Micro Fiction Haunting Holiday Communication Fixings

The Haunting Next-Door Neighbor

Shooting the bird seemed to be an archaic holiday tradition but for Miss Walters it was a momentary raging fit.

“They want to replace the Wednesday show cooking segment with a man!” She screamed into a cell phone walking under a theatrical marquee promoting high kicking dancers.

Placing the communication device softly into a pocketbook the well-known local television journalist huffed and puffed not really wanting to blow the house down. Suddenly her radar style bunny inspired ears picked up a voice,

“Hey, we are all toy soldiers,” a young girl sighed.

“Where did that come from?” Miss Walters turned around and saw nothing except a stage door.

“We are all toy soldiers,”

Later that evening lying in bed Miss Walters pondered the decision about switching the talent in the final food segment before Thanksgiving and strategized a plan.

“This will haunt the guys for their full four-day golf and fishing vacation,”

After a performance by the next-door neighbor entertaining precision team Miss Walters disappeared. While hanging around backstage the seductively dressed ladies all grabbed water bottles.

“Hey kids, did you get the information I needed from last night when the politicians had a meet and greet with you all,”

“Yes, Miss Walters we did,” one said.

“We are all toy soldiers, you know,” another added.

“Yeah, I heard you on the street,” Miss Walters reminded the sources.

After scoring bogeys the morning crew returned to the clubhouse and saw the halftime score for the football game. Suddenly, breaking news invaded the screen, “I am Miss Walters and on Wednesday one of my secret sources revealed,”

“How did she get that story?” one anchor asked the other,

“I do not know,” the playing partner answered.

The Haunting Voice Over Source

In a few hours, the gigantic balsam spruce tree will feature sparkling white lights and a whole city will embrace the beauty, making it a tourist destination worth stopping by, just to admire.

“Putting on the final touches, Mr. Donaldson,” one of the company employees stated taking off work gloves, “some election last month, you must have worked day and night.”

“Not as much as you, with that big festive display,” Mr. Donaldson performed the voice over that paid his professional dues,

“I hear it's the donations and volunteers that make those politicians well known,”

“To be honest, we have something to do with that.”

Walking back into the office building which the corporate owned television station rented space Mr. Donaldson rehearsed his elevator information pitch. When the doors reopened, he ventured to the cubicle which had a large window. Staring at the quiet answering machine sparked memories about his journalism business path.

As a young clerk, working at the news desk, one assignment given, monitor the audience comment line, not to answer the phone instead take feedback notes. Occasionally a certain voice would give thoughtful tidbits and Mr. Donaldson during his time off would follow up, resulting in obtaining exclusive leads. Soon he found himself promoted, occupying the anchor chair.

It did not take long, and the euphoric exciting feeling turned chilling when Mr. Donaldson realized he used someone during the successful journey.

After an evening where shaking hands, chatting conversations were party obligations until heading home, Mr. Donaldson took a second, seeing the holiday fixture blazing brightly. Suddenly a voice behind him uttered, “Merry Christmas, my friend,”

“I know that voice,” Mr. Donaldson exclaimed

“And we know yours,” the haunting image then disappeared before thanking him for all the news.

The Haunting Romantic Voice

Nearby, a famous century old hotel stood, and during the last decade when the conservative party had power, ownership changed hands numerous times. For many working at the international news organization beside the romantic spot these transitions were routine business moves and on this night the reader in charge, Mr. Jennings, needed a room.

“Happy New Year,” the receptionist welcomed him, “the corporate suite is ready,”

“Thank you, it is crazy out there,” Mr. Jennings responded, “I am glad I will be broadcasting from my anchor desk tonight.”

An hour past Mr. Jennings, covered in press kit papers, updated himself on everything about celebrating a new year, when the phone rang. Picking it up a female voice on the other end with a haunting tone reported a tip, “there is a big story happening tonight,” followed by a clicking sound.

Back at the studio Mr. Jennings peered towards the clock and noticed where the hands were situated. For 364 days (about a dozen months) the fact both arrows were meeting at number 12 did not mean anything unless the calendar stated December 31. Securing his earpiece Mr. Jennings announced, “let’s go to Times Square.” Once the handoff was completed, a voice invaded the small device plugged into Mr. Jennings’ hearing organ.

“The big story is about to happen,”

Taking his eyes off the script, looking up there was a beautiful woman standing near one of the computerized cameras.

“It's our wedding anniversary,” she said holding champagne, “remember when we got married in Times Square.”

“It was broadcast all over the world as a big story,” Mr. Jennings smiled, memories intact.

“What do you want to do now?”

“What we do every year after the ball drops, use the company ‘paid for housing’ next door.”