Flash Challenge: December '07

[kailhofer]

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The challenge was: To create the best possible holiday-themed, speculative fiction story. Entrants had to include a wig.

THE FOLLOWING ENTRIES WERE RECEIVED:


[center]Resolution[/center]



The night was dancing white upon black, swirls of heavy flakes that eddied languidly. As the runways glistened, David found it hard not to be swept up in some magic moment designed purely for his viewing. He stood there, his hand against the tall, cold glass of the window. Outside the terminal, the world seemed to be full of promise.

Sighing, he slipped his briefcase over his shoulder, falling into line with the crowd of passengers filing away from the gate. The unapologetic attendant had spent the last hour explaining to them that their flight had been canceled. Ice on the runway. That was the truth behind the fantasy outside the terminal. A metaphor for life. Reality stole what might seem spectacular, entwined it with the mundane, drowned the might-have-beens beneath actually-ares. In this case, it meant David was stuck there for the weekend. He walked, aimlessly, realizing he’d been stuck where he was for the past 7 years.

What he needed was an escape. Fifty feet further along, he found one. Blue and green neon spelled out “Ye Olde Sports Bar”. He entered, ordered himself a white russian, and sat. As a writer, he’d once heard someone say “There’s never enough whiskey or rain.” Screw that. He’d take his rainy parade with a shot of vodka.

On the television behind the bar, Dick Clark’s tradition continued despite his absence, and beside David, someone slipped onto the barstool, their coat whipping up an almost imperceptible breeze. David didn’t feel the shiver dance his spine until she spoke.

“Need a resolution?” The voice was airy with a hint of playfulness. When he turned, he found her smirk matched the tone.

“Pardon me?” She was slight and feminine, elegantly lined. Auburn hair framed an ivory face with soft angles and a slightly upturned nose. She turned to glance at the TV with its masses standing in what looked to be a frigid Time Square. The bartender stepped in front of the girl and she nodded toward David’s drink. As the man began pouring her a white russian, she spoke again, her eyes glued to the television.

“You look a little melancholy. I figured you either needed some closure to your travels or a nice resolution to give hope to the coming year.” Her eyes returned to his, searching.

“Not bad. Though I have to ask, do you always start your conversations with random guys at the bar this way?” Something seemed interesting about her eyes, but before he could decide what it was, she was replying.

“No. Only the ones who are truly seeking an answer.” She was an odd one. Intriguing, but odd.

“An answer?”

“To the question.” She had started stirring her drink absently, fingernails tipped with white.

“Okay, I’ll take the bait. What question?”

“The only one that matters. What do I need?”

“I don’t know, what do you need?” He regretted the joke instantly, but when she glanced back up at him her smile seemed bemused.

“I realized what that was long ago. For now, let’s focus on your answer.”

“I’m not sure I understand.” He honestly didn’t. Something about the way her hand moved in tiny circles was almost hypnotic. He couldn’t think clearly.

“Things aren’t exactly going your way this evening, am I wrong?” She looked to him and he simply tossed back his drink in answer. “The airlines gave you somewhere to stay for the weekend, vouchers for your meals, but I somehow doubt they make up for the inconvenience of your flight. Likewise, I would be willing to wager there are other things that weigh on your mind, besides.” Had he told her about his flight? “I would like to offer you a holiday present unlike anything another could ever give you... I want to give you another chance.”

“What did you say?” He frowned; she turned her body to face him.

“A do-over. A mulligan. Have you ever made a decision that you regretted? Is there any moment in your life that you wish you could go back and make end differently?” David laughed but the steel in her eyes stopped him short. She was dead serious.

Suddenly, he knew what was unique about her eyes. They were a soft violet. He felt her cool hand close over his where it rested on his knee, and in a rush, he was falling into those eyes.

He knew her. He’d met her before. 1999. The University library. He’d been typing when she had entered, flowing rather than walking. She had snow white hair, iridescent so that it shimmered as she walked. Like ice, he’d thought. He’d caught her looking at him several times but he’d sat frozen in indecision, afraid to go talk to her. Finally, one time he’d looked and she was gone. Until this moment, he’d forgotten it had ever happened. Now, his heart ached for her, emptiness filling him like a dead weight. Then he remembered she was sitting beside him, holding his hand. He was back in the bar, her voice enveloping him like velvet. He could see white just underneath the edges of her auburn hair. She’d worn a wig. To hide herself from him? Could others even see what she truly looked like?

“So, what will it be, David? Will you go back and speak with me now?”

In that moment, he knew what he had been missing, the reason for his discontent with life, the fantasy stories he wrote. His answer surprised even him.

“I am the sum of my experiences, both good and bad. Without them, I wouldn’t know now what I need so desperately.” The ball dropped on the television to thousands of cheers. “So my question is as before. What do you need? Rather than go back, will you start over with me now?”

Her eyes showed confusion, then warmth, melting into her smile. As one, the two travelers turned to watch the New Year burst into light.

[center]The End[/center]

[hr][hr]


[center]Twas the Night Before Christmas
(On Mars)[/center]



Slyszmam strode the espanade with long, lanky strides from her three-taloned claws. The boardwalk gave a beautiful view of the Martian desert and the distant, small green line marked the boundary of the atmosphere plants. The raw sea of sand that was the Chryse rested beyond.

Slyszmam was an officer in the famed Nike Apteros brigade of the Stellar Marines. Her rank translated, or mistranslated, as 'Colonel-General' into Human languages. Her unit was stationed on the red planet, and she was an adviser to the Planetary Security Agency in the Martian Capitol. She liked her time on Mars. She only wished the humans knew more about her avian people. She was tired of explaining that the bright feathery plumes so famous to the Earthly Martians were worn by males of her species only, in order to attract females like herself. She had a silky black crown of down instead.

It was 24 December according to Universal Time, as the humans so anthropocentricly called it. It was the local time of a North Atlantic seacoast town, the home of the Green Witch. The symbols of the holiday season were all around her. Snowmen and candy canes, reindeer and dreidels, menorahs and creches were strewn about the boardwalk. Slyszmam had been invited to several coworker's homes for the holidays – from Christmas, to Hanukkah to Kwanzaa parties. But she missed her nestworld and her hatchlings. She turned and returned to her apartment to quietly spend the night.

[center]* * *[/center]

The intruder used ELFS to enter the home. That is ELectromagnetic Fluctuation and Syncopation teleportation. He carefully put down his large bags of items. He looked about the spartan main room.

“What are you doing here? Looking for cookies?” The intruder jumped back at the sound of the voice. His belly rolled like jelly and his red checks glowed a more scarlet. Santa Claus stroked his snow white beard. “I could ask the same of you. Father Christmas.”

They were twins of a sort. The two men wore thick coats of red. Father Christmas's was long and brushed upon the floor. His beard was also much longer and sank deep upon his chest. A tasseled hat rested on both their heads. “In believe this area is mine in which to deliver toys. Shouldn't you be on the Moon.” A crisp British accent spoke the words.

“I was. Do you realize how easy it is for flying reindeer to reach escape velocity in lunar gravity? I am here because the Synod of 2007 clearly stated...” Santa began.

“That gathering set the boundaries for the expected Lunar colony and any L5 space stations.”

“The Kris Kringle Proposal -” Santa held up his index finger.

“That proposal was tabled by the committee.”

“I am the one to bring presents here,” Santa Claus shouted.

“You two are behaving like children. I believe coal will be in both your stockings!” A newcomer spoke. Saint Nickolaus carried a shepherd's crux and wore the miter of an archbishop as he strode into the room. The saint was thinner than the others, and his skin darker, as he hailed from Anatolia, not the North Pole.

“You're in trouble now,” Santa whispered.

“Freeze. Planetary Security. What are you doing her?" Slyszmam stood there, the luminescent sword of her people in one foreclaw and an ol' style Earth blaster in the other. The red dot of her RATS (ranging and targeting scope) danced upon Santa's white beard.

“Why, I'm Santa Claus. And these are other gift-givers who arrive with presents on this most holy eve.”

Father Christmas added: “By the by. Where the dickens is Sydney Liu Hu?”

“I'm subletting from her.” She lowered the sword, but not the blaster.

“I need a database update,” lamented Santa. “I functioned better with letters than e-mails.” Santa stroked his beard and laughed loudly. “Ho, ho, ho.” His convex belly shook.

“When he does that, he's just a showing off.” Father Christmas said.

“There are religious and folkloric meanings to this season on Earth --” began Santa.

“Jesus is the reason for the season,” Saint Nickolaus stated.

“The hatching of your human god,” replied Slyszmam.

“Yes, of course,” continued the red-suited man. “Freedom from religious persecution in an eight day miracle of lamp oil for the Temple, the celebration of the virtues of the 'first fruits' of harvest.”

“Even a winter harvest,” Father Christmas added in a voice that was either sarcastic or just singularly British.

“There are even traditions of fallen-away pagan solstice holidays involved. Yule logs, lit trees in the home, be they Christmas trees or 'Hanukkah bushes', wreaths. Any evergreen. Holly or --”

“Hey-ho! Balder, Norse God of Light, at your service.” A tall blonde man stood in the doorway. He was dressed in a white fur-lined outfit with thick boots that looked to be made out of Yeti hide – or maybe it was storm giant.

Santa's finger pointed upwards. Balder raised his head to see oval, green leaves and red berries. “Ai-yie! Mistletoe!” He scurried away.

“I died and came back from Hel, too. You know.”

“Like Demeter!” Slyszmam said.

“Oh, don't mention her! She was a Queen down under.”

Santa Claus coughed loudly, too many years of pipe smoking one must assume. “If I may continue... A savior's birth, a miracle of lights, cultural virtues, a prosperous New Year. Abstracts all. To give a gift to abstracts? Even I wouldn't attempt that!”

A solid “humbug!” came from Father Christmas.

“No, we pass along our warmer wishes, a toy or two, to family, neighbors. Even strangers.”

“Wassel!” cried Father Christmas.

“Ah! Speaking of which -- isn't that pub on 42nd street still open?” Balder asked.

Santa Claus rummaged in his large bag. “I always carry an extra gift ...” He brought forth a headpiece of colorful, beautiful feathers. “For you, dear. Wear it in good health.”

Slyszmam took the wig in her foreclaws. It was a perfect replica of a strutting males' plumes for her to wear amongst the humans.

[center]The End[/center]

[hr][hr]


[center]EXCHANGING GIFTS[/center]



“She’s your mother, you tell her,” Dan said with frustration, while packing the car for a holiday visit to the in-laws.

It was the same thing every Christmas, packing more luggage and presents into his mid-size Nissan Sentra than could possibly fit and preparing to make nice at his wife’s parents home. Last year, he got a pair of socks and a pair of gloves and a sweater that didn’t fit and comments about his go no where job and his need to take off some weight and other types of belittling attacks on his less than perfect life.

“I wish they were dead,” he said to himself, while trying to figure out where to put the baby seat.

“Aren’t you through yet?” his wife Alice asked as she was coming out of the house, holding their 2-year-old baby.

“If I was through, would I still be cursing?” he growled.

“Where’s the baby seat?” she asked.

“If we take the baby seat, something will have to be left behind. He can sit up front between us,” he said as he waved her into the car.

“Shouldn’t I drive? You’ve had way too much to drink!” she said a little concerned.

“One more word and I’ll ram this car into the garage wall. Now, are we ready…fine,” he said determined to get the show on the road.

Dan took off and in minutes pulled onto the main highway as the weather began to make it more difficult to see. Icy streets or not, he was determined to get to her parents house on time. The one thing he did enjoy was the Christmas feast. Afterwards, it was all down hill.

It was snowing hard and the visibility was poor. He looked over at his wife who was asleep, tired from all the aggravation.

As he glanced back to the road, he was stunned to see that the car directly in front of him had come to a complete stop. He had no time to avert a collision due to the accumulating snow and ice patches along the highway. He plowed his car directly into the rear of the car ahead, causing both cars to spin off the embankment.

Minutes later, he came to and tried to wake his wife, who was still drowsy and possibly had a concussion. When she awoke, she began to feel around in the front seat for a few seconds and then cried, “My baby!” now frantically searching for their child. She opened the door beside her and started throwing things outside, trying desperately to find him. When she got out of the car, she saw his crumbled body in the floorboard, bleeding out of his eyes and ears.

She held his lifeless body to her and cried with the most bitter despair Dan had ever heard. He got out of the car and ran over to her, while calling 911 on his cell phone.

The police arrived along with the paramedics and began assisting them as they began to assess the situation.

“The woman in the other car is dead,” one of the paramedics said flatly. Dan had been in shock and forgot about the people in the other car.

As the paramedics removed the dead woman from the other car, they found a baby in the seat underneath her body. They began to examine the baby who seemed to be just fine. “The woman’s body must have protected the baby during the impact,” one of the paramedics said out loud.

While they loaded her body into one of the ambulances, the paramedics noticed the woman was wearing a wig, obviously to conceal her identity. The police officer making out the report said to Dan, “Well, we know the name of the woman in the other car. Her name is Helen Drier. She was a homeless woman living on the streets in the downtown district near the precinct where I work. She was reported to have stolen a car at a shopping mall several hours ago.”

The paramedics asked Dan’s wife if she would mind holding the dead woman’s baby as they drove to the hospital. Alice was still in shock, but nodded her head in agreement.

When they got to the hospital, the doctor on duty pronounced Dan and his wife’s baby dead from severe internal injuries. She was still holding the dead woman’s baby when the doctor gave them the news. The policeman on duty told them the woman had no relatives that they knew of and the state would send someone out soon to take the dead woman’s baby.

Dan’s wife clutched the baby and said, “No! You can’t have him! This baby is mine!”

The officer said to her, “If you want to file for adoption, that will be fine, but you’ll have to follow procedure.”

She replied, “Fine, but the baby has to stay somewhere while the paperwork is being filled out and I now apply as his foster mother.”

The policeman looked at her, as she was holding the baby close to her and said, “Fine.”

The officer called the station to have them wake up the sitting judge. He wanted to help this woman, who obviously was in distress and probably needed this baby over the holidays to help her cope with the loss of her own child. She looked up at Dan and said to him with tears streaming down her face, “God exchanged gifts with us.”

Dan couldn’t accept that. What he could accept was if he had loved her the way she deserved, none of this would ever have happened. He did love her and he wouldn’t deny her this baby. He sat down next to her pulling her close to him, as she held the baby tightly.

[center]The End[/center]

[hr][hr]


[center]The Big Lie[/center]



It was 11 AM on a Saturday morning and the sky as gray and drab as the asphalt at the Boulevard at Sunset. I wanted to case the area earlier in the week but Jefferson Elementary hadn’t let out until Friday. I had to deal with teeming masses, the scrambling Christmas Eve shoppers, as I tailed the fat man in red through a deluge of faceless adults and sniffling kids.

He took a turn down a narrow hallway past mall security that led to an unmarked door. He took off his red hat and glanced around with beady eyes. The white carcass of a wig atop his head slightly askew, he pushed through with a grunt. I removed the stale bubblegum from my mouth and flicked into the black abyss of a nearby receptacle. I followed.

The sparseness of the backside of the mall contrasted with the decorated façade out front. I scanned the area for the fat man, but all I saw were the dirty snow piles that towered over me. Everything seemed as dull as my third grade teacher.

I cursed as I reached into my jacket to pull out a bottle of chocolate milk. It was too early for the hard stuff but I didn’t care anymore. As I made ready to take a healthy swig, a white blur at the corner of my eye caused me to duck, the plastic bottle clattering to the ground in a geyser of milky brown. A snowball exploded against the wall where my head had just been. I pulled out my slingshot, the bullet nestled in the pocket.

I saw nothing but the piles of snow, no sign of the fat man.

It didn’t matter. He was just a little lie to the big lie. The message would get to the real Santa. He would come tonight. Just like I wanted.

* * * * *

I sat in the recliner before the crackling fireplace. My pellet gun, black and shiny and loaded, waited on the end table next to me. The place had all the accoutrements of the Christmas Conspiracy: the stockings, the tree, the baubles and little baby Jesus in the manger. It never enticed him to drop by the past, but now he knew I was on to him.

“Whatcha doin’?” asked a high-pitched nasally voice.

My younger brother Ritchie, his nose running and pajamas frumpy, stood there looking as bright as a burnt out streetlight in a lonely cul-de-sac. “Go to bed, Ritchie,” I said.

“Mommy’s gonna wake up,” he said.

I laughed a short, harsh bark. The old dame had traded sugarplums for sleeping pills a long time ago. She’d be out cold until the morning. “Go to bed, Ritchie,” I repeated. “Else the fat man won’t show. And it’ll be your fault.”

“What about you?” he pestered.

“Listen, kid. Me and him, we got an understanding.” I cracked my knuckles. “Now, do you and I have an understanding?” He knew better than to push his luck. He sulked back toward his bedroom. Poor kid would soon find out that life isn’t all kindergarten. I just didn’t want him to find out tonight. Some hurts needed their proper time, the spiritual equivalent of wine and cheese.

I waited for hours. The hands struck midnight and then rudely kept going. I started to have my doubts as my head turned fuzzy with the lack of sleep and too much chocolate milk. The fat man should have paid a visit by now.

“Merry Christmas,” boomed a voice behind.

I jumped out of my chair, my hand on the gun. I swung around and saw a large, rotund man dressed in red. He touched the side of his nose just before I squeezed the trigger. Nothing happened.

“I’ve disabled your gun,” he said with a wink. “You don’t know how many times someone’s pulled a piece on me, even though I’ve been invited.”

I sized him up. Besides outweighing me by a linebacker, the fat man moved with a grace of a puma. “Nice of you to show,” I said.

“You wanted the truth, so that’s why I’m here.”

“The big lie,” I said.

“Not a lie,” he replied. He hadn’t moved, but I had the strangest feeling of him crowding in on me. It was his eyes, blue like the Pacific. “Rather, misconceptions perpetuated.” He grabbed a cookie from the plate set aside for him. “Listen, there are no Illuminati. There is no conspiracy to instill mind control on future generations.”

“So it isn’t a lie that you visit each house in one night, something that’s physically impossible?” I asked.

“The original concept, my young friend,” he said, “is that I visit those truly in need. And you happen to be one of them.”

“Too easy,” I said. “My greatest desire is to learn the truth. Even Ritchie could figure that one out. If you know so much, what’s my second most desired thing?”

“Let’s not play games,” he said.

I smiled, a thin, sharp line. “You scared, fat man?”

His eyes darkened. “You want a Nurse Barbie doll,” he replied.

I felt like a mule had kicked me in the gut. “I have a thing for blondes and long legs,” I muttered. “What about the snowball?”

“Oh, that was the Santa at the mall,” he said. “He thought you were going to snitch on him for taking a drink while on break. He’s not affiliated with me.”

I’m not one to argue with logic. It all made sense. He wasn’t a bad egg after all. “I guess I owe you a Merry Christmas,” I said, my smile genuine this time.

He laughed deep and loud. He did seem like a bowl full of jelly. I couldn’t help but laugh with him.

“Goodnight, Mr. Marlowe,” he said. He touched the side of his nose once more and, just like that, he vanished.

“Goodnight, Santa,” I said as I turned out the lights.

[center]The End[/center]

[hr][hr]


[center]Professional Courtesy[/center]



The wig did not look white in the yellowish glow of the old incandescent bulb that barely lit Harry McGillicuddy's attic. But Harry knew that it was white, as a polar bear's fur is white: the polywhatever artificial hairs were almost perfectly transparent, so any light that struck them was reflected back, softened, but unchanged in color.

A few more minutes of searching unearthed the beard and the red-velvet hat and suit, both trimmed with fake fur of the same colorless color as the wig. Harry suppressed a sneeze as tiny filaments of the "fur" found their way up his cavernous nostrils and took up ballroom dancing with the mold spores and the microscopic flakes of skin that (he'd heard) made up most household dust.

"I -- ah -- found the Santa suit -- ah -- chwmmf," he gasped. "It's kinda dusty..."

"Well, bring it on down, Harry," Maude McGillicuddy said. "I'll run the Hoover over it before Harry Junior comes to pick it up."

Harry stuffed the whole rig back into the ancient plastic bag (the logo of a long-defunct dry cleaner still visible on one side) and carefully lowered himself down the creaking ladder.
"Here it is," he wheezed, digging a threadbare handkerchief from his hip pocket as he passed the bag to his wife. He blew his nose, made his usual detailed examination of the result, then wadded the hanky up and replaced it in his pocket.

Maude rolled her eyes. "I wish you'd use tissues like civilized people do now," she said. "You must be raising a fine crop of microbes there in your pocket."

Harry laughed. "Well, I always did want to be a farmer ..."

[CENTER]####[/CENTER]

As predicted, Harry Jr. arrived just as Maude finished running the upholstery brush of the venerable Hoover upright over the Santa suit.

"Mom! Dad! I'm home!"

The two Harrys and one Maude exchanged rib-bending hugs while Harry Jr. recounted his adventures on the snow-covered roads from downtown to "the 'Burbs".

"People are crazy," he said, shaking his head. "Some have winter tires and anti-lock brakes and figure they can drive like it's summer. Some have neither, and insist on going five klicks an hour on the highway --"

"And some have neither, but still figure they can drive like it's summer," Harry Senior said. "Cars get smarter, people stay the same -- or maybe get worse."

"Well, as long as you drive carefully," Maude said, "you should be all right."

Harry Jr. stayed just long enough to deliver gifts from Janet and the grandkids, then headed out again. "The kids are waiting up for Santa to arrive, and Santa's gonna take a while to make the trip back," he said.

"Can't disappoint the little ones," Maude said cheerfully. But her smile faded as soon as Harry Jr. climbed back into his car.

"A two-hour drive, he said, and he stayed all of ten minutes," she murmured.

"We'll see the whole crew in a few days," Harry said. "Christmas is more for the young children than for old relics like us."

Then Maude looked down and shrieked, "The Santa suit! He forgot the Santa suit!" Sure enough, the new bag she had used to pack the freshly-vacuumed suit was still by the door.

Harry Jr.'s taillights were faint red dots disappearing around the corner. "I'll call him before he gets too far," Harry said. But his attempts to call Harry Jr.'s cell phone yielded only the "subscriber not available" message.

"We have to go after him," Maude said. "The poor children -- if he gets halfway home before he realizes he doesn't have the suit, they won't get their visit from Santa at all -- or not until the wee hours of the morning!"

Harry nodded. After a moment's thought, he said, "I'll wear the suit -- that'll save time at the other end. And you -- " He looked at Maude and laughed. "All you need is to throw on your coat and boots!"

Maude was wearing a red pullover with appliquéd reindeer and candycanes over red slacks. "If I wear my red toque, I guess I'll look enough like Mrs. Claus," she admitted.

They were on the road within minutes, Maude clutching the passenger door handle as the car ploughed its way through axle-deep snow the consistency of brown sugar. "I think you're going too fast, Harry," she said. "We'll do no the grandkids no good if we wind up in the ditch -- or the hospital."

"Hush, Maude, don't distract me now," Harry grunted as he spun the wheel madly to pull out of a skid. He was, fortunately, a veteran of winters in Northern Ontario, and his car was equipped with ... snow tires and anti-lock brakes.

Unfortunately, the car that clipped his rear end just before the bridge over the Humber had neither a skilled driver nor appropriate equipment for the weather. Harry's front bumper slammed through the guardrail and they were airborne.

Maude screamed, and Harry cursed, and both waited for the terrible impact to come.

And waited. And waited.

"Are we hung up on something, Harry?" Maude asked, her voice trembling. "Is that why we aren't in the river?"

"Errr -- actually, Maude, I think we're flying!"

"And are those sleigh-bells I hear?" she asked.

"I don't think I want to know," Harry replied. "Shouldn't look a gift reindeer in the mouth."

A few minutes later, the car settled down on another snow-covered road with a soft whumph and continued forward. "We're back where we should be -- ahead of the game, in fact, only a couple miles from Harry Jr.'s house," Harry said.

They arrived without further incident, just before Harry Jr. pulled up.

"Should we tell them what happened?" Maude asked.

"What, that the real Santa rescued us?"

"And why, Harry? Why did -- he -- do that?"

Harry looked down at the old red suit and shrugged. "Professional courtesy?"

[center]The End[/center]

[hr][hr]


[center]Making History[/center]



The six aspiring starlets were lined-up according to height, just the way The Chief wanted it. He sat behind his monstrously-oversized, ornate island of a desk, intensely puffing on an almost equally huge Cubana and stared at them, one-at-a-time, as if they were bugs on a dissecting plate. Behind him, three toadies with sophisticated Datapads stood like statues, afraid to break the silence. One had the misfortune to find himself completely surrounded by the noxious blue cloud of smoke as it made its way lazily toward the room's intake grille. He looked a little green, but knew better than to even fidget.

"Number three," he growled to Toady2. He spoke low—compared to usual—but anyone standing outside the closed door would have heard him, clearly. "She the one from Thursday?"

"Yes CG," the only way any successful Toady ever answered. "But she was Tuesday."

"Tuesday, huh?" He eyed her up-and-down like a Master Chef examined a choice cut for the King's table. "Thought she was taller. Maybe if we put a wig and heels on her she would. . ."

He was interrupted—unusual, but not unheard of—by the buzz of a large vintage speaker on his aircraft carrier of a desk. Sorry to bash the party, Chief, but Sal is on the phone.

"I'll take it, Blanche." He held his hand out and one of the Toadies handed him a phone. Blanche had been with him for years. She knew what his priorities were. "These stay," he pointed his cigar vaguely in the direction of the girls. "I ain't decided, yet." Nobody moved, nobody so much as breathed loud, especially poor Toady1, still immersed in a cloud of what could be the world's most expensive smog.

"Sal Baby!" His voice boomed. "I got great news!"

"What? Yeah, she's fine. And your wife. . ." He snapped his fingers and Toady2 quickly flashed him his Datapad screen. ". . .Genevieve. . .She doing okay?"

"Good. Good. State Finals, eh? Good."

"Hey listen, Sal. Your idea with What's-her-name and the Senator. We're gonna run with it but I need you to make it the President, instead."

"No, the Science Boys found her in the alternate world but hey, listen. You ain't gonna believe what the Senator's doin' there! Right! Over there, he's the President!"

"Nanocams in the Oval Office! Bedroom scenes in the West Wing! This is gonna be huge! I tell 'ya Sal. HUGE! HBO is droolin' over the first rights."

"Yeah, she's almost as big a star there as she was here, but listen Sal-old-buddy-old-Pal. . .you're gonna hafta' rewrite her whole life to make this work. Maybe a too-friendly uncle or a bad first marriage, or something. Our boys say she's too stable and too committed to DiMaggio in that timeline."

"Him? Naw, the Senator is perfect over there. You know how them Irish Jews are. You won't need to write him nothin'. Doing it like a bunny. Though I guess we should call him the President, instead?"

"Scandal? With the press corps they got? What I wouldn't give for that kind of wink-and-nod, look the other way press. Geeze-Louise but that imaginary mook's got it easy."

"Say what, Sal? Yeah-yeah-yeah. I know they ain't really imaginary. I guess they're as real to themselves as we are."

"When can you get me the re-write, Sally-Boy? What? You wanna pitch me one now? Another historical?"

"Sal, you're killin' me! After that Anthony and Cleopatra fiasco you sure you wanna go ancient history? We only sold it to ABC because the murder scene with Caesar and Brutus was decent. Everything else was barely R-Rated. What can you do for me, Sal?"

"Rape and murder, huh? Torture and ethnic cleansing on a worldwide scale? You're speakin' my language, Sal. Go on.”

“ Centuries of it? Centuries? How?"

"Really? What makes you think. . .?"

“Sal. Bubbke! Another World Religion? You gotta’
be kiddin’ me?!”

But Sal, Baby. We’re. . .uh. . .They’re still gonna’ have the gentle Muslims to counter the Jewish Conversion of Europe, right?”

“What Sal?”

“They’re gonna persecute both?”

“You gotta’ be kiddin’ me?

“And you’re gonna’ do all this from one Jew kid in the time of Caesar Augusts?”

“Wait, you tellin’ me they’re gonna buy a virgin birth?”

“Again, Sal, you’re killin’ me!”

“I get it, Sally, an old guy and a knocked-up teenager. The kid is really the son of God. I get it.”

“And Everybody. And I mean Everybody is gonna’ buy into this?”

“Look Sal, I know you’re the best writer in Hollywood, but you really tellin’ me that they’re gonna fall for this?”

“I hear you, Sal. I believe in you, Sal.”

“What?”

“Marketing for the Twentieth Century?”

“Guy in a red suit?”

“Saint What?”

“Sal! You’re a genius!”

“This sounds too big for TV!’

“Yeah!”

“Me too!”

“You got it Sal. I’m pitchin’ this as a miniseries on Pay-Per-View!”

“We’re gonna make a mint off this one!”

“You got it, Sal. I’m takin’ it to the networks first thing in the morning.”

“What you want to call it, Sal?”

“Nazarene?”

“It just don’t sing for me, Sal.”

“What was this mook’s name, again?”

“What would that be in English, Sal?”

“Hmmmm. Still ain’t doin’ it for me.”

“Your're the educated one, Sal. What’s the Greek for ‘Savior’?”

“Perfect, Sal!”

“Christos!”

“We’ll call it Christ Mas!”

“The marketing boys will love it!”


[center]The End[/center]

[hr][hr]


[center]TRADITIONS[/center]



Ronny reached for another ornament, one of the dark green ones with the glittery white stars in the center, but it darted away before he could lay a finger on it. It rose level with his head, then began spiraling about him like a tiny planetoid. Two more joined it.

“Tammy, quit orbiting me!” yelled Ronny. He made a grab for one of the decorations, but it danced away from his hand.

“I’m not orbiting you, the ornaments are,” said Tammy, Ronny’s sister. At ten, she was two years older than Ronny and forever teasing him.

“MOM!”

Mom poked her head out the kitchen.

“Tammy, stop orbiting your brother and get that tree finished. Your father’s almost home.”

Tammy smiled evilly and sent all three ornaments to hook themselves on the Christmas tree before Ronny could react.

“That’s not fair,” said Ronny.

“Whatever,” said Tammy, suddenly bored with the whole thing.

Mom exited the kitchen, crossed the dinning room where the decorated tree stood – “Good job,” she said as she passed – and opened the front door just as Dad surmounted the porch steps. His arms were laden with festively wrapped Christmas presents.

“’Bout time,” said Mom, smiling.

Dad, face nearly obscured behind the gifts, said, “Well, it takes time to drive all the way to the North Pole and back.”

“You didn’t go to the North Pole,” said Ronny.

“Oh, yeah? Then where’d I go, sport?” said Dad. He always called him sport when he felt Ronny trying to read his thoughts.

“I don’t know,” said Ronny truthfully. Dad was the only person Ronny had ever met whose mind was closed to him.

“So, Santa gave them to me,” said Dad.

“I don’t believe in Santa.”

“Maybe you should.”

“Mom doesn’t.”

“Ronny Wilson, you know it’s impolite to read people’s minds like that,” said Mom.
“Well, you don’t,” said Ronny. “Neither does Mrs. Combinesta across the street or Mr. Brewster, or –“

“Some folks know the truth and some don’t, that’s all,” said Dad, straightening up from arranging gifts under the tree. “Maybe they don’t believe because they’re not gifted like us.”

“I don’t believe in Santa because I’m gifted,” said Ronny. “Grownups don’t believe in him, so neither do I.”

“Santa doesn’t want too many adults knowing about him. He’d never get anything done that way,” said Dad. He grew solemn and said, “Look, would you believe in Santa if you met him?”

“Yeah, but –“

“Alright, then,” said Dad, as he fished his car keys from a pocket. “I’ll be back in a bit.”

With that, he left.

Mom was as perplexed by Dad’s sudden exit as Ronny. Usually he could rely on her thoughts to clear up confusion – adults tended to know what was happening even when they wouldn’t say it aloud – but not this time.


# # #


They made caramel apples to pass the time. While they waited Ronny tried, for the millionth time, to glean the nature of Dad’s abilities from Mom’s mind, but it was no use. She didn’t know.

Even to an eight-year-old that seemed odd. How could they have been married twelve years and she still didn’t know his gifts? Was his power simply keeping his mind locked away from his own son? Ronny thought that a singularly horrible ability.

They had cut the apple pie and were just sitting down to enjoy a few bites when Mom said, “You’re father will be here in a moment. And Tammy, when you’re sixteen you’re going to date a boy named. . . Bradley. Don’t go parking with him, you’ll regret it.”

“Okay, Mom.”

The front door opened. Dad came in followed by a man dressed as Santa Claus. He wore the entire suit, even the boots, belt and cap. His long, silvery hair might have been a wig, but it was a good one.

“Guess who followed me home,” said Dad.

Ronny said nothing, but delved immediately into the man’s mind.

“Who is this?” he asked his voice incredulous.

The fat man’s head was full of strange thoughts and even stranger memories. They were unlike anything Ronny had ever experienced. They felt . . . greasy, it was the only word for it. Reading them was like trying to hold one of those rubber snakes that shoots out of your hand whenever you squeeze it.

The thoughts came in flashes: an urge to take a second look at his lists of naughty and nice, Mom’s apple pie smelled tasty, his current coal distributor had raised prices and he needed to find a new supplier.

Below these surface thoughts lived myriad memories: cavorting reindeer, little men in curly shoes and bright clothes, a matronly Mrs. Claus kissing Santa’s frost bitten cheek after a long Christmas night, a beloved arctic desert that meant home.

“It’s nice to meet you all,” said Santa in a grandfatherly voice. “Is this the boy who doesn’t believe in me?”

“Yep, that’s my boy,” said Dad, smiling.

Santa stuck out his hand. Ronny shook it, feeling dazed.


# # #


Twenty years later:

The phone rang and Ron heard Dad pick up on the other end.

“Hey, Ronny, Mom said you’d be calling.”

“She tell you why?”

“Yep. You need me to do the Santa trick for the kids?”

“Yeah, Carl says he doesn’t believe.”

“Give me an hour, I’ll swing by the mall. You got a few dollars? I hate blanking a man’s memory without giving him a little something.”

“I’ve got fifty. Thanks for this, Dad.”

“No problemo, sport.”

“Hey, I wasn’t trying to –“

“Ronny, I can feel when you try to read my mind.”

“I’m sorry, I just want to know how you do it.”

“Seldom, that’s how. I don’t want folks asking questions.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Just be thankful our family has these little traditions. That’s what makes the season special -- Christmas lights, pumpkin pie –“

“Fooling department store Santas into thinking they’re the real thing?”

“Yeah. Traditions.”

[center]The End[/center]

[hr][hr]

[center]Class Struggle[/center]



Make up. Check. Wig. Check. Gloves. Check. Dark hose free of snags and holes. Double check. Tiny cloisonné green and red ivy pin in honor of the season. Getting dressed for work was like getting suited for an outer space walk. Not an inch of the real me in sight. To the world, I was Christy Clarke, accountant, which made me as big a cipher as the strings of zeros that I worked with every day at Marchand Shipping.

I had more reason than usual to dread going to work that day. It was December 24, the corporate Christmas Party. Sure enough, my employer, Monsier Marchand was draped over the punch bowl, regaling the secretarial pool with his theory of why the French Revolution resorted to the guillotine.

“What most people don’t know,” he murmured. “Is that the aristocracy of Europe was riddled with vampirism.” When he drank, his French accent got heavier, and his hands began to roam. Idly, he caressed the nape of one of the newly hired keyboardists. “Beheading was one of the few reliable ways to dispatch a Lord of the Undead.”

Jenny Fowler, the object of his attention, gazed up at his pale face and slightly blood shot eyes with a rapt expression.

Monsier Marchand smiled at her, revealing unusually sharp canines. “Come back to my office, and I will tell you more.”

I inserted myself between my employer and his Christmas eve snack. “Jenny,” I said coldly, breaking the spell Monsier Marchand had woven. “The Peterson accounts need to be reconciled before the close of the day. Hop to it.”

She jumped like a startled deer. “Yes, ma’am!”

Monsiuer Marchand snarled at me. “Bloody bourgeoisie!”

My face felt stiff behind all its makeup, as I forced myself to smile back. “Blood sucking predatory aristocratic leech!”

His eyes narrowed. With exaggerated care, he straightened the cuffs of his custom tailored suit “Have you given the factory workers their Christmas bonuses yet?”

I ground my teeth. I hated visiting the factory, and he knew it. “Let me get something to drink first.”

“Don’t make them wait too long. We wouldn’t want to have a worker uprising on our hands.”

Nasty man! I turned and found myself staring face to face with one of my colleagues in the accounts receivable department, Justin… what was his name? He was one of those oh so forgettable men. Except at times like these. Was it really a full moon again?

Justin’s breath was quick and shallow. His normally smooth cheeks bristled with coarse fur. Tufts of hair even sprouted from his nostrils and ears. I didn’t want to think about what was under his clothes. I had seen him naked once, swinging from the chandeliers. Usually, he stayed home when he was going through his werewolf transformation. However, Justin seldom got invited to parties, so I guess he could not resist the company Christmas bash.

His odor was sharp and musky. Under other circumstances, I might have found it pleasant, but not here, not at work, with the eyes of my colleagues fixed upon me. When Justin made a lunge for me, I whipped out a silver ball point pen that I kept especially for him and jabbed him in the back of the hand

He howled and nursed his hand.

“Bad boy!” I scolded. “Bad! Sit!”

Time to take care of the Christmas bonuses for the factory then get out of here. I found the push cart with the brightly colored packages beside the service elevator. After donning protective gear----a leather butchers apron, latex gloves and a plexiglass mask---I boarded the elevator with the gifts and pushed the B button. The lurch as the elevator started its downward journey always made my stomach roll over.

On the bottom floor of the building the twenty four hour shipping operation was in disarray. Someone had either neglected to feed the staff or else they had turned their noses up at their usual slop of pig and cow offal, knowing that today was the company Christmas Party, and they were due a special treat.

“Brains!” the foreman groaned. He shuffled in my direction. A few of the fresher, brighter workers followed him. Their clothes were filthy. It went without saying that the workers never bathed. They never slept either. All they did was pack crates and load them onto trucks. Since their food costs were minimal, they kept company overhead low and corporate profits high. The main difficulty was procuring human brains four times a year, which was the minimum nutritional requirement to keep them---not alive. Animated.

“Here you go, Mr. Jenkins. There is one for everyone. No need to be greedy,” I added as he tore into one of the brightly wrapped packages and began to devour the grisly pink contents. As the workers converged on their Christmas goodies, I fled back to the elevator. I was not sure which was more frightening. Pampered French aristo vampires who thought they could do whatever they liked to young girls, because they were rich and powerful, or mobs of mindless worker zombies demanding the food they needed to survive.

Thank God I was middle class! Plain old boring nothing to write home about middle class.

I abandoned the office Christmas nightmare and made my way home. There, I scrubbed off my make up and slipped out of my clothes. It felt great to curl up in front of the fire in a warm, fuzzy robe. Some eggnog would be perfect. Did I have time before the stores closed? I slipped on my wig and a long trench coat whose collar I turned up to hide my face and went out.

The streets were dark and deserted. I was only half way to the store when I heard footsteps following me. I hurried my pace. The footsteps accelerated to match mine. I began to run. A hand reached out to grab my shoulder. I saw the glint of a knife.

Thinking fast, I slipped out of my coat and tossed my wig into the gutter. My would be assailant stood there, looking like a fool, holding my coat. “Where did you go?” he demanded. He could not see me of course. Without my coat and wig, I was quite invisible. Carefully, I tiptoed away. It is so good to be middle class and unremarkable.

[center]The End[/center]

[kailhofer]

I do have to say I thought there were some bits that strained the rules, but in the holiday spirit, I chose to let them slide.

Thanks to all those who entered, and good luck! The poll will close December 30 at 10 p.m. central standard time.

Nate

PS. Just for you, Tao who want to know earlier, & McCamy who asked for it (I saw that), I'll let it slip that the theme for the January 11 challenge will be time travel. That's all I'll say.

[Robert_Moriyama]

Guys and Gals,

How does one go about changing a vote that was already cast?

I'm thinking you just sign in as a guest and cast a vote from the same computer you used under your username.  Is that the way of it?

-- david j.

Based on Doc (aka Rob W.)'s and Nate's research, that should work. (Pleeez don't cancel out the one and only vote MY story has received... (whimper whine)...)

RM

[Robert_Moriyama]

... And now YOU know that if my score doesn't go up OR down, I know that you didn't vote for me the first time, and didn't vote for me the second time, either. I suck at poker, but I'm really good at Abuse of Power and Vindictive Behavior.

[smiley=evil.gif]

[kailhofer]

Guys and Gals,

How does one go about changing a vote that was already cast?

I'm thinking you just sign in as a guest and cast a vote from the same computer you used under your username. Is that the way of it?

-- david j.

[best Yoda voice]

Dangerous and risky, this task is. Great temptation to further one's own story. Be wary. Temptation leads to the Dark Side.

Consider to yourself. The original vote was cast in honesty? Then change it not. If a new one is now considered best, but does not further a dark agenda, then change is fair.

[regular voice]
Yes, that's how you change it. Vote wisely.

Nate

[kailhofer]

Congratulations to David A. Jones, winner of the "Holiday Spirit" Challenge, for his story "Traditions".

For the record, these were the authors of the stories this month:

Resolution by Joseph Nichols
Twas the Night Before Christmas (on Mars) by G.C. Dillon
Exchanging Gifts by Mark Edgemon
The Big Lie by Jaimie L. Elliot
Professional Courtesy by Robert Moriyama
Making History by Bille Wolfe
Traditions by David A. Jones
Class Struggle by McCamy Taylor

A heartfelt thank you to all who entered. This contest could not continue without your time and dedication.


Please feel to comment on these stories now. I'm sure the authors would enjoy feedback.

Nate

PS-Be looking for the Time Travel Challenge January 11th!

[kailhofer]

Just so the December authors get some more feedback, I thought I'd give a few comments.

Resolution - I liked this story. We don't see enough romance around here, but when it came down to it, I thought other stories delivered a bigger impact.

Twas the Night Before Christmas (on Mars) - Honestly, I got confused and never really figured it all out. I understood that there was a meeting of all these figures, and kind of a turf war over Christmas, but couldn't grasp the 'why' of it.

Exchanging Gifts - Apart from the implications if God had indeed caused them to exchange children, I thought this one was a bit weak in the speculative fiction requirement. Sorry.

The Big Lie - I thought this was really clever! Got my vote.

Professional Courtesy - This was my second choice. Solid throughout, IMO. (I was on vacation, & couldn't cast a guest vote for it, sorry.)

Making History - Thoroughly irreverent, tongue in cheek. But a little too crass for me, given the season.

Traditions - Nice tie-in with the beginning with the brain-washed Santa. However Robert's and Jamie's seemed to be more dynamic, and that's why it didn't get my vote.

Class Struggle - I was blown away the first time I read this, probably because I have some experience with factories in Hell stories. I loved her character and the twist at the end, but why these people worked together where they did was missing for me. That, and as I told McCamy in a private message, I would have loved for the brains to be fruitcake instead. More disturbing that way. :)

Nate

[Robert_Moriyama]

Thanks, Nate, for your positive review of my story. We were both stuck with only a single vote (I was on vacation, too), and we actually agreed on "The Big Lie" as our first (and only) choice. The kiddie spin on Chandler was funny throughout, and the Barbie payoff was wonderful (long-legged busty blonde though she may be, it makes one wonder if maybe Marlowe was overcompensating for something...).

Re: brains versus fruitcake -- fruitcake would have been detrimental to productivity in the toy factory, since the workers would have been trapped in an endless round of regifting.

Re: Traditions -- dunno how happy the brainwashed mall Santas would be if they knew what had been done to them. The explanation for the convinced-he-was-real Santa put a rather creepy spin on things...

[kailhofer]

I say post the time travel challenge now and pretend it was delivered from the future!


-- david j.

It already fell back in time to me.

Care to bet on the winner? :)

Nate