Tag Archives: thanksgiving

The New Thanksgiving

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

The November wind howled through the shattered windows of the abandoned shopping mall, cutting to the bone. A small group of survivors huddled around a makeshift fire, their faces hollow with exhaustion, their gazes fixed on the flickering flames. Outside, the world lay in ruins, torn apart by a man-made virus that had turned most of humanity into mindless predators—“maulers,” as they were grimly called. For these few, every breath was an act of defiance against extinction.

Jack stood, his frame stooped but his presence commanding. The firelight etched deep lines into his weathered face as he surveyed the group: Irina, with her quiet resolve; Danny, sharp-jawed and skeptical; Sarah, pale and shivering under a moth-eaten blanket. They and all the rest were his family now, the last remnants of hope in a world gone dark.

“Today is Thanksgiving,” Jack began, his voice steady despite the weight in his chest. “And I know what you’re thinking—what’s left to be thankful for? But we’re alive. We have each other. That’s something. And as long as we have that, there’s a chance we can fight for more.”

His voice caught, the words a reminder of everything they’d lost. His gaze drifted to the shattered storefronts and the long-empty corridors of the mall. “I remember Thanksgivings when my mom’s house was so packed you couldn’t hear yourself think. Too much food, too much noise, too much everything. It was chaos. I thought it’d never end. Now I’d give anything for that kind of chaos again.”

The silence that followed was heavy, punctuated only by the crackle of the fire. Then, from the shadows of a long-abandoned storefront, came a voice.

“Hope is a powerful thing.”

Every head snapped toward the sound. A woman stepped into the light, her movements unnervingly fluid, her pale skin almost luminous in the dim glow. Her eyes, an unnatural green, shone like lanterns in the dark.

“Who the hell are you?” Danny barked, rising to his feet, a length of rebar clutched tightly in his hand. Around him, the others scrambled for their makeshift weapons, muscles tensed to fight or flee.

The woman raised her hands in a gesture of peace, her expression calm but urgent. “Wait. I’m not your enemy. My name is Yulia. I came to help.”

“Help?” Danny spat. “You look like one of them.”

“I’m not a mauler,” Yulia said firmly. “But I am…changed. And so are all of you, whether you realize it or not.”

Jack stepped forward, putting himself between Yulia and the others. “Changed how exactly?”

Yulia hesitated, her luminous eyes softening as she looked at him. “You’re special. Every one of you carries something in your blood—something we’ve been able to synthesize and augment in my time. It’s the key to saving what’s left of the world.”

“Your time?” Irina’s voice was sharp with disbelief. “What are you saying?”

“I’m from the future,” Yulia said simply. “I know it’s hard to believe, but I’m here because of you. My future, our future, depends on what you do now.”

As her words settled over the group, a distant, guttural howl echoed through the corridors, raising the hair on their necks. Irina clutched her crowbar tighter, her knuckles white.

Danny’s lip curled. “Right. And while we sit here listening to her fairy tale, they’re closing in.”

Yulia stepped closer, undeterred. “I’m telling the truth. Without you, humanity won’t survive the mutations to come. Your blood carries an immunity we’ve never been able to replicate—one we can use to create a vaccine. This serum…” She pulled a small vial of glowing liquid from her jacket. “It will make you stronger, faster, and resistant to new strains of the virus. It might even reverse early mauler transformations. It’s not an easy process, but it’s the best hope we have.”

Jack’s gaze narrowed. “And why risk coming back here? If your future survives, why not leave us to…whatever this is?”

Yulia’s composure faltered, her voice breaking. “Because we’re not going to survive in my time. Not like this. Your children won’t inherit your immunities, and when the virus mutates…” Her gaze flicked to Irina, her voice softening. “I won’t be able to give you the grandchildren you want. All our babies are stillborn.”

The group froze. Irina’s sharp intake of breath cut through the silence. “What?”

“It’s true,” Yulia said, stepping closer. Her voice trembled. “Mom, Dad—this could be the moment that changes everything. I know it’s hard to believe, but I’ve risked everything coming here. Believing you will save us all.”

Jack turned to Irina, his voice low and strained. “We have a daughter? How is that even possible?”

Irina shook her head, her face a mix of disbelief and hope. “I can figure out how it happens…I just never thought you and I would…you know. No offense.”

“None taken,” Jack said. “And, same.”

Danny stepped forward, his rebar tapping against the floor. “Her story’s insane. We don’t even have a clue what that stuff is, and you’re going to trust her just because she says she’s your kid…from the future?”

“She’s not lying,” Irina said quietly, her eyes fixed on Yulia. “Look at her. She’s…us.”

Jack stared at the vial in Yulia’s hand, the glow casting eerie shadows on her face. Every instinct told him to turn away, to reject this impossible story. But something in Yulia’s eyes—something familiar—pulled at him.

“If there’s even a chance she’s right,” he said finally, his voice heavy, “we have to try. Because if we don’t, what’s left?”

Irina stepped beside him, her hand brushing his. “We do it together.”

Jack and Irina took the vial, sharing a long, steady look. Then, as the others watched, they drank.

The transformation was immediate. Jack doubled over, a wave of searing heat coursing through his veins. Irina fell to her knees, her body convulsing. Around them, the survivors froze, too horrified to intervene. The pain was excruciating, every nerve aflame as the serum worked through them, tearing apart and rebuilding.

When it was over, they staggered to their feet, gasping. Their eyes glowed green, the world sharper and more vivid. They looked at each other, something unspoken passing between them—a shared pulse, a connection deeper than words.

Yulia stepped forward, her smile tinged with sadness. “This is just the beginning. Together, you’ll create a future where humanity thrives again.”

Danny muttered, “If this kills me, at least I won’t have to deal with the next Thanksgiving speech,” before finally drinking his dose.

Later, around the fire, the group shared what little they had, thankful for each other, for hope, and for the strange new path before them. For the first time in years, they allowed themselves to dream—not just of survival, but of something greater. Something worth fighting for.

On this New Thanksgiving, they were grateful not for what they’d lost, but for what might still be.

In this world of diverse traditions,
Where cultures blend and intertwine,
We pause to share a simple mission,
A heartfelt wish, a thought divine.

Whether you gather 'round the table,
With family, friends, or loved ones dear,
Or simply cherish moments stable,
In quiet solitude this year.

May gratitude fill every corner,
Of hearts and homes, both far and wide,
Let kindness be the reigning order,
And peace the guest that does abide.

For those who celebrate Thanksgiving,
We wish you joy, a feast to savor,
May blessings flow, forever living,
In memories you'll fondly favor.

And if this day holds no tradition,
Within your land or in your home,
Know that our wish is no partition,
But sent to all, wherever they roam.

So on this day, let's lift each other,
With words of thanks and acts of grace,
For in this world, we're all one another,
United in this human race.

Happy Thanksgiving, one and all, Whether near or far, let love call.

The Great Thanksgiving Heist

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

The midtown city’s heartbeat thrummed with the rhythm of the annual Thanksgiving Day parade, a kaleidoscope of hues splashed across the canvas of the urban sprawl. Towering balloons bobbed like gentle giants in the sky, their vibrant shades of cerulean, scarlet, and gold reflecting the morning sun that peeked through the high-rises. Marching bands, with their brass instruments glinting, cut through the crisp autumn air with lively fanfare, and the steady cadence of drums echoed off the pavement, setting the tempo for the dancers who twirled and shimmied with infectious energy.

Families and friends, bundled in layers to fend off the November chill, lined the crowded sidewalks, their breaths visible in the cool air. Children perched on the shoulders of parents, wide-eyed and pointing with mittened hands at the spectacle above. Vendors weaved through the crowd, the aroma of roasted chestnuts and hot cider mingling with the sounds of laughter and chatter.

And there, woven into the tapestry of revelry, was an assembly of individuals who appeared to be ordinary spectators. But beneath their autumn garments beat the hearts of adventurers, orchestrators of a plot that was anything but routine. This eclectic troupe was an alignment of unique talents: Alex, the strategist with a mind sharp as a tack; Sam, whose appearance was as ever-changing as the autumn leaves; Riley, agile as a cat with a gaze as piercing as an eagle; and Jordan, the digital maestro, fingers dancing over keys faster than the tap dancers on the parade route.

Their scheme was cloaked in secrecy, as they communicated with subtle glances and covert earpieces, blending seamlessly with the crowd. Their plan was bold, their target invaluable. Today, amidst the spectacle of celebration and under the watchful eyes of thousands, they would attempt to pull off a heist that would become the stuff of legends, etching their story into the fabric of the city’s history as indelibly as the parade itself.

Alex’s gaze, veiled behind the opaque lenses of their sunglasses, was fixed intently not on the grandiose display that unfolded before him but on a single, mesmerizing point amidst the procession—a float that carried the weight of the city’s history on its ornate surface. This float was a mobile museum, adorned with relics and treasures that spoke of eras bygone, each piece whispering stories of the city’s past. But none of these could outshine the lustrous allure of the Centennial Diamond, cradled within a glass case, its facets catching the light and throwing prisms across the awed faces of the onlookers.

The Centennial Diamond was no ordinary gem; its mystery was as deep as the mines from which it had been unearthed a hundred years ago, during the city’s infancy. The gem had been discovered in a secluded vein of earth, untouched and hidden, its existence only revealed by a flicker of chance and the glint of a miner’s lamp. From that moment, it had become the city’s heart, beating in resplendent glory, a symbol of prosperity and of the indomitable spirit of those who toiled beneath the earth.

As much as it was admired for its beauty, the diamond was equally ensnared in legend. It was said that the gem was imbued with the essence of the city itself—the hopes of its founders, the dreams of its children, and the resolve of its leaders. Whispers of a curse also followed its brilliance, tales that misfortune would befall anyone who dared to sever it from its rightful place within the city’s embrace. Yet, such stories only heightened its allure, the diamond’s checkered history weaving an almost tangible aura around it.

It was this aura that had drawn Alex and his team to the gem. For them, the Centennial Diamond was not merely a stone to be admired—it was the ultimate challenge, a testament to their skills, and perhaps, a chance to become part of the gem’s storied history. As the float drew nearer, Alex felt the weight of the diamond’s past pressing upon the moment, the heist they were about to undertake a new chapter waiting to be written in the annals of the city’s enigmatic legacy.

Sam, a chameleon among the revelers, maneuvered his way into the heart of the parade, blending in with the cavalcade of acrobats and entertainers. Not merely a clown, his face, obscured by the intricate patterns of paint, was a canvas of vibrant hues—bold reds and deep blues—that transformed him into a living piece of parade artistry. He juggled with a flair that belied the concentration behind each precisely timed throw and catch, his balls arcing through the air like colorful meteors. But this performance was merely a facade, a cover for the sharp mind working behind the merry twinkle in his eye. Each toss of his juggling balls was a calculated part of the plan, a silent signal to his team as they edged closer to their prize.

Riley worked her way high above the street to a vantage point few would think to glance. Her form was coiled with the potential energy of a sprinter at the starting block. From her elevated position, she surveyed the scene with the focus of a falcon. The earpiece she wore was her lifeline to the others, her voice the guiding hand that would steer them through the tumult below. She watched the crowd with hawk-like intensity, noting the positions of the guards, the ebb and flow of the spectators, and the steady progress of the float carrying their quarry. Her fingers danced over the miniature controls strapped to her wrist, a discreet device that allowed her to signal her team without attracting attention.

Tucked away in the seclusion of a nondescript white van, nestled in the shadows of an alley just off the parade route, sat Jordan. This van was their mission control, its interior a stark contrast to the festive chaos outside. Walls of monitors bathed the space in a cold, blue light, each screen a window into the various security systems that safeguarded their target. Jordan’s fingers flew over the keys and trackpads with a maestro’s touch, orchestrating a symphony of bypassed firewalls and disabled alarms. With every keystroke, they peeled back layers of digital defense, ensuring that their heist remained invisible to all but the most discerning eyes. Jordan was the unseen guardian, the digital ghost who cleared the path for the physical artistry of their comrades in the field.

As the float carrying the Centennial Diamond drew near, Sam’s performance built up into a spectacle of its own when he ignited a dazzling display of pyrotechnics far grander than the parade’s own planned fireworks. The sudden eruption of light and sound drew gasps from the crowd, their attention snapping to the spectacle. It was grand, unexpected, a crescendo of color that painted the sky and reflected in the wide eyes of the onlookers. The guards, too, were momentarily dazzled, their eyes instinctively drawn to the brilliant display that turned the sky into a canvas.

It was the precise moment Alex had been meticulously orchestrating. With the crowd thick as a forest around the float, Alex moved like a shadow through the throng, his presence as fleeting as the chill wind that whipped through the parade route. He slipped past the distracted guards, a whisper of intent in the sea of oblivious revelry

Reaching the float, Alex found himself face to face with the gleaming diamond, its facets winking like a sly accomplice. The security measures were a puzzle only a few in the world could solve – a network of lasers, pressure sensors, and alarms, all silently guarding the gem. But hidden behind dark sunglasses designed with the latest tech, Alex could see the laser grid protecting the Centennial Diamond, which to everyone else remained invisible. The glasses outlined each beam in a stark, vivid color against the grayscale backdrop, allowing Alex to navigate through the web of light with the poise of a ballet dancer.

The pressure sensors he tricked with a modified bypass emulator, which caused the system to reset, giving Alex enough time to swap the real diamond with a replica so meticulously crafted it would fool even the most discerning eye. It was also the exact weight of the real diamond, so when the system came back online it wouldn’t trigger the alarm. The switch was seamless, and the weight sensors remained silent, so none the wiser to the theft.

But then, as if on cue, the unexpected occurred. A rival group, cloaked in the guise of parade performers, made their bold move. Their approach was less finesse, more force, and the crowd gasped as the previously seamless parade turned into a stage for pandemonium.

In the midst of the chaos, Alex’s hand found Sam’s in the crowd, the diamond passing between them with the sleight of hand only years of trust could perfect. Sam’s juggling didn’t falter, the gem now one with his performance, indistinguishable to the untrained eye.

The rival gang, aghast at being outsmarted, surged forward, their desperation clear as they attempted to correct their miscalculation. They reached for Sam, but their fingers grasped at air – they were performers, not thieves, and their timing was off.

Above, Riley had watched the drama unfold. With the grace of an avenging angel, she descended from her perch, her silhouette framed against the sky. A swing, a leap, and she landed with the poise of a gymnast, her distraction perfectly timed to draw the eyes away once more. The crowd erupted in cheers, thinking it all part of the show, as Riley made her dramatic descent into the parade, becoming part of the performance.

In that moment of orchestrated confusion, the diamond changed hands once more, slipping into the costume of a child watching the parade. This child, seemingly enthralled by the clowns and acrobats, was none other than the youngest member of their team, Alex’s son, Benji, an expert in the art of being underestimated.

With the prized Centennial Diamond now in their safekeeping, the team vanished into the labyrinth of the city, eventually converging at their sanctuary—a once grandiose building now wearing the patina of time. Within these walls, history was both made and kept. They huddled around an ancient wooden table that bore the scars and stories of past escapades, the Centennial Diamond casting a spectral dance of light across the weathered wood.

Alex, with a victor’s gleam in their eye, lifted a glass in a toast that was more than a celebration—it was a signal, the silent acknowledgment of the bond that held this band of outliers together. “Well, we did it!” he declared, his voice a mix of pride and exhilaration.

Riley, ever the pragmatic spirit, tilted her head, her eyes reflecting a glint of the stone’s luminance. “Is that it? Are we officially done?” She couldn’t mask the underlying hunger for the next challenge. “I mean, we have the freaking Centennial Diamond, what’s left?”

Alex’s response was a sly curve of the lips, a prelude to the revelation of their next grand scheme. “How about the most iconic and expensive work of art in the world?”

Sam, the chameleon, leaned in with interest sharpening his features. “Which is?”

Jordan, who lived in the realms of bytes and codes, balked at the suggestion that hung unspoken in the air. “You’re not talking about the Mona Lisa, are you?” The weight of history, of sheer audacity, pressed down upon the room.

Alex’s smile was the answer, a silent detonation of possibility that expanded in the cramped room. “That‘s right, the Mona Lisa,” he confirmed, his smile a challenge, a call to arms that beckoned to the very core of their adventurous spirits.

“So, who’s in?” Alex’s question hung there, not just an invitation, but a gauntlet thrown down before the capable crew. One by one, a silent affirmation passed among them—an unspoken oath sealing their fate to the pursuit of the audacious, the thrilling, the monumental.

In the muted glow of their hideout, with the Centennial Diamond now part of their legend, they already envisioned their next conquest. Not just a painting, but the painting, the very epitome of art and enigma. The night was still young, and their legacy was just beginning to be written.

Author’s Note: Yeah, yeah…this post is kind of long, but let’s face it, you’ve got some time on your hands right now. The turkey’s just about to come out of the oven (or the tofurkey for you vegans and I have no idea how you cook that) and it needs time to rest (Don’t you watch Gordon Ramsey?) and the game isn’t on yet and the tryptophan fatigue hasn’t set in yet, so settle in for a little read. This was intended to be a quickie but I kept going back and adding more details to it, because let’s face it, this heist wouldn’t have been successful in real life, but if you think that writing a new story every single day is easy then you’re out of your ever-loving mind… and you’re welcome!

HAPPY THANKSGIVING! Wishing all who celebrate the holiday (and even those who don’t) good food that fills your belly, good health as you strive for your unique brand of success, and good times with family and friends. May you have all the best delights in a life filled with moments that are as sweet as pumpkin pie!

Gobble! Gobble!

Or Gooble Gobble (that means you’re one of us!)

Of Breadcrumbs Lost (a Thanksgiving tale, of sorts)

Posted by Madd_Fictional on

What caused me to speak to the man, I cannot rightly say, for I do not make it my business to chat with homeless people. They are a dime a dozen in the city in which I live and work and if I regularly engaged with them, I would never make any of my appointments on time. But there was something about this man with the sun-faded, barely legible cardboard sign, something in the deep well of his eyes that beckoned me.

He told me his name was Horace as I patted my pockets to add validation to my claim that I had no money to drop into his dingy paper coffee cup, a statement I made before he even asked. In truth, he never asked. I simply went into automatic defensive mode, not wanting to seem heartless, but not offering any charity, either.

“We all drop breadcrumbs in life,” Horace said.

“Do we?” I asked, struggling to mark his intention.

Horace nodded. “Even the most carefree among us, and we do this because normalcy comes well-equipped with comfort zones. You may take exception to the word normalcy but it has nothing to do with the definition society places on the word normal. Here it applies to the recurrent patterns in your life, the things you’ve grown accustomed to.”

“I don’t follow you.”

“The breadcrumbs are used to lead us back to the path of familiarity when the detours we take spiral beyond our ability to control and/or accept.  I stray from the path constantly chiefly because my path is an uneventful one, which many people would kill for, but I find boring. I ought to be a baker with the number of breadcrumbs I’ve dropped over the years.”

“Um, I’d love to chat, but it’s Thanksgiving and I really must be on my way.”

“Since I’ve always been able to find my way home I never had a problem tearing my life apart,” Horace continued as if he hadn’t heard me. “Going on concrete jungle pilgrimages, and returning to my path at some later date to rebuild things from scratch. But this time is different. This time the demolition wasn’t of my choosing and there’s something about the way events have been playing out over the past six months that have clued me in on the fact I am near the end of the race.”

“You’re dying?”

“Homeless yet again, despite my best efforts to avoid it, I have this sinking feeling deep in my marrow that this will be the final time. There’s no way out and no way back. All the breadcrumbs I dropped to lead me back to the main road of rebuilding my life are gone. Most likely eaten by the crows of a fate long overdue. I guess you can only hit the reset button so many times in life.

“And I can’t honestly say I didn’t see it coming. Life stopped making sense about three years ago, though not all at once. Little by little, all the rules I had ever learned, all the tricks I added to my arsenal, no longer applied. Now, life, the daily routine that the majority of the population manages to perform without a second thought or breaking a sweat, is a game I no longer know how to play. Existence no longer makes sense to me.

“Needless to say, it doesn’t help matters that I have always possessed a nihilistic bug in the back of my brain that constantly questions the logic of struggling to achieve anything when all roads lead to death.

“As you can probably work out, I do not believe in the afterlife. So that we’re clear, this is not an invitation for proselytizers to dust off their soapboxes. I am an aspiritual entity and I’ve made my peace with the fact that I shall not receive salvation. If religion works for you, good on you, I wish you nothing but the best.”

I stood there in silence, wanting to walk away, but also wanting to make sense of this interaction. As if reading my mind, Horace said,

“The purpose of my stopping you from your events of the day and rambling on about things which bear no significance to you is to pass on as many of my thoughts and impressions before I lose my sanity to the streets and become one of the wandering bagmen screaming at invisible antagonists.”

And it finally dawned on me. “You want to be remembered,” I said.

“Who among us doesn’t want to be remembered?”

“You wouldn’t happen to be hungry, would you?” I asked.

“It was not my intention to solicit charity from you, sir, at least not of the monetary kind.”

“I didn’t say anything about giving you money. I need to put something in my stomach before I go on the search and I don’t like eating alone.”

“What are you searching for?”

“Breadcrumbs,” I answered. “You said you’ve been dropping them all your life. I’m sure there are enough lingering around somewhere to get you safely back on your path.”

HAPPY THANKSGIVING! Wishing all who celebrate the holiday (and even those who don’t) good food that fills your belly, good health as you strive for your unique brand of success, and good times with family and friends. May you have all the best delights in a life filled with moments that are as sweet as pumpkin pie!