Paradoxical notions filled Carol’s head as the face of her watch glared eight pm. ‘Is it still Christmas day?’ She mused, ‘Christmas night-day perhaps?’ Her watch seemed to flare in response.

It was a short walk home from her parent’s house, where she had spent yet another Christmas. The night air was crisp and her breath resembled that of Puff the Magic Dragon’s from her favourite childhood book; which had nursed her through both the chickenpox and bouts of earache. The song began to resonate in her head and her footsteps fell into rhythm.

Nothing much had changed in a year, except her parent’s comments about, ‘Happiness’ and ‘Meeting Mr. Right,’ becoming more poignant. There was that word again….’Happiness’, that indescribable adjective that seemed to mean everything to everyone, yet remained elusive and unquantifiable.

As she neared her home in Cherry Lane, she contemplated the rest of her evening alone in her flat…a luxurious bubble bath perhaps… and this song in her head…then she noticed movement outside her door.

He smiled warmly. Her puzzled look gave way to his obvious predicament of trying to alert the attention of his partying friends in the neighbouring flat. She opened the communal door as he introduced himself and invited her to join him. She checked her watch as if to postpone an immediate decision. With the song still looping in her head, she muttered defiantly, “It is still Christmas day!”
“Jack, happy to meet you,” he continued, “I live near the sea”...

“John!” hissed my mum.
“What?” my dad replied from the other bedroom.
“Angela’s out here”
We all stood and stared at each other on the landing.
“I need the toilet” I told mum who was carrying a Santa’s Sack.
“That’s alright Angela; go and then come downstairs, quietly as you can, so you don’t wake your sisters.”

That was the Christmas Eve, at the age of eight, I became Santa’s little helper. My parents explained, as gently as they could, that I had disturbed them playing Santa Claus. Now I was in on the secret, so I helped to arrange the presents that Santa had brought for my sisters. As I shared supper with them my mum said “Can you act surprised tomorrow morning, so as not to spoil it for your sisters?”I promised her that I would.

Christmas morning was very different for me that year. Secretly, I grieved for the loss of the man in the red suit and my innocent dreams, but marvelled at the amazing gifts we all received, many of them lovingly handmade by Santa’s elves [mum and dad]. My sisters were thrilled as they ripped off the wrapping paper, and my parents grinned from ear to ear and winked at me. I had discovered the identity of Santa, but the magic of Christmas was still very much alive.
From then on each year, until my sisters eventually discovered the truth, I was Santa’s little helper, along with two rather big elves!

Old broken man carries boxes
past a crowd he’s trying to ignore.
He turns, faces them, surveying.
Children of all ages approach him.
They see things never noticed before:
gut hanging over belt,
tobacco-stained beard, before always white as snow
he traveled with.

Waits until crowd gets restless,
raises hand,
speaks,
“It’s true.
I’ve quit my job. You can all go home,
There will be no changing my mind.”

Old man turns from crowd
but crowd stays still.
“But why, Santa?” middle-aged
man from back calls.
Santa turns, looks at man,
sits on car bumper, thinking.
“Why?” chuckles.

“Because I’m tired of busting my butt for other people.
Because I get thousands of letters asking for presents but no thank you notes.
Because everyone leaves milk and cookies when I want beer and steak.
Because the job has no benefits, no health insurance, no 401k.
Because animal rights folks have been harassing me about working the reindeer.
Because the elves want a union.
Because Fisher Price offered $5 million for the toy factory.”
He pauses, waits for response,
crowd silent.

“And because the tricks you kids are pulling to catch me
are getting more dangerous every year,”
he adds to soften the mood, no luck.
“So that’s it,” says turning back to boxes.

Little girl step forward,
tugs on old man’s sweatshirt.
“But what will happen to Christmas?” asks, voice cracking.
He looks at her, guilt climbing through stomach.
“I don’t know.” Says, “I don’t know.

As Christmas draws near, in the shadowed corner of a dark room sits a lonely character. Head in hands, solemn in appearance.
A closer look shows that the forlorn figure is male. Photos and pieces of paper are scattered round him, words running together into one.
‘Its all my fault’ I hear him whisper under his breath, over and over.
One piece of paper stands out. Its more pictures than words, but I can see ‘Daddy’ clearly. On the same piece of paper there is a family of three drawn – next to Daddy is ‘Mummy’, and between them is a small child with a smiling face, wearing the largest grin I have ever seen.
Next to the tear stained letter is an official looking document – ‘Leave Granted’ in big red letters embossed across the hard to make out text on the page.
‘If only the weather could change…...snow…....go…..’ Something I have heard a lot of recently, but this person is surrounded by heat. ‘This is going to take some working out’ I think to myself slowly.
As my snow globe takes me outside the room, I see sand and wasteland, but no reason to change the weather.
Back into the room, I see a name tag on the males clothes – Sgt. Miles. I turn to Mr Claus and say ‘Its time we speak with Mother Nature – we have a very important person to bring Christmas to’.

Vladivar was starving before Christmas last and had to help himself to his next door neighbour’s dog to make a rogan josh curry.

“It tasted better than the reindeer I had from Lapland the year before,” Vladivar stated. “That tasted of sweaty scrotum and was Santas only means of transport after I burnt his sleigh to keep warm.”

In return, Santa bought Vladivar a bottle of cheap red wine and some chilli peppers from the local corner-shop as a sarcastic present.

“THANKS SANTA” Vladivar bawled: cocking his twelve bore shotgun and giving him both barrels.

Santa scarpered, clenching his buttocks.

“Ha, that’ll teach him” Vladivar exclaimed, putting his gun down and pressing his thumbs under his armpits, strutting round like a cockney chicken. “If he wants to make it back next year he’ll need some jellied eels (wheels) and fork out from his own skyrocket (pocket).”

That same year without his transport, Santa felt pointless. He decided to leave his home of Greenland and moved to Vietnam, exporting rice as a new business venture.

“I capitalise on child labour” Santa exclaimed “forcing them to hoe hoe hoe for a living.”

Vladivar Vernacular is now even more skint and has resigned himself this year to eating garden snails stolen from his other neighbour.

“They taste of sweaty Lycra,” he grimaced “like the time I stole our vicars bicycle seat before he rode to Christmas mass. He didn’t even notice when he pedalled off.”

Radio Flyer

It was Christmas Eve and as always a festive time at our home with the seafood feast and traditional cheesecake. Our home was the hearth that everyone, including friends and aunts and uncles, gravitated toward. There were always people gathered around the dining room table drinking coffee and having drinks. All of the older children were allowed to stay up late to attend Midnight Mass and then have a treat. In those days we could not eat meat on the Eve until 12 midnight. So we had bacon and eggs at 2:00 AM. After the meal, my mother asked my boyfriend and me to pick up a red, radio flyer, wagon from my aunt’s home a few houses away. It was snowing that night so it felt even more special with the snowflakes touching our faces as we pulled the bright red wagon. This was the big gift for my little brother from Santa. It had a bell on it and seemed to sound even louder with the snow on the ground. We were laughing as we tried to silence it as much as we could. The next morning my brother was thrilled with his gift. The five-year-old also had a puzzled look on his face as he said. “I heard the bell last night and knew it was Santa.”

“Diana, are you all right in there?” David pressed his ear to the locked bathroom door. “Darling? I’ve got the tree up.” He could just hear what could have been a stifled sob. She’d gone up to have a shower while he got the Christmas tree upright, but she’d finished at least fifteen minutes ago and normally she couldn’t wait to start decorating.

There was the sound of the toilet flushing and then her voice, croaking, “I’m all right; I’ll be down in a couple of minutes.”

He heard her cleaning her teeth. Finally he called “Well okay, if you’re sure. I’m just going down to stir the mulled wine.” He thought he heard a groan then, but couldn’t be sure. Shrugging, he made his way downstairs, sniffing appreciatively at the aroma of cinnamon and cloves. It was their Christmas tradition, built up over the seven years of their marriage; he’d put up the tree and make a pot of mulled wine and they’d decorate together, getting pleasantly tipsy. Just the two of them. He sighed; it would have been nice….Oh well, no point speculating on what might have been.
He started as she came up behind him. She was holding something out to him, a small white stick. He stared uncomprehendingly at the blue plus sign, and then looked up at his wife’s pale but smiling face.

“Happy Christmas, daddy,” she whispered. Beginning to cry, he pulled her in to a pine needled hug.

Carol came in laden with bags and flopped down onto the sofa.

‘Successful day dear?’ asked her husband.

She nodded. ‘I think I’ve got everyone sorted: perfume for Nancy and a lovely cardie for Mum – both only half

price, Lego for the twins and…’

‘I’ll make you a cup of tea.’ Keith interrupted her quickly, ‘You must be exhausted.’

‘My legs are killing me’ she agreed. ‘But look at this – lovely all-wool socks for…’ By this time Keith was in

the kitchen and couldn’t hear her over the sound of the boiling kettle.

He returned shortly with 2 steaming mugs of tea. Carol was still working her way through her

packages, checking everything she’d bought was there and that all the people she wanted Christmas

presents for had been accounted for. She sipped at her tea absentmindedly as she held items up to the

light to better admire, or to frown at doubtfully and ask anxiously: ‘I could only get this in green and I know

her favourite colour is blue, do you think she’ll mind?’

‘It’s the thought that counts,’ said Keith equably, without looking up from his paper.’ And you’ve got lots of

bargains, like every year.’

Carol sighed contentedly. ‘Yes, it’s always worth the effort.’

‘Have you bought the food?’ Keith asked a little later, tongue not noticeably in cheek.

Carol looked askance.

‘No, of course not,’ he answered his own question. ‘Silly me! Still 360 days before we need to get that in.’

It was the longest night of the year and once again they had come together for a night of storytelling. Gabe volunteered to go first.

“I hope it’s not that same story again.” Mike muttered.

“Once upon a time a child was born in a stable..”

“Oh no,” The others moaned, “you tell that every year. We know the story. Let’s hear something new.”

“Yes,” said Uri, “something new and creative.”

“It is an important story.” Gabe paused. “His birth was foretold by the prophets. His parents were poor but devout people. His father was a carpenter and as the boy grew he…”

“…learned the family business.” They all chorused.

Gabe stood up, “This is my story and I will tell it.”

“No! I will tell the story!” said Luci, quickly standing. “For two thousand years the people of the earth have celebrated his arrival with anger and sadness; greed and carnage! They will never change. Now it is my story!”

And as Lucifer spoke his form grew more intense and terrible. And the angels looked upon him and they were sore afraid.

Two little boys squatted close to the beautiful crib scene near the altar. Gill moved forward, but Liz touched her arm, saying, “Shh, leave them.”

“But Peter can’t —-“

“Alex knows, let’s listen.”

“This is hay, feel it,” whispered Alex.

It crackled and they giggled.

“Why are you whispering?” whispered Peter.

“Because baby Jesus is here; he’s asleep, can’t you hear him breathing?”

Peter lifted his smiling face, “I think so.”

“Jesus was born in a stable where animals lived and a big, bright star shone over it to tell everybody.” Alex drummed his finger-tips on Peter’s palm making him laugh. “Can you feel the star twinkling? Here’s Mary, and Josef, they’re Jesus’s mum and dad. Mary has a lovely blue cloak on.”
Alex rubbed the velvety material over Peter’s cheek.

“I like blue it’s soft and warm,” Peter hesitated, “Alex, where is that special star now?”

“In heaven, of course, where Jesus went to.”

“Do we all go there?”

Alex looked puzzled, “We must do it’s so big there’s got to be room for everybody. Come on, they’re waiting.” He pulled Peter up.

Two mums struggled with tears as small hands crept confidently into theirs. They hugged cheerio.

“Mum, when Peter goes to heaven will Jesus show him the stars, and let him see blue?”

Through the lump in her throat, Liz said, “I’m sure he will; let’s ask him to in our prayers.”

“Good, I’ll tell Peter the next time I see him, he likes blue.”

On Christmas Eve, I normally held ‘open house’ at home for my choristers, but this year I invited all church members in the diocese to come to our church hall to socialise, eat and sing.

We prepared food and duly offered a glass of wine to arrivals. My choir secretary and his twin sister served the wine. I greeted everyone with ‘Welcome – Happy Christmas’.

By eight o’clock, we had a fair number of visitors. Then two priests arrived, one
coloured so I did my duty and asked, ‘Would you like white wine or black? I was unaware what I had said but it had not gone unnoticed by my helpers – they were suddenly under the table rolling in fits of laughter. I had to usher them into the
kitchen to find out what all the mirth was. Imagine my embarrassment when they
spluttered the answer.

It was soon time to start the ball rolling by singing some carols – but alas, Carol was the girl who was already rolling on the floor in convulsions. The thought suddenly gripped me and my stomach started wobbling. There was no way I could conceal my frivolity.

Church musicians are trained to improvise, musically, but now came the real testing time – so I delivered an apology from the piano.

‘I am sorry for all the hysterics – a kitchen lady slipped on a broken mince pie and crashed into the wine stand. Let’s start the singing with Silent Night’

Dear Santa,
I hope you remember me, my name is Mary and I live in the house right at the end of the road, the one with the red door? I left you a mince pie last time, and a card to say thank you. I’ve been ever so good, I only hit my brother once this year, and it was his fault for calling Jane a cow, which isn’t a very nice thing to do by the way, as I’m sure you know and I hope you punish him with a lump of coal instead of a Playstation 3. Oh, of course you’ll know when I dressed up and used mummy’s make up, but that wasn’t really being bad was it? And if it was, it was Jane’s idea anyway, and it wasn’t me who put the lipstick in the microwave. Anyway, what I wanted to say was could I please please please have the hamster, the one with batteries that doesn’t die or do poo poo’s or anything. I promise to be good again, honest.

Mary (extra special kiss)xxx

“I saw it, and after all that you just left her standing there and got on the plane?”
“Yeah, I did.”
“Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why did you think that was a good idea?”
“Err… I don’t know, look I’d rather not okay?”

Of all the seats on the plane, the young man thought.

“You do know its Christmas?” The woman continued, her cheeks rising.
“Yes,” he replied.
“And what that poor girl is going through now?”
“I know, but—“
“—Really I don’t see how some men get away with things like this. You have ruined that poor girls Christmas, and your doing a good job at ruining mine.”
“I’m sorry,” the young man looked startled, “what!?”
“Ah, I see, you are blameless in this too?”

“This is mad,” he muttered, before glancing around and adding softly, “look, you don’t know why I left her there, do you, so forget it.”

The woman blustered, wine splattered from her blood red lips.

“Don’t know why? John, how DARE you, I am your mother and you will respect—“

“—Is this about the girl or you then?” The young man interjected, suddenly angry.

“BOTH!” The woman gestured wildly with both hands, her wine glass smashed into the airline seat before her, Rioja flew everywhere and drenched the surrounding passengers.

All eyes upon them, the young man stood up and marched away up the dimly lit aisle.

Well now you see why she is not here, he thought.

“I’m not supposed to accept gifts from strangers.”

“Oh,” said the old lady. She was holding out a cameo pendent on the end of a chain. “She was a Tsarina?”

Melissa screwed up her face at the tarnished thing, and looked round for her dad. He’d only popped into Sainsbury’s for a minute.

A little sadly, the old lady pulled back her hand, circled the pendant and chain down into her palm, and placed them back into her shawl. “I suppose that is wise.” She looked tired and a little sad. Shaking her head and sighing, the old woman picked up her staff to leave.

Melissa noted the ice under her feet. “Do you need any help?”

“Eh? Hmm. Help?” The old lady considered this. “I’m looking for three kings,” she said, after a while. “You seen them?”

“Three kings?” That sounded familiar. “I think I have.”

“You have? Well, where child?”

“Over there… in the bins.”

“Bins?” said the old lady, surprised.

“Yes, the big bins – with the tinsel hanging out.”

“Ah, yes. Well, my thanks. Vesyologo Rozhdestva: Merry Christmas!” And she hobbled off in the direction Melissa was pointing.

At the side of the store, huge, red banners proclaimed: ‘January Sale Now On!’

“Ahhh,” Baboushka said to herself. In the dumpster, was a jumble of mannequin parts; though one torso was robed in poor, theatrical robes and the head still bore a paper crown.

For the first time in a century, she slapped her skirts and laughed.

My annual pilgrimage to Granddad’s grave on Christmas Day brought back memories when I was twelve, and he was the centre of attraction, as usual, at our house.

Whenever we met he turned the conversation with, ‘Did I ever tell you ‘bout the time I won the MM?’ Christmas was no different, and he always excited me with his tale of charging a machine gun post in 1917.

Mum and Dad cooked a superb Turkey lunch with Granddad demanding more of everything, then retiring to an armchair and falling asleep, leaving us with Mum’s brothers; Uncle Ross, aloof and a wealthy accountant, and Uncle Albert a down to earth postman.

That year, Uncle Albert told me about life as a soldier fighting in Korea, with the bitter cold on Christmas Day, only Granddad’s snoring disturbing the tension.

Uncle Ross tottered towards us, the worse for drink, and slurred his story of adventures as a National Serviceman, fighting the Communists in Malaya and surviving an ambush.

‘Wow!’ I said, not knowing he’d been a hero, and wondered about the silence in the room until Granddad stirred. He burped, and pointed an accusing finger at Uncle Ross.

‘You never went to bloody Malaya. You were in the bloody Army Pay Corps at Aldershot.’

You could have heard a pin drop as Granddad leaned back in his armchair, and a smile wreathed his face as, with a contented sigh, he passed out of this world.

Jane replaced the phone and brushed away tears. Neither Sarah nor Rachel needed any assistance – not to cook, clean or babysit.

‘Just relax, Mum,’ they said. Her first Christmas without Peter and nobody needed her help.

She wandered into the lounge and sat staring at the Christmas tree. A distinctive knock at the front door saw her get to her feet and she met her neighbour Irene halfway down the hall.

“Hi,” she said. “We’re going down to the Crisis Centre, remember? You promised you’d come with me.” “Yes, I know I did. I’ ve got my keys.”

Ten minutes later Jane found herself in a noisy warehouse awash with people: packing hampers, wrapping toys or sorting donations. She spent several hours wrapping gifts and adding tags; ‘girl, 3 years’, ‘boy, 7 years’. She thought of her grandchildren with playrooms full of toys.

At six o’clock they left with the soup van.

The cold was intense, the people all different yet alike in their need. Some similar in age to her daughters, her father, to Peter but with shaky, grimy hands, or vacant, rheumy eyes, Here a hostile face, an averted gaze, there muttered thanks, a bleak expression. She saw people huddled on benches, under bridges, in doorways.

Five hours later, she returned home, shaken, disturbed and exhausted.

After a restless night she rang the girls. She’d be there for Christmas dinner, but lunch she would spend at the Centre. They needed her.

Her heart raced as she stood outside the door, her head hanging low. How could she have done it? Why hadn’t she just stopped herself? Why hadn’t she just, for once, said “NO!”

She could hear the voices coming from inside, people laughing and Christmas jingles playing merrily in the background. How could she face them? How could she tell them what needed to be said without experiencing their stares and the inevitable questions….what could she say that they wouldn’t already be able to tell just by looking at her?

She almost turned and fled, but something inside her made her hand reach forward and turn the door handle. She had come too far to turn away now. Some inside force pushed her forward as she slowly looked up and faced those before her.

The strangers turned to greet her and introduce themselves, but everyone went quiet as they saw the look on her face…

“I ate too many mince pies!” she declared turning her head away in shame.

“Don’t worry dear” soothed her new consultant, “so did most of us here! But we have a recipe for a much tastier and lower calorie version than you can buy in the shops. Fret not, you’ve done the right thing by joining. Together we’ll help you achieve your perfect figure next year!”

“Right. I’d like to open this up to suggestions from the group. As you can see from the slides, we’ve got major issues to deal with in order to move forward. And please, let’s cool it on the diet jokes for once. I see a hand up over there. Yes?”

“Boss, I think we’ve got to look at modernization across the board. Logistics have become a total nightmare, manufacturing needs major upgrades, and communications are almost non-existent.”

“Agreed, but difficult to achieve given our time and budget constraints. Frankly we need some short term fixes to get us past crisis point. Elvin, what have you got?”

“Well, it’s a bit of a laundry list, but I think it’s all do-able and cost-effective.”

“You’ve got the floor.”

“First we retro-fit a new GPS to the sleigh with a remote monitor fitted to Rudolph’s satellite receiver. Objective: Fewer wasted miles. Second, we must containerize all products. I’ve got bulk shipping rates from FedEx that will save us sixty-two percent on a guaranteed just-in-time basis. You simply retrieve the load from each depot and distribute locally. Finally, the command centre will be able to make near-instantaneous adjustments to your flight plan if there are any problems with weather or artillery, and you’ll get an automatic email notification to your iPhone.”

“Fantastic. That’s the kind of blue-sky thinking we need. Let’s embed those immediately and move to the positive side. Any other business?”

“Complete absence of chimneys on four continents?”

As I sat down in the chair. The lights on the tree seemed to wink at me as if to say, ‘you deserve a warm glass of brandy’. Having the approval of the tree made me smile. That had been the last thing we bought before my darling husband had returned to Afghanistan. They had let him come home for the birth of our fourth baby, and after several delays he had arrived a day before the birth. That had been four weeks ago and now it was Christmas night and all the celebrations were over.
We always had a real tree. Searching the forest for the perfect one had become a pre Christmas family ritual, but we had decided that an artificial one would be easier for me this year. The children had enjoyed decorating it, while I sat and fed their new sister. Being artificial seemed to go with this year’s celebration.
There had been many presents underneath it. I looked towards the tree now, where several still remained with his name on. These I could either send in a comfort parcel or leave until his return in March.
My left hand went automatically to the sapphire on the chain around my neck, an early Christmas present from him, and the reason for our newborn daughter’s name Sapphira. I raised my glass of brandy to toast the tree.
“Merry Christmas darling. Come home safe. Your little family loves you.”

I’d always felt that Christmas was synonymous with happiness. As a child I had somehow managed to convince my warring parents that there could be no quarrels then or on any family birthdays. I even held to my right to stay up till midnight to savour the armistice like the mud drenched soldiers in Flanders several wars ago.
The phone rang. Someone wishing me Happy Christmas, I thought. I picked up the receiver from the table strewn with tinsel and cards.
‘I’m so sorry. John is dead. He killed himself last night.’
There was no Christmas. I wept with friends, for whom, also, this festival of life was blighted. I remember little of that now, although Christmas is still haunted by absence. Mostly I remember the funeral and the absence of blue flowers. The winter is not kind to blue flowers and all I wanted was some small blue flowers to place on his grave. No logic, I know, but where does logic come into it when Solovey-Razboynik has cursed the road to Kiev by the black crossroads?
That year Kiev was in deepest Devon, all the grasses were frozen and woven to bar the way and the blue flowers bowed down their heads.
Now Christmas is synonymous with loss and the absence of blue flowers.

Excitement welled up inside her like never before. Her eyes hadn’t even opened yet, but she knew today was going to be an exceptionally special day.

The alarm went off and she couldn’t stop the “Merry Christmas gorgeous!” that burst forth from her lips as she addressed the stirring man beside her. He smiled and drew her towards him in a warm hug. “Merry Christmas sweetheart” he replied, “I love you.”

Unlike any normal day, they didn’t press the snooze button. They were up, robed and downstairs before the Christmas tree in record time.

One by one, they opened their presents, surprised by the thoughtfulness of each other’s gifts. Then again, they had known each other for six years, so they ought to have known each other well enough by now.

When all the presents were open she hugged him and felt something in his robe pocket.

“Stand up” he requested, kneeling up on both knees.

From his pocket he brought forth a small blue box and opened it as he held it up to her. He gulped. “I love you very much” he said, “Will you marry me?”

She couldn’t keep the grin from her face as she tilted her head to the side and forced a look of contemplation as she replied “ummm….maybe….let me think about….alright then!”

She bent down to hug him and he placed the beautiful diamond ring on her special finger.

This was one Christmas present she knew she’d always remember.

The boy – he really wasn’t much more even after five years of war – sensed the situation worsen as the end approached. Days of mind-blowing boredom had once been relieved by occasional letters from home, by Red Cross parcels and books: the ever-to-be-blessed soul-saving supply of books. Then the books and the parcels and the mail stopped. They heard on the secret radio that Paris had been taken, the frontiers crossed into Belgium, Holland; finally the Brits were over the Rhine. The Ruskies surged from the east.

The p.o.ws were herded into cattle trucks from Stalag Luft VI in Lithuania to Stalag XXA at Thorn, and finally Stalag XIB at Fallingbostel.

That winter of 1944 was bitter. They lost nearly half their body weight, their clothes became rags. The hope that strengthened with approaching liberation succumbed to a swamping fear. Why had they been brought here, 100,000 ragged humans? A mass execution? The smell of fear was as prevalent as that of unwashed bodies.

He stood at the barrack entrance one evening looking up at a starlit sky, remembering how it had felt on a mission, up there detached from the stench of war. There had been fear then too.

A German guard came to lock the barracks door for the night, thrust a crumpled brown parcel at him. The unfamiliar pungent perfume of home-made cake was overwhelming.

“Mine mother, she make,” the soldier said. “‘appy Christmas.”

The boy wept.

I watch the sky. I just can’t stop looking up at the blanket of black dotted with diamonds. I wonder if this is what it looks like back home. I think it’s Christmas eve but my mind might be playing tricks as I’ve been on back to back 16 hour watches. Watching for something that might kill me, my friends and most of the locals. They don’t care if it’s us or them, women or children.
I remember back to Christmas when I was a kid. Mum arguing with dad in the kitchen about who didn’t turn the oven on, Gran snoozing after a sherry too many but blaming the central heating and me and Tony on the mat playing with our new toys. I always had soldiers, tanks and planes. I joined to fight for what I thought was right. Not this. We wait, we watch, we wait. Waiting for the reaper, that IED or shrapnel or landmine to take us down.
I hear something, a rustling and swivel my head back and forth. It sounds like bells. I shake my head as I hear snuffling, like an animal. I raise my rifle as I feel a hand on my shoulder. I turn so fast to an empty space. A small gift box lies at my feet and I immediately think it’s an IED and take a step back. The bells return and I raise my head to the sky and shake my head. Is that a sleigh?

Word count 249

The goose landed awkwardly, her splayed feet trying to get a grip on the frozen lake. She skidded across the rutted ice, her plump, white body coming to rest against a half submerged log. She lay still for a moment, the wind plucking at her thick, feathery coat.

It had been a long flight across white-capped mountains, rolling seas and brown, barren land. When she had set off there had been many of them, flying in formation high above the clouds. But then something had happened and she`d found herself alone. She had flown on, an unerring instinct guiding her at last to her winter home.

The snow began to fall, the wind piling the powdery deposits up against the submerged log. The goose was still now, her twisted leg trapped beneath her rapidly cooling body. As the watery sun dropped below the horizon she lifted her head, her pink eyes watching the child as it glided across the ice, its screams of pleasure echoing across the frozen water.

“It’s turkey,” Marian said, stifling a sigh.

“Turkey? How am I gonna chew turkey with these bloody things?” Charlie Parker picked up his false teeth and waved them at her.

“Well, it’d be a whole lot easier if you actually put them in.”

Charlie slung them back into the pot and pushed his plate away. “You hospital nurses. You think just ‘cos it’s Christmas we’ve all gotta be in the festive spirit. Well I aint gonna be anytime soon so you can just sod off.”

Marian withdrew from his bedside, retaining her smile with enormous effort. ‘I’ll be back in a few minutes. I’ve just got to check on Mr Bartholomew.’

“That old coot? You do that, and take that soddin’ turkey with you.”

After confirming that Mr Bartholomew was comfortable, Marian slipped into the staffroom and shut the door. The Christmas tree had fallen over yet again, shedding baubles like pine cones. She didn’t bother to pick it up. What was the point?

Two minutes quiet, that was all she needed.

Charlie Parker wasn’t moving as she trudged back toward him. His head drooped forward. His bony arm hung limp. Both his dinner and his teeth were untouched.

Without fuss, Marian closed the curtains. She checked his pulse and his breathing. She found nothing
.
“Merry Christmas, you old coot,” she said as she picked at a sliver of turkey. If there was ever a perk to be had for working Christmas day, this certainly wasn’t it.

So enjoyed your Xmas Round Robin that I thought I’d reply this year! I know you don’t usually have time to write individual letters with your busy lifestyle, but I do.

Always look forward to hearing about your holidays. Macau, Vietnam, Colorado… and now Sorrento! So wise to stick closer to home this year. Though of course now Steve has ‘retired’ so suddenly, you’ll have more time to travel.

What news of Matty at Imperial? Didn’t he graduate this year? With a First, I’m sure, as anticipated. Surprised you haven’t mentioned him. But lovely news that Katrina’s having a baby – didn’t realise she was married!

So you’re down-sizing? Good idea! Who needs all those rooms to look after at our age, and that enormous garden? Bognor sounds lovely – much less crowded than Padstow or Salcombe.

I can see it’s been a busy old year for you. Nothing much changes at this end. We’ve been on holiday a couple of times (Cambodia – have you done Cambodia?), Jeremy got his First from Kings (he and Matty should celebrate together!). John’s move up to Senior Partner so is away a lot, but seems happy. Oh – and we’ve bought a boat!

But enough about me. Hopefully this year, now neither of you are working and the children are busy with other things, you’ll have much more time for letter writing. Do send news.

Though I’m afraid I may only be able to manage a Round Robin next year.

Maggie stood by the window, watching the soft flakes fall in the dark evening outside.
‘Here you go love,’ said her husband, handing her a warmed mulled wine; ‘I might have over-spiced it.’
She tasted it.
‘It’s lovely… thanks.’
‘No one rang then?’
‘No, not yet.’
She watched the flurries taking hold on the rooftops.
‘Damned cold through there,’ he said, nodding towards the kitchen.
‘Hmm,’
They both heard a siren speeding through the streets.
‘Do you think I should try again?’ she asked.
‘No, give him a chance; it’s busy this time of year,’
‘But he could be stuck somewhere…’ She pulled the curtains to again and sipped her drink, trying to relish the sweetness, but it didn’t stop her from fretting. The radio was playing ‘Do they know it’s Christmas’ from the old Band Aid era.
‘It still makes you think, that song, doesn’t it?’ said the husband.
‘Yes,’ said Maggie, wistfully, ‘And I bet they’re all still starving too.’
‘We’re lucky really. I mean, compared to them,’ he said.
‘Suppose we are… They must be sliding all over the place out there.’
‘Do you think he’s on his motorbike? He asked.
‘Doubt it,’ she said. ‘Not in this weather, surely…’
The phone rang. The husband answered.
‘Yes…yes I am,’ he said. ‘Yes…erm, no.’
He hung up.
‘Who was that?’
‘Do I own my own home,’ he said, looking heavenwards.
The door bell rang, and Maggie perked up. ‘Thank God, the pizza at last.’

He remembered her childish excitement as she’d spotted the swathes of deep, violet tinsel glistening in the store. ‘We must have some!’ she’d insisted. He’d tried to object but she wasn’t listening. She never listened anymore. He’d struggled to carry the awkward assortment of metallic baubles and coloured beads and flashing LED lights which she’d selected, and he’d sighed dejectedly as she’d stuffed the purple garlands into his already laden arms.
‘These will look perfect together’ she’d trilled. ‘Trust me.’
He’d found her fascination for all things shiny, endearing in the early years, but now, it had begun to frustrate and even anger him. Chandeliers in every room in the house; dust-catchers. A diamond ring from their weekend in Amsterdam; he’d had other things planned for that trip. Cut glass handles on the drawers – resentment stored away. Lead crystal, drinking glasses – sorrows drowned. Mirrors of all shapes and sizes, adorning every wall – reflections of his disillusionment.
Sitting here now, in the darkened living room, with just the lights from the tree twinkling, and the baubles twirling, and the coloured beads dangling; swilling champagne from his tacky ‘Ho Ho Ho’ mug; he mulled over how she would frown upon his choice of drinking vessel – but at the same time he comforted himself with the knowledge that she would entirely approve of the violet, tinsel necklace which he’d wrapped ever so tightly around her slim, white throat – he had to agree – they all looked perfect together.

The old man shivered as he heaved his heavy bag onto the chimney pot. Resting to catch his breath, he looked out across the snow-covered roofs. He had lost count now of how many presents he had delivered since he took over the job from his Father over four hundred years ago. Now, with his eyesight going and his bones plagued with arthritis, it was time to hand over to his son. This would be his very last chimney.

He had seen a lot of changes in his time. When he had first gone out with his father and his team of elderly reindeer, the land had been covered with dense forests, tiny hamlets snuggling for warmth in patches of open clearings. As time passed by, the forests had been felled for their timber, bigger more substantial homes springing up their place. Now the land was covered in these dwellings, the once majestic forests with their oaks and yew reduced to rows of flimsy pines standing like soldiers on parade.

He wrapped his red cloak tighter around his aching body, his stiff fingers pulling at the chord of the bag until it was tightly shut. Dangling one leg over the edge of the chimney he began to lower himself into the darkness, a chilled tear trickling down his cheek until it became lost in the mass of soft white hair that was his beard.

He reincarnated on 25th December 1978, born as before to an impoverished Jewish family, progressing through childhood unobtrusively, save for some strange guests and presents at birth. He grew to be a popular young man, though He didn’t join in the usual rough and tumble at school. Holding strong views on morality, he was serene, well mannered, possessed of an uncanny wisdom and spiritual sensitivity that His classmates considered to be a little weird. Nevertheless, anyone feeling ill or troubled who sat down next to Him to tell Him their problems, found that they felt significantly better having unloaded their burdens as He listened to them.

His mother was aware that He was divine, but what doting mother doesn’t feel the same about her son? He never told anyone His secret, this time around preferring to concentrate on spreading the understanding that, although He embodied God’s Love, so too did everyone else; that there was divinity in all life. So, empowered enough to assume their own responsibility for creating a better world rather than looking to Him to intercede for them – and blaming Him and His God when things didn’t go the way they wanted – people began to forge positive links with each other and, emulating his compassionate example, filled their waking hours with good and thoughtful deeds.

Society gradually became Utopian, everyone taking part in its high level of evolution. His job done, He went on holiday to Israel last Easter and was never seen again.

1.
Unbelievably another Christmas was looming. A special time for family get-togethers, presents and fun. When was the last time I had fun? No family now. An only child, my elderly parents had died within a few months of each other.

I must do something this year, before it’s too late or I’ll end up like Mum and Dad, listening to the Queen’s speech then sleep until it’s time for tea. I’ll just sink without a trace.

‘‘I want something entirely different’ I informed the travel consultant.

The village was high in the hills and the streets were too steep for cars but there were donkey steps.

Christmas Eve was quiet, not a sound anywhere.
.
Then I heard them. Bells ringing out in joyous celebration.

I opened the door to see dozens of people silently passing by, an old lady in black beckoned to me. They were going to the church in the square. A donkey bearing a plaster statue of the Virgin Mary stepped sure footedly up the steep hill. I found myself following.

2.
Inside the vaulted dimness of the church, I felt an unexpected sense of soaring optimism. I could stay here. Write that novel, I had enough money saved.

Outside in the scented twilight, a tall man wearing tweeds flashed me a friendly smile.

‘Hello.’

‘Feliz Navidad.’ The only Spanish I knew.

Following the steps of decades of donkeys I descended the steep street just as sure footedly.

It was a beginning.

Scrooge

“Well, Marley,” Scrooge said to the ghost, I suppose I have to thank you for warning me, although I’m surprised you bothered.” He rubbed his hands together in the unheated house. “Dragging around all those chains must be quite a chore for you.”

“You really listened?” the ghost of Marley asked eagerly.

“Not until that last one,” Scrooge admitted. “The Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come. I have to admit, I listened to that one.”

The misty outline of Marley sighed a ghastly sigh of relief. “At last, at last,” it said. For these ten years I have carried my burden, and now I can finally go in peace. Tell me, old colleague, what was the final scene that persuaded you to listen.”

Scrooge’s eyes gleamed. “You know,” he said, the Exchange is like a second home for me. That apparition took me there and tried to make me listen to some idiots babbling about a funeral. But, Marley, you know how good my memory is, how much it helped us in our business dealings.” He turned to his perplexed ex-partner. “Well, that ‘Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come’ rambled on for hours while I memorized all those future stock prices.” Scrooge grinned as Marley disappeared with a wail and a great rattling of chains.

“Yes,” said Scrooge. “I’m going to make a killing on the market over the next few years.”

235 words

She walked on stage. Turning to William I whispered “I can’t believe this!”

The cathartic events of the last two weeks flashed before me.

I’d been feeling very down; the strain of studying for finals, being somewhat broke and a recent splitup with a boyfriend of two years had all left their toll. I was in great need of some magic in my life.

The last week of term, while waiting in the refectory for my friend, I’d chatted to a lovely lady. Although middle aged she had a beautiful face with a bob of golden curls and very bright blue eyes. She explained that she was a mature drama student. Despite not feeling in the mood, she persuaded me to have her ticket for the uni Christmas Ball, as she had other commitments and couldn’t go. Later that week I decided that as I had nothing better to do, I would go.

And it was there among the enchanted glitter of Christmas that I met the love of my life. We shared the most magical Christmas I had ever known. William was such a kind chap, in fact charming in every way.

Now I was sitting happily with him watching the pantomime in the city’s theatre. As Cinderella wept, there was no mistaking the rather plump lady with shiny curls that came on stage. As she waved her wand, the Fairy Godmother told Cinderella she would go to the ball!

On Sunday the thirty-first of January I woke up with the feeling that something different was going to happen, I left my nice warm bed looked out of the window, and then I saw it: Snow!

Yes, snow! How beautiful it looked, a carpet of white untrodden snow. The garden sheds now like rectangular cakes with white icing on them. On the roof of the garage the tracks of a bird looked as if some one had, unsuccessfully, tried to pattern one of the cakes.

The trees and bushes bowed down with snow, as if they were bowing down to the beauty of this white world. Yes it was an enchanted morning. A train travelled past, then it seemed the world had come alive. A milk float went by; then a car, bicycles, horses, people and dogs; all was noise and bustle the enchantment was spoiled.

But there was more to come, oh yes! Walking to church in the snow, gentle flakes coming down, a soft carpet under my feet, church bells ringing and the whole world at peace.

I shall never forget that morning.

The attractive Chaffinch with its pink chest and slate blue head had gone through a frightening and exhausting trial to bring food back to its mossy nest in the hedge.

Winter had struck early and the gardens were a blanket of snow wherever one looked. Food was scarce so he was delighted to have found a bag of peanuts next to a bin. It was at the last moment he noticed the cat lurking in the shadows, the snow silencing his stalkers approach. Escaping by a whisker the bird with its prize subsequently flew against a window and had to risk returning to the ground to collect the peanuts again.

Flying back towards the nest the cloud emptied again, raining down icy rocks almost as big as the poor bird’s beak. He dodged and weaved through the storm flying against the wind that kicked up snow devils in the large garden. On reaching the shelter of his nest he dropped the bag and pecked at the peanuts that remained inside, breaking them up as best he could.

He perched exhausted but happy as he admired his meal. A rustle of the hedge alerted him to another; he hopped around in fear of the cat but saw a pathetic looking half starved Coal Tit that gave him a pleading look. He sighed and dropped the bag with a few remaining peanuts out of his nest.

The other bird may have been a Tit, but it was Christmas after all.

There was a crowd inside the betting shop when he entered; the Boxing Day races had drawn the usual optimistic suspects. Cheers and curses filled the cramped space in not-quite equal measure. He pushed his way through the steaming punters to the counter, the icing of snow melting from his jacket.

It wasn’t fraud, he told himself as he waited for the attention of the harassed bookie. Not really. He could have fleeced them for a lot more. There was a time when he would have bled them dry if he thought he could have got away with it, but he wasn’t like that anymore. And besides, it was for the children, not for him. With his winnings he would be able to buy little Timothy that game he wanted and make sure the girls had new coats to see the Winter through. Then there was that children’s charity he liked the sound of, where was the harm in it?

When he finally caught the proprietor’s eye, the man gave a resigned sigh and began to count out the cash.

“Right again,” he said. “Snow on Christmas day just like you predicted.” He handed him the money. “I don’t know how you do it, Mr. Scrooge.”

Pushing his way back out into the cold, Scrooge split the cash in two and handed half to his accomplice.

“See you again next year?”

And with a nod and a wink, the Ghost of Christmas-Yet-to-Come, disappeared into thin air.

We roam the land freely, mixing with others who have no names. They are the same as us, yet different. Young and innocent, they know nothing of our jobs.

Every December, farmers round us up. My friends and I know better than to object, so we head North willingly. The others suffer, as they resist when the men try to herd them.

We are all kept together in a large field for a short time. Then the sorting begins. We head towards the gate on the right. The nameless are separated from us and guided to the left of the field. We will never see them again.

I sometimes wonder where the young end up. As they guide them through the gate, the men talk of markets and sales, laughing and rubbing their hands together.

My friends and I pass through our gate sedately and see a glow in the distance. We are heading home again. We walk up the familiar track, and enter a paddock near the homestead ready for two weeks of feeding and grooming. We are treated like returning heroes, greeted by the Mistress with warmth and affection. She will spend much time with us during our stay. The Master is usually too busy to visit us until the most important night of the year when we are harnessed up to the sleigh to earn our living.

The door was barely ajar, but enough to give him vision. Dazzling light-reflecting satins and silks mingled easily with the metallic baubles that adorned the sober office space. Her slender hands gestured, her eyes encouraged as she circled her audience of smitten men. Her glass was full, but her cup half empty. He knew this.

Wave upon wave of animated chatter pulsed towards him, within which no one voice was discernible. He was glad of this, for the soft touch of her melodic voice might have made him waver in his resolve. And he couldn’t do that. He had travelled far for this, had pitted himself against the outrageous fortune of his blighted life, and had come to this moment.

He watched her dance, her arms around one and her gaze upon another. A streamer rose into the air and floated down to join the exquisite tangle of her hair. A door opened and closed sending a warm breeze scented with the mingled warmth of fifty women wafting towards him.

He shuddered, beguiled by a scene that seemed hardly real. The only real thing was the cold purpose of the arrow he raised to his bow, shattering the shaft of light that filtered through the door. Straight to the heart. Cupid’s arrow.

‘Happy Christmas, my love,’ he sobbed.

The house was a squeezed shadow, backing onto an oily river. If she hadn’t known better she would have sworn she’d the wrong place, but 66 Sedah Villas etched in the sooty brick above the door confirmed she wasn’t.
In spite of this she still hesitated. The door was a blacker patch in an all ready dark tunnel of undefined shapes and the lapping river made her shiver. If there was a party going on behind its hostile façade, then it was well hidden.

The wind gusted and the rain stabbed viciously at her neck, like poisoned stair rods, her mother would say. Talking of which, it was thanks to Mother popping her clogs and the little pills of course which had pushed her on her way that she had at last got some freedom. God bless Mrs. Magumbi for that and for this party, where, she’d been assured, she was bound to meet a very desirable member of the opposite sex.

Doubts, dispelled, she pressed the bell.

“Cum on in, honey chil’” cooed Mrs. Magumbi. “Yo shure will have a good time tonight! Iz got the purrfec gen’lmun fer yo babe!”

Perfect he certainly was. Tall and dark with flashing eyes and beautifully white teeth they danced and laughed and drank away the night. Deliriously happy, she knew she had found her soul mate. She would do anything for him, even visit hell itself which was just as well since Charon was at the door, oar in hand.