The Christmas dinner at my fiancées parents' house was a brave way to introduce me to the family.
"You'll be fine", she said. "Dad was a bit angry that he didnt get to meet you BEFORE ... well, you know, before i said yes. He's one for tradition...but it will be fine"
It was all going well until i took my chance with her dad's last roast potato. I lunged in with a fork, speared it then gobbled it whole.
As i chewed it proudly, there was stunned silence. Horrified faces.
"What? Roastie War is not a tradition here?" I asked, desperately.
There was this one word that I kept repeating in my mind, and I was supposed to write something short, engaging, comedic, tragic or scary with it.
I sat down and made the first draft. I spilled the word counts. It’s too plain.
I went on and trimmed the words. Still too plain.
I swapped the story, possibly a comedic vibe. I meant, it could be a comedic story, but I couldn’t finish the draft. The supposedly comedic plot vaporized, and nothing got transferred to the screen.
I laughed at myself.
I think I caught it, the traditional writer’s block.
The turkey was dry. The potatoes sagged softly on the table, holding no outer crunch. Again. The sprouts were flatulence bombs, waiting for the most inconvenient moment to explode.
“I do like my traditions,” said the mother as they collapsed on the sofa, paper crowns partially ripped and delicately balanced on heads. The couple rolled their eyes at each other.
In car on the way home they debated a new tradition for next year. Maybe a Chinese instead. Both knew that they would be back, though. Giving the old lady the company she desperately missed the other 364 days of the year.
I was thinking about being good. I like presents, and I really want some for Christmas (I should say ‘please’ here). Nothing too much. Maybe a dry robe for cold water swimming. It’s not like I’m one of those other types, the ones who pose in them round town. Losers. I might have called them that, or worse. Is that bad? Anyway, a robe and a bottle of whisky. I know that always make me frisky and I probably shouldn’t do that stuff in public. Really, is that a deal breaker? It is? Well, humbug to you Santa.
I thought of you as I went to the post office in my dry robe to post a parcel. LOL!! Especially as there is no way I would ever go cold water swimming - or even hot water swimming :)
The soft Christmas lights reflected off the tinsel bringing a warm glow to the room. The carefully arranged gifts under the tree sought to tell a story of success. Each decoration in the room was placed to demonstrate an understanding of how a house should be decorated for Christmas. Everything was in order as the hostess elegantly sat on her sofa, her eggnog waiting on the Christmas coaster. A small sound from the kitchen had her picking up and delivering her hors d'oeuvres to the food laden table. Her guests were beyond fashionably late. She eyed her success with love.
Haha. Good one! We have been getting a smaller tree every year, and my wife is thinking of getting a fake one, but I don’t one, doesn’t feel like Christmas without real tree.
Real trees are nice, but as I got older they became more of a nuisance in all the extra work: getting it, moving it, tying it, cleaning up, keeping it alive, removing it, cleaning up when removing it. I enjoyed the tradition but in the end it became too much.
I'm afraid I just had to cheat with this one and do a lot more than 100 words. So this one is actually 302 words. I may edit it later down to 300, but I like it as it is, and just couldn't resist.
302mg of a Tradition
“Oh I agree wholeheartedly!” Remarked the cannibal to the explorer, continuing their tour of the village, “Tradition is a very fine thing indeed! And you are fortunate to find us on a feast day!”
“Ah,” said the explorer, who was also, it must be noted, an anthropologist, “that explains those wafting culinary savours assaulting my nostrils, eh!”
“Indeed,” chuckled the cannibal, “Indeed, Sir!”
They rounded a corner, into the central square where a colossal cauldron did smoke.
“…sweetbreads, liver and kidney pot pie, rump casserole… We have a recipe book, you know?”
“Oh! I would be exceedingly intrigued to see that!”
Another friendly chuckle.
“Tastes like chicken, does it?” enquired the anthropologist, with an emerging sense of suspicion.
“Oh, no,” replied the cannibal, “we call you long pig.”
“Hmm.” Racist too, mused the anthropologist, thinking to note it later for a monograph on the survival of barbarianism into this modern age of his glorious Victorian Empire.
“Oh,” he furthered, as they neared that steaming cauldron, “you haven’t, by chance, seen my compatriots anywhere, have you? I fear they got themselves lost in answering the call of nature when we made landfall, the fools.”
The cannibal chuckled once more. “Hah! I know very well where they are, my good man, and I very much fear they have beaten you to it with their exploration of our traditional artwork.”
“Oh?” The anthropologist’s eyes lifted in the manner of a proud scholar unwilling to accept another’s pre-eminence in the field. “Well, man? Do, pray, tell me where they are!”
The final chuckle, as the young men of the village began to circle, and then, “Why!” says the cannibal, gesturing to that smoking centrepiece of the settlement, “your compatriots I fear are exceeding busy with their analysis of the carvery on the inside of that pot!”
Jane tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear looking at the "dead bag," as she called it. Even though the doctors insisted her mother's death was not a result of lead exposure, Jane wasn't convinced. "All that tinsel, every year," she thought. Jane wiped away a tear, even as she smiled at the memories of the traditional "deck the halls" days from her childhood. In a single day, her mother transformed their simple ranch house into a Christmas wonderland, with a tall, heavily tinseled tree as the centerpiece. No clumps, just shimmering strands casting toxins day after day.
My mother-in-law loved Christmas, always hosting cheerfully enthusiastic joyous gatherings.
After she died, my husband wouldn't celebrate. I dutifully supported him in his grinchdom, even as it broke my heart to forgo all the beautiful traditions: No tree, no decorations, no presents, no holiday dinner, no nothing.
As the Yuletide embargo continued, I became increasingly resentful and bitter and sad with each passing year.
The traditions now live on in my heart - I've learned how to feel the joy of the season without the material trappings. We no longer celebrate Christmas - but I've learned how to celebrate life.
PROMPT: TRADITION
THE CHAIRS
There used to be eight of us, sitting around the table for Christmas dinner.
Now, there are only five.
And the house is much quieter.
Every year, though, we still leave out empty chairs, in the hope that somehow, they will be able to join us.
But the flights from Australia are so expensive, they may never make it back… ✈️😎✈️
The Christmas dinner at my fiancées parents' house was a brave way to introduce me to the family.
"You'll be fine", she said. "Dad was a bit angry that he didnt get to meet you BEFORE ... well, you know, before i said yes. He's one for tradition...but it will be fine"
It was all going well until i took my chance with her dad's last roast potato. I lunged in with a fork, speared it then gobbled it whole.
As i chewed it proudly, there was stunned silence. Horrified faces.
"What? Roastie War is not a tradition here?" I asked, desperately.
i read "presents" as "parents" and it changes the WHOLE story...
Traditions change
==========================
Each year a new tradition as they grow and change
as they move away, gain partners, lives of their own.
Trying to forget those bygone years when they were small
and life may have been more tiring but was simpler.
Just me and them in single parent heaven
making pennies last with handcrafted gifts.
Now they and their spouses desire fast deliveries and expensive commercial tatt.
Perhaps this year's tradition will be just me and the turkey
pulling crackers on our own
No gifts for anyone but loads and loads of love.
So loved that
Love the spooky Christmas vibe!
Microdosing - 100mg of a Tradition
===
There was this one word that I kept repeating in my mind, and I was supposed to write something short, engaging, comedic, tragic or scary with it.
I sat down and made the first draft. I spilled the word counts. It’s too plain.
I went on and trimmed the words. Still too plain.
I swapped the story, possibly a comedic vibe. I meant, it could be a comedic story, but I couldn’t finish the draft. The supposedly comedic plot vaporized, and nothing got transferred to the screen.
I laughed at myself.
I think I caught it, the traditional writer’s block.
😂
Oh I love this, Miguel! It felt like a really lovely, if slightly spooky, family reunion! Half spooky, and half sweet and sentimental!
The turkey was dry. The potatoes sagged softly on the table, holding no outer crunch. Again. The sprouts were flatulence bombs, waiting for the most inconvenient moment to explode.
“I do like my traditions,” said the mother as they collapsed on the sofa, paper crowns partially ripped and delicately balanced on heads. The couple rolled their eyes at each other.
In car on the way home they debated a new tradition for next year. Maybe a Chinese instead. Both knew that they would be back, though. Giving the old lady the company she desperately missed the other 364 days of the year.
Dear Santa
I was thinking about being good. I like presents, and I really want some for Christmas (I should say ‘please’ here). Nothing too much. Maybe a dry robe for cold water swimming. It’s not like I’m one of those other types, the ones who pose in them round town. Losers. I might have called them that, or worse. Is that bad? Anyway, a robe and a bottle of whisky. I know that always make me frisky and I probably shouldn’t do that stuff in public. Really, is that a deal breaker? It is? Well, humbug to you Santa.
I thought of you as I went to the post office in my dry robe to post a parcel. LOL!! Especially as there is no way I would ever go cold water swimming - or even hot water swimming :)
Haha, you’ll have to forgive my cheekiness!
Of course I forgive your cheekiness. Though I think people wondered why I was smiling all the way to the Post Office LOL!
Ah, they’re the best smiles … the ones where folk can’t guess what they’re about!
I was compelled to write a second one!
The soft Christmas lights reflected off the tinsel bringing a warm glow to the room. The carefully arranged gifts under the tree sought to tell a story of success. Each decoration in the room was placed to demonstrate an understanding of how a house should be decorated for Christmas. Everything was in order as the hostess elegantly sat on her sofa, her eggnog waiting on the Christmas coaster. A small sound from the kitchen had her picking up and delivering her hors d'oeuvres to the food laden table. Her guests were beyond fashionably late. She eyed her success with love.
Tradition
The snow was piled high around the trees.
“How are we supposed to know if it’s a good one,” asked one of the twins. I handed her a shovel which thudded to the ground.
“Mom,” she called out.
“You can’t expect her to shovel,” responded Annette.
I picked up the shovel and moved the snow quickly. Before I got half way done the verdict came down. “Not this one.” That happened fifty times.
As we reached the van with the compromise tree, a small voice piped up from the rear seat of the van. “Fake tree next year?” I nodded.
Haha. Good one! We have been getting a smaller tree every year, and my wife is thinking of getting a fake one, but I don’t one, doesn’t feel like Christmas without real tree.
Real trees are nice, but as I got older they became more of a nuisance in all the extra work: getting it, moving it, tying it, cleaning up, keeping it alive, removing it, cleaning up when removing it. I enjoyed the tradition but in the end it became too much.
The snow was piled high around the trees.
“How are we supposed to know if it’s a good one,” asked one of the twins. I handed her a shovel which thudded to the ground.
“Mom,” she called out.
“You can’t expect her to shovel,” responded Annette.
I picked up the shovel and moved the snow quickly. Before I got half way done the verdict came down. “Not this one.” That happened fifty times.
As we reached the van with the compromise tree, a small voice piped up from the rear seat.
“Fake tree next year?”
Losing the tradition seemed right.
I'm afraid I just had to cheat with this one and do a lot more than 100 words. So this one is actually 302 words. I may edit it later down to 300, but I like it as it is, and just couldn't resist.
302mg of a Tradition
“Oh I agree wholeheartedly!” Remarked the cannibal to the explorer, continuing their tour of the village, “Tradition is a very fine thing indeed! And you are fortunate to find us on a feast day!”
“Ah,” said the explorer, who was also, it must be noted, an anthropologist, “that explains those wafting culinary savours assaulting my nostrils, eh!”
“Indeed,” chuckled the cannibal, “Indeed, Sir!”
They rounded a corner, into the central square where a colossal cauldron did smoke.
“…sweetbreads, liver and kidney pot pie, rump casserole… We have a recipe book, you know?”
“Oh! I would be exceedingly intrigued to see that!”
Another friendly chuckle.
“Tastes like chicken, does it?” enquired the anthropologist, with an emerging sense of suspicion.
“Oh, no,” replied the cannibal, “we call you long pig.”
“Hmm.” Racist too, mused the anthropologist, thinking to note it later for a monograph on the survival of barbarianism into this modern age of his glorious Victorian Empire.
“Oh,” he furthered, as they neared that steaming cauldron, “you haven’t, by chance, seen my compatriots anywhere, have you? I fear they got themselves lost in answering the call of nature when we made landfall, the fools.”
The cannibal chuckled once more. “Hah! I know very well where they are, my good man, and I very much fear they have beaten you to it with their exploration of our traditional artwork.”
“Oh?” The anthropologist’s eyes lifted in the manner of a proud scholar unwilling to accept another’s pre-eminence in the field. “Well, man? Do, pray, tell me where they are!”
The final chuckle, as the young men of the village began to circle, and then, “Why!” says the cannibal, gesturing to that smoking centrepiece of the settlement, “your compatriots I fear are exceeding busy with their analysis of the carvery on the inside of that pot!”
This is well worth the 300 words haha.
Haha! It was worth 302 words. 😂
12/14/24 100 mg of Tradition
Jane tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear looking at the "dead bag," as she called it. Even though the doctors insisted her mother's death was not a result of lead exposure, Jane wasn't convinced. "All that tinsel, every year," she thought. Jane wiped away a tear, even as she smiled at the memories of the traditional "deck the halls" days from her childhood. In a single day, her mother transformed their simple ranch house into a Christmas wonderland, with a tall, heavily tinseled tree as the centerpiece. No clumps, just shimmering strands casting toxins day after day.
My mother-in-law loved Christmas, always hosting cheerfully enthusiastic joyous gatherings.
After she died, my husband wouldn't celebrate. I dutifully supported him in his grinchdom, even as it broke my heart to forgo all the beautiful traditions: No tree, no decorations, no presents, no holiday dinner, no nothing.
As the Yuletide embargo continued, I became increasingly resentful and bitter and sad with each passing year.
The traditions now live on in my heart - I've learned how to feel the joy of the season without the material trappings. We no longer celebrate Christmas - but I've learned how to celebrate life.