A new start…to whet your whistles…not sure where this one is going yet…

The winter twilight had painted the snowy hills a murky mauve. The wind rustled through the branches of the pines. Across the highway, a lone Christmas tree gleamed, the only colour left in the darkening world.

Grace stood panting at the top of the hill, sled in hand. Her brother and sister had abandoned her out here in the cold and had gone back inside, lured by the smell of the turkey dinner. Her mother had not yet come out to collect her. She probably hasn’t even noticed, she thought. I’m always the last one she thinks of.

Tired, she flopped to her knees in the snow and absently sucked on the little snowballs stuck to her mittens. She’d wanted her siblings to help her build a ramp for the sled. It was perfect packing snow and she was sure that with the right momentum and angle of approach they could get some serious air. I wonder, she thought, what would happen if I never went back inside? I wouldn’t get to open my gifts…but then, they’re probably all socks anyway. She doubted her parents were going to give her the chemistry set she’d asked for. Little girls aren’t supposed to play with acid, her father kept telling her. Sheesh. How was she supposed to prove her theories without the right equipment?

Continue reading “A new start…to whet your whistles…not sure where this one is going yet…”

The Red Mitten

The red mitten was a beacon; I couldn’t have ignored it.  Its crimson softness called out to my peripheral vision like a siren song, a ruby gleaming in the grey November surroundings.  It was a solitary, ordinary mitten.  Why I was drawn so magnetically to it remains a mystery.

The day was grey and misty and the mitten was spotted by man and dog almost simultaneously.  Charlie strained forward on his leash in anticipation of a new found chew toy.  I reined him back in, my sixth sense tingling.  We were a few miles from the last rest point on the trail – a long walk for the small owner of the mitten. Continue reading “The Red Mitten”

Red Plastic Skis of Doom

The yard stretched out before me, a barren wasteland of snow and ice. Shadows were gathering in the late afternoon gloaming beneath low grey clouds laden with snow. Tears freezing on my cheeks, I let out another wail.

“Mummy!”

No good. I could see the flickering of the TV in the living room and knew that Daddy was watching Buck Rogers from his yellow recliner. I couldn’t see her, but figured that Mummy must be upstairs with the baby. They were all warm and dry inside and couldn’t hear me. Continue reading “Red Plastic Skis of Doom”