Written by Amy Tritz
NOTE: Chapter 1 and Chapter 12 will be written by Harold. Chapters 2 through 11 will be written by separate guest writers in order to create a fresh, improvised, and unpredictable Christmas story. Want to write the next chapter? Contact us on social media or email! First to volunteer will be the confirmed writer for the next chapter and we will not be editing the STORY of any submissions (just small grammar/spelling msitakes), so give your best effort, but take the story wherever you want to take it. We welcome the chaos. The chapters should be between 500 and 1,000 words.
– Harold
“I —“ Think, Lima, think. “I was just about to text you back, and then…. I woke up here. Promise.”
Mama squinted at her daughter suspiciously. “You weren’t down there rubbin’ all over Alan Jackson’s mural again, were you?” she half-hissed. “Because I don’t want a repeat of last time. People just stopped talking about it.”
“No, mama,” Lima lied, turning away to hide the embarrassment blooming across her cheeks. “I was just doing some Christmas shopping. I bought something for you.” Lima scanned the room. Wow. Her room was exactly as she’d left it six years ago, save for the few items she hastily tucked into her locally-crafted “Goochy” bag the night she hopped that train to Nashville.
“Have you seen my bags? There were three of them.”
“No, Lima Bug.”
Lima’s heart dropped.
“But they did find your purse,” her Dad said, handing it to her slowly. Knowing.
“Baby, why don’t we go make Lima some breakfast and let her get cleaned up?” Thank you, Dad.
“I’d want to get cleaned up too after nearly murdering Santa, AND embarrassing the Lee name again,” her mother muttered, not quite softly enough to remain out of earshot. Thanks, Mama.
Lima opened her purse, reaching in for her cherished Waffle House receipt, its seven perfect tiny grease spatters still dotting the bottom like little snowflakes. She re-read the words, her stomach backflipping after all these years. She still had to tell him. He had to know. Lima dug a little further into her purse for her cell phone. She listened to her first voicemail. “Hi, Lima. It’s Jerry. Soooooo, there’s no easy way to tell you this——— the studio is going to pass on your album. They just don’t get it, that’s all. But I was thinking, what if we pitch the track Waffling Around for commercials? Lula’s Log Cabin is expanding. Hey, I know it’s not Eggo, but it might earn you a few bucks? I mean, it’s better than dressing up as a chicken and spinning signs. I’m just spitballing here. Call me back.”
Lima felt her anger at Alan Jackson burn hotter than a heap of burning tires. If it weren’t for Alan Jackson, she never would have left Newnan. If it weren’t for Alan Jackson, she wouldn’t have accidentally run over Santa. Lima stabbed the phone with her finger. The second voicemail was from the Newnan PD. With a sense of dread, she opened it.
Newnan Time with Harold 