Sacrifice for the Sun

The snow was like sugar.

There were no sounds except of the skis sliding across the granular snow and the labored breathing of the three of us. Nancy broke trail, and with each powerful kick, a cloud of snow shot out behind her, glistening in the moonlight.

It was the winter solstice, and Mike had pulled me out of the warmth and comfort of my house, just as I was settling in for the evening to watch TV, to go on this ski. Mike was always doing things like that; he seemed to have an obsession with preventing me from getting comfortable.

"Come on, you've got to come. We have to make a sacrifice," he said. "If we don't, the sun will keep moving south and will never return."

"Why can't we do it in the daytime?" I inquired, knowing that my question was futile.

"Because it's the longest NIGHT of the year, not day. It's a time to celebrate the night," he proclaimed as he gathered up my ski gear. "Hurry up. Nancy's waiting in the car."

READ THE WHOLE STORY AT BURNING SUNFLOWER.

Pears and Polaroids

It is the time of year when pears hang too ripe from the trees. And when memories of adolescence and lost love cling like spiderwebs.

All that separates us is a small wooden table, an empty green bottle, a Mason jar half full of red wine, and a pear.

From the silence that grows between two people who have said all they have to say to one another, I speak.

“What are you working on?”
“Oh,” she says, “not much.”
I wait
“You know I don’t talk about my work. Not before it’s done.”
“Yeah,” I say. “You don’t talk about much ‘til it’s done.”
Another pause.
“A pear,” she says.
“You’re painting a pear?”
“Yeah.”

To read the whole story, go to gin + gelato's new short fiction/essay blog: Burning Sunflowers.