Category Archives: holiday writing

CONTEST WINNER: The Stranger’s Gift

by
Janet Smart

A stranger pushes open the door of the soup kitchen. A harsh wind rushes in. A few flakes of snow rest upon his white hair; he brushes them off with his gloved hands, frowns, and sniffs the air filled with the aroma of fresh baked cornbread.

The homeless whisper among themselves and wonder who this stranger is that has come upon bad luck this Christmas season. He gets his food and sits by himself near the fireplace in the corner of the room.

The regulars know everyone who visits the kitchen each day. There is Larry—tall and thin, who has been out of work for a year and does odd jobs—George, a Vietnam vet down on his luck, and a gray haired man who doesn’t have any family left. The volunteers in the soup kitchen are his family now. 

The next day the old man pushes open the door again, stomps the glistening snow from his black galoshes, and shuffles inside.  

“He’s back,” the regulars whisper between sips of coffee.

He obtains his bowl of hot soup and a buttered square of cornbread. He gazes around the room searching for an empty seat. Flecks of icy snow fall from his bushy eyebrows.

Each day the scene repeats itself. But, one day, one of the regulars sits by him and passes the time. The old man leaves the soup kitchen with more than a full stomach and a warmer body. He doesn’t smile, but he leaves with a small flicker of hope in his weary eyes. 

The stranger continues to come in out of the cold every day at suppertime. A different person sits by him each time. 

The patrons give to the old man. The homeless don’t have much, but each one wants to give him some of what little they have. They share a tattered scarf to put around his neck, one of their extra napkins to wipe the soup from his moustache, or information about the best places on the street to sleep. They give to him, expecting nothing in return.

Every day, when they see him enter, they strain their necks and watch as he brushes the flakes from his white hair and stomps snow from his black galoshes. Someone always sits with him and shares small talk and stories. They yearn to put a smile on his face.

“What should we say to him?” they ask among themselves.

 “How can we make him smile?” asks Larry.

 “Should we tell him jokes and riddles?” asks the gray haired man without a family. “Where is he from? I’ve never seen him on the streets before.”

“I don’t know,” each one answers. “He never speaks of himself. I only know, even though he is sad, he makes me feel better. His spirit slips into me, and I can’t help but smile.”

“I want him to smile, too,” says George.
Each day they look towards the door to observe the old man as he enters. Again one of them chooses to sit beside him, hoping to make him feel at home and bring a sparkle to his eyes.
Christmas Eve arrives and the old man comes again. This time a group of people sit with him. They give small tokens of friendship to him—a portion of their cornbread, a piece of a paper bag to line his shirt to help keep out the cold wind, and a needle and thread to sew up the hole in his red coat.

The old man eats, waves goodbye, and then hurries away. He leaves with a small twinkle in his eyes and a big smile on his face.

The next day the regulars come in for their special meal of turkey, dressing, mashed potatoes, rolls, and pumpkin pie. A real treat compared to soup and cornbread.

They watch for the old man, but he does not come. On the tables, packages wrapped in gold foil and red ribbons glisten beneath the flickering fluorescent lights.

“What are these?” they ask the volunteers.

“We don’t know. They were there when we arrived this morning.”

They sit at the tables with their tray of holiday food. Lighted candles spread the scent of cinnamon throughout the room. They touch the packages with their cold hands and glide their fingers over the slick foil.

 “I wish the old man was here,” the vet says. “We could share the gifts with him.”

A note engraved on gold paper on top of each box reads, I wondered if there was any good left in this world, until I met all of you. You gave me friendship and gifts when you had little to give. When I was down, you gave the Christmas spirit back to me and brought back my smile. Now I give back to you. You were my first stop on my trip around the world last night. Merry Christmas to all!

With shaky hands, they open the boxes. A feeling of happiness comes out and envelops their bodies. Like children on Christmas day, they exclaim, “Santa?”

Write Every Day–Are You Kidding Me?

by
Rhonda Browning White

We’re now fully immersed in the hectic, er, joyous and peaceful, holiday season: Hanukkah, Winter Solstice, Yule, Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, Kwanzaa, Watch Night, New Year’s Eve, New Year’s Day . . . and the list goes on. We have shopping to complete, presents to wrap, trees to decorate, cookies to bake, parties to attend, dinners to host, football games to watch, and stories to write. What! Do you mean we’re supposed to find time to write over the holidays? Have you lost your mind?

That’s what I think each time I see a Facebook post, a blog entry, or a web article admonishing me to “Write Every Day!” Perhaps these reminders are popping up with increasing frequency in advance of the New Year’s Resolution craze. Or perhaps they’re showing up more often to drive me insane. Either way, I’m not falling for it. 

You see, over my twelve-year career as a ghostwriter, professional editor, and author, I’ve kept a giant secret, but I’m now going to share it with you: I don’t write every day. Sometimes I go two or three days without writing. Sometimes I go a full week without penning more than a simple grocery list (which I usually leave at home, only to discover it’s missing when I reach the dairy aisle—is it heavy cream or half-and-half I need for that recipe?), and, believe it or not, my writing never suffers from the break.

In fact, it often improves. 

How is this possible? For starters, you should know that I don’t believe in writer’s block. (I call it “writer’s laziness.”) Writing is a form of mental exercise, and, just like physical exercise, overdoing it can cause problems. The mind, like the body, needs time to rest and recharge. The best ways to recharge the writer’s brain are to read or to do something creative other than writing. Reading a great story—you can squeeze in a short story before bedtime, while sitting in the doc’s office, or waiting at the airport even on the most hectic days—or a writing craft book never fails to refill my writer’s well of ideas. Another prolific author shared with me that baking helps her put together scenes or chapters she’s struggling to work out in her mind. A poet friend paints gorgeous artwork between writing poems. Yet another author—a bestselling, award-winning author—told me he does some of his best writing while staring out the window or sitting on his porch for hours at a time, without touching a writing implement for days. 

Downtime is necessary for some writers to regenerate the creative part of the mind, and never is downtime more necessary for me than during the holidays. I’ll admit to you, though, that when I’m not in front of my keyboard or notepad, I’m often still writing. The idea for this blog entry came to me today when rushing through the grocery store. And while watching a little girl in red tights, a green sweatshirt and a motorcycle helmet stand with her hands on her hips while her father pushed a stalled Harley through a store parking lot, I came up with a great idea for a story scene. Were my hands on the keyboard? Nope. Did I have a pen in hand? Nada. Was I writing? Yes, I was. 

Tonight, when the house is quiet and the Christmas tree’s winking lights are reflecting on the wall outside my bedroom door, I’ll pick up the fabulous book of short stories I’m reading this week, and I’ll refill the writer’s well within my mind with strings of words that sparkle brighter than any light on my tree. And when the holidays are over, and my world has reached some measure of calm, I’ll again sit at my desk, and I’ll write.