Rudolf hated Christmas. The other reindeer mocked his deformity, marginalized him socially—particularly that time of year. They enjoyed excluding him from their games and also from that worldwide trek--pulling presents and spreading cheer. How did the other reindeer really feel that foggy Christmas eve when Santa entreated Rudolf to guide the sleigh? He knew they only feigned happiness about his new found place in history. Ha! Though there’d been many previous foggy Christmas eves he’d not been called upon. The legend rang hollow. And what of next year? Would Santa include him if it were a midnight clear?
As Company Meditor, I fix things that go wrong on our Interstellar Outposts.
News came from Compos III. One of our drilling machines had accidentally killed an alien native and they threatened to shut down our operations. I took an FTL shuttle to Compos III and learned the natives were out for blood. "I'll handle this," I said and rushed out to meet with the aliens. They tossed me into a cage with what looks like a T-Rex with two heads and a hundred teeth. I don't think I'll be able to mediate myself out of this . . . ! They were alternates and as such, surplus.
The others would torment and tease from morning to night - letting them know that they would never be A-Team material. It just became too much. Rudolph - a jovial ‘deer by nature, snapped. The night before the flight, Santa inspected his trusty reindeer. To his surprise he found them laid-up with the most horrendous case of “stomach flu”. He turned to Rudolph, who stood at the front of the forgotten ‘deer. “Boy, you’re up!” Santa instructed. Rudolph tilted his head and replied, “Boy, are you wrong” his nose shining an angry red. Despite cold and snow, Dad propped open the door to carry in packages. Suddenly a stellar jay from a nearby feeder flew through the entrance. Carmel barked wildly and leaped everywhere. Mom ran to catch the pup, but Carmel out-maneuvered her with quick, sharp turns. Bedlam reigned and we children shrieked with laughter.
The jay perched on the Christmas tree-- Carmel jumped against it and it went down with a crash. The madness stopped when my brother trapped the bird with a kitchen sieve and released it outside. The whole family sorted the mess and enjoyed the best Christmas. I am currently unmarried, but have already had more than my share of wives--10 of them, in fact.
Unfortunate though it has been--I've always ended up with a spouse with whom I was totally incompatible--I still have hopes of finding a lifelong soul mate. Euphemistically speaking, I sent my first 10 brides on a long trip from which they can never return. If you are in the same situation, you'll understand what I have done. It's obvious, of course, that for my own peace of mind I had no choice but to do what I did. They had been married for 50 years and had slept together in the same double bed all that time.
Then the County planned a road which would run exactly through their land--and house. As happened, the road crew split their home in half, moving the two halves several hundred yards apart to accommodate the roadway. Their bedroom was halved; they were forced to get twin beds--and to sleep apart. At first this caused them great anguish; then, after a year or so, they began to enjoy an exhilarating freedom which came from sleeping apart in separate beds. Plutonians view Christmas differently from Earthlings. Whereas we seek joy through the spirit of giving, Plutonians understand the need for sacrifice, desolation and loss in parting with precious things.
On Christmas Eve, Plutonians place favourite possessions under the Christmas tree, and a curious Reverse Santa sweeps down every chimney, hoovering up all the toys. Thus Plutonians learn the value of stoicism, important at the edge of the Solar System. Next day, all Plutonians meet at the village hall to sort out and recover the gifts where they've all been dumped together in a heap. This is a great social event. “Nick old boy, so good to hear from you. It’s the 23rd! I can only assume you’re not calling to chew the fat.”
“Quite, George. We’ve got ourselves into a bit of a pickle here at HQ. Guidance.” “The RUDY1 giving you trouble?” “Fits and starts, George. The boy has a case of Lyme Disease. Grounded.” “One bad tick aye, Nick?” “Quite. From one re-instated saint to another, any miracles for me?” “Consider it done, I’ve two Scottish Red Spotted Intercontinental Dragons, ‘Brad’ and ‘Angie’.” “Ho, Ho – George, you slay me.” [PAUSE] Couldn’t help myself, folks, it just snuck out…….. As Mr. Henry pulled up to Jim and Della’s on Christmas Eve he noticed two things. New digs for Chum! Jim can keep his prize hunting dog. He must be thrilled. Then he saw a set of four new tires for Della’s Mustang. Curious. Kennel but no dog. Tires and no car. He stepped into the cozy front room where Della sat in Jim’s lap. They both smiled happily. Her long auburn hair was spread over Jim’s shoulder as they looked at Jim’s watch on a beautiful chain. Another Merry Christmas. “Did you think to get return receipts this time?” The fourteen Murray kids were a novelty whenever they moved into a new neighborhood. Curious things happened.
On Christmas Eve 1968, in Pennsylvania, the little kids sat holding newly unwrapped, colorful, woolen mittens. “Santa” had arrived through the back door. Dad answered the front door. “Well, Santa’s twin! Oops!” “Santa One” looked startled and dodged out the back door. “Santa Two” jumped back caught like he had been breaking in. Confused, five-year-old Virginia pretty much summed up the curious scene: “Holy nuts, Dad. The dogs are chasing ANOTHER Santa down the street.” “Yes, Virginia, sometimes there are three Santa Clauses.” “Can you give us a hand, dear,” Santa asked his wife. “We are getting backed up here.”
Anna Claus walked into the packing room. “Here are the letters,” Santa told her. “At the top I have noted what to pack.” Anna picked up the first letter. “But Santa,” she said, “Lucinda wants a big Lego set and a Hess truck. And you’re going to give her a doll and a Frozen princess outfit.” “Legos and trucks are boys’ toys,” said Santa. “Girls don’t have any mechanical aptitude. “Don’t interfere, Anna. Never mind the packing. Just go fix that broken sleigh.” “So, how should we ... initiate ... our new member into the club?” Ted smiled.
“Decisions, decisions,” Amy answered. “Wonder what would be the funniest thing?” Ted’s eyes lit up. “Got it.” He shifted his gaze, raising his voice. “Hey, Bruce!” The new pledge walked over. “Initiation time?” “Indeed,” Ted replied. “And all you have to do is sing ‘I’m a little teapot’ while holding your nose.” To their astonishment, Bruce not only did so-- he also added a dance number. Their mouths hung open, as he took a slow bow. “Thank you, sir and ma’am. May I have another?” The night was cold and wet and only nocturnal sounds filled the air. It was just a few hours ago that he stepped out of the shower, got dressed, kissed her and left. She could recall the smell of his after-shave and how his gentle touch made her body tingle with excitement. So when she heard the sirens and the knock on the door she braced herself for the horrible news. But nothing could have prepared her for it. Only then did she realise the blood on his hands wasn’t from the carcass he claimed he picked off the road.
Five stockings hung from the mantle above the fireplace. Santa would soon slide down the chimney to fill the socks with nuts, candies, and caramels. The boy slithered on his back until he could stick his head inside the fireplace and look up. Then he went to talk to his mother.
“Mom?” “Yes.” “I looked up the chimney.” “Oh?” “A big guy like Santa could never get through.” “Hmm.” “There’s no real Santa is there?” “No, son, not really. Santa is the spirit of giving.” The boy felt much better about Christmas than he had for a long time. “I didn’t do him, Sheriff. Jody were my friend,” said Jake, a chaw in his cheek. Somebody planted his pocket watch in my room.”
“I put it there, Jake.” Jake spat. "What!?” “When you and Jody robbed and killed old Mrs. Jenkins last year, you murdered the woman who raised an orphan kid nobody wanted. Me.” “Nobody seen us." “But you left something behind, Jake.” “What’s that?” “Your spit. I knew it was you, but I couldn’t prove it.” “So you fingered me for killin’ Jody instead." “That’s right.” "But who killed Jody?" “I did, Jake. See you in hell.” My dearest sister Lily, it is with dejection that I must apprise you of the results from the succession of investigations I underwent at the psychiatric hospital, which my physician has just presented. I regret that the diagnosis has confirmed our most calamitous apprehensions. My predilection for the verbal stylings of a nineteenth century female novelist have inexplicably transmogrified into an irresistible compulsion, such that I am incapable of communicating even the most elementary information in a succinct and concise manner. The only redeeming quality in this otherwise dreadful predicament is that I have not succumbed to Tourette’s, but Austentation.
This golfing story is dedicated to another Friday Flash Fiction enthusiast.
Nearly eighty, Mike played golf daily. But golf brought torments: he simply couldn't putt, wrecking scores with frequent missed putts. One morning he announced to everyone, "I'm terminally ill, boys. Cancer." "That's terrible," his friends cried "Don't worry," Mike said, "I've got years left yet. Apparently I'll die of something else first." Just then, he tapped in a short putt. "That's a – " "FORE!" The shout from behind was too late – Mike was killed instantly. The funeral was well-attended. At Mike's request, his ashes were buried in a hole on the 18th green. Trying to pour them in, they missed. “So, weather bomb… that’s new to me. Never heard of it.”
“Well, we are in the business of creating new Twitter trends and #weatherbomb has a better ring to it than rubbish weather, don’t you reckon?” “Suppose so. What else shall we make up this week then?” Blows out cheeks. “Darned if I know…" “Well, there’s one idea I had. What about some kind of human interest tale that we could sort of re-enact every year?” Nods. “Could work. Hashtags for donkey’s years. What are you calling it?” “Pff… how about Christmas?” No way was he going to try it. Their situation was not that desperate. He had only swerved off the road and got stuck. All they had to do was sit tight and wait until someone came along with a towrope. They had plenty of water. But there was Corey behaving like a born again Boy Scout, sitting by the camp fire he had made with a smirk on his face. He looked over at Brett.
'Ya want some?' 'What’s it like?' asked Brett. 'Good, mate,' said Corey, wiping his lips. 'Lucky you didn’t squash the bloody thing flat, eh?' Laughing. Stifling a guffaw.
"It's not funny." I'm upbraided furiously for inappropriate behaviour. Too late, another burst of hilarity spills forth. Ahem. Learning propriety is on my to-do list; must get to it... In my defence, it is a pretty horrific sight - not blood-curdling horrific, more Vivienne Westwood in the guise of Man at C&A. "Where did you get that?" I ask idly, as the laughter subsides into a creeping fear that this may be serious. "It's just a sample of the new corporate workwear," says my boss, she who must be obeyed, "yours is in the box over there." Karl Lagerfeld, look away now. Ellis turned sadly. Navel-gazing. Time to act.
"Mrs Bryceland? Dr Ellis. Could I have a word? Come to my office…" "We’ve got the test results. It’s positive." Ellen Bryceland removed her glasses. Polished slowly. "How long?" "I’d finish at work. Enjoy what’s left. Four weeks? Two months?" Outside she called Bill. "I’m not working today. I’ll explain later. No, don’t worry." With time fading, her tapestry was key. Autobiography in thread. One panel left. Smiley, her dancing dog. Radiating beads of water, woven golden honey shaken from his coat. Ellen heard four words: "Moments, lifetimes, love endures." Fourteen roe deer spotted. At fifteen, stop for chow. Longest haul, thought Kirkpatrick.
Almost Land’s End to John O’ Groats. Stay awake! This drop for the bonus. Beside him, 500 for Danny’s holiday. Working sixteen gears, climbing. "Dawn Raider to Betty Boop?" Silence. CB radio still wards off the howling wolves. "Betty Boop, hungry belly?" "10-4, Boop, pitstop Corncrake Alley." "10-4 Raider." After the top, gathering pace, blinding light in the mirror, Kirkpatrick loses the steering. On full impact, eyeballs the deer spinning up, hooves smash the windscreen. Wheels spinning above him, gasoline dripping, he watches $50 notes drifting downstream. I add the milk, place the lasagne. Staff nosh, hopefully enjoyable. Labour of love!
Crucially, Agnes will taste delicious cream, a soupcon of nutmeg (….make that a handful…). Oh please, stop moaning: "Big Doddie’s work again? Baked cardboard!" Agnes looking down. I know every freckle. Lifting her fork! Beautiful rose lips. Eyes raised, she mouths ‘Not bad.’ The recipe for love? A fantastic one-liner? Bold Ted: "Try: 'Every morsel makes you shine, Morning-Star bright!'" God! She’s standing, walking to me. All eyes on her. Kisses me! "Thank you, Doddie, I shine for you, like the Morning Star!" Don’t you dare touch her now, you sick fuck. We know what you did. How you used her heart against her to gain her trust and then battered her until she shattered - to be sure she never found her way home again.
Just like you had with Father, shaming him into refusing the oxygen that eased his dying, then wept while you washed him to conceal the gloating evil in your eye. Now, with smug self-righteousness, legalese smile and your anorexic body craving her death, you dare ask us to join hands so you can lead a family prayer? Branches adorned with glittering ribbons, shimmering in the down draught from the door, lights shining like meteors on its needles. Gasps and exclamations from everyone as it displays its raiment. A brief spell in the spotlight for the humble fir - grown for a two week extravaganza; the ultimate in convenience retailing.
No thoughts of recycling as it shivers, unadorned on the pavement, skeletal and desiccated as January declines into February and red hearts grip the nation. Unnoticed but burrowing deeper in the frozen garden, blown there by a winter gale, a small cone grips the soil. Resurrection. |
"Classic"
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