Ladies and gentlemen: the story you are about to hear is true. Only the names have been changed to protect the innocent. No animals were harmed in the course of this story, not even a turkey.
It was supposed to be the Thanksgiving of legends in my Antelope, California, home — a Pinterest-perfect feast where I’d flex my culinary muscles and make my Louisiana mama proud.
I’d scrubbed the house until it gleamed like a used car lot, drafted a grocery list so detailed it could’ve doubled as a military operation manual, and had visions of a turkey so golden it’d make Gordon Ramsay weep.
But, as the universe loves to remind me, I’m the kind of person who’d schedule a root canal for fun. I’d mixed up the dates. Mom wasn’t flying in two days from now—she was already here.
The doorbell didn’t just ring; it wailed like a banshee. I flung open the door to find my mother, Queen of Jambalaya, standing there in a bedazzled “Gumbo Goddess” sweatshirt, dragging a suitcase the size of a small Buick.
“Flights were for suckers, baby,” she declared, waving a gas station coffee cup like a scepter. “Drove 2,000 miles in my ’98 Corolla. Nearly ran over a tumbleweed in Nevada, but we made it!”
We? Oh, sweet chaos — she’d brought her neighbor, Miss Claudette, a woman who smells like mothballs and talks to her pet parrot (who wasn’t invited, thank goodness).
My brain short-circuited. The fridge held half a stick of butter, a questionable yogurt, and a single carrot that looked like it was auditioning for a horror movie.
Every store in Antelope was closed tighter than my wallet after a Black Friday bender. In a panic, I dialed Domino’s, the last bastion of hope in this culinary wasteland.
The guy who answered—let’s call him Chad—sounded like he was one order away from joining a monastery.
“Ma’am, we’re out of soda, wings, and joy. I got two pizzas, maybe. Delivery in 90 minutes. You want ‘em or not?”
I begged for those pizzas like I was negotiating a hostage crisis, throwing in a “pretty please” for some garlic sauce to soothe my shattered dreams.
While we waited, the house descended into a circus. Mom, wielding a bottle of hot sauce like a wizard’s wand, decided my kitchen needed “reorganizing” and stacked my Tupperware into a leaning tower of plastic.
Miss Claudette, meanwhile, was narrating her life story to my toaster, claiming it “had a kind face.”
My cousins, who’d crashed the party uninvited (because apparently “RSVP” means “bring your whole zip code”), were arguing over who’d win in a cage match: a turkey or a raccoon.
My nephew, Timmy, a 7-year-old agent of chaos, found a bag of frozen tater tots in the freezer and was now building a “potato fort” on the coffee table, using ketchup packets as mortar.
The Domino’s guy finally arrived, looking like he’d survived a zombie apocalypse. He handed over two pizzas—one pepperoni, the other sporting what looked like a crime scene of mismatched toppings (pineapple? Anchovies? Who hurt you, Chad?).
No soda, no sides, just a single, crumpled packet of parmesan dust. I tipped him with pocket lint and a whispered, “You’re my only friend.”
The dining room became a scene from a fever dream. Mom, undeterred by the lack of a proper feast, declared the pizza “Cajun fusion” and drowned her slice in hot sauce so spicy it could strip paint.
Cousin Jerry, who fancies himself a “foodie” because he once ate a gas station burrito and lived, tried to “plate” his pizza with a pair of tongs, only to launch a rogue anchovy into Miss Claudette’s beehive hairdo.
She didn’t notice, too busy telling my lamp about her bunion surgery. Timmy, now hopped up on stolen Halloween candy, declared himself “Emperor of Pizza-giving” and started pelting everyone with tater tots, screaming, “Bow to my crust!”
My sister, ever the optimist, tried to salvage the vibe by blasting a Christmas polka playlist from her phone.
Picture this: a room full of lunatics eating pizza under siege by flying tater tots, while “Jingle Bell Rock” gets a polka remix and my dog, Rufus, decides now’s the time to steal an entire pizza box and drag it under the couch, growling like he’s guarding the Holy Grail.
Mom, unfazed, raised a Solo cup of tap water (because, you know, no soda) and toasted, “To family, to madness, and to Domino’s for not hanging up on us!”
The room erupted in cheers, mostly because Cousin Jerry had just accidentally snorted parmesan dust and was coughing like he’d inhaled a glitter bomb.
By the end of the night, the house looked like a tornado hit a pizzeria. Timmy was asleep in his tater tot fort, clutching a candy cane. Miss Claudette was serenading the toaster with “O Holy Night.”
My cousins were plotting a midnight run to a 24-hour diner for “real food,” and Mom was already planning next year’s menu — spoiler: it’s gumbo with a side of pizza.
As I surveyed the wreckage, Mom slung an arm around me and cackled, “Baby, this was better than any ol’ turkey. We’re the Pizza-giving pioneers!” And honestly? She wasn’t wrong.
No one’s ever gonna top the year Antelope, California, reinvented Thanksgiving with a side of anchovies and pure, unfiltered chaos.
The assignment was to write a story of “What Happened” with the words, “Just Pick Up the Pieces” somewhere in the story. I chose to write about a Family drama after a Funeral
Funeral Flowers
“Just pick up the pieces.” Her voice trembled, a raw, jagged edge to it, like she’d clawed the words out of her chest and flung them at me. Clara stood in the dim kitchen, her silhouette framed by the gray dawn bleeding through the window, her eyes swollen but burning with a defiance I couldn’t match.
The air was heavy with the acrid tang of burnt coffee and the ghost of our grandmother’s lilac perfume, and on the floor, the shattered remains of her cherished teacup lay like a confession of everything we’d lost.
Each piece was a splinter of memory: her frail hands pouring tea, her voice weaving stories of love and war, her quiet faith that we’d always find a way through. Now she was gone, and the world felt like it had caved in, leaving me buried in the rubble.
I crumpled to my knees, the linoleum cold and unforgiving, my fingers hovering over the shards but too weak to touch them. My chest ached, a hollow, gnawing pain that had started when he walked out—his suitcase thudding against the doorframe, his “I’m sorry” as empty as the apartment he left behind.
But it wasn’t just him. It was Mom’s slow surrender to the bottle, Dad’s vanishing act years ago, the hospital bed where Gran took her last breath, whispering my name like a prayer I didn’t deserve. I was the dreamer, the fool who thought love could hold anything together, but all I had now was this broken teacup and a heart too heavy to carry.
“I can’t do it,” I choked out, my voice barely a thread, unraveling. “I don’t know how to keep going.”
Clara dropped beside me, her knees hitting the floor with a thud that echoed in the silence. Her hand gripped my shoulder, trembling but fierce, like she could anchor me to the earth by sheer will.
“You don’t have to know how, Lila,” she said, her words breaking as a tear slipped down her cheek, carving a path through the exhaustion etched into her face. “You just pick them up. One piece at a time. Not to make it whole again—because it won’t be. But to make something new. Something that can still hold you.”
Her voice cracked, and I saw it then—the weight she’d carried for years. Clara, who’d bandaged my skinned knees and Mom’s broken promises, who’d worked double shifts to pay for Gran’s medicine, who’d held my hand when the world fell apart. She was as broken as I was, but she was still here, still fighting, still picking up pieces when all I could do was stare at them.
My fingers closed around a shard, its edge biting into my palm, sharp enough to draw a thin line of blood. I held it up, the rose pattern catching the faint light, fractured but still beautiful, like a promise that even broken things could mean something. I thought of Gran’s hands, steady despite their tremors, and Clara’s, calloused but unyielding. Maybe I wasn’t them, but I was theirs—made of their strength, their stubborn love.
“Okay,” I whispered, my voice shaking but alive. “One piece at a time.”
Clara’s hand found mine, her grip warm and fierce, and together we reached for the shards—not to erase the cracks, but to build something new from them, something that could carry our grief and still shine.
Hey, everyone! I wanted to let y’all know that I won again — this time, it’s a $25 award. The story is based on the experiences of a woman in the foster care system. My story is dedicated to my dear friend, Dorothy Phillips, affectionately known as Dot in the story.
Dorothy is my bestie from California. We worked together in Sacramento County in Northern California. She was an excellent foster parent who cared for many children and babies in the Sacramento area.
Although Dorothy advocated mightily for the children in her care, she preferred to perform her service with the quiet fortitude of the character in Bette Midler’s song and story, “Wind Beneath My Wings”. In no way does this mean that I was the character that Midler played. And Dorothy did not die, as in the movie. However, the movie and song both reflect the love and admiration I have for this stalwart angel of God. She did the work of angels.
We haven’t spoken much these past few years. But there’s no doubt in my mind and heart, that our mutual love and respect continue — and will continue through the ages.
I testify that Dorothy Phillips is truly one of our Heavenly Father’s choicest daughters, having learned her inherent skills at the knee of her Heavenly Mother.
I ask for blessings upon her, her husband Francis, and her children, both natural-born and those countless spirits she nurtured and mothered. I say countless, because of her influence as a result to generations, like a ripple effect of a pebble dropped in a spring.
Dorothy’s nurturing qualities resonate with several figures from the Bible, but she most closely resembles Hannah.
**Mothering and Care: Hannah, the mother of Samuel, is known for her deep love and commitment to her son. After fervently praying for a child, she dedicated Samuel to the Lord’s service, showcasing her selflessness and devotion.
**Security and Comfort: Just as Dorothy provided a safe haven for foster children, Hannah offered emotional and spiritual support. Her story emphasizes the importance of a mother’s love and the lengths she would go to ensure her child’s well-being.
**Advocacy: Hannah advocated for her son’s future, much like how a foster parent advocates for the needs and rights of the children in their care. She sought God’s guidance and blessings for Samuel’s life, demonstrating her commitment to his spiritual and personal development.
Below is a story I entered in a contest on the website Fanstory. Unfortunately, I didn’t read the instructions carefully enough, so I wrote it too long. There was a max word count and I went over by quite a lot. Lesson learned: don’t be in such a rush and omit reading all the instructions! I entered late and was near the entry deadline. Oh well! Now, this is for your enjoyment: my attempt at mystery/crime writing.
Union Station
The phone buzzed on the counter, a persistent vibration slicing through the quiet hum of Anna’s kitchen. She glanced at it absently, stirring her coffee, the steam rising in lazy curls like forgotten memories.
The number was unfamiliar — an area code from somewhere east, maybe Chicago. She let it ring out, assuming it was another spam call about extended warranties or debt consolidation. But then it buzzed again. Same number. Her stomach twisted with an inexplicable unease. She picked up.
“Hello?” Her voice came out sharper than intended, edged with caution.
“Marcus?” She gripped the counter, the cool granite anchoring her as the room seemed to tilt. “How… why the hell are you calling me now?”
“Anna?” The reply was gravelly, worn by time, but instantly recognizable. Her breath caught in her throat. Marcus. After twelve long years.
A low chuckle escaped him, bitter and laced with exhaustion. “Didn’t think you’d hear from me again, did you? Hey, I didn’t either. But I’m in trouble, Anna. The kind that’s got me looking over my shoulder every single minute.”
She hadn’t heard that voice since the night he’d walked out of their cramped Chicago apartment. They were twenty-five then, wild and inseparable, tangled in a love that felt invincible—until it wasn’t.
He’d left behind a half-empty bottle of bourbon on the kitchen table and a scribbled note: I’m sorry. I can’t. No explanation, no goodbye. Just gone. She’d searched for him at first, calling friends, scouring social media, even filing a missing persons report. But he vanished like smoke.
Over the years, she’d rebuilt her life in Seattle: a steady job as a graphic designer, a cozy apartment overlooking the Sound, casual dates that never went anywhere. She’d convinced herself he was dead, or worse, that he simply hadn’t cared enough to stay. Now, here he was, dredging up the past like a bad dream.
“What kind of trouble?” she asked, her voice steady despite the storm brewing inside her.
“The kind where people end up dead if I don’t fix it fast.” A heavy pause stretched across the line. “I need your help, Anna. You’re the only one I can trust.”
She laughed, a sharp, hollow sound that echoed off the tiled walls. “Trust? You disappear for over a decade, and now you need my help? You’ve got some nerve, Marcus.”
“I know. Anna, I know.” His voice softened, cracking at the edges. “I wouldn’t be calling if there was any other way. Please.”
She paced the kitchen, her bare feet cold against the floor. Outside, the Seattle rain pattered against the windows, blurring the city lights into a hazy glow.
Hanging up would be easy—should be easy. But there was something in his tone: raw desperation, mingled with a fear she’d never heard from him before. It hooked her, pulling at threads she’d long thought severed.
“What do you need?” she said finally, the words tasting like defeat.
“There’s a package in a locker at Union Station. Chicago. I need you to pick it up and bring it to me.”
“Chicago?” Her voice pitched higher. “You expect me to drop everything, fly across the country for you? After all this time?”
“I’ll cover the ticket. Everything. Anna, please… it’s bigger than me. Bigger than what happened between us.”
She sank into a chair at the table, her coffee growing cold. “What’s in the package, Marcus?”
“I can’t say. Not over the phone. Lines aren’t safe.”
“Of course,” she muttered, rolling her eyes. “Same old Marcus, always with the secrets and shadows.”
He didn’t rise to the bait. Instead, he rattled off a locker number and a four-digit code. “There’s a flight out tomorrow morning. I’ll text you the details. Anna… I’m sorry. For everything. I never stopped—”
The line went dead before he could finish, leaving her staring at the phone, her heart pounding.
Sleep evaded her that night. She tossed in bed, memories flooding back: lazy Sundays in bed, laughing over burnt pancakes; heated arguments that ended in passionate reconciliations; the way his eyes lit up when he talked about his dreams of adventure, far from their mundane life. And then, the emptiness after he left.
She’d thrown herself into work, traveled solo to places they’d once planned to see together, even dated a few guys who reminded her a little too much of him. But none of it filled the void.
By dawn, she was at the airport, boarding a red-eye flight with a carry-on bag and a knot of doubt in her gut. Why was she doing this? Closure? Curiosity? Or something more stupid, like hope?
The flight was turbulent, mirroring her thoughts. She landed in O’Hare under a slate-gray sky, the wind whipping her hair as she hailed a cab to Union Station.
Union Station
The station was a bustling hive of echoes and hurried footsteps, commuters weaving through the grand hall like threads in a tapestry. She found the lockers in a dimly lit corner, the air thick with the scent of stale coffee and exhaust. Her fingers trembled as she punched in the code.
The door clicked open with a metallic groan. Inside sat a small metal case, no larger than a hardcover book, secured with a combination lock. It was heavier than it looked, as if weighted with secrets. She zipped it into her backpack, scanning the crowd for any watchful eyes. Paranoia, she told herself. But her skin prickled nonetheless.
Marcus had texted an address: a derelict warehouse on the city’s industrial outskirts. The cab driver raised an eyebrow but said nothing, dropping her off amid crumbling concrete and overgrown weeds.
The building loomed like a forgotten relic, its windows boarded up, graffiti scrawled across the rusted walls like urban hieroglyphs. She knocked tentatively, the sound swallowed by the wind.
The door creaked open, and there he was. Marcus. Older, with threads of gray weaving through his dark hair, deep lines etched around his eyes and mouth.
But those eyes — restless, piercing —were the same. They still held that spark, like he was always one breath away from bolting.
“You came,” he said, his voice a mix of relief and disbelief. He stepped aside, ushering her in.
“You didn’t leave me much choice.” She held up the backpack. “This what you wanted?”
He nodded, closing the door behind them with a soft click. The warehouse interior was cavernous, dimly lit by a single flickering bulb dangling from a chain.
Stacks of crates lined the walls, casting long shadows. A rickety table in the center held a clutter of yellowed papers, a laptop, and an empty takeout container. He took the case from her, his hands steady but reverent, as if handling something fragile and dangerous.
“What’s going on, Marcus?” she demanded, crossing her arms. “You owe me an explanation. A real one.”
He set the case on the table and flipped open the latches. Inside nestled a glass vial filled with an amber liquid that seemed to pulse faintly under the light, like a living thing. “This,” he said quietly, “is why I left all those years ago.”
She stared at it, then at him. “A vial? You left me over a vial?”
He sighed, rubbing his temples. “It’s not just any vial. I got mixed up with some bad people back then. Scientists, black-market types, government spooks—I still don’t know the full picture. They were developing something revolutionary. A serum. It could cure diseases, extend life… or weaponize it to control populations. I was their courier, their errand boy. Young and dumb, thinking I was part of something big.”
“And this?” She gestured at the vial, her voice laced with skepticism.
“The last viable sample. The project went south — betrayals, leaks. Everyone involved started disappearing. I took this and ran. That’s why I left you. To keep you safe. If they’d known about you…”
She processed his words, the pieces clicking into place like a puzzle she’d never wanted to solve. “So you’ve been hiding all this time? Running from shadows?”
“Not shadows. Real people. Ruthless ones.” His eyes darted to the door. “They’ve been closing in. That’s why I needed you — no connections, no trail.”
Before she could respond, a low rumble echoed outside: tires crunching on gravel, deliberate and ominous. Marcus’s face drained of color. “Great. They’re here.”
Adrenaline surged through her. “Who? Your ghosts?”
He grabbed her arm, yanking her toward a shadowed back exit. “No time. Run. Don’t look back.”
She wrenched free, her pulse thundering. “I’m not leaving you again, Marcus. Not like this.”
His gaze met hers, raw and conflicted; regret, fear, and something warmer flickering there. “Okay. Together, then.”
They burst out the back door into the pouring rain, the vial secure in her backpack. The downpour soaked them instantly, turning the ground to mud. Footsteps pounded behind, sharp voices slicing through the storm like knives. “There! Don’t let them get away!”
An alley stretched ahead, flanked by chain-link fences and abandoned lots. They sprinted, breaths ragged, splashing through puddles that reflected the city’s muted lights. A black SUV screeched around the corner, headlights piercing the gloom like predatory eyes, pinning them in place.
Marcus shoved her behind a rusted dumpster, his body shielding hers. “They’ll kill for that vial,” he whispered urgently, rain streaming down his face. “It’s not just a cure. It’s power. Whoever controls it decides who lives, who dies. Governments, corporations — they all want it.”
A shadow detached from the alley’s mouth: a figure in black, rain-slicked coat billowing, a silenced pistol glinting in the dim light. Anna’s heart hammered against her ribs, terror clawing at her throat. She clutched the backpack, the case’s weight a grim reminder of the chaos she’d stepped into.
“Marcus,” she hissed, “what now?”
He peeked around the edge, his jaw set. “We fight. Or we run smarter.”
The figure advanced, boots squelching in the mud, scanning the shadows. Lightning cracked overhead, illuminating the scene in stark white. The pursuer’s face was masked, eyes cold and methodical.
“Give it up, Hale!” the man shouted, voice muffled by the storm. “No more running!”
Marcus tensed, then whispered, “On three. We bolt left, toward the tracks.”
One. Two. Three.
They exploded from cover, zigzagging through the alley. A shot whizzed past, embedding in the fence with a metallic ping. Anna’s legs burned, fear fueling her speed. Another crack, louder, closer. Marcus stumbled, clutching his side, blood blooming through his shirt.
“Marcus!” she screamed, grabbing his arm.
“Keep going!” he gasped, pushing her ahead.
But the shadows multiplied —more figures emerging from the rain, closing the net. The vial thrummed against her back like a heartbeat. Ahead, train tracks gleamed under distant lights, a possible escape. Behind, the hunters drew nearer, their pursuit relentless.
As another shot rang out, splitting the night, Anna realized this call had pulled her into a web she might never escape. The rain washed away her tears, but not the dread: was this reunion, or the end?
You must be logged in to post a comment.