Reviews, Recipes, and Random Slices of Life

Artwork Winner

Star of Bethlehem by R. Lee

Click to see full-size version.

Poetry Winner

Heidi is a professional writer who enjoys surprising people. Contact her at h dot waterhouse at gmail dot com.

The Gingerbread House by Heidi Waterhouse

Come in, come in, my dears!
I haven't seen you in years.
Nice of you to visit an old lady
who is past the age of shoving
anyone into any ovens.
I know, it's terrible how I've let the place go,
although it's polite how you don't say so.
But do what you can, the firmest siding
starts to stale, and the rain sets the icing to sliding.
Are you keeping well? Good, good,
I always like to know I send only the best into the world.
Those kids too slow or dumb or trusting...
No, dear Greta, don't be dusting.
I'll die and the mice and mold and entropy will have their way,
the candy canes will come unstriped, and gingersnaps decay.
But that's life, and old age for you, and it's so nice you visited,
I understand that it's a busy season and you have to go.
Take a gumdrop. No, really! For old time's sake. I know
you'll take care of it, unlike some of those other ingrates.
Are you sure you wouldn't like some tea? Well.
Well. Have a nice season! Come again.

Fiction Winner

Three Winters and One by Michael Greenhut

A story for grown-up children

Christopher [I]

"I am dying," the snowman spoke softly. His voice, high and soft, warmed Christopher more than all of his mother's blankets. Now, that voice was cracking and melting like the snowman's white, round face � a face that would smile until it was gone. The snowman acted like most grown-ups, smiling when he was sad.

Christopher felt the same grownup sadness, but he could not smile about it, since he was only seven years old.

No. His throat felt hard and tight. He covered his mouth with blue, snow-sprinkled gloves, coughing out cold winter steam. No, no. His coughing always grew worse when he was upset. You can't die. You can't die if I put you back together. He scooped up a handful of snow, one of the few fading lumps that still covered the backyard grass. He placed it gently on the upper corner of the snowman's chest. It looked wrong, like a third shoulder.

His heart sank as it toppled back off, taking an extra chunk of the snowman with it.

Water melted down from the snowman's uneven eyes, two cuff links that Christopher had taken from his father's old suit. Even Christopher, more a believer in fairy tales than most of his schoolmates, never thought that a pair of buttons could look so sad.

"Christopher . . . " A few more flakes broke off the snowman's chest. Was he trying to breathe like a real person? "I watched you come into this world, before you shaped me with your hands, or your mind."

Then don't go!

"Don't you remember the stories your mother read you? Nobody likes countries where it's winter all the time. Nobody, except evil queens."

Then I'll be a queen some day.

The snowman chuckled.

Christopher wiped his eyes, coughing into his glove a few more times. Next winter he would be a year more grown up, which meant he would want to play with the snowman a little less. A year later, even less. And less. And less.

Christopher pulled off his red hat. The wind, a little warmer than yesterday, tickled his matted brown hair. Stupid seasons. I don't have any friends after winter. You're the only one who plays with me and doesn't throw my lunch in the girls' room, or make fun of the pom-pom on my hat, or trick me into believing things, or call me the cough-boy.

The snowman laughed like a tired grandfather, placing a gloved hand on Christopher's thin, quivering shoulder. The hand warmed him almost as much as the voice.

Christopher stopped trying to wipe his cheeks dry. At that moment he believed what his mother told him, that he'd be a little boy forever, and he hoped she was right. He didn't want grow another day, another hour, another moment. Please don't go. Or if you have to go, take me with you so I don't have to go back to school next Tuesday.