The season of goodwill is upon us! The shops online and in the High Streets are buzzing with Christmas fare. There are 3 for 2 and 50% off, etc, enticing us to spend our hard-earned cash. But I have become more savvy over the years. I now make a list and stick to it with self-inflicted discipline to keep myself from going overboard. I learned my lesson the hard way years ago, and now I am one step ahead of the crafty retailers’ advertising. Seriously, write a list. I do mine around the beginning of August (yes, as early as that). And, bit by bit, I find out what the grandkids have their little hearts set on, except George, who is 7 and will chop and change from one week to the next and start putting money aside when I price things up. The older grandkids all want money, so that is easy, and I begin to put money away for them from the beginning of the year; believe me, you don't notice it so much. Around October, I look at my Christmas decoration...
I penned this many moons ago. I love a thunder storm (provided I'm indoors). And, it was a thunder storm that give me the idea for the short story.
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The riverbed raised its sleepy head — another day had dawned — and she wondered what it might bring. The sky was the first to know, as candy floss-coloured clouds began to darken and the rumble of thunder announced its presence. The trees whispered excitedly to the grass: a storm was about to break. In turn, the grass passed the message to the river.
The river eagerly waited for the thrill of the race to come. Then she would be off, and the chase would begin. She remembered the last storm: first, the lightning, crackling zig-zag patterns across dark skies. Thunder followed — angry and forceful — trying to catch her as she danced gracefully ahead, with intense winds attempting to slow her down. Nothing could beat her. She would never yield. Victory would always be hers to take.
It happened in that split second. The branches of the trees swayed from side to side, announcing their allegiance to the river, blocking the powerful wind momentarily. The leaves shouted their encouragement, urging the river to take the lead. The rain lashed the riverbanks, soaking the grass in retaliation for the river’s refusal to give in. She drove herself unmercifully for what seemed like an eternity — never tiring, refusing to submit.
Then the storm broke — giving up, surrendering the battle — tired, weary, and angry that the river would take the glory once more. The sun made an appearance, smiling in satisfaction. The trees congratulated the river, and the grass saluted their hero.
The day became peaceful once more. The river slept — contented, proud, and ready.
© Jan Hope 2025
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