TINY TUESDAY (m)

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Registered: 03-25-2003
TINY TUESDAY (m)
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Tue, 12-11-2001 - 9:57am

TINY TUESDAY (m)


With the holiday season in full swing, this week write a short story or scene that tells about a special gift given or received during Hanukkah, Christmas or Kwanza.

Happy Writing,

Mac

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Avatar for tankaray
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Registered: 03-26-2003
Tue, 12-11-2001 - 11:13am

Well, does my essay below qualify? I could do another tho! (n/t)


Michelle, co-cl for The Writing Life
Life is short. Buy the shoes.
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iVillage Member
Registered: 03-25-2003
Tue, 12-11-2001 - 11:54am

Yes, but feel free to do another. We love your stories! (nt)


Visitor (not verified)
anonymous user
Tue, 12-11-2001 - 8:29pm

My TT: Stocking Stuffer (m)


I started several TTs and have struggled. This is the shortest and the most topical. Be gentle :)

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

“C’mon, honey, push.”

The door bangs open as another gloved, green-clad creature enters the room. They walk with arms extended, like sleepwalkers. The stainless steel cart offers a variety of utensils that I hope we won’t have to use. The lady in the next room screams at someone, her husband I presume from the context. An array of wheeled electronics beep and squeal and monitor God knows what. Unlike the lobby and the nursing station, this room has no festive decorations.

Angie hung stockings this evening for her three mean cats and for her goldfish. She put fish in the first three, and fish food in the last. She hung my stocking, and stuffed tiny wrapped parcels inside. I was on my way to the basement to look for something for hers, maybe something from workshop, when she said the contractions were really close together.

The clock above the door reads 4:37 when Angie groans and a wail fills the room. Now I know what to put in Angie’s stocking.

iVillage Member
Registered: 03-25-2003
Tue, 12-11-2001 - 11:05pm

Here's mine (m)


I sort of revamped this one into a Christmas tale, gift story-LOL. Hope it works.

Mac

* * *

Like me, no one else wants to go to Michael Quinley’s wake. It is Christmas Eve and there are last minute gifts to buy as well as baking to be done but like all the rest I am going because of Maggie. She is a good woman who had the unfortunate luck to marry a man of lesser quality. As I enter the house, I visit with the group of people gathered in the cramped room off the kitchen before paying my respects to the deceased.

“For the love of Mary, quit your lying. I know you hated the bastard," Patrick O’Malley says. He had never liked his wife’s younger brother; I hardly knew anyone who did myself.

His wife, Fiona, rears back and slaps him upside the head. "You should be ashamed of yourself. Disrespectin' the dead."

He rubs his head with his left hand. Ignoring her, he motions for the bottle of Jamison that Tommy is holding. "You should be ashamed of yourself for hoarding the whiskey.”

Frank Leary follows his mother through the back door, carrying a steaming pot with both hands. I smile at him and he dips his head towards me.

I sniff the air. When I recognize the smell, I hold a hand to my mouth whisper out the side, "I can’t believe your mother cooked corn beef and cabbage. Everybody knows Mikey hated it.” He shrugs his shoulders, then I say, “He wouldn’t touch the stuff.”

Throwing a shot of liquor down his throat, then Tommy says, "The man would eat a pile of shit if it was served on a platter. He didn't care what he ate; that's what killed him."

I brush the strands of reddish-brown hair from my eyes. "But I heard he donated his organs."

“Rubbish. The man would never do anything for anybody.”

“Aye. He was my baby brother but he was a selfish man up to the day he died,” Fiona says to her husband before she leaves the room.

Frank returns from the kitchen and holds his cup up to the bottle where Tommy is pouring himself another drink. “Katie, I’m afraid you bought into one of Uncle Mikey’s lies. He got the idea about giving his body parts away from that John Prine song."

Patrick, who’s busy digging in the pockets of his black slacks, finally finds the pack of cigarettes he’s looking for. He takes one out; placing it between his front teeth then says, "I told that boy The Beatles—“

"I didn't say John Lennon, Uncle Paddy. I said John Prine?" Tommy yells.

"Sorry, lad." He offers each of us a cigarette. Frank and I decline but Tommy takes one.

“Can you sing the song for us?” I ask, admiring Frank’s handsome face. These days, the barely visible scars on his chin and a mark below his left eye are the only reminders of the beatings his Uncle Mikey used to give him.

"Can't say I know all the words but I'll try.” He clears his throat. “Please don't bury me in the cold, cold ground. I'd rather have you chop me and pass me all around. Throw my brain in a hurricane and the blind can have my eyes. The deaf can have both of my ears, if they don't mind the size."

"Ole Mikey did have the largest ears I’d ever seen," says Patrick when Frank stops signing.

"Speaking of large ears, have any of you seen Nora Malcomb's new baby?" Tommy says.

I struggle to keep from spitting out the liquor I'd just sipped. After swallowing, I say, “I saw him yesterday. That baby has to be Mikey’s.”

“I’m sure it is. He bragged to me that he’d been sleeping with her, among others.”

“I don’t know why any woman would want to have sex with him,” I say.

Frank grins. “One time, back when me and Maw were living him and Aunt Maggie, Uncle Mikey passed out drunk in the bathtub. Well, anyway I saw why. Wasn’t just his ears that were so large.”

“Dear Lord. I’ll excuse myself on that note.” I leave before my fair skin starts to turn bright red.

Walking into living room, I notice Frank a few steps behind me. I see a beautiful mahogany casket across the room but stop to say a few words to Maggie before I make my way towards it. Surprisingly, Mikey looks better dead than he did alive. I suppose it is the pleasant expression that makes me think this; I had expected to see the same ornery man I’d lived next door to for the last twelve years.

“Looks almost decent, doesn’t he?” Frank’s words startle me.

“Almost.” I try to block from my mind the vicious words I’d heard him shout night after night. My bedroom wall was next to his and Maggie’s so over the years I’d listened to a lot of the abuse he dished out. Typically, it was when he’d spent too much time at the pub or came home with the smell of another woman on him. Then there were evenings that I’d watched him scream at his children in the back yard we shared; it had been enough to frighten me, a grown woman.

He turns to look at his Aunt Maggie, and then back towards his Uncle’s body. A few moments of silence pass among us. “Made honey in her heart, he did. I don’t know how though. He was a despicable man, Katie.” He touches his finger to his forehead and then crosses his body.

“I’m all sweet for you too, Frank Leary. Do you know that?”

“Does that mean I can tell Maw we’re having a Christmas wedding?” Frank asks.

I nod my head and slide my hand over his. “I’m sorry I wanted so long to answer your proposal.”

“That’s okay. I couldn’t ask for a better present. I love you, Katie,” he says, winking at me.

“Merry Christmas, Frank.”

iVillage Member
Registered: 03-19-2003
Tue, 12-11-2001 - 11:40pm

Short and sweet, eyewrite. (m)


Maybe you could just indicate briefly who the narrator is. Her hubby? A friend? One of the cats? (just kidding-LOL) This was the perfect christmas present, but I just wondered who was telling us about it.

Nice work.

Linda

cl-ozarker

"We are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master." - Ernest Heminway

iVillage Member
Registered: 03-19-2003
Tue, 12-11-2001 - 11:54pm

LOL mac, loved the story. (m)


But I was wondering all the way through what kind of Christmas present that lecherous old corpse was going to give someone.

Good work gal.

Linda

cl-ozarker

"We are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master." - Ernest Heminway

Visitor (not verified)
anonymous user
Wed, 12-12-2001 - 12:10am

I hadn't really decided... (m)


I was thinking of several people, including a close friend. But then the narrator has nothing to fill Angie's stocking and heads to the workroom... so I settled on her hubby in the end.

Thank you for reading and commenting. I was not proud of this piece, but I made myself post something as a goal :)

G'nite, Eyewrite

Visitor (not verified)
anonymous user
Wed, 12-12-2001 - 12:15am

So many people, my head's a-spinnin' (m)


Maybe because it's late, but my poor brain couldn't keep up with all the characters. Or maybe it was only a few characters and my brain was even more tired.

You capture realistic dialogue and slip it into the story well. I'm learning from you :)

G'nite, Eyewrite

iVillage Member
Registered: 03-19-2003
Wed, 12-12-2001 - 12:15am

All right, one from Mrs. Scrooge here.(m)


I know this is a little over 500 words, but I just couldn't stop 'til I got to the end--LOL

A CHRISTMAS EXCHANGE

I watched the boy and his mother stride through the store. Well, to tell the truth, she strode. He struggled along beside her as she swept down the aisles -- like Mrs. Asterbilt's horse, as my dirt farmer grandpa used to say. She nearly ran over Mrs. Taylor and her seven year old, Billy as she rushed by them.

The woman was rich, at least for this town. I'd worked at Lord and Taylor's for a few months when I lived in Chicago and, trust me, I know rich. Her soft pink sweater, cashmire for sure, probably cost more than I made in a month. And the gray wool suit? Ha! I wouldn't even try to guess. I know she didn't buy that flowery smelling perfume in a store like this either.

The little guy, about eight, wore his brown hair slicked back like Richie Rich. I'd swear he just stepped out of L&T's front window. The camel brown jacket even had little leather patches at the elbow, and a dark green tie -- silk, or my name ain't Liddie Jenkins -- was tucked into his little sweater vest that probably cost more than I could afford to spend on all my kids for their Christmas presents.

I just couldn't figure out what a woman like that was doing in a Walmart in Podunk Junction until she flounced up to the tire counter and announced that she had a flat and could they fix it right away because she had to be in St. Louis for an important dinner engagement.

Mr. Daily, at the counter, just smiled and said, "Ma'am, leave your keys and we'll get to you just as quick as we can. But there are two people ahead of you, so it may be a while."

"Fine!" She tossed the keys on the glass counter top and gave him the information he needed with a huge sigh that announced her dismay at his lack of class.

While she waited, I watched her stroll through the aisles, lifting a blouse here and a dress there -- smirking and shaking her head as if it were all too much to bear before hanging them back on the rack. Mrs. Taylor, who wore one of the very dresses the woman was smirking at, caught my eye and raised her left eyebrow as if she thought it was all hugely funny.

Billy tugged at her dress, and said, "Mom, can I go get the Christmas present now?"

"Just as soon as I pay for this blouse." She approached me. "I'll take this one." Billy did the little dance kids do when they're supposed to be waiting patiently. "Every year, he buys one present with his allowance to give to a child that has less than he does. Learned that in Sunday school." She gave him a gentle smile.

"That's sweet, Billy. I'm proud of you." I took her charge card, and slipped the blouse into a sack. "With the recession and all, there's sure to be plenty of kids to choose from, huh?" He gave me a solemn nod and followed his mother to the next counter.

About that time, I saw the Richie Rich kid run up to his mother with a fifty-cent red rubber ball clutched in his hand. "Mama, look," he said. "Can I have it?"

She looked down at the ball like it was covered in crap and sprouting worms. "Certainly not, Charles!" She saw the disappointment in his eyes. "It's not like you need another toy. You have every thing a child could want. Now go put it back. You never know who's been playing with it."

"But I don't have a ball." he whispered. He waited a minute, then, as she turned away, he gave up and returned the ball to the wire basket at the edge of the toy department. I couldn't help wondering about that 'everything' he had, and who might have decided everything was what he wanted.

I saw Billy watching them, like he wanted to ask the boy to play while they waited for their moms. But I was pretty sure what would happen if Billy asked. I got pretty busy then. You know how it is -- Christmas time at Walmart. A little later, I did hear Mr. Daily call someone's name and saw Mrs. Asterbilt swoop up to the counter. She looked at her watch, a dainty diamond covered little number, folded her hands across her chest, and tapped her foot as Mr. Daily hustled to sweep her charge card through the little machine and give her her receipt and keys. "Have a nice day, ma'am."

She grabbed the keys without even a nod, and turned to leave, looking for her son. As the boy reached for his mother's hand, Billy Taylor touched him on the shoulder. I nearly dropped my teeth when little Billy handed him the red rubber ball, with one of those blue bows stuck on it.

"Merry Christmas," Billy said, and ran off to meet his mother.

THE END

cl-ozarker

"We are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master." - Ernest Heminway

Avatar for tankaray
iVillage Member
Registered: 03-26-2003
Wed, 12-12-2001 - 10:06am

Short and sweet :-)


With a nice little message. I liked it, but I did wonder who the narrator was also. It fit in that it was her hubby at the end.

Nice work (even if you weren't proud of it). ;-)

Michelle

Michelle, co-cl for The Writing Life
Life is short. Buy the shoes.
Visit

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