I found a note from Santa on my pillow. He needs a new elf. He thinks I’m perfect. Lego builder, check; Under 4 ft, check; likes to stay up late, check; likes to dress in pajama-like clothes. I show Mommy. She giggles at me. I show Daddy. He laughs. I tell my big sister to write to Santa and tell him I need a ride. I found another note on my pillow from Santa. “Please wait outside tonight at Midnight.” I left my parents a note on their pillow. “Goodbye. I love you. My sister will do my chores.”
His nose hurt, it throbbed. He imagined that it must be at least twice its normal size. His reflection confirmed that a large, shiny, red boil had replaced yesterday’s pimple.
It was the busiest day of the year and the boss depended on him. They agreed that he needed antibiotics, but would he get an appointment on such a hectic day? Luckily the surgery could fit him in. The waiting room was packed. One by one names were called by a man wearing a green scrubs pyjama suit. At last; the vet looked in his direction. “Rudolph,” he called. After spending five solitary years inside a cell, noted journalist Salem Ali was released from the prison. Though charged with treason for criticizing leadership’s unfair treatments toward minorities, he was never brought to justice; now the sudden freedom. The bright sun blinded Salem, while chirping birds overwhelming him.
He crossed the busy street and bought a soda. While paying, he noticed the daily’s headline “Overnight, The Bombing Death-toll Crossed 15,000”. No news ever reaching him, now he learned about the ongoing conflict in volatile mid-continent. Though a non-believer, Salem still wondered: “Will there be any Christmas in Bethlehem this year?” Ascending a ladder in our front yard, I strung red and green lights around the piñon’s branches, starting at the crown. I struggled to stay balanced while guarding against straining my aging back.
Our first home. We arrived twelve years ago. The pine tree stood no taller than my forehead then. Atop the ladder, I gazed around the yard. Growth abounded. Sage and lavender, once tiny but fulling their potential, stretched wide and high after more than a decade. Soon to rest in winter’s darkness, I sensed we all loved our place beside the ever present, and rising, pine tree. Don’t blow your doe on plastic surgery!
Rummage through our Noses to Go’s nosetastic selection of false noses for a beauty pick-me-up from the nostrils of the rich and famous. Slim, orange with large nostrils and a propensity to lying? Tower on over to our Donald Trump nose! Turned up at the end and like wafting around looking pretty with a bow and arrow? Express your immortality with the Elfen Lord of the Rings range. Just upload your nasal dimensions with our free noseometer, and what celebrity you admire, for a hand-picked selection. (NOTE: returns only if faulty or unused). Trudging through sand, the old man shaded his eyes, savouring the autumnal sea. A daily walk helped since his diagnosis.
The storm had gifted plastic, blue rope and white stones. Shrines to unknown causes. Foamy surf giddied wildly. A bottle, bobbing near the shore caught the sunshine, beckoning him. Green glass glistening and almost lovely. Matt, his grandson, zoomed to the edge of the water, shouting. High- stepping he grabbed the bobbing bottle and cradled it as he waded ashore. He sat on the sand then, oblivious to the wetness. ‘It’s mine’, he said. ‘I wrote myself good news.’ “One present? One stinking…”
“Open gifts everyone,” Mum says, glaring at me. My sisters tear packaging, shrieking and laughing. It takes thirty minutes. Me? Ten seconds. One thick, blank, crappy, ring bound notebook. I stifle tears. Regret words and actions leading to this horrific moment. My eight-years-old Christmas over. “Time for pie!” Mum announces. “You get it Russel.” In the fridge, presents with my name surround the pie. “He came!” I scream. “My presents! Hurry! In here!” Fifty years later… I remember only two presents. That notebook used to write this and other stories. And Mum’s smile. Mum’s knowing smile. I start the day with three hours of sleep. They come, screeching with glee; it’s hard to pretend I’m happy to be woken at 6am. Stockings, cleaning up from stockings. Breakfast, but not too much because all day long will be a parade of food. Cleaning up from breakfast. But not finishing cleaning up from breakfast, and not starting the turkey even though it’s weighing heavily on my mind. No, it’s present time. I demand coffee. I relent. Present time! It’s 9am and I have twelve hours to go, yet I sport a grin on my weary face. “Youngest first!”
He felt lighter with Lego, colour sorted pieces, followed steps. A yellow circle for the star, a green ten piece for the trunk, a brown square for the pot. She preferred a real tree, used to sniff the air for its scent. He plucked her favourite colours from his spares, laid an eight-bit. He would work up.
He spaced out the blues and reds he had chosen for baubles, remembering how she’d said artists need primary colours. His father might get the tinsel down. He wished she had left a part of herself with the fairy lights in the loft. The Christmas she dreamed of was a Red one, the flag flying, fists raised, department stores emptied, the well-to-do stumbling about in a daze. The other red, the kind that runs down walls, she was not so sure of, the sight of the stuff tending always to make her retch. A Red Christmas need not be a bloody one. But then she remembered that smug prick at the bank, not to mention Mrs Furcoat Jones and her sneer of a husband. There'll be others, many. The gutters might well run with them, she thought.
“It’s another lonely holiday season,” Chad wrote. “My family is gone. Everyone I know is busy with their families. I don’t ever even have a lousy office holiday party to go to! No one even has time to just have coffee with me. I can’t stand this loneliness year after year. I’ve decided enough is enough.”
Chad finished writing. He carefully set the paper to one side of his desk. He picked up his gun, put it to his head, and pulled the trigger. He’d never be lonely during the holiday season again. She was working at home when suddenly the doorbell rang. She ran to the door and opened it. It was a delivery man. The conversation was all about whether she could take a parcel for her neighbour. She agreed. When she tried to deliver the parcel, nobody was home. The next day she found a piece of paper. ‘I am working all day, please leave the parcel in front of my door.’ But was it secure there? She had to risk it. Later the parcel was gone and she found a reward in her letterbox.
Clearly, disqualified from the competition! (Perhaps on bad taste grounds, too.) Santa’s nine reindeer were an unreliable, grumbling bunch, generally exacerbating Santa’s hypertension. Worse still, because they were an odd number, they only ever pulled the sleigh in circles. Then, following COP28, Santa realised that climate change required a re-think of sleigh power – reindeer methane emissions were unacceptably high. It was time for renewable energy: windmills on the sleigh. Deer days were numbered. “But we’ll be redundant!” Rudolph wailed. “How will we live?? Who’ll look after the poor starving children who depend on us for presents?” Santa had the answer. On Christmas Day, the world’s poorest children were fed venison stew.
Driving through what many called, “the poor side of town,” my three children sat solemnly in the back seat holding gifts for the underprivileged children living in the shacks.
My son, wide-eyed and frowning blurted, “I don’t like Santa! He doesn’t give presents to the poor kids!” “Yeah!” the other two angrily chimed in. “Tell them,” my husband whispered. “YOU tell them!” Gulping, he announced, “Santa is not real. But we are, so we can give these children gifts.” “Like elves?” “Uh, yes, like elves.” “Yay! We believe in elves!” My smiling husband reached for my hand. “We do, too.” Recently widowed Joe vowed to do last sponsored Christmas swim, in memory of Nora.
Now we all knew Joe was just about coping. He did, however, remember to feed or 'overfeed' his cat, Company, that morning. In saying that, he left home without his towel, and went against his own rigid code by wearing his wedding band in water. All was well until the halfway point; Joe made a flat turn, creating a current of dismay, pulling the worried spectators. Helpless people reached in stupid rescue, but soon all that was left was the shutting eye of a lone ripple. ‘You took your time.’
‘Busy, sir.’ ‘Does my red suit and being airborne tell you anything?’ ‘Yes. Why call me out?’ ‘Rudolph won’t move until his red nose is polished by a mechanic.You qualify! I’ll be having words later.’ ‘Okay, I’ll sort that and give him reindeer feed. I carry suitable food. Just issued carrots to make a donkey move. Lady and gent were grateful. She’s due to give birth any moment.’ ‘Quite right you helped them first. When you’re done I’ll bump you up my queue.’ ‘Santa, all I want for Christmas is peace.’ ‘You and me, both!’ After her heart attack Josie tossed the fattening foods in her house except a box of store-bought spiced cookies. They were like the delicious "pepparkakor" her grandmother from the old country used to make at Christmas.
She finished cardiac rehab, lost a little weight and tried to eat less, move more. She walked, consumed fish, far too many vegetables and thought of food constantly. Those cookies would be her reward. Josie finally opened the box, inhaled the familiar ginger aroma and bit into…a stale cookie. Squirrels loved the tasty gifts. Crows thanked her in Swedish with caws of "tack, tack." Three months is an eternity. Surprisingly released early on Christmas Eve “on compassionate grounds”, I wouldn’t be expected.
Would I even be welcome? I might have only stolen to help them, but the kids had been forced to endure taunts at school. Their shame was my responsibility. Nervous, I hesitated in the darkness at the garden gate. I became aware of a figure nearby. Red cloak, white beard, but faceless. “Why are you waiting?” he asked. “I’ve no presents for the children.” “Yes, you have. Go on.” I rang the doorbell. A moment later the door opened. Three faces. “MUMMY!!!” It’s late. There at the end of the counter sits a tray with four layer-cakes waiting to be moved to the walk-in. Closing mere minutes away, meanwhile we see the busboy clearing tables, the servers prepping their station; the hostess cashing out, while the manger, in the back, turning off exterior lights. All hoping for no more customers.
Until. A regular customer steps in, stops, looking around, stumbles to the end of the counter, sits disgruntled, finding a baking tray in his way. All stop and watch while he contemplates his predicament. With care, contemptuously, slid the offending tray… forward. “Thanks for coming Mum. I regret offering to make the Christmas cake. I’m not sure I can do your recipe justice.”
“Calm down Faye- I’ll talk you through it.” Whilst Faye followed the instructions, her mum offered more advice. “Your dad’s been Googling golf lessons, the twins both want Nerf guns and Mark would love the Lego Death Star. But don’t mention that I told you!” As Faye spooned the mixture into the tin, her mum’s image shimmered, her features becoming translucent. “Summon me any time Faye.” Faye smiled knowing that her mum was watching over her. The greatest gift. At the local laundry, Shirly dumps the contents of a big plastic bag onto the counter. Out falls three pair of jeans and one old bra.
“No!” She cries out loud. “Problem?” Asks the shop clerk. “I just dropped off the wrong stuff at a donation bin”, Shirly sighs. “Nothing too important… except a big, crazy, silly Christmas sweater. It was the last gift my mother gave me before she died.” Weeks later, while helping serve a holiday diner, Shirly sheds silent tears of joy at the sight of a young homeless girl in line… warmed by that verry sweater. It was told by many who claim they saw it with their own eyes how one winter when famine struck the land, great snows came from the north and a stranger arrived. He blew into the night: the wind stopped, the snow cleared and suddenly trees were everywhere, their scent the perfume of good health. In the morning he was gone, and the people found warm clothing, supplies of dry wood and food to last until summer. A great evergreen rose over the town. It was the best Christmas ever.
Su Yang peered through the swirling mist. The underside of the giant orange bridge loomed overhead. The foghorns echoed on all sides of the dilapidated ship that had carried her across the Pacific Ocean.
Suddenly on her right, she could see a galaxy of sparkling lights on the steep hillsides. Nearly there! she thought. All the years of planning and saving were worth it. At the Immigration Desk she proudly showed her visa to the official. “Welcome,” he said. Yes, she thought. I have done well to come. Su Yang confidently walked into the street and her shining future. It shone bright as a diamond in the night sky all around the world. People everywhere stopped what they were doing and beheld its beauty. It reminded them of a better world, a world that might yet be, and they prayed for peace.
Then someone hurled an insult and a bomb exploded, and people became anxious and fearful. They raised their eyes to heaven, hoping the star might somehow protect them. But the peace they longed for could be born only in their hearts. The Christmas star could beckon, but they would have to follow. I'm the junkie's dog. I sit on cold concrete, my eyes beseeching. My coat is not what it was. But that's age and penury. Next to me is the junkie's cup, half filled with pennies. At a given signal I'll sigh. Or whimper. Or groan. Never bark. I'm treated well, but, as some dog before me said, times is hard. The subway's nearby, and if it rains that's where we go, cup and all. The damp generally adds to the mangy look, elicits greater looks of pity from passersby, thereby adding pennies to the cup. We stay nowhere long.
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"Classic"
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