Sam looked over his shoulder. Stupid Marie. His eyes burned with the shame of being pushed down in the snow in front of the whole class. She was the same age he was, but she towered over almost everyone else, and she ran the classroom like her own private kingdom. The teachers were only nominally in charge, ignoring her bullying. Some of them harbored a secret fear of Marie themselves. The rest of the class chose various methods to deal with Marie- some of them were her vassals, grouping around her and encouraging her, shooting the kid laying on the ground or holding a bruised arm a sympathetic look as they scrurried after their overlord. Sam just tried to stay invisible, and it worked about 50 percent of the time.

Winter break was almost here, he'd almost gotten away from her oppressive presence for a full two weeks, but his mother had insisted he go on the caroling trip with the rest of the class. She tried to make it seem festive and fun, but Sam knew it was because it was her bridge night and none of the high schoolers were willing to babysit since it was the last day of school and they all wanted to go out and do whatever it was high schoolers did when they had the next day off from class.

He brushed at his snowsuit furiously. His cheeks tingled. The rest of the class was progressing down the block, moving from house to house. "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen." "It's Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas." He looked around for the hat that had been snatched off his head- his grandma had knitted it for him in scratchy acrylic yarn in rainbow colors, and as much as he hated it, he knew his mother would kill him if he lost it. "Your Grandma worked so hard to make you that hat!"

Ahead of him, a house. Dark. No Christmas lights, not even a porch light. Long untended weeds poked through the crunchy snow in the yard. The door was ajar.

Sam looked down the street again at the class- they were half a block away, and he should probably catch up with them...

The door squeaked. Sam was standing at the gate, and just beyond, there was a narrow sidewalk leading to the door. It inched open a tiny bit more, almost imperceptably. His hat was laying in a discouraged heap in the middle of the stairs, just a foot or so from the house. Stupid Marie must have thrown it while he was face down in the snow.

Sam stared at the hat. He stared at the door. There didn't seem to be any movement behind the door, but it was ominously ajar.

He made a decision. This was his hat, after all, and he wasn't going to walk through the door tonight without it. He didn't deserve to get grounded or have to explain to his mom what had happened. She would march into the Principal's office and cause a scene and then what would Marie do to him?

He opened the gate and moved as silently as possible towards the house. His snowsuit made brushing sounds where his thighs moved together, and his shiny boots squealed. He bent over to retrieve the hat, inches away from the door, and all of the hair on the back of his neck stood straight up.

There was something in the dark. Something snuffling and...wet.

Damp wool smell from mittens and snow clumped on scarf, breathing shallowly, Sam edged away from the door slightly, afraid to look up.

In a tiny, weak voice, he began to sing.

"Siiiiiilent Niiiight....Hoooooly Niiiiight....Allllllll is calm, alllll is briiiiight...."

He stepped one foot in back of the other, singing - "Round yon Viiiiirgiiin, Mother and Child..."
One more step, "Hooooly Infant, so teennnnder and Mild", one more step, "Slleeeeep in Heeeaaaavenlllleeee Peeeeee" -breath- "Eeeace....Sleeeep in heeavenly peeeace."

He raised his head. He was at the gate. The door slammed shut.

He ran until his lungs were about to burst and he caught up with the class at Mrs. Allen's Christmas-lit door. "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer." Sam was never so happy to see Marie again in all his life.


For the Scriptic.org prompt exchange this week, SAM at http://frommywriteside.wordpress.com gave me this prompt: It was a calm and peaceful night. Snow fell from the sky and carolers made joyful noise as they moved from house to house. It was like a picture on a Christmas card, only the inside message held a sinister surprise...

I gave Diane Trujillo at http://theschmorgasboard.comthis prompt: "How about an image for a writing prompt? :)http://bit.ly/WbDbGm

Unreal. Totally unreal. With the rain, and the music and the light. The familliar and unfamilliar mixed, the familliar became strange and the world became new. The streetlight and the diagonal rain and the crummy day edging into crummy night and the car warm and time stopped.

"Cornflower Blue" he calls her, because of her eyes, and she knows it's corny, but she's too young not to be thrilled by it.

She's at the precipice, she can feel it, and she doesn't know how to be, what to do, how to feel, she just knows that she will do as he does and he'll show her how to be. She's grateful and giddy.

He's been staying with them for a few days, and he sleeps in the basement. She is on the second floor, but she can feel him in the house, all the same. It feels charged. Her parents are mystified by what is happening- she arranged the visit almost all on her own, this boy from another state come to visit their daughter. She feels like an adult, even though she is far from it, she feels she can do anything if she is shown how. She's a quick study. She's not brave, but she is confident.

A tape in the tape deck. A band she knows is cool, because no one she knows has heard of them. Complicated lyrics: "The words she spoke enlightened him, and everything, everything chaaaanged..."

There's a moment and the moment passes. Something has happened, but she's not sure what it was. A decision that was or wasn't made. Something that did or didn't happen. An expectation not met.

The drive home is short, with him at the wheel of her mother's car. (She's too young.) He leaves the next day, and that's alright.  There's time enough.






For the Scriptic.org prompt exchange this week, Debbie at http://debbiesdays.wordpress.com gave me this prompt: The words she spoke enlightened him and everything changed.

I gave Michael at http://michaelwebb.us this prompt: The crowd had seemed so friendly a moment ago, but now they took on a meaner cast, and seemed to swell with a bit of menace.

Thanksgiving- Scriptic Writing Challenge

The first year was spontaneous.

They next year they came prepared.

For a really good pie fight, you need:

1. Pie filling- whipped cream is best, although you can use shaving cream in a pinch. Just make sure that your choice is uniform: no one likes an unexpected mouthful of Barbasol.

2. Reenforcements- Make sure you get a lot of pre-made crusts, and hide them where they can be accessed and filled quickly. (Remember: whipped cream in an aluminum pan is just whipped cream in an aluminum pan. A pie has a crust.)
       
3. Goggles- this should be obvious, but many novice pie-fighters forget to bring goggles. A real pro can take one to the kisser, wipe down their lenses and return fire immediately.

4. A Haz-Mat suit- or painter's coveralls. November is chilly in most areas, so hosing down in the backyard is less fun than it sounds. Your suit allows you to strip off and immediately go inside for more Pinot Noir.

The rules to a pie fight are simple: keep it outdoors and fight till the pies are gone. No fair spraying Reddi Whip directly on someone's head. A pie to the face, Stooge-like, is best. Style points awarded for surprise attacks. Onlookers are fair game. Out-of-bounds should be pre-negotiated. Teaming up against another fighter is encouraged, as is turning on those same allies.



For the Scriptic.org prompt exchange this week, Tara Roberts at http://thinspiralnotebook.wordpress.com gave me this prompt: Thanksgiving is here, what person and/or event in your life are you most thankful for and why?

I gave kgwaite at http://writinginthemarginsburstingattheseams.blogspot.comthis prompt: Without even breathing, he opened his eye just enough to peer through the veil of his eyelashes. The silence was terrible.

This is a blog!

You said it, Mister. This is most definitely a blog.