Christmas night, twelve years ago.

I was seven years old and unaware of the dangers to my well-being and to all others that could come through nothing more than a grandparental failure to own a chimney.

The following year, after the trauma and shock had come and gone, we had a chimney installed. It was a state of the art piece of structure wide enough for even the largest of men, in case one of such size should want or need to fall down for one reason or another.

All this was needed because of the Christmas of 2011, and may I say, I will never be able to forget that night.

For Christmas that year, we had gone to our grandparents house. They nor I own a chimney and relied presumably on Santa’s ability to sneak his way into homes in order to deliver presents instead of falling in as if he were in the process of a military operation. I was fine with this because it had been told to me that year that they had put a house key under the mat for Santa, and that when he came, he would use the key to come in and delivers the presents and eat the cookies we had laid out, etc.

I was so excited. That night, my grandma had had me sleeping on the daybed in her study, which sat at the front of the house. What overjoyed my little seven year old self was that the study was so much in the front of the house that the window that showed the outdoors was close enough to the front of the house that anyone who really wanted could turn their heads and look out onto the front porch.

My grandma had placed me in the best position in the house to see Santa with my own eyes, and I loved every moment of it. I, of course, couldn’t let her in on this fact because I didn’t want her switching me out so that she got the chance to see him instead. I was a sensible child.

The night went by slow, as slow as any Christmas and even more so. Every second that went by, every moment, I was peering my head up to the glass trying to get a good view of the Man in Red. My Man in Red. And with every hour that went by, I found my sanity depleting and a sudden denial of the mystic himself.

What if Santa wasn’t real? What if he was a marketing trick used solely to tricks kids like I was then and sell Coca Cola? What if he was actually some wacko that everyone decided was fun enough to be given his own lore? Had I been played for a fool?

So many questions. I came up with so many questions and doubts and a motion of inept sadness swelled and tears began in my eyes. And then I saw him.

Parked in the middle of the street, a shining red sleigh could be seen, and I watched as a large, round man in robes with a sack held along his shoulder came walking up the stairs to the front porch of my Grandma’s house. I was so excited. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.

Every shred of doubt, every morsel of scrutiny, every question that could be questioned fell out of mind and all the assurance in the world came to be. Santa was real, he was walking up the steps to deliver presents, and..

There was something in his left hand. It was dark yet silver-appearing.

It had a funny shape, and he carried it with a grip that insinuated he did not want the object to fall onto my grandma’s steps.

Just before reaching the porch, Santa set down the sack and whatever that other item was that he had with him, that items especially very carefully as if not to make a sound, and then scoured around the porch looking for something.

Santa opened and peered inside the mailbox, checked under the front mat, scoured the area whole searching for the house key. It seemed he couldn’t find it, and the longer its absence came to light the more he began to curse.

In an unhealthy amount of ostracized detail, the Jolly Commie (Communist) himself laid out clear the struggles he had endured previously that night, and made it well known how he felt about this current issue.

“Goddamn family,” he snarled. “If you want presents this year so bad, why the fuck wouldn’t you put the keys in an easy place to find? I ought to plow my goddamn sleigh into your house. Fucking old people. Jesus.”

Santa shook his head in high disapproval and wistfully turned his gaze to the black and silver instrument on the ground. With a groan, he bent down and picked it up. And that then was when I first realized what the instrument was, and it was when he used it on the front door that I became afraid.

Santa had a crowbar!

He was hacking away at the door harder than any home intruder I’ve experienced before or since, and with a fiery passion, his belly jiggled in an un-jolly form as he forced his way into the house.

It took a while for the lock to give way. Santa mentioned through his grunts that he was getting too old for the job, of that I am certain. Finally, he broke through the door barrier and stepped his way inside with the red sack, full of all the toys and joy my heart could have desired.

But that Christmas broke my spirit. I, a young child, knew then better than anyone older or younger that Santa had himself a holly jolly crowbar and that said crowbar could carry out any house invasion or break-in as seen necessary. I had no option but to rush to the landline and call in the cops. The operator begrudgingly sent a pair of officers to the house.

To my shock and horror, while the presents were still there and piled high in what seemed like an impossibly short amount of time, Santa had gone, leaving no trace nor cookies to be seen of his appearance.

My family had me put in to see a doctor the following day and years later, I still hear the sound of his wicked groans attempting to break himself in whenever anyone mentions the man to me.

If you or a loved one are close enough to get a good view of the front porch this Christmas and you don’t have a chimney, I strongly advise that you get one or that you seat yourself in a comfortable room far removed of any view of the outdoors, a good bonus would be to have the room soundproofed.

Have a fun holiday season!

The golden yellows of sunflowers, the crisp reds of peonies, none can be ignored by this little one. Coasting from one to the other as if on a breeze blowing just for it.

Bathing in orange powder at every stop. Occasionally a quick snooze under a stamen, but only for a moment. Then up and out! On to the whites of daisies and the oranges of dahlias. Disappearing into a distant meadow.

I've been out of the writing game for some time and have recently rekindle my passion for it.

I'm loving the writing prompts and challenges! Great way to tickle the imagination!

Here's a recent quick story I wrote to play with some text for my novel.

"Empty Nest"

“Empty Nest” is a term used to describe a home, once full of love and family traditions, which now stands quiet and vacant. It’s a home whose children have grown and moved on to build their own nests leaving parents with decades of memories and a deep void in their lives. Sure, the optimists would say that it’s a new chapter for parents to start by reigniting the passions they pushed to the side while raising their family, but it is also a time of sadness, fear and worry. Have the children, now adults, learned everything they needed to be successful and happy in life? Time will tell and parents will worry. Bless them, they will worry, and their children will be all the better for it.

Empty nests come in a variety of flavors. Some are sweet with parents who are relieved to see their babies grow up and finally start their own lives. Others are salty with parents who cling to every moment in denial that this is the natural order of things. Some are bitter and sour. These are the homes that were never filled. The homes whose halls never echoed with the sounds of babies crying, or children laughing. Homes in which parents never saw their children born. Parents who tried and tried, but only succeeded in finding sadness and heartbreak. That emptiness is sour indeed.

-Olivia Lee

Like Christopher Reeve in “Somewhere in Time” I saw my femme ideal in a photograph. The difference is, I saw my photograph when I was fourteen, and have held onto that image all of these years since. But unlike Reeves, the photograph that drew me in was of a super hot, nude young woman on a rock and roll album cover. Unfortunately, the nude figure on my album cover was pressed against, and nearly draped over, an equally nude man. Surely she couldn’t love that pecker-wood, could she? Not if I could help it!

I had found that photo in my older sister’s album collection those many years ago, which I was prone to raid at risk of death for the Boz Scaggs, Louisiana’s Larue, and Juice Newton (who also had a hot album cover) that could be found in there. The songs on the chosen record were good, not great. My beautiful young woman‘s voice was a little nasally, having a high, goat-like trill that was pleasant enough, but had not yet found the desperation that “Rhiannon” would bring to it a few years later, standing it out in Mick Fleetwood’s crowd.

So, playing Reeve’s game, I surrounded myself in 70’s album rock memorabilia, took a few tokes for old times’ sake, and dropped a hit of the old blood sucking game changer onto the tip of my tongue. If that wouldn’t take me back in time, then what the hell would?

And it worked! I closed my eyes, and Stevie found me, coming all the way through the years; young, not quite demure, buck naked, lured to me by familiar smells and intoxicated thoughts. Lindsay tried to follow her, as always, but together she and I were able to cram him back inside the album’s jacket. We rocked the hours away, Stevie and I, to Sarah, Gold Dust Woman, Landslide and others. Straddling me in my easy chair, her weight on my lungs, her hot breath on my neck, my fingers gliding silkily along her soft, if oft-handled skin, she whispered into my ear, “It’s so good to be back.” And it was good.

So when the music ended, and it was time for Stevie to go, I pulled out my ragged and worn copy of “Simple Dreams,” giving left over time to the lovely and talented Ronstadt to have her way with me as well. It is well that acid trips last so damn long.

God, do I love time travel!

Time! Time is all we want! Is all we need! Sweet, sweet, blessed time. Time to pop another beer. Time to replace my headphones. Time to settle in deeper, thankful for a love making that does not need Time’s little blue pill.

Dear Little Younger Self,

You may not have romantic relationships but don't fret about it. You have your brains, and soul—there's nothing more wonderful than celebrating what you have and let life lead you to the right path. Never problem things that will not benefit your well-being. You have your family, your friends and your hobbies and determination to step up and be the female you want to be. Romance can wait! Don't be caught up in bad romances that'll end you hopeless for the rest of your life but rather do what you love (eg. writing, reading books) and soon enough happiness would be there not because you got it from someone but you gave it to yourself for yourself. Enjoy the best there is and ignore those who don't think you are capable of surviving. Prove them wrong as you've always done. Compete not with anybody but yourself. And lastly, be happy with the little wins and successes you have, it doesn't last long.

Yours truly,

Your Older Present Self

Dear Older But Still Short Self,

You've grown wiser but NEVER forget to write with your heart. It always helps ease the bad memories and take you to life-changing field trips to discover the right and just matters in situations. Help people as you have always helped me here. I know you love it even if you feel used by people for that sometimes. But think about the things you'll learn and not the person who tricked you. Anyhow, it would make you more discerning of the world. With your words here, it felt like adulthood is all about being resilient, patient and trying to survive everyday odds and circumstances. Adulthood may not be easy but being a teenager is not easy too. Never let anyone belittle you again. You are as dignified as them even as a plain individual. I'm proud of what you came to be. I wish you better days and more hugs to survive your world.

Always here,

Your Little Cute Self

Theres nothing that’s perfect. Even if you look it up. You don’t need to listen to mom and dad about “Slimming down”. You don’t need to suck in your stomach when someone passes by. You don’t need to smile without teeth. You don’t need to cry in the bathroom and force yourself to throw up because you “look fat” . You don’t need to put-on dark clothes because it makes you look skinny. You don’t need anything. Because you are you. A living human. With things that make you yourself. And I’m sorry that mom and dad got so far into your head with what perfect means. Because you are perfect. I love you.

Driving home from a football game. Gone wrong may be an exaggeration, but it takes 5 minutes of walking back to the car for the headache to fade. We finish an embarrassing conversation that leaves me wondering if I've said too much.

The blinker clicks. I mutter under my breath. I try not to take my turn too sharp and end up in the opposite lane; I successfully turn. I had told her before that she could put on music. Now, soft guitar fills the car, accompanied by her voice harmonizing and her fingers dancing up and down in the air as she follows the notes. Her hair is an apricot orange, lit by the golden hour autumn sun. Leaves float down from the trees and rush towards the car, skimming the windshield. She lets me leave the windows down.

It is the rushing of the wind. It is her voice lilting as she sings. It is her small, happy laugh when I offer my hand at a long red light. It is my headache fading. It is my insecurities lifted. The earth whirs, but my mind is calm.

Hello, I would like to recognize my favorite writer, EasterFlowers1, and how I enjoyed reading their work, “On Brazen Stones”. I felt this piece spoke wonders about a father’s guidance from childhood, through adolescence, teenage years, until adulthood when we venture out for ourselves.