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The Way Station: A Christmas Story by Luke Piotrowski

Madsen Morrow was eight years old the first time she met Santa Claus. She’d come downstairs to investigate a noise (sofa legs scratching on the floor as if shoved) that seemed to have come from the living room. It was empty when she got there; stockings hung, tree sparkling, fire burning low. “Well, that’s strange,” she thought and said out loud. This is was what characters on television did when they were by themselves. Madsen was very fond of television and watched it as often as possible. She was about to head back upstairs and into bed when she heard a new sound; a humming sound, coming from down the hall. “Ah-ha,” she said (this also from television). It was the toilet fan humming. Someone was inside if the light from the crack beneath the door could be trusted. “Who’s there?” she demanded. The light and fan went off at once. “It’s too late for that. You’d have done better not to turn everything off. Then maybe I’d have figured that dad or someone had forgotten.” She sighed.
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Marli

River woke to the sound of the boys in the trees. She woke slowly, her eyes closed. Gray to pink, backlit by the sun. She’d slept long. “What time is it?” Nothing. “Rain?” The creak of the door. The smell of soap and fresh, wet skin. River kept her eyes closed. “Rain?” “You’re still in bed? Get up already. You’ll be late for school.” “They’re early.” “They’re always early. Eager beavers.” “Huh?” “You’ve never heard that before. 'Eager beaver.' 'Eager as a beaver' or whatever.” “Beavers are eager?” “I don’t know, River. It’s just a saying.” “But beavers aren’t eager.” “Yeah, but it rhymes.” “No it doesn’t.” “Don’t start. You know what I mean. Anyway, they’re always early. Every year.” “I never noticed.” “Yeah, well I did. And they are.” “I guess it never mattered before.” “Not to you, I suppose, no.” A pause. “So. You excited?” “Uhm. Something. I’m something.” “Does that mean that you’re going to get out of bed?” A pause. “I th

April, May, etc. for now

So April came and went without a new story. Most of you reading this already know why, but I suppose I should post an official explanation. Rene and Lil’s original adventure (in the form of a spec screenplay my friend Ben and I wrote) managed to get us some representation out in LA. That means we (and subsequently, I) need to stay focused on getting more screenplay projects off the ground. That also means I’ll be taking a break from these monthly stories… Not because I don’t care about them. Quite the opposite, actually. Loathe as I am to leave the experiment unfinished, dividing my attention and half-assing it seems worse. Giving anything less than everything I have would be a disservice to… all parties involved (fictional or non). The idea behind all this was to keep me writing consistently. The only reason I’m stopping is that there are other things I need to be writing instead. I’ll return to this world eventually (in some form or other). I may also continue to post thing

St. Patrick's Purgatory

By the way, if you're wondering how this month's story is holiday related, "Saint Patrick's Purgatory" is a real cave in Ireland where it's said that Saint Patrick heard voices and had visions. Since then, it's been a popular site for religious pilgrimages.

March

Sorry this one's so late and so long. It almost didn't happen. As most of you know, my friend Ben and I are working on a new screenplay. But to those who reminded me that I have a responsibility: I thank you. Rene does too. Such Things 3: Saint Patrick and Purgatory The girl sat on my sofa in a pair of dark green pants that were far too much by way of being far too little; too low, too short, too tight. She dangled a black shoe from her big toe for a bit before stomping it back into place and finally offering me her eyes. Those almond eyes. I took them, of course, held her gaze a long, cold minute. She was sucking on one of those toffees. The kind in the little golden wrapper. Golden like her skin. Like the spine of the books that Easter makes me read. “I need you,” she said. Golden. “What for?” “To find someone. I heard you do that.” I told her I didn’t do it anymore, that I hadn’t for a very long time. “My friend is missing,” she insisted. "So tell the police." “I