Cracked

Cracked

My family warned me about small towns. We’re city people, and I’ve lived in an apartment community for most of my life.

So when I decided to move to the country to get away from it all and start really focusing on my writing, my family was my biggest opponent.

“You can’t go out there,” said my mom. “They eat pretty girls like you. Haven’t you seen ‘The Hill Have Eyes’?”  

My dad, of course, concurred, and they even enlisted my little brother to beg me away from country life, but I was resolute. I packed my things and purchased a nice little cottage from a little old widow who’d just won the lottery and was going to see the world. Lucky me.

And now, here I am, staring at a hole in my brand new bedroom wall.

It started out as a spidery little crack that decided to grow under the pressure of my wallpapering. So, I decided to try to fill it with plaster, but that didn’t work. Curious minds and senses of adventure mix well. So with my powers combined, I put a hammer to the crack, which then crackled even more, and after splintering in half, became the hole that I am now peering inside.

But the hole wasn’t just a hole. There was a musty smell wafting from it, and a faint light in the distance. Hmm...a light….inside my wall. My common sense kicked in and shouted that I probably shouldn’t go further, but I figured the hammer would offer some protection. After all, what kind of killer could be lurking inside my plastered up wall for all of these years, right? Right?

After I grabbed a flashlight, because nothing says fearless like a hand torch, I hammered a little more so I could squeeze through. The musty smell was on some phantom breeze, and my hair blew back a little. I shuddered with chill and, honestly, a little fear.

The dust made me cough, but I creeped further inside, past the plumbing fixtures, and what looked like a stone wall. I was in some sort of hallway, and I could see the light growing brighter at the end. I gripped the handle tighter, just in case I had to hammer someone to death today.

As I continued to walk, a door appeared at the end of the hallway. A weird doorknob glistened from beneath the dust and cobwebs. I paused and decided to knock first.

Hey, what if this door led to my neighbor’s house or something? It would be crazy for me to just pop in unannounced. So, I knocked and a shadow passed under the light of the door.

My heart crept up my throat as the doorknob turned with a creak. The door flung open and I jumped back with the hammer raised. Standing on the other side of the door was a little girl.  I blinked at her twice, hoping that my jaw was not scrubbing the dirty ground.  The little girl was me.

The kid me looked at the grown-up me, and screamed. I guess I must have been screaming too because my dad rushed to the door. Except, he had more hair and less stomach. He grabbed my, her, shoulders and pulled the kid me back from the door, before looking at me and slamming it shut.

That was weird.

Biting my lip, I raised my hand to knock again. I saw the shadows under the door, but the doorknob didn’t turn. I gave the knob a twist and it clicked open. Taking a breath, I fully pushed. I could see the kitchen of our old apartment. No one seemed to be around, so I decided to check out the rest of the place.

Suddenly the lights went out, and I heard my dad say, “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” as everything went eerily quiet. I turned around in the darkness for my dad’s voice, dropping my flashlight. Just as I went to cry out to him, the lights popped back on and I was standing in my new bedroom, in my country cottage.

The wallpaper was evenly covering the walls. I looked around the room and everything was unpacked and organized. In fact, my room looked pretty lived in. The hammer was still in my hand, as was the flashlight. I thought about tearing through the wallpaper to see if the crack was underneath, but then I heard something from the kitchen.

I walked over to the kitchen and something was cooking in the microwave. Thing is, I hadn’t even unpacked or plugged it in yet. Weird.

I wandered through my house, past the fully furnished living room, and the painting my little brother gave to me as a going away present, now hanging proudly on the wall. Finally, I reached the room that I was going to use as my office. And there I was. The present day me. Or, I guess, the me that exists in the pretty soon future. She, I, was typing furiously on a new laptop. I didn’t want to startle her, but I was curious about what I was writing. I quietly eased behind myself (giving new meaning to the phrase ‘watch your back’) and peered at the laptop.

I held my breath so as not to alert her of my presence and read the words at the top of the page. Some beginnings start with a line.  Mine starts with a crack.

As I typed the last words, I turned around and looked at myself.  We smiled. Then turned and finished the story.

Melancholia

The hammer missed my finger by a centimeter, and I caught myself as a string of swear words formed on my lips. This season, I was definitely going to do better. This season, I was determined to be jolly.

“Whatcha doing?,” a tiny voice called to me from somewhere out of view.

I didn’t want to stop my progress, but the string of lights still coiled around my ladder wasn’t getting any shorter. I stepped down a few rungs and ducked my head to see two small grey New Balance sneakers standing under my awning. The kid attached to them was nervously rubbing one knee against the other.

I took a breath, “Be jolly,” I warned, and then hopped down off the ladder.

“Hi Bobby,” I smiled at the little boy from across the street. “Merry Christmas to you. Eh, what do you need?”

The boy smiled a huge snaggletoothed grin before grabbing the lights and hoisting them around his frame.
“I was gonna help you, Mrs. Jeffries. My mom said it’d be good to cuz this is the first Christmas that Mr. Jeffries isn’t gonna….”

“Okay, fine,” I interrupted, trying to take the snappiness out of my tone. “Just hold the lights while I string them up.”

Bobby smiled again and leaned against the side of my house. He rubbed his nose with the back of his sleeve and looked around the yard. “Say, you still haven’t cut down that tree, huh Mrs. Jeffries,” he nodded towards the gnarled oak on my front lawn.

“No, Bobby, I haven’t,” I tried to keep the annoyance out of my voice. “I like that tree.”

“But it’s the tree Mr. Jeffries fell out of and….”

“Bobby, please, I don’t really need all of this chatter. I have to get the trim on this house up.” I sighed.
Kids can really hurt you.

“But Mrs. Jeffries, that’s a bad tree. Sometimes, when I look at it from my window, it looks like it wants to come get me. I don’t want the tree to get me too.”

“Bobby, I think I’m good here. How about you come back later and I’ll fix you some milk and cookies, like for Santa Claus?”
The boy looked at me suspiciously. “Aren’t those things just for Santa? Plus, I wanna help. My mommy says it's gonna be a lonely Christmas this year, and I decided to cheer you up.”

“I don’t need cheering Bobby, I just need you to help me with these lights.”

Bobby shrugged and scratched his left leg with his right foot. He held the lights up higher and I continued hammering away.

“So, do you think Mr. Jeffries is gonna bring you a gift this year? I mean, he always leaves one for you, so I mean,” he trailed off.

“Yes, I believe he will. He always gives me something I like, no matter what the circumstances, so….”

“So even though you can’t be 'together, together' this Christmas, he’ll always be here, huh?” Bobby looked so hopeful, I almost cried.

“That’s right, Bobby. We’ll always be together, no matter what.”

Bobby looked around again. “My mommy was mad at me for playing in the street one time. But I’m gonna make it up to her. I’m gonna get her most favorite thing ever for Christmas.”

I smiled at him. “Oh yeah, and what’s her most favorite thing ever?”

He shrugged. “I dunno yet, but I hang around the house and listen to her talk to her friends, and I’ll figure it out.”

His confidence was absolutely adorable. I concentrated on hammering and we remained silent for a while. I looked over at the house across the street. Bobby’s mother was sitting on the porch rocking back and forth with a thin shawl around her shoulders. I waved, but she didn’t see me.

“My mom’s kinda sad right now. You know, I think around Christmas she thinks about Grandma and Grandpop a lot.”

“Yeah, I do too. The holidays have a way of making people remember their loved ones even more fiercely.”

“So, what are we gonna do?”

“We’re gonna finish putting the trim on my house, and then we’re going to put the tinsel on your house, okay Bobby,” I said with a nail between my teeth.

“Okay, Mrs. Jeffries.”

At that moment, my husband walked out of the house, down the driveway, to the mailbox.

“Did you see him!?” cried Bobby, dropping the lights and running towards my husband.

“Mr. Jeffries look. Look and see what we did for you!” he cried wildly, running toward my husband.

As the boy got closer, my husband turned to walk back to the house, and just as they were going to collide, Bobby’s tiny body flew right through my husband. My husband bristled as if he were suddenly cold.

I hammered away furiously, determined to get all of the lights up. My husband’s eyes raised slightly as he noticed the ladder leaning against the house, the lights all up on the roof now.

I smiled at my handiwork. He staggered toward the house, with a pile of Christmas cards in his arms. Bobby stood in the driveway, staring sadly at Mr. Jeffries. I got off the ladder and stood in my husband's way, but he walked right through my open arms.

“Merry Christmas, baby,” I whispered. He turned around as if he heard me. Then walked inside and closed the door.

“So what are we gonna do now, Mrs. Jeffries?” asked Bobby.

“We’re going to finish the trim on my house, then put the tinsel up on yours. They’re going to see us one day Bobby. They’re going to know we’re still here.”


- copyright SBWriter 2012

Feet First

“Pssst.”

Odd. I thought I heard whispering. Must still be dreaming.

“Psst. Hey kid, over here.”

I sit straight up in bed, rubbing my eyes as if the sleep prevents me from hearing clearly.

The bed is cold on his side. He is supposed to be sleeping on the couch. Surely my husband hasn’t snuck back in the room to apologize?

Looking around in the dark, I seee nothing but the “on” button glowing on my laptop.
Hmm…. I thought I turned that off.

I slide from under the covers and grab my robe while slipping on my houseshoes. The bedroom door is still locked. I have never locked him out of our bedroom before, and I cringe a little as I unlock it.

I hear the faint sound of his snoring coming from the living room. But just to make sure, I tiptoe down the hall and peek at him.

There he is, sleeping as sound as a kitten after one of the worst fights we’ve ever had.

“Thanks,” he sneered, “you’ve ruined my Christmas.” That was the last thing he’d said to me that night.

My bottom lip quivers a little, and I bite back the moisture forming in the corners of my eyes. Taking a deep breath, I head back to the bedroom and cozy up alone, on the warm side of the bed.

“Are you listening, kid? Why’d you leave?”

This time I hop out of bed entirely and stand in the middle of the floor, my eyes darting for the source of the voice.

“For the last time, I’m right here. Check out the glowing button.”

My new laptop, an early Christmas gift from my husband, lifts its screen up and comes on completely. An enormous smiley face emoticon looks out from the bright screen.

“I hear you, I just didn’t know you could talk to me,” I say glibly.

“What are you doing in here? I mean, it’s not even midnight yet. You’ve got time left, kid,” says the glowing face, which changes expressions as it talks. “Time to un-ruin his Christmas.”

I am shocked. I reach down and unplug the computer and press the power button hard.

“Really, you’re just not gonna listen, huh?” says the Mac face.

“I hear you, I just, how did you know?”
“I can hear, just as well as I can talk. So, what’s our plan?”
“Our plan for what?”
“Our plan to un-ruin Christmas. What you said to him, ouch, I felt it to my cores. Get it, my quad cores. Ha ha.”
“This isn’t the time to be funny. What should I do? He hates me right now.”
“He doesn’t hate you. He got you me, because he believes in you. He supports your dream. Maybe it’s your own fear holding you back.”
“But it’s too late to tell him all that now. I’ve already told him, well, you know.”
“It’s never too late. He’s still here, isn’t he? The stockings are still up, the tree is still lit. My clock reads 11:45 p.m. so you better make this the best 15 minutes of his life.”

Guilt feels so much worse than anger. I nod to the screen and walk back down the hallway. I creep past him to the kitchen, and begin preparing my apology.

I rouse my husband awake with a kiss. Holding the misteltoe above his head, I smile, hoping he smiles back.
He grunts, “What?” But he sits up a little and opens his arms.

I slide closer to him and kiss him again. He scoots over and I sit beside him, giving him a mug of hot chocolate with peppermint garnishes.

He looks quizzical as he takes a sip.

“Thank you,” I whisper in his ear.
“For what?”
“For believing in me, when I didn’t. For making this the merriest Christmas I’ve ever had. For loving me even when I make you angry.” I sniffle. “For not just storming out of here and leaving me alone. For…”
He kisses me. “Merry Christmas, kid.”
We sit and sip hot chocolate, curled together on the couch, as the clock strikes midnight.






- copyright SBWriter 2011