. . . and I’ll see you next year.
Do you remember saying that as a kid, before winter break? I’ll see you next year. Get it? Because it will be next yeeeear? I remember marvelling at the fact that the year would soon be 1985. Hadn’t it always been 1984?
And now I’m feeling childish. So let’s play a game, for the rest of the entire year! Let’s write a story in the comments. One sentence per comment, but write as often as you’d like, anonymously or not.
If you comment before January 1st, and email me (terri @ terrifischer .com) or facebook/twitter me with your address, I’ll send you something!
Once upon a time . . .
“who will start first?” she wondered.
“I will,” her friend stepped forward toward the fire.
*insert ‘replied and’ between friend and stepped.
i really shouldn’t click submit so quickly.
The others remained seated around the table, candlelight flickering over coffee cups and cake plates.
and the young girl began sharing her story, as the others anxiously listened with glee.
It should almost stop here, the young man thought… its all too perfect… I’m going to cry…
Geeeett iiittt?
*my FATHER’S voice,* she thought, *it cant be—we locked him in the dungeon years ago . . .*
The young girl went to the closet and pulled out the most beautiful ebony chair.
*but why is he speaking Swahili?”
Something was amiss; but the mashed potatoes were whipped divinely, and so no one questioned this fact.
Instead of sitting in the chair like a lady she straddles it and curls her arms around the back, rest her head in her arms.
She set the ebony chair in front of the French doors beyond which they could see the snow falling softly, covering the landscape with white just as those perfect mashed potatoes had covered their plates a short time earlier.
And then she looked at her children who still had bits of mashed potato on their pink lips, and noticed her oldest had a peculiar look on his face.
You see, he (shall we call him Joe?) was allergic to both potatoes and confusion.
Where potatoes would give him hives, confusion could cause his throat to close and blackness to invade his mind.
The only thing that could stop the possibly lethal side effects of these allergies, was licking pine cones. lots of them.
“Pine cones! We need pine cones!! Hurry!” With that everyone but Joe ran to get their coats. It would not be easy to find cones in all the snow.
the youngest ran too fast and hit a skid of mashed potatoes on the floor, sending him directly into Joe.
Joe screeched and slid off of his chair with a thump, clasping at his his throat and scratching perfervidly.
She was torn between running to her fallen son and answering the loud thumping at the door.
She of course choose her son, but winced when her sister Kerrie called out, “I’ll get it,” for that was a guaranteed that happiness was on the other door and once again her sister would beat her too it.
“…for that was a guarantee that happiness was on the other side of the door and once again her sister would beat her to it.”
But when the door creaked open, she heard a deep familiar voice very softly breathe her name.
“It’s Dad!” Kerrie screamed and slammed the door in her father’s swollen and broken face.
But this only made Joe’s condition worse. His grandfather was wonderful, wasn’t he? Why were the grownups screaming? He looked at his mother, his aunt, and at the splintered door jamb.
“I’m so confused…,” Joe whispered hoarsely.
Coffee cups and cake plates; Swahili criminals and potatoes and pinecones; doorbells and sleighbells and schnizel with noodles. None of it mattered, for there were others gathered in the forest, waiting for the little girl to speak. She had expected them, and now she sensed them.
They were waiting for her to begin, but she didn’t have the words. Still, she walked out the door, and into the dark forest. She could not see them, but they were there, anticipating the wisdom of this simple girl. For years she had dreamed of the words she would say this night, and suddenly, they had escaped her.
But she was not afraid. Quietly, she sang the first words that came to her, from a Beatles’ song: “With every mistake, we must surely be learning . . .” And she waited for a response.
And from behind the bending boughs of evergreen and berms of snow, she heard, “I don’t know why nobody told you
how to unfold you….”
She warmed with anticipation and excitement. Who were these beings that she was drawn to know?
***not part of the story***
T- I just love that first shot. Every time I check back I think it’s fireworks and it takes me a second to orient my eyes and see that it’s snow. Love it.
Glancing over her shoulder she could see the man with the swollen, broken face emptying a sackful of pine cones onto the dining room table and was assured that Joe would be fine…she could let go.
She heard the darkness call her name. She felt the wind kiss her cheek. She turned…