Five Short Christmas Stories

These were written last year during December, now with some small tweaks and refinements added this year by yours truly, for your reading pleasure — or distaste, most likely.

All I Want..:

Well, aren't we a jolly ol’ family! Look at us. Isn’t it precious, how we find ourselves reunited round the chimney, dressed in festive colors? Hot beverages at hand, woolly socks covering our toes. Some of us engaging in harmless chatter, expectant for the night to come, while others find themselves resting their heads peacefully on the shoulders of our fellow. But not to forget, there's the servile as well: the accommodating, the tireless —even during hardened times all be it for a smile upon a loved one's face. But, then there's one. One that chooses the empty corner. One that can't help but stare out the only window adorning these weirdly arid walls.

This window: A square of glass framing a slow-moving picture of the cold tundra blurred by calmly downward-floating snow. It is hypnotic, like a waltz, it sways one way, then another, then it is shaken by the wispy gelid gusts that ambush our abode like a hungry pack. And ah, it’s getting dark. Beyond the flakes, there's not much visible anymore. It is all grey shifting towards black nothingness.

Past the mumbling buzz of all the reddened faces chattering up the room, one can hear the harrowing sounds of the lifeless expanse outside, the closer to the window the clearer they become. What are they? The outside is supposed to be dead this time of year. What monsters still prowl the terrain sharpened by the daggers of winter who can still produce such eerie wailing? And, who are they calling for?

How grateful should we be to have this, right? To be here. To have a clan and place to endure the nasty nature of the world we live in. A safeguard where the embers of love keep us human through the long night. A family… So, why? Why is it then that I can't feel any of it? Why is it that the pull is towards this darned window, towards the lightless? Why is the flame of arousal rushing through me when I hear the howling? Why do I feel guilt when I dream of predation? Can I place my foot upon the throat of the seasoned beasts as I become one —the one— am I that mighty?

 I snap out of it, but the buzz is gone.

The smell of liquor and dried meats is but a distant memory. I turn away from the window to look around, but there's no one… the room is empty. My heart stops for a second as I gasp, but I turn again and there they are, clustered outside on the snow. I look at them through the window. Somehow it feels right. This window, it is home. I watch in silence as the shadows slowly devour them, as time, relentless, permeates through their bones and renders them cold dust.

Ah, Christmas, what a time!

-Hang a Shining Star:

Tom Pletsch did nothing wrong. How could he? At his young age his worst crime was nothing but bouts of anger and resentment aimed at the junctures that had seen him brought to this world; relinquished, betrayed and abused. Being kicked around from one alley to the other while scouring to keep famine at bay is a punishment no young lad deserves, regardless of their record or demeanor. What karmic justice could justify the tragedy of Tom's birth? What deity would bestow such suffering upon an innocent soul? Living amongst the sordid and neglectful shadows of a broken world was Tom’s only truth. He was a boy adrift in the consequences arising from the lowest expressions of humanity’s terrible nature

He knew too well the look of disdain in the eyes of the passersby staring down at his malnurtured and stunted growing body. He knew too well how it felt to be discarded when his presence had become too inconvenient and his mouth one mouth too many. He knew too well the sore feeling left behind by the violence and apathy that painted the streets and alleys he called home. No hand to grab onto, no loving touch, no one or nothing to help ease the painful moments —not unless you had something to offer, and that as well was usually short-lived. In the waste-filled dark corners you can't rely on one another for too long, a lesson learnt much too early by a far too soon calloused Tom.

Now, once again, the weather had turned cold. The days had become shorter and the nights a more difficult challenge. Garish colors popped from the storefronts. Flickering lights of all possible hues sleeplessly shone throughout town, and songs that were meant to exude joy and piety acted as distant, yet constant, echoes of discordance for those living at the margins; a cruel reminder of who and where they shall ever be. Oh! the season had arrived.

T’was the night. Well-dressed children ran around giddy, brimming with excitement as they tugged on their folk’s coat sleeves, rushing hand-in-hand to the warm gatherings at their abodes. Businesses had closed earlier and the streets had emptied before sundown. A gentle snowfall brought with it a contemplative silence, one that slowed everything down. For a second, the smell of cinnamon, nutmeg and clove masked the rotten odor of Tom's stained cardboard bed. He rose. Enthralled by these rich aromas, ones he would only rarely get to experience — and with a rumbling belly — he mindlessly followed the scent. For a while, it made him feel what he could only imagine the other kids felt when surrounded by caring hands, or swathed by cozy furry coats, or sheltered by the warmth of a loving home. Hunger hallucinations had him reeling as he followed the smells. He was lost within dreams and visions of the families he would normally stare at from below, from the filthy sidewalks. He marched for a while, threading behind the faint vapors through one too many a city block, but his body was weaker than his resolve. His knees, fatigued and cold-bitten gave in as he approached a curb. He fell, lying oddly serene on the snow. And even though only rags stuck to his body, his eyes and brow seemed unbothered by the freezing conditions.

Across the street he could observe a tall window leading to a warm chimney-lit room —perhaps the source of the aromas. A kid of around Tom's age and a younger girl knelt while opening a present. The girl watched expectantly while nibbling on what looked like a piece of gingerbread. The older kid eagerly tore through the glossy paper encasing. But ultimately, as the box was revealed, he seemed unamused by its contents. And so, while looking away and with an aloof gesture, he placed the present on the rug as he left the frame of the window. The girl stayed for a second, seemingly perplexed by the interaction. Confused, she looked back and forth between the toy lying on the ground and the direction which the older kid had taken. But eventually, copying the boy’s attitude, she placed her gingerbread on the floor, and somewhat clumsily, also walked out of frame. As the night went on and temperatures descended, unmoving, fixated on that window and the world therein, Tom's eyes slowly shut. A huff of breath marked the hour.

Next morning a rusty truck came early before the city folk woke. Two men dressed in green hastily wrapped Tom's body in a glossy plastic encasing. They tossed him onto the rear opening of the truck, then drove away. Birds chirped. The snow was glistening under the early morning sun.

Ah, Christmas, what a time. 

-You better not cry, you better not pout:

The door closed with a thump and I proceeded to place the money in the safe. I inhaled, deeply, closed my eyes, exhaled; a quick moment of recollection. I walked towards the front, locked the door, arranged my bra so as to puff my breasts and got ready for another round. I passed the first set of curtains and pressed the button. With a mechanical whirr, the second set of curtains opened up slowly and through the clear glass I could see the intoxicated crowd once again. I struck an inviting pose, how seductive usually didn't matter; they were always hungry.

You'd think that for the day and the hour the streets would be close to empty, but we often forget the lonesome, the deviants, the scoundrels, the brutes. The unfitting. We forget that we all carry the curse of thirsting desire deep within our framework, regardless of strata, accomplishments or conditions. Willfully, we neglect the fact that we were always first, animals.

I revealed my left nipple by slightly pulling down the left cup as I got closer to the glass divider. I arched my back, then started to squat while opening my legs further as my ass approached the ground. From the river of heads, one by one, they started to notice and crawl towards the display. Some got closer, assertively. Others looked from afar, from behind the lamp posts, arms reaching and rubbing inside their pants. I pressed my glittery, oily chest against the glass as I started raising my posture, my fingertips nearing the lace still covering the right side of my chest. With the other hand I playfully stretched and pulled down on one of the sides of my panties, gesturing their upcoming removal, when suddenly, an open mouth crashed against the screen. His wet tongue pushing against it, licking frantically accompanied by his calloused palms forcefully scrubbing the glass as if trying to reach through it. His pupils wide, his body squirming. I trembled ever so slightly, but not enough for the rest to notice. I had seen worse; there weren’t many aspects of the night I hadn’t already encountered. And so, I continued the luring dance.

Less abruptly, another ghoulish shade approached, then another, and another until I could barely see the cobblestone anymore. The fervent crowd was now gathered at my display, chanting for more. I complied. I turned around and pushed my legs together, making my ass look more voluminous, round, appetizing. I arched and rested my torso on the display stool making sure my nipples were still visible from the side. And then, using only my fingernails, I slowly slid my panties down, finally revealing —fully— my utmost self to all. Worm-like, one of the observers moved through the crowd towards my door and vigorously pressed the bell. But just before I could start to rise, his face had been smashed against the brick wall —head cracked and bloody, he fell.

Before I could see anything else I heard the eerie sound of small brass tinkling bells. Then, a wider-framed body pushed through the unconcerned audience, revealing itself to me: a dirty off-white wife-beater covering only half of his protuberant belly, black boots with golden buckles covered in mud, loose red trousers poorly held by a black leather belt, blushed rosy cheeks, a lush white mustache and a thick, long white beard hosting the yellowish chunky remains of what could only be vomit. Unobstructed and unchallenged, he approached the door.
He knocked. I looked down for a second, took a breath, pressed the button, heard the whirr.

Ah, Christmas, what a time. 

-Joy to the world:

It was the morning after. He slowly peeled back the blankets, took his pills and sat on the edge of the bed for a while. Anxiety can be a terrible alarm clock. He got off the bed, and after a short painful visit to the bathroom, heavy-footed, he went downstairs. At the table: a wine cup with faint stains, a Dutch oven covered by tin foil, and a single plate with some leftovers. Silence had become mundane in his house, a friend of sorts, but that morning it was different. There was a vacuum to it, a palpable emptiness all around him. As he walked towards the kitchen sink, dreading the pile of plates that had been accumulating for the past few days, through the window, he caught an uncommon sight: A letter poking out of the old rusty mailbox at the curb.

Intrigued, he stiffly rushed towards the entryway and opened the front door. The air was crisp and still, the sky was grey, the wind bristled, and the floor was still wet from yesternight’s rain. The slightest sense of wonderment ran through him.

Who would have written? There’s no way she’d thought of me… not after all these years. Or, is it Fred…? Will I finally get to meet my niece? Has he forgiven me?

He thought as he hastily walked towards the mailbox. He opened the lid with a faint sense of excitement and grabbed the letter, but on the envelope, a blue, official-looking stamp at the top left corner, and underneath it in a blocky font: Federal Financial Services.

He stared vacantly at it for a while. The speck of optimism he held just seconds before, alien to his psyche, dissipated like vapor. He felt the discomfort produced by the pine needles under his bare feet accompanied by the piercing cold of the stone slab creeping in. He looked around the cul-de-sac with a sense of shame and sorrow hanging from his eyes, but there was no one to be seen. Crestfallen, he retreated inside. He left the letter at the countertop, walked towards the cabinet and poured himself a drink. Brown liquor. He sat on the 50's era couch facing the wall were her urn stood behind one of the crystal panels of the hutch.

Last week, during the appointment, the doctor said there ain’t no worthless efforts. “Fight till the end, wouldn’t ya?”...Right. I don’t know, I am tired. Now I can feel it when I touch my abdomen, it isn’t getting any smaller. I wish you were still here. I can't really find any reasons to care... I try, but I can’t.

He turned his eyes momentarily and looked at the disheveled plastic tree in the corner. No ornaments, no lights, just an old dusty plastic tree alone in an empty white corner. He took a sip from the glass. Then another. He continued.

I remember how it was all the way back then around these times; we were naïve boys and you created golden beautiful worlds out of thin air for us... we had nothing, yet you made so much out of it. I never knew how hard it was for you, I wish I did. But, you made me so happy… and Fred too, surely. But you made so happy… You know, I haven't felt true company since you've gone... but meh, you already knew that….
Perhaps it was always you, and maybe only you, who really ever held me in my weakest moments of need. You were always there, no matter the day or the hour.
Why I never came to trust no one else?  
Perhaps, one only knows real solitude in mother's wake.
I miss you.
Every day since, I’ve missed you. It is the only feeling that still manages to linger after I take those goddamned pills.

He sat for hours, refilling the glass a couple more times. The plates still piled in the sink. The tinfoil covered Dutch oven still on the kitchen table. The silence still as present. The day elapsed, stagnant. Night fell. Heavy footed he went back upstairs. After another painful visit to the bathroom, he crawled inside his bed, covered himself in fetal position and fell asleep.

Ah, Christmas, what a time.

-Ten Lords a-Leaping:

She wanted to be there for the event and see the tree one last time before it was torn down. I’ve never been good at saying no to her; she is my world, and I hers. All be it for a smile upon a loved one’s face. An so, I nodded. She gleefully skipped to grab her rosy jacket, wrapped her tiny hand around mine and we headed out.

Maybe it was her singing or the silly games we played, but it took me a while to notice how empty the streets were. Maybe everyone was already at the square, or I misread the clock, it was odd all the same. Suddenly, a loud bell rang across town, and small groups of people appeared from the corners, walking towards the center. It couldn’t be time for the event yet; the sun hadn’t even set. The bell rang again, louder. I felt her hand clutch mine—don’t worry, honey, it’s celebratory. Come, we’re close. I picked her up for a piggyback ride. Another clang, followed by a faint rumble. The streets grew crowded; people coming out of every door. Another bell, the rumble grew, people picked up their pace. I couldn’t hear any voices, just footsteps on the cobblestone. With the fifth bell, my heart raced as I looked up: dusk had passed, it was now dark, no stars, no moon.

In my confusion, I stopped to gather myself, but almost immediately someone bumped into me. “Ow!” she cried. Before I could turn, another bump, then another. The bell rang again. I was surrounded by frantically paced bodies threatening to run us over. “Baby, I’m sorry, we’re heading b—” But before I could finish, the seventh bell rang, the loudest so far, deafening. Then I heard her cry from afar, I couldn’t feel her in my back anymore. The eighth bell rang. “Lucy!” I screamed as the crowd rammed into me, but I heard no response. “Lucy!” I screamed again, thrusting, pushing and elbowing to no avail. With the ninth bell, everyone stopped, we were at the square. “Lucy!” I cried to abject silence, then, like an approaching wave, the mass erupted in dissonant rapture and frenzy.

I looked toward the tree, above it, now visible was a full moon becoming eclipsed. The cacophony grew louder, the pressure immobilizing. “Lucy!” I cried one last time as my voice cracked and diminished, and I became consumed by the wall of flesh, the faceless crowd.

The tenth bell rang and in unison, the mass became quiet again. The clang echoed round the square. The moon, engulfed by the shadow of the earth just above the crown of the tree. The tree, suddenly lit up in flames. The year, it was gone.

Ah, Christmas, what a time!