Hanna’s Gift by guest author Misha Gerrick

Based on a story that was told to me as true. An English officer in the Anglo-Boer War is on a mission of mercy in time for Christmas.

*** 

In all my life, I had never felt this inadequate. I followed the hard-packed pathway between fluttering canvas tents by rote. Even now, when the full moon only served to deepen the shadows cast by thousands of tents.

This camp was a stain on the dry winter surroundings. A shadowy blot of sin and death no amount of moonlight could soften.

A woman wept nearby. Another mother who’d lost a child. Definitely not the only one I’d be hearing on the way to my destination. I clenched my jaw and kept walking, hoping to look resolute enough for any officers spotting me to assume I was supposed to be here.

Today would be the day my family back in London would be hunting for a tree, now all the rage thanks to Prince Albert. My little sister would be making decorations and thinking of me, her dear brother missing her and wishing he was anywhere but this god-forsaken piece of earth on the tip of Africa.

I had been seduced into coming by a sense of adventure and the dream of patriotism. Of claiming land that we were destined to belong to us. It should have been easy. Our glorious empire never saw a sunset because we knew how to get what we wanted, and were willing to fight for what we had deemed to be ours.

We should have been satisfied with what we’d had. But then, the Dutch farmers who had decided to risk their lives move into the interior to escape our rule… They found gold.

Gold that we needed.

Gold that we were going to have even if it came to war.

Easy enough. And yet, the war had gone wrong. So wrong that it was deemed necessary to burn farms and pack non-combatting citizens into this camp and others like it. To turn it into a war of attrition we were sure to win.

But the damage… The damage…

I glanced around me, trying to make my gaze penetrate the tomblike shadows. Another woman wailed and I shivered. So much misery. And there was nothing I could do about it.

All I had was a canteen filled with curds. It wasn’t even sweetened.

I hunched my shoulders forward as I turned to the left, following the footpath to the tent that was my destination. Inside was a little girl. Hanna was her name. The first time I saw her, I was writing names into the record book.

Like a butcher records lambs to the slaughter. I nearly cried out when I looked up and found her before me. She looked so much like my sister. The same flaxen hair. The same expressive blue eyes.

Seeing there shook me. It woke me to what we were doing. We’d burned her house down to force her to come here and live in tents. At the start, that was the worst I thought we’d subject them to. But then the diseases came and the rations dwindled.

And now Hanna was going to die. Maybe it would be the measles ravaging her, or maybe the steady onset of starvation. And all I had to help… A stupid canteen filled with stupid, unsweetened curds.

I stopped in front of her tent. A timidness gripped me. What was I doing? I had no right to intrude on this family’s despair. I was part of the cause.

Yet my feet remained rooted where I stood. I couldn’t leave. Not without giving this ridiculously small thing. It was all I had to give, and I wanted to give it to Hanna.

The lump in my throat grew with every step forward I took. Maybe I wouldn’t give the canteen to them personally. Maybe I should simply leave it before the tent’s entrance and not look back. Yes, yes I could do that.

But someone lit a lamp inside, barely diluting the shadows. Then she stood right where I’d planned to place the canteen, peering at me. She probably couldn’t make out who I was. Only that she hated me.

When I’d written her name in the records, she was a strong, sturdy woman with pride in her posture. Now, only the stiff back remained. Her hair had been shorn to protect against lice, but she stood with a queen’s dignity. She’d break before she bent to our will, but I could see the cracks, the grooves around her mouth.

“What?” she demanded.

Now or never. I took a few steps forward and held up the canteen. “I…” My throat ached from the effort, but I cleared it and tried again. “I heard you have a sick little girl.”

She took the canteen and opened the contents, sniffing it.

“I know it’s not much.” I held my tongue, bracing to the impact, in case she decided to throw the canteen at me.

Instead, she carefully twisted the cap on once more.

And burst into tears.

She flew into my arms, hugging me tight, the canteen’s hard edges biting into my shoulder as she embraced me. “Dankie,” she said. “Dankie.”

Thank you.

It was nothing. Curds without a thing to sweeten it, but one would think I had brought her God’s own treasures for Christmas. Tears stinging my ears, I backed away from her so she could return to her daughter.

Into the shadows I went, furtively making it to my own tent, hoping she wouldn’t recognize me in the morning.

It was a stupid, stupid gift, after all.

***

Author Bio:

Misha Gerrick has been creating stories long before she could write and is currently going after her dream of making a living as a writer.

If you’d like to see how that’s going, you can visit her on her blog, where she also discusses all things related to writing and publishing.

Or, if you’d just like to know what she’s reading and get updates on what she’ll be publishing next (Sorry, no newsletter just yet.):

You can follow her Tumblr

You can follow her on Twitter: @MGerrick1

And you can circle her on Google Plus: +MGerrick

Pet Plant by Crystal Collier

Lillian closed the door as her son, all dressed in black, walked away. She set her keys on the hutch, too numb to hang them properly on the pegboard and stepped out of her heels. The kitchen counter was littered with flowers, unopened envelopes, and prepared meals she’d been gifted, things she needed to put away, but she walked blindly past them.

John’s oxygen machine still sat next to the bed, along with his slippers, poised as if waiting for his feet. Feet that would never wear them again. What was she going to do with them?

Lillian curled onto her side of the bed. The paper program still clutched in one hand was her lifeline, her window to the past, the last evidence of the reality she faced. Her fine black dress crinkled around her tucked knees, but she did nothing to fix it.

The program read: John Marlow Kasperson, beloved father and husband, born November 6, 1943, deceased March 17^th, 2015.

This last week bruised by in a flurry of phone calls, decisions and paperwork: filing with insurance, purchasing a casket, reading a will, picking colors and types of flowers, arranging speakers and musical numbers, selecting pictures for a collage…

John Jr. had done his best to ease her burden, but in the end, he was six-hundred miles from home and running on empty. His wife and children desperately needed him and he was torn between home, work and his mother’s need. It was best he’d gone.

Now Lillian was on her own.

Permanently.

She clutched the paper tighter and closed her eyes.

***

The ringing doorbell woke her. Sunlight streamed into the room, so it must be mid-morning, but Lillian didn’t remember making the decision to fall asleep.

His side of the bed was empty.

Again. Like every morning.

Lillian wriggled out of bed and aimed for the mirror. Dark circles ringed her eyes and her hair lay flat on one side, sticking straight up on the other. She hadn’t been to the beautician in the three weeks since his death. She hadn’t been anywhere really since the funeral. The kitchen, the bathroom, the bedroom and back.

The doorbell rang again.

Maybe they’d go away.

***

Lillian felt less grimy after a shower, but she couldn’t stomach the toast she’d made. Instead, she sipped her coffee and stepped out to the front stoop. She almost tripped over the potted plant sitting in the middle of her porch. A bonsai tree. Its limbs drooped under skeletal branches, nettles or leaves almost bare and browning. A card had been slipped under one corner of the plant’s tray.

She hefted the thing off her porch and carried it to the kitchen table. It was the most pitiful plant she’d ever seen. The card that came with it said simply, Koshi has been a little neglected, but he’s a sweet tree. Here’s hoping he’ll bloom for you like he wouldn’t for me.

“Koshi?” Lillian repeated. Who named a plant? That was just silly, but the poor thing must be starved. She hurried away and got a cup of water. “At least you can have a good drink, but I’m no good to care for you,” Lillian confessed. “I’m all tired out and have nothing left to give. I’m ready to die and join my John. You’d be better off with someone else.”

Did she imagine it, or did the little plant’s limbs tremble as she poured the water? Her lips twitched like they might pull up in a smile. “There you go, little one.”

She glanced around the counter, at the mess surrounding Koshi. Surely no plant would like living in such a disaster zone. She should clean it up so Koshi had a clean place to dwell, at least until she could find a better home for it.

***

The kitchen looked better, and every time she passed through it, she spoke to little Koshi. It was beginning to perk up a little, but the room was so drab, she didn’t know how it could possibly thrive. She pulled back the curtains and let the sunlight in. She’d always loved those curtains. They added just the right shade of yellow to remind her of a summer’s day—like the day John proposed to her at Heartford Park. That had been an amazing day. Her heart warmed with the memory and she recalled how much she loved that place.   

“You know what, Koshi? I think I’m going to go for a walk.”

***

A week went by, but little Koshi still was struggling. One day Lillian believed he was recovering and his little limbs would sprout green chutes. The next he looked to be on the brink of death again.

She put on a decent blouse and pants, washed her face, did her hair, and went to the store. She stopped into a nursery and asked what kind of plant food she needed for a bonsai tree. The shop keeper directed her to a book about grooming and feeding bonsai trees and helped her discover Koshi’s breed: Chinese Elm. She thanked him, although she admitted she was only caring for the tree until she could find a new home for it.

Koshi liked his plant food. He responded well. She even discovered new buds springing the next week, but he wasn’t growing as well as she hoped. She took him out back to the fresh air, and the porch desperately needed cleaning after the winter. The grass needed mowing, the leaves needed to be raked, and weeds needed to be pulled from the flowerbed. Koshi must be overwhelmed by the disaster of a yard.

Lillian took him back inside, determined to do something about the disrepair.

***

Koshi’s regular visits outdoor had done wonders. His little limbs brimmed with greenery. The porch had been cleaned up, the yard maintained, and Lillian had enjoyed many days of fresh air and invigorating work through the project. She felt stronger than she had in years.

It made her think of Margaret, her elderly next door neighbor who had to move into a home a year ago. She’d loved Margaret’s cookies and friendship through the years. What had become of her friend? She decided an excursion was in order.

Margaret sat alone in a bed by a window. Despite the chipper yellow paint and white-lace curtains, her friend’s hair, always done up, now sagged, and her lips, always brimming with smiles, dipped toward depression. No hint of cookies or baking filled the room, no cards or signs of friendship. A collection of framed photos sat beside the aging woman, people she had loved and lost, people she loved and never saw, people who had become little more than a memory.

Lillian knew how her friend felt. More importantly, she knew what her friend needed. What she had needed.

Margaret’s head turned toward the door. Her eyes lit. “Is that my dear, old neighbor?”

Lillian forced a smile. Koshi had healed her heart so much and he could do the same for a lonely old woman in a care facility.

“Don’t hate me, Koshi.”

***

Lillian brought the little plant the very next day. Every week she visited Margaret—to check in on Koshi and help her friend prune the little guy. She met other residents of the home. Their loneliness weighed on her, but she knew how to ease it. Each month she selected a new “target,” and gifted them with a bonsai tree. By the end of the year, she held classes on taking care of their plant companion for all the residents who were able. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

She told Koshi what wonderful things were happening because of him, and for the millionth time, wondered where he had come from.

The day Margaret died, she delivered him to the newest resident, just as her friend had requested. He was the gift that kept giving.

That evening, she sat at home pondering over it all: loss after loss, the sting of death, the joy of giving, the renewal of a purpose. She remembered the first time Koshi’s limbs began to bend from the weight of his leaves. She begged him not to look as she pulled out the pruning sheers, promising, “This is going to hurt so much, but it will help you grow. Be strong, little one.”

She lifted the clippers and snip. His little limbs trembled like he was screaming and she’d hated every second of the task, but he grew stronger, he grew greener, and he’d brought so much joy because of that painful choice.

Lillian almost thought she heard a voice echoing the memory, saying, “Lillian, I know taking John away hurt so much, but you are learning and growing in ways you’d never have imagined. Be strong, little one. You have so much to give.”

Crystal Collier is an author who pens dark fantasy, historical, and romance hybrids, with the occasional touch of humor or inspiration. She can be found practicing her brother-induced ninja skills while teaching children or madly typing about fantastic and impossible creatures. She has lived from coast to coast and now calls Florida home with her creative husband, four littles, and “friend” (a.k.a. the zombie locked in her closet). Secretly, she dreams of world domination and a bottomless supply of cheese. You can find her on her HERE. 

COMING HOME by Eric Price

Sometimes the worst situations can make us thankful.

COMING HOME

“Would you like anything to drink, sir?” the flight attendant asked.

“Another gin and tonic. Thanks.” This was going to be hard, but the gin made John not care…for now.

“This is your captain speaking. We will be touching down in St. Louis in about an hour. Current weather is eighty-five degrees with eighty percent humidity. Some scattered storms are in the area, heavy storms are expected tonight.”

If he only knew. He handed his credit card to the flight attendant. “You’d better make that two.”

He emptied the first 3 cl gin bottle into the plastic glass filled with ice, and topped it with tonic water. Three hurried gulps drained the first glass, and he reclined his chair to savor the other bottle.

As the plane descended to Lambert Airport, it passed into dark storm clouds. The windows went from dry to a sheet of rain.

“This is your captain. Welcome to St. Louis.  Local time is 3:05 p.m. If you’re catching a connecting flight . . .”

John tuned the rest of it out. 3:05, huh? He would have guessed half past 6 looking out the window. Typical St. Louis weather.

In the airport he looked at Amber’s flight information. He checked the status of her flight on the message board. Another hour. I guess I’ll get a bite to eat.


In the restaurant he ordered a beer and a cheeseburger. How was he going to react to seeing her after all these years? She was his sister, but with a six year age difference, they never felt like siblings. Cousins maybe. Second or third cousins, once removed, by marriage was more like it. Even after all they had been through together.

He finished his burger and had another beer before heading to Amber’s gate. When he saw her, he could tell she had aged. But will she have matured? Her auburn hair was shorter than he remembered, and the tattoos covering her left arm were new.

She ran and wrapped her arms around him. As if not feeling the awkwardness five years brings, not to mention parting on the terms they did.

She pulled away, her eyes glassed over with tears. “I can’t believe this. I just can’t believe he would do it. I just. . . I can’t believe it.”

The same reaction she had had when he called to tell her the news. He didn’t know what she couldn’t believe. Hadn’t they grown up in the same house? John had expected something like this for the past fifteen years. Yet his precious sister, their favorite, found it unfathomable. She should have known them better. But she never did have a strong grip on reality.

“We’re supposed to call Officer Lowery when we get to the house,” John said. “Let’s talk about something else for now. How is the paper going?”

“Great!” She sniffed a drip from her nose. “I’m editing the Travel and Lifestyle sections now. It makes me wish I had more time to get out and see the world. But I’ll just have to settle for living vicariously through the writers for now.


“I read your new book. I liked it, but do you ever think you’ll get tired of all the aliens, and write something a little more down to earth, Space Boy? Maybe a column about New England for the Travel section? You know, many people from San Jose have never been to Maine.

“With all the authors that live in New England, I’d have trouble writing anything unique.”

They paid for a rental car and hurried through the rain to spot 47, neither of them thinking to pack an umbrella. Amber drove, joking that Jack’s breath smelled flamable.

“Why did you move to Camden anyway? Looking for inspiration.”

“No. I just wanted to get away from here. Everything around here got so stagnant. Everyone seemed to know me. In Maine, I can walk down the street and no one tells me about how their son read all my books, or asks me to sign a cocktail napkin.

“New tourists come in every spring, summer, and fall. The winters everyone seems to pack up and go to Florida, so I feel isolated. That’s when I get my best writing done.”

“I could never stand to feel alone. That would drive me nuts.”

“Then it’s a good thing people stay in California year round. When was the last time you were home to see Mom and Dad?” He realized what he said, but it was too late. Words couldn’t be unspoken. The worst part was, he didn’t mean for them to sound as hateful as he knew Amber would take them.

She glared at him. Just when he thought she wasn’t going to answer, she said, “Christmas. The year before last.”

“I’m. . . I’m sorry. I said we wouldn’t talk about it until we got to their house, and then I brought it up. I’m sorry.” And their first meeting in five years had been going so well.


The rain had traffic stop and go on I-70. Jack tried to make small talk, but Amber didn’t seem interested in sharing a rental car anymore.

He supposed she had her reasons for not coming around. God knows he hated his father, but he still came to visit three or four times a year for his mother’s sake.

She hadn’t even lived through some of their father’s worst behavior. Coming home drunk every night. The screaming matches. Broken lights, furniture, dishes. All the nights Jack lay awake crying, trying to be quiet, afraid to make a sound. How old was he four? Five? Their house became a regular stop by the police on Friday and Saturday nights. The next morning his father would hold him, still reeking of the night before–stale whisky, cigarettes, vomit–and promise it would never happen again. Promise he would get help. Broken promises, broken hearts. This all happened before Amber.

After her birth, everything slowed down. The drunken nights went from every night, to every week, to once a month, to almost never. The police found new weekend routs.

Amber pulled the car into their parent’s drive and dialed Officer Lowery’s number from the slip of paper Jack handed her.

“He said he’ll be here in five minutes. We should wait outside.”

The rain had stopped. Jack got out and walked around the house. He grabbed the branch of the old ash tree where their tire-swing had hung. The branch still had a worn spot where the rope rubbed.


The garage behind the house, where bees once built a hive, had a fresh coat of paint since Jack had last seen it. He and Amber discovered the bee hive only to have a swarm of angry bees attack. That day they found out two things: Amber had an allergy to bee stings: and Impalas could hit 110 with their father behind the wheel.

The brick sidewalk leading from the garage to the back door still had a chipped brick. When that brick broke, Jack’s father had cut his foot. Jack had never seen so much blood. He thought his father would die. Part of him hoped his father would die— if a small boy can really hope such a thing.

The side yard that housed their swing set and sandbox when they were young, and a pool when they were teenagers, had been turned into a garden. Jack picked a red tomato, wiped it on his shirt, and took a huge bite. Nothing like a home-grown tomato.

He found Amber sitting on the rusted porch swing. It squeaked with each movement, back and forth. Jack climbed the three crooked blue steps, and walked along the porch. The boards still creaked in all the same places. His old bedroom window still had the shinny outline of the faded metallic sticker from the fire department. Next to it, a less faded American flag sticker with “United We Stand” printed at the bottom.

He joined his sister on the swing as a police car pulled into the drive.

Officer Lowery waved to them before getting out and hefting his weight up the porch’s stairs. Jack and Amber had known Officer Lowery all their lives. He liked to tell them about how he had lived in the house before their parents bought it.

“Jack. Amber. It’s good to see you again. I wish it could be under better circumstances, though.


“Are you ready to go into the house?”

“I guess we have to be,” Jack said.

“Officer Lowery,” Amber said, “are you certain someone didn’t kill them?”

“We’re certain. The suicide note matched your father’s handwriting. We have no evidence suggesting anyone forced him to write it.”

“I just can’t believe he would have done this,” Amber said.

“Are you serious?” Jack snapped at her. “Didn’t you grow up here? Remember when he held us all hostage? He came home after a two day binge, barely able to walk. He took his shotgun and made us go to our rooms. He ripped all the phones out of the jacks. And he sat in the livingroom screaming about how no one cared about his problems. “When he finally passed out, Mom snuck us out of the house and used a payphone to call the police. “I wasn’t able to sleep for over a week.”

Jack stared at Amber, letting the memories flood her. Officer Lowery said nothing. He had been one of the arresting officers.

When he thought enough time had passed, Jack said to Amber, “You don’t even know how bad it could get. He slowed down a lot after you were born. Mom made him promise to quit when she got pregnant. And I think he really did try. All you ever saw were his occasional outbursts. I saw him drunk every night.”

“Jack, I–” But she didn’t finish. She just wiped the tears from her cheeks. “Let’s go in.”


Their shadows flashed on the front door, and a loud crack of thunder shook the porch under their feet. A downpour of rain soaked the street in an instant. Officer Lowery unlocked the door and they entered.

Jack had prepared himself to see the worst, but the scene had been completely cleaned.

“Your mother’s body was here,” Officer Lowery said. He pointed to a spot on the floor next to the couch. “She had a shotgun blast to the stomach, and one to the head. We figure he shot her in the stomach…and sat in that rocking chair to watch her suffer.”

Jack followed his gaze from the floor to the chair.

“He must have written the suicide note as he watched her die. I can show it to you at the station, but he writes dialogue between your mother and himself in the letter. It reads more like a journal than a suicide note.

“His lab results came back with a blood alcohol level of 0.15. But he also tested positive for THC, LSD, and Valium.

“After finishing the note, we believe he shot your mother in the face.”

“Oh, God,” Amber said, covering her face to sob.

More lightning and thunder. The wind wiped rain and small hail pellets against the livingroom window.

When Amber regained some composure, Officer Lowery continued. “We don’t know the exact order of what happened next. At some point, your father reloaded the shotgun, moved your mother’s body to the couch, and called his sister.

“Your aunt called the police. She reported that all your father said was, ‘I love you, and I’m sorry.’ When she asked him what he was sorry about, he said, ‘I did what had to be done.’ I rushed here with two other officers, but we were too late. Your father had discharged both barrels into his mouth.”


Amber went into her old bedroom, sat on the bed, and started crying.

Jack left Officer Lowery in the living room and explored the house, reminiscing as he did outside. The wall where he and Amber had marked their heights each year. The laundry room that seconded as their dog’s bedroom.

In the basement he pulled the loose bricks aside to reveal a tight crawlspace meant to give access to the water pipes. As a teenager, Jack hid beer, pot, condoms, and porno mags in here. He reached in and pulled out an old, dusty, half-empty, bottle of vodka. “I guess Amber found this spot after I left for college.” He took a swig and stuck out his tongue, “Needs ice.” He took the rest upstairs and put it in the freezer.

Amber’s sniffling still came from her bedroom.

“You don’t need me here, anymore,” Lowery said. “I’m going to try to get home before this storm gets any worse.”

Jack shut the door behind him and went to Amber’s room.

“Listen, Amber. I know this is upsetting. We lost both of our parents at the same time. But if this caught you by surprise, then you were more naive than I thought.” His words came out sharper than he had intended, but once they started it felt good to vent. She stopped sniffling and glared at him. He continued, “You were always closer to dad than I understood. I hated him. I can’t remember ever liking him. You have to understand what it was like when I grew up. He–”

“When you grew up! That’s all I hear out of you. How bad you had it. It was much worse before you, Amber. He used to drink so much more, Amber. You’re just overreacting, Amber. Well I’ve got news for you, Jack, I had it bad too. These are tears of mourning for Mom, but they’re tears of joy for Dad. I’m so thankful he’s dead I can’t stop crying. I’ve never told anyone until now, but here it is: he used to molest me.”


Jack’s mouth gaped. He wished he had that vodka from the freezer. “What?”

“You heard me. He molested me. When I was young, he touched me. At first it only happened when he’d been drinking. But then it started happening when he was sober. When I hit puberty…he started raping me.”

“Amber, I’m so sorry.”

“Shut up and listen. You’re not sorry. What do you have to be sorry about? You weren’t there.

“You say I was close to him. He forced me to be close to him. I was too afraid to push him away. I was young. I didn’t know any better. I thought if he told anyone I would get in trouble. I thought if mom found out she would hate me. So I hung close to him. I did whatever I could to please him.”

She fell silent, and Jack said nothing to break it. Five years ago, he had exploded at her for not coming home more often to see Mom and Dad. He couldn’t figure out why she stayed away. He assumed selfishness kept her away. That she didn’t care about coming home because it wasn’t convenient for her.

She went into the bathroom, and when she came out, she didn’t look like she had been crying at all. Jack knew he could never say or do anything to make amends the bad blood between Amber and himself, but he took her in his arms and held her as the tears streamed down his cheeks.

****

Eric Price lives with his wife and two sons in northwest Iowa. He began publishing in 2008 when he started writing a quarterly column for a local newspaper. Later that same year he published his first work of fiction, a spooky children’s story called Ghost Bed and Ghoul Breakfast. Since then, he has written stories for children, young adults, and adults. Three of his science fiction stories have won honorable mention from the CrossTime Annual Science Fiction Contest. His first YA fantasy novel, Unveiling the Wizards’ Shroud, received the Children’s Literary Classics Seal of Approval and the Literary Classics Award for Best First Novel. His second novel, The Squire and the Slave Master, continues the Saga of the Wizards. It is scheduled for a November 26 release. Find him online at authorericprice.com, Twitter, Facebook, and Goodreads.

Thankfulness by Mary Waibel

A reflection on things to be thankful for.

***

I stared at the blank screen, stumped by the topic of the writing assignment. Thankfulness. It wasn’t that I had nothing to be thankful for, quite the opposite in fact. It was how to put my thankfulness into words without sounding trite.

It should have been an easy assignment, an assured A, but the words wouldn’t come. I walked away from my computer in search of something to distract me. None of the books waiting on my e-reader held any interest, nor did the television. With a sigh, I trudged back to my desk and forced myself to start writing, even if it would be deleted in the end.

I’m thankful for my family and friends who support me and all my endeavors. Who shower me with love and call me out when I’m wrong. You make me a better me, and I can’t thank you enough.

I’m thankful for my health, and that of my family. With so many suffering serious diseases and illnesses, I am fortunate that my family is mostly healthy and doing well.

I’m thankful for my prosperity. Not that I’m super rich, but there are many who have much less than I.

I’m thankful I’m able to work and earn spending money for frivolous things, and not have to rely on the generosity of others for necessities.

I’m thankful for the freedoms I have and, while I don’t always agree with the choices my government makes, I’m grateful that I can voice my opinion without fear of retribution.

I’m thankful that I don’t go to bed hungry, unless I want to. I am blessed to live in a place where food is plentiful and varied. Where things aren’t rationed or your options of what to eat are limited.

I’m thankful for the change in seasons that keep me looking forward to nicer weather in the winter, or cooler weather in the summer.

I’m thankful for my cats, even when they don’t use their litter box, because without them life would be a little lonelier.

I’m thankful for my parents. Sure, they drive me crazy with wanting to know what I’m doing and hassle me about keeping my grades up and all that stuff, but that’s their job. And I know someday they won’t be here anymore and I’ll miss them terribly.

I’m thankful for my brothers, even when they act like jerks. I think it’s just the male way of showing affection. They can’t let people know they care, so they act all weird and stuff instead. But it’s okay. I understand it.

I’m thankful for the men and women who voluntarily enter our military who are willing to risk all so I can be safe here at home. So I can speak as I want, watch what I want, and read what I want. These brave souls who go to the darkest and most vile places on earth to help others in need deserve more than my thanks, but for now that is all I have to offer.

I’m thankful for the police and firemen who keep me safe at home. Who are just a phone call away when needed. Who, like the men and women of the military, risks their lives daily to keep us safe.

I’m thankful for all I have.

As the words petered out, I sat back and read over what I’d written. What sounded as repetitive and thoughtless in my mind came across as sincere and heartfelt. It was exactly what I wanted to say, how I wanted to sound. I saved the file and sent it to my teacher. My assignment done, I shut down the computer and settled onto the couch to watch television with my family.

***

Twisting tales one story at a time. 

YA author Mary Waibel’s love for fairytales and happy-ever fill the pages of her works. Whether penning stories in a medieval setting or a modern day school, magic and romance weave their way inside every tale. Strong female characters use both brain and brawn to save the day and win the heart of their men. Mary enjoys connecting with her readers through her website: marywaibel.blogspot.com

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Thanks for the Smoke by Katie L. Carroll

Chuck was down to one or two cigarettes a day and about to give up on the whole damn idea of trying to quit. It was hardest first thing in the morning and in the evening after dinner. There was just nothing to keep his hands occupied during those times. Emma, his niece, gave him the idea that kept him on track.

He had tried to quit cold turkey a couple of weeks before Emma’s fifth birthday. It had been going okay. Sure he had been grumpy most of the day, and he'd been drinking beer with dinner every night, but he hadn’t been smoking. Then he went to his sister’s house for Emma’s party where his brother-in-law produced a bunch of stogies.

Chuck thought, “Why not? It’s not a cigarette.”

So when the guys went out to the front yard to smoke, Chuck joined them. Boy was that a big mistake. After he inhaled his first unsatisfying puff, all he could think about was the taste of a cigarette on his lips.

He began to wonder why he had quit in the first place. Sure there was the whole lung cancer and emphysema aspect, but it sure as hell wasn’t helping his attitude or his physique. He had already gained ten pounds. Chuck was wondering if he still had a pack of cigarettes in the glove compartment of his truck when his niece ran up to him.

“Uncle Charlie, will you come and blow bubbles with me?” she asked.

As he sat there with the sticky solution running down his arm and the taste of soap in his mouth, Chuck felt better than he had in weeks…maybe years. On his way home that night, he stopped at a toy store and bought out its entire stock of bubbles. They were great for when he was at home in his apartment. He would sit out on his front steps and just blow bubbles, watching them float. Some popped right away and others went so high up he never saw them burst. They were a harmless vice, except they didn’t work in every situation.

Like tonight when he was out with his buddy Dave. They went to a bar downtown. He was okay for a while, drinking a couple of beers and watching the baseball game on the big screen. Then he spotted a cute woman smoking by herself on the outdoor patio. That had been another reason why he had decided to quit: that law banning smoking indoors in public places, forcing those with the habit outside. He didn’t like feeling like an outcast. Being part of a group was one thing that had attracted him to smoking in the first place when it seemed like everyone he knew smoked. But not anymore.

He pointed the woman out to Dave.

“You should go ask her for a cigarette,” Dave said.

“But I’m trying to quit.”

Dave punched him on the arm and called him a not-so-nice word for the female anatomy, enough motivation for him to walk out to the patio.

“Can I bum a cigarette off you?” he asked.

“Sure,” the woman said, eyeing him. “I was just starting to think that I was the only smoker in this place.”

She looked to be in her mid thirties, at least five years younger than Chuck, but she wasn’t wearing a ring. He figured he’d give it a shot.

“I’m trying to quit,” he admitted.

“My friends are all trying to quit, too,” she said. “None of them could stand being out here with me.”

She pulled a box of slim cigarettes out of her purse. Chuck cringed at having to waste a smoke on one of those—they were barely even worth the breath used to inhale them—but it was a sacrifice he was hoping would pay off. He managed to accept the cigarette without grimacing, but he thought he saw a glint in the woman’s eye when she lit it for him.

“I’m Chuck Testa,” he said after his first drag.

“I’m Linda, Linda Blake,” she said.

He held his free hand out to shake hers and she obliged. They talked while they smoked. He found out that she ran a daycare center. He told her he customized cars for a living. His uncle owned the business, but he was hoping to buy in as an owner soon. He mentioned Emma and the bubbles, his face burning hot from embarrassment, but Linda ate it up.

“That’s adorable!” she exclaimed. Then she took the last puff of her cigarette and snuffed it out in the ashtray.

Chuck squished out the rest of his. “Can I buy you a drink?”

“Sure.”

He held the door for her and followed her into the bar. Dave gave Chuck a sideways smile when he saw Linda. Chuck steered her to the opposite side of the bar. Linda gave a little wave to a table with three women at it, her friend he supposed. She surprised him by ordering a beer.

“Make that two,” he said to the bartender.

He turned to Linda. “A woman that drinks beer and smokes slims. I’m confused.”

“I grew up with three brothers,” she said. “I got to liking the taste of beer, so I decided to smoke something a little more feminine to make up for it.”

They talked for over an hour. It was easy talking to her. She like that he worked with his hands for a living. She called it “real blue-collar work.” Then one of her friends came over.

“Linda,” she said. “We’re ready to go.”

“Oh, hey Sheri,” Linda said. “This is Chuck. Chuck, this is Sheri.”

“Great,” Sheri said, ignoring the hand he held out to her. “Are you ready?”

“I guess,” Linda answered.

She pulled her phone from her purse and asked Chuck for his number. Shortly after he recited it, his phone buzzed in his pocket.

“That’s from me, so you have my number.” She produced another slim and handed it to him. “One last one on me. Then that’s it, right?”

Chuck nodded. “Bubbles are better anyway.”

She giggled. “Yeah. Hey, thanks for the beer.”

“No problem.” He held up the phone. “Thanks for this. And for the smoke.” He watched her walk out before going back to sit with Dave for the end of the game.

On his way home, Chuck lit up the slim. It tasted terrible, but he sucked on it gratefully, thinking of Linda’s lips the whole time. It was the last cigarette he ever smoked, but it was not the last time he saw Linda.

***

Katie L. Carroll is a mother, writer, editor, and speaker. She began writing at a very sad time in her life after her 16-year-old sister, Kylene, unexpectedly passed away. Since then writing has taken her to many wonderful places, real and imagined. She wrote her YA fantasy ELIXIR BOUND so Kylene could live on in the pages of a book. Katie is also the author of the picture app THE BEDTIME KNIGHT and a contributor to THE GREAT CT CAPER, a serialized mystery for young readers. She lives not too far from the beach in a small Connecticut city with her husband and sons. For more about Katie, visit her website at www.katielcarroll.com.

Drawer Full of Memories by Meradeth Houston

Sometimes we need to be thankful for our own strength. 

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Source

Time seemed to shudder to a stop, rocking her back on my heels, as soon as the drawer slid open. The mad scrambled search for scissors forgotten in a heartbeat. Inside the drawer was a scatter of memories, each their own small world of wonder.

Each something she’d tried to forget.

Almost by some outside force, she reached inside. Folded papers that echoed words she’d loved. She’d believed them, too, and their professions of love and apology, faith and trust. Some part of her heart still burned with the embers of what they’d meant, a part she wished she could douse with water. Reading them pooled tears in her eyes, long forgotten memories flaring to life once more. The cinch of pain around her heart tightened down, sure and steady in a way she’d learned to live with over the past year.

The other objects conjured a myriad of other thoughts. The photos were the hardest. Smiling faces and far away places. Echoes from a time when things had been so much easier. But still, it was hard to ignore the pain that each smile covered in the images. The knowledge of what led up to those posed scenes on rooftops in other countries. The harsh words. Those photos hid all of that to the outside world, but today, they rushed back, impossible to mask.

Did she want to mask them? Sometimes it was so much easier to remember the better parts. Pretend the photos captured the truth, and not just the careful façade. But the truth, it always leaked through.

Staring into the drawer, she couldn’t help thinking of the bits she tried to forget. The nights of screaming fights. Of trying to escape so he could cool off, only to be chased down, through the house, doors no obstacle to his anger. Covers ripped back so that 3am fights could be held. Words, only ever words, but the kind that knifed through her, hitting points only an intimate partner knew to target.

Always, always, the truth hung heavy on her tongue during those times. Impossible to say, impossible to acknowledge. The truth only brought down more anger. And with that anger came fear, tears, and a desperate feeling of her heart fighting to beat it’s way out of her ribs—a caged bird that she could never let free.

How had they gotten there? Things had started off so vastly different. Laughter, love, shared tastes and interests. A common base that felt promising to build their lives on. The long walks and talks in the desert that had cemented their relationship into something she’d felt could never break.

Oh, she knew she’d played a role in the downfall. It takes two to tango. Her inability to trust him, the spontaneous anger, took their toll. Lies and silence resulted. The heavy weight of the truth a millstone around her neck. She’d done wrong, been wrong, and hated herself for it all. But how could she have done differently? Even now she couldn’t see how, though surely it existed. The long shadow of anger overcast their marriage, obscuring other paths even now.

It’s stranglehold left hand-shaped bruises on her soul.

The rest of the drawers in her desk carried folders of paperwork for things she should have felt pride in. Success in her job, her creative work, awards and recognitions for things she’d done. These, too, she’d kept to herself. Lied about and covered up. Sharing only when she absolutely had to with the man she’d chosen to spend her life with. Good news was never received well. The announcement of her promotion at work—something she couldn’t contain in her excitement—led to hours of screaming. She shuddered at the memory.

No, not all things had been rosy in the past, no matter how much she tried to peer at them through rose-colored glass.

Two imperfect people. Sometimes it felt like three: the man she loved, and the man he turned into when the anger consumed him. A joke they shared, one she never found terribly funny because it hid the horrible truth: she feared the angry man. She would have done anything to avoid him. Anything. Lie. Bend over backwards. Turn into someone she hardly recognized.

None of it ever, ever helped.

The strength to break away had taken forever to grow. She doubted every move she made. Comments always followed. “Doesn’t she know how hard it is to find a good man?” Her grandmother. “Dating is horrible! I just want to spare you that.” Her sister. An uphill battle every step of the way. Times when she knew her family would rather he were there, not her.

And always, always doubt.

Was she doing the right thing? Maybe it was all just a product of her imagination? Did she really want this? Could she be alone forever? Did she want to grow old by herself?

She shut the drawer, closing the memories within it once again. Someday maybe she’d be strong enough to clean it out. For now, the past could stay there. Her strength would eventually return.

For now she’d be thankful for the ability to just walk away.

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Meradeth's never been a big fan of talking about herself, but if you really want to know, here are some random tidbits about her:

>She's a Northern California girl and now braves the cold winters in Montana.

>When she's not writing, she's sequencing dead people's DNA.

>She’s also an anthropology professor and loves getting people interested in studying humans.

>If she could have a super-power, it would totally be flying. Which is a little strange, because she's terrified of heights.

Find Meradeth Houston online at:www.MeradethHouston.com, Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, Tumblr,Amazon, Goodreads, and of course her blog!