CHUD Stories Submissions, Rounds 1 & 2

I said I would post them, and here they are:

"Ash," by Spike Marshall
(A response to prompt 1, "Merry Little...")

Betwixt life and death the old mansion hangs. So foreign to life that it is now more mausoleum than home. If divinity was in the eye of the beholder then this abandoned testament to 19th century construction could easily be a man’s own private hell. In Christopher’s case that was as literal as it was figurative.

Christopher dropped his cigarette onto the frozen ground before stamping it out. The sky was grey and heavy, the clouds bloated with celestial melancholy threatening the snow so many pined for. Christopher came from a world of hopeless romantics, people who chirped for balmy summer days and a bit of snow at Christmas. Christopher had lived with snow at Christmas, it was neither magical nor spiritual just painful. Almost out of habit he pulled a fresh cigarette out of the packet in the breast pocket of his jacket.

A spark of flint and Christopher was back to his chain smoking ways. He dropped the heavy brass lighter back into his pocket before buttoning himself up tightly. It disconcerted him how well his father’s suit fitted him. He’d raided the wardrobes before going into town for supply, now the only piece of clothing that was his was the silk scarf wrapped around his neck. It felt more like a noose than an item of clothing, but he liked having it close. It reminded him of civilisation. He picked a red can up out of his car boot and slowly marched up the drive as the threatened snow slowly started to descend. It was a thick fall, strong but soft. It’d cover the ground in no time which meant that his time at best was limited.

The door was unlocked, as it always was. His dad had always figured that if a thief had the gall and tenacity to scale a mountain for his robbing he was welcome to whatever he found. Unsurprisingly no thief had ever taken his father up on that offer. Even with new SUVs it was a motherfucker of a drive and it was hardly like the family had anything remotely stealable. Having a television was a kindness his father would not have tolerated. As such it was with great pride that Christopher plugged in his portable CD player and let the empty house reverberate with the sound of some obscure Canadian rock band.

He put the kettle on the hob and set it to boil, the idea of an electric kettle far too much a luxury for this household. His stomach rumbled with disdain as the kitchen clock reminded him that he hadn’t eaten for at least ten hours. He grabbed the large loaf of bread from the cupboard and went to draw the bread knife from its block. It took a few grasps at thin air before Christopher remembered what he’d done with the bread knife, suddenly he didn’t feel quite as hungry and instead set about making himself a drink.

He sat down at the dining table and took slow methodical sips of his coffee; he answered his mobile and gave slow methodical answers to the questions his wife asked. In the end he promised her he’d be back home by the end of the day. She said she loved him; he hung up and slid the phone across the oak table. He must have thrown a little hard as the phone careered off the edge of the table and dropped onto the chair opposite Christopher.

He just stared at the chair, lost in thought. He wondered why his father hadn’t hid it like the rest of Jessica’s things. Burying her memories with her casket had been his only solution. When Christopher had been twelve and Jessica had been nine Uncle Bill had built them these wonderful yew dining chairs. Their names carved into the headrest with the kind of paternal pride their father so obviously lacked. The only gift their father had given them was a denser bone structure, and in Jessica’s case a final escape.

His mind flashed back to the winters he spent here a cruel stipulation of his father’s Machiavellian divorce settlement. A self confessed genius, with a team of crack lawyers against a woman who had long since slipped past the verge of a nervous breakdown had resulted in a rather one sided custody battle.

As Hades stole away Persephone for the winter months so did his father steal Christopher and kin from their mother as soon as the days turned short. They were little more than a weapon to him; he cared little for them outside of how much damage their departure did to their frail mother. As his thoughts started to dwell on the image of his mothers shoes hanging in the kitchen Christopher forced himself to stop thinking.

He got to his feet and grabbed his chair by the headrest before smashing it against the hard kitchen floor. He lurched across the kitchen and did the same with Jessica’s chair before picking up the splintered wood and throwing it into the open fire.

The newly lit fire roared with incandescent glee as Christopher fed it more and more fuel, his rampage leaving no piece of wood unscathed. Lamps, tables, sofas, books; all were fed to the fire. Damn Hades, damn the rage, damn the depths of this conscious daze.

The fire boomed greedily now, its flaming tendrils threatening to devour all they could find and encroach past the bounds of the fireplace. That was for later, not for now. Christopher embraced this new found fortitude ran to the door and picked up one of the cans before opening and throwing its contents all across the walls and floors. The smell of petroleum stung his eyes and nose as his inescapable rage compelled him to continue. More containers were opened, more was doused. The flames salivated at their feast, the petroleum laced banquet but minutes away.

Two cans left now.

He picked up one and dashed upstairs. He walked past his father’s favourite paintings (all slashed from corner to corner), his father’s bookcase (the books plucked of pages and meaning), his father’s whisky cabinet (its contents long since used to numb various pains) and finally he arrived at the kicked in door to his father’s bedroom.

He had seemed so big in life, a devil made flesh with hands of steel and a heart of coal. The intellect trapped in the cruellest shell, caring more for books and his own perversions than those around him. He had been a spellcaster of sorts, able to entrance those around him with the books he read, the wines he drank and the art he knew. But there was no passion for flesh beneath it all, just cold disciplined intellect tempered with the cruelty of a sociopath.

Now he was just a man and in his death he was remembered by none and pitied by even less. The thing that had once been father was little more than an object, a monument to hatred. His mouth was agape, his eyes frozen with absolute terror (understandable considering he had had a bread knife thrust into his chest) and the only life to him were the insects which flocked around his rather appetising corpse.

Christopher had survived sixteen winters with the man he called father before he had escaped his family forever. His return was no joyous reunion; it was simply the settling of unfinished business. His new family could not flourish without the ashes of his old life.

Christopher opened the can and threw it at the corpse, the liquid fuel leaking onto his father’s bloody shirt. Below the fire had caught hold and was ripping through the house. He pulled the lighter out of his jacket pocket, lit it and threw it onto the corpse.

The effect was glorious.

Christmas Past
By Creston “Detonathor” Block
(A response to prompt 1)

The date was December 18, 1995. It was my wife, Maggie that answered the door. I could hear her gasp from the dining room; while my son, Michael, a college senior, and I were busy planning the Christmas party for the supermarket employees (we held a supermarket chain. Our family business, you know.) We looked at each other with puzzled looks and went to the door. Maggie seemed to be just startled, but unnerved nonetheless. “Would you like to come in and warm yourself?” she asked, with a hint of a wavering twang in her pitch. The man at the door didn’t answer. The sight of his appearance! His clothes were tattered, his grey beard smothered with crumbs and dirt; his white skin was pale and his face was hollow. The black hat on his head was not enough to keep his head warm. This man must have been in a daze for a while. I thought on that spot that the charity organization must have kicked him out. Maggie asked our visitor if he needed something. He didn’t say anything. His eyes merely observed our characteristics. I was getting impatient. I said to the man, “If you don’t want anything, stop wasting our time.” After we had closed the door, we waited for him to leave. After a couple of minutes of staring at the door, he left.

December 20th. Maggie and I were decorating the tree when we heard the knocking on the door. I opened it, and there he was again. He was just as filthy as ever. I told him once more not to bother us. He still didn’t answer. Sighing heavily, I had no choice but to let him in. He seemed relieved that he was in a building for once. Maggie was upfront. “He might be carrying the flu,” she argued. I assured her that all he needs is some shelter until the organization will come to pick him up. My wife’s shoulders sagged to defeat. Michael, on the other hand, greeted him with an open palm that invited a handshake. The man immediately rushed to the next room as he saw him. Michael turned to me. “He must think I have the plague or what?” he joked.

December 23rd. It had been three days since we called the organization, they promised they would arrive in a few short days after work is done, and already we despise our guest. Every morning, he would come out of his bedroom, take a look around the kitchen, eat his breakfast that Maggie prepares, and walks back into his bedroom. He didn’t do anything wrong, yet, but his presence left a sour mood in the air. Whenever I walk into his bedroom, he accepts whatever I offer; candies, fruit, newspapers, and he never says a word. Maggie would try to talk about her day to him, and he still never says a word. The most insulting aspect of his behavior is how he views our son. Michael, twice, tried to talk, but he slams the door as soon as he starts to speak. The gall of him! My family runs the finest business in the state, and this is how he treats his host! He won’t even say his name!

I do not want to continue on, the memory feels too raw. You insist I must pursue? Very well. It was finally Christmas Eve, and Maggie was out shopping to pick up gifts for our relatives. Michael told me that he will try again to coax the stranger to spend some time downstairs and get in the holiday mood. Anything to kill the sour atmosphere, I suppose. He went upstairs just as the phone rang. It was the charity organization, and they are willing to pick up our man. I thanked them and hung up. My eyes turned to the clock. Maggie should be home any minute. I heard the door creak open upstairs. I did not hear any door slam this time.

After Maggie had come home, we both agreed not to disturb them. It was our assumption to us that our son was successfully talking to him, and apologizing for our behavior towards him over the last couple of days. However, we did not hear anything over the last hour. The organization still hadn’t shown up. Maggie was starting to fidget, urging me to go check up on them. I obeyed. I walked up the stairs, and looked at the man’s room. The door was closed. There was silence. Getting more concerned by the minute, I rushed to the door-handle. It wouldn’t budge. I nearly shouted to open the damn door, but no answer. Maggie appeared behind me and she was clearly scared. Much to our fright, we heard a deafening thunder-crack inside the room. A flash of light was seen under the door’s cracks. Finally, I have had enough. I slammed against the door with all my weight and it came through. There he was, the stranger just sitting on his bed like he always does. In his hands he was holding a curious looking box, but that wasn’t my concern. Michael is not in the room anymore. “Where is he?” I asked him. He didn’t answer. I demanded to know where he was, or I will call off the charity and call the police instead. He looked up at me as if he sees my face for the first time in his life. “I am sorry,” he replied. “I am so very sorry.”

“What do you mean? Where is he?”

“He is gone.”

My frustration grew deeper. My wife started to cry. This sick joke was going nowhere. I asked him again to where he had gone.

“I sent him back –“

“FOR GOD’S SAKE, SPILL IT OUT – WHERE DID YOU SEND HIM!!!”

He flinched at my outburst. “I sent him back in time.” He carefully continued, “I sent him back forty-four years to where he would begin his journey back here.”

He held up his box. “This,” he said, “This is a device that was given to me long ago. It can send any living soul to a time that he so desires to go. And he can never come back.”

“What are you saying?!” I barked. “What did you to Michael?!?”

“I told you, I sent him back.”

“Stop talking,” my wife wept behind my back. “Please.”

“But don’t you see?” he went on. “I thought I could never come back. But I have. I have been through so much…”

My fury was already at a boiling point as he looked up at me and said:

“Now I have come home. It is me, your son.”

Creston's story, "Christmas Past," con't:

Maggie screamed as she bolted out of the room. You son of a bitch, I thought. My fists delivered blows to his face and pushed him against the mirror where the glass shattered. The box he was holding fell to the floor. He tried to protect himself with his arms, but I swatted them away as I beat him to oblivion. I wanted to make him suffer whatever he had done to my boy. As I stood there, breathing hard, he laid there bleeding onto the carpet. His eyes wandered to me. “I love you.” he said weakly. I gave him one more kick to the face with my foot.

I walked around the house with a collar on my foot. It had been a few days since the trial. The autopsy report at the session revealed that my guest had died from the injuries I had given him. He was suffering from a respiratory illness for a while, and I ended his life in the most degrading manner possible. The jury convicted me guilty of manslaughter, although I was sentenced to house arrest, which is where I am now. Just a few minutes ago, I had learned from an associate that people stopped coming to my supermarkets. The incident had put an end to the family business. I had never thought this could happen to me. Even though I was full of shame, my resent at the stranger grew and grew. I would never trust anyone who lived on the streets again. I gave them charity and this is how they pay back? I start to pace upstairs, in and out of the bedrooms, wondering what to do about my future. My eyes followed every detail in each room, carefully constructing on how to bring my life back together. A new business could be started. No need to worry. Past mistakes can be forgiven and they can be easily ignored – then I saw them. The deceased man’s clothes were hung in the closet. I stopped pacing. The police must have missed them. There was no time to ponder this flaw of theirs, for I was anxious. Could the answers to my predicament be in there? I wondered. I flung them on the bed and started to investigate.

As I ruffled through his clothes, my anger was rising again. I needed to know. What was he doing? While searching, I remember him showing me the box that he claimed was a Time Machine, which was a tasteless lie of his. Before the police took it away, I could remember what it looked like. Buttons appeared here and there on the surface, and wires protruded out of it due to being smashed on the floor. I threw the memory aside with annoyance and rummaged some more. My hand caught something in the pocket; it looked like a journal. I am so deeply sorry, my relatives. We are now getting to the part that pains me the most. I don’t know if I am ready to tell it. All right, here it goes; as I opened to the first page, I nearly fell backwards. The handwriting was my son’s. The only son I ever had, who vanished on Christmas Eve. The date at the top, March 6th, 1951, was clear as day. My mind started to panic. His writing explains of how he had tried to convince the man to come downstairs, and then noticing him taking a device out of his coat. He couldn’t remember what happened next, as he found himself on the dirty ground in the cold air. I flipped through the pages and back again. The pages within told of journeys in the streets, begging for food, and stories of countless arrests. He had also taken photos of himself, showing that he had a successful advantage at first, taking a job at a restaurant and smiling with his newfound friends. He spoke of the Time device that he had found while trying to sell his belongings at a pawn shop to try to survive the winter. Then there were the rest of the photographs. As they spilled out of the journal, I could see him at ages forty-five and fifty. I remember feeling sick at this moment. My eyes darted at the photos’ details, and back again to the journal. He was looking haggard and extremely tired. He soon bought a familiar black hat and tattered-looking clothing from a laundry…

That was twelve years ago, my dearest relatives. Yes, I can tell by the looks on your faces that I may have read too many of the comics that the doctors leave in my room. I have told my tale to you to share my understanding of the poor wretches out there who live out there on the streets, struggling to even get a loaf of bread. I know, because I have seen my son struggling to survive through it all in his life, in that journal. I do not know how this unnatural phenomenon had occurred, or where that device had come from, but it did happen. Maybe nature itself wanted to teach me of my affluences, to punish me for my selfish choices for the sake of the family business. I don’t know. Nobody should have to suffer out there, not after what my son had been through.

“YOU ARE BEING HIJACKED”
By Steve, "Doc Happenin"
(A response to prompt 2)

The impeccably dressed man slipped a folded note to the passing stewardess shortly before takeoff. Believing it to be a note of affection or a phone number, she quickly placed it in her breast pocket and continued on with her duties without pause. Martin “M.O.” O’Donnell, who had witnessed the interaction, thought nothing of the pleasantries. His daughter, a former stewardess herself, had met her husband in a similar fashion, though that was on a Trans-Pacific flight, and not some forty five minute puddle jump for those, like Martin, who were too lazy to drive home from Portland to Seattle for the holiday weekend.

Martin buckled in and attempted a few minutes rest. Despite its brevity, it had been an exhausting week. Crowds were poised to begin Christmas shopping that Friday and he had to ensure they knew what was being sold. Traveling for something non-business related felt like the best thing in the world. When sleep failed, as it inevitably did, he returned to his latest novel, an over-sexed, over-violent piece of fluff that kept hundreds of hack novelists in hearth and home. After several pages of shallow prose, he gave up on the book and simply existed, enjoying the peace of not doing.

When the stewardess returned to the aft cabin, the sharp dressed man tapped her on the arm and whispered something into her ear. Horror washed over her face and she fumbled for the note the man had given her just minutes before. Her knees buckled beneath her. The man looked on with a stoic grin, a glint in his eye that said ‘I’m serious.’ Martin, of course, noticed none of this. He was too busy enraptured by the fading sun on the far horizon. The stewardess turned and hurried towards the cockpit where she disappeared to converse with the pilots.

The man fidgeted, tapping his fingers on the black and silver briefcase he kept on his lap, clutching to it like a starving man would a slice of bread. He wore a black suit, a dark jacket which he never took off, despite heat inside the cabin, a finely pressed white shirt and a thin black tie. His grey eyes bore into the back of the seat in front of him, occasionally glancing down the hall towards the cockpit. He was pale, middle aged and handsome in a way that was wholly unmemorable, like a car salesman or nameless office drone, a face lined more with character and time than with any distinguishing features.

Martin eyed the solitary, upright man in the row of seats across from him with curiosity. The man had a way about him, how he clung to his briefcase, the way he kept a straight back despite the uncomfortable seats fascinated Martin. In him, M.O. saw his grandsons, grown tall and proud and looking to carve a piece of the world out for himself.

“Going home?” Martin leaned in and asked the unsuspecting fellow who neither turned his head nor glanced askew.

“Yes.” the man curtly replied. His pulse quickened momentarily, but subsided when he looked upon Martin. Simply an old man looking for a conversation. Though not according to the plan, the man knew he could not control all the variables and was open to slight improvisations. Home was a relative term, it could be anywhere and he could be traveling towards it.

Oblivious to the other side of the conversation as he so often was, Martin continued unabated, hardly registering the inflection of disinterest present in the answer. Either a positive or a negative answer would have provoked the same response in him.

“Me, too. Been gone all week. Away on business, tying up some lose ends before the holiday. I’m in advertising, you see. Sales to be exact.” he took a moment to breathe, “how about yourself?”

The man adjusted his collar before answering. “Acquisitions.” he tapped his briefcase. At that moment, he decided that, in the midst of an escalating situation, he would try and relieve the tension at the old man’s expense. It was doubtful they would ever meet again after this.

“Aah. I have a friend who does that. Strange business I always thought. What do you acquire?”

“Airlines. I help with the redistribution of companies.” he said with a mischievous grin. It was not a complete lie.

“You acquiring this one?” Martin laughed, caught up in his own cleverness.

With a curled lip, the man responded, “I’m considering it.” He was simply having too much fun with the old man to give any straight answer.

Martin nodded and set his book down on his lap, losing the page he was on. Chatting to people on a plane, a train, or anywhere, satisfied Martin more than any book. It kept him sharp, he always said, ready to take on the day’s sales; but more than that, he enjoyed the learning process. There were three billion individuals in the world and Martin wanted to learn about as many of them as possible. Who knew the adventures this man across from him had had in life?

“Aah, Thanksgiving,” Martin sighed, “such a hassle to get to but so worth it in the end, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Traveling is a pain, yes.” the man responded, spoon-feeding Martin precisely what he needed to here.

Steve's story, con't:


Martin chuckled. “It’s a madhouse back home. No doubt my wife is w whipping herself into a panic and enlisting the aide of one of the kids or killing the whole lot of them.” he pictured Margaret, who on more than one occasion was known to run through the house, rolling pin held over her head, cursing like a sailor towards any and everyone. “Oh, she’s a caring woman who never speaks ill of anyone,” Martin continued, “but come the Holidays, it’s like Jekyll and Hyde! No one is safe from her wrath!

The man, who paid attention simply for lack of options, managed a half-smile which Martin didn’t notice. He wasn’t telling the story for the sake of others, he told it for himself.

“...And it’s like this every year, mind you! Something of a family in-joke. The children and relatives all try to be the last one home in an attempt to get out of the mountain of housework Margaret has compiled between cooking the casserole and mashing the potatoes. Never works, but, tradition, what can you do?”

“What indeed.” the man responded and eyed the cockpit door.

Martin rummaged through his back pocket for his faded leather wallet. He flipped through the sizable amount of photographs until he found the one he paraded to everyone he met, and handed it over to the man, who took it out of politeness. “Here are my kids and grandkids at Christmas a few years ago.”

It was the most ridiculously Hallmark picture the man had ever seen. Two men and two women, who looked so much alike it bordered on criminal, loomed over a brood of eight children of mostly daughters. The children were dressed in similar hand knitted sweaters, each with its own unique Christmas print, while the adults were dressed and ready for church or a funeral. The most shocking thing of all to the man was that none of the children, ranging from age four to seventeen, seemed unhappy to be there. Norman Rockwell would be proud. Talking to the jovial, chatty patriarch, it was easy to understand why.

Martin listed off each and every one of his children and grandchildren. He included their ages, grade and a cute factoid about all of them. Riley, age eighteen, the oldest and handsomest of the group, was on his way to Notre Dame on a football scholarship next year. Anna, age eight, once ate an entire bottle of paste at school, earning her the nickname “Gluey”, a moniker the man found amusing only its in lack of creativity. While Sam, short for Samantha, fourteen, was something of a math genius and had already skipped a grade of school.

“Quite a family.” the man said in a brief moment of honesty before handing it back to Martin.

“You have any chil--”

As if she were sent to save the man from idle chatter, the stewardess interrupted the conversation and not a moment too soon. She walked like a death row inmate: slow steps, a straight back with tension everywhere. Only one of the men knew why. She approached the younger man and whispered to him. Nodding, the man clicked open his briefcase just long enough for the stewardess to catch a glimpse of the wires, the red liquid filled cylinder, and the battery attached to it. A renewed wave of fear rushed over her face. The man pulled her close to him and spoke quietly to her, draining the color from her face. Terrified, the stewardess held her composure and quickly returned to the cockpit.

Martin had already lost track of the conversation and had returned to gazing at the world below. It nearly moved him to tears.

“I never get tired of this view,” he remarked to the man as the sun threw its last golden rays upon his face. He pointed below. “A lot of memories wrapped up down there. No other place like it on earth.”

The man glanced over, indeed it was quite beautiful, but a needless distraction. “My daughter loves it here.” he finally answered Martin; only the second biggest lie he had told that day. The first being the “bomb” he carried with him.

“Oh!” Martin perked up, “you have a daughter?”

The man nodded. “Yes. She lives with her mother.”

“Oh.” the old man added, unsure of how to react.

“It’s alright. You know how it is, work, travel, she just couldn’t take it.” Or had that been the plot to the movie he had just seen? Couldn’t quite remember. “She was a city girl, didn’t like all this nature stuff.” He had never been married.

Martin smirked. “Aah, give me nature and nothing else. I love the smell of pine in the morning. It never gets old, I tell you.”

“mmm. Give me the beach. Warm sand, warm water, warm sun. Hardly a rainy day. Nothing but a drink in hand while I lounge on my hammock.” Visions of the sweet life on a beach far removed from civilization remained. If everything went according to plan, he would be as rich as a king and ruling an island within the week.

“Sounds lovely.” Martin, who simply had to have the last word, remarked.

A moment later, the stewardess returned, whispered something into the man's ear and left, never to be seen again by Martin on this flight. The man in the newly minted suit beamed.

"Good news?" Martin asked.

"The best." the man replied.

"Ooh, upgrading to first class?"

The man grinned. "Something like that, yes." He leaned back and breathed a sigh of relief, relaxed his muscles and stretched out. The hard part was over.

The intercom clicked on. "This is the captain speaking. Due to some track traffic, we're going to be a little late in our landing over Seattle. We here at Northwest Orient Airlines apologize for the delay and we'll be landing as soon as the problem is fixed.”

Martin sighed disparagingly. "Well, shoot. Hope it's not a long delay."

"It won't be." The man reassured his new companion.

"I hope you're right." he said and glanced through his novel.

The man cleared his throat. "I was on this flight once..."

They talked for the next half hour about every subject each had knowledge in, and several others they didn’t, but spoke of anyways. Always Martin asked and the well dressed man answered, pulling answers from wherever he could, books, films, tv shows. He occasionally tossed a nuggets of half-truth from his own life, inserting the actual name of a childhood friend into a bizarre story about his travels in Egypt. The silly old man in his gray striped polo shirt ate the entire load of bullshit up like Thanksgiving dinner. If the old man only knew the truth, he wonder, would he change his tune?

The plane circled the Seatlle airport as the money was counted, catalogued and stuffed into two large black bags. Four parachutes were readied. On the tarmac below, the police circled, the fire trucks and EMTs waited, lights flashing, in the event of an emergency. The man glanced around the cabin and was pleased with himself; the passengers were none the wiser. Martin blabbed on about a summer when his older son went away to camp and the dog died, but the man simply sat back and nodded his head in a constant rhythm. 'A little while now,' he muttered to himself.

A little before 5:45, the plane began its descent. The man's stomach jumped. He rummaged through his coat and slipped on a pair of dark glasses. The plane landed without incident. Martin stood up and assembled his luggage, a simple carry on containing two day's worth of clothes, plus a few tiny knick-knacks for the grandkids back home. He shuffled into the aisle, dragging his clunky bag behind him.

"Are you not coming?" Martin asked the still seated stranger, who made no motions to exit the plane.

He smiled. "I need to talk to that stewardess one more time."

Martin smiled broadly. "Good luck with that," he said, extending his hand, "I suppose this is where our paths diverge. Forgive my manners!" he yelped and extended his hand, "name's Martin O'Donnell, my friends call me M.O."

MO? The man thought. Acronyms had a mystery to them which he enjoyed and as a last farewell, he took Martin's hand in his:

"The name’s Cooper. DB Cooper. Have a happy Thanksgiving.”

Ah. I didn't know that. Well, these are the only submissions I got from the last couple of entries when we tried to revitalize it. Because the response was not great, I just decided to post them here. Sorry if I stepped on the wrong toes.