# 1/6/12 "December"



## moderan (Dec 21, 2011)

The theme of this month's competition is the month itself. Judges are myself, BabaYaga, johnM, and Tiamat10.
The competition starts 12/15/11 and runs through 1/6/12, with an extra week in there to account for the holidaze. Entries are due in by 12 AM 1/6/12, at GMT-5.
Judges will then have until the 15th to turn in their verdicts.
650 words or less on the subject of "December". Either your entry or a link to the entry should be posted in this thread and this thread only. Please refrain from commenting on or "liking" stories, or otherwise interfering with the course of this competition or directly or indirectly influencing the judging of the pieces in the competition. Bribery is excepted from this rule. You are allowed to bribe the judges as much as you wish, as long as said bribes are shared equally among said judges. That way there are no unfair advantages.


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## Rustgold (Dec 27, 2011)

*December’s Leaf*
636 words : By B.D.Branch​


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## KarlR (Dec 28, 2011)

Enjoy!  (Thanks to Like a Fox for the idea....)


  [FONT=&Verdana]                                                                                                                                           December

I wait on the porch overlooking the lake.  This place is ridiculous—a freaking palace.  The December sun reflects off Taupo, into my eyes and burning my face.  I’ve never gotten used to the upside-down Christmases here.[/FONT]

  I check my watch again.  Only 1:15.  They said they’d be here by 1:30.  A dull drone overhead causes me to look up.  Shading my eyes against the bright glare, I see the jump plane twisting lazy circles; struggling against the warm air currents with its heavy load of adventurers.

  “Better that they don’t see _that _right away,” I think.  Another glance at my watch.

  “Why do you always do that?” she used to say.  “Americans!  Always have to know what time it is!”

  Six years ago I followed her here.  We were horribly mismatched.  I’m from Buffalo, for Christ’s sake!  December to me is hanging around in snow up to your neck until April comes to turn it all into ugly brown piles along the sides of the road.  What the hell was I thinking?

  Now I’m almost one of them.  Okay, not really.  But I have adopted a bit of the accent.  Now I say ‘seeks’ instead of ‘six.’

  I check my watch again.  

  These people have some money.  She wants to be close to Huka Falls.  She says it’s a powerful place.  If you fall in, I suppose.  He’s all business.  That’s why I picked Three Mile Bay.  The whole city looks up at these homes:  Where the ‘rich people’ live.

  Wish I’d brought my sunglasses—they’re just down in the car.  I squint instead, and look out over the lake.  

  She left before the first Christmas.  Her friends tell me she’s always had a thing for the Maori boys.  Whatever.  “Why don’t you leave?” they’d all ask.  “You’re not from here.  What’s holding you back?”  Wish I had an answer.

    It’s certainly not this real estate job.  Don’t get me wrong; I’m not complaining.  Kiwis seem to like buying expensive houses from an American.  God only knows why.  

  These two are like the others—blasted off to Sydney the minute they figured out that’s where New Zealand’s money was going.  Now they want to have a ‘little place’ in Taupo to come home to once a year.  Bloody wasteful, if you ask me.

  1:26.  Come on, people!  I see the glint from what looks like a silver Mercedes swinging around the end of the bay.  Finally.

  The girl I’m seeing in Wairakei says I can’t get over the ex-.  That’s why I stay here.  Whatever.  

  I look across the sparking ripples on the lake, feel the easy December breeze ruffling my hair.  I think about my brother watching the Sabres, playing whoever they’re playing this week.

  The silver Mercedes pulls up into the drive.  They shut off the motor, but don’t get out right away.  I knew they wouldn’t.  This place is killer.  They can’t believe the view.  Now all I’ve got to do is convince them they can afford it.

  “Merry Christmas!” I holler down from the porch.  “You already look like you belong here!”

  ‘Here.’  The word echoes in my mind. Now if I could figure out where I belong.


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## Dramatism (Dec 28, 2011)

December 17th: The Last Day of My Life


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## ChicagoHeart (Dec 30, 2011)

*December Devereaux (650 Words)*

“Sometimes the boys ask me if December Devereaux is my stage name. I tell them no, my mother named me for the month I arrived. Then they always ask was I really born in December. I tell them yes, the whole month is my birthday! “ 
She leaned forward on her barstool as if divulging a secret. “This goes over real well when it’s actually December. Makes ‘em wanna celebrate and toss me a few extra singles.”
She sat back again, swinging her long black hair off her shoulders.
“Mr. Sam says my dancing has really improved this year. He says he’s thinking about putting me in the Friday night show soon. That’s when all the big spenders show up. Mr. Sam says I have the looks and the drive, if I keep working I could end up the star of the cabaret. I like working in a cabaret. My father had some French in him- he’d be proud I’m working in a French kind of show.”
December took a long drag on her cigarette, creating the first real pause since the detective had asked her name. 
“Where’s your father now?”
December shrugged and smiled. “My mother never told him about me. But it was a love story just the same. They met at a cast party in the city. She was the costume designer and got invited to all the parties. My father was the lead and they hooked up on the show’s closing night. Isn’t that romantic?”
“Sure, so they didn’t stay in touch?”
“That’s what makes it so romantic, see? They got together on the night of his final performance and she never saw him again.” December put one hand on her hip and flashed a confident smile. “Mom always said I look just like him so she could never forget how beautiful he was.”
“And your mother?”
“Oh, she went back to New York for her career when I was little.”
Detective Sims looked around the room. It was dim and smoky with no windows to let in the afternoon sunshine. 
“That must’ve been tough.”
“She followed her dreams just like me. Show business is in our blood.” 
December’s spirit was indomitable. 
The detective slid a photograph along the bar for her to study. “Have you seen this guy around before?”
The man in the picture had wavy black hair and piercing blue eyes. He was unshaven and wore a red winter scarf around his neck. He had his arm around someone but they’d been cut out of the photo. 
“Yeah, I remember him. He was in here a couple of times. Good-looking for an older guy. Always sat in the back by himself and nursed a drink. Didn’t really watch the show - just stared at the ceiling which I thought was weird, ya know? But he’d come up and leave a few bucks before he left anyway.” 
“Was he here last week?”
“No... I’d say it’s probably been two weeks. We don’t get much afternoon business so it’s easy to remember people. I noticed last week that he hadn’t been back.”
“So you don’t know him? Personally I mean?”
“Of course not.” December laughed, but she studied the picture again. “I like his eyes.” She batted her eyelashes at the detective. “People are always commenting on my baby blues too.”
“I bet they are…”
“So why are you looking for this guy? He in some kinda trouble?”
“He disappeared recently.” 
Detective Simms realized December didn’t know any more about Frederick Devereaux than he did. Probably for the best. It would do no good to mention the fraud trail or the missing money. He shoved the photo back into his coat pocket and stood up.
“I’ll let you get back to work, December. You’ll call me if you see him again?” 
“Sure thing Detective. Hope you find the guy, I bet someone’s really missing him.”​


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## AvA (Jan 2, 2012)

http://www.writingforums.com/writers-workshop/126806-december-2011-entries.html#post1492900


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## Rusty Nail (Jan 5, 2012)

*Her Last December
*(650 Words)

Sara hadn’t spoken a word in almost two years.  The ambit of her life had taken on a dull predictability in the nursing home.  She was woken up, cleaned, dressed and fed.  Her days spent in a wheelchair, eyes vacant.  Placed into bed at night, she closed her eyes and slept, waking the next day to repeat the process all over again.  She had the occasional visitor, a dutiful niece or nephew, whose visits became shorter and less frequent as the years passed.

She had her particular place in the lounge after breakfast.  They would wheel her in there, to her spot by the window, and then return for her at lunchtime.  Today though, they had moved the furniture to allow the maintenance man to fix the television, so her wheelchair was turned to face the door.

“Sam!” she cried as the door opened.  “It’s so nice to see you.  Come over here.” 

The years and lines fell from her face.  Clarity and focus returned to her eyes as Sam walked over and sat down beside her.

“I haven’t seen you in ages.  This is so wonderful.”  She continued talking animatedly, telling Sam all about her days, the quality of the food, the kind nurses and the ones she would rather avoid.  She looked over to the orderly.

“Peter” she said, “please tell a volunteer that Sam and I would like to go out for a walk.”

Peter was a little surprised she even knew his name.  “Well, Mrs.  Sullivan” he began, “it’s quite cold out there.  Wouldn’t you rather go into the sun room?”

“That’s utter nonsense! It’s only the beginning of December, and you told me this morning, as you brought me in here, that the weather is very mild for this time of year.  Now please call a volunteer,” she said, with a touch of asperity.

This time Peter’s surprise was evident.  He had never seen even a slight glimmer of awareness in Mrs.  Sullivan during the time he had worked here.  She had stared absently at the TV screen, or through the window, depending on where she was facing, and never, to his knowledge, interacted with the other residents.  

“Okay, I’ll call someone,” he said.

A few minutes later, her shoulders wrapped in a shawl, her legs covered with a blanket, she was in the grounds with Sam at her side.  Her wheelchair was being pushed by a nursing intern, relieved to have a break from the unpleasant task of changing soiled bed sheets.

Sara kept up a steady stream of conversation as they walked.  Sam, even if he had the inclination, could not have gotten a word in edgewise.  She seemed to be making up for lost time, as if a barrier had fallen and all the unspoken words had finally broken free.

She turned her head to look up at the intern, her eyes clear and blue in the bright December light, “Jennifer, isn’t it?” she said.  

The intern nodded, “Yes, Mrs.  Sullivan.  I didn’t think you knew my name.”

“I remember when you first arrived, Jennifer.  Please take Sam and me back to the sun room.  “

In the sun room, Sara looked over at Sam.  “It’s been such a long time,” she said.  “I’m feeling a little tired now.  I think I shall close my eyes and sleep.  I love you Sam.”

Her eyes closed and her breathing gradually slowed, finally coming to a stop.  Sam knew this would happen.  He always knew the ones whose flame could grow a little brighter and who could regain their pride and dignity before the last flicker of light went out.  And they knew him.  His name wasn’t always Sam.  Sometimes it was a remembered name from childhood or even a character from a book.  His real name, or at least the name they had given him, was engraved on the collar around his neck.


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