I’m coming off of a weekend sequestered at home because of a marathon run-in with a stomach bug. That virus is still lingering in corners, threatening to zap the last standing victim. In fact, it may have just tagged my son. And, I’m still recovering.
‘Tis the season.
At times like this, I appreciate the work of those around me, like my husband who kept the house running and the kids moving all day, while I stared out the window at the sun shining and cursed the virus. And like fellow authors of the Dead Shoe Society who ramped up big time over the last few days and pulled together story submissions to create a cool, new anthology, while I stared out the window at the sun shining and cursed the virus.
The anthology is up and ready for your Kindle. You can read more about it and the stories within (including mine, “If It Wasn’t for Sylvia”) in this great post on Victoria Flynn’s blog, Penny Jars. Then, if the stories intrigue you, click on Amazon or on Smashwords to purchase your own copy. If you prefer books in hand rather than on screen, rumor is that paperback copies will be available in no time flat (those Dead Shoe Society folks work fast, like little elves).
The other thing I did during Stomach Bugapalooza was think back through my flash fiction archives for a piece apropos during this time of year, the giving season (if you don’t have the energy to write a post, you can always re-post a post). This piece, first published last year around this time, introduces you to a woman named Cecilia, who does what I wish I had been doing on Sunday…while I stared out the window at the sun shining and cursed the virus.
Hope you’re all staying healthy, finding great new books to read, and keeping up with your lists!
~
Celia Loves
Celia only had three things left on her list of Christmas gifts: a book on wolves for her nephew, Dylan, wild animal that he was; a cookbook for her sister, Mary, Paula Deen’s latest convert; and a gift card for her brother, Jim, who never latched on to anything, not even a wife.
In the bookstore, she wandered past the Bestsellers and paused at the New Fiction. She thumbed through calendars and flipped through books filled with quotes. She was drawn to the display of journals and pens, unable to resist the feel of fine paper between her fingers and the weight of a good pen.
She eyed a travel journal; but she had no where to go. She picked up a nondescript diary with a brown leather cover, smooth and tempting: a classic. She considered a package of fountain pens; the things she would write.
Carol of the Bells rang out from the store lobby and pulled her attention toward a group of young adults. Dressed in Christmas Story costumes, they had stationed themselves near the front doors and begun a chorus of holiday cheer. A young man singing tenor looked a lot like her nephew might in a few years.
Dylan. She turned back to her list.
From the shelves of the Young Adult section, she grabbed an old classic, Wolfling. In the cookbook section, she reached for Paula Deen’s It Ain’t All About the Cookin’. Celia agreed with that title, knowing that behind every recipe is a good story. Then, Celia went back and picked up a small book of quotes she’d been reading before. She paid for the books, a gift card, and a package of pens for herself. Then, she sat down in her car and wrote inside each book’s cover.
To Dylan. Dear Lover of wolves, You’ll find plenty of facts about habitats and behavior in other books, but the real learning is hidden in stories. Henry Wadsworth Longfellow said it best: “The love of learning, the sequestered nooks, and all the sweet serenity of books.”
To Mary. Miguel de Cervantes in Don Quixote said “All sorrows are less with bread” – or, if you’re Paula Deen, a red velvet cake. Let’s bake one together. I miss you.
To Jim. You’re a man of mystery, impossible to buy for, and you work too much. Annie Dillard offers wise advice: “Spend the afternoon. You can’t take it with you.” I love you.
Celia put the cap on her new pen and slipped it inside her purse. She started her car and turned up the heat, though she was already warm.
*photo credit: PermaCultured on Flickr.com
Right in the middle of the season, professional football players get a bye week. On injured reserve or not, they kick up their feet that Sunday and watch everyone else mix it up on the turf, cut across the field, get chased by antagonists. We should all be so lucky.
The next day, we baked up a batch of pumpkin bread that begged to be eaten right out of the oven. Pumpkin bread makes for a good afternoon snack, and may even be the cure-all. When I heard the little girlie singing in the shower and caught her getting all gussied up in front of the mirror, I knew she was on the mend.
