Two days before Christmas, while stuffing his sack,
Santa Claus found himself craving a snack.
"Candy cane? Fudge?" suggested the elves.
"Cocoa and cookies are here on the shelves."
"I’ll gobble the goodies tomorrow night.
Right now I’m longing for something that’s light.
Here is the list, you know what to pack."
He slipped outside, promising, "I’ll be right back."
Santa summoned the reindeer, hitched up his sleigh,
and in less than no time they were up and away.
They sped south-southeast for an hour or more,
‘til they saw the bright lights of a grocery store.
The reindeer touched down with a brisk trit-trot,
claiming five spaces in the parking lot.
Santa joined shoppers in holiday mood,
filling their carts with festive food.
Turkey and ham, fruitcake and pie...
Not for today, Santa thought with a sigh.
Turning the corner, he started to smile.
He found his desire in the produce aisle.
Iceberg lettuce will fit in at home.
Romaine reminds me of summer in Rome.
Though it’s not part of my regular diet,
good children eat spinach – I guess I should try it!
Radishes, carrots, tomatoes, and scallions,
a nice tangy dressing, too – maybe Italian.
He skipped to the check-out with cart piled high,
stacked the bags in the sleigh, and flew north through the sky.
As he chopped up his veggies and gave them a toss,
an elf bustled in to report to the boss.
"The presents are wrapped, and we’re ready to roll – "
Then he stopped short at the sight of the bowl.
"I’m sorry, sir, I don’t mean to be rude,
but you went all that way for reindeer food?"
"It’s a salad," said Santa. "Come, pull up a chair.
It’s zesty and crisp, and I’m happy to share!"
"No, thanks," he replied. "You know what we say:
‘A bonbon a day keeps the gray hairs away.’"
"Where’s your sense of adventure?" The elf would not budge.
Santa dismissed him. "Go back to your fudge."
The balky elf backed out through the door.
Santa just smiled as he scooped up some more.
With a chuckle he thought, Now I understand why
elves may live forever, but reindeer can fly!
What I liked best: The idea that Santa eats salad. There are some health nuts in my extended family who would love a picture book like this.
Publication ready: Very close. A couple of lines need some tweaking, but overall, I liked it!
12/8/10
12/7/10
07 Slushballs
It wasn’t just a snowball. It was a dirty slushball. And it hit me on the ear. Slush oozed under my fuzzy pink scarf and down my shirt. I screamed and yanked the slushy scarf off my neck.
Jimmy Torbell laughed.
I glared at him while I used the dry end of the scarf to clean the icky slush off the side of my face and neck. “I hate you, Jimmy Torbell. You’re such a jerk.”
Jimmy stuck his tongue out, which was so very juvenile. “I know you are, but what am I?”
I stomped my foot, but I knew better than to answer his taunts. His chappy red hands were reaching for more slush. I ran.
“You run like a girl,” he yelled.
I turned around to inform him that I was a girl but he hit me in the mouth with another slushball before I could speak. Gross. I spit the slushball out. My mother taught me that every girl is a princess and that I should be a proper lady, but princesses and ladies don’t get hit in the mouth with a slushball. I ran at him and hit him in the chest with my head. He fell on the pile of snow between our driveways. I was cramming snow in his face when my brother, Matt, dragged me off and carried me inside, kicking and screaming.
My mother was disappointed in me. But Jimmy always threw slushballs and I’d had enough. They were cold and filthy and my favorite scarf was too dirty to wear to school.
“Megan, what possessed you to tackle Jimmy and mash snow in his face?” Mom asked. It sounded like a bad thing, the way she put it.
“He hit me in the ear and in the mouth with a slushball,” I told my wet socks.
“Jimmy is having a rough time right now.”
I rolled my eyes. “I know. I know. His dad lost his job. They have to move. Blah, blah, blah. That doesn’t give him an excuse to be mean. Plus he gets to move in with his grandparents which might as well be heaven.”
Mom closed her eyes. I could tell she was counting because her lips twitched. “You are older than Jimmy.”
“By a year. I was teaching him a lesson,” I said. “If he doesn’t learn it from me, he’ll learn it from someone even older. And bigger.” I almost added meaner, but I didn’t want to push my luck.
“The Torbells are moving the day after Christmas,” Mom said. “Please try to be a good neighbor until then. This move is hard for them.”
I couldn’t help but smile. Having the Torbells move was the best Christmas present ever. But I knew better than to say that out loud. Then I felt a tiny twinge of guilt. Jimmy’s little sister, Sam, was a sweet kid. I couldn’t help but feel bad for her. She would never escape Jimmy.
“I’ll be as good a neighbor as he is,” I said. And that was when I knew I’d gone too far. Mom had that look in her eyes, that lifting of the brow, that slight raise on the left side of her mouth. She had an idea.
“That is a wonderful suggestion,” Mom said, smiling sweetly. Oh gag.
“Uh,” I said.
“I want you to do some nice deeds for Jimmy. Show him what it’s like to be a good neighbor.”
I didn’t roll my eyes, as much as I wanted to. “Fine. I won’t push him in the snow.”
Mom smiled. I hate that smile—sweet and deadly. “I’ll be basing your Christmas on your nice deeds.”
My jaw dropped. She couldn’t be serious. But I’ve seen that look in her eyes before. She’s not one for idol threats. I had to find a way out of this mess fast—a way that didn’t involve me being nice to Jimmy. “But you finished Christmas shopping last month.”
“I can still return presents.”
“But that’s not fair. Christmas is only two days away.” I couldn’t possibly bring myself to be nice to Jimmy by then. It takes weeks to forgive a slushball—and Jimmy threw two at me in one day! I still hadn’t forgiven him for the time he hit me on the way to school and I had a dirty coat all day.
Mom shrugged. “Life isn’t fair.”
I hate it when she says that.
Mom explained her plan to Dad during dinner. Dad liked the idea. I didn’t expect him to take my side, especially when Mom made orange fudge for dessert. I can’t compete with fudge. The best I can do is open a package of Oreos.
“We should do something nice for the whole family,” Dad said.
Matt groaned. “Why bother? They’re moving.”
I ducked, just in case Mom started spewing lightning, which would have been pretty cool, especially since it was aimed at Matt and not me.
“What did you say?” Mom asked.
Matt froze. I could almost hear the gears in his head click while he searched for a way to smooth over his previous statement. I smeared mashed potatoes all over my plate so it would look like I ate some while everyone glared at him.
“Come on,” Matt said. “The twerp threw a slushball at my little sister. He had it coming. He’s had it coming for a while. I was about ready to plant his face in some snow.”
“He has a point,” Dad said. “She was standing up for herself.”
“When will you learn that violence only begets violence?” Mom asked.
Matt and I looked at each other and shrugged. Sometimes Mom speaks a language of her own. Usually we just smile and nod but this time was different. She was either going to cry or yell at us. I didn’t want either so I said the first soothing thing that came to my mind.
“We could bring them some orange fudge.”
Matt kicked me under the table. I shrugged and jerked my head toward Mom. He made a face at the table before turning angelic and agreeing with me. “Good idea, Megan.”
Mom’s lip quivered, but she managed to hold it together. “Finally, you get it!”
“You aren’t going to take it all over, are you?” Dad asked. Mom glared at him and Dad raised his hands in surrender. “I’m kidding. I’ll get a plate.”
“I’ll help,” I said.
Mom put her hand on my shoulder so I couldn’t stand. “You can finish eating your mashed potatoes while we get the plate ready.”
I choked down my potatoes and washed the nasty texture away with a glass of milk while everyone else gathered coats, scarves, and our precious fudge. I craned my head to see if there was any fudge left. The pan looked pretty empty. At least some of it would go to Sam.
“Mom,” I said as we trudged down our driveway.
“What?”
“Could you show me how to make orange fudge?”
Mom laughed and I knew my Christmas was safe, which was a good thing since giving up my fudge was about as nice as I could manage.
“Sure,” Mom said. “I can teach you how to make fudge when we get home. I’m sure your Dad will be relieved.”
Mom rang the doorbell and sang Jingle Bells. Dad joined in. Matt and I stood behind them and hoped no one would see us.
Jimmy’s mom opened the door and Mom handed her the plate of fudge. Jimmy stuck his head out from behind a box in the living room and stuck his tongue out at us. I smiled as sweetly as my lips would allow. If I reacted now, I might be stuck doing nice things for the twerp until Christmas. The adults started talking about moving trucks and packing so Matt and I went home.
The day after Christmas, I went outside to watch the movers load the moving van. Sam ran over to me to show off her new doll. I bent over to give her a hug. “I’m going to miss you.”
Sam hugged me back. “I’ll miss you. The fudge was yummy, but Jimmy ate most of it.” She stuck her lip out in a cute little pout.
I stood up and something white flew through the air and hit me in the stomach, right where my head had just been. Jimmy laughed.
“Stop it, Jimmy,” I yelled. I pulled my hand inside my sleeve to wipe the slush off my coat. But he hadn’t thrown a slushball. It was just a snowball. And it wasn’t even dirty.
I can’t say I was sad when the moving truck pulled away. But I can’t help but wonder if Mom was right. Did Jimmy switch to snow because I did something nice? There was a puddle of dirty slush next to the pile of snow and this time Jimmy picked the snow.
Jimmy Torbell laughed.
I glared at him while I used the dry end of the scarf to clean the icky slush off the side of my face and neck. “I hate you, Jimmy Torbell. You’re such a jerk.”
Jimmy stuck his tongue out, which was so very juvenile. “I know you are, but what am I?”
I stomped my foot, but I knew better than to answer his taunts. His chappy red hands were reaching for more slush. I ran.
“You run like a girl,” he yelled.
I turned around to inform him that I was a girl but he hit me in the mouth with another slushball before I could speak. Gross. I spit the slushball out. My mother taught me that every girl is a princess and that I should be a proper lady, but princesses and ladies don’t get hit in the mouth with a slushball. I ran at him and hit him in the chest with my head. He fell on the pile of snow between our driveways. I was cramming snow in his face when my brother, Matt, dragged me off and carried me inside, kicking and screaming.
My mother was disappointed in me. But Jimmy always threw slushballs and I’d had enough. They were cold and filthy and my favorite scarf was too dirty to wear to school.
“Megan, what possessed you to tackle Jimmy and mash snow in his face?” Mom asked. It sounded like a bad thing, the way she put it.
“He hit me in the ear and in the mouth with a slushball,” I told my wet socks.
“Jimmy is having a rough time right now.”
I rolled my eyes. “I know. I know. His dad lost his job. They have to move. Blah, blah, blah. That doesn’t give him an excuse to be mean. Plus he gets to move in with his grandparents which might as well be heaven.”
Mom closed her eyes. I could tell she was counting because her lips twitched. “You are older than Jimmy.”
“By a year. I was teaching him a lesson,” I said. “If he doesn’t learn it from me, he’ll learn it from someone even older. And bigger.” I almost added meaner, but I didn’t want to push my luck.
“The Torbells are moving the day after Christmas,” Mom said. “Please try to be a good neighbor until then. This move is hard for them.”
I couldn’t help but smile. Having the Torbells move was the best Christmas present ever. But I knew better than to say that out loud. Then I felt a tiny twinge of guilt. Jimmy’s little sister, Sam, was a sweet kid. I couldn’t help but feel bad for her. She would never escape Jimmy.
“I’ll be as good a neighbor as he is,” I said. And that was when I knew I’d gone too far. Mom had that look in her eyes, that lifting of the brow, that slight raise on the left side of her mouth. She had an idea.
“That is a wonderful suggestion,” Mom said, smiling sweetly. Oh gag.
“Uh,” I said.
“I want you to do some nice deeds for Jimmy. Show him what it’s like to be a good neighbor.”
I didn’t roll my eyes, as much as I wanted to. “Fine. I won’t push him in the snow.”
Mom smiled. I hate that smile—sweet and deadly. “I’ll be basing your Christmas on your nice deeds.”
My jaw dropped. She couldn’t be serious. But I’ve seen that look in her eyes before. She’s not one for idol threats. I had to find a way out of this mess fast—a way that didn’t involve me being nice to Jimmy. “But you finished Christmas shopping last month.”
“I can still return presents.”
“But that’s not fair. Christmas is only two days away.” I couldn’t possibly bring myself to be nice to Jimmy by then. It takes weeks to forgive a slushball—and Jimmy threw two at me in one day! I still hadn’t forgiven him for the time he hit me on the way to school and I had a dirty coat all day.
Mom shrugged. “Life isn’t fair.”
I hate it when she says that.
Mom explained her plan to Dad during dinner. Dad liked the idea. I didn’t expect him to take my side, especially when Mom made orange fudge for dessert. I can’t compete with fudge. The best I can do is open a package of Oreos.
“We should do something nice for the whole family,” Dad said.
Matt groaned. “Why bother? They’re moving.”
I ducked, just in case Mom started spewing lightning, which would have been pretty cool, especially since it was aimed at Matt and not me.
“What did you say?” Mom asked.
Matt froze. I could almost hear the gears in his head click while he searched for a way to smooth over his previous statement. I smeared mashed potatoes all over my plate so it would look like I ate some while everyone glared at him.
“Come on,” Matt said. “The twerp threw a slushball at my little sister. He had it coming. He’s had it coming for a while. I was about ready to plant his face in some snow.”
“He has a point,” Dad said. “She was standing up for herself.”
“When will you learn that violence only begets violence?” Mom asked.
Matt and I looked at each other and shrugged. Sometimes Mom speaks a language of her own. Usually we just smile and nod but this time was different. She was either going to cry or yell at us. I didn’t want either so I said the first soothing thing that came to my mind.
“We could bring them some orange fudge.”
Matt kicked me under the table. I shrugged and jerked my head toward Mom. He made a face at the table before turning angelic and agreeing with me. “Good idea, Megan.”
Mom’s lip quivered, but she managed to hold it together. “Finally, you get it!”
“You aren’t going to take it all over, are you?” Dad asked. Mom glared at him and Dad raised his hands in surrender. “I’m kidding. I’ll get a plate.”
“I’ll help,” I said.
Mom put her hand on my shoulder so I couldn’t stand. “You can finish eating your mashed potatoes while we get the plate ready.”
I choked down my potatoes and washed the nasty texture away with a glass of milk while everyone else gathered coats, scarves, and our precious fudge. I craned my head to see if there was any fudge left. The pan looked pretty empty. At least some of it would go to Sam.
“Mom,” I said as we trudged down our driveway.
“What?”
“Could you show me how to make orange fudge?”
Mom laughed and I knew my Christmas was safe, which was a good thing since giving up my fudge was about as nice as I could manage.
“Sure,” Mom said. “I can teach you how to make fudge when we get home. I’m sure your Dad will be relieved.”
Mom rang the doorbell and sang Jingle Bells. Dad joined in. Matt and I stood behind them and hoped no one would see us.
Jimmy’s mom opened the door and Mom handed her the plate of fudge. Jimmy stuck his head out from behind a box in the living room and stuck his tongue out at us. I smiled as sweetly as my lips would allow. If I reacted now, I might be stuck doing nice things for the twerp until Christmas. The adults started talking about moving trucks and packing so Matt and I went home.
The day after Christmas, I went outside to watch the movers load the moving van. Sam ran over to me to show off her new doll. I bent over to give her a hug. “I’m going to miss you.”
Sam hugged me back. “I’ll miss you. The fudge was yummy, but Jimmy ate most of it.” She stuck her lip out in a cute little pout.
I stood up and something white flew through the air and hit me in the stomach, right where my head had just been. Jimmy laughed.
“Stop it, Jimmy,” I yelled. I pulled my hand inside my sleeve to wipe the slush off my coat. But he hadn’t thrown a slushball. It was just a snowball. And it wasn’t even dirty.
I can’t say I was sad when the moving truck pulled away. But I can’t help but wonder if Mom was right. Did Jimmy switch to snow because I did something nice? There was a puddle of dirty slush next to the pile of snow and this time Jimmy picked the snow.
06 The Christmas Rescue
Based on a true story
The sound of the tires on the pavement made a low, dull humming sound as the car sped forward. Only 700 miles left until I would be ‘Home for Christmas’ as the song said.
‘Home’ was not exactly the right word to use, however. As a sophomore in college, and an Air Force brat, I was headed to my parents’ first owned home in San Antonio. In my twenty years of life I had lived in more than half of the contiguous United States and in Great Britain. So, for me, ‘home’ was not a definite place, just wherever Mom and Dad happened to be living.
“Mom and Dad must be glad to finally have moved in,” I thought to myself. “Especially Mom.”
I was just glad to have Dad back home, safe and sound. As a hospital administrator for the Air Force, he was sent all over the world setting up field clinics, base hospitals, and everything in between. He had recently returned from the Philippines and was scheduled to go back soon.
“As long as it’s not Korea,” I voiced out loud to the empty station wagon.
With only the charcoal gray pavement and the flat, brown New Mexico landscape in front of me my mind wandered to stories my father had told me of his early days in World War II as a medic and an ambulance driver in North Africa. No matter how much I had begged for reports of battles and Rommel and the Allied victory there, Dad would never say much. Instead he spoke of visiting the Sphinx and of his experiences assisting in a remote field dental clinic.
“Spiers, pedal faster,” the dentist repeated for the third time. “If General Fredendal’s root canal is going to be finished by the end of the war, I need the drill to go at top speed.”
Spiers pushed harder against the pedal. Muffled groans of pain from the General’s open mouth and the sound of the drill against the tooth made it hard to concentrate on pedaling to keep the drill going. Sweat ran down his back as the hot African morning shifted into midday and heated the room to sauna-like temperatures.
Suddenly, the general’s moans turned into a piercing scream.
“Ahh,” the dentist noted, “Now we are getting somewhere. It will all be over soon, General. I know it’s difficult without anesthesia, but I am working as fast as I can. Keep pedaling, Spiers.”
Nearly five o’clock in the evening. The Socorro radio stations were beginning to transmit more static than Christmas carols as I headed further and further east toward my destination. The sun was beginning to set in the sky behind me, casting flame colored hues across the horizon. A Spanish-style ranch along the side of the highway had lit luminaries to celebrate the holiday season. The soft glow of the candles radiated a feeling of peace and calmness despite my rush to get home.
I switched off the radio and thought more about Dad and his experiences during the war. How much more had he experienced, but never spoke about, I wondered? So few family members seemed to really know what Dad had experienced in his many years at war. Not even Mom. There was the incident that made the newspaper, though.
Grandma Rose fainted upon reading the headline of the Ogden Standard Examiner: Local Boy Declared a Hero. The photograph of the burning plane is what had stunned her the most. Grandma Rose’s dream of a few days prior had seemed so real and frightening—Don was running into a scorching fire. The dream had wakened her with its life-like clarity. She had prayed he would never have to experience such an incident in real life. And she had certainly never expected he would survive it.
But he had. And he was a hero. The article read: --
“On November 10 PFC Donald J. Spiers, a native of Ogden, Utah, was declared a hero after braving a burning plane to rescue several injured enlisted men. The downed two-engine plane, a C-47, had crash landed near the runway of the Lancaster Air Force base and immediately burst into flames.
“Despite the potential of personal injury, Private Spiers immediately rushed into the plane in an effort to save surviving passengers. His efforts helped to save the lives of three injured men: Sergeant David Williamson of New York, PFC Christopher Daniels of Pennsylvania, and PSC Brett Simonds of Arizona.
“In honor of his bravery, PFC Spiers will be the recipient of the Air Force Cross, which is awarded for extraordinary heroism. The medal is to be awarded to Spiers in the presence of his wife and family during his upcoming two-week leave of absence.”
The night sky was dark with only a sliver of the moon to light the night. The Texas landscape seemed to go on for miles and miles. Silently I cursed the flat tire I had had to fix earlier in the day. It had cost me some of the money I’d budgeted for fuel. I skipped dinner and used the last of my money to buy gasoline in a next-to-nothing town called Sonora. Only a few hundred miles to go on half a tank of gas. I did the mental math and hoped it would be just enough to get me home.
I checked the radio again only to catch bits and pieces of Elvis’ Blue Christmas and Bing Crosby’s White Christmas. I knew with near certainty it would not be a white– all the more reason to leave Utah and the snow behind for a holiday break—or a blue Christmas in San Antonio. A tinsel-decorated tree would be glowing and shimmering in the living room at home. Mom always decorated to the nines and cooked a feast for the family to enjoy over the holidays. I imagined the smell of her pies cooking and my stomach growled noisily.
“Darn that flat tire!” I muttered aloud.
In an effort to distract my mind from hunger I thought back on the conversation I had had with the Dean of the Business School earlier in the week. Dean Lewis had served with Dad in Italy, and I had asked about their time together there. He was surprised I knew so little.
December 2, 1943. The bay shimmered reflections of the city lights cast down from the surrounding Italian hillsides. Sergeant Spiers and Medic Lewis leaned casually against a stone wall at the dock, smoking and watching a fleet of seventeen ships as they slowly made their way into the bay of Bari. The calm night was quiet and serene with only the lapping of water and the occasional car passing by to be heard.
“How much longer before they dock?” Lewis asked Spiers between drags on his cigarette.
“Not too long before they dock. But how long it will take them to unload the hospital supplies is anyone’s guess. Hopefully before dawn,” replied Spiers.
Silence resumed between the two again.
A short while later they could hear the low pitch of an engine rumble.
“What’s that noise?” Lewis asked as he tried to determine the direction from which it came.
“I’m not sure, but it’s getting louder.”
The two men looked at each other and then to the north. The sound was growing by the minute.
“It sounds like an airplane. Actually, a lot of planes,” Sergeant Spiers paused before adding, “German planes.”
Just then a squadron of over one hundred German aircraft came into sight, flying low and quick over the water. Within seconds the bombing began, whistling torpedoes blasting into the convoy of ships that had entered the bay. Spiers and Lewis dove behind the stone wall to wait out the deafening attack and protect themselves from the diving planes.
Broken glass, fires, and screaming men made the next hour nearly unbearable. Again and again the planes swooped over the harbor, shooting and bombing until every one of the ships was severely damaged and quickly sinking.
Then, as quickly as they came, the planes were gone. And the night air was full of the wailing injured.
“Quick, get into that rowboat. There are men out there who need help,” Spiers commanded as he and Lewis rose from their hiding place to see the devastation.
“Wait! That garlic-y odor—that’s mustard gas. There must have been some on one of the ships. We can’t go out there,” Lewis exclaimed in fear.
“We have to go out there. Too many people need help. The sooner we get there, the more we can save from the gas. Come on!” Spiers dragged Lewis to the boat and threw him a life jacket.
Finally, the lights of San Antonio came into view. I sighed audibly to myself. But my heart was racing as my mind urged the wood-paneled station wagon to keep on going. The gas gauge had been on ‘E’ for more than 20 miles. Realistically it was not going to be much longer before I ran out of gasoline and would be left stranded on the outskirts of town.
A sudden realization struck me: I don’t know where Mom and Dad’s new home is located. All I have is an address. But having never been to San Antonio before, I had no idea how to find it.
I took the first exit hoping to find a telephone to use, but the late hour revealed very few businesses to be open. A few had brightly shining Christmas lights along the roofline, but the windows were dark and empty.
My engine started sputtering about the time I spotted a Texaco station a half a mile ahead with its sign still lit. Using the last of the station wagon’s momentum, I coasted the car part way into the gas station’s lot before coming to a dead halt. After pulling my stiff but lanky, 6’4” frame from the car I slowly walked up to the attendant.
“Can I help ya?” he asked as I came closer. His blue work-shirt was stained with oil and grease, but bore a name patch that read ‘Hank.’
“I ran out of gas,” I sheepishly admitted.
“Kinda’ thought so,” Hank replied in his heavy Texan accent.
“I am out of money, but my parents live here in town. I’ve been driving home for Christmas from college in Utah. Could I borrow a dime to call home? I’ll repay you after my Dad comes to get me.”
I hoped my rambling explanation would be convincing enough. Hank was eyeing me warily.
“Please?” I added as an afterthought.
“I suppose so. What’s yer name, son?” he asked as he led me to the office and the pay phone on the wall.
“Jim. Jim Spiers,” I replied with gratitude in my voice. Then I added, “Thank you, sir,” as he drew a dime from his pocket and placed it in the machine.
The phone rang once, twice, three times before Dad’s groggy voice answered the phone.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Dad. Sorry to wake you. I made it to San Antonio, but I’ve run out of gas and I’m broke. Can you bring a gas can and come help me?”
“Where are you?”
“I’m not exactly sure. I took the first exit off of the highway and then coasted into a Texaco station a mile or so into town.”
“What are your cross roads? Can you see the street signs?” His voice was sounding more awake now.
“Well,” I craned my neck to see what signs I could read. “It looks like I’m on the corner of Walk and Don’t Walk – no, wait! Now it’s Don’t Walk and Walk.”
“Smart aleck-y kid. Stay where you are, I’ll be there soon.”
“Thanks, Dad,” I replied and hung up the phone.
Twenty minutes later Dad arrived to rescue me with a gas can in hand and $20 pressed into my palm. He even repaid Hank for the borrowed dime.
“Glad you’re home safe,” Dad said as we filled the gas can.
“Me too, Dad,” I replied.
***
Nearly fifty Christmases later and Dad is still rescuing people. At nearly 90-years-old he is painting a collection of pictures showing the meaningful times in his life. His gift to me this year was one of these watercolors. It is not of a burning plane, the front lines, or field hospitals. It is of a 1951 Chevy station wagon that did not quite make it to the pumps on that December night so long ago.
What I liked best: The individual scenes are strong and your dialog is good.
Publication ready: No. The switching between POVs it tough in a short story. We don't really connect with either the storyteller or his father. Needs a much stronger hook, a plot and story arc, and less jumping back and forth.
The sound of the tires on the pavement made a low, dull humming sound as the car sped forward. Only 700 miles left until I would be ‘Home for Christmas’ as the song said.
‘Home’ was not exactly the right word to use, however. As a sophomore in college, and an Air Force brat, I was headed to my parents’ first owned home in San Antonio. In my twenty years of life I had lived in more than half of the contiguous United States and in Great Britain. So, for me, ‘home’ was not a definite place, just wherever Mom and Dad happened to be living.
“Mom and Dad must be glad to finally have moved in,” I thought to myself. “Especially Mom.”
I was just glad to have Dad back home, safe and sound. As a hospital administrator for the Air Force, he was sent all over the world setting up field clinics, base hospitals, and everything in between. He had recently returned from the Philippines and was scheduled to go back soon.
“As long as it’s not Korea,” I voiced out loud to the empty station wagon.
With only the charcoal gray pavement and the flat, brown New Mexico landscape in front of me my mind wandered to stories my father had told me of his early days in World War II as a medic and an ambulance driver in North Africa. No matter how much I had begged for reports of battles and Rommel and the Allied victory there, Dad would never say much. Instead he spoke of visiting the Sphinx and of his experiences assisting in a remote field dental clinic.
“Spiers, pedal faster,” the dentist repeated for the third time. “If General Fredendal’s root canal is going to be finished by the end of the war, I need the drill to go at top speed.”
Spiers pushed harder against the pedal. Muffled groans of pain from the General’s open mouth and the sound of the drill against the tooth made it hard to concentrate on pedaling to keep the drill going. Sweat ran down his back as the hot African morning shifted into midday and heated the room to sauna-like temperatures.
Suddenly, the general’s moans turned into a piercing scream.
“Ahh,” the dentist noted, “Now we are getting somewhere. It will all be over soon, General. I know it’s difficult without anesthesia, but I am working as fast as I can. Keep pedaling, Spiers.”
Nearly five o’clock in the evening. The Socorro radio stations were beginning to transmit more static than Christmas carols as I headed further and further east toward my destination. The sun was beginning to set in the sky behind me, casting flame colored hues across the horizon. A Spanish-style ranch along the side of the highway had lit luminaries to celebrate the holiday season. The soft glow of the candles radiated a feeling of peace and calmness despite my rush to get home.
I switched off the radio and thought more about Dad and his experiences during the war. How much more had he experienced, but never spoke about, I wondered? So few family members seemed to really know what Dad had experienced in his many years at war. Not even Mom. There was the incident that made the newspaper, though.
Grandma Rose fainted upon reading the headline of the Ogden Standard Examiner: Local Boy Declared a Hero. The photograph of the burning plane is what had stunned her the most. Grandma Rose’s dream of a few days prior had seemed so real and frightening—Don was running into a scorching fire. The dream had wakened her with its life-like clarity. She had prayed he would never have to experience such an incident in real life. And she had certainly never expected he would survive it.
But he had. And he was a hero. The article read: --
“On November 10 PFC Donald J. Spiers, a native of Ogden, Utah, was declared a hero after braving a burning plane to rescue several injured enlisted men. The downed two-engine plane, a C-47, had crash landed near the runway of the Lancaster Air Force base and immediately burst into flames.
“Despite the potential of personal injury, Private Spiers immediately rushed into the plane in an effort to save surviving passengers. His efforts helped to save the lives of three injured men: Sergeant David Williamson of New York, PFC Christopher Daniels of Pennsylvania, and PSC Brett Simonds of Arizona.
“In honor of his bravery, PFC Spiers will be the recipient of the Air Force Cross, which is awarded for extraordinary heroism. The medal is to be awarded to Spiers in the presence of his wife and family during his upcoming two-week leave of absence.”
The night sky was dark with only a sliver of the moon to light the night. The Texas landscape seemed to go on for miles and miles. Silently I cursed the flat tire I had had to fix earlier in the day. It had cost me some of the money I’d budgeted for fuel. I skipped dinner and used the last of my money to buy gasoline in a next-to-nothing town called Sonora. Only a few hundred miles to go on half a tank of gas. I did the mental math and hoped it would be just enough to get me home.
I checked the radio again only to catch bits and pieces of Elvis’ Blue Christmas and Bing Crosby’s White Christmas. I knew with near certainty it would not be a white– all the more reason to leave Utah and the snow behind for a holiday break—or a blue Christmas in San Antonio. A tinsel-decorated tree would be glowing and shimmering in the living room at home. Mom always decorated to the nines and cooked a feast for the family to enjoy over the holidays. I imagined the smell of her pies cooking and my stomach growled noisily.
“Darn that flat tire!” I muttered aloud.
In an effort to distract my mind from hunger I thought back on the conversation I had had with the Dean of the Business School earlier in the week. Dean Lewis had served with Dad in Italy, and I had asked about their time together there. He was surprised I knew so little.
December 2, 1943. The bay shimmered reflections of the city lights cast down from the surrounding Italian hillsides. Sergeant Spiers and Medic Lewis leaned casually against a stone wall at the dock, smoking and watching a fleet of seventeen ships as they slowly made their way into the bay of Bari. The calm night was quiet and serene with only the lapping of water and the occasional car passing by to be heard.
“How much longer before they dock?” Lewis asked Spiers between drags on his cigarette.
“Not too long before they dock. But how long it will take them to unload the hospital supplies is anyone’s guess. Hopefully before dawn,” replied Spiers.
Silence resumed between the two again.
A short while later they could hear the low pitch of an engine rumble.
“What’s that noise?” Lewis asked as he tried to determine the direction from which it came.
“I’m not sure, but it’s getting louder.”
The two men looked at each other and then to the north. The sound was growing by the minute.
“It sounds like an airplane. Actually, a lot of planes,” Sergeant Spiers paused before adding, “German planes.”
Just then a squadron of over one hundred German aircraft came into sight, flying low and quick over the water. Within seconds the bombing began, whistling torpedoes blasting into the convoy of ships that had entered the bay. Spiers and Lewis dove behind the stone wall to wait out the deafening attack and protect themselves from the diving planes.
Broken glass, fires, and screaming men made the next hour nearly unbearable. Again and again the planes swooped over the harbor, shooting and bombing until every one of the ships was severely damaged and quickly sinking.
Then, as quickly as they came, the planes were gone. And the night air was full of the wailing injured.
“Quick, get into that rowboat. There are men out there who need help,” Spiers commanded as he and Lewis rose from their hiding place to see the devastation.
“Wait! That garlic-y odor—that’s mustard gas. There must have been some on one of the ships. We can’t go out there,” Lewis exclaimed in fear.
“We have to go out there. Too many people need help. The sooner we get there, the more we can save from the gas. Come on!” Spiers dragged Lewis to the boat and threw him a life jacket.
Finally, the lights of San Antonio came into view. I sighed audibly to myself. But my heart was racing as my mind urged the wood-paneled station wagon to keep on going. The gas gauge had been on ‘E’ for more than 20 miles. Realistically it was not going to be much longer before I ran out of gasoline and would be left stranded on the outskirts of town.
A sudden realization struck me: I don’t know where Mom and Dad’s new home is located. All I have is an address. But having never been to San Antonio before, I had no idea how to find it.
I took the first exit hoping to find a telephone to use, but the late hour revealed very few businesses to be open. A few had brightly shining Christmas lights along the roofline, but the windows were dark and empty.
My engine started sputtering about the time I spotted a Texaco station a half a mile ahead with its sign still lit. Using the last of the station wagon’s momentum, I coasted the car part way into the gas station’s lot before coming to a dead halt. After pulling my stiff but lanky, 6’4” frame from the car I slowly walked up to the attendant.
“Can I help ya?” he asked as I came closer. His blue work-shirt was stained with oil and grease, but bore a name patch that read ‘Hank.’
“I ran out of gas,” I sheepishly admitted.
“Kinda’ thought so,” Hank replied in his heavy Texan accent.
“I am out of money, but my parents live here in town. I’ve been driving home for Christmas from college in Utah. Could I borrow a dime to call home? I’ll repay you after my Dad comes to get me.”
I hoped my rambling explanation would be convincing enough. Hank was eyeing me warily.
“Please?” I added as an afterthought.
“I suppose so. What’s yer name, son?” he asked as he led me to the office and the pay phone on the wall.
“Jim. Jim Spiers,” I replied with gratitude in my voice. Then I added, “Thank you, sir,” as he drew a dime from his pocket and placed it in the machine.
The phone rang once, twice, three times before Dad’s groggy voice answered the phone.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Dad. Sorry to wake you. I made it to San Antonio, but I’ve run out of gas and I’m broke. Can you bring a gas can and come help me?”
“Where are you?”
“I’m not exactly sure. I took the first exit off of the highway and then coasted into a Texaco station a mile or so into town.”
“What are your cross roads? Can you see the street signs?” His voice was sounding more awake now.
“Well,” I craned my neck to see what signs I could read. “It looks like I’m on the corner of Walk and Don’t Walk – no, wait! Now it’s Don’t Walk and Walk.”
“Smart aleck-y kid. Stay where you are, I’ll be there soon.”
“Thanks, Dad,” I replied and hung up the phone.
Twenty minutes later Dad arrived to rescue me with a gas can in hand and $20 pressed into my palm. He even repaid Hank for the borrowed dime.
“Glad you’re home safe,” Dad said as we filled the gas can.
“Me too, Dad,” I replied.
***
Nearly fifty Christmases later and Dad is still rescuing people. At nearly 90-years-old he is painting a collection of pictures showing the meaningful times in his life. His gift to me this year was one of these watercolors. It is not of a burning plane, the front lines, or field hospitals. It is of a 1951 Chevy station wagon that did not quite make it to the pumps on that December night so long ago.
What I liked best: The individual scenes are strong and your dialog is good.
Publication ready: No. The switching between POVs it tough in a short story. We don't really connect with either the storyteller or his father. Needs a much stronger hook, a plot and story arc, and less jumping back and forth.
12/6/10
05 Kali's Gift
“Okay,” our primary teacher, Sister Woodland, said. “It’s time for the gift
exchange.”
I was actually sort of excited. Not ecstatic, or anything. But I knew what a lot of the girls had brought, and any of those gifts would have been really great. Especially my best friend, Sara’s gift. She had made fudge and put it in this super cute bear mug. I love fudge and figured it would be fun to have the bear mug to drink hot cocoa in over Christmas.
And rich Megan Perkins had wrapped a bottle of expensive perfume. Her favorite kind, she said. Megan always smelled really good. I wouldn’t mind smelling like her for the holidays.
Actually, all the girls had brought cool gifts. Sister Woodland had us put them all on our classroom table, next to the manger scene she had set up. Sister Woodland had just finished telling us the story of Jesus’ birth. Something she did every year before we had our class Christmas party.
We opened the gifts like a game. We each drew numbers and we got to go up to the table and choose a wrapped gift when our number was called. Or more accurately put, we could choose a wrapped gift—if we wanted to. But we didn’t necessarily have to. We could take a gift from somebody else that had already had their number called—if we thought we’d like that
gift better than the wrapped ones.
Some of the gifts really got passed around. Like Sara’s. Everyone likes fudge.
Still, everybody seemed to like the gift I’d brought. I was relieved, since I hadn’t paid much for it. It was just some cheap nail polish—but in a cool color—and I’d tied a fingernail file to it with a pretty ribbon.
I’d hoped the girls would like it—but I’d been worried they wouldn’t. After all, I hadn’t had very much money to spend. I was basically broke and I still had my mom’s Christmas gift left to buy. I wanted to get her something special. Something cool. But that was the problem. Cool things seemed to cost a lot of money … and I just didn’t have any.
When it was my turn, I didn’t take a wrapped gift from the table. And I didn’t take Sara’s either, though I really wanted to. Just being around fudge was making me hungry. But I took the perfume Megan had brought, instead.
“Bummer,” Beth groaned as I took the bottle from her.
“It’s for my mom,” I wanted to explain, but I didn’t bother. It was none of Beth’s business. It was no one’s business. I didn’t have enough money to get Mom something as special as she deserved, but the perfume was really nice. She might really like it … and maybe she would let me borrow it sometimes.
I was busy thinking about the perfume and whether Mom would like it or not. I guess that’s how I missed how the incident happened. But suddenly there was a big commotion. It had been Hannah’s turn to choose. She was the last one. And no big shock, she didn’t go for the last wrapped gift on the table. Instead she’d taken Sara’s gift from Lauren.
Well, that meant Lauren had to take the wrapped gift. She’d huffed all the way up to the table. Everyone knew the last gift was from Kali. That’s why no one had chosen it. Kali was really poor. I mean, really poor. And she always brought lame gifts—gifts no one ever wanted. I guess everyone knew today would be no exception. And it wasn’t. The gift Kali had wrapped? A pair of crocheted potholders. Potholders!
“I don’t want to be stuck with these,” Lauren whined. “I want my fudge back.”
“No way,” Hannah protested, keeping the mug of chocolate out of Lauren’s reach.
“Then I want Megan’s perfume.” Lauren came over to take my perfume. “Come on, Nicole, trade with me.”
I shook my head. The game was over. I had gotten the perfume fair and square. No way was I giving it up.
Sister Woodland cleared her throat. “Nicole, why don’t you trade with Lauren?”
Because I don’t want to, I wanted to tell my teacher through clenched teeth. She was always doing this to me. Making me take the dorky gift. Last year I had to take the broken gingerbread house, and for Valentines day I had to settle for the messed up valentine. And I always, always got stuck with Kali’s lame gifts. It wasn’t fair.
I was about tell Sister Woodland off. Tell her I was tired of being the nice guy and getting stuck with the lame stuff and stinky deals. I was about to tell her what she could do with her stinkin’ potholders. But …
Then I noticed Kali sitting silently in the back of the classroom. She was sitting there all alone with her head bowed. Suddenly I felt ashamed of myself … and the rest of the class. Poor Kali. She had obviously worked hard on the potholders. And they were really nice … as far as potholders go.
And she probably didn’t want to give them to us any more than any of us wanted them. Probably her mom had dragged her to church this morning. Probably she had tried to fake sick or something so she could stay home and not have to go through this. I know that’s what I would have done.
“Sure—I’ll take the potholders,” I said to Sister Woodland. I gave my best effort to smile. But it was kind of hard. I felt sort of sick myself. “They’re really pretty.” I glanced over at Kali—wanting to say something nice to her. Wanting to make up for how horrible Lauren and
Hannah and I had acted. “Did you make them yourself?”
Kali nodded, but I already knew she had. Our class had learned to crochet as a craft project last year. None of us other girls really got the hang of it. Obviously Kali had.
“They’re really pretty,” I said again.
*****
“Here,” I told my mom after church, handing her the potholders as soon as I hopped into the car. “They’re an early Christmas gift. I’ll get you something else too—something real.”
“They’re beautiful,” mom said, actually beaming.
She seemed so delighted with them, I was worried she was confused or something. “I didn’t make them,” I confessed quickly. “Kali Harris did.”
“I know,” Mom said, still beaming. “Sister Woodland told me what happened in class today. She says she relies on you to keep peace in the class a lot.” Mom gave me a hug. “Sister Woodland said you handled the situation wonderfully. You’re growing to be a very thoughtful young woman—that’s the best Christmas present a mother could ask for.”
I rode home from church with a happy heart, knowing next year I would be honored to get Kali’s gift.
exchange.”
I was actually sort of excited. Not ecstatic, or anything. But I knew what a lot of the girls had brought, and any of those gifts would have been really great. Especially my best friend, Sara’s gift. She had made fudge and put it in this super cute bear mug. I love fudge and figured it would be fun to have the bear mug to drink hot cocoa in over Christmas.
And rich Megan Perkins had wrapped a bottle of expensive perfume. Her favorite kind, she said. Megan always smelled really good. I wouldn’t mind smelling like her for the holidays.
Actually, all the girls had brought cool gifts. Sister Woodland had us put them all on our classroom table, next to the manger scene she had set up. Sister Woodland had just finished telling us the story of Jesus’ birth. Something she did every year before we had our class Christmas party.
We opened the gifts like a game. We each drew numbers and we got to go up to the table and choose a wrapped gift when our number was called. Or more accurately put, we could choose a wrapped gift—if we wanted to. But we didn’t necessarily have to. We could take a gift from somebody else that had already had their number called—if we thought we’d like that
gift better than the wrapped ones.
Some of the gifts really got passed around. Like Sara’s. Everyone likes fudge.
Still, everybody seemed to like the gift I’d brought. I was relieved, since I hadn’t paid much for it. It was just some cheap nail polish—but in a cool color—and I’d tied a fingernail file to it with a pretty ribbon.
I’d hoped the girls would like it—but I’d been worried they wouldn’t. After all, I hadn’t had very much money to spend. I was basically broke and I still had my mom’s Christmas gift left to buy. I wanted to get her something special. Something cool. But that was the problem. Cool things seemed to cost a lot of money … and I just didn’t have any.
When it was my turn, I didn’t take a wrapped gift from the table. And I didn’t take Sara’s either, though I really wanted to. Just being around fudge was making me hungry. But I took the perfume Megan had brought, instead.
“Bummer,” Beth groaned as I took the bottle from her.
“It’s for my mom,” I wanted to explain, but I didn’t bother. It was none of Beth’s business. It was no one’s business. I didn’t have enough money to get Mom something as special as she deserved, but the perfume was really nice. She might really like it … and maybe she would let me borrow it sometimes.
I was busy thinking about the perfume and whether Mom would like it or not. I guess that’s how I missed how the incident happened. But suddenly there was a big commotion. It had been Hannah’s turn to choose. She was the last one. And no big shock, she didn’t go for the last wrapped gift on the table. Instead she’d taken Sara’s gift from Lauren.
Well, that meant Lauren had to take the wrapped gift. She’d huffed all the way up to the table. Everyone knew the last gift was from Kali. That’s why no one had chosen it. Kali was really poor. I mean, really poor. And she always brought lame gifts—gifts no one ever wanted. I guess everyone knew today would be no exception. And it wasn’t. The gift Kali had wrapped? A pair of crocheted potholders. Potholders!
“I don’t want to be stuck with these,” Lauren whined. “I want my fudge back.”
“No way,” Hannah protested, keeping the mug of chocolate out of Lauren’s reach.
“Then I want Megan’s perfume.” Lauren came over to take my perfume. “Come on, Nicole, trade with me.”
I shook my head. The game was over. I had gotten the perfume fair and square. No way was I giving it up.
Sister Woodland cleared her throat. “Nicole, why don’t you trade with Lauren?”
Because I don’t want to, I wanted to tell my teacher through clenched teeth. She was always doing this to me. Making me take the dorky gift. Last year I had to take the broken gingerbread house, and for Valentines day I had to settle for the messed up valentine. And I always, always got stuck with Kali’s lame gifts. It wasn’t fair.
I was about tell Sister Woodland off. Tell her I was tired of being the nice guy and getting stuck with the lame stuff and stinky deals. I was about to tell her what she could do with her stinkin’ potholders. But …
Then I noticed Kali sitting silently in the back of the classroom. She was sitting there all alone with her head bowed. Suddenly I felt ashamed of myself … and the rest of the class. Poor Kali. She had obviously worked hard on the potholders. And they were really nice … as far as potholders go.
And she probably didn’t want to give them to us any more than any of us wanted them. Probably her mom had dragged her to church this morning. Probably she had tried to fake sick or something so she could stay home and not have to go through this. I know that’s what I would have done.
“Sure—I’ll take the potholders,” I said to Sister Woodland. I gave my best effort to smile. But it was kind of hard. I felt sort of sick myself. “They’re really pretty.” I glanced over at Kali—wanting to say something nice to her. Wanting to make up for how horrible Lauren and
Hannah and I had acted. “Did you make them yourself?”
Kali nodded, but I already knew she had. Our class had learned to crochet as a craft project last year. None of us other girls really got the hang of it. Obviously Kali had.
“They’re really pretty,” I said again.
*****
“Here,” I told my mom after church, handing her the potholders as soon as I hopped into the car. “They’re an early Christmas gift. I’ll get you something else too—something real.”
“They’re beautiful,” mom said, actually beaming.
She seemed so delighted with them, I was worried she was confused or something. “I didn’t make them,” I confessed quickly. “Kali Harris did.”
“I know,” Mom said, still beaming. “Sister Woodland told me what happened in class today. She says she relies on you to keep peace in the class a lot.” Mom gave me a hug. “Sister Woodland said you handled the situation wonderfully. You’re growing to be a very thoughtful young woman—that’s the best Christmas present a mother could ask for.”
I rode home from church with a happy heart, knowing next year I would be honored to get Kali’s gift.
04 Finding Clara and Christmas
Joy to the world!
“I am so excited it’s Christmas,” shouted Victoria Scarlett Jones from high atop her tree house. She listened for her echo.
Christmas Eve gloried in the little town of Archerville. Bright bulbs—red, yellow, orange, blue and green glowed on Christmas trees and shone through lacy curtains. Wreaths with big bows decorated every door.
Southern sunrays warm most Decembers in Florida. This year was no exception. Twelve year-old Victoria Scarlett Jones and her best friend, big Betty Jo Martin stood ready. They perched high in the tree house in Victoria Scarlett’s yard.
Betty Joe said, “Hanging out in a tree house is the perfect place to be, even if it is Christmas Eve.”
Victoria Scarlett and Betty Jo planned a special “gift” for snaggle-toothed, freckled-faced, hairy-scary, lean, mean, Jimbo Bean. He was not really hairy, but he was their favorite target when it came to pelting. With a stash of dirt bombs carefully laid out on the ledge of the tree house railing, they waited for Jimbo to stroll by.
“I can’t wait for Mean Bean to come,” Victoria Scarlett said as she rubbed her hands together.
“I’m going to blast his backside so hard, he’ll wish he had grits in his britches.”
“I’m sure he’ll be along soon,” Betty Jo said.
“When he does get here, I’m gonna pelt him a hundred time before he know what’s happening.”
“Girl, you know we don’t have a hundred dirt bombs,” Betty Jo said with a giggle.
. “But we’ve got enough to make him think so.” Victoria Scarlett snickered.
Something caught her eye and Victoria Scarlett bent down. She picked up an acorn that had clunked to the tree house floor. “Yes! We’ll stash a hoard of these.”
“How about those seashells the storm tossed up on the beach yesterday? We collected a bunch of them,” Betty Jo said.
“We don’t want to kill him. They’ll put us in jail. He’s not worth that. Dirt bombs and acorns will do just fine,” Victoria Scarlett said.
A strong gust of wind swiped at Victoria Scarlett’s long, honey blonde, crimpy curls. Even her Braves baseball cap couldn’t contain the massive, billowing hair. Betty Jo’s dark brown bob hardly budged when the wind blew. Victoria Scarlett was tiny, ‘peaches and cream’ while Betty Jo was a stocky, ‘suntan ‘n sandy’ sort of girl. They dressed alike most days. Today they wore jeans, matching Florida Fightin’ Gator T-shirts and red Keds. Victoria Scarlett always told everyone that her mom spelled her “Scarlett” with two “t’s” because she was ‘totally terrific.’
At that moment the girls heard a faint ‘click, clack,’ coming up the sidewalk.
“Jimbo has heel taps on his boots,” Betty Jo said.
With careful hands, Victoria Scarlett gathered two dirt balls. “It’s gotta be him. Get your bombs ready,” she said.
Before Jimbo got within walloping distance, a strange noise from a different direction troubled their ears. They picked up more bombs.
Chapter Two
“Shhh,” whispered Betty Jo. “Listen.” She put her hand to her ear and pushed it forward like it’d help her to hear.
“Ooooooh, ----el--, elp----elp----“
“Sounds like a kid crying, huh?” Betty Joe said. She put her bombs back on the ledge.
“It’s not loud, so it’s definitely not Jimbo. Anyway, he stopped in Billy’s driveway to shoot baskets. See him?” Victoria Scarlett said.
“Maybe it was a cat,” Betty Jo suggested. “The sound is coming from that vacant lot over there. You know there are alley cats and all kinds of creatures in there.”
“He----lp. I nee----d, h----elp!”
“Whoa, that is not a cat. It’s a human,” whispered Victoria Scarlett. Her dirt bombs dropped to the floor.
“I’m scared,” Betty Jo said as she grabbed Victoria Scarlett’s arm and held onto her.
“Somebody needs help. We’ve got to over there,” Victoria Scarlett said.
With trembling, knocking knees, they climbed down the tree house ladder. Gaining courage, bullet-like, the girls zinged across the lawn. Victoria Scarlett and Betty Jo reached the vacant lot in seconds. They struggled through bushes and briars. Something moved. Peering closer, the girls saw the sound maker.
“Call 911, quick!” Victoria Scarlett ordered as she kneeled down and bent over a form.
Betty Jo shot to the nearest phone, across the street from the vacant lot. She grabbed a quarter from her jeans pocket and shoved it into the phone slot.
”The ambulance is en route. You may hang up now,” the operator told her. Rushing back to Victoria Scarlett, Betty Jo ran into Jimbo Bean and his dog, Lulu.
“Ugh,” Betty Jo pretended to be sick. “How’d you snake your way over here without me noticing? You can slither on home now.”
“A spooky noise came from those bushes. I’m gonna investigate,” Jimbo said as he began to walk beside Betty Jo.
“Go on home. And, take Little Lulu with you. Me and Victoria Scarlett have everything under control. We don’t need your aggravation.”
Jimbo gouged his boot toe into a weedy clump. “I want to help.”
“You might do. In a pinch,” Betty Jo said.
Betty Jo ran back to the vacant lot, Jimbo in tow. Lulu scampered along behind—able to keep up even though, having been bitten by a rattlesnake a few years ago, could run only on three legs. They found Victoria Scarlett kneeling beside a woman, holding her hand and talking in soft tones.
The lady was dressed nicely, Victoria Scarlett noticed, in a pink and blue flowered dress with a white lace collar. Her snowy white hair looked like she’d had it curled recently at the beauty parlor.
“The ambulance is coming,” Betty Jo said, hoping the lady could hear her voice and understand that help was on the way.
“I’m glad. The medics will know what to do,” Victoria Scarlett said. Patting the woman’s hand, Victoria Scarlett assured her, “See I told you we’d get help.”
“Her neck broke?” Jimbo asked as he knelt close to the lady’s feet.
Victoria Scarlett plastered her hand over Jimbo’s lips. “Hush your mouth. She can hear you,” she whispered. “What’s he doing here anyway,” she asked Betty Jo.
“It’s a long story, and we can’t argue in front of her,” Betty Jo whispered.
“You’re right. Okay, I guess he can stay.” Victoria Scarlett pulled at the button of Jimbo’s flannel shirt he wore on top of a blue T-shirt. “Make yourself useful, Jimbo. Give us your shirt. Her hands feel cool,”
Jimbo handed over his shirt. Victoria Scarlett put it over the lady’s chest and tucked it around her as best she could.
Victoria Scarlett could see the lady’s finger bones under the pale, wrinkled skin. Victoria Scarlett’s own hands were satiny smooth and pink beside this hand.
“Th---ank good---ness you ca---me,” groaned the little old lady. “I-I-I don’t know how long I’ve been lying here. You kids are so sweet to help me.” The lady’s voice trembled as she spoke.
She looks so pitiful and helpless, thought Victoria Scarlett. I bet she doesn’t weigh more than 90 pounds and she must be nearly 90 years old. I hope she doesn’t…oh! I can’t think that.
Chapter Three
“My-my-my name is Clara. I, uh, well, several people did come by. I guess they didn’t…hear me… calling for help,” stammered the lady.
Victoria Scarlett touched Clara’s pale forehead and gently stroked it. A few smears of blood had crusted on Clara’s face. “Your face is scratched and bleeding. How’d you get here?”
Clara’s sharp, skinny elbows gouged into the dirt as she tried to use her strength to raise her body.
“No, no. Be still until the rescue squad comes,” implored Betty Joe.
“Oh, I-I-I’m not seriously injured.” Clara’s voice seemed a bit stronger. “I was very lonesome this Christmas Eve. This is the first Christmas I’ve spent without Elmer. Elmer…my husband.” Tears trickled down Clara’s cheeks as she choked out the words: “Elmer died last month. Just after Thanksgiving.”
Clara clutched Victoria Scarlett’s hand tighter. Jimbo hung his head and squirmed. Betty Joe’s eyes grew large as she continued to fix her gaze on the pitiable heap lying on the ground.
Using the sleeve of Jimbo’s shirt, Victoria Scarlett blotted Clara’s tears and patted Clara’s shoulder with gentleness. “We understand, Ms. Clara.”
Clara said, “An afternoon walk used to cheer me up. Today I particularly needed cheering up. So, I started down the sidewalk and I saw the cutest little puppy. I only wanted to pet it and wish it a Merry Christmas. That’s what Elmer would’ve done, you know. He loved animals and children…and just about everybody, I guess.”
“I bet he did,” Betty Joe said as she sat down alongside Clara and Victoria Scarlett. Jimbo still kneeled at her feet.
Clara continued, “I followed the puppy as he scampered into these briars. Only I didn’t know there were briars. Then, I stepped on a rock half hidden in the weeds. I turned my ankle. So, here I am, lying in the brambles with a sprained ankle. I know that’s all it is—a sprain. But, I couldn’t get up by myself. Elmer is so strong. He could get me up from here in a minute.”
“But, the blood,” Jimbo said in a shaky voice.
“That’s only briar scratches. However, I was getting worried that I might be here a long time. People kept passing by and not stopping. They couldn’t hear me calling. I am so thankful you three came to my rescue.”
At that moment the ambulance arrived. Two men and a woman came got out and came over with a stretcher, stethoscope and other medical supplies. Victoria Scarlett, Betty Joe and Jimbo moved away to give the EMT rescuers space to examine Clara.
“They’re checking her out real good,” Jimbo said as the three kids stood on the sidelines looking on. To Victoria Scarlett, it seemed like the exam took forever.
As she removed the stethoscope and put it into the bag, the lady EMT said, “You are going to be fine. You just have a sprained ankle.”
“See, I told you so,” Clara said.
“All right!” Jimbo practically shouted. He bounced on one foot then the other.
Jimbo is not such a bad guy. I shouldn’t be so hard on him, Victoria Scarlett thought.
The EMTs cleaned the blood from Clara’s face and put an ACE bandage on her ankle.
One of the men rescuers said, “Ma’m, after Christmas you should have this checked out by your doctor. But, for right now you’re okay to go home. We’ll take you in the ambulance.”
“Please…can these kids ride with me?” Clara begged. “I only live one block from here.”
“Umm. I guess that’d be okay, for that short distance. Do your parents know where you are?” asked the lady EMT.
Chapter Four
“Yes, our parents know we explore this area, usually riding our bikes,” Betty Joe said. “We don’t have to be home for another couple of hours.”
Once inside Clara’s house the EMT persons helped Clara get comfortable on her sofa and checked her blood pressure and pulse again. And then, they left.
Looking around the dark room Victoria Scarlett noticed a small, undecorated Christmas tree in the corner. No other signs of Christmas existed in this house. No presents, no cookies, nothing like Victoria Scarlett had at her house.
A picture frame perched on a table at the end of the sofa. In it, Victoria Scarlett recognized Clara sitting next to a robust, balding man. For sure this must be Elmer.
“Can we get you a glass of water or something?” Victoria Scarlett asked.
“Oh, Elmer.” Clara turned her face into the pillow and began to sob. Her body trembled. Her shoulders shook as she cried.
Victoria Scarlett walked over and gently patted Clara’s arm. Betty Joe rubbed her shaking shoulders.
“Is there anything we can do to help you get ready for Christmas? Are you expecting guests…or relatives?” Betty Joe asked.
Controlling her sobs, Clara said, “No, I’m not looking for anyone to come for Christmas. Elmer and me, we had no children. We love children but were never able to have any.” Clara sat up, wiped her eyes, patted her hair and straightened her dress. “I’ll be okay. Really. You need to get back home. I know you must have a million things to do to get your Christmas ready. Your parents will be worried.”
Jimbo said, “Oh, no. They don’t care. They like for us to be out of their hair. My mama says I’m always in the way.” His face flushed. He shoved his hands in his pants pocket and looked embarrassed. Victoria Scarlett had never known Jimbo to be embarrassed about anything. Maybe he does have feelings she thought.
Fingering and twisting her lace collar, Clara began again, “The reason I wanted you kids to ride home with me in the ambulance is…I wanted to do something to say “Thank You” for coming to my rescue. But now that we’re here, I can’t think of anything to give you. I didn’t bake this year. No Christmas cookies, no pies or cakes.”
“Oh, please,” Victoria Scarlett said, “we don’t want any rewards. We just wanted to help.”
Jimbo said, “Yeah, we need to help our neighbors whether they’re next-door kind or just neighbors in this big world.”
Jimbo does have a big heart Victoria Scarlett thought. I’ve gotta remember to be nicer to him.
Victoria Scarlett walked over to the corner where the little tree stood. She said, “Ms. Clara if you’d let us help you decorate your tree, that’d be like a reward.”
Clara sprang from the sofa. Her face beamed with excitement. “I would love that. I have boxes of ornaments in the closet.” She hobbled over, opened the closet door, and pulled out several boxes and bags of icicles, tinsel and ornaments. There was even a wreath for the door.
When they were nearly finished decorating, Victoria Scarlett said, “I’m gonna run home and get a few Christmas cookies that I helped Mama make.”
When Victoria Scarlett returned she not only had cookies, but also a beautifully wrapped gift.
“You can’t open it until tomorrow,” Victoria Scarlett said.
“Let’s sing Carols,” Clara cried.
First they sang Jingle Bells, and then I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas. Being native southerners, not one person in the room had ever seen snow at Christmas.
“We could be singing about the white sand out on the beach a couple of miles from here. That gives us a nice, white, Christmas,” Betty Joe said.
Victoria Scarlett thought the room seemed filled with love as everyone sang Silent Night. Clara put her arms around both girls and hugged them. Then, she reached for Jimbo. He looked hesitant, but let her hug him. The four of them made a hugging sandwich. The sandwich swayed to the music.
When the song was over Clara said, “I like hugs. I didn’t realize how much I miss them. Thank you for these special Christmas hugs.”
Victoria Scarlett Jones liked the feeling she had inside knowing that Clara was happier because of her hugs.
With a now rosy glow in her cheeks Clara said, “My life has been enriched because you became a part of it today. I’m sure Elmer is happy, too, knowing that I’m no longer so sad at this special time of year. I know he would want me to be happy and joyous. Thank you for helping bring that joy. You are special kids.”
Betty Joe, Jimbo and Victoria Scarlett exchanged happy glances.
Clara said, “I don’t want our friendship to end. Will you come visit me again?”
“Of course we will,” said Victoria Scarlett.
“If you three will stop by my house on Thursday afternoons I’ll read you a story or we can bake cookies or make a craft.”
“We’d love that,” Betty Joe said as she took a swig of milk Clara had poured to go with the cookies.
Jimbo said, “You’ll be just like a grandma to us. My real grandma passed away like your Elmer.”
“We can read books together and remember your grandma and my Elmer.”
Jimbo popped a last cookie in his mouth and said as he munched, “That’d be super.”
“You know,” Clara said, “your rescue of me this afternoon is like another story I’ve read many times.”
“What story is that?” Victoria Scarlett asked.
“In the Bible. The Parable of the Good Samaritan. Now that is the true meaning of Christmas. And you three kids are the best examples of the real Christmas spirit.”
With those words, Victoria Scarlett, Betty Joe and Jimbo hugged Clara once more and they all sang Joy to the World.
What I liked best: I loved Victoria Scarlett's voice. It was very unique and individual.
Publication ready: Not quite. I'd ask you to pump up the characterization of Clara, Betty Jo & Jimbo a bit. They are a little too old for some of the things you have them do. I'd make them around 10, 11 tops. To me, it felt more like Georgia or Louisiana, not so much Florida. Also, since it's called "Finding Clara and Christmas" I'd add in some internal conflict with Victoria Scarlett not having the special feelings of Christmas like she usually does.
Watch punctuation and spelling—especially of Betty Jo/Joe.
“I am so excited it’s Christmas,” shouted Victoria Scarlett Jones from high atop her tree house. She listened for her echo.
Christmas Eve gloried in the little town of Archerville. Bright bulbs—red, yellow, orange, blue and green glowed on Christmas trees and shone through lacy curtains. Wreaths with big bows decorated every door.
Southern sunrays warm most Decembers in Florida. This year was no exception. Twelve year-old Victoria Scarlett Jones and her best friend, big Betty Jo Martin stood ready. They perched high in the tree house in Victoria Scarlett’s yard.
Betty Joe said, “Hanging out in a tree house is the perfect place to be, even if it is Christmas Eve.”
Victoria Scarlett and Betty Jo planned a special “gift” for snaggle-toothed, freckled-faced, hairy-scary, lean, mean, Jimbo Bean. He was not really hairy, but he was their favorite target when it came to pelting. With a stash of dirt bombs carefully laid out on the ledge of the tree house railing, they waited for Jimbo to stroll by.
“I can’t wait for Mean Bean to come,” Victoria Scarlett said as she rubbed her hands together.
“I’m going to blast his backside so hard, he’ll wish he had grits in his britches.”
“I’m sure he’ll be along soon,” Betty Jo said.
“When he does get here, I’m gonna pelt him a hundred time before he know what’s happening.”
“Girl, you know we don’t have a hundred dirt bombs,” Betty Jo said with a giggle.
. “But we’ve got enough to make him think so.” Victoria Scarlett snickered.
Something caught her eye and Victoria Scarlett bent down. She picked up an acorn that had clunked to the tree house floor. “Yes! We’ll stash a hoard of these.”
“How about those seashells the storm tossed up on the beach yesterday? We collected a bunch of them,” Betty Jo said.
“We don’t want to kill him. They’ll put us in jail. He’s not worth that. Dirt bombs and acorns will do just fine,” Victoria Scarlett said.
A strong gust of wind swiped at Victoria Scarlett’s long, honey blonde, crimpy curls. Even her Braves baseball cap couldn’t contain the massive, billowing hair. Betty Jo’s dark brown bob hardly budged when the wind blew. Victoria Scarlett was tiny, ‘peaches and cream’ while Betty Jo was a stocky, ‘suntan ‘n sandy’ sort of girl. They dressed alike most days. Today they wore jeans, matching Florida Fightin’ Gator T-shirts and red Keds. Victoria Scarlett always told everyone that her mom spelled her “Scarlett” with two “t’s” because she was ‘totally terrific.’
At that moment the girls heard a faint ‘click, clack,’ coming up the sidewalk.
“Jimbo has heel taps on his boots,” Betty Jo said.
With careful hands, Victoria Scarlett gathered two dirt balls. “It’s gotta be him. Get your bombs ready,” she said.
Before Jimbo got within walloping distance, a strange noise from a different direction troubled their ears. They picked up more bombs.
Chapter Two
“Shhh,” whispered Betty Jo. “Listen.” She put her hand to her ear and pushed it forward like it’d help her to hear.
“Ooooooh, ----el--, elp----elp----“
“Sounds like a kid crying, huh?” Betty Joe said. She put her bombs back on the ledge.
“It’s not loud, so it’s definitely not Jimbo. Anyway, he stopped in Billy’s driveway to shoot baskets. See him?” Victoria Scarlett said.
“Maybe it was a cat,” Betty Jo suggested. “The sound is coming from that vacant lot over there. You know there are alley cats and all kinds of creatures in there.”
“He----lp. I nee----d, h----elp!”
“Whoa, that is not a cat. It’s a human,” whispered Victoria Scarlett. Her dirt bombs dropped to the floor.
“I’m scared,” Betty Jo said as she grabbed Victoria Scarlett’s arm and held onto her.
“Somebody needs help. We’ve got to over there,” Victoria Scarlett said.
With trembling, knocking knees, they climbed down the tree house ladder. Gaining courage, bullet-like, the girls zinged across the lawn. Victoria Scarlett and Betty Jo reached the vacant lot in seconds. They struggled through bushes and briars. Something moved. Peering closer, the girls saw the sound maker.
“Call 911, quick!” Victoria Scarlett ordered as she kneeled down and bent over a form.
Betty Jo shot to the nearest phone, across the street from the vacant lot. She grabbed a quarter from her jeans pocket and shoved it into the phone slot.
”The ambulance is en route. You may hang up now,” the operator told her. Rushing back to Victoria Scarlett, Betty Jo ran into Jimbo Bean and his dog, Lulu.
“Ugh,” Betty Jo pretended to be sick. “How’d you snake your way over here without me noticing? You can slither on home now.”
“A spooky noise came from those bushes. I’m gonna investigate,” Jimbo said as he began to walk beside Betty Jo.
“Go on home. And, take Little Lulu with you. Me and Victoria Scarlett have everything under control. We don’t need your aggravation.”
Jimbo gouged his boot toe into a weedy clump. “I want to help.”
“You might do. In a pinch,” Betty Jo said.
Betty Jo ran back to the vacant lot, Jimbo in tow. Lulu scampered along behind—able to keep up even though, having been bitten by a rattlesnake a few years ago, could run only on three legs. They found Victoria Scarlett kneeling beside a woman, holding her hand and talking in soft tones.
The lady was dressed nicely, Victoria Scarlett noticed, in a pink and blue flowered dress with a white lace collar. Her snowy white hair looked like she’d had it curled recently at the beauty parlor.
“The ambulance is coming,” Betty Jo said, hoping the lady could hear her voice and understand that help was on the way.
“I’m glad. The medics will know what to do,” Victoria Scarlett said. Patting the woman’s hand, Victoria Scarlett assured her, “See I told you we’d get help.”
“Her neck broke?” Jimbo asked as he knelt close to the lady’s feet.
Victoria Scarlett plastered her hand over Jimbo’s lips. “Hush your mouth. She can hear you,” she whispered. “What’s he doing here anyway,” she asked Betty Jo.
“It’s a long story, and we can’t argue in front of her,” Betty Jo whispered.
“You’re right. Okay, I guess he can stay.” Victoria Scarlett pulled at the button of Jimbo’s flannel shirt he wore on top of a blue T-shirt. “Make yourself useful, Jimbo. Give us your shirt. Her hands feel cool,”
Jimbo handed over his shirt. Victoria Scarlett put it over the lady’s chest and tucked it around her as best she could.
Victoria Scarlett could see the lady’s finger bones under the pale, wrinkled skin. Victoria Scarlett’s own hands were satiny smooth and pink beside this hand.
“Th---ank good---ness you ca---me,” groaned the little old lady. “I-I-I don’t know how long I’ve been lying here. You kids are so sweet to help me.” The lady’s voice trembled as she spoke.
She looks so pitiful and helpless, thought Victoria Scarlett. I bet she doesn’t weigh more than 90 pounds and she must be nearly 90 years old. I hope she doesn’t…oh! I can’t think that.
Chapter Three
“My-my-my name is Clara. I, uh, well, several people did come by. I guess they didn’t…hear me… calling for help,” stammered the lady.
Victoria Scarlett touched Clara’s pale forehead and gently stroked it. A few smears of blood had crusted on Clara’s face. “Your face is scratched and bleeding. How’d you get here?”
Clara’s sharp, skinny elbows gouged into the dirt as she tried to use her strength to raise her body.
“No, no. Be still until the rescue squad comes,” implored Betty Joe.
“Oh, I-I-I’m not seriously injured.” Clara’s voice seemed a bit stronger. “I was very lonesome this Christmas Eve. This is the first Christmas I’ve spent without Elmer. Elmer…my husband.” Tears trickled down Clara’s cheeks as she choked out the words: “Elmer died last month. Just after Thanksgiving.”
Clara clutched Victoria Scarlett’s hand tighter. Jimbo hung his head and squirmed. Betty Joe’s eyes grew large as she continued to fix her gaze on the pitiable heap lying on the ground.
Using the sleeve of Jimbo’s shirt, Victoria Scarlett blotted Clara’s tears and patted Clara’s shoulder with gentleness. “We understand, Ms. Clara.”
Clara said, “An afternoon walk used to cheer me up. Today I particularly needed cheering up. So, I started down the sidewalk and I saw the cutest little puppy. I only wanted to pet it and wish it a Merry Christmas. That’s what Elmer would’ve done, you know. He loved animals and children…and just about everybody, I guess.”
“I bet he did,” Betty Joe said as she sat down alongside Clara and Victoria Scarlett. Jimbo still kneeled at her feet.
Clara continued, “I followed the puppy as he scampered into these briars. Only I didn’t know there were briars. Then, I stepped on a rock half hidden in the weeds. I turned my ankle. So, here I am, lying in the brambles with a sprained ankle. I know that’s all it is—a sprain. But, I couldn’t get up by myself. Elmer is so strong. He could get me up from here in a minute.”
“But, the blood,” Jimbo said in a shaky voice.
“That’s only briar scratches. However, I was getting worried that I might be here a long time. People kept passing by and not stopping. They couldn’t hear me calling. I am so thankful you three came to my rescue.”
At that moment the ambulance arrived. Two men and a woman came got out and came over with a stretcher, stethoscope and other medical supplies. Victoria Scarlett, Betty Joe and Jimbo moved away to give the EMT rescuers space to examine Clara.
“They’re checking her out real good,” Jimbo said as the three kids stood on the sidelines looking on. To Victoria Scarlett, it seemed like the exam took forever.
As she removed the stethoscope and put it into the bag, the lady EMT said, “You are going to be fine. You just have a sprained ankle.”
“See, I told you so,” Clara said.
“All right!” Jimbo practically shouted. He bounced on one foot then the other.
Jimbo is not such a bad guy. I shouldn’t be so hard on him, Victoria Scarlett thought.
The EMTs cleaned the blood from Clara’s face and put an ACE bandage on her ankle.
One of the men rescuers said, “Ma’m, after Christmas you should have this checked out by your doctor. But, for right now you’re okay to go home. We’ll take you in the ambulance.”
“Please…can these kids ride with me?” Clara begged. “I only live one block from here.”
“Umm. I guess that’d be okay, for that short distance. Do your parents know where you are?” asked the lady EMT.
Chapter Four
“Yes, our parents know we explore this area, usually riding our bikes,” Betty Joe said. “We don’t have to be home for another couple of hours.”
Once inside Clara’s house the EMT persons helped Clara get comfortable on her sofa and checked her blood pressure and pulse again. And then, they left.
Looking around the dark room Victoria Scarlett noticed a small, undecorated Christmas tree in the corner. No other signs of Christmas existed in this house. No presents, no cookies, nothing like Victoria Scarlett had at her house.
A picture frame perched on a table at the end of the sofa. In it, Victoria Scarlett recognized Clara sitting next to a robust, balding man. For sure this must be Elmer.
“Can we get you a glass of water or something?” Victoria Scarlett asked.
“Oh, Elmer.” Clara turned her face into the pillow and began to sob. Her body trembled. Her shoulders shook as she cried.
Victoria Scarlett walked over and gently patted Clara’s arm. Betty Joe rubbed her shaking shoulders.
“Is there anything we can do to help you get ready for Christmas? Are you expecting guests…or relatives?” Betty Joe asked.
Controlling her sobs, Clara said, “No, I’m not looking for anyone to come for Christmas. Elmer and me, we had no children. We love children but were never able to have any.” Clara sat up, wiped her eyes, patted her hair and straightened her dress. “I’ll be okay. Really. You need to get back home. I know you must have a million things to do to get your Christmas ready. Your parents will be worried.”
Jimbo said, “Oh, no. They don’t care. They like for us to be out of their hair. My mama says I’m always in the way.” His face flushed. He shoved his hands in his pants pocket and looked embarrassed. Victoria Scarlett had never known Jimbo to be embarrassed about anything. Maybe he does have feelings she thought.
Fingering and twisting her lace collar, Clara began again, “The reason I wanted you kids to ride home with me in the ambulance is…I wanted to do something to say “Thank You” for coming to my rescue. But now that we’re here, I can’t think of anything to give you. I didn’t bake this year. No Christmas cookies, no pies or cakes.”
“Oh, please,” Victoria Scarlett said, “we don’t want any rewards. We just wanted to help.”
Jimbo said, “Yeah, we need to help our neighbors whether they’re next-door kind or just neighbors in this big world.”
Jimbo does have a big heart Victoria Scarlett thought. I’ve gotta remember to be nicer to him.
Victoria Scarlett walked over to the corner where the little tree stood. She said, “Ms. Clara if you’d let us help you decorate your tree, that’d be like a reward.”
Clara sprang from the sofa. Her face beamed with excitement. “I would love that. I have boxes of ornaments in the closet.” She hobbled over, opened the closet door, and pulled out several boxes and bags of icicles, tinsel and ornaments. There was even a wreath for the door.
When they were nearly finished decorating, Victoria Scarlett said, “I’m gonna run home and get a few Christmas cookies that I helped Mama make.”
When Victoria Scarlett returned she not only had cookies, but also a beautifully wrapped gift.
“You can’t open it until tomorrow,” Victoria Scarlett said.
“Let’s sing Carols,” Clara cried.
First they sang Jingle Bells, and then I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas. Being native southerners, not one person in the room had ever seen snow at Christmas.
“We could be singing about the white sand out on the beach a couple of miles from here. That gives us a nice, white, Christmas,” Betty Joe said.
Victoria Scarlett thought the room seemed filled with love as everyone sang Silent Night. Clara put her arms around both girls and hugged them. Then, she reached for Jimbo. He looked hesitant, but let her hug him. The four of them made a hugging sandwich. The sandwich swayed to the music.
When the song was over Clara said, “I like hugs. I didn’t realize how much I miss them. Thank you for these special Christmas hugs.”
Victoria Scarlett Jones liked the feeling she had inside knowing that Clara was happier because of her hugs.
With a now rosy glow in her cheeks Clara said, “My life has been enriched because you became a part of it today. I’m sure Elmer is happy, too, knowing that I’m no longer so sad at this special time of year. I know he would want me to be happy and joyous. Thank you for helping bring that joy. You are special kids.”
Betty Joe, Jimbo and Victoria Scarlett exchanged happy glances.
Clara said, “I don’t want our friendship to end. Will you come visit me again?”
“Of course we will,” said Victoria Scarlett.
“If you three will stop by my house on Thursday afternoons I’ll read you a story or we can bake cookies or make a craft.”
“We’d love that,” Betty Joe said as she took a swig of milk Clara had poured to go with the cookies.
Jimbo said, “You’ll be just like a grandma to us. My real grandma passed away like your Elmer.”
“We can read books together and remember your grandma and my Elmer.”
Jimbo popped a last cookie in his mouth and said as he munched, “That’d be super.”
“You know,” Clara said, “your rescue of me this afternoon is like another story I’ve read many times.”
“What story is that?” Victoria Scarlett asked.
“In the Bible. The Parable of the Good Samaritan. Now that is the true meaning of Christmas. And you three kids are the best examples of the real Christmas spirit.”
With those words, Victoria Scarlett, Betty Joe and Jimbo hugged Clara once more and they all sang Joy to the World.
What I liked best: I loved Victoria Scarlett's voice. It was very unique and individual.
Publication ready: Not quite. I'd ask you to pump up the characterization of Clara, Betty Jo & Jimbo a bit. They are a little too old for some of the things you have them do. I'd make them around 10, 11 tops. To me, it felt more like Georgia or Louisiana, not so much Florida. Also, since it's called "Finding Clara and Christmas" I'd add in some internal conflict with Victoria Scarlett not having the special feelings of Christmas like she usually does.
Watch punctuation and spelling—especially of Betty Jo/Joe.
12/3/10
03 Who-Hah Holiday
As soon as I heard the doorbell I skimmed across the shiny wood floor in my stocking feet right into the pine-cone filled basket by the window. Forgetting the rule about waiting for Mom to greet the people first, I jumped up, open the door and shouted, “Merry Christmas!” Two people all bundled up in puffy down winter coats and bright red scarves, holding silvery wrapped boxes, repeated my greeting. My mother was just behind me and looked like she was ready to give me the whatever-is-the-matter-with-you speech, but instead she just raised one eyebrow.
“Please come in you two and make yourselves at home,” she sang sweetly while helping them with their coats. “Honey, you take their coats and put them on the bed in the back room,” she said with the company-is-here smile.
I struggled with the heavy coats, dropping one before I got to the back room. No one ever sleeps on the bed. It’s just used for decoration now, because it sags so much in the middle. In a way, I was responsible for its condition. How could I have known that jumping in one spot for long periods of time would break down the springs? From the bedroom I heard Dad’s laughter and something about the football game and how he took a bundle off the guy at the liquor store.
Mom came in and said, “Dear husband, where are your manners?” (She talks funny like that when she’s nervous.) Dad might be discussing that remark with her later. He’s very particular about what you say and how you say it. “Walter and Wanda, what can we get you to drink?”
“You can get me to drink most anything,” Walt howled, slapping Wanda on the back so hard her head nearly bumped the coffee table.
I slipped into the room and sat near the Christmas tree. The reflections of the blinking lights made the rest of the ornaments look like red and green flashing traffic signals.
“What do you want Santa to bring you this year, sweetie?”
I looked up to the full moon face of Mrs. Wanda. She was talking to me. I quickly put my head down, stared at the carpet and replied, “I’m hoping for a playschool kitchen with a table and chairs, a saucer sled, a two person tent and a….
“Honey, would you please bring in the bowl of peanuts from the kitchen?” said my mother pronouncing each word so slowly, as if I didn’t understand English. It’s an old signal. It means “children should be seen and not heard”. I know the rule perfectly well, but it was Mrs. Wanda who asked the question. Sometimes, there’s just no pleasing grownups. If I shrugged my shoulders and had said nothing, I would have gotten the “don’t be rude now, Mrs. Wanda asked you a question, dear.” But, I answered, so I was seen and heard. It’s always very confusing to me.
I stood up and said, “Excuse me, please.”
I heard my mom use that same phrase last week to her card-playing lady friends. They all replied in their sing-song kind of way, “Of course, dearie.” Believe it or not, as I left the room everyone said, “Of course sweetie – what a charming child”. I have to look up that “charming” word. Sounded like candy so it must be good.
I want to point out that I call the guests by their first names, Mr. Walter and Mrs. Wanda, because they said their last name was too hard for people to pronounce. This was okay with my parents because it still showed proper respect. If I wanted proper respect, I would have chosen to be called Captain or Your Majesty.
I placed the peanuts on the table in front of Mr. Walter. He looked at me and I noticed his eyes looked wet like he’d been crying, but the rest of his face was very pink and smiling.
“We have a little present for you,” he said handing me one of the silvery wrapped boxes with a red bow stuck right in the center. I opened it carefully, while reviewing all the rules about receiving presents:
1. Always thank the giver.
2. If you don’t like it, smile anyway, and thank the giver.
The minute it was opened, I knew I had a problem. It was one of my favorite books. I had it on the top of my bedroom library shelf. I could use rule one, but not rule two. If I said I had the book already they would be disappointed, but lying is never acceptable. I should use the “always tell the truth” rule. It was the most important one on life’s rule list.
“Well, sweetie, what do you say?” urged my mom not giving me enough time to sort through my answers.
“I love this book. I used to have one just like it, but it got lost. Thank you very much.” Well, that would have to do - half true and half polite.
I stretched out under the tree pretending to read my new/old book, played with the tinsel on the branches and listened to the mixture of the grownup chatter, clinking ice cubes and sounds of chips and carrots crunching. Once again I heard the doorbell, jumped up and was half way to the door before I realized I was breaking the rule again. I try not to do the same wrong thing twice in one day, so I waited for my mom to open the door and greet the people. It was Elliot and Owen’s grandparents from next door. Elliot calls his grandfather –“Boppa” and his grandmother – “Grandma P”. Owen is too young to talk. I call them Mr. and Mrs. Myers because their last name is easy to say.
Mom greeted them first, and I echoed Merry Christmas and took their coats to the back bedroom. This time I didn’t drop any. I ran back to see everyone hugging everyone and saying the “greeting stuff”.
Dad offered drinks to the new guests and said to Mrs. Wanda and Mr. Walter, “Can I get you another?”
“Absotootly,” laughed Mr. Walter. Mrs. Wanda whispered something in his ear and he shooed her away as if she were a fly.
“I’m fine for now,” smiled Mrs. Wanda as she turned to Mrs. Myers and asked, “How are the grandkids doing?”
Mrs. Myers’ cooed and flapped her hands as if they were little birds and talked about how wonderful and smart her grandsons were. Mr. Myers sat quietly listening to the conversation. Maybe he was told to be seen and not heard, too. I thought about asking him to sit down by the tree with me, but the second time I thought about it I decided it was better to wait until later. That’s another rule I learned this year – think twice before speaking. I only saw a gift wrapped up to look like a bottle when they came in, and they gave it to my Dad. They didn’t bring anything for me which was a little disappointing. Maybe Dad will share his gift later.
Mom brought out some more snacks. Little meatballs swimming in red sauce, mushrooms with greenish, whitish grass in the middle and toast sticks with fat olives and hairy brown things wrapped around something I didn’t recognize. I just ate the peanuts. Dad brought out two bottles with fancy labels on the side and set them on the table in front of the guests next to the snacks. One had water in it; the other had tea or something. Dad gave me a bottle of Coke with a straw. I drink Coke only on special occasions because it won’t rot my teeth if I have it just once in a while.
Everyone seemed to like the snacks, which made my mom shine like the Christmas tree star. She laughed and Dad laughed and the guests laughed. They were having a really good time. I was happy for them. But, I was a little bored. My mom must have read my mind and came to my rescue.
“Honey, why don’t you say goodnight to everyone now and watch the DVD we rented? It’s all set up on the back bedroom TV”. I said my good nights, scooted down the hall, and plopped in the middle of the saggy bed next to all the coats and watched the movie.
I must have fallen asleep before the Grinch stole Christmas. I never heard people come into the room to get their coats. I do remember hearing my parents’ whispering.
While Dad was putting on my pajamas he said to my Mom, “Good God, I can’t believe this evening. I would never have expected Walter to put on such a show. It was obvious that he was enjoying himself, but trying to recreate Santa and his flying reindeer by launching himself off the top of the stair case was flat dumb.”
“Did you see the look of shock on Wanda’s face when he landed on Bob and Paulla. It was blood chilling. Thank goodness the Myers weren’t hurt,” said my mom.
“Thank you for not screaming when he jumped off and knocked the Christmas tree into the window,” added Dad. “Every porch light in the neighborhood lit up, when Wanda started yelling at the old guy while dragging him out the door. He kept shouting On Donner, on Blitzen, so loudly that I thought someone was going to call the police. I don’t think we’re going to invite those who-hahs next year.”
Who-Hahs, Who-Hahs. I can say Who-Hahs. Mr. and Mrs. Who-Hah. Why did they say their last name was too hard to pronounce? I’ll surprise them the next time they come over.
What I liked best: I loved the hilarity of it, understated by your narrator. I could absolutely picture myself watching this scene. Good job of characterization.
Publication ready: Very, very close! But not in this anthology. While there needn't be any LDS theme-ology in the story, it can't be contrary to LDS expectations. The drinking and use of deity name rules you out. Sorry.
Other than that, I'd have you correct your comma errors and I'd make you pick a gender for your narrator and identify it. Some editors wouldn't mind but I do.
“Please come in you two and make yourselves at home,” she sang sweetly while helping them with their coats. “Honey, you take their coats and put them on the bed in the back room,” she said with the company-is-here smile.
I struggled with the heavy coats, dropping one before I got to the back room. No one ever sleeps on the bed. It’s just used for decoration now, because it sags so much in the middle. In a way, I was responsible for its condition. How could I have known that jumping in one spot for long periods of time would break down the springs? From the bedroom I heard Dad’s laughter and something about the football game and how he took a bundle off the guy at the liquor store.
Mom came in and said, “Dear husband, where are your manners?” (She talks funny like that when she’s nervous.) Dad might be discussing that remark with her later. He’s very particular about what you say and how you say it. “Walter and Wanda, what can we get you to drink?”
“You can get me to drink most anything,” Walt howled, slapping Wanda on the back so hard her head nearly bumped the coffee table.
I slipped into the room and sat near the Christmas tree. The reflections of the blinking lights made the rest of the ornaments look like red and green flashing traffic signals.
“What do you want Santa to bring you this year, sweetie?”
I looked up to the full moon face of Mrs. Wanda. She was talking to me. I quickly put my head down, stared at the carpet and replied, “I’m hoping for a playschool kitchen with a table and chairs, a saucer sled, a two person tent and a….
“Honey, would you please bring in the bowl of peanuts from the kitchen?” said my mother pronouncing each word so slowly, as if I didn’t understand English. It’s an old signal. It means “children should be seen and not heard”. I know the rule perfectly well, but it was Mrs. Wanda who asked the question. Sometimes, there’s just no pleasing grownups. If I shrugged my shoulders and had said nothing, I would have gotten the “don’t be rude now, Mrs. Wanda asked you a question, dear.” But, I answered, so I was seen and heard. It’s always very confusing to me.
I stood up and said, “Excuse me, please.”
I heard my mom use that same phrase last week to her card-playing lady friends. They all replied in their sing-song kind of way, “Of course, dearie.” Believe it or not, as I left the room everyone said, “Of course sweetie – what a charming child”. I have to look up that “charming” word. Sounded like candy so it must be good.
I want to point out that I call the guests by their first names, Mr. Walter and Mrs. Wanda, because they said their last name was too hard for people to pronounce. This was okay with my parents because it still showed proper respect. If I wanted proper respect, I would have chosen to be called Captain or Your Majesty.
I placed the peanuts on the table in front of Mr. Walter. He looked at me and I noticed his eyes looked wet like he’d been crying, but the rest of his face was very pink and smiling.
“We have a little present for you,” he said handing me one of the silvery wrapped boxes with a red bow stuck right in the center. I opened it carefully, while reviewing all the rules about receiving presents:
1. Always thank the giver.
2. If you don’t like it, smile anyway, and thank the giver.
The minute it was opened, I knew I had a problem. It was one of my favorite books. I had it on the top of my bedroom library shelf. I could use rule one, but not rule two. If I said I had the book already they would be disappointed, but lying is never acceptable. I should use the “always tell the truth” rule. It was the most important one on life’s rule list.
“Well, sweetie, what do you say?” urged my mom not giving me enough time to sort through my answers.
“I love this book. I used to have one just like it, but it got lost. Thank you very much.” Well, that would have to do - half true and half polite.
I stretched out under the tree pretending to read my new/old book, played with the tinsel on the branches and listened to the mixture of the grownup chatter, clinking ice cubes and sounds of chips and carrots crunching. Once again I heard the doorbell, jumped up and was half way to the door before I realized I was breaking the rule again. I try not to do the same wrong thing twice in one day, so I waited for my mom to open the door and greet the people. It was Elliot and Owen’s grandparents from next door. Elliot calls his grandfather –“Boppa” and his grandmother – “Grandma P”. Owen is too young to talk. I call them Mr. and Mrs. Myers because their last name is easy to say.
Mom greeted them first, and I echoed Merry Christmas and took their coats to the back bedroom. This time I didn’t drop any. I ran back to see everyone hugging everyone and saying the “greeting stuff”.
Dad offered drinks to the new guests and said to Mrs. Wanda and Mr. Walter, “Can I get you another?”
“Absotootly,” laughed Mr. Walter. Mrs. Wanda whispered something in his ear and he shooed her away as if she were a fly.
“I’m fine for now,” smiled Mrs. Wanda as she turned to Mrs. Myers and asked, “How are the grandkids doing?”
Mrs. Myers’ cooed and flapped her hands as if they were little birds and talked about how wonderful and smart her grandsons were. Mr. Myers sat quietly listening to the conversation. Maybe he was told to be seen and not heard, too. I thought about asking him to sit down by the tree with me, but the second time I thought about it I decided it was better to wait until later. That’s another rule I learned this year – think twice before speaking. I only saw a gift wrapped up to look like a bottle when they came in, and they gave it to my Dad. They didn’t bring anything for me which was a little disappointing. Maybe Dad will share his gift later.
Mom brought out some more snacks. Little meatballs swimming in red sauce, mushrooms with greenish, whitish grass in the middle and toast sticks with fat olives and hairy brown things wrapped around something I didn’t recognize. I just ate the peanuts. Dad brought out two bottles with fancy labels on the side and set them on the table in front of the guests next to the snacks. One had water in it; the other had tea or something. Dad gave me a bottle of Coke with a straw. I drink Coke only on special occasions because it won’t rot my teeth if I have it just once in a while.
Everyone seemed to like the snacks, which made my mom shine like the Christmas tree star. She laughed and Dad laughed and the guests laughed. They were having a really good time. I was happy for them. But, I was a little bored. My mom must have read my mind and came to my rescue.
“Honey, why don’t you say goodnight to everyone now and watch the DVD we rented? It’s all set up on the back bedroom TV”. I said my good nights, scooted down the hall, and plopped in the middle of the saggy bed next to all the coats and watched the movie.
I must have fallen asleep before the Grinch stole Christmas. I never heard people come into the room to get their coats. I do remember hearing my parents’ whispering.
While Dad was putting on my pajamas he said to my Mom, “Good God, I can’t believe this evening. I would never have expected Walter to put on such a show. It was obvious that he was enjoying himself, but trying to recreate Santa and his flying reindeer by launching himself off the top of the stair case was flat dumb.”
“Did you see the look of shock on Wanda’s face when he landed on Bob and Paulla. It was blood chilling. Thank goodness the Myers weren’t hurt,” said my mom.
“Thank you for not screaming when he jumped off and knocked the Christmas tree into the window,” added Dad. “Every porch light in the neighborhood lit up, when Wanda started yelling at the old guy while dragging him out the door. He kept shouting On Donner, on Blitzen, so loudly that I thought someone was going to call the police. I don’t think we’re going to invite those who-hahs next year.”
Who-Hahs, Who-Hahs. I can say Who-Hahs. Mr. and Mrs. Who-Hah. Why did they say their last name was too hard to pronounce? I’ll surprise them the next time they come over.
What I liked best: I loved the hilarity of it, understated by your narrator. I could absolutely picture myself watching this scene. Good job of characterization.
Publication ready: Very, very close! But not in this anthology. While there needn't be any LDS theme-ology in the story, it can't be contrary to LDS expectations. The drinking and use of deity name rules you out. Sorry.
Other than that, I'd have you correct your comma errors and I'd make you pick a gender for your narrator and identify it. Some editors wouldn't mind but I do.
12/2/10
02 The Clearing
Ruth gazed at the blur of passing Christmas lights, and wished they were going anywhere but to her family’s house. She knew they only had minutes before the critical moment arrived. She and her husband Darin had been married for two years, and last Christmas, they spent exclusively with his family.
“Did you bring the present?” asked Ruth.
“Of course. You must have asked five times already.”
Ruth sighed. “Sorry. I’m just nervous. I haven’t seen them since the wedding, and I want to make a good impression.” She chuckled at a sudden memory, “I can’t believe you suggested Christmas ornaments.”
Darin grinned. “They would have found some use for them. Don’t they have a Hanukah bush?”
“Watch it, mister. While I find your quirky wit funny, I doubt my father would take kindly to lighthearted comments about religion.”
“Hey, before I met you, I thought all Jews lived in Jerusalem and wore little round hats. I’ve come a long way.”
“Yes, I hope it’s enough.”
In a few minutes, they parked in her parent’s driveway. “This is it, Ruth. Ready?”
“As ready I will ever be. Follow my lead, and please…no cute comments.”
Darin nodded and they both exited.
The house was a simple brick structure with a one-car garage, a flower plot in the front, and a roof sagging with snow. The porch light remained dark, and they could hear nothing from within. Darin turned to Ruth. “They know we’re coming, right? Maybe they moved and forgot to tell you.”
Ruth sighed, “This is the place. My father wouldn’t move on threat of his life. He always used to say it was time for our people to stay put for a change.” She gestured up to the dark porch light, “And he’s very frugal. It doesn’t even have a bulb.”
Darin’s finger hovered over the doorbell. “Go on,” urged Ruth.
He pressed the doorbell, and a scampering of feet sounded from within.
The door flew open. “Ruthie!”
Her siblings pounced on her in a gigantic group hug. Ruth laughed and greeted them individually. There were two older girls, Rachel and Mary, and twin boys, Joshua and Jasher.
Ruth’s mother appeared in the doorway. She looked like a taller, version of her daughter, with the same dark eyes and hair. She stepped forward and embraced Darin. “Welcome to our home. It’s so nice to have you here at last.”
“Thanks,” said Darin. “I’m not quite sure what to expect.”
“Well,” said Ruth’s mother with a straight face, “the interrogation room is to the right, and the torture chamber is to the left.”
She let this sink in for a moment before bursting into laughter. “I’m joking. That’s the kitchen, and that’s the study.”
They stepped inside and made their way into the kitchen. “We’re grating potatoes for latkes,” announced Ruth’s mother, “Would you all like to help?”
Ruth, Darin, and the two older sisters positioned themselves around the table on wooden chairs. Each person received a knife from the mother and commenced slicing away.
Ruth smiled and took her place behind Darin. She placed her hands over his and walked him through the motions. After a minute, he started taking over. “I think I’ve got it. Thanks.”
Darin hacked away at the potato, having only limited success in retaining what he had just learned.
“So, where’s father?” asked Ruth.
“Out being the Rabbi,” said Ruth’s mother.
Ruth glanced at her husband as he took off a golf-ball sized chunk of potato, and placed a hand on Darin’s shoulder. “Why don’t you leave this to us? Go meet my brothers.”
“Okay, sorry.”
He slipped out and found the boys huddled over a table in the living room. They were spinning something between them, laughing and arguing with each other. “Hey guys, what are you doing?”
One of curly-haired boys looked up. “Playing dreidel. Wanna play?”
Each boy possessed a stack of golden coins. The wooden dreidel lay on one side with one symbol showing. “Sure,” said Darin, “how do you play?”
The boys’ eyes went wide, “You mean you’ve never played?”
“No. Is it hard to learn?”
“Not really,” said one. “But you don’t have any gelt.”
Darin gestured down to the coins, “That’s gelt?”
“Yeah, it’s money!” said one.
“It’s candy!” said the other.
“It’s both!” they said together.
“How do I get some?” asked Darin. “Do I have to go work in the chocolate factory?”
“Father always gives us some during Hanukah,” said one brother.
One brother slid a few coins towards him, “Here, you can borrow a few of mine to start with.”
“I’m Jasher,” by the way, said the brother in a blue sweater, “this is Joshua.”
“Darin. So, what do these symbols mean?”
Jasher showed the first symbol, “This is ‘nun’-you get to take one coin from the pot.”
“The second one is ‘gimel’,” said Joshua. “Then you have to put one of your own coins in the pot. That’s ‘hey’-you get to take half of the pot.”
“And the last one is ‘shin,” finished Jasher, “which means your turn is over. Understand?”
Unsure, Darin sat down in front of his pile of gelt. They spun over and over and, for the life of him, he could not make sense of it all. His turn came around again, and he was sure he had rolled the one to take half.
Jasher held out his hand, “That one means your turn is over.”
“But on your turn—“
A voice from the kitchen interrupted the dispute.
The two boys disappeared in the direction of the kitchen. Darin glanced down at the candy currency. Had he misunderstood?
Darin sauntered into the kitchen, his mood immediately brightened by the smell of savory food. The table before him was loaded with latkes, slices of cheese, fried pastries and other unfamiliar delights. In the center stood an elaborate candlestick with a line of eight candles.
They seated themselves and suddenly, the door opened revealing a short figure. He wore a dark coat and hat, and wore a full beard with side curls framing his face. He nodded as he entered, but did not smile. “Hello family,” he said, “I hope you are as hungry as I am.”
Darin rose tenuously to shake his father-in-law’s hand, “Uh, hello, sir. Mazel Tov.”
“What are you congratulating me for? Something I should know about?”
He glanced at his daughter, who shook her head. His face relaxed. “Good. I thought I was going to be a grandfather before my hair has time to gray.”
Ruth’s father, Zachariah, raised his hands for silence. “Before we partake of this bounteous feast, let us pause to commemorate the goodness of God in preserving his people as we light the last candle of our menorah.”
He lit a candle that was raised above the others. Then, he used this candle to light the others. Ruth’s mother dimmed the kitchen lights, so that only the light of the menorah reflected off their faces.
Zachariah began to speak rhythmically in a language that Darin guessed was Hebrew. The other family members joined in, and Darin felt a strange longing.
“Boys,” said Ruth’s mother, “perhaps you would like to tell Darin why we celebrate Hanukah.”
“There was this evil king guy,” said Jasher, “who took over the temple.”
“And there was this other guy, Judas, who had these huge muscles,” said Joshua. “He went in and threw the evil guy out.”
“Judas was supposed to keep the candles burning in the temple, but the bad guys messed up most of the oil,’ said Jasher.
“And it had to be special oil,” said Joshua, “It takes eight days to make…so they thought that they would run out.”
Jasher leaned in across the table. “But then, the miracle. The oil lasted eight nights. Just like the eight lights on our menorah.”
Their mother beamed. “Good job boys. Any questions, Darin?”
“From the way they tell it,” said Darin, “someone should buy the movie rights.”
Ruth nudged him on the arm.
“I’m just saying. They made it sound exciting.”
They blew out the candles, turned on the light, and then passed around the food. Darin took a latke and a slice of cheese and looked around the table. “Aren’t we supposed to have unleavened bread?”
“No,” said Zachariah severely. “You have confused this with a Seder service. That is for Passover.”
Darin sunk down into his chair, content to keep his mouth shut.
“So, do you have you plans for the rest of the evening?” asked Ruth’s mother.
“Yes,” replied Ruth, “It is Christmas Eve, and we promised Darin’s family we’d have dessert with them.”
Zachariah grunted. “That’s a strange plan.”
“What do you mean?” asked Ruth.
“It’s fine now, before you’ve started a family. But with children? What will you teach them?”
“I was thinking we could adopt traditions from both of our families,” said Ruth.
“What?” asked Zachariah. “Would you have them put up a Hanukah bush? Talk of dreidels and flying reindeer in the same breath? Put gelt in their stockings?”
“No,” said Ruth, “We’d keep them separate and teach them the importance of both stories.”
“Santa Claus too! The thought that they could get something for nothing.”
Ruth excused herself from the table, claiming a stomachache.
***
They rode in silence through the frosty night. Finally, Darin reached out and put a comforting hand on his wife’s knee. “Are you all right? Was it my potato grating?”
“More like my father’s people skills. I know he can be blunt at times, but I thought he’d tone it down a little. We even forgot to give them the present.”
“It’s okay,” said Darin. ”I’m glad we went. It will just take some time.”
They turned off onto a street where every house blazed with a Christmas light spectacular. “It’s even bigger than last year,” said Ruth. “I’m glad I don’t get the power bill.”
Darin pulled into a cul de sac and up to a brick house, strung up with enough lights to be seen from space. No sooner had they left the car, but they were tackled by a stream of siblings, seven in all, stretching in age from seven to twenty. They all tried to speak at once. Darin took in everything effortlessly, while Ruth felt as if she’s been dropped in the middle of a rock concert. Darin embraced his parents and went immediately for his mother’s coconut cream pie.
Ruth hung back. She had no idea what half the things were in front of her, though she figured that anything would be good. She turned suddenly as she felt a tug on her sleeve, “Hey, Ruthie. My brother said that your family gets presents every night for eight nights. Is that true?”
Ruth smiled and bent down to answer the little blonde girl. “Well, yes, but they’re small presents, like candy.”
“I told daddy we should do that.”
Soon, Darin’s father held up a hand. “Now that we’re fat and happy, it’s time we got on with the pageant.”
“Couldn’t we open presents first?” suggested one sibling.
“No,” said his father, “pageant first. Mollie, get the costumes. Everyone else figure out what parts you want to be.”
What ensued was anything but a silent night.
All the girls wanted to be Mary, but all the boys favored the “wise guys.” Once this skirmish had been resolved, a hot debate erupted as to the proper ratio of angels to shepherds.
Ruth leaned in close to Darin, “Isn’t this supposed to fun?”
Darin shrugged, “It works out eventually.”
A good half an hour later, the youngest sibling approached Darin and Ruth with a grin. “There are two parts left. Darin gets to be Caesar Augustus, and Ruth gets to be the donkey.”
Ruth’s eyelids disappeared, “Excuse me?”
“You get to carry Mary to Bethlehem. It’s very important.”
Ruth nodded reluctantly. “Uh, thanks.”
The pageant finally proceeded, and Darin’s sympathy part was finished in the first 15 seconds, after declaring that all world need to be counted and taxed.
The donkey, however, had a much harder time. After setting off for Bethlehem, the younger children loudly informed her that she was going the wrong way. She swung around, and Mary lost her balance. The audience looked on in wondering awe as Mary tumbled to the ground, and had to be rescued by a flock of shepherds.
Later, in the stable, she did not look like one of the friendly beasts.
When the pageant finally drew to a close, she came and sat next to her husband. “What’s next?”
“We all get to open a present.”
The family settled around the tree and each grabbed a present. Darin’s father held up a hand, “On three! One, two—“
Wrapping paper dissolved into confetti, tissue paper shredded into fluff, and each hand grasped a long-coveted prize.
“I wanted the blue one!” All heads turned to one of the younger girls who held a shirt in two fingers, as it if had come from a dumpster.
“I thought that you picked that out yourself,” said Darin’s mother. “You tried it on.”
“No,” said Darin’s sister. “I wanted the blue one. This one is ugly.”
Darin’s mother tried to console the girl, and the others tossed their gifts to the side, looking hungrily at the mountain of gifts under the tree.
“Off to bed with you,” said Darin’s father.
One by one, the children slunk off to bed and Darin and Ruth to their car.
Darin didn’t start the ignition. It was Christmas Eve, but they felt as if they’d been served a piece of cake full of creamed spinach.
“So, what did you think of tonight?”
She rested her head against the headrest, “I don’t know what to say.. Interesting.”
“But not really in a good way.”
“No.”
“What went wrong?” asked Ruth, “We have good families, but everything seemed…wrong.”
“Yes,” said Darin. “I couldn’t wait to leave after your father started grilling us. I respect his traditions, but you know.”
“I do,” replied Ruth.
“And my family,” continued Darin, “that was embarrassing. I wish they had a little respect. ”
Darin let his mind wander. Unexpectedly, he saw a place in the woods where his family used to pick a Christmas tree. They would go at night, tramping through the snow under the brilliant stars.
Peace accompanied the memory-something that he hadn’t felt all night. He wished he could wrap it up in a box and give it to each of his siblings, or as a reward for a dreidel game.
“Darin, let’s go home.”
Darin turned to his wife with a peaceful smile. “No, not yet. Wait here a moment.”
Darin briefly explained the idea to his wife. He jumped out of the car, and disappeared into the house. He emerged a few moments later with his parents in tow. “What’s this about?” asked his father.
“It won’t take long,” assured Darin.
They stopped next outside Ruth’s house, and waited tensely as Ruth slipped inside and convinced her parents to join them. Ruth’s father grumbled as he entered the car, and Darin wondered how she had convinced him to come at all.
They left the main road for the forest, and stopped when they reached the secluded clearing. When Darin gestured for everyone to get out, Ruth’s father was not the only one who reverted to some grumbling.
Darin led the way, creating deep footprints in the untouched snow. They formed a circle in the middle of the clearing, and stood shivering in the silence.
“Would you mind letting us know what we are doing here?” asked Zachariah. “My daughter said it was something important. I hope it entails building a campfire.”
“No,” said Darin. “That would defeat the purpose.”
“What? Have you lost your mind?” asked Zachariah, “Perhaps too many Christmas cookies and talking snowmen have addled your brain.”
Darin turned to Zachariah. “Tell me, why do you celebrate Hanukah?”
Zachariah blinked repeatedly. “We explained that.”
“Yes, you explained the story, but what is the underlying reason that makes you want to celebrate?”
The rabbi remained silent.
Darin turned to his own parents, “And what about you? Why is Christmas such a special time?
His parents’ eyes fell to the snow.
“Everyone. I invite you to look up.”
They did so, and drew a collective gasp. The night was cloudless and clear, far from elaborate Christmas light displays. The undistracted sky provided an incredible view of the cosmos. Each star stood out like a miniature campfire, and the constellations could be traced like a child’s coloring book.
Darin smiled and took in everyone’s reactions. “Why did God create the stars? There’s only one we need. Others are simply gifts of beauty and light.” Darin stepped boldly into the middle of the circle.
“And they are for everyone from the richest businessman to the lowliest bum, regardless. Perhaps he gives these simple gifts because he loves all of his children?”
He gazed intently at his father-in-law, “Is this gift of light so much different than the one God gave the Israelites in Judas’s time?”
“No,” he answered reverently, “not at all.”
Darin then turned to his father, “And is it so different than the gift of light that God gave at Christ’s birth?”
“No,” said his father, “it was even marked by a new star.”
“I know our families have different traditions,” said Darin. “I feel like the expert after tonight. But we both agree on the reason we’re celebrating: we know that God loves his children and that he always will.”
His words faded into the stillness. In their faces, Darin saw many things: wonder, sadness, guilt, reverence, but most all, gratitude. No one said a word as they gazed into the jeweled heavens. For a moment, they forgot even that they were of different families.
Ruth took Darin’s hand gently. “That’s what we will teach our children.”
“Yes,” Darin agreed, “And it’s the best present we’ll ever get them.”
What I liked best: Great comparison between the two families and their approach to the season.
Publication ready: Not yet. First, you have a timing and probability issue. See Jennifer Ricks' comment. Also, the POV jumps from Ruth to Darin. I think you'd be better sticking with Darin, since he's the one that brings resolution to the story. Watch out for comma and dialog tags. I'd like to see a little more characterization to Darin and Ruth, as well as Darin's family. Ruth's family is pretty well done.
I think with some changes, this could be really good. Rewrite and resubmit for consideration in the anthology.
“Did you bring the present?” asked Ruth.
“Of course. You must have asked five times already.”
Ruth sighed. “Sorry. I’m just nervous. I haven’t seen them since the wedding, and I want to make a good impression.” She chuckled at a sudden memory, “I can’t believe you suggested Christmas ornaments.”
Darin grinned. “They would have found some use for them. Don’t they have a Hanukah bush?”
“Watch it, mister. While I find your quirky wit funny, I doubt my father would take kindly to lighthearted comments about religion.”
“Hey, before I met you, I thought all Jews lived in Jerusalem and wore little round hats. I’ve come a long way.”
“Yes, I hope it’s enough.”
In a few minutes, they parked in her parent’s driveway. “This is it, Ruth. Ready?”
“As ready I will ever be. Follow my lead, and please…no cute comments.”
Darin nodded and they both exited.
The house was a simple brick structure with a one-car garage, a flower plot in the front, and a roof sagging with snow. The porch light remained dark, and they could hear nothing from within. Darin turned to Ruth. “They know we’re coming, right? Maybe they moved and forgot to tell you.”
Ruth sighed, “This is the place. My father wouldn’t move on threat of his life. He always used to say it was time for our people to stay put for a change.” She gestured up to the dark porch light, “And he’s very frugal. It doesn’t even have a bulb.”
Darin’s finger hovered over the doorbell. “Go on,” urged Ruth.
He pressed the doorbell, and a scampering of feet sounded from within.
The door flew open. “Ruthie!”
Her siblings pounced on her in a gigantic group hug. Ruth laughed and greeted them individually. There were two older girls, Rachel and Mary, and twin boys, Joshua and Jasher.
Ruth’s mother appeared in the doorway. She looked like a taller, version of her daughter, with the same dark eyes and hair. She stepped forward and embraced Darin. “Welcome to our home. It’s so nice to have you here at last.”
“Thanks,” said Darin. “I’m not quite sure what to expect.”
“Well,” said Ruth’s mother with a straight face, “the interrogation room is to the right, and the torture chamber is to the left.”
She let this sink in for a moment before bursting into laughter. “I’m joking. That’s the kitchen, and that’s the study.”
They stepped inside and made their way into the kitchen. “We’re grating potatoes for latkes,” announced Ruth’s mother, “Would you all like to help?”
Ruth, Darin, and the two older sisters positioned themselves around the table on wooden chairs. Each person received a knife from the mother and commenced slicing away.
Ruth smiled and took her place behind Darin. She placed her hands over his and walked him through the motions. After a minute, he started taking over. “I think I’ve got it. Thanks.”
Darin hacked away at the potato, having only limited success in retaining what he had just learned.
“So, where’s father?” asked Ruth.
“Out being the Rabbi,” said Ruth’s mother.
Ruth glanced at her husband as he took off a golf-ball sized chunk of potato, and placed a hand on Darin’s shoulder. “Why don’t you leave this to us? Go meet my brothers.”
“Okay, sorry.”
He slipped out and found the boys huddled over a table in the living room. They were spinning something between them, laughing and arguing with each other. “Hey guys, what are you doing?”
One of curly-haired boys looked up. “Playing dreidel. Wanna play?”
Each boy possessed a stack of golden coins. The wooden dreidel lay on one side with one symbol showing. “Sure,” said Darin, “how do you play?”
The boys’ eyes went wide, “You mean you’ve never played?”
“No. Is it hard to learn?”
“Not really,” said one. “But you don’t have any gelt.”
Darin gestured down to the coins, “That’s gelt?”
“Yeah, it’s money!” said one.
“It’s candy!” said the other.
“It’s both!” they said together.
“How do I get some?” asked Darin. “Do I have to go work in the chocolate factory?”
“Father always gives us some during Hanukah,” said one brother.
One brother slid a few coins towards him, “Here, you can borrow a few of mine to start with.”
“I’m Jasher,” by the way, said the brother in a blue sweater, “this is Joshua.”
“Darin. So, what do these symbols mean?”
Jasher showed the first symbol, “This is ‘nun’-you get to take one coin from the pot.”
“The second one is ‘gimel’,” said Joshua. “Then you have to put one of your own coins in the pot. That’s ‘hey’-you get to take half of the pot.”
“And the last one is ‘shin,” finished Jasher, “which means your turn is over. Understand?”
Unsure, Darin sat down in front of his pile of gelt. They spun over and over and, for the life of him, he could not make sense of it all. His turn came around again, and he was sure he had rolled the one to take half.
Jasher held out his hand, “That one means your turn is over.”
“But on your turn—“
A voice from the kitchen interrupted the dispute.
The two boys disappeared in the direction of the kitchen. Darin glanced down at the candy currency. Had he misunderstood?
Darin sauntered into the kitchen, his mood immediately brightened by the smell of savory food. The table before him was loaded with latkes, slices of cheese, fried pastries and other unfamiliar delights. In the center stood an elaborate candlestick with a line of eight candles.
They seated themselves and suddenly, the door opened revealing a short figure. He wore a dark coat and hat, and wore a full beard with side curls framing his face. He nodded as he entered, but did not smile. “Hello family,” he said, “I hope you are as hungry as I am.”
Darin rose tenuously to shake his father-in-law’s hand, “Uh, hello, sir. Mazel Tov.”
“What are you congratulating me for? Something I should know about?”
He glanced at his daughter, who shook her head. His face relaxed. “Good. I thought I was going to be a grandfather before my hair has time to gray.”
Ruth’s father, Zachariah, raised his hands for silence. “Before we partake of this bounteous feast, let us pause to commemorate the goodness of God in preserving his people as we light the last candle of our menorah.”
He lit a candle that was raised above the others. Then, he used this candle to light the others. Ruth’s mother dimmed the kitchen lights, so that only the light of the menorah reflected off their faces.
Zachariah began to speak rhythmically in a language that Darin guessed was Hebrew. The other family members joined in, and Darin felt a strange longing.
“Boys,” said Ruth’s mother, “perhaps you would like to tell Darin why we celebrate Hanukah.”
“There was this evil king guy,” said Jasher, “who took over the temple.”
“And there was this other guy, Judas, who had these huge muscles,” said Joshua. “He went in and threw the evil guy out.”
“Judas was supposed to keep the candles burning in the temple, but the bad guys messed up most of the oil,’ said Jasher.
“And it had to be special oil,” said Joshua, “It takes eight days to make…so they thought that they would run out.”
Jasher leaned in across the table. “But then, the miracle. The oil lasted eight nights. Just like the eight lights on our menorah.”
Their mother beamed. “Good job boys. Any questions, Darin?”
“From the way they tell it,” said Darin, “someone should buy the movie rights.”
Ruth nudged him on the arm.
“I’m just saying. They made it sound exciting.”
They blew out the candles, turned on the light, and then passed around the food. Darin took a latke and a slice of cheese and looked around the table. “Aren’t we supposed to have unleavened bread?”
“No,” said Zachariah severely. “You have confused this with a Seder service. That is for Passover.”
Darin sunk down into his chair, content to keep his mouth shut.
“So, do you have you plans for the rest of the evening?” asked Ruth’s mother.
“Yes,” replied Ruth, “It is Christmas Eve, and we promised Darin’s family we’d have dessert with them.”
Zachariah grunted. “That’s a strange plan.”
“What do you mean?” asked Ruth.
“It’s fine now, before you’ve started a family. But with children? What will you teach them?”
“I was thinking we could adopt traditions from both of our families,” said Ruth.
“What?” asked Zachariah. “Would you have them put up a Hanukah bush? Talk of dreidels and flying reindeer in the same breath? Put gelt in their stockings?”
“No,” said Ruth, “We’d keep them separate and teach them the importance of both stories.”
“Santa Claus too! The thought that they could get something for nothing.”
Ruth excused herself from the table, claiming a stomachache.
***
They rode in silence through the frosty night. Finally, Darin reached out and put a comforting hand on his wife’s knee. “Are you all right? Was it my potato grating?”
“More like my father’s people skills. I know he can be blunt at times, but I thought he’d tone it down a little. We even forgot to give them the present.”
“It’s okay,” said Darin. ”I’m glad we went. It will just take some time.”
They turned off onto a street where every house blazed with a Christmas light spectacular. “It’s even bigger than last year,” said Ruth. “I’m glad I don’t get the power bill.”
Darin pulled into a cul de sac and up to a brick house, strung up with enough lights to be seen from space. No sooner had they left the car, but they were tackled by a stream of siblings, seven in all, stretching in age from seven to twenty. They all tried to speak at once. Darin took in everything effortlessly, while Ruth felt as if she’s been dropped in the middle of a rock concert. Darin embraced his parents and went immediately for his mother’s coconut cream pie.
Ruth hung back. She had no idea what half the things were in front of her, though she figured that anything would be good. She turned suddenly as she felt a tug on her sleeve, “Hey, Ruthie. My brother said that your family gets presents every night for eight nights. Is that true?”
Ruth smiled and bent down to answer the little blonde girl. “Well, yes, but they’re small presents, like candy.”
“I told daddy we should do that.”
Soon, Darin’s father held up a hand. “Now that we’re fat and happy, it’s time we got on with the pageant.”
“Couldn’t we open presents first?” suggested one sibling.
“No,” said his father, “pageant first. Mollie, get the costumes. Everyone else figure out what parts you want to be.”
What ensued was anything but a silent night.
All the girls wanted to be Mary, but all the boys favored the “wise guys.” Once this skirmish had been resolved, a hot debate erupted as to the proper ratio of angels to shepherds.
Ruth leaned in close to Darin, “Isn’t this supposed to fun?”
Darin shrugged, “It works out eventually.”
A good half an hour later, the youngest sibling approached Darin and Ruth with a grin. “There are two parts left. Darin gets to be Caesar Augustus, and Ruth gets to be the donkey.”
Ruth’s eyelids disappeared, “Excuse me?”
“You get to carry Mary to Bethlehem. It’s very important.”
Ruth nodded reluctantly. “Uh, thanks.”
The pageant finally proceeded, and Darin’s sympathy part was finished in the first 15 seconds, after declaring that all world need to be counted and taxed.
The donkey, however, had a much harder time. After setting off for Bethlehem, the younger children loudly informed her that she was going the wrong way. She swung around, and Mary lost her balance. The audience looked on in wondering awe as Mary tumbled to the ground, and had to be rescued by a flock of shepherds.
Later, in the stable, she did not look like one of the friendly beasts.
When the pageant finally drew to a close, she came and sat next to her husband. “What’s next?”
“We all get to open a present.”
The family settled around the tree and each grabbed a present. Darin’s father held up a hand, “On three! One, two—“
Wrapping paper dissolved into confetti, tissue paper shredded into fluff, and each hand grasped a long-coveted prize.
“I wanted the blue one!” All heads turned to one of the younger girls who held a shirt in two fingers, as it if had come from a dumpster.
“I thought that you picked that out yourself,” said Darin’s mother. “You tried it on.”
“No,” said Darin’s sister. “I wanted the blue one. This one is ugly.”
Darin’s mother tried to console the girl, and the others tossed their gifts to the side, looking hungrily at the mountain of gifts under the tree.
“Off to bed with you,” said Darin’s father.
One by one, the children slunk off to bed and Darin and Ruth to their car.
Darin didn’t start the ignition. It was Christmas Eve, but they felt as if they’d been served a piece of cake full of creamed spinach.
“So, what did you think of tonight?”
She rested her head against the headrest, “I don’t know what to say.. Interesting.”
“But not really in a good way.”
“No.”
“What went wrong?” asked Ruth, “We have good families, but everything seemed…wrong.”
“Yes,” said Darin. “I couldn’t wait to leave after your father started grilling us. I respect his traditions, but you know.”
“I do,” replied Ruth.
“And my family,” continued Darin, “that was embarrassing. I wish they had a little respect. ”
Darin let his mind wander. Unexpectedly, he saw a place in the woods where his family used to pick a Christmas tree. They would go at night, tramping through the snow under the brilliant stars.
Peace accompanied the memory-something that he hadn’t felt all night. He wished he could wrap it up in a box and give it to each of his siblings, or as a reward for a dreidel game.
“Darin, let’s go home.”
Darin turned to his wife with a peaceful smile. “No, not yet. Wait here a moment.”
Darin briefly explained the idea to his wife. He jumped out of the car, and disappeared into the house. He emerged a few moments later with his parents in tow. “What’s this about?” asked his father.
“It won’t take long,” assured Darin.
They stopped next outside Ruth’s house, and waited tensely as Ruth slipped inside and convinced her parents to join them. Ruth’s father grumbled as he entered the car, and Darin wondered how she had convinced him to come at all.
They left the main road for the forest, and stopped when they reached the secluded clearing. When Darin gestured for everyone to get out, Ruth’s father was not the only one who reverted to some grumbling.
Darin led the way, creating deep footprints in the untouched snow. They formed a circle in the middle of the clearing, and stood shivering in the silence.
“Would you mind letting us know what we are doing here?” asked Zachariah. “My daughter said it was something important. I hope it entails building a campfire.”
“No,” said Darin. “That would defeat the purpose.”
“What? Have you lost your mind?” asked Zachariah, “Perhaps too many Christmas cookies and talking snowmen have addled your brain.”
Darin turned to Zachariah. “Tell me, why do you celebrate Hanukah?”
Zachariah blinked repeatedly. “We explained that.”
“Yes, you explained the story, but what is the underlying reason that makes you want to celebrate?”
The rabbi remained silent.
Darin turned to his own parents, “And what about you? Why is Christmas such a special time?
His parents’ eyes fell to the snow.
“Everyone. I invite you to look up.”
They did so, and drew a collective gasp. The night was cloudless and clear, far from elaborate Christmas light displays. The undistracted sky provided an incredible view of the cosmos. Each star stood out like a miniature campfire, and the constellations could be traced like a child’s coloring book.
Darin smiled and took in everyone’s reactions. “Why did God create the stars? There’s only one we need. Others are simply gifts of beauty and light.” Darin stepped boldly into the middle of the circle.
“And they are for everyone from the richest businessman to the lowliest bum, regardless. Perhaps he gives these simple gifts because he loves all of his children?”
He gazed intently at his father-in-law, “Is this gift of light so much different than the one God gave the Israelites in Judas’s time?”
“No,” he answered reverently, “not at all.”
Darin then turned to his father, “And is it so different than the gift of light that God gave at Christ’s birth?”
“No,” said his father, “it was even marked by a new star.”
“I know our families have different traditions,” said Darin. “I feel like the expert after tonight. But we both agree on the reason we’re celebrating: we know that God loves his children and that he always will.”
His words faded into the stillness. In their faces, Darin saw many things: wonder, sadness, guilt, reverence, but most all, gratitude. No one said a word as they gazed into the jeweled heavens. For a moment, they forgot even that they were of different families.
Ruth took Darin’s hand gently. “That’s what we will teach our children.”
“Yes,” Darin agreed, “And it’s the best present we’ll ever get them.”
What I liked best: Great comparison between the two families and their approach to the season.
Publication ready: Not yet. First, you have a timing and probability issue. See Jennifer Ricks' comment. Also, the POV jumps from Ruth to Darin. I think you'd be better sticking with Darin, since he's the one that brings resolution to the story. Watch out for comma and dialog tags. I'd like to see a little more characterization to Darin and Ruth, as well as Darin's family. Ruth's family is pretty well done.
I think with some changes, this could be really good. Rewrite and resubmit for consideration in the anthology.
01 The Lonely Pony
Once upon a time in a far away land sadness was all around -
A little girl named Cindi was the only one who did not have a pony in this small town.
Every year Cindi asked her family if Santa would bring a pony her way –
And each year they answered “I don’t think so, at least not today”.
Cindi grew up with this wish in the back of her mind –
Still wanting a pony but knowing its daily care would take up too much time.
Santa watched Cindi from year to year wondering if he could ever make this wish come true.
He knew it was a challenge and he would see what he could do.
One day Santa was in the elf’s staging area where the gifts are made for all the girls & boys –
When he saw this lonely pony in the stack of unused toys.
He had an idea and put it in a store in Salado when he knew Cindi would be stopping in –
Sure enough she picked up the lonely pony and her face lit up with a grin.
Santa was happy he had found a pony for Cindi which was easy to care for each and every day.
Something that she would only have to pick up and hold and not have to feed it any hay.
Santa contacted his elf in Houston whose name was Anne
And asked if she would help in getting the lonely pony to Cindi and be part of his plan.
So now in the year 2008 in this far away land the people are happy and Cindi is too
For Santa delivered on his Christmas wish a lonely pony to Cindi whose name was “Blue”.
Blue was the name the elves gave him since a lonely pony was definitely what he had become –
But Cindi could change his name and the fact that he is a lonely pony with just a little love.
Santa told Anne to tell Cindi to be careful when you take him out of the box –
Make sure you tell her those black things are “pony poo poo”, not pieces of chalk!
What I liked best: The basic idea of substituting a toy pony for a real one. I could see this idea being developed into a Velveteen Rabbit type tale, where Cindi's love for the pony makes it "real." It has some potential but it needs work.
Publication ready: No. It needs a stronger story, more imagery, more involvement with the characters. I’d like to have seen Cindi’s reaction to the pony, her love for it. The poo-poo joke at the end does not fit the rest of the story. Do some research on children's picture books and then rewrite it. As for this particular Christmas story contest, I was looking for short stories, not picture books or poetry.
A little girl named Cindi was the only one who did not have a pony in this small town.
Every year Cindi asked her family if Santa would bring a pony her way –
And each year they answered “I don’t think so, at least not today”.
Cindi grew up with this wish in the back of her mind –
Still wanting a pony but knowing its daily care would take up too much time.
Santa watched Cindi from year to year wondering if he could ever make this wish come true.
He knew it was a challenge and he would see what he could do.
One day Santa was in the elf’s staging area where the gifts are made for all the girls & boys –
When he saw this lonely pony in the stack of unused toys.
He had an idea and put it in a store in Salado when he knew Cindi would be stopping in –
Sure enough she picked up the lonely pony and her face lit up with a grin.
Santa was happy he had found a pony for Cindi which was easy to care for each and every day.
Something that she would only have to pick up and hold and not have to feed it any hay.
Santa contacted his elf in Houston whose name was Anne
And asked if she would help in getting the lonely pony to Cindi and be part of his plan.
So now in the year 2008 in this far away land the people are happy and Cindi is too
For Santa delivered on his Christmas wish a lonely pony to Cindi whose name was “Blue”.
Blue was the name the elves gave him since a lonely pony was definitely what he had become –
But Cindi could change his name and the fact that he is a lonely pony with just a little love.
Santa told Anne to tell Cindi to be careful when you take him out of the box –
Make sure you tell her those black things are “pony poo poo”, not pieces of chalk!
What I liked best: The basic idea of substituting a toy pony for a real one. I could see this idea being developed into a Velveteen Rabbit type tale, where Cindi's love for the pony makes it "real." It has some potential but it needs work.
Publication ready: No. It needs a stronger story, more imagery, more involvement with the characters. I’d like to have seen Cindi’s reaction to the pony, her love for it. The poo-poo joke at the end does not fit the rest of the story. Do some research on children's picture books and then rewrite it. As for this particular Christmas story contest, I was looking for short stories, not picture books or poetry.
Christmas Story Posts Starting...NOW!
Starting to post the Christmas stories for the contest in just a minute. I'll post them one a day—in the order they were received—or more frequently as they increase. So far, I have 10 submissions. Keep them coming!
A few quick reminders:
DON'T TELL PEOPLE WHICH STORY IS YOURS! We want them to win based on merit, not on personal popularity.
VOTING STARTS DECEMBER 20th. Feel free to leave comments any time, but comments made before 12/20 will not be part of the voting tally.
SUBMISSION DEADLINE IS DECEMBER 18th. That means you still have plenty of time to get your story in. See Submission Guidelines here.
Okay, here we go...
12/1/10
December 2010 Prize Sponsors
Last month's prize winners announced HERE.
Please take a moment to learn more about our wonderfully generous sponsors.
The Broken Council by Steven R. Burke
The lands of Tuwa are once again embroiled in conflict. Ancient councils are convened as old partnerships break apart, and new, tenuous alliances are forged. The threat of war is spreading throughout the land, and no one is sure what will become of the once peaceful land.
The Guardians have been compelled to intervene as one of their own breaks sacred laws in search of forbidden powers. Lives will be lost, deception will abound, and life as the people know it will cease to exist.
As events escalate, families will be forced to face off as circumstances spiral out of control. Former enemies will unite against common foes while the dark forces combine to fight for their right to rule. Heroes will be forged in the heat of battle on both sides. Prepare for battle...war will find you in the midst of The Broken Council
Steven R. Burke: I work as a manager of technical services for a web based medical software company. When I am not working or writing I enjoy time with my family, participating in or watching sports, serving in my church, and playing games when time permits. I currently live in Utah with my wife and son.
The Broken Council is Steven's debut novel.
City Limits by Sheralyn Pratt
Rhea's best friend Kay McCoy moves to Salt Lake City to keep a closer eye on Rhea, and Rhea worries that Kay wants things to go back to the way they were in Los Angeles - clubbing, dancing, and men. But when Rhea agrees to do a simple, harmless favor for Kay, she unwittingly sets off a series of events that ends up with a secret society appearing right at her door.
The stakes are higher than ever - solving the case means more than just collecting her weekly paycheck. This time, it's a matter of life and death.
(Book #3 in the Rhea Jensen series)
Sheralyn Pratt was born at an early age, with 10 fingers and 10 toes. She is proud to report that she currently retains all 20 digits. In the past Sheralyn has been a karate instructor, musical theater performer, a beach bum, freelance writer, nomadic traveler, and, yes, a private investigator. At the moment she enjoys working with and training her dog to give the poor thing breaks from sitting and Sheralyn's feet with the unbearable task of watching someone write a book.
Really, and you thought your job was bad!
Sheralyn currently resides in Salt Lake City, Utah, although as people who know her can attest to, that is subject to change at any time
My Gift to You by Lori Nawyn
Trish Ingram works hard to maintain the perfect suburban household— or, at least, the appearance of one. By managing her outer world with lavish attention and rigid control, she’s able to ignore and conceal the darkness of her inner world, which is plagued by traumatic childhood memories of loss.
Her terminally ill sister-in-law, Jamie, sees through the façade and reaches out in love to Trish, inspiring her to seek a more meaningful life and a more authentic self. But the childhood scars run deep, and despite Trish’s best efforts, she’s unable to be the wife and mother her family needs.
Devastated by the departure of her husband and daughter, Trish faces the challenge and opportunity of a lifetime. She desires to move forward in faith, but this desire alone cannot mend her family’s shattered trust. The hollow realm of denial and fear has been her safe haven. To confront pain and transcend the shadows of her past will require a level of courage she’s not sure she possesses.
Lori Nawyn's award-winning essays have appeared in regional and national publications including Outside Bozeman, Segullah, Deseret News, and CraziBeautiful Women. One of her short stories was published in the anthology Stolen Christmas. My Gift to You is her debut novel.
Lori is currently writing her next novel, and she also works as a freelance artist. She is the illustrator of the award-winning children's picture book What Are You Thinking? which was released in July 2010 by ThoughtsAlive Publishing. She and her fireman husband live in northern Utah where they enjoy spending time with their four children and two granddaughters, plus an assortment of dogs, rabbits, and chickens.
The Peasant Queen by Cheri Chesley
"Sire, I don’t understand your plans for me,” Krystal pleaded.
“Please send me home. After all, I’m only a mere peasant girl.”
King Gregory stepped closer and lifted a strand of her hair in his hand. “I don’t want you to ask me that again. And as for being a mere peasant girl, you are that no longer.”
“What do you mean?”
“I have the authority to name a princess of Avolonya, and I have. You are now that princess.”
After running away from home, Krystal is transported to a faraway kingdom where an evil tyrant is bent on taking the crown—and Krystal's hand in marriage. But when she falls in love with the rightful heir to the throne, she must make an impossible choice: sacrifice her one chance at happiness and agree to marry King Gregory, or face the destructin of an entire kingdom.
In her debut novel, Cheri Chesley delights readers of all ages with this epic tale of a simple farm girl who discovers that even the humblest of peasants has the potential to change the world.
Cheri Chesley believes in magic and miracles. When not writing she can be found reading the dictionary for fun or improving her photography. She lives with her husband and numerous children in Tooele, Utah.
In 2006, Cheri rediscovered her passion for writing and decided to start taking herself and her constantly speaking characters seriously. She enjoys the continued support of her husband and family, including extended family, across the nation. And she could never have gotten this far without a little help from her friends, too.
The Upside of Down by Rebecca Talley
Natalie Drake certainly has her hands full raising a large family, dealing with her difficult mother, and maintaining a relationship with her rebellious teenager. Just when things seem to be going smoothly, she finds out another unexpected surprise—she’s going to have a baby. Faced with so many challenges, Natalie must learn to trust in a plan that isn’t what she imagined and discover that every situation has an upside.
Rebecca Talley grew up in Santa Barbara, California and now lives on a ranch in Colorado with her amazing husband, 8 of her 10 creative children, horses, goats, and a llama named Tina. She is the author of a children's picture book, Grasshopper Pie. Her stories have been published in Story Friends, Our Little Friend, The Friend, and Stories for Children. Cedar Fort released her YA novel, Heaven Scent, in spring 2008.
Besides writing, Rebecca enjoys eating chocolate by the pound, dancing to disco music while she cleans all the messes that seem to multiply and replenish her house, and contemplating all the craft projects that still need to be completed. You can find Rebecca at www.rebeccatalley.com.
Stolen Christmas by Various Authors
What happens when you’re so poor you have to steal your Christmas presents? Have you ever taken a punch in the face as your Christmas gift to the girl you love? Or saved Christmas while hunting were-weevils?
These award-winning Christmas stories are the best of the best from the LDS Publisher Christmas Story Contests. From Christmases past, to present, to future; from sweet and inspirational, to zany and delightful—there’s a story for everyone in this eclectic collection.
CLICK HERE for details on how to win these books.
CLICK HERE for details on sponsoring the contest.
Please take a moment to learn more about our wonderfully generous sponsors.
The Broken Council by Steven R. Burke
The lands of Tuwa are once again embroiled in conflict. Ancient councils are convened as old partnerships break apart, and new, tenuous alliances are forged. The threat of war is spreading throughout the land, and no one is sure what will become of the once peaceful land.
The Guardians have been compelled to intervene as one of their own breaks sacred laws in search of forbidden powers. Lives will be lost, deception will abound, and life as the people know it will cease to exist.
As events escalate, families will be forced to face off as circumstances spiral out of control. Former enemies will unite against common foes while the dark forces combine to fight for their right to rule. Heroes will be forged in the heat of battle on both sides. Prepare for battle...war will find you in the midst of The Broken Council
Steven R. Burke: I work as a manager of technical services for a web based medical software company. When I am not working or writing I enjoy time with my family, participating in or watching sports, serving in my church, and playing games when time permits. I currently live in Utah with my wife and son.
The Broken Council is Steven's debut novel.
City Limits by Sheralyn Pratt
Rhea's best friend Kay McCoy moves to Salt Lake City to keep a closer eye on Rhea, and Rhea worries that Kay wants things to go back to the way they were in Los Angeles - clubbing, dancing, and men. But when Rhea agrees to do a simple, harmless favor for Kay, she unwittingly sets off a series of events that ends up with a secret society appearing right at her door.
The stakes are higher than ever - solving the case means more than just collecting her weekly paycheck. This time, it's a matter of life and death.
(Book #3 in the Rhea Jensen series)
Sheralyn Pratt was born at an early age, with 10 fingers and 10 toes. She is proud to report that she currently retains all 20 digits. In the past Sheralyn has been a karate instructor, musical theater performer, a beach bum, freelance writer, nomadic traveler, and, yes, a private investigator. At the moment she enjoys working with and training her dog to give the poor thing breaks from sitting and Sheralyn's feet with the unbearable task of watching someone write a book.
Really, and you thought your job was bad!
Sheralyn currently resides in Salt Lake City, Utah, although as people who know her can attest to, that is subject to change at any time
My Gift to You by Lori Nawyn
Trish Ingram works hard to maintain the perfect suburban household— or, at least, the appearance of one. By managing her outer world with lavish attention and rigid control, she’s able to ignore and conceal the darkness of her inner world, which is plagued by traumatic childhood memories of loss.
Her terminally ill sister-in-law, Jamie, sees through the façade and reaches out in love to Trish, inspiring her to seek a more meaningful life and a more authentic self. But the childhood scars run deep, and despite Trish’s best efforts, she’s unable to be the wife and mother her family needs.
Devastated by the departure of her husband and daughter, Trish faces the challenge and opportunity of a lifetime. She desires to move forward in faith, but this desire alone cannot mend her family’s shattered trust. The hollow realm of denial and fear has been her safe haven. To confront pain and transcend the shadows of her past will require a level of courage she’s not sure she possesses.
Lori Nawyn's award-winning essays have appeared in regional and national publications including Outside Bozeman, Segullah, Deseret News, and CraziBeautiful Women. One of her short stories was published in the anthology Stolen Christmas. My Gift to You is her debut novel.
Lori is currently writing her next novel, and she also works as a freelance artist. She is the illustrator of the award-winning children's picture book What Are You Thinking? which was released in July 2010 by ThoughtsAlive Publishing. She and her fireman husband live in northern Utah where they enjoy spending time with their four children and two granddaughters, plus an assortment of dogs, rabbits, and chickens.
The Peasant Queen by Cheri Chesley
"Sire, I don’t understand your plans for me,” Krystal pleaded.
“Please send me home. After all, I’m only a mere peasant girl.”
King Gregory stepped closer and lifted a strand of her hair in his hand. “I don’t want you to ask me that again. And as for being a mere peasant girl, you are that no longer.”
“What do you mean?”
“I have the authority to name a princess of Avolonya, and I have. You are now that princess.”
After running away from home, Krystal is transported to a faraway kingdom where an evil tyrant is bent on taking the crown—and Krystal's hand in marriage. But when she falls in love with the rightful heir to the throne, she must make an impossible choice: sacrifice her one chance at happiness and agree to marry King Gregory, or face the destructin of an entire kingdom.
In her debut novel, Cheri Chesley delights readers of all ages with this epic tale of a simple farm girl who discovers that even the humblest of peasants has the potential to change the world.
Cheri Chesley believes in magic and miracles. When not writing she can be found reading the dictionary for fun or improving her photography. She lives with her husband and numerous children in Tooele, Utah.
In 2006, Cheri rediscovered her passion for writing and decided to start taking herself and her constantly speaking characters seriously. She enjoys the continued support of her husband and family, including extended family, across the nation. And she could never have gotten this far without a little help from her friends, too.
The Upside of Down by Rebecca Talley
Natalie Drake certainly has her hands full raising a large family, dealing with her difficult mother, and maintaining a relationship with her rebellious teenager. Just when things seem to be going smoothly, she finds out another unexpected surprise—she’s going to have a baby. Faced with so many challenges, Natalie must learn to trust in a plan that isn’t what she imagined and discover that every situation has an upside.
Beloved author Rebecca Talley carefully creates this touching and heartfelt story that is sure to inspire you. With true-to-life characters and situations, The Upside of Down will reignite your faith and remind you of the importance of family.
Rebecca Talley grew up in Santa Barbara, California and now lives on a ranch in Colorado with her amazing husband, 8 of her 10 creative children, horses, goats, and a llama named Tina. She is the author of a children's picture book, Grasshopper Pie. Her stories have been published in Story Friends, Our Little Friend, The Friend, and Stories for Children. Cedar Fort released her YA novel, Heaven Scent, in spring 2008.
Besides writing, Rebecca enjoys eating chocolate by the pound, dancing to disco music while she cleans all the messes that seem to multiply and replenish her house, and contemplating all the craft projects that still need to be completed. You can find Rebecca at www.rebeccatalley.com.
Stolen Christmas by Various Authors
What happens when you’re so poor you have to steal your Christmas presents? Have you ever taken a punch in the face as your Christmas gift to the girl you love? Or saved Christmas while hunting were-weevils?
These award-winning Christmas stories are the best of the best from the LDS Publisher Christmas Story Contests. From Christmases past, to present, to future; from sweet and inspirational, to zany and delightful—there’s a story for everyone in this eclectic collection.
Featuring LDS authors:
Roger Bonner • Don Carey • Laura Craner
Joyce DiPastena • Sarah M. Eden
L.T. Elliot • Gussie Fick
Melanie Goldmund • M. Gray
Taegyn Hutchinson • Angie Lofthouse
Lori Nawyn • Tristi Pinkston
Brian C. Ricks • Sandra Sorenson
Janice Sperry • Christine Thackeray
Joyce DiPastena • Sarah M. Eden
L.T. Elliot • Gussie Fick
Melanie Goldmund • M. Gray
Taegyn Hutchinson • Angie Lofthouse
Lori Nawyn • Tristi Pinkston
Brian C. Ricks • Sandra Sorenson
Janice Sperry • Christine Thackeray
CLICK HERE for details on how to win these books.
CLICK HERE for details on sponsoring the contest.
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