Tag: seasonal

Susan surveyed the wreckage. The ceramic floor tile shone from the patina of spilled sugar crystals. Nearly empty tubes of frosting oozed colored gel, staining the festive paper tablecloths. Susan grasped a cloth at one corner, expertly enfolding decorating paraphernalia and gooey mess all in one deft movement. The crumbled bundle landed neatly in the trash bin. The rest could wait until morning. She was bone-aching tired but deeply satisfied with the evening.

Closing her eyes to the shambles, Susan inhaled the lingering aroma of baked cookies. The holiday cookie-decorating party had been a great idea—current disarray aside. Her friends even asked her to host another one next year. They were all so lighthearted this eveningz; rolling out dough and sharing favorite cookie cutters, joking as they passed bowls of colorful Royal Icing between tables. The finished cookies were gorgeous. Everyone filled tins to take home.

Even Paul’s grown-up daughters had shown up. Notorious holiday cynics, their enthusiastic participation surprised Susan. Their enjoyment in decorating the cookies seemed to be genuine. Heads almost touching, Julie’s blond hair entangled with Anna’s dark, they carefully shielded their handiwork from copycats. The artistic detail on their finished cookies was impressive. Her stepdaughters actually hugged her before they left. Susan smiled to herself. Finally, their coolness towards her was melting. She even heard them giggling as they got into their car. She stretched happily, contentment filling every pore.

Susan kicked her off her shoes and happy-danced towards the bedroom. It had been the perfect party. She had to admit to herself that she’d been eager for her stepdaughters to see her through her friends’ eyes, as someone generous and kind and warm. She was loved by her friends, adored by Paul, and wanted her stepdaughters to, at least, like her. Including them tonight with her friends was a public declaration that they were a family. She took the girls’ participation as their unspoken accord.

Loosening an earring one-handed, Susan reached towards her jewelry box. She froze, eyes widening with bewildered disbelief. The earring bounced off the carpet as her hands rose involuntarily to her mouth. She gasped for breath: gut-punched and nauseous. Embarrassment at her own naivety and stupid optimism flooded her face with hot color. Tears of humiliation blurred her vision. If this was the girls’ idea of a joke, it was cruel and cowardly. She envisioned them sniggering spitefully all the way home, imagining her reaction.

It was a cookie, hand-decorated especially for her and artfully placed where only she would find it, on top of the leather jewelry case. They must have used the Mrs. Claus cookie cutter. No attention to detail had been spared, from the softly curled hairdo and the naked breasts adorned with raisin nipples, down to the vulgar chocolate-frosting mat of pubic hair, enhanced with silver sugar crystals. This was more than a cynical mockery of her holiday celebration; it was a judgment.

Susan took a deep, shaking breath and sank into the bedroom chair. She leaned forward, her right arm protectively hugging her middle; her chin supported on the back of her left hand. She glanced pensively at her husband’s slumbering form. He was everything to her.

Newly resolute, Susan stood up and squared her shoulders. Okay. Now she understood the rules of the game, and she had the home court advantage. The girls were about to learn that she would not crumble as easily as this Christmas cookie. Neither was she as sweet. They had only won Round One.

© Copyright 2010 Lynn Nicholas. All rights reserved.

Lynn Nicholas, a LiveJournal blogger, is also active on FanStory.com as “allinmyhead,”where she posts work for critique and reviews other writers’ submissions. She is the author of “Jumping the Tracks,” which appeared on this blog in June 2009. An experienced technical editor, she is now enjoying honing her writing skills, specializing in humorous commentary. Lynn’s fiction and poetry are inspired by real-life experience. Motto: when life throws you curves, find a way to use it in your writing. She lives in Tucson, AZ.

Dear Santa
by Margaret Finnegan

Dear Santa:

How are you? I am fine. For Christmas I would like the pink Transformer, an iTouch, some video games, a skateboard, a Ping-Pong table, a TV for my room, a cell phone, and a puppy.

Sincerely,
Kyle

Dear Kyle:

Thank you for your letter. My Holiday Miracles Team really wants to hear from you, but all the elves are busy right now. Please wait patiently. When we have read your letter, we will get back to you—and remember, for faster service please put your Child Identification Number on all correspondence.

Wishing you a very merry Christmas,
Santa Claus

Dear Santa:

How are you? I am fine. My CIN is 005934562. I would like all of the things listed on my last letter, which you will know is mine because it is signed Kyle. I will wait patiently.

Sincerely,
Kyle

¡Hola Kyle!

Usted ha sido un niño muy bueno este año. ¡Esta Navidad, obtendrá todo lo que quieras!

Con amor,
Santa Claus

Dear Santa:

How are you? I (005934562) am fine. For Christmas I would like the pink Transformer, an iTouch, some video games, a skateboard, a Ping-Pong table, a TV for my room, a cell phone, and a puppy.

Sincerely,
Kyle

Dear Kyle:

Our records indicate that you have not been a good boy. Please revise your list accordingly.

Wishing you a very merry Christmas,
Santa Claus

Dear Mr. Claus:

Per your letter 6 December 2009. As the mother of Kyle (CIN 005934562), I can assure you that Kyle has indeed been a very good boy this year. Kyle has consistently done his chores, which include taking out the trash and setting the table, and he has gotten very good grades.

As many Gifted and Talented children, however, Kyle is easily bored. As we have explained to the school, this can hardly be blamed on Kyle. Had he been given the challenging curriculum that he deserves, we are certain that the unfortunate “glued computer incident” would never have occurred.

As it is, Kyle’s teacher has moved on. Is it naughty to ask that you do the same? Or perhaps you simply have our Kyle mixed up with another Kyle.

Gracias,
Karen Thompson

Dear Ms. Thompson:

Three words: Fred the cat.

Wishing you a very merry Christmas,
Santa Claus

Dear Mr. Claus:

As it was clearly an accident, it seems hardly fair to bring up the Fred affair. Besides, the Murphys, who, to be brutally honest, are rather irresponsible people, didn’t even notice that their cat had been missing until Kyle thoughtfully decided to show them the little movie he made at Raging Waters. If you had seen the video, I think you would have to agree that Fred truly enjoys water sports.

Karen Thompson

Dear Kyle:

We wonder about your willingness to let your mother fight all your battles for you. Do you really think that will help you in the long run?

Wishing you a very merry Christmas,
Santa Claus

Dear Mr. Claus:

There is no need to take this out on Kyle (CIN 005934562), who has been a very good boy this year and who deserves the rights and privileges accruing thereof, as stated in Santa Statute 15.342. If denied these rights, you may expect swift legal reprisal.

Karen Thompson, JD
Wong & Warburton
Attorneys at Large
5151 Jehosphat Drive
Pasadena, CA 91106

Dear Kyle:

Our records show that you have behaved adequately this year. Children in the adequate range can expect to receive select sports equipment (no Ping-Pong tables), board games, stuffed animals and clothing. Please adjust your list accordingly.

Wishing you a very merry Christmas,
Santa Claus

Dear Santa:

What about the puppy?

Kyle
CIN 005934562

Dear Kyle:

Karen Thompson, aka your overbearing mother, has previously declared your home a pet-free zone. If she wishes to amend this gift-giving category, please ask her to visit our Facebook page and click “like” on “yes to pets.”

Wishing you a very merry Christmas.
Santa Claus

My dear old friend Santa:

I’m sensing some tension between the Thompsons and your Holiday Miracles Team. It breaks my heart—really—and I think it must break your heart too.

Isn’t this the season of giving and forgiving? Remember Christmas 1977? That was the year you gave me Logan’s Run action figures when I really wanted Star Wars action figures. I forgave you, and we went on like nothing had happened. Remember? Can’t we go back again? I thought so. You’re still the best!

By the way, please ignore changes to our “yes to pets” Facebook Status. We are still very much NO to pets, despite the cheeky hacking of a certain adorable young boy. ;o)

Troy Thompson
Father of Kyle/CIN 005934562

Dear Kyle:

Our records indicate that you have not been a good boy this year. Please enjoy these complimentary Christmas socks.

Wishing you a very merry Christmas,
Santa Claus

© Copyright 2009 Margaret Finnegan. All rights reserved.

---

Margaret Finnegan is a regular contributor to Rose City Sisters. Her work has been featured in numerous publications and on her blog, Finnegan Begin Again. This Christmas she is hoping for family harmony and a self-cleaning house, but she’ll settle for gloves.

Editor’s note: This story is the haunting sequel to “Sweet Revenge.” Watch your cholesterol, people. That’s all we’re saying.

Death Dealer (Or Bob Strikes Back)
by Margaret Finnegan

“Murderer.” The word stole into Heidi’s head on summer nights when she lay down to sleep. It was annoying, but Heidi didn’t dwell. She had no regrets.

Over time, the word managed to get out of her head and into the copper pipes, which hissed it—murrderrerr—in a ghostly tune when she laundered her whites.

Then, on Halloween, the word burst into her hearing-aid static. That was when Heidi got mad. She shouted to her empty kitchen, “That’s enough, Bob; there’s no need to get melodramatic,” whereupon, Bob materialized before her.

He did not look good. He had lost a lot of weight in the afterworld, and he had the gloomy, pissed-off face to show for it. Plus, he had no eyeballs and his tongue was black. “You were my wife. You were supposed to love me, but you killed me,” he moaned, pointing a long gray finger at her heart.

“You killed yourself. No one made you eat all that saturated fat, all that beef, all that sugar and butter, all those empty carbs. You did that all on your own.”

“Nooooo, you gave me those things on purpose.”

“Ha! Tell it to Oprah. ‘My wife stuffed me with desserts.’ ‘Violet’s made me eat their cupcakes.’ ‘Congress won’t pay for my lap-band.’ How about some personal responsibility, mister?”

This seemed to stump Bob. He had to massage a big chunk of revealed brain with his fingers. “I hate you,” he said at last.

“Fine. Spend eternity hating me, but stop messing with my hearing aid.”

“Murderer!” he shouted. The kitchen lights flashed as Bob, his skin an angry, iridescent purple, stretched out—nine feet, ten feet. Red light shone from his empty eye sockets. Worms and maggots slithered from his ears and nose. Raising his fists to the sky, he thundered, “Yooooouuuuu killed me.”

Then his jawbone tumbled to the floor. He tried to speak, but his black tongue just flopped around like a sea cucumber.

“Well, thank heavens for that,” said Heidi.

Without even a soda pop fizzle, down went Bob—eight feet, six feet, five-foot nine and a half. With as much dignity as he could muster, he bent down and retrieved his jaw. Cradling it gently and shuffling backwards, bathed in the yellow light of shame, he began to fade away until there was nothing left, not even a maggot on the ground, not even a hum in the pipes.

Heidi stared at the spot Bob had stood. She blinked. She sighed. Then, when it was time, she got out her good ceramic bowl and her eight super-sized bags of candy, and waited for trick-or-treaters.
© Copyright 2009 Margaret Finnegan. All rights reserved.

---

Margaret Finnegan is a frequent contributor to Rose City Sisters. Her work has appeared in Salon, the LA Times, FamilyFun and other publications. She blogs about wise women and even wiser goddesses at Finnegan Begin Again. She reminds you that excessive Halloween candy can lead to an early death but giving individual-sized snack bags of carrots to trick-or-treaters can lead to an even earlier one. Remember: to be forewarned to be forearmed.