November Writing Challenge Story: "Piece of Pie"

12/8/2016

Today's story is... strange. I hadn't really thought about the challenge much throughout November and then I was like "Wow, I need to write that." And then one night, when I couldn't sleep, this popped in my head. It's very rough, and choppy, and a little weird. But it also has a smidgen of truth in it, and sometimes, imperfection or oddness can be good. So I thought I'd post this anyways, despite all it's flaws and not-so-great prose or style.

So here it is:

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"Piece of Pie":

There was one more slice of pumpkin pie. It was a mouthwatering orange against the dull glint of the metal pie tin and I studied it hungrily. Go ahead, Marco, take it, I mentally told myself. It looks lonely there by itself, anyways. I didn't need much convincing. Reaching my hand out I fumbled for the scalloped-edged pie server. It fell to the floor with a clatter. Cue internal panic! I yelled silently to myself as I lunged after it.
A chuckle stopped me in my tracks, and I lifted my head slowly till just my eyes were peering over the counter...causing me to immediately lock gazes with the freckle-faced brunette girl I had seen earlier. The one with the ponytail, not the one with the cat-ear headband.
She grinned and grabbed the last piece of pumpkin pie. "Haha! Victory!"
"I--uh--" I stammered. Quick, think of something to say! "Congratulations." Bad idea, Marco, bad idea. I'm sure that sounded intelligent.
She laughed and took a bite of the pie, then stepped over to the fridge. "Actually, guess what." she pulled out another pie tin. "My grandma is awesome and made not one, not two, but three pumpkin pies." She set the new pie on the counter and handed me the pie server. "Help yourself."
"Oh, uh--thanks." I blushed. Good job, Marco. Blushing? Really? What are you, some ninth grader? Blushing over pie. Great. What next? With a cautious hand, I dished up a piece.
She handed me the bowl of whipped cream. "Want some?" I nodded, and she dolloped a huge spoonful onto my plate, then onto her own piece of pie which she still held in her hand. "I'm Lily." she paused. "I guess maybe you might not be too familiar with us yet."
"Yeah, no." I shrugged. "I just uh--"
"Came for the food? Yep, me too. Well, besides Grandma and Uncle Max." Lily sat down at one of the island chairs. "He brought you here, right? Marco, isn't it?"
I could feel my face burning. Now is not the time to do your impression of an Eskimo with his first sunburn, Marco! If you can't be macho at least play it cool! "Yeah, actually it was Max-- Max Trumball? We met a few months ago."
"Awesome!" Lily nodded. "Our family has a policy for Thanksgiving--everyone is allowed to bring one special guest. Anymore it's just us five around, and we all tend to interpret the rule a little differently, but...hey! Thanksgiving is for being grateful, so who am I to complain?"
"You five?" I crammed some more pie in my face. Ok, so cool was an overestimate. Maybe try lukewarm?
Lily finished off her pie and wiped her hands on a napkin. "Yep. Me, my grandma, Uncle Max, my twin sister, and my younger brother Samuel. Kind of a weird family, isn't it? But that's because my brother and sister and I come from a really broken family. When my sister and I were ten we kids got taken away from our parents-- so Grandma took us in. And Uncle Max became our guardian too. He never married, you see. So...we're all pretty close. Flora and I are in college now, so we don't get home as often as we'd like...but at least we get to for Thanksgiving. A lot of kids don't get to do that."
I craned my neck to look past the door into the living room behind me. "So...the reason for all the extra people here is because you all bring a guest? I couldn't figure out why Max invited me--always thought Thanksgiving was for family."
Lily pursed her lips. "You can find family in all different places. My grandma brought Mrs. Eroll there--the older lady with the pink sweater? She's all alone, and they met in the grocery store when my grandma was picking up green beans last minute the other day. Sweet lady, you should talk to her. I think she's a riot." Lily stood up and moved closer to the door. I followed her. "And then my sister Flora in the crazy cat-headband brought the red-headed dude. Greg Byrant. But we've known him for a long time." She leaned closer with a mischievous sparkle in her eyes. "Two love-birds there, if you know what I mean. Just watch them--they're hilarious." I couldn't help it when my face cracked into a grin, but Lily didn't pay much attention. "Then my brother Samuel brought the younger boy. I guess they play basketball together in the open gym. His name is Cody."
How on earth does she remember all this stuff? She literally just met most of us, right? Stay calm, Marco-- deep breaths. Don't go paranoid on me yet! I gripped the door frame. "Wow, you have a good memory don't you?"
Lily tipped her head. "Not really. I guess I just remember what I care about."
I felt my eyes growing a bit misty. Emotions alert! Emotions alert! Ack, do something to cover up! I coughed loudly into my sleeve. Actually, it probably sounded more like a goat with bronchitis. But hey, it worked right? Manliness preserved.
It was quiet a minute, then I suddenly realized Lily hadn't told me who she had brought. "So uh--" I rubbed the back of my neck. "Who's your special guest?" I searched the living room where the others sat chatting in an easy manner. I didn't see anyone else-- Max, check. Grandma, check. Sister with cat-ear-headband, red-headed guy, brother Samuel, basketball player kid, pink-sweater old lady. Check. But nobody else.
Lily shifted, almost as if she was uncomfortable. "Well, ah--" she murmured. "She didn't come."
"I'm sorry." I glanced down at my shoes. Whoa, man, you need to get a new pair sometime. These look horrible! No wonder people won't give you a job!
"Yeah." Lily sighed. "Actually, it was my mom. But she never called back or anything-- only I really had hoped that after all this time she would at least want to see us."
My eyes widened. Hello, brain-- now is the time to actually work properly if that is in your capabilities!! "Wow." I mumbled. "I really am sorry. I guess random folks and homeless guys--like me-- aren't a very good substitute. I wish she would have come for you."
Lily bit her lip. "I didn't really want to ask her, at first. Not after all she and my dad did to us back when we were little. It wasn't a good situation, and we had a lot of stuff to work through mentally and emotionally after that. But then I started thinking about the meaning of Thanksgiving. You know-- and read in my Bible a certain Psalm. One hundred and thirty-six. I memorized the first three verses: 'O give thanks unto the LORD; for he is good: for his mercy endureth for ever. O give thanks unto the God of gods: for his mercy endureth for ever. O give thanks to the Lord of lords: for his mercy endureth for ever.' And the whole rest of the chapter, after everything they say, they repeat the 'for his mercy endureth forever'. And I just thought...if God can extend His mercy so much on me...on us as sinful, rebellious people-- then why can't I extend it to my parents? After all, the number one thing I'm thankful for in my life is God's goodness and grace towards me, and it just seemed..." her voice trailed off, and for a few seconds, it was silent. Then she gave a wry, strangled sort of laugh. "But you probably are wondering how you got stuck in this kind of a conversation with a practical stranger."
I swallowed hard. "No, I needed to hear that." I straightened my shoulders. "You know, I've been feeling pretty down lately. Just...a lot of reasons why. You know, I heard about God before, although I think over time I've forgotten how good He really is. I needed to remember."
Lily smiled. Her uncle Max spotted us and waved his arm wildly. "Marco!" he shouted from the living room.
"Polo..." We both said it without thinking before we broke off in embarrassed laughter.
Great, you just acted like a twelve-year-old. I congratulated myself. I smacked my hand against my forehead. "I'm sorry, I'm awkward."
Lily shook her head and made a face. "Flashback to when I was a kid. That was weird."
Her uncle Max had gotten up and joined us. "What's weird? You, Lily? Yes, I agree."
Lily punched his arm in a playful gesture and I chuckled--the first time in a long time. "Nah, Uncle Max. Life is weird. Hey, I have to wash dishes, I promised Grandma I would. You and the guys should go play some basketball or something."
Max draped his arm around my shoulder. "You any good, son?" He asked as he steered me towards the door. "I might as well let you in on a little secret--I'm basically a professional." He winked. "Glad you could come, Marco."
"Me too." I nodded. "Thank you. I think I needed a good old-fashioned gratefulness-filled Thanksgiving."
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Oh, and the challenge for December...
and it is: Write a Story About Love. There are so many different kinds of love and I think that Christmas is just one of the times to stop a minute and think about all the many ways God loves us and the many ways we can show love to others. ;) Let me know in the comments below if you managed to do the challenge this November or not-- I know with NaNoWriMo we were all busy! :P

You all have a lovely day!
<3
Victoria

15 Comments

Sara W.

12/8/2016 03:57:07 pm

Sara W.

12/8/2016 03:59:00 pm

Okay, hi, here's the actual comment that I didn't post. :-)
I LOVED this. I wouldn't mind an extended story! (no pressure, ofc....)

Victoria Minks

12/14/2016 05:18:53 pm

Lol, thanks, Sara! I'm really glad you liked it! :)

Olivia

12/8/2016 08:00:29 pm

Awww, loved the November challenge you did :))

Hard to believe Christmas is almost here!! I'm planning to write a short Christmas story set during the 1950s...just making sure I have all my ideas together :)

Victoria Minks

12/14/2016 05:20:02 pm

*yay!* Glad you liked it, Olivia! Yes, I know! Christmas is swiftly approaching! *eek!!* I'd love to hear your short Christmas story if you want to share it, by the way... hint hint. ;)

CutePolarBear

12/9/2016 03:44:49 am

Loved it! :) It was pretty funny.

Victoria Minks

12/14/2016 05:20:50 pm

Thanks so much! :) It's really surprised me how many people like it! lol.

Katja L.

12/10/2016 12:02:10 pm

Hahaha, oh, I love this! ‘Marco’ is so funny. . . classically you! You have a real talent for pulling characters like that. :) I'm looking forward to the December Challenge! Are you doing it next year too? <3

Victoria Minks

12/14/2016 05:22:15 pm

Lol, thanks Katja... I know "Classic Me" is for sure. Maybe that's why it's so odd and awkward, haha! Yes, I am planning on challenges next year as well...but maybe doing it a little bit different. ;) We'll see.

Katja L.

12/17/2016 04:13:21 am

I don't mean the story was awkward. I mean that you often pull up these characters who have inside talks with themselves, and they're so funny, I love them!! I didn't see anything weird about the story; it's lost better than mine, respecting the challenge! :P

Victoria Minks

12/31/2016 11:00:06 am

Aw thank you so much Katja. That's super sweet. :)

Abigail

12/20/2016 02:48:05 am

Aw...I loved this! Sorry it took me so long to comment! :) I think this is one of my favorites that I have read of your stories. The characters were so well written. You have a knack for that, I think. I wish I did. :) I loved Lily's personality. She was so sweet, funny, etc. I loved the Marco Polo part! I always love reading your stories! Thanks for sharing them with us! :)

Victoria Minks

12/31/2016 11:01:37 am

Thanks so much, Abigail! It makes my day when I get comments like yours--makes sharing the stories worth it. :)

Katja L.

2/27/2017 09:20:44 pm

I know it's very late, but I DID write it during the challenge time, and i thought you'd like to see it anyway. :) <3

True Christmas Beauty:
A Tale of Estrangement
“Glory to God in the highest,
and on earth peace,
good will toward men.”
—Luke 2:14

The Christmas lights sparkled gaily from the dark-green recesses of the tree. Glass balls, in swirling colors of bright red, green, blue, and gold, alternated with shining ropes of red and gold tinsel.
Acacia carefully tucked a bit of the snowflake-patterned lace back onto the branches.
Aaren loved that lace.
She frowned at the unbidden thought. Straightening, she folded her arms across her chest, her frown deepening at an unpleasant poke of her conscience: Peace on earth. . . good-will towards men. . .
‘Men’, as in, ‘human beings,’ Acacia sniffed. It does not mean I must be good to men. She pulled her embroidered jacket tighter, as a shield against such wet-blanket thoughts and stepped decisively up to the parlor fire.
It was a small but cheery room. The dingy whitewashed walls were hidden by broad garlands of red and gold ribbons. Upon the door, and upon every window-sill top, was a green wreath entwined with holly-berries, mistletoe, and gilt bells. A string of matching bells, in miniature, draped gracefully across the front of the mantlepiece. The top of this article was graced by a small, oval basket containing some greenery, a few Christmas balls, pinecones, and berries. A little but very bright and evidently cheerful fire danced in the fireplace, and sparkled upon the twisted, colored glass tinsel that hung across each window-sill.
But although the room fairly shone with Christmas beauty, it was empty. For there was no Christmas spirit.
There was no joy. No verses, pointing out the Reason for the Season. No lisping children reciting the grand old story of His arrival. No large, honored Bible opened to those gladsome chapters. No spectacled father returning thanks for The Gift.
There was no love. No giddy children, laughing below the tree. No smiling couple, counting their blessings. No proud parents, watching the wealth of children and grand-children. No friends, remembering hilarious days passed together.
There was no peace. No serene sense of having cared for the ill and alone. No comfortable recollection of giving aid to the helpless and forgotten.
There was only tall, thin Acacia—bitter, angry, pained. Bitter in the recollection of the loss of her parents. Angry in the remembrance of her quarrel with her little brother. Pained by the memory of her conscience.
Acacia had been wealthy and happy enough once. But when her brother, disregarding all warnings, persisted in friendly advances to disreputable men, her father suddenly discovered he had been forged of his life's savings. In a fit of anger, he had had a stroke and had departed. In a burst of sorrow, his wife's heart had failed and she had followed. The evening after the funeral, while Acacia had been seated by the fire lost in anger and grief, Aaren had come in. With a stab of mingled pain and anger, she remembered the glint of triumphant joy in his eye. Before he had even had time to remove his boots, she had risen, and in a burst of vehement accusation and virulent rejection, she ordered him away. He had attempted to reason, and then plead, but Acacia, always fiercely indomitable, was now iron, and she had turned him from the door. Alone, she had sold all she could, and then left her little town. In a tiny village, over in the next shire, she had rented a tiny little one-room cottage. Here she spent twenty long years.
She was now fifty-one, and more hard and bitter than ever before. She had never heard of her brother again, but her conscience ensured that she never forgot him.
She shook her head, decisively, and cleared her thoughts. It was now ten. She had two hours to wait until she could retire. It was a tradition in their family to stay up and usher Christmas in. In old times, the hours had been filled with mirth and family. Now, she was alone with her thoughts and her memories.
A soft, almost meek tap at her door roused her. She threw it open, squinting into the dark in which fluttered bits of feathery white.
A man stood there.
“Lacie?” The question was hesitating, almost pleading.
Acacia drew in her breath in a choke. Aaren's nickname for her!—she had not heard it in twenty long years.
That was too long. She had thought she hated the boy—but now she knew she had always loved him, and that she always would.
“Aaren!” She held out her hands to him, resentment and hate melted at his voice.
Striding in, he flung his arms about her and shut the door with his booted foot. Acacia cried in mingled shame and delight, and he squeezed her tightly.

Katja L.

2/27/2017 09:21:45 pm

“Don't cry. All is well.”
The gentle, lilting voice!—how well she remembered it. And Aaren—still tall and handsome and merry-eyed at thirty-five, although there were traces of sorrow and anxiety in his face.
Seated by the fire, they tried to chatter merrily of this and that, but there was a barrier between them—a barrier in the shape of a lost fortune.
“Acacia,” Aaren said at last, his eyes upon his feet, “do you still believe I forged it?”
Acacia caught her breath. “Then—you didn't!?” she cried, leaning forwards.
Aaren threw her a pained expression. “Lacie—do you really think I could?”
Acacia's mouth dried. No. She did not. How could she ever had thought it of him?
Tears flooded her eyes. “No. I don't. I don't understand how I ever did. I-I must have been crazy with sorrow; I needed someone to blame. I-I apologize, Ren.” Acacia shook her head, penitent.
Aaren squeezed her hand, his eyes sparkling again. And suddenly, the Christmas decorations faded away before the dazzling beauty of the Christmas spirit of Joy, Love, and Peace.