CHRISTMAS SHORT STORIES: The Reason Why There Are Red Fuzzies All Over Your Chair Today Christmas Box The Miracle of the Rose By Sue Scherzinger “They were trying so hard to be nice. It was getting on his nerves. There was nothing they could do. They were being paid to be nice and that would change. He’d heard the stories from his buddy. Foster care was never nice or good. Stupid people thinking they could make a difference.” Kyle doesn’t care about much after his parents die. Will the Christmas Box his parents left him help him recover from his loss? Christmas Box By Sue Scherzinger Kyle was led to the center chair where he sat and immediately slouched down, drew his legs up and hugged his knees. He scratched at his right calf. Stupid dress pants. He wished he could have worn his jeans, but they said that wouldn’t be appropriate. Losing your parents at thirteen was what was inappropriate. “Kyle,” the lawyer started. “I am very sorry for your loss. I have your parents’ will here to read to you. I assume the funeral went well?” “Went well?” Kyle said. “You’ve got to be kidding.” He put his face between his knees and struggled to gain control. No way would he cry in front of this guy. “I understand this is difficult for you, but I have to read this to you now. Are you ready?” “Yeah, whatever.” “I, John Lamaz, being of sound mind and body . . . do bequeath all of my worldly possessions to my wife, Cynthia in the event of my death . . . should she also be dead . . . all shall go to my son, Kyle Lamaz . . . custody and guardianship of Kyle shall go to Joan and Trevor Tildon . . .” “What? They left me to Joan and Trevor? News flash, genius, they were in the car with my parents. They’re dead too,” Kyle interrupted. The lawyer flashed his eyes over his glasses at Kyle and then quickly ran them back and forth over the document. “Hmm,” he almost groaned. “We seem to have a problem here. Do you have any other relatives you can live with?” “Nope.” “No. You must have aunts, uncles, grandparents?” “Nope,” Kyle said, while looking out the window at the warm spring sunshine glinting off the parked cars. “My parents didn’t have any brothers or sisters, like me. Mom’s parents died when she was young. Dad’s father died five years ago and his mother has Alzheimer’s. I might be able to crash at my friend’s for a little longer, but I can’t live there.” “I’ll contact children’s aid,” the lawyer said. Now it was Kyle’s turn to flash his eyes up and groan. Kyle moved in with the Kyle sat in the swivel chair by the desk in front of the computer, last year’s model. He stared at the computer. He didn’t feel like checking it out or MSN’ing his friends. He was so tired of everybody asking him if he was okay. He would never be okay. He spun around on the chair and stared at the box. What could be in it? More memories of what he’d lost? Nothing would ever be right again. He finally let himself cry. Of course, that’s when they’d knock at the door. “Kyle?” his foster mother, Carol, called. Carol Carson, what a stupid name, Kyle thought. He wiped his nose on his sleeve and cleared his throat. “What?” “Is everything okay? With your room?” “Yeah, yeah, it’s fine. I’m just unpacking.” Stupid woman, he thought. “Okay, come down for supper in half an hour, alright?” “Yeah, thanks.” The box was still there on the bed. He moved it over to the desk, turned it around a few times and then flopped himself onto the bed. Stupid pale blue comforter. He got up and opened the green garbage bag and pulled out his black and red fleece blanket from home. Mom had bought it for him because they were going to redo his room this summer in black and red. This pale blue room was just wrong. He wrapped himself in the blanket and flopped onto the bed once again. Too many stupid pillows. He pushed them onto the floor and stared at the white ceiling with the white light fixture. Mom was going to get him that really awesome black and pewter one with the spot lights. “Kyle,” another rap at the door. “Supper is ready. Can you please join us?” “Yeah.” They were trying so hard to be nice. It was getting on his nerves. There was nothing they could do. They were being paid to be nice and that would change. He’d heard the stories from his buddy. Foster care was never nice or good. Stupid people thinking they could make a difference. He tolerated their inane chatter through the boring bland meal. He even helped with the dishes. His mother had raised him and he wanted to show them that he didn’t need them to raise him. He didn’t need them at all. He didn’t need anyone or anything. It took him a week before he finally opened the box. It contained a really short walking stick, a figurine of an old man with a turban carrying a box and a weird octagonal mirror with just a small piece of mirror in the centre and glass all around. What was the point of this junk? There was a letter in the box. “Dear Kyle, we love you so much. If you are reading this, it means something unthinkable has happened and we’re gone. Remember always that you were wanted, loved and needed. You were everything to us. You can go on and have a fabulous life. You have to, for us. Figure out the secret to these three items and you’ll be okay. They all have an important message for you. You’re a smart boy. You can do it. We love you, Mom and Dad.” Kyle simply put the stuff back in the box and put it on the top shelf of the closet. He wrapped himself in the fleece blanket, laid on the bed and cried until he fell asleep. It was a week before Christmas when he finally took the box back down. School wasn’t going as well as it used to. Seemed like all the teachers hated him and were always nagging and bugging him. His old friends had quickly tired of his pain and had moved on. His only new friend was Tab, who knew pain and gained strength from it. She cut herself to know she was still alive and to block out her home life. Everybody else sucked and didn’t get Kyle. The He started with the stick. It was obviously a walking stick, made of smooth whittled hickory with a knot on the top for your hand, but it was so short. Way too short for Kyle. Might work for a very little kid. He tried using it but fell over and laughed. He looked and felt stupid using it and the silly thing didn’t do what it was supposed to. He got up and tossed it onto the bed. Next he picked up the figurine. What’s with the turban? His family had been Christian. What was in the box he held? Couldn’t even guess at that one. The octagonal mirror? He looked into it and saw his face in the center and the room around the edges. No clue here either. “Kyle,” Carol called. “Supper please.” He didn’t bother helping with the dishes any more. Wasn’t much point. Their real kids were home for Christmas. Skanky twenty-year old girl and nerdy twenty-three year old boy. He kept forgetting their names. They were trying too hard. Kyle tried to watch some TV, but they kept talking to him so he went back up to his room to talk to Tab on MSN. She was pissed at her mother again. New boyfriend. Christmas Eve they dragged him to mass. He’d refused to accompany them to church. Hadn’t been to church since the funeral. His parents had attended and him with them. They’d away said that if you let God be a part of your life, things seemed to work out better. Good things were naturally drawn to God so you want to keep him near. Kyle had believed it until the accident. Why would God let this happen? Kyle sat in the crowded pew with the Guitars strumming, a tambourine going and all the voices rising from smiling, joyous faces. Kyle had to consciously maintain his distance. The celebration began with its repetitive prayers that he’d recited so often. He kept his mouth closed, but still the words were there in his head. He went to communion and said the same thing in his head that he’d always said while returning to his pew: thank you God for allowing me to be a part of your family and to receive you once again, help me through the coming week. It was an automatic response but it felt familiar and comforting. Despite his best efforts, he sang the last carol with the choir and even caught himself humming it on the way out. He’d spent a lot more of his life being happy than depressed and it was a hard habit to break. Felt like a betrayal to feel any joy without his parents. Back at the house, Carol and Lacey, that was the daughter’s name, started to lay out a feast. Tradition for the The figurine in the box was almost the same. It was a wise man from the Christmas story. His mother’s voice rang in his head. She’d told him the Christmas story every year. Kyle took the wise man, the small walking stick and the mirror with him back to the family room. He sat in the chair by the window away from the The walking stick. He really started thinking about it. They’re used to help you walk, but this one was too short to be a big help. When he’d tried it out, he’d fallen. What was he using now to help him—anger, guilt, resentment, self-indulgent pity, wallowing in pain. The mirror? He held it up and saw his confused face, the memory of joy, the pain of loss and the emerging hope played across it. Movement in the glass area around his face caught his eye. It was the Kyle joined the © Copyright 2005, Sue Scherzinger By Arthur Carey “They joined the thousands of people trapped on the concrete island that held the Superdome. Scared, hungry, sometimes thirsty, they waited helplessly until buses arrived to carry them to a shelter in “All You Need at Christmas” shows a All You Need at Christmas By Arthur Carey Cassie Rivers hated snow. Growing up in the South, pictures of snow—glistening, white, pure—had fooled her. No more. Now she knew snow. It was cold and wet and stung your face in the wind like a handful of sand. And it hurt when boys at school packed it into hard balls and hit you when you weren’t looking. She sighed and stared out the window of the school bus. Mirrored in the glass, she saw a girl with black curls poking from under a red wool beret. Sad eyes in a thin, freckle-dusted face stared back at her. Beyond the road, patches of stubbled corn rose in a frozen, desolate landscape. Her brother’s metal lunch box banged into her knees. “Watch it, Eddie!” she cried. “That hurt!” Eddie pulled the lunch box onto his lap. “S . . . s . . .s . . . orry,” he said. She regretted her sharpness at once. Right after Hurricane Katrina, when they were living in the shelter, Eddie had begun to stutter. She could understand why. Living with hundreds of strangers bustling about had scared her, too. Even at night, when the lights dimmed and blanketed forms stirred restlessly on cots, the sound of coughing and sneezing and babies crying made sleep difficult. She glanced out the window. A sullen gray sky without a hint of pale sun stretched to the horizon. Periodically, the bus shuddered to a halt at crossroads and driveways to disgorge noisy children. Many had parents waiting to greet them with hugs. There wouldn’t be any hugs for Cassie and her brother. Their mother worked the dinner shift as a waitress at a restaurant and wouldn’t be home until late. But she usually left a cooked meal, or at least a TV dinner, for Cassie to warm up in the microwave. Cassie was 13, an eighth grader, and responsible for caring for her eight-year-old brother and herself. “Aren’t we there yet?” Eddie complained. “I’ll miss my TV programs.” “Almost. I can see the church.” Ahead, the steeple of They climbed the steps to the trailer and removed their boots. Cassie unlocked the door and turned on the lights. The cold trailer, stuffed with mismatched furniture, curtained off sleeping areas, and cramped kitchen, smelled musty and metallic, like a tool shed. Cassie turned up the thermostat and put their wet boots on a newspaper just inside the door. Eddie plunked down in a worn bean bag chair patched with duct tape and grabbed the TV remote. Cassie looked around. Home, sweet home. The trailer had been the outreach office of the church. But that was before Katrina blew its destructive path across Still, they had been lucky, she reflected, that members of a church in Cassie’s eyes filled. I miss Rufus. But she missed her father more. He had been gone for almost a year, serving as a truck driver with a National Guard unit in Her glanced at the plastic, table-top Christmas tree by the window. A few decorations, paint peeling with age, had been given them by the church’s women’s guild. She had helped her mother decorate the tree with crinkly garlands of popcorn. A scattering of lights glowed bravely, but some of the bulbs had burned out. Mrs. Rivers had cautioned Cassie and Eddie not to expect much in the way of gifts for Christmas this year. Money was tight. Better to remember last year, when they had all been together, and think about next year, when they would be together again. “Wh . . . wh . . . at’s for supper?” Eddie didn’t lift his eyes from the screen. Cassie opened the refrigerator and scanned the shelves, looking for what her mother had left for them. “Macaroni and cheese.” “Again!” She examined the freezer compartment. “And there’s some of those frozen strawberry fruit bars that you like.” She set about preparing dinner. Mrs. Rivers returned home several hours later. She drooped from weariness but forced a smile. “Can I heat some water for tea, Mom?” Cassie asked. “No, honey. Did you get your homework done?” “All finished. Only math tonight. And I had Eddie read to me.” “Good.” Her mother’s voice sounded mechanical, as if her mind were somewhere else. “Is everything going okay at school?” Cassie hesitated. “Everything’s fine, Mom.” But of course, it wasn’t. She had to get up earlier to ride the school bus. Once she got to school, she had to adjust to new teachers, unfamiliar textbooks, and classes with strangers. At first, other children had sought her out, eager to hear about what it was like to be in a hurricane. But when the scenes of flooding faded from television, so did their interest. Truth was, Cassie was homesick. She missed yams and cornbread and dirty rice and jambalaya and fresh shrimp from the Gulf. She missed warm, moist air that wrapped you in a soft blanket. She missed hearing Cajun music. She missed her friends and relatives, scattered across the country. She missed her bedroom with stuffed animals and pictures and souvenirs from Disney World. Stop that! Cassie told herself. You’re lucky to be alive! You’re lucky to be where you are and have what you have. . . But she really didn’t believe it. Christmas was approaching, and it promised to be the worst Christmas ever. The week before Christmas passed quickly. One thing Cassie had to admit: the holidays sure felt different up north. The air, chilly and bracing, stole her breath when she stepped out the door. Somehow the idea of Santa Claus, dressed in a heavy red suit and cap, seemed more real when flurries danced in the air and snow crunched underfoot. At school, pictures of candles, Christmas trees, and snowmen enlivened the walls. As Cassie and Eddie rode the bus home in late afternoon, strings of colored lights began twinkling on houses. A manger scene greeted them on the church’s front lawn. One night, after Eddie had gone to bed, the telephone rang. Cassie’s mother stiffened and looked at the clock. “Who could be calling at this time of night?” She picked up the phone nervously. “Yes . . . this is Helen Rivers. Yes . . .that’s the address we lived at in “What is it, Mom?” Cassie asked. Her mother beamed. “It’s Rufus,” she said. “An animal rescue group got our old address from his name tag. They offered to fly him out here. We can pick him up at the airport tomorrow afternoon.” “Rufus! Rufus!” Cassie cried. “I’ve got to tell Eddie!” “No, let him sleep. . . .” But Cassie had already vanished behind the screen that shielded the sleeping area. When they picked up the dog the next day, his thinness shocked them. Rufus’s ribs stood out, and his chest had shrunken. But the minute he left the metal travel cage and saw them, his tail began to wag and he barked loudly. Rufus was home! As Christmas drew close, they settled into a new routine. Cassie took Rufus for walks in a nearby park before and after school. At night, when they were together, Rufus settled by Eddie’s beanbag chair. Whenever Eddie rose to go to another part of the trailer, Rufus watched him until he returned. Then his muzzle dropped and his eyes closed again. Only a few presents lay under the tree, but Cassie didn’t care. She still had some of her birthday money, so she bought a warm scarf for her mother and a Super Heroes comic book for Eddie. She wrapped them and added them to the sparse pile of gifts. School ended for the holidays, and Cassie looked forward to being able to sleep in late, the way she did on weekends. Christmas Eve arrived. Eddie had gone to bed, and Cassie watched TV while her mother baked cookies in the kitchen. The doorbell rang, followed by a pounding that rattled the windows. Rufus growled and came to the door. “Cassie, see who that is,” her mother said. Cassie rose from the lumpy couch and Rufus stirred. Probably someone from the church to remind us about tomorrow’s service. There was no light over the door, and she could make out the bulky figure of a man against a gray wall of blowing snow. He stamped his feet impatiently and tried to peer through the frosted door pane. She opened the door until the chair caught and stopped, speechless. “Cassie!” boomed her father. “Open the door before I freeze to death!” Once inside, he wrapped one arm about her and hugged her to him hard. She noticed that his other arm hung in a sling. “Who is it, Cassie?” her mother called out. Her father released her, and she stepped aside so he could come in. “It’s Sgt. Edgar Rivers, ma’am, home for the holidays—and for all the holidays to come, I hope.” Cassie’s mother slammed the oven door shut and rushed into the living room. She cried and threw her arms about his neck. “Your arm . . . what happened?” He dropped his bag on the floor and looked embarrassed. “Well . . . I was driving in a convoy on a highway outside Tikrit when a tire blew. I went off the road into a ditch. Broke my left arm. Since you can’t drive a truck with a broken arm, the Army let me out a month early.” Eddie emerged sleepy-eyed. “Wh . . . o . . . wh . . . o’s . . . there, Mom?” His eyes lit up. “Dad!” He hurled himself at his father. After Cassie’s dad had unpacked, they sat around the kitchen table drinking hot chocolate with tiny white marshmallows. Mrs. Rivers laughed for the first time in weeks, eyes shining, and the lines in her face eased. Eddie proudly displayed the Army medal his father had given him. Cassie’s dad ate two, then three, of the warm oatmeal cookies and never stopped smiling. No one commented when he slipped a cookie under the table to Rufus. The heater in the drafty trailer rumbled into life with a blast of warm air. Cassie studied the animated faces of her family. She felt so happy she thought she’d cry. Her eyes fell on the plastic Christmas tree and small pile of presents. Who cared? It didn’t matter where you were or what you had or didn’t have at Christmas. What mattered was that the people you loved and who loved you were there to share it. This wouldn’t be the worst Christmas after all. It would be one of the best. © Copyright 2005, Arthur Carey By Jenna Burdett “The next morning a loud knocking on my door woke me. Then Carrie stuck her head in. ‘Dad wants us all downstairs,’ she said, then closed the door. Why isn’t Dad at work? I hurried into some clothes.” Jenna Burdett’s “The Miracle of the Rose” teaches us that we don’t always know what’s in our hearts. The Miracle of the Rose By Jenna Burdett My name is Mindy Gresham and I’m twelve years old. I’m a regular kid with a regular family, but something amazing happened to me once. I’d like to share the story with you; it’s a good one. It began one Sunday in December. I was in Sunday school; I was a little bored, I mean, how many ways can you tell the Christmas story? Then in the middle of my off-track thoughts I heard the teacher ask, “What do you think the second-best Christmas present would be?” I started thinking; it was an interesting question. Amy raised her hand, “I think it would be a room of my own,” she stated. Mrs. Blair shook her head “I was thinking of something that can’t be bought with money,” she said. Then the bell rang, and I forgot all about it. The sermon was on God’s wonderful love, but I didn’t pay much attention. I had heard many like it before. At home things were the same; everyone went off to bed for a nap, except Matt, my 14-year-old brother. He started working on a car model. No one in our family ever bothered with lunch on Sundays unless they got really hungry and grabbed something themselves. I still wasn’t at the stage where I enjoyed naps and I didn’t know heads or tails about cars. I bundled up and went to play with Miracle, our dog. We named him that because it was a miracle that he lived. When we named him, I still believed in miracles. The question came back to me, the one in Sunday school. What do you think the second-best Christmas present would be? I wondered what the best Christmas present was. Well, duh! I thought. It’s Jesus! Ok, now what would be the second-best? Immediately the thought came, a horse. I had always wanted a horse, but Dad said that a dog was enough. Grandma says that when Dad was three, a horse followed him across a field. Dad thought it was chasing him, and ran faster, and then he tripped and screamed bloody murder because he was so scared. I think he’s still scared, though he claims the only reason he won’t buy one is because they’re so much trouble. Anyways, I’m getting off track. A horse that would be it! Then I remembered, Mrs. Blair had said, “A present that can’t be bought with money.” So that at wouldn’t be it. I was stumped. I went back inside; it was getting cold out. “Come on, Miracle!” I called. I smuggled him in upstairs. We weren’t supposed to bring the dog in, but Matt and I did a lot. Miracle was smart and never yipped or made a noise until he was safe in our room. Then, he would run around in circles with joy, as if to celebrate that we had made it again. Carefully, we snuck past Mom and Dad’s room, past Carrie’s room, up the stairs to Matt’s. Softly, I knocked on the door. “Come in,” Matt’s reply was quick. I opened the door and closed it softly. Then I let Miracle loose. He ran around in circles, as usual, but I didn’t pay any attention. I had a question. Dad says that when I have a question I can never rest until I’ve asked it. “Matt can I ask you a question?” I probed to see if he was in a good mood. “Mm,” he grunted. I spoke quickly while I had his attention, “What do you think the second-best Christmas present would be?” “A car,” he answered, right off the bat. “I mean that can’t be bought with money,” I added. That was a hard one for Matt. He thought for a minute. “I dunno,” he finally said and went back to gluing something on his half-finished model. Matt wasn’t gonna be any fun right now I decided; he was too focused on building his model. . . . Dad says that when Matt starts something he will hardly stop to eat, which is almost true. So I grabbed Miracle and went to my own room. Safely behind the door, I let Miracle loose. Then I lay down on my bed, and started to think. Before I knew it, Matt was shaking me and it was time for dinner. The next couple of days were normal. I did my school (I’m home schooled), went to a party on Tuesday and to Wednesday-night youth group. Wednesday night was normal, too. When we got home from youth group, we all grabbed something to eat and started laughing and talking about what so-and-so had said or done. Then Dad stuck his head out of his room and told us to “lower it down and go to bed.” We did. I let Carrie and Matt go up first. Then I let Miracle in and took him up to my room. I knew it would be a cold night. As I snuggled under the covers, that question came back to me—the one about the second-best Christmas present. I was sort of annoyed. Why does this question keep coming back? I tried to push it aside, but it wouldn’t go away. Miracle whined. I looked at him. He was scrunched up in a very small ball. I laughed quietly. “Are you cold boy?” I asked him softly. He looked up at me with pitiful eyes, then got up, walked over to the bed and stuck his nose on my arm. I laughed again. “Just this once,” I cautioned him as I lifted my covers up. Miracle crawled in and I snuggled up against his rather cold fur. The next morning a loud knocking on my door woke me. Then Carrie stuck her head in. “Dad wants us all downstairs,” she said, then closed the door. Why isn’t Dad at work? I hurried into some clothes. Downstairs, Matt and Carrie were already there with Mom and Dad. I sat down on the floor and looked expectantly up at them. Mom’s eyes looked red and Dad seemed to be having trouble with his throat. Finally Mom said, “Last night Grandmother died.” It took me a minute to take it in, but when I realized what she meant, the tears came quickly. Carrie had already started crying and Matt’s face was very red. Mom said something else, but I don’t remember what it was. Things were starting to buzz and I needed to get away. Quickly, I got to my feet and ran upstairs to my room. I shut the door behind me and started breathing hard. Then I spotted Miracle. I sank down on the floor and sobbed into his warm fur. He must have sensed I needed something to hold onto ‘cause he didn’t wriggle out of my hands. After a while, I recovered enough to scoot over and lean against my bed. Miracle stayed with me, licking my face and roughhousing a little bit. “You know what Miracle?” I asked in a shaking voice. “Grandmother’s dead. She’s gone Miracle, gone.” This time, though, I held my emotions back. I heard voices downstairs. The pastor must be here. Miracle was whining at the door. “You’ve been inside long enough, huh? Okay,” I relented, “but if I get in trouble, it’s your entire fault.” I grabbed his collar and took him downstairs. Pastor Mike and Dad were talking. I overheard Dad say, “I’m a little worried about Mindy; she seems to be taking this hard.” I brushed past them and took Miracle outside. Outside, I climbed up into my tree fort. Dad had built one for each of the kids. “Why?!” I yelled, “I loved her so much! Why did You have to take her? You broke Your promise. You said You would do what was best. This can’t be best! You don’t love me!” Then I broke down and softly said, “I’ll miss you, Grandmother.” I stayed in there for a while. I didn’t want to face everyone with his or her sympathy and stories of worse times. I just wanted to be alone. After a while, my stomach started growling. So I climbed down and went inside. Inside, there were some of Mom’s friends. Mom was crying, so I went to the kitchen. I couldn’t stand more than one person hurting. Friday was a blur of visitors, food and tears. I kept to myself in my room or my tree fort, hardly appearing to eat. I was very sad, convinced that God had ceased to love me and was punishing me in his anger. On Saturday, a miracle happened . . . and it changed my view of everything. I woke up with a feeling of dread. Tonight was the visitation. Tonight the heartache really began to set in. Tomorrow was the funeral and the inexpressible pain. I walked through the house in a daze. Then Mom asked me to take a bucket of rotten potato peels to the compost pile. I took them out and dumped them. When I turned, my eye caught something colorful. It was over by the pile of pots whose plants had died, and Mom had stuck them over there to use later. It was a perfect red rose! “Wait!” I thought, “Mom had never had a rose. She said they were too much trouble.” Right away came the thought, this is a message from God. As I knelt down and touched the crimson colored flower, I heard a small voice within me. A loving voice that said, “I do love you, and this is My promise that I will never leave you or forsake you, that no matter what happens to you I will always love you and be with you.” I began to cry. How could I have doubted that? Then the voice came again, “I love you; I will always love you,” It said. With tears running down my cheeks, I picked up the rose and took it inside. “Look,” I choked out. “Look at this beautiful rose.” Gently Mom took it in her hands and started to cry. “It’s just what I needed,” she said. The next day when I woke up, my heart wasn’t quite so sad and I was able to smile some through my tears. In church, Dad went up with my rose and explained how it was a miracle of God’s love to us. I heard a lot of sniffling. At the funeral, things weren’t quite so bad as I expected, though I shed more than a few tears. Matt, Carrie and I sang Grandmother’s favorite song, “How Great Thou Art.” We tried not to look at people’s faces, because we knew everyone was crying. The gravesite was the worst. It was hard knowing that Grandmother’s body was going into the ground, even though I knew the part of her that I had loved wasn’t in there. On Christmas Eve, we all bundled up and went to the candlelight service. I liked holding the candles in the dark. I thought about how much Jesus must love me to consent to being born into such a rotten world and to suffer so willingly because he loved me. The next morning, Matt and I woke up at Finally, we got them up. Carrie and I helped Mom with breakfast, while Matt and Dad finished last-minute wrapping. At last, we all finished our breakfast, cleared the table and washed the dishes. Then, we all snuggled together in the living room and listened while Dad read The Christmas Story aloud. When he was done, Dad put his Bible on the lamp table beside him. He cleared his throat and said, “This year we haven’t been able to buy big presents for you because Grandmother’s funeral took a lot of our money.” Everyone was silent for a minute, not knowing what to say. Then I piped up, “You know Dad,” I said. “Christmas isn’t about us. It’s Jesus’ birthday not ours, and anyway we have the two best Christmas presents ever.” “Jesus is the best present,” Dad agreed. “But what’s the second best?” He asked. “We have each other’s love, and God’s love most of all,” I glowed. Everyone smiled and Mom sniffed happy tears back. “Let’s pray and thank God for our presents from Him,” suggested Dad in a rather hoarse voice. We all bowed our heads and closed our eyes, but as Dad prayed, I couldn’t resist glancing up and looking at our happy family. That rose had changed our lives. It was a miracle, I was sure. The End © Copyright 2005, Jenna Burdett “I want to get up and do something but have no idea what. I pick up the phone to call the police, but the phone is dead.” Alma Bond’s “Ginger in GINGER IN KEY WEST By Alma Bond The large glass coffee table top rests over a massive acrylic base. I run my fingers over the glass; it feels cool and smooth. On the table sits a head of Hercules made of weighty blue stone. A mass of carved blue curls covers his head. Round sightless eyes watch the room. A glass figure of a woman kneels beside him. She is pliant, graceful, fluid. I lean back against the shell-colored leather couch and feel beloved of life in Suddenly there is a crash. The house rumbles and rocks, and seems to sink further into the ground. Is it the dreaded hurricane, the fifth one this season? I couldn't bear another one. I have had to evacuate I look out the window and the street is empty. Even the traffic light on the corner has gone dead. I wait. Five minutes.Ten minutes. Fifteen minutes. The house is calm now. It evidently wasn't a hurricane. Whatever has happened apparently is over. I lucked out this time. What was was, I think. Whatever will be will be. I sink down again into the shell-colored couch and idly look at another piece on the table. It is a smooth white stone I found on I pick it up. The stone is cold, so cold. The black ears droop. She looks sad, so sad I could weep. I do. It happened the week of Christmas, the week my husband died. We still lived in Ginger was a large old dog who was almost twenty by then. She once had been a pretty little terrier, but age had made her hideous. She was full of tumors which distorted her legs and neck and made her look grotesquely ugly. My daughter's boyfriend called the dog "Tumor." She also had glaucoma in one eye and it was all red and puffy. My children were all grown up and on their own. I was living in a large apartment house in My son Zane volunteered to take her to the ASPCA to have her destroyed. He put on her faded leather collar and tried to attach the chain leash. With more strength than she had displayed for months, the dog yanked away. But Zane soon recaptured her and connected the leash. Then he pulled her to the elevator. Ginger balked every inch of the way. I swear she knew where she was going and would have none of it. Sick, old, and deformed as she was, this dog loved life and refused to leave it. A few minutes later, I looked out of the eleventh story window down to the cold February street. There I saw Zane dragging the dog down the sidewalk. All four of her legs were turned out flat on the ground, and her belly rubbed against the cold concrete, as he lugged her the length of the pavement. I stood there watching until they turned the corner and disappeared from sight. Years later, I am filled with shame and guilt that I allowed her to die in this ghastly manner. I felt even worse when a friend described how her dog was put away. She held him on her lap, gave him a cookie, and hugged him while he was given a shot. Then she remained with him until he slipped into his final sleep. Ginger loved me above all others. Once when I arrived in "Forgive me, Ginger," I said softly. "I'm sorry I betrayed you. You were a good friend, and you deserved better. If I had it to do over again, I would behave very differently." I pick up the figure again and hold it to me. The stone grows warm on my breast. Suddenly, I move it away from me and looked at it closely. Am I imagining it, or is there a tiny smile beneath the painted black nose? © Copyright 2005, Alma Bond The Reason Why There Are Red Fuzzies All Over Your Chair Today In Liz Donovan’s heartwarming tale, Sally Poorchild must find Christmas for herself. Note: A well-written story probably normally needs no explanation, but in this case the context is important. I wrote this over Christmas, while at work after not sleeping all night. I had to be in on a Sunday to help out on customer service, since the office was short staffed that week. I sat at my friend’s desk away from everyone else and when I got up I realized that there were little red fuzzies from my sweater all over the chair. My friend is very picky about people using her things and I knew she would be upset about this occurrence on Monday. I decided to write an explanation and had a little fun with it. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Once upon a time, there was a fabulous shiny red sweater. The sweater spread joy and love to all fortunate enough to receive its blessings. No matter who the owner was, the sweater would fit comfortably snug and was always the right length. Never would the sweater tear or unravel, nor would the colour fade. The sweater’s origins have been debated, but some have said that it was once owned by he goddess Aphrodite, ruler of beauty. It is important that the reader understands the true magnificence of this godly article of clothing in order to understand the fascinating tale that follows. Sally Poorchild was a sad and lonely girl. Her parents were greedy, evil people who preferred to pass their meager earnings to the local pub owner, rather than to put it aside for their bothersome child. Being unable (and more likely, unwilling) to give Sally a proper Christmas, they were forced to tell her that Santa Claus had fallen off his sleigh while practicing his route for the coming year. Sally was disappointed, but she understood that things didn’t always work out for the best and decided to find a gift for her parents anyway. Sally walked from street to street, selling charm bracelets that she made from walnuts and string. Eventually, she earned enough money to purchase small gifts for her uncaring parents. She found an old pin that was a bit worn, but a perfect match for her mother’s favourite blouse. For her father, she found a used wallet that remained in excellent condition. “Wow,” she thought excitedly, “Mother will be so happy to wear something as rare and beautiful as this! And father has been complaining about his old ratty wallet for years!” She could hardly wait for Christmas morning to present her extraordinary finds and to please her parents. She knew that with just a little more effort she could make them love her like the families she had seen on television. Come Christmas morning, Sally bounded the stairs and ran to her parents. The Poorchild’s, annoyed that Sally had awoken so early and interrupted their holiday celebrations, said calmly, “Now Sally, remember, we told you that Santa has died you will be receiving no presents this year. What a greedy, selfish child you are to expect that you will get presents when none of the other children do.” Sally said nothing, but beamed the biggest smile a child of her age could manage and presented her parents with the treasured gifts for which she had worked so hard. “Oh Sally,” exclaimed Mrs. Poorchild. “I thought we had taught you better to NOT bring garbage into this house!” “Yes,” Mr. Poorchild agreed. “We’re going to have to disinfect everything now that this trash has been in our living room. Who knows where this has been? Why, oh why, did we give birth to such a little brat, Causing such a mess and on Christmas day! Sally, I hate to do this on Christmas, but for your punishment, you’ll have to spend the holiday in your room thinking about what you did. In the meantime, we’ll be at the pub taking advantage of the half price eggnog.” Off they went, and Sally retreated to her bedroom. Now, make no mistake, Sally has studied hard and knows that it does no good to feel sorry for one’s self, but still, today she could not stop from crying. She was always a realistic child and had no doubt that Santa was merely an invention by loving parents who wanted to make Christmas magical and mysterious for their children. She knew that the vacancy under the Christmas tree, where many other children would find trucks and dolls and candy, was all due to her parent’s neglect. She did indeed feel sorry for herself! She wept and wept and did not stop, until a tinkling sound coming from the roof interrupted her loud sobs. She looked up to see several reindeer feet kicking up near the window, shooting glittery dust behind them. “No . . . it can’t be—” she thought as she ran to the window. And sure enough, it was. Santa Claus was not dead, but in fact was very much alive and standing on his sleigh right out of little Sally Poorchild’s house! “My, my, my, Sally. How big you’ve grown!” chuckled the strange, chubby man in the red suit. “I have to apologize for my late arrival. I am embarrassed to say that my reindeer took a wrong turn and, despite Mrs. Clause’s suggestion, I neglected to ask for directions until I was way off course. I have, however, brought for you the most special gift of all. It is a gift that I have been holding on to for many, many years, waiting for the child that shows the most love and selflessness who would be worthy of such a gift.” He then bestowed upon her a beautiful red sweater made of the same material of his glittering suit. “It’s a gift from the angels,” he explained. “This sweater was worn by a select few in years past and brings happiness, joy and luck to any who wear it. It will keep you safe from all hate and misery. But there is an important deed that comes with owning this sweater and it is important that you complete it every year before the Christmas season, or you will lose the sweater forever.” “No, I promise, Santa!” exclaimed Sally, gleefully. “Well then, every year, two weeks before Christmas day, you must wear the sweater and sit in the seat of someone who you think needs to feel love and joy. The sweater will pass its power along to the next person to sit there and they will never be sad again.” “But, Santa,” inquired Sally, who was always a logical thinker, “How will the person know that someone has passed this gift to them? What if they miss it altogether?” “Ho, ho, ho, my dear, you are a bright child,” Santa gleefully replied, with a twinkle in his eye. “You see, the secret is that, when visited by the holder of the sweater, the seat will be coloured with red fuzzies to show them that the sweater wearer has been to see them.” Sally gave Santa a big hug and thankfully received her new sweater. As she put it on, the whole room filled with glitter and music and, in a blur, her whole life was changed. Her shabby rags that she was wearing were now replaced with the pretty blue dress that she saw in the window of the store downtown last week. She ran downstairs to see happy loving parents waiting for her with a big hug and a tree surrounded with presents. “Oh Sally!” exclaimed her mother. “Aren’t you chilly? It IS snowing outside!” Sally leaped over to the window and it was confirmed that yes, the outdoors were covered with a blanket of beautiful white now, a white Christmas, like she has always wanted. “No, mamma,” she said with a big smile, “I have a new sweater to keep me warm.” As she pulled on her new prize, she couldn’t be sure, but she swore that she saw the Santa ornament on the window wink at her. And she winked back. “I promise,” she whispered. © Copyright 2005, Liz Donovan By Daniella Regencia “Everyone was happy in their houses, enjoying a Christmas meal and festivities and here she was, dying inside, because the man she loved most was sitting right next to her. It made absolutely no sense.” In Daniella Regencia’s Christmas story, a misunderstanding might destroy Katherine’s holiday. Untitled By Daniella Regencia Three years. That’s how long she’d been waiting at this window. She wasn’t a widow. Hell, she’d never even lost someone in her life, but, there she was. Waiting. That was all she could do. Three years ago, he had left. He said he’d be back and he never came. No letters, no phone calls, no e-mails, nothing. This was the third Christmas in a row she’d waited for him to come marching up that snow-covered path. She waited to see him saunter up the stairs, his curly brown hair filled with snowflakes, his tall frame hunched over, as if he could further warm himself by making himself as cold as possible. He never really liked the cold. All the years she had known him, 11 to be exact, he had hated it. This is one of the reasons she couldn’t understand why he left. He had left to go to He called it opportunity. He said he was forwarding his future and, that, one day, he’d be back for her. It was all a lie. They used to be best friends—the best. They would tell each other everything and gossip about everything they didn’t know. They’d tell each other their hopes and dreams and hates and fears. He was her escape, a completely different person from everyone else she ever knew. They were completely different, but, perhaps, this is why they got along. His friends didn’t like her friends, but they liked her; her friends didn’t like his friends, but they liked him, probably because he was the only good-looking guy they ever hung out with. But, she didn’t like joining those two groups. He was nearly a sacred relic to her. She wasn’t afraid that her friends would take him away; it’s just that she almost felt they didn’t deserve someone so amazing. They weren’t always the perfect friends, but she loved them all the same. Yet, he was always perfect. He always picked up his phone at That’s why when he told her he was leaving, she couldn’t take it. He said that he’d been recruited to play for Manchester United. He was that good at soccer. It was the single most devastating moment of her life. “Kat, you know I have to go,” he said. She knew that. She wasn’t going to stop him. This was the chance he’d been waiting for, she knew that. So, on August 3rd, he left. He was already eighteen, so his parents didn’t follow. She was actually very happy about that, because that meant he’d have to come back. But, he didn’t. They always went to see him. Every time. The first year they asked if she wanted to come and she jumped at the chance, until she realized she couldn’t get off from work. The next year, they said they weren’t going to see him, some big falling out. She didn’t know what it was about, because he never called anymore. He called once in all those three years, but it was a five minute phone conversation. He was too busy to keep up their “friendship.” Yet, she couldn’t let go. Her friends told her she was just an asshole. But, she couldn’t believe that. So, she went off to college and tried to forget about it. She told her friends in college about him, but he rarely came up in conversation. When her friends did learn the whole story, you could tell the difference between realists and romantics. Those of her friends that believed in true love told her to never forget him, because he’ll come back. The realists said to forget him about him, because if she hadn’t spoken to him in this long, she probably never would. She tried to find him and this is where it ended: Christmas always hurt the most. His parents had offered to take her to see him again, but she had too much work, so she stayed home, again. It was Her parents had bought her a new car—a convertible Mini-Cooper. They thought she should have a nicer car than the beat up one she was able to afford now. And, she showed her gratitude with hugs and kisses all around. Her aunts and uncles got her various books that she wanted and some movies. Her grandparents had combined funds and bought her a beautiful diamond necklace. They were going with the idea that a diamond lasts forever, whereas they may not, but they never told her that. Her presents were all lined up: car keys, jewelry boxes, assorted books and DVDs, and she couldn’t be happier. There was so much generosity from her family that she felt overwhelmed with happiness. She sat on the couch and watched her family sit, talk and play Scrabble. It was never a complete family function without a game of Scrabble. She sat and watched, thinking contentedly to herself that, perhaps, this is how her life was supposed to be. There wasn’t a need to fret over the fact that she hadn’t spoken to what used to be her best friend in years. This was life: health, family, happiness. She felt all of those things right at that moment. So enveloped in her happiness was Katherine, that she barely heard the doorbell ring. After the third ring, Katherine was snapped out of her daze and called, “I’ll get it,” to her family, who was now engulfed in a rather heated game of Scrabble. She opened the door and found a tall man standing before her. “Hello?” she asked. “Hey, Kit Kat,” the man asked, with a heavy British accent. “Tristan?” Katherine asked. “Is that you?” “Who else?” he replied. The next sound he heard was a heavy oak door slamming his face. “Uh, Katherine, what are you doing?” “Three years and not so much as a phone call!” she screamed through the door. She heard a small silence in the Scrabble game. “Well, that’s a little hard when you aren’t listed anywhere!” he yelled back. “Oh, that’s the worst excuse I’ve ever heard!” “Ugh,” Tristan sighed. “Do you think we could talk about this outside? I have a feeling you’re distracting the annual Scrabble tournament.” The door opened and Katherine stepped out. “Wow, you look good,” Tristan said. “Oh, shut up,” Katherine replied pertly. “You better have an amazing reason why you stopped talking to me.” “Anything I say isn’t going to be good enough.” “Yeah, I know, but I want to hear something funny. I haven’t had a good laugh in a long time.” “Well, if you want to hear the truth—” he began. “Oh, yes, I’m excited.” Katherine looked for a seat on the porch. “Do you think we could go inside?” Tristan asked. Kat gave him a blank stare. “Where it’s warm? I thought the cold suited your heart of ice.” “Wow,” Tristan said, “did they teach you that one at “Who goes to “You do?” Tristan asked, possibly more confused. “I go to NYU.” Katherine responded, with a scoff. “What?” “N.Y.U. “No,” Tristan said, shaking his head. “No, you don’t. My parents said “Well, they were wrong,” Katherine said, turning away from him, and looking out toward the neighborhood. Everyone was happy in their houses, enjoying a Christmas meal and festivities and here she was, dying inside, because the man she loved most was sitting right next to her. It made absolutely no sense. “Well, then, can you figure out why I haven’t sent you so much as a letter?” Tristan asked. “No, I can’t,” Katherine replied, crossly. “How can’t you?” Tristan asked, with a slight agitation in his voice. “How are you here, but none of your letters are?” she asked skeptically. “I wasn’t even here. I went to your neighbors’ house looking for you and they said they didn’t know who you were, but people with the same last name lived here.” “How’d you get that address?” Katherine asked, even more skeptically. “Sean,” Tristan said, matter-of-factly. “Sean? How would Sean know where my parents live?” “Well, I don’t know, but, he did,” he replied. “Well, actually, not really.” “There’s something completely wrong with your story.” “It’s the truth.” “Whatever, I don’t care,” Kat said with a sigh. “Why are you here?” “I thought that was kind of obvious,” Tristan said, as he looked to the houses in the neighborhood. “Was it?” she asked. “Yes. I came to see you.” “How sweet.” “Oh, just accept it. You love seeing me. You love this,” Tristan said with a small smirk. “You are so arrogant,” Katherine said, but she knew it wasn’t true. “Yeah, I know. This is why I’m doing this.” Katherine was a little confused, but it all became clear when he turned to face her on one knee. “Katherine, will you marry me?” “What?” Katherine said, with an obvious shock. “Do I really have to say that again?” Tristan asked, still kneeling with a beautiful and glittering diamond ring in his hands. “No.” “No? You won’t?” Tristan asked, heart-broken. “Well—” “Oh, man, this is the worst rejection ever,” Tristan said, sitting back next to her. “Do you think this can make it right, Tristan?” she asked, staring at him. “Did you see the ring? Did you see it? It’s the exact one you’ve been fantasizing about for years.” Tristan held the ring up, hoping to convince her with the diamond. “I know,” she said, pushing the ring away. “I flew thousands of miles, just to say I love you and you say no?” Tristan put the ring back into his jacket pocket. “You didn’t say that,” she said. “You said, ‘Will you marry me?’” “Oh, you’re insufferable.” He leaned back in the bench and stretched his legs out. But, he decided better and stood up straight and stared right at Katherine. “I’ve spent the past three years thinking about you. I’ve tried so hard to find you. I’ve written so many letters and sent them all to the wrong place. I couldn’t leave to come here because I would have lost my contract. Yes, that sounds ridiculous, but it’s true. And, plus, no matter how many girls threw themselves at me, I said no to almost all of them. But, even that one girl, in those three years, didn’t compare to you. And, now, seeing you, I remember exactly why. Just, being near you, it’s enough to keep me happy for the rest of my life, even if you never talk to me again. Just knowing that you know how I feel, makes me happy. So, you know, if you’re not going to say anything, I’ll go. I may need to use your phone so I can call a cab.” She was silent. “Are you not going to say anything?” She turned to him with tears in her eyes. “Well, you don’t have to cry about it. I’m just going to use the phone, not talk to you.” “Shut up,” she said, and she kissed him. After their embrace, Tristan asked, “Does that mean yes?” “I think that’s what it means,” she said with a smile. “Well, Merry Christmas then, doll,” he said, stroking the side of her face. “Merry Christmas, Tristan,” she said and kissed him again. © Copyright 2005, Daniella Regencia By Dominick Casciato Christmas to my family is important because we celebrate the birth of Christ. Usually, my twin and I get tons of gifts. It could be my favorite present or a present that is least likely to entertain me as much. Definitely the best present given to me is always Jesus Christ. But there is always the second best Christmas present that money could never buy: my family. Most kids say that their robot or remote control airplane gives them happiness. But within a few weeks of that day, they move on to another toy and forget about the past happiness that they had with their past toy. I can agree with them, but those toys only give you temporary happiness. It may be fun the first time, but when the toy breaks or they get tired of it, they get sad. Unlike toys, my family never runs out of batteries and always has something new. By this I mean everyday is like a new adventure for my family. Any time I call them up, there is bound to be a funny story or an interesting fact to come along with the conversation. And with this trait, there is never temporary happiness. The long-term happiness takes over. Though some members move to another state or move closer to me, there is still a permanent bond in between us. Best of all, my family never goes out of style. Unlike a game or designer clothes, my family never fails making me unhappy or bored. Though family seems unbreakable, there can still be change. For me, one change in my family took place about one year ago. My cousin had a baby girl, Natalie. Little by little, my family is growing. But it wouldn’t make a difference if I had an extended family or a petite family, my happiness would stay the same. But every night on Christmas Eve when my family gathers around a table at our favorite Italian restaurant, it seems like my happiness has been fulfilled. Just the presence of my relatives makes me feel content. When one of my aunts, uncles, or grandparents asks me how my day was, it makes me feel like I am very important in their life. And when that happens, a sensation of happiness runs through my body, leaving me with wonderful memories of my younger years. At the end of the day when I am tired and exhausted and my focus is on sleeping, or I am in a competition and need support, I think back to those days and realize who is behind me. Win or lose, one thing stays the same, my happiness with my family. It is what keeps me going strong at times when I need it, and cheers me up when I am in distress. In this short description of my most memorable Christmases and days, I mentioned the happiness I had with them. The second best present for Christmas money cannot buy is family, because with it comes happiness. With family and happiness, my life is fulfilled and I live happier and more exciting days. How lucky I am to have my life. My second best Christmas present is truly magnificent. © Copyright 2005, By Dominick Casciato CHRISTMAS POEMS: The Christmas Present The Christmas Gift The Nutcracker General Christmas Ain't What It Used to Be Ex-lax in the cookies. “This,” she thought, “will give Santa Claus the poopies.” In this delightfully funny Christmas poem by David R. Caudell, Sid plans quite a gift for Santa! Try reading this to the young ones in your family and see if they don’t laugh hysterically. The Christmas Gift Close your eyes; imagine a faraway land, with snow so thick, there’s no seeing the space between your face and hand. Look in your imagination, do you see a castle in the snow? For that is where Santa Claus lives, with his elves, don’t you know? He gives presents to good girls and boys, spreading Christmas love and handing out toys. But what some people don’t know at all, is that he gives gifts to bad kids, too. But they don’t come from the mall. This is one tale of such a bad kid— a mean little girl, who goes by the name of Sid. Now Sid was a bad apple, that was surely right. She always got her way and often got into fights. “Give me the ball!” she yelled at the other girls, punching them in the face and stealing their necklaces made of pearls. When it was time for Christmas break and school let out for the year, she cleaned out her locker and brewed a scheme to steal Santa’s reindeer. “I’m going to rob Santa, that fat bag of poo!” she bragged to Bobby Stevens and his best friend Josh, too. “You can’t rob Santa!” Josh chimed in and said, “IF he comes to your house, you’ll probably be in bed!” “What do you mean IF?” She shook her head full of curls, “I’ll slug you hard, if you tell Santa I’m not a good girl!” Then before she left to get on the bus, she kicked Josh between the legs and then grabbed her stuff. She wrote to Santa Claus, earlier in October. She told him she wanted tons of gifts: teddy bears, candy and a toy dog named Rover. But then she stewed, and then she thought. She came to the conclusion, that she will take the entire lot. When she got home, to her imaginable surprise, stood her younger brothers, little Carl and the baby, Guy. “We heard at school, what you plan to do. We want to know, dear sister, is it true? Is it true?” Well Sid knew now that she had been caught, when she saw Guy’s tears holding back, as his eyelids fought. She said, “I don’t know what you are talking about. And Guy there is no reason for you to sit there and pout.” “You act like Santa actually cares about you. On Christmas Eve, you will get nothing, you two!” Sid turned and sneered and then walked away. “Christmas Eve,” she snarled, “those goody goodies will pay!” So when Christmas Eve oh so finally came, she was ready to start her heartless game. She set up traps, throughout her whole house. Sid even tested her little devices on her brother’s pet mouse. She froze water on the roof, to make Santa fall and slip. She imagined him tumbling, falling off and doing flips. Earlier she went to the farmer and bought a hive of bees! She placed it gently and carefully inside the family Christmas tree. Nails in the chimney, Ex-lax in the cookies. “This,” she thought, “will give Santa Claus the poopies.” Being mean to her brothers, those two angelic boys, she went under the tree, unwrapped and broke their Christmas toys. When it was all done, she wrapped them back up again. “This,” she said, “will show them that Santa’s not their friend!” And at the end of the day, she hung her sock. Then she scooted off to bed; to twelve in the morning, she set her clock. Fast asleep, she heard a ring. The clock went off and she hit it with a loud ding! Her plan was in effect, no turning back. She was going to steal Santa’s big sack. She crept downstairs, in fear of waking her folks, when she saw something in the living room and it gave her a jolt! Sitting in her father’s easy chair, was a man with red coat and lots of white hair. She knew in a minute, as she stood there and paused, this guy staring back at her was Santa Claus. With his bag full of toys sitting by his side, she about fainted, as he looked directly into her eyes. “Dear little do not fear. I will not cause you any harm, my dear.” Then Santa stood up and Sid jumped back, as he dusted himself off and picked up his sack. “Your little traps did not succeed. And these gifts you wanted, you will not need.” “But there is one gift, I want to give and leave, a little reminder that will make you believe.” Then he reached in his sack and handed her a box which was small. She unwrapped the gift and looking inside, this is what she saw: Children and folks, starving down the street. They had no shelter, warmth, or an ounce to eat. Men and women, in foxholes across the seas, dying and suffering to make this country free. The mightiest vision, came next to her eyes— the Christ child babe, who was born to die. Not a cry or a whimper did the babe make, as wise men and shepherds paid homage for Heaven’s sake. Then she felt something that she hadn’t felt in years— down Sid’s cheek, fell a stream of tiny tears. Santa smiled and to the chimney he darted, but not before he bent down and into Sid’s direction he farted. “That’s for those Ex-Lax cookies, you greedy, little brat. I have to admit, that I, Santa Claus, fell for that!” Then he disappeared; up the chimney he flew, as smelling Santa’s poo. That Christmas was the best she ever had, with no presents at all, but she wasn’t sad. She discovered that Christmas doesn’t come from the North Pole, that Christmas comes all year, from your heart and soul. And ever since that oh so fateful night, and turned all her wrongdoings to right. © Copyright 2005, David R. Caudell The Christmas Present Billy Smallwood’s Story of “The Christmas Present”: I believe it to contain a lot in such a few words, my son, who I lost 2 years ago in a tragic accident, was 28. Brent called it a tingle story the first time he heard it, ‘cause it made his back tingle at the end of the story. I miss him so, two years ago this Sunday. The story is now 12 years old this Christmas Eve 2005. When I wrote it, we scratched up $12.00 throughout the whole house to have a Christmas Eve Dinner at Checker Hamburger. It was the best hamburger I ever ate. We were bankrupt, working double shifts just to survive, seemed the lowest point in my life but which I refused to cave in to it because the family I loved so dear were depending on me to pull it off. I caved into myself and wrote songs and stories of which this one made more sense about my situation than any. Thank the mercy of the Good Lord those days are past; we still have our unpleasant misfortunes from time to time, but all in all, God Blessed us and pulled us out of that hardest of times. This story was written so I would never forget the needs of others who are now where I was then. It’s kinda’ like a present from me to them. The Christmas Present. God Bless Us Everyone. The Christmas Present I heard a knock on my door one Christmas Eve; You gave me shelter and food to keep me warm; As an angel of the Lord, Merry Christmas . . . © Copyright 2005, Billy M. Smallwood Links to pages people have made for this story: G:\Holidays2005\site1\christmas17.htm G:\Holidays2005\site2\The Christmas Present.htm G:\Holidays2005\site3\Christmas Celebrations, Traditions and Kids Activities.htm G:\Holidays2005\site4\Christmas Stories From Cathy.htm G:\Holidays2005\site5\CHriStMas_HeArtBreAkEr's Xanga Site.htm http://www.ahapoetry.com/oma1200C.HTM http://www.tugnet.org/images/December%202004.pdf http://www.santasearch.org/texts.asp?Do=4&TextID=698 http://ksteveh.tripod.com/christmaslight/id3.html http://www.walkthroughlife.com/input/angelstorieslog.htm http://www.techdirect.com/christmas/poetry.html http://nl.msnusers.com/GranniesAttic/merrychristmas.msnw By A. Nan Emyss The Nutcracker General He’s a Christmas perennial and the favorite of carols; in all of the barracks his legend is max! He likes dressing up, attending a ball, performs seasonal musicals: keeps time with his boot clacks playing fiddle or sax. White slacks or black, sweater of wool, covers these with jackets of jewels, his boots shine with wax and stars in the tracks. He’s the Nutcracker General, and most worthy of herald; he protects Santa’s sacks with a trident and ax! When Evil attacks, the trident he’ll hurl, beyond meadow or mountain, valley, or hill; standing with a straight back he strongly fights back! Though his career’s fighting evil, toward the good he is gentle, leading the barracks, his legend is max! © Copyright 2005, A. Nan Emyss CHRISTMAS AIN'T WHAT IT USED TO BE By Remona W. Winston It was ‘round about ol’ Christmas time We were sittin’ around shooting the breeze and sippin’ on wine talkin’ ‘bout what the kids want for Christmas this time all these high priced games, videos and stuff like that remembering when we were happy to just sit around and chit chat Now it’s money they want and not a dollar bill I'm talkin fiftys and hundreds like it ain't no big deal Man please is all we can say Get you a job then you can expect it to be that a way Child please I don't care what everybody else got You better go somewhere and sit down ‘cause you ‘bout to get knocked out I ain't ‘bout to be in debt trying to pay off all these credit cards just so you can be a big baller and try to break some li’l girl’s heart You better listen to me and realize you better be who you can be and not try to keep up with the joneses down the street ‘cause you don't know what they doing to put them $200 shoes on their feet. Christmas comes but once a year and evrbody got the reason all messed up Jesus is the reason for the season and not just a time to rent a tux. So ‘preciate what you already got Be glad you got what the next man has not. Be glad, Be glad, Be glad instead stop being so greedy and take yoursel’ to bed. Merry Christmas. Merry Christmas, Merry Christmas. © Copyright 2005, Remona W. Winston MAINSTREAM FICTION AND NARRATIVES: By Ben Waumett “I tried to protest, but the lieutenant rose a finger and smacked his lips. “No, no,” he said, “no use complaining. You’re simply much too crooked of spine to die in battle. Better if you just go home now before your nose begins to run. . . .” Yogurt By Ben Waumett “Your spine is crooked,” said the lieutenant. “Why just mine . . . ?” I asked. “Well, look at the others’ . . . ” he said. And I looked, I did, and he was right. The others were all snickering at my spine, standing about with incredible posture. And they were marvelously tall, as if their heads had made plans with the ceiling to meet later on. And, I did then long for my round friend, with the red face, who always made me feel fine about myself. I also longed for a jar of insects that I could shake about. “With a spine like that, it’s unfortunate, I know, but I must deem you unfit to die in battle.” I tried to protest, but the lieutenant rose a finger and smacked his lips. “No, no,” he said, “no use complaining. You’re simply much too crooked of spine to die in battle. Better if you just go home now before your nose begins to run. Go on! Get out! Go home. You’ll just have to be an artist or a tennis champion.” Then he closed his notebook and turned away. I walked home sad and alone. I didn’t want to be a tennis champion or a sculptor, or even a cartoonist for that matter. I already had a cousin who was a national trampoline champion and an aunt with purple eyelashes. I could see the scene of my arrival at home clearly in my mind. My father would be asleep on the couch and wouldn’t wake up until the door closed. He’d sit up with his head leaning off to the left and get out his notebook and pen and look me up and down, ready to strike my name in today’s “for” or “against” column. He’d see the look on my face and call my mother away from her pigeon stew and she’d bring a spoonful for him to taste, then he’d ask her about the look on my face and they’d stand together with their foreheads touching, trying to find the word to describe my expression. I’d shift my weight from the left foot to the right and then tie my shoes and light a cigarette. The cat would hiss and catch a fly and my father would break from my mother and mark in the “for” column of the cat, then turn his attention back to me and my mother’s forehead. I’d think about my round friend and wonder if he was at the park eating raisins, then buckle under my parents’ heads together scrutiny, and break down into tears and confess about my spine. My father would smack his lips and check me in the “against” column then add up the week’s sums and get up to find the spiked bat and I’d run out of the house in tears and head straight for the park. No. Better just to go straight to the park. I stopped and bought a gallon of vanilla yogurt and a cigar for my round friend, knowing he’d like it if I brought him a present. He was under the bridge reading National Geographic and he reached back with his arm and pulled down on the hair occupying the back of his head, raising his chin so he could see me better. “Hello,” he said, “how’s the gallant war hero this fine afternoon?” “I’m no war hero.” “That’s a shame,” he said, “that’s an awful lot of gallantry you’ve got for a man whose not destined to become a war hero. I’ve often had daydreams about being a war hero and collecting Japanese earlobes with which I’d build a necklace, but the desert is no place for a round man. “You know you do have wonderful earlobes,” he continued. “Maybe it’s for the best you’re not to be a war hero, why, you’d be the target of every Japanese jeweler with your earlobes like that. Yes, in fact, there would surely be a bounty out on your earlobes. I once knew a man whom the Japanese army traded an entire aircraft carrier for just one of his earlobes and his were by no comparison nearly as remarkable as yours. Yes, I believe your earlobes would fetch a king’s ransom in any war. And I don’t mean just any king. Not the king of “Is that for me then, is it? Well, it is a fine day for yogurt and a fine day for yogurt beneath a bridge at that rate.” He pulled the lid back, slid a finger into the yogurt, sampled it with his huge mouth and said, “Vanilla yes, my favorite, thank you, you know I am glad I don’t have a spoon in this case. For if I did! Then out of mere formality and in respect to breeding, I might have to forego the joyous pleasure of drinking the yogurt. It really is a fine thing to hold a tub of yogurt to your lips and slurp up a bit at a time, leaving a little to slide down your chin and drip onto your neck and slither down your belly. Speaking of bellies . . . ” “You know your belly, or stomach for that matter, is quite an enthusiastic representation of the human form. Yes, you do have a splendid belly, sleek and elegant. Not like my belly, which is round and maroon and always full of raisins and sometimes yogurt. No, no, your belly is the stuff of poems. And I don’t mean the poems of little Sarah down the street who sells the kazoos, but the poems of Leonard Cohen or someone like that who wears glasses and goes to parties that I could never attend. But you! You would be the guest of honor at such parties; provided you wear an appropriate shirt which caressed your belly in the right fashion. Yes, yes, I am in awe of the shape of your belly.” Then he reached out and gently rubbed my belly. It felt a little awkward having my belly rubbed by a round man beneath a bridge in a park, so I gave him the cigar to distract him and, seeing it, he snatched it up and up drew it slowly beneath his giant nostrils. “This is for me then is it? You know you really are a kind man. In fact, if kindness were a necklace that they handed out in proportion to a persons level of kindness, you, you my gallant and well proportioned man, would have a 12 pound sapphire on a golden rope hanging from your neck at all times. A new cathedral would go up in your name every time you left your house. The country would devote every second Wednesday to you and the orphanages would serve grilled cheese sandwiches and the garbage men would form carol groups and scour the streets for sad faced pedestrians to cheer up with song in your name. A flock of beautiful swans would land in any body of water you chose to sat near enough to and . . .” Just then, a car horn sounded and we both looked to the road. A Manchurian aerobics instructor in purple spandex with pink stripes got out of the car and waved down to my round friend. I sat down beneath the bridge and lit a cigarette. It began to rain. © Copyright 2005, Ben Waumett By Jane Febo “This was not a time to be distracted by the jungle cat in the forest, or the killer bugs of the Amazon, all of which were out to get me. I was on a mission.” Weeding By Jane Febo February 26, 2K5 I had a memory today of one random event from my childhood. I have no idea what brought it to mind, but surfaced it did. I was at my grandmother’s house, which was the lot behind my uncle’s house. My mom was inside with my grandma and I played in the front yard, weeding her lawn. I think she might have asked me to do it. It seemed a simple monotonous chore, but suddenly it was an adventure in the wild. I pried dandelions up from the moist ground, roots and all before they attacked me back. Dirt? No one thinks about dirt when they are fighting for their lives. This was not a time to be distracted by the jungle cat in the forest, or the killer bugs of the Amazon, all of which were out to get me. I was on a mission. Eventually, I had eradicated the race. I was the sole victor. But I had to make sure this never happened again. Who knew if dandelions were like vampires or some other evil unkillable creature? I had to leave a warning for any other weeds who thought my grandmother’s yard would be easy pickings. I had to hang the weed corpses from the battlements as a reminder not to mess with my family. For no reason ever known to me, my uncle had a huge roll of paper lying on its side on a picnic table. The roll of paper was bigger than I was and it had to weigh like 200 pounds. Perfect. I wrapped each weed corpse in a casing of paper torn from this gigantic roll and then proceeded to systematically display them all over the yard. I attached one to the clothesline with a clothespin. I smashed one under a rock. I hung one in a spider-web. I pierced one on the thorns of a rosebush. There. Let them remember that. Then I laughed at myself and went back to putting away my laundry in the year 2K5. © Copyright 2005, Jane Febo By Leigh Kunkel “In the crust of what used to be the reading room, they found a journal soaked in gasoline. They couldn’t read the name.” Lobster at Perpetuity By Leigh Kunkel The old library burned to the ground in twenty minutes. Or so they said the next morning. It probably took about seven hours. The firemen came to see it. They brought their hoses and sprayed arcs of futile diamonds into the flames but all that did was refract their light into thousands of tiny comets that burned the eyes of the bystanders. Luckily, there was no one in the building. In the morning, while the skeleton of the library smoldered, the firefighters searched through the rubble for the cause. In the crust of what used to be the reading room, they found a journal soaked in gasoline. They couldn’t read the name. Briah threw his pen across the room because he thought that was what real authors with writer’s block did. He wanted to explain the way that the flames had twisted like dancers in the breeze, but he couldn’t. Once upon a time—at least he thought—he had written words that soared like birds formed from twenty-six letters. Now, they were nothing. His words settled like dust in the back of an unused cupboard while spiders wove their homes between the commas. Once there was a muse who slept under his pillow, just waiting to speak her words through his willing fingers. She was gone now, run away with her melancholy lover. Briah imagined the two of them entwined in a bed of white linen overlooking a crashing tropical ocean, speaking in sad couplets. He searched for her everywhere. He ran through the hospital and the park screaming her name. He watched the water surging down the stairs of Perpetuity and waited for her. But she wasn’t there. He stood by the fire, letting the heat dry his skin like he had lived in the desert for a hundred years, but she never came. He painted his house black to be depressed and he painted his rooms every color he could think to be interesting, but nothing changed. It was not for his lack of trying. A year ago, there was a strange boy hanging around the cancer ward. He had dark shaggy hair and eyes that looked like they would either cry or cut straight into your soul. He carried a little leather-bound book with him and scribbled as the doctors told families that their loved ones were dying. The boy observed as they cried until every breath taken in that room tasted like saltwater, and the pages of all the magazines curled and wrinkled from the sadness that always hung heavy in the air. Sometimes this boy would wait by the physical therapy rooms. He watched the children with no legs learning to walk again and waited for sympathy. He even tried on a prosthetic leg himself and waited for empathy. He told the nurse that it was research for an article he was writing, but she and the children’s mothers never took their eyes off him as he hobbled around the room. Then he sat, writing in his book. But he was not satisfied. He would rub his eyes and sigh and stare at the children who were trying to live again as though he was trying to steal their futures. Months later, the same mothers who had tracked this boy with wary, slitted eyes in the hospital renewed their vigil when they saw him on the park bench. He still had his book, still composed secret missives about their babies. The mothers glared as he watched the children playing. The ducks swimming. The grass growing. The silent boy concentrated as the seasons changed. He sat on the bench while the ground took the color and texture of hammered gold and copper. The wind snapped at his fingers and snuck under his collar and still he wrote. But he was not satisfied. He stomped through the leaves and his breath came out in angry puffs. Eventually, he stopped coming and the mothers and their broken children exhaled in relief. The forensic experts at the town’s police station dissected the diary piece by piece, starting with its leather cover. They hung the pages like wallpaper across the room, trying to put together the puzzle of an uninspired arsonist. The experts studied the pages, reading the fragments through angry scrawls of number two pencil. They didn’t know that no one was supposed to read those words. Ever. They weren’t good enough. They didn’t deserve to be read. That’s why he crossed them out. That’s why he burned them. But they didn’t know, and so they kept reading. The boy had another idea. If he could not find inspiration in pain and sadness and he could not find it in nature and joy, perhaps he could find it in pure beauty. He went to Perpetuity. Perpetuity was the restaurant on the top floor of the most elegant hotel in town. It sat at the mouth of an enormous marble staircase that descended straight into the lobby, and across the restaurant stretched a floor-to-ceiling aquarium full of exotic fish that danced through the imported coral on mechanical currents. The boy sat next to the aquarium with his hand in his pocket, fingering the antique pistol. He kissed the muzzle up against the center of the glass and pulled the trigger. The recoil pushed him to the ground. He scrambled to his feet and down the stairs to the first floor. Behind him, he could hear the cracks spidering across the glass like the world’s loudest cellophane candy wrapper. He reached the lobby just in time. Crash. And then screams. A torrent of glass and water poured over the patrons’ seafood dinners. Fish past the point of no return. Lobsters that couldn’t feel the saltwater sweeping them off their beds of lemon and rice. The women wailed as the starfish clung to their silk bodices and the puffer fish snagged in hairsprayed updos. The men grunted as the squids wrapped their tentacles around their wrists and the angelfish flopped in their breast pockets. The waiters rushed around with coupons, promising a free octopus appetizer upon the next visit. The water began its cascade down the stairs. A rushing wall of foam and streaks of color raced over the cream marble and the whole thing looked like a million-tiered wedding cake covered in gloss and sprinkles. Kissing Gouramis leaped out of the deluge looking for their mates. For a moment, the whole staircase was alive. The boy tilted his head sideways, trying to imagine if this was what it had looked like to stand in the Titanic as it settled slowly into the ocean. When the water pouring down the stairs had slowed to a drip, he sprang into action. He began scooping up the fluttering creatures and tossing them into the fountain in the center of the lobby. Soon, it was so full of fish that they could barely swim. When all were accounted for, the boy climbed up onto the front desk and pulled out his book. He tried to describe the way the water crept up the curtains and sloshed over the carpeted floors, making the red oriental rugs darker than black. He wanted to write about how the women held up the hems of their dresses as their stilettos clicked and splashed at the same time and the children jumped from the third step to the ground to see who could make the biggest splatter. He wanted the words to flow like the river of fake seawater, but all that came out was a puddle. A nothing. He had not found it. Briah paced across his rug, trying to create a wear pattern so everyone who came over would see how tormented he was. He had no words, no stories. He didn’t want to write about his childhood and his father and how his grandpa had died when he was just a kid. He needed to find something worth saying anything about. Briah wanted voices from God and earthquakes to tell him This. Is. It. This is your inspiration. He had to get out. Briah was standing in aisle five at the grocery store when he saw it. She rolled toward him on the back of a shopping cart and her eyes were no color. Or maybe they were all colors. They weren’t green or brown or gold. They were just something. She said her name was Aislinn. Sorry I ran into you. Briah told her it was okay, because he couldn’t think of anything else when he was looking into those birthstone eyes. He wanted to know what she would write about if she was a poet. She looked like one. Aislinn bit her bottom lip. Well, she told him, my dog has yellow eyes and dances like a tribal woman. But Briah didn’t know her dog, so that didn’t help. Then I would go outside at night, Aislinn said, and I would try to explain everything that I saw and it would be dark, so it wouldn’t matter what I wrote because I couldn’t read it anyway. Maybe, Briah told her eyes. He ran home because he wanted to write down every detail of Aislinn. He wanted to explain how she made him feel like he might fall at any second and when she laughed she tried to swallow it up so she wouldn’t bother anyone around them, and all that laughing energy just exploded out of her indescribable eyes like fireworks. But he couldn’t. He couldn’t explain that he had seen her for less than a minute but he knew She. Was. It. Aislinn of the colorless eyes would be his inspiration. And even though he felt that thunder from heaven in his chest and saw the earth shaking around him, the words would not come. Maybe whatever words he wrote would never live up to his own expectations. Maybe he had none left. Maybe he had used them all up. The experts all agreed that they weren’t having any luck figuring out who the book belonged to. Maybe, one of them suggested, we could each take a few pages home to study for clues. And even though they knew that they just wanted a piece of something they all recognized as rare and beautiful, they pretended they were doing it in the name of science. That night, each sat at home reading and tipping his head back so the tears would dry faster. They each tried to understand why someone would burn these pages. Surely the writer felt the splendor that radiated from each word. Surely he saw the brilliance that glowed in each phrase. He must. The night was blacker than soot. Briah lay in the backyard trying to make himself cry. When that didn’t work, he tried to make himself laugh. He tried to make himself feel anything. Briah stared at the stars, thinking about how they always seemed to be his mood. When he was in love, they were perfect and shimmering. When he was lost, he looked for signs of hope in meteors. Now, when he was angry, they glared through the gathering purple clouds. And as he thought it, he realized That. Was. It. He went to the garage. For the second time that week, the neighbors gathered on the sidewalk. This time, there were no flames or explosions. There were only huge white letters painted across a black house. As the crowd read the words, a veil fell over their eyes. They went inside themselves and wished they had written those phrases. Those with children too young to read whispered in their babies’ ears and even the smallest infants seemed to understand. Every person standing in front of the house read every word, down to the very last line. The stars look like us. They look like the way our lives should be remembered, as blurs of brightness in an otherwise bleak sky. © Copyright 2005, Leigh Kunkel By Sarah El Ebiary In Sarah El Ebiary’s “Rock Dreams,” You join the rock band, nonchalant, dreaming of a good cup of coffee in between gigs . . . . Rock Dreams By Sarah El Ebiary You feel the caffeine wearing off. It happens every day at “Man, these stairs are ugly,” you say to yourself but can barely hear. Your ears are still ringing from the night before when the tour hit You walk downstage toward the front of the house and squint at the glaring stage lights that nearly blind you. You reach down to pick up the long, black guitar cable that Randy left sitting for you at the edge of the stage, just as he does every sound check. Carrying the cable in your right hand, you walk back upstage toward the guitar rack, already unloaded and set up by the crew. They’re a great group of guys, except for the new tour manager, Nigel. You wonder how much longer you can put up with his demands. The rest of the instruments, drums, bass, and mics, are set up, checked and ready for tonight. The guitar is always the last in sound check and it’s time for you to get to work. The row of guitars hanging from their pegs glistens from the reflection of the stage lights. You lift off the Gibson SG Special from the rack and carry it to center stage. The cherry-red beauty that you hold is so much nicer than the first guitar you got when you were 13. That was just a generic Fender Strat rip-off that your older brother, Sam, had bought from Sears. He never really learned how to play it anyway. After he turned 16, your parents got him a car and his interests turned toward going to concerts, amongst other things. He always took you along to the local shows in For now, you’ve got an alright gig with this band, “Glad to see you’ve arrived,” sneers Nigel in a sarcastic tone as he walks the floor of the venue with one of the promoters. You flip him off, but he didn’t see. He was too busy negotiating the deal for tonight’s show. He’s got a lot of experience touring with bands, mostly in the “Whenever you're ready,” Randy says from behind the sound board. He speaks into a microphone that communicates into the center monitor wedge. You give him a nod “okay,” tuck in the cable through the vintage embroidered guitar strap and plug it into the guitar. You put the strap around your neck and let the guitar rest against your belly. The comforting pressure of the mahogany body feels safe and reassuring, reminding you of being back home in Ten weeks of being on the road makes those first few steps into the house, after the front door closes, truly pure. The past fifty cities were merely a blur—like a recurring dream you've had every night. You're living that dream now. You relish the thought of sleeping in your bed without having to smell the stench of nine gassy guys crammed on a bus. You can't wait to be in your own house, and hopefully Sam will welcome you when you arrive. “Hey Nate!” you almost hear him call out. “Nate!” Randy had been shouting for a few minutes, but you were lost in your world, distracted. “Oh sorry, man,” you chuckle, though you’re not sorry. He knows you become distracted without caffeine, so he snaps you back into reality at least once every sound check. You wonder about that coffee you wanted. “You alright?” Randy asks irritated, probably hungry. You better make this quick or he’ll be like this all night. “Play a G for me,” he says. Always a G for some reason. You’ve heard it was the most soothing note in the world, but you aim to challenge that notion. A loud, crunching guitar chord rips through the auditorium. Each booming strum sends you back to the electrifying moment in your bedroom when you first tried jamming on Sam’s old guitar. Your parents shouted for you to turn it down until their voices turned hoarse. But of course, you could never hear them because you were playing for the thousands of screaming fans in your head. You were mostly strumming as fast as you could while stage diving off of your bed. It was then that you decided you wanted to play music for the rest of your life, and after twelve years of dedicated strumming, you’ve greatly improved. Man, that sounded terrible. “Hey Randy, can I get more of a mix in my wedge?” You look out to him leaning over his board. Adjustments are made, switches toggled and toggles switched. “Try again,” he says. You nod your head to the side as you strum a few more times. You look down at your electronic tuner and change the tuning to drop D. Did you ever think your life would turn out like this? After countless hours and random garage bands, keeping that dream alive has led you here—to “Alright, sounds good,” you call out to Randy. He takes off his classic sound engineer earphones and heads for the door. Soon, you are alone in the giant auditorium. A couple thousand empty wooden seats stare back at you while you unplug the cable from the guitar. You’re always the last one to leave sound check while the other guys have already taken off. Some of them head to the bus to play video games. The rest of them are with their girlfriends, or groupies, rather—anything to pass the time. You take off the guitar, which is now warm, stiff, and heavy like your favorite jean jacket. You walk over to the six foot You finally arrive to the catering room and there’s a long table of deli meats and other sandwich fixings laid out in an organized spread. It’s not a demanding rider, unlike The Monks’, which requests that the promoters order Singha, this crazy imported beer from You walk back down the hallway and head for the side exit where the buses are parked. Standing outside, a group of female fans lingers around the bus. They make their way toward you, but you don’t feel like talking. They act as if they know you, but you know that they just want to get backstage. You slowly bang three times and two short on the glass door, which is the secret code that signals Nigel to let you inside the bus. While you stand there waiting, you ignore the girls by looking rushed, continually glancing at your watch. It’s You feel more exhausted than most days. As you make your way down the bus to take a seat on the bench alongside the windows, you think about the three hours you’ll spend between sound check and doors. Someday, those few hours will be filled with interviews, meet and greets and any spare moments to fit in a drink and a bite to eat. By that time, it won’t matter if you’re a few minutes late for sound check, because every day will be spent playing music. There aren’t many people out there lucky enough to get paid for doing what they love. Even though the money is not that great, you were never one for an A loud knock on the bus window startles you awake. How long have you slept? Is it time for doors yet? You lift your arm until your wrist is at eye level. You look at your watch, and it’s only “See you later, Nate,” Nigel says as he leaves the bus. The crew wants to have a meeting with the band after the show. You wonder how that’s going to go. Last time you all gathered was a few months ago in (the stage was only a foot off of the ground and it felt so intimate to be that close to the crowd). Larry had called a meeting with the band about getting his salary raised. It was obvious that he was planning to continue taking more money anyway, so it was time for him to go. You’ve heard recently that he was touring with another band. You shake your head then gently rest your head against the window. Not too long after, another loud knock startles you awake yet again. This time you wonder how two hours went by so fast as you look down at your beat-up leather watch. It’s The final mic check will need to be done soon. You dread having to venture back outside, but all of the girls who have proved themselves worthy should already be backstage. You walk back up those hideous yellow stairs that lead to the stage and make your way across the floor. On the other side of the curtain, you feel the anticipation of the waiting audience. The mics are set up and waiting for you, while the crowd has no idea who is actually back there saying: “Check…one…one-two…Check one…two.” You’re satisfied with how blaring the vocals are in the wedge. Suddenly, in the corner of your eye, you see Nigel approaching with the band following behind him. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Rio Fields. It’s the first time you’ve seen them all day. They even walk like rock stars, with wide steps leading their shiny silver belt buckles. Their groupie girlfriends stand off to the side of the stage and in the brief glance you take to check them out, you immediately figure out the difference between the real girlfriends visiting from home and the ones from the road. In general, the girlfriends from home stand with their arms crossed; enthusiastically inept for the forthcoming set they’ve seen dozens of times. They still mouth the lyrics to the songs, but compared to the other girls, well. The girlfriends from the road wave their arms in the air, like it’s the best moment of their lives. They are singing, nearly screaming the lyrics, as if the microphones could reach their signal from their positions at the side of the stage. Frankie, the lead singer/rhythm guitarist, approaches you and holds his hand out for the mic. He grabs it out of your hand without even a thank you. Every night, never a thank you. You sigh and head to side stage. You assume the position as you do every night and kneel down in front of the girlfriends. Your job includes waiting for someone to break a guitar string. Soon the house lights fade to a dim and the curtain slowly lifts open. The noise in the auditorium gets increasingly louder as the crowd welcomes Rio Fields. The band takes their places and eventually plays the first song on their set list, “Lady Love.” You pull out your flashlight to look down at the itinerary on the back of your pass. Tomorrow night, you’ll be in Right before the second chorus of “Lady Love,” Frankie breaks a string on the Gibson. Happens every night at about this time, © Copyright 2005, Sarah El Ebiary By Chris Goebel "If anyone used drugs, his usual comment was, 'Just call me Mikey, only I'll try anything once.'" Where Angels Can't Walk By Chris Goebel Little eleven-year-old Tobias Grim tiptoed into the living room, where his stepmother, Lila Grim, sat wrapping Christmas presents. She turned at the sight of him and her shoulders sank accordingly. The child was so much like his deceased mother, Angelica that Lila could barely stand to look at Tobias. If only her husband, Eric, would stop speaking about his ex-wife as if she were some kind of saint. Well, she had died of cancer, but why should she have to live with Angelica’s memory too? Tobias stretched out a hand with a book, a journal of some sort. Strange, thought Lila, that’s not a child’s journal. She took it from him with a stern look, about the only type of look she gave Tobias. “Will you read it to me?” he asked. “You can read, Tobias.” “But not scribble writing, Stepmamma, like adults do. It’s scribble writing.” “Cursive writing’s what they call it,” Lila admonished. “But I’ve not much wrapping left to do. Okay.” At this moment, her husband Eric walked in and seeing that Lila was about to read, sat down next to Tobias on the floor. And so Lila read the journal to her stepson and husband, not realizing how much it would change their relationship. Sean and Ann wore different colors. So varied were their personalities that only on rare occasions did they speak the same words. But that was about to change and if you ask me, it changed for the better. One of the main reasons that Sean and Ann walked different paths was because Sean had a past full of passionate sins. Like Sinatra's song, he had lived life his way always, doing some shameful things that during a better moment, he almost regretted having done because he couldn't confide those instances to anyone. At parties, he had lit up like a bulb, glowing with excessive alcohol to the point where he could not see. If anyone used drugs, his usual comment was, "Just call me Mikey, only I'll try anything once." Sometimes twice, Sean. Good grief, sometimes you don't know, simply because it's hard to keep track of things when you're high. Actually, drugs weren't all. When Sean got high, he did everything else he felt like doing, which usually ended up as a bizarre sex act or some other self-gratification. As I said, Sean did some things that he almost regretted and surely some of those were pitiful sex acts, but I won't reveal those. Each of us has dark secrets, mold growing on our souls that increases in size until we have to nearly throw the soul away like a moldy loaf of bread, because there's hardly anything decent left. Sean had not only lost his decency; he thoroughly despised himself. Ann was the other sort. Having lived a clean life, she hadn't experienced drugs and you might find it more difficult to believe that, at 23!, she hadn't had sex. All of this was due to Ann's surroundings, you might say, since she grew up in the country with no neighbors for a few miles and when she saw them, they exchanged perfunctory chat and then moved on their way. So, Ann inherited the restlessness of a small town girl. She longed for life in the big city with fabulous dresses and handsome gentlemen and glistening cars beneath thriving city streets decorated for the holiday in closest proximity. I would say, "Good for you, Ann," except that it wasn't all goodness. Being wise, she realized early on that others committed far more sins than she, which caused her to have the slightest egotistical edge. Very slight, mind you. But enough to cause many people who might have corrupted her to avoid her. How can we congratulate her on that? "Enough already," you're wishing that I'd get on with it. Because you know Ann's already set up for the fall and that Sean's got something to do with it. But not in the way you're expecting. It was the Wednesday before Christmas and what forecasters call a dry freeze day. There was no wind tearing at clothes and burning faces, but it was cold with no hint of precipitation. Coat weather. Time to light a fire. Not that Ann and Sean would have the chance. Sean woke up with steely determination. Exactly one year sober today. Tonight, he would collect his one year chip from Alcoholics Anonymous. People would clap. He would give a speech and make it sound less difficult than it was, so that the newbies wouldn't get terrified of the sobriety bitch slap they were going to get. Some of the program steps were difficult, such as admitting to damage caused to others (lying, stealing, cheating, sleeping with a friend's wife, daughter, pet, etc. He distinctly remembered someone's confession to doing a cow. Imagine the nicknames!). In fact, Sean never got the first step about a Higher Power, but he moved along and progressed from a grouchy 25-year-old dry drunk to a reasonable guy who still physically resembled an alcoholic and drug addict: long hair, black clothes—especially black jeans and biker-type elongated glasses that he wore so often that they appeared to be part of his head. For a year, he'd woken up knowing who would be next to him (as it happened, no one, but at least he knew that). For a year, he hadn't rushed to get an AIDS test or received a phone call from some poor virgin's parents telling him that their daughter was pregnant. He'd entertained worse fears, but for the sake of some privacy, we'll leave those to your imagination (hoping you can't imagine worse). Sean got up and dressed in the usual dark garb, black jeans, a T-shirt that read STOP PLATE TECTONICS and the sunglasses. If you didn't know him like you do now, you'd believe he was enroute to purchase some marijuana. Ann woke up differently. For one, she had no monkey on her back she'd recently escaped and her conscience felt spring clean—except that she was late for a friend's bridal shower party. Karen wouldn't forgive her! Ann ran around the house talking to herself: "Got to get some coffee!" "Hurry up in the shower, girl!" "Why'd you watch that movie last night?" "I'll never get there in time—not that I really want to go, but Karen will expect it of me since I'm one of her best friends." "Oh, crap!" For Ann's benefit, I'll withhold the expletives. Not that they will matter later. Sean lived next door to Ann's friend, Karen, and her soon to be husband, Greg; if Ann had mistaken the door, then she might have been spared the upcoming tragedy. Unfortunately, she didn't. So, feeling he needed an uplifting game of cards before he went to breakfast, Sean got on his computer and entertained himself by playing Hearts online, something he could do for hours. He'd show those bastards who could get -10 JD (-10 points for winning the Jack of Diamonds in a hand). Ann's hands were considerably worse, shaking in fact. She arrived at Karen's apartment a full half-hour late. Inside the apartment, Karen's fiance, Greg, finished a line of cocaine. He'd fess up to Karen after they got married. Otherwise, she'd leave him because she was a straightlaced chick. He'd waited until she left to put down his coke set-up on the coffee table, making sure to close the blinds. It was dark inside, perfect for the paranoia he'd get later. Ann knocked on the door. When Greg opened it, she stepped back. She didn't know enough about drugs or alcohol to detect that he was high. Her reaction was to the once-over he gave her, to his shirtlessness, to the manliness about him that said he had no engagement whatsoever and had been waiting for her. He hadn't, but his _expression and manner suggested this and Ann didn't know what to do. What complicated matters was the slight crush she's always had on Greg. Like any good friend, she attempted to hide her attraction, but not at this moment. Greg's high hit and Ann looked at least as sexy as one of the chicks on Survivor. Why hadn't he realized Karen had such hot friends? "Has Karen left?" Inwardly, Ann chided herself for hoping Karen wasn't home. "No," Greg looked behind him as if to make sure. "They left about an hour ago [a lie, it had been 30 minutes]. So, you're looking good [slowly becoming the truth as the high intensified]. Got somebody special telling you how nice you look today [he knew she didn't]?" He generously afforded Ann with several lecherous gazes. Feeling flattered yet guilty, Ann shook her head and pursed her lips. She shouldn't answer flirtacious questions. "I'd better catch up with them." Greg could regularly lie with insanely rich finesse, but when high, he lied like a demi-god. "Too late. I'm sorry," he said as he took her hand and led her inside the apartment. She was a fine chick and if he could just get her in bed before they got too high, they'd have a great time. "They're going to a women's club to dig nude guys and Karen paid for the group's entrance. You couldn't get in without laying down, oh, about a hundred bucks." Actually, the cover charge was about $10. Is that what you guessed? Ann tried to appear normal, keep her voice natural and not sound like a prude. "Oh, in that case, I'd better go." But she made the mistake of standing there as if she didn't want to go. And Greg made the not-so-mistake of grabbing her and laying a kiss on her that was so smooth that it felt better than a bubble bath. Ann loved bubble baths and she bathed in his kiss accordingly. In the back of her mind, in the furthest reaches, a small voice said, "What about Karen?" but Ann no longer discerned what was said and focused on what was done to her, and that felt like a ride on a swing. Had she been experienced in love-making, she would have known that things progressed rapidly. At this point, Lila paused and looked at Eric, a silent question regarding whether she should continue reading or not. He had the strangest look on his face, like he chewed on something sour and sweet, but he nodded for her to continue. At his apartment, Sean waited for new players to join the game of Hearts. As if Ann's seduction weren't enough, Greg saw the lines of coke on the table and Ann followed his look. "What's that?" "I gotta tell you the truth, it's cocaine. It because makes me feel alright. Karen's not so cool, you know. I think she's got a dude on the side." He didn't allow Ann to contemplate his flawed argument. No, because at the edge of a bed, under the shield of a drug, the power of evil intensifies into a deep, dark stronghold. Whatever Greg said, Ann didn't hear. Not when he told her to be careful with the coke and not overdo it. Not when he panted that he couldn't continue any longer and that she'd worn him out. As far as things seemed when Ann got dressed and left the apartment, she hadn't been affected by the encounter and had used Greg for her own devices. Sean whooped aloud. He shot the moon with a -10 JD. Only outside did the light hurt Ann's eyes, the paranoia set in and worst of all, she forgot she had a car. So, she wandered around in a daze. Sean flipped on the TV and started scanning channels. Soap opera, another soap opera, something—nope, another soap opera. Maybe this wasn't a soap. No, it wasn't. He watched disinterestedly, craving the sound of a voice—any voice as opposed to the silence of loneliness. Someone talking, an interview. Probably with a soap star. He supposed the woman was famous, because of her impeccable grooming. She sat with still composure, with legs at the proper angle, head tilted intelligently. Her eyes almost dripped with enough fluid for tears that didn't come. She spoke with intensity. "Angels can't do everything. For one, they can't experience the pressure that sin places on us, because they're pure. That's why God uses us to help one another." "Oh, for crying out loud!" Sean exclaimed. "Daytime TV's either soap or Christianity. No wonder housewives are weird." He turned off the TV. If it hadn't been cold, Ann might have wandered down the road until she reached wherever. She was numb emotionally, both from the high and the awakening realization of her purity's death. Now, she was freezing physically and her body had enough sense to shiver. Her brain possessed a tiny amount of the ability to react, so it said in almost indistinguishable words, Get inside. Great, she thought, but where? Where is this place and why is the sun shining at night? Of course it wasn't night, but at least what she knocked on was really a door, Sean's. Birds of a feather flock together and Sean recognized exactly what Ann had just experienced. He took in the preppy clothes with their decent purpose of clothing and hiding what it clothed, the mussed-up hair and makeup of a woman who's just had sex and from the look of it (which he knew well from being on the other end), sex for the first time, and the red eyes and excessively sniffing and wiping at the nose of a cocaine user. He'd bet for the first time. Ann also recognized someone who understood her, but because she had never identified with this type of person before, the shock overwhelmed her. She swooned and held onto the door jamb. Sean held her arm. Should he invite her inside? She might think he had an ulterior motive. Ask her where her car was and drive her home? She might think him a thief. So, he stood there. To tell the truth, Ann didn't see Sean as a man. She knew him and knew that he knew her. And it crushed her spirit. "Please let me in," she begged. "Oh, please." Her eyes reddened more; this time from the oncoming rush of tears and soul drainage. He stood aside and then escorted her to the unfortunately filthy couch and sat on the chair nearest the couch, which wasn't in much better shape. "You wanna talk?" "No," she said, but her head nodded yes. But first, her soul purged for a solid half hour. Sean, who'd always detested crying, sat patiently until he couldn't take it anymore and hugged her and patted her hair and shoulders like he'd seen people do on TV. She quieted down. "I've never done this before—" Ann couldn't look at him. Sean held up a finger. "You don't have to tell me anything. I know what's happened from the look of you. Sex and drugs. That about right?" "Oh, man, it's that obvious? What am I going to do?" Ann covered her face with her hands. "Why? Why couldn't I be happy? I had a great life and then I had to go freaking mess it up. See there? Now, I'm cursing." She ought to have heard the profanity Sean used in his spare time. "What are you going to do now?" he asked. "Go home?" Right. To her perfect parents and clean room when she belonged in a bar with a cigarette-laden bed. "No! I—I need to regroup. What do you do when you've done everything bad you thought you'd never do and you had no reason? How can you not want to kill yourself?" Sean's first instinct was the same as always: run before she commits suicide and you get blamed. But, he was also a new person, a year clean, a year sober. His mind raced, frantic for the right thing to say. Ann slid to the floor and cried into her arms. She was almost out of tear juice but her body's sorrow heaved and wracked her arms and chest. Sean thought, walk a mile in a man's shoes. But he had been in her shoes, many times, and she had ended up at his apartment, not at a cop's. That woman on TV had said that angels couldn't understand the human sin experience. But he could understand. There were places that angels couldn't walk, where God someone who understood the pain. Sean wanted to cry, but he picked Ann up off the floor. "Look, you can hate yourself forever or forgive yourself now and get on with life." "I can't forgive myself," she choked, though the tears started to dry. "Is my mascara running?" He laughed at the last comment. "Give up on the mascara. You can and you must stop hating yourself. Look, I've done many bad things," his voice lowered dramatically and he felt he should be more honest, "many, many terrible things and I stopped doing them. Hate kept me doing them and when I realized that, I forgave myself." Ann sniffled from tears, a fresh onslaught. "Why couldn't I have met you before? You're an angel." His expression was dubious. "That's stretching the truth like taffy." Sean and Ann wiped at Ann's tears and since they kept coming, they both stopped and laughed. She smiled. "You forgave yourself, right? Doesn't that mean your past is over?" "Yeah," he answered. "It is. Know what? I was going to get lunch. You probably don't want to go out now, but I can order in." Sean realized something else. He was just the man who could accept Ann's past. Maybe that was getting ahead of things. Right now, Chinese sounded great. If you're a reader who loves a happy ending, you don't need to know the rest. Because as it happens, some great things start at the beginning. By the time Lila had finished reading, Eric had silently left the room. Slowly, it dawned on her that somehow, this was Angelica and Eric’s story. Angelica hadn’t been perfect, but Eric had chosen to see her that way. Lila’s mind worked quickly, and the next thought she had was that if Eric could’ve forgiven Lila for her past, then he could accept Angelica for her worst. He knew how to love. But there wasn’t time to think more, because she had an eleven-year-old stepson who waited patiently for her to say something. “Well, Toby, that was a great story. I just noticed that you have a lot in common with me lately. And you’re a very special young man. Come give me a hug.” And that, my friends, was just the beginning. © Copyright 2005, Chris Goebel By Palmer Avery Marcus rose early and took a long luxurious bath. He followed this with two slices of toast and a glass of champagne, then spent the rest of the morning sharpening his favorite knife. When it drew blood at the slightest touch, and sang while it did so, he laid it aside and set out for a stroll. In the park he happened to meet Mr. Lee, a Korean surgeon who had moved to The two men discussed four things while the dog nosed Marcus' hand for attention. It nipped him, leaving a narrow red welt. Mr. Lee took Marcus' hand and concluded that the injury was inconsequential. Their conversation turned to the fourth and final topic; scalpels. Marcus wanted to know the best ways to create incisions while minimizing blood flow. The welt raised steadily as they spoke. Marcus then bade Mr. Lee good-bye and continued his stroll through the park. His head was full of new and useful information. He quickened his pace, completed the circuit through the trees and benches, and soon found himself back home. Home was something of a mansion. Vaulted ceilings sprang up throughout its sprawling interior, their underbellies overspread with oil paintings. More paintings hung in gilded frames along the walls; in some rooms there were so many their frames nearly touched. Opulence abounded at every turn. Diamond chandeliers triumphed over massive ballrooms. Silver sticks held the finest paraffin candles, illuminating the scarlet hallways and chambers with their flickering fire. The scarlet rooms numbered eighty-nine in all, but no one lived in them save Marcus, bald Marcus, whose skin impression of wearing a monocle. Though he never had, it would have matched his waxed mustache, silk smoking jackets, and cravats. In the dining room, the candles reflected off a massive mirror that filled a wall The day before, Marcus had brought up from the basement a bucket of black paint, and a brush. He took some measurements, traced an irregular oval on the glass, then painted over every piece of mirror outside the oval. When he sat at the table, nothing would be reflected but his head. After his stroll, he found himself back at home. The knife shone brightly on the dining room table. He seated himself and picked it up, considering for a moment its keen edge. He brought it to his mustache, to one curled end on the left side. He held pressed the flat side of the knife against it. He drew out the whiskers to their maximum length. With a conductor's precision, he whirled the knife handle around in his palm. The scrap of mustache slipped from his fingers and fell to the tabletop in a sinister curve. He likewise dispatched the right side and, primed, proceeded to the business at hand. He raised the blade to the back of his head, to the point where the neck meets the skull. There he found a small knob of bone. The knife—sharpened to an atom's breadth—felt as it cut like a single ray of light. Marcus drew his ray in a neat circle, caught the knob as it fell, and popped it in his mouth. He chewed, swallowed, then spoke softly. "The mouth goes last." He moved on to his ears. These were the kind that attach to the upper jaw at the lobe. He sliced, twice. Two misshapen crescents appeared in the facing mirror—moons as Dali would have imagined them. They curved slightly toward each other. The wall behind them was scarlet. He returned the knife to the back of his head, starting at the severed knob and slicing upwards. He shaved off strips as one might thinly slice a ham. He curled each strip into a tube or small ball and ate it. After a time, he stopped short of where his ears had been, just behind the jaw. The back half of his head was now gone. He began to work from the top down. His bald, symmetrical head grew flatter as the knife claimed layer after layer. In the black mirror, a new crescent appeared, and grew, lying on its side. Eventually, his eyebrows were gone; the newer moon connected to Dali's twins. This scarlet shape resembled the upper mouth of a snake, complete with two fangs. He paused to wipe his knife. From the side, only a quarter of his original head remained. He scooped out most of the rest, leaving only his face. "The face . . ." he said. He made a steel mustache with his blade, smiled, and drew it quickly along his upper lip. His eyes and nose fell down his throat. These were followed by his chin, lips, tongue, and teeth. Mr. Lee stopped by later that afternoon, carrying a surgical text to loan. He let himself in as was his custom, then wandered about the house calling for Marcus. The German Shepherd sniffed his way through the gilded rooms. Suddenly, his nose snapped to attention, and he dashed round a corner and into the dining room. Mr. Lee followed quick as he could, and found there a most curious sight. A headless figure sat upright, with perfect posture. Its hands rested calmly on the table before it, a knife in one. Two unexplained lengths of mustache also lay on the table. Mr. Lee, diagnosing the scene immediately, noted with doctorly distance, precision, and satisfaction that only six drops of blood had spilled. The textbook, apparently, would not be needed. © Copyright 2005, Palmer Avery COMIC SHORT STORIES: Teen Outraged at Ski Resort’s Incompetence Article provided by
Teen Outraged at Ski Resort’s Incompetence From "SeattleRaptor.com is the West Coast's satirical news source. Not to be confused with mass media infotainment, SeattleRaptor.com provides readers with unique, compelling and often insightful content on a wide variety of topics.” Issaquah teen, Ian Strats, woke up Monday morning at Less than an hour later, Ian arrived at his favorite ski resort. In his tired state, he got geared up and walked toward the lifts. As he trudged his way across the street, he realized there was an extreme lack of snow. He lifted his head and for the first time actually looked at the hillside. Ian was immediately outraged. There wasn’t a single flake of snow on the mountain. About ten minutes later, Officer Johnstone arrived at the resort after receiving a call from dispatch on a case of public disturbance, to see Mr. Strats throwing rocks at the lodge. “Immediately upon arriving I could tell this wasn’t just a normal case of vandalism. Mr. Strats was obviously in a state of outrage,” Officer Johnstone reported. According to the officer’s report, he cautiously approached Mr. Strats and asked what was going on. The teen turned, wide-eyed and angry and began to spout, “This is an outrage! How can a ski resort provide its services if it doesn’t even keep its slopes stocked with snow? A ski resort is supposed to be a reliable place to go boarding and here they are with no snow. I’m going to sue for false advertising!” Officer Johnstone, amazed by the youngster’s stupid inspired frenzy, told us that he was at a loss for words. “I stood there in complete astonishment for a good thirty seconds before I finally informed the kid that it was only August, and that the resort only operates in the winter, therefore he couldn’t sue, and that I in fact was going to have to arrest him for destruction of property. I was surprised at his very casual response. If I recall correctly it was ‘Oh, I guess that makes sense. I was just really looking forward to boarding ‘cause I dreamt about it last night. . . . Mind if I go snag a candy bar from the convenience store before you arrest me?’ Despite me not allowing him to get a candy bar, he remained cooperative and went quietly to the police station with me." In the end, the resort agreed not to press charges under the circumstances that Mr. Strats repaired the minor damages to the lodge. Mr. Strats countered the agreement by asking them to hire him to work during the winter. His application is still pending. © Copyright 2005, SeattleRaptor.comBy Liz Donovan
All You Need at Christmas
By Arthur Carey
By Sue Scherzinger
By Jenna Burdett
By Liz Donovan
“Sally Poorchild was a sad and lonely girl. Her parents were greedy, evil people who preferred to pass their meager earnings to the local pub owner, rather than to put it aside for their bothersome child.”
The Reason Why There Are Red Fuzzies All Over Your Chair Today
By Liz Donovan
By Billy M. Smallwood
By David R. Caudell
By A. Nan Emyss
Remona W. Winston
By Billy M. Smallwood
By Billy M. Smallwood
as I looked out my window, a man I could see;
he was cold and seemed so lonely and upon a bended knee.
He asked, “Can you spare anything for me to eat . . . ?”
I opened up the door and as I helped him in,
he looked up at me with such a peaceful grin.
As he drank down some coffee and had a bite to eat,
I put more wood on the fire so he could warm his feet. . . .
Over there by the fireplace he warmed his tired hands.
I wonder where did he come from, this quiet, white haired man?
But I wasn't at all afraid of his peaceful ways, you see,
this man dressed in poor, almost as poor as me. . . .
As he left, he turned and thanked me for all I had done,
but he forgot to take his gloves, so out the door I run.
He was gone in the blizzard and I couldn't hardly see,
so I took his ole gloves back to the house with me. . . .
Just a little after midnight, I awoke in the dark;
there wasn't a bit of fire, just glowing cinders—a little spark,
and where I'd placed his gloves by my little Christmas tree,
there laid a brand new pair, and a Christmas Card for me.
And it read. . . .
you even tried to bring me my old gloves in the storm,
so here's you a new pair,. . . the finest ever seen . . .
I'll be sure to tell the King. . . .
“Well, now, then, that is, ahem, my ride and I will have to leave you now.” He put the half-finished tub of yogurt beneath his arm and waddled off in her direction. “Much obliged in regards to the yogurt,” he called over his shoulder.
If you enjoyed this article, there's more where it came from—at:
By Andrew Madrid
I drove home from work the other day, got out of my car, and the father was mowing his lawn. He lifted up his hand, and waved to me. “Hello,” he said smiling. Can you believe that? He waved to me!
the latino flash
By Andrew Madrid
This article is in memory of the memory of Martin Luther King Memorial Day, which I missed last month.
So I’ve decided to learn Spanish. Why? I want respect from my new neighbors.
My new neighbors are a fifteen-person family that just recently moved from
I’ve never felt so meaningless in all my life. Things are really looking grim at my place these days. I drove home from work the other day, got out of my car, and the father was mowing his lawn. He lifted up his hand, and waved to me. “Hello,” he said smiling. Can you believe that? He waved to me! And to make matters worse, he cut some of my lawn for me, because it was easier from his driveway. I swear a tiny cartoon cloud formed over my head, and soaked me from head to toe.
After dinner the other night, I heard voices in my backyard and looked out to see the entire family playing soccer together. The ENTIRE family. They were laughing, and smiling, and complimenting each other on their skill and efforts. And then, in one moment of telepathic harmony, they all turned and saw me in the window. All be damned if they didn’t sing me a song, right there on the freshly mowed lawn. Their harmonies were brilliant, their moves graceful, a radiant picture of blissful joy, unfolding before my dewy eyes. “You, are so beautiful . . . to me”, they crooned. Who would have known? Everybody loves Cocker.
That was it. I snapped. My first inclination was to run to the nearest phone book and find a language professor for immediate tutoring. That idea faded, when the first couple of phone calls harvested the phrases in repetition: “Crazy man,” and “Just be yourself, freak.” I then went to the nearest office supply store and asked for “the best Spanish tutorial American dollars can buy.” I found one, and was pleasantly surprised to also receive “free of charge, with a $500 rebate: French, and Webster’s Dead Languages.” Now of course, I’m set whether Jean Lou David, or Nostradamus move in on the other side.
Five weeks later. I open the disc player on my computer, quietly humming a tune from Viva El Amore (which isn’t Spanish at all), and the last tutorial chapter slides into my hand. I move into the bedroom, where an ensemble is waiting on the bed: large black knee-high boots, red conquistador pants, a yellow tie around sash for the waist, and an airy white blouse from my wife’s collection. I take a look into the mirror, carefully open three of the top buttons to show my cleverly applied tan, and stroke a newly grown mustache, and goatee. The day has come, the time is now.
The front door to my house swung open before me and I stepped largely out onto the front lawn. Turning to my right, I strode with purpose and meaning toward my neighbors’ house. My kids, stopped playing when I passed, but I ignored the stares. Keep your head up, very close now, blood surging, heart pounding . . . Can’t stand the wait, going to finally . . . I stopped. The sun had gone away. A shadow was now casting itself over my sweet Latino frame. In my neighbors’ driveway was a gigantic yellow truck. It was parked el reversed, in la car porte. I stopped to take the scene in. Two large amigos moved furniture down a ramp and brought them into la casa. “Es de aqui?” I yelled to the two men. One of them spoke, “What?” I tried again in English, “What is going on here?” “New people moving in,Cambodian family. Nice people.”
You try and do the right thing. You try and break the cultural barriers. You listen to NPR, and you teach your kids about the dangers of racism. But does it all work? Is it all for not? Let me tell you something: once the neighborhood kids start calling you “Captain Morgan,” you can kiss your open minded views goodbye, because you’re about to buy yourself a Nascar tank top and start memorizing pro wrestlers. It’s over, friend.
Adios.
© Copyright 2005, Andrew Madrid
By Luke Thoburn
“One night, as I was lying in bed, Coyote visited and told me the tales of the gods and the worlds they created. He told me about the customs of my people, that it would be important to fake like I smoked so I could get more breaks during the day. . . .”
Last of the Employees
By Luke Thoburn
It is morning. The coyote sang the song of greatest sorrow during the night. I heard him, felt him. I walk quietly through the hallway, stop and smell a rose, because that is what our people do. We see nature, we feel nature and we are nature. Dew covers the mother earth, shielding us from the nightmare to come. Shielding us from ourselves. I am awake. My senses are synchronized with the eagle, the clouds are gathering and I sense apprehension in the air. I worry about the Penske file. It is morning.
I am outside, breathing mother earth in, letting her fill me. The sun, the great orb of ever-giving life, hangs in the sky. I bow my head to its nobility. Someone yells, “Freak!” It is morning and I am on my way to the Promised Land. I have waited two days for this to come, through the coldness of Saturday and the emptiness of Sunday. I am ready, having faced the darkest of times. The sparrow speaks to me, slowly at first and then with growing confidence. She speaks of worlds that I cannot know; of universes beyond the ken of my knowledge. Sparrow is wise and knowledgeable, alive with understanding.
I walk lightly. The white man has taken my land from me. I now walk on his land, in his world. I am a forgotten beast, like the Do-Do, like the Mammoth. Mine is a dying species, a creature that took its time for granted. We lived off the land for many generations, sunrise piled on top of sunrise. My father was the last great leader and, alas, it has fallen to me to continue his legacy. When I feel lost, or uncontrolled, I talk to Salmon and He calms me, telling me about the winds of change and the turning of the tide. He tells me not to worry. The Penske file builds. I am three days behind my deadline. The white man is angered and demands explanations. Salmon says tell him to shove it. I must hold strong; I must be on top of things; I must be in control, for I am the Last of the Employees.
It is a title I assumed with concern. I spent many sleepless nights, consumed by fears. Success, failure, budget recalls, the DABDA reports, how would it all come together? One night, as I was lying in bed, Coyote visited and told me the tales of the gods and the worlds they created. He told me about the customs of my people, that it would be important to fake like I smoked so I could get more breaks during the day. Coyote explained these things to me and I listened, rapt with attention. Coyote introduced me to Salmon one night after we took a walk through the Milky Way galaxy and skipped rocks at the
I ride the subway to work, even though it pains Stag. I don’t like Stag much, he’s a bit of a dickhead. Coyote tells me I can learn much from Stag, but so far he’s just been one giant thorn in my side. The noble sun glints off the water as we pass over it. This is morning; mother earth rouses herself from her slumber on this side of the world. Coyote says the world is a symmetric ball, a yin and a yang. What something is done on this side of the world, it is being undone on the other. I close my fist, knowing that I open it somewhere else. Seagull flits by, on his way to grab Clam and then to drop Clam from hundreds of feet up, so that Clam shatters on the mother earth’s skin and gives Seagull the sustenance Seagull needs. I hunted and killed a Smart Choice microwavable dinner last night. Coyote tells me to watch my weight, if I want to undermine the white man. I do these things because I must. I sleep at night because I must. I wake because I must. I buy my wife an anniversary gift because I must. I am the Last of the Employees.
The subway halts and I am propelled forward slightly. Water laps at the shore, licking hungrily, consuming sand, then pushing it back out in an endless cycle. Binging, purging. I glance down at my briefcase, and, as usual, thank Cow for making its sacrifice. Without Cow, the briefcase would not exist and I could not get the Penske file from the offices of Warner, Jenkins, and Whiteman without trouble. I open the briefcase and look at the Penske file. It sits, benignly and I worry that I won’t finish it on time. Coyote says no worry and for an instant it feels as though He is right next to me. Coyote is everywhere. I quietly thank him. The subway moves again and I see trees about a mile away. The solitude of trees makes me think of Bear. We are recent friends. I was introduced to Bear through Michelle, the secretary Monday through Thursday. On Fridays, she takes a class. Michelle is getting her Bachelor degree. Michelle knows Bear. At least, I think she does. Actually, maybe she doesn’t. How did I meet Bear?
My stop comes and I stand too early at the door for an excruciating period of time, staring at the person on the other side. Neither of us moves; we are caught in the dance of awkward timing and avert our eyes. I pretend to be interested in the stitching on my suit coat. It is morning and we are both tired. When the doors hiss open, we nod at each other and our shoulders brush, making a soft skuff. I see Dog, Coyote’s friend and Dog is tied to a table outside a coffee shop. I walk to Dog and I say, “Hello, Dog,” but Dog is tired in the morning and growls lowly. I press onward, the weight of the Penske file building, straining my arm. I buy a tall drip, inhaling the fumes, feeling the warmth of mother earth’s gift filling me. I leave an eight cent tip, the change from two dollars. Dog glares up at me as I pass, but I don’t try to talk to Him again. Dog’s pissing me off.
My people live off the land and take what we have earned to give back to mother earth. I put my Smart Choice boxes into the recycling bin, never leave the water running when I brush my teeth. I put up rules for my family to follow, including keeping the clippings from the lawn for a compost heap that I take to the country every year. We put our Christmas tree in it at the end of the year.
When I arrive at the office, I am met by Art, a close personal friend of Wolf, protector of worlds. I wave my ID badge at the glass doors that separate the wind from the still and Art nods and Coyote guides his hand to the open door button. I walk through and Art wishes me this greeting: “Good morning, Dan.” A morning is always good when you wake in the arms of sun and Coyote expects your arrival. I answer as I always do: “Art, how we doing?” Art smiles and comes clean with me, with Coyote’s protégé, the keeper of the Penske file. He says: “Just fine, just fine.”
In the hallway, I pass by Jennifer’s desk. She briefly catches my eye and then quickly glances at anything else. Salmon has told me that Jennifer likes me, but Salmon has played games with me before and I’m not going to anything about it right now anyway. The Whiteman has beefed up sexual harassment laws and Coyote has politely reminded me that nearly everything counts as crossing some line. I would like to bring the peace pipe to work and level the playing field, but as usual, the Whiteman has drug regulations that forbid this behavior. Bear once told me this story: Bear walked into a bar being tended by Deer. Bear sat at the bar and said, “Hello, Deer.” Deer nodded and said, “Hello, Bear, what can I get you?” Bear said, “Can I have . . . well . . . a glass of fire water?” Deer looked at Bear and said, “Bear, why such big paws?”
The Penske file burns electric under my arm. I reach my cubicle and sit down on roller-chair. The first thing I do in the morning, as discussed with Eagle, is to turn on my computer. Eagle watches all and tells me this is the protocol with every employee. To stay under the radar, the Last Employee must watch to make sure he does everything according to the Whiteman’s rules. Eagle watches out for changes in protocol and keeps me updated. Dave Smith passes my desk and taps briefly on my computer monitor. He says: “Morning.” I say: “You going for a cup of Joe?” He says: “Yeah. Want some?” Caffeine is Coyote’s gift to the Last Employee and I allow it to fill me, warming me and focusing me on the Penske file. I answer Dave: “You mind?” He says: “Cost you a quarter.” I laugh and then shake my head, smiling. Dave Smith. Funny guy. Must have been talking to Bear lately. Bear’s funny as hell.
Many moons ago the world was as one, unified, together. Coyote conversed with animal, plant, and rock as one. One day, when the world was blanketed in frozen water, there appeared something that no one had ever seen: a building. People came in and out of the building and soon another building appeared next to the first, as if by magic. Moons passed, and soon many buildings appeared. All succeeded and no one was hurt. But Success for all meant Riches for none. And so a meeting was called. It board meeting and was headed by the Whiteman. This was against Coyote’s wishes, but the Whiteman bent to no animal’s will. It was decided by the Whiteman that the world should separate, compete with one another to ensure a system of Have’s and Have Not’s. Again, Coyote advised against this. But one morning, Coyote awoke to a great rumbling in the world and all that was once integrated was now divided. Soon buildings began falling on the divided lands, only to reappear in the Whiteman’s land. Coyote expressed dismay at this, but his place was not to intervene, merely to advise. The Penske file is Coyote’s last hope of re-unifying the world. I am Coyote’s Last Employee, the last hope of the world and I am in charge of the Penske file.
Dave returns with my coffee. I say: “Thanks buddy. Good weekend?” He hands me my coffee and leans against the doorway of my cubicle. He says: “The best. You know that chick I’ve been telling you about? Tracy?” I say: “The one with the belly ring?” He says: “The one and only.” I say: “What about her?” He says: “Well, let’s just say I have a tattoo to add to that description. One that I haven’t seen before this weekend, if you get my drift.” I say: “You’re kidding!” He says: “God as my witness.” I say: “Shit, that outdoes my weekend by about a hundred percent.” He says: “Why, what’d you do?” I say: “Rented that new Tom Cruise movie and went through some old receipts to see if I could write any of them off.” He says: “Ouch. Pretty slow, huh?” I say: “It’s been a slow month, man. Real slow.” He says: “I feel you.”
It is 10:30. Eagle and I took a fake smoke break, just to get outside. The more you smoke, the more breaks you can take. Sparrow conjectures that it’s because you won’t be living as long, so you might as well not spend your short time in a cubicle. I tell Sparrow this is naïve. Sparrow’s been really pissing me off lately. I figure I can place a couple calls to Coyote, and he’ll speak to HR about possibly assigning Sparrow to a different part of the building. But I’m sure the Whiteman will halt that progression. I’ve been staring at the Penske file all morning and my eyes burn with torment. I’d take out my Peace Pipe, but drug regulations forbid it. After my smoke break, Eagle and I part ways and I get another cup of coffee. Eagle doesn’t drink coffee and is always telling me not to also. On the way to coffee, I run into the Whiteman in the hallway. He says: “Hey, there’s the man.” I make finger guns at him and say: “Morning, Mr. Whiteman.” He says: “How’s the ol’ Penske file coming along? You finish the DABDA analysis on it?” I say: “Done and done. Just need to fill out a CBP for the Personal Lines and then we can get it off to Imaging.” He says: “Sounds great. You’ve been doing a hell of a job on this thing, Dan, just wanted you to know.” I say: “Well, thanks, sir. Just doing my part.” He says: “Don’t think this is going unnoticed.” I say: “Well, the success of this project is directly proportional to the amount of coffee I drink, so,” and I emote that I’m going for another cup.” He says: “Great. Meeting at one, okay?” I nod. The Whiteman was in a good mood today. Coyote will want to know about this.
At 11:45, I eat half a sandwich and a Nutri-Grain bar. These have been foraged for me with the help of Salmon, who has been doing research on various diets. Salmon tells me the best way to go about losing weight is to eat many small meals throughout the day. Salmon also tells me hesitantly that fish is good for the body as well. While I eat, I go over the Penske file again. The groundwork for a new world. I envision myself at the top of it, with Coyote and Bear. We are running through tall waves of grass and Wind is softly blowing on our faces. Bear pretends to trip. He’s so funny. I also check out stocks that I don’t own. Eagle has a few picked out for me, but I don’t have enough money to invest right now. Bear suggests I stop buying cigarettes that I don’t smoke for breaks that I don’t need. Bear’s starting to sound like Sparrow.
I use the bathroom after lunch. Jason Schwartz is in there. He’s at the urinal and he likes to talk while we purge ourselves of toxins. I walk to the urinal next to him and prepare to speak, because if he wants to, we must. He works closely with the Whiteman and Coyote has urged me to befriend him. He starts speaking: “You eaten yet?” I say: “Just had a sandwich.” He says: “That all you having?” I say: “I’m not that hungry right now. You eaten?” He says: “About to. Mr. Whiteman’s taking all the mid-level managers out to some place. Some deli.” I say: “We still having that meeting?” He says: “Yeah, at one.” I say: “Great,” and step away from the urinal. I haven’t gone to the bathroom, because I can’t while I talk, but I don’t want Jason to think I didn’t go, so I flush the toilet. Coyote nods his head approvingly. I say: “I’ve done well, Coyote?” and Jason says: “What?” I realize I’ve spoken aloud and say: “The Penske File. You know, it’s going well, dawg, or you know, Coyote.” He says: “Yeah, I was going to ask you about that. Everything’s fine with it?” I say: “Yep. I’ll fill you all in at one.” He says: “Great. See you then.”
© Copyright 2005, Luke Thoburn
By Dan Berthiaume
In this latest from Humdinger regular Dan Berthiaume, enjoy a tipsy lunch with living high co-workers from Chapter Six of Berthiaume’s novel, IPO. You can read other chapters from the novel in past editions of Humdinger Literary E-zine.
Excerpt from IPO
By Dan Berthiaume
6.
December 14, 1999
Doing my best to clear my mind of cute young girls with their shiny teeth and big tits, I have spent the last half-hour drafting an introductory sentence for a reply to Christine’s email. I know from all the promotional literature I’ve written that nothing beats a strong opening. “Dear Christine, a few missing CDs are the least of what has been weighing on my mind for the last seven days.” No, too dramatic, and do I want to begin with “Dear” when she avoided it?
But if I’m falling for a girl who has yet to take her first college final, obviously I need to better connect with a female my own age. There is also Erica, who I haven’t spoken to in a week either, but I think she may be the only “exotic dancer” out there with enough morals to be outraged that I neglected to mention my girlfriend before asking her to dinner. The millennium is turning out to be an unpredictable time.
“Dude, get out of your coma,” calls Vince. I instinctively hold my hand up to catch the soda bottle cap I know will come sailing over the divider between our cubicles. A paperclip hurdles the divider instead, falling behind my monitor. The surprises never stop.
Vince ducks his long mooky head around the side of my cube. “Hey needledick, we’re hitting The Clean Slate for lunch. You in?”
“As long as the lunch involves a little liquid.”
“Fucking harps,” says Vince, shaking his head. “You people will drink to celebrate the sun coming up.”
“Have you been to Ireland?” I ask. “Seeing the sun’s a big deal.”
One Kendall Square is in an orphaned neighborhood of Cambridge, located in a remote northeast corner of the city and surrounded by old warehouses and industrial buildings. It lacks the snobby sophistication of Harvard Square, gritty cool of Central Square, or professional hipness of the actual Kendall Square, which oddly enough is located about a mile down the road. Beyond an artsy-fartsy movie theater and a shopping mall, One Kendall Square, a large concrete plaza filled with rows of buildings containing biotech firms, shops, restaurants and bars, is the area’s biggest asset.
Among the funky little cafes that change their names and menus every four months is The Clean Slate, a pool hall/bar/restaurant that has remained unchanged since 1976. Today, the four of us are the only ones there, so we grab a booth next to the window. A couple of dudes who would fit in at The Buckaroo Lounge are shooting pool.
“Whose idea was it to come to this dump?” asks Jerry. “The Jew gets a free lunch, so you make sure it doesn’t cost more than three dollars? Has anyone noticed that it’s high noon and we’re the only lunch customers?”
“I wanted to go somewhere nearby and I didn’t feel like eating a tofu taco or bean sprout casserole,” says Vince.
“How about a tuna taco?” Steve asks.
Vince glares at Steve, his forehead tightening into creases. “What do you know about tuna tacos?” he finally says. “The last time you tasted one, you were probably studying for final exams.”
Jerry laughs loudly enough to draw stares from the pool players.
Steve smiles weakly, but looks a little pissed off. Maybe it really has been a year and a half for him. Inhaling deeply, he blurts out what he knows is a risky response. “How about a Tina taco? You know all about those.”
Jerry, who is sitting across from me and next to Steve, shouts, “Oh yeah, baby, it’s on now,” and claps Steve on the shoulder hard enough to send a shudder through his skinny body. Tina, who works in the consumer relations division of the marketing department, is a divorced chick in her early 30s with a big mouth and hair to match. Everyone in the office knows that Vince has banged her a few times, though neither has ever admitted it.
Vince, keeping his cool, leans back against the booth’s green vinyl cushion, accidentally creating a fart-like squeak. But the other three of us are too focused on Vince’s upcoming comment, Jerry and I with excitement and Steve with fear. This is probably the first time Jerry has passed up the chance to make a fart joke.
Vince leans forward, causing another small rippling sound from his seat. Jerry is showing heroic restraint in not making a crack. “I’m not saying I ever screwed around with Tina,” says Vince, “but even if I did, it still doesn’t compare to what our pasty-faced friend here did.” Vince firmly wraps his arm around me like I was jailbait on the
Jerry convulses with laughter while Steve high-fives Vince a little too enthusiastically. He is obviously as relieved at not being the target of Vince’s sharp wit as much as he is appreciating it.
I’m unsure how to respond, since I don’t want to be a tightass but I also can’t believe that Vince took such a low shot. These three were all at the club the night I met Erica, all know what happened with me, her and Christine, and all know that after only seven days it isn’t settled yet.
Our waitress interrupts, giving me a moment to compose myself. “If your friend can pull his shit together, I can take your orders.” She is a punker chick, probably about 20, with dyed black hair, heavy black eyeliner and a low-cut sleeveless blouse that reveals tattoos up and down her arms and across her chest.
“I’m fine.” Jerry chokes back the laughter. “Do I get to see a menu first or should I just order a plate of greasy meat?”
“The menu is right there, wiseass.” The waitress jerks her thumb back at a large blackboard set up on an easel next to the bar. A tattoo of Medusa on her forearm comes into view as she points at the menu. Another classics major finds a career.
The menu is straight bar food: cheeseburgers, pizza, hot dogs, fish and chips, chili, and chicken salad for people who don’t know how to order at a greasy dive.
“It looks like greasy meat would still be a safe bet, but I’ll go with a medium cheeseburger,” says Jerry. “And a Sam Adams draft.”
Showing no reaction to Jerry’s sarcasm, the waitress blandly takes the rest of our orders, all variations on what Jerry got, except that I order a pint of Pabst Blue Ribbon instead of the latest fruit-flavored microbrew. Our waitress turns toward the bar with our orders, and Jerry calls out, “Excuse me, miss, what is your name?”
“Veronica,” she says without turning back around. Why do these punk chicks always have names like Veronica and Deirdre, never Susie or Mary Jane?
“Veronica, you have lovely eyes,” says Jerry with surprising sincerity. She continues walking away without any acknowledgement.
“Nice going, dick; hopefully she only spits in your cheeseburger.” Vince reaches over the table to dope slap Jerry.
“What?” protests Jerry. “She has lovely eyes. Probably could be a cutie if she dropped the Marilyn Manson routine.”
“Dude, she’s about four years younger than me,” Steve points out.
“Who gives a shit?” says Jerry. “It doesn’t mean she can’t be hot. Kelly the intern is like, 12, and she’s a piece of ass. Have you seen the way her rack bounces up and down when she walks?”
Steve and Vince immediately nod in agreement and add their own comments on Kelly’s body. I am now paralyzed by fear. Will the wrong comment reveal how I feel, or will saying nothing at all be even more suspicious?
Vince saves the day by misinterpreting my hesitation to speak. “Hey man, I’ve noticed you haven’t really talked since I brought up Christine,” he says in an uncharacteristically serious tone. “That wasn’t cool of me. I know the whole thing is still fresh. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it.” I wave off Jerry and Steve’s apologies for laughing at my pain. I decide to lighten the mood. “Christine emailed me today.” Anxious to redeem themselves, Vince, Jerry and Steve all congratulate me and ask for details.
“It was really just to tell me that she has some of my stuff at her apartment, but at least she didn’t bitch me out.” Christine’s parting words from the week before ring in my ears for the millionth time.
Veronica materializes out of the shadows holding a tray of our beers. She mutely distributes the first three, then pauses before delivering mine. “Interesting choice. Even the jobless wonders playing pool over there usually don’t stoop any lower than Busch Light.”
“You don’t offer Schlitz, so I was kind of stuck,” I reply. I see the flicker of a laugh in her eye. I take it as a major accomplishment.
“Your food will be out in a few minutes,” says Veronica. Before she can recede into Hades, Jerry holds up a finger, motioning her to stay.
“I wasn’t trying to be rude earlier,” he says. “You do have nice eyes.”
“Thanks,” says Veronica. “You have a nice nose, but your ears kind of ruin the effect.” She drifts into the gloom of the bar area behind her and Jerry becomes our new target for verbal abuse. Everyone gets at least one turn as whipping boy during a one-hour lunch.
And today’s lunch stretches well past an hour. At
But life is like gambling, you have to recognize when a good streak has ended. So I reluctantly suggest finishing off our current beers and heading back to the office, to which everyone grumbles in agreement. We pay our bill, Jerry insisting on springing for a generous tip, though he won’t shut up about how Vince and Steve have to pay his share of the bill because I can’t get my lazy ass out of bed in the morning. Veronica denies Jerry’s request for a goodbye smooch, but agrees to always wait on his table in the future. “Can you imagine what a freaky-ass chick like that does in the sack?” he yells after we walk out the door, but are not nearly far enough away to feel comfortable.
We agree to slightly stagger (no pun intended) our returns to our cubicles to make it less obvious that we have all been absent for the last two hours. Classic buzzed logic. It hardly matters, as the office is too engrossed in our stock price, now up to 82 dollars a share, to notice or care about our absence or tipsy behavior.
I check my email inbox, which appears to be full of more corporate bullshit, then notice a new message from clogan@topmail.com. The alcohol-induced warm glow inside my body quickly subsides to an icy dullness. What could this be? The nightmarish events of last Tuesday evening race through my mind as I hesitate in opening the message.
© Copyright 2005, Dan Berthiaume
FANTASY FICTION:
When Blood Freezes
By: Mitch Wyatt
“Vermillion tensed, his body coiling in readiness, but the dark haired leader grabbed his compatriot’s axe and lodged it in the side of the cabin, splitting the wood with a loud crack.
“Forgive my companion’s hastiness,” the man said, the snide cheer in his voice practically visible as slimy ooze. “But I appreciate his sentiment, in any case. Let’s cut the crap. Give us the Shaping Glass and the Blue Ice. None of us are eager to die here. But if you don’t hand it over, I promise—we will kill for it. . . .”
When Blood Freezes
By: Mitch Wyatt
Tal the Cold was sitting at his table in the small cottage he had recently purchased when three men came in the back door, probably to kill him. His title was mostly a joke, courtesy of his charming older brother who knew he had little talent with the Shaping. When he had last seen his older brother, Razius, Tal could only make small puddles of water a little colder. His brother thought that was endlessly amusing. It’s not like his brother, the almighty King of Elwin, was good at it either. No one was. Tal hadn’t given anyone that chance.
Anyway, Tal was now a Shaper, this time without any doubts attached. He was also an outcast Elwin prince with a large price on his head. Mostly due to the two small items he was currently holding in his lap, covered with a small blue cloth. The Shaping Glass and the Blue Ice. These were mementos Tal had liberated from his brother’s possession about a year ago. Which was another way of saying he had grabbed them and then ran like hell.
That is why he didn’t move an inch from his position behind the dinner table when the three men burst in the door at the other side of the small cottage. His blood-brother however, immediately stood up and turned to face the newcomers. He crossed his arms so they went deep into the folds of his cloak. Vermillion wasn’t really Tal’s brother by relation, but rather his bodyguard from back when Tal was a prince. It was just easier to pass off as brothers. Plus, they had gone through so much together in the past year that their bond of brotherhood felt stronger than any blood ever could be anyway. This was good, since Tal’s actual familial brother was something of an ass.
Vermillion held himself with a grace that belied his larger build. He had platinum blonde hair, cut short in the military style of the Elwin Guard. He wore a deep crimson-colored cloak around his broad shoulders, clasped with the gold hawk of the Guard. He was currently balanced lightly on his toes, knees bent and center of gravity low, with the balls of his feet raised slightly off the ground. His eyes darted from one of the three figures to the next, as if reading some hidden significance from no more than how they carried themselves.
He glanced backwards at Tal, as if seeing what he wanted to do. Tal held up a hand, which meant for him to wait at the ready for now. Vermillion nodded and turned his attention back to the mercenaries at the door.
Even as he held up his hand to suggest that his blood brother relax, Tal himself looked up toward his guests in good-natured surprise. But he also began doing something with the small glass orb under the table. He uncovered it and began working with the clay inside. He decided to let his mouth do the distracting, keeping his adversaries off balance even from the beginning.
But before he could, a voice emanated from the group.
“The tall one in the gray cloak with the scraggly beard,” the voice said before Tal could even clearly register faces.
“The one that looks like a fox died on his face. He’s most likely to have the items. But he could’ve hidden them. If it comes to it, eliminate the bodyguard, but keep that one alive. But don’t move until I tell you.”
Tal sniffed, stroking his small red goatee. Facial hair; one of the very few benefits of being a fugitive. A prince was supposed to be clean-shaven. Tal regarded his reflection in the finely polished wooden table. A dead fox? That was hardly fair. His little beard tried so hard. He took note of the leader’s cockiness though, and formed a plan.
This time, Tal thought, a nice lecture would do the job well. That leader was clearly sure of himself, and nothing put a cocky mercenary off his game more than a nice, demeaning lecture. They tended to take it personally when strangers, especially strangers their supposed to kill, think they know more than them. They get angry.
Angry mercenaries make mistakes.
“There are two types of thinking.” Tal began, even before the three dangerous looking men had moved three steps in the front door.
The one in the lead was tall and willowy with wild dark hair. He also seemed to have a permanent sarcastic grin on his face, in the shape of a ground watermelon rind. Tal guessed that the voice he had just heard was his. The one behind him on the right was bald and stupid looking, with a scar on his face and a large axe on his shoulder. The third, behind the leader on the left, was covered by a deep cowl and a dark cloak so that Tal could see little of his face.
All three had stopped just inside the doorway when Tal’s blood-brother stood up. The dark haired man in the lead raised one eyebrow when Tal began talking.
“You see, each type of thinking is good for something different. Each is essential in its own way,” Tal continued. The brute on the right with the axe hefted it, as if to make a move, but the lead mercenary put a hand on his shoulder to tell him to wait.
“Fascinating. Really,” the grinning leader said. He had a crossbow on his back and a small scabbard on his hip. His voice was snide, arrogant.
“But you know what would be a lot more entertaining?”
Tal cut him off and kept talking as if he hadn’t heard him. All the while his hands were moving invisibly beneath the table.
“The first type of thinking is long thinking. Planning. The type that Shapers and scholars and scientists have. It is also the skill of priests and tacticians. It is the kind that involves intricate and deep thinking but takes time to do.” Tal smiled as he said this, thinking about the irony of him saying that deep thinking takes time while all the while carefully thinking over the situation and taking the time he needed to Shape with the Glass he held under the table. He had to represent every important aspect of the room with the clay inside the Glass, then use the Blue Ice to affect the water in the room. It was times like these that Tal really wished he had more than just one of the five Shaping relics. With only Blue Ice, his options were limited.
The brute with the axe was practically frothing with vile now.
“Yeah?” he said, with real anger in his voice. “I got your tactics right here!” He took a step forward and raised his axe. He also pronounced the word “tactics” as if there were a great deal of taffy in his mouth. He obviously wasn’t familiar with the joys of multiple syllables. Tal would point out as much, but he already had a good thing going.
Vermillion tensed, his body coiling in readiness, but the dark haired leader grabbed his compatriot’s axe and lodged it in the side of the cabin, splitting the wood with a loud crack.
“Forgive my companion’s hastiness,” the man said, the snide cheer in his voice practically visible as slimy ooze. “But I appreciate his sentiment, in any case. Let’s cut the crap. Give us the Shaping Glass and the Blue Ice. None of us are eager to die here. But if you don’t hand it over, I promise—we will kill for it.”
Tal nodded. This leader had patience, but not a lot. He stopped his companion from starting a fight before it was clearly necessary, but in such a way that prevented him from helping should one break out. From the way he was acting, Tal surmised that the man thought he could easily win such a fight, but was worried about possible injury to himself if it happened.
He wasn’t an idiot, but he wasn’t smart either. He was trying to intimidate first.
Tal smiled inwardly. It wouldn’t work. And it also indicated that this guy’s information on who he was fighting was bad. If he knew that Tal had the Glass, but was willing to talk instead of just using force right away, then he clearly didn’t think Tal could actually use it. This indicated that he didn’t work for the Guard in any way.
His band was just petty bounty hunters. That meant that if Tal and his brother eliminated them, no more would come. So Tal could take the little extra time he needed to finish with the Glass. But they were still outnumbered here. Tal had to make his opponents make a mistake. It’d be bonus if he could cause dissension in the enemy ranks, of course.
This is what Tal was thinking, while meanwhile his mouth was moving, laying on even more condescension and completely ignoring everything the man had just said. The man’s patience was thin. Tal would break it.
“The other type of thinking is the quick wit. It is the trademark of warriors. It involves the ability to quickly read a situation based on small details, and then come up with a course of action. If the long wit is the talent of minutes and hours, the quick wit is of seconds and parts of seconds.”
Tal could see that the dark haired archer was losing his patience. There was a crack in his invincible grin—Tal could see teeth in there. That curved smile was starting to flatten out into an angry scowl.
“Speaking of which—," Tal continued, “Brother, what do you think?”
His brother put on a thin smile as he glanced back at Tal.
“Took you long enough to ask. Two are idiots, but the one in the cowl is trained.”
Tal waited.
“So?”
“All three, but with minor injuries.”
Tal made a scoffing noise. “Losing your nerve, eh?”
He grunted. “There’s a difference between arrogance and confidence,” he said, sounding mildly annoyed.
“Ok fine. One moment,” Tal said
He nodded, but looked disappointed.
Tal knew his blood-brother really wanted to fight by himself this time. But they couldn’t take chances. Not if injury was involved. They would have to move out of town quickly after this. Word would travel. More would come.
Tal was almost done. Just a few more seconds. He had copied the three mercenaries in his mind perfectly, and was just now in the process of representing each of them with clay inside the little glass globe on his lap. He could do it by feel alone. He had already done the same for each piece of furniture in the room, as well as himself and his bodyguard.
A dark laughing filled the interior. It seemed to originate from the back. Tal glanced back there sharply. It was the cowled man.
The cloaked mercenary took a confident step forward. The dark archer glared at him, but was ignored.
“You think you can get out of this with only minor injuries?” the cowled man asked, his sharp voice incredulous. He directed the comment at Vermillion, who was still tense and watching his movements warily.
Vermillion, the former Guard, shrugged. It was a strange looking gesture on someone who was by no means relaxed.
“Actually I’m not going to get hurt at all.”
The cowled man’s chuckle changed into a wicked cackle. It was not a comforting sound.
“Three armed men against only you, with no injuries. You are delusional. Who do you think you are?”
The Guard said nothing.
The cowled man gave a short laugh, like a bark.
“You have your arms crossed, as if to conceal which side your weapon is on. But I can see the bulge in your cloak on the left. This means you are right handed, and probably use a thin sword, like a rapier. Stop acting big. You could really die here. What are you protecting him for? Stand aside. Let that cocksure jackass be beaten down.”
The Guard reached into his cloak and pulled out a necklace. He then crossed his arms once more. The necklace hung on top of the cloak now.
“When I was in the Elwin Guard, they called me Vermillion. And although Tal is a bit of a cocksure jackass. . . .”
“Untrue,” Tal called from where he sat, working quickly at the Glass.
Vermillion smirked but continued.
“I can’t stand aside. I took an oath. He won’t die, not while I live. But you’re right; normally I know that one on three with no injuries is impossible. “
“Then how will you do it?” the man asked, a sneer in his voice. His right arm was tucked around something on his hip now, probably a sword.
Vermillion sighed.
“I’m going to cheat,” he said lightly. His eyes flickered to the right though, in Tal’s direction.
Tal looked down. He was done.
“Do it,” Tal said.
Then Vermillion pulled his left arm out of his cloak and pushed in a wood slat on the wall next to his head.
The cowled man tensed as if to leap forward, the brute on the right finally got his axe out of the wall, and the dark haired leader immediately loosened the crossbow that was on his back.
Right then the knife that was behind the slat that Vermillion pushed cut the rope that held the coated slats over the intruders’ head. The slats slapped open and a large amount of water splashed down onto the intruders’ heads.
They fell to their knees from the weight, but the cowled man got up quickly and began to dart forward.
The dark haired leader was laughing.
“Water? That’s your advantage? Water?”
Vermillion moved to block the cowled man. It was a genuine smile, but with little warmth.
“Not just water,” he said.
Tal immediately poured a little water from the Blue Ice jar into the Shaping Glass and then closed the top on the Glass. He visualized the Glass and the room as two pieces of a circle, coming together and clicking into place, just as the top on the Glass clicked into place. The water sparkled as it covered the clay figures, and that glow spread to the Glass itself. The connection was complete now. What happened inside the Glass would happen inside this room.
He placed both hands over the top and concentrated, looking down at the clay shapes that were himself, Vermillion, and the three mercenaries. He imagined all the heat in the water that was on those clay shapes coming out, sieving out of the water, through the glass, and into his hand. His hands burned with the leeched heat, and the water on the clay figures immediately began to freeze.
He worked harder; he needed to get more out, all of it out. He heard shouts of surprise and then gurgling screams coming from the back of the room, but he ignored them. Not looking up when people were screaming and swing swords were terrifying. If Vermillion slipped even once. . . .
No. He trusted him with his life. And hadn’t Tal made Vermillion wear those strange shoes with the spikes on the bottom so he wouldn’t slip on the ice?
And besides, Tal had a job to do. He focused on the water, and the heat pulsing out of it, the water changing into ice as the heat left it.
After a few seconds, the clay figures were all frozen in a solid cube of ice. He let out a breath and looked up.
The brute with the axe was on the ground, with a dagger lodged in his throat. There was frost all over his body. In fact, all three of the intruders were covered in a thick, movement-impairing frost.
The dark haired leader was slipping crazily on the ice trying to back up, but he was clearly off balance. Vermillion tossed his chair at dark hair while at the same time drawing his rapier in anticipation of the cowled man who was now looking for an opening.
Dark hair gave a yell and fell backwards as the chair hit him and he was unable to remain on his feet on the icy floor. His head hit the front door knob hard with a sharp crack and he slumped to the ground, his crossbow and dagger clattering out of reach.
For a moment, Vermillion and the cowled stranger stood facing each other, each tensing to try and anticipate the other’s move.
Finally, Vermillion snaked forward onto the ice, his special boots digging into the frost to allow him traction. He performed a quick, low feint, but instead stepped lightly and then began to leap forward in a real, high thrust.
The cowled man slid backward and tried to draw his broadsword, clearly in parry of the low thrust. But there was a thick layer of ice around the handle and the metal scabbard and the blade wouldn’t draw. The man’s eyes widened in surprise and he instead tried swiveling backwards to hit Vermillion with the scabbard.
He slipped on the ice however, and ended up with a rapier between the shoulder blades. He screamed and fell over, blood seeping out of his back onto the icy floor.
Vermillion walked over carefully to the man where he lay dying on the ground. His cowl had fallen back now. He was an older man with short, graying hair. His blue eyes looked like they were normally fierce, but now they were wide and frightened. Vermillion kicked away his broadsword and checked for concealed weapons. Satisfied, he then went over the other two fallen mercenaries. The brute had stopped gurgling now, and his tongue lolled out of his mouth, his eyes open wide in death.
“You’re ambidextrous,” the dying man whispered. “And the prince, he can use the Glass.”
Tal frowned. How had he known that?
Ah. His blood brother must have thrown the dagger with his left hand and drawn the rapier with the right.
Vermillion didn’t say anything, but went to check the dark haired one he had hit with a chair.
His neck was bent at an awkward angle. That peculiar smile was gone now. Vermillion checked him anyway. He spoke as he did so, aiming the words at the dying man behind him.
“Your guard is too low. I noticed when we were squaring off earlier and I tensed in front of you. But you fought well.”
Vermillion stood up from the place where dark hair had fell and walked over to kneel beside the dying man.
Tal got there first though.
“Just so you know,” Tal began conversationally, “we are each pretty good at both types of thought. But obviously much better at one. With my plans and my brother’s quick mind and sword, we wouldn’t lose to a thousand of you.”
Vermillion looked at Tal sharply, the message to shut up pretty clear. Tal clapped his mouth closed. He was right. Gloating had its uses and charm, but now wasn’t the time. This man was dying.
“Vermillion” the man whispered, choking on blood and staring at Vermillion’s red cloak, “it means the color of blood, doesn’t it?”
Vermillion shook his head. “It is a bright orange.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Know your opponent’s assumptions,” Vermillion said. “And then do the opposite.”
The man laughed lightly at that. It was an ugly sound as it rattled out of his broken rib cage.
“You got that name in the Guard. It was given you as a joke, wasn’t it?” The corners of his upturned mouth trickled blood.
Vermillion nodded. “I wasn’t popular in the Guard. They thought bright orange was a weak, feminine color.”
The man’s breath seized then, and his body curved upward painfully. His body dropped back down and he began gasping for air.
Vermillion put his hand on the dying man’s chest and traced a symbol there in the frost and blood. It looked like two intersecting triangles. He asked for the dying man’s name.
“Gad,” The man whispered, in between his choking.
Vermillion nodded and then said something softly in a tongue even Tal didn’t recognize.
The man’s eyes were wide with fear now.
“What does that mean?” he asked, choking.
“It means that in the next life you will give your sword to something besides money. And we will fight together. As brothers,” Vermillion said. His voice got quieter with each sentence so that by the end he was whispering.
With what energy he had left, the man grinned. “I look forward to it,” he said. Then his eyes focused on something that no living man could ever see. His body shuddered, and he died.
Blood lapped from his back onto the glaze of ice on the floor. It had collected there for a little while now, forming a small, cold pool. Some of the ice around the area had melted a little, since it was summer outside the cottage. Due to this, a small portion of melting ice and frost mixed in with the blood. It made it look like the man had bled frost as well as blood.
Something sprung into Tal’s mind from the image, and for once without thinking he just let it come out. He spoke softly, saying the words like a prayer.
“When all the blood to ice has turned—
And passion’s tinder has flared and burned,
You’ll see life’s fire, frost with snow;
As each tie and bond you lose—
Only then may you ever know;
A brother’s a man you chose.
They were both silent for a minute or two, their way of respecting the dead. Then it was over and both relaxed a little.
Without saying anything, they knew when they had done enough.
But now Tal and Vermillion looked at each other in confusion.
“What did that mean?” Vermillion asked.
Tal shook his head. “The poem? I don’t know. It’s just, well—I saw the rune you drew on that man’s chest. It means ‘brotherhood’. And when I thought about it, somehow that poem just popped into my head.” He paused.
Vermillion stared at him, waiting. That hadn’t really answered his question. Tal thought a moment more. Then he spoke.
“I guess it means that family is something that you begin with, but in the end it’s something you chose, too.”
Vermillion nodded, and then frowned. “I feel like I’ve heard it before.”
“No you haven’t,” Tal said, firmly. “I just made it up.”
Vermillion scratched his chin. “Even so. . . .”
There was a bit of an awkward silence. Some arguments just weren’t worth it.
“So what about you?” Tal asked, breaking the spell. “Where did that whole speech come from? About brothers and the next life, and that rune you drew on that guy’s chest?”
“It’