Elf Reporting [FICTION]

Life in a box gets boring fast. Even when that box has a nice plastic window so you can gaze out at the world and all he potential friends who peer into your box from time to time. At least the store makes the effort to make every aisle feel like home at this time of year. Across from me, a display shows other adorable elves, just like me, cavorting on snow flocking. Nearby, a yeti, a slightly less adorable elf wielding a drill, and a reindeer with such a terrible cold that his nose glows red sing carols to an angel perched atop a tiny stable. Hidden amongst more flocking, faux evergreen trees promise gifts to come to all the good little girls and boys if they make the trees beautiful and obey their parents. I can’t wait to be part of that process, but first someone has to pick my box and invite me into their home.

Today, I earn my wings, or my shelf. The handsome man with the piercing blue eyes and jet black curls grins at me as picks up my box. I smile back at him, but then again, I smile at everyone. 

“Time to come home, Elf.” He continues grinning at me.

I sigh internally. Apparently, I have been christened the most generic name ever bestowed on my kind. But now I have a home. And what a home. This guy’s house proves both clean and spacious. My shelf offers a great view of the whole room. And he doesn’t seem to have any children. No sticky hands reaching for me. No fights over who gets to play with me next. Of course, this means no marshmallow bubble baths in an over-sized mug and no antics to perform daily, which allows young elves like myself to get energy out for long hours of sitting immobile and observing young humans. After the first day, my new friend doesn’t bother to move me—at all. A nice young woman does dust me and my shelf off once a week and boop my nose, and he has lots of conversations on speakerphone to listen in on.

As night falls, I prepare for my first report to the head office. My subject doesn’t seem to be concerned that he won’t receive the best gifts from Mr. Claus, since he barely acknowledges me. Lucky for him, he models good behavior and does have some lovely holiday decor for me to admire while I wait on my shelf for something to happen.

I have my pick of shiny surfaces to check that my hat hasn’t fallen askew and my standard issue red pajamas still speak of Christmas and warmth and Santa’s arrival. My subject, whose name I still haven’t heard, snores loudly from his bedroom, so the time has arrived. I close my eyes and think of home. Tapping my red-covered heels together and thinking “there’s no place like home” isn’t necessary, but I do it anyway. When the air feels a bit cooler and the scent of peppermint offers its welcome, I open my eyes. I look down the hallway at doors derated in various versions of red, white, and green delight. I walk down the hall until I reach the correct door.

I take a deep breath and step into the office labeled “President of Naughty/Nice Relations”. The interview starts out as maudlin as one would expect with questions about the behavior of my subject. Then it takes on a different feeling.

“You have lucked into a prime location, my friend. ‘The National Enquirer’ wants information that only you can get for them.”

Perplexed, I stare at the president. “What do you mean?”

“How do you think we subsidize the increased cost of materials for those billions of toys?”

His words only heighten my confusion.

“Son, we need you to give us the dirt on your ‘owner’, Dustin Green, the country star.”

“Who now?”

“You don’t know you have been living with a celebrity for the last week? Where have you been, son?”

“In a box, in storage until about a month ago.”

“Don’t be a wise guy. Just get the info.” He waves his hand at me and I feel myself slipping back through time and space.

I land on my shelf with a plop that dislodges me from my normal perch. I scream all the way down to the enveloping softness of the plush couch. I lean my head back, take a deep breath, and promptly pass out.

“There you are, Elf. It’s your big day,” a rich deep voice pulls me back to wakefulness.

Dustin lifts me with gentle hands and places me back on my shelf. I stare back at him with wide eyes, resisting the urge to break one of cardinal rules of elfing by asking him what he means by my big day. Surely, I haven’t slept through my assignment only to awaken on Christmas Day. 

“Just hold these for me,” he winks as he places three candy canes in my lap.

I breath in the rich peppermint smell happily as he turns toward the door. The bell rings and the man dances to answer it. Since he can’t see me, I practice a few groovy steps of my own while juggling the three candy canes. 

Then the door opens and my world suddenly makes sense. Three tiny humans come barreling into the room with shrill cries of “Uncle Dusty.”

My little stuffing heart fills up so much I fear it might explode. Then it fills up again when they finish hugging their uncle and set eyes on me.

“Elf, you’re here.” 

As they fawn over me, I try to eavesdrop on Dusty and the young woman at the door. Of course, I don’t hear anything. Then the children decide a game of toss the elf is in order. I find it annoying at first, but it grows on me. By the time they lose interest, I am so dizzy that I barely remember my role as investigative reporter. Luckily, being able to focus brings important information back to the front of my mind. Especially when something newsworthy drops in my lap.

“Thank you, Dusty, the kids love you so much and I need a break.”

“I know, Darla. And I need some Christmas cheer. Maybe I’ll write a song.”

“Right. You clearly don’t spend enough time with your niece and nephews.”

“What do you mean by that?”

She laughs and pats his cheek. “By, bro. Thanks again.” Then she disappears out the door.

Dusty turns to face my little troop of believers. They have moved on to taking turns passing me around like the world’s most oddly shaped football. He laughs and joins in the fun. When he catches me, he holds me up like the trophy I am.

“I’d like to thank all my songwriters and muses for helping me win the award of best uncle ever.”

“You’re our only uncle.”

“Until your aunt Margie gets married.” They all laugh at this.

“What about it, Uncle Dusty, do you have a new song for us.”

The man’s normally tan face pales at the question, but he lowers me toward the children and waves my arms around as he speaks in a falsetto, “How about you kids help your uncle write a song for Santa?”

“Aren’t there enough of those?” The oldest boy crosses his arms and looks at the floor.

Internally, I gasp. Is he crossing over into the age of unbelief—on my watch? Luckily, Dustin’s deep rich voice belting out some classic Christmas carols brings the boy back from the brink of disaster. Over the next week, Dustin keeps using the power of music to keep the children’s spirits up. I learn that they will be leaving on Christmas Eve to be with their mom, who has been working double shifts. Dustin offered to fund their festivities, but she refused, so he is watching them instead while she earns a little extra money for Christmas. 

The children make me a bed out of a super fuzzy slipper shaped like and elf shoe, and I find it the perfect place to put thoughts to paper as I observe how wonderful Dustin is with the kids. I know everyone in America, particularly single ladies of a certain age, will thrill to hear he has all the earmarks of a loving and supportive father.

Then they spend the twenty-third finishing up his new Christmas hit, which I can tell will bring him back to the top of the charts. He even plans to release it on Christmas Eve before what he is calling his release party (in reality, Christmas Eve dinner with his sister and her kids).

Christmas Eve comes too fast yet not as quickly as I desire. Inspired by all the Christmas spirit flowing from these children, I can’t wait for the lights to go off and the sleepy sounds to fill the air. I quickly write down the specifics of Dustin Green’s inspiration for a holiday hit and dispatch it to our liaison with ‘The National Enquirer’.

The next day, he brings me in for a consult. I stand proudly before his desk. My chest puffs out and my shoulders throw themselves back. I tilt my head down just slightly to meet his eyes. He quickly adjust my posture with a few well-aimed words.

“Loved your story. Just not the way you wrote it. I will fix it up and send it out to boost holiday cheer by the next printing.”

“Pardon me.” For not wanting the job, my feelings seem awfully mangled by his review.

“You are free to go.” He waves his hand, misinterpreting my meaning.

Before I can argue, a glittering ball of magic whisks me back to my cozy shelf. 

“Humph. I think that elf needs to be added to the naughty list for stealing my story.”

Of course, before I can do anything, the phone rings, waking Dustin. He answers it groggily but quickly answers on video to bring the kids in to talk to their favorite elf, who sits motionless on his shelf while he ponders how to make right what his editor has made wrong, but that isn’t a Christmas story…

~~~

Sorry this offering arrives a day late and short of my desires for it. It seems the anti holiday spirits have tried to keep this one from seeing the light of day. Every time I work on this, someone or something interrupts. I ended up with tension headaches twice yesterday for my efforts, so be kind and enjoy.

Average Family Christmas [FICTION]

“Finally!” I exclaim as I cross yesterday off the calendar.

I still have a week’s worth of lovely leftovers, including plenty of turkey and a whole pumpkin pie, but my mind has moved forward to the upcoming holiday. It is my year to host the family Christmas party and I know this is the year I prove I am worthy. With two sisters, one brother, and my parents the bar gets raised every year, but this year I thought of the perfect gift for everyone—I am hosting at a resort. No one will need to lift a finger to cook or clean. We can focus on the most important parts of Christmas—devouring cookies and trouncing each other at board games and watching our favorite movies over and over even though we know every word by heart.

I open up my Christmas box and pull out the gorgeous, gold foil framed paper I picked up last year. I have been working on the wording of the invitation letter for six months and I have it perfect now. I print out four copies, write four familiar addresses, and drop them in the mail. The I wait.

It doesn’t take long for their responses to come. Each one perplexes me more than the last. My parents call to let me know they hope I have a wonderful Christmas and enjoy my plans. When I ask if they are joining me, they laugh.

“Of course, we made other plans, dear. We Wouldn’t intrude.”

I am still trying to decide what that means when my brother calls. “Got your letter, sis, hope you enjoy your Christmas. Wish I could be there with you, but you know how it is.”

As I set my phone back down on the table, I take a calming breath. “A special sister Christmas will be nice. We can throw in some spa packages.”

As if they scheduled their calls, my sisters then call, back to back. Both of them offer lame excuses. I stand mystified with my phone still in my hand when they finish. After a few minutes of staring blankly at the black screen, I turn it back on and sigh heavily as I begin searching for less perfect presents for my family. Despite aggravation with their obvious rejection of my hosting skills, I know buying them subpar gifts or the lumps of lignite that they deserve will only justify their poor manners in their () minds. Though tempted to have them delivered and go ahead and take the vacation I planned, by myself, I decide to drop them off on their doorsteps personally. Maybe they will feel guilty when they see I went the extra mile, thirty-five miles in the case of my brother, one way.

Almost four weeks later, I bundle up to step out into the light snowfall Santa brought for Christmas Day. I smile jealously at the children up and down the street as they cavort together, forgetting all their small rivalries as pristine snow becomes the clay to mold their icy winter dreams. Ignoring the lump in my throat, I place my array of gifts into the trunk of the car. I decide to stop by my parents’ house first.

At eight in the morning, I expect to find them still tucked into bed. Instead, I find two familiar cars parked in the driveway. Presents forgotten, I step out of my car. I stomp toward the house, slipping on larger chunks of salt festooning the sidewalk. I don’t bother to knock on the door. Clearly, my parents unlocked the door for my sibling, so I am free to enter.

I slam the door closed as I stomp inside. I don’t wipe my feet. Leaving a trail of slush calms me down a little as I enter the living room.

“Hello?” My father calls out.

“Who’s there?” My mother adds.

“Just me!” I exclaim bursting into the room.

The lump returns to my throat as I behold the Christmas card unfolding before me. The golden glow of white lights bounces off gold, silver, and red ornaments. That light gives my family an ethereal quality in their matching pajamas. Surrounding them are piles of shredded wrapping paper and opened gifts.

“Sissy, what are you doing here?”

“What am I doing here?” I scream. “On Christmas?”

“We thought you wanted to spend Christmas alone…” my sisters inform me in their creepy tandem talk.

“Maybe because a nice young man was about to join the family,” my mother beams hopefully.

“And you know I wouldn’t intrude on your privacy,” my brother takes a long sip of orange juice as he shrugs at me.

“You had plans,” my mother adds matter-of-factly, pulling some piles of paper toward herself and wadding them into a ball.

“I had plans?” I look around at the lot of them incredulously.

“Yes. You said so in that letter you sent us.” My dad stands up to grab a familiar page from the wall of Christmas correspondence. “See?”

I take the paper, wondering what he means as I scan the words.

“Hello, family,

“I know how you all feel about me hosting Christmas. The surprise is on you because since this is my year, I am taking a vacation for the holiday. Don’t worry, you don’t have to lift a finger. My gift to you is that you aren’t invited.”

I gasp. “Why does autocorrect add letters?”

My family exchanges looks. Mom apparently gets nominated to speak for the group. “What does that mean?”

“I wanted us all to go on vacation together,” I groan, “and have other people clean up after us. I saved up all last year to pay for it.”

“Oh,” my mother says, stepping forward to hug me. “That sounds wonderful dear. Maybe, next time it is your turn, you should read the invite a couple of times before sending it out.”

Everyone else nods agreement and pulls me into a holiday hug.

~

I know it sounds far-fetched, but autocorrect has been doing weird things like this to me a lot lately. It takes a word that is spelled correctly and turns it into two words that make zero sense in whatever I am typing, so be wary of autocorrect trying to ruin your best-laid plans. Also, please let me know if you see something funky in this post. I am passing on my final edit because I have Christmas cards to write, decorations to put up, and a million other tasks banging at my door. 

At the North Pole [FICTION]

“Hello, mom.”

I look up to find Elfis eying my leftover turkey sandwich with wide, greedy eyes.

“I am not your mother. And do you really have to appear before December?”

“You know the children can’t wait to see me,” he glances around the room, “or maybe you don’t? Where’s the tree, mom?”

I swallow a mouthful of sandwich, “I am still eating my turkey. The tree can wait.”

“Tsk. Tsk. I think we need to work on your holiday spirit.”

I sigh and place my sandwich on the plate. “Fine.” I brush crumbs off of my hands and head toward the attic.

Twenty minutes later, I stand in the middle of the living room, surveying my Christmas decoration boxes. As I begin setting up the tree, I look up to find Elfis supervising me while nibbling on a piece of pumpkin pie. 

“You could help, you know? What brings more Christmas spirit than an elf?”

“Gotta save my energy for more important duties.”

“Like eating my food?”

“Yep.” He polishes off the pie and sticks his tongue out at me. “And reporting back to the keeper of the Naughty and Nice lists.”

I shake my head and resume turning my house into a Christmas lover’s dream.

~~

By Christmas Eve, Elfis’ influence illuminates every room. Day after day, he motivates one of the members of the household place just one more decoration. With the kids, he motivates them to make something new. Inevitably, they choose to make one more tiny rendition of Elfis to decorate our halls. Now the real elf stands in the middle of the kitchen, surveying our collaboration with bright eyes. 

“This is good work, family.” He pats my knee affectionately before hugging each child.

“Thanks, Eflis. We’re ready for Santa now.” My oldest declares.

I turn my head so they can’t see me roll my eyes. I know I will be solely responsible for cleaning up every piece of tinsel and handmade treasure and storing them all away carefully so we can overdo Christmas again next year. Elfis basks in their accolades and the soft glow of string lights for a few more minutes and then looks anxiously at his watch.

“Time to report in,” Elfis turns away from us, “One last report before Santa’s big ride.”

The kids cheer and disappear into the kitchen, arguing over which cookies Santa will want this year. Elfis’ attention remains on his watch, so he doesn’t weigh in for a change. I reach out to tap his shoulder and ask one last question, as he looks up from his watch expectantly.

The world around me wavers. My living room blurs like I am looking through mist and then disappears completely. Then I find myself in the middle of a Christmas card, complete with a very happy elf at my side.

“It worked.” Elfish exclaims happily.

“Apparently so.” I agree as I take in my new surroundings.

“Oh. You’re here?” He frowns at me.

“Uh-huh.” I agree absently.

Snow falls gently, adding to the soft white blanket already covering the gentle slopes all around. We stand outside what appears to be an enormous barn. Twinkly lights run along ever edge and every window, casting a soft glow on the stately pine trees that surround it. The soft hum of Christmas carols emanates from two immense doors. One of them opens and a small elf peeks out the door. Upon seeing us, they turn and call out something to those within the workshop. A throng of elves comes rushing out to greet us.

Warmed by the appearance of what obviously constitutes his North Pole fan club, Elfis’ face softens toward me. “Well, since you are here, let me tell you about my home.” He clears his throat and croons from deep down in his frostbitten soul. 

[to the tune of “In the Ghetto”]

“As the snow flies

On a North Pole Christmas Eve mornin'

Another perfect toy is made

At the North Pole

“(At the North Pole)

And children rejoice

'Cause new toys come to life every day

Soon enough Santa will be on his way

From the North Pole 

(From the North Pole)

“People, don't you understand

Santa needs a helping hand

To get gifts to all the boys and girls on Christmas Day

“Take a look upward with me

And you will surely see

That Santa brings joy tonight

But will this Christmas be white?

“Well, the world turns

And another elf finishes a cookie

So he can make a masterpiece toy

“At the North Pole 

(At the North Pole)

And the pride he takes

In what he creates brings toys to life

So another good child basks in Christmas light

From the North Pole

“(From the North Pole)

“That one night changes children’s hearts

Santa Claus brings joy to all

He soars so fast, he doesn’t stall

Down each chimney, and under each tree

“He leaves a sweet gift

To be found Christmas morn by each boy and girl

Who was good and kind through the whole year

From the North Pole

(From the North Pole)

“So he brings perfect gifts 

(From the North Pole)

“On a North Pole Christmas Eve mornin'

Another perfect toy is made

At the North Pole

“(At the North Pole)

“And Santa brings joy

From the North Pole 

(From the North Pole)

(From the North Pole)”

I stare, mesmerized for a second by his revision of a heartrending classic. I may have stood staring in wonder forever if another elf hadn’t rushed up to shake his hand.

“Agent Peppermint, that was fantastic.”

Spell broken I ask, “Agent Peppermint?”

“A guy can’t pick his last name,” he mutters. “Don’t mention it again.” He raises his head forcefully to give me a stern look and the loose lock of hair that dangles over his forehead jumps erratically.

“Of course,” I breathe deeply to stifle the laugh bubbling up inside.

Elfis narrows his eyes, “To anyone…or it’s the Naughty List for you forever.”

I nod silent agreement. No one wants to be on the Naughty List—no matter how old we get.

~~

I know some of you wait for more from Elfis every year, so this contribution is for you. As I wrote this one, it occurred to me this one might make a better music video than a story, but if I take up drawing and animation, I will never finish any of the items on my already bulging list of “to dos”. I have to realize at some point that I can not pursue all my interests at once. Good thing I believe in eternity, right?

Being Thankful Every Year (Should Be Every Day)

I know. Two weeks without a fiction break might be too much, but this is the time of year when most of us allow ourselves to think about our gratitude. We are grateful for the big things like our homes and the little things like our tiny humans blowing us kisses. So let tell you about a number of things I am grateful for.

1. Heavenly Father. He loves me and He loves you. You don’t have to believe it, but I do, so be kind and don’t assume the worst of me. By the same token, I am grateful for Jesus Christ. For those who need reminded of one of the most memorized scriptures ever, John 3:16: “For God so loved the world, that He gave His Only Begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish but have everlasting life."

2. Faith. It sounds like a repeat, but it isn’t. Faith in the Lord keeps me pointed in the right direction spiritually. Faith in myself helps me accomplish more than should honestly be expected of one human being.

3. Family. Whether we share blood or we have adopted each other, family makes life better. They offer moral support, provide amusing stories to share (if you have met my real or adopted brothers, you know what I speak of—my adopted sisters are all beautiful angels, so they provide sweet uplifting anecdotes), and they remind us of the best qualities in ourselves and others.

4. Food. I love most food. I know that is obvious. I like discovering new flavors, enjoying flavors I already know I love, and sharing comfort foods with others.

5. Muses. Without inspiration, this blog would never have any posts. Keep encouraging my muses and me. We like chocolate, amazon gift cards, and words of appreciation…among other things.

6. Words. Okay, so I complain about them a lot and burst into song (rewatch “My Fair Lady” and you will know what I mean), but words can be so useful. They help us communicate. For book lovers, they help us escape to far away lands whether we are escaping housework or boredom. 

7. Readers. That’s right. Anyone who stumbles on my writing and appreciates it brightens my day. Of course, until I buckle down and self-publish something, I may never know if I have more than three true blue lovers of my words.

8. Animals. Though I currently live in a pet free environment, I could write a whole book about animals I have loved. In fact, even after a decade sans kitties, people still have to patiently pretend to listen when I tell tales of purrs I have loved and lost.

9. Children. Yes, they drive me crazy, since I made little hobbits who are always hungry, but you really can learn a lot from children. I love watching my children root for every sports team with their friends or father, show concern for friends who are hurt or upset, and be willing to talk to everyone and anyone without having to point out their differences. (Though that last one can be terrifying to a mama who reads too many thrillers.) 

10. Friends. With me, this one kind of merges into number three most of them time, but it is always good to have people to rely on and vent to about how terrible other drivers are, etc. (Quick diversion: Also, it is nice when they giggle because you claim you want to go back into a store and buy more of an item simply because the cashier tried to discourage you yesterday because he would have to enter it manually since it isn’t in the system. It is also good when they don’t encourage you to do so since you don’t need said items but really don’t get people not wanting to do their job.)

11. Music. When I can’t find my own words to express my feelings, the right song can really hammer the point home. Honestly wish the lyrics of Sarah McLachlan’s “Good Enough” and Tori Amos’ “Leather” didn’t seem to punctuate my interactions with people, but sometimes Sarah McLachlan’s “Loving You Is Easy” winds its way into my mind as well. If you have seen my girls, you know and you already feel sorry the boys they meet. (Maybe I should spend more time listing to The Tabernacle Choir at Temple Square.)

12. Pie. Even though it gives me pie brain (my new definition of this inability to remember important things like putting on a coat when it is in the 30s outside., I love pie. I love to think about it. I love to smell it baking. I love to make it. I love to eat it. I love to smother it in yummy vanilla ice cream. I love to share it with friends. (Or you can find the song from the movie “Michael” and get the same general idea. I decided to link all these fabulous side notes. The librarian in my soul rejoices.)

13. Libraries. You know I love libraries. They have free books, movies, music, programs for everyone, friendly (or at least very interesting) employees, and so much more. 

I had to stop my list somewhere or I would go all day. Thanks for bearing with me. Your patience will be rewarded with a fun story next Friday, so stay posted and stay warm.

Writing Mom on Strike [RANT]

As National Novel Writing Month nears its midpoint, I find myself once more waging a battle with words. Will I find the right combination to keep myself interested in my project and reach the coveted goal of 50,000 words in one short month? So far, I am lagging by a whopping 7,000 words, so…

Not if my family has anything to say about it. Moms are held to very high standards. We also are expected to mix in an array of unexpected tasks with the ones that happen regularly. 

As of today, this mom is on strike, so she can write more and worry less. Want her to pick up the pan, whisk, broom, and sponge again? Then offer her a few tokens of appreciation:

1. Hugs and kisses are always appreciated (and they don’t always have to be from Hershey’s).

2. Don’t make mama repeat herself more than twice. If you don’t catch it the first time, listen closer so you understand the second time. Then please do what mama asks.

3. Make the effort to do some little things instead of leaving them for mom. Examples: throw away the wrapper from your snack, lightly rinse your plates and put them in the dishwasher, make your bed, put your dirty clothes in the hamper…

4. Clean up your own messes. If you played with the toys, you can put them back where they belong. If you pile your mail one mama’s counter, you could have easily put it in a more appropriate place—the trash, the recycle bin, maybe even your own to do pile…

5. Let mama take a break when she says she needs a break. She has been working at top speed on at least three things at a time most of the day, so let her sit when her body requests some rest. And, for the love of chocolate, don’t try to make her feel bad about it or immediately begin making requests the second her butt hits the couch cushion.

~~~

Should I actually share this list with my dear family or does the need for the second statement indicate that it will fall on deaf ears? I have some experience with people being super determined to leave tasks for me. I came home from college for the weekend once to find every dish in the house piled up in the kitchen sink. Honestly, they had to use a step stool to put those last couple of layers on the pile because I had to use one and stretch to take them down and start the piles on the floor that cleared the sink out enough to start washing the vile mess, while the grey Persian cat complained that I took over his territory with my to-be-washed pile. At least I know he didn’t put any of those dishes onto the tower of filth.

Electing to Be More [FICTION]

Who knows how we will feel next week, but our recent round of polls lean toward our candidate winning the race at the polls. Both logic and superstition dictate that we shouldn’t celebrate prematurely, but when the hottest guy in the office offers to buy me a hot cocoa, I nod my head eagerly and grab my bag.

“So, Kate, what do you want?” He holds the door open for me and guides me to a table looking out onto the street.

“Surprise me.” I offer him a flirtatious smile before turning my attention back to a store across the street.

It still sports a festive and mildly creepy tableau of monsters I recognize and creatures I hope never to see again. I glance back at James, appreciating his self-confident swagger as he crosses over to the counter. The barista tosses back her hair and laughs at something he says. A part of me whispers of jealousy, but my eyes find their way back to the creatures watching me across the quiet street.

“Homo sapiens cedo belua.” James mumbles as he sets a piping hot mug before me.

“Huh?” I glance at him but find my eyes drawn back into the darkness.

“I hope you like this.” He winks as he places a mug on the table before me.

Wisps of warmth float off of the cup invitingly. I lean in to breathe in a hint of what awaits me. I grin as pumpkin spice tickles my nose and promises delight to my taste buds. Despite the draw of the tantalizing aroma, I can’t stop peering into the dimly lit window across the street. A creature in the window has caught my attention, hypnotizing me with immense, glassy, red eyes. 

“Kate?” James rests his hand gently on mine for a second.

Pulled away from my contemplation of the winged monstrosity, I offer him a tentative smile. “What?”

“Are you okay?”

“Yes. Fine.” I pick up my cup to take a sip.

“You sure?” He persists.

The aroma hasn’t misled me. My eyes close as the delicious flavors of chocolate, pumpkin spice, and vanilla whipped cream mingle on my tongue. As James continues to search my face intently, I feel compelled to assess why he is so concerned. I frown into my mug. I do feel a little odd, but I don’t want to admit that and ruin our first date. Instead of responding, I take another sip. I blink my eyes as flames seem to erupt through them.

“Kate?” James’ face pales as he rises from his chair. “Is there a doctor here?” 

As he anxiously scans the roomful of people, focusing all their attention on me, I hide behind my beverage. This time I swallow a hefty dose of pumpkin love. Pain erupting in my shoulders pushes away all thought of my eyes. I fumble in my purse, shaking my hands to combat a peculiar sensation creeping up my fingers. The numbness persists, but I manage to extract an aspirin from the depths of purse, pop it in my mouth, and chase it with a warm chug of cocoa. As the cocoa and medicine slide down my esophagus, the world becomes pain. I squeal and close my eyes. My purse tumbles toward the floor and excited voices draw closer to the table.

A great whooshing sound flows around me, barely noticeable over the pain tearing my atoms apart to reconstruct them in a perfect image of suffering. Then, everything ends. No more voices. No more pain. No more friendly hands probing for ways to help. I take a breath and open my eyes.

I scream as I come face to face with the monstrosity across the street—so close I could touch it. Grey-blue feathers crown a round head with almost human features, except for large tusks protruding past the lips from the top and the bottom of a wide, silver-lined mouth. Fierce reds eyes peer into my soul, assuring me that they know everything about me, particularly my weaknesses. I shudder away from the creature, realizing it moves as I do, almost as if it fears me. As my eyes adjust, I realize why. The creature blinks with me, tilts its head to the right in consternation when I do, and opens its mouth to release a pained exclamation with me.

“My reflection?” I mumble, deciding not to speak again after hearing the screech of my voice.

I reach out to touch the glass, noting that two skinny arms rest beneath oversized wings that sprout from my shoulders. The wings flap as I peer out into the dark night in search of James and the other denizens of the coffee shop.

From this side of the street I see vague shadows through the coffee shop window. James waves his arms excitedly as he talks to two uniformed figures. Other shadowy figures nod in agreement as he points to the cup and my purse. I reach up to my shoulder, whimpering as feathers brush against each other. I know I cry, but the fine feathers on my cheek keep me from feeling them running down toward my rounded chin.

I watch people milling around the coffee shop. Before long the cops escort James from the shop. I gasp as they lead him to their patrol car and push his head down as he sinks into the backseat. 

“At last,” a soft voice says at my side.

Other voices echo it. For the first time. I remember the other creatures in the window display. I slowly turn to peer at them. To my surprise, they gaze back at me with intelligent eyes. I gasp, too many questions whirring through my head to express.

“We were confused, too.” The soft voice addresses me from within a clump of matted fur at my feet. She stretches upward, so her coal dark eyes can peer into mine. “Until we realized James doesn’t want to share credit when our candidate wins.”

“Our candidate?” I lean in to peer into her eyes. “Gina?”

“No wonder he saved you for last. You are smarter than the rest of us.” She laughs sadly.

“I thought you had to help your sister?”

“Nope. I got a special brew from our fearless leader, James.”

“Yep.” Dracula mutters sadly around his fangs. “For me, it was black coffee?”

“George?” He nods and then shakes his head in the negative when I ask, “But your wife is sick?”

“Triple fudge latte with extra whipped cream.” The wolf man howls sadly. “And I didn’t abandon you for the opposition.”

“Plain hot chocolate…” Another bizarre bird creature caws. “And you didn’t even notice I disappeared.”

“Did James tell you that, John?” I ask. “He told us you had food poisoning. I assumed that meant you drank too much on Halloween night.”

He perks up at my recognition. “I guess I can’t be upset that you might make that assumption.”

“Water? How did he hide it in water?” A lithe python hangs her head in shame. “And how could you believe I ran off to marry a donor?”

“Some of those donors are very handsome, Jane.” I try to smile but realize such a thing isn’t be possible with my new face as she shies away from me.

“All you had to do was share your best ideas and “poof”, he added you to his window of shame.” Gina mutters.

“Probably shouldn’t have tried it the seventh time though…” Jane hisses.

“Even the police were smart enough to catch onto that.” Gina murmurs.

Despite our plight, which appears permanent, we share a laugh. Talking with beast mouths takes more energy than I expect, so we huddle together in miserable silence as night draws on. Soon the soothing sounds of my fellow monsters snoring lulls me to sleep. 

A click and a bang pulls me back out of a disturbing dream. I turn my feathered head toward the door. I snarl as sore muscles awaken. A lanky man regards me from under scraggly dirty blond hair that hangs to his shoulders.

“What has my cousin done now?” He whispers softly as snarls, hisses, and waking sighs escape from my fellow monsters.

“Jamesss?” Jane questions.

The man hangs his head. “Yes. James is my cousin. Please don’t hold it against me.” He steps to the edge of the window and pulls a cord to close heavy, blue velvet curtains. 

Fear rises up to choke me. From the sounds emitted by my companions, the same wariness overcomes them as the outside world disappears from view. The man turns to regard us with apologetic eyes. Then he straightens his shoulders and boldly declares.

“Belua cedo homo sapiens.”

“Hey, that sounds like…” I begin to say before a giant, invisible hand seals my mouth shut.

“I’m so sorry,” the man says, “The return to truth hurts more than becoming a monster.”

I throw both hands and wings over my ears to muffle the screams reverberating through window display. When the pain finally fades to a pale memory of every bone breaking as the monster melts into my familiar form, I slump weakly to the floor.

“I guess I should say 'thank you’,” John says from a nearby puddle of tortured human.

“I will get you some food and some better clothing,” the man doesn’t acknowledge the gratitude. “It is the least I can do for every trusting my ruthless cousin with arcane knowledge.”

He gazes at us with pleading in his eyes. I nod understanding, realizing he blames himself for this. As he disappears to grab supplies, we huddle together to decide what to do next.

~~~

Apparently, I felt my terrifying offering last week fell short of my “high-pitched scream” standards. Hopefully, anyone who got their pants scared off them was home alone or with people they don’t mind showing their skivvies to. In order to avoid real life horror stories, please vote responsibly next week…. Or “vote early and vote often” like one social studies teacher insisted on telling my grade school class.

Please forgive any grammatical errors. I am already behind on my word count, so my editing skills may not be fully on display with this one.

Puzzling Beyond the Grave [FICTION]

“Junk. Junk. Junk.” I pitch pieces of unsolicited mail into the trash can, pausing to take a second look at the last envelope in the pile.

The sloping cursive letters spelling out my maiden name strikes me as vaguely familiar, but I can’t remember where I have seen them. I shrug and slide a finger under the flap, opening the envelope with exaggerated care. A single page slides out onto the floor. 

As I kneel to pick it up, a string of numbers, letters, and symbols rises up from the page like specters of high school returned to haunt my adulthood. I shudder and shake the paper, willing the letters to swarm into intelligible words. Instead of making sense, they remind me suddenly of math insecurities that my math teacher Ms. Twist maximized my junior year of high school.

Ms. Twist adored puzzles. She loved watching us fail to solve then even more. I bombed spectacularly every times, so she delighted in letting me show my work on the board as often as possible. I dreaded it.

Needless to say, I didn’t need to fight back tears when she disappeared halfway through the school year. I listened to all the rumors, but all that mattered to me was that the last minute sub let us skate through the course with the minimum amount of mathematical understanding. Some people thought she ran away with a mystery man. Others asserted that she finally drove herself mad with cryptograms and  now lives on the outskirts of town, living off of whatever she could scavenge in the dead of night. Others thought she had come to some foul end, but didn’t dare posit the cause of her demise. Her sister declared her legally dead after no one saw or heard any trace of her for over a decade.

I shake my head. “Surely, this can’t be from a dead woman. I just have high school on my mind.” I glance at the cork board I keep by the door. An invitation to my twentieth high school reunion reminds me that I have a week to get ready to relive even more memories of pre-adulthood.

~

A week later, I put the finishing touches on an outfit that I hope doesn’t make it look like I am turning forty in a couple of years. Carefully coiffed hair shows that I am just as stylish as I ever was in high school. My husband grins at me as I fuss over my hair.

“You look gorgeous. Let’s go.”

I grab the folded mystery note from the table on an impulse as he opens the door and his eyes catch my movement. “What’s that?”

“Just something I wanted to show to the girls.” I smile at him and tuck it into my purse.

“You girls and your secrets.” He laughs and closes the door behind us.

As soon as we step into the gymnasiums with our neatly printed name labels reminding us who we once were, my two best friends descend on us.

“They served the same punch we had in high school…” Lacey informs us.

“But Ms. Crow mastered keeping it from being spiked.” Patty pours.

My husband squeezes my arm as his own friends drag him toward a basketball hoop where his old teammates are already warming up the hoop. My own friends drag me toward the punch. As we nibble cookies and promise not to let each other overindulge, reminiscences flowed. It doesn’t take long for the conversation to turn toward the mystery in my purse.

“I got the weirdest thing in the mail a week ago,” Lacey pulls an envelope similar to mine from her own bag.

“Me, too.” I show them my puzzle.

“I got one, too.” Patty’s face lit up with the thrill of a mystery. “Are yours math puzzles, too?”

“Maybe?” Lacey and I exchange shrugs.

“You know what, I think Ms. Twist isn’t dead…”

“You don’t say,” I mutter as my eyes scan the crowd for a face aged by twenty years of math puzzles. “But where has she been and why is she sending us puzzles now?”

“Let me see yours.” Patty holds out her hands.

Neither Lacey nor I question her command. Only Patty ever seemed to understand Ms. Twist, who never called on her. We slip the papers out of their envelopes and hand them to her. She nods as she contemplates each one.

“I think I can get the answers. Then I will have to figure out what they mean. May I?” She motions toward her own purse and reached for our envelopes.

~~

True to her word and faster than anticipated, Patty finds answers. She insists we meet in person at a diner one town over the following Saturday. Despite setting up our meeting, she arrives fifteen minutes late. Lacey and I exhaust theories about what she found and split most of the breakfast special. Neither of us had room for the pancakes.

“Yum. For me?” Patty greets us, slipping into the booth next to me and pouring a generous drizzle of maple syrup on them.

As she set the bottle down, I put my hand over hers. “No yum until you tell us what you found.”

She sighs. “Still so impatient…”

“Waiting twenty years is rather patient,” Lacey offers. 

Patty grins at us, pulling a notepad from her messenger bag. “It was an amazingly simple cypher after I had all the pieces. You see…”

“You don’t need to show your work,” Lacey interrupts. Unlike most people, she gets grumpier when she is full than when she’s hungry.

Patty sighs again. “Okay. Once I worked through the whole puzzle, I ended up with ten numbers—obviously a phone number.” She paused and lowered her head. “I should have waited until we were together, but I went ahead and called…”

When we remain quiet, she looks up.

“And?” Lacey and I prompt.

“Ms. Twist’s husband answered and said he was expecting our call and could we come over this morning.”

“Did you talk to her?”

“He said she is too weak to talk on the phone and was looking forward to seeing us.”

Lacey and I trade looks. “When?”

“Right after I finish these.” Patty tucks into the pancakes, refusing to say more until they disappear.

~~

Patty turns off the engine of her tiny car and we all pause to stare at the two-story, white house. As we step out of the car, a woman in soft pink scrubs opens the front door to peer out at us. When we don’t approach the house, she gestures for us to hurry.

“Come on in, ladies. She has been talking about you all morning, but it is making her tired.”

We pick up our pace, reaching for each other’s hands with Patty at our center as we rush to the door. We follow the nurse quietly 

“The three amigas,” Ms. Twist smiles weakly as she rasps out a greeting. ‘Welcome to my home.”

“Thank you,” we mumble as one, exchanging concerned looks.

"Time for my story to be told,” she smiles again. “You were my favorites. You always tried to find the answers, so I want you to share the answers to all the questions about my disappearance.” 

We nod our heads, afraid to speak and cut off her weak words.

“No one did anything to hurt me. I just wasn’t made to teach. Well, I wasn’t made to watch students fail. One day, I just walked away and never looked back.” She pauses, wheezing as the nurse steps forward to place a hand on her chest. “Back off, Bevy. Let me finish.”

The nurse frowns slightly before directing an imploring look at us. I nod my head and lean in as her soft words resume.

“I should have resigned, but I wasn’t thinking straight. It took me two years to find myself. Reginald helped.” She turned her head toward a picture on her bedside table. The Ms. Twist we remembered smiled back at her, bedecked in white lace and leaning into a tall, dark-haired man. “By then, it was too late to go back and explain things or so I thought.”

She wheezes again, taking the nurse’s hand as she reaches for her again. She nods toward a pile of books beside the picture. “My journals can help you fill in the gaps. I need to rest.”

Her voice trails off as her head falls back against her pillow. The nurse gently pulls the blankets up to Ms. Twist’s chin and smoothing them. She gazes down at her patient before picking up the books and ushering us into the hall.

She hands the books to Patty as she whispers, “We don’t know how long she has. It could be days or months. If it is months, I know she would love you to visit again.” Her large brown eyes hold pleading and tears as she looks at us.

“We will call to see if she wants a visit next week,” Patty offers softly.

“That would be nice.” The nurse shakes our hands and leads us to the door.