Wolf Man lay on his bed at 11:00 [p.m.], Christmas Eve. What if no one came? He could make a lot of noise and make sure someone came... [don't use ellipses] but by the time he got their attention, it wouldn’t be quiet. It had to be quiet on Christmas Eve, for the change to come.
So he waited, quietly. At last, an orderly poked his head through the doorway. Wolf Man groaned aloud. He could read the kid’s name badge tonight: “Scott.” [wouldn't he recognize him without having to read the name badge?] Scott, with the spindly goatee and the derisive sneer. Scott, the leader of the crowd of techs who liked to taunt the mute dog-man when they thought no one who could understand was listening. Who knew if anyone else would come around before dawn? And it was only 11:30: late enough that the curtains were opening, early enough that he couldn’t do much about it. [awkward]
So he groaned, again. Scott, about to close the door, sighed audibly and edged back in, still holding the doorknob. “What’s wrong, Dogbreath?” Wolf Man’s official records named him John Wilson, a dignified, humanizing name—even though it certainly wasn’t his name. The staff called him Wolf Man when the administrators weren’t around. He had left names behind long ago. [Why do they call him Wolf Man? Does he look like a wolf? Sound like a wolf? Act like a wolf?]
He stalked toward the boy-nurse, who shrank back against the door. He met the kid’s eye. Some staff would have known. Wolf Man made eye contact! Something’s up! [awkward]
But the kid averted his eyes like a pup under the alpha male’s paw. “I’ll check your medication!” he yelped, then slammed and locked the door. Wolf Man was classified non-violent, but he had a room to himself because he made patients nervous. The facility’s policies aimed to keep patients calm.
Midnight. The curtains lifted. The kid came back in, with a small paper cup. He glanced toward Wolf Man. “Brought more medication. The doctor said OK.”
“Put it down,” growled Wolf Man.
Scott started violently, and the pill went skittering across the floor, under the wardrobe. [good]
“Tell them I took it.” Words felt rough and unfamiliar, like they always did on Christmas Eve.
Scott’s eyes were as big as a cornered deer’s. “You—you talked.”
Wolf Man nodded, once. “Yeah. So talk to me.” He had to look on the bright side. At least tonight he could swear at the kid—quietly. It would feel good. Wolf Man sat in the desk chair and rubbed his face with his hairy hands. [what desk chair? we need a description of the room]
The kid gripped the doorknob tighter. “I’ve got to go find someone!”
Wolf Man surged out of the chair and grabbed the kid’s shoulder. “No!” The kid let go of the doorknob instantly, but Wolf Man kept his grip, so his hand wouldn’t shake. “You want to bring down a pack of shrinks on me?”
“W-well, yeah. They’re qualified to—” The kid’s eyes rolled around, looking for crutches. [awkward] “—to help. I’m just a tech, and—”
Wolf Man tossed the kid in the desk chair. “I’ve only got till dawn.”
“Dawn?” echoed the kid, curiosity joining the fear in his face.
“Dawn. And I can only talk to one person.” He reached for words that the shrink pack could understand. “Too stressful with more than one person around.” He jabbed his horn-nailed finger at the kid’s nose. “And you’re it. So talk.”
“The charge nurse is going to wonder where I went. They might be wondering already.” The kid’s eyes flitted to the tiny camera in the corner of the ceiling.
Wolf Man let out his breath in a rush, defeated. “Fine. But come back when you can.” He tried to meet the kid’s terrified eyes.
“Tracy’s on duty. She’d do better...”
“No!” His own vehemence surprised him. Scott and his gang of friends treated Wolf like—well, like a wolf. A wild dog, untamable, but good for baiting from a safe distance. Stacy [huh?] treated him like a pet dog. “You shouldn’t treat him like that! He’s a man with feelings, just like the rest of you!” But her eyes reflected the same fear of his implacable muteness. At least Scott was an honest jerk.
“OK, then. I’ll come back.”
Wolf paced until the door opened again and Scott slid back into the desk chair.
He raised a bushy eyebrow at the kid. “I’ve been talking to myself,” he said. “Dogbreath bet you’d run away.” The kid winced. “Wolf thought you’d come back. Dogbreath owes Wolf five bucks.” [good]
The kid met his eye with an obvious act of will. “I’m on break,” he said, “so we have to talk fast.”
Wolf motioned at the camera. “What about...?”
“Tracy said she’d cover for us as long as she could. She wanted to come in here herself.”
“How’d you keep her out?”
The kid’s ears turned pink. “Told her it might be dangerous, with you unstable like this.”
Wolf nodded. Mostly his mind had taken his reason without giving him a dog’s senses or power. But he knew Tracy smelled like fear.
“So, why’d you choose Christmas Eve?”
Wolf sat on the bed. “I didn’t choose it. It chooses me, every year. It’s like the old story. The animals can talk at midnight on Christmas Eve. I can talk until dawn—if I’m careful, and quiet.” He pushed his hands slowly toward each other, until they met with a clap. “Then the curtains close again.”
“But that’s...” The kid’s voice trailed off.
Wolf leaned back on his pillow. “Ridiculous, yeah. Or magical, or blessed. Probably delusional. It might go away with the right medication.” [good]
Scott leaned forward, some untapped germ of empathy itching at him, Wolf guessed. “Do you remember your name, or where you came from?”
Wolf shook his head. “Sometimes names come to me on Christmas Eve.” He pointed at the desk. “See? I’ve got paper and a pencil all ready.”
“You can write?”
Wolf sighed. This was going to be a long night. “So, talk.”
“Just...talk?”
“Yeah, and I’ll answer, and sometimes you’ll ask questions and I’ll answer, [awkward] and we’ll just sit here and be human together.” [good] Wolf folded his arms and waited.
“OK...” Scott’s gaze landed on the bridge of Wolf’s nose. “How about Christmas?”
Wolf nodded.
“I didn’t want to work tonight, but they pay double time if you work on Christmas. Before I left for work, my little sisters sprinkled oatmeal and glitter on the lawn for the reindeer.”
“Oatmeal? How do you sprinkle that?”
“Dry oatmeal. And we always got Pop-tarts in our stockings. They took up a lot of room, so my mom didn’t have to put a lot of other crap in there...”
By Stacy’s Christmas magic, no one came nosing in to find Scott. So when Scott finished, Wolf picked up. His sentences came out broken, incomplete, like his memories. “A trail in a forest. Or a park, maybe. And a stream—or a spring. Except the spring was in a different place. Rushing past me, too fast to hold. And a girl—a grown-up, beautiful girl. Reaching out to me, but the curtains were closing. ‘I can’t find you,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry.’ And the water again, carrying me away...” Scott somehow knew not to say anything. “Karen.” Scott sat up straight, his hand inching toward the pencil. “Karen...Foresman. Or Fordham...” The swirling black at the edges of his mind threatened to snap closed, but the sky outside was still dark. Wolf willed back the chaos, clenching his whole face with the effort. “Tell me some more about the Pop-tarts.”
So Scott talked about Pop-tarts, and sports cars, and the other techs and aides, and the girl he was dating, and the one he wanted to date. And then it was Wolf’s turn again. “Fordham. Yes. And Springdale.”
Scott frowned. “Springdale? Is that around here?”
Wolf shook his head. “No. But it’s...somewhere.” He could see the silhouette of the tree outside his window. The curtains shuddered, preparing to close. He turned his back to the window and crossed the room to where Scott sat, scribbling the important words. Wolf didn’t know if those names were right—or if they would be of any use if they were right. But now the kid’s eyes—Scott’s eyes—met his, human to human. He knelt down so their eyes were level.
The curtains were closing fast, with the morning light. Scott looked panicked. “What should I tell them? What can I do?”
“That fairytale?” Wolf grunted around his closing throat. “About the talking animals?” Scott nodded. Wolf gripped his right hand. “Some say the animals can talk on Christmas. Others say that people learn how to talk...to...animals...” [use dashes] They were still shaking hands when the words became growls, then a howl of anguish.
Someone squeezed his hand and rustled a piece of paper. Slowly, his eyes focused on the face in front of him—and met other eyes. Eyes that saw him. “I’ve got the names,” Scott said slowly. “I’ll do what I can—everything I can.”
With an effort, Wolf Man held his gaze, and, very slowly, nodded.
Work on punctuation and sentence structure. There are a few unanswered questions: How long has he been in here? If longer than a year, wouldn't the staff know this had happened in previous years and be expecting it?
You've got some typos and you mixed up Tracy/Stacy. I'd suggest dropping her altogether. She's really not needed for the story. Have Scott come in and stay in. It's night, there's not that much activity. Or make him be a janitor—no one would miss him if he was in a patient's room for a few hours. I want more detail to their conversation. And you need a better title.
What I liked best: Your unique twist on the myth that animals can talk on Christmas Eve. You've got some good phrases.
Magazine ready? Not quite. But I'd ask you to rewrite and resubmit next year because the concept is very good.
Showing posts with label 07 Christmas Published. Show all posts
Showing posts with label 07 Christmas Published. Show all posts
Saturday, December 15, 2007
Christmas 25: Stella Gratiae:* A Christmas Parable
Andrew sneaked into the living room before dawn Christmas morning and found it empty. Nothing. Only the tree, and even that looked dull and useless [lifeless?], its bottom half exposed, with cranberry strands and ribbons dangling off.
Andrew went over to his limp stocking and fished around inside. Was anything there? Had he really been left without any gifts at all? [awkward] Finally his fingers closed around something hard and smooth. He pulled it out and held it: a small yellow stone, with one word etched into it. GRATIAS.** [huh?]
What kind of a gift was that?
He rubbed and rubbed it, thinking that maybe it was some sort of genie-like magic, that if he wished on it enough all the gifts would appear. Nothing happened. Then Lydia ran into the room with his mom and dad. “We beat you!” she yelled. “You didn’t get to open anything yet!”
“That’s because there’s nothing to–“ Andrew began and then stopped as he watched Lydia. She ran towards the tree, made grabbing motions, and then acted as though she were tearing wrapping paper off a gift. “My new Nikki doll!” she said, cradling it.
“But there’s nothing there!” Andrew said. “Look!” He walked over to the tree, through the place where Lydia stood.
“Stop it!” she said. “You’re, you’re walking on top of the presents. No--you’re walking through the presents!”
“Andrew!” his mother said. “Hold still. You’re turning into a ghost!”
Andrew stopped.
“Here, open something,” his father said, handing him a box. [If my child were turning into a ghost, I wouldn't give him a present to open. I'd be totally freaking out.]
As Andrew reached for the gift his hands passed through. He felt a cold whoosh of air, but nothing solid. [why can he see this one but not the others?]
“That’s the strangest thing I ever saw,” said his father. He looked puzzled, not angry. Andrew was relieved. He did not want to be blamed for making all his presents disappear. “Try this one instead.”
So Andrew tried the next present. And the next, and the next. As his sister Lydia opened gifts and squealed, he tried to touch present after present. Finally his parents decided to open his gifts for him, and tell him about them. [now he can see them? need some transition]
“Here’s your new Lego set! The Imperial Destroyer!” his father said. He gave Andrew an uncertain smile.
“Wow, thanks.” Andrew said. If he could have seen [awkward] the Imperial Destroyer, he would have whooped and torn it open and started to build it right then. But now, with the gift his and not-his at the same time, he felt both grateful and angry. But he said nothing. Lydia was squealing over another present, and although Andrew felt like throwing a tantrum, he did not want to spoil Christmas morning anymore than it already was. [This is his first generous thought. Some change needs to happen here.]
His mom opening his presents for him. [awkward] “This one’s from Auntie Erin, and let me see, it’s a new sweater. It matches those pants Grandma sent you. I think it fits you pretty well.” [Mom won't know if it fits until after she puts it on him.] She pulled it over his head for him. Andrew looked down. If he wore all his new Christmas clothes he would be the opposite of the Emperor in that fairy tale: naked to himself but clothed to everyone else. [good]
“Is this some kind of joke?” he asked. He tried to keep his voice nice; he tried not to show how upset he was. [another thoughtful act; he wants to spare their feelings] “Are there really presents for me, and I just can’t see them? Did I do something wrong?” He did not mean to cry, but his chin quivered anyway.
“Sweetheart, no!” his mother said. “Oh no, we would never do anything so mean!”
Andrew sniffled a little and managed to keep calm. But only just barely. He sat in his invisible sweater and watched as his parents and sister pantomimed their way through Christmas morning. They glanced over at him, eyes sympathetic, and he tried to smile back. He stuffed his fists in the pockets of his robe and felt the stone. He fingered it, brought it out, looked at it again. Bright yellow, smooth and shining. [see note at bottom]
“What’s that, Andrew?” his mother asked.
“Just a rock,” he told her. For some reason, he did not want her to inspect it.
“Boring old gray rock,” Lydia said, coming over to look at it. “What did you pick it up for?”
“It’s not–“ Andrew began, but then he stopped. “I just liked it, that’s all,” he said. [I like that they can't see its color.]
Lydia and his mother returned to their gifts. Did they care about him? Were they just writing off the disappearance of his gifts as something odd, instead of devastating? [He's being selfish again.]
Andrew smoothed the stone. His mother admired a new serving dish, his sister dressed her new doll. Andrew curled his fingers around the stone’s edges, hefted its weight. As he played with the stone, he began to calm down, to feel a little less angry. It was true that he couldn’t see his presents. But he had been given good ones. [gratitude moment] And even with his own presents unseen, the room held an abundance of gifts. [I thought he couldn't see their gifts either.]
Still holding the stone, Andrew went into his bedroom and looked at all his old toys. His box full of Legos, organized by size and color. His matchbox cars, lined up on their shelf. The electric train tracks, the talking globe, the transformers.
They were pretty good toys. Not new, not wrapped in paper and different and exciting. But pretty good. [awkward] He pulled out the trains and began to play with them, winding the track in crosses and circles around his bedroom. He stuck the yellow stone in the engine and watched it scoot down the track. Gold mist trailed behind. He watched the mist as it swirled in little puffs behind the train cars. He breathed deeply. It smelled like the air just before it rains, damp and clean.
Andrew felt someone watching him and turned around. It was Lydia. “I’m sorry about your presents,” she said. “I made this for you, just now, and I brought it straight to you so it wouldn’t disappear like the other ones.” She held it out to him: a wrapped square. He opened it and found a picture of himself, drawn by Lydia. Lydia was only seven, but it still looked a little like him, with his nose and his cowlick sticking up in back. [why can he see this one?]
“I’ll put it right on my desk,” he said. “Thanks, Lydia.” He was surprised at how grateful he felt. Lydia beamed. [gratitude moment]
“I’ve always wanted to make one for you,” she said, “but I just never did before.” [in their entire lifetime, she's never drawn a picture for him? Why not?]
“I’m glad you did today,” he told her. She knelt with him on the floor and together they watched the glowing train wind around its path. [contrast this with how he acted before]
Behind them, Andrew’s mother and father came in. Andrew smelled cinnamon. “I don’t know why your gifts disappeared,” his mother said, “but I made your favorite French toast for breakfast. It’s not like your other gifts, but you can eat as much as you want.”
“Thanks, Mom,” Andrew said. Suddenly he felt very thankful for French toast and all the times she had made it the way he liked it, out of raisin bread, with cinnamon-apple topping.
“I’ve been trying to think of something good to give you, too,” his dad said. “And I don’t have much at hand. I keep shaking your presents and wondering why you can’t see them or touch them.” He handed Andrew a piece of paper. “I O U a fishing trip,” it read. [he can see and touch this?]
“I’ve never taken you ice fishing before,” his dad said. “and I know someone who can let us borrow his ice shack.” He looked at Andrew and his face was anxious. Andrew could tell he really wanted it to be okay. “It’s got a heater,” his dad added.
“That would be great,” Andrew said. He’d never been fishing with his father before. “Thanks, Dad.”
He hugged them all. He still didn’t understand why his gifts had disappeared. And, in spite of the glowing stone, and its sweet-scented mist, he missed his new unseen presents. He wanted to keep the stone, and the gifts it had brought, and also have all the presents back. He wanted to play with the Legos and admire the careful brush strokes on Lydia’s picture. He wanted to see his new sweater and wear it ice fishing.
If all his presents had not disappeared, would he still be going ice fishing? Would he be eating French toast for breakfast? Would Lydia have worked so hard on a picture for him? Or maybe, Andrew thought, he would have had all those things, but he wouldn’t have appreciated them.
“Come to breakfast; it’s ready,” his mom said. His family left to go into the kitchen.
Andrew stayed back a minute and watched the train round the final bend. He pulled the stone out of the engine. It shone in his hand. The writing had changed. Instead of GRATIAS, it said JOY.
On his way into the kitchen for breakfast, he placed the glowing stone at the top of their Christmas tree, in the hollow between two branches.
*Star of Grace
**Gratitude
Watch for punctuation, sentence structure. Make it flow a little more smoothly. Pump up the sensory items. I'm not sure why you use the two foreign words. There needs to be a clear reason, or it's just distracting.
You need to clue us in to his previous ingratitude or greed or something, so there's a reason why he'd only get that rock in his stocking. We need a Christmas Eve scene that shows Andrew as ungrateful, greedy, and mean to his sister, so that we understand why he needs to change.
The idea of the invisible gifts teaching the boy gratitude is a great one, but you've got some missing pieces that need to be addressed. How old is Andrew? Why aren't his parents upset? Why can he see some gifts but not others? Does he ever see the gifts? The invisibility should only last until the child learns the lesson. You need a tighter resolution. We need to see more of a change in him.
What I liked best: The basic concept. It is intriguing and I think you can do a lot with it.
Magazine ready? No. But if you rewrote it to make a stronger story, I'd like to see it again.
Andrew went over to his limp stocking and fished around inside. Was anything there? Had he really been left without any gifts at all? [awkward] Finally his fingers closed around something hard and smooth. He pulled it out and held it: a small yellow stone, with one word etched into it. GRATIAS.** [huh?]
What kind of a gift was that?
He rubbed and rubbed it, thinking that maybe it was some sort of genie-like magic, that if he wished on it enough all the gifts would appear. Nothing happened. Then Lydia ran into the room with his mom and dad. “We beat you!” she yelled. “You didn’t get to open anything yet!”
“That’s because there’s nothing to–“ Andrew began and then stopped as he watched Lydia. She ran towards the tree, made grabbing motions, and then acted as though she were tearing wrapping paper off a gift. “My new Nikki doll!” she said, cradling it.
“But there’s nothing there!” Andrew said. “Look!” He walked over to the tree, through the place where Lydia stood.
“Stop it!” she said. “You’re, you’re walking on top of the presents. No--you’re walking through the presents!”
“Andrew!” his mother said. “Hold still. You’re turning into a ghost!”
Andrew stopped.
“Here, open something,” his father said, handing him a box. [If my child were turning into a ghost, I wouldn't give him a present to open. I'd be totally freaking out.]
As Andrew reached for the gift his hands passed through. He felt a cold whoosh of air, but nothing solid. [why can he see this one but not the others?]
“That’s the strangest thing I ever saw,” said his father. He looked puzzled, not angry. Andrew was relieved. He did not want to be blamed for making all his presents disappear. “Try this one instead.”
So Andrew tried the next present. And the next, and the next. As his sister Lydia opened gifts and squealed, he tried to touch present after present. Finally his parents decided to open his gifts for him, and tell him about them. [now he can see them? need some transition]
“Here’s your new Lego set! The Imperial Destroyer!” his father said. He gave Andrew an uncertain smile.
“Wow, thanks.” Andrew said. If he could have seen [awkward] the Imperial Destroyer, he would have whooped and torn it open and started to build it right then. But now, with the gift his and not-his at the same time, he felt both grateful and angry. But he said nothing. Lydia was squealing over another present, and although Andrew felt like throwing a tantrum, he did not want to spoil Christmas morning anymore than it already was. [This is his first generous thought. Some change needs to happen here.]
His mom opening his presents for him. [awkward] “This one’s from Auntie Erin, and let me see, it’s a new sweater. It matches those pants Grandma sent you. I think it fits you pretty well.” [Mom won't know if it fits until after she puts it on him.] She pulled it over his head for him. Andrew looked down. If he wore all his new Christmas clothes he would be the opposite of the Emperor in that fairy tale: naked to himself but clothed to everyone else. [good]
“Is this some kind of joke?” he asked. He tried to keep his voice nice; he tried not to show how upset he was. [another thoughtful act; he wants to spare their feelings] “Are there really presents for me, and I just can’t see them? Did I do something wrong?” He did not mean to cry, but his chin quivered anyway.
“Sweetheart, no!” his mother said. “Oh no, we would never do anything so mean!”
Andrew sniffled a little and managed to keep calm. But only just barely. He sat in his invisible sweater and watched as his parents and sister pantomimed their way through Christmas morning. They glanced over at him, eyes sympathetic, and he tried to smile back. He stuffed his fists in the pockets of his robe and felt the stone. He fingered it, brought it out, looked at it again. Bright yellow, smooth and shining. [see note at bottom]
“What’s that, Andrew?” his mother asked.
“Just a rock,” he told her. For some reason, he did not want her to inspect it.
“Boring old gray rock,” Lydia said, coming over to look at it. “What did you pick it up for?”
“It’s not–“ Andrew began, but then he stopped. “I just liked it, that’s all,” he said. [I like that they can't see its color.]
Lydia and his mother returned to their gifts. Did they care about him? Were they just writing off the disappearance of his gifts as something odd, instead of devastating? [He's being selfish again.]
Andrew smoothed the stone. His mother admired a new serving dish, his sister dressed her new doll. Andrew curled his fingers around the stone’s edges, hefted its weight. As he played with the stone, he began to calm down, to feel a little less angry. It was true that he couldn’t see his presents. But he had been given good ones. [gratitude moment] And even with his own presents unseen, the room held an abundance of gifts. [I thought he couldn't see their gifts either.]
Still holding the stone, Andrew went into his bedroom and looked at all his old toys. His box full of Legos, organized by size and color. His matchbox cars, lined up on their shelf. The electric train tracks, the talking globe, the transformers.
They were pretty good toys. Not new, not wrapped in paper and different and exciting. But pretty good. [awkward] He pulled out the trains and began to play with them, winding the track in crosses and circles around his bedroom. He stuck the yellow stone in the engine and watched it scoot down the track. Gold mist trailed behind. He watched the mist as it swirled in little puffs behind the train cars. He breathed deeply. It smelled like the air just before it rains, damp and clean.
Andrew felt someone watching him and turned around. It was Lydia. “I’m sorry about your presents,” she said. “I made this for you, just now, and I brought it straight to you so it wouldn’t disappear like the other ones.” She held it out to him: a wrapped square. He opened it and found a picture of himself, drawn by Lydia. Lydia was only seven, but it still looked a little like him, with his nose and his cowlick sticking up in back. [why can he see this one?]
“I’ll put it right on my desk,” he said. “Thanks, Lydia.” He was surprised at how grateful he felt. Lydia beamed. [gratitude moment]
“I’ve always wanted to make one for you,” she said, “but I just never did before.” [in their entire lifetime, she's never drawn a picture for him? Why not?]
“I’m glad you did today,” he told her. She knelt with him on the floor and together they watched the glowing train wind around its path. [contrast this with how he acted before]
Behind them, Andrew’s mother and father came in. Andrew smelled cinnamon. “I don’t know why your gifts disappeared,” his mother said, “but I made your favorite French toast for breakfast. It’s not like your other gifts, but you can eat as much as you want.”
“Thanks, Mom,” Andrew said. Suddenly he felt very thankful for French toast and all the times she had made it the way he liked it, out of raisin bread, with cinnamon-apple topping.
“I’ve been trying to think of something good to give you, too,” his dad said. “And I don’t have much at hand. I keep shaking your presents and wondering why you can’t see them or touch them.” He handed Andrew a piece of paper. “I O U a fishing trip,” it read. [he can see and touch this?]
“I’ve never taken you ice fishing before,” his dad said. “and I know someone who can let us borrow his ice shack.” He looked at Andrew and his face was anxious. Andrew could tell he really wanted it to be okay. “It’s got a heater,” his dad added.
“That would be great,” Andrew said. He’d never been fishing with his father before. “Thanks, Dad.”
He hugged them all. He still didn’t understand why his gifts had disappeared. And, in spite of the glowing stone, and its sweet-scented mist, he missed his new unseen presents. He wanted to keep the stone, and the gifts it had brought, and also have all the presents back. He wanted to play with the Legos and admire the careful brush strokes on Lydia’s picture. He wanted to see his new sweater and wear it ice fishing.
If all his presents had not disappeared, would he still be going ice fishing? Would he be eating French toast for breakfast? Would Lydia have worked so hard on a picture for him? Or maybe, Andrew thought, he would have had all those things, but he wouldn’t have appreciated them.
“Come to breakfast; it’s ready,” his mom said. His family left to go into the kitchen.
Andrew stayed back a minute and watched the train round the final bend. He pulled the stone out of the engine. It shone in his hand. The writing had changed. Instead of GRATIAS, it said JOY.
On his way into the kitchen for breakfast, he placed the glowing stone at the top of their Christmas tree, in the hollow between two branches.
*Star of Grace
**Gratitude
Watch for punctuation, sentence structure. Make it flow a little more smoothly. Pump up the sensory items. I'm not sure why you use the two foreign words. There needs to be a clear reason, or it's just distracting.
You need to clue us in to his previous ingratitude or greed or something, so there's a reason why he'd only get that rock in his stocking. We need a Christmas Eve scene that shows Andrew as ungrateful, greedy, and mean to his sister, so that we understand why he needs to change.
The idea of the invisible gifts teaching the boy gratitude is a great one, but you've got some missing pieces that need to be addressed. How old is Andrew? Why aren't his parents upset? Why can he see some gifts but not others? Does he ever see the gifts? The invisibility should only last until the child learns the lesson. You need a tighter resolution. We need to see more of a change in him.
What I liked best: The basic concept. It is intriguing and I think you can do a lot with it.
Magazine ready? No. But if you rewrote it to make a stronger story, I'd like to see it again.
Friday, December 14, 2007
Christmas 21: No Tree for Christmas
Poor! Too poor even to buy a Christmas tree. Mary sunk deeper into gloom as she heard a passing carriage outside the window of the small brick house she and her husband John had rented. She glanced up to see that the evening snow had begun falling. Mary felt guilty for the heaviness in her heart. Christmas is a time for joy, not sorrow and worry. It's a time to remember the birth of Christ, she reprimanded herself, and it can be done without a tree or gifts.
Mary had grown up in a well-to-do family. Her father had emigrated from England and had quickly built up a mercantile business in Heber City, Utah, and the family had never lacked. She had fallen in love with her father's head clerk—handsome John. They married, and after a few children, found that the store couldn't support everyone on the payroll. So, young and hopeful, she and John moved their family to Salt Lake City in hopes of a bright future. So far, the only work John had found was carpentry. [delete]
She remembered back to a few nights before. After the children had gone to bed, she and John sat alone before the fireplace in the parlor. "To make ends meet," John said grimly, "we will forego buying a tree. We have no money to buy gifts for the children, let alone each other. I'm sorry, Mary. This Christmas won't be what you are used to. I feel I have let you and the children down. I would have never left Heber if I'd know it would be this hard." [delete]
[make this real time, not a memory] She could feel her husband's tenseness and worry. "It's alright, John," she said, rubbing his tired shoulders. "Christmas is all about Christ's birth, not about trees and presents. We will be happy, you'll see." She reminded him that there would be gifts, and they were ready for Christmas morning. She had stuffed and dressed rag dolls for their four daughters, and John had cut and sanded woodblocks for the two boys.
"It's not much," was his only answer. [then he leaves to go outside.]
[make real time; more active] She had promised to be happy, so why did she feel so disappointed? Every time she passed the empty spot in the parlor where an evergreen should stand, and where her younger children now quietly played, it shouted the absence of a tree and echoed the void in her heart. She said a silent prayer. "Please, Father, forgive me. Help me remember that Thy son's birth is the best gift of all."
Mary came out of her thoughts when John entered the yard, and seeing him made her heart lighten. He was a good, hardworking and devoted man. [why are they so poor. Good place to put a very short reason.] She loved him and tried hard to wisely budget his meager earnings. After paying the rent on the house, there was barely enough left for food, let alone anything else.
Through the window she watched John lean his homemade ladder against the tall evergreen in the yard. The sight of the ladder sinking [at first pictured sinking into the ground] and almost disappearing into the tree's glistening branches made her rise suddenly from her chair. "That's it!" she said.
"What, Mother? What?" asked the children from the parlor. [need some reference to the children in the parlor sooner; introduce them into the story with name and age]
"Tomorrow is Christmas Eve," Mary called happily. "We have a lot of work to do to be ready."
[writing improves starting here; rewrite the first part with the same liveliness]
The next day, Mary took the children out scavenging in the nearby hills. They gathered evergreen boughs, mistletoe and all the berries they could find. [develop this scene, add some description of what each child did, include some lively dialog] "It's all a surprise for Father," Mary explained to the children. Home again, Mary went to work as the children chattered happily and thawed their fingers by the wood stove. Then they strung the berries, hung mistletoe, and cleaned the evergreen branches.
After dark, John arrived home exhausted and dragging the ladder. Mary flung opened [open] the front door. "John, don't put up the ladder. Bring it into the parlor," she called.
"Into the parlor? Does something need fixing?" he asked. The children stood hidden, the smallest ones behind Mary's skirt, shushing one another.
"No, John." Mary laughed. "Just bring it in."
John brought the ladder to the porch, shook it off a bit, and carefully lifted it through the front door. "Why would you want this old, ugly thing in the parlor?"
"Now don't be asking questions. Set it up here in the corner," Mary directed. The children, smirking now, stood back while John steadied the ladder. He turned and eyed the children suspiciously. "What's going on here?"
Mary took his arm and pulled him toward the kitchen. "We have a surprise and you mustn't see until later."
"It's a conspiracy, I know," John said. The children squealed and giggled as they pushed the door closed behind him.
After only a few minutes, and back in the kitchen, they all sat around the table, eating dinner, the parlor door closed. "You all act as if St. Nicholas himself is in there," John said, taking a bite of home-preserved peaches.
"You found out our secret," Wallace, the oldest said, feigning disappointment.
"We will show you our surprise later," Mary said, handing John the bread bowl. "But not until the evening chores are done." She had directed the comment toward the children. They moaned.
Finally, with dishes done, floor swept, and the children dressed in nightgowns and pajamas, the anticipated moment arrived. Mary opened the door only wide enough to slip through. "Wait here a moment while I get everything ready," she whispered to the children. "And make sure
your father doesn't peek."
In great excitement, the children took hold of John's legs and hands, and chanted, "No peeking! No peeking!" In a moment, the door quietly opened and the mood of the little family changed. They stepped lightly into the room, wide eyed and in awe at the sight before them. Evergreen boughs and strung berries now graced the old ladder, and candles flickered, balancing delicately in the boughs.
John stood, stunned by the awesome scene. "Mary, you're a wonder," he finally managed to say. "This is the most beautiful sight."
"Don't give me all the credit. The children helped, too."
John pulled his little ones around him. "Go get your stockings and we will hang them on the hearth." The children cheered and scooted out of the room. John pulled Mary close to him and kissed her firmly. "That's for making it a wonderful Christmas."
[from here] "I wish I had a gift for you," she said.
"This is the best gift—turning what looked like a bleak Christmas into a magical one."
The children returned. John lifted the smallest child so that she could hang her stocking with the others. Wallace brought the Bible to John and he read the account of the Savior's birth. When finished, he closed the book. "This is the true meaning of Christmas: that Christ
came to the earth to save all mankind."
There was a moment of silence as John's words settled into their hearts. Then Wallace began to sing "Silent Night" and they all joined in. The simplicity of the moment struck Mary as nothing had before. Her thoughts turned to a stable, a young mother, and a baby. No pomp had attended them those many years ago. Shepherds came, and later, wise men would find Him, bringing gifts. She listened to the angelic voices of her children, their faces glowing, and to her they sounded as heavenly as any angelic choir could have. Her children would have gifts in the years to come, but this year, they received the best gift—of knowing the true spirit of Christmas. Her tears blurred the candlelight with the last strains of the carol… With the dawn of redeeming grace, Jesus, Lord, at thy birth! [to here, is another story. This story is about the ladder tree; this part dilutes the impact.]
After putting out the candles, Mary tucked the children into their beds, and John, exhausted from his day's work, gladly crawled into his own. Mary carried the oil lamp into the parlor to have one last look at the beautiful "tree." Hearing footsteps, she turned to find Wallace standing beside her. "Mama, can we have a ladder Christmas tree every year? I like it lots better than a plain old tree everybody else has."
Surprised at his words, a lump caught in her throat. She whispered, "Yes, we can—every year, if you wish." [end here]
He hugged her and pattered back to his bed. Alone in the parlor, she whispered, "Thank you, Father, for giving us this precious gift."
Welcome, Christmas! Just as every year, even without the evergreen, Christmas had come again.
There's too much of an info dump at the beginning. Cut the second and third paragraphs. They're not really needed. Make it more active in the beginning. After Mary has her idea, it moves at a good pace.
What I liked best: The unique idea of making a tree from the ladder.
Magazine ready? Not quite, but very close. Although I've indicated it needs reworking, the parts that work are very good. I have no doubt you will be able to rewrite and polish to get into next year's edition of my imaginary Christmas magazine.
Mary had grown up in a well-to-do family. Her father had emigrated from England and had quickly built up a mercantile business in Heber City, Utah, and the family had never lacked. She had fallen in love with her father's head clerk—handsome John. They married, and after a few children, found that the store couldn't support everyone on the payroll. So, young and hopeful, she and John moved their family to Salt Lake City in hopes of a bright future. So far, the only work John had found was carpentry. [delete]
She remembered back to a few nights before. After the children had gone to bed, she and John sat alone before the fireplace in the parlor. "To make ends meet," John said grimly, "we will forego buying a tree. We have no money to buy gifts for the children, let alone each other. I'm sorry, Mary. This Christmas won't be what you are used to. I feel I have let you and the children down. I would have never left Heber if I'd know it would be this hard." [delete]
[make this real time, not a memory] She could feel her husband's tenseness and worry. "It's alright, John," she said, rubbing his tired shoulders. "Christmas is all about Christ's birth, not about trees and presents. We will be happy, you'll see." She reminded him that there would be gifts, and they were ready for Christmas morning. She had stuffed and dressed rag dolls for their four daughters, and John had cut and sanded woodblocks for the two boys.
"It's not much," was his only answer. [then he leaves to go outside.]
[make real time; more active] She had promised to be happy, so why did she feel so disappointed? Every time she passed the empty spot in the parlor where an evergreen should stand, and where her younger children now quietly played, it shouted the absence of a tree and echoed the void in her heart. She said a silent prayer. "Please, Father, forgive me. Help me remember that Thy son's birth is the best gift of all."
Mary came out of her thoughts when John entered the yard, and seeing him made her heart lighten. He was a good, hardworking and devoted man. [why are they so poor. Good place to put a very short reason.] She loved him and tried hard to wisely budget his meager earnings. After paying the rent on the house, there was barely enough left for food, let alone anything else.
Through the window she watched John lean his homemade ladder against the tall evergreen in the yard. The sight of the ladder sinking [at first pictured sinking into the ground] and almost disappearing into the tree's glistening branches made her rise suddenly from her chair. "That's it!" she said.
"What, Mother? What?" asked the children from the parlor. [need some reference to the children in the parlor sooner; introduce them into the story with name and age]
"Tomorrow is Christmas Eve," Mary called happily. "We have a lot of work to do to be ready."
[writing improves starting here; rewrite the first part with the same liveliness]
The next day, Mary took the children out scavenging in the nearby hills. They gathered evergreen boughs, mistletoe and all the berries they could find. [develop this scene, add some description of what each child did, include some lively dialog] "It's all a surprise for Father," Mary explained to the children. Home again, Mary went to work as the children chattered happily and thawed their fingers by the wood stove. Then they strung the berries, hung mistletoe, and cleaned the evergreen branches.
After dark, John arrived home exhausted and dragging the ladder. Mary flung opened [open] the front door. "John, don't put up the ladder. Bring it into the parlor," she called.
"Into the parlor? Does something need fixing?" he asked. The children stood hidden, the smallest ones behind Mary's skirt, shushing one another.
"No, John." Mary laughed. "Just bring it in."
John brought the ladder to the porch, shook it off a bit, and carefully lifted it through the front door. "Why would you want this old, ugly thing in the parlor?"
"Now don't be asking questions. Set it up here in the corner," Mary directed. The children, smirking now, stood back while John steadied the ladder. He turned and eyed the children suspiciously. "What's going on here?"
Mary took his arm and pulled him toward the kitchen. "We have a surprise and you mustn't see until later."
"It's a conspiracy, I know," John said. The children squealed and giggled as they pushed the door closed behind him.
After only a few minutes, and back in the kitchen, they all sat around the table, eating dinner, the parlor door closed. "You all act as if St. Nicholas himself is in there," John said, taking a bite of home-preserved peaches.
"You found out our secret," Wallace, the oldest said, feigning disappointment.
"We will show you our surprise later," Mary said, handing John the bread bowl. "But not until the evening chores are done." She had directed the comment toward the children. They moaned.
Finally, with dishes done, floor swept, and the children dressed in nightgowns and pajamas, the anticipated moment arrived. Mary opened the door only wide enough to slip through. "Wait here a moment while I get everything ready," she whispered to the children. "And make sure
your father doesn't peek."
In great excitement, the children took hold of John's legs and hands, and chanted, "No peeking! No peeking!" In a moment, the door quietly opened and the mood of the little family changed. They stepped lightly into the room, wide eyed and in awe at the sight before them. Evergreen boughs and strung berries now graced the old ladder, and candles flickered, balancing delicately in the boughs.
John stood, stunned by the awesome scene. "Mary, you're a wonder," he finally managed to say. "This is the most beautiful sight."
"Don't give me all the credit. The children helped, too."
John pulled his little ones around him. "Go get your stockings and we will hang them on the hearth." The children cheered and scooted out of the room. John pulled Mary close to him and kissed her firmly. "That's for making it a wonderful Christmas."
[from here] "I wish I had a gift for you," she said.
"This is the best gift—turning what looked like a bleak Christmas into a magical one."
The children returned. John lifted the smallest child so that she could hang her stocking with the others. Wallace brought the Bible to John and he read the account of the Savior's birth. When finished, he closed the book. "This is the true meaning of Christmas: that Christ
came to the earth to save all mankind."
There was a moment of silence as John's words settled into their hearts. Then Wallace began to sing "Silent Night" and they all joined in. The simplicity of the moment struck Mary as nothing had before. Her thoughts turned to a stable, a young mother, and a baby. No pomp had attended them those many years ago. Shepherds came, and later, wise men would find Him, bringing gifts. She listened to the angelic voices of her children, their faces glowing, and to her they sounded as heavenly as any angelic choir could have. Her children would have gifts in the years to come, but this year, they received the best gift—of knowing the true spirit of Christmas. Her tears blurred the candlelight with the last strains of the carol… With the dawn of redeeming grace, Jesus, Lord, at thy birth! [to here, is another story. This story is about the ladder tree; this part dilutes the impact.]
After putting out the candles, Mary tucked the children into their beds, and John, exhausted from his day's work, gladly crawled into his own. Mary carried the oil lamp into the parlor to have one last look at the beautiful "tree." Hearing footsteps, she turned to find Wallace standing beside her. "Mama, can we have a ladder Christmas tree every year? I like it lots better than a plain old tree everybody else has."
Surprised at his words, a lump caught in her throat. She whispered, "Yes, we can—every year, if you wish." [end here]
He hugged her and pattered back to his bed. Alone in the parlor, she whispered, "Thank you, Father, for giving us this precious gift."
Welcome, Christmas! Just as every year, even without the evergreen, Christmas had come again.
There's too much of an info dump at the beginning. Cut the second and third paragraphs. They're not really needed. Make it more active in the beginning. After Mary has her idea, it moves at a good pace.
What I liked best: The unique idea of making a tree from the ladder.
Magazine ready? Not quite, but very close. Although I've indicated it needs reworking, the parts that work are very good. I have no doubt you will be able to rewrite and polish to get into next year's edition of my imaginary Christmas magazine.
Christmas 20: I'll Cry for Christmas
I don't cry. And just because Christmas was five days away and I didn't have a dollar to my name didn't mean I was going to start. I lost my job a week ago because, let's just say, me and my employer don't get along the way he'd like.
I know what you're thinking. People like me are trash. We're the lowest of the low class, lazy, schmoozing, worthless trash.
But I'm not trash. My ex-husband Jimmy was and I guess when you hang out with trash you get some on you. He left me with two kids, no car, rent payment past due, and a pile of empty liquor bottles.
That was two years ago. I thought things were getting better, but life keeps dumping on us and I feel like I'm constantly crawling up the trash heap and trying to keep my two kids clean from it in the process. [you hit the "trash" analogy a little too hard; go back and weed some out.]
I had worked at a posh [with the attitude you've set up, I don't think she'd use the word "posh"--maybe "snooty"] department store for the last year. Every day I waited on people who had more money than I could even fathom. I hated Christmas because it was a reminder to me of how little I had.
To say I was cynical would be the understatement of the year. I hated those people. I helped them purchase hundreds of dollars of merchandise every day and then watched as they passed by the Giving Tree without a glance. Dozens of little gold and silver bells with name tags for less fortunate children hung from the Christmas tree. I would never understand how people could have so much yet give so little.
As much as I despised Christmas, I was trying to come up with some way to make it special for my girls. Our store had given every employee a red silk blouse to wear during the holidays. We could return it at the end of the season for ten dollars in store credit. I hadn't considered it before because I knew the blouse was worth a lot more than ten dollars.
Yesterday, I sat on our stained loveseat and looked at the pile of change I had found and the blouse lying in a graceful heap beside it. What a Christmas! I could return the silk blouse for credit at the department store where I couldn't afford to shop, but first I had to have it dry cleaned. [How much does it cost to dry clean a silk blouse? If all she's getting is $10 minus the cleaning bill, she'd be better off selling it] If my idea didn't work then all my hard work to prove we weren't trash would go unnoticed when Santa passed by our house on Christmas Eve.
So I left Maddy and Becky with Mrs. Fenton across the hall and hurried to the dry cleaner's. [needs some transition; describe the cold, what she sees and hears] I held the plastic wrapped red silk carefully and cursed the disgusting smells of public transportation as I traveled across town. I dreaded walking into the mall, but I had to do it. I went to the employment office and returned my blouse without incident. I held the gift card tightly as I entered the store. My stomach fluttered as I approached Carol, a woman I had worked with for over a year. To call her a friend would be a bit of a stretch because I didn't have any, but right now that's what I needed her to be.
"Hi Carol," I said.
"Merrilee, how are you?" She tried to hide her surprise but the way she said it, I knew the boss had been spreading rumors about me.
"I need a favor." I paused and tried to lift the corners of my mouth into some semblance of a smile. "I returned my blouse for the ten dollar gift card and I wanted to know if you could use it."
Carol hesitated until realization dawned on her. "Sure, honey. You know I always have my eye on something here. Let me grab my purse." She reached under the counter and I held my breath.
"Thanks so much. This means a lot." I struggled to get the words out as Carol handed me a ten dollar bill.
"No problem."
I almost walked past the Giving Tree before I noticed that no little bells hung from the branches.
"Carol, what happened to the Giving Tree?"
"Some woman came in yesterday and took every ornament that was left and arranged to deliver gifts." Carol raised her eyebrows. "You know, she didn't look like she even had that kind of money. Like someone who'd never shopped at our store before."
"Oh." My heart tingled and my throat felt tight. A piece of my cynic's armor figuratively fell to the ground.
"Merry Christmas," Carol said.
I gave her a weak smile and a wave.
The bus was late so I decided to head home before Mrs. Fenton got restless with my six and eight year old girls. [introduce their age earlier] Tomorrow I would find something just right for their Christmas present. I wanted to laugh out loud at myself. Ten dollars and I was going to find something just right. Becky and Maddy were the sweetest little girls around, what had they done to deserve a Christmas like this?
Later that night, the girls and I fixed our last box of macaroni and cheese and then we cuddled in a blanket and read Christmas stories. I tried to keep my mind on the stories but it kept straying as I wondered if there was anything I could pawn to get some extra money. I sighed because there was nothing. Maybe we were trash; we didn't even own anything worth more than a trip to the junk yard. [if they just ate their last box of mac & cheese, shouldn't she be planning how to buy food and not presents?]
Becky and Maddy went to bed early and I sat on the old loveseat and tried to contemplate what had happened to my life. A light knock on the flimsy apartment door startled me. I crept toward the door and opened it just a crack.
"Merry Christmas!" cheerful voices rang out.
I jumped back and the door strained against the chain still in place. I quickly removed it and opened the door. "Are you looking for someone?"
"Not anymore Merrilee," a middle-aged woman said and she held out a small silver bell with a tag attached to it. I took it and my hand shook as I recognized my name and age on the tag. [How did her name get on the tree?]
"I have one too!" A little girl about Maddy's age jumped up and down with a golden bell tinkling in her hand.
"Mine first," a voice called out. I looked down to see another little girl pushing her way around her father's leg.
I took the bells and read: Becky age 8, Maddy age 6 . When I looked up, the father had stepped aside and was lifting a huge box filled with Christmas presents. "May I put this inside?" he asked with a huge smile.
I didn't know what to say. I nodded my head in confusion.
"I'll be right back," he said and winked.
"Look, look we have more." One of the little girls squealed as her mother lifted another box and carried it into my apartment.
"But how—" I started to ask and my lip trembled.
"It's Christmas that's how. Miracles happen every day and twice a day around Christmas." She reached her arms toward me in a hug. "I hope you and your girls have a wonderful Christmas, this is for you to open after we leave." She handed me a card in a beautiful silver envelope.
I heard more squeals of delight as someone called out, "Ho, ho ho!" I looked up as the girls danced around their father carrying in a beautiful Christmas tree. It was small, but the perfect size for our apartment. He handed me a sack full of ornaments and quickly set up the tree. [If they're poor, the apartment is small. Wouldn't all the ringing voices, squealing and dancing around done by the family wake the girls up?]
"I can't believe it," I mumbled. "How did you know?"
"Daddy says we're Christmas angels tonight," one of the little girls said.
"You must be," I said. "Thank you so much."
"Merry Christmas," the man said and held out his hand.
The little family was all smiles as they left my apartment. I stared at the beautiful Christmas tree with boxes of presents underneath. Then I remembered the card and I opened it. I gasped as I counted five one-hundred dollar bills and pulled out a sheet of Christmas stationary.
Merrilee,
Hate and cynicism are like a slow-killing poison. The longer you hold on to anger and hopelessness, the more it permeates your soul. Soon, you are encased with the poison and it distorts your view of the world. [too preachy. Cut this paragraph]
This Christmas and from now on, let hope, peace, joy, and love permeate your soul. Love casteth out all fears. God loves you. This gift is so you can see the world through His eyes for a small moment—a moment that will change your heart forever. [cut the last sentence]
Love,
Your Christmas Angels
They were angels and it was a miracle. God loves me and sent someone at Christmas time—the time of the Savior's birth to open my eyes. I don't cry, but I'll cry for Christmas.
Watch for punctuation and sentence structure. Also watch your voice. The woman starts with an attitude—life is tough, but I'm tough too—but she softens up too much when she interacts with Carol. The change shouldn't come until after she sees what the "angels" have done for her. with I'd like a little more sensory images.
What I liked best: The tone, the "voice" of the woman. Keep that going throughout the story.
Magazine ready? Not yet. But once you clean up the logistics of your story, I think you'll have the kind of Christmas tear-jerker that we like to read at this time of year.
I know what you're thinking. People like me are trash. We're the lowest of the low class, lazy, schmoozing, worthless trash.
But I'm not trash. My ex-husband Jimmy was and I guess when you hang out with trash you get some on you. He left me with two kids, no car, rent payment past due, and a pile of empty liquor bottles.
That was two years ago. I thought things were getting better, but life keeps dumping on us and I feel like I'm constantly crawling up the trash heap and trying to keep my two kids clean from it in the process. [you hit the "trash" analogy a little too hard; go back and weed some out.]
I had worked at a posh [with the attitude you've set up, I don't think she'd use the word "posh"--maybe "snooty"] department store for the last year. Every day I waited on people who had more money than I could even fathom. I hated Christmas because it was a reminder to me of how little I had.
To say I was cynical would be the understatement of the year. I hated those people. I helped them purchase hundreds of dollars of merchandise every day and then watched as they passed by the Giving Tree without a glance. Dozens of little gold and silver bells with name tags for less fortunate children hung from the Christmas tree. I would never understand how people could have so much yet give so little.
As much as I despised Christmas, I was trying to come up with some way to make it special for my girls. Our store had given every employee a red silk blouse to wear during the holidays. We could return it at the end of the season for ten dollars in store credit. I hadn't considered it before because I knew the blouse was worth a lot more than ten dollars.
Yesterday, I sat on our stained loveseat and looked at the pile of change I had found and the blouse lying in a graceful heap beside it. What a Christmas! I could return the silk blouse for credit at the department store where I couldn't afford to shop, but first I had to have it dry cleaned. [How much does it cost to dry clean a silk blouse? If all she's getting is $10 minus the cleaning bill, she'd be better off selling it] If my idea didn't work then all my hard work to prove we weren't trash would go unnoticed when Santa passed by our house on Christmas Eve.
So I left Maddy and Becky with Mrs. Fenton across the hall and hurried to the dry cleaner's. [needs some transition; describe the cold, what she sees and hears] I held the plastic wrapped red silk carefully and cursed the disgusting smells of public transportation as I traveled across town. I dreaded walking into the mall, but I had to do it. I went to the employment office and returned my blouse without incident. I held the gift card tightly as I entered the store. My stomach fluttered as I approached Carol, a woman I had worked with for over a year. To call her a friend would be a bit of a stretch because I didn't have any, but right now that's what I needed her to be.
"Hi Carol," I said.
"Merrilee, how are you?" She tried to hide her surprise but the way she said it, I knew the boss had been spreading rumors about me.
"I need a favor." I paused and tried to lift the corners of my mouth into some semblance of a smile. "I returned my blouse for the ten dollar gift card and I wanted to know if you could use it."
Carol hesitated until realization dawned on her. "Sure, honey. You know I always have my eye on something here. Let me grab my purse." She reached under the counter and I held my breath.
"Thanks so much. This means a lot." I struggled to get the words out as Carol handed me a ten dollar bill.
"No problem."
I almost walked past the Giving Tree before I noticed that no little bells hung from the branches.
"Carol, what happened to the Giving Tree?"
"Some woman came in yesterday and took every ornament that was left and arranged to deliver gifts." Carol raised her eyebrows. "You know, she didn't look like she even had that kind of money. Like someone who'd never shopped at our store before."
"Oh." My heart tingled and my throat felt tight. A piece of my cynic's armor figuratively fell to the ground.
"Merry Christmas," Carol said.
I gave her a weak smile and a wave.
The bus was late so I decided to head home before Mrs. Fenton got restless with my six and eight year old girls. [introduce their age earlier] Tomorrow I would find something just right for their Christmas present. I wanted to laugh out loud at myself. Ten dollars and I was going to find something just right. Becky and Maddy were the sweetest little girls around, what had they done to deserve a Christmas like this?
Later that night, the girls and I fixed our last box of macaroni and cheese and then we cuddled in a blanket and read Christmas stories. I tried to keep my mind on the stories but it kept straying as I wondered if there was anything I could pawn to get some extra money. I sighed because there was nothing. Maybe we were trash; we didn't even own anything worth more than a trip to the junk yard. [if they just ate their last box of mac & cheese, shouldn't she be planning how to buy food and not presents?]
Becky and Maddy went to bed early and I sat on the old loveseat and tried to contemplate what had happened to my life. A light knock on the flimsy apartment door startled me. I crept toward the door and opened it just a crack.
"Merry Christmas!" cheerful voices rang out.
I jumped back and the door strained against the chain still in place. I quickly removed it and opened the door. "Are you looking for someone?"
"Not anymore Merrilee," a middle-aged woman said and she held out a small silver bell with a tag attached to it. I took it and my hand shook as I recognized my name and age on the tag. [How did her name get on the tree?]
"I have one too!" A little girl about Maddy's age jumped up and down with a golden bell tinkling in her hand.
"Mine first," a voice called out. I looked down to see another little girl pushing her way around her father's leg.
I took the bells and read: Becky age 8, Maddy age 6 . When I looked up, the father had stepped aside and was lifting a huge box filled with Christmas presents. "May I put this inside?" he asked with a huge smile.
I didn't know what to say. I nodded my head in confusion.
"I'll be right back," he said and winked.
"Look, look we have more." One of the little girls squealed as her mother lifted another box and carried it into my apartment.
"But how—" I started to ask and my lip trembled.
"It's Christmas that's how. Miracles happen every day and twice a day around Christmas." She reached her arms toward me in a hug. "I hope you and your girls have a wonderful Christmas, this is for you to open after we leave." She handed me a card in a beautiful silver envelope.
I heard more squeals of delight as someone called out, "Ho, ho ho!" I looked up as the girls danced around their father carrying in a beautiful Christmas tree. It was small, but the perfect size for our apartment. He handed me a sack full of ornaments and quickly set up the tree. [If they're poor, the apartment is small. Wouldn't all the ringing voices, squealing and dancing around done by the family wake the girls up?]
"I can't believe it," I mumbled. "How did you know?"
"Daddy says we're Christmas angels tonight," one of the little girls said.
"You must be," I said. "Thank you so much."
"Merry Christmas," the man said and held out his hand.
The little family was all smiles as they left my apartment. I stared at the beautiful Christmas tree with boxes of presents underneath. Then I remembered the card and I opened it. I gasped as I counted five one-hundred dollar bills and pulled out a sheet of Christmas stationary.
Merrilee,
Hate and cynicism are like a slow-killing poison. The longer you hold on to anger and hopelessness, the more it permeates your soul. Soon, you are encased with the poison and it distorts your view of the world. [too preachy. Cut this paragraph]
This Christmas and from now on, let hope, peace, joy, and love permeate your soul. Love casteth out all fears. God loves you. This gift is so you can see the world through His eyes for a small moment—a moment that will change your heart forever. [cut the last sentence]
Love,
Your Christmas Angels
They were angels and it was a miracle. God loves me and sent someone at Christmas time—the time of the Savior's birth to open my eyes. I don't cry, but I'll cry for Christmas.
Watch for punctuation and sentence structure. Also watch your voice. The woman starts with an attitude—life is tough, but I'm tough too—but she softens up too much when she interacts with Carol. The change shouldn't come until after she sees what the "angels" have done for her. with I'd like a little more sensory images.
What I liked best: The tone, the "voice" of the woman. Keep that going throughout the story.
Magazine ready? Not yet. But once you clean up the logistics of your story, I think you'll have the kind of Christmas tear-jerker that we like to read at this time of year.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Christmas 18: Frederick Huckleberry and Christmas
He was from a family of the tiniest of ants, This Frederick Theodore Huckleberry the third lay in an almost warm pool of water created by dew that had been caught up in the depression of an old dry leaf. Frederick’s top hat sat off to the side. He smiled as he reached behind him using a part of leaf- stem as a back brush. “Ahhh…feels good,” he thought.
The lake was lazy this early morning; its water showing small ripples here and there but otherwise was smooth. The sun had poked its face out warming all below with its welcoming presence. The autumn leafs were still in large part, upon the trees that lined the banks. Berries decorated Madrone trees. Multi-shades of greens mixed with oranges and yellows upon the other trees. As if cast upon the small lake for his pleasure, all the tree colors lay upon the water around his leaf. Frederick’s head swiveled around to admire it. He had been up most of the night and was tired. He thought perhaps he was ready for what would now be a mid-day nap.
He thought on what had made him so wakeful. In his minds eye and in all the wisdom inherited from his ancestors, Frederick recalled an age-old story. Soon Frederick Theodore Huckleberry the third would see winter again. It included the human celebration of Christmas. He lifted himself out of his bath and shook off the extra water that wanted to cling. Picking up his hat, he went to rest against the side of one of the many paths that lay upon the old leaf. In recent days, already a chill had been in the air. As if he were with Frederick, his great great- great- great- grandfather (on his mother’s side, of course) voice echoed within his mind. To Thaddeus it was
if once more, it was the time of Christmas. Thaddeus Finley Theodore the second begin to speak to him down through the years long past.
THE STORY BEGAN~~[This is where the story begins; cut all that other stuff]
“Winifred, get up here. Look what has happened. A poor ant has no privacy these days. Here I was all calm and ready for a good nights rest from my arthritis when all this came about. For goodness sake, young people these days have no respect for others. I had a nice warm pile of freshly scented straw gathered up for my bed. Yes, I know Winifred that is your job. You just stay so busy with your knitting and stuff; I’d rather do it myself than wait. Now get up here and see what these young people have done with my straw!” [too long a speech; break it up with some description]
The girl was barely a woman, perhaps a teenager in the world of people. Winifred had heard some human grunting and groaning but was too caught up in her latest project to go and look. [You just jumped from Thaddeus' POV to Winifred's; pick one and stick with it.] Now Thaddeus had changed all that with his grumpy demanding attitude. “Oh my. It was a lovely baby she has borne. Would you just look at those tiny fingernails and is that wisdom already in those eyes? I do believe he is looking at me. He is almost as pretty as my own children were. ALMOST. He is wrapped in swaddling clothes and is being so quiet. I can feel there is much ahead for him in his world. Did I hear his mother call him Immanuel? Such an important name. Will he be a king? I must go and make him a gift”. [speech too long; break up] Having said so, Winifred returned to her knitting. She picked up the softest of blues from her collection to represent the sky, white for the clouds, green for the grasses and a touch of dark colors for the trouble she felt lay ahead for the baby. She used her smallest and finest quality needles and quickly made him a scarf with her yarn.
Meanwhile, Thaddeus kept watch, peeking over a bit of left over straw. He saw the donkeys, cows and sheep watching as well. He heard their conversations. They talked of things the old ant had missed. [give examples] Angels had announced the birth. The sheep would donate its wool for clothing. The donkey had already given the mother a ride to the manger upon its back. The cow was ready to do what ever it could. This baby would grow to serve the world and in turn be rejected by many. These humans made no sense at all, thought Thaddeus. He really was not the grouch he pretended to be. He only liked to sound that way. Inside the tiny old ant beat the most tender of hearts. Now it softened even more as he listened and watched from his protected place. What was meant to be Thaddeus’s bed was now beneath the newborn infant. He didn’t look very comfortable he thought. “What can I do about it?” He hadn’t lived his long years with stuffing for brains. Using his best and loudest ant voice (but not so loud as to frighten the infant) he called out to his family all here and there within the manger. Gather more fresh soft straw. We need to fix the bed for this baby. Hundreds upon thousands gathered each with a straw in its mouth. Underneath the baby they placed the straw making it much softer then the thrown together bed had been. Now they left. Only Thaddeus stayed on to watch the baby. Immanuel smiled and Thaddeus knew the smile was for him. Now Winifred returned, newly knitted scarf in hand. She crawled over to the baby leaving her gift upon its chest. Immanuel reached out to the scrap of color and smiled once more, this time for her. It gathered the soft material into its hands and closed its eyes in rest. [paragraph much too long; jumps around some]
Thaddeus and Winifred lifted their voices in praise. “Hark the Harold [herald] angels sing. Glory to the new born king” Now they too went to their beds. Time tomorrow for the rest of the story to unfold.
[cut Frederick] Frederick Theodore Huckleberry the third jerked back to his modern world with a start. He had almost drifted to sleep hearing that wonderful story in his mind. It came to him each year from Thaddeus. Gosh, but he was tired. A ripple picked up the leaf causing it to rock gently. Frederick fell fast asleep. Yes indeed, tomorrow was another day and would come soon
enough.
Your story jerks between Frederick and Thaddeus. Dump Fred. Other than your nice description of the lake, none of the pre-story is needed and the last paragraph doesn't add anything either.
You jump between POVs. Who's telling the story—Thaddeus, Winifred, or an omniscient narrator? Pick one and stick with it. I have a problem with the ant knitting a scarf. Have them do something more ant-like.
You need to focus your story. Is it about the birth of the Savior or finding a gift for Him? Choose one and make all the details of your story lead to that resolution. Change your title to reflect whichever story you select.
What I liked best: I really, really like the idea of the nativity from an ant's point of view. I've seen it from various other animal POVs, but never an ant.
Magazine ready? No. This one needs a lot of work before it's publishable. However,
after picking your story apart and pretty much telling you that you've done everything wrong, let me say that this story has potential. If you worked on it, added some conflict—the ants wanting, trying to do something for the baby, but finding road blocks, etc.—created some action that lends itself to illustration, you could have a really nice Christmas picture book.
The lake was lazy this early morning; its water showing small ripples here and there but otherwise was smooth. The sun had poked its face out warming all below with its welcoming presence. The autumn leafs were still in large part, upon the trees that lined the banks. Berries decorated Madrone trees. Multi-shades of greens mixed with oranges and yellows upon the other trees. As if cast upon the small lake for his pleasure, all the tree colors lay upon the water around his leaf. Frederick’s head swiveled around to admire it. He had been up most of the night and was tired. He thought perhaps he was ready for what would now be a mid-day nap.
He thought on what had made him so wakeful. In his minds eye and in all the wisdom inherited from his ancestors, Frederick recalled an age-old story. Soon Frederick Theodore Huckleberry the third would see winter again. It included the human celebration of Christmas. He lifted himself out of his bath and shook off the extra water that wanted to cling. Picking up his hat, he went to rest against the side of one of the many paths that lay upon the old leaf. In recent days, already a chill had been in the air. As if he were with Frederick, his great great- great- great- grandfather (on his mother’s side, of course) voice echoed within his mind. To Thaddeus it was
if once more, it was the time of Christmas. Thaddeus Finley Theodore the second begin to speak to him down through the years long past.
THE STORY BEGAN~~[This is where the story begins; cut all that other stuff]
“Winifred, get up here. Look what has happened. A poor ant has no privacy these days. Here I was all calm and ready for a good nights rest from my arthritis when all this came about. For goodness sake, young people these days have no respect for others. I had a nice warm pile of freshly scented straw gathered up for my bed. Yes, I know Winifred that is your job. You just stay so busy with your knitting and stuff; I’d rather do it myself than wait. Now get up here and see what these young people have done with my straw!” [too long a speech; break it up with some description]
The girl was barely a woman, perhaps a teenager in the world of people. Winifred had heard some human grunting and groaning but was too caught up in her latest project to go and look. [You just jumped from Thaddeus' POV to Winifred's; pick one and stick with it.] Now Thaddeus had changed all that with his grumpy demanding attitude. “Oh my. It was a lovely baby she has borne. Would you just look at those tiny fingernails and is that wisdom already in those eyes? I do believe he is looking at me. He is almost as pretty as my own children were. ALMOST. He is wrapped in swaddling clothes and is being so quiet. I can feel there is much ahead for him in his world. Did I hear his mother call him Immanuel? Such an important name. Will he be a king? I must go and make him a gift”. [speech too long; break up] Having said so, Winifred returned to her knitting. She picked up the softest of blues from her collection to represent the sky, white for the clouds, green for the grasses and a touch of dark colors for the trouble she felt lay ahead for the baby. She used her smallest and finest quality needles and quickly made him a scarf with her yarn.
Meanwhile, Thaddeus kept watch, peeking over a bit of left over straw. He saw the donkeys, cows and sheep watching as well. He heard their conversations. They talked of things the old ant had missed. [give examples] Angels had announced the birth. The sheep would donate its wool for clothing. The donkey had already given the mother a ride to the manger upon its back. The cow was ready to do what ever it could. This baby would grow to serve the world and in turn be rejected by many. These humans made no sense at all, thought Thaddeus. He really was not the grouch he pretended to be. He only liked to sound that way. Inside the tiny old ant beat the most tender of hearts. Now it softened even more as he listened and watched from his protected place. What was meant to be Thaddeus’s bed was now beneath the newborn infant. He didn’t look very comfortable he thought. “What can I do about it?” He hadn’t lived his long years with stuffing for brains. Using his best and loudest ant voice (but not so loud as to frighten the infant) he called out to his family all here and there within the manger. Gather more fresh soft straw. We need to fix the bed for this baby. Hundreds upon thousands gathered each with a straw in its mouth. Underneath the baby they placed the straw making it much softer then the thrown together bed had been. Now they left. Only Thaddeus stayed on to watch the baby. Immanuel smiled and Thaddeus knew the smile was for him. Now Winifred returned, newly knitted scarf in hand. She crawled over to the baby leaving her gift upon its chest. Immanuel reached out to the scrap of color and smiled once more, this time for her. It gathered the soft material into its hands and closed its eyes in rest. [paragraph much too long; jumps around some]
Thaddeus and Winifred lifted their voices in praise. “Hark the Harold [herald] angels sing. Glory to the new born king” Now they too went to their beds. Time tomorrow for the rest of the story to unfold.
[cut Frederick] Frederick Theodore Huckleberry the third jerked back to his modern world with a start. He had almost drifted to sleep hearing that wonderful story in his mind. It came to him each year from Thaddeus. Gosh, but he was tired. A ripple picked up the leaf causing it to rock gently. Frederick fell fast asleep. Yes indeed, tomorrow was another day and would come soon
enough.
Your story jerks between Frederick and Thaddeus. Dump Fred. Other than your nice description of the lake, none of the pre-story is needed and the last paragraph doesn't add anything either.
You jump between POVs. Who's telling the story—Thaddeus, Winifred, or an omniscient narrator? Pick one and stick with it. I have a problem with the ant knitting a scarf. Have them do something more ant-like.
You need to focus your story. Is it about the birth of the Savior or finding a gift for Him? Choose one and make all the details of your story lead to that resolution. Change your title to reflect whichever story you select.
What I liked best: I really, really like the idea of the nativity from an ant's point of view. I've seen it from various other animal POVs, but never an ant.
Magazine ready? No. This one needs a lot of work before it's publishable. However,
after picking your story apart and pretty much telling you that you've done everything wrong, let me say that this story has potential. If you worked on it, added some conflict—the ants wanting, trying to do something for the baby, but finding road blocks, etc.—created some action that lends itself to illustration, you could have a really nice Christmas picture book.
Christmas 17: Bipper and Wick
The snow had turned the forest into a winter wonderland; and as the bears worked hard to get their den prepared for the long winter ahead, the ice on the trees snapped aloud. The hard work made the bears very sleepy, and their yawns could be heard from far away. There was one bear amongst them, however, that had no intention of taking a long winters nap; his name was Bipper, and he didn’t understand the need to sleep for such a long time. It was Bipper’s first winter, and instead of hibernating he wanted to explore the forest for the first time by himself. Bipper was the youngest and smallest bear in his family, and his older siblings never let him forget it. He was constantly teased about his size and age.
As the bears prepared to enter their den, Bipper stretched his legs and rested next to a pine tree. [too much telling; show us what the bear family is doing to get ready]
“Are you going to fall asleep before we’ve even entered the den, Bipper?” asked one of the older brother bears.
“Just taking a little break, that’s all,” said Bipper.
“You haven’t been doing much to help out,” said Bipper’s oldest sister. “What are you so tired from?”
“I’m not that tired, and if you ask me it’s a waste of time to sleep for so long. I would rather be out having fun in the forest,” said Bipper.
“Bipper, even though you’re a bear try not to be such a bear to be around,” said Bipper’s Momma. All of Bipper’s brothers and sisters laughed at Momma bear’s comment. “Bipper, in order to be rested for spring time we bears need to hibernate during the winter,” said the Momma bear.
“Yes, Momma,” replied Bipper.
Bipper kept to himself for the rest of the evening while the other bears prepared to settle down for their long winter nap. Bipper knew once the other bears fell asleep he could leave the den without being noticed. And that’s exactly what Bipper did. After all the other bears began to snore, Bipper quietly sneaked out of the den and into the forest. At first, Bipper was happy with his new found freedom and loved being able to do whatever he wanted. He rolled around in the snow and repeatedly fell to the ground to make snow angles. But after some time passed, Bipper started to feel lonely and missed his family. The berries he was accustomed to eating off the trees were long gone, and he found himself growing very hungry. Bipper had also traveled a great distance, and even though he had a powerful sense of smell, he was finding it hard to find his way back to the den. One evening with nothing but the moonlight above, and a
pesky owl repeatedly asking him who he was, Bipper decided it was time to go home for good. [condense this into one day of adventure; make it the day BEFORE the family goes into hibernation]
Suddenly out of nowhere, a horrible creepy sound could be heard close by. The noise startled Bipper, so he looked around to see where it was coming from. He didn’t see anything! The horrible creepy sound could be heard again, and this time Bipper knew it was getting closer.
“Who’s there?” asked Bipper. “I’m a bear so you better watch out.” [good]
At that moment, a little dog peeked at Bipper from behind a tree. It was the little dog stepping on old fallen limbs that was causing the creepy noises. “Please don’t hurt me, Mr. Bear. I’m just a little dog.”
“Relax,” said Bipper. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
“Well, that’s a relief to hear, but aren’t bears meat eaters?” asked the little dog.
“Yeah, we’re meat eaters all right, but I don’t want to hurt anybody,” said Bipper.
“Lucky me,” said the little dog. “I have a family that no longer wants me, and I can’t even get a bear in the middle of the forest to want me either.”
“Do you want me to change my mind?” asked Bipper.
“Oh no,” said the little dog sheepishly. “I was only joking.”
“Me too,” laughed Bipper. “I’m just teasing you.”
“I appreciate your kindness,” said the little dog. [cut the meat eating joke; make the dog young too]
“What on Earth is a little dog like you doing out in the forest anyway? This isn’t a safe place for you to be you know. There really are a lot of animals out here who would hurt you.”
“Couldn’t the same be said for a little bear?” asked the little dog.
“Not you too,” said Bipper. Bipper cusped his paw over his face and said, “Now, I have a dog the size of my arm calling me little.”
“You appear to be a very young bear, so I am surprised to see you out here in the forest by yourself. That’s all I meant!”
“Well, I am young. And yes, I am a little bear,” said Bipper. “Until I get older there’s nothing I can do about it. I can’t wait until then.”
“Why do you want to grow up so fast?” asked the little dog.
“I am tired of being teased about my age and size.”
“As my grandmother used to say when I was a pup, “Don’t wish your time away. Enjoy thy youth,” said the little dog. You’ll be a big old bear before you know it. Years from now you’ll look back and wish you were still a little cub. Earlier you asked me why I am out here; do you still want to know why?”
“Yeah, I’m curious,” replied Bipper.
“Well, I am out here because I am an old dog that nobody loves anymore.”
“Why would you say such a thing?” asked Bipper.
“Well, tomorrow’s Christmas day and as an early gift for Christmas my owners bought their children a new puppy. When the kids saw the puppy for the first time it was as if I didn’t even exist anymore,” said the little dog.
“I am sure they still love you just the same. My Momma always says she has no favorites. She says she loves me and my older siblings equally. Your age will never change how much your family loves you,” said Bipper.
The little dog nodded his head and said, “You know, you’re right. What was I thinking? They have loved me my entire life. I know they don’t love me any less than before. I guess I was just jealous about the puppy. You have great wisdom for being such a young bear. Listen to your own advice about family and you won’t be so frustrated about being teased. Take it from an old dog, being young is a wonderful thing so enjoy it and have fun. What’s your name by the way?”
“Bipper, what’s yours?”
“Wick’s my name,” said the little dog. Bipper and Wick shook paws, and promised to help one another find their way home.
[this conversation is too long. introduce their names right after they meet.]
To help ease the burden of such a long trek, Bipper and Wick laughed and played in the snow. Much to Bipper’s surprise, however, Wick started to bark out Christmas carols along the way. About a dozen rabbits popped their heads out of their holes to see what was going on. Wick’s singing made every rabbit flap their long ears downward to ease the strain on their eardrums. Since Wick was still engaged in song, one of the rabbits looked over at Bipper and said, “What is wrong with that dog? Why is it making so much racket?”
“Sorry, he’s just having a little festive fun by singing some Christmas carols,” said Bipper.
“That’s what you call that huh, singing?” asked the rabbit.
Bipper approached the rabbit and said, “Look, I know this dog can’t sing in tune, but please just bear with me. We’re on our way home and he just wants to spread a little holiday cheer.”
The rabbit pointed at her hole in the ground and asked Bipper, “You hear that?”
Bipper leaned over the rabbit’s hole and said, “Yeah, I hear Christmas music playing.”
“That’s right,” said the rabbit. “I already have all the Christmas music I need, and I’ve got seven more carrot cakes to make before morning. [good] Time’s a wasting!”
“I understand! Sorry again about the disturbance and happy holidays to you. We’ll be on our way now,” said Bipper. The rabbit shook her head at Bipper and then dived back in her hole.
As Bipper and Wick continued their journey through the forest several more animals vented their frustrations to Bipper about Wick’s singing. A squirrel even claimed Wick’s singing caused her peanut cake to turn upside down. Enough was enough! The sound of wick’s singing was so bad Bipper thought it was going wake every animal in the entire forest up. To get the point across to Wick that he needed to quit singing, Bipper reminded him that bears are meat eaters and he would appreciate it if he wouldn’t sing another note. Wick was disappointed that no one appreciated his talent, so he just hummed Christmas carols the rest of the way home.
Cut this by half, take out the meat eating stuff, add a little more action and conflict, have Bipper and Wick meet and interact with two more animals on the same level as they do the rabbit. You need to focus the story. Is it about a little bear who runs away from home and then learns his lesson? Is it about a friendship between a bear and a dog? Is it about the search to find his way back home? Is it about a dog that can't sing on tune? Pick one as the main focus of your story. Everything else should work toward supporting that focus.
What I liked best: Loved your character names. They are catchy. I also liked the little glimpse into the personality of the rabbit.
Magazine ready? No. This story needs to be rewritten with a specific focus. But, if you were to do that, and create action that lends itself to illustrations, this could be a good picture book.
As the bears prepared to enter their den, Bipper stretched his legs and rested next to a pine tree. [too much telling; show us what the bear family is doing to get ready]
“Are you going to fall asleep before we’ve even entered the den, Bipper?” asked one of the older brother bears.
“Just taking a little break, that’s all,” said Bipper.
“You haven’t been doing much to help out,” said Bipper’s oldest sister. “What are you so tired from?”
“I’m not that tired, and if you ask me it’s a waste of time to sleep for so long. I would rather be out having fun in the forest,” said Bipper.
“Bipper, even though you’re a bear try not to be such a bear to be around,” said Bipper’s Momma. All of Bipper’s brothers and sisters laughed at Momma bear’s comment. “Bipper, in order to be rested for spring time we bears need to hibernate during the winter,” said the Momma bear.
“Yes, Momma,” replied Bipper.
Bipper kept to himself for the rest of the evening while the other bears prepared to settle down for their long winter nap. Bipper knew once the other bears fell asleep he could leave the den without being noticed. And that’s exactly what Bipper did. After all the other bears began to snore, Bipper quietly sneaked out of the den and into the forest. At first, Bipper was happy with his new found freedom and loved being able to do whatever he wanted. He rolled around in the snow and repeatedly fell to the ground to make snow angles. But after some time passed, Bipper started to feel lonely and missed his family. The berries he was accustomed to eating off the trees were long gone, and he found himself growing very hungry. Bipper had also traveled a great distance, and even though he had a powerful sense of smell, he was finding it hard to find his way back to the den. One evening with nothing but the moonlight above, and a
pesky owl repeatedly asking him who he was, Bipper decided it was time to go home for good. [condense this into one day of adventure; make it the day BEFORE the family goes into hibernation]
Suddenly out of nowhere, a horrible creepy sound could be heard close by. The noise startled Bipper, so he looked around to see where it was coming from. He didn’t see anything! The horrible creepy sound could be heard again, and this time Bipper knew it was getting closer.
“Who’s there?” asked Bipper. “I’m a bear so you better watch out.” [good]
At that moment, a little dog peeked at Bipper from behind a tree. It was the little dog stepping on old fallen limbs that was causing the creepy noises. “Please don’t hurt me, Mr. Bear. I’m just a little dog.”
“Relax,” said Bipper. “I’m not going to hurt you.”
“Well, that’s a relief to hear, but aren’t bears meat eaters?” asked the little dog.
“Yeah, we’re meat eaters all right, but I don’t want to hurt anybody,” said Bipper.
“Lucky me,” said the little dog. “I have a family that no longer wants me, and I can’t even get a bear in the middle of the forest to want me either.”
“Do you want me to change my mind?” asked Bipper.
“Oh no,” said the little dog sheepishly. “I was only joking.”
“Me too,” laughed Bipper. “I’m just teasing you.”
“I appreciate your kindness,” said the little dog. [cut the meat eating joke; make the dog young too]
“What on Earth is a little dog like you doing out in the forest anyway? This isn’t a safe place for you to be you know. There really are a lot of animals out here who would hurt you.”
“Couldn’t the same be said for a little bear?” asked the little dog.
“Not you too,” said Bipper. Bipper cusped his paw over his face and said, “Now, I have a dog the size of my arm calling me little.”
“You appear to be a very young bear, so I am surprised to see you out here in the forest by yourself. That’s all I meant!”
“Well, I am young. And yes, I am a little bear,” said Bipper. “Until I get older there’s nothing I can do about it. I can’t wait until then.”
“Why do you want to grow up so fast?” asked the little dog.
“I am tired of being teased about my age and size.”
“As my grandmother used to say when I was a pup, “Don’t wish your time away. Enjoy thy youth,” said the little dog. You’ll be a big old bear before you know it. Years from now you’ll look back and wish you were still a little cub. Earlier you asked me why I am out here; do you still want to know why?”
“Yeah, I’m curious,” replied Bipper.
“Well, I am out here because I am an old dog that nobody loves anymore.”
“Why would you say such a thing?” asked Bipper.
“Well, tomorrow’s Christmas day and as an early gift for Christmas my owners bought their children a new puppy. When the kids saw the puppy for the first time it was as if I didn’t even exist anymore,” said the little dog.
“I am sure they still love you just the same. My Momma always says she has no favorites. She says she loves me and my older siblings equally. Your age will never change how much your family loves you,” said Bipper.
The little dog nodded his head and said, “You know, you’re right. What was I thinking? They have loved me my entire life. I know they don’t love me any less than before. I guess I was just jealous about the puppy. You have great wisdom for being such a young bear. Listen to your own advice about family and you won’t be so frustrated about being teased. Take it from an old dog, being young is a wonderful thing so enjoy it and have fun. What’s your name by the way?”
“Bipper, what’s yours?”
“Wick’s my name,” said the little dog. Bipper and Wick shook paws, and promised to help one another find their way home.
[this conversation is too long. introduce their names right after they meet.]
To help ease the burden of such a long trek, Bipper and Wick laughed and played in the snow. Much to Bipper’s surprise, however, Wick started to bark out Christmas carols along the way. About a dozen rabbits popped their heads out of their holes to see what was going on. Wick’s singing made every rabbit flap their long ears downward to ease the strain on their eardrums. Since Wick was still engaged in song, one of the rabbits looked over at Bipper and said, “What is wrong with that dog? Why is it making so much racket?”
“Sorry, he’s just having a little festive fun by singing some Christmas carols,” said Bipper.
“That’s what you call that huh, singing?” asked the rabbit.
Bipper approached the rabbit and said, “Look, I know this dog can’t sing in tune, but please just bear with me. We’re on our way home and he just wants to spread a little holiday cheer.”
The rabbit pointed at her hole in the ground and asked Bipper, “You hear that?”
Bipper leaned over the rabbit’s hole and said, “Yeah, I hear Christmas music playing.”
“That’s right,” said the rabbit. “I already have all the Christmas music I need, and I’ve got seven more carrot cakes to make before morning. [good] Time’s a wasting!”
“I understand! Sorry again about the disturbance and happy holidays to you. We’ll be on our way now,” said Bipper. The rabbit shook her head at Bipper and then dived back in her hole.
As Bipper and Wick continued their journey through the forest several more animals vented their frustrations to Bipper about Wick’s singing. A squirrel even claimed Wick’s singing caused her peanut cake to turn upside down. Enough was enough! The sound of wick’s singing was so bad Bipper thought it was going wake every animal in the entire forest up. To get the point across to Wick that he needed to quit singing, Bipper reminded him that bears are meat eaters and he would appreciate it if he wouldn’t sing another note. Wick was disappointed that no one appreciated his talent, so he just hummed Christmas carols the rest of the way home.
Cut this by half, take out the meat eating stuff, add a little more action and conflict, have Bipper and Wick meet and interact with two more animals on the same level as they do the rabbit. You need to focus the story. Is it about a little bear who runs away from home and then learns his lesson? Is it about a friendship between a bear and a dog? Is it about the search to find his way back home? Is it about a dog that can't sing on tune? Pick one as the main focus of your story. Everything else should work toward supporting that focus.
What I liked best: Loved your character names. They are catchy. I also liked the little glimpse into the personality of the rabbit.
Magazine ready? No. This story needs to be rewritten with a specific focus. But, if you were to do that, and create action that lends itself to illustrations, this could be a good picture book.
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Christmas 16: A Final Christmas
It is cold outside her home this Christmas season. Snow banks rest against the structure and icy white flakes build up multiple layers against the windowsills, blurring outward vision for one whose eyes are already dimmed by age.
An elderly lady sits within this humble place. She is pondering over Christmas’s past and events over the years she had witnessed. She feels somehow that this will be her final Christmas. She no longer cares for the material, but thinks instead on what she yet may have to offer her ever-changing world. [rework these to paragraphs into one. ]
A tear makes its out from the tear duct, crawling slowly down the wrinkled path of her cheek. She is remembering the one love of her life. He’s been gone a long time now. Her son was lost in a war. She thinks of her daughter who tries so hard to buffer her lonely hours, by calls and letters. She remembers the grandchildren so far away, some with babies of their own. [Show us; don't tell us.]
The old radiator shakes her thoughts away. She goes to check and all is well. She knows the friendlier sounds her home makes in its conversation with her, its only tenant. “Enough self-pity!” she tells herself and bundles up against the harsh weather to take her daily walk. Dusk is making its way across the sky. Carolers, even in these early hours are out. She hears and smiles over the words of “Hark The Herald Angels Sing” and “Santa Claus is coming To Town”. The musical notes are welcoming and fall softly around her ears. They warm her and seem to bring lightness to her elderly shuffle.
Her thoughts return to the season and she thinks, “What gift can I give?” Christmas is fast approaching and only hours away. Chimes from a nearby church call out. She changes her usual direction to better hear them. On her way pass happy but weary shoppers. They surely have made that last minute purchase and are going home.
Nestled in an almost hidden corner near the church lays what appears to be a large pile of ragged clothing. A muffled cry of sleep, pain or near unconsciousness comes from it. Painfully the old woman bends down, brushing away bits of snow. She sees a face ravaged by time and life itself. At first glance she takes it to be a tramp. It doesn’t matter to her. She feels too old to be of a concern to this wearer of rags she has found. She encourages him to his feet with the promise of a warm home and meal. She is no longer alone.
[You jump POVs, from the woman to the man. Pick one and stick with it.] Time has passed. The man has warmed himself and shared a meal with this stranger. He tells her of how despair had overcome him. He had neither job, family nor home. In deep depression he had simply laid down and given up.
What a wonderful and inspirational gift this lady was to him. His soul seemed to glow. She recalled life to him with her memories of the yesterdays. She had done such good with her life. He sensed from her a new strength he could share, which he had not known before.
She had assured him that he would be welcome to share her home, as long as he truly needed it. When he left, he knew he too would survive all things. If she could, than so could he.
She had given the greatest gift of all. She had given the gift of herself.
I like what you're trying to do here, but I just don't believe that an elderly woman would go to church and invite a man she thinks is a tramp home with her. Perhaps she could go to the church for a Christmas dinner and invite him into the church with her.
We need more action, some dialog. Show, don't tell. Who is the main character in the story? The woman or the man? Pick one POV and stick with it. Show us how the main character was, what event happened, and how the main character is now different and better because of it. We need details and more character depth.
About the title—is this her last Christmas? Does she die? If yes, that needs to be part of the story; if no, change the title.
What I liked best: The idea of an older woman sharing her wisdom and strength of spirit with a younger man.
Magazine ready? No. This one needs rewriting, but when finished, it would fit the short story format very well.
An elderly lady sits within this humble place. She is pondering over Christmas’s past and events over the years she had witnessed. She feels somehow that this will be her final Christmas. She no longer cares for the material, but thinks instead on what she yet may have to offer her ever-changing world. [rework these to paragraphs into one. ]
A tear makes its out from the tear duct, crawling slowly down the wrinkled path of her cheek. She is remembering the one love of her life. He’s been gone a long time now. Her son was lost in a war. She thinks of her daughter who tries so hard to buffer her lonely hours, by calls and letters. She remembers the grandchildren so far away, some with babies of their own. [Show us; don't tell us.]
The old radiator shakes her thoughts away. She goes to check and all is well. She knows the friendlier sounds her home makes in its conversation with her, its only tenant. “Enough self-pity!” she tells herself and bundles up against the harsh weather to take her daily walk. Dusk is making its way across the sky. Carolers, even in these early hours are out. She hears and smiles over the words of “Hark The Herald Angels Sing” and “Santa Claus is coming To Town”. The musical notes are welcoming and fall softly around her ears. They warm her and seem to bring lightness to her elderly shuffle.
Her thoughts return to the season and she thinks, “What gift can I give?” Christmas is fast approaching and only hours away. Chimes from a nearby church call out. She changes her usual direction to better hear them. On her way pass happy but weary shoppers. They surely have made that last minute purchase and are going home.
Nestled in an almost hidden corner near the church lays what appears to be a large pile of ragged clothing. A muffled cry of sleep, pain or near unconsciousness comes from it. Painfully the old woman bends down, brushing away bits of snow. She sees a face ravaged by time and life itself. At first glance she takes it to be a tramp. It doesn’t matter to her. She feels too old to be of a concern to this wearer of rags she has found. She encourages him to his feet with the promise of a warm home and meal. She is no longer alone.
[You jump POVs, from the woman to the man. Pick one and stick with it.] Time has passed. The man has warmed himself and shared a meal with this stranger. He tells her of how despair had overcome him. He had neither job, family nor home. In deep depression he had simply laid down and given up.
What a wonderful and inspirational gift this lady was to him. His soul seemed to glow. She recalled life to him with her memories of the yesterdays. She had done such good with her life. He sensed from her a new strength he could share, which he had not known before.
She had assured him that he would be welcome to share her home, as long as he truly needed it. When he left, he knew he too would survive all things. If she could, than so could he.
She had given the greatest gift of all. She had given the gift of herself.
I like what you're trying to do here, but I just don't believe that an elderly woman would go to church and invite a man she thinks is a tramp home with her. Perhaps she could go to the church for a Christmas dinner and invite him into the church with her.
We need more action, some dialog. Show, don't tell. Who is the main character in the story? The woman or the man? Pick one POV and stick with it. Show us how the main character was, what event happened, and how the main character is now different and better because of it. We need details and more character depth.
About the title—is this her last Christmas? Does she die? If yes, that needs to be part of the story; if no, change the title.
What I liked best: The idea of an older woman sharing her wisdom and strength of spirit with a younger man.
Magazine ready? No. This one needs rewriting, but when finished, it would fit the short story format very well.
Christmas 15: Christmas at Fielding House
"Claire, the silver pieces need polished for the Christmas Eve dance."
"Yes, Mrs. Fielding." Claire straightened her apron and tucked a bronze curl behind her ear.
Mrs. Fielding nodded as Simms held out her coat. "We have much to accomplish in one weeks time, exciting though isn't it?" When she smiled, lines crinkled around her dark eyes. The wrinkles were the only sign that Mrs. Fielding was aging. At sixty-one, her ebony hair remained as beautiful as ever.
"I'm so excited for my first Christmas dance at Fielding House." [Who said this? Claire or Mrs. Fielding?] A spot of natural rouge [color] appeared on Claire's cheeks as it always did when she was happy about something.
"It'll be something like magic for you I'm sure." She touched Claire's cheek. "Such a buoyant spirit you have, it reminds me of my own Delia." [Is Claire a servant? Or a friend/family member? You've started by describing her as a servant, but Mrs. Fielding treats her more intimately.]
Claire ducked her head, but her blue eyes shimmered under long lashes. "Thank you Mrs. Fielding. Have a good afternoon."
Simms [who is Simms?] opened the door for Mrs. Fielding and an icy blast of New England wind tugged at Claire's curls. She stepped toward the door and listened to the sound of horse hooves pattering across the cobblestones. [does she see anything? When do they close the door?] Then she gave Simms a dimpled smile and headed to the sitting room to pull the drapes. [Now she acts like a servant]
As she reached across the frosted window, she noticed a small carriage arriving. A young man jumped onto the street. He pulled out a valise and flipped a coin toward the driver. Then he waved and lifted his hat to reveal dark black curls. Claire's heart jumped.
She watched the young man climb the steps and when she saw his profile, she knew that the high cheekbones and straight nose could only belong to a Fielding.
She frowned when his knuckles made contact with the hardwood. Claire had witnessed Mrs. Fielding shed many tears over her family. Years ago, her only daughter had fallen for a man who had taken her to hard country out West. When Delia's son, Edmund, was five years old, she had succumbed to pneumonia. Mrs. Fielding had seen Edmund once and heard from him even less. [this doesn't make sense; maybe she'd heard from him only a handful of times, and seen him even less.]
A joyous voice boomed throughout the entry way, "Where's my Grams?" [Simms would not let him do that.]
Claire rounded the corner [of what? where? She was at the window.] and stopped short with a gasp when her eyes met the emerald gems beneath the darkest lashes she'd ever seen. He smiled and stepped forward with his hand outstretched. "I'm Edmund Beckett and you must be the beautiful Claire Walden." [he's pretty forward for this time period. You need to explain that.]
Claire paused and then put her hand in his. "Pleased to meet you. Mrs. Fielding will be back in time for supper." [Again, is she a servant or a friend? If a servant, would she be shaking hands?]
"You're wondering how I know who you are," Edmund said.
"Yes sir, I am curious."
Edmund stepped closer to Claire. "Grams told me all about you." [Why would Grams tell him all about a servant?]
"But I thought you weren't in contact."
"Ah, no we weren't until recently when my father passed away."
"I'm very sorry."
"Don't be. If you've heard much about my father, you aren't sorry anyway."
Claire swallowed and touched her flaming red cheeks. Edmund chuckled and leaned closer. He took one hand from her face and squeezed gently. [Whose hands are at her face? We need to see them go there.] "I'm not like him, not at all."
Claire was completely unnerved. "I'm sorry, but I must finish my duties." She released her hand. "I'm sure Simms will help you."
Claire hurried into the dining room to gather the tarnished silver. She headed to the kitchen with shaking hands. What was she to think of Edmund? He was all charm and glorious beauty and according to Mrs. Fielding, his father was exactly the same way toward Delia.
How had Mrs. Fielding come into contact with her grandson and not mentioned it once to her? [If Mrs. Fielding is telling her grandson all about Claire, it doesn't make sense that she doesn't even mention him.] Claire closed her eyes. Immediately, she visualized Edmund's face with his green eyes smoldering. She snapped her eyes open and stood abruptly. She wouldn't be charmed into the same fate Delia had suffered.
"Excuse me, Miss, but you have a visitor," Simms announced.
"Who is it?"
Simms merely smiled and motioned to follow him. Claire's face fell when she saw her visitor. Tucker Forsey stood with his hat in hand and a smile across his freckled face. The young man had worked at the stables for as long as she could remember. [The butler would not announce visitors for the servants. They would come in the back way.]
"Hello Tucker. What brings you here?"
"I want to ask you to the Fielding Christmas Dance." [Again, servants would not be invited to the dance.]
"But I—"
"I know you're eighteen now and can go and I'd like to take you."
"Actually, she already has an escort." Claire jumped when she felt Edmund's hand on her waist. [This is really too fresh for the time period.]
Tucker scowled. "Who are you?"
"I am Mrs. Fielding's grandson, Edmund Beckett."
"Claire knows I've planned on taking her since last year. She should go to the dance with people of her own class," Tucker said.
"I'm sure Claire has considered all of her options."
Claire shook her head. "Tucker, I was actually planning on going alone."
"Please come with me Claire," Tucker pleaded.
"I'm honored, but I cannot attend with you. Have a Merry Christmas." Claire escaped the room quickly.
She had barely resumed polishing the silver when Edmund entered the kitchen.
"I'm sorry about that Claire. I wanted to help, but—"
"I'm not going to the dance with you or anyone else. I don't even know you!"
"But I know you, and I hoped to speak with you."
"You don't know me!"
Edmund's fingertips brushed her sleeve as she rushed past. "Please Claire."
Claire ran to her bedroom and tried to compose herself. How could Edmund claim to know her? Several minutes later she heard a soft knock.
"Claire, may I come in?" Mrs. Fielding's voice accompanied the twisting of the knob.
"Oh, I haven't finished the silver."
"That's not why I'm here. I want you to listen to me for just a moment." Mrs. Fielding said. "I'm delighted my dear grandson has surprised us with a holiday visit."
"But he—"
"Just hear me out," Mrs. Fielding said and she patted Claire's hand. "Edmund has been writing me these past six months. He feels he knows you because of the details I provided." Mrs. Fielding smiled. "I must admit Edmund is more like his mother than I could have hoped. Please don't be afraid to know him. He's a good man. That's all I will say now." Claire blinked back tears as she left the room. She didn't understand what was happening, but she must protect her heart.
Over the next week, Claire tried to keep her distance from Edmund. But he seemed to always know where she was, whether it was trimming the lamps or dusting furniture, he found a way to be near her. Claire felt her defenses weaken as Edmund's smiles grew broader with each conversation they held.
On Christmas Eve, Fielding House was picturesque. Bright red bows hung on doorknobs and a garland with silver tinsel was draped across the mantle. The Fielding House Christmas tree had always been Claire's favorite. The flickering candles cast lovely shadows on the glass balls hanging from every bough.
The dance would begin within the hour and Claire's heart was tied in knots over Edmund. Although she had fervently vowed not to have anything to do with him, her heart fluttered when she heard footsteps behind her.
"Claire, I hoped you'd be here," Edmund's voice sent thrills down her spine. "I have something for you."
"Edmund, it's not Christmas yet."
"I know, but I couldn't wait." Edmund handed Claire a silver box and then placed his hand over hers.
"Before you open it, I want to say something." He looked into her crystal blue eyes. "Perhaps you don't know me as well as you'd like in light of the feelings we have for each other."
Claire started to shake her head, but Edmund placed one hand on her cheek and spoke softly, "Claire, I loved you before I even met you. I felt foolish to have such feelings without seeing you, only reading about your goodness. But having spent time with you, I know I cannot ever deny the feeling I have that we should be together. Please, open your gift and let love overcome your fears." Edmund leaned in close to her and kissed her cheek.
Her eyes sparkled as the heat of his lips spread across her face. Claire opened the box and gasped. A dazzling glass ornament lay nestled in folds of blue velvet.
"Thank you Edmund, it's beautiful. Let's hang it on this branch." Claire pointed toward the top of the tree.
"There's something else." Edmund held the box closer and smiled when he heard a sharp intake of breath. A sparkle radiated from a diamond ring tucked in the box. Edmund was kneeling before Claire realized what was happening. "Claire Walden will you marry me and make this the happiest Christmas of all time?"
Claire's body stiffened with every emotion from fear to excitement as she took in the scene around her. Then she remembered Edmund's words before she opened the box, to let love overcome her fears. She smiled and held out her left hand. "Merry Christmas Edmund."
Watch for typos, spelling, grammar, punctuation. I'm a little confused—is Claire a servant or a friend of the family? I'm not sure of her place here. You need to pick one or the other and then make her actions and the way Mrs. Fielding treats her consistent.
You use some of the classic romance techniques well, but the relationship moves too quickly to be believable. Give them more time, let them develop a little more.
What I liked best: Edmund. I like his personality, even though he's quite fresh for the time period.
Magazine ready? No. Too much is happening to fit it into a short story. Consider turning this into a novel.
"Yes, Mrs. Fielding." Claire straightened her apron and tucked a bronze curl behind her ear.
Mrs. Fielding nodded as Simms held out her coat. "We have much to accomplish in one weeks time, exciting though isn't it?" When she smiled, lines crinkled around her dark eyes. The wrinkles were the only sign that Mrs. Fielding was aging. At sixty-one, her ebony hair remained as beautiful as ever.
"I'm so excited for my first Christmas dance at Fielding House." [Who said this? Claire or Mrs. Fielding?] A spot of natural rouge [color] appeared on Claire's cheeks as it always did when she was happy about something.
"It'll be something like magic for you I'm sure." She touched Claire's cheek. "Such a buoyant spirit you have, it reminds me of my own Delia." [Is Claire a servant? Or a friend/family member? You've started by describing her as a servant, but Mrs. Fielding treats her more intimately.]
Claire ducked her head, but her blue eyes shimmered under long lashes. "Thank you Mrs. Fielding. Have a good afternoon."
Simms [who is Simms?] opened the door for Mrs. Fielding and an icy blast of New England wind tugged at Claire's curls. She stepped toward the door and listened to the sound of horse hooves pattering across the cobblestones. [does she see anything? When do they close the door?] Then she gave Simms a dimpled smile and headed to the sitting room to pull the drapes. [Now she acts like a servant]
As she reached across the frosted window, she noticed a small carriage arriving. A young man jumped onto the street. He pulled out a valise and flipped a coin toward the driver. Then he waved and lifted his hat to reveal dark black curls. Claire's heart jumped.
She watched the young man climb the steps and when she saw his profile, she knew that the high cheekbones and straight nose could only belong to a Fielding.
She frowned when his knuckles made contact with the hardwood. Claire had witnessed Mrs. Fielding shed many tears over her family. Years ago, her only daughter had fallen for a man who had taken her to hard country out West. When Delia's son, Edmund, was five years old, she had succumbed to pneumonia. Mrs. Fielding had seen Edmund once and heard from him even less. [this doesn't make sense; maybe she'd heard from him only a handful of times, and seen him even less.]
A joyous voice boomed throughout the entry way, "Where's my Grams?" [Simms would not let him do that.]
Claire rounded the corner [of what? where? She was at the window.] and stopped short with a gasp when her eyes met the emerald gems beneath the darkest lashes she'd ever seen. He smiled and stepped forward with his hand outstretched. "I'm Edmund Beckett and you must be the beautiful Claire Walden." [he's pretty forward for this time period. You need to explain that.]
Claire paused and then put her hand in his. "Pleased to meet you. Mrs. Fielding will be back in time for supper." [Again, is she a servant or a friend? If a servant, would she be shaking hands?]
"You're wondering how I know who you are," Edmund said.
"Yes sir, I am curious."
Edmund stepped closer to Claire. "Grams told me all about you." [Why would Grams tell him all about a servant?]
"But I thought you weren't in contact."
"Ah, no we weren't until recently when my father passed away."
"I'm very sorry."
"Don't be. If you've heard much about my father, you aren't sorry anyway."
Claire swallowed and touched her flaming red cheeks. Edmund chuckled and leaned closer. He took one hand from her face and squeezed gently. [Whose hands are at her face? We need to see them go there.] "I'm not like him, not at all."
Claire was completely unnerved. "I'm sorry, but I must finish my duties." She released her hand. "I'm sure Simms will help you."
Claire hurried into the dining room to gather the tarnished silver. She headed to the kitchen with shaking hands. What was she to think of Edmund? He was all charm and glorious beauty and according to Mrs. Fielding, his father was exactly the same way toward Delia.
How had Mrs. Fielding come into contact with her grandson and not mentioned it once to her? [If Mrs. Fielding is telling her grandson all about Claire, it doesn't make sense that she doesn't even mention him.] Claire closed her eyes. Immediately, she visualized Edmund's face with his green eyes smoldering. She snapped her eyes open and stood abruptly. She wouldn't be charmed into the same fate Delia had suffered.
"Excuse me, Miss, but you have a visitor," Simms announced.
"Who is it?"
Simms merely smiled and motioned to follow him. Claire's face fell when she saw her visitor. Tucker Forsey stood with his hat in hand and a smile across his freckled face. The young man had worked at the stables for as long as she could remember. [The butler would not announce visitors for the servants. They would come in the back way.]
"Hello Tucker. What brings you here?"
"I want to ask you to the Fielding Christmas Dance." [Again, servants would not be invited to the dance.]
"But I—"
"I know you're eighteen now and can go and I'd like to take you."
"Actually, she already has an escort." Claire jumped when she felt Edmund's hand on her waist. [This is really too fresh for the time period.]
Tucker scowled. "Who are you?"
"I am Mrs. Fielding's grandson, Edmund Beckett."
"Claire knows I've planned on taking her since last year. She should go to the dance with people of her own class," Tucker said.
"I'm sure Claire has considered all of her options."
Claire shook her head. "Tucker, I was actually planning on going alone."
"Please come with me Claire," Tucker pleaded.
"I'm honored, but I cannot attend with you. Have a Merry Christmas." Claire escaped the room quickly.
She had barely resumed polishing the silver when Edmund entered the kitchen.
"I'm sorry about that Claire. I wanted to help, but—"
"I'm not going to the dance with you or anyone else. I don't even know you!"
"But I know you, and I hoped to speak with you."
"You don't know me!"
Edmund's fingertips brushed her sleeve as she rushed past. "Please Claire."
Claire ran to her bedroom and tried to compose herself. How could Edmund claim to know her? Several minutes later she heard a soft knock.
"Claire, may I come in?" Mrs. Fielding's voice accompanied the twisting of the knob.
"Oh, I haven't finished the silver."
"That's not why I'm here. I want you to listen to me for just a moment." Mrs. Fielding said. "I'm delighted my dear grandson has surprised us with a holiday visit."
"But he—"
"Just hear me out," Mrs. Fielding said and she patted Claire's hand. "Edmund has been writing me these past six months. He feels he knows you because of the details I provided." Mrs. Fielding smiled. "I must admit Edmund is more like his mother than I could have hoped. Please don't be afraid to know him. He's a good man. That's all I will say now." Claire blinked back tears as she left the room. She didn't understand what was happening, but she must protect her heart.
Over the next week, Claire tried to keep her distance from Edmund. But he seemed to always know where she was, whether it was trimming the lamps or dusting furniture, he found a way to be near her. Claire felt her defenses weaken as Edmund's smiles grew broader with each conversation they held.
On Christmas Eve, Fielding House was picturesque. Bright red bows hung on doorknobs and a garland with silver tinsel was draped across the mantle. The Fielding House Christmas tree had always been Claire's favorite. The flickering candles cast lovely shadows on the glass balls hanging from every bough.
The dance would begin within the hour and Claire's heart was tied in knots over Edmund. Although she had fervently vowed not to have anything to do with him, her heart fluttered when she heard footsteps behind her.
"Claire, I hoped you'd be here," Edmund's voice sent thrills down her spine. "I have something for you."
"Edmund, it's not Christmas yet."
"I know, but I couldn't wait." Edmund handed Claire a silver box and then placed his hand over hers.
"Before you open it, I want to say something." He looked into her crystal blue eyes. "Perhaps you don't know me as well as you'd like in light of the feelings we have for each other."
Claire started to shake her head, but Edmund placed one hand on her cheek and spoke softly, "Claire, I loved you before I even met you. I felt foolish to have such feelings without seeing you, only reading about your goodness. But having spent time with you, I know I cannot ever deny the feeling I have that we should be together. Please, open your gift and let love overcome your fears." Edmund leaned in close to her and kissed her cheek.
Her eyes sparkled as the heat of his lips spread across her face. Claire opened the box and gasped. A dazzling glass ornament lay nestled in folds of blue velvet.
"Thank you Edmund, it's beautiful. Let's hang it on this branch." Claire pointed toward the top of the tree.
"There's something else." Edmund held the box closer and smiled when he heard a sharp intake of breath. A sparkle radiated from a diamond ring tucked in the box. Edmund was kneeling before Claire realized what was happening. "Claire Walden will you marry me and make this the happiest Christmas of all time?"
Claire's body stiffened with every emotion from fear to excitement as she took in the scene around her. Then she remembered Edmund's words before she opened the box, to let love overcome her fears. She smiled and held out her left hand. "Merry Christmas Edmund."
Watch for typos, spelling, grammar, punctuation. I'm a little confused—is Claire a servant or a friend of the family? I'm not sure of her place here. You need to pick one or the other and then make her actions and the way Mrs. Fielding treats her consistent.
You use some of the classic romance techniques well, but the relationship moves too quickly to be believable. Give them more time, let them develop a little more.
What I liked best: Edmund. I like his personality, even though he's quite fresh for the time period.
Magazine ready? No. Too much is happening to fit it into a short story. Consider turning this into a novel.
Monday, December 10, 2007
Christmas 12: Story
The traditional nativity was enacted, with the narrator reading the beloved and familiar verses from Luke. The Angel of the Lord appeared to the shepherds, who journeyed to the manger to find Joseph and Mary, cradling the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes. “And suddenly there was with the Angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying, Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.” (Luke 2:13-14). The pantomime ended with the cast and congregation singing “Silent Night.”
It was the conclusion of the usual ward Christmas party, with one departure from tradition: instead of Primary children, the nativity story was portrayed by the fifteen and sixteen year olds. I don’t know how their Sunday School teachers persuaded them to don old white temple dresses and pose as angels, or to wear striped bathrobes as shepherds, but they did, and that night they played their parts with reverence, and a sense of awe came over all who watched.
For me, it was especially touching to see my sixteen year old son as an angel, the light shining on his straight blond hair as he stood next to his best friend, nearly a foot taller, with jeans and sneakers showing under the too-short old white dress, and his five-o’clock shadow making an appearance too. But in that moment they were angels; they believed; and we believed.
These special young people have gone on to missions, college, graduate school, marriage, families, and mortgages. They are faithful and stalwart ward members living in many parts of the country, and they still hold that spark of reverence in their hearts that we all felt on that memorable night. And for that and many other reasons, their interpretation of the Nativity will always be one of my favorite Christmas memories.
You've described an event, but not really told a story. You could do so much with teenagers performing the nativity. This could be a very fun and touching story but we need to know why it was touching to you, why it's a favorite memory. Give us the details. Involve our senses. Let us see, hear, smell, feel all the things you saw, heard, smelled and felt. Make it come alive for us so we can be touched too. Oh, and you need a title.
What I liked best: Paragraph three. The descriptions of the teens, and the last sentence.
Magazine ready? No. But this could be developed into a very nice short story.
It was the conclusion of the usual ward Christmas party, with one departure from tradition: instead of Primary children, the nativity story was portrayed by the fifteen and sixteen year olds. I don’t know how their Sunday School teachers persuaded them to don old white temple dresses and pose as angels, or to wear striped bathrobes as shepherds, but they did, and that night they played their parts with reverence, and a sense of awe came over all who watched.
For me, it was especially touching to see my sixteen year old son as an angel, the light shining on his straight blond hair as he stood next to his best friend, nearly a foot taller, with jeans and sneakers showing under the too-short old white dress, and his five-o’clock shadow making an appearance too. But in that moment they were angels; they believed; and we believed.
These special young people have gone on to missions, college, graduate school, marriage, families, and mortgages. They are faithful and stalwart ward members living in many parts of the country, and they still hold that spark of reverence in their hearts that we all felt on that memorable night. And for that and many other reasons, their interpretation of the Nativity will always be one of my favorite Christmas memories.
You've described an event, but not really told a story. You could do so much with teenagers performing the nativity. This could be a very fun and touching story but we need to know why it was touching to you, why it's a favorite memory. Give us the details. Involve our senses. Let us see, hear, smell, feel all the things you saw, heard, smelled and felt. Make it come alive for us so we can be touched too. Oh, and you need a title.
What I liked best: Paragraph three. The descriptions of the teens, and the last sentence.
Magazine ready? No. But this could be developed into a very nice short story.
Friday, December 07, 2007
Christmas 10: Arrows to Heaven
I’ve been the owner of the O Tannenbaum Christmas Tree Lot for twenty years, the only lot in the valley that doesn’t cut their trees weeks in advance, expecting them to last through the holiday season without losing their needles. We take pride in the fact that our trees are cut the week before the lot opens and that we cut fresh as needed. In fact, the majority of our trees come in buckets, so the environmentally conscious can plant the tree after they’re done with it.
Ironic -- people can be so worried about the environment but pay so little attention to why they’re buying the tree in the first place.
A lot of things struck me as ironic a year ago. I was turning into a cynic, barely able to stand the holiday. Don’t get me wrong; I’m a Christian to the core. But I’m getting older, and my tolerance for certain things isn’t what it used to be. Take, for instance, the woman who came to the lot and stood for twenty minutes debating whether or not a certain blue spruce was taller than the one Nancy Englebrecht had in her foyer (she pronounced it “foy-yay” – I guess no
one ever told her we don’t have those in Utah) as if I should have known who Nancy Englebrecht even was. I was on the verge of telling her I had been to Nancy’s house, with a tape measure, and the blue spruce in question topped Nancy’s by a whopping six inches, when the lady in question turned, sighed, and told her husband that they had better keep looking. It just wouldn’t do.
It was a tree, for crying out loud, and a right pretty one, too. I had cut that one myself and felt a sense of pride whenever I looked at it. But for some reason, if it couldn’t compete with Nancy What’s-Her-Name’s tree, it wasn’t good enough. After all that, I’m not sure I would have sold it to her anyway.
One particularly bright and clear night midway through December my cynicism vanished, the kind of night where the air is so cold you can feel your nostrils freezing from the inside out. I sat on the stool I always sit on, overseeing the place and listening to Harvey, my eager assistant, point out the merits of a fir tree to a young couple, celebrating their first Christmas together. I had been thinking of selling the lot and doing something downright self-indulgent with the money when a family drove up in a sad brown station wagon and tumbled out
like puppies. Three children and a mother, a blonde with a pony tail. She was too tired to be pretty, but the potential was there. Give her a nap and she would have sparkled.
The children ranged in age from about five, up to around ten. I’m a terrible judge of age but that’s my best guess. The woman, I estimated to be younger than she looked. Lines of care touched her eyes where they had no right to be, this early in the game. They stood near the entrance, staring up at all the garish lights I strung along the fence for the purpose of attracting passing motorists, their eyes reflecting the colors in a way the bulbs themselves could only aspire to.
“Let’s walk around,” I heard her say, and the children reached out and took each other’s hands. They went from tree to tree, admiring, standing back to see the tops. I had arranged the trees from largest to smallest, but this family didn’t seem to have a target in mind. They looked at every tree on the lot.
Finally they reached the back corner, where I stack the dead branches. One of the small trees cut way back when the lot first opened had lost some limbs on one side and looked as though the others were in danger too, and I couldn’t have it out on the lot. I take pride in my quality and selection. I heard a squeal as the family rounded the corner and saw the trash heap, and the next thing I knew, the oldest, a boy, was standing in front of me, holding that tree like a trophy, asking how much it was.
“Well, now, that tree has seen better days. Are you sure it’s the one you want?”
“Yes, sir,” he said. “This one is perfect.”
I nearly fell off my stool when he said “sir.” I haven’t heard that since I was too young to be addressed that way.
“This tree is straight out of Charlie Brown,” I told him. “There are much nicer trees out there.”
“We really like this one,” he insisted.
“Well, I can’t see myself taking any money for that old thing,” I began, but the mother interrupted me.
“Go look at the lights,” she told her children, and they walked off. She kept an eye on them as she turned back to me.
“I appreciate what you were about to do,” she said. “But please don’t. The children have been saving their money for months to buy a tree. If you were to give it to them, it would be kind, but it wouldn’t mean quite the same thing, you know?”
I looked at her for a long moment. I did know. I remembered the first thing I ever saved my money to buy. It was a Secret Spy Decoder Ring, a piece of junk that was created for the purpose of luring young innocents like myself into forking over their hard-earned allowance, but I treasured that ring like almost nothing else.
She misunderstood my silence. “It’s not that I’m ungrateful, really, I’m not. But you should have seen them, all summer long, gathering up loose change from the parking lot at the store and taking out trash for the neighbors. They kept the money in a can on Peter’s dresser. This means so much to them.”
“Why a tree?” I found my voice at last. “Why have they been working so hard to get money for a tree? Why not candy, or toys?”
“Peter says a Christmas tree looks just like an arrow, pointing up to Heaven,” she said. “With all we’ve been through this year, we need every reminder of Heaven we can get.” I must have looked as lost as I felt, for she continued, “Oh, I see the rumor mill hasn’t made it this far. I’m Margaret Keith. You know, of the ‘her husband was an alcoholic and left her for another woman and hasn’t been seen in six months’ Keiths.” Her tone was light and I could tell that she
wanted to inject some humor into her admission.
“I only know the Albuquerque Keiths,” I told her. “Your bunch must have immigrated later.”
She smiled in acknowledgement as the children returned. The boy I took to be Peter was all business. “We’re ready to buy our tree,” he said, holding up a tin can. “How much is it?”
I looked to the mother for some kind of sign, and bless her heart, she held up five fingers, giving me the answer I needed.
“That tree is four dollars,” I said, wanting to leave them something to rattle in the bottom of their can. “And you are in luck. For the next ten minutes, all trees sold come with a string of lights, free.”
They chose white lights, “like the stars,” the youngest said, and the transaction was completed. I have never in my life seen so much joy on the faces of three young children as I did that night after helping them put the tree in the car. It was so small, it fit in the front seat next to Margaret. They thanked me and drove away, full of excitement.
I stood there for a long time, watching their taillights disappear. People came and went, ably assisted by Harvey, barely noticed by me. At last I turned and went back to my stool, looking at the trees as I did so. Each and every one of them was an arrow, pointing to Heaven, just like Peter said.
About an hour later my wife brought me a thermos of hot chocolate. She set it down on the table and began tidying up the receipts, her back to me. I slid my arms around her waist.
“Merry Christmas,” I said i
Ironic -- people can be so worried about the environment but pay so little attention to why they’re buying the tree in the first place.
A lot of things struck me as ironic a year ago. I was turning into a cynic, barely able to stand the holiday. Don’t get me wrong; I’m a Christian to the core. But I’m getting older, and my tolerance for certain things isn’t what it used to be. Take, for instance, the woman who came to the lot and stood for twenty minutes debating whether or not a certain blue spruce was taller than the one Nancy Englebrecht had in her foyer (she pronounced it “foy-yay” – I guess no
one ever told her we don’t have those in Utah) as if I should have known who Nancy Englebrecht even was. I was on the verge of telling her I had been to Nancy’s house, with a tape measure, and the blue spruce in question topped Nancy’s by a whopping six inches, when the lady in question turned, sighed, and told her husband that they had better keep looking. It just wouldn’t do.
It was a tree, for crying out loud, and a right pretty one, too. I had cut that one myself and felt a sense of pride whenever I looked at it. But for some reason, if it couldn’t compete with Nancy What’s-Her-Name’s tree, it wasn’t good enough. After all that, I’m not sure I would have sold it to her anyway.
One particularly bright and clear night midway through December my cynicism vanished, the kind of night where the air is so cold you can feel your nostrils freezing from the inside out. I sat on the stool I always sit on, overseeing the place and listening to Harvey, my eager assistant, point out the merits of a fir tree to a young couple, celebrating their first Christmas together. I had been thinking of selling the lot and doing something downright self-indulgent with the money when a family drove up in a sad brown station wagon and tumbled out
like puppies. Three children and a mother, a blonde with a pony tail. She was too tired to be pretty, but the potential was there. Give her a nap and she would have sparkled.
The children ranged in age from about five, up to around ten. I’m a terrible judge of age but that’s my best guess. The woman, I estimated to be younger than she looked. Lines of care touched her eyes where they had no right to be, this early in the game. They stood near the entrance, staring up at all the garish lights I strung along the fence for the purpose of attracting passing motorists, their eyes reflecting the colors in a way the bulbs themselves could only aspire to.
“Let’s walk around,” I heard her say, and the children reached out and took each other’s hands. They went from tree to tree, admiring, standing back to see the tops. I had arranged the trees from largest to smallest, but this family didn’t seem to have a target in mind. They looked at every tree on the lot.
Finally they reached the back corner, where I stack the dead branches. One of the small trees cut way back when the lot first opened had lost some limbs on one side and looked as though the others were in danger too, and I couldn’t have it out on the lot. I take pride in my quality and selection. I heard a squeal as the family rounded the corner and saw the trash heap, and the next thing I knew, the oldest, a boy, was standing in front of me, holding that tree like a trophy, asking how much it was.
“Well, now, that tree has seen better days. Are you sure it’s the one you want?”
“Yes, sir,” he said. “This one is perfect.”
I nearly fell off my stool when he said “sir.” I haven’t heard that since I was too young to be addressed that way.
“This tree is straight out of Charlie Brown,” I told him. “There are much nicer trees out there.”
“We really like this one,” he insisted.
“Well, I can’t see myself taking any money for that old thing,” I began, but the mother interrupted me.
“Go look at the lights,” she told her children, and they walked off. She kept an eye on them as she turned back to me.
“I appreciate what you were about to do,” she said. “But please don’t. The children have been saving their money for months to buy a tree. If you were to give it to them, it would be kind, but it wouldn’t mean quite the same thing, you know?”
I looked at her for a long moment. I did know. I remembered the first thing I ever saved my money to buy. It was a Secret Spy Decoder Ring, a piece of junk that was created for the purpose of luring young innocents like myself into forking over their hard-earned allowance, but I treasured that ring like almost nothing else.
She misunderstood my silence. “It’s not that I’m ungrateful, really, I’m not. But you should have seen them, all summer long, gathering up loose change from the parking lot at the store and taking out trash for the neighbors. They kept the money in a can on Peter’s dresser. This means so much to them.”
“Why a tree?” I found my voice at last. “Why have they been working so hard to get money for a tree? Why not candy, or toys?”
“Peter says a Christmas tree looks just like an arrow, pointing up to Heaven,” she said. “With all we’ve been through this year, we need every reminder of Heaven we can get.” I must have looked as lost as I felt, for she continued, “Oh, I see the rumor mill hasn’t made it this far. I’m Margaret Keith. You know, of the ‘her husband was an alcoholic and left her for another woman and hasn’t been seen in six months’ Keiths.” Her tone was light and I could tell that she
wanted to inject some humor into her admission.
“I only know the Albuquerque Keiths,” I told her. “Your bunch must have immigrated later.”
She smiled in acknowledgement as the children returned. The boy I took to be Peter was all business. “We’re ready to buy our tree,” he said, holding up a tin can. “How much is it?”
I looked to the mother for some kind of sign, and bless her heart, she held up five fingers, giving me the answer I needed.
“That tree is four dollars,” I said, wanting to leave them something to rattle in the bottom of their can. “And you are in luck. For the next ten minutes, all trees sold come with a string of lights, free.”
They chose white lights, “like the stars,” the youngest said, and the transaction was completed. I have never in my life seen so much joy on the faces of three young children as I did that night after helping them put the tree in the car. It was so small, it fit in the front seat next to Margaret. They thanked me and drove away, full of excitement.
I stood there for a long time, watching their taillights disappear. People came and went, ably assisted by Harvey, barely noticed by me. At last I turned and went back to my stool, looking at the trees as I did so. Each and every one of them was an arrow, pointing to Heaven, just like Peter said.
About an hour later my wife brought me a thermos of hot chocolate. She set it down on the table and began tidying up the receipts, her back to me. I slid my arms around her waist.
“Merry Christmas,” I said i