500 words. 55 hours. Go!
This month’s criteria:
- Your story must include a GIFT of some kind.
- Your story’s first sentence must contain only THREE words.
- You must use the following words somewhere in your story: PALM, MATCH, ROSE
I love gifts. My mother tried to hide them every Christmas. I always found them. I was like a truffle-hunting pig, rooting them from locked suitcases and dusty cupboards, foraging for them in attics and R.V.’s, basements, and bins. The garage. “Open your palm,” said my husband.
I appraised my husband’s smile, extending my fingers and squeezing my eyelids. I envisioned the Hope Diamond. I figured the gift might be heavy, like a gold bar or antique Russian nesting doll, so I clenched my muscles. I felt a tickle. “Okay. You can open your eyes,” he said.
It was a red feather. My husband had done this before with a strip of red licorice, a pretty rock or seashell, a chocolate kiss. But it’s almost Christmas. I furrowed my brows. “That’s not funny,” I said.
That night I felt a hand on my shoulder. I pretended to be asleep.
I noticed the red feather the following day; it was in the utensil drawer. I grabbed a knife and slammed the drawer shut. I plundered the butter and jam from the fridge, noticing a bowl of dirt—or sand beside the milk. My husband entered the kitchen with bare feet. I could hear his sticky footsteps on the tile. He yawned in that annoying way he does, like a tired dog, and hugged me from behind. I didn’t say anything about the fridge.
On Christmas Eve, I wrapped my husband’s presents and placed them under the tree: a goofy tie with clowns that I found on Etsy, some matches from our favorite restaurant, and a rose-scented candle for the bathroom. The real gift was a book from his Goodreads. I also wrapped a piece of charcoal in some newspaper and placed it in his stocking, just in case I received more feathers.
There was only one gift under the tree for me. I frowned and stood, adjusting a few ornaments that were hanging backward. I noticed a tacky plastic palm frond projecting from the middle branches. Usually, I would laugh. But the lack of gifts made me feel gloomy. I left the room.
After a candlelight dinner, we opened gifts. I glanced at the stockings, then handed my husband his packages. He opened them and laughed, wrapping the tie around his head. I eyeballed my single package, then the stockings. “Your turn,” he said.
I grabbed the gift that my husband had wrapped with green foil. A red feather waved from the top instead of a bow. My stomach constricted. My heart fluttered, hoping it would be better than expected. I tore the foil away and ripped off the tape; the box was an obvious re-gift, last year’s amazon prime. I opened the flaps, burrowing into the tissue paper. I discovered an empty coconut and a photo of a Scarlet Macaw.
“We’re going to Costa Rica!” he exclaimed.
I ran to the fireplace, tearing the stockings from the mantel. I threw my husband’s stocking into the fire.
