Spoon-ish

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So both of these were inspired by my friend Juliana . She was writing a comic about how Sojin saved Christmas by finding the spoons, and the first line just popped into my head.

She also gets props for helping me come up with the idea for the picture and holding the spoon in question. Because my super helpful friends were feeling super helpful today I failed to get an opinion on one picture verses the other, so they're both on here. Happy 2011. :)

        You wouldn’t think the fate of Christmas would hang on a spoon.

        It doesn’t fit. Christmas is about presents, about advertising, about the baby Jesus. And not once have you seen an ad for spoons. But you know. You know better than all of them.

        Because if that spoon teeters towards the edge of the table, if it falls, splattering stuffing all across the room, Christmas will be over. You are sure of this. Christmas will be over, the house will descend into madness, and people will leave angry and confused.

        You have to save the spoon.

        You have to save it. You have to save Christmas.

        So you reach out carefully, past the turkey, golden brown and perfect. Past the cookies arranged by color on their plates. Past the mashed potatoes, carefully swirled on top. Past the cranberry sauce, smoothed flat in its bowl. Towards that spoon, your sister’s  spoon, the spoon she is ignoring.

        But your arms don’t reach far enough. Desperate—seeing the end of the world as we know it—you wave your hand a little trying to get your sister’s attention. But she  isn’t looking at you, not near you, and she doesn’t se the imminent peril.

        Christmas is balancing by a spoon. It’s a race.

        In your mind you can hear the sound the spoon will make as it hits the floor. You can see the accusing looks turned towards your sister and the chaos that is sure to ensue. You can see it all, because it’s something that’s happened before. But never on Christmas.

        Not on Christmas.

        “Spoon,” you say, raising your voice. “Spoon!”

        Your mother shakes her head at you, the warning clear; be quiet, grandma is speaking. And that’s when you realize that grandma is speaking, but you haven’t heard because—

        The spoon is tipping forward—

        And then it falls—

        And you close your eyes and shrink away, silently apologizing to the Christmas gods that will be mad of the mess that has been made of their special day—

        Clang.