Hey all, welcome back to another week of our wasted words writing prompt. This week's prompt comes from Fringe by Christa Faust.
And in the midst of it all stood a middle-aged man and woman in their bedclothes, arguing violently.
I look forward to seeing where everyone takes this one. Thanks for stopping by and have fun!
Sirens and flashing lights woke Grace from a peaceful night’s rest. She’d stayed up way past her usual bed time to make sure Samantha was fast asleep. Her daughter had already started to doubt Santa’s existence, waking up to find Grace piling presents under the tree would have been the last straw.
Grace popped out of bed in a panic, wrapping herself in a robe as she peered out the window. Two firetrucks were angled to face her neighbor’s house. The two story house burned bright enough to light half the neighborhood. As the first cop car pulled up to the scene, Grace noticed in the midst of it all, stood a middle-aged man and woman in their bedclothes, arguing violently.
Grace didn’t have to hear the words. Steve and John had both set out to prove who had the most Christmas spirit. Over the last five years, Grace had watched her two neighbors duke it out for festive superiority in the world’s only multi-colored, LED in sync with Christmas favorites, inflatable Santa Clause with the whole reindeer squad, dick measuring contest.
The two houses had even set up a poll in the community Facebook page the last three years, asking everyone to vote on who had the best decorations. Steve had won the first two years of polling and John had not taken too kindly to the losses. Grace shared many glasses of wine with Paige, John’s wife, since the decoration war had begun. Every year, Paige would say, “This is the year, he’s going to burn our house down.”
Something in the roof collapsed, sending embers floating in the air like little Christmas fireflies. The snap caused a brief break in the argument, which resumed with Paige picking up a plastic reindeer and breaking it over her husband’s head. Grace couldn’t help but wonder how the lights on the decoration were even still lit. A small, Christmas miracle, surely.
Take the next right, onto Byrd Hollow Road.
Quick glance in the rear view, then I slam on the brakes and offer a quick apology to the car gods or Carroll Shelby or whoever is listening up there and promise to get Betty’s brake pads changed next pay day.
The sun is fading fast but the only thing to the right of me is woods and some more woods. A glance to my left for good measure shows some more of the same. Great.
No matter how many times I tap my phone repeatedly, GPS is still positive my turn is in this exact spot. Pretty sure the blinky thing blinked harder at me.
As I get out of my car to try to find this mythical Byrd Hollow Road, the December air slaps me in the lungs and turns my nose to ice.
This is my last delivery for StoreToDoor, and I want to get home. It’s Christmas Eve. There is a nice Marie Callender’s frozen meal and a few Seagrams Fuzzy Navels waiting on me.
About 20 feet away from the car a break in the woods and a dirt path showing some tire tracks appears. Not much of a road, but who am I to judge? This is probably the right spot. A glance back at Betty for support, and her timing belt squeaks in agreement. Good enough for me.
I slide back into Betty’s driver seat, crank the heat and point the vents to blast my face.
Betty’s shocks aren’t happy about the ruts in the road, but a few minutes later the woods clear onto a field below with one lonely single wide that has seen better decades. A couple of plastic candles in the trailer’s windows and a string of multi-color Christmas lights hang off the porch rails, kinda dressing up the place.
The glow from Betty’s headlights illuminates buckets shoved under the trailer’s underpinning, along with a Guiness Book of World Records level collection of anti-freeze containers.
And in the midst of it all stood a middle-aged man and woman in their bedclothes, arguing violently.
A popping noise draws the man’s, woman’s and my attention back to the trailer as flames take over the curtains and smoke starts billowing out of the badly sealed windows and door.
Even with their $10 in-app tip, I’m not ready for the hillbilly shit storm that will hit once the cops and fire department get here. I open the car door and without getting out place their Walmart order of tampons, coffee filters, sandwich baggies, and Camels on the ground.
Betty is put into reverse, and we ease our way back onto blacktop and civilization. Merry Christmas, y’all.