Flashing red lights through the Christmas neighborhood. Frosted yard trees and bright white beams surround a familiar holiday tableau. Families gathered, heads bowed, hold hands in prayer. Wise men arrive and kneel down, offering gifts and rare essences. From away down the street onlookers speak in wonder at the time and meaning, as a silent infant, innocent child of God, is arisen on white linen from the scene’s heat and streaming fluids. The driver, dazed and bloodied but miraculously unhurt, testifies to what he has seen, and heard, and done. No peace at this place, and night, on earth.
|
Goosey Gander’s feathers ruffled. He was spitting mad upon learning that Little Red Rooster had moved in on his territory with the aim of becoming the foremost fowl in Mother Goose Land. Hissing and honking, Goosey called for his trusted advisor and Consigliere, the Clever Hen, the only bird who could calm the maniacal goose. She clucked soothing words of comfort, and the Gander relaxed, reaching a state of centered serenity.
She nodded, and an arrow came whistling through the air and into Goosey’s neck. Savory goose pie was set before the King, and there was peace in the barnyard. Master told me I was searching in all the wrong places, and that the one place that I’d find the peace that wouldn’t waver, the peace that surpasses all understanding, was in the kingdom of heaven within me. So inwards I went. I discovered an entire universe. Following its signposts, I traversed difficult mountains of greed and pride, dense jungles of hate and anger, sordid wastelands of sloth, and seas heaving with sensuality. I finally arrived, spent, on verdant grounds where dulcet music played in the bracing, fragrant air. I inhaled deep and suddenly realised I was ripe for flying.
It was a sunny soporific day but she felt no joy walking into the off-license.
"A bottle of vodka please." "You should try not to drink so much," advised the shop owner in a concerned voice. She made her way down the broken street with buildings like shattered teeth and sat on her favourite bench. She took a long swig from the bottle, hating the taste yet numbing the pain. Memories reached her solemn eyes and tears dripped onto[ the grass as an indifferent butterfly flickered by. Peace had come but at a terrible cost. She crept closer. Had she heard the sniffle of tears? Leaning forward, she reached for the tangle of forest underbrush.
The animal was there, on its side — a lion. It was impossible to understand. A lion. Here, and crying. The large, maned head turned towards her. She froze. Of course it could talk. “Child, I speak with goodwill. I have simply lost my way, and I see no path forward through this thick wood.” She placed her hand on the lion’s back. “I have years ahead of me,” she said. Then she looked at the sky. “We will guide you.” Nine-year-old Bernie “big head” takes in Miss Alma’s seventh cat, both the runts of the litter. He walks her on a leash to the taunts of the other kids on their way to school (maybe next year for Bernie).
Neighbor Mrs. Washington, as dark as the morning coffee she is drinking, observes the chastising through her kitchen window. One morning, after Bernie has moved on, she shames the children. “Empathy for those less fortunate than you is the greatest form of goodwill. This is the perfect time of the year for you to find ways to practice this.” It happens every Christmas Eve. Strangers gather in the park across my window, each holding a white candle. I’d watched for years, never joining. Tonight, I stood among them, the flames casting soft shadows. A woman beside me met my eyes, her faint smile heavy with a sorrow I recognized. The silence pressed close, but the warmth of the candles and the crowd’s quiet understanding reached me. My breath hitched, then eased, as if my weight was finally shared. In their presence, grief softened, and for the first time, I felt something close to peace.
‘Peace for our time.’ Mr Chamberlain’s words echo through her mind.
Hollow words. Worthless. She glances around the silent, empty table. Not the one where once she, Tom and their four children had gathered each day. That is now splinters. And her family? She can’t bear to remember. If she hadn’t been in the kitchen fetching gravy, she’d have been with them. But her name hadn’t been on that German bomb. Instead, it had blown her into a living death. Enough. She swallows down the last of the pills and gulps the wine. Soon, she’ll be with her beloved family. Four writers knelt before the High Editor in Edinburgh Castle’s Great Hall.
“Mighty Editor,” they intoned. “We’ve travelled thousands of miles from Canada to beg forgiveness for our sins. We forgot our commas. We are not worthy.” “True,” said the High Editor. “Please forgive us. We have brought a peace offering.” Before them, trussed-up, lay a terrified giant haggis, its two left legs shorter than its right ones. “Fools!” announced the Editor. “Here in Scotland, we drive on the left. A Scottish haggis needs short right legs.” “Oh, no, High Editor, sorry…” “Guards, take these writers away and delete them!” Despite the festive music and sweet aroma of fresh-baked cookies, Ian was filled with gloom. All the holiday stuff is nice, he thought, but it can’t erase the awful problems plaguing the world.
Seeking a moment’s peace, Ian closed his eyes. He remembered waking up one Christmas morning long ago and spotting his gleaming, new red bike beside the tree. He remembered the unbridled joy he felt as he raced it down his street that morning. Now Ian often thinks of that bike. Not to erase anything but to remember joy is a gift that cannot be taken away. For winter holidays, Mark and Hyacinth were visiting their Great-Aunt Esmerelda, who - to their horror - not only didn’t own a TV, but also lived in a remote area, lacking reception, so their own devices were practically useless.
“We’re bored,” they said. “Let’s show goodwill!” suggested Esmerelda. “We’ll go to the store, and each pick out ten cans of food for the community pantry.” They had fun choosing. Hyacinth got corn, peas, and beans. Mark favored peaches and pineapple. They dropped off the cans. “Now it feels like the holidays!” said Mark. “Let’s do it again tomorrow!” said Hyacinth. Mum always told her to wait.
Toweling Emma’s hair as the girl sat in the pewter tub brimming with fragrant water drawn from their stream, Mum sang her the special songs. The mysterious herbs for the bath came from the garden of an ancient cottage in the heart of the forest, where her family had resided in peace since times immemorial. A black cat and a raven watched over Emma, but today they let her slip out of the door. The night enveloped her naked body in a starry robe, and Emma soared into the dark sky. "Shush."
It was always left to Mama to keep the peace. I stuck my tongue out at Parker. He crossed his eyes at me, kicking under the table, but he was too far to get me. "Ow!" cried Cousin Betty. "Pass the potatoes, please," Uncle Bill called. Parker danced them across the table with his hands until Papa gave him a glare. Aunt Jess wiggled in her seat and made a squishy sound. We glared at each other, wide-eyed. In seconds, we'd forgotten what we'd been fighting about and started giggling. Mama smiled approvingly. “Do you like movies?” Sharyn asked.
“Yes, I do.” “What’s your favorite film?” “What a question. Where to start. There’s ‘Lawrence of Arabia’ and ‘Doctor Zhivago’ (mostly for the music), ‘It’s a Wonderful Life,’ ‘Casablanca,’ ‘Wizard of Oz’ . . .” “Anything more recent?” Sharyn cut in. “I guess I don’t go to movies much anymore,” I answered. “I remember that I enjoyed ‘Goodwill Hunting.’” “That was over twenty-five years ago! And besides, it’s spelled ‘Good Will Hunting.’ Don’t you remember? The main character’s name is Will Hunting.” “Wait a second,” I asked. “How could you tell I misspelled it?” ‘Twas the knight bee four Christmas and Gym marbled at the site of the deck rations skatted aground the rheum. Their worse tars tinkling threw the widows, and missile tow hankering drown frump the sealing. Wear the rollicking care usual leas at, was a niece-lee shipped fur treat covert wit tensile and fleshing, collared blights witch through shad hoes on the smelling feces of the utter gusts. Heed never scene sew much feud inn hiss life! Turnkey and awl the trampings. Fur desert Gym eight a peace of peek an pi.
Buy the weigh, they owl add a grate thyme! “Alrighty,” said Eudora. “This year, I’m going to find peace if it kills me!”
She phoned her son. “Yes, you can have my engagement ring and propose to Sasha.” “Thanks, mom!” said her son. “I thought you might dislike her because of her striped-orange-purple-green hair!” “Peace isn’t compatible with disliking,” she laughed. “Seriously, you love her. So will I!” Next, she phoned her sister Laney, and said “I forgive you.” “What?!” Laney shrieked. “Oh, you think you’re soooo perfect. You make me sick!” “I forgive you, anyway,” Eudora said, and hung up. Then, laughing, she said, “Happy holidays to me!” The boss, Junior and Leon were working out the new deals.
“What do I get from China?” “We’re charging 10%. Your piece is a fifth. 2%. “Mexico? She’s already getting on my nerves. 25% on everything. I want 5 of 25.” “You got it.” “Canada. Same. 5 of 25.” “Your piece, boss.” “What is Epshetyn doing charging for access to me? My piece, not his.” “We’ll talk. He’ll listen.” “He’d better. What about the shareholders?” “We’re sending them a big gold Christmas card: ‘Merry Christmas... yak yak yak.’” “Will it sell?” “Sure. It’s all they care about. ‘Peace on earth.’” I stumbled into the Goodwill, hoping to rescue my relationship with my daughter by finding something that might divert attention from my absence in her life. We hadn’t spoken or seen each other in over a year. A black lambswool coat I found reminded me of the little girl who loved dressing up.
On Christmas morning she cast a wary eye, opening the bag. Her eyes welled as she slipped into the coat. She ran into my arms. “I can’t believe you knew what I really wanted!” “More than you will ever know,” I whispered into her soft curls. At grandma's at Christmas when I was four and my rich cousin David was six, it seemed he had an "in" with Santa--almost every present under the tree was his. All I got was a cheap cap pistol with an orange plastic handle. David walked up to me, stared at my pistol, then at his own Roy Roger's Six Guns with the real leather holster, and he laughed. He laughed! So I raised my pistol--which I have to this day--pointed it straight between his eyes, in the spirit of goodwill--and ended him.
By now, you should be aware that this year there's an additional challenge: every submission must include either the word "peace" or the word "goodwill" BUT NOT BOTH. You can enter twice, but one of your submissions must contain "peace"; the other "goodwill". Other than that, the competition is as normal.
Hopefully, these requirements are clear, but just in case, I've posted below two brand-new stories of my own which would be fine. I'm afraid I can't win the prize. Editor Exiting the pub, Derek ignored a homeless man begging outside on the pavement. Friday carry-out curry night, then sex. Whether or not his girlfriend wanted.
The beggar called after him, “Any spare change? For goodwill?” Turning back, Derek kicked the homeless man three times, hard. “Goodwill gifts,” Derek chuckled. But turning away, he tripped, landed awkwardly and fractured his ankle. Derek called for help, but the street was empty, not even the beggar. Finally, the publican himself came outside to help. “Sounds like you saw Johnny Goodwillie’s ghost. Died of hypothermia 50 years ago. One pint too many, perhaps, Derek?” Over the course of history, Religious Leaders appeared in various corners of the Earth, each claiming the True Faith.
Thousands of years ago in the Middle East, one Religious Leader appeared promising peace on Earth. “That’s great!” said His followers. Behind them, a dark, sinister stranger chuckled. “Peace? I don’t think you’ve quite got the idea. These Religious Leaders will keep you at war with each other until eventually I can take full control.” Fearful, they asked, “When will that be?” “Oh… 2024, or perhaps early 2025, probably. And by the way, I have special plans for you people here.” Editor's Choice The old man often travels back to the very first time decades ago he saw her naked standing beside his bed. She is taking her time looking at him, and he sees her—open, unembarrassed, lovely. He does not think these frequent trips are disloyal to his wife now of 40 years. He still has his bearings. He does now see his wife, loves her, and has accepted their current aged lives and failing bodies. This same woman he goes to again and again to see then, he thankfully returns to again and again to be with now.
How can this not touch your heart? May it end soon – Editor In my dream, the war was just a distant thunder. All four of us, a family, gathered in our living room to open presents and celebrate your thirty-ninth birthday. So big, so joyful was your smile when you said, like many times on the phone, that you wished for nothing but to be home with us.
I opened my eyes and stroked your pillow, with one short, fair hair still clinging to it. The air alert sirens wailed as if somebody was going to steal my country, but took you instead. “Happy birthday,” I whispered to my forever young husband. |
