Category Archives: holidays
[short fiction] Notice
Updates, end of year reviews and top 10 lists soon. Until then, here’s a little holiday drabble. Hope you enjoy.
NOTICE
Winter wonderlands. White Christmases. Sleigh rides, hot chocolate. Snow ball fights and snow angels. Cozying up by the fire.
That’s me, you know.
Not the fat man in red.
Not his eight or nine reindeer.
Not his jolly elf army.
It’s all me.
I’m not the enemy.
I make the magic.
All I’m asking for is a little credit where credit’s due.
Consider this your notice.
You’ll call it what you want. An unseasonably warm trend. A heat wave. El Niño. Global warming.
You’ll want me back sooner or later.
You always do.
Until then, Jack Frost is on strike.
© 2011 Elizabeth Ditty
Trade Me! A Story for a Rose (Valentine’s 2011)
This weekend I coerced my sister into helping me indulge my Valentine’s Day fascination. We took to Kansas City’s Town Center Plaza with a bundle of roses and a camera, and we spent the evening asking people to share their stories with us in exchange for a rose.
It took a while for people to warm up to us, but as night and temperatures fell and made us look increasingly pathetic shivering in the cold, more and more folks shared their stories with us. Some were funny, and some were sad, and some were very sweet. And now, for Valentine’s Day, I have the honor of sharing them with you. Happy Valentine’s Day!
A Valentine’s Reflection
Last week, I let my journalistic roots run free and did a bit of informal polling/interviewing on twitter and facebook about people’s opinions on Valentine’s Day. A few interesting stories popped up, and for that my writer’s mind is excited and grateful, but not a single person came out in unadulterated support of the holiday. Most responses were apathetic at best, and a few verged on outright vitriol.
- “V-Day is a money drain…and stupid…”
- “Quite frankly I think the holiday is pointless.”
- “It’s not really the same once one has an established family and passing out valentines to others outside my wife would certainly be seen as questionable behavior.”
- “It just feels so corporate. I think it’s for people who have to be reminded that they love each other.”
Some people lamented the potentially depressing effects on singles:
- “I’ve never been fond of the holiday b/c I’ve never had a date during that time period. However, this year is different, so I’m actually looking forward to it!”
- “At uni I was single & heart broken on a V day & thought: This bites. Seeing the sad side of Valentine’s day must have ruined it for me, because I lost interest in it completely.”
- “Let’s just say I’m feeling very Jessica Biel about Valentine’s Day this year.”
Others are just trying to make the best situation they can out of their circumstances.
- “I’m trying to make my Valentine’s week as ‘happy’ and fun as possible; otherwise it has the potential of being a real downer for me!!! Especially this year!! Not gonna let that happen!!”
My favorite comment, though, was this one, from my friend Meg (@ahrdor):
- My humble opinion (with overly-black&white labels): *because* it’s such a big deal to the masses, if you *didn’t* take that day to (also) show off your loved one, you’re arrogant & lame. Ya know? Those who proclaim, “I don’t need a special day to say I love you” are just being silly. You got a Valentine? Be proud of it. Brag on her/him. Do it on every other day, but geez, really? Not on V-Day? <- I think that’s lame. For the record, I also think a mere dozen roses & restaurant visit is lame, but that’s just me. Some couples adore that & DO show their love that way. More power to ‘em. Home-cooked meal, candles & lots’o'snuggle-like time is where it’s at for me! I’ve always had sucky V-Days & look forward to having one, someday, that kicks ass.
As for my own thoughts, I have a somewhat inexplicable love for the holiday. I have no spectacular Valentine’s-related romantic triumphs — quite the opposite in fact. Here’s a sampling from the high/lowlights reel of my life.
- 1993: I get to leave school for several hours and return just in time for the Valentine’s party with shiny new accessories: braces.
- 1997: In junior high, I get my first dozen roses from a boy, and I carry them to all my classes, reveling in being coupled on Valentine’s Day. (We break up two weeks later.)
- 2001: Eight months into my first serious relationship, I spend the day trying not to expect any surprises because my boyfriend is 1) poor, and 2) away at college. No surprises greet me whilst in school, but his mother shows up on my doorstep around 9 p.m. with a cellophane balloon.
- 2008: A relationship on the rocks leads to an awkward but, in my eyes, sweet dinner/movie date to an Irish pub with the most fantastic bread pudding and DEFINITELY, MAYBE, which turns out to be surprisingly good. I end the night feeling hopeful. I hear nothing for three days and later find out much of that time was spent in the company of another woman. It becomes my last coupled Valentine’s Day.
- 2010: A man outside a flower shop tasked with getting people into said flower shop hands me the dozen roses he’s supposed to be advertising. I try to refuse them because I don’t want him to get in trouble, but he insists. I leave with renewed faith in love and random acts of kindness.
Like Meg, I also hope to someday have a coupled Valentine’s Day that takes my breath away. But in the meantime, I can’t bring myself to feel bad or angry or resentful on Feb. 14 of every year. Even when you spin those negative emotions into something potentially fun, like Minneapolis’ Shred the Love Un-Valentine’s Event (H/T to @austinmn), all the negativity seems like a waste of energy. Why not take that energy and put it toward love? And the best part is, you get to define what that means. If I may be so bold, let me present a few ideas:
Volunteer somewhere that needs love. An after-school program, a nursing home, a library, an animal shelter, etc. There are plenty of needs out there; it’s not hard to find one to fill.
Reflect on what you love, and spend the day celebrating it. Love coffee? Take the time to truly savor a cup. Love to cook? Express it with a special hand-prepared meal. Love books? Make a date with a novel. Love films? Get thee to a movie theatre, or settle into your sofa with an old favorite. Love writing? Sit down and plug away at your current project, and revel in the fact that it’s so simple to engage in something you love.
Define “love” broadly, and express the sentiment to people you love. Friends, family, coworkers, your neighborhood baristas — anybody who makes you smile on a regular basis is eligible.
Don’t forget about yourself. “To love oneself is the beginning of a lifelong romance,” as Oscar Wilde so pithily pointed out. So, on Valentine’s Day, be a little kinder to yourself, too, in whatever way that means. Maybe it’s getting in a solid workout or taking a yoga class. Maybe it’s finally forgiving yourself for that One Big Mistake. Maybe it’s a mani/pedi or a facial. Maybe it’s as easy as getting to bed at a decent hour for once. Whatever it is, you deserve a little kindness, too.
So, as the Lone Unadulterated Lover of Valentine’s Day, that’s my two cents on the matter. So much in life is affected by how we frame our thoughts, and Feb. 14 strikes me as a great opportunity to refocus on sharing a little compassion toward ourselves and others while rekindling our passion for whom and what we love. Happy Valentine’s Day, friends!
[FridayFlash] The Easter Hare
I’ve been on FridayFlash hiatus for a few weeks due to a variety of excuses, but I’m back for at least this week with a quick Easter story. Hope you enjoy!
THE EASTER HARE
The children woke early and woke their parents, too. Part of having children is rising much earlier than necessary on at least two days out of the year, and this day was Easter.
Barely awake and hastily dressed, the adults were dragged outside by miniature hands on their sleeves. But as soon as they crossed the threshold into the cool, crisp air, an odd crunching sound found their ears. The children stopped in their tracks, nearly sending their parents tumbling over them. Now alert, they looked out over the yard.
It should have sparkled with foil-wrapped chocolates and candy-colored eggs. That was the deal. It was How Things Worked.
And admittedly, there were in fact eggs. Hundreds of them, perhaps. But these were not Easter eggs. No, they weren’t even hard-boiled, and they certainly weren’t chocolate. The brown and white shells, some in tact and others not, littered the yard. Egg yolk colored the tree leaves, and the viscous white dripped from the branches. And even though the air was cool, the sun was beginning to warm the surfaces, and a putrid smell was just barely beginning to rise from the yard. Tears filled the children’s eyes, and thoughts of teenage hooligans rampaged in their parents’ minds.
Before anyone could take action, though, a flash of white sped through the yard.
“Hey!” cried the little girl.
The flash became a fluffy, white rabbit, and it looked at her with sad eyes. “I’m too late,” he muttered.
“What happened?” asked the girl’s brother. Though he was not quite two years older, he put a protective arm around his little sister.
The rabbit grimaced, and then he scowled. “My idiot half brother,” he spat. “That’s what happened.”
“You have a brother?” the children’s mother asked.
“I’m a rabbit. Of course I have a brother. Six hundred and seventy-three, to be exact, and another twelve-hundred and eight half-brothers. And don’t even get me started on my sisters.”
“Are they all Easter bunnies?” the father asked.
The rabbit rolled his eyes. “Of course not.”
“Oh,” the father said, simply. “Then, which one did this?”
Fury flashed in the rabbit’s eyes as he spoke: “The March Hare.”
“The March Hare?” asked the mother, incredulous.
“Yes, The March Hare, and thank heavens there’s only one of him!” The rabbit approached the family now, and they huddled a little closer together. This was not the Easter Bunny the television specials and Hallmark cards had told them about. The rabbit put out his paws, as if expecting payment for something. But then, with a pop, two baskets, filled with the most beautifully painted eggs and decadent-looking chocolates the family had ever seen, appeared out of thin air. “Take these,” he said. “Sorry about the hunt.”
The rabbit turned around and surveyed the yard. His ears went straight up and then bent forward at a right angle, sending a beam of light over the yard. In an instant, the errant eggs were gone, and thankfully so was the smell. The rabbit screwed up his arms, prepared to dash away, but the little girl ran forward. Surprised, the rabbit stared at the little girl, and, surprised at herself, the little girl stared back at the rabbit. Finally, she threw her arms around his neck.
“Happy Easter,” she said. “And thanks.”
She let go and went back to join her family. The rabbit very nearly smiled. “You’re welcome. And Happy Easter to you, too.” And then, with a last curt nod in their direction, he was gone.
The children looked at each other, and their parents did the same, and then the boy — so wise beyond his years, as children often are before they grow up — voiced what they all were thinking: “This is the best Easter ever!”
© 2010 Elizabeth Ditty
[FridayFlash] The Cobbler’s Reward
This story started out as a short scene for a one-page screenplay contest last year. It’s been sitting on my computer for more than a year, seen by only a handful of people, and I figured it was time to give it a new life. Please enjoy.
THE COBBLER’S REWARD
A wizened little man sat hunched over a cobbler’s bench, hammering away at the heel of a well-worn boot. He wore a scowl and an old, grubby coat that might once have been green. Between hammers, he glanced up at the security camera that remained fixed on him, and, with each glance, his scowl deepened. Today of all days, this was not where he belonged.
Outside the shoe repair shop, the parade was just beginning. A boy on the cusp of eight stood beside his mother, who was tending to his curly- and golden-haired sisters. They were two and four, and they were everything. The music was growing louder, and the boy watched as his mother directed the girls’ gazes toward the marching band. They both clapped in delight at the sight of the instruments moving in unison, and their mother — and anyone who happened to spot them — clapped in delight as well. How cute they were. The boy rolled his eyes, and, having lost interest in the never-changing parade two years ago, he slipped away.
He walked down the sidewalk, glancing in all the windows. The furniture stores held no interest for him. The candy shop would have had he remembered to bring a bit of his meager allowance. The candle shop made him sneeze. He would have passed by the shoe repair shop without a second glance if it weren’t for the sight of the gnarled old man, barely much taller than himself, staring out the window as if he were caught in a prison cell. He was startled, and, though he’d never admit it, a little scared by the sight. But then the man looked at him, and his dead eyes came to life with a twinkle. The tiniest motion of the man’s hand beckoned the boy inside. So, inside the boy went.
With a twitch of his head, he invited the boy closer, and, always the curious type, the boy approached. Only when the old man leaned toward him, as if to tell him a secret, did he stop. Suddenly, a litany of after-school specials and school assemblies ran through his mind, and he wondered if he was doing the right thing.
“Do you know what I am?” asked the old man.
The boy looked him over and then shook his head.
“I’m a leprechaun,” he whispered.
The boy raised a skeptical eyebrow. He was young, but he was no dummy. “Prove it,” he replied.
The old man waved his hand, and without explanation, there was suddenly a bright green, golf-ball sized emerald sitting in his palm. The boy gawped, and any notion that he was in the wrong place at the wrong time vanished.
“I’m a prisoner here,” the old man explained, his expression suddenly urgent. “If you help me escape, you’ll be rewarded.”
The boy’s eyes shot to the emerald. The old man, realizing the implication, pulled it back protectively only to receive a stern look from the boy. The old man, clenched his jaw, sighed heavily, looked longingly at his emerald, and then even more longingly outside.
“Oh, all right,” he said, looking none too happy about it.
The boy beamed.
“See those shoes?” the old man asked, eyeing a pair of high-fashion high heels that no one in the small town would ever consider walking around in. They were the only shoes in the store that bore the accessory of an anti-theft device. The boy saw them immediately; they were hard to miss. “Take them.”
The look of surprise on the boy’s face was not unexpected, but the old man had been playing at this game much longer. He moved the emerald into the light, and he watched the boy’s inner struggle with a hint of glee as the sunshine played in the facets of the jewel. The boy grimaced and met the old man’s eyes, and the old man knew he had won.
Without another word, the boy dashed to the shoes, grabbed them, and sprinted out the door. At the sound of the alarm, a fat man barreled out from the back room, giving pointless chase down the street.
The old man stood, and for the first time in a very long time, he smiled. He walked over to the security camera, gave it a wink, and then shut it off. When the fat man returned without his prized shoes, he found he had also lost his prized cobbler.
Outside, having escaped into an alley way, the boy leaned against a brick wall to catch his breath. He’d discarded the shoes in a dumpster a block back, just in case. He wouldn’t know the term for another five or six years, but he understood plausible deniability like an old pro. As his breath finally slowed, it occurred to him that he and the old man had never settled terms on how he was to receive his reward. He stood up and for the first time experienced the unsettling feeling that he had been swindled.
The sound of shoes crunching against the pavement caught his attention, and he looked up. At the other end of the alley was none other than the old man, standing straighter and looking more spritely than the boy would have thought possible.
“Hey, what about my reward?” the kid called out.
The old man grinned and began walking away from the boy. Not about to give up without a fight, the boy took a step to run after him, but got no further than that due to a suddenly odd weight in his pocket. He reached into it, and, when his hand emerged, it held the emerald — solid, real, and more beautiful in the open air than he could have imagined. The boy smiled and looked up to find the old man, but the old man was nowhere to be seen.
© 2010 Elizabeth Ditty
[FridayFlash] Love in Love
This week’s installment is a little Valentine’s-themed story that I’d eventually like to turn into a short film script (and then a short film, natch). I wanted to do something similar in tone to Neil Gaiman’s “Harlequin Valentine
LOVE IN LOVE
The dress had to be perfect. Everything was riding on it.
She examined the fabric of the little burgundy number she was wearing. Too thin and it would show every bump and dimple she hated about herself. Too thick and it would hide every line and curve she loved. Her eyes poured over the places she liked and loathed. The fabric, she decided, would do.
Her eyes traveled to the hemline. Too high and it would make her look like a Halloween Catholic school girl. Too low and she’d look like an everyday Catholic school marm. She raised on her tiptoes, and then she stood flat-footed. She pulled up a stool and sat down, crossing her legs at the ankles and then at the knees. She stood back up, twirled, all the while keeping her eyes glued to the place where the burgundy met the peach of her skin. She stopped and looked at herself straight on. The hemline, she decided, would do.
In all her focus, she nearly missed the flash of gold dart behind her in the mirror. She turned around just in time to see an old man throw aside his cane, take his equally-decrepit wife in his arms, and kiss her passionately. The woman’s brow furrowed. She took one more quick look in the mirror, ripped the tag off, and stomped to the cash register to pay. She couldn’t chance going home to change. She was wearing this baby out of the store.
As the cashier handed the woman her receipt, a bolt of gold flew over her shoulder, whisking her hair forward. Before her eyes, the cashier, a dowdy matron who could be pretty if she tried, clasped her hand to her heart. She turned to look across the way to the cologne department, where, after another barely noticed flash of gold, a balding man turned to face her. The woman watched in annoyance as the two left their stations and met in the aisle, embracing as if they were star-crossed lovers who’d finally sorted the constellations. The woman scowled. She did a little mental geometry, calculating where the darts of gold had originated. And then she set off at a pace somewhere between catwalk and slight jog.
Down the street she went. Another spark of gold to her left, and another match made. She picked up her pace. To her right now, two lovers reunited with tears of joy. She looked ahead, and there she spotted a tall man in a white suit. He saw her, too. And then he turned and disappeared into the rush-hour crowd. She ran after him, thoughts of grace replaced by the heat of the chase, ignoring the shooting pain from her heels to her knees and praying that her brand-new, blown-paycheck heels could hold their own.
She followed the flashes of gold like they were yellow bricks, and they led her to another glimpse of white. She refused to blink, breaking into a sprint now. She gained, and finally, just as the man in white was releasing two golden, heart-tipped arrows from his bow, she caught him. She made to grab for his arm, but he was too fast. Pointed straight at her chest was a dark, pewter-colored arrow. The woman froze. The tip of this arrow was heart-shaped, too, but down the middle of it ran an ominous, lightning bolt of a crack. Her eyes ran along the silver shaft to the crow-feathered fletching, and then up the arm of the man and finally into his steely eyes.
“You can’t,” she pleaded, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’m in love with you.”
She saw the pity in his expression. The bowstring loosened, if only by an inch. “You can’t be in love with Love,” he said.
She shook her head and moved toward him again. The bowstring went taught, even more so than before. “I’m sorry,” he said, and something in his eyes made her believe he meant it. Before she could cry out, there was a leaden arrow in her heart.
And then he was gone.
The woman walked the dark streets, the sun having retired hours ago. The sky opened up and let loose the rain it had been threatening for days. Still miles from her apartment, and the cabs of the city filled with Valentines both new and old, the woman sat down on the curb and stared at the rainwater washing the pavement of its debris. She heard footsteps, but she couldn’t summon the passion to look up.
It was only when the splash of red passed into her vision that she looked up. A well-dressed man, soaked to the bone, walked down the street, a dozen red roses dangling facedown from his hand. She looked at him curiously. And then he turned and returned her expression. He retraced his steps and offered his hand to help her up. She accepted. He held out the roses, and she accepted those, too. And as they looked at each other, whatever heartbreak had befallen them that night was suddenly forgotten.
Neither suspected or noticed a thing when a man in an unblemished white suit passed them by with nothing more than a nod of his head and a wistful look in his eye.
© 2010 Elizabeth Ditty
Merry Happy
I’ve wanted to send out a 100-word Christmas story with my Christmas cards for a few years now. This is the first year I’ve gotten around to writing a story. Alas, I did not get around to actually sending Christmas cards. So, I present it here instead, along with my wishes for a lovely Christmas if you celebrate it and a lovely day regardless.
And to make up for the mush, I’ll also share this riveting piece of cinema, created by my sister and myself as a bit of Christmas entertainment for our family.
[FridayFlash] The Search for Santa
After a month off from all non-NaNoWriMo-related writing, I’m ready to get back to business. And that means #fridayflash! Now that it’s December, I present to you a little Christmas story, inspired by an idea my sister gave me this afternoon. I hope you enjoy.
THE SEARCH FOR SANTA
Michael stared out the window as the bus drove him home. Usually one of the rowdiest of the bunch, he was completely oblivious to the furor around him. Today Michael had more serious matters than elementary hijinks on his 10-year-old mind.
The topic at school that day had been “Holiday Traditions Around the World,” and it had always proven popular with the kids leading up to the holiday break. Indeed, this year was no exception, except for Michael, who proved the rule.
As soon as Michael walked through the door, his mother could tell something was wrong. “What happened?” she asked, going to him and helping with his coat in that overly worried sort of way mothers do.
“We talked about Santa today,” Michael said, looking up at her with a grimace that he felt should explain everything.
His mother looked at him as if she’d been expecting this somehow, and she sighed and pulled him into a hug. Michael tolerated the hug for a few seconds and then pulled away. “Why is Santa different everywhere?” he asked.
“What?” his mother replied.
“Mrs. Dunning says he’s called Père Noël in France, and he goes around with Black Pete, and Black Pete gives bad kids coal. But Black Pete doesn’t come here.”
“Well…”
“And in Austria and Germany and some other places he’s called Kris Kringle, and he’s a little angel.”
“That’s because… Um…”
Michael looked at his mother with increasing frustration. “And sometimes he’s called Father Christmas, and sometimes he’s called St. Nicholas, and sometimes he wears all fur, and sometimes he wears all red. He always comes down our chimney, but Ryan says they don’t have a chimney and so he just comes in the front door. And in some places he leaves stuff in shoes. Shoes, Mom!”
His mother simply stood there, mouth opening and closing, but nothing coming out. Michael huffed, grabbed his backpack, and stomped his way into the family office where the computer was located. He sat down and pulled out the sheet of traditions his teacher had given him, the source of all his angst, and placed it next to the keyboard with the precision of a scientist. He would get to the bottom of this mess, with or without his mother’s help.
Hours passed, and his focus never wavered. His mother brought him dinner, but it remained untouched. His father tried to convince him to give up his search, at least for the night, but, having no more answers than his mother, Michael refused him. Darkness fell, and the house grew quiet. Soon only the glow of the computer screen illuminated the room. Finally, fatigue began to gnaw at him, and he allowed himself a yawn. The handout was now covered in notes, none of which had helped shed any light on the situation. If anything, poor Michael was even more inundated than before, as the internet — even one with parental controls on — had much more to say about Santa Claus than any of his peers or teachers.
Michael leaned forward and rested his chin on his crossed arms. His eyes drifted to a picture frame on his father’s desk. It was from three Christmases ago, and his mother put it out every holiday season. In it, almost too big for such a thing, he sat on the lap of a white-bearded man in a red suit — a man whom Michael had thought was Santa — while his parents stood proudly on either side. He’d been so certain in that picture, but now here he was, full of doubts. If Santa had so many names and behaved so differently around the world, perhaps he wasn’t even real at all. He’d heard other kids proclaim this, of course, but he’d always thought them fools. The thought that perhaps he had been the fool all along was enough to bring tears to his heartbroken eyes. He closed them and buried his head in his arms.
Had the tap on his shoulder not been so gentle, he might have screamed. He turned around slowly, ready to admit defeat to whichever parent had come to shuttle him off to bed. But the tap had not come from a parent. In front of his very eyes stood — well, it couldn’t have been anyone else — Santa Claus. Somehow, he looked exactly as Michael would have imagined and also like nothing he’d ever dreamed. Michael opened his mouth to speak, to ask, to cry out in happiness, and then, perhaps, in anger at all the confusion for which this man was obviously responsible. But before he could get a word out, Santa put a finger to his lips.
“Never stop searching,” he heard Santa say.
Michael leapt out of his chair and embraced the jolly old man with all the relief and thankfulness of a child who has just had hope renewed. As much as Michael wanted to beg Santa to stay, for some reason he knew he couldn’t. He watched with both longing and joy as he disappeared into the night, and then he turned back to the computer, his determination to find out as much as he could renewed.
His parents found him asleep the next morning at the computer. Seconds after they had tenderly shaken him awake, he launched into his story, sparing no detail nor enthusiasm. His parents nodded patiently and smiled patronizingly, and even though they never said it, he could tell that they thought it had been nothing more than a dream. But Michael knew better.
© 2009 Elizabeth Ditty
[FridayFlash] Jack and Jill
There are a number of fascinating Halloween legends out there, and I knew I wanted to write a story about this one. I found the opportunity when, a couple of weeks ago, my sister, inspired by Tim Burton’s sketches from Sweeney Todd, sketched a spooky image of her own. I loved it immediately, and I knew the woman in the picture had a story to tell. This is it.
JACK AND JILL
Jill hadn’t been in Ireland very long. Thus, when she saw the strange man holding what looked like a turnip walking down the road, her only consideration was that she was looking rather gaunt and feeling rather hungry. She needed the money, and if a turnip-loving man had it to offer, then she would happily provide whatever services he requested.
The villagers here didn’t like her, and she couldn’t honestly blame them. The women hated her because their men loved her, and the men hated her because they couldn’t help loving her. Needless to say, she was far from popular. She didn’t let it bother her, though. Whatever troubles she faced here, though, they were far easier to bear than what she’d left behind in England. Her hand instinctively brushed her stomach, and she felt the lump rising in her throat. She’d lost much.
Immediately, she sniffed and straightened herself up. She looked out the window again. Yes, the odd but thankfully handsome man was definitely heading this way. She pulled down her dress and pushed up 
her breasts, and then she opened the door before he could knock. She batted her long-lashed eyes at him, and he smiled back at her. Her eyes flitted to the turnip. Now she could see it was hollowed out, and inside it glowed an ember, brighter than any she’d seen in the admittedly pathetic fires she’d built in her decrepit hut.
“Would you like to come in?” she asked, in a tone somewhere between playful and husky, having not yet figured out what sort of fantasy suited the man’s fancy.
“Indeed, I would, if you’re offering,” he replied, grinning in such a way that Jill couldn’t help but be a little charmed.
She moved aside, just enough for him to enter, but not without brushing her skin as he passed. “I see the fog cleared,” she remarked.
The man swung around. “Finally. And on Halloween night, no less.” His smile only got wider, as if he’d stumbled upon a pot of gold.
“What’s your name, stranger?” she asked, settling on husky.
“The name, my unfortunate beauty, is Jack.” He spotted a kettle on the dwindling fire and motioned to it before she could reply. “May I?”
“Of course,” she said, still a little unsettled by being called unfortunate. She shook it off, though. She had a job to do. “But please. Let me.”
She walked to the kettle, grabbed a mug from a nearby shelf, and poured him a cup of cider.
“It’s almost a shame,” the man mused, more to himself than to Jill.
“What is?”
He turned to face her, and she handed him the mug. He took a sip. “You’re not from here, I take it.”
“Is it that obvious?” she asked, giggling as she once again batting her eyelashes. Perhaps playful was his preference after all.
“Unfortunately so,” he replied.
Again with that word. She felt her brow furrow just for a second, and then she simply smiled at him, wide-eyed. He set down the mug, but not the turnip, and moved toward her. His hand found her neck, and his fingers found her hair, and then, his lips found hers. They were cold, and he tasted like smoke. She pulled away, demurely, just as he began to pull her closer.
“Now, Jack,” she purred, stroking the exposed skin at his collar. “If that’s your business tonight, then we should talk about… compensation.”
Jack moved away, his grin even wider than she would have believed possible. “My dear,” he said. “My poor, unfortunate soul. My business here is utterly finished.”
She stared at him, perplexed. He grabbed the mug of cider and then backed out the door, taking it with him. Jill followed him outside the house without thinking. She peered into the darkness, but the fog had returned. There was no sight of him. It was then that she noticed it: in her hand was the turnip, and the ember inside it was glowing brighter than ever.
“Jack?” she called into the night. But there was no answer. She turned to go back inside only to find the door closed. She tried the handle, but the door had latched, and it would not give. She sighed. As much as she hated the idea, she would have to ask for a neighbor’s help. She walked down the road toward the next home, cursing the man Jack, who had stolen a kiss and been too stingy to pay for it.
When she came to the path leading to her neighbor’s door, she could not force her feet onto it, no matter how hard she tried. She told herself it was fate, or God, or destiny, forcing her onward to the next house. But when she came to it, she could not approach it either. And so she walked on, and on, and on. After a number of hours, or days, or weeks, or perhaps even years, she could no longer remember why she walked. All that remained was a hope that the fog would lift.
© 2009 Elizabeth Ditty
