The Extra Cup

 

 Sometimes the smallest rituals are how we learn to live with what’s missing.

 She insisted on real cups and saucers for all of her guests. Each of her guests had a place: the teddy bear with a missing eye sat next to Mr. Giraffe, and Mrs. Penguin beside her new favorite doll, who didn’t have a name yet. Mr. Rabbit, whose ear she had tried to repair with tape, had a special place next to Lion; they were friends. One chair, though, was set a little apart, its cup carefully set expectantly, and next to her own place at the small table.

When asked about it, she only said, very matter-of-factly, “It's for the one who is sometimes late,” as if this were the most obvious thing in the world.

The rest of her guests had arrived in the same wagon; she had only a hallway and three rooms to wheel through, stopping often to break up fights and resettle them. Mr. Giraffe couldn’t abide Mrs. Penguin for reasons unclear. Mr. Rabbit said it was Lion who had nearly ripped off his ear, but they were friends at least every other day.

Today was friend day.

Her tea party always happened in the side room with the big bay window seat. Its bright, soft yellow walls and hardwood floors had what she considered a special touch. She wanted her tea parties to mimic a coffee/tea shop as closely as possible, like the one her mother used to take her to.

“Order for Mrs. Penguin,” she called out. On a side table, all the makings were there, some clear to see and some a bit invisible. One “tea latte.” She added professionally.

Now that she was six, her Nana allowed “real” warm water and cream packets, sugar cubes, and several flavors of tea. No more loose sugar because her renegade kangaroo had tried to keep all of it in her pouch. An idea that had created a terrible mess when she tried to dole it out into cups, not to mention the ants that had arrived later. That wasn’t her best tea party, she admitted.

Nana entered the room with a tray of cookies, smelling of warm sugar and cinnamon. “Looks like a proper full party today, Olivia,” she observed. “I thought you might want these for your guests.”

Olivia had clasped her hands together, hopping up and down a bit, her curls bouncing like tiny black springs around her head, bow lips pursed into a mock stern look.

“Nana! My name is Barista today, just like at Starbucks, remember?”

“Oh my, why can’t I remember that? I’ll never know.”  She laid the cookies on the side table, “Snicker doodles.” She announced with a smile. “You could be Olivia, the barista. It’s a real job, you know.”

But Olivia was already carefully delivering a cup of tea to Mrs. Penguin, returning for a cookie, and placing it on a small napkin, deeply involved in conversation with her guests.

Nana left the room, standing just out of sight, watching her granddaughter. She had sewn a small apron for the girl that resembled the coffee shop ones, even embroidered the name on it. Not sure if she should encourage this obsession, but it seemed harmless enough.

These “parties” happened at least once every week, more if something seemed to upset Olivia, and God knows it didn’t take much.  

She looked up at the sudden commotion in the room, stopping herself from entering.

Olivia was wiping up a spill in front of Lion and scolding his impropriety with a practiced adult voice that made the older woman put a hand to her heart. She had heard those words before.

The harsh scolding of a frayed single mother, trying to raise a child on her own. Her other hand drifted to her mouth, covering it, as she listened to the eerie words Olivia spoke.

“If you can’t try harder, I won’t bring you here anymore, I swear you just spill on purpose!”

The girl stood stiff before Lion, wagging a finger, “Now clean up this mess.”

Nana started, intending to scold her granddaughter for swearing, but placed her hand on the wall to steady herself instead.

The scent of cookies, cinnamon, and Earl Grey tea wafted from the small room. She saw the girl fill the teacup for the empty seat, carefully counting two sugar cubes, a cream packet, and a splash of the special lavender vanilla syrup that they had created together.

It was a London Fog, Olivia's mother's favorite drink. Suddenly, she understood.

It wasn’t just “play” she was watching, but a memory being carefully kept alive.

“You know who this is for,” she said to Mr. Rabbit, “She is a bit late as usual, but it will be properly cooled when she gets here.” All her prior anger evaporated as it often did.

Olivia took tiny bites from her cookie, teaching manners to her guest with alacrity and a generous smile. “There are lots of rules to good tea,” she told them.

Nana only half listened, her own grief pooling in her chest.

“What, what did you say?” Olivia hissed, her voice suddenly changing again, her powerful glare turned on Mr. Giraffe. “She will come back, you’ll see! We are going to name her,” she pointed to the doll, sitting next to Mrs. Penguin. Her tiny face darkened, her breath now short pants, her eyes darting around the room. “You’ll see,” she said, her voice filling with defeat rather than defiance, shoulders drooping. “She said we would pick a name together when she comes back.”

Before Nana could move, Olivia had taken the giraffe from its seat and flung it across the room. Her tiny mouth turned down, arms hanging limply at her sides.

She took off her apron and dropped it, then wandered to the window seat, noticing rain starting to fall outside. She scooped up the doll and climbed up, hugging it to herself as she gazed out the window, her guests ignored.

Nana, unable to restrain herself any longer, wandered over to sit near, but not too close, she knew her granddaughter's mercurial temper in these moments.

Instead, she picked up a small pillow, hugging it to herself, catching Olivia’s look of permission.

She said nothing as both of them watched the raindrops slide down the window, breathing in the sweet scent of London Fog tea and cooling cookies.

For now, that was enough.

 

 A thank you to Reedsy's writing prompts for the inspiration for this story 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Among Ordinary Spines

 

         

  Some books aren’t cataloged because they aren’t meant to be found — until they are.

 

She found the book while doing something ordinary and routine during her library shift. A Friday afternoon, a return cart now half-full, the library quiet enough to hear the building breathe. The book was thin, cloth-bound, the color of old slate, and when she turned it over, eyes sliding to where its barcode should be, there was none.

No stamp.

No penciled initials of ownership.

It sat there among its neighboring books as if it belonged, which somehow made it worse. She knew that sometimes people accidentally left their own books at the library, in which case this one would go to lost and found, and that would be that. But this book was already weighing more in her hands than she cared for. When she opened the cover, expecting nothing more than a title page, she met a sentence that knew her name, not the name on her library badge, but the one she had in her own head.

It not only knew her true name, but also something she had done just last month. Nothing could print all of that in such a short amount of time!

She flipped the book closed at once, the soft thud too loud in the stillness, and that’s when she heard the whispering, not close enough to make out words but purposeful, like a note passing from hand to hand. The voices seemed to emanate from the book, weaving between the stacks, dipping and rising, stopping abruptly, and resuming farther away. It was as if she had released them from their cloth binding. She told herself it was nothing, perhaps librarians conferring in careful tones somewhere nearby, but fear had skittered along her skin like spiders. In all that whispering, she thought she heard familiar words.

She carefully set the book back on the cart, but her hands had their own idea and picked the book up, slipping it into a sweater pocket. No one should read this book, she realized.

Thank goodness the library nearly emptied out of patrons, and would be closing soon. Her mind was in a panic spiral over the words she had read in the book. She felt no remorse about pocketing the book and planning to leave the library with it. It would need to be destroyed.

It seemed the book grew even heavier in her pocket, lightly banging against her thigh as she pushed the cart slowly through the aisle.

How could it exist, who could have written it, and when, and then why was all she could think. And then, with more horror, what if someone else had been working the carts that day? What if they had found the book and read about her choices?

At the end of the aisle, she looked for anyone who might have noticed her, but the section was empty. She usually took a long time to leave work, stopping to chat with anyone or to do last-minute things. There was not much at home to pull her there, and ending her job at the library always left her feeling empty. But today, she left so quickly, tossing her volunteer badge on the desk, grabbing her purse from under the counter, and barely managing a goodbye to the staff still closing up, leaving dust motes spinning in her wake.

There was no way on “God’s green earth,” she muttered as her shoes slapped along on the sidewalk. It was one block to the bus stop, and she could feel the book nestled in the deep pocket, tapping against her. No one had seen her do what the book had described; she was sure of that. It had been an impossible choice to begin with, but she had made a decision, and that was that. Life happens that way sometimes.

She needed to look at it again, but steeled herself against doing that here on the street. There would be time enough for that, at home. The inked words describing her moment of “impossible choice” were scrolling in her mind, like ticker tape. Her hand slipped down into the pocket to feel the book.  Beads of sweat broke out on her forehead. Her breath was short with fear.

On the bus, she chose a seat near the middle, tugged the sweater pocket onto her lap, and rested her hand over the book as if to steady it. She glanced around to see if anyone was watching, but the other passengers were absorbed in their phones or the blur of the passing street. Slowly, against her better judgment, she eased the book out again.

It felt cold in her hands, the cloth cover frayed, its corners softened by age. She opened it to the first page and read. There it was, not her whole day, not her whole life, but the moment itself, set down with unsettling precision. The impossible choice. The breath she had held. The reasons she had told herself afterward. Nothing more. Nothing less.

The bus lurched to a sudden stop. The book slipped from her fingers, struck the floor, and slid under the seats towards the front of the bus.

“My book!” she cried, startled, embarrassed. “I lost my book!”

Someone near the front picked it up and passed it back over the seats. She took it quickly, murmuring thanks, and in her haste, the cover fell open again. For a brief instant, the words were no longer hers. Just a flash, a single scene, stark and intimate, before the page rearranged itself, the ink settling back into the moment that belonged to her.

She looked up at the man who had handed it to her. He met her eyes only briefly, then looked away.  She slipped the book back into her pocket and turned towards the window, heart pounding. It had not been her life on the pages of the book; it spoke of a moment in his. Possibly his moment, when he thought no one had been looking. Maybe another impossible decision that had to be made. He had done what he could.

She felt a dawning understanding.

Once home, she carefully opened to the first page again and read what had caused her so much fear. Yes, there she was on the pages making the impossible choice, and that was bad enough. What preceded seemed worse. It now spoke of the hours that pressed her toward the choice. No one could have known all of this, all her inner thoughts.

She had moved halfway across the country. Changed her name. Let nothingness swallow her, just to keep going. In the end, none of it had helped. Not churches that judged, friends who melted away, not even nightly wine had eased the pain.

This book, though, held in her hand, spread relief and so much understanding in those pages. It was as if her pain in that moment had dissolved, as if a friend had told her story with compassion, not judgment.

She swayed a bit, then had a seat on the kitchen chair with the book in her lap.

               She thought about how the writing had changed before her eyes, from the man who had returned the book, she understood an implication. The book seemed to bear witness briefly and precisely to each person's life that held it. And then, she hoped, it would let those memories go. Maybe it was like the old Etch A Sketch toys she had as a child. You’d make a drawing and then shake it, and the drawing would disappear, clearing the screen so you could make another. Was this an Angel’s lost novella, or someone’s idea of a practical joke? Neither seemed possible.

The book had quietly rearranged her world until nothing fit the way it used to. She knew the world around her looked the same, and as if to verify her thought, she looked around her small, cramped apartment. But now life didn’t feel the same, or have the same meaning.

Clearly, the book did not belong to her. For a second, she had thought to destroy it, looking toward where she kept her matches. An instant later, she realized it might be indestructible; it was magical in some way. She couldn’t have that act recorded in its pages. She picked up the book once more. And there, on its pages, was her hand hovering near the matches, the pause before she reached for them. She immediately dropped it to the table, stood, and backed away. Surely just having it in her possession was some kind of cosmic crime.

Knowing that it witnesses her life, anyone’s life seemed supernatural, maybe spiritual, but she never gave much thought to those ideas and was at a loss. More than that, this book showed her that her choices did matter, that her life mattered in a far greater sense than she had ever known. The book was so foreign, so otherworldly, she had no words for it.

She left it on the kitchen table while she washed her hands, while she stood at the window and watched the lights go out one by one across the street. In all her time at the library, hundreds of books had passed through her hands, so much knowledge and wonder had lain in their pages, waiting to be discovered. Never had one come through like this.  When she passed the table, she rested her palm lightly on the cover, as if confirming it was still real. She thought clearly about returning it to the library, slowly turning the pages with one hand, and saw that the story had already begun to move in that direction.

She slept deeply and peacefully all night for the first time in days.

The next morning, she returned to the library early. There were special hours on Saturday, and she had the floor to herself for a bit. The building was quiet in the way only libraries are before opening, books patiently waiting on their shelves, each spine declaring its knowledge, each hopeful to be chosen. She walked quietly past the return cart, past lost and found, past the newly installed readers' nook, and stopped in a narrow aisle she hadn’t spent much time in.

The book came easily from her pocket. She held it for an instant, feeling its weight, just one last peek, she thought. Voices drifted through the room, weaving their way to her, whispers indistinct and ethereal.  Before she could read, they disappeared into the book with a vibration she felt, causing her to close it abruptly.

She turned and slid the book into the space between two ordinary spines and stepped back. There was no sign, no marker, nothing to draw the eye. The book did not belong to the careless or even the curious, she thought; it belonged to those standing in difficult choices, needing witness and hope. Better yet, the book might find them, as it had her. As she turned away, she felt lighter, full of wonder, not absolved, not forgiven, but steadied. She was not entirely alone. What she had done still mattered.

What she would do next mattered too.

To know that her life still had meaning was enough.

As she stepped through the aisle, her eyes found a gold-gilded spine with no name or catalog number, near the shelf end. With the tiniest tick of a smile, she reached out her hand, hesitated briefly, then pulled it from the stacks.

Almost Is Never Enough

She slid down the inside of the front door until the floor met her, heart racing, the air crisp with salt and damp wood. Her hands were empty, limp in her lap. She stayed there, counting her breaths while the house settled around her, the quiet tick of the clock on the wall, the wind outside worrying the eaves. When the sound of her own racing blood in her ears calmed, she could hear the distant slap of water that never fully went away.

Inside was still. Inside was safe.

When the shaking eased, she stood and checked the door locks, touched the sliding chain for reassurance, and turned the locks again. And for good measure, snicked the door hook down that she had inexpertly installed herself. Then she pulled a nearby chair under the doorknob, knowing this wasn’t necessary, but did it every time.

She crossed to the narrow window, pulling the thick curtain aside, and saw the mailbox way across the road. It leaned where it always did, the rusted flag half raised, sending a mixed message. She knew from past experience that it couldn’t stand straight up and wouldn’t go down all the way. It was surrounded by at least a foot of water, which rose and fell with the tide. Water that used to never be this close. Her lips pinched, she reflexively swallowed the inner shame of loss and failure. There could have been something in there, something important that could change everything.

The water rose higher at night, littering their yard with clots of debris that lay scattered about like the aftermath of war. Over time, the storms had gotten worse, shaking the house with screaming winds that left behind the scent of rot and salt. She could not trust the water, though; it followed its own rules.

There had been other houses, once seen in the distance if she squinted hard, not anymore. Her yard was sprinkled with some of their remains. A seaweed-covered scramble of once treasured items mocking her, daring her. She beat that dare once. Slipping, sliding, running ten yards out to rescue what she thought was a cat, but was a soggy teddy bear. It was her prize now. Her constant companion, despite the winds' howl for it.

On the sofa, knees pulled up to her chest, the bear sitting near, she allowed a sniffle.

Earlier, she had believed it was possible today. Today, the wind was silent, and the water receded. She had opened the door warm from the morning sun, the smell of spoiling seaweed sharp, and stood on the threshold longer than she meant to. It was better to be moving.

The water lapped out beyond the fallen yard fence, close enough that its slaps felt loud and jeering. She took one step down, then another, watching only the ground directly in front of her. The world sprang to life all around her, too much sky, too much sun, movements of grasses and distant waves making her dizzy, and she tilted a bit, clutching her scarf and coats. She always put on several layers, considering them her shield against too much of everything.

Her mind had traced the path she needed to take, reach the first sandy patch near the fallen fence, just get there first. Not the road, not even the mailbox yet, just one step at a time. But she felt herself tip as her frozen legs had stopped moving. She was falling, falling, mouth open in a silent scream. She tried to breathe, tried to let it find release from her chest, but it remained caught. The world started to turn gray, dimming.

It had been a deafening blur from there, but she remembered crawling up onto the porch, actually crawling into the house like a child. She had used the door jamb to help her stand as she slammed the door and tried to engage the locks, her hands trembling violently. Then she had fallen to the floor again, shaken and ashamed.

Much later, she lay down on the sofa, where she had been sleeping, too afraid to use the bedroom and leave the house unattended. She lay quiet in her defeat, staring up at the sagging ceiling. It was only when she lay unmoving that the mailbox came back to her as it used to be.

How long had it been since she used to run and skip to the box, delighted to pull out whatever was inside, smiling back as her mother waited at the door? It was like a mystery box of joy, sometimes filled with papers, and sometimes with boxes stamped with curved arrows, each containing surprises or necessities. Those boxes had mostly quit coming when the subscriptions stopped being paid. Sometime after, her mother had never returned home. There had been food, sometimes soaps, toothpaste, and then razors, which she never used. Every now and then, there had been letters, those she saved, she tried to read the slanting, hooked script over and over, most words impossible to decipher.

The hope that something, anything, would be in there called to her constantly.

In the dark of night, she lay wide awake, listening to the water, and realized it sounded the same as it always had. The house hadn’t fallen down; the walls hadn’t given way. Even the wind moaned as if it was lost too. And nothing, not one thing, had followed her inside to change her world. Her body slowly relaxed. Her thoughts did not. They moved through her mind like tiny tornadoes, tearing at words, lifting memories she didn’t want, leaving the same questions behind.

She remembered her mother scolding her. “Almost is never enough,” she would say. “You have to do it.” It applied to everything—homework, chores, all of it. She knew she should try again. She would try again.

By morning, light came in pale and thin, making the water outside look gentle.

Almost.

Already her body suspected what she wanted to do. It started to tighten before she reached the door, reminding her of yesterday and how quickly the world could grow too large. She stood there anyway, hand on the knob, listening. Her fingers moved to undo the locks. The house creaked gently, her own breath calm and steady. She turned to the teddy bear on the sofa and spoke, her voice cracking with disuse,

“I’ll be back in just a minute, okay?” Without waiting for an answer, she stepped out onto the porch.

Everything still looked the same outside. Far ahead, the mailbox still leaned on the other side of the road, but there was no water at its feet. Oh, she could see the waves out there reaching towards her and sliding back, but she stood up straighter, moving her feet carefully down the path, stepping around debris. She counted her steps, one, two, three, four, to quiet the fears that waited.

When her feet finally crunched on the sandy road, startling her, she almost stumbled and fell onto the mailbox with relief. Her fingers reached out, touching its cool, wet metal, feeling it give and sway beneath her. She glanced quickly around in disbelief that she had actually made it. She saw her house in the distance, the front door open, waiting. Overhead, a gull cried. She watched it dip out towards the ocean.

She did not open the mailbox right away. Being there was enough, enough to know the distance could be crossed, and she curved her lips into a small smile. “Almost is never enough,” she whispered, naming the rule she had once lived by, her fingers moving to pull the latch.

 

A thank you to Reedsy writing prompts for this story's inspiration 

No Return Address

 

A quiet psychological story about an elderly woman, an unwanted letter, and how fear can take over a life without ever raising its voice.

 

The letter had been in her box for two days. The mailbox had tilted dangerously under the burden of an enormous jasmine vine, and time had left it to suffer rust. She had seen the envelope lying in there, trying to look unassuming. It had been there again yesterday.

Still.

Quiet.

Waiting.

She cussed colorfully for an old lady, a lot like a sailor, her late husband had once said. When you want the goddamn postal thieves to steal mail, they are nowhere to be found. She left it one more day, hopeful.

A knock on her door pulled her off the sofa. Slippers, shuffling slowly, she braced on the door frame, pulling the heavy door open only as far as the chain allowed. A fresh-faced mailman handed the day's mail to her through the door slit, “Hey, Mrs. Cooper, I thought you might want this mail. You okay?”

“Yes, if it's any of your business,” she muttered, “You always go around personally handing people their mail?”

“Only the ones I care about,” he offered, saluting her as he turned to leave.

“Take this one back,” she hastily called out to him.

“No can do,” he eyed her raised brow, and added, “No return address.”

She eyed the letter spitefully, recognizing with certainty now the rolling script she had seen once long ago. The envelope was old, tattered, and worn-looking, like it had a hell of a time reaching her mailbox. For a moment, she wavered, then tossed it into the desk trash can, as if that alone might stop her life from changing.

“Why can’t an old lady just be left in peace?” she ranted, to no one, aiming a kick at the trash can. She felt faint for a moment, and her heart stuttered until she breathed again.

A week went by. Then another.

She had not emptied the trash, but stared at it from the sofa. It had made her miss parts of her favorite shows, until she couldn’t follow them, so she had moved the trash can a bit farther out of sight. Somewhat mollified that the letter was still in there, unable to magic itself free. But she hadn’t slept well. In her dreams, the letter was everywhere, on the mantel, on the bathroom sink, the kitchen counter by the coffee pot, and worse, on the empty pillow beside her. Almost every night, she got up, put on her robe and slippers, and peeked into the trash to see if it was really still there.

It was.

When she had to leave the house, which was rare, the first thing she did when she came in was check the trash.

It was still there.

It became almost impossible to get anything done. She’d make breakfast, clean up the counters, and then find excuses to pass by the trash can all day. Sometimes she went into the other room, picked up something random, and passed by the can. Pursing her lips, she’d glance away, letting it know she wasn’t interested.

Even on occasion, she added a piece of discarded junk mail on top of it with satisfaction.

She had even turned down bingo night.

She skipped her hair appointment, her usual grocery store run, and even her friend's retirement party.

Her friends called. “She was fine. She was too busy. Possibly sick. Too tired.” She stopped picking up.

Finally, she moved the can back to its previous spot in clear view of the sofa and left the TV off.

The old clock ticked, the refrigerator hummed, and the house creaked.

The letter sat in the can.

Her hair by this time had exploded into a profusion of tangled gray curls. She couldn’t concentrate on makeup or wardrobe selection, so the robe and slippers were what she wore every day.

Her daily crossword puzzle went by the wayside every time she tried to write in the answer she was spelling—l-e-t-t-e-r—no matter what the question.

There were some things she had to do, like pay bills, to keep the electricity on, cook something, so she didn’t starve, but the whole time she kept glancing at the can going by and checking to see if the letter was still there.

She had a quarter and decided to flip it heads or tails. Heads, she’d open the letter. She tossed the quarter. Of course, she thought, it came up Heads. She threw the quarter in the can beside the letter.

Finally, there was nothing in the house she wanted to eat. Her prescriptions had been filled days ago; if she didn’t pick them up, the pharmacy threatened to re-shelf them. She had stayed in her robe for so long that real clothes felt alien.

There was no fixing her hair, so she stuffed most of the rat-nest curls under a beanie hat.

And then she paced.

Every time she got to the door, she backtracked to the trash can, her heart beating faster, sweat beading on her upper lip, and she felt faint at the thought of leaving it.

It was ridiculous. She knew it.

Her mind had been worn out from the scenarios, playing on an endless loop.  She had woken many nights feeling herself slitting the envelope open with her fingers, pulling the letter out in her dreams. Or seeing herself put it in the freezer, as if that could undo the damage. Or into the trunk of the car, out of reach, but no, that was too far away. Maybe she could bury it in the backyard. Burn it even— on the stove top.

In the end, it stayed in the trash can, as she hurried out the door on her errand. She didn’t look back at the house, knowing better than to test herself. Some things only had power if you gave them your attention, and she had almost drowned under the letter's spell.

Twenty minutes later, her scheduled housekeeper came and did the usual chores, leaving the house sparkling.

When Mrs. Cooper returned, the house carried the scent of lemon cleaner. The counters gleamed. The floors had been vacuumed.

She stood very still in the doorway, clutching the grocery bag to her chest, keys dangling from her fingers. The refrigerator kicked on, humming in the quiet.

She released a long breath, eyes sliding to the empty trash can. A sense of loss and disorientation—then relief—in her exhale.

 

Acknowledgment to Reedsy.com for providing the prompt:

“https://reedsy.com/creative-writing-prompts/author/boni-woodland/”

 contest #335, which inspired the story.

 https://blog.reedsy.com/creative-writing-prompts/

 

 

The Yellow Number 2

              An ordinary pencil, a weary writer, and a bit of unexpected enchantment collided one winter night. 

As if things couldn’t get any worse, some friends from work had sent more presents home with me. The unwritten rule was to return the favor, right? Great… Now I have to go out and find presents for them. Go out in the snow, fight the crowds, and oh god, the parking!  And then there were those people with their perpetually happy faces frozen into smiles that must have hurt by the end of the day, and all those dang “Merry Christmas, Merry Christmases they sling around! And don’t even get me started on the store music, how many times do we have to hear Jingle Bells!

Take this gift, for instance. I just opened the box, and it's a pencil— can you believe it? Somebody sent me a pencil. It’s not even a fancy one where you click and a lead comes out. It’s just a yellow number 2 pencil with a regular eraser and a pointed end. I guess they thought that because I’m trying to be a writer, it wouldn’t hurt to have another pencil.

I tossed it on the desk, feeling just a bit guilty. I did feel grateful. Mostly. But my gratitude was stretched thin, like the tinsel on my plastic tree. It’s just one more thing.

Where was my holiday spirit? It had fizzled out like the Christmas lights when I plugged them in.

I picked the pencil up again to read the lettering on the side: "Enchanted Writes." I laughed. I could use a bit of enchantment. I needed a fairy tale; I needed a good fairy tale story before Friday.

I set the pencil down a bit more gently and checked for a card. A sticker on the box side said: “For your Holiday Spirit. S.N.”

I snorted, trying to imagine which friend thought this was a good idea. Did I even know a S.N?

I did a quick tally of my bank balance. It was already suffering. Christmas had a way of making me feel inadequate.

I grabbed my wallet and keys, flipped off the lights, and thought of all the other pressing Christmas chores to do as I left the apartment.

Meanwhile, in the dark, the yellow pencil rolled quickly across the desk, banged into a stack of books, and flipped onto its pointed end. Its red eraser split into a wide grin as it point-hopped to a large, open notebook and began writing on the blank page in large, looping script.

             Alone in the dark, it wrote:

Once upon a time, there was a peculiar forest that everyone knew could not be entered. Hordes of ticks lingered at its edges, ready to greet unsuspecting hikers. Poison oak could present itself suddenly everywhere, even out of season.

The scratching sound the pencil made swallowed the apartment's silence, and would have raised hairs on the back of anyone's neck, had they been there.

Much later…

Three flights of stairs, arms full of bags, my last bit of patience evaporated just as I came home, flipped on the lights, and dumped the purchases on the drooping sofa. My eyes flicked to the unopened wine. If I started with that, I’d never get a story written— the deadline already a weight on my chest.

The writing desk was my pride and joy. Yes, it was a put-together IKEA piece, but it held the heart of my life. All the things that made my writing hand tingle and twitch, ready to write, sat there—my favorite stack of writing-help books, my piles of papers, and the oversized metal snail paperweight. My eyes traveled over it, pulling a grin to my face, which froze when my eyes snagged on my once pristine writing journal next to it. I had left it open to crisp, empty white pages, waiting for my words. But someone had got there first! Thick spidery words filled the first page and the next, and the next! Quickly, I began to read; it was a story I had in my mind, but had never written.

How in the world? How could this happen? Was I losing my mind? I felt instant fear, then switched to indignation. How dare someone write this without my permission!  I called out, “Who did this?” instantly feeling foolish.

The pencil box on the desk rattled. I’m sure my eyes widened as I stared at it. It continued to rattle until the lid popped open, and that Yellow Number 2 rolled itself upright on my desk. It point-hopped to the nearest page and wrote "ME" in a looping script.

I went looking for the wine opener.

“Excuse me, Mr. Ah— Yellow Pencil, sir— that is not the story I’m writing!” I scolded the pencil.

“What I mean is it's not your story to write, who said you could get into my mind, my stuff— and why am I talking to a pencil!” I waved my hands expressively.

It began writing again, but I snatched the notebook away, wine opener in one hand, “We are not doing this!”

I erased the first lines of the story, and heard scratching, looked down, and saw the pencil writing on yet another piece of paper on the desk:

"Once upon a time,"

I scribbled over it: “No Forest, no bugs!”

The pencil leaned back and took me in. It eased around my hand and scribbled quickly again:

“Mushroom fruits popped up from the leafy forest floor like submarine periscopes to check out what there was to see.”

“Not that line,” I practically screeched, “That was one of my best sentences!”

I went looking for a glass, glaring back at the Pencil, “Break a lead, or something. I have to write a real story! With you know, witches and unicorns, magic fairy tale stuff.”

I could hear the pencil scribbling madly as I popped the cork and shouted, “Knock yourself out—I don’t have a pencil sharpener!”

Which was a lie, I did.

“I want it to say in a land far, far away, and end with happily ever after,” I snapped.

 Also, a lie.

Back at the desk, I eased into my chair, sipping wine. The pencil paused as if thinking, a grin cracked across its eraser, and it scribbled even faster.

“What, what are you writing now?” I reached for the paper, but the pencil slapped at my fingers, like a teacher’s ruler.

I quickly snatched every available piece of paper off the desk, hugging them to my chest.  That darn pencil looked up at me, leaned backwards, an open “O” mouth shape in its eraser, and then started scribbling madly on the desk top itself!

“Wait, wait, stop!” I shouted, “Not the desk, please! OK, I’ll look at what you have.” It stopped mid-scribbling and looked at me attentively.

I sorted the pages and found its latest scribble at the top of the page; it said, "Merry Christmas list.”

“Oh God, not you too, I moaned dispiritedly.

Then read: Item 1: Apartment C4 needs a new apron. Use the last white elephant gift from last year, still with its tag, in your closet.

“What?” I whispered and slowly stood to check the closet, and indeed, there was the apron. I glanced down at the paper again.

Item 2: Apartment E15 desperately needs a big bag of kitty litter. Get it from the corner market. In parentheses, (she can’t carry it up the stairs, broken hip) was added.

I looked at the pencil with growing wonder. I swear its eraser was cocked to the side, as if it was saying, "Well, get going."

That yellow number two had a simple list right from my own apartment building, neighbors I hadn’t spoken to or seen in a while, if ever. I sipped wine as we began to collaborate, feeling excitement build. It felt so different knowing I could make a difference in someone’s life rather than just giving an obligatory gift.

We made plans together and discussed what I could afford and how to go about it until I fell asleep at the desk, my head on my arms, and the pencil nestled in my hair behind my ear.

By morning, I bravely and expertly traversed the Christmas terrain of town once more. I even heard myself humming along with Jingle Bells and shook my head. What had gotten into me? But I smiled a broad, genuine grin, feeling warmth in my chest. Yes, my cheeks ached just a bit, and I smiled even more.

I had dropped off the wrapped apron gift earlier on my way out. A rush of warm, sourdough scent had wafted out of the apartment when a flour-covered young woman gazed at me wonderingly from her doorway. "It's just an apron,” I had said by way of introduction. “I am your neighbor in C7,” I added lamely.

She had thrown herself at me, squeezing me in a serious hug, tearing open the package, and exclaiming, "Oh my, it's just like the one my granny used to have! Where did you ever find it!”

That had started my smile.

By the end of the day, I had found a loaf of warm bread in a bag outside my door, and inside on the desk, my fairy tale story sat finished. The one in my head I didn’t think was good enough, written in that looping script. The pencil lay still and quiet beside it.

For once, I felt happy, really, happy. I pulled out more wrapping paper and tape and started in, humming along with I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas playing loudly from Apartment C5.

Acknowledgment to Reedsy.com for providing the prompt:

"Write a story that includes the phrase “once upon a time…”, “in a land far, far away…”, or “happily ever after…”

contest #334, which inspired the story.

https://blog.reedsy.com/creative-writing-prompts/