John stepped out the back door, across the deck, and into his lawn. The dry, brown grass crunched as small clouds of dust billowed beneath his shoes with each step. It was only ten, and already the mercury was into the nineties.
Still, John smiled. No rain meant no mowing. A happy Father’s Day indeed!
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A pristine layer of snow covered the neighborhood, disrupted only by a set of prints from a deer investigating the colored lights adorning sundry shrubbery and windows. Inside 2672 Windmere Lane, Helen walked into her undecorated den. Alone, she poured a glass of scotch and cried in the morning silence trying to ignore the date.
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Mr. Oakley snored in his recliner, feet up, undisturbed by the drone of the football game in the background. A few uneaten cookie crumbs had settled into his sweater. Underneath the knitted wool uncounted calories struggled to work their way through his system.
With a start Mr. Oakley awoke to a grimace and a gurgle.
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All was quiet except for the rush of warm air flowing out of the floorboard registers. Timmy had flipped his covers off revealing Christmas pajamas, a reindeer print with glow-in-the-dark Rudolph noses.
BAM!
Timmy’s heart raced as he listened to the ceiling creak under the weight of something falling on the house.
“What if we put the couch over my the bookcase and the recliner by the window.”
“No, I want the tree in front of the window. Can we put the couch under the family pictures?”
“But then no one can see the TV.”
“I’ve got it! Let’s convert and put the menorah on the mantle.”
Thanks Kerri for another wonderful Christmas story!
Excitedly, she lugged the crate of decorations up from the basement and set it on the coffetable. In her mind, she could see the brilliance of last year’s tree—the ornaments, the ribbon, the presents underneath. As she unveiled the adornments for this year, she groaned. She’d forgotten about stringing the stinking lights.
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The Holidays are in full swing here at 55 Fiction, and our first guest story of the Season comes from Mike Miller. Thanks, Mike! Share your own story here.
Brenda barely breathed while Santa rustled about the living room. That sounded like Santa eating Brenda’s special cookies with the special ingredient. That sounded like the remote control car.
That sounded like a panicked dash to the bathroom.
That sounded like a father who would regret telling little Johnny the truth about Santa before bed.
Madison trudged home. Instead of taking the bus, she walked alone. At the party she stood under the mistletoe for hours. Ethan passed several times. Always a smile; never more.
Turning onto Oak, Madison decided to give up.
She started up the stoop. And there sat Ethan, thermos in one hand, mistletoe in the other.
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This was clearly Buddy’s favorite time of year. There weren’t as many smells outside, but the house was an explosion of scents. Other humans came frequently, and Mrs. was always cooking something for them. Buddy was a master at “sad eyes,” so he always got extra nibbles.
The doorbell rang, and Buddy began to drool.
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