Category: Ginger Burow

Day 222-Christmas Magic

When I was very young, my parents celebrated Christmas with us, steeped in German traditions that brought life and magic to the holiday. They went over and above in order to make the magic of Christmas real.

In our home the big celebration was an open house at my mom’s on Christmas Eve. On the 24th the house came alive with family and friends. There were decorations, a huge tree, tons of food, drink sweets, music, gifts and fun.

For us, the kids, all the wonderment began on Christmas Eve morning, but for my dedicated parents, the work began late on the 23rd. You see, my parents sent us to bed around nine o’clock on the 23rd in a house with not one decoration or obvious sign of Christmas, no tree, nothing.

When we awoke on Christmas Eve morning, the excitement and magic of Christmas had arrived at our house while we had slept. We came down the stairs to air-filled with the wonderful aromas of food cooking for Christmas Eve dinner. The house was decorated, and in the living room, was a Christmas tree that stood from floor to ceiling tall and almost as big around. It was fully adorned with decorations. In those days, the decorations consisted of beautiful glass balls and birds, golden garland, silver tinsel, and old-fashioned bubble lights, along with hundreds of colored twinkle lights which were ringed in little plastic star bursts. It was gorgeous, like a Christmas card in our living room. And best of all there were gifts of all sizes under the tree.

We were allowed to peak at the tree, but then the doors were closed and we weren’t allowed in again until time for gifts and guests. When we were older, we could help set the dining room table which was next to the tree, but we were not allowed to snoop around the gifts. Of course we couldn’t help but try to see names on the gifts as we worked, in such a way as to not get caught snooping. That was a tedious endeavor, I assure you. As soon as our work was done the door was closed again, and we were back to waiting.

The best part of this whole thing was the knowledge that Santa Claus had done it all, the tree, the gifts, decorated the house. He and his elves had been here while we slept. I know what you are thinking, “But Santa doesn’t start delivering until Christmas Eve.”

Well that’s right, but Christmas Eve starts at midnight, and it takes him all day since there are so many children in the world. And since he knew we had our Christmas that day, my parents had a standing agreement that he would come by our house before daylight on Christmas Eve.

I think the must have given him fresh turkeys for his Christmas table from my dad’s turkey farm each year to seal the deal because they quite often, got him to do special favors like this.

I remember quite well one of those favors he did for them. I was very young, perhaps 5 or 6 that particular Christmas. The day had transpired as I described previously. The extended family was there. We had read the Christmas story from the Bible and opened all our gifts.

I had wanted a bicycle that year, but there wasn’t one under the tree. We had begun to entertain guests and eat food. General merriment was being made all through the house; there was laughing and stirring but thankfully no mouse.
About half way through the evening, the door bell rang, as it had been doing all evening to announce more guests. I was told to open the door and so I did.

Outside on the step, there stood a brand new, red bicycle with training wheels. No one was there with it. Everyone I knew was in the room behind me watching. I heard jingle bells in the distance, and I searched the sky but never saw him, only heard the sleigh bells. Santa had made a special delivery, and was quick to be on his way so that I never saw him. I was excited and disappointed all at once.
I’m still not sure how my parents and “Santa” pulled that one, off and to this day, those who know aren’t talking. I do know it was probably the most exciting and memorable Christmas ever. The magic couldn’t have been more real that year. It was wonderful and fun.

After my special delivery had been safely ushered through the house to the utility room, where it couldn’t break anything if it fell over, the party continued as before. I looked out the window and up at the sky often that evening, never quite sure how Santa could get away so fast, and secretly hoping to catch a glimpse of his sleigh somewhere in the sky. I never saw it, but then that’s what made it magic.

Day 220-Christmas Mountain Slide.

Just before Christmas, in 1986, my parents, sister and brother-in-law and myself, embarked on a trip to Ruidoso, New Mexico, to top the mountains of Ski Apache Resort. Little did we know that instead of sliding down the slopes, the more harrowing adventure would be sliding up and down the icy hillside roads to the resort.
On the first day, the drive was not bad because I rode with my parents, who are experienced snow drivers from all the years they went to Colorado, hunting. But even with experienced drivers, seeing the edges of the road so close to the side of our truck, as we slipped along on ice and snow-covered narrow roads made me want to cry. I knew dad knew what he was doing, but that did not make the 1000’s of feet down onto rocks, trees, and who knows what else look any more inviting. Oh, and of course, no guard rail. The opposite side was no better, there you slid into the hillside, large rocks, or into oncoming traffic. Yes oncoming traffic on a road that was so narrow you could barely go one direction and it was going two. The first day, we made it safely.

The next day the fun began. My parents stayed behind to tour, and let us drive their Chevy truck while they drove my sister’s station wagon around for the day. They should have designated a driver other than my brother-in-law, bless his soul; safe driving was not and still is not his strong suit.

To leave the cabins you had to follow a little road across a small bridge and then turn left on to the road towards town. You had no choice but to turn left because there was a snow-covered hillside preventing you from going any other way. Not so with our talented driver, we made an only slightly left skid directly into the snow-covered embankment. Luckily the only damage was to the snow, where we left a bumper shaped deep dent. Which incidentally my parents told us that they knew was from us as soon as they saw it. But thus started our trip up and then back down the mountain that day.

We invented a new word that day, it went something like, “Sloeeeaahck!” It was a terrified cross between “slow down”, and screams of eek and aahhh! I don’t think I have ever seen my life flash before my eyes so much in one day. It was kind of like having instant replay on a football game that you had watched several times before. I had actually forgotten about some of those events though, so at least I had my memory refreshed.

It seemed we were constantly sliding toward our doom, whether that was 1000’s of feet down to our deaths, crashing into the mountain or perhaps a tree or a rock. Quite often it seemed we were hanging just over that edge looking death in the eye as we stared down that ravine in terror just before our truck some how righted itself back onto the road. Of course then we were usually headed for the snow-covered just as unforgiving hillside. We seemed to be the metal ball in a pin ball game bouncing back and forth off whatever obstacle was there to change our course. Pin Ball is an old style arcade game for those of you too young to know.

We created our own road both up and down the mountain that day. It seemed traveling was either going to literally kill us or scare us to death in which the outcome would be the same; sudden death, just days before Christmas. Somehow, by the grace of God indeed, we are all still here today, survivors of this Christmas mountain slide.

PS. No the picture is not from New Mexico, but I didn’t have any available. As you might be able to tell that is Texas Hill Country snow, but to us it is even more treacherous! Haha! Merry Christmas!

Day 187-Focus Challenge 2-Writing Scenario to Story Premise

Fiction Writing Exercises for Stimulating Creativity Writing #365daynovel

From a simple scenarios form the basis for a story. Your job is to come up with three story premises for the scenario. Be creative and try to avoid the most obvious premises.

Chosen scenario:

  • A man and a woman are sitting across from each other at a small table in a dimly lit restaurant.

Premise 1:

A young, attractive couple sits together in the same dimly lit restaurant night after night. She has long auburn hair and bright green eyes, he had crystal blue eyes and thick dark brown hair. They are the picture of health and beauty. They are always deeply engaged in conversation. Just simple things that seem so very day-to-day, yet they exude excitement and wonder as they talk. They seem to never notice anyone around them, they are totally in a world all their own.

Young lovers, most would assume, happy and engaged in each other’s interests.
They talk only to each other, and look only at each other. The locals are used to them. no one ever talks to them or approaches them. They are allowed to carry on alone, uninterrupted, and almost unnoticed. Rarely is anyone ever seated close to them, so they continue in their own way. It is best this way.

Then strangers come in. Some don’t give them more than a passing glance. Some notice that something is different about this striking couple, others are attracted to them wanting to engage them in conversation. Their excitement for life seems to bubble over needing to be shared. It is like an energy that flows from them in quiet waves that invigorate the senses of anyone close by. They draw others in without even a glance or word to them directly. They have a unexplainable attraction to those who don’t know.

Locals watch, pitying those that fall under their spell. Those that join them at their table appear to have a wonderful evening with them, but when the restaurant closes, this beautiful couple is the last to leave, and somehow they always leave alone. Their new friends, what of them? The rumors  among the townsfolk speak of untold horrors, and these new friends are never seen again.

Premise 2:

A young couple in their teens sits together in a dimly lit restaurant trying to blend into the atmosphere of romantic lovers. The environment around them is strained as they practically will themselves to appear as completely enthralled young lovers, hoping that no one will notice them from anyone else in the place.

They hide in the darkest booth in the far back of the restaurant, praying that creature that killed their parents won’t look for them here. They don’t know what it is or where it came from, only that it is after something that their parents knew and now it seeks them since it did  not find what it was looking for in their house or glean the information from their parents.

They are hunted by the  police as well because they neighbors reported the murders and only saw them running from the house. They have no money, no car, and no  place to go, and it is only a matter of time before they are found. Somehow they must escape the creature and the  police until they can figure out the truth about what has happened and find the only person they can trust to help, and old friend of their father’s. But even this man is shrouded in mystery and they must walk in shadows until they can be sure if he will be their salvation, or more of their doom.

Premise 3:

An innocent couple is tucked away in the far corner of a romantic restaurant enjoying their meal, talking of an upcoming vacation when an explosion rocks the neighborhood sending the high-rise hotel next door crashing into the restaurant. They manage to flee the bay window table they are in, just as the building dissolves around them and they are trapped beneath the rubble. A section of the building remains where they are all trapped, but many are injured and the structure that is left won’t last long. Now they are in a race against time to get help and to find a way out, helping as many others as they can.

Roger is an EMT and Miranda a nurse, and they must use all their skills to survive, even as warning on Roger’s radio warn of another impending attack in more buildings in their area.

Ok, this was my writing exercise for the #365daynovell course I joined yesterday. This is day 2 of my challenge. Let me know what you think of my story premises from this exercise. The exercise was supplied by Writing Forward.

365daynovel.com/gigijb

 

Day 176-Halloween-The Harpist’s Wife

Happy Halloween! Today I am sharing another one of my ghost stories with you. I wrote this one some years ago as well, but it is all my own.  It was inspired by years of playing in the local cemetery behind my grandmother’s house, with my cousins while I was growing up.  It was published about 3 years ago on  Yahoo Contributor when I was writing for them, before they closed down the site, so there is some chance you may have seen it before. If you have, enjoy it again, if you haven’t, than welcome to the world of:

The Harpist’s Wife

It was a cold, dark, rainy, windy, night with lightning flashing and thunder rumbling loudly, and yet we were still there. We were stupid, foolish teenagers. We knew we shouldn’t be there; it was crazy and dangerous. We knew the stories were true, but we just had to see for ourselves. The legend said that if anyone went out to the cemetery on a night like this, one of them would not return from the Harpist’s grave, yet we still went. We had to know for ourselves. Call it dumb, invincible; know it all teen age pride and morbid, curiosity. We were six, when we went there that night.
Legend was that if anyone ventured into the cemetery on a night just like this one, you would see the Harper, hear him play, and watch as once again, he murders his wife, who smashes his harp in a jealous rage. Because the harp truly was his first love, in his will he left his full estate to the harp’s protection. It was to be enshrined atop his grave, in the most shatter proof glass, held together with thick steel, plated with solid gold. Lights shone upon it from either side, that it might shine like a god of the music world, he perceived it to be. He wanted it there, where he was sure, even in death; he could reach up and play it. And many say he plays it often. Many have heard it, and tell stories of reliving the night he murdered his wife with one of its broken strings, severing her throat. But each time there have been new witnesses to this crime, there has also been a new victim. His wife still tries to escape him, but for this there must be a trade, a soul for a soul. She must possess a mortal in order to flee from him.
So there the six of us were, standing in the stormy, dark night with only the light from the harp and the lightning waiting like lambs to the slaughter at the foot of the Harpist’s grave.
The thing about legends is that sometimes there are parts of them that people know, but are too afraid to speak of, so they only tell what they think will scare others away.
At precisely, 2:13 a.m., the harp began to play, and the harpist appeared at its side, an ordinary looking man, slender with shoulder length dark hair. Soon his lovely wife appeared, a vision of beauty with long flowing red hair, which surprised us, because every recounting of this story described her different, but always beautiful. They both were dressed in the finery of the late 1800’s. We watched as they began to fight. The real harp never moved from its shrine, and its music continued to play, as a vision of it fell to the ground. The Harpist scrambled to protect it, as she chopped it with an ax. Several times he narrowly escaped harm himself, crying in anguish as his precious harp broke into pieces.
She stood back weary and exhausted, dropping the ax to the ground, smiling. The Harpist plucked a long thin, sharp string from among the wreckage, and rose to face her. His hands wound tightly around the ends of the string until they began to bleed. Her smile faded, and she began looking for a place to flee for safety, it was then, they became aware of us watching.
She ran toward us wildly begging for protection, for a place of refuge. We scattered in different directions trying to get out of their path. I ran, my heart pounding, I could hear her footfalls behind me and her voice beseeching me to save her. I screamed that I could not help her because she was already dead. I stumbled over a low headstone, and fell and she fell upon me, and then we were one.
I felt her fear and my own, as she urged me to run, but I had broken my ankle in the fall and could only hobble. I cried for help from the others, but they would not come near because they had seen us become one, and they were afraid, but watched from the shadows.
I stumbled away as quickly as I could, but the Harpist overtook me, and I felt the bite of the string around my neck, cutting into my flesh. I could neither scream nor fend him off, though I tried. He over powered me. I felt my blood flowing down my neck, and my life slipping away.
In my head I heard her voice, “Thank you for setting me free, I am so sorry it had to be you.” Then I felt her fade away, and my world went dark.
When I awoke, the Harpist was once more playing his harp as though nothing had happened. My friends and the traveler were crying and screaming as they ran from the cemetery, leaving me behind. I called to them to wait, but they didn’t seem to hear me. As I started to follow after them, my foot caught on something on the ground. It was then that I knew what she had meant. Below me lay the body that once was mine, on the ground.
As I looked up, the Harpist beckoned to me. “Come my dear wife; let the music of the harp bring you peace, at least for a while.” I tried to walk away, but I found I could not leave the cemetery.
This was the part of the legend, no one would pass along. This was why no one described her the same way twice. Because each time she succeeded in freeing herself, she passed on her legacy to the one who took her place. This I now know, because for now until the next legend seekers came to the cemetery, on a stormy night, I am the Harpist’s wife.

Day 175-Hook Arms’ House- a Pre-Halloween Treat

Well with Halloween being tomorrow, I thought I might share one of my ghost stories with you. I wrote this one some years ago, based on a story that was passed around by high school students when I was just a young child. A place on an old country road dubbed Hook Arms house due to these rumors actually existed, but has long since been torn down.

This story was published once on Yahoo Contributor when I was writing for them, before they closed down the site, so there is some chance you may have seen it before. If you are from my small town,  you have probably heard the original rumors before, but now here’s the whole story. Hope you enjoy a good spook story. Happy All Hallows Eve Eve. I will have another original ghost story for you for tomorrow.

 

Hook Arm’s House

In the 1970’s, a series of unfortunate events, hurled a small Hill Country, rural town, into a ghost story, never forgotten.

Because of the trouble that ensued at the time this story broke, I am not allowed to tell you exactly what road, what town, or even any real names that are in any way connected to this tale. It has taken more than 30 years, to restore the peace around this area, which can only be kept by keeping thrill seekers away. He is now, just a forgotten legend, and for everyone’s safety, that is best. But, I haven’t forgotten, thus, I share his tale.

He returned from the war, with a hook in the place of his left arm, and adopted the name, Hook Arm, whether he wanted it or not. He lived alone in a meager two room shack that stood 100 yards off the county road just outside of town at the end of a short country lane, lined with trees. A grove of trees stood behind the shack as well, and one large and very old tree stood just to the left of it, giving shade to the small abode.

Hook stayed mostly to himself, haunted by the memories of war, and the family he had lost. In the beginning he did nothing to warrant the fear people had for him and his hook, but then one summer, quite by mistake, that all changed.

A family with a little girl, about seven, moved into the cabin in the field, across the county road. Neighbors immediately warned the family to stay away from the man who lived in the nearby shack. They told terrifying stories of Hook Arm, though he had never harmed anyone.

The girl often rode her bike down the county road. She would waive to Hook Arm tending his garden, and he would wave back. One day, she fell from her bike, around the curve just out of sight of her house, but still close enough for Hook to see her from his garden. He went to her. Her legs were scraped, she was crying, and could not ride her bike like she was. He carried her back to her house, walking her bike alongside him. Her parents were afraid, and thanked him, but quickly sent him away, warning the girl to stay away from him.

In spite of her parents’ warnings, the little girl was not afraid, and would ride down to his house to visit him, bringing him biscuits and things she snuck from her mother’s table. They became fast friends. He would often tell her stories of the little girl that he had lost.

One day the little girl arrived at his house, with a basket of muffins, and found that he was not home. Wanting to leave the muffins anyway, she left her bike leaning against the big tree at the side of the shack, and tried to find a way in. She wandered around the back of the shack and fell into an old, shallow hand dug well, when she stepped through its rotten plywood cover. That evening a storm came and the well quickly filled with water.

It was after dark and raining when Hook Arm returned and he did not see her bike leaning against the tree.

The little girl’s parents became alarmed when she did not return home before dark. They enlisted the neighbors to search the road for her, but did not find her or her bike.

From his kitchen window, in a flash of lightning, Hook Arm saw the bike leaning on the tree. He went out into the storm with a flash light, looking for his little friend. In the back yard, he found a piece of her torn dress on the collapsed plywood well cover. Shining the light into the well, he could barely see her face beneath the water. He knew she was gone. He laid in the mud, and stretched out his arms, barely able to reach her and drag her to the surface.

When he laid her down, he saw that there was a large gash in her head, and her leg was broken. He knew then that she had been knocked unconscious and drowned. He picked her up and carried her all the way back to the road. He wailed so loudly that his anguished screams were heard by the search party out looking for the girl. When they saw Hook Arm carrying her, they attacked him, assuming the worst. He tried to explain that he had found her and was too late to save her, but their fear turned to instant blame, and the neighbors became an angry mob. They chased Hook Arm back to his house, where he tried to barricade himself in, but they broke in and beat him until he could no longer fight back. Then they hung him from the large tree in his yard, left him to die, and set fire to his shack.

The storm became tremendously vicious that evening. When morning broke, his body was gone from the tree, never to be found, though the noose still hangs there, and his house though scorched and blackened still stands.

According to legend, he bargained with the Devil, who set him free, and allowed him to seek revenge on mankind for hating him. Many mysterious deaths occurred, including one by one each of the neighbors who helped to hang him.

The story made headlines, causing countless groups of fun seekers to travel to Hook Arm’s House to see where this happened, as well as to see if they could glimpse him roaming the grounds. Often an old, soaking wet, disheveled man, with a hook arm, and a bent neck, twisted from hanging is seen walking the dirt road leading down to his shack.

Almost all who return tell stories of running for their lives from a wet, dirty man with a hook arm but even more have gone, and never returned.

Occasionally, the missing thrill seekers are found brutally beaten and hanging from the tree by the house, while others appear to be drowned in the old well. The trees on his land are scarred with slashes from his hook, left behind from when he exacted his revenge on his attackers. But for each new person he catches, a new slash appears on one of his trees, and to date, there are many.

Often Hook Arm is seen tending his garden next to be blackened house. It grows beautifully ever year. He waves at passers-by; be sure to wave back, but don’t ever stop!