Fairy Tales & First Dates

My amazing writing group, Friday Night Writes, has been working on Fairy Tales & First Dates all year. If you love fairy tale retellings, painfully awkward situations, humor, and a dash of magic, this collection is for you!

There’s no getting around it, first dates are awkward.

Join Robin and Marian as Little John hijacks their night. Watch as a pixie is forced to spend the evening with an insufferable prince and the Muffin Man romances the Gingerbread Girl.

You won’t be able to look away when Ms. White faces off with an alarmingly charming principal, and Belle has to navigate the frightening world of online dating.

Then there’s the burly knight in shining armor who rescues the girl a little too well, a blind date that includes seven brothers with a twisted sense of humor, and a satyr who’s trying to convince a sea witch that she’s not a monster.

Friday Night Writes brings together a collection of Fairy Tale First Dates like you’ve never imagined them before. 

Now available on Amazon!

The Red Lipstick

Author Sacha Black posted the writing prompt The Red Lipstick on her website a while ago. Just reading it set my girly brain whirling. It didn't take long before it settled on something completely different than Sacha's eerily brilliant short story. So, here's to laughter, drama, and a bold red lip!

* * *

The boots zipped over my skinny jeans with a zzzzt and a whiff of leather. The boots were only slightly unsuitable for winter weather. It was a small price to pay for great legs.

Once last look in the mirror. Eyeliner in place. Another fluff to my curls. One more spritz of hairspray. (Okay, five more.) My 'do hadn't reached auburn helmet proportions yet, though it would stand up to a stiff wind. Or the seizure-like moves that passed for dancing.

I drew the cap off the lipstick. My fashion guru friend had sported a red lip for over a year now. But this tube looked more brazenly scarlet than I remembered. Scarlet the Harlot, wriggled through my mind, a throwback to too many nights of Clue. I ignored the rhyme and daubed red onto my lips.

Coat on. Ridiculously expensive handbag at my side. Keys in hand. One more bracing breath. If I blew my friends off again, they'd never forgive me. And I'd be one step closer to a deep and lasting relationship with Netflix.

The white bag slouching against the wall stopped me in my tracks. Thirty seconds, I told myself, that's all it would take. Thirty seconds and I'd be in the car speeding toward a night of schmancy drinks, dancing, and, the girls had assured me, super cute boys. I looped a finger through the plastic handles, careful to touch as little of the bag as possible. Eau de garbage wasn't my preferred scent. 

Ten seconds. The efficient click-clack of my boots on the walk. Twenty seconds. I considered how to pop up the lid on the dumpster with the least amount of physical contact.

At twenty-five seconds, my boots skidded on a patch of ice. The flailing elbows and thrashing feet resembled nothing Kristy Yamaguchi had ever done. With a plop, my skinny-jeans encased bottom hit the ice and the garbage bag flew into the air. So much for sticking the landing.

The plump bag hovered in midair, then plunged toward the ground. I lunged for it, skittering across the ice. It landed in my lap and I hugged it to my chest. A newspaper crinkled and the aroma of rotten banana puffed into the air. 

I executed a butt scoot off the ice, still clutching the bag to my chest. Once I was upright, I hitched my handbag back up to my elbow, and slipped a palm into the red handles of the trash bag.

I made it exactly one step before riiiip. And crunch, sploosh, crackle, the bag disgorged its contents. With a sigh, I bent to clean up the mess. Then I heard it, a sound far worse than the telltale rip of a treacherous trashbag. A manly chuckle.

No, no, no. I squeezed my eyes shut, wasting all my wishes at once. Another chuckle. I forced my eyes open and peered at the source. The Attractive Male Neighbor.

“Sorry,” he muttered, seeing my face and trying to hide amusement on his own. It didn't work. Those stupid brown eyes actually twinkled. If only the ground would open up and swallow me and my trash heap whole.

“It's Becca, right?” I nodded. “Let me help you with that.”

“Oh no,” the words tumbled out of my mouth like refuse out of a torn garbage bag, “It's all my fault. I'm such a klutz, really. I couldn't allow you—”

“A gentlemen doesn't leave a lady in distress,” he insisted. “Especially in a pile of trash. What would my mother say?”

Man, he was cute. And I smelled like old cheese and dead bananas.

“By the way,” he said, as he helped me to clear up the mess, “amazing display back there. Do you skate professionally or are you keeping your amateur status so you can compete?”

I'd have punched him in the arm, but my fist was full of crumbled weekly fliers and something sticky. Instead, I gave my tongue free reign. “Actually, I'm going on tour with Disney on Ice. I'm Goofy.”

“Sweet,” he said with a grin. “I'm going to need front row seats for that. Hook me up?”

I rolled my eyes, pitching the last banana peel into the dumpster along with an empty pudding cup. “I'm pretty sure you just caught the dress rehearsal.”

He chuckled again, probably recalling my pinwheeling arms, my butt scoot, or the garbage exploding like confetti over me. I tried not to think about which part he found most amusing.

“Well, thank you,” I said, rubbing at a sticky smudge on my knee.

“It's the least I could do.” 

I turned away, fishing my phone out of my handbag and bracing myself for a barrage of tongue-lashing texts. Sorry, girls. Can't make it, I tapped out. Showering and getting dolled up again was too much of a hassle. Netflix, here I come.

“And hey, Becca?”

“Yeah?” I turned back.

A smirk spread over his stupidly handsome face. “Nice lipstick.”

* * *

What do you think? Leave me a comment below. And if you'd like to read more shorts, try: 

Creepy Old Ladies & Dolls 

The Christmas Miracle of Lydia Perkins 

The Twelve Dancing Princesses

Sylvi Lockhart 

Sam James

Enjoy! And thanks for dropping by! 

Humor & Inspiration in Writing: No, I Won't Write Your Memoir

Completely unsolicited #BookSelfie

The following feature was penned by the oh-so-adorable Lydia Thomas. I became acquainted with Lydia's wit and generosity when she reviewed my book. It coincided with Becoming Beauty's blog tour and was more personal than several of the tour participants' posts. Since then I have been a huge fan of Miss Lydia and I am more than pleased to share her one-of-a-kind style with you. Enjoy! 

* * *

I truly thought they were being dramatic, those writers who complain about people who say, “You know what you should write...” or, “I have this story idea...” I guess I was just jealous because it had never happened to me.

Then, one fateful November day, I was typing away on my work computer – probably an email – and one of my co-workers says, “Working on your novel?”

“Oh, yeah, I think Oprah might actually put her sticker on this one.”

I thought my sarcasm had been clear until he asked, “How long have you been writing?”

“My whole life.”

And you know, usually that’s when someone will ask what I write about, but not this guy: “I have a story. What do they call it when it’s someone’s life story?”

“An autobiography.”

“No. Well, it’s like a biography, but more personal.” He told me the title he’d chosen, and then hit me with this: “You could retire off of this book deal.”

“Well, that’s not really--”

“I have all of the memories.” How it works. “I just need someone to put them together for me. I can start feeding them to you, and you can type them up.”

“Well, that’s not really--”

“Seriously, you could retire off of this book deal.” How I work. “We can split the royalties.”

As he related a memory from his truly tragic childhood to me, I wondered how to politely tell him that I don’t want to write his book.

I thought about telling him that I didn’t have time. After all, I’m editing my second book, A Year with the Baptists, writing the first draft of my third book, Rachael’s Unfolding, and plotting an unnamed fantasy series. And it’s not like when I’m done with all of that I’ll be at a loss for ideas.

I thought about telling him that the market is saturated, to say nothing at all about the memoir genre. Telling stories is not enough; you have to be able to get people to listen. In order to get people to listen to you, you have to be listening to them.

I thought about telling him that I get paid ahead of time for any freelance work I do, in case, you know, the co-writer can’t hack it. I think anyone whose opinion is that a writing career just happens won’t hack it, and would therefore be a poor investment of my time, energy, and significant talent.

I also thought about telling him that maybe I didn’t want to retire off of his book deal; I want to retire off my own.

I ended up going with, “You really want a writer who can do your memories justice, and memoir is really not my thing.”

Even though the encounter was every bit as frustrating as my writing friends had led me to believe, I was inspired to continue tapping out my own lowly story ideas, building relationships with people, and otherwise investing my time in worthwhile pursuits.

* * *

Lydia Thomas...just goofing around!

Lydia Thomas cannot dance or snap her fingers, but she can sing and write, so most days she feels pretty good about herself. She enjoys DIY projects and crafting, and spending time with family and friends, playing board games and watching movies. Her first book is The Field, and she’s working on her second and third, A Year with the Baptists and Rachael’s Unfolding.

Lydia Thomas can be found on:

Lydia Thomas, Author Blog

Facebook

Twitter

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Pinterest

* * *

Thus the Humor & Inspiration posts begin! Many wonderful writers have influenced me since I started my journey as a writer/wannabe author. Now it's time to shine the light on those who shared, uplifted, and mentored me along the way. 

If you'd like to take advantage of the Power of the Share, leave me a comment below. I'd love to have more participants!
* * *
Follow the Humor & Inspiration Features:

Prairie Wife in Heels: The Idyllic Country Life 

Anne Goodwin: When Words Behave Like Toddlers 

Terry Tyler: Art Inspires Life

Kaley Tallman: Abandoning the Comfort Zone

Heidi Doxey: British Book Invasion

Carol J. Hedges: So You've Published a Book...

Allison Maruska: Four Steps Away From the Cliff
Colleen M. Story: Writers with Personality
Tamara Copley: The Magic of Humor
Sarah E. Boucher: Beating the Blaaahs
Jenniffer Wardell: All the Best Jokes

Happy reading!

May's Shorty Short Shorts

For May (National Short Story Writing Month), my delightful Writing Group did Micro Short Stories at 250 words (I'll admit that mine is closer to 300). It was probably one of most fun get-togethers ever, including dinner and shakes at Johnny Rockets and a trip to the theater to see Pitch Perfect 2. (That's right, we're professionals, people!) I presented the first three Micro Short Stories--a silly, snarky trio--in my last post May is For Micro Shorts. These are the remaining three, which include my submission.

Meg Zerkle

The text message simply said, Very clever.

I smiled. If only he knew.

I wondered what he’d found. The shirts with the sleeves sewn shut? Maybe the snake in his sock drawer? I was sure it wasn’t the mouse in his boots. He wouldn’t be amused by that one.

Can we talk?

Fat chance. But, I had to admit he was persistent.

I uncapped the Sharpie and picked up the first photo album. This was going to be fun. A moustache here, a beard there, and lots of large, black Xs. Those were my favorite. Even the pungent smell of the ink was pleasurable. I couldn’t stop smiling.

My phone rang a few times, but I ignored it. I was enjoying myself far too much to stop now.

It wasn’t what it looked like!

Ha! Just for a moment, I lost it and threw a handy vase at the wall. Luckily, my aim sucks and it sailed harmlessly through the doorway and bounced to a stop on my bed.  Deep breath. Anger isn’t productive. Revenge, now that was better.

I had 10 more albums to get through. Plenty of fun ahead. A giggle slipped out, and I covered my mouth with my hand. No, I just had to focus on the projects in front of me.

She’s just a friend! Don’t you think you’re overreacting a little?

Oooh! Nope! Breathe in. . . breathe out.

My boots! Why did it have to be my boots!

My dog howled in harmony with my maniacal laughter.

Sarah Boucher

One last breath. I closed my eyes, sucked it in, and held the taste of dried flowers and the tang of soap on my tongue. Tears pricked my eyes. The letter crinkled in my fist. I took another stabilizing breath. This time the flat smell of dust coated my mouth. I opened my eyes. Dust motes danced in the light from the nearest window, clung to the wide sill where I once read fairytales, and outlined the squares where mother’s cushions had sat.

Simple, clean, tidy. That’s how Mother had always kept her home. Sorrow rose at the back of my throat. I swallowed it back, but the flavor of tears hit my tongue just the same.

“Pardon me, miss.”

I swiped a hand across my eyes and pressed the letter to my chest. I turned to the boy. “Yes?”

“Everything is packed, miss.”

What little is left, you mean, I wanted to add. “Thank you. I’ll be right there.”

His shoes scuffed against the bare boards as he left.

Bare walls, bare floor. My throat tightened. I squeezed my eyes shut and made a wish. A wish for another family to furnish the home with love.

The scrape of footsteps sounded behind me.  The boy cleared his throat.

I looked him over. He was a waif of a boy with brown hair and plain clothes. None of this was his fault.

I pushed the words out. “Thank you, Johnny. I’m coming.”

I smoothed the wrinkles out of the letter before stowing it in the bodice of my dress. I reached for the bag at my feet, slung it over my shoulder, and stepped away from the life I had always known.

Shandra Burnett

Kim ran to the closet and began stuffing clothes into her backpack. A quick stop in the den for her passport and she was out the door. She almost forgot to lock it. Her brother, Jay, hated finding it unlocked. Of course, she wouldn't be there to hear his lecture. She smiled and almost laughed, but she would miss him. He would hate the way she was running without considering all possibilities and consequences. She saw this her chance to be like a new companion climbing into the TARDIS. Jay would see it as the last act before her mangled body was buried in the woods and “Missing” pictures started going out on milk cartons. Either way she couldn't hang out at home anymore. Just reading about adventures and dreaming about them wasn't enough. Not that anything was wrong with her life. Jay was great to live with and her job at the library gave her easy access to all the books she wanted. She’d been healthy and comfortably well off all her life, but nothing had ever happened. No love stories or heartbreaks. No crises with hard decisions to make. No fortifying leaps of faith. Just calm waters flowing steadily from day to night and back again. She wanted to wake up somewhere new. The sun was setting when she rounded the corner and saw his smiling face. He held the promised airline ticket. Kim took his hand and stepped forward into adventure that was bigger on the inside.

* * * 

As you can see, we excel at different aspects of the writing process. It makes us stronger as a group, especially when it comes to giving helpful feedback. If you're interested, all the ladies can be found on Facebook and half of us are on Twitter as well. Thanks for dropping in, friends!

FYI: Meg is an editor. How cool is that? Also, my submission is the beginning of Book Three (a.k.a. the Rumpelstiltskin retelling). What did you think? If you had your pick, which fairytale would you for me to rewrite?

May is for Micro Shorts

Remember the post There Are Weirdos For Everyone? That's my Writing Group! For May (National Short Story Writing Month) we did Micro Short Stories at (250 words-ish). It was a challenge, but the girls brought forth such a wealth of humor and brilliance as we chatted, swapped stories, and slurped shakes at Johnny Rockets that I thought you'd enjoy their stories too. (If you don't laugh at least once, you haven't been paying attention.)

Denise Tolley

“Sit down, Joe.” Grant Cooper, Allentown’s chief of police, pulled out a rolling desk chair and motioned toward it.

The younger officer who was standing at a stiff backed yet unofficial attention, staring with unfocused eyes out the precinct window, started at the sound of his name and turned his head toward Chief Cooper.

“I can’t sit, sir.” Joe’s words came out in a rough whisper. “If I sit, I might not be able to stand again.”

Joe turned back to the window and resumed his rigid stance.

Chief Cooper let out a frustrated sigh. He walked over to Joe and put a hand on his shoulder.

“Son, you can’t change things. Choices were made that will cause heartache for many good officers for a long time to come.” He gave Joe’s shoulder a squeeze. “C’mon. You can do this. Have a seat.”

Joe took in a deep breath, held it, and then released it slowly.  He turned again and walked with the chief back to the long table that was centered in the room. 

The other officers seated at the table watched him expectantly. Waiting. Waiting for the clock to start again. His throat became tight and dry, even as a single bead of anxious sweat trickled slowly down his hairline. The pressure immense.

Joe dug deep inside himself for the confidence he knew was there.  He could do this.

He sat in his chair and gave a look of encouragement to the others. A nod to the spirit of police competition everywhere.

A bell sounded.

The clock resumed ticking.

It began again.

Within moments Joe emerged victorious and clichéd.

Precinct Donut Eating Champion.

Jo Ann Schneider Stringer

The sound sat somewhere between a thump and a slap. I sat in my chair and tried to ignore it. The glow from my computer screen should have enticed me to finish the project I was working on--either that or check Facebook--but the thlapping kept getting louder.

I coughed and shifted in my seat. This never ended well. Maybe if I kept my eyes forward and looked intent, I wouldn't get dragged into the drama.

Not that I would have a choice.

I grimaced, realizing the cough would draw their attention. They had ears like a mother of four, and the pouncing skills of a hyper kitten.

Thlap. Thlap. The sound slowed. Thlap. I held my breath. I was around the corner, maybe if I didn't move or make a sound, they wouldn't notice me.

“Pick one of the others,” I urged in my mind.

Thlap.

I didn't even dare click my mouse. They could probably hear the laser moving.

Silence reigned behind me. I could practically feel everyone trying to be invisible.

Someone sniffed..

Thlap, thlap, thlap...

I let out the breath I had been holding.

“Hey, Brad, can you help me with something?”

I almost came out of my seat. How had one of them snuck up on me? They all wore flip flops.

I looked down and found Celeste's feet sporting warrior sandals.

Time to install some mirrors. 

Cindy Green

Randall had only gone for a leisurely walk that evening. The purple setting sun filled the sky with a deep green that beckoned to him. Troubles would wait until he returned home. Finding what looked like a ball of bright white light peeking through the branches of a bush hadn’t been on his agenda. In fact, he had no agenda other than to stroll about the neighborhood, but it certainly piqued his curiosity. He moved for a closer look.

His one coherent thought as he found himself falling through the light, which turned out to be a tiny opening between realities, was, “Oh, dear. I think I left the stove on.”

Landing in the new reality was abrupt. Randall had little time to consider his new situation when he was buffeted by strange sights and squealing noises. He trembled at the sound and thought it best to lie still without blinking and hoped it would go away.

Panic filled his frame as a strange, giant creature grasped him by each end and lifted him into the air. Twisting and turning him, it seemed to be examining all sides. Squealing again, he was shaken up and down before being carried to a strange chamber where his torture began.

Forcing open his mouth, the creature squeezed itself into him, encasing his body around its own. The pain was excruciating, causing him to pass out. When he awoke, he discovered he was again being carried and wondered anew at the strange sights.  

A chill passed over Randall when he saw the others. They were trapped on shiny bars, held there by strange devices. Their eyes showed no hope. A sign read, “Micro shorts.”

* * * 

Including six shorts, even at micro mini length, was a little much for one post. The other three are located in the post May's Shorty Short Shorts.  Check them out. At least one will get you laughing! If you're interested, all of us can be found on Facebook and half of us are on Twitter as well.  I hope you enjoyed them! Leave me a comment and tell me what you thought. I'll pass it along to the girls!

FYI: Cindy and Denise are sisters. Can you imagine what the family reunions are like? I'm going with hysterical.

Christmas Miracle--Part III

Ta-da! The finale! Will they or won't they? Has Lydia's holiday luck run out? Seriously, those two monstrous boys are capable of anything...

The Christmas Miracle of Lydia Perkins

Part 3

The boys were glued to The Grinch, giving Lydia exactly 104 minutes of semi-uninterrupted Me-Time. Typically those precious moments were spent cleaning, cooking, and caring for their home. Today Lydia was determined to spend them all on girlie primping. Locking the bathroom door to deter intruders, she proceeded to scrub every bit of her skin with perfumed soap and let the warm water rinse away the mommy stink. Today she would be a real girl, not the mommy-being with food stains on her clothes and her pockets full of Legos, miniature cars, and snot rags. 

She stepped into her closet, passing the piles of pajama pants and cozy T-shirts she preferred to the items in the back. She located a red sequined top with cap sleeves and a swooping neckline. She slipped it on, pleased to note that the fabric didn’t cling uncomfortably, but still accentuated her curves. Now for the pants. Happily, she had never succumbed to the universally unflattering mother jeans (those light-colored, high-waisted jeans that made everyone’s behind look enormous). Please let them fit! she mentally pleaded as she pulled on some wide-leg, dark-wash jeans with embellished back pockets.They were a bit snug, but still fit. Reaching past the endless line of Sketchers and fluffy slippers, she found a pair of sassy black boots with slim heels and slid them on. Glancing in the mirror, she was gratified to see the leggy woman she remembered staring back at her. Perhaps she'd hadn't had all the accompanying jiggly bits, but a girl couldn’t have everything.

Stepping back into the bathroom, she blow-dried her hair and popped in hot rollers. Carefully, she applied make-up, reaching for the seldom used eye-shadow, blush, and lip gloss in addition to the customary mascara she wore. She removed the rollers and tousled the auburn curls before pinning up the front and pulling a few out to spill around her face. Dangly cut-glass earrings completed the look. Finally finished, she gazed at her reflection. A real woman stared back at her, someone unconcerned with the worries of paying the bills, living on a budget, or foregoing fun in favor of providing for two unruly boys. She smiled at her gray-eyed reflection, glad to see that woman after so many years.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Apparently her 104 minutes were at an end. Sighing, she opened the door to ensure her offspring hadn’t maimed one another.

Mason arrived promptly at six. Lydia had rushed the boys through dinner and bundled them into warm coats and hats just in time. Though it had been unseasonably warm lately, the wind had picked up, resulting in a nasty chill in the air. Lydia reached for her long black coat and topped it with a bright red scarf, as she greeted him with a smile.

The boys were jumping around as usual, vying for Mason’s attention. He smiled down at them, asking about what they’d done that day.

“We got to watch The Grinch!”

“And we got you a present!”

They attempted to run one another over racing to the tree to retrieve the package.

“Thank you,” Mason said, inspecting the oddly wrapped gift, held together with too much tape.

“We wrapped it ourselves!” they exclaimed in unison. His eyes twinkled as he met Lydia’s gaze. Lydia just shrugged and smiled.

“Should I open it?” Mason asked. 

He was answered with a chorus of yeses and Jimmy blurting out, “You need it for tonight!  It’s a…” before Tommy smacked a hand over his mouth to muffle the last word. 

Mason ignored the ensuing scuffle and worked past the first layer of Scotch tape. The boys finally paused in the middle of their melee to watch Mason pull out a khaki green and blue checked scarf.  “Thank you, boys,” he said as he wrapped it around his neck. “It’s perfect for tonight.” The boys pelted him with hugs as he patted them on the back. 

When he disentangled himself, he turned to Lydia, leaning in to kiss her on the cheek and whisper, “Thank you,” in her ear, and, “By the way, you look gorgeous.” Lydia, slightly flustered by the nearness of him, had her wits about her enough to notice that the scarf brought out the green in his eyes. She had thought they were hazel before, but no, they were that bold green she’d only seen a couple of times in her life.

“Ready?” Mason asked them all. The boys shrieked in delight, running to the kitchen for the wrapped goody plates, Lydia hollering after them to be careful. 

“We can take my truck,” Mason offered as they made their way out the door. “It’s all warmed up.”

Lydia glanced at the sleek silver truck parked by the curb, “Are you sure?” she asked. “They’re likely to get something on the seats. You can never tell what exactly, but it’s sure to be sticky.”

Mason grinned as he lifted the boys into the back seat. “It’ll be fine,” he assured her. 

After the boys were safely buckled in, he opened the door for Lydia. She’d just been wondering how she’d could get into a truck in high-heeled boots when she felt his hand settle reassuringly on the small of her back. Gratefully, she stepped up and with a boost from Mason was soon tucked safely into the cab. 

The evening passed in a series of stops at neighbors’ homes, each consisting of the delivery of goodies (the boys arguing over whose turn it was to carry them), an exuberant rendition of Rudolph or Jingle Bells (more arguing about which to sing), the swapping of holiday well-wishes with the neighbors, and belted out versions of We Wish You a Merry Christmas as they made their way back to the warm truck. Lydia tried to ignore the interested looks with which her neighbors greeted Mason. She should have expected it, she supposed. They all knew her situation, and to show up unannounced with an attractive man in tow was asking for the gossip mill to begin grinding. She knew there would be countless inquiries about him later, but for now she tried to enjoy the novelty of spending Christmas Eve with someone pleasant. Having someone beside her as she carted the boys around the neighborhood, cheerfully joining in on the singing, and taking every opportunity to put his arm around her shoulders or waist when they weren’t separated by small wiggly bodies, was extremely pleasant. It almost felt like a date. Albeit a mommy date with two rambunctious boys as chaperons.

They delivered the last of the treats, sang a final Jingle Bells (Lydia thought she could go a whole year without hearing it again), and piled back into the truck.  

When they reached the house, Mason helped her out of the truck as he had done all night, insisting on opening her door and offering her his hand. She took it and kept her fingers wrapped around his even after she was safely on the ground. She smiled up into his green eyes and said, “Thank you for coming. It’s been a lovely evening.”

“My pleasure,” he said, smiling back at her as they walked to the porch hand-in-hand.

“Would you like to come in?” she asked when they reached the door.

“I’d love to, but I should probably go. I’ve got a bit of last minute shopping to do.”

She was about to say it was all right, that he’s already spent the better part of Christmas Eve with them, when a tussle from inside drew her attention. The boys had raced past them into the house, and as usual, were already fighting over something. She slipped past Mason to intervene before someone got hurt. She placed a hand on each boy’s shoulder, quickly separating them. They were still glaring at one another, when Jimmy--with his customary inability to focus on anything long enough to remain upset--looked up and said, “Look, Mommy, mistletoe!”

It had been Tommy who had insisted on the mistletoe. Lydia hadn’t hung it up for years, wondering what use they’d get out of it. But Tommy had heard about it in school, and when he’d found the sprig nestled in the bottom of one of the Christmas bins, had pleaded for her to pin it up.  Since then, the boys had been fascinated by it, stopping underneath it periodically and refusing to move until they were soundly smooched.  It was really kind of adorable.

“What’s going on?” Mason said, as he stepped up behind them.

“Oh,” Lydia said, pointing toward the greenery hanging above them, “Mistletoe.” With that, she grabbed one boy with each arm, loudly kissing them on the cheeks while Mason chuckled. The giggling boys returned her kisses tenfold, covering her face with smacky smooches.

“Can we open a present?” Tommy asked, shining-eyed, as Jimmy jumped up and down in anticipation.

“Just one,” she said, as they scampered off to the tree. “A little one!” she called after them. Mason remained by her side, watching the boys rattle the packages in search of the perfect one. 

It was Jimmy who looked up, smiled his disarming missing-teeth smile and called out once again, “Mommy! Mistletoe!”

She and Mason both looked up to see the mistletoe hanging above them. “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” the boys chanted while Lydia's cheeks burned.

Mason’s eyes crinkled at the corners as a cockeyed grin lit his face. “Let’s show them how this is done,” he said. Something snagged at the edge of Lydia’s memory, but she was unable to catch it as he deftly dipped her and covered her mouth with his. Her dream blossomed in her mind, and just as she had done then, she deepened the kiss. Sweet and passionate all at once, and just as had happened in her dream, she felt reality fall away until only the two of them remained, locked in one another’s  arms.

“J.M…” she murmured against his lips, amazed that she’d even remembered the name of the boy she’d shared the stage with so long ago, and then instantly mortified that she should utter it while kissing another man. Her eyes fluttered open to see two wide green eyes staring down at her. He lifted her to her feet. Flustered, she said quickly, “Oh, I’m so sorry…I didn’t mean…”

She expected him to be angry. She didn’t expect him to say, “No one’s called me that for a long time.”

“What?” 

“I said no one’s called me that in a long time. Since high school at least.”

Lydia braced herself against the wall, trying to keep her knees from buckling as everything clicked into place. The green eyes, the hair, darkened to a deep blonde, and that smile. She knew she’d recognized it. “You?” she asked, incredulous.

“I thought you remembered,” he said. “I certainly did, the first time you came to your door. I wondered why I’d been such an idiot to let you slip through my fingers all those years ago. Life just gives you another chance sometimes, I guess.” He smiled at her, reaching to brush an errant curl out of her eyes.

Still shocked, Lydia could only stare back at him.

At this point the boys rushed over, oblivious of what they were interrupting, and begged Mason to come look at their gifts. They grabbed his hands and pulled him toward the couch. Mason tossed an amused grin over his shoulder as he allowed himself to be dragged off.

Lydia leaned against the wall, taking in the scene. Her boys were scrambling excitedly onto Mason’s lap to show him their newly opened toys, and Mason was looking on with just as much youthful excitement in his eyes. The lines between past and present blurred for a moment. The tangy aroma of pine heavy in the air, mingled with the ever-present holiday spices, bringing to mind Christmases from long ago layered with recent holidays with the boys. From outside she heard the faint tinkling of far off bells, reminding her of yesteryear's sleigh rides and today's exuberant Jingle Bells renditions. Above her hung the sprig of mistletoe, as it always had in her childhood home, a bright spot of color in the middle of winter. 

The joy and hope of Christmas, something she thought she would never feel again, entered her heart. It was the reason she labored so hard this time of year, to try to recapture the peace and joy of the season. And as Mason glanced over his shoulder at her, his face alight with a happiness so familiar and yet so new, she knew that something precious had been restored to her.

It was her own little Christmas miracle.

* * *

Thanks so much for reading! I really enjoyed crafting this story and I'd love to hear with you think. Leave me a comment!

Here are the earlier posts of The Christmas Miracle of Lydia Perkins: Part I, Part II. Happy holidays, my dears. May all you wishes come true...or at least you get to sleep in and watch Netflix once.

Christmas Miracle--Part II

Thanks for coming back! The holidays are approaching! And here I am, counting down the moments until I can truly celebrate (a.k.a. stay in bed until everyone forgets what I look like or I have to emerge for chocolate). Anyway, my dears, the story goes on!
Last time we left Lydia Perkins smack in the middle of holiday preparations with the arrival of an unexpected visitor. As Lydia struggles to keep the magic of Christmas alive, she may have a helper during the holidays.

The Christmas Miracle of Lydia Perkins

Part 2

The next day, Lydia found herself elbow-deep in caramel corn. Tommy and Jimmy were happily patting their cooled corn into bulbous mounds, licking their palms periodically to remove excess caramel.  Ick, she thought, glad she only let the boys make their own holiday treats.  Goody plates were meant to spread holiday cheer, not runny noses or whatever boy cooties they were carrying. 

Lydia added the last carefully molded popcorn ball to the tray, automatically smacking a pudgy hand as it reached for one. “You’ve got your own,” she said, unaffected by the wounded look on Jimmy’s face as he rubbed his dimpled paw. “These are for the neighbors.”

She rinsed her hands at the sink before pulling out the colored plastic wrap and ribbon. “Would you like to help me wrap them up, boys?” she asked. They bounced about eagerly, grabbing sticky-fingered for the ribbon. “Hands clean first, please,” she reminded them, deftly scooting the ribbon out of reach just in time. The boys tumbled off the bench, squabbling about who got to wash first. Lydia had just started cutting lengths of ribbon when the doorbell rang.

“Tommy can you get the door?” she called, snipping the last ribbon while the boys raced off.

“Mommy, come quick!” Jimmy hollered excitedly. Lydia carefully set down the scissors and went to investigate.

Jimmy was bouncing up and down, and Tommy was holding the door open proudly, a Christmas tree filling the doorway. “What in the world?” she asked, bewilderedly.

A cheery, “Ho! Ho! Ho!” issued from the tree. The man from the day before peeked around it, greeting Lydia with a wide grin. “I hope it’s not too much,” he said quietly, “but I noticed you didn’t have one yet.”

She floundered for a moment, glancing down at the boys. They peered up at her with wide expectant eyes. How could she refuse?

“Thank you, it’s beautiful,” she said, helping him to ease it through the doorway.  “You really didn’t have to do this, though.”

“I wanted to say thank you for helping me out last night,” he said as he set it up in the spot she indicated. “It’s not Christmas without a real tree.” The boys were still dancing around, sniffing the piney aroma, and whispering to one another excitedly.

“Thank you. We’ve never had a real tree,” Lydia said, brushing the needled branches gently.  “It’s lovely.”

“My pleasure,” he said, his customary smile in place. There was something familiar in that smile, a long lost memory struggled to resurface, but couldn’t.

“Mommy! Mommy! Mommy!” the boys called, dragging her back to reality with their pleading. “Can we decorate it? Please! Please! Please! Please!”

“All right, you may bring out the ornaments, but be careful with the boxes.”

The two boys grabbed the man’s hands, yanking him along with them.  “You can help us,” Tommy said. 

“I get to put the star on top!” Jimmy proclaimed as they hurried to the bedroom closet. The man glanced back at Lydia, amusement painting his features. Typically, it might make her nervous to let her children run off with a perfect stranger, but something about him put her at ease.  And really, those two rapscallions were more of danger to him.

“I find it easier not to argue,” she whispered loudly.

A few minutes later they emerged from the bedroom, each carrying a large plastic bin. The boys had theirs open in a moment, oohing and awwwing over the contents. The man came to stand beside her and watch them trim the tree. 

“They really are nice boys,” he said approvingly.

“Yes, they are. They have just enough sweetness to keep me sane and just enough naughtiness to keep life interesting.” She reached to tousled Jimmy’s hair lovingly as she said it.  “Which reminds me, I haven’t even introduced them to you. This is Jimmy,” she patted him on the shoulder, “and that’s Tommy.”

“And that’s Mommy,” Jimmy chimed in, flashing his gap-toothed smile.

“Lydia, actually,” she amended, “Lydia Perkins.”

“Pleased to meet you,” he said, shaking her hand.  “I’m Mason Peters.”

“You gonna help?” Jimmy interrupted, yanking on Mason’s jacket.

“Sure, what do you want me to do?” he said, crouching down to talk to the boys.

Jimmy thrust a misshapen reindeer into his hands. “Put this on, I made it in preschool.”

Lydia chuckled quietly as Mason helped the boys. “I’m going to make some hot chocolate while you boys work on the tree.”

“Need any help?” Mason inquired politely.

“What you’re doing is more than enough,” she replied. 

As she turned to leave, Tommy handed Mason a packet of lights. “You can do the lights. Daddies are supposed to do the lights.”

Lydia froze in her tracks when she heard Mason reply, “Then won’t your daddy want to do them?”

Her stomach twisted with apprehension and she glanced over her shoulder. Tommy just shrugged and said matter-of-factly, “We don’t have a daddy.”

Mason met her gaze, a mixture of pity and understanding in his eyes as he said, “Then I’d be glad to do the lights.” 

Quickly, she turned away and hurried off to the kitchen to hide her flushed cheeks.

What will he think? She busied herself with assembling a tray of treats and gourmet hot chocolate so she wouldn’t have to think about it too much and hoped her flaming cheeks would return to normal by the time she finished. She was just grating chocolate over the frothy cream-topped mugs when Mason stepped into the kitchen.

“Anything I can do?”

“I’m just finishing up,” she replied, throwing the used utensils in the sink and stowing away the ingredients.

“So…” he said, leaning against the counter as she cleaned up. “There’s no Mr. Perkins?”

Lydia placed the milk in the fridge before responding simply, “Nope. It’s just us.”

“I don’t mean to pry,” he said, handing her the hot chocolate mix to put away, “But what happened? You seem like such a close family.”

Here it comes, Lydia thought warily, the what’s-wrong-with-you interrogation. Everyone wanted to know what she’d done to deserve this, raising two boys with no husband in sight. Directness was the only way to head off a full inquiry. “He just left. Tommy was two and I was pregnant with Jimmy. He never came back.”

“That must have been hard,” he said, his tone sympathetic.

“We manage,” she said. “Like any other family we have our good days and our bad days.”

“You’re obviously doing something right,” he said, glancing toward the living room. “Those are two great boys out there.”

“Ooh!” Lydia said, remembering the hot chocolate, “and they’re probably waiting for their treats!”  She handed Mason two mugs and carried the remaining two and the tray of treats out to the boys.

“Anybody for hot chocolate?” she asked, infusing her voice with as much cheer as she could. A chorus of “Me! Me! Me!” rang back to her. After settling the boys on the floor, she handed them each a mug and a cookie.

They were all munching away happily, admiring the newly decorated tree and sipping their cocoa, when Tommy asked, “Mommy, when are we taking the treats to the neighbors?”

“Tomorrow night, honey,” she replied.

Jimmy, snuggling up to Mason said, “We get to sing! Jingle Bells! Jingle Bells! Jingle all the way!”  He wiggled about as he sang, nearly splashing hot chocolate all over Mason’s slacks.  A quelling look from Lydia calmed him, but didn’t stop him from asking Mason, “You wanna come?”

“It’s Christmas Eve, sweety, I’m sure he’s got other plans,” Lydia said.

“Actually, I’m free,” Mason said, “But I don’t want to intrude on your family tradition.” 

“You’re welcome to come if you’d like,” Lydia assured him, secretly pleased with the idea.  “I’ll warn you that it’ll be chilly and the boys only know Jingle Bells and the first part of Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.”  This immediately sent the boys into an off-key rendition of Rudolph.

Mason chuckled, “Sounds great.”

* * *

As always, thanks for dropping in! And here's Part 1, where Lydia and Mason meet for the first time. Relive the magic! Happy holidays, my dears! Here's the conclusion! Part 3

The Christmas Miracle of Lydia Perkins

So, I'm working on Book Two (a.k.a Twelve) but in the meantime, here's a little something fun I wrote for the holidays.  Meet Lydia, a single mom who's doing her best to keep the Christmas magic alive for her two boys. Don't worry, there will be romance!

The Christmas Miracle of Lydia Perkins

Part 1

Lydia wiped a blob of goo off her cheek. Every girl knew cookie dough was delicious, but cookie dough stuck to your face?  Not so much. 

Time to get a new mixer, she mentally noted, one that won’t flip food all over the place. A second thought trailed after the first one, But how can we ever afford that? She’d barely paid the mortgage this month, and had already maxed out the credit card on gifts for the boys. Whatever. She could pay it off.  Probably. By next Christmas.

“Mommmyyyyy!!!!” Her youngest son screeched to a halt behind her, yanking on her apron strings to get her attention. As if the yelling wasn’t enough. 

She turned to him, squatting down to look him in the eyes, “What is it, Jimmy?” 

“He said he’s going to kill me!” If this line had been uttered by someone else, someone without a cowlick and two front teeth missing, it might have caused more of a dramatic reaction. Jimmy never captured the right amount of tragedy, no matter how he tried. And he did try. “He said he’ll push me out the window!”

Lydia gave him a look, that special look that convinced children their mothers really did have eyes in the backs of their heads. “And what did you do?” she asked, crossing her arms over her chest.

“I was just playing with my toys…” His little boy mouth pulled down at the corners.

Her eyes narrowed, intensifying the Mother Look. 

After squirming for a second, he cracked. “Well…he took my G.I. Joe, so I threw a Lego at him.  I didn’t mean to hit him in the head…”  His round hazel eyes showed genuine regret.

“What’s the rule about throwing toys?” she grilled him.

“Don’t throw toys,” he replied flatly.

“Correct. Now, you have a choice, you may play quietly with your toys and be respectful to your brother or you may go to timeout and miss dessert.”

“But mommmyyyyy…” he stretched the word out until it was practically unrecognizable, little more than a whine.  She’d thought it was so adorable the first time he’d lisped it in his baby voice.  Now she wasn’t so sure.

“Make your choice, Jimmy,” she said, holding up one finger.

“I’ll be nice,” he said, sighing and turning away.

“Tell your brother he can be nice too, or no cookies!” she called after his retreating form as she stood back up. She heard the resulting tussle as she turned back to her cookie dough. Mom said be nice or you don’t get any cookies,” Jimmy said smugly. Sighing again, she flipped the mixer up to full speed to drown them out. They wouldn’t really kill one another.

After a minute, she scraped down the sides of the bowl and folded in the chocolate chips. The day had started out so nicely too. These days, dreams were a single mom’s only escape. And last night’s had been a doozy. She’d found herself back in high school—in her size 8 high school body, no less—and on the same stage where she’d performed in numerous musicals. Her co-star, a tasty blonde with bright green eyes, decided they needed to practice the kissing scene.  Dipping her tentatively, he pecked her quickly before pulling her upright again. 

“Unconvincing!” the Nazi-of-a-director called from the audience.  “Pretend like you like each other, for Pete’s sake!”  At this her partner had dipped her full Old Hollywood style, planting a firm kiss on her lips. Lydia, taken completely by surprise, was a bit shaky when he set her back on her feet. “That’s more like it!” the director yelled encouragingly, “Except not so wooden, Lyddie! Again!”  

Her green-eyed partner looked straight into her eyes, smiling mischievously. “Let’s show them how this is done.” 

Lydia was prepared when the spin and dip came, this time pulling their bodies together to lean into his kiss.  It was meant to be a regular stage kiss, all glitz and no heart. Instead, the whole world blurred at the edges and dropped away as they melted into one another. Then, somewhere in the middle of that never-ending kiss she sensed a strange dampness on her cheek…was he actually licking her?  Or worse, was she drooling?  Oh please, let it be anything but drool! 

It was at this point that her boys had burst into her room screaming bloody murder, and she woke to find the dog lapping affectionately at her face. Perfect.

A day that began like that warranted chocolate at the end, she rationalized, and dipped a finger into the dough to make sure she hadn’t forgotten any ingredients. Everything was accounted for, so she grabbed a spoon and began scooping balls onto trays and sliding them into the oven. She had just dusted off her hands when the doorbell rang. She made her way to the door, automatically admonishing the boys to play nice as she passed their room. Easing the door open, so as to not decapitate any stray action figures, she looked out onto the porch to see an unknown man.  She left the locked screen door in between them, just in case.

“I’m sorry ma’am, I don’t mean to be a bother, but my truck stalled and my cell phone’s dead.  Could I borrow your phone?” Near-death scenarios flooded Lydia’s mind as she looked up at him, the most prominent of which was the classic single woman attacked by a wild man who carried her off and ravaged her in the woods. 

Probably an improvement on my love life. 

“Just a minute,” she said, leaving him standing on the porch, the screen door separating them as she searched the house for her purse.  “Are you boys okay?” she called down the hall. 

“Yes, mommy,” they chorused in their little boy voices, their tones beautifully innocent.

“Just keep playing in your room, please,” she instructed.  “The cookies will be out in a bit.”  She located her purse and after digging for a moment, pulled out her cell phone.  Unlocking and pushing open the screen door, she handed it to the man.

“Thanks,” he said, his lips curving up into a crooked half-grin. “I really am sorry about this, I feel like such an idiot.”

“Oh, it’s fine,” she replied. “Anything else you need?” 

“No, I’ll just call Triple A and get out of your hair.” He turned away, tapping numbers into the phone. He didn’t seem like the type to drag a girl into the forest to have his way with her.  More’s the pity, she thought, he’s rather cute, like a tall Bradley Cooper. She relocked the screen door, but with a sudden attack of conscience that she’d treated him like some sort of mass murderer/rapist, she ran to pull a batch of cookies from the oven and slide a few onto a plate. Hushed little boy voices drew her attention as she headed back to the porch. Their faces were smooshed against the screen door and they were whispering to one another as they peered out at the stranger on the porch.

“Jimmy, Tommy, didn’t I ask you to play in your room?” Her free hand perched on a hip.

“But who is he, mommy?” Tommy asked, his brown eyes wide.

“Someone in trouble,” she replied, moving him gently aside so she could slip out.  She flashed her boys the “stay put” look before turning to the man.  He clicked the phone shut and handed it back to her. She took it, offering him the plate of cookies with the other hand.

“You don’t have to do that,” he said, eying the cookies. “You’ve helped me out already.”

“It’s nothing,” she responded, holding the plate out again. “I know what it’s like to be stranded.” She waggled the cookies under his nose and added, “And they’re fresh from the oven.” 

“Well…all right,” he said, picking one up and taking a large bite, his eyes grew as wide as Tommy’s had been a moment ago. “Oh my gosh! These are amazing!” he said around a mouthful of cookie, crumbs falling as he spoke.

“Thanks,” she smiled, while the boys giggled behind her. How many times had she admonished them not to talk with their mouth full? And now, here was a full-grown male doing exactly that. No wonder they were amused.

“Boys,” she turned to them, pulling the serious look back onto her face, “You may go to the kitchen and get one cookie each.” The giggles faded as they raced off.

The man was reaching for the last cookie when she turned back.  “Cute boys,” he said, stuffing it into his mouth.

“They’re a handful,” she said shaking her head. “But usually they’re very sweet.” Just then they came scampering back, a cookie in each hand and one poking out of their mouths.  Lydia rolled her eyes, “See what I mean?” she said.

He snickered. “They have good taste.”

“So, did you get hold of Triple A?” she asked, recalling why he’d come in the first place.

“Yes, they’ll be here in a bit,” he said. “Thanks again, for everything.  I should probably go wait at the truck so I don’t miss them.”

“Wait a minute,” Lydia said, ducking back into the house, shooing the boys before her as she went.  She grabbed a plastic bag, scooped several more cookies into it, and zipped the top shut before hurrying back outside.  Holding it out, she said, “Take these. You’ll save me from dealing with too much sugar detox later,” she said jerking a thumb toward the miscreants still gaping at them behind the screen door.

“Thank you,” he said, smiling as he made his way down the steps. “Help and free cookies, it almost makes me want to break down more often.” She watched him for a moment, and then turned to enter the house, careful to bolt both doors behind her.

The boys looked owlishly up at her.  “Who was he, Mommy? Was that Daddy?” Tommy asked.

She shook her head sadly. “No baby, his car just broke down and he needed some help.” She patted him on the head consolingly. “Daddy’s gone, sweetie, and he’s not coming back.” Both boys hugged her around the legs, helping to ease the tight knot that had settled in her stomach when she thought about the past. 

* * *

Thanks for reading! You can read the rest of Christmas Miracle here: Part II, Part III. Leave me a comment and tell me what you think!