17 Shoe Box of Memories

Andrea gazed out the window as the first snow fell, blanketing the ground with its grace. It was Christmas Eve and any other year she would be jumping for joy at this wondrous sight. Andrea and her Dad would try to build a snowman or sprinkle reindeer food with dashes of glitter scattered about so that Santa’s sleigh could find the food easily.

Those moments were only memories now. Her father had passed away the day after Christmas one year ago. As she cried herself to sleep many times in the past year, she tried to hold on to his embrace and the image of his gentle face. Her loneliness had continued to grow rather than subside.

Especially now.

Andrea wanted to stop the arrival of Christmas Day unless it could bring her father back to life! No other gift could be greater than his self-assuring presence and constant love for her.

Her mother tried to create the excitement of past holidays by continuing family traditions. Beautifully wrapped packages sat under a balsam tree decorated with favorite ornaments and twinkling lights. Homemade dressing was being prepared for a feast of all feasts.

Yet, none of these holiday trimmings seemed to fill the gap and make Andrea whole once more.

Fortunately, she had her shoebox. It was neatly decorated with hearts of many colors and golden stars. Beneath the cover, photographs, travel brochures, post cards including a trip to Niagara Falls, a broken wrist watch, a tie clip and other treasures symbolizing her father’s life filled the container as well as the barren spot in her heart.

Tonight, it was time, time for Andrea to feel safe, secure and loved. So, she went to her dresser drawer and carefully pulled the box from it’s’ place, cradling it like a baby in her arms. After many minutes, she spread the contents of the box on the floor to be touched, read and admired.
She felt close to him now.

But on the floor nestled in her collection was an advertising card that Andrea had not seen before. It was a rectangle in blue and advertised the top automobile glass companies with their phone numbers and addresses on it.

The third company on the card was her father’s “Glass Sales and Service” and beside the name, his familiar phone number. Andrea couldn’t even begin to count the number of times that she had dialed that number, anxious to share her accomplishments at school or simply to tell him “yes, it had been a good day.”

After he passed away, her mother had sold the business and the new owners changed its name, requesting a new phone number. Had that number which offered Andrea private words of concern with her father been disconnected forever? Maybe it had been issued to another business or home for those to share similar conversations as Andrea had experienced
A voice, deep within, had prompted Andrea to find out. Why, she didn’t know, but, still the whisper of the unknown urged her on.

Cautiously, she picked up the receiver and dialed the number…

There seemed to be a connection! The number had not been discontinued after all!

After two rings, a voice responded.

“Good evening, Glass Sales and Service,” followed by a brief pause, “Hello, Andrea.”

The voice was distant and almost inaudible due to crackling on the line but there was no question whom the voice belonged to.

“Dad?” she stammered, her throat parched, her heart throbbing as she shut her eyes quickly, hoping to hear a response over the pounding in her chest.

“Yes, Sweetheart,” her father said calmly and deliberately.

Andrea could not believe what was happening or how and why. All she knew is that her father was finally here. Tears of joy began to flow freely down her face, “Dad, are you really alive?” she asked. There was a pause that seemed endless.

“Andrea, I cannot come back to the life as you know it. But…..”

“No! It wasn’t true! Andrea had been dreaming, a long and dreadful dream this year. He was really coming home soon and……..

“What you are hearing, Andrea is the voice of your heart, my spirit that will always be there.” She was so confused and at a complete loss for words. Though buried within her soul, Andrea knew he was right. His funeral had been too vivid, too horribly real and that indistinguishable voice inside of her convinced her that death was final, final in the physical way.

He did not wait for her reaction because he knew it would be too difficult for her to understand. So, he continued.

“Regardless of where I am today, death cannot tear us apart. If you believe in the importance of your life and look inside your heart, you will always find me waiting. Waiting to guide you through problems and loving you as you are and will be. Don’t ever lose hope for what is hidden in your heart. Just open it, Andrea, like you do with your shoebox of memories and you know what, if you listen carefully, you can hear the angels……………..”

Static drowned his words.

“Dad, I love you…….” Her voice suddenly dropped dramatically, “Dad, are you there?”

Within seconds, she heard a click followed by a dial tone. He was gone.

Instantly, Andrea dialed the number again. It began to ring and suddenly she heard, “I am sorry, that number has been disconnected.”

As she hung up the phone, Andrea slumped to her knees, shaking with emotional exhaustion. Shock trembled through her, but somehow, she felt a peace that she had not experienced for a long time. The peace found a place in her heart that had been barren. She truly believed her father’s words and she knew life could go on in her world as well as his.

She heard her Mom call so she made her way to the bathroom to wash her tear-stained face. She glanced at her reflection in the mirror above the sink and smiled. She not only saw her her own features but the wonderful love of her father standing behind her. And as her Mom called once again, she thought she heard other voices as well.

“If you listen carefully, you can hear the angels……..sing.



Critique: I like the idea of Christmas being a time of spiritual reunion with those who have gone before, but this was a little too magical for my tastes. I’d probably put the phone call in a dream sequence and also have her dad reference Christmas and that we celebrate the birth of Christ, who will make their reunion in the future possible. Need a little more personality for Andrea and more time exploring the change that just happened. Also, I have no idea how old she is—and I need an indication of it. I’m guessing around 12?

What I liked best: Her box of memories.

Publication ready: No. It has potential, but it needs some work.

16 Snow

Sarina Howard crossed her fingers on both hands, as she hit the send button. I hope I win, I hope I win, she silently chanted in her head. Just then she caught a glimpse of her hair in the now dark computer screen. She reached up and tugged at the offending strands. Her hair was just like her, too short to put up in a ponytail and too long to just leave. Sarina was way too short for her age and most of the time this didn't bother her that was until someone, usually an adult treated her like a baby instead of the 11 year-old she was. That was one of the reasons winning this essay contest was so important to her. This was the first year she was old enough to enter. Wouldn't it just burn Valerie's britches if I won and she didn't. She's been calling me baby all year at school, we'll just see who is the baby now. Sarina turned of the computer and walked into her room. Now all she had to do was wait, hope and pray she won.

Ten days later the leaders of the colony began reading all the essays for this years contest and at first fast then, slower and slower tossing out the ones that didn't fit what they envisioned for the contest. Some were just silly, others an obvious rewrite of the encyclopedia. This year the leaders were particularly picky. There must be something special about this years winners. After all it wasn't everyday that a colony celebrated it's 150th anniversary. The leaders of Snow knew that somewhere in this pile of essays was "the one" now they just had to find it.

"Sarina, Sarina hey, I've been calling you for at least two minutes. Where is your mind today?" Yelled Gina, Sarina's best friend as she ran to catch up with Sarina.

"Gina, did you enter the essay contest for the snow day?"

"Ah Sarina, you know the older kids always win that after all They have a lot more experience writing than we do." Gina glanced at Sarina. "Oh no, you didn't, you did didn't you. Sarina, some day your going to go too far and one of the older kids is going to get you."

"I know but I just had to try, maybe they won't find out."

"You better hope not. Now what did you get on you math test?"

Sarina was glad Gina didn't push although she would have loved to have another opinion on her essay. It wouldn't do her any good though because it was already sent.

The days wore on and Sarina tried to put the contest out of her mind. As the Christmas Holiday season grew nearer and nearer she began to feel both let down and excited. This was the magical time of the year. The Christmas holiday's and the naming and landing here on Snow fell together and made every child's heart beat a little faster.

Decorations that were traditional but didn't always make sense were appearing all over. Huge white balls stacked up and made to look like people. Lacy silver and glittery "snowflakes" . Odd shaped tree's with balls star's, red and white hooks and many other ornaments could be bought at nearly every store in town. Everyone knew they were fake, no tree on the planet looked like that. The orniments at least made sense. Everyone knew the Christmas story, but what did the funny shaped trees and snow have to do with that? Sarina wondered, actually Sarina wondered alot and worried.

The "snowflakes" really worried Sarina. They looked so big, and she just couldn't imagine them falling lightly on anyone with out squishing them. But all the history books said snowflakes fell. If she won this contest she would know for herself.

"Sarina, come in here." Called her mother from the living area. "You have an official notice here and it won't let me open it. The computer says it needs your password. Now young lady I will be standing right here. So there better be no funny business, understand?"

Sarina stared. "Mom, I think I won"

"Won, what do you mean?"

"I entered the Founders Day essay contest. I don't think they even let the losers know anything so I must have won."

"The only way to know for sure is to open the notice."

Hands shaking so bad that she messed up the password twice Sarina did just that.

Sarina Howard you are hear by notified that your essay won first prize in the Founder's Day Essay Contest. You and your family are to report to Equinox City for your prize. At this time you will be outfitted for the Dome and your winning entry will be read. It will be broadcast for the entire colony to hear and then published in the archives. Sincerely, Bradley Jameson, Matthew Chavez, Jaunita Choe, and Ingred McFarland.

The Founder's Day dawned bright and hot like most days on Snow did. There looked to be rain in the afternoon also to be expected at this time of year. Snow a tropical planet with seasons that consisted of dry and rainy. The planet had been named from orbit because of the time of year the landing was happening. Most of the new settlers were from the Northern Hemisphere on Earth and December meant snow for them. They had bought only one Temperate Dome, that was all they could afford and they hoped to only use it until the planet could be adapted to. Now 150 years later it was used to make the only snow the planet would ever see. Fifty families were being allowed in to experience the first snow. Sarina's family would now be one of them.

"Mom, why do we have to wear these funny clothes?"

"Sarina you know as much as I do after all you wrote all about snow to get us here."

Suddenly over the loudspeaker came "Miss Sarina Howard please step forward."

Sarina smiled at her Mother and Father, Waved at Gina standing in the audience and walked up to read all about snow. A substance she had never seen and was just a little afraid and in awe of. A substance her world was named after. This was the best Christmas ever.

Sarina cleared her throat and began reading.

Snow by Sarina Howard

To me snow means my home and family on this planet we live on but to my ancestors it meant something entirely different. Have you ever opened the refrigerator unit in your house? The first puff of air coming out sparkles with small drops of white. Then the heat makes them dissappear. This is the nearest I have ever come to the cold snow they knew. I have heard about snowmen, snowball fights and just snowflakes. I find myself wondering what they would think of the snow I know. Hot, loud and teaming with life. I hope that they would be proud of what snow has come to mean here and not mourn too much on what it used to mean to them. I wish there was some way of asking them and hearing first hand what the cold snow was like but all I can do is imagine and dream. Dream of a white cold substance I have never felt or seen in real life.

Sarina smiled at this last sentence for now she would have even more to dream about she was going to experience real snow now.



Critique: There are a lot of technical errors—spelling, grammar, structure of the story. The girls sound older than 11. Needs more character development, more action. The plot has a few issues, for example, it doesn’t really make sense that other kids would get her for entering the essay contest. And you’d think they’d have used the dome for snow sooner than 150 years after they landed.

What I liked best: Christmas on a planet named Snow, where there is never any snow. I like that idea.

Publication ready: No. It needs more work.

15 Foreign Exchange

by Teresa Osgood

It was a dark and stormy night. I know, that’s what they all say. Still, the rain pelted the bare trees unmercifully, and the streetlights had been on since three in the afternoon. There was no other way to describe it.

Well, I could also say it was cold. The wind that blew the rain in nearly sideways gusts was a typical moist Mid-Atlantic howler, the kind that makes you feel like your parka is a colander, and your thermal underwear might as well be cheesecloth. But I couldn’t really feel the chill, squashed as I was in the back seat of Dad’s hatchback with my little brother, Jimmy, my big brother, Matt, and Rolf, the German exchange student. Our breath was steaming up the windows, and the air was stale with sweat. Didn’t Rolf ever use deodorant?

I could also say it was Christmas Eve, but that would give you the wrong impression entirely. There were no snowflakes, no sleigh bells, and there was precious little goodwill in the back seat of that car.

"Matt’s on my side," Jimmy whined.

Dad sighed. "Can’t we all be on the same side?"

Usually, when we all went out together, we took Mom’s Oldsmobile. Jimmy had to sit in the middle of the bench seat in front, and I was stuck straddling the hump in the back. We had clambered into the Olds that evening, laden with plates of cookies that we weren’t supposed to eat, and dutifully buckled up.

"Is everyone buckled?" Dad called, then turned the key.

Click.

"Oh, no." Dad tried again.

"Do we need to jump-start it, dear?" Mom asked.

"No, it’s the starter. This car is not going anywhere tonight."

Matt started to look hopeful.

"Then we’ll have to take your car," Mom decided.

Jimmy couldn’t sit on the gearshift, of course, so he squeezed into the narrow confines of the back of the Honda with the rest of us. It was sort of a relief whenever the car stopped and we spilled out into the rain, sloshing up to someone’s front door to give them our goodies. I would have been just as happy to not stand there in the rain, singing, before we handed them over. That was our tradition, though. Rolf loved it, and sang loud enough to cover for a couple of us, so Matt kept his cracking voice down. I was just lazy, and mumbled along.

Except for a certain amount of stinking, Rolf was all right. He could juggle a soccer ball with his knees longer than anyone I knew. He taught me some words that sounded really insulting, but didn’t actually mean anything bad. I secretly didn’t mind giving up my room for him, because I got to play with Jimmy’s toy cars when no one was looking.

We had been going to museums a lot more than usual since Rolf had come, so he could have "cultural experiences." Some of them were pretty dull, like the National Archives. Who wants to look at a bunch of old pieces of paper? But some places had cool stuff, like the light-up map at the Gettysburg battlefield. The National Air and Space Museum was the best. I could have stayed in the old Skylab module for hours, pretending I was an astronaut, all by myself in an alien world.

I wonder if Rolf ever felt that way.

Rolf came to church with us every week, as another cultural experience. The first Sunday I watched him as we drove there in the Olds. There were two or three other churches on the way, and he looked more disappointed as we drove past each one. When we parked at our meetinghouse, he looked upward in dismay.

"What sort of church is this?" he whispered as we followed my parents inside. "Where is the cross?"

"Um. . ." I had never really thought about it before, but I got a clue when we stepped through the double doors. "Jesus was resurrected, right?" I pointed at the painting over the couch in the foyer. "So we don’t put up crosses."

Rolf considered the picture of Jesus and Mary outside the empty tomb, and gave a small nod. But his face fell again when we walked into the unadorned chapel.

The talks that day were about marriage, which didn’t really relate to us kids. The high council speaker was pretty funny, though. When he joked about having his wife iron his socks, I glanced over at Rolf to see if he got it. Rolf glared back at me. I guess he didn’t.

When Mom asked him what he thought about church afterward, he politely said it was nice. I followed him upstairs, though, to see what he really thought.

"You laugh during sermons, and leave Christ out in the hall. What sort of church is it? Heidnisch!" He shut my door in my face.

I looked it up later. "Heathen."

Every Sunday after that, Rolf smiled tolerantly at the giggling girls in the hallway, shook hands with the bishop, and tried to sing the hymns. But he spent most of the three hours at church reading his German Bible.

As Christmas approached, Rolf took a special interest in the mail. Every day he asked if anything had come for him. Every day Mom displayed more cards we received from friends and relatives, or hid packages in her closet, but said, "Sorry, Rolf, nothing today."

We were playing Parcheesi in the living room the day before Christmas, when Rolf spotted the mailman in his yellow slicker, coming up the walk. Rolf met him at the door, gleefully shouting, "It’s here!"

He gathered Mom and Dad and made a little speech before opening the box. "It is the Christmas schmuck from my Oma. Every year she sends. This year, she sent for you, too."

"Schmuck?" Dad repeated. Mom wrinkled her nose.

"Schmuck for the tree," Rolf tried to explain. He handed us each a wad of tissue paper. "Open, open."

Mine was a thin wooden disk with a star design cut out of it. The loop of thread at the top gave it away. "Ornaments?"

"Yes, ornaments. Please hang them on the Tannenbaum." Glad that we understood, Rolf turned his attention back to the box.

"Your grandmother is so sweet, Rolf," Mom said. Then made a face when she thought he wasn’t looking. "They don’t really fit the theme this year," she murmured to Dad.

It was true. She had outdone herself with big, shiny, brightly colored ornaments. Instead of balls, there were onion shapes and long, twisting tubes. Coordinating strings of beads twisted around the cords of jumbo lights. Mom smiled weakly, and placed two of the new ornaments on the side of the tree, nearly out of sight.

Personally, I preferred the wooden silhouettes to the schmuck Mom had put on the branches. "Thanks, Rolf," I said loudly, and hung my star smack in the middle of the tree. Not that he was paying attention to our little drama. After unloading a cookie tin and a wrapped gift that looked awfully sweater-shaped, he picked up one more hunk of tissue paper. As he unwrapped the ornament, his eyes started looking suspiciously bright. He gave his face a rough swipe with the back of his hand, and stuffed the disc in his pocket.

I wondered what was so special about that ornament as it dug into my hip in the back seat of the car. Jimmy poked Matt again, and Matt elbowed him back. Mom started singing, probably hoping to calm them down, or at least drown them out.

"Oh, little town of Bethlehem," she sang in time with the windshield wipers, "how still we see thee lie. . ."

There wasn’t much traffic on the wet streets. It was about as still as you could get in these suburbs.

"Yet in thy dark streets shineth--"

"--the endless traffic light," Dad interrupted.

"Dear!"

Matt and I sniggered.

"Can I have a cookie?" Jimmy asked. "There’s only one plate left."

"Don’t touch those cookies. They are for Sister Larsen."

"Oops," Matt mumbled. It sounded like his mouth was full.

"Sister Larsen?" I asked. Singing to the cantankerous widow didn’t sound like my idea of an exciting end to the evening. "Won’t she be with the Blakes? She usually sits with them at church."

"She and the Blakes have had a, well, misunderstanding. I’m afraid she’ll be alone tonight," Mom said.

Jimmy groaned. "Oh, no. Is she going to adopt us next?"

"She has no grandchildren of her own, so she needs some company. Try to be civil, boys," Dad said firmly. He flipped on the blinker.

"She lives here?" Matt asked. "‘Whiskey Bottom Apartments.’ Classy name "

"That’s a geographic term, you know. ‘Bottom’ refers to the land around a river," Dad explained.

"Yeah, but look at the sign." Matt reached across me to nudge Rolf. "There’s a big bottle of whiskey and a big--"

"Matthew!" Mom couldn’t deny the sign, but she tried to change the subject. "What shall we sing to Sister Larsen?"

Soon we stood in the dingy stairwell. I counted how many times the fluorescent light flicked off. Matt kicked at the steps.

"I don’t think anyone’s coming," Jimmy said. Just then we heard the rattle of a chain, and the door opened a crack.

"Oh, it’s you. Well, come in, then." Sister Larsen shuffled back to her chair.

"Okay, ‘Joy to the World,’" Dad said. "One, two--"

"Stille nacht, heilige nacht," Rolf stepped forward and sang in a surprisingly high voice.

"Alles schläft; einsam wacht," Jimmy joined in. Surprised, I stared at him. "Learned it in school," he whispered, and they went on. I started humming the familiar tune, and my parents added alto and bass parts. It sounded pretty good.

When the song ended, Rolf crossed the tiny living room with one step, and dug something out of his pocket. "I give this to you. Please take it."

Sister Larsen held the ornament up to the light. A small building had been carved into it, with a pointy roof and a cross on top. The old woman looked up at Rolf in wonder. "Danke," she whispered.

Immediately he knelt beside the chair and began pouring out his soul to her in German. Sister Larsen waved for us to sit down, and listened intently. Mom sat on the faded couch. Dad and Matt sat down too, and sank to the middle with her. Jimmy and I settled on the floor, and stroked the cats that came to investigate us.

"What is he so upset about?" Mom wondered.

I caught a couple of words. Kirche. Heidnisch. "He thinks we’re not very Christian, Mom."

"What?" Her surprised look soon gave way to thoughtfulness.

Finally Rolf slowed down. He blew his nose on the tissue Sister Larsen handed him, then looked over at us. "I am sorry. She looks so much like my Oma. I think of home."

"I’m sorry, too," Mom said to Sister Larsen. "Rolf got carried away."

"No, no, it’s all right. I understand."

"Where did you learn German, Sister Larsen?" Dad asked.

"In Germany, of course, at my mother’s knee," she answered. "When Jack brought me here after the war, I found that being German was rather unpopular. He took me to church and I learned to speak like an American."

"I had no idea," Mom said, as if she should have known.

"After Jack died in Korea, I managed to make ends meet. But I have never been able to go back to Germany. Thank you for this piece of home, Rolf." She held his chin in her hand, and studied his face. "Now, tell me about your grandmother. What is her name?"

"Lilli Mueller."

"I knew a Lilli, once. Bring me that picture, young man." She pointed straight behind me. Turning around, I saw a framed black-and-white image of two young ladies wearing hats. I placed it in her wrinkled hands.

Rolf stared at it, speechless. Finally he whispered, "Oma has the same photo. When I asked about it, she only said, ‘Anna is gone, gone.’"

Sister Larsen reached for another tissue. "Is she still alive, then? After I married, I tried to send letters. They came back to me, long after I sent them. I did not know if the mail was bad, or if my family moved, or died . . . Lilli is my sister."

Mom wiped her eyes on her scarf, and even Dad was blinking a lot. "Wow, what a coincidence," Matt proclaimed in the silence.

"No, no, a blessing. See, Rolf, the Holy Ghost is with the Latter-day Saints, too. He brought you here tonight."

"But," Rolf started to protest.

"No, Christ is not in paintings or tapestries. He is in our scriptures, our prayers." She handed Rolf a book bound in battered blue leather. "This is my gift to you. You need it more than I do, now."

"Das Buch Mormon?" Rolf looked unsure, but he held it to his chest.

"Sit with me on Sunday, and I will show you Christ among the Latter-day Saints. Now, help me up, and let’s sing again."

We all stood, and linked our arms like Rolfe and Sister Larsen did. They started to sway as we sang.

"How silently, how silently

The wondrous gift is given!

So God imparts to human hearts

The blessings of his heaven.

No ear may hear his coming;

But in this world of sin,

Where meek souls will receive him, still

The dear Christ enters in."

The stormy sky was still dark as we walked outside muffled in new hand-knit scarves, but I did not notice the wind or the rain. The back seat of the car held us in a brotherly hug. All the way home, all the way through Christmas, even, I felt warm from the inside out.



Critique: Uhmmm. Trying to think of something critical to say and the only thing I can come up with is I’m not sure how old the narrative character is or if it’s a boy. That needs to be more clear. But other than that, I loved it! The only perfect score from me this year and the only one that made me cry.

What I liked best: Loved the writing style and the message.

Publication ready: YES!!!

14 The Package

Sarah and her brother had made the same walk home from school so many times; she was convinced she had memorized every rock and shrub along the way.

Today was no different than so many others that had passed before in that respect. Ben, walking ahead of her, as usual, looking around for a stone of suitable weight and size that could serve as a projectile against the unsuspecting lizard or grass snake. While she, thinking about the day’s lessons, somewhat, but more about the handsome boy who sat behind her in class.

It was during times such as these that she enjoyed their walk home the most. The air was crisp and cool, yet today the thunderclouds to the west troubled her. Not the rain, mind you. That she could deal with and even enjoyed, especially at nightfall. No, it was the driving wind that preceded the storm which concerned her more.

So today, especially, as she saw the clouds begin to form, she hastened her steps, catching up with Ben.

“Hey sis, when you gonna stop daydreamin’ and start payin’ more ‘tention in Grammar? The ol’ man’s gonna catch ya one o’ these days and I sure wanna be around when that happens!”

Sarah dismissed the remark. Besides, she smiled to herself, she was one of the top students in the class.

And so soon, she thought, the daylight disappears even before nightfall: The clouds had now blanketed the setting sun, leaving a faint glow, almost like an aura surrounding billows of blackening doom.

“Come on, Ben, let’s get going,” she urged her brother, “I think it’s gonna be rainin’ before we get home.”

Ben was almost giddy as he started whirling around in circles. “Whadda sissy! ‘Sides, I ain’t had a good bath in days!”

Sarah shook her head. Why did he have to be my brother – she thought to herself.

The road continued to wind and as soon as the pair made their way to the top of a fairly steep rise, off ahead to the left sat a woman – all alone – sitting by herself on a large boulder. The two youngsters slowed their pace to hesitant steps.

From a distance, especially at this time of day, it was difficult to recognize appearances. As Ben and Sarah walked on, veering somewhat to the right and away from the stranger, they noticed she was more like an older girl. Sort of reminded Sarah of her older sister.

Cautiously the two continued their walk on the opposite side of the road, noticing that the woman was holding a rather strange package, of sorts.

It was kind of big, but not bulky, and looked like an old burlap sack, folded about in half. The kind father used for storing his potatoes.

Sarah thought to herself then whispered to Ben, “I wonder what’s in the sack.”

“Groceries, most likely.” Then it was Ben’s turn to urge the pair onward. “Now never you mind, Sarah, let’s get on home.”

As they approached a point just opposite of the near-motionless figure, the woman looked up, staring right at them. Then she smiled.

Sarah stopped.

“C’mon, let’s go!” Ben tugged at his sister’s sleeve.

Sarah looked at the woman, sitting there all alone, on the side of the road, holding her sack of provisions.

How odd, she thought.

Ben tugged again but Sarah remained unmoved.

Then, for no reason at all, Sarah slowly crossed the road.

“SARAH!” in the loudest whisper he could muster, Ben shook his head as he proceeded toward home. “All right then with ya – see ya later.”

Ignoring her brother’s pleadings, Sarah couldn’t quite seem to keep her eyes off the woman’s face. Or off the smile that just stayed there, smiling.

And then, as unexpected as a bolt of invisible lightning, all at once a thousand freezing darts whipped through her thin dress. And the winds came.

Unrelenting and without warning, nearly pushing her off her feet, the chill was like nothing she had ever felt before.

Sitting before her, the woman clutched her package even tighter, shivering as day turned to twilight in a frigid heartbeat. Yet the smile remained, unbroken.

How puzzling, Sarah thought, pondering the eerie scene as she stopped just an arm’s length away from the strange young woman.

“Hel-lo” Sarah stuttered, more out of nervous embarrassment than cold.

Their eyes continued their uninterrupted union.

“Hello,” replied the stranger, as she looked down at Sarah’s sandaled feet. “You must be cold, my dear.”

“Nah – I mean, no ma’am, I’m fine.” Sarah thought for a moment. “Why are you sitting here all alone?”

“Oh, I’m not alone.” The woman adjusted the package on her lap. “I’m waiting for my husband. He’ll be along shortly.”

Sarah smiled, then turned to leave, then stopped. Looking again at the woman, “are you sure you’ll be okay?”

“Oh yes, I’ll be all right, thank you.”

Then – from no apparent outward or external cause – the package moved.

Maybe she was simply adjusting it on her lap, Sarah thought to herself.

No… there! It moved again!

Sarah bent her head down and was very self-consciously staring as the woman pealed back part of the burlap to reveal a tiny hand and arm.

Sarah’s eyes grew big as saucers.

“You have a – a baby?”

The woman smiled. “Yes, I have a child.”

Sarah stammered. “But … isn’t he, isn’t she … cold?”

The woman smiled. “No - we’re doing all right,” as she cradled the package in her arm. Guess it ain’t groceries - Sarah thought to herself – then breathed a heavy sigh as she turned to see her brother far ahead down the road, looking back himself to see what was keeping his sister.

And the wind – the terrible cold – she hadn’t even given it another thought, until now. She took her scarf and wrapped it tightly around her neck and face.

From here, though scarcely a few more minutes walk, home seemed so very far away.

Then she was off – like a frightened cat on the run, Sarah sprinted to catch up with her brother.

Then, just as abruptly, she stopped.

The wind that had so cruelly penetrated her to the bone had also cleared the air – and, looking up, Sarah saw the stars beginning to emerge, one by one; like diamonds against a curtain of grayish-black.

She looked down, shivering as the wind took its toll on her exposed feet and legs. Then, as if in a dream, she turned back again to the woman, sitting on the rock, clutching the burlap “package”.

Sarah walked up to her; and, without saying a word, quickly removed her scarf – “Here. This is for your baby,” handed the scarf to the stranger then ran to join her brother now far off in the distance.

As she ran, tears filled Sarah’s eyes and her heart swelled.

Much as she wanted to, she could not look back.

However - if she had, she would have seen the woman sitting frozen – not from the cold, but in surprised astonishment at a young girl’s act of unselfish kindness . . .



The days became months, which became years – so many years.

Ben had quickly and entirely forgotten the incident, busying himself with his own life and pursuits.

Sarah, likewise, had grown and matured – but had not altogether forgotten that day, so many years before, that day of the frigid wind.

It was on evenings such as this one, as she looked up at the ebony sky, with its sea of glistening stars, holding the child of her own child in her time-wrinkled arms, when she would pause and ponder.

Reflecting on the singular event of years long past, Sarah could still remember how she felt after she handed the woman her scarf; and how often the feeling would return, but only at very special times.

She wondered what ever became of the young woman, who sat by the side of the road, and the package that she held.

Sitting, waiting patiently and faithfully, in the cold at the end of the day, for her husband to join her, as Sarah and her brother made their way from school, as they had done so many times before, to their home . . .

in Bethlehem.



Critique: You have a good idea. I really like the twist at the end. However, in trying to setting a secret until then, you don’t give us near enough sense of place. Your narrative is very poetic in places, but the dialog feels jarring. You have some grammar and structural issues, and we need deeper characterization. You could add more depth to the story and still have Bethlehem be a sweet surprise at the end. The idea has some real potential, but the delivery needs work.

What I liked best: That we’re not sure until the end that it’s Bethlehem.

Publication ready: No. It needs polishing.

12 The Lights of Christmas

Perhaps this may not be considered a story, it may be an event, a happening, a moment in time, it was however, something to treasure in my book of memories. I have decided however to tell this as a cherished Christmas story because it happened to me.

The year had not been a particularly good one, if I mentioned divorce that would fill in all the necessary questions, possibly the answers as well. Let’s say I found myself single, not of my choice. I had been left with the financial responsibility and the task of raising the last two of my four daughters.

The Christmas season was approaching and since this was my first without a real strong financial support besides me things were looking pretty gloomy. Even though I was working two jobs I really did not have the means or the nature to have a lot of Christmas Spirit. The girls and I had moved into a very small house in a medium neighborhood, not fancy or high end, but workable. The girls were both in their early teens and did not say too much about how things were; they just knew it was a rough time.

One particular night I had an occasion to go to a church house for Relief Society board meeting. I was picked up by the President and left my daughter at home with her friend, our Bishop’s son.

Those two had adventures written all over their faces. Mostly during that period of time in their lives it was watching scary movies, making munchies, eating an incredible amount of sunflowers seeds and just hanging out. I had left without any instructions or particular chores to be done just that I would be back in an hour or so.

Like all women that I know, I took the opportunity to visit while going to my meeting and I recall, had even talked about the lack of Christmas Spirit being a part of my home that year. I had always decorated a Christmas tree and we have never gone without some Christmas. However some years were better than others. There was always something under the tree. This was not really a test year to see how we were going to do as a family, just a year when I did not have a lot of hope or warm fuzzes about the meaning of the Christmas season and what it meant for me.

“Anyho” as my daughter likes to say, I was chatting and feeling rather down as we drove home from the meeting and knowing my house was around the corner I looked ahead as we turned down the street to a sight, that to this day, still, brings tears to my eyes when I recall the next precious moments when time stood still.

Ablaze in all of the possible glory that could be had, one house on our block was newly decorated with multi colored Christmas lights outlining the roof. There was no Santa or dancing reindeer, angels were not singing in a heavenly choir, just a beautiful simple strand of lights declaring to the world that Christmas was coming.

A hush fell over me as I marveled at the sight. My tears freely flowed trying to exclaim to my driver, joys of joys, wonder of wonder, that is was my house that was decorated. There was more excitement that I could express that night when I realized it was the two kids I had left watching movies who had dug out our Christmas lights, climbed up on the roof and strung them along the edge. How they ever did it without ladders and in the dark of night I will never know.

The lights gave to me that night the knowledge and hope that life goes on even during trials and tribulations. It was a message of the Christmas Spirit. Giving of oneself and time not necessarily material things but something else that can make a huge difference. It brought peace and comfort and assurance that life does go on.

Like the babe in the manger whose love brought awareness to the world, this also gave to me the knowledge that I too was loved and someone cared enough to give me this simple gift. I began that year a tradition that I have loved and kept every Christmas since. This included some decorations, simple as they might be, and putting Christmas lights on the OUTSIDE of my home. I also now take advantage of driving around the city finding homes and places that display the lights of the season. Finding time to enjoy and listen to Christmas harmonies which can bring thoughts of peace to the world to those who will listen. I enjoy finding places where I can sing along when possible. I have thoroughly enjoyed the songs of Christmas which tell of hope and the happiness of the Christmas Spirit that can be found.

Christmas had become a joy and not a burden to me.


Critique: What a wonderful experience! I’ve had one similar to that and it did, indeed, touch my heart, as it did yours. As for a short story, you’ve got a straightforward narrative here and there really needs to be more in the way of characterization, dialog, setting, sensory imagery, plot. It would need more work to be a true short story. But again, what a great experience and awesome memory for you.

What I liked best: The idea that God blesses us through the actions of others.

Publication ready: No. It needs more development.

11 Milkshakes and Mittens

by Brenda Anderson

Snow flurries followed Natasha Collins inside the small building that housed the Movie Shack, a modest grill combined with the town's only movie rental store. A sparse collection of movies lined the walls which were decorated with various handmade trinkets for sale. Natasha stepped past a display of children's animated shows and up to the worn counter separating the main room from the small kitchen in the back. A petite woman in her late thirties dried her hands with a towel and smiled at Natasha.

"Afternoon, Ms. Collins. What can I get you today?"

"Hello Jaleen. Vanilla today, I think, with a hint of cinnamon." Natasha watched as Jaleen White spun around to begin assembling her milkshake. Her full brown curls bounced as she worked. Reaching up to pat her own graying blonde tresses, Natasha pursed her lips. Adjusting to small town life has been easier than accepting the intrusion of these gray hairs.

"Here you are." Jaleen set the milkshake on the counter. Natasha reached in her purse and pulled out a couple of bills. She picked up the shake, but thoughts of the cold weather waiting outside kept her from moving toward the door.

"I don't know why I buy these when it's so cold outside. Habit I guess. Never was quite so cold in Phoenix this time of year.

"Sunshine year round?" Jaleen asked as she dried some dishes.

Natasha nodded. "Pretty much. From what I've heard, winters there are more like late spring here."

"Mother Nature definitely takes her time warming things up here. I hope you've got plenty of warm clothes."

"Me, too!" Natasha laughed. "How are those girls of yours doing?"

Jaleen bit her lip and looked down at a stain on the countertop. "Good." She paused, "I suppose you heard that Kelly's pregnant."

"Oh, no, I hadn't. I'm so sorry."

Angry tears slipped down Jaleen's nose. "Father's run off. I guess he was one of those workers they bus in from the city to work at the casinos. Hasn't been back in nearly a month, just after Kelly found out."

Natasha set her milkshake down. "Oh, Jaleen. Come 'round here so I can give you a proper hug." She wrapped her arms around the younger woman running her hands up and down her back as Jaleen allowed herself a short sob.

"I'm okay," she said, as she pulled out of the embrace and took a step back, quickly wiping the tears from her cheeks.

Sensing Jaleen's embarrassment, Natasha searched for a way to change the subject and lighten the mood. She spotted Jaleen's black suede boots.

"Oh my, those are lovely boots."

A faint smile lit Jaleen's features. "Yes, they are quite nice. Took nearly a year of saving to buy them, so I don't wear them too much. I thought maybe today they'd cheer me up."

Natasha knelt down and fingered the soft fringes of suede dangling from the cuffs of the boots. "Beautiful. I used to dream about boots like these when I was a little girl. We didn't have the money then, and when I grew up and starting teaching, they just didn't seem practical anymore." She stood up and patted Jaleen's arm. "You wear them well."

"Thanks." Jaleen gestured toward the kitchen. "Well, I'd better get back to work. Football practice lets out soon; I'd better get some burgers grilling. Those teenage boys sure can eat a lot."

The door opened and Jaleen's youngest daughter, Katie stepped inside, her arms wrapped around an algebra book. She smiled briefly at Natasha before setting the book down and moving around the counter to help her mother prepare for the afternoon rush.

"And I've got papers to grade. It's hard to believe the semester ends next week." Natasha retrieved her shake and slipped out the door into the snow.

Natasha wrote a "C" on the top of the last paper and set it with the others. Sighing, she picked up her favorite mug, with a cute, fuzzy cat warning "Keep your paws off my hot chocolate," and dropped in a few more marshmallows from the plate on the coffee table. She swirled them around before finishing off the cocoa. Her joints protested when she stood up. Not so young anymore. Moving to her living room window, she pushed the curtains aside and looked out.

The bright casino lights that dominated the town's one major road flickered on the foot of new snow that had fallen. Natasha thought it looked like one of the Christmas postcards her daughter had sent her from Montana the last few years. "Help," she laughed quietly, "I've fallen into a postcard, and I can't get out!"

She stayed at the window a few minutes longer, watching the light dusting of flurries spiral down from the night sky. Her laughter faded, and she felt very alone. My first Christmas by myself. She thought of Tony, her youngest son, who she'd just shipped off to college in Florida a few short months ago, right before she took the teaching position and moved to a small town on the northern border of Nevada. He'd refused her offer to join her for Christmas.

"Are you kidding?" he'd asked. "Christmas in Nevada? It snows there you know."

She'd laughed with him then--the holidays were still a long way off. Now they were practically on top of her. Looking down at the dirty mug still in her hand, she started toward the sink to rinse it out. But a movement outside brought her attention once more to the window.

At first she saw nothing but snow covered cars, roofs, and bushes. Natasha felt a pang of longing for cacti: tall, long-armed saguaro, flat-leaved prickly pears, even an ocotillo's winter-bare, gray thorny arms would be welcome now, its life hidden until spring. Because then she would be in southern Arizona, and nothing would be covered in snow. The dark sky would be sparkling with stars, not dressed in a drab layer of storm clouds without a trace of rumbling or flashing.

The same movement in the night brought Natasha out of her reverie. In the dim streetlight near the main road, a shadowy figure trudged through the snow, leaving a trail of footprints marring the pristine whiteness. Even bundled up, Jaleen's slight figure was unmistakable. She's too young to look so stooped and tired. Natasha sighed. She reminds me of me. Oh the dreams I had back then.

She washed out the mug and set it in the drainer, checked on her miniature cactus garden and dressed for bed. Tonight, she lingered over the picture of Anthony she kept at her bedside. The picture was good, capturing the slight crookedness to his smile, the way his dark hair recklessly fell over his forehead. Even as a baby, Tony had looked just like his father, had that same crooked smile that had melted Natasha's heart the first time it danced across his soft features. But Anthony's gone. She tucked a lock of gold-gray hair behind her ear. Been gone longer now than we were married. And Tony's gone too, off in Florida.

Shaking her head to rid it of the memories, Natasha clicked off the light and wriggled under the covers. Footsteps thumped briefly in the apartment upstairs, and then silence settled over her. She could hear only the quiet blowing of air as the furnace worked to heat the room and the low humming of the freezer as it cycled into defrost. They were comforting sounds, her usual lullaby. But sleep eluded her.

After forty minutes, Natasha turned the light back on, dug in her closet for a box of scrap yarn and her crochet hooks and began a chain. By the time she fell asleep, propped up against her pillows with her crochet hook in her hand; she'd finished a scarf and started on a pair of mittens.

School let out three days before Christmas. By then Natasha had used up her scraps and had purchased several large new skeins of yarn. A basket by her bed was nearly filled with her late night work: the scarf and mittens, two baby blankets, some booties, three bibs, three winter hats and a small handbag. When the final bell rang, Natasha watched her twenty-seven sixth graders stream out of the room, energized by sugary Christmas sweets and the promise of two weeks of no school.

As their laughter faded, Natasha grabbed a stack of papers from her desk and placed them in her bag, hoping they would keep her busy over the next few days. She stifled a yawn as she locked her desk and grabbed her ring of keys. Good thing I have a brisk walk home to wake me up.

But her feet didn't take her home. Natasha found herself instead reaching for the door handle at the Movie Shack, her taste buds craving a strawberry shake. The door refused to open. She pulled at it again, with both hands wrapped around the handle. Nothing. Natasha pounded on the door, suddenly worried that something had happened to Jaleen. She had just turned away, wondering if she should call the police when Katie emerged from the back of the building.

"Sorry Ms. Collins. We're closed." Katie shoved her bare hands into the pockets of her worn coat and started down the street that led to her home.

Natasha fell into step beside her. "Is your mom okay?"

Katie kept her head down against the afternoon wind. "She's fine. It's my dad. She's gone into the city to get some medicine for him. Even if Kelly wasn't pregnant, we can't handle the snack bar and the store by ourselves."

Natasha had only met Jaleen's husband once. Derreck White was a large, big muscled man who spent his weeks working on a ranch across the Idaho border, training horses and repairing fences. On weekends he came home and worked the kitchen of the Movie Shack. The milkshakes Natasha found herself addicted to were made with his recipe.

"Can I do anything to help?"

Katie stopped and turned toward Natasha, her eyes filled with tears and worry. "Pray Dad recovers quickly." She turned away and bounded up the stairs to her front door.

Like Patricia had when I told her about Anthony. Natasha paused to say a quick prayer for Katie's father. Only Patti was so much younger. That was when my teaching degree became more than a fall back; the day I decided to set all my dreams aside and make sure Patti and Tony reached all of theirs.

She walked slowly home thinking of ballet recitals, choir performances and dirty football uniforms. And she prayed for Derrick White.

At home, Natasha tried picking up her crochet hook and starting on the sweater pattern she'd found on one of the skeins of yarn, but the process was so familiar that she found herself with too much time to think. So she left the yarn on her bed and went in to the kitchen.

Pulling out a tattered cookbook, Natasha found the worn pages her mother had always turned to when life seemed to be unraveling around her. Soon flour covered her arms nearly to her elbows as she pounded and smashed at the bread dough, taking her frustration, fear and loneliness out on the mound on the counter.

The following day, Natasha awoke confused. The sun's angle was wrong; it should have been lengthening toward her, not away. She slowly sat up, surprised to see that she was still dressed in the green blouse and tan pants from the day before. Beside her, resting on her untouched pillow was the half-finished sweater she'd started last night, after pulling the last loaf of bread from the oven. Squinting at the clock on her dresser, Natasha realized it was nearly four in the afternoon. No wonder the sun angle looks weird. I've slept the day away.

Rising from the bed, she looked toward the basket of finished crocheting projects. "All that crocheting has finally gotten to me," she told it. She reached for Anthony's picture and gave it her usual morning kiss. "I'm getting old Anthony. Old." Setting the picture down, Natasha found her thoughts automatically turning from Anthony to Jaleen, and a heavy weight settled in her stomach.

She showered, dressed, and walked out to her kitchen/living room where her artificial Christmas tree huddled in one corner, decorated so heavily in handmade ornaments that the needles were barely visible, gifts from her children and former students. A red and white crocheted blanket hid the stand from view, but no gifts lurked under the tree's laden branches.

Turning from the tree's blatant reminder of her loneliness, Natasha saw the six loaves of bread she baked the day before lined up on the counter. She had wrapped each one in festive plastic wrap and tied them with variations of green, red, and white bows. They, too, mocked her solitude.

"No!" she told the loaves. She spun around to face the tree. "No!" She dug through the box of Christmas decorations she'd left by the tree until she found a fuzzy red Santa cap. With a look of defiance aimed at the Christmas tree, she pulled the hat on her head and emptied her oversized bag onto the table. Then she refilled it with all of the crochet projects she had completed over the last few weeks.

Natasha hooked the handles over one shoulder, loaded the bread into the now empty basket and took it all to Jaleen's house.

Katie answered the door, her eyes heavy from a combination of sleeplessness and tears. She brightened when she saw the bread.

"This is for your family. Some of the crocheted stuff might be useful when Kelly has the baby." Natasha looks over Katie's shoulder. "How's your father?"

"The medicine seems to be helping. Mom thinks he's going to be okay, although he's pretty weak, so it will probably be a few weeks before he can get back to work and stuff."

Some of the heaviness slid from Natasha's shoulders. "That's good news. Well, I don't want to keep you. Merry Christmas, Katie."

"Thank you so much, Ms. Collins. Merry Christmas to you!"

On Christmas Eve, Natasha sat on the floor of her living room in front of the Christmas tree. Twinkling white lights glowed around the ornaments, and she'd tuned the radio to a station playing carols. This time she smiled as she studied the tree. She could no longer see the red and white blanket that hugged the tree stand. Instead she saw her picture of Anthony, pictures of Patricia and Tony, her case of crochet hooks and a skein of yarn, a worn pair of fuzzy pink slippers, her mother's cookbook, a stack of her favorite novels, her diploma, and everything else she could think of that brought her joy and hope.

Except her favorite mug, which she held in her hand and sipped cocoa from as she watched the tree, the room darkening around her. Natasha stayed there until a light rap at her door brought her to her feet. By the time she arrived at the door, unlocked it and swung it open, whoever had been there was gone, leaving only a brightly wrapped package on the doorstep.

She brought it in and studied the tag. It said only her name, nothing more. Maybe I should wait until morning. Have something to unwrap on Christmas day. But curiosity got the better of her, and her hands carefully began pulling the taped sides open. Underneath the paper she found a plain cardboard box. She unfolded the flaps and gasped.

Inside was Jaleen's pair of black suede boots. Natasha pulled them out and a small card fluttered to the floor. She picked it up, tears stinging her eyes as she read:

"You're never too old for dreams to come true."

Natasha wiped her eyes and set the boots under the tree with her treasures. She fingered the soft fringe and turned to Anthony's picture. "Maybe I'm not that old." He smiled his crooked smile.



Critique: I love this. I never thought I’d ever say to “tell” us more, but it’s a little confusing about where Natasha is and where she’s come from. We need to know that, and that she’s a teacher sooner. Also, play up the mittens a little more to make the title fit better. (Love the title.) I’d also give Jaleen more children and have the father work at the shop with her. Characterization and writing is great. Love it.

What I liked best: I love that she put the things that brought her joy under the tree.

Publication ready: Yes, with a few minor changes (notes for which I’ve sent you in the story document). Get those changes ready because this will definitely be in the next Christmas anthology!

10 Our Christmas Spirit

Way before dawn Christmas morning, my little sister tugged at me, sobbing, “Tommy, wake up! I heard a noise so I snuck down to see Santa. There was a big lumpy ghost floating around the tree!”

“There’s no such thing as ghosts,” I told her. “Maybe you saw Santa’s toy bag.”

“Santa’s bag is red, and it doesn’t float,” she wailed.

“Shh. It would if he brought balloons.” I knew that was a stretch, but I had to keep her quiet. “It must have been a burglar. Keep quiet in case he’s still here. And you’d better hide.” I was out of bed, looking for a weapon, but Jenny clung to me so tight I could hardly move.

Her chin quivered. “Nuh-uh. I’m not stayin’ here alone. Let’s go down and tell Mommy.”

“I don’t think she can stand any more bad news. I heard her on the phone after dinner. She was crying again. . .” I didn’t finish because Jenny knew the reason.

“What are we gonna do, Tommy?” Tears rolled down her cheeks.

“We can’t call 9-1-1. We gotta keep Mom from worrying, at least until she feels better. First, let’s make sure the burglar’s gone.” I didn’t tell her my knees were shaking like her lip was.

“Ghost,” Jenny corrected, tightening her grip as we tiptoed downstairs into the kitchen. I grabbed Mom’s rolling pin as Jenny turned on the light. Nobody there.

We checked under the tree. There was nothing left. “The ghost stole it,” Jenny cried.

Jenny’s like that, see? Once she makes up her mind, it stays made up. So I gritted my teeth as we snuck around, checking everywhere else. No ghost but no burglar either. We found zero presents where we saw Mom hide them before and none where we didn’t see her hide them. We knew where they should have been, and weren’t. Mom didn’t know how sneaky we could be.

Jenny sighed, wiping her eyes. “Now what?” At least she’d calmed down some.

“We let Mom sleep while we draw some nice pictures. She won’t know we ever bought her bubble-bath and perfume. She’ll probably like our pictures even better. You know Mom.”

Jenny brightened and then frowned, “What about us?”

“I’ll make you something too. Not a real doll like you wanted, but a paper doll. With real clothes cut from rags. Okay?”

Jenny actually smiled. “Okay, but won’t Mommy ask what happened to the doll she promised Santa would bring? And what about your new bat and ball?”

I thought for a minute. “We’ll say we got up early and already opened Santa’s presents and put them away as part of our gift to her.” That might even shock Mom out of her sadness.

We got to work, sitting at the kitchen table. We were almost finished when the front door rattled. Grabbing both the rolling pin and Jenny, I turned off the light and pushed her ahead of me, upstairs. As we reached the top a floorboard creaked below. I turned just as Jenny’s ghost appeared. Panicking, I hurled my missile and the lumpy white shape dropped.

“Ooooohhh!” it wailed, writhing in very ghostly fashion about half a foot above the floor.

Behind me, Jenny squeaked. “Told you it was a ghost!”

“Uh-oh,” I said. A rolling pin would’ve gone right through a ghost.

“What’s going on?” Mom shouted, charging out of her bedroom. She flipped on the light and started crying when she saw the gifts spilling from the big white laundry bag. Then she ran forward and practically fell all over the man in a camouflage uniform on the floor underneath it. She kissed his dark face and ruffled his darker hair. No wonder we couldn’t see him before.

“I’m home early, honey, trying to bring you the Christmas Spirit,” said Dad. “Surprise.”

I think Dad was most surprised of all. I doubt he’ll try that trick again after learning the hard way—his safe return from the war brought us all the Christmas spirit we need.


Critique: You have a good idea but have some issues with the delivery. Needs a much stronger sense of place, sensory imagery, and some foreshadowing about Dad. As written, there are too many unanswered questions, such as why did the ghost/Dad take the gifts? Why is Mom said? Also, we need more characterization on Tommy and Jenny. Great story idea but needs to be fleshed out.

What I liked best: The ghost. Awesome! And that Dad is in the military. Very timely.

Publication ready: No. Needs work, but this has some real potential.

09 Chaos at Santa's Shop, Earl's Misadventures

“You broke another toy, Earl, and Christmas is only a week away,” Santa scolded his favorite elf. His face flushed red, bright like the suit he wore. But Santa could never be mad at Earl for real. Earl knew Santa well and a hesitant smile crossed his face.

“Don’t smile, you little rapscallion,” Santa made a second attempt at genuine anger.

Earl’s smile simply grew as he cleaned up the mess before him. The toy would be replaced and no child would go without. After all, it wasn’t the first time he’d slowed production. Misadventures in Santa’s toy shop were a common occurrence for Earl. He couldn’t explain why, but strange mishaps seemed to occur whenever he was around. Santa needed all his elves working during the Christmas rush so Earl was in the shop all the time. And he was wreaking havoc minute by minute.

Santa directed his favorite bumbling elf, his words now in keeping with his jolly spirit, “When you finish cleaning up your mess, Earl, get back to work. These toys need to be ready in one week.”

When Santa left the busy shop where toys and dolls and all things children love were made Earl waved at his receding figure as a rush of cold air and white flakes rolled into the warm building. Earl took his place among the other elves and resumed producing toys. Smiles on the children’s faces Christmas morning would make Santa happy. Yet Earl’s history did not bode favorably for a mishap free week of production.

Minutes later Earl reached to grab a truck needing wheels, his assigned task for the morning, and bumped into the chubby elf next to him. The truck went crashing to the debris cluttered wooden floor.

“I don’t know how we get any toys built with you here, Earl,” the elf next to him said.

Earl gathered up the truck and responded. “Everything will be done because we all love the children.”

Who could argue with that logic?

“It won’t get done if you don’t pay attention to what you’re doing. We can’t keep repairing broken toys and get done on time.”

Soon Billy, the foreman for Santa’s shop, came over to Earl’s station. “Is everything okay here?” he asked, knowing Earl’s knack for disaster. “There is only one week before Christmas.”

“Santa said that a few minutes ago,” Earl said. “Now you’re telling me and I already know when Christmas is.”

“If you know so well why is there always chaos near your station?” Billy asked.

“I will do better,” Earl promised, successfully attaching wheels to the next truck passing by. “See, I know what I’m doing.”

Toys continued to be built for Christmas morning. Children around the world expected Santa to deliver the toys to their home and place them under the tree. Earl knew Santa could not disappoint a single child and he hoped he’d have no more mishaps. His history, however, spoke of more misadventure. In fact, production would be slowed several more times that very day and Earl would be the culprit each time.

Santa’s shop continued to produce toys despite Earl’s fateful ability to interrupt the process. Toys of all kinds and bicycles, tricycles and wagons found their way into Santa’s huge bag. In just a week the bag would be overflowing and Santa would be happy.

A half hour later the bell jingled in the shop. Lunch break for the elves was signaled. Earl pushed away from his station paying no attention to his surroundings. This frequently got him into trouble. With his focus on lunch he collided with the chubby elf who worked next to him as he hurried to take his place at the lunch table. The resulting carnage was not catastrophic, but more toys crashed to the floor. It would take time for them to be repaired, if they could be repaired. With Earl one mishap followed after another.

Earl knelt down to help pick up the broken toys. “I am sorry,” he apologized.

“Watch what you’re doing, Earl,” the chubby elf replied. “I could have been hurt.”

“Oh, you’re fine,” Earl brushed some debris from the chubby elf’s arm.

As they sat eating Santa came in to speak to the elves. News, not unexpected, reached him minutes before of Earl’s latest misadventure. The time for Santa to light a fire under Earl and the other elves was right now or Christmas would be disappointing for many children. But when you’re known for being jolly and happy all the time and your cheeks are always rosy it is difficult to communicate the needed emotion to make his elves understand his urgency. Santa tried anyway.

“Do you elves know we only have one week to fill the Christmas bag with toys for all the children?” Santa’s voice held the tone of frustration, while his cherubic cheeks spoke of a well known joviality. “And Earl, you must pay attention. We can’t afford any more set backs.”

Earl listened to Santa but he didn’t say anything. He would not cause any more trouble. Santa would not single him out again. He would watch what he was doing very carefully and wouldn’t get in anybody’s way. Earl would be Santa’s best elf. Santa would see.

Work resumed after lunch and soon found Earl in the middle of yet another misadventure. Bright red fire engines built of pine passed by Earl one after another. The paint another elf had brushed on was still wet. All Earl needed to do was attach the wheels. This was Earl’s normal task because Santa felt it was the best chance to keep Earl out of trouble. But Earl naturally attracted mischief against Santa’s wishes.

Earl hurried to attach the wheel to the next bright red fire engine. He looked down the line, becoming distracted. His distraction led to his arm brushing against the moving belt. This, in turn, caused several fire engines to fall off and hurtle to the floor, colliding noisily.

Billy, the elf foreman, came running to see what had happened. “Santa’s toy shop is total chaos with you around, Earl,” he announced. “Maybe it would be better if you just went home.”

“I will not go home unless Santa tells me to,” Earl spoke defensively. “I will do better, I promise.” Once again he bent over to help clean up the scattered toys.

Billy could not stay angry with Earl any longer than Santa could. Earl was simply accident prone and he couldn’t seem to do anything about it. If they could only find something for Earl to do that kept him away from the toys. But Billy knew doing that would break Earl’s heart. He always helped build the toys Santa delivered to the children, year after year. Each year Santa and Billy wondered how they all got built, but each year Santa’s bag was full. Despite Earl’s mishaps children were never left without.

Watching Earl clean up the mess, Billy hoped this year would produce the same results. Earl noticed Billy’s watchful eye and smiled at him. Yes, the elf was full of mischief and misadventure seemed to be his constant companion, but his positive attitude was also contagious.

Earl picked up the last of the fallen fire engines just as Santa entered his shop. “What happened?” Santa asked.

“I accidentally knocked some toys off the belt,” Earl said, quick to accept responsibility for his actions. “I will fix every toy. Please don’t be angry.”

“How can I be angry with you, Earl? I am Santa.”

“Bad things keep happening when I’m around,” Earl continued. “I keep causing trouble.”

Santa placed a firm hand on Earl’s small shoulder. “We have one week to finish building all the toys needed so every child has one under their tree. So we’ve got to get back to work and not worry about the misadventures. Can you do that for me, Earl?”

“Yes, Santa, I can. I will not let you or the children down.” Earl scurried back to his work station.

The next three days went by without incident and many toys were completed and stuffed into Santa’s bag. But the bag still needed more toys and other gifts children loved to please every child on Christmas morning. Santa wanted to be very busy on Christmas Eve.

Two days before Christmas Santa came into his workshop and approached Earl. Earl had not broken anything that morning so he wondered what Santa wanted. When Santa placed his large hand firmly on Earl’s shoulder, as he liked to do, Earl became worried. A shiver ran down his spine.

“I haven’t broken anything this morning, Santa,” he said, trepidation in his voice.

“You’re not in trouble, Earl,” Santa reassured his favorite elf. “I am happy you’ve been careful and I’ve brought you a special project to work on.”

Earl’s eyes began to twinkle with excitement. “I will do anything, Santa.”

“I got a late letter this morning from a little girl and she says she’s been very good. All she wants is a doll with bright red hair and freckles on her face. Cloth her in a pretty pink dress and place white slippers on her feet and make her say “don’t worry” to my little brother who has cancer when I press her hand. Can you build a doll like that for this little girl in two days, Earl?”

“I sure can. It will be the best doll ever built in this shop.”

“I am counting on you, Earl. Don’t let this little girl and her brother down.”

Earl found another elf to take his station and hurried to a table used for special projects to begin working on a special doll. True to his proclivity for calamity it didn’t take long for another mishap to occur. In his excitement he’d forgotten to be careful and pay attention. Luckily Earl’s mishaps were usually minor breaches and easily fixed. This time Earl had cut out two left hands and two left feet for the doll. At least he could fix it and not take too much extra time.

He worked on the doll for several hours to make it just the way the little girl requested. Santa was adamant that children get just what they asked for, especially if they’d been very good during the year. Earl didn’t know what this little girl’s name was, but he knew she’d been a good girl and that was all he needed to know.

Early the next morning, only hours before Santa would leave on his sleigh filled with toys, Earl placed the last strand of bright red hair on the doll’s head. He looked at his creation. It was perfect. Earl was so excited that he tripped over his own feet racing to show Santa the doll. He clutched the doll against his chest trying to protect it from being damaged. The doll, with bright red hair and freckles and a pretty pink dress, pressed hard on Earl’s chest and caused him a great pain he’d never experienced before. The little doll was unbroken, but Earl felt like his heart was broken. It hurt so bad.

Hearing the commotion, Santa rushed to see Earl lying on the floor. Santa turned the elf over and pried the doll from his hands. Other than a few tousled strands of red hair, the doll was undamaged. Earl had protected the doll and now Santa leaned closer to see what he could do for Earl. It seemed like he wasn’t breathing. Santa looked at his chest but couldn’t see any rise and fall. But that couldn’t be possible. Earl, his favorite elf, was invincible. Always a misadventure around the next corner, but he always rebounded and came out unscathed. This time Earl laid still. He was not rebounding.

Santa lifted the small elf into his arms and called to Billy, his elf foreman. “We have to do something for Earl,” he said. “What can we do?”

“Maybe the doctor can do something,” Billy took Earl from Santa and placed him in a wagon earmarked for Santa’s bag to be given to a child who’d asked for a wagon.

An hour before Santa’s sleigh would take him to visit the children with all their toys in an overstuffed bag Billy approached him with red eyes. Santa saw tears of sorrow roll down the elf’s cheeks and soon his own rosy cheeks were stained. “It is bad news, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Billy managed. “The doctor did what he could, but Earl’s heart was bruised beyond repair by the pressure of the doll’s hand. Earl made sure this special doll was not broken when he tripped. His heroic act saved a little girl’s doll. All the other elves are calling him a hero, Santa. I think they are right.”

“I do, too,” Santa said. “And I will make sure Earl is remembered.”

With Earl’s doll and the wagon loaded on Santa’s sleigh, Santa began the long journey he made once every year. He rose into the sky with a jolly “ho, ho, ho.” But his heart was full of bittersweet emotion. Earl would not be in the toy shop when he returned.

The elves waved as Santa’s sleigh rose in the sky and out of their sight. They were shaken by the loss of their fellow elf and friend. They chided him for being a bundle of misfortunes, but they loved him as well. In their hearts Earl could not be replaced.

Santa descended upon rooftop after rooftop delivering toys to deserving children. He smiled at the sleeping children knowing they would awake a few hours later and find what he’d left for them. He also smiled because his elves had worked hard to ensure each child would be happy. A bicycle was placed near one tree, while a fire truck found its way under another. He placed a paint set under yet another tree and a football under the next. The night continued and Santa’s bag grew smaller and smaller. One thing still in the bag was a doll with bright red hair and freckles on her face. Soon this doll would also find its way under a special tree.

Over a small home in the western United States Santa pulled the doll Earl had built from his bag. As his sleigh came to a stop he hesitated. He knew with this special doll there should be a note about the special elf that’d created it. Santa hurried to write down his feelings about Earl and placed them with the doll. He placed both under a small artificial tree in the corner of a living room filled with the scent of mistletoe.

Santa emptied his bag and returned home. He sat down with his suit opened at the chest watching a big screen TV. This part of Christmas meant the most to him. Child after child appeared with smiles on their faces when they saw the toys they Santa placed under their tree. He continued to watch until finally a small girl appeared. She sat with her family in a small circle. Father and mother, a little girl and her younger brother laughed and Santa laughed, too. And then the little girl spoke to her mother and father, “There is a note from Santa with my doll.”

“What does it say?” her father asked.

She handed the note to her father. “Your doll was made by a special friend of mine named Earl. Earl had an accident protecting your doll from harm and he isn’t with me anymore. Will you remember Earl when you play with your doll? Now press the doll’s hand for your brother and listen to the words.”

Santa watched, tears moist in his eyes, as the girl placed the doll near her four year old brother and squeezed her soft hand. “Don’t worry, life is wonderful and everything will be okay. Your family loves you.” The voice speaking those tender words was Earl’s own. His final spoken words would bring comfort a young boy and warm a family’s heart.


Critique: POV is spotty. Stick with Earl in a tight 3rd person POV; do not interject your voice as narrator into the story. Give us more active scenes without the narrative, more sensory imagery, more depth in the characterization, and individualized voices for dialog.

And don’t kill the elf.

What I liked best: I like the idea of the clumsy elf making good on a special project, but that project should be something where his clumsiness actually turns into a strength, rather than a weakness.

Publication ready: No. Needs more work.

08 Alexa's Custom Cookies

by Annaliese Lemmon

“Time to get up, Alexa,” Kelly opened the door to her ten-year-old daughter’s room. Alexa lay on her stomach, with her knees tucked up under her. Her face was pulled back in a grimace. The blankets spilled onto the floor. “Are you ok?”

“No,” Alexa groaned. “I must have eaten some gluten at Olivia’s last night.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. What did you have?” Kelly sat on the bed and pulled strands of Alexa’s brown hair from her face.

“Swedish meatballs and rice, so I don’t know where it came from. Her mom said she didn’t use flour in the sauce to thicken it.”

“Did she tell you what was in the meatballs? What did she use to replace the breadcrumbs?”

“There’s breadcrumbs in meatballs?” She sighed. “I should have known to ask about those too. I hate being a celiac. I wish I didn’t have to worry about every little thing that I eat.”

“I know, sweetie, I know.” Kelly kissed Alexa’s cheek. She worried as much as Alexa, and probably more, that the food she cooked didn’t get contaminated with any grains containing gluten. Her heart ached that this time she hadn’t been able to protect her daughter. “I’d make it go away if I could. Unfortunately, we just have to deal with it.”

Alexa sighed again and closed her eyes.

“What if I made you something special while you stay home from school? What would you like?”

After a few moments, Alexa asked, “Can you make sugar cookies?”

“Sugar cookies? Are you sure you don’t want something chocolate?”

“Rachel is having friends over tonight to decorate sugar cookies for Christmas. I’m definitely not going now, but I thought it would be nice to host my own party where I can actually eat the cookies.”

“That sounds like fun. Though I’ve not made gluten free sugar cookies before. I’ll have to see if I can find a recipe. Do you want anything to eat now?”

Alexa shook her head.

“All right. Just let me know when you’re hungry.”

After Kelly made her husband’s lunch and pushed her son Tristen out the door so he wouldn’t miss the bus, she sat down with her gluten free cookbooks. While they had recipes for other cookies, there weren’t any for plain sugar cookies. Undaunted, Kelly turned to her favorite cooking blogs and searched until she found a recipe. She printed it out and headed to the kitchen.

As Christmas carols played from her smart phone, she tied her gingerbread man apron on and opened the pantry. The recipe called for a generic gluten free flour mix, so she pulled down her rice flour, tapioca starch, and potato starch and measured out her usual ratios. When it was time to roll the dough, it was sticky even after chilling for two hours. Still, Kelly grinned as she pressed the snowman, Christmas tree, and candy cane cookie cutters into the dough. Until now, they had only been used for Jell-O Jigglers. Alexa was finally going to be able to participate in this Christmas tradition. Maybe they would actually leave cookies for Santa this year instead of fudge.

When she opened the oven, she closed her eyes and inhaled the sweet buttery aroma. Alexa wandered into the kitchen as Kelly started removing the cookies from the tray. Kelly handed one to Alexa on a spatula. “How is it?”

Alexa frowned slightly. “It needs milk and frosting.”

Kelly tried a snowman cookie. It had a light buttery taste, but it crumbled to powder in her mouth, sucking up all the moisture. “You’re right.” She poured herself a glass of milk and dunked her hatless snowman in. When she pulled him back out, he was missing his head and an arm as well. After she made some frosting, they spread it on the cooled cookies, but the cookies broke apart beneath the pressure of the frosting knives.

“Stupid cookies,” Alexa muttered as her third cookie dissolved into crumbs on her plate.

Kelly patted Alexa’s hand. “Don’t worry. I’ll make another batch.”

After cleaning the kitchen, Kelly went back to the blog to see what she may have done wrong. The gluten free mix that they used involved bean flour. She generally avoided bean flour when making sweets, afraid that the beany flavor would come through. But the flavor wasn’t really noticeable when she used the bean flour to make breads. Maybe she was worrying for no reason, and the beans would hold the cookies together. The next day, she made the recipe again, following the flour ratio provided on the site. When Alexa and Tristen got home from school, she had a plate of cookies and bowl of frosting waiting for them.

These cookies held together as they were frosted. But the butter flavor was completely overpowered by the sour and bitter tang from the bean flour. Tristen took one bite and said “My cookies are better” before running to escape Alexa’s arm jab and Kelly’s scolding.

“Don’t worry, I’ll try again,” Kelly said.

Kelly went back to the internet. The only recipes she could find either called for a generic mix, which, as she had found, might not give her the results she wanted, or called for flours like amaranth and mochi that she didn’t have in her pantry. She hated the idea of buying a bag just to use a cup. So she did what she’d done before finding these blogs – she set out to create the recipe herself.

Kelly went to the kitchen with her pink polka dot recipe journal in her hand. She had slightly over two weeks before the kids would be out of school, and then six days until Christmas. Her previous failures told her that this was a recipe that was going to take a lot of experimentation to get right. If she wanted a chance for a usable sugar cookie before Christmas, she was going to have to bake at least a batch a day.

She tried adding more starch. The cookies just fell apart easier. She tried using the ratios found in chocolate chip cookies. They didn’t hold their shapes. She tried nut flours, more eggs, less starch. Some were too grainy. Most crumbled when cool. She tried increasing the xanthan gum, which helps bind ingredients in gluten free cooking. They held together, but had a slight sour taste to them.

After trying the twelfth batch, Alexa asked, “Mom, are you going to be able to get a good recipe before school ends? Olivia’s going out of town as soon as vacation starts.”

“I don’t know. Sometimes it takes a long time to perfect a recipe. Remember those doughnuts?”

“Yeah. That took forever”

“Well, if I can’t get them done for Christmas, I’m sure I can get some for Valentine’s Day. How does that sound?”

“I really wanted to have the party for Christmas. What if I ate a couple of these while everyone else had regular cookies?”

“That could work, but it doesn’t sound fun if you have to force yourself to eat them.”

“I’ll be fine.”

That’s what Alexa had said a couple years ago when she didn’t want to take her gluten free cupcake to Rachel’s birthday party. So Kelly had let her go without it, and as predicted, Alexa came home depressed and hungry. This time wouldn’t be any different if she didn’t get these cookies right. “Let me try a few more experiments. I have three more days.”

“OK.” Alexa dragged out the letters with a sigh.

When Alexa left to do homework, Kelly dumped the cookies into the trash. Not only was she running out of time, but the grocery bills were mounting. How many dollars worth of ingredients had she dumped into the trash? It surely hadn’t surpassed the cost of Alexa’s new video game, right? She didn’t really want to find out, just like she didn’t want the scale to tell her what all these samples had done to her waistline.

Finally, two days before school ended for the year, she pulled a batch out of the oven that had held their shapes. She took a bite. It actually tasted good. It had a hint of almond, and the texture was nice and chewy. A couple hours later, she tried another. It still tasted good, and it didn’t crumble when frosted!

When the kids got back from school, Kelly started washing dishes so she wouldn’t be hovering while Alexa tasted the cookies. Alexa sat at the counter, then took her time in selecting a snowman cookie and slathering it with frosting. She took a bite. As she chewed, her eyes slowly grew round. “This one’s a keeper,” she said as she took another bite. “Can I invite my friends over right now?”

“Go for it.”

As Alexa ran for the phone, she called to Tristen. “These cookies are actually good!”

Tristen came to the counter to try one. “Not bad.” He grabbed a second cookie and headed back to the sofa to watch TV.

In a couple of hours, three of Alexa’s friends had arrived to frost and decorate the cookies. Kelly listened to them chat from the adjacent room. “Are all of these really gluten free?” Olivia asked.

“Yep,” Alexa said.

“I never would have guessed.”

Kelly grinned, the stress from the last couple weeks vanished. She’d hit the gold standard in gluten free baking – where even gluten eaters enjoyed it. But that didn’t measure up to the joy from making something that her daughter enjoyed eating.



Critique: This is a great way to raise awareness of celiac’s, but you need a little more tension and conflict to make it a really good story. It starts good, but slows down when Mom is trying all the recipes. Add some tension there. The ending is also a bit of a so-what. Add something from Alexa about how wonderful the party was and/or something about making more for Santa. And it definitely should include the recipe!

What I liked best: The uniqueness of the celiac twist.

Publication ready: Close. Jazz it up just a little.

Last Chance to Send In Stories!

Midnight (Mountain Time) tomorrow, September 24, 2011, is your last chance to submit to the 5th Annual LDS Publisher Christmas Short Story Contest!

Every year I get a few submissions after the deadline. Get that email off to me now!

Submission details here.

07 The Grumpy Santa

The clatter of the sewing machine ticked away the seconds as Shauna guided the fabric through the feed dogs. She paused to adjust the fabric and checked the clock. “The kids’ll be here any minute. How am I ever going to get all four pairs pajamas done before Christmas?”

She pressed her foot harder on the control pedal, and the chatter picked up. She finished the seam, and the machine fell quiet, but instead of the expected silence, Shauna heard the roar of the school bus. With a sigh, she shoved the half finished blue and green plaid pajama bottoms in a bulging bag at her feet and rushed out of her sewing room.

About the same time she reached the kitchen, the front door opened, and four bundled children spilled into the house.

“Mom, where are you?’

“I’m in the kitchen.”

“You didn’t start without us; did you?”

Shauna met them in the dining room, wiping her dry hands on a kitchen towel to give the illusion that she had been washing dishes. “What?”

“The gingerbread house,” four voices chimed in unison.

Shauna pushed down the panic that rose up her throat and ran a quick memory check. She’d made the dough that morning and put it in the fridge. She’d bought candies yesterday when she went to the store. There was plenty of powdered sugar in the pantry. She had everything.

Shooting her dumbfounded children a dazzling smile, she answered the original question. “Of course I didn’t start without you.”

She turned to her oldest daughter. “Lacey, will you turn on the oven while I go get the pattern?” She headed out of the room and called over her shoulder, “Emily, you can get the dough out of the fridge. Boys, clear off the table, please.”

In half an hour, the smell of gingerbread tingled their noses as Shauna mixed the frosting, and the kids poured candies into several cereal bowls. When the timer buzzed, Shauna checked the geometric slabs in the oven. “Perfect. They need to cool for a few minutes. Let’s make a plan.”

Six year-old Tony stuck his finger in the frosting and licked off the resultant glob.

“Ah, Mom, we don’t want to plan it. Let’s just do it.”

Shauna frowned at him and pointed to the sink. Tony obediently washed his hands and returned to the table.

“Yeah!” Michael took up his little brother’s argument. “Let’s just do whatever we want.”

Lacy scowled. “You boys will glump on tons of candy, and it’ll look like there was an explosion at the Hershey factory.”

Emily popped a candy in her mouth. “I want to make it pretty.”

All four voices joined the fray, and Shauna’s patience faltered. “Stop it. All of you, be quiet.”

The children recognized the sound of frayed nerves and fell silent. Shauna took a deep breath, restoring her patience with the air.

“The girls can plan how to decorate the house, and the boys can do whatever they want with the trees. Okay?”

By the time Dad got home, the house perched on a foil covered board in the middle of the frosting smeared table. Cookie triangles covered in green frosting and globs of candy surrounded the carefully decorated structure.

Shauna looked up from placing the last gumdrop on the house and gasped at the sight of her husband. “Oh, Dan, is it that late? I haven’t even thought about dinner.”

Tony eyed the house and ventured a suggestion. “We could eat the house.”

His sisters erupted in protests, citing all the work they’d put into it.

Shauna shushed them and then announced, “I think you’ve all had enough candy.” She shrugged an apology to her husband. “I’ll whip something up. You kids clean off all this mess.”

Following a scrambled egg dinner, Shauna talked her husband into loading the family into the car and driving around town to see the Christmas lights. After homework and baths, the kids shuffled off to bed a half an hour later than usual.

Shauna returned to her sewing, and Dan watched a little television. After a while, he popped his head into the sewing room. “Are you about ready for bed?”

“I want to at least finish this last pair of bottoms. I have to do the rest of the shopping tomorrow, so I won’t have time to sew much before the kids get home.”

“Don’t stay up too late. You know how cranky you get when you’re tired.”

“I know. Just a little longer.”

Two hours later, Shauna dropped, exhausted, into bed beside her snoring husband.

In the morning, she gritted her teeth and pushed herself to get the kids and Dan out the door despite stinging eyes and a numb brain. Dan gave her a searching look but demonstrated the good sense to say nothing.

The crowded stores and limited supplies of the season’s most coveted gifts stretched Shauna’s morning of shopping well into the afternoon, and she had just stowed the last of the bags in her bedroom when the kids tumbled in the front door and headed to the kitchen for a snack.

Her feet throbbed from all the shopping, and her back ached from bending over her sewing machine late into the previous night. With four tops left to make, she despaired of getting to bed any earlier tonight. Tomorrow was the last day of school before the break, and then the kids would be home all day. She’d promised to take them to town to do their shopping, and she couldn’t sew with them home, anyway. The color and style of the year’s pajamas was always a surprise. If she got one of the tops done tonight after they went to bed, maybe she could get the rest done tomorrow. She could wrap them in her room later, and they’d be ready for the traditional opening of one gift on Christmas Eve.

Michael came out of the kitchen as she crossed the living room. “Mom, Timmy Booker has the flu, and Mrs. Williams asked me to take his part in the program tonight.” He jiggled with excitement. “Will you help me learn it? It’s the longest speaking part in the second grade!”

Shauna thought of the all the Christmas preparations she still had to work on. If I don’t make the cookies for the church Christmas party tomorrow before dinner, I’ll have to do it when I need to be sewing in the morning. “Maybe Lacey . . .” The look of disappointment on her little boy’s face stung her heart. “. . . can make dinner while I help you.”

Michael threw himself against her, almost knocking her over with his full body hug. She gave the other children directions for making dinner and settled down on the couch with Michael.

“Here’s my part. See, it’s almost a page long, and I have to read the whole thing.”

Shauna put her arm around him. “Let’s get started, then.” She pulled him close to her while he read, helping him with the hard words.

An hour later, Michael stood in front of his audience of one. “. . . Santa hung the last candy cane on the tree. He stood back and looked at his work. One thing was missing. He dug in his bag. It was not there. He looked under the tree. It was not there. He tiptoed down the hall and looked in Tim’s room. There it was. The joy of Christmas was in the boy’s heart. Santa gave him a smile and left the house with a ‘Ho! Ho! Ho!’”

As Michael finished, loud clapping from the doorway startled Shauna. “Oh, Dan, we didn’t hear you come in!”

Michael ran over to his father and showed him the paper. “I got a big part in the school program, Dad.”

“Lacy told me. It sounds like you’re doing great.” Dan hugged his son and tousled his hair. “Can you go help the kids while I talk to Mom?”

“Okay.” Michael handed his mother the paper for safe keeping and skipped out of the room.

Shauna eyed her husband with suspicion. “What are up to, and what have you got behind your back?”

Dan smiled at her, but she saw worry in his eyes. He sat beside her, resting a large shopping bag against the couch on the side away from his wife. “Well, I’ve been wondering what I could give you for Christmas this year, and I think I’ve found the perfect present, but I’m afraid of how you’ll take it.”

Shauna scowled. She didn’t have time for this nonsense. She really didn’t care about her own gift. She just wanted to make Christmas special for the children.

“I decided to give you a break for Christmas.” He must have noticed her confusion because he hurried through a speech he had evidently practiced every bit as many times as Michael had practiced his part. “You work so hard to make the holiday special for everyone that sometimes I think you lose the joy that Michael’s story was talking about. I want to give you the time to slow down and enjoy the season.”

“Dan, what are you talking about?”

“I don’t want you to wear yourself out being Santa Clause this year. A grumpy Santa takes the joy out of celebrating Christ’s birth. I only want you to do the things that really bring peace to your heart. That will make Christmas special for all of us.”

Shauna shook her head. “But I have to . . . “

“No, Shauna, you don’t.” He took four blue T-shirts and a scrap of the pajama material out of his bag. Shauna had to admit they matched perfectly. “You can finish the pajama tops later if you want to, but you are going to bed at ten o’clock every night from now until Christmas.” He scrunched up his forehead and squinted at her in his best mock-serious glower. He reached into his bag and pulled out a package of Christmas cookies from the grocery store bakery. “They aren’t homemade, but they aren’t cheap packaged cookies, either. This is what you’re taking to the church party tomorrow.”

“But . . .”

“No buts. You are going to have a pleasant Christmas. I’ve taken the day after tomorrow off, and I’ll take the kids Christmas shopping, so you can stay home and wrap presents at the kitchen table instead of trying to do it on our bed while we’re all in the house. We’re all going to slow down and enjoy the holiday. We’re going to start when we get home from the program tonight. The whole family is going to sit down around the lit tree with the lights off and listen to this.” He took an instrumental Christmas CD from the bag and handed it to her. “We aren’t going to talk. We’re going to think about what Christmas means to us and how we can celebrate Christ’s birth and his life in meaningful ways. This is my gift to you.”

Shauna let the tears stream down her cheeks while she hugged Dan and thanked him for the best Christmas present she’d ever received.


Critique: Good idea. Work on the delivery. Watch out for long and awkward sentences. Add in more personality—I really prefer strong character driven stories. Watch your dialog tags. I think increasing the tension a little, having mother react like she’s frazzled or at least pump up her internal dialog so we know she’s really about to crack, would help a lot.

What I liked best: I love the father’s solution with the t-shirts. J

Publication ready: Not quite. Work on the characterization and I think you’ll have something good.