibly on my way to kill some Russians.
I leveled at 40,000 feet and locked my radar on the ‘bogie.’ GCI reported he was level at 35,000 feet and 100 miles from me. I expected him to turn tail as soon as my radar painted him but he kept coming at me. When he was twenty miles away, I began a turn, dropped down to 35,000 feet, and ended up behind him. I re-locked the radar on him and switched to “stand-by” the twenty-four rockets in my belly pod and the four Falcon heat-seeking missiles nestled under the wings.
I wondered if his electronic counter measures had detected me and it puzzled me that he didn’t take evasive action, but continued heading for the United States. It occurred to me that I might fire the first shot of World War III, a responsibility I really didn’t want. GCI ordered me to activate the heat seeking missiles. I was closing fast on the Russian and saw the blue-yellow glow of his engine exhaust ahead of me. When green lights on my instrument panel indicated the missiles had homed in on his engines, I flipped up the safety cover on the firing switch and notified GCI I was armed and ready to fire. It seemed like an eternity, but a few seconds later, GCI ordered me to stand-by. With beads of sweat on my forehead, I inched my thumb to the firing switch and waited.
“Break-off! Break-off!” GCI ordered.
I replaced the safety cover, deactivated the missiles guidance systems and banked sharply to the right, reduced power and eased next to the Russian’s tail. In the bright moonlight, I read the ‘KLM’ logo and tail number of the Boeing 707 and reported it to GCI. They confirmed the Dutch airliner was 100 miles off course and had electrical problems, which disabled their navigation lights. Flight Service at Reykjavík, Iceland failed to relay their flight information on time. The crew and passengers on the 707 would never know how close they came to disaster.
I informed GCI I was low on fuel and they vectored me to GooseBay. Ground Control Approach (GCA) talked me down through a blustery blizzard and when the landing gear touched the runway, I deployed the drag chute and skidded to a stop on the icy runway. After releasing the drag chute, I taxied to the rear door of the hanger. Sergeant Williams opened the door and directed me to the parking slot. When the engine wound down, I climbed down the ladder and Airman Donovan handed me a cup of coffee. I sat at the table, picked up my hand and bid five no trump. Major Osborne raised it to six hearts and we made a small slam. We won the rubber and collected seven dollars from the losers. All in all, it was a very satisfying evening.

THE END

[Spark]

Picture D - 846 words

Yin Yang

It was only twenty degrees outside, but I wasn’t cold. Was it even possible to be cold when you’re so angry? I knew going to my mother’s for Christmas was an awful idea. We fought over everything: even trivial things, but it all added up. She seemed to be trying to pick fights with me, constantly criticizing my disheveled appearance, my choice of profession: music teacher, and my lack of any serious relationships at age thirty one. This time she had gone too far, saying my life was going nowhere. How dare she? I was shaking, but not from the cold. What was her problem? Why can't she just accept me for what I am? I cried as I walked, my shoulders and cheast heaving, strands of hair clinging to the damp spots on my face. I cried for everything: not just for our fight, but for my father.

Our relationship didn’t use to be so bad when my father around. He was the peace keeper, diffusing tense situations with a joke or a smile. Our relationship had been very close and we rarely argued. My mother and he were intensely in love, his jokes the perfect counterpart to her seriousness. He was good natured enough to not be upset by my mother’s careless insensitive remarks, and both of them knew she didn’t really mean them. His only serious flaw had been his heavy smoking, which lead to his death from lung cancer earlier in this year. This tragic blow had shattered my mother’s life, and made our relationship just that much tenser. Without him around I had no idea how I would be able to tolerate my mother. She would never mention him. I couldn't wrap my head around it. The life of someone that great should be celebrated, not swept under the rug! Half the time we fight, it's over him: we just use little things as a guise.

I stomped down the dirt road leading form my mother’s house, my arms tightly crossed against my chest. We were complete opposites, my mother and I. She is a realist: grounded, logical, and always in control of the situation. She was always completely organized and on top of things. She kept a detailed calendar, had a daily schedule, and her life was full of lists of things to do. There was so much structure, rigidity, and lack of emotion there that was incomprehensible to me. I am an idealist: a visionary, unsure of myself, but passionate in everything I do. I am motivated by love over money, dreams over reality. I am expressive and blatantly honest, some might say blunt. I react to things strongly and purely. I am a mess, always losing things, forgetting appointments, and I can hardly keep track of myself. We are like oil and vinegar.

I walked over to the black wooden fence that marked the edge of the property, and leaned against it, my forearms resting on the top post. I shifted most of my weight onto it, needing something to hold me up. I ignored the tears rolling down my face, and the ache in my heart, hoping if I did they would go away on their own.

I was in the middle of some unknown town in Massachusetts the day after a nor’easter. There was a total of a foot of snow on the ground, several inches lingering on the road even after the most recent plowing. An inch of snow clung to the limbs of the dark trees around me. I watched my breath create a cloud of steam in front of me. It would have seemed far more beautiful in a different situation, I supposed. The contrast was picturesque. There was only black and white: untouched snow, and the black of the trees and their limbs. It was simply black vs. white, total opposites in a constant struggle against one another, both determined not to blur together into gray.

I heard the crunch of snow underfoot coming from behind me and I looked over my shoulder to see my mother walking towards me. Her long dark hair was tied neatly in a knot at the base of her neck, not a hair out of place, as usual. I resumed leaning against the fence, staring off into the distance, pretending I hadn’t seen her. We both knew I had. She stopped once she was next to me. Both of us waited for the other to speak, silence making the cold air oppressive and heavy. My whole body was rigid, waiting for the confrontation. I heard her exhale heavily, and I continued to look straight ahead, my lower lip trembling like a child's would.

“I’m sorry,” I heard her say, and I knew she meant it.

“It’s okay,” I whispered. We had reached an understanding.

It was the contrast between black and white that gave the surrounding wintry scene it’s beauty. It was our distinct differences that made our relationship so special. Without the contrast of black and white, everything would be a single shade of gray.

[Geoffrey Robson]

PHOTO A


CHRISTMAS EVE JULY 23, 1969





Small towns are boring, except at Christmas time. On Main Street, the snow is falling gently as it settles on the town in restful embrace. The lights from the stores bathe the people that pass in a golden warmth. Every face is familiar and all are friends.

Dan stands in front of the theater with the boys. They have known each other since day one. Some are no longer here. That’s another thing about a small town: memories last. He is the first to see the girls come around the corner. He strains to see through the muted grey of the early evening. When he finds what he is looking for, his heart skips a beat.

Sherry became a friend on the first day of school, but for the past couple of years, Dan cannot stop thinking about her. His shyness keeps him from telling her how he feels. Sherry walks right up to him and asks for a cigarette. When he holds the lighter for her, their eyes meet and both seem to understand all of those unspoken words.

Once in the movie, Sherry makes sure that they sit together. When she takes his hand, his heart pounds and he worries about his sweaty palms. After the movie, he walks her home. Their conversation is not the usual talk, tonight it’s about their dreams. In front of her house she makes the first move; he is glad for he would never have had the guts. The sweet, moist taste of her lips enslaves his desires.

He has to hurry on the walk home. It is Christmas Eve and his family is beginning to gather for the feast. When he walks in he is greeted by hundreds of little bears, mice, snowmen, angels, and elves, all in Santa hats, looking out of every nook & crannie. Mom always loved Christmas and her decorating is an act of love.

After dinner, all of his aunts, uncles, cousins, and his family sing carols. Dan hears crying and leaves the living room to investigate. He opens an unfamiliar door. His mother is in the room and she is crying. He can see her busted heart within her eyes.

“I am coming home mom. Don’t cry; I am going to make it. I am coming home.”

“MEDIC, MEDIC!” the screams brings Dan back to reality. Dan sees it is Bronowski who is screaming and he is covered in blood.

“Don’t worry, you’re okay. You’re going to make it man; come on, come on, you’re going to make it,” Bronowski screams, silhouetted by the flashing darkness.

Dan is propped up against the sand bags. He looks down and sees his insides, which are sitting on his lap like some reddish brown puppy. A man jumps in and pushes Bronowski away, who goes back to firing into the wall of noise.

“Stop shaking, keep still!” The man screams as he sticks Dan with one, then another, of the morphine tubes.

Dan’s body is tingling as he watches the man, who jerks at every flashing sound, rap his insides with a bandage. He remembers, back in basis training, when they said to never try to stuff something back inside. That’s for the Doctors.

“Come and get him,” the man screams into his radio as he quickly darts away.

Dan feels two hands grab him by the shoulders and drag him from the ditch onto a stretcher. Two men carry him toward the rotating sound. Dan sees such fear in their faces that he becomes scared. As they come out of a cloud of red smoke, the man carrying the back of the stretcher is shot down. The other drags Dan to the chopper door. Once the man hands Dan off to another inside, he is shot down. The door gunner jumps out, throws the wounded man inside, then quickly hops back in.

Two men shot trying to save my sorry ass, Dan thinks as he wishes once more for that dream.

Dan walks down Main Street as he always does on Christmas Eve. The foot prints in the snow bare witness to the passing of time. There are a lot more people in town and some are strangers. Dan never got with Sherry. By the time he got back she was married to Billy.

He married Mary, who came to town when the big paint factory opened out on Coldwell Road. They have five children, his youngest son is now in Iraq. Dan prays for his safe return. Man's ultimate test is being a warrior. Dan thinks about their wars. They are similar in the fact that the "defeat with dignity" crowd is at it again, looking for the easy way out. Soldiers don’t think politics, it's all about duty.

It's time to get home; the family is gathering for the feast. When he walks in he is greeted by hundreds of little bears, mice, snowmen, angels, and elves, all in Santa hats, looking out of every nook & crannie. Mom is now gone but the tradition has been passed on. At the table they pray and an empty seat waits in respect for his soldier son. After dinner all of his borthers, sisters, cousins, and his family sing carols.

Dan looks at the Christmas tree that sits upon a mountain of presents. He thinks about that Christmas in July where he got his greatest gift. That gift being the will and the fight to make his dream come true.

GOD BLESSED AMERICA MERRY CHRISTMAS

[Syltphademus]

Picture D


The battering wind tosses my hair as I make my way down the snowy road. I look into the sky, remembering the time long ago, on this very Christmas night.

I paced patiently in the hall, waiting for an answer. My fingers were chewed to the bone with anticipation. Suddenly, dozens of doctors and nurses came storming down the hall, shouting chaotic commands to each other. They rushed through the door I was pacing by. I grabbed one by the shoulder.

"What the hell is going on?"

"Is your wife in this room. Oh... um... she and the child are dying," the nurse muttered. My mouth fell open, shock and sorrow crossed my face as tears began to fall. "I-I'm sorry."

"No. No, no, no, no, no! This-this isn't happening! This can't be happening! No!" I screamed. The nurse tried to stop me, but I stormed into the operating room. Doctors stood around her, my wife, trying to bring her back.

"What the f-" one of the doctors started, but I cut him off.

"Can you save her?" I asked, but it was to late. The heart monitor was flat-lining. She was gone.

"Dammit!" one of the doctors shouted as the others began the impossible process of trying to revive her.

"NO! HANNAH!" I shouted as a few nurses held me back to allow the doctors to operate.

"Shit!" the lead doctor said as he threw his scalpel across the room. I broke free and rushed toward my deceased wife, squeezing her bleeding corpse tight against my chest.

"No... Hannah...No," I babbled, unaware of her blood seeping onto my shirt.

"Sir, please. Come with me," a nurse asks and grabs me by the arm, leading me away from my dead beloved.

A snowflake startles me back to reality, its cold wetness breaking my thoughts of the event, only a year ago. Tears run down my face as I take the bouquet in my hands and place it by the cross that marks my dearest's grave.

"Hannah, why?" I say, dropping to my knees, tears rushing out of my eyes.

"Why?"

[aarankine]

Picture B

Snow or Shine

It had been three months since we had moved to the Caribbean, and everything seemed to be working out great. The kids enjoyed the sunshine, the sea, the year-round shorts and T-shirt life, and they certainly didn’t mind the exotic status they acquired, both back home, among their old friends (to whom they sent digital albums of their colorful adventures), and in their new school, where their accent, red hair and constant sunburn were the center of unrelenting but friendly attention. Their fitting in was something Kate and I had naturally worried about, but once it was clear they would be invited to every single birthday party on the island, we relaxed. Kate, for her part, seemed to welcome the opportunity to stay at home for a while and not have to deal with nine to five chaos and office politics, and I was starting to feel less guilty about dragging my family away from their home for the sake of my job. As an additional blessing, by this point my mother-in-law had stopped sending us information about tropical diseases, civil wars, military coups and other unstable political situations mostly occurring on other continents.

I sort of knew better than to expect my good luck to last, but I was surprised that the stink bomb came courtesy of my mother, and in the shape of an innocent-looking Christmas card. One of those classic, old-timey ones with a tree-lined countryside, a cozy cottage, overdressed children, and lots of white snow all around.

Josh and Violet took one look at their grandmother’s greetings and it dawned on them: there was not going to be a Christmas this year.

Oh no, I said. Of course there was! Christmas was celebrated just the same here, except it didn’t get cold and dark and all that. I offered the generously decorated and Christmas carol-enhanced stores as proof.

My daughter gave me a look of utter contempt.

“Dad, there’s no snow, so no sleigh, okay? And there’s no chimney either, so Santa can’t get into the house!”

Well, she had just turned six, so this line of argument could be expected. But Josh, ten years old and supposedly gifted, would know better—one way or the other. I looked forward to his voice of reason on the matter.

“Yeah. And like he would probably die of heatstroke if he turned up in that suit of his,” he provided.

“So how could Santa bring anything?” Violet demanded.

I realized this was one of those deep and troubling questions that are a part of growing up, and it was time for me, the adult, to provide some important answers.

“It’s magic,” I said. “He can do it because he uses magic.”

“Dad. He already needs all the magic he’s got to deliver all those toys in just one night,” Josh explained patiently.

Violet stormed off to her room with tears in her eyes.

It was evident that the problem had surpassed my parenting abilities, so I called in the expert. She thought it over and prepared a wonderful presentation about the real meaning of Christmas. As we were not particularly religious, it involved the happiness of a loving family, rejoicing more in giving than receiving, appreciating and learning about different places and cultures, and a number of family projects in support of these values. The children listened attentively.

“Okay. So we should give our toys to the kids here—because Santa can’t bring them anything,” the preteen summarized the plan with rhetorical abandon.

Violet chose a more straightforward approach.

“Why can’t we just go home for Christmas?”

Because we had agreed we wouldn’t, and to get last-minute tickets right before Christmas would cost four arms and four legs, I thought. But I knew she wouldn’t see either of those as valid arguments.

“Because we’re going to have lots of fun right here,” Kate stepped in.

So for the next week we wrapped toys for orphans, baked pies for the neighbors, and crafted découpaged greeting cards for everyone we could think of, including, of course, our landlady and our gardener.

The latter, “Missah B.”, lived in a cottage in the back. He came with the house, and, as it turned out, with strong convictions about the world that included a firm opposition to forcing plants into an artificial order rather than allowing them to grow freely, according to Nature’s wisdom. Nature’s blessings were particularly evident on the patch of marijuana plants that thrived behind his cottage. But otherwise he was a kind old man who entertained the children with local tall tales and kept the thieves away. He was all alone: his wife had died some time back, and his only son lived in New York and had not been in touch for years.

The kids completed the projects with limited enthusiasm, and promptly disappeared into Josh’s room to play on his computer. In their rebellion they seemed to get along better than ever—few arguments could be heard. We left them alone. Kate had more baking to do for a party we were giving, and I revised contracts, and occasionally ran the vacuum around our prematurely desiccated imported Christmas tree. My mother’s card overlooked the family scene from a fake mantelpiece the previous English owner had installed.

On Christmas morning we slept late and came down to find Missah B. in the living room talking on the phone, surrounded by the children.

“Merry Christmas!” he boomed.

He had our Christmas card on his lap, along with a slice of Kate’s cake, and he was beaming with happiness. He was talking to his son in New York, whom Josh and Violet had found through the website of his high school’s alumni association. They had seen the school’s name on a graduation picture in Missah B.’s house, and googled it.

Apparently, we had those kids figured all wrong. Plus—I think searching the internet would never have occurred to me….

[gary_wagner]

That Special Place
by Gary Wagner
900 words
Based on picture B


The babbling of the gently flowing river is the only sound that can be heard in the snow-muffled clearing. Smoke drifts from the chimney filling the air with the wonderful scent of burning hand-split red oak cooking the Christmas turkey Pa and Grandpa tracked and shot yesterday.

Mom and Mary pause before they reach the cabin to watch the clouds make their way over the mountain tops and begin their trek through the valley where they will drop more snow. Two squirrels chatter as they chase each other round and round the bare maple trees. I run past Mom and Mary and burst through the rough-hewn door, “Nana, Papaw, we’re here.”

Grandpa Miller gets up out of his rocking chair, puts his pipe on the mantle, and comes over to where I am stomping snow off my feet.

“Tom, Tom, you brought so much snow with you. Did you leave any outside?”, he chuckles. “Well, lets get that coat and boots off of you so you can warm up by the fire. Mother, will you look at this boy? He gets bigger and stronger every time I see him.”

Grandma steps into the door of the kitchen wiping flour from her hands onto her apron. She squinted to see, since she had left her spectacles in the kitchen, and says, “Land sakes, Papa, his cheeks look like two big cherries. Get him warmed up before he catches his death of cold”.

Mom and Mary come in the door just as Grandpa pulls my second boot off and carries me over to the roaring fire. After a half hour’s ride in the wagon in the sub-zero cold, I feel like someone threw me into Old Dan’s blacksmith forge, with Grandpa holding me so close to the fireplace. I don’t complain because I know he would never do anything in the world to hurt me. I lay my head on his shoulder and turn my face to his neck where I can smell the scent of shaving soap and pipe tobacco.

Grandpa smiles to Mom, winks at Mary, and asks, “Martha, is that one of your world famous gooseberry pies all wrapped up in that packing paper?”

“You know it is, Papa Miller. You only asked me twenty times since Thanksgiving if I was fixing to bring another for Christmas. It might still be warm since I wrapped it up fresh out of the oven just before we left for here, but as cold as it is outside, it might be frozen plum solid.”

“Oh, just never you mind that. You bring it right over here and set it beside this here fire where I’m cooking up this boy just like that big turkey Mother’s baking in the kitchen. We’ll thaw it out and take good care of it, won’t we Tom?”

I nodded with as much mock sincerity as a seven-year-old boy could muster.

“Oh no you don’t, you two schemers, you. If I set that pie down beside you two hungry boys I’ll come back from the kitchen to find that pie tin licked clean and both of your faces covered with gooseberries.”

Grandpa laughed and put me down. Mom and Mary went to the kitchen to help prepare our Christmas meal. I sat down playing with the miniature wooden wagon Grandpa made for me as Dad came in the door stomping his feet and shaking the snow out of his black curly hair.

“Howdy Papa, Mama. Holy smokes, it’s colder than a witch’s britches out there. I’m sorry Tom, but I’m sure Santa can’t make it though in weather like this. Why, I heard the horses in the barn talking and they said they’re going to the North Pole because it’s warmer there. Those flying reindeer would freeze solid before they could get here. Nope, no presents this year. Sorry, Tom.”

I tried to look sad but couldn’t keep the grin off my face. Dad laughed when he saw me grinning, “Can’t no one pull the wool over your eyes, can they, Tom? You knew all along I was pulling your leg, didn’t you?”

“Yes, Pa. I saw you put that burlap sack into the wagon before we got in and that’s where the presents are.”

“Oh well maybe I did and maybe I didn’t, Mr. Thomas Caleb Miller. Tom… Tom…”.

“Hmm”

“Tom… Tom!”

“What?”

“Do you have the remote?”

“What?”

“The remote. Are you sitting on it or something? The kids want to change the TV over so they can play their PS3.”

I pulled the remote out from beside my leg and handed it to Sheila. I got up and turned the flames on the gas logs down because I was getting too hot sitting there dozing.

Sheila handed the remote to Bruce and as she was leaving the room said, “Dinner will be ready as soon as the microwave dings. You’re dad emailed me to say they might be a little late because he has to do a quick web cast with Tokyo first. We’ll eat without them and zap something for them when they get here.”

Sitting back in the Lazy Boy recliner, I looked up again at the picture hanging over the mantle - the mountains, the smoke from the chimney, Mom and Mary in the clearing. I closed my eyes and went back to that special place where I had never been before.

[creator_7]

i used 3 pictures so i hope i get a little leway story is 2,042



Pic b@d@c

The summoning

Every year we all gather in a small cabin located right out side of Denver for a small mandrake family Christmas. This year not every one could make it but every one who could was sure to be there. We arrived at the cabin around 9:30am and made our way inside, dad had to shovel 2 feet of snow away from the door for us to get in but it was well worth it. The quaint smell of home flooded my mind with memories of past Christmases sitting around the fire talking about the past Christmases. This year I would change all that this was going to be a spectacular festival of feasts and remembrance of the people that are no longer with us to celebrate.

The others made sure to arrive later in the day so they could skip out on al the work that had to be done. But none the less they where there and that’s all that mattered. For the first night we all sat around the table and talked about how each other’s lives had been going it was wasteful talk but it passed the time.


Morning came and every one was full of energy and reedy to head out for the hike up Stone Mountain (more of a big hill come to think of it) we set out around 6:00am dad never like to be late and he wanted to top the mountain by 9:00.

Walking down the long dark winter road was quite depressing to say the least, there was nothing but snow, snow oh and trees covered in snow. I don’t hate snow but there was nothing else to see this was supposed to be the scenic route and so far it felt as if I am walking in a giant circle. Then dad speaks up above all the chattering, “we have arrived” no one seemed to hear a word that he said. They where to busy talking about how much they hated to be there, then he rephrased it “damn it listen to me we have arrived!!!”
Every one stiffened up like boards and put there eyes on dad,” “sorry I had to yell but I wanted to be heard”


“We are at the base of the summit and I just wanted to tell every one to be safe and to watch their step” “ok let’s go”
The entire group marched in somewhat of a line fallowing in each others foot steps making sure that the ground was safe to walk on. Then out of nowhere I heard one of the younger boys yell, “hey I think I found something” then a sharp yell and the voice was gone. Every one panicked and ran directly to the right to a small hole in the snow.

“He fell through the snow” said my father

“Who did”?

“Jacob Mary’s brother”

This was one of the only younger boys that I had ever found a little bit funny if not charming.

My father yelled, “Jacob are you ok”

Jacob replied with a faint “I think so”

“He sounds hurt his mother exasperated”

My father tried to calm my aunt but she had her mindset on crying and screaming at the boy for wondering off from the others.

“What does it look like around you Jacob?” my father asked

“Uhh its dark so it hard to see but I am in some kind of room”

“What kind of room a cave”

“No its like a room in a house, it has a table and chairs and a door I see a door”


“What direction”

“ its down from me about 10 feet id say”

Father paced out 10 paces and started to dig into the snow, the others soon joined in and there it was just as he said a small door to a cottage.


I was the first inside the old cottage and it was with some regret it smelled like old rotted eggs and patchouli oil. Their Jacob sat at the table just smiling away as if nothing had happened “come on lets go” I said, he was hesitant but said” I cant walk my leg is broken”. Are you sure “take a look for your self” he pointed at his leg and sure enough the bone could be seen protruding from his blood soaked jeans.

Father came in and carried him out the door and told every one he would go back to the cabin and call for help and that we should continue back up the mountain.

“There will be no such thing,” said the group we want to go back with you.

I was the only one who wanted to stay and see what kind of story the cottage would tell, they where not interested in the cottage they just wanted to go home and sit around the fire. Every one started to go back to our cabin when I said I would stay behind and look around and will meat up with them later.

“Do you know your way back” said my father”

“Down the path then right then left and there” I said this with absolute sureness in myself

“Ok don’t be to long, try to be back for lunch”

Finally I was alone to my own devices.

I slowly walked back into the cabin looking at everything around me making sure not to miss anything. I decided to start my search in the left corner and work my way to the right. First thing first I walked over to a large set of cupboards and opened each to examine their contents, nothing out of the ordinary just cups, plates and your normal eating stuff. Moving along next was a small shelf full of old trinkets and knick-knacks from what looked like the late twenties early thirties. From what I could tell it was an older person who once called this place home, but when was this a home is what I wanted to know. After searching everywhere In the cottage I found nothing that you would not find in any other cottage just the necessities of humble life.

Then on my way out I saw an old sign above the door that seemed out of place it read

Below your feet lie all the answers to your questions

I was not sure if it meant it literally or if it belonged somewhere else, where it would make more sense.

But being the problem solver I am I got a chair and pulled it down to see if it looked more at home any where else in the small house. I scanned the walls for a place to put it but there was no room on the walls except by the washbasin, there was a poster of a young woman that was out of place. I pulled it down and what do you know there lie a faint out line of where the sign had been I hung it on the nail and stepped back. It fit perfect in the small space it had, then I started to think what if the sign was telling the truth.

I examined the floor below the sign and noticed that one of the floor boards was loose, I pulled it up and to my surprise there was a large suitcase resting in a built in pocket under the floor. Rising it out of the floor was easier said then done it weighed close to 50 pounds id say, but I managed to get it out and up on the table. It was made of dark brown leather with straps around its circumference, opening it was easy just Undo the straps and a clasp and boom I was done.

I slowly pried the lid open and I saw nothing but old clothes, what a bummer was hoping for hidden treasure or something. I rustled around in it tell my hand hit something rather firm, I cleared away the clothes and there was something that sparked my interest. It was a large black book with a gold metal binding and framing, it faint letters on the front read the guide to the unknown. Well what the hell does that mean guide to the unknown; with a quick glance at my watch, I saw it was a little after 12 id better get back. Throwing he book under my arm I made hast on the return trip, fallowing my own directions I found the path then it was left then right or was it right then left. I was quite perplexed for a moment but I had to go some direction and thankfully it was the right one, in a little under an hour I was back in time for leftovers.

Hiding the book under my coat I ran to my room and hid it under my mattress it would have to Waite tell another time.

Made my way to the kitchen and saw my dad awaiting my arrival

“Sorry for being late I don’t know what happened I lost time”

“Its ok I know how you get when you find something that you like” “find anything worth keeping”

“Uhhh no just some old clothes and dishes”…….”that’s all”

“Ok well there are a few sandwiches in the fridge for you”


With all the talk about me I for got what happened to Jacob

“Dad where’s Jacob and aunt Stacie”

“I took them to the little air strip down the way and had them flown into Denver”

“Is he going to be ok”?

“He will be fine”

That’s some weight off my mind now back to those sandwiches.

I was completely famished so after devouring the two sandwiches, I was off to my bed to see what my new book had in store

I walked in my room surprised to find one of the older boys lying on it watching a movie

“What the hell are you doing in my room?” I said

“ Just watching a movie don’t have a fit I will go”

I sit on the bed pull out the book and set it on my lap, slowly I flip open the cover and read

Once this book has been opened the unknown will become known

This did not mean too much to me so I flicked it open. The pages where blank then a very peculiar light began to originate from its pages it got brighter and brighter, the room began to shake. I attempted to close the book but my efforts where futile; the light fills the rooms tell nothing is visible. I through the book down and crawl under the covers of my bed and begin to cry.


Suddenly the light disappears and it’s silent once more, I peek my head out to see what’s going on but everything seems to be in order, the book lie closed on my floor. I reluctantly step down and tip toe around the book and run out into the living room “dad, dad” I screamed in terror but no one came, I searched the entire house and every one was gone. Maybe they all just went out so before I panic I will just wait for a while and maybe they will be back.

4 hours pass

I walk back into my room a pick the book back up it no longer looks old but bran new, the cover reads

The summoning of Kate mandrake

My mind began to panic because this was my name and this did not seem possible. I opened the book and it said in large words

The summoning

The life story of Kate mandrake

By the unknown

I turned the pages and they began to fill with words before my eyes, I soon began to realize that I recognized some of the happenings in this book, they where from my child hood up to now.

I ran to the door and slung it open and there was nothing but black.

That was twenty-two years ago so I recommend leaving the unknown

Unknown

This story was found by a group of explorers in a cabin under the after effects of an avalanche 5 years later there is no known record of a Kate mandrake

[Cordatus]

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