I’m working on editing a play I wrote some years ago based and inspired by Alice in Wonderland. A theatre friend of mine loved it, so, I guess that I’ll get it edited, possibly published, and maybe offer it for free in a pdf format to college students for their thesis plays. Maybe. What do you guys think?
Category Archives: Short Stories
The holidays are the important part of our year. My family’s traditions never really confused me. Around Thanksgiving, the tree and decorations go up. And the tree was never one of those nice smelling real ones. We always had the plastic ones. I’d never even gotten to go tree picking until my friend Julia’s family invited me to theirs.
It was a nice day temperature-wise. My outfit had only been a light jacket, long sleeved shirt, and a pair of jeans. My sneakers didn’t quite fit right. As I walked, my feet slid back and forth. Julia wore less for warmth. She was used to Illinois weather. Cold. Her parents were dressed similarily. I don’t remember where her older brother was. I don’t remember him being there.
After a long, boring trip we arrived to a building made of wood. A tree, painted in green paint, was right above the door. Mrs. Laing took us into the building and while we went to the bathroom spoke to the man. When I came out, a guide sat in a car with a trailer on the back. Hay–my worse enemy–were used as seats. We road out to the trees.
Pine assaulted my nose. Rows of trees, like the stacks of a library, seemed to go on endlessly. Julia and I walked through the trees.
“I’ve never done this before,” I said.
“Really?” Julia asked, assessing a tree. “We do it every year. What do you think of this one?”
“Where’s it going?”
“In the living room.”
“It needs to be thicker,” I said, looking around. None of the immediate ones seemed right for the Laing family. We walked to the next section. I suggested one, but Julia said that it was too tall. It started getting dark and colder. Julia and I looked around until one of us spotted the perfect tree. After agreeing, I went to get her parents. We loaded the car up and went home.
My grandparents picked me up before I could help them decorate it.
I was never used to this sort of scene: my husband laying on his back, texting something or other to his sister. The big screen television set, though having an orange tint, was connected to some sort of cable network. HGTV had the international version of House Hunters. Oma Rosemary was making cake icing for the funfetti cake David had baked. She worked diligently. I wished I could help her, glaring at the webpages of various universities.
“Why can’t these be user friendly?” I grumbled.
“What was that, love?”
“Nothing, honey,” I said, smiling at David. He was staring at me with the beautiful green eyes that just emulated love towards me. My heart swelled and tears sprung to my eyes. Fredrick kicked from inside my womb. Turning back to the computer, Oma suddenly cleared her throat.
“Where are my two beater lickers?” she asked, turning around in her wheelchair. Her purple blanket dangled off her legs precariously. In her left hand were the beaters from her electric mixer.
“What do you say?” I asked David, turning to look at him. “Do you want to lick her beaters?”
David started laughing, losing all control. He rolled on the floor, hitting it with his fist before finally taking the beaters from his grandmother’s hand and handing one to me. Putting aside the computer, I started licking the chocolaty icing goodness.
Kristin stared at the television, confused by what she saw. There was some sort of cheerleading movie on and while it appealed to the girly-ness of her character, it also frightened her a little. She quickly switched to BBC America where Doctor Who had already started. Matt Smith was running around with the Doctor’s new companion. Kristin enjoyed her. The girl reminded her of a souffle that was just about done. It still needed to peculate in the oven, but it would be perfect when finished. Her phone vibrated, surprising her enough to launch her in the air. Cursing silently to herself, she hoped her mother wasn’t faking her out again.
“Honey its me! Bye!”
God, was she tired of it. She looked at caller ID. 555-5555 She answered, holding the phone to her ear as she turned the volume to the Christmas Special down.
“Hey, Kristin! Its us!”
“I know! Oh goodness. Okay, so I’m not really sure what’s going on right now in my life,” she sighed, falling back on the bed. After talking to her friends, J and David, she realized that she wished she could be in the same room, discussing the Christmas Special together.
Dear Clara in 20 years,
Please don’t be afraid to let your children explore. Don’t let yourself down for forgetting anything you wanted, what I want now.
Please do the right thing. I have a bad feeling about what the future will hold.
Dear 14-year-old Clara,
God, what I would do to go back to then. At least to change one thing. Things do get better, but you have to leave that stupid village. Its a bad place for you, Clara. After they killed Father, there was nothing left. You’re old enough to take care of yourself. You just survived an attack from the Raptors. Get the hell out of dodge.
Don’t make the mistakes I did. I stayed, tried to fit in when I knew I couldn’t. Mother found another man and created another family. Don’t get attached to Em. She’ll be fine without you. I know she’s only an infant, but you need to stay away. You’ll get into the Tree Folks if you leave now.
Please think about it.
The prompt sat in front of her like a curse. She didn’t want to write it, but she had writers block against her story for NaNoWriMo and it was only the first day. The writer had her word count already, but she wanted to write more. Tossing back her long, red hair she stared at the empty blog post.
“When was the last time you felt really, truly lonely?” she read the question out loud. “When was that?”
Her fingers began to flow over the keyboard, writing about elementary school when she sat by herself at lunch and then onward to when her roommate wasn’t home yet. Those were her loneliest times. The times when she felt like she was being pushed away from everyone she loved. Those were it.
The post wasn’t very long, only four or five paragraphs, but it was enough for her.
“Happy NaNoWriMo and NaBloPoMo, Sally,” she muttered, pushing publish.