|
Welcome
I'm just starting this out to see how things go and hopefully I can really make this look good, so this will change soon
|
Violet Henry Whitlock had never intended to become an angry middle-aged man, but somewhere along the winding, unremarkable road of his life, it had simply happened. Not in one dramatic moment, not in a thunderclap revelation...just slowly, like frost creeping over a windowpane in January. People said he had winter weather on the inside, and though he never admitted it aloud, he knew they were right.
His wife, Marjorie, used to warm him. Her laughter had been the hearth he came home to, her voice the soft quilt he wrapped around his weary soul. But five winters ago, she’d slipped away from the world far too soon, leaving behind a house that echoed and a man who no longer knew how to feel anything, but cold.
The town of Crescent Ridge rolled past him each morning as he trudged to work, hands deep in his coat pockets, eyes down. He worked at one of the only hardware stores, Asa's, one of those places where the bell above the door chimed with nostalgia. He fixed screens, cut keys, and helped people choose paint colors he’d never dream of putting on his own walls. Everyone knew Henry. Everyone missed the man he had been.
But grief is a strange, heavy snow. It doesn’t melt unless you let the sun in.
And Henry hadn’t.
~ ~ ~
He was restocking shelves when he heard the bell ring. He expected a customer, maybe Mrs. Patterson needing new garden gloves again even though no one gardened in December. Instead, he heard a small sound...almost a whine.
“Hello?” Henry called.
Stepping toward the front of the shop, something bumped into his leg.
He looked down.
There, shivering slightly, was the oddest creature he’d ever seen. A small puppy, floppy eared, round bellied, and very clearly purple.
Henry blinked. Rubbed his eyes. Blinked again.
The puppy wagged its tail as if to say, Yes, I am definitely this color. Get used to it.
“Well,” Henry muttered, “you’re...unique.”
He hesitated before kneeling, his knees cracking like the old floorboards. He picked up the pup, surprised by how warm it felt. The puppy licked his chin, and something in his chest, the icy place he kept tightly sealed, shifted, just a little.
“Who in the world do you belong to?” he murmured.
But the shop was empty. No owner in sight. Only the puppy, whose wide eyes glowed with earnest affection.
Henry’s heart, accustomed to silence, gave a small, unfamiliar flutter.
~ ~ ~
Henry tried to keep the puppy in the back room, but it kept escaping, padding around the shop and greeting customers with excited squeaks. Soon everyone in Crescent Ridge was talking about Henry’s “sweet purple puppy,” and to his own bafflement, Henry didn’t mind.
He brought the puppy home when no one he asked claimed the puppy as theirs. It curled up beside him at night, its tiny warmth burrowing into places Henry thought had frozen forever. He named it Violet, simple, fitting, and special since that was Marjorie's favorite color.
~ ~ ~
Christmas approached, and with it came Crescent Ridge’s cherished traditions. One of the oldest was the “Peppermint Pig,” a rosy-colored candy figurine that families broke with a small hammer, sharing the pieces and a wish for good fortune in the coming year.
Henry had not participated in the Peppermint Pig ceremony since before Marjorie’s passing.
But this year, the townsfolk that entered Asa's insisted.
“You and Violet simply must come,” Mrs. Patterson declared, hands on her hips in the way that meant refusal was not an option.
“Violet?” Henry scoffed. “She’s just a dog.”
“She’s a special dog,” Mrs. Patterson said simply. “One that everyone loves.”
So Henry went.
~ ~ ~
He stood beside Violet in the warmly lit town hall, surrounded by laughter, carols, and cinnamon cider. Children took turns petting Violet, who relished the attention as if she had been waiting her whole life to be adored by a room full of strangers.
Finally, the mayor announced it was time for the Peppermint Pig.
A hush fell over the crowd as the gleaming pink candy was placed on a small wooden block. People approached one by one, tapped the pig with a silver hammer, and shared their wishes. Hope filled the space like a rising tide.
Henry tried to blend into the back, hoping no one would notice him.
But Violet trotted forward, barked once, and nudged him with her nose.
“Go on, Henry!” someone called.
“For Marjorie!” someone else added.
“For yourself,” Mrs. Patterson said softly.
He raised the hammer and brought it down gently.
The Peppermint Pig cracked with a soft, crystalline sound.
Henry closed his eyes.
“I wish,” he whispered, voice shaking, “to feel her warmth again.”
People clapped, some wiped their eyes, and Violet barked joyfully as if celebrating the moment for him.
From that night on, something changed.
Henry began waking before the alarm, taking Violet on long morning walks where the world smelled clean and new. He started greeting customers with more than a curt nod. He found himself laughing, really laughing, at things that weren’t even particularly funny.
The winter inside him, the one he believed permanent, unbreakable, was receding, day by day.
Grief never disappeared, he knew. It softened, reshaped itself, and became something he carried rather than something that carried him. A reminder that joy could return, even to broken places.
~ ~ ~
One night, months later, Henry sat on the porch with Violet asleep at his feet. The sunset painted the sky in lavender and rose, Violet’s colors, he realized with a smile.
“Thank you,” he murmured.
Violet’s ear flicked, as if she understood.
Henry leaned back in his chair closing his eyes, and for the first time in 6 winters he heard his Marjorie again. He opened his eyes to find her standing there waiting for him. Later when Mrs. Patterson came to check on him. He was found having died in his sleep with a smile on his face. Violet lying at his feet seeming to have passed with him.
Word Count: 999
Written for: "The Writer's Cramp" 
Prompt: Write a story or poem containing these phrases, in any order, bolded for tomorrow's judge: peppermint pig, sweet purple puppy, angry middle-aged man, winter weather on the inside |
© Copyright 2025 Lonewolf (lonewolfmcq at Writing.Com).
All rights reserved.
InkSpot.Com, its affiliates and syndicates have been granted non-exclusive rights to display this work.
|
