Check out the newsletter post earlier today for full instructions. This can be a short piece of fiction or memoir/nonfiction or poetry. Strive for an emotional quality, not sentimental. No longer than 600 words. And do offer feedback on others’.
Hey Alison. Thanks for the cool prompt. It spoke directly to a piece I've been working on, so I include the link here. https://docs.google.com/document/d/1ZiUcZpO_xptHuSUDr-27gA_WSzG0OdrdHyueaAzDv3Y/edit?usp=sharing NOTE: I tried to cut/paste the whole thing directly, but it wouldn't accept my drawings! And the illustrations of terrified Christmas trees are a big part of this! Many thanks for the opportunity to share.
“He’s a Bernese crossed with Standard Poodle -a Bernadoodle- on one side and an Aussie Shepherd-Lab mix, with a bit Husky, on the other.”
“That’s a lot of dog,” he said. That’s a mutt, he thought. A Heinz 57.
“And yours?”
“Water dog,” he replied.
“Portuguese?”
“Toilet.”
They watched the dogs tumble and roll, teeth bared, growling and snapping at one other. Dogs play rough.
“No, really. What kind of dog is she? She’s very sweet.”
He shrugged. “She’s a tough little black rez dog from northern Manitoba. That’s all we know.”
Later, driving home, his wife said, “You know, you really should be more careful about what you say.”
He knew what she was referring to. “Tough, little black rescue dog,” he said, with emphasis on “rescue”.
She looked away. She said nothing.
“You know,” he continued, “sometimes I think she was taken from her mother too young, before she was ready. She wasn’t properly socialized. She’s missed out. I think it’s important that she gets to meet and play with other dogs at the dog park.”
Who exactly was he talking about, she wondered, the puppy or himself?
This is a most happy writing prompt! I quite like Olena's Unsplash photo of the little trailer in the forest--it makes you want to sneak in there. Anyway, what I am wondering is, by "holiday" do you mean a holiday as in St. Patrick's Day or Christmas, or does it mean holiday as in when someone goes on vacation somewhere (e.g. "I'm going on a holiday to Wisconsin"), or is it both? Thank you!
My first impression as the gnarled root sent me propelling through the trees to discover this gem, was the exquisite multiple shades of green – the textures of nature framing the trailer with protective boughs…. exuding displeasure at being discovered so unceremoniously.
“Don’t think you can stay just because you have managed to arrive”, it challenged.
“Don’t think you will be able to sneak in unobtrusively”, it hissed.
Initially, I saw only the naked trailer, stained by the hands of nature, sporting a yellowish aluminum door slightly askew. It creaked with a high-pitched whine as I dared to enter.
The speckled gray counter tiles were wiped clean. Aluminum sink and faucets were polished until they shone. Even the floor with its moss green linoleum tiles slightly curled up at the corners reminded me to take off my shoes before entering. And yet, all personal touches of having been occupied were gone. There was no kettle on the stove, no coffee cup in the sink. Perhaps it had been abandoned, left to the shrubs, cedars and vines to keep it company.
I was enchanted with the possibility of a hideaway of my own – somewhere to come and let down my guard, pretend I was a hermit, resting alone without the complications of life.
So, I kept returning, each time in fear that someone else would have found it, occupied it, taken it away. But as weeks went by, my confidence increased. I began adding things that would make it mine. The green blanket with the tassels slung over the chair. The lantern from a garage sale. My own coffee cup, kettle and peppermint tea.
I left books on the trailer table, gifting them to the space as they were completed. The sun piercing through the maples, shining on my face melted away any anxiety. It was everything I needed and more.
Then one day it happened. Arriving at what had become mine, I almost bumped into an old man with hunched shoulders and bowed legs. He wore a worn brown leather jacket patched at the elbows. His gray hair reached below his ears and his face exposed countless wrinkles. Bushy eyebrows raised in surprise at seeing me and blue eyes examined me.
“Hey missy” he cackled. “Where did you come from?” Would you like to come in for a cup of tea? Don’t get many visitors around here.”
I felt betrayed. My heart was in my throat and anger seeped through my veins. How dare he? How dare I?
“Is this yours?”
“Well, yes”, he replied. “In the sense that possession is nine tenths of the law. I came across this abandoned trailer years ago and it has been my only home ever since. This trailer saved me from homelessness. I have just come out of a long bout in the hospital. I wasn’t sure if I was gonna make it so I cleared everything out for the next person, but what do you know – here I am! I guess God wasn’t quite ready for me.”
It was like the rug had been pulled out from under me. I wanted to hate him but then I remembered I had somewhere to rest my head, a roof over my head. This was his home. But I couldn’t be friendly., couldn’t share a cup of tea.
“I have to go,” I said turning quickly to escape.
“Is this your stuff? He called after me.
“No”, I lied. “I don’t know where it came from.”
As I ran through the trees stumbling once again on the root that had been the doorway to my refuge, I reluctantly hoped my few additions would make his life more comfortable and that he might notice I left just a small piece of me behind.
I am posting the FIRST HALF of a holiday piece by SHIRLEY SILVA here... She's been working on this since the prompt was posted. 2nd part to come...
A Good, Dark, Pudding
by Shirley Silva Jan. 2023
Christmas was coming and so was the ache in my stomach. Not from the thought of too much turkey. Not because of the nutty stuffing or the side dish of sweet potatoes tucked under marshmallows but from a recent history of anxious Christmas gatherings. I guess anxious is an understatement. It was all out chaos at Christmas.
It would start with my mother. Sweet and smiling on the outside, like a sugary, gingerbread cookie, but underneath, underneath there were cracks. You could tell by her tall frame; straight-backed to the point of rigid; dark hair combed severely back from her face, hands wiping constantly on the blotched and wrinkled apron that hung tightly from her waist. Her eyes squinting and alert, would filter through the family scene, as we sat around the table. She monitored all of us. We chatted blandly, waiting for food while she checked for any minor changes in our expressions. This tracking of the emotional temperature would carry on all night and any slight shift to the negative would be corrected by a skilled redirection. This was NOT my mother’s first Christmas.
Again, she came from the kitchen. This time whispering as she put down a mug in front of my sister and I, “One day it will be just the three of us.” The words came out forced and tense, giving up the stress that lay beneath. And then more loudly she announced to everyone, “Wait until you try the Christmas pudding this year. It’s a good dark one!”
One more trip to the kitchen brought two more mugs. These she placed in front of my grandmother and the other in front of my stepfather. It was a drinking game we played every Christmas, but only my sister, my Mom and I were in on it. In our three mugs was a generous pour of cranberry wine. In the last two mugs, coffee. The game was to trick the other two into thinking we were all drinking coffee. You could say it wasn’t playing fair, but there were reasons for this.
//
Ever since my grandmother lived alone, she had developed an elegant evening routine. She would pour a delicate amount of sherry into a cut crystal glass, then clutching her package of Craven A 100’s (the extra long ones) would go and sit in her cherry-coloured armchair. Once seated, she would turn on the television, hoping for a hockey game or a game show and she’d light up the white, almost glamourous cigarette. In between soft exhales of smoke she would sip her drink.
Some nights there would be an extra glass or two of sherry. Some nights there would be cigarette after cigarette. One night she fell asleep in her chair, the ash from her cigarette falling silently like snow onto the upholstery, The soft snowy dust settled among the pink flowers and faded fabric. The glowing end of the cigarette had dropped too; it’s embers, like curled orange peel, soaking into the cushiony fabric. Smoke spiralled around the room, that night, until it reached the detector, setting off a piercing alarm that signalled a neighbour to call the fire department.
Two large firefighters had picked up my grandmother, gathering her small body in it’s crimson dress and pearls and carried her through the dense and drifting smoke. Her thin, purple veined hands with the carefully painted raspberry fingernails, filed to a point, dropped to one side.
Hey Alison. Thanks for the cool prompt. It spoke directly to a piece I've been working on, so I include the link here. https://docs.google.com/document/d/1ZiUcZpO_xptHuSUDr-27gA_WSzG0OdrdHyueaAzDv3Y/edit?usp=sharing NOTE: I tried to cut/paste the whole thing directly, but it wouldn't accept my drawings! And the illustrations of terrified Christmas trees are a big part of this! Many thanks for the opportunity to share.
C Puppy Love 3
“He’s a Bernese crossed with Standard Poodle -a Bernadoodle- on one side and an Aussie Shepherd-Lab mix, with a bit Husky, on the other.”
“That’s a lot of dog,” he said. That’s a mutt, he thought. A Heinz 57.
“And yours?”
“Water dog,” he replied.
“Portuguese?”
“Toilet.”
They watched the dogs tumble and roll, teeth bared, growling and snapping at one other. Dogs play rough.
“No, really. What kind of dog is she? She’s very sweet.”
He shrugged. “She’s a tough little black rez dog from northern Manitoba. That’s all we know.”
Later, driving home, his wife said, “You know, you really should be more careful about what you say.”
He knew what she was referring to. “Tough, little black rescue dog,” he said, with emphasis on “rescue”.
She looked away. She said nothing.
“You know,” he continued, “sometimes I think she was taken from her mother too young, before she was ready. She wasn’t properly socialized. She’s missed out. I think it’s important that she gets to meet and play with other dogs at the dog park.”
Who exactly was he talking about, she wondered, the puppy or himself?
This is a most happy writing prompt! I quite like Olena's Unsplash photo of the little trailer in the forest--it makes you want to sneak in there. Anyway, what I am wondering is, by "holiday" do you mean a holiday as in St. Patrick's Day or Christmas, or does it mean holiday as in when someone goes on vacation somewhere (e.g. "I'm going on a holiday to Wisconsin"), or is it both? Thank you!
The Trailer in the Woods
My first impression as the gnarled root sent me propelling through the trees to discover this gem, was the exquisite multiple shades of green – the textures of nature framing the trailer with protective boughs…. exuding displeasure at being discovered so unceremoniously.
“Don’t think you can stay just because you have managed to arrive”, it challenged.
“Don’t think you will be able to sneak in unobtrusively”, it hissed.
Initially, I saw only the naked trailer, stained by the hands of nature, sporting a yellowish aluminum door slightly askew. It creaked with a high-pitched whine as I dared to enter.
The speckled gray counter tiles were wiped clean. Aluminum sink and faucets were polished until they shone. Even the floor with its moss green linoleum tiles slightly curled up at the corners reminded me to take off my shoes before entering. And yet, all personal touches of having been occupied were gone. There was no kettle on the stove, no coffee cup in the sink. Perhaps it had been abandoned, left to the shrubs, cedars and vines to keep it company.
I was enchanted with the possibility of a hideaway of my own – somewhere to come and let down my guard, pretend I was a hermit, resting alone without the complications of life.
So, I kept returning, each time in fear that someone else would have found it, occupied it, taken it away. But as weeks went by, my confidence increased. I began adding things that would make it mine. The green blanket with the tassels slung over the chair. The lantern from a garage sale. My own coffee cup, kettle and peppermint tea.
I left books on the trailer table, gifting them to the space as they were completed. The sun piercing through the maples, shining on my face melted away any anxiety. It was everything I needed and more.
Then one day it happened. Arriving at what had become mine, I almost bumped into an old man with hunched shoulders and bowed legs. He wore a worn brown leather jacket patched at the elbows. His gray hair reached below his ears and his face exposed countless wrinkles. Bushy eyebrows raised in surprise at seeing me and blue eyes examined me.
“Hey missy” he cackled. “Where did you come from?” Would you like to come in for a cup of tea? Don’t get many visitors around here.”
I felt betrayed. My heart was in my throat and anger seeped through my veins. How dare he? How dare I?
“Is this yours?”
“Well, yes”, he replied. “In the sense that possession is nine tenths of the law. I came across this abandoned trailer years ago and it has been my only home ever since. This trailer saved me from homelessness. I have just come out of a long bout in the hospital. I wasn’t sure if I was gonna make it so I cleared everything out for the next person, but what do you know – here I am! I guess God wasn’t quite ready for me.”
It was like the rug had been pulled out from under me. I wanted to hate him but then I remembered I had somewhere to rest my head, a roof over my head. This was his home. But I couldn’t be friendly., couldn’t share a cup of tea.
“I have to go,” I said turning quickly to escape.
“Is this your stuff? He called after me.
“No”, I lied. “I don’t know where it came from.”
As I ran through the trees stumbling once again on the root that had been the doorway to my refuge, I reluctantly hoped my few additions would make his life more comfortable and that he might notice I left just a small piece of me behind.
I am posting the FIRST HALF of a holiday piece by SHIRLEY SILVA here... She's been working on this since the prompt was posted. 2nd part to come...
A Good, Dark, Pudding
by Shirley Silva Jan. 2023
Christmas was coming and so was the ache in my stomach. Not from the thought of too much turkey. Not because of the nutty stuffing or the side dish of sweet potatoes tucked under marshmallows but from a recent history of anxious Christmas gatherings. I guess anxious is an understatement. It was all out chaos at Christmas.
It would start with my mother. Sweet and smiling on the outside, like a sugary, gingerbread cookie, but underneath, underneath there were cracks. You could tell by her tall frame; straight-backed to the point of rigid; dark hair combed severely back from her face, hands wiping constantly on the blotched and wrinkled apron that hung tightly from her waist. Her eyes squinting and alert, would filter through the family scene, as we sat around the table. She monitored all of us. We chatted blandly, waiting for food while she checked for any minor changes in our expressions. This tracking of the emotional temperature would carry on all night and any slight shift to the negative would be corrected by a skilled redirection. This was NOT my mother’s first Christmas.
Again, she came from the kitchen. This time whispering as she put down a mug in front of my sister and I, “One day it will be just the three of us.” The words came out forced and tense, giving up the stress that lay beneath. And then more loudly she announced to everyone, “Wait until you try the Christmas pudding this year. It’s a good dark one!”
One more trip to the kitchen brought two more mugs. These she placed in front of my grandmother and the other in front of my stepfather. It was a drinking game we played every Christmas, but only my sister, my Mom and I were in on it. In our three mugs was a generous pour of cranberry wine. In the last two mugs, coffee. The game was to trick the other two into thinking we were all drinking coffee. You could say it wasn’t playing fair, but there were reasons for this.
//
Ever since my grandmother lived alone, she had developed an elegant evening routine. She would pour a delicate amount of sherry into a cut crystal glass, then clutching her package of Craven A 100’s (the extra long ones) would go and sit in her cherry-coloured armchair. Once seated, she would turn on the television, hoping for a hockey game or a game show and she’d light up the white, almost glamourous cigarette. In between soft exhales of smoke she would sip her drink.
Some nights there would be an extra glass or two of sherry. Some nights there would be cigarette after cigarette. One night she fell asleep in her chair, the ash from her cigarette falling silently like snow onto the upholstery, The soft snowy dust settled among the pink flowers and faded fabric. The glowing end of the cigarette had dropped too; it’s embers, like curled orange peel, soaking into the cushiony fabric. Smoke spiralled around the room, that night, until it reached the detector, setting off a piercing alarm that signalled a neighbour to call the fire department.
Two large firefighters had picked up my grandmother, gathering her small body in it’s crimson dress and pearls and carried her through the dense and drifting smoke. Her thin, purple veined hands with the carefully painted raspberry fingernails, filed to a point, dropped to one side.
//