Michael Hess inspired us with his three word New Year’s resolution – just be nice. We’re asking for your own resolutions in just three words. http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.com/2013/12/trifextra-week-ninety-nine.html
This year, as I get ready to send my daughter out into a world that often angers me, terrifies me, disappoints me-I want to try hard for her sake, and mine, to embrace these three words:
See the good.
I know the jagged rocks exist, though I no longer have an affinity for danger. These days, I am master of my ship. I chart my own course. Keep to the deep water.
I can see him clearly now, more clearly than the day I met him, and I realize he was akin to a brigantine, recklessly sailed and doomed to flounder. Raven hair, worn long and wild, and eyes that changed color with the tides of his moods. Sometimes falcon, and sometimes dove. An impossibly irresistible, unholy trinity of leather and rum and tobacco.
My pirate.
Part tempest, and part gentleman, I tried in vain to learn the art of forecasting the weather that swirled around him. At times he brandished words like a razor sharp cutlass, warning me to keep my distance. Other times, though, when the winds were fair, he beckoned me closer with roses and his own brand of sugar, the sweetest I’d ever tasted. He even slid a promise of pearl and silver onto my ring finger, and asked me to wait for him while he was away, prowling the vast ocean for other ships to plunder.
He never returned.
I realize it now. His misfortune was my salvation.
The rocks are still there, only instead of tormenting me, I find my ears are deaf to their siren song. And as for the rigging that threatened to ensnare me on that doomed voyage so long ago, like the gossamer strands in a spider’s web-I see them for what they have become.
Cobwebs.
Tarnished, yes, and the silver plating, worn thin in places, exposes areas of base tin. Brimming with confections, and conveniently cradled in my lap, fluted lines and floral embossing reflect generations of chocoholic ancestors, some with less polish than others. Case in point. My great-great-great-grandfather stole a kiss from my great-great-great-grandmother, way back in 1907. (And the rest is history.)
This is my first time linking up with Five Sentence Fiction. The prompt is the word silver.
http://lilliemcferrin.com/five-sentence-fiction-silver/
Picture credit here.
Christmas moon is out tonight, marvels Floyd.
Round and full. Big as life.
Best take a picture then, Irene advises.
Click. Flash.
Done, says Floyd.
And don’t fret Irene. Your seams are straight.
Charles Dickens, in A Christmas Carol, wrote “There is nothing in the world so irresistibly contagious as laughter and good humour.” We are giving you exactly 33 words to make us laugh out loud and spread some festive cheer.
http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.com/#sthash.0tc7nDJv.dpuf
Picture credit here.
1 1/2 cups powdered sugar
1 cup butter, softened
1 egg
In the first few hours of early morning, her kitchen is cold, but in spite of this, she sets to work. From her tin recipe box, decorated with colorful fruits and vines, she pulls out a dog eared card. Christmas Sugar Cookies
1 teaspoon vanilla
2 1/2 cups flour
She brushes a strand of silvered hair from her eyes to better see this recipe that she is about to follow. Over the years, she’s made these cookies dozens of times, but she wants to make sure, once again, that they are perfect.
1 teaspoon baking soda
1 teaspoon cream of tartar
As she measures, and pours, and stirs, her mind begins to wander a familiar path. Other years, and other baking days, when this very same recipe lay on the counter in front of her. A lot of water under the old bridge, she thinks to herself. 94 years worth of water.
Cream together the powdered sugar, butter, egg, vanilla, baking soda and cream of tartar. Mix in flour. Cover and refrigerate at least 2 hours. Roll out small portions of dough 3/16” thick on lightly floured surface. Cut into shapes. Bake at 375 degrees for 7 to 8 minutes until golden brown. Let cool, and frost, if desired.
In the way that 94 years can go by in the blink of an eye, this day has come to an end. She pours herself a glass of milk and drinks it, and then pours a second glass, and sets it on a painted wooden tray. From her china cupboard-older than she is-she takes out a piece of her best Haviland china-a salad plate, and on it carefully arranges three cookies, and puts the plate on the tray beside the milk. Taking the tray to the living room, she places it on the coffee table next to her Christmas tree.
Upstairs, tucked into bed, she knows that it will be hard to sleep tonight. She has nothing to fear though. She has been a very good girl this year.
~~~
This, dear readers, is another Christmas story from my archives, written three years ago. Having made this particular cookie recipe many, many times, I can assure you that it is guaranteed to please Santa.
When Daniel and I arrive at the edge of the Hürtgen Forest, on the threshold of Christmas Eve, the sleigh is waiting. An antique two-person Albany Cutter, painted poinsettia red, and hitched to a mare I know well-coal black from muzzle to hoof, stamping her impatience against the snow like a blot of spilled ink on white vellum. Greetings, Rosie! I hail, anticipating the softness of her nose.
For longer than I care to remember, Daniel has driven me here. A labor of love made possible by Daniel’s pre war Ford pickup. Relic from another era now, nearly expired and in need of last rites. Daniel exits the truck to help me into the sleigh. Leaves the motor running, not wishing to tempt fate. Arranging the beaver robe across my legs, he hands me the reins. I am touched by his chivalry-but saddened that he seems to be wearing away at the edges. From somewhere inside the bulk of my left-over-right buttoned brown wool topcoat, I produce a man’s gold Elgin pocket watch, press the latch to spring it open, and mark the time. Half past four. The sun has burned down to embers, leaving cold, dusky ashes.
See you in a couple hours.
Daniel nods. Slaps Rosie gently on the rump, jumping her into a trot. Within minutes I am lost from Daniel and his promise of upon your return hot chocolate. A lone traveler. Journeying among frosted pine sentries.
Silvered snow is falling, glittering the canvas of landscape like a child decorating a glue-covered cardboard star. A smattering at first, but then heavy-handed. I can barely see my surroundings, and Rosie, shaggy and white, appears abruptly ancient. The sleigh angles upward, the terrain gradually steepening to an area of artillery-wrought tree burst, runners grinding over splintered wood. I rein Rosie to a walk.
From within the swirl of snowflakes, you materialize beside me. Dressed for battle, the chin strap of your helmet hanging loose, insouciant as the wide grin on your face. Foolishly, I remove my mitten, reach out to touch you-my hand meeting nothing but a frigid void. Your voice is pastel, almost lost among the white noise of winter.
I love you, Margaret. Forever and ever and ever and ever and ever…
A flickering film projector image, you melt into moonlight.
Leaving ice on my cheeks.
And Daniel hanging on.
http://writeonedge.com/2013/12/write-at-the-merge-week-50/
Snowy whiskers, held in place by a snug elastic band make Gordon Bender’s chin itch. But he doesn’t mind. What matters is that he is ready when the children arrive. To disappoint them would be, well he’d never forgive himself.
As he dons the familiar red velvet suit, Gordon’s mind wanders back to his own childhood, triggered memories now playing inside his brain as he buckles the black patent leather belt over his pillow-stuffed belly. He is sitting on Santa’s lap, his winter chapped cheek pressed snug against Santa’s beard. Scratchy, but six year old Gordon doesn’t notice, because Santa is whispering kind words into Gordon’s ear.
Now, my boy! I hear you’ve been very good this year. Is there a special toy you would like for Christmas?
Young Gordon appears to be deep in thought, taking an eternity before whispering back. In truth, he is stalling, desperate to linger on Santa’s lap as long as possible. Kind words for Gordon are scarce in 1932. The worst year, so far, of the Great Depression. Gordon’s father, raising a motherless brood simply has nothing left to give. But Santa does, and despite the growing impatience of dozens of other eager little faces lined up and waiting, Gordon is permitted to bask at length in Santa’s affection. A gift worth more to him than the charity truck and coat he receives.
Gordon Bender’s chin is still itching. The velvet suit uncomfortably tight this season as well-his belly padding more Gordon than pillow. Small inconveniences, considering. Ten minutes per child, he’s been instructed. He won’t rush though. He’ll spend as much time as it takes, to melt each tiny heart.
http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.com/2013/12/trifecta-week-107.html
The mirror, too graphic.
Myopic shock sends confidence down the drain at the sight of imperfections, staring back.
Hyperopic image.
Soft, blurry.
Reflected in white porcelain.
Framed within the basin, my looks dazzle.
http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.com/2013/12/trifextra-week-ninety-seven.html
It’s time, she tells herself. Time to give this away to someone else. Someone who needs to know the power of those six words as much as I did.
Clutched tightly in her hand is a penny. Plain and ordinary. Worn smooth, the date no longer discernable. Certainly not very valuable.
But worth can be deceiving.
♥♥♥
She was looking down, on that frosty night. Focused on her coin purse, her fingers trying to find a quarter to put in the black kettle that stood next to one of the many street corner Santas populating the city in December. She was looking down, searching, when the mitten clad hand of a stranger entered her field of vision. Palm open, and filled with pennies-enough pennies to just about cover the price of a cup of coffee. Judging from the ragged appearance of the mitten, and the threadbare hem of the coat sleeve above it, the wearer was down on his luck, and in view of such unfortunate circumstances, both his greeting, and his generosity surprised her.
Merry Christmas! Here, take a penny!
She was feeling down that frosty night, as well. Unloved, and unappreciated. Certain that there was not another soul in heaven or on earth who gave her a second thought. Friendless, and forlorn. She had stopped to put a quarter in the black kettle because it was less awkward than simply walking past and giving nothing, and when she looked up at him-the expression on her face framed with questions-he whispered six words.
Give what you do not have.
Give what you do not have. Love, when you feel unloved. Thanks, when no one seems to appreciate what you do. Praise, when your own accomplishments go unnoticed. Sympathy, when you are in need of comfort yourself. Take that which you long for in your own life, and make a gift of it to someone else.
His eyes were shining as he finished his message. Shining more brightly than the fluorescent light illuminating the queue of poor waiting in line at the soup kitchen across the street. The line he was about to join.
There are many good people out there-if only you will let them find you.
♥♥♥
She is looking down, focused on her coin purse-her fingers searching for the familiar shape of pennies. Enough pennies to just about pay for a cup of coffee. It’s cold outside tonight, and she will need to wear her mittens.
Between now and Christmas I’ll be reposting some of my holiday favorites that I’ve written over the past few years. I hope you enjoy!
By the time I reach the crest of Maple street, I’m agitated. The upward climb on icy blacktop has been tense, and tense is not the state of mind I seek on these early morning walks. I stop for a minute. Try to settle myself, and I see her in the next block. Mincing her way along the sidewalk that borders the front of her house, pausing every few feet to sweep up what appears to be the spilled contents of her recycling bin.
My steps, still stiff from the fear of falling, stilt me towards her as quickly as I dare to travel. The sight of her makes my heart ache. Broom in one hand, dustpan in the other, she is elderly, her rounded shoulders clad insufficiently in a loosely hanging cardigan sweater layered over a summer housecoat. She must be freezing her tush off. And sure enough. Someone has upended her bin. Probably just to be nasty.
Idiots! I rant the words into my scarf as I bend to retrieve a flattened cereal box, tilted ramp-like against the curb, but the old woman does not hear me. In fact, as she straightens up she is startled by my presence. But then she relaxes, and smiles.
Thank you! She exhales her appreciation in a puff of frosty foreign-accented breath.
I’ve turned her bin right side up, commiserating as I refill it. I’m sorry this happened to you! It must make you so angry that someone did this!
She doesn’t respond.
Puzzled, I skim her beautiful weathered face, searching out animosity. It’s not there.
Finally, she speaks.
It is nothing. Truly, and sincerely, it is nothing.
As she drops shards of broken glass into the bin, I’m stunned to see the numbers, tattooed on her wrist. And in her present time, and place, I understand.
http://www.trifectawritingchallenge.com/2013/12/trifecta-week-106.html
The Word Pirate 