by Judy Evans

With a sigh, the old man leant back in his rocker.  The ancient blue cattle dog looked up briefly, eased his arthritic legs and dropped his head on the warm boards again.

“Perhaps Mark’s not coming today, Blue,” he said.  Blue thumped his tail.  “Perhaps he’s gone straight to footy practice.”

The old man sighed again.  He’d been keeping watch on the veranda for the past hour or so, the spring sun warming his old bones.

Seeing a tall form in the distance, Tom straightened.  When he recognised the figure as Mark, he relaxed.  Mark called a greeting and, carefully carrying the gate open on its one good hinge, came up the path.  He shook hands with Tom, patted Blue and sat on the top step, leaning back against the veranda post.

Since buying the sports store, Mark had moved into the little cottage just three doors down.  Over time the two men had developed an easy friendship despite the difference in years.

After a few exchanges, Mark paused and said, “Someone’s sent me a Valentines card.”

The old man’s eyes gleamed.  “That’s nice,” he said.  “Who – if you don’t mind me asking?  Oh, I forgot.  They’re anonymous, aren’t they?  They didn’t have Valentine’s Day when I was growing up.  You must have a secret admirer.”  The old man chuckled.  Mark frowned.

“I’ve no idea who sent it,” he said.  “I haven’t had any nice young things doing a line for me lately.”

“Maybe it’s Claire; the lass that’s taken on club secretary.”

“Come off it.  I hardly know her.  How do you know her anyway?”

“She brings me my tablets.  I could pick ‘em up myself but she insists it isn’t out of the way so now she drops them off whenever I need them.”

Mark grunted.  “Why would she send me a card?  Besides, she’s a bit toffee-nosed I think.”

“Oh I don’t think so.  She’s very good to me. She’s just shy.  It’s pretty hard for city people coming to a small country town, especially a young girl.  Hard to make new friends.  She must have a bit of spunk to suddenly take on secretary of the club.  If you said a bit more than hello, she might feel a bit more comfortable.  You have to give people a chance to be sociable.”

“You think she’s shy?”

“I’ve seen her eyeing you off.  She fancies you, young’un.  Mark my words.  You’ve got a meeting tonight, haven’t you?”  he went on.  “Why not try to string two sentences together instead of just saying hello?”

Mark jumped up.  “The meeting!  Heavens, I’d forgotten.  Must be off.  See you tomorrow.” And he was gone.

The old man rocked in his chair.  Bees droned in the geraniums and both Tom and Blue dozed off.  Then, just before dusk, a car pulled up and a lithe young girl hurried up the path.

“Hi, Tom.  I’ve got one lot of tablets.  But the others won’t be here till tomorrow.”

“Hello Claire.  Thanks for bringing them round.  Want a cuppa?”

“No thanks.  But I’ll sit down for two minutes.”

Claire sank into the cane chair next to Tom.  After a few minutes of idle talk Claire blurted out, “Someone’s sent me a Valentine’s card.”

“Have they now?  That’s nice.  Who do you think it was?  Someone from home?”

“No, it’s a local postmark.  I can’t think who it could be.  It’s a bit of a mystery.”

“They’re meant to be, aren’t they? Maybe it’s Mark from the sports store.  I think he’s got his eye on you.  Wouldn’t mind betting it’s him.”

Claire snorted.  “I don’t think so.  I doubt he knows I exist.”

“That’s not true,” said Tom.  “He was telling me about this good-looking new secretary they’ve got now.”

“Was he?”  Claire’s face lit up. “I wonder if it was him.”  She smiled and stood up.

“Anyway I’d better go.  There’s a club meeting tonight actually.  I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Okay.  Thanks for the tablets.”

Tom levered himself up, waved goodbye and shuffled inside, smiling broadly.  Maybe his $10 investment on Valentine cards would pay off.

by Teresa Adele Bettino

I can’t say that “Let it Snow” banners or “I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas” is the cause for a memorable group of holidays that I experienced.  Christmas, Mom’s Birthday, Ground Hogs and Valentine’s celebrations were cut short with the first snow flake.  After five falls trying to reach the barn, to feed my horses and feral cats, the Christmas party was cancelled.

My Mom’s birthday celebration wasn’t. The morning of my flight, one snow flake, like no other, floated through the frosty air, landing on the runway of Richmond International Airport.  Multiple flakes followed: some slowly, several quickly, and a few lingered for a moment to relish freedom before joining their friends.  By noon, a total white out.

“I hope you don’t fly today.” Husband whispered.

“It’s only two weeks and I’ll be home.  I can’t miss Mom’s birthday.  I have left enough hay for my horses, and food for the barn cats for two weeks.  Don’t forget fresh water and to muck.”

“You know that I panic when your leave as I’m not a horse person.”

“Don’t worry, my horses will be fine, and the snow will be gone tomorrow.  We live in Richmond, not Canada.”

Three hours later, I began to feel dread in the pit of stomach.  Board this plane?  They have to be kidding. This is insanity.  The governor, whoever the new one is, declared Virginia a state of emergency!  This isn’t Minneapolis; isn’t Chicago, this is the sunny south, I thought clutching my Rosary in one hand and anxiety medication in the other.

Mumblings were heard throughout the aircraft.

“Too bad you didn’t spend an additional two hundred for cruise insurance.”

“But if this were Syracuse, we would be in the air, honey.”

“Don’t honey me.  You were in charge of this, and we’re never going to make it to Miami!”

“This isn’t Syracuse, baby.”  A middle aged, pot-bellied man, dressed as a cowboy, stated.

I sat for three hours, watching drifts form, while snow layered wings and ground.  This is how folks lose their lives. The plane reversed and got stuck.  We were towed back to the airport.

The cruise couple, exited quickly.  They ran to Thrifty, renting a car with plans of driving to Washington, DC.  I settled for a miserable night anticipating a departure on Ground Hog’s Day. 

Drinking Bloody Marys and watching The Today Show, travelers raised drinks to Al.

“Six more weeks of winter,” Al said, as I gulped.

The first cell message was from my husband, followed by multiple calls and messages.

“Where are you, this is your husband.”

“Where are you, this is your mother.”

“Your mother is worried, give us a call.”

“Did you make it yet?  I’ve landed and the rental car is in your name!”  My sister bellowed.

“I’m still in Richmond.” I replied.

“Mom, I can’t believe that you picked this time to leave dad and me stranded.  So wrong.”

“Deal with it son and help your father.  Don’t let my beloved horses die.”

“I’ll be back on Valentine’s Day and will bring you a present.”

“Mom, you don’t know what it’s like here.  Dad can’t get the 4-wheel drive truck out.  The dirt road is all ice and snow.  I can’t believe that you left us here to deal with your horses, and your cats.  I never wanted horses.  I hate horseback riding.  You are the cause of me getting tossed off of the lesson horse.  Why were you talking on your cell instead of following me around in the riding ring?”

“Honey, your horses have eaten all the hay that you bought.  Why didn’t you buy more?  Now I have to figure out how to get to the hay man.  You won’t believe what it looks like in the barn.  There’s tons of manure.  I’ve been too busy to muck stalls.”

“Mom, dad doesn’t want to tell you this but he fell down the icy front steps with the horses’ breakfast mash.”

“Is he OK?”

“Nope, says that his back is in spasms, arm hurts and that I need to feed your horses.”

On Valentine’s Day, I returned.  My husband stood smiling, holding a dozen red roses in his left hand.  His right arm, sporting a signed cast.

“I’m happy your home, sweetie.  It’s been a long two weeks.  We’ve missed you.  Wait until you see the barn!”

by Carolyn Boyles

Monday I ran out of facial tissue. Late Wednesday the toilet paper was gone. Paper towels became a memory yesterday. This morning Post-it Notes are starting to look good.

I’ve got the flu.

My name is Janie Herbert. I’m five-foot-four inches tall with shoulder-length, mousy- brown hair. My friends say my bright blue eyes are my best feature. I’m not pretty, but I’ll admit to cute. I’m one of those “perky” types everybody likes having around.

Except now.

I’ve got another problem besides the flu. It’s Valentine’s Day.

Every Valentine’s Day since high school, a bunch of us friends who aren’t in regular relationships go out and get toasted at a local bar. We used to do it in high school, but our parents never caught on. If they did, they never let on. This year I must endure the indignity of not being in a relationship and I can’t enjoy not being in one either. I can’t go to the party tonight.

Part of the fun every year is wondering who will be there.  I’ll hear about it tomorrow, but it just isn’t the same.

I’d been lying on the big overstuffed white couch in my living room mindlessly staring at Jerry Springer. It looked more like WWF Wrestling to me.

I thought about going into the kitchen to find something to eat, but why bother when nothing has any smell or taste? Then I saw the familiar large brown truck of one of the common carrier services through the huge picture window.

I tried to think of what I had ordered recently. The specialty cinnamon roll mix from King Arthur Flour wasn’t due in until next week. The new red bustier from Victoria Secrets had already arrived, if I only had someone to use it for.

I drew a blank. I watched expectantly as I saw the driver move from the truck cab into the back of the truck.

“Wait a minute,” I said to my big orange tomcat, Ruffles, who was lying on his back in the brown wingback chair next to the couch. “That’s not Eddie, the usual driver. He must be on vacation or maybe down with the flu like I am.” Ruffles pretended to care for a minute, then stretched and yawned and went to sleep.

The driver who emerged from the truck did more for that brown uniform than Eddie ever did or could imagine doing. I didn’t have my contacts in, but I knew gorgeous when I saw it, even blurry.

He was about six two with brown hair in great shape, but not super muscled up. As he got close to the door, I could see he was smiling, package in hand. Reminded me of the old smiling mailman logo used by the post office.

Oh My God! I realized, looking down at myself. I’m in pink flannel pajamas with a navy blue terrycloth bathrobe and pink fuzzy slippers on my feet. My nose is red. I haven’t showered for a week and I need Ruffles’ knot-extracting comb to brush my hair.

Penance. This has to be penance for something I’ve done. I don’t know what it is, but I am sooo sorry. I apologize to the Universe for whatever it is.

What in the world can be in the package?

The doorbell rang. I froze. I knew he’d seen me inside, so I had to open the door.

“Hi, I’m Ralph, the new driver for this route. Eddie got promoted,” Mr. Gorgeous said after I’d answered the doorbell.

“Hi. Don’t get too close. I’ve got the flu.”

“Had it already,” he said, handing me the package.

I took it from him and looked at the sender information. I didn’t recognize it. I stood there confused. Ralph saw my expression.

“I’ll save you the trouble. It’s from me. It has facial tissue, toilet paper, paper towels, and several free pizza coupons.”

I looked up at him, more confused than ever.

“I’ve had this route for about a week. Saw you inside, sick all week. Thought you were pretty. Figured you could use some supplies.”

I started to stammer thanks, but he interrupted me.

“How about going out with me after you’re well?” he offered. “Then we can see what we each look like in regular clothes.” He grinned.

“I’d like that,” I sniffled.

Maybe I can miss next year’s Valentine’s Day party for a better reason.

by love writing

When she was certain that her daddy left for work, she started tiptoeing outside her room. She walked this way all the way to the kitchen with just a minor pause in front of my room. She quietly opened the door and stuck her head inside to check what I was doing. She was delighted to see her mommy drooling on her pillow and snoring away loudly. She pulled back the door and closed it shut without making a single “click” that could wake me up. She gave a naughty smile and resumed her tiptoe-like-walk to the kitchen.

There she stood on a tool peeking into every cabinet for a china cup that could hold her surprise. She, finally, found the best china I had and dragged it from its possessor. Carefully, she got off the tool and took the china cup to the sink, raised herself by standing on her toes and washed it.

She put away the china on the dishwasher to let it dry while she stood in front of the stove. She called it the “monster”, who when got angry blew up in flames. The thought of switching it on was shaking her skinny legs. “Please don’t be angry with me” and with that she pushed the button. The stove lit up and she held back a loud scream by putting her tiny hands over her mouth. Very soon, she realized it wasn’t “blowing up” like she imagined it to be. “Nice monster, nice monster” she said with a scared smile and put a stainless bowl on top of it, filled with water.

She went to the “candy cupboard” as she called it and stared inside and was spellbound. She stretched out her hand and reached for her favorite “MnM’s”. She put the bag of her favorite candy on the shelf and just stared it as if she was trying very hard not to open it up. She looked away to stop herself from thinking about it. Almost immediately the water on the stove started boiling. She was startled with the bubbles it made. She forgot all about the candy and went towards it to see what’s happening. “I think the monster’s angry now”, and with the same scared smile she pushed the button once more and moved away, as if the stove was about to blast. The stove went off, the flame went down and she heaved a sigh of relief.

She proceeded towards the dishwasher and picked up the dry cup; picked her tool and went to the shelf near the stove, carefully put the cup there and stood on her tool. Turning towards the stove she said, “It will be over before you know it” and she started taking off the stainless bowl just like her mommy did, with hand gloves, and poured it into the cup. She had spent a lot of hours bugging me while I worked in there, who knew she was watching me. She pulled out a tea-bag from a stand and dipped it into the cup. She got off the tool and grabbed a plate; pulled out a loaf of bread from the packet and put it on the plate. She looked at the candy bag with no intention to hold her temptation and pulled it open. She threw some candies on the bread and put another loaf on top of it.

She put all her preparations on a tray and started walking towards my room. She quietly entered and put the tray on the floor and jumped on me, kissed my cheek and woke me up.

“Hey sweetheart, you’re up so early”

“Mommy, I did something”

“Oh okay, go sit in the bathroom I’ll be right there”

“No, I did something for you!”

“Oh, you did? Alright let’s see?”

She went down and brought the tray on the bed.

I was stunned, filled with awe and pride. My baby did that for me. I removed the top loaf to see what kind of sandwich I got for breakfast and it read “Hapy Modarz Day”. I laughed with tears in my eyes and kissed my angel all over her face.

“Do you like it, mommy?”

“I love it, darling. It’s beautiful”

With that she stole a couple of candies from my sandwich and quickly gobbled them before I could eat it up. The morning echoed with her laughs and I celebrated being a mother once again.

by Sophia Ryan

My 14-year-old caught me crying…again…on her way to the fridge.

“Let me guess: email from Jason.” The look of disgust on Grace’s face complemented her sarcastic tone. “Jeez, mom, it’s been six months. Get over it already.” She plucked the cap from the carton of juice and chugged.

“I can’t believe you’ve gotten over it already,” I snapped, furious that I was the only one upset that my son was at war on the other side of the world.

“Just because I don’t walk around crying all the time doesn’t mean I don’t miss him,” Grace snapped back, eyes bright with anger. “You’ve buried him and are grieving over his grave.”

The sickening smack of skin against skin ricocheted off the butter-yellow kitchen walls. I watched in horror as a ruby imprint of my hand materialized on my daughter’s delicate cheek.

“Gracie—”

She recoiled and ran, slamming her bedroom door with a force that shook the house. My knock was drowned out by the chaotic strains of Yellow Card at full volume. I didn’t have the strength to insist she let me in. I wasn’t sure what I’d say anyway. Talking had given way to combating these days, words like daggers shredding our once strong relationship to ribbons.
My overcooked pot roast was easier to cut than the tension at the dinner table that night. Only my husband, John, ate; Grace and I merely pushed the food around on our plates with our forks.

“Gracie, how was your day?” John asked between bites.

“Great. I got my face slapped.” Her dagger drew blood.

“What?” John’s face was awash with surprise. “Who slapped you?”

Grace’s brown eyes shot into mine.

“What happened?” John asked me in his quiet, nonjudgmental tone.

“She was being mouthy; I overreacted.”

“She got an email from Jason and was sitting there bawling her eyes out again. That’s all she does anymore.” Her voice rose, the words tumbling out of her mouth like jacks. “She acts like he’s the only person in the whole world who matters.”

“Gracie, you know your mom’s going through a difficult time with Jason being away. She needs your understanding and sympathy, not—”

“Whatever.” Grace slumped in her chair, arms folded across her chest, eyes cast downward.

My son was at war. So was my daughter. She who had always approached life with joy had virtually overnight become sullen, combative, and rebellious. It felt like I was losing them both.

“Have you shopped for Thanksgiving yet?” John deftly changed the subject, rubbing his hands together. “I can’t wait!”
I set my fork down, giving up all pretense of eating. “I’m not up to doing the whole traditional—”

“What?” Grace came alive like a crack of lighting had shot through her, her hands slapping the table, her body pressed forward. “We’re skipping Thanksgiving just because Jason’s not here? That’s so not fair!”

Anger rose from every cell in my body, making my retort scorching and scathing. “What’s not fair is your brother stuck in Afghanistan dodging bullets.”

John interjected calmly. “Honey, I think we need our family traditions now more than ever.”

“I’m not in the mood to celebrate while my son’s life is in danger!” In tears I rose to leave, but Grace’s words halted me.

“Mom, you act like Jason’s dead, but he’s not. He’s alive, and so am I. And so is Daddy. If you don’t want to celebrate that and everything else that’s good in our lives, that’s your choice. But Daddy and I are going to have Thanksgiving to give thanks, because we feel blessed, and that’s what Thanksgiving has always been about for us.”

My heart plunged into the pit of my stomach, chilling me to the core. My eyes widened and blinked rapidly, as if just awakening. Understanding dawned inside me. I looked at my daughter and nodded.

“You’re right. I have so much to be thankful for, but have been so focused on what I didn’t have I was blind to it. I’m sorry.”

The tight pout of her mouth softened, and when I moved toward her, she flung herself into my arms. I held her while our tears washed clean the wounds we had inflicted on each other. It was the first time I’d seen her cry since Jason left.

That Thanksgiving, we clasped hands and bowed heads in thanks for our blessings, including that our hardships don’t tear us apart, but only make us stronger.

by Sophia Ryan

Streamers hung like spider legs. Cottony webs perched in corners and doorways. Carnival games shared space with a cake walk, a haunted house, and refreshment stands. Kids – and many adults – sported costumes, both spooky and sweet.

The five-year-old vampire and I clung to each other’s hand, the bravado that sharpened his fangs and my courage at home dulling in the chaos of the school gym.

“Hi, Sammy!” A gap-toothed Cinderella twirled to us in a puff of shimmer and tugged Sam’s black cape.

Sam hissed, revealing his fangs and drawing a giggle from princess.

“Want to play the games?” she asked.

He peered at me for a response and my heart hurled to my knees. Though it had been months since Sam’s father, my ex-husband, had failed in his abduction attempt and gone to jail, letting Sam out of my sight demanded every drop of courage I possessed.

I leaned down. “OK, but stay in the gym. Don’t go anywhere—”

“OK, Mom.” He scampered off to the ring-toss booth, Cinderella’s hand in his.

“Excuse me, miss…”

The familiar voice in my ear stole my attention. The zombie hulking before me, aka Tom Carter, my former high school boyfriend, sported a shredded, bloody half-face, a flopping, bloody arm, and a bungee-jumping eyeball.

“Is the candy this way…” He turned and the arm and the eyeball swung around and hit me on the arm, “…or that way?” He swung them back the other way, slapping me on the other arm.

Laughing, I lifted the arm and let it fall to his side. “That’s quite a costume, lefty.”

“I was thinking the same thing about yours.” He touched the sleeve of my jacket.

I looked down at my jeans and sneakers, then at him. “My costume?”

“Yeah, you’re my dream date, right?”

“Tom!” I scolded, but couldn’t hide my smile or the flush that climbed my face.

After my divorce, Tom made it his mission to rekindle our high school romance. Although my mission to keep Sam safe conflicted with that, it didn’t stop me from torturing myself with thoughts of how life could have been had I accepted Tom’s marriage proposal graduation night ten years ago.

Zombie Tom slid his good hand to the small of my back. “Have dinner with me tomorrow, Lucy; you and Sam.”

The mention of my son’s name shifted my radar, sending my gaze back to the ring-toss booth, then widening to include nearby booths and every black-caped kid in the place.

Rising panic pushed me from Tom’s embrace and fear hitched my voice. “Where’s Sam?”

We searched the booths, under tables, in closets, behind the stage, the bathrooms, everywhere, questioning everyone. Sam wasn’t in the gym.

I raced toward the door, Tom a step behind me. “This is why I can’t date, Tom. I relax a second to laugh and flirt and my son goes missing.”

“Where are you going?” he asked.

“The police station.”

He caught my hand. “Let’s check the playground first.”

Rounding the corner of the building, we heard the laughter even before the full moon illuminated the vampire with a billowy cape chasing a princess with a billowy dress across the crusty ground.

Relief buckled my knees, but Tom caught me. Since my divorce, I hadn’t asked for or accepted help from anyone, but that moment I didn’t have the strength to refuse the help Tom offered. I took it greedily, clinging to him, letting it erase the unimaginable thoughts that had slashed my mind raw.

“Lucy, let me help you,” he whispered against my wet cheek.

“There’s nothing you can do, Tom.”

“I can be the man who loves you, makes you laugh, holds you when you cry, kisses you just to see you smile. Together, with our love wrapped around Sam, we’ll keep him safe. You don’t have to go it alone.”

“Tom, what are you proposing?”

“Same thing I proposed ten years ago.”

In the stillness, I heard love in the beats of his heart. Saw love dance in his eyes. I touched his face and felt love warm my skin. I drew closer and kissed his mouth, tasting love. Inside me, the barrier surrounding my spirit began to melt, like snowflakes on the tongue.

I kissed him again, a silent promise that he would get his yes; not tonight, but soon.

Tonight it was enough for both of us to join my wayward vampire on his moonlight frolic with Cinderella and begin our fall into love…again.

by Samantha Tan

I needed so much guts and courage to make that call. I remembered I perspired, my words trembled, my heart beat uncontrollably and all he took was 24 seconds to hurt me tremendously. My name sucks, I guess. Knowing it was me, he slammed down the phone. And that ends everything. He sounded so sweet at first, not knowing it was me. It was so hard, my mouth just could not open, but finally, “It’s me, Samantha”. He hates me, and he does not mind showing it.

How could you forget those happy schooling days together? How could you forget the time we played, laughed and worked together? How could you forget how close we were, as though you’re my brother? I lost you, a friend and a brother. Yes, you messaged me, telling me not to bother you anymore, you’re not my brother, you don’t need anything from me and you asked me to move on with my pathetic life and stop valuing myself so highly. Go away! But WHY?! Why are you treating me this way??

I’m not a dog, even if I am, I will not go away, after all these years! It really saddens me, bringing tears to my heart and breaking it into pieces. That message was sent 3 years ago, and it still hunts me. All those words are sharp, full of hatred and that’s not you. I still could not believe it was you. I don’t believe you have changed. I choose not to. Tell me that is not you. Years past, reading it still brings sadness to me but somehow, I forgave. I forgave and I do hope I forget. Calling you after all these years brings back memories. And I finally knew, you still can’t forgive and forget.

Life moved on, but not you, and not me either. I wish one day we can actually meet, talk and laugh as though nothing happened between us. I wish this day will come. Naive me. This day will not come, I know. Silly me, what I’m hoping for.

The moment you slammed your phone, my heart died. I want to cry, but no, i can’t. I knew it, and I’ve expected it. I’ll be hurt if I called you, and yes, I did. Silly me, thinking you’ll be happy receiving my call. Be real, lady! Everything happens for a reason, I hope there is, a reason why you kept treating me this way. Life fragile, I might not be around tomorrow? and all I need is no regrets. I really don’t know what to do. Treat me fairly, boy. I have feelings too. If I do not care about you, if I do not take this friendship seriously, I would not be this sad and I would not even bother. I care for you and I hope you care for me too. Good night and sleep with joy, not hatred. Happy birthday to you, MARK…

by Rabab Khan

“I am a man,” I affirmed, banging the table with my fist. She started and turned her gaze away from me. I continued vehemently, “And I am not weak. I’ll show him who’s boss.”
She was quiet.

“I won’t be like that sniffling, weepy-eyed, effeminate old man,” I said, encouraged by-what I thought of as- her submission and my eloquence. “If he has four kids to provide for, that doesn’t mean he can be a weak jelly bag that just whimpers when it’s kicked.”

“You think being tough and hard are the only qualities that define a man?” she asked, her eyes far away.

I sensed a trap and, reluctant to walk into it without knowing my chances, I picked up my glass and said, “This discussion is over.” Without looking at her, I sipped the cool lemonade. “We’re on holiday, let’s keep the discussions for later.”

“No wonder no woman could stand to marry you,” she said, acidly.

“Well, you aren’t the kind of woman I would’ve married anyway,” I retorted.

She snatched up her fashionable red bag and tapped away, her thick ankles bursting through the straps of her sandals. Watching her slender frame as it swayed further from my vision, I noted how her hips flowed like waves crashing on a barren shore. I wondered how someone so lean could have such thick ankles.

Then, my heart swelled and realization crept over me, its icy tentacles freezing me. When she reached the edge of the pool, she stopped. Expectantly, my eyes moved from her trim waist to the glistening edges of her shoulders. A sudden heave, as she bent forward slightly and, in an instant, I was beside her. She didn’t look up, but began fumbling in her bag. I put my hand on hers and gently held it as it continued to writhe in my grasp. “Darling, I’m sorry,” I pleaded. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Don’t!” she snapped, glaring at me with teardrops clinging to her short lashes like icicles in an ancient cave. I put a finger beneath a drop and gingerly moved the fragile bubble to my lips while she stared, motionless. The first faint contact with the mercurial orb watered my pursed lips and I smiled. Glancing at her, I saw her irregular, pouting lips curve upwards as she wiped away her tears.

Through her dull eyes, as she smiled up at me, I caught a glimpse of heaven. Grasping her gently by the waist, I said, “Let’s go.” She nodded and I steered her through the maze of tables and people to the parking lot.

“How did you know?” I asked, as I guided her down the stairs.

“Hercules,” she said, calling me by the name she used before we were married. “I lost my sight in that accident last winter, not my memory.” Snuggling up to me as I unlocked the car, she asked shyly, “Do you still wonder at the thickness of my ankles?”

by Craig S. Yelle

A slight shake and a whisper in my ear brought me out of my dreams of what might be.  I opened my sleep filled eyes, brushing the flaky remnants of the night’s anticipation; I looked at the face nearly touching my own, in the dim light.

“It’s Christmas,” she whispered as her face pulled back.

It took a moment for the revelation to sink in past the last foggy thoughts of sleep.  It was Christmas morning, the day we had been anticipating for months.  Months of choosing, hoping, praying had all culminated into this moment.  The moment we went to discover what hopes had been realized and what wishes must wait for another year, or perhaps a birthday.

As the message finally hit home, I came out of my bed as my sister back peddled quickly to avoid being run over.  She was older and faster as she darted to my bedroom door, standing before the closed barrier to the treasures left behind by a man in red with a large belly and a long gray beard.

“We need to pray to Jesus before we see our gifts,” she whispered, trying not to wake anyone else.  My younger twin brothers would sleep obliviously for many more hours and mom and dad would let us have our time of solace to delve into all the possibilities left behind by the stranger who was eagerly welcomed into our home each year.

“We’ll go and pray by the cross next to the buffet,” she laid out her plan.  “Then I will go and plug the lights on the tree in and we can see what Santa brought.”

I nodded, as she was three years older and knew how we should do this.  She had been doing it for so much longer than me.

We tip-toed down the hall, past her room, the twin’s room, mom’s and dad’s room and then the bathroom, where I insisted we stop else I have an accident from all the excitement.

I joined her in the hall again, after her waiting patiently outside, and we entered the dining and living room, the dark outline of the Christmas tree recognizable in the shadows.  I felt like Aladdin when he found the chambers filled with gold and treasure.  The pull of the unseen gifts causing me to stop and stare, attempting to discern anything in the darkness, until she tugged me by my sleeve after her and we knelt before the outline of the cross on the wall.

“Jesus, we thank you for being born to save our souls,” she began as I folded my hands and bowed my head.  “We thank you for all the gifts we have been blessed with and ask you to bless all those less fortunate than us, Amen.”

“Amen,” I echoed and looked up expectantly.  Even in the darkness, I could see the excitement on her face as the anticipation was now, overwhelming.

“Wait here,” she whispered.

I nodded as we stood and she worked her way around the back of the dining room table, feeling her way along the wall until I could hear paper rustling.  I giggled with excitement and then the lights of the tree gave a slight flicker and went dark, and then came on in all their brilliance.

I couldn’t tell you what I got that Christmas and my sister has no recollection of the events at all, but this was a Christmas I have never forgotten, because it was one that I shared a special, meaningful, bonding moment with my sister.  At that moment in our lives, it was only her and I and the outside world or any other person didn’t enter into it.

This is the image I will always remember when thinking back to my childhood and my relationship with a sister I love dearly.

by Nicole

I am surrounded by giants in matching outfits. The crowd has stopped moving again, and I can’t see where I am. All I want to do is get from one side of the town square to the other, a 30 second walk. But today it’s a 20 minute shuffle, with the added danger of beer cups being passed above my head. Across town, family-style street-based traditions, such as flea markets, are packing up after a long day of selling treasures. People who aren’t moving about are watching the end of the day’s football on television. The Queen is sitting down to dinner after being treated to a meet-and-greet in a provincial town.

I was new to the Netherlands. I had perused the provided literature on the Dutch: they like to eat cheese, they’re very tall, they cycle everywhere. Their national day is a well-celebrated affair at the end of April. Although it’s officially the celebration of the birthday of the Queen, it’s not her real birthday. On accession, she decided that the current day in April, her mother’s birthday, was preferable to her real birthday in January. As the celebrations involve outside activities, it was a good idea to leave it as is. The books however were cagey on what to expect: something about flea markets and street parties and people wearing orange.

I don’t own anything orange. It’s not my colour. I’m more into blue and black. I’m not buying anything orange to wear just for one day. I don’t even know where to buy a backpack to use for exploring this new continent, let alone something orange. If I don’t turn up in right colour though, it’s clear that I’m an outsider. If I do, then I run the risk of gatecrashing the day. Are we allowed to participate without allegiance to the Queen? Her Majesty is not my queen, my residence permit is temporary. Can they test me on my Dutchness? At almost six foot I can blend in heightwise, but haven’t ridden a bicycle since I was a teenager. Cheese is not my most favourite food either. Will they ask me to pronounce long Dutch words with lots of consonants?

Eventually I arrive at the other side of the main square, through the sea of orange hats and leis and shirts. The electro-rock band currently on stage makes minimal use of lyrics, so thankfully singing along isn’t expected, however tooting against the beat on a plastic trumpet is. To blend in, I need a beer. This requires knowledge of fluid mechanics, crowd modelling, accounting, and circus skills: make way through the crowd to the nearest tent, hold up the right number of fingers, exchange money for beer(s), and transport beer(s) back to the original location. Someone in orange lederhosen catches my eye, watching me work out the optimal route. Waah-waah-waaah-waah. Sorry, I don’t understand. Oh, English? Kinda, although I suppose it’s obvious: the blue shirt and jeans are a giveaway. No, no, doesn’t matter. Would you like a beer? A cup of Bavaria is proffered from a plastic tray.

By the end of the night, everyone has forgotten the day’s purpose. The standard songs, whose popularity is confined to those with the language skill and the plastic trumpets, have kicked in and there’s beer flying as people dance about. In order of importance, football matches were decided, the Queen was entertained, and the clouds found another non-holidaying country to pester. Beer no longer needed has found a new consumer. Goods no longer wanted have found a new home. Whether I’ve found a new home is debatable. I wasn’t forced to assimilate by eating cheese or pronouncing Scheveningen, but orange is still not my style.