Prompt for 12 December 2025
Scoot is taking some time away from providing new prompts, but encouraged his FFF fans to pick and choose from prompts posted throughout the year, listed here. I scrolled around and selected these:
Write about a favorite food
well-ordered confusion
“that’s what you think”
A character who is a teenager
“Conjunction Junction, what’s your function…” The large floor television sang out the old song, making Helen roll her eyes. Being 15 was bad enough. Having a seven-year-old brother who thought Saturday morning cartoons were amazing was worse. Spending Christmas with her grandparents who hadn’t updated anything in their house since 1973 was horrifying, but here she was.
“Helen,” her brother called, “Grandma has Fruit Loops and Captain Crunch!” He held up two bowls sloshing over with milk and cereal like they were found treasures.
“Yeah, Ryan, they’re probably vintage,” Helen snorted. She slouched on the plastic-covered burnt orange sofa, wishing her grandparents would at least get internet so she could stay connected with her friends while she was stuck in this throwback place. But they didn’t even have cable, much less WIFI. She kicked at the avocado green shag carpet in annoyance. She could smell cinnamon rolls from the kitchen.
“At least,” she thought, “Grandma makes her own cinnamon rolls from scratch and not from one of those popping cans with plastic frosting.” The television continued to blare and Helen recognized the theme song from The Jetsons. The future she lived in was not the well-ordered confusion of the show’s vision with its flying cars and robot maid, but she did have a smartphone that had videocalls—if she had internet access. Shrugging, she followed her nose into the brick kitchen with its matching goldenrod appliances, where her parents sat at the kitchen table drinking coffee with her Grandpa.
Helen didn’t like much about Christmas in this old house, but she adored her Grandpa. He was the one who told everyone he was taking her fishing, but really drove into town so she could stop at the bookstore with fast internet and interesting book covers. He would settle in the comfortable chairs with a cup of coffee and a book while Helen caught up on all the news from her friends at home and a few videos on YouTube. On the way home, he’d stop at the fish shop by the lake and buy a fish to “prove” they’d really been fishing. He once told her that Grandma believed the fish tale, but Helen knew better.
“That’s what you think,” she’d thought, but said nothing. It was their little secret and she would never say or do anything to jeopardize the tradition. Today, however, would not include a secret trip to town. Christmas Eve had its own immovable traditions, much older than the vintage house, but equally annoying. Helen would go along and put on a happy face for her family, but inside, she just wanted to be home, surrounded by the comfortable things she loved, watching videos made in this century, and hanging out with her friends.
Ryan wandered into the kitchen looking hungry, his cereal bowls empty. He spied the cinnamon rolls cooling on the stovetop, but before he could sneak one, Grandma snatched them up.
“Not until they’re frosted, young man.” She pulled out her whisk and started beating cream cheese with sugar and heavy cream, but then handing the whisk to Ryan. “It’s time you learned to help around here,” she said. Her words were harsh, but her voice was teasing. She whispered to Ryan, “Plus, when it’s done, you can lick the whisk.” Ryan began to beat the ingredient like his life depended on it.
It wasn’t so long ago that it was Helen beating the icing with Grandma. She wondered when she had stopped. Watching Ryan sticking his tongue out with the intensity of his focus almost made her smile. He looked up at her just then, and grinned before sticking his tongue out at her. Helen rolled her eyes at him and looked to see whether any of the adults in the room noticed his insult, but they were busy talking about what time they had to leave for church and whether they could get away with wearing jeans.
Grandma was of the opinion that Christmas Even services were for dressing up, but Grandpa said it only mattered that they showed up. Jesus was pretty forgiving about clothing, especially given that he spent the first Christmas wrapped in swaddling clothes. Her parents smiled into their coffee, knowing that Grandma would prevail, as she always did, and they would be festively attired.
“Helen,” her dad said. Both Helen and her grandmother looked at him. Sharing a name with Grandma was just one more reason to want to be home. Her dad was looking at Grandma, so Helen made her way out of the kitchen before she heard any more of the conversation.
She found herself in the den, less formal than the living room where the television still sang about interjections and elbow room. This room was warm and worn, with comfortable leather recliners and shelves full of books. It also contained the real Christmas tree, not the fake one that graced the living room. Helen looked at the tinsel icicles, carefully hung, one strand at a time. She knew her grandmother spent hours getting the tinsel to hang properly from the Noble Fir’s branches, and she admitted that it was beautiful in the glow of the lamps. She twirled a strand around one finger, wondering why modern trees were decorated with massive ornaments and wrapped in garland. The task was finished quickly, but it was missing something that Helen couldn’t quite identify.
Grandma’s tree sparkled in the light, almost magically. Helen twisted the tinsel in her hand as she walked around the tree, not exactly admiring Grandma’s work, but not annoyed by it either. She noticed a space along the back side of the tree near the wood-paneled wall that didn’t seem quite as detailed. Some of the tinsel clumped, as if Grandma had decided she was done and just tossed the remaining tinsel on the back of the tree where no one would notice unless they looked closely. Helen couldn’t remember a time where the tree wasn’t perfectly polished from any angle.
Without thinking, Helen pulled one of the tinsel bunches off the tree and began separating the strands. Carefully, she hung each icicle along the upper branches of the fir so that the back mirrored the front. She moved to the next handful of tinsel and repeated the process. She didn’t know why she was fixing the tree, but it felt right. She could hear the family laughing in the kitchen, but she remained focused on the task at hand, meticulously hanging tinsel, one strand at a time.
So, what do you think?
Great metaphor for de-fragging our lives to make room for what’s important. Well done.
I think Helen's going to be a part of this family for a long time, even if she thinks she shouldn't be. Haha. Very nice Christmas story.