Welcome to day two of the Winter Writing Challenge! Are you ready to get those creative juices flowing? I loved reading all your submissions yesterday. Let’s see what you come up with today!
Here’s your next prompt!
Write a vignette about waiting outside on the front porch.
Think you’re up for the challenge? We can’t wait to see what sort of vignette you guys come up with. Remember, it’s time to work together to unlock some of those awesome prizes, so post your vignette in the comments!
But wait…what’s a vignette and how do I write one?
A vignette is a brief evocative description, account, or episode. It doesn’t have any plot, backstory, or any elements that can move the story forward. For more on how to write a vignette, click here!
(Keep in mind, they should be less than 500 words!)
Before you start writing, we have some important rules for you to follow.
Writing Rules
1. Please keep the content of the poems and vignettes you post to a PG rating. Please avoid real curse words. Violence/fighting should be limited and purposeful. Please do not include any spice.
2. Have fun!
Remember to scroll all the way to the bottom of the page and post your story as an “answer” to this question. 🙂
You guys posted over 130 times yesterday, via this Q&A Board, Facebook, and Instagram! That’s incredible, and we’re well on our way for big prizes.
Remember, if at least 50 people post every day, we’ll all get one free month of Premium Membership to The Company. Premium Members get access to all of The Company’s live coaching groups, where you can get real answers from real professionals for all of your writing and publishing questions. Keep posting, and let’s get this!
Happy Writing!
Alli Prince
Waiting outside on the porch might be fun for some people but I am having trouble relating to the ‘fun’ part. It is cold and wet and the snow is blowing and my nose is cold and my toes are cold and… wait. Maybe I would be warm if I had any of my litter mates to cuddle up with. What was it that Mama always told us to do if we felt lost and alone? She said…
Lift up your muzzle and howl. So, who am I to not listen to Mama?
Mid howl the porch light flips on. I am not about to cut my serenade short though. Last thing I want is to be tied up out here for the rest of the night. Did I mention that it is cold and wet and…
The first bit of warmth surrounds me as a boy the proper age to have a dog opens the door and stares at me like I am an escapee from an alien spaceship. His mouth hangs open for a whole second before he starts howling with me. Only he is howling something about Santa Clause, Christmas presents, and other things that are not making any sense.
Like waiting outside on the porch makes no sense when there are lovely things waiting inside. Warm hugs, food, and more hugs make inside more preferable. Mama was right about a lot of things.
The Key to Survival
Sitting on the wooden steps of the farmhouse porch is where I planted. My flannel green plaid pajamas while cozy inside the kitchen seem a thin excuse for warmth outside. The sun is hiding behind a cluster of abstract clouds which is exactly how I interpret my reality. My dark hair still a straggle mess of sleepiness and the rings of mascara under my eyes would contend with any racoon living in the trees near by. I must appear like a woman gone mad. I am mad.
My head is full of survival tactics. Im so thirsty. How long will my freshly brewed coffee in the ceramic mug with delicate lavender sprigs etched, stay warm? My bran cereal will only take moments to turn to mush in oat milk.
My thin socks are damp from walking through the wet foot prints of my sweet husband after his shower. He said he wouldn’t be too long in town.
The brisk air smells of deep autumn. The leaves have given their show and bowed.
Its definitely sweater weather yet mine hangs on the hook on the other side of the locked front door.
I open the newspaper and lay it across my lap as a blanket for the homeless. I make the mental decision to have a spare key cut for under the front welcome mat.
“Special Delivery”
The porch stairs let out a shiver as Ranjeet cautiously placed a foot onto the first step. The thin sheet of snow did a poor job of covering peeling paint and rusted out nails underneath his boots, and he grimaced with the thought of three more steps to go. His delivery truck hummed cheerily behind him, and he debated tossing the package up the rest of the way to the door mat beyond and making a dash back to warmth and his Bollywood pop playlist. Only the reminder from his handheld scanner that a signature would be required propelled him forward.
Wood decking sobbed beneath his weight as he finally reached the front door. With a quick push, he punched the doorbell and stepped back. It rang out with faltering tones, breaking the silence surrounding the sagging wood framed bungalow like a duvet. He placed the package down and whipped out his phone to record his delivery. Zooming in, he caught the first name of the recipient on the label.
“Mom,” he muttered with a smirk. Someone being cute for the holidays he guessed. Flipping it over, his eyes caught a message inked in blue and water stained from travel: Sorry it’s been so long. It was scrawled in the center, as if it was a last minute inspiration. He bit his lip and shrugged. Best not to get involved with strangers’ family dramas. He glanced up at the hollow eyed windows flanking the door and blew out a cloud of impatience. Well, “Mom” had better hurry up, or Ranjeet would be forced to take it back to the post office.
As if in answer to this thought, an orange tabby slammed against the window to his left, paws pressed against the pane like a hyper child. Ranjeet jumped in fright and stared in unease as it clawed at the glass with frantic movements, meowing repeatedly. Where was this lady at, and what was wrong with her pet?
He shifted balance to the tune of another groan of the porch and rapped on the door with his fist. The cat added to his knock with several more bats to the window, before jumping down from the sill and disappearing. “Hey, umm, hello?” Ranjeet called in uncertainty as he heard the possessed beast go skittering down the front hall and into the kitchen. He backed up, the hairs on his neck flexing as he felt for the first step down.
“Hey, mister?”
Ranjeet yelped and swiveled, almost faceplanting on the chipped pavers.
Hey, so sorry, didn’t mean to scare yah,” the neighbor hollered across the street as Ranjeet adjusted his vest and exhaled.
“It’s ok, it’s ok,” Ranjeet replied hurriedly, and began his descent down the steps with far less caution and more rapidity than before.
“Just wanted to let you’s guys from the post office know, Gloria VanderWeld died yesterday.” The neighbor smiled in a friendly manner as he spoke and shrugged his shoulders as if in apology.
Ranjeet felt his gut clench, and he glanced down at the package in his hands as the neighbor’s voice hung in the frosty air. “The cat’s being taken care of, now if they can only locate her scamp of a son, they can wrap everything else up before New Year’s.”
Hey y’all, I’m new to the vignette genre, am I too plot driven with this attempt? I’m not sure if this falls into the category required. (:
Nice dramatic piece. Makes me wish I could read the rest of the story.
Thanks Kathy! It came to me in a rush, I also want to explore it in a longer format.
There was a very odd man waiting on my front porch.
The first thing that caught my eye about him was his clothing. He was dressed in fine attire of the sort that you’d see in a history book, or perhaps in one of those great big glass display cases common in museums. His robe was midnight blue, with speckles of white like salt crystals dotting it here and there.
Had his oddities stopped with his clothing, I would merely have dismissed him as some bizarre salesman, and refrained from giving it further thought.
But they didn’t.
The man was at least seven feet tall, and held a gnarled wooden staff in one hand. His beard was reminiscent of an illustration of Rip Van Winkle I had seen in a fairy tale book—scraggly, gray, and reaching down to the tips of the pointed green shoes he wore. A pair of wire-rimmed spectacles completed the outfit.
I was left with one of two conclusions: either Halloween fell in December this year, or there was a wizard on my doorstep.
At this point, most sensible people would have propped a chair against the door, pulled down the blinds, and tried to put the strange man out of their minds.
I was not a sensible person. So, naturally, I opened the door.
As I swung the door open, the man’s weathered face lit up with a grin.
“Hullo!” he said, bowing in my direction. “Is this the domicile of one…”
He paused, producing from his robes a tattered piece of parchment and scanning it. “…Edward Lumfordshire?” he finished, glancing up at me.
“Yes, it is—er, or rather, I am. That is, I’m Edward,” I said, extending my hand. I was very good at speaking, even when flustered, as you can tell.
The man shook my hand enthusiastically. “Very good. Can I bother you to sign here for the package, sir?” He held out the parchment, along with a quill pen.
“What package?” I asked. I didn’t recall ordering anything—besides, since when did Amazon hire wizards as deliverymen?
“Why, you did order the miniature griffin, didn’t you?” said the wizard.
He tapped his staff on the steps, and a wooden crate appeared in midair beside me. Through the slats, I could see something lithe, golden, and very much alive.
At this point, even most unsensible people would have dashed inside, locked the door, and called Animal Control. But really, you ought to have realized by now that I am a complete dolt.
And so, I did something that would change my life.
I signed for the package.
Snow drifted on a sharp, cold gust of wind that whistled as it passed. The grey sky appeared hazy, full of snowflakes and sharp pieces of frost.
Elena ran her hand over the frozen ridges of snow-turned-ice covering the rough wooden beams she leaned against. Her porch, cleanly swept not two minutes ago, held a dusting of white once more. This was everything Elena hated about winter. A cold that sank deep into one’s bones. Wind that made an unbearably chilly day worse. Standing on the porch, she waited, hoping the snow wouldn’t accumulate, even if she did admit the trees looked beautiful with a little white added to their branches. The bare trees looked a little less skeletal and much more magical with snow.
The smell of gingerbread floated from the house, making her mouth water. She could already taste the clove and spices that permeated the treat. Light fell across her. Her husband stood in the doorway holding a platter of gingerbread men, artfully arranged in a stacked pyramid. Another delightful warmth reached her as she noticed he also held the blue mug with the faded snowflake painted on the side. Closing her eyes, she hummed in delight when the warm steam scented with rich chocolate reached her. This was everything Elena loved about winter.
Marc stood on her porch, out of breath from running to Kat’s. How could a small accident that helped Lee turn into such a mess? How can one kitten loose in the clinic cause him to explode? Kat had made a lasagna for the staff; however, one of her foster kittens had crawled into the bag and strolled into the clinic. Kat had not noticed until Marc had yelled. Poor Lee had a young lady who was deaf and afraid of what was going on. Kat’s quick thinking made Lee’s patient not as scared. Marc knew that Kat would not have done it on purpose, but he acted before he thought, and now he was here to apologize.
He knocked and called her name. “Kat, please, we need to talk. I am sorry.”
The lights were on, and her car was in the driveway, so she had to be home. Still, the house stayed quiet. Another round of knocking, still with no success. It was busy when he tried her home number. He called her cell, but then noticed it on her car’s dashboard, flashing with a strange light. He knocked again, harder. Frustration and regret egged him on. Something moved in the window. Rascal, the troublemaker, sat there, watching him. Marc felt like the cat was mocking him, almost gloating because it was inside and Marc was locked out. He paced, then sat on the creaky steps. Apologies ran through his mind, but none of them seemed to be good enough for Kat. He loved her so much, but was holding back. Her past traumas made him want to treat her slowly and carefully so as never to cause her hurt or pain again. That got thrown out the window tonight, though, with the harsh words that were used.
Every few minutes, he went back to the door to knock and call her name. There were a few places on her porch that he was coming back to fix. His pacing revealed a few loose boards and then the stairs; one board looked as if it might break in two. He wanted her to be safe, but right now he just wanted to talk to her. Why was she not answering her door? Thoughts of her being hurt, or having cried herself to sleep, made him pace even more as his mind lingered on what he said to her. “Why in the heck did you bring a cat in here? This is a clinic. There are rules we have to follow. Do you want this place to get closed down? Didn’t you think of that?”
The neighbor’s light flicked on. His watch beeped as he checked the time. Marc tried one more time. He had been there for over two hours and needed to get back to the clinic. He had really messed things up. What he didn’t need was the neighbors to call the police, either. He trudged to his car, clearly defeated. He would fix all this tomorrow. A plan was forming, a night off to spend with her. A day of making his chocolates just for her, a nice dinner, and maybe some flowers if he could find a shop that would have enough for each second that he regretted how he had responded to her.
The concrete porch step I was sitting on was cold, even though it was in the sun. My cousins, Mickey and Davey, were chasing each other around the trees and their older sister Maggie was curled up in one of the rocking chairs. Mom was rocking my baby brother in the other. Dad and Aunt Helen had told us to play outside until they called us.
I stretched my feet out in front of me, tilting my glittery red shoes back and forth. They sparkled in the sunlight, which was bright, although the day was not very warm.
“I’m cold.” I used my best big-girl-not-quite-complaining voice.
“Why don’t you run around with the boys?” Mom responded with her patient, “you’re a big girl, figure it out” tone.
“Can we have some cookies?” Grandma had a tin full of chocolate chip cookies on the kitchen counter. She always baked extra because they were everyone’s favorite.
“In a bit.”
I got up and went over to Maggie. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing.” The look she gave me warned against further conversation, so I crossed the porch and stood by Mom’s chair.
“Can I sit with you?” My brother was nested against her, warm and snug. His bright eyes focused on me and he worked the binky firmly stuck in his mouth.
Mom stretched her free arm around me and drew me close. “I’m sorry, sweetie. There’s not enough room in the chair for all of us.”
I tugged on Kenny’s pacifier, delighted as he started sucking harder, working to keep hold of it.
“That’s enough Katie.” Firm, no nonsense tone. “Go chase the boys. It will warm you up and make the time go faster.” Mom somehow managed to turn me around and nudge me toward the step. “Go.”
I went. Hiding behind one of the trees, I scooped up a handful of leaves and waited. When Mickey shot past, I threw the leaves out in the air, catching Davey in the face. Mickey whooped, and soon leaves and shrieks were flying everywhere.
Maggie joined the frenzy, declaring “Girls against boys!”
When Aunt Helen and Dad came out on the porch, everything stopped.
“Kids, come here please.” Dad’s voice trembled a little, and he swallowed hard.
It was Aunt Helen who stepped off the porch as we gathered around.
“Grandpa Joe has passed away.” Maggie and David looked startled, but Mickey was as confused as I was. “We are going to stay a few extra days for his funeral.”
“You can go downstairs and watch TV. I’ll bring snacks down in few minutes.” Taking Mickey’s hand, she led the older two inside.
Dad sat down on the chilly step and drew me onto his lap. I snuggled into his warmth. “What’s a funeral?”
“A church service where we help Grandma say goodbye to Grandpa.” He hugged me tighter.
“Are you okay Daddy?”
Resting his chin on my head, he whispered, “I will be.”
Anne closed the door behind her, the sounds of music and voices fading. It was cold but she didn’t care. Soft snowflakes drifted quietly from the gray clouds. The forest had a hush to it, a still beauty. The trees blanketed in frozen white veils, black, gray and white. Like a painting.
She took a deep breath, it was so peaceful. The wind picked up bringing with it the smell of pine trees and snow. The soft rush of the breeze broke through the still silence. The trees swayed together dancing to their own quiet song, a waltz if she had to guess, snow flakes drifting and darting around them. She closed her eyes wishing she could hear the music as well as the trees.
The door opened behind her.
“Anne, you should come inside. Mom’s wondering were you are, What are you doing?” it was Emily. She stepped from under the eave standing beside Anne on the snowy porch.
“Listening.” Anne said.
“To what?”
Anne didn’t answer right away. They stood in silence for a moment. The quiet song playing around them with the snow. Then the wind stopped, the trees grew still and the song ended.
“Nothing, lets go.” Anne said.
Emily shrugged, and together they returned to happy noise of the house.
I know he’s going to make it.
The cold seeps into my bones like a cell-invading virus. As soon as my rear connects with the hard, unforgiving concrete front porch steps, the frigid blocks set off a wave of whole-body tremors. Pulling my knit toboggan down over my brow, this is the lowest I’m willing to take it. I’m freezing but need to maintain visibility to spot his car as soon as it pops over the knoll toward the trailer house.
Any minute now he’ll be here.
My teeth chatter no matter how much my mind wills it to stop. I stand and start marching in place trying to generate heat with movement.
Company! March! One, two, three, four.
My arms, straight and erect, move back and forth as my knees almost touch my chest in sequential motion. I’d make a fine soldier, even though I’m a girl. I twirl around on the step to do an about-face. The arc is too wide, and I almost fall into the shark-infested sea (aka, the bushes), but a quick grab of the porch banister saves me from impending doom.
Suddenly, I end my time at the barracks, and now I face the plank as a wily pirate caught stealing the captain’s booty.
My arms wrap around my abdomen as I fall into a fit of laughter. Captain’s booty! Hahahahaha!
The front door swings open. Just my stupid sister. “What are you doing out here?” She asks, her perfect bangs feathering to each side. It looks dumb.
“Noneyabusiness.” I respond. She’s always sticking her Love’s Baby Soft-powered nose into my business.
Her blue eyes survey me as she pulls a string of gum from her mouth and wraps it around her index finger. “Whatever, loser. Mama told me to tell you to come inside.”
“You can tell Mama that he’s going to be here any minute.”
A look of pity crosses my sister’s face. I wanted to slap her. “Don’t get your hopes up, kid.”
I sit back down on the concrete steps, elbows on legs and hands cradling my jaw. The front door gently clicks as it closes. The sun is starting to nestle behind the mountains. In the last vestiges of daylight, I make use of the time and blow ‘smoke signals’ from my mouth. They say:
Don’t forget about me.
When there’s nothing left in the inky black sky but a spattering of unenthusiastic stars, sadness fills my heart. By the time my fingers and toes are frozen I can barely feel them, the front door opens again.
A warm hand cups my shoulder. “He’s not coming, honey.” My mother says.
“He is. I know he is.” I protest. Even to my young ears, I can hear doubt lacing my voice.
“Come on inside. We’ll try calling him again.”
Before I follow her into the warm trailer that Mom has made our home, I take one more peek down the lane. It’s dark. No headlights.
Daddy didn’t show up again.
Alec kept his back to the door, the movement of cigarette to mouth, cigarette to mouth—drag, linger, exhale—as mechanical as a pizza parlor animatronic. The old bulb lights around the windows cast shifting, carnival colors on the front yard snow, fresh flakes ticking softly all around him.
Drag, linger, exhale. This was a mistake.
The door cracked open, another body slipping through as a brief swell of Bing Crosby escaped into the winter silence.
“…please have snow, and mistletoe…”
Marta closed it again quietly, hands tucked under her arm pits as she wormed in close beside him and stamped her heels.
“Fala-lala-la,” she said, breath mixing with cigarette smoke.
“I’m not singing.” Drag, linger, exhale. She bumped him with her shoulder.
“Oh, come on. You were always good for a round of Oh Christmas Tree. Remember that time in sixth grade when the whole choir forgot the order of the lyrics, and it was just wholesale chaos.”
But he wouldn’t look at her, gaze fixed steadily on the six-bedroom-four-bath McMansion across the street. Professionally done lights, fresh evergreen sashes and battery candles in every window, a car worth more than his education parked in the drive.
Alec singled out a forefinger from the pinch of the cigarette, jabbing it at the house.
“You know she kicked him out when we were, like, fourteen years old? He cheated on her with their housekeeper. Twice.”
Marta followed his indication, but to her it was just a house. Expensive, softly haloed in pale yellow light, lovingly curated for Christmas in a way that still managed to feel soulless.
“What, really? How do you know that?”
Drag, linger, exhale.
“I was home sick that day. Heard somebody screaming over the The Price is Right, looked outside, and she was hurling all his clothes out the second story window. Yelling, you dog, you filthy dog, get out of my house. And he was just out there, walking around the front lawn like he was picking dandelions, gathering all his clothes one by one.”
She studied the house again, trying to picture it, but it wouldn’t come to her. A strange little fable from a past life.
“I guess she forgave him. Mom says they still invite them over for bridge a couple times a year, and they seem happy. Always talks about how nice their house is inside.”
“I guess.”
She eyed him, bouncing delicately with the cold. “What made you think of that?”
Alec scrunched his face and shrugged, uninterested in getting too deep into his reasoning.
“Just thinking… how things can look so nice from the outside, but when you look deeper, you don’t know how rotten they are.” Drag, linger, exhale. “A Christmas present that looks pretty from the outside, all done up in ribbon, and then you open it up and it’s just…”
“A big turd?”
“Hm. Glad you said it.”
She leaned into him again, but he just rocked resistlessly to one side before resettling his weight on both feet.
“I’ll be back inside in a minute,” he promised.
“I thought I’d keep you company.”
Alec looked at her finally, absently flicking ash to the salted porch steps.
“No, go on. It’s cold, and I’m almost done with this anyway.”
Marta’s arms squirmed into a tighter fold before she nodded, turning for the door.
With a hand on the knob she hesitated, looking back just enough to catch the animatronic lift and lower of his hand as he burned down the cigarette to the filter.
She faltered, “You know, he doesn’t…” But it ended in a sigh. Alec looked back at her, eyelids heavy.
“What?” he prompted. “Go on.”
“He doesn’t mean it, deep down. He really does love you. He’s just… Alec, you know how he is.”
Drag, linger, exhale. He stared across the street and flicked ash to the salt.
“Yeah. I know exactly how he is inside.”
She fingered the knob, debating, then turned inside as Bing Cosby finished, crooning, “…If only in my dreams.”
Madison watched the ice cubes clink as she swirled her glass, beads of water slowly running down all sides, mimicking the sweat pouring from her own skin. The air felt like a wet blanket, still and heavy with moisture. The afternoon shower had offered brief relief, but now the steam rising from the blacktop road stalked them while they waited on the front porch. As the sun dropped lower, the narrow covering could no longer protect them from its glare. Even Jack, with all the energy of an eight-year-old, had given up playing in the yard. Soaked through from the rain he now sat in front of the box fan, participating in a childhood ritual offering high pitch screeches and low hums to hear how his voice echoed through the blades.
Not turning from the wind he mustered a seriously dramatic run saying, “I’m an alien robot warrior and I’ve come to take this fan to my spaceship!”
Madison smiled, grateful she’d found an extension cord long enough to run through the front window. The only place hotter than outside was inside. Jack’s last thermostat report was 96 degrees. Some may call it a tropical paradise, but in the middle of summer, it was nothing but miserable. The repair bill would likely be too.
“Hey Mr. Robot Warrior Alien…do you have air conditioning on that spaceship?”
“Noo-ooo-ooo.” He drew out the sound, first low, then high. Turning to his mom, he giggled, “That’s why I want the fan!”
Madison laughed back, wiping her brow with an ice cube pulled from her glass. “The repair guy should be here in the next hour or so.”
She pulled her visor down lower over her eyes. What if they can’t fix it today? How could they sleep if it was 96 degrees inside? She watched a line of ants march across the step. Next to her, on the planter box, two little geckos were engaged in an epic battle of some sort, or was it a mating ritual? Hard to tell. Her mind continued to wander. How many times had she thought out replanting the planter box? It was utterly lifeless and barren, some colorful little blooms would make the whole porch look better. Maybe some paint, or at least a pressure wash.
“Momma, do we have any popsicles?” Jack asked.
Madison smiled. “I think we do!”
“Best day ever!” Jack danced around the porch in celebration. “I want a red one!”
“Red, gotcha. I’ll be right back.”
Love the reference to the boy making voices through the fan, I enjoyed doing that in my childhood. (:
Front porches are meant to be enjoyed. They should wrap around at least three sides of the house, rest under a freshly painted ceiling, and include lots of comfy chairs (including maybe some rockers or gliders). Said chairs should be adorned with plump pillows in colorful prints, and glasses of sweet iced tea should rest on side tables conveniently placed beside each chair. And of course, a wooden swing should hang from sturdy chains and move gently even when empty, powered by the slightest breeze drifting from one end of the porch to the other.
At least, that’s what I grew up with, and that’s what I assumed I’d find at Jenny’s house.
Instead, Jenny’s front porch – if it could even be called a porch – was missing most of the expected requirements. It spanned the length of the front of the house, and it had an (unpainted) ceiling; so technically, it was a porch. But the only chair was of the uncomfortable metal variety, appeared to be at least thirty years old, and proved to be as wobbly as jello when I attempted to sit down on it. Not particularly inviting.
The ubiquitous porch swing was also nowhere to be seen. Instead, a rusty windchime dangled crookedly near the storm door, which itself boasted rust, cracked glass, and a bent handle. A chipped flower pot sat sadly on the other side of the door, filled halfway with black dirt and a struggling succulent. And the air had not the slightest breeze, but instead hung flat, stale, and heavy.
Father never came home last night. Mother was feeling better, so I let my sisters enjoy her company after breakfast without the older brother. Let them talk about girl things.
I grab my coat and go outside to stand on the stoop, the closest this old dusty trailer has to a front porch. It got cold again, and I can see frost on the deck rail as my breath clouds over in the early morning air.
Speaking of clouds, there isn’t one in the sky. This is the first year that the family celebrated Christmas without any snow, and I guess the frost will have to do. One thing that this cold is good for is that the winds aren’t bringing up the gritty dust from the West Texas plains.
It must be my imagination, but the air doesn’t smell, or maybe it’s what people call fresh. I have gotten so used to the smell of burning oil and gas that I had forgotten what that was like. Even before our family’s nomadic existence, I always remember smelling something in the air.
The smell of the pine or sea breeze candles brings back childhood memories – memories of days before Jodie was born; days when Mother and Father got along. I wonder if in another ten years that seeing an open flame or the smell of burning petroleum will trigger a similar reaction and bring me back to today.
As it has been for the past six months, it is so quiet around our “home.” We are so isolated that we could be in the middle of a forest, but there are no trees for miles around. I sometimes think nature abandoned us as well, but today, I see the chilled soil has held the traces of small footprints in the loose top layer.
I would guess a hare based on the fat imprints behind the smaller ones in front. There’s a stand of scrub brush nearby, and the freak snowstorm a few weeks ago left some water in the hollows. He should do OK, unless …
Maybe the hare should watch out as I hear one coyote calling out to another in the near distance. We never see them up close, unless you count the cartoon versions on our school gear. They seem to be as afraid of us as we would be of them if our paths crossed.
I stare out at my little world. The backboard and basketball hoop tacked onto the telephone pole next to the hardpacked turnaround and lane that serves as Father’s driveway. The road that stretches left and right to nowhere …
OK. Maybe not nowhere as we turn left to go to our school. But the ride is endless and is as featureless as my view from the stoop.
I wish I had put on a hoodie before I went out. It is a lot colder than it was yesterday, and I don’t even have the sun to warm me yet. It’s still low in the sky and hasn’t cleared the roof of the trailer.
You can’t hear them from this distance, but a pair of majestic birds are soaring to the south. Their soundless dance brings some activity to this landscape. Shadows are now appearing in the undulating vista.
And the winds are starting to howl! As I look in vain for the City of Midland, it looks like the dust is starting to pick up again. But that’s from the wrong direction, I think. The wind should be pushing that dust away from me.
I squint into the sun and see the outline of a rare vehicle heading our way. I watch for several minutes as it gets closer. Not Father’s truck. No sense in getting my hopes up. But as the white SUV gets closer to our lot, the driver turns into the driveway.
I can barely make out Father’s face through the tinted glass. Before he turns off the motor, I run back inside and yell, “Father’s home!”
(I have no idea on how to do this prompt. I write poems, not stories. But here’s my attempt.)
The News
Here I sit on the front porch, pondering the day while eagerly awaiting the arrival of long awaited news. Then like childhood visions I see him!
But wait!
My mind swirls with confusion. Why is HE invading this blissful morning? And now, the snow falling, so thick and heavy it’s like I’m in the clouds.
There’s Joseph and Mary, could they really be Jesus’ earthly parents? But if so, how and why am I seeing them?
The thunder! The clash! A boom and a bang!
Can’t see a thing, but the noise so loud I almost forgot why I’m outside in this. Oh yes the news.
Frosty ran over the decorated Christmas tree!
Oh, yes, the news, did I get the VIP slot?
I’ll never know.
Who doesn’t long for the sunset to last for hours instead of seconds? Maybe it’s because we know what follows the setting sun is darkness.
I’ve always loved to watch the sky assume its veils of orange, mauve, and gold as the sun advances toward the western horizon. Through all the seasons, from wherever I might find myself, I have been known to drop what I am doing just to catch the last rays of fragmented light tinting the clouds, the land, the water (when there is some).
Nowhere else than in a sunset are these colors displayed in the same way, not even in the sunrise.
And there is no better place than my porch to witness the sky show, gratefully settling my aging body into a comfortable chair.
My eyesight might have deteriorated; I can no longer read a book or my pill bottles or the directions for making my favorite casseroles without ever stronger glasses. But my blurring near vision does not interfere with my ability to become a sunset spectator.
The wait is different every evening as the weeks and months pass. January’s crisp, vivid reds and golds with streaks of lilac are not June’s summer warmth in shades of orange, pink, and royal purple in a palette any artist would envy. Yet June’s hues cannot compete with November’s deeper, more mature crimson, umber, and sienna that repeat with joy the leaves weeping the dying year.
From my porch, I can believe that there is a tomorrow, another day of sunlight and clouds, insects and flowers, sunrises and snow, that will offer once more the sight of a radiant, or muted, or Goldilocks “just right” goodbye.
And if I remain in that chair, I might catch the afterglow, the soft bloom of indirect light that cannot quite release its caress of the clouds that feather and fly away.
I’ve been waiting for fifteen minutes.
Far from being irritated at his lateness (again)… It’s the calmest I’ve ever felt.
The fluffy flakes fall, ponderously slow, each landing lighter than a feather… but still, I can almost, almost hear their impact, it’s so quiet. Everything is swathed in their graceful, eerie silence.
I snuggle deeper into my coat, the chill pervading the goose-down lining as time passes, and I look up at the neighbor’s tree, startled, as a chunk of snow plops to the ground, shattering the stillness for half a second. The dark bark contrasts with the clear white of snow, and it looks like lace.
A crimson fluttering shape darts into my view from nowhere, and comes to rest on one of the branches with a shiver. The cardinal puffs itself out in an attempt to keep warm, and I let out a slow breath in awe, a plume of steam clouding around me for long enough to make my lashes feel frosty.
I wish…
A roaring engine, and Jack’s blue pickup rattles around the corner. “You wouldn’t believe the traffic!” he hollers out his open window, grinding to a halt.
The cardinal flies away, chirruping in protest. Suddenly, I’m cold.
“Well? Get in. We’ll be late for sure if you keep dawdling.”
The pickup gives a cough, and I bite my tongue, hurrying down the driveway. Up close, I see the dirt in the snow. As I climb in, the sky’s gray is too overbearing.
“I hate winter.”
At dusk, a young man got out of a lemon-yellow taxi in front of a two-story blue house and the first thing he did was to glance at himself. His white silk jacket was in good condition, especially his sleeves. Then he leaned 30 degrees and glanced down to see that his white shoes were spotless, but he bent down to polish them just in case. But just as he was bending his knee, leaning on the curb for comfort, he noticed something terrible. A small muddy spot sat mockingly in front of his left knee. He felt something like a deep tidal wave that sent his pulse into the triple digits.
“Ah! Failure! What do I do now?”
The first thing that came to his mind was that when the door opened, he could stand like a general with his right foot forward…
“And then?”
He could not think of how it would be possible to hide the stain all evening, and a sudden gust of wind, after the recent rain, hastened to reproach him for his contemptuous attitude towards the elements.
He crossed the curb, then opened the wooden flower-decorated gate and continued along the path of colored jasper. She led him out onto the front porch, but just as he crossed that imaginary line descending from the roof, a drop settled on the wing-like edge of his shirt. And it was as if a drop of volcanic lava had poured down on him – so he jumped. He turned his eyes to the right, which made a funny grimace appear on his face and began to examine the damage. The drop quickly soaked into the collar, but left its dark cargo on top, consisting of a bunch of black sand and a little moss. He would not try to remove them, because he knew what would happen next. His face at that moment depicted a cloudy sunset.
So he was quite embarrassed and instinctively took a step back, which should have meant going home and of course a failed first meeting with Laura’s parents.
But he was stopped…although not in the way he had expected, because as he made this move, someone there made a hissing sound. He looked behind his left leg and realized that he had stepped on a shaggy white cat with black paws, which was just jumping from the porch into the wet grass. But it had left on his trousers something like a greeting or revenge – a few black lines as if applied with the thinnest paintbrush in the artist’s set.
“So everything animate and inanimate has taken aim at me?”
And just as the young man was about to continue his retreat, the door creaked and began to open. And something inside him tightened and he even forgot to take that appropriate stance. Because he increasingly felt like he had just emerged from a puddle, and why not like a frog going on a date with a princess…
The Porch
Grace Comstock
The sun was lazy the day I sat on my porch, waiting for the next of kin to arrive. It was quiet and peaceful. There was the occasional rumble of a lawnmower off in the distance or a power saw aways off, but nowhere close. The insects cavorting around the plants in pots and hanging baskets were louder.
Particularly a noisy cricket chirping nearby. He had been at it about a half hour now. He was so consistent in his melody that she could practically interpret his message. His was not a song consisting of distress, but one of joy and laughter. Both out of place on this occasion, and perfectly in balance with the day.
A long black limo arrived and parked in the street in front of the house. It sat there silent, auspicious, and acted like it was daring her to approach it.
She stayed on the porch for a bit, watching the limo, as if she herself were throwing down a gauntlet.
“So, it’s a standoff you wish,” she whispered. Suddenly, the absurdness showed itself to her. She hung her head in shame.
Sighing heavily, she stood, smoothing her dress as she did so. The black knit caught at her fingers. Disentangling them, she sighed again, the started down the walk serenely towards the limo.
As she arrived, the side door opened. She stopped as a woman climbed out gracefully – tall, blonde, willowy, also dressed in black. They looked like twins.
“Hail, cousin,” the woman from the porch said. “We’ve been waiting for you.”
“All by yourself?” The cousin said, no emotion showing. “I am honored.” She flipped her hair back, and straightened her posture. “Shall we then?”
Together the two women walked back toward the porch. All was quiet except for the he-cricket, who continued to sing his merry song, even in the face of sorrow.
Clasping hands, and both heaving a heavy sigh, they entered the funeral parlor and closed the door behind them.
The old dog with partially tangled, matted somewhat silky, brownish fur stretched long with his front paws’ toenails scraping the dusty, dilapidated porch to his hind legs rustling the lose dirt particles behind him.
A long, wallowing howl followed as he tucked each leg casually underneath his body to resume the lazy afternoon position. Occasionally, wringing his ears with a back and forth motion to divert a cloud of pesky knots circling above his head to an impedious almost mechanical swipe of his ear with his left hind. His face slouched downward, onto broken wooden slats, empty spaces where over time the porch had come apart. A glob of drool escaped his mouth with a long, moaning sigh.
Until his ear came to attention with the slam of a truck door. But, the old dog didn’t move. Not a flinch nor a nod as he kept an eye on a sluggish, pair of worn, dusty boots, coming towards him, stepping onto the porch.
Without lifting his head, the old dog mustered a fierce, warning growl nearly showing all of his teeth.
“Good boy,” said the old man, “I see you still got it in yeah.”
The stairs to the front porch led up a black painted door that resembled a gaping yawn, a mouth that wanted to pull me in. I slowly ascended the three steps, heart racing. As I approached the front door, I could the laughter of my family inside. The lights from inside shone through the two front windows, illuminating both sides of the porch. I lurked silently in the dark shadow caused by the door, hoping nobody saw me.
The sun was setting fast. The temperatures began to drop, though the mounting anxiety inside of me caused my back to sweat through my long-sleeved shirt that was underneath my stained and tattered sweatshirt.
Should I go in or should I turn around? Nobody was expecting me nor did anyone know I was there. It wasn’t too late to turn back.
“Don’t be a coward,” I told myself. I haven’t seen my family in seven years. They would be excited to see me, especially this time of year. Would they be excited to see me? Or would they be disappointed, ashamed, awkward or embarrassed to see me?
I stood there in front of the door, my right hand hovering just inches from the front door, backing away and then moving toward the door. Should I knock or turn around and flee?
The sound of children and adults laughing continued to overpower the silence of the coming night. A flood of fond Christmas memories momentarily distracted my mind from the near crippling anxiety I was feeling.
I continued to stand there as if frozen in time. The minutes felt like decades. Do I really want to disrupt their fun? If I showed up, all the attention would be on me. I don’t want that. I just want to be included, loved, accepted. Looking down at my tattered, faded sneakers, I took a deep breath.
“Well, here it goes. You got this,” I whispered to myself. My knuckles lightly tapped three times against the black painted front door. The knock was light, but it was heard above all the commotion inside.
My heart stopped as the door swung open, enveloping me in the warm, bright light of the inside.
“It’s James!” exclaimed the familiar voice of my grandma Ruth.
I stood there speechless looking around the room. Instead of the expectant judgmental stares, I was welcomed with 13 warm smiles. “Come on in,” the collective group beckoned.
With a smile back, I stepped inside, accepting their invitation. Maybe this will be a good Christmas after all.
The wooden boards squeaked underneath her feet as she rocked back and forth with anticipation for the door to open. A sweet almond smell of cake baking, snuck out of the house into the air, giving instant peace and remembrance of her childhood. As she looked around the porch where she was standing it was just as she remembered.
Built against the white ranch home the porch was wrapped in iron railing and balusters outlining the enclosed seating area. Above her was a teal painted ceiling and wooden spinning fan, so familiar to all the homes in the deep south. She could feel the cool breeze on her face as she gazed up at the brown fan.
In the corner of the porch, left of the front wooden door, sat iron garden chairs and a table. They showed their age with wrought iron showing through the chipped paint. They had definitely weathered a few storms. So many great stories were told seated around that table.
Now she was standing there again. She looked toward the door and smiled as she heard the approaching steps and a clunk of a cane. The footsteps stopped, the doorknob slowly turned, and the door began to open.
Late, but still wanted to write something, so I’m posting it as a comment, if that’s ok. (it’s also not my best work)
The red gingham pattern of her dress stood out starkly against the white siding of her picturesque childhood home. From my view, her life was pretty perfect. She had a loving family, friends that were with her through thick and thin, and everything a girl could want.
And as I stood here, in the street, my breath puffing out into great white clouds in the cold, watching her wait for me on the porch, I realized something.
I couldn’t stand here forever, watching her wait for me here on the porch. It was now I had to make the decision.