We don't traditionally think of the Holiday of Thanksgiving as a celebration of writers and readers, but my dear Prosers, I know that in our ever-expanding circle of literary enthusiasts it will indeed ring true and perhaps even self-evident.

Thanksgiving is about family history. History, whether of a nation or of a family, in either configuration, is a story of a peoples. It is a narrative that must have been handed down generation to generation by some tradition. Whether spoken, illustrated, or written, the form of delivery is never as significant as its reception by the audience. I will venture that it is the reader who keeps our stories alive, more so than the scribe. The writer can only do so much; so much more rests on the consideration and attentiveness of the reader.

So dear friends, I would like to kindly thank you all, as writers and as readers;

Meaning as keepers of the human story, and in this, as Thanks Givers.

My sincerest wishes for a Holiday rich in shared thoughts! ❤️

Many thanks to everyone who participated in my From the Read challenge. I so appreciated all the entries! Congratulations to @kateresa for submitting two complementary and equally compelling writes. Thank you to everyone for the sincerity and creativity in responding to the prompt. Should you ever find yourselves writing on the theme, I would be interested in reading. Please feel free to tag me :)

@kateresa @Mavia @graceinpoetry @r_raven @kNoTes @Bunny @LARGE @DanPhantom123 @MaherAli @Maxie5970 @FireandIce4664 @kadelebg @Vincemak @writtenscerity @LexCat @Fabulam @7v7

(: Links below :)

Reed was engrossed in the book. What a great read, they thought. What will happen next?

Reed turned the page, and immersed themselves in the imagery, picturing in their mind the soaring landscape near the top of a large rock formation, filled in mostly with memories of a recent hike. The protagonist huffed and puffed their way to the peak, much like Reed had done. Everything about this book felt so familiar. Weaving along a narrow ridge, a deadly drop on either side, Reed felt their hands and feet begin to sweat with the memory.

The protagonist pulled themselves up the unforgiving rock with a chain installed for that purpose. Reed could smell the bitter tang of iron, remembered with a half-smile how it had struck them that a lifeline would smell like blood. Lifeline, lifeblood, bloodline. Remember.

What were they supposed to remember? Perhaps the answers were in the book. They looked down, and for a moment, instead of a page, saw what they had seen peering over the edge of the rock. The bottom of their stomach fell, somehow lower than their feet, while their throat constricted, pushed the air in their lungs into a buzz on the top of their head. Unreal. This is just how it happened in my life. My life.

Frantically, Reed riffled through the previous pages of the book, stopping and scanning text along the way. The protagonist cuts into a wedding cake and looks up at their wife, laughing. A college professor talks about gnostics. A graduation cap flies into the air, joined by a thousand more. A bully shoves the protagonist to the ground, their fists clench, and hot tears burn through dry eyes. The first girl they ever liked, dark skin glowing, bright smile flashing in a sweet young face. Mom and Dad, still together, looking down at a baby. At me. This is me. Reed closed the book, the title read, "The Book of Leaf."

Dread and foreboding filled Reed. What happens next? They flipped through the chapters of their life, found the page where they were hanging by a chain to a rock, so far off the ground the question wasn't whether or not a hiker would survive, but if there would be anything to recover of their body. Turn the page. Reed almost said it out loud.

Turn.

The.

Page.

Reed turned the page. Their heart stopped for a moment, seeing the blank page in front of them, and then the white of the paper expanded, rushed towards them, enveloping them. The sun baked down on the bare skin of their face and hands, burning even as a persistent wind chilled them to the bone. Their feet, which had slipped out from under them, dangled over a thousand foot drop. The smell of fear, the smell of blood. A lifeline. Their hands gripped the chain, and they painfully pulled themselves back onto the path. In a daze, they walked the rest of the way to the peak. Their wife, overcome by the view in front of her, turned when she heard Reed approach.

"Can you believe this view? Hey, what happened to your leg?" There was a tear in Reed's pants, a smear of blood and dirt.

"I slipped back there."

"Geez, are you ok? Did your life flash before your eyes?"

Reed thought for a moment. "Yes."