Writing Challenge ~ December 2015

WRITING CHALLENGE ~ DECEMBER 2015​

This December we’re doing things a little differently, again.

There are 24 prompts and, hopefully, you’ll get to enjoy 24 pieces of writing by different writers on the run up to Christmas. One prompt per day, one piece of writing per prompt.

The prompts were ‘revealed’ last week and people were able to claim up to 3 prompts they’d like to write pieces for. If you claimed a prompt all you need to do is write and post your piece on the correct day and all everyone else needs to do is read them and leave a little comment in the review thread that accompanies this one.

Remember you can still leave reviews for last month's pieces if you haven't already!


For the writers who claimed prompts…you can involve the prompts themselves in your piece and make your link to the prompts as obvious or as subtle as you like or use them simply as inspiration for something else. You can use part of the prompts, just one aspect of the images, or use them in their entirety. You write whatever you’re inspired to write!

The word limit for the entirety of this challenge is 2,512 words and your submission can take whatever form you desire – poetry or prose, complete story or a vignette. Erotic or not, serious or light hearted, it’s whatever you want it to be!!

Post only your submissions in this thread, on the right days, and constructive comments and reviews are to be posted in the appropriately named Comment and Review Thread

And please, if you do take the time to read? Please just take a few more minutes to leave a comment.

The deadline for this month’s challenge changes every day with the last post to be posted on Christmas Eve – 24th December 2015 and January’s challenge hopefully going live shortly after the New Year.

Previous challenges and reviews can be found here.

Happy writing!

Here are the full list of writers who've signed up for the challenge and the dates they should be posting on...good luck to each and every one!

I will endeavour to PM all writers the day before they are due to post in case the December madness means they might forget.

https://lh3.googleusercontent.com/-XjA4tyviQhk/VmDsdwv-XNI/AAAAAAAAAfQ/oFQZX5YRu-Q/s800-Ic42/image.jpeg





Light for the end of the world



"God save us all"

It is meant to be a prayer of hope but there is no hope left. The tv changes to static, not even informercials are running and every channel is the same. She looks at her husband seeing the same fear and defeat in his eyes she has seen for days.

"Maybe..."

She begins, but his look stops her. He doesn't bother to argue with her anymore, trying to get her to accept their fate, now he just looks at her. Soon even this won't be enough to stop her and perhaps he will go mad. "Would that be so bad?" He wonders.

Suddenly the thought of being mindless seems funny and he feels himself starting to shake with laughter. He glances at her, but his wife isn't looking at him, she is staring at the neighbors house across the way. He knows if he doesn't stop, the laughter will make her cry and he can't go through that...not again. So he follows suit, his belly holding the laughter in, but he can't stop the smile from touching the edges of his mouth.

He looks out the blindless window, they always told themselves next year they would buy some.

"No point now!"

His mind screams and he opens his mouth in a silent har har har, being careful not to draw her attention. He is on the edge now, he can feel it. It won't take much to push him over and if he goes, what will she do? That thought isn't funny but the laughter trying to overwhelm him is still there.

Scanning the hills and trees first, he sees nothing moving and focuses on the neighbors front window. He sees the small light on and shadows moving across it. The "neighbors" as he calls them, since they have never done anything more than wave greetings to each other from the doorway, are still there.

On the day it happened, they had each come out onto their steps, even now they didn't bother to introduce themselves. The neighbor held up a lamp, quick gestures towards it indicating the light would stay on if they were safe. He nodded at them but didn't reciprocate. Light was dangerous and even the small amount from the lamp wasn't smart.

His mouth is still open and his stomach muscles are tiring from holding the silent laugh, when he sees the light go out. His laugh immediately dies and he is pulled back from the edge. A sharp intake of breath from his wife and he moves closer to touch her shoulder. They wait quietly, hoping to see the front door open, a quick wave to let them know everything is alright.

They wait.

After more motionless minutes have passed he pulls her away from the window. He expects some resistance but she offers none. Looking at her face he tries to recall the day they met, how beautiful she was, anything to spark some feeling for her but he can't think of anything. She won't look at his face and pulls herself away to sit on the couch.

It's just a matter of time now, just a waiting game for the unknown. The news had provided no answers, the military, the President, none of them could give any information on what was happening. They only repeated that light was bad.

The sun was setting now and soon it would be pitch black inside. She had calmed down in the last few days. The dark rooms didn't hold terrors, freezing her in place, fits of uncontrollable crying and his stiff embrace of her not helping. He wondered if she would make it through tonight, if either of them would.

He stood in the middle of the living room and she sat on the couch. Three hours had passed since the neighbors had gone dark. After the first hour they had each stopped looking over finally accepting that it had happened. Not a word had been spoken, no looks between them since.

Part of him wants to go to her, try and provide any comfort that he can but part of him knows it's no use. He accepts that tonight is probably their last night alive and he wants her to do the same. He thinks it will be easier this way, but truthfully he doesn't know.

"It's coming"

Her voice is just a whisper and even if he hadn't heard her he can feel it. A humming inside him, like nothing he has ever felt before. He is suddenly sweating, the smell of his fear is offensive and he hates himself a little for not staying brave at the end. He hears movement, shuffling and his throat goes dry. His adrenaline is pumping out of control now but the darkness has him and he can't move.

An image floods his mind, his wife, the day they met and how beautiful he thought she was. He cries out her name. A hundred apologies, a thousand regrets in his voice and he wants nothing more than to hold her one last time. The lights come on in the living room, so bright he squints and he realizes she was the shuffling he heard. She was searching for the switch. He goes to her and holds her, no words again are spoken but now they are not needed. She pulls back to look at him, giving him a smile he hasn't seen in years and he nods his head. They go from room to room turning on every light, every lamp, even bringing out flashlights and candles. Back in the living room, he starts a fire in the fireplace and then joins her on the couch.

The humming hasn't stopped and hasn't changed but they both know it will be soon. She is leaning on his shoulder, taking comfort from him like she used to. His arm is cradling her, telling her everything will be alright like he used to.

Movement across the window, shadows moving too fast to see.

He can feel her stiffen as he does the same. When nothing changes after a few minutes he removes his arm from her and turns her to face him. He sees her eyes bright with hope when he asked her to marry him. He sees the love and joy as they name their first child. The heartbreak when they lose him two years later. He sees her completely broken and become a stranger when the doctor tells them no more children. Finally he sees the years of nothing, as she only exists with him, now turn to acceptance and it gives him peace.

"You are my light for the end of the world"

His voice breaks on the last word and he leans in to kiss her. She responds to him, her apologies and regrets in her return kiss. They both hear the door open and the cold air rush over them. Instead of turning to look, they press their lips closer, close their eyes

...and wait.

The Key

https://40.media.tumblr.com/01e1652b282416d3a9c23da833235a64/tumblr_ny7mc9xs3A1t8jwweo2_1280.jpg​

Piece coming very soon - WiFi-slash-laptop issues preventing me posting at the moment!

https://45.media.tumblr.com/6f2428bb1815bc4007325bcb6a2e5df5/tumblr_ny7mc9xs3A1t8jwweo10_500.gif

Baby, it's cold outside...

That song plays on repeat for the fiftieth time, but I haven't heard it past the second verse. I've been too lost in the warmth of your lips and the joy of your smile.

♫I'm dreaming of a white Christmas...♫

The snow falls in buckets and blankets the world outside, but all I'm dreaming of are the press of your hips and the glow in your eyes.

Walking in a winter wonderland...♪

We haven't left my bed for days. Naught but fuzzy, festive socks separating skin as we lay, showing Jack Frost how nipping is done.
(Though not to noses, I must say.)

♫I'll be home for Christmas...

My hearth is your heart, so long as I'm welcome. Likewise you may find shelter within my loving arms.

And as we drift asleep, entangled limbs and breaths subdued, I hear music echoing truth.

♬All I want for Christmas is you...♩

(i was falling asleep editing. If you see mistakes let me know. I will try to correct anything I see)


Similar to VH1 behind the music. Let's take a quick look behind the scenes of a favorite storybook character. This isn't what made them who we know. This is just that small incentive to start them on the path

Names

The light bounced from his eyes to his bright white teeth. He was grinning from ear to ear, rocking back and forth, king in his own world, about to ...

"Jack! Jack Frost you answer me!" His mom demanded

The grinning stopped as he muttered quietly. "Yes mom?"

"Get home!" She whispered back.

Jacks eyes grew round as saucers. He was always amazed at how his mom did that. No matter how quietly he whispered she could still hear him and whisper back twice as quietly. His smile grew wide again, the light coming back to his face and he stood up to leave, spreading his arms, pretending to fly...

"Get down from there!" A small, petulant voice growled.

Jack immediately sat back down and turned slowly to see who was speaking to him.

A small, dark haired boy, wearing very nicely tailored clothing stood with his arms crossed staring at Jack.

"I said get down, this is our fence, not yours." Petulant boy shriveled up his forehead like he meant business.

Jack glanced down for a moment. It was indeed a fence. A huge double wrought iron fence. It was possible the boy was telling the truth but...

"I don't see your name on it." Jack taunted, making a huge show of looking at nothing.

Petulant boy now glared "your name isn't either, so get down before I call my dad"

Just then both Jack's eyes and the little boy's grew wide as they heard Jack's mom whisper to them. Jack gave a huge sigh, touched the top of the fence and instantly covered it with snow.

He laughed merrily. "Now my name is on it! Don't forget it...Jack Frost!"

As he disappeared for home he caught a glimpse of petulant boy and his bottom lip trembling. He gave another laugh and shook his head before going to dinner.

Seeing the boy on the fence use his finger to cover it with snow, then disappear into thin air was too much. When that womans voice told him goblins would eat him if he told...well he turned and ran back in the house. Tears streaming and Jack Frosts laughter in his ears, he never told a soul.

Each year Jack would show up around the same time to taunt the little boy. Jack had to give it to him, he had resolve. After the third year, he stopped crying but his demands never changed. Finally one year Jack showed up and the family was gone. The house boarded up but the fence was still in great shape.

"Guess it's mine now " he laughed.

Jack was no longer a child, but he would always be a little boy. More years passed and Jack faithfully came back to mark his fence. The neighborhood had changed a lot. The house had been torn down and a new cemetary built, but Jack didn't care. As long as the fence still stood he would keep coming.

There he sat, swinging his legs, enjoying himself when he noticed a gray old man standing at the fence, just staring.

"Get down it's not yours" the old man whispered and almost laughed.

Jack realized it was him, his unnamed childhood friend. He opened his mouth to shout a greeting when he heard

"Mr. Scrooge, can we please talk about Christmas?" An out of breath, thin man panted

"Bah Humbug." Scrooge answered and his almost smile turned into a definite frown.
Scrooge grabbed the man by the arm and walked away. He was muttering and shaking his head for as far as Jack could see.

Jack looked down at the fence, two bright green wreaths looked beautiful hanging there. He had never noticed them before but since it was his fence...

Jack looked around and felt a little sad. The game was over now. He knew Scrooge's name so there was no more fun to be had with him. What Jack needs now is a new game. A few minutes pass by and suddenly his eyes grow wide at his thought. As Jack sets off to find a princess, he takes one last look at the snow capped fence and muses to himself.

"I wonder how old Scrooge feels about ghosts". Laughing playfully, Jack disappears.

DECEMBER 5TH[​

https://40.media.tumblr.com/5361011c874abd31955346bbafdeae7e/tumblr_ny7mc9xs3A1t8jwweo5_1280.jpg

The snow was lying thick and heavy on the ground, the only tracks that were visible were the birds, the dogs, maybe a little family of foxes. The woman stood at the front door, looking out across the white landscape. She hugged the shawl around her shoulders and breathed out, watching her breath clouding in front of her before stepping into the house and closing the heavy wooden door. It had been a while since they had come up to the country house, but she still loved every little minute of being here. The silence, how remote it was, how the sound of her children's laughter carried through the stone hallways of the big old mansion.

As if on cue, the sound of a door slamming upstairs, accompanied by the low, booming sound of a stringed instrument rang in her ears. She couldn't help but smile. She thought about the birth of her son, six years ago, and then her daughter, three years after that. She thought about how, earlier this evening while the family was decorating the Christmas tree, her husband had joked about them having a third baby.

'How ever did I get this lucky?' she thought to herself as she looked up the stairs, silently and watchfully waiting. She smiled when she heard another door slam, follow by the tinkling laughter of her two little elves, and allowed herself to walk into the kitchen and drape her shawl over a stool. She started to prepare the vegetables for dinner. They would be having guests. Her in laws, and some of her own family, and friends. It had become a Christmas tradition before she and her husband had gotten married. A quiet dinner, followed by drinks and watching the children play with their new toys.

Carrots lay on the wooden chopping board and she began to slice, following them with the obligatory sprouts and some herbs. She checked the pantry to make sure the pudding was set, before rolling her eyes in the knowledge that her husband had got there before her. He loved to cook, and most of the time he wouldn't let her do it. But usually, when she did, it was a special occasion. A grin spread across her lips as she remembered the night she made dinner to tell him they were going to have a baby. She had made stroganoff and served red wine with it. The meal was too rich for her to stomach, and she couldn't drink, but he hadn't even noticed. When she told him for dessert she had a bun in the oven, he looked at her confused. But when he swept her into his arms and spun her around their apartment living room a moment later, she was glad she hadn't eaten.

Picking up her shawl and folding it, she walked into the dining room. The table was already set. Her fingers traced along the backs of the chairs, knowing where everyone would sit. They'd been sitting in the same seats for ten years now. She mouthed their names, checking off their usual drinks order in her head as she walked through the room and into the grand sitting room where the Christmas tree stood.

The house was silent, and she thought she could hear the dogs barking. How long had she been daydreaming in the kitchen? As she approached the window, she could see two small figures playing in the snow. She knocked the window and waved, and the little girl came running over, thumping a small, mittened hand against the glass.

"Hi mommy! Daddy's being a reindeer and he's giving us rides!"

She laughed, looking up at her husband who had two branches shoved into the neck of his coat for antlers, giving their six year old a piggy back ride.

"I'm next! I'm next! Alex, Daddy said I was next!" She ran back to them, yelling, as her husband professed he was too tired to lift such a heavy girl, and dramatically threw himself into a pile of snow, prompting the kids to climb all over him, screaming in glee. She put her hand on her chest and made a mental note to never forget this moment. She turned towards the Christmas tree, her fingers lighting upon the first bauble she could find.

It was a small, crystal Christmas tree with a star on top. She held it, thinking about how she felt at that exact moment, and how she would always remember it, and how every year when she lifted out that small bauble, she'd remember how much she loved her family in that moment.

Her daughter let out a squeal of excitement, causing her to snap her head back up automatically before realising it wasn't that type of squeal, the ones that sent her sprinting, banging her shins into tables and actually dropping her cello bow. The little girl was being spun around, her father holding onto her arms and making his wife's heart leap in her chest. He would throw her up in the air and catch her, each time eliciting a shrill scream of joy from the toddler. After the third time, his wife knocked the window and gave him one of her 'high brow' looks and a minute shake of the head. He'd smile sheepishly, his tousled auburn hair so bright against the snow. There were already snowy flecks of hair in his beard. But she had promised to love him even if he went white, put on fifty pounds and bought a sports car.

She let the bauble hang on its own again, pulling her hand away from it as she folded her arms and kept watch over her family. The yellow lab they had bought the year Alex was born was barking and bouncing around next to the little boy, which made her think of the other dog, the older one.

"Lady!" She called. There was a yawn from in front of the fireplace. The old girl was lying, stretched out, her head up and her ears alert. She had once been the puppy of the house, and was now the most senior four legged companion there. The woman knelt down beside her, scratching behind her ear. The dog laid her head back down again and sighed contentedly. They sat there in front of the fire until the front door opened, and the silence was broken by a clatter of heavy boots in the hall.

"Shoes off now, you two! And coats hung up!" He came into the room a moment later, wearing jeans and a shirt and sweater. "The others are almost here. You look lovely, sweetheart." He stepped over her and the dog to warm himself at the fireplace.

"Thank you," she said. "I think everything's ready."

"Hmm," he mumbled. "Not sure we have enough booze for your uncle."

"It's probably better he doesn't drink, not with his cholesterol these days. He's getting on. I mean, he'll be 65 next year. He'll probably retire, and let you take over. You're practically running it anyway."

He shrugged. "That bear will never retire, that'd be too much like giving up. He'll go down fighting."

She laughed. "I wouldn't be surprised." As she looked up at him, she noticed how he was leaning against the fireplace mantle with both hands, staring down into the flames. She stood up behind him. "What's wrong?"

"Huh? Oh, nothing. I was just thinking about Mom actually. It'll be nice having her and Bart here this year. They haven't made it for Christmas since the year we had Clara. It'll be nice to have everyone together again."

"Feeling nostalgic?"

"Just thinking. I was watching you with that little tree ornament. Do you remember where we got that?"

She smiled. "New York. Our second trip away together there. You took me ice skating again. That was the year you got your book published too."

"And the year the orchestra hit platinum. Same year you got me those Russian lessons. They weren't very useful, were they?" He glanced over his shoulder.

She raised her eyebrows in a mock shocked expression. "Hey, I said yes, didn't I?"

"Yeah, in English. After all the trouble I went to."

She laughed a little, stepping towards him. She moved silently, moving her right arm underneath his own right arm. Her hand rested just on his ribs, the breathing centre as her coach always used to say. She had always found placing her hands there relaxed her, and she applied the slightest of pressures. Her head bowed, her mop of curls reverently still, her forehead touching the ball of his shoulder. She exhaled, the way she always did before pulling her bow across the strings.

Two little figures watched them from the doorway, in entranced silence. The little boy with wavy black hair and blue eyes. His sister with auburn curls and green eyes. The little boy noticed the same stance that he had seen from his mother's parents, in the photograph on the mantle.

Their father put his right hand over hers, holding it against his heart.

"My Nikolai..."

"Solnyshko..."

Reserved for PhallusOperandi's 7th Dec submission.

Hope you all enjoy, Part 2 will be coming on the 19th

http://lamppost17.tumblr.com



Cold air spilled into the room as the last of the “Ghost Tour” wrapped their scarves tight around their necks and headed out into the Edinburgh night. The remaining patrons watched the door swing shut with its signature high pitched squeal, trapping in the remnants of heat and Whisky fumes. They could tell by the hazy light cast by the streetlights that snow was on its way, coming to add another layer to that which had fallen earlier in the day.
The “Whiski Bar” attracted many visitors, standing as it does on part of the “Royal Mile” and had become a favourite stop of the “Auld Reekie” ‘Ghost Tour’, though not many had decided to frequent the establishment on this cold and snow laden Tuesday in December. Only 3½ patrons were left sitting at the bar after the departure of the tour group, the ½ taking the form of Pancho the dog whose maximum was a ½ of Deuchars! Pancho now lay snoring at the feet of Murdo, after his usual tipple and a large amount of pork scratchings which he had scrounged from the tourists by engaging his “Lovable Puppy” look, a look which he had honed to perfection over the last few years.
The other 3 patrons sipped their drinks enjoying the moment’s peace after the hubbub of the visitors. Darren the tour guide had led the ghost hunters around many of the spirit 'hot spots' of Edinburgh, regaling them with a mixture of blood curdling and heart rending stories. Darren usually got tipped a few drinks at the end of the night by the grateful punters and he was always sure to share the gains with the regulars in the bar who were always happy to help out with creating a good atmosphere. Tonight had been a good night, Murdo had brought a hush the whole bar as he weaved a story of love, intrigue and mystery, even Pancho had gotten into the spirit of the evening, whining when Murdo reached the darker parts of the story and nuzzling up to the girlies for the love scenes.
Eventually Gordon broke the moment of quiet reflection "I've no heard that tale before Murdo, how long have you and Pancho been cooking that one up?"
"I only heard it the other day." admitted Murdo "I was chatting to the old station master from Waverley, he was telling me that it was an old story handed down by the station porters.”
“They all think the city fathers had something to do with the lassies disappearance. But in those days it didn't do to gossip about such things. Those families didn't get where they did without having friends in dark places."
A general murmur of agreement moved between those at the bar, Pancho just wuffeld as he chased cats in his dreams.
"A few of the lads down there say they've seen something though, about this time of year, a few weeks before Christmas, down the end of platform 19, near where the Newhaven Tunnel is. They see a woman looking as if she has just got off a train waiting for a porter to take her steamer trunk which is next to her. By the time they get a cart to carry the thing she's disappeared.”
"You'd think with all these ghosts around the place that there would be no room for the living" chuckled Gordon.
Gordon had only just got back into the city for a few days, he always tried to get back once or twice a year to catch up with the other two for a nip and a pint of the local ale.
He had a love for the city even though he originally came from further north, no matter how long you had been away, you were always welcomed back like an old friend who had only just nipped out to pick up a paper. The city itself had character, from the bright lights of the 'New Town' to the dark tunnels of the 'Auld Toon', the smell of the hops from the breweries mixing with the scent of spices and charcoal from the Indian restaurants, all combining with the sound of the city's inhabitants going about their lives.
In the warmth of the bar the friends shared news and stories of what had happened since their last encounter, while outside the snow began to fall, not fast, but large flakes drifting through the orange hue of the street lights. Occasionally the strobing orange beacons of the gritters and the clatter of the salt being spread would penetrate the curtain of white outside of the bar.
Time moved on and Pancho grew bored with chasing cats, he gave himself a shake and decided to see if any customers had mislaid any pork scratchings.
"Jeez will you look at the time" exclaimed Murdo "nearly midnight and on a school night too, Paula will kill me!"
"You must be one of your ghosts by now, with the amount of times she's threatened to murdered you" chided Gordon.
"I'll be bringing the tourists in the see a real live ghost and his dog at this rate" grinned Darren "I best be off too, I've got the early tour of the South Bridge tomorrow. Grab your hat Murdo I'll walk doon the road with you."
Darren swallowed the remnants of his pint while Murdo retrieved Pancho from his attempts to save an errant pork scratching from a dark eternity under the bar. "Are you coming Gordo?"
"Nah I'll hae another dram before I head off, a 3 Wood should round the night off nicely. I'll catch up with you lads tomorrow before I go."
Murdo, Pancho and Darren headed off into the snow, a few errant flakes drifted into the bar as the door closed, leaving damp spots on the wooden floor where they surrendered to the heat.
Turning back to the bar Gordon lifted his fresh glass of Auchentoshan ‘3 Wood’ Whisky and swirled it around watching the amber coloured liquid cling to the sides, letting the aroma drift up to his nose. There were few sensations that could beat the atmosphere of being warm in an Edinburgh bar on a cold night, snow falling, with a glass of single malt Whisky in your hand, at least in Gordons opinion, it was something very hard to replicate anywhere else.

But all good things must come to an end and the last of the amber liquid was soon drained from Gordon’s glass, thanking the barman he headed for the door. Gordon picked up his jacket from the hook at the door, taking a scarf from the pocket he wrapped it around his neck and pulled on a pair of gloves after buttoning his coat up.
Turning right out of the bar he headed up the Royal Mile to where it met North Bridge, turning right again he headed down the North Bridge towards ‘The Balmoral’ hotel.
Centuries before the people of Edinburgh had built bridges to cross the gaps either side of the extinct volcano that Edinburgh Castle sat on, North Bridge was one such bridge. Over time and as the population grew, houses were built beside the bridges soon engulfing them so that it no longer seemed as if there was a bridge there. It is not uncommon to go in the front door of a 5 storey house at street level in Edinburgh, go down 6 flights of stairs only to come out at street level at the rear of an 11 storey house. As the city continued to expand whole streets and communities grew in the warren of cellars and storerooms beneath the houses. The rich living at the top and the poor in the middens below.
Gordon drew abreast the Scotsman Hotel, inside he could see the reception staff wishing their guest a good night as they made their way to their rooms, the hotel had taken over the Scotsman newspaper building after the presses had moved to a new building away from the city centre, leaving the cavernous press rooms to be filled with function suites and their resident ghosts to become tourist attractions.
The building stood on the corner overlooking the last few spans of the North Bridge that remained exposed on their journey across the chasm on the other side of which stood ‘The Balmoral’ with its iconic clock tower. Gordon tried to make out the time on the clock tower through the snow which still fell thickly, a few minutes past midnight, which meant it was a few minutes before midnight. The clock was always set 5 minutes fast to help commuters get to their trains on time in the expanse of Waverley station which sat in the chasm below North Bridge. The only time it was accurate was on New Year eve, set so that “Mons Meg” fired as its hands reached the top of its face.
Stepping onto the bridge Gordon met the first of 17 lamp posts that lined the bridge, 17 lamp posts to signify the 17 'Wards' of Edinburgh, each post stamped with the name of the ward it represented.
The snow had thickened again obscuring the last few lights on the far side of the bridge. Behind him came the growl of a motor and the scraping sound of metal on stone, stepping to one side Gordon let the small snow plough pass him as it cleared the pathways across the bridge, receiving a nod of thanks from the driver who undoubtedly had the heater turned up full in his cab. The little machine was closely followed on the road by its bigger brother, which showered the road and pathway with a layer of salt as it passed.
The fresh salt crunching under his feet Gordon glanced at the first lamppost, “Pentland” was embossed on its metalwork denoting the ward to the South East at the edge of the Pentland Hills. The lamp casting a cone of yellow light through the snow, on the other side of the road its counterpart battled to light the pavement below it as the snow grew thicker. Already the channel cut by the snow plough had a layer of white, the salt barely having an effect on the fresh fall.
Gordon moved on, his boots leaving impressions in the snow that quickly filled in. Another lamppost – ‘Forth’ named after the firth that the city lay beside. Next came ‘Corstorphine/Murrayfield’ just to the west of the city centre where the grand rugby stadium, the home of Scottish Rugby sat.
To Gordons surprise the snow was pulling at his feet, every step sinking a few centimetres, he looked back to the beginning of the bridge and could barely make out the flickering light of the first light, “Flickering..?” he thought, “that can’t be right.”
“Must be the effect of the snow.”
Pushing on he reached Colinton/Fairmilehead, glancing up he saw that this light was flickering as well, maybe the council had changed the bulbs for flickering ones to give a more festive feel to the bridge, now he had to walk twice as far to the next lamppost.
Since there were 17 wards it meant that there had to be a gap somewhere so the city elders had put it in the middle of the bridge, on the opposite side of the road shone a single light on its own, Gordon could not remember which ward it represented and wasn’t about to risk his neck on the snow covered road just to find out.
Like an omen of what could have been a large shadow loomed out of the snow, any noise being muffled by the curtain of flakes, but it wasn’t some huge articulated truck taking a shortcut through the city or a Lothian bus; it was a horse and carriage.
Gordon stopped in his tracks, surely not? Who would have a horse and carriage out on a night like this? Not only that but it only had two small lamps at the front to give the driver some view of the road, a driver who was huddled on his roof top seat, a thick cloak and scarf wrapped around him and a coachman’s hat perched on his head which had a thick layer of snow piled upon it. The horse plodded by shaking its mane to loosen the ice that was forming at the hair ends, its hooves hardly making a sound other than a dull thump, the coach rattled and gave the occasional creak as it rolled by and then it was gone into the curtain of snow.
Gordon shrugged to himself, who was he to judge? He was the one trying to walk through this weather, why hadn’t he taken a taxi from the bar? He would have been in the warmth of his hotel room by now.
Pushing on, Gordon tried to increase his pace, but the snow clung on like glue to his shoes, leaving trails like ski tracks behind him.
Ah! There it was, the next light in the row, he had passed the halfway mark and was now counting down to the other side of the bridge. This light seemed to flicker more than the others, a fact Gordon did not really dwell upon, just assuming that the local council would either repair it or had paid extra for the flicker, they were really getting their monies worth from this one!
He could make out the base of the lamp now and the snow clinging to the shoulder of metalwork where the name was embossed, he didn’t know why, but he reached out a gloved hand to wipe away the snow. The pressure of his hand compressed the snow into the gaps of the letters almost highlighting the name.
“Pentland”
For a second time that night Gordon came to a sudden halt.
Hadn’t Pentland been at the beginning of the bridge? He was almost sure it had been, though he had barely paid any attention to it.
Maybe it had been Portobello that was another ward of Edinburgh, it began with ‘P’ but there the similarity ended.
He stared at the letters for a moment longer, maybe that last whisky was kicking in a little harder than expected. Time to move before it caused any more issues.
Again he tried to pick up the pace, the sooner he was inside and out of this blizzard the better. He passed the next lamppost without pausing, this was no time to start looking for irregularities that could be done in the daylight when it was a bit warmer. Secretly he didn’t want find another name that he may have read earlier.
What now?
Ahead he could see the penultimate lampposts light, but next to it was a red glow, a single point of red hovering amidst a rose coloured aura.
This was getting weird! Like one of Murdos ghost stories to make the tourists think Edinburgh was full of spirits, or to get them to buy a few more spirits at least.

Mac380 said:

Reserved for PhallusOperandi's 7th Dec submission.

Click to expand...

Due to an unfortunate loss of a draft, expect the 7th and 9th posts on the 9th.

Reserved.

Reserved for TinyDuchess

Prompt 12

Space reserved for prompt 12...should be here later today, definitely by the end of the weekend...sorry I wasn't ready right on time, though.

Alright, so that weekend came and went...but will have something here by Christmas...honest.

The brisk evening air seeps through my coat and chills me to the bone. I sigh
as I walk between the trees, stripped of their leaves and magnificent colors.
Jack Frost has once again worked his magic. The glistening icy shards twinkle brilliantly in the suns bright rays.

Just yesterday we walked, hand in hand through the majestic whiteness of winter. I try to retrace our steps, still fresh in the snow. As I walk I think back to our time together, the stolen kisses under the trees, our laughter breaking the silence melodiously ringing out through the crisp winter air.

I stop beneath the tree, you remember the one. You grabbed me and backed me up, pinning me against it with your body. Your lips sought out mine and i felt the electricity between us. All of the butterflies that you created in my stomach had moved up to our lips and made that first kiss electric! The type that you read about in those trashy romance books.

When at last I opened my big brown eyes I found you staring down into mine, looking past my pupils, straight into my soul. I felt naked before you, and i was okay with that. Your mouth found mine again and you took my breath away. Our mouths hungry, our kisses deepened. I moaned softly, a noise filled with an aching need.

As our lips parted, you took my hands in yours. You pulled them up, over
my head and pinned them there with one of yours. Your free hand found the zipper of my coat and I gave you an incredulous look. It was cold, and you were taking off my jacket? You kept me quiet by kissing me again. My jacket was open and you pulled it to the side, smiling as your eyes took in my tightly sweatered torso. With that big strong hand your fingertips brushed my cheek, then slowly moved down my neck. I shivered
and not from the cold. Your hand cupped my breast through the soft mohair shirt. You squeezed. I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply, pushing my chest further toward you. My eyes opened and you were again peering into them. You released my hands but instructed me to keep them over my head. I willingly obliged.

You grabbed the bottom of my sweater and lifted it up. "Open," you instructed and now I was holding the sweater up over my black lace bra the hem in my mouth. You slipped your hands into the cups and pulled out my tits, holding them you smiled at me. Your mouth found one of my nipples. You licked it, then leaned back, watching as the chilly air and my excitement made it tingle as it hardened. You teased me with your lips, your tongue,
your fingers and then you let them drop. You knelt in the snow and smiled up at me as I watched you. I was mesmerized by those gorgeous blue eyes.

As I think about the events and how they unfolded I lean back against the tree. Our tree. I slip my gloves off and throw them on the ground. My hands slide up under my shirt and I give my breasts the same attention that you did. My eyes are closed and I can almost feel your hands where mine are.

Your soft lips trailed kisses across my ribs then lower and your tongue explored my navel. I was giggling biting my lip softly as I watched you. The look on your face was intense. My heart was racing, I watched you grab the button of my jeans in your teeth and with a playful jerk you growled and pulled them open. The zipper moved down halfway of it's own accord but you made a big show of your skills and without
using your hands you pulled it down the rest of the way.

Opening my eyes I look around me, almost expecting to see you once again kneeling in front of me. I unzip my pants and drop them to my boots. Slipping my hand into my panties I find that just as yesterday, I am soaked. My thoughts return to our adventure...

My boots made it impossible to pull my jeans off over them so you pushed my feet apart as far as they would go. I stood, leaning against the tree, goosebumps covering my thighs, and from where you were knelt, you could see the wet spot in my panties. You reached into you jacket and pulled out a pocket knife. I held my breath as you opened it and trailed it ever so gently up my inner thigh. My legs were shaking just a bit and I knew not whether it was from the cold or my own excitement.

The knife was sharp, I could feel the tips slight bite. You slid it underneath the thin elastic band of my favorite pink lace panties and with a sharp tug, I knew they were ruined forever. I whimpered a bit as you mirrored your actions on the other side. I watched you as you pulled them from between my legs. You brought them to your face and inhaled deeply. Your smile told me you liked what you smelled and then, you tasted them. Tossing them aside your hands found my thighs. Like a drowning man who has just found water you dove into my junction and began to lap at my smooth wet sex.

As I stand alone in the forest my fingers slide between my lips and I touch myself. Gasping, remembering, wanting, needing you, but all I have are these memories. I run my fingers around my swollen little nub and continue to think of our yesterday.

My shirt slipped from my lips as I murmured, moaned, and whimpered. Your mouth devoured me. Your fingers found that tight slick hole and soon you had me begging and pleading to cum. I was so close, I needed release so very bad. Just when I was about to explode on your face you pulled back. The grinned evilly while you watched my pained expression, my gasping for breath, chest heaving, eyes raging full of need, full of desire, you chuckle and I am so frustrated by your amusement that for just one fleeting moment I want to punch you in the face.

The memory of that feeling, was so intense. I knew why you did it. You wanted me to cum with you the first time but Oh my god, the way you brought me close again and again only to stop...I replayed your deliciously deviant prologue with my fingers, edging closer and closer each time. Now, here I am thinking back to the next moments, our final moments beneath the tree.

You stood and kissed me sharing my juices, letting me suck my flavor from your tongue. Your lips are slick, coated I can't get enough. My hands found your belt, I ripped it off. I opened your pants, but not fast enough for you. You took over quickly freeing that gorgeous thick cock. My pants were still an encumbrance. I stepped out of my boots and you lifted me pinning me to the tree. I wrapped my legs around you as you slid in deep, my silky cunt enveloped your cock. You started off slow and deep, but quickly began to thrust harder and faster. I was grinding into you, squeezing you, and our bodies meshed perfectly. Gasping, moaning, whimpering, mewling, the crescendo grew, You bit my shoulder hard and as your teeth sunk
into my flesh I scream your name and I was cumming, gripping you, milking you and you exploded inside me, plunging deep, hard, growling and groaning, filling me with your seed. My arms wrapped around your shoulders and you held me there, pinned to the tree, willing our bodies to come down, come back from that euphoric state of bliss...

My right hand full and squeezing my tit, still playing with my nipple, the left between my legs, two fingers inside and my thumb working my clit. I remember, I can feel you, I bite my lip and let rapture take me over cumming so hard...shivering, taking deep breaths, I slide my hands away from my body. I quickly look around again making sure that I have not been seen. I blush at the thought of being caught, in the middle of the woods, alone, masturbating. I lick my fingers clean and begin to
retrace my steps back to the little cabin. My mind already fast forwarding to the moment we stepped through the door and helped each other out of our cold damp clothes. The fireplace and more memories await me there.

https://40.media.tumblr.com/644f76594157cec55e103bd5077ce227/tumblr_ny7mdeXLaB1t8jwweo4_500.jpg


A sight more majestic than sunrise on any golden shore; Unfettered multicolored beauty to behold. Rays of irridescence in every span of the spectrum, outside the reach of man’s influence. Radiating and coruscating from the heavens, awe instilled in every watcher’s soul. Beacon of journeymen and stargazers, opalescent guide amongst the stars. Recognizable whether cloudy or clear, exuding wonderment worldwide. Aqueous in motion, lovely ripples rolling amidst the astral sea. It is equally enough and not to witness its glory; Seeing the Lights will brighten your being.

Almost done.... need to save this spot for the post of the 15th.

The Christmas Present

“The Christmas Present”

It was the winter of his distance, the spring of her happiness; spring even though it was Christmas Eve, because they’d just been married. She felt as light as a snowflake. They were outside the courthouse, and as always he held his umbrella like a shield.
“Get that out of here,” she said, pushing the umbrella to the side so they could embrace and kiss. The sky was alive with large feathery snowflakes. “I always see what’s here. You always see something different.” As if to make a point, She stuck out her tongue to capture a flake. A picture might not be as simple as it looks, he thought. There was a coal-powered power plant nearby and a bonfire celebration in a nearby park. The sky was filled with ash! Two, three snowflakes landed on her tongue and turned from white to translucent; she then used the captured liquid to moisten her mouth. Maybe that was the difference. Where she saw light, he only saw dark. She flicked the air with her tongue, cast a him a playful glance.
They crossed the street to the hotel and walked toward the banquet room. That’s when she noticed that he was still wandering beneath his umbrella. He sheepishly closed it.

The banquet hall and its furnishings reflected the tastes and aspirations of its management. His new mother-in-law sat framed by “The Rape of the Sabine Women” and a poster of the Running of the Bulls. The groom preferred the bulls, since it appeared that the man in the foreground was about to be gored. They called his mother-in-law The Witch and that did not offend her, because it was apparently linked to either her religion or her business. Because he was a writer, her new son-in-law hoped it was the former, because the phrase “the dark art” interested him. If witchery was in fact a business, it might be because she ran an apothecary with her daughter. An unlicensed one, so maybe it was a religion after all.

Their wedding gift was as unusual as her mother. She presented her two gloved hands and held them out to the couple. Simultaneously, the newlyweds each chose a fist. The bride found an orb that looked like a giant pearl. It reminded her of her dress, it reminded her of her and she thought she could see her face looking out at her, smiling and nodding. Her husband was holding a very large black marble with a fire at its center.
His bride nodded at him. “Darling, you choose!” So it would be the dark marble. The pearl she had chosen was her, and he already had the original. He look closely into the dark and could see the flame, escaping from something that looked like an almost microscopic heart.
“You’ve chosen what I would have predicted. I wouldn’t say you didn’t choose well... but you’ll see!” His bride looked into her mother’s eyes and didn’t seemed pleased by his choice at first, but conceded.
“Yes, we’ll see.”
“Let’s not forget the black herbal liquor. Your wife and I make it special.”
“You make it very special,” he said, and they drank a toast. After two small glasses that world became very strange.

The Present

He wasn’t too surprised to find himself upstairs, in front of their suite. He was surprised that he had no recollection of coming there. His mother-in-law was standing in the doorway of her room, but ducked inside when he came close. There was the suite, door half way open, their marriage bed in the distance; the other door led to a small roof top pavilion where flakes of grey were still falling. That was the door he chose.
It had gotten to be warm, even hot, nothing like December, and the flakes falling were really ash, as though the weather had been created out of his imagination. Best of all, his bride was there, too! Sitting on a bench under a fine sheen of talc ash she beamed at him and pulled his zipper down.
“Did our liquor make you this horny?” He helped her free his very hard cock.
“And this is what you ferment it to do?”
“No. This is how we wish it to work. And intention is soft power.”
She gobbled him down between her lip balm-ash soft lips.
“We should patent this, darling,” he moaned. He stroked her hair. Ashes fell off in clumps and strands... or was it her hair disintegrating? He knew he wouldn’t last long.
She’d never been able to deep throat him before, not until tonight. It was as if there was no back to her throat. She pulled away and began to lick his shaft. Falling ashes were piling up on her head and he removed them... along with the entire back of her head, it seemed, but there were the shadows and the ash falling and pulling down his own eyelids: it couldn’t be! He thought of the man being gored by the bull. And he came. Harder than ever before. Cum trickled down her chin, and out of her throat through the cum-soaked ashes. As he pulled away, her head toppled off and landed beside the bench in a soft pile.
A hallucination, a dream! He began smacking the side of his head with his hand to wake himself-- then, worried that his own ash-covered head would meet the same fate, he stopped.
He ran back inside.

The Past


When he returned, his mother-in-law was waiting. Had he lost her daughter? He felt disoriented. He didn’t know what to say. Her hands were working his zipper. it was still down.
“You must be well groomed. You’ll never know who we might meet. He noticed that she was quite attractive, a fact he’d turned a blind eye to before. She no longer wore gloves or wedding attire. She now wearing a very short mini, and the sight of her was enough to revive him. She touched his face and cleaned away bits of ash, then kissed his cheek and told him-- “We’re going to a party!”
They were now at the far end their end of the hallway. Two doors stood open. To his right, there was a large hall that looked so familiar. A wedding reception. He recognized many of the guests and especially his sister. It was her wedding. Ten years ago, and the happiest day of her life. The happiest day of his life. He knew just where to look. There he was at the other end of the room. Himself at 18 years old. This was the magic night he met her...
He now backed out of the room, his guide pulling at his shirt sleeve. He imagined that his sister had noticed him. Not those memories.
“You can make choices,” his mother-in-law snapped at him. He made the choice to visit the other room, another banquet hall now empty, except for a young guy wearing a tux. Some big event had been planned but had never come to fruition. This time he wasn’t as surprised to see himself. His double opened a window and threw a vase full of flowers out into the courtyard. It was dark and bitterly cold and he enthusiastically lent a hand, tossing a ruined wedding reception out the window, breaking it against the walls. If only he could tell him that she was in the other room, it was two years earlier there, and they were so happy.
“She didn’t show up for the reception,” he told his mother-in-law in a low voice. “She told me after the wedding she was just going to change. Four hours later she was arrested for drugs and prostitution.”


“I didn’t know, hun! My daughter never told me....” She touched his shoulder. “I never told her.”
A woman ran into the room determined to talk to his younger self. A friend of his sister-- he remembered her fondly.
If he’d only listen to her! She pleaded with him to come home with her. She cared for him. She was so nice, she had really cared. Then he heard his drunken self shout at her, calling her a whore. The friend rushed back out, past the two ghosts.* He ran after her, with his mother-in-law trying to restrain him.
“She’s gone. You’ve already made your choice. And so has that other you...you. What do we call him, anyway? But she’s gone for good.”
The wedding reception was still going and the band was playing a slow song. Since he wasn’t about to go back, they danced, his head touched hers, her fingers in his hair. Like a sleepwalker, he allowed his hand to drop down and rest on his mother-in-law’s ass. He dozed off and when he awoke the music, the light, his guide, were all gone. As in some premonition, he couldn’t see anything. He began inching his way back down the hallway.


The Future

There was a light at the end of the tunnel... the cold tunnel. Had to hotel failed to pay its heating bill? And at the end of the tunnel was a figure drapped in a long black robe. The light came from his mother-in-law’s room, and the robed creature standing by the doorway was his mother-in-law. He walked past her and began to struggle with the door to the suite, pounding and calling his wife’s name.
“She’s not there! Get away from the door!
“Only one door opens? Why aren’t there two like before?” he yelled.
She hissed the words slowly so even her son-in--law could understand. “That’s because you no longer get to choose! This is the future and you’ve run out of choices! Because you are here!” Now she pulled him by the elbow into her warm room. Something seemed very wrong. He walked to a window looking out on a very dark city. Outside, he saw the shapes of cars, buses and trucks all cold, useless, stalled and haphazardly parked about the streets. Lights glowed dimly in a scattering of windows, lights that lit rooms just like this one!
He’d written about this and felt a rush of excitement! The end of peak oil had come like he’s predicted! Year’s ago, apparently. This was wonderful! He had been right!
“Don’t get too excited. It’s cold and wicked to feel what you’re feeling. And maybe you’ve never been told this, but you need glasses.”
He looked over his shoulder and saw that she was naked, waiting by the bed. That was when he noticed them, the woolly bears treading slowly down the sidewalk. When they looked up at his window, he could see their faces, faces like his. He felt a chill and for a minute the people below seem to glow, as if they were stealing his heat! The palms of his hands were frozen to the windowpane. And now he saw that he was naked and he began to tremble uncontrollably. Then he felt her arms wrapped around his waist and she tugged hard once, twice, three times and he came free.
“Have you no sense at all?” He actually liked her berating him. He felt empty. An empty vessel. It was a relief to disappear beneath the heavy blankets with her. After she had rubbed the cold away from his back and legs, she went to work on his cock.
He was about to fuck another witch. She wasn’t as quite petite as her daughter, but he loved her tits, and her breasts loved the attention-- nipples so swollen that he imagined with effort they might touch the back of his mouth. Just to drag his cock across their peaks! She was so very wet, he soon discovered, and lost no time in going down on her. To tease his mother-in-law’s clit, to finger her pussy.
“She can’t have children you know. She’d intended to tell you. An accident at the apothecary.” He climbed back into her arms, and she took possession of his cock again. The room turned dark, then light again. He was very hard, but he seemed ages away from cumming, so she enjoyed him, giving him a long slow blow job. She ended with another commentary.
“You’re been good friends with the night for too long. It’s seduced you, but it’s not you. She straddled him and took him... leaned over to kiss him while he took charge of her breasts. “I like to ride my men,” she groaned. “Favorite way...”
“I’m saying I can’t save you. The darkness is fading, but it’s a vengeful thing and it’s taken away your eyesight.”
He could hear the fire but not see it. Only her, because she glowed from within.
“I’m going to give you and my daughter a child. A child of light.”
The ride was over. He gave his mother-in-law his cum.


Back to the Present


“The next time you put your meat in my mother’s oven, it’s going to be at the Christmas potluck!”
“I thought you were ashes.”
It was Christmas morning. He had awoken back in their suite.
“Oh no! You see too much, and you think too little.” That was a mistake. She cuddled beside him and said softy, “you saw too much, when you could see.”
He remember a Greek story about a guy who gouged out his eyes after discovering he’d slept with his mother. But he was with his mother-in-law! The gods apparently didn’t appreciate the distinction.
“You write, so it won’t be too bad,” said his bride, reading his mind. “And I’ll help you!” He knew he could still write, and he was sure his lovely wife would be terrific. She is terrific! Even without his eyesight, he had never been so happy before, to know that she was alright, in bed, waiting for him to return.
“... and don’t forget! The first time was the last time! Mother can be a little insistent in these things.”
“Are there any rites I’ll need to learn to be in your circle. I take it I’m expected to be the same religion?” He remembered the magical black pearl in his pocket. He would have to ask them what to do with it.
“Well, you don’t have to join, but it would mean a lot to me. Another form of union.”
“Of course, sweetheart.”
His cock was deep in her pussy by now and they tried to remain still for as long as they could bear, sharing that electricity, feeling the current move in waves from cock to pussy and back and again.
“You’ll have to learn some rites and rituals, but it won’t be bad.”
“Magic?”
“No. We’re Unitarians!

https://41.media.tumblr.com/1c10896ad7429f930ae3f511bb50b106/tumblr_ny7mdeXLaB1t8jwweo6_1280.jpg

The sun crests the Northern Wood and a flash of white disturbs the pristine hills of snow lining the forest. A lithe frame, four legs running smoothly, barely leaving prints. The sun precedes the runner, but only just. An ennead of tails flicks and whips in the wake of her sprint.

Hot on her heels is a thick black fog, though it moves more like a canine than a cloud. A hound on the scent of prey, unrelenting despite the growing dawn. Where the former has left but a trace, this second presence imparts itself on the world with force. Paw prints the size of tree trunks crush powder and earth alike.

The Northern Wood is a place of magic and of power. Old roots reach deep and draw their strength from the world's center. She has fled here for that reason. He has followed for the same.

No matter how far and how fast she runs, he pursues. She is strong and fit but even she begins to flag, swallowing breaths like a thirsty traveler in the desert. His howls and bays play accompaniment to her yips and barks.

He finds her at the heart of the forest. A great Sakura stands tall and alone amidst pines and oaks and elms. The pink of its leaves meshes with the blanket of white coating it.

<I've caught you. At last, this chase has come to an end.>

<So it seems. Do you even remember why you're chasing me?>

<You stole her from me. My beloved.>

<Is that really what you think?>

The nine-tailed fox shakes its head in an almost too human gesture and turns to the cherry blossom tree. The wolf treads forward, intent on seizing the fox in its jaws.

Time stands still. The wolf sees through his eyes a young woman, seated at the tree. She's holding a hand out to him. His eyes drop to his own form and he sees not a wolf with jet black fur, but a man, tall and proud.

<She took you from me, my love. But I've found her. Found you...

The woman speaks, and it is a familiar voice. One he has heard for ages, one always just ahead of him...always asking...

<Is that really what you think? My love, you have chased me for so long, you have forgotten who I am. But here, in the shade of this tree I can show you at last. So yes, you have caught me. I am yours, forever.>

Time's flow returns, like a frozen river come undone in Spring. The wolf sits on its haunches next to the fox. In another eerily human expression, the wolf bows its head and lets out a sigh. In return the fox nuzzles against the wolf, letting out a short yip.

The sun reaches midday and a shimmer dissolves the vision of the Northern Wood. All that remains are two sets of paw-prints, walking in perfect harmony to the edge of the forest, where they disappear.

Lamp 17 (Part 2)

Sorry for the delay.

Moving closer Gordon could make out a figure moving on the periphery of the glow. The red light disappeared in a blink as the figure moved in front of it, a red glow outlined the shape, “Vampires!?”
“In Edinburgh?”
Gordon shook himself “stop having daft ideas” he muttered to himself “Edinburgh has got a few strange things going on, but vampires isn’t one of them.”
He still gave the light and figure a wide berth as he approached, ‘well you never know!’
He was almost opposite the scene when he realised that it was the coach and horse stopped by the road side, with the driver trying to fix something at the rear, while stood over the light.
He had just started to relax when the coach window dropped down with a slam and a head appeared through it.
A head wearing a large top hat, cravat and wig.
It paused for a moment as it took in Gordon’s appearance, obviously a little confused by what it saw.
Gordon was not unduly phased by the look of the head, if someone was going to travel around Edinburgh in a coach in the middle of the night they may as well dress the part.
“Ummm I say dear chap” said the head “I don’t mean to presume but you are a gentleman of good standing aren’t you?”
Not a question you were asked every day in the city, more like “Spare some change?”
“Well I am staying in the Balmoral if that is any gauge of my standing” laughed Gordon.
The head did not look totally convinced “Well if I have your word as a gentleman that you are trustworthy, I would request your help in a matter.”
Gordon looked round at the driver, half expecting to see him wielding a cosh and about to mug him, but he was still stooped over the wheels at the rear of the coach.
“It would appear that the snow has done something or other to our brakes and my man here is having some difficulty sorting it out.” explained the head “I am due to meet my niece who is arriving on the London train tonight. My brother has sent her up as he has a spot of bother that he wants her kept away from. I would go myself but I took a spear in the leg a few years ago.”
Gordon looked at his watch, it was gone midnight, surely the last train from London had arrived before now?
“Aye, well she’ll be fair freezing by now”
“Would you mind awfully meeting her and chaperoning her until we manage to get down there?”
Gordon was keen to ‘hit the sack’, but even in his state he wasn’t about to let a young lady be stood alone in the cold of Waverley station.
“I’m sure I can spare some time to meet the young lady, how will I know her?”
“My brother cabled to say he had put her in a compartment in second class, she has red hair and is about 5' 8” though she does tend to wear some eccentric boots. Her family name is Hamilton, the guard should be able to point her out.”
‘Cabled’, ‘compartment’ and the guard should know her? Perhaps he meant emailed, but Gordon didn’t think Virgin Rail had started a personal service with compartments! He wasn’t about to argue, not in this weather at any rate, besides the station was only just down a few steps from the bridge, and the lady was a redhead, Gordon had a thing for redheads!
“Okay then I will escort her to the waiting room, I’m sure it will be a lot warmer in there.
A hand emerged from the coach and grasped the front of the hat as it was tipped in thanks, “We will be along with all haste, thank you.”
Gordon shrugged and started out towards the last lamp on the bridge, the snow had eased off a bit but not enough to see the first lamppost he had passed. At the end of the bridge where it met the corner of the Balmoral Hotel stood the last lamppost, flickering like the earlier lights casting its glow onto the fresh snow. What name would present itself to him this time?
Sliding his gloved hand across the metalwork as he passed the answer was revealed: Gilmerton.
He now passed the South East corner of The Balmoral, the grand edifice stretching up for 5 stories above the bridge and a further 3 below, a few meters on was the side entrance to the hotel. Kicking the snow from his boots he pulled the large wooden doors open letting a gust of warm air sweep out onto the pavement, inside a marble entrance way greeted him, where he was able to shake off his coat before going through the second set of doors.
The corridor was quiet at this time of night as most guests had gone to bed or were holding up the bar which was just down to the right at the first junction he reached. Heading straight on though, he knew he would reach the hotel stairs that led down to the station, giving guests direct access to the platforms without having to go outside.
“Bags guv?”
Gordon had reached the bottom of the stairs and had just stepped through the doors that led into the station.
The figure that had addressed him stood in the corner, trying it’s best to keep warm, a tatty Tam O’Shanter atop it’s head and a faded brown coat, that might have been tweed once wrapped around it. Beside it stood a well-used sack trolley blackened with age.
“Not tonight thanks” replied Gordon “just meeting someone”
The Tam O’Shanter had raised as a pair of beady eyes checked out Gordon’s appearance “no from around here then?”
Raising his eyebrow slightly Gordon looked sideways at the porter, he kept moving though, there was a Redhead in need of chaperoning somewhere.
The stairs had opened out onto a metal bridge that led over the first set of railway lines before dropping down into the main station concourse, the air seemed grey with smoke and Gordon could taste the soot at the back of his throat, a thin dusting of soot seemed to cover most surfaces that he touched. Maybe the cold weather was holding the smoke from the chimneys down, but he couldn’t believe it would be this thick.
As he came down the stairs he could see a few figures still moving around the station at this late hour, a few porters dressed in a similar fashion to the one he had met at the top of the bridge were heading in various directions delivering or collecting packages. A couple of guards stood talking in the center of the concourse, dressed in dark blue uniforms with the Kepi style hats, a couple approached them in search of information, she was dressed in a wide dark red skirt that reached to the floor with a large fur muff wrapped around her. The gent wore a tweed shooting jacket and plus fours with brown leather brogues.
“What the hell?” thought Gordon, he looked around, searching for a camera crew, surely someone was making a documentary or something, where were the sound tech’s, the lighting crews and make up squad?
Nothing, other than a few more travelers dressed in an array of vintage outfits. Was there a convention on in the city?
Darren would have said something, the tour guides would have been getting in on the act and dressing up as well if there had been.
The couple moved away from the guards, having received the information they needed, Gordon started to approach them, waiting for someone to shout at him for getting in the way of filming. The huge arrivals board that dominated the central concourse of the station had disappeared, now there appeared to be chalkboards at the end of each platform with various destinations written on them.
“Excuse me?”
The guards turned to look at him, both of them giving him a strange look.
“Umm could you tell me which platform the London train came in on?”
One guard reached into his waistcoat pocket and extracted a pocket watch, pressing a small lever the lid snapped open revealing the hands of the watch which now pointed to 12:30.
“It arrived 10 minutes ago on platform 19” he indicated the direction with a nod of his head, back the way Gordon had come.
Retracing his steps Gordon saw a sign for platform 19, pointing off to left along one side of the station.
As he turned the corner a cloud of steam and smoke was just dissipating and the red light on the rear of the guards’ wagon was disappearing down the track into the night.
The platform in the direction of the castle appeared empty, turning and looking back down the other way the only figures he could see were two porters pushing their carts in his direction.
Typical! Someone was having a laugh at his expense, sending him on a fools earned, chasing imaginary women.
Spinning back around to leave Gordon caught sight out of the corner of his eye of a white figure in the disappearing steam. A shiver shot up his spine, was he seeing Murdos’ ghostly woman, he slowly turned back to get a better look.
There was definitely someone there, a woman, in a long white dress, with a large steamer trunk sat on the platform next to her.
NO WAY! He thought. That Auchentoshan must be doing strange things to him!
Well only one way to find out, he started to walk towards the figure which had its back to him watching the tail light of the train disappear into the tunnel that ran under the National Gallery building.
As he drew closer he could see that she was quite tall and wore a vintage style dress similar to the others he had seen in the station that night. She wore a fur snug around her shoulders to keep the cold out and appeared to have a hat in her hand ready to keep the snow off when she emerged out from under the station awning.
Gordon’s shoes scuffed on something lying on the platform, he glanced down taking in bits of coal lying at the track side which had scattered onto the platform.
By the time he looked up the figure had turned around to face him, the large skirts billowing out like a model on the catwalk revealing a sturdy pair of high heel boots with black laces.
His eyes travelled upwards, her gloved hands held a black top hat with what looked like a pair of goggles clipped to them, the top of the dress was a tight corset leaving her shoulder exposed. From under the fringe of her copper red hair stared a pair of calculating emerald green eyes, which seemed to penetrate Gordons mind searching out his intentions.
Then her hands moved, drawing smoothly apart, one holding the top hat , the other holding a pistol, which rose to point at Gordon.
“What the hell?” Gordon threw himself towards the wall on his left hand side as the hammer dropped igniting the gunpowder in the priming pan, a split second later he heard the ball rip through the air before smacking into something wooden.
Looking back down the platform he saw the two porters split apart, a smoking hole in the side of the cart they had been pushing.
One of the porters was brandishing a rather sturdy looking leather and wood cosh, while the other sported a wicked looking dirk, “I’ll get the bitch you get that foreign bastard” shouted the one with the knife as he jumped down onto the tracks to gain cover from the pistol. The other, like Gordon was hugging the wall, using the columns as cover in case Gordon decided to draw some sort of weapon.
Unfortunately weapon less Gordon made up his mind quickly, there was no escape back down the platform towards the central concourse as the porters now lay between him and that particular exit. The high wall that he now sheltered against was too shear to scale and on the other side of the railway tracks was the vaulted foundation wall of The Balmoral, leading up past the glass of the station roof to its own roof eight storeys above. Which left the only other route straight up the platform towards the pistol wielding red head.
Turning that way he could see that she had turned to the steamer trunk, thrown it open and was unclipping something from inside the lid, he hoped it was something a bit more accurate than the pistol that now lay discarded by her booted feet and that was intended for the two behind him.
Pushing off the wall he sprinted towards her, behind him he could hear the crunch of the cosh wielding porters shoes as he crossed the patch of coal that Gordon had stumbled on.
Passing another column Gordon spotted a cart with a set of guards’ tools lying on it, amongst them a point lever, a long metal bar with a clip attachment which allowed the guards to switch the points in the station manually if there was a problem.
Snatching it on his way past he kept going, the two of them had a better chance working together rather than separately. He was only a few meters away as she straightened up from the trunk hefting a somewhat larger flintlock rifle.
Behind him he heard his pursuer swear and skid to a halt, presumably seeking shelter behind a column, swapping the point lever to his left hand Gordon held up his right in subjugation hoping that she would understand his intentions.
Pausing for a second she took in Gordon’s offer of a pact before putting the rifle in her shoulder and stepping to her left, her finger squeezed the trigger and another ball rocketed down the rails in the direction of the porter who had tried to sneak up the tracks.
Gordon spun around to face the second porter who had restarted his charge towards him, cosh raised, Gordon let the momentum of his spin and the weight of the lever carry it across his body and upwards to make contact with the cosh arm forcing out of the way and letting him step forward and ram his elbow into the nose of his attacker.
The porter went down blood gushing from his nose and obviously stunned.
“I only managed to wing the other one, we better get out of here before the others come”
Turning toward the voice Gordon could see that her eyes were wide with excitement.
“Others?” he asked
“Oh yes I’m sure the city fathers have sent some “skilled” assassins, to make sure the job is done right”
“Here’s hoping your box of tricks can make us disappear then?”
“Maybe” she grinned.

Traditions-Old and New

Happy December 20th, all. I overshot on word count a bit, but, struggled a bit with editing here.


************************************************
Nova Scotia winters are a bitch.

That was the immediate thought that crossed Marcus’s mind as he peered silently through a frost crusted window. Watching idly as a small chunk of ice floated upstream on its journey to the Avon River, and eventually, the Minas Basin, Marcus pondered the small draft of icy breeze coming from the seams around the window. The drafts were a part of life inside the large stone home that overlooked the stream. More than 100 years old, the house had been in his family for four generations. Marcus would be the fifth whenever the deed was passed to him by his parents, now lingering just on the good side of 80 themselves.

A true case of dynastic wealth-that was the case of Marcus Holmes and the Holmes family. Erudite, old-money WASPs-that was the Holmes clan in a nutshell, and the fixtures and decor of the eight bedroom family vacation home showed it. Built by his great-great grandparents on the backs of Irish immigrants, who were only slightly more welcome in Canada than they were in the United States at the turn of the last century, the home was a symbol of the multi-generational wealth the family possessed.

That was the case for most of the homes along this narrow stretch of water, tucked away from what passed as the busy parts of Nova Scotia. This included the home belonging to the family of Elise Butler-Hartland, a fourth-generation visitor to the area herself.

Were it not for the impending presence of Elise, who, for most of her adult life arrived at her family home a week in advance of her family, Marcus would not find himself staring at the flow of the stream, idly checking his watch, wondering if she would make her usual 8PM arrival.

As it stood, Marcus and Elise had what polite company might describe as ‘an arrangement’- and a wholly unknown one at that. For the better part of two decades-since their teen years-they’d traveled to their respective family homes the weekend before the Christmas holiday, ahead of the parents, siblings and extended families that eventually descended on the homes.

And once there, in the privacy of the secluded stream side village, alone and away from the ‘troubles’ of the rather seriously wealthy, they’d have each other. Sometimes roughly, sometimes softly-not infrequently all in the same encounter.

Taking a slow, easy draw on the cocktail in his right hand, with ice dissolving into the alcohol with some haste, Marcus chewed on his lip, considering the first of these encounters. Elise was 20, Marcus barely 18. Spying a dim light flickering at the Holmes’ house and battling a severe case of boredom, Elise armed herself with a flask of cheap vodka from her father’s liquor cabinet. Utilizing the foot-bridge to cross the stream, she made her way along the path between the houses. Had she been able to peer through the fogged-over windows, she’d have found Marcus perhaps embarrassingly transfixed with the Legend of Zelda beaming through the rear-projection TV. It was 1987, afterall.

Marcus didn’t recall quickly shutting the system off when hearing her knock that evening, but his recollection of his first encounter with Elise was embedded in his memory.

At that stage of his life, Marcus was just barely getting free of his awkward, ungainly stage, an affliction that affected even the wealthy adolescents whose families took holidays in the community. With her two years of life on him, Elise was none of these things. Lithe, confident, with golden blonde locks tied back firmly in a pony tail. She’d just begun to explore her sexuality, and Marcus, cut from similar stock, understood when she told him of the need for discretion.
Granted, as she was whispering this need for privacy to him as she wrapped her hand around the throbbing length she’d pulled free from his jeans only minutes before, Marcus was more than amenable.

For him, that first encounter was memorable enough in the simple fact that Elise was his first. She’d only stripped down below the waist to straddle his lap, his jeans pulled just far enough below his hips for her to sink down on him. “Modesty,” she told him with some a bit of irony dripping from her words. From the time they’d finished her small flask to the time she started to pull her tights back up under her skirt, the entirety of it couldn’t have taken more than 20 minutes.

By the time they reconvened the next year, Marcus had grown more confident, more secure in his own budding masculinity, in part spurred by a year away at University. It showed both in the way his frame filled in, and the way that he took a firmer hold of Elise the minute she crossed the threshold into the home. Unlike the first encounter, the sex was more primal, his teeth grazing at her neck as his weight pushed her down into the couch cushions they’d started their adventure on the year before.

They continued on like this for several years, getting bolder as they progressed into adulthood. By the third year, the single encounter wasn’t enough-they were meeting almost daily in the days before families arrived, coordinating the encounters via mail in the weeks leading up to the holidays.

Marcus glanced down again at his watch- 8:13 PM. A bit of tightness squeezed at his abdomen. He recognized the tension as the concern that this might be the year she didn’t show, that she decided that their tradition had to stop, and that she wouldn’t be in a position to tell him. They’d stopped, or perhaps, paused, once before. More than a decade ago, the year Elise got engaged, she no-showed. He caught her, as it were, in the town’s lone, small liquor store, with her fiance (now husband), Robert. He recalled the sense of betrayal he felt, a twinge of jealousy-both rather ridiculous emotions with which to be hit given the circumstances.

He’d just reached the end of the train of thought when the interruption came in the form of four short raps against the heavy oak of the home’s front door. Elise’s signal, he thought. Making his way from the rear of the house across the slate tile floor to the front hall, he felt the familiar rush of anticipation, knowing that she was on the other side of the door.
Pulling the door open slowly, the familiar groan of the hinges echoing in the hall, Marcus let a smile curl across his face. Elise was there, as she had been most of the last few years, face framed by shoulder-length blonde hair, a light snow dancing around her, illuminated by the lamp over the door. She returned the smile, stepping past Marcus as he stepped aside, pausing on the rug to kick a small bit of snow from her boots.

Clad in a black pencil skirt, sheer black tights, and a black wool pea coat over a crisp white blouse. As always, she was well put together, and all Marcus wanted to do was take her apart. The deadbolt had barely slipped back into place when he pivoted, and she was on him. She’d already discarded her coat onto the rack in the main hall, and was aggressive about putting her mouth firmly on his.

Marcus’ left hand pressed steadily up her back coming to rest at the base of her neck, just under her hair, as their tongues intertwined, pressing, exploring. Her hand snuck between them, pressing to his chest through the thick wool of his sweater. After several moments, she broke the kiss, catching a quick breath as he whispered, “This isn’t the best place for this”.

Without a word, Elise nodded, and, after discarding her boots, turned on her heel and trailed him back to the family room, fingers working on the buttons of her blouse as they walked. As they crossed the threshold and stepped down into the room, she discarded the crisply pressed fabric. Turning, Marcus took her hand and lead her to the cushioned bench under the window that overlooked the stream. Still standing, one hand reached her hip as the other pushed up her torso and around her back. All year, the promise of this night lingered in the back of his mind, and his need was palpable. That Elise’s hand snaked between them, caressing over the most obvious sign of that need through his slacks, only made him hungrier for her.

Her hands worked quickly, pushing his sweater and undershirt over his head, her nails grazing lightly over his chest as one found it’s way back down to his length again. In the interim, Marcus made use of his hands, finding the zipper of her skirt at the rear and drawing it down. As she stepped out of it, she reached to loosen his belt and undo his pants. In response, he pressed his hand between her thighs, against the sheer lace of her panties. With two fingers, he pushed the fabric firmly against her lips, feeling the heat and the swell as her need grew.

A few deft hand movements from Elise freed Marcus from his boxer briefs, and her petite hand cradled him. Feeling the bulging of his veins as she took one slow, small stroke, Elise finally spoke, voice barely above a whisper, “It’s been too long. Again.”

The lilt of her words gave him further impetus. His opposite hand unhooked her bra, freeing her, her nipples taut from the combination of arousal and chill in the air. Marcus let his lips move to her neck, pushing his body toward her, feeling the graze of her stiff buds against his chest. Elise continued to gently caress his length, applying more pressure as she felt her hips press forward instinctively.

Unable to contain his need any longer, Marcus pulled his lips from her shoulder, his hands moving to her hips to lift her lightly onto the bench, facing the window. Positioning himself behind her, he tugged-more roughly than he’d intended-on her panties, pulling the lace to the side with a small tearing sound. He placed one knee on the bench, grasping himself with one hand, the other holding the fabric to the side. Pressing his chest to her back as he traced the head along her swollen lips, he heard the barely perceptible “Yes, please,” that she offered as her hips pushed back, guiding the head between her lips. With a brief thrust, he felt her walls stretch slightly, her thighs pushing just a bit further apart as his length forced into her depth.

With a small squeal, Elise pushed back, her rounded backside smacking against his torso. She pitched forward slightly, her hands and chest resting against the frigid glass. The chill rippled through her body, contrasting sharply with the heat between her thighs. Elise paid little attention to it as Marcus picked up his rhythm, his lengthed slicked by her juices as they got reacquainted the only way they knew how.

Feeling the familiar tingle, Elise reached between her legs, fingers still cold from the window, and found her clit. Rubbing furiously as Marcus pushed his pace, her fingers warmed and she bucked harder, then harder still. She felt him tense behind her, and pushed back hard, the final thrust causing a shudder to take over her body as she climaxed, milking hig length as he held it buried fully within her. Marcus let out a grunt, the milking by Elise being the last thing needed to cause him to release his thick, creamy seed inside her.

They held tight against each other for several moments as the shared climax subsided. Elise reached the hand from between her thighs and pushed a few locks of hair away from her face. Marcus let out a long sigh, his chin resting on her shoulder, breath condensing on the window. She reached her hand back, cupping his cheek. It was only in the moments immediately following their climax that they allowed themselves any tenderness toward each other.

Letting out a soft sigh, she offered a muted apology, “Sorry I was late. My cousin Stephanie, the Greek one, from my dad’s side? She decided to come up early this year, so I had to entertain.”

Marcus gave a small squeeze of her hip, lips gently grazing her shoulder. “I understand, Elise. These things happen. Hopefully, it won’t keep us from catching up at least once more this week.”

Elise gave a bit of a wry smile over her shoulder. “As it happens,” she started, interrupted by a light knock on the front door echoing through the halls, “I thought maybe we’d try something new this year.”

Making Rank

https://41.media.tumblr.com/1f2eafbb7fdc440d613272b3370d7654/tumblr_ny7mfgzHAS1t8jwweo1_540.jpg


Wendell sat in the chill solitude of the workroom and considered the task he’d been given in order to earn his commission and gain the final rank all the other snow elves in his section had already achieved. “So I’ll be the last Jack Frost in my neighborhood,” he softly said to himself. “Someone has to be last in everything, right? Just happens to be my turn.” He sighed and gently shook his head. “Just my luck, though, to have my turn be on something everyone finds so important.”

He broke out the tools of their trade...the frost-maker, for taking the whispers of dewy moisture in the morning and forming it into the nicest of crystalline structures...the point-sharpener, to make certain the flakes would be able to stand out and spin on the wind just the right way...the lattice-cutter, so each every one of them would be as unique as every snow elf in the Claus’ household.

A sudden knock at the workroom door brought Wendell’s thoughts out of his head and back to his surroundings. He stood and faced the door. “Yes?” he said.

The door opened and Elder Kringle poked their head inside. “How is it going? Ready for inspection?”

“Yes, yes, I believe it is ready,” Wendell answered. In his head he added, At least, I hope so. He then walked over to Elder Kringle and offered her his hand. When she took it, he escorted her over to his work station and stopped before a small covering. Taking a deep breath, Wendell moved his hand to the covering and slowly withdrew it to reveal the snowflake he had been working on.

Elder Kringle leaned over and looked the flake over for several minutes and from several different angles. Then she stood back up and regarded Wendell.

“Well?” Wendell couldn’t help but ask.

“I would say,” Elder Kringle began, “that this is quite a lovely snowflake.”

Wendell was quiet, but he knew he was wearing a grin larger than a Cheshire and his cheeks felt warm enough to melt snow. He swallowed nervously, unsure of what to say next, Elder Kringle stepped closer to him and brought her lips to his ear to whisper.

“Good job, Jack.”

“Mr. Garrison says there is no Santa Claus,” Rebecca said, more of a question than a statement. She was, of course, concerned about the truth. Her father had been most insistent of Santa’s existence and her mother never faltered in her belief. But Mr. Garrison seemed so certain.

“That man!” Jennifer, Rebecca’s mother, exclaimed. She stopped stirring the eggs on the stove as her anger swelled. It was bad enough she had to tolerate her strange neighbor, but to allow him to ruin her daughter’s childhood was too much. “I thought I told you to stay away from Mr. Garrison,” Jennifer continued, trying not to let anger flow into her words.

“I told him what daddy said,” Rebecca continued, “and he told me it wasn’t true. He said daddy told me those things to make me happy.” Jennifer gripped the spatula harder, trying to choke the life out of it. All she needed was for that jerk to add to her troubles. It had taken Rebecca three months to speak again after her father’s death. It was unconscionable for Scott Garrison to undermine the love Rebecca remembered. Jennifer took a deep breath and relaxed her muscles.

“Your daddy was the smartest man I ever knew,” Jennifer said, her tone as level as she could assemble, “Mr.Garrison is just mistaken. It takes a big heart to understand Santa Claus.” She was about to add that Scott Garrison had no heart, but decided her ire would be misplaced. “I wish you would stay away from Mr. Garrison, sweetie.” She smiled, but seethed inwardly. A grown man shouldn’t be conversing so freely with her daughter. There shouldn’t be any relationship at all.

Rebecca nodded while taking a sip of her orange juice. Grownups were strange. Supposedly they were always correct, yet they had such different opinions of everything. She was sure her mother was correct. She was equally sure that Mr. Garrison was right. A few of her friends laughed at her about Santa. Others were convinced. This Christmas she would find out the truth. Her mother brought over the pan and slid some scrambled eggs on Rebecca’s plate.

“Stay away from Mr. Garrison,” Jennifer reminded Rebecca. Rebecca nodded, not meaning it. Mr. Garrison was always nice to her and seemed so honest. She had no idea why everyone thought he was so strange. She liked stories, and Mr. Garrison liked telling them. Besides, he always treated her like she was older.

“I mean it, Rebecca,” Jennifer added sternly.

“Yes, Mama,” Rebecca replied with a practiced eye roll.


“Rebecca!” Jennifer called. Her panic was still in check, but the weather was quickly wearing that away. Rebecca’s coat, hat, boots, and gloves were not in the closet, and it was too late for her to be outside. “Rebecca!” Jennifer yelled. The snow was coming down, sheeting heavily in front of the street lights as Jennifer jogged down the road. This was not the Christmas Eve she had imagined.

“Is Rebecca here?” Jennifer asked at the Wilkerson’s house.

“No,” Ralph said, “is she out in this?” Jennifer nodded, tears freezing on her cheeks. It was the last place she knew to look. Her baby was out in the storm. “Mary, call the police,” Ralph shouted inside. “Jennifer, you have to get home in case she comes back. I’ll get Tom, and we’ll go out looking.”

“Why do we need the police?” Mary asked, running to the door. Jennifer broke down as the reality hit.

“Rebecca’s out in this storm,” Ralph said as he grabbed his coat, “I’m going to get Tom to help me search.”

“Oh God,” Mary said, rushing back for her phone. The snow had begun to drift as the wind increased.

“We’ll check the park, Jennifer,” Ralph stated, “you go home. The police will want to start from there.” He hugged Jennifer close. “We’ll find her. If we have to get the whole neighborhood out, we’ll find her.”


Jennifer was having a hard time concentrating as the police questioned her. She saw only visions of Rebecca frozen and alone.

“Are you sure there’s no other place she might have gone, Mrs. Stevenson?” Captain Remington asked. The storm had the whole town bottled up, criminals included. At least it allowed him to bring the bulk of his force to find Rebecca. A young child in this storm wouldn’t last long.

“No, no, I checked everywhere,” Jennifer cried, “she just left and didn’t tell me where she was going.”

“There is no one else who she would have told?” Jennifer shook her head, and then a horrible thought filled her head.

“That hateful man,” she shouted, “he’s been talking to her.” Remington blocked her way as she tried to run past him.

“Who?” Remington asked. He carefully held her in place, not wanting to add to her trauma.

“Scott Garrison,” Jennifer spat in disgust, “that strange man two doors down.” She pointed to the south and tried again to move through Remington. The thought of her daughter in the clutches of that man was tearing a hole in her heart.

“We’ll check him out,” Remington said calmly, “if she’s there, we’ll bring her back. You need to stay here.” Remington looked over his shoulder to one of his female sergeants. His eyes told her to stay with Mrs. Stevenson. She moved deftly to take his place.


“Searches require warrants,” Scott snarled. The officer was less than pleasant in his manner, almost as if he expected to find something.

“I don’t need one if there is a clear and present danger, Mr. Garrison,” Remington stated firmly, “don’t make me arrest you for hindering.” He had thought the four officers he brought with him would have been enough to persuade Mr. Garrison to cooperate. Remington was beginning to smell guilt.

“A danger of what?” Scott said, moving to fully block the door. There was no way he was going to allow an illegal search. It was his house, his domain. No one touches his castle without his permission. It was all he had left, and these uniformed chimps weren’t going to befoul it.

“We have reason to believe Rebecca Stevenson is inside,” Remington said strongly. His hand moved to the revolver in his holster to further emphasize his resolve.

“Why in hell would you think….” Scott began to argue. Then thoughts of his conversations with Rebecca streamed through his head. Her curiosity was unstoppable, that much he knew. “Oh shit,” he said, moving to one side, “I think I know where she is.” His heart was pounding, thinking of the poor thing out in the storm.

Remington and his officers moved quickly into the house. Scott moved to the closet and grabbed his coat.

“You need to stay right there,” Remington warned. His men began fanning out through the house.

“She’ll die out there, you moron,” Scott said, pulling a set of keys out of his pocket. He tossed them to Remington, who flinched and barely caught them. “They’ll unlock the upstairs rooms,” Scott added, “please try not to disturb anything.” He returned to the closet and pulled out some boots. Remington looked at the keys and back at Scott.

“Where do you think you're going?” Remington demanded.

“Cobbler’s Ridge,” Scott replied as he pulled a wool hat over his head, “she’s gone there to find the truth, and she’ll die while you waste your time searching my house.” He hurriedly donned the rest of his winter gear.

“I can’t let you out of my sight,” Remington said, blocking the door.

“Then shoot me,” Scott said, pushing Remington out of the way, “or follow me.”


Scott trudged through the knee-high snow drifts. Remington was having an easier time following behind, but both were building a dangerous sweat. The trees became thicker the farther they went. They moved past one frozen tree after another only to find more hindering their passage.

A clearing appeared at the top of the ridge, and Scott began searching. “She should be here,” he yelled to Remington, “Rebecca, “ he shouted. Remington pulled out his flashlight to aid the search. “Rebecca!”

Scott began to panic when he didn’t find Rebecca immediately. He was sure she was here, the only place that made sense. He never wanted to see another dead child again, ever.

“Mr. Garrison,” Remington shouted as he ran. Scott followed the flashlight’s beam to something red in the snow about fifty feet ahead. They both moved swiftly, Scott praying silently for the first time in years.

Rebecca was sitting against a tree half buried in snow. Her face was pale, her lips an awful purple. “Rebecca,” Scott shouted as he shook her gently. Her eyes opened lazily, and a weak smile appeared.

“Hi Santa,” she whispered, “I knew you would come.” Scott opened his coat and pulled her inside, tight to his chest. She was an ice cube. He zipped up his coat and lifted her as best he could. Her red boots dangled limply below.

“We have to get her warm fast,” Scott said. Remington nodded and pointed eastward. He radioed for a car to meet them down on the road. Scott waded through the deepening drifts. His legs wanted to surrender, but he forced them forward with all the anger he could muster.


“I assure you, Mrs. Stevenson,” the doctor smiled, “she’ll be fine. Rebecca was found in time, before any permanent damage could be done.” Jennifer was shaking, her unrealized fears still filling her head.

“Can I see her?” Jennifer begged.

“Of course,” the doctor replied, leading her toward Rebecca’s room. “We would like to keep her overnight as a precaution.” Jennifer nodded, afraid of how her voice would sound if she spoke. Relief carried its own burden. She blamed herself.

They passed a man in the hall. He was sitting, his head buried in his hands, obviously distraught. Jennifer took a deep breath, thankful that she wasn’t where he was. Rebecca was fine. Worry and fear needed to take a back seat to reality. She needed to be strong for her daughter.

Rebecca was grilling the nurse when they walked in. Something about the idle machine in the corner and its uses. The nurse had a look of relief when Jennifer and the Doctor entered.

“I’m sorry mama,” Rebecca rattled off when she saw her mother. She thought she was in trouble, and her face showed it. Jennifer smiled, her daughter looked as healthy as the Doctor said. She wrapped Rebecca in her arms and almost pulled her off the bed. Her warm life felt wonderful in Jennifer’s arms. “Mama, you’re squeezing me,” Rebecca squeaked.

“I’m sorry, sweetie,” Jennifer said as she loosened her hold, “You scared me. You don’t know how happy I am to see you so....perfect.”

“She’s looking good,” Captain Remington said, entering with a large smile. It was a welcome change, bringing good news to a parent.

“Thank you, officer,” Jennifer said, “I’m so glad you found her. I’m not sure what I would have done...if..” Jennifer hated that her tears were coming back. Fear is such a weak thing for a mother to have.

“I can’t take all the credit,” Remington said, “it was your neighbor who knew where to look. Apparently, Rebecca was telling him a story about Santa taking a rest at Cobbler’s Ridge on Christmas Eve.” Jennifer’s eyes widened. She remembered the tales her husband told to entertain Rebecca. Santa on Cobbler’s Ridge was one of her favorites.

“I don’t think Santa’s real, mama,” Rebecca said as if her analysis was now complete, “Daddy was just telling me stories to make me happy, wasn’t he?” Jennifer covered her mouth with her hand and held back a fresh round of tears. She had no choice. She nodded, the truth now evident.

“Mr. Garrison told me so,” Rebecca continued, “I lied to him. I promised I wouldn’t check, but I did. Do you think he hates me now?”

“No, sweetie,” Jennifer said, caressing Rebecca’s hair, “he wouldn’t have found you if he didn’t like you.” Remington signaled Jennifer to step away for a moment.

“Ah, Scott...I mean Mr. Garrison,” Remington whispered away from Rebecca’s ears, “took this rather hard. I think he thought it was his fault. The officers who searched his place found a child’s room that hadn’t been touched in years. From what I understand, he lost his wife and son in an automobile accident six years ago.” Remington shook his head, “I think this made him relive it again.”

“Oh no,” Jennifer stammered, “the things I thought of him.” Her insides knotted at the thought of the man who saved her baby thinking he was anything but a hero. “Is he at home now?”

“He’s out in the hall,” Remington said, tilting his head toward the door, “he won’t leave until he’s sure Rebecca’s alright. The doctors can’t speak with him without your approval.” Jennifer wiped her eyes and took a deep breath.

“I’ll be right back, sweetie,” Jennifer said and walked out the door gathering what courage she could.

Scott was still in the chair, his head hidden in his hands as he tried to slow his heartbeat. Saving Rebecca had been pure luck. He should have told her mother. He should have been watching her door. There were a million things he should have done differently. If only he had been the one to go to the grocery store, his wife and son would be alive today.

“Mr. Garrison?” Jennifer asked softly. Scott looked up hoping his eyes didn’t show how he felt. Feeling weaker in the chair, he stood.

“Mrs. Stevenson,” Scott pleaded, “I’m so sorry….I should.” Jennifer interrupted him by throwing herself into his arms. She couldn’t speak; words wouldn’t form. Instead, she cried. Scott held her because that’s what they both needed. A long moment passed before they regained composure and stepped apart.

“Rebecca would like to see you,” Jennifer said, holding out her hand. Trembling, Scott folded his hand into hers. It was warm and comforting, none of the anger he envisioned was there.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Garrison,” Rebecca apologized for the second time, “I didn’t mean to break my promise. I just had to know.” Scott smiled at her obvious full recovery; a huge weight lifted from his soul.

“I’m just happy you’re alright,” Scott admitted, letting out a breath he had held too long.

“Do you think Mr. Garrison would like to join us for Christmas dinner?” Jennifer asked her daughter. Rebecca's eyes lit up.

“Can you come?” Rebecca asked excitedly. It was then Scott realized he was still holding Jennifer’s hand. There was no desire to let it go, nothing uncomfortable about it. He looked from Rebecca’s smile to her mother’s eyes.

“In truth,” Scott said, “it’s the best offer I’ve had in years.” Jennifer squeezed his hand ever so slightly. “Yes, I would love to come,” he added, his smile matching hers.

It's coming...I promise