CHRISTMAS SHORT STORIES: The Reason Why There Are Red Fuzzies All Over Your Chair Today Christmas Box The Miracle of the Rose By Sue Scherzinger “They were trying so hard to be nice. It was getting on his nerves. There was nothing they could do. They were being paid to be nice and that would change. He’d heard the stories from his buddy. Foster care was never nice or good. Stupid people thinking they could make a difference.” Kyle doesn’t care about much after his parents die. Will the Christmas Box his parents left him help him recover from his loss? Christmas Box By Sue Scherzinger Kyle was led to the center chair where he sat and immediately slouched down, drew his legs up and hugged his knees. He scratched at his right calf. Stupid dress pants. He wished he could have worn his jeans, but they said that wouldn’t be appropriate. Losing your parents at thirteen was what was inappropriate. “Kyle,” the lawyer started. “I am very sorry for your loss. I have your parents’ will here to read to you. I assume the funeral went well?” “Went well?” Kyle said. “You’ve got to be kidding.” He put his face between his knees and struggled to gain control. No way would he cry in front of this guy. “I understand this is difficult for you, but I have to read this to you now. Are you ready?” “Yeah, whatever.” “I, John Lamaz, being of sound mind and body . . . do bequeath all of my worldly possessions to my wife, Cynthia in the event of my death . . . should she also be dead . . . all shall go to my son, Kyle Lamaz . . . custody and guardianship of Kyle shall go to Joan and Trevor Tildon . . .” “What? They left me to Joan and Trevor? News flash, genius, they were in the car with my parents. They’re dead too,” Kyle interrupted. The lawyer flashed his eyes over his glasses at Kyle and then quickly ran them back and forth over the document. “Hmm,” he almost groaned. “We seem to have a problem here. Do you have any other relatives you can live with?” “Nope.” “No. You must have aunts, uncles, grandparents?” “Nope,” Kyle said, while looking out the window at the warm spring sunshine glinting off the parked cars. “My parents didn’t have any brothers or sisters, like me. Mom’s parents died when she was young. Dad’s father died five years ago and his mother has Alzheimer’s. I might be able to crash at my friend’s for a little longer, but I can’t live there.” “I’ll contact children’s aid,” the lawyer said. Now it was Kyle’s turn to flash his eyes up and groan. Kyle moved in with the Kyle sat in the swivel chair by the desk in front of the computer, last year’s model. He stared at the computer. He didn’t feel like checking it out or MSN’ing his friends. He was so tired of everybody asking him if he was okay. He would never be okay. He spun around on the chair and stared at the box. What could be in it? More memories of what he’d lost? Nothing would ever be right again. He finally let himself cry. Of course, that’s when they’d knock at the door. “Kyle?” his foster mother, Carol, called. Carol Carson, what a stupid name, Kyle thought. He wiped his nose on his sleeve and cleared his throat. “What?” “Is everything okay? With your room?” “Yeah, yeah, it’s fine. I’m just unpacking.” Stupid woman, he thought. “Okay, come down for supper in half an hour, alright?” “Yeah, thanks.” The box was still there on the bed. He moved it over to the desk, turned it around a few times and then flopped himself onto the bed. Stupid pale blue comforter. He got up and opened the green garbage bag and pulled out his black and red fleece blanket from home. Mom had bought it for him because they were going to redo his room this summer in black and red. This pale blue room was just wrong. He wrapped himself in the blanket and flopped onto the bed once again. Too many stupid pillows. He pushed them onto the floor and stared at the white ceiling with the white light fixture. Mom was going to get him that really awesome black and pewter one with the spot lights. “Kyle,” another rap at the door. “Supper is ready. Can you please join us?” “Yeah.” They were trying so hard to be nice. It was getting on his nerves. There was nothing they could do. They were being paid to be nice and that would change. He’d heard the stories from his buddy. Foster care was never nice or good. Stupid people thinking they could make a difference. He tolerated their inane chatter through the boring bland meal. He even helped with the dishes. His mother had raised him and he wanted to show them that he didn’t need them to raise him. He didn’t need them at all. He didn’t need anyone or anything. It took him a week before he finally opened the box. It contained a really short walking stick, a figurine of an old man with a turban carrying a box and a weird octagonal mirror with just a small piece of mirror in the centre and glass all around. What was the point of this junk? There was a letter in the box. “Dear Kyle, we love you so much. If you are reading this, it means something unthinkable has happened and we’re gone. Remember always that you were wanted, loved and needed. You were everything to us. You can go on and have a fabulous life. You have to, for us. Figure out the secret to these three items and you’ll be okay. They all have an important message for you. You’re a smart boy. You can do it. We love you, Mom and Dad.” Kyle simply put the stuff back in the box and put it on the top shelf of the closet. He wrapped himself in the fleece blanket, laid on the bed and cried until he fell asleep. It was a week before Christmas when he finally took the box back down. School wasn’t going as well as it used to. Seemed like all the teachers hated him and were always nagging and bugging him. His old friends had quickly tired of his pain and had moved on. His only new friend was Tab, who knew pain and gained strength from it. She cut herself to know she was still alive and to block out her home life. Everybody else sucked and didn’t get Kyle. The He started with the stick. It was obviously a walking stick, made of smooth whittled hickory with a knot on the top for your hand, but it was so short. Way too short for Kyle. Might work for a very little kid. He tried using it but fell over and laughed. He looked and felt stupid using it and the silly thing didn’t do what it was supposed to. He got up and tossed it onto the bed. Next he picked up the figurine. What’s with the turban? His family had been Christian. What was in the box he held? Couldn’t even guess at that one. The octagonal mirror? He looked into it and saw his face in the center and the room around the edges. No clue here either. “Kyle,” Carol called. “Supper please.” He didn’t bother helping with the dishes any more. Wasn’t much point. Their real kids were home for Christmas. Skanky twenty-year old girl and nerdy twenty-three year old boy. He kept forgetting their names. They were trying too hard. Kyle tried to watch some TV, but they kept talking to him so he went back up to his room to talk to Tab on MSN. She was pissed at her mother again. New boyfriend. Christmas Eve they dragged him to mass. He’d refused to accompany them to church. Hadn’t been to church since the funeral. His parents had attended and him with them. They’d away said that if you let God be a part of your life, things seemed to work out better. Good things were naturally drawn to God so you want to keep him near. Kyle had believed it until the accident. Why would God let this happen? Kyle sat in the crowded pew with the Guitars strumming, a tambourine going and all the voices rising from smiling, joyous faces. Kyle had to consciously maintain his distance. The celebration began with its repetitive prayers that he’d recited so often. He kept his mouth closed, but still the words were there in his head. He went to communion and said the same thing in his head that he’d always said while returning to his pew: thank you God for allowing me to be a part of your family and to receive you once again, help me through the coming week. It was an automatic response but it felt familiar and comforting. Despite his best efforts, he sang the last carol with the choir and even caught himself humming it on the way out. He’d spent a lot more of his life being happy than depressed and it was a hard habit to break. Felt like a betrayal to feel any joy without his parents. Back at the house, Carol and Lacey, that was the daughter’s name, started to lay out a feast. Tradition for the The figurine in the box was almost the same. It was a wise man from the Christmas story. His mother’s voice rang in his head. She’d told him the Christmas story every year. Kyle took the wise man, the small walking stick and the mirror with him back to the family room. He sat in the chair by the window away from the The walking stick. He really started thinking about it. They’re used to help you walk, but this one was too short to be a big help. When he’d tried it out, he’d fallen. What was he using now to help him—anger, guilt, resentment, self-indulgent pity, wallowing in pain. The mirror? He held it up and saw his confused face, the memory of joy, the pain of loss and the emerging hope played across it. Movement in the glass area around his face caught his eye. It was the Kyle joined the © Copyright 2005, Sue Scherzinger By Arthur Carey “They joined the thousands of people trapped on the concrete island that held the Superdome. Scared, hungry, sometimes thirsty, they waited helplessly until buses arrived to carry them to a shelter in “All You Need at Christmas” shows a All You Need at Christmas By Arthur Carey Cassie Rivers hated snow. Growing up in the South, pictures of snow—glistening, white, pure—had fooled her. No more. Now she knew snow. It was cold and wet and stung your face in the wind like a handful of sand. And it hurt when boys at school packed it into hard balls and hit you when you weren’t looking. She sighed and stared out the window of the school bus. Mirrored in the glass, she saw a girl with black curls poking from under a red wool beret. Sad eyes in a thin, freckle-dusted face stared back at her. Beyond the road, patches of stubbled corn rose in a frozen, desolate landscape. Her brother’s metal lunch box banged into her knees. “Watch it, Eddie!” she cried. “That hurt!” Eddie pulled the lunch box onto his lap. “S . . . s . . .s . . . orry,” he said. She regretted her sharpness at once. Right after Hurricane Katrina, when they were living in the shelter, Eddie had begun to stutter. She could understand why. Living with hundreds of strangers bustling about had scared her, too. Even at night, when the lights dimmed and blanketed forms stirred restlessly on cots, the sound of coughing and sneezing and babies crying made sleep difficult. She glanced out the window. A sullen gray sky without a hint of pale sun stretched to the horizon. Periodically, the bus shuddered to a halt at crossroads and driveways to disgorge noisy children. Many had parents waiting to greet them with hugs. There wouldn’t be any hugs for Cassie and her brother. Their mother worked the dinner shift as a waitress at a restaurant and wouldn’t be home until late. But she usually left a cooked meal, or at least a TV dinner, for Cassie to warm up in the microwave. Cassie was 13, an eighth grader, and responsible for caring for her eight-year-old brother and herself. “Aren’t we there yet?” Eddie complained. “I’ll miss my TV programs.” “Almost. I can see the church.” Ahead, the steeple of They climbed the steps to the trailer and removed their boots. Cassie unlocked the door and turned on the lights. The cold trailer, stuffed with mismatched furniture, curtained off sleeping areas, and cramped kitchen, smelled musty and metallic, like a tool shed. Cassie turned up the thermostat and put their wet boots on a newspaper just inside the door. Eddie plunked down in a worn bean bag chair patched with duct tape and grabbed the TV remote. Cassie looked around. Home, sweet home. The trailer had been the outreach office of the church. But that was before Katrina blew its destructive path across Still, they had been lucky, she reflected, that members of a church in Cassie’s eyes filled. I miss Rufus. But she missed her father more. He had been gone for almost a year, serving as a truck driver with a National Guard unit in Her glanced at the plastic, table-top Christmas tree by the window. A few decorations, paint peeling with age, had been given them by the church’s women’s guild. She had helped her mother decorate the tree with crinkly garlands of popcorn. A scattering of lights glowed bravely, but some of the bulbs had burned out. Mrs. Rivers had cautioned Cassie and Eddie not to expect much in the way of gifts for Christmas this year. Money was tight. Better to remember last year, when they had all been together, and think about next year, when they would be together again. “Wh . . . wh . . . at’s for supper?” Eddie didn’t lift his eyes from the screen. Cassie opened the refrigerator and scanned the shelves, looking for what her mother had left for them. “Macaroni and cheese.” “Again!” She examined the freezer compartment. “And there’s some of those frozen strawberry fruit bars that you like.” She set about preparing dinner. Mrs. Rivers returned home several hours later. She drooped from weariness but forced a smile. “Can I heat some water for tea, Mom?” Cassie asked. “No, honey. Did you get your homework done?” “All finished. Only math tonight. And I had Eddie read to me.” “Good.” Her mother’s voice sounded mechanical, as if her mind were somewhere else. “Is everything going okay at school?” Cassie hesitated. “Everything’s fine, Mom.” But of course, it wasn’t. She had to get up earlier to ride the school bus. Once she got to school, she had to adjust to new teachers, unfamiliar textbooks, and classes with strangers. At first, other children had sought her out, eager to hear about what it was like to be in a hurricane. But when the scenes of flooding faded from television, so did their interest. Truth was, Cassie was homesick. She missed yams and cornbread and dirty rice and jambalaya and fresh shrimp from the Gulf. She missed warm, moist air that wrapped you in a soft blanket. She missed hearing Cajun music. She missed her friends and relatives, scattered across the country. She missed her bedroom with stuffed animals and pictures and souvenirs from Disney World. Stop that! Cassie told herself. You’re lucky to be alive! You’re lucky to be where you are and have what you have. . . But she really didn’t believe it. Christmas was approaching, and it promised to be the worst Christmas ever. The week before Christmas passed quickly. One thing Cassie had to admit: the holidays sure felt different up north. The air, chilly and bracing, stole her breath when she stepped out the door. Somehow the idea of Santa Claus, dressed in a heavy red suit and cap, seemed more real when flurries danced in the air and snow crunched underfoot. At school, pictures of candles, Christmas trees, and snowmen enlivened the walls. As Cassie and Eddie rode the bus home in late afternoon, strings of colored lights began twinkling on houses. A manger scene greeted them on the church’s front lawn. One night, after Eddie had gone to bed, the telephone rang. Cassie’s mother stiffened and looked at the clock. “Who could be calling at this time of night?” She picked up the phone nervously. “Yes . . . this is Helen Rivers. Yes . . .that’s the address we lived at in “What is it, Mom?” Cassie asked. Her mother beamed. “It’s Rufus,” she said. “An animal rescue group got our old address from his name tag. They offered to fly him out here. We can pick him up at the airport tomorrow afternoon.” “Rufus! Rufus!” Cassie cried. “I’ve got to tell Eddie!” “No, let him sleep. . . .” But Cassie had already vanished behind the screen that shielded the sleeping area. When they picked up the dog the next day, his thinness shocked them. Rufus’s ribs stood out, and his chest had shrunken. But the minute he left the metal travel cage and saw them, his tail began to wag and he barked loudly. Rufus was home! As Christmas drew close, they settled into a new routine. Cassie took Rufus for walks in a nearby park before and after school. At night, when they were together, Rufus settled by Eddie’s beanbag chair. Whenever Eddie rose to go to another part of the trailer, Rufus watched him until he returned. Then his muzzle dropped and his eyes closed again. Only a few presents lay under the tree, but Cassie didn’t care. She still had some of her birthday money, so she bought a warm scarf for her mother and a Super Heroes comic book for Eddie. She wrapped them and added them to the sparse pile of gifts. School ended for the holidays, and Cassie looked forward to being able to sleep in late, the way she did on weekends. Christmas Eve arrived. Eddie had gone to bed, and Cassie watched TV while her mother baked cookies in the kitchen. The doorbell rang, followed by a pounding that rattled the windows. Rufus growled and came to the door. “Cassie, see who that is,” her mother said. Cassie rose from the lumpy couch and Rufus stirred. Probably someone from the church to remind us about tomorrow’s service. There was no light over the door, and she could make out the bulky figure of a man against a gray wall of blowing snow. He stamped his feet impatiently and tried to peer through the frosted door pane. She opened the door until the chair caught and stopped, speechless. “Cassie!” boomed her father. “Open the door before I freeze to death!” Once inside, he wrapped one arm about her and hugged her to him hard. She noticed that his other arm hung in a sling. “Who is it, Cassie?” her mother called out. Her father released her, and she stepped aside so he could come in. “It’s Sgt. Edgar Rivers, ma’am, home for the holidays—and for all the holidays to come, I hope.” Cassie’s mother slammed the oven door shut and rushed into the living room. She cried and threw her arms about his neck. “Your arm . . . what happened?” He dropped his bag on the floor and looked embarrassed. “Well . . . I was driving in a convoy on a highway outside Tikrit when a tire blew. I went off the road into a ditch. Broke my left arm. Since you can’t drive a truck with a broken arm, the Army let me out a month early.” Eddie emerged sleepy-eyed. “Wh . . . o . . . wh . . . o’s . . . there, Mom?” His eyes lit up. “Dad!” He hurled himself at his father. After Cassie’s dad had unpacked, they sat around the kitchen table drinking hot chocolate with tiny white marshmallows. Mrs. Rivers laughed for the first time in weeks, eyes shining, and the lines in her face eased. Eddie proudly displayed the Army medal his father had given him. Cassie’s dad ate two, then three, of the warm oatmeal cookies and never stopped smiling. No one commented when he slipped a cookie under the table to Rufus. The heater in the drafty trailer rumbled into life with a blast of warm air. Cassie studied the animated faces of her family. She felt so happy she thought she’d cry. Her eyes fell on the plastic Christmas tree and small pile of presents. Who cared? It didn’t matter where you were or what you had or didn’t have at Christmas. What mattered was that the people you loved and who loved you were there to share it. This wouldn’t be the worst Christmas after all. It would be one of the best. © Copyright 2005, Arthur Carey By Jenna Burdett “The next morning a loud knocking on my door woke me. Then Carrie stuck her head in. ‘Dad wants us all downstairs,’ she said, then closed the door. Why isn’t Dad at work? I hurried into some clothes.” Jenna Burdett’s “The Miracle of the Rose” teaches us that we don’t always know what’s in our hearts. The Miracle of the Rose By Jenna Burdett My name is Mindy Gresham and I’m twelve years old. I’m a regular kid with a regular family, but something amazing happened to me once. I’d like to share the story with you; it’s a good one. It began one Sunday in December. I was in Sunday school; I was a little bored, I mean, how many ways can you tell the Christmas story? Then in the middle of my off-track thoughts I heard the teacher ask, “What do you think the second-best Christmas present would be?” I started thinking; it was an interesting question. Amy raised her hand, “I think it would be a room of my own,” she stated. Mrs. Blair shook her head “I was thinking of something that can’t be bought with money,” she said. Then the bell rang, and I forgot all about it. The sermon was on God’s wonderful love, but I didn’t pay much attention. I had heard many like it before. At home things were the same; everyone went off to bed for a nap, except Matt, my 14-year-old brother. He started working on a car model. No one in our family ever bothered with lunch on Sundays unless they got really hungry and grabbed something themselves. I still wasn’t at the stage where I enjoyed naps and I didn’t know heads or tails about cars. I bundled up and went to play with Miracle, our dog. We named him that because it was a miracle that he lived. When we named him, I still believed in miracles. The question came back to me, the one in Sunday school. What do you think the second-best Christmas present would be? I wondered what the best Christmas present was. Well, duh! I thought. It’s Jesus! Ok, now what would be the second-best? Immediately the thought came, a horse. I had always wanted a horse, but Dad said that a dog was enough. Grandma says that when Dad was three, a horse followed him across a field. Dad thought it was chasing him, and ran faster, and then he tripped and screamed bloody murder because he was so scared. I think he’s still scared, though he claims the only reason he won’t buy one is because they’re so much trouble. Anyways, I’m getting off track. A horse that would be it! Then I remembered, Mrs. Blair had said, “A present that can’t be bought with money.” So that at wouldn’t be it. I was stumped. I went back inside; it was getting cold out. “Come on, Miracle!” I called. I smuggled him in upstairs. We weren’t supposed to bring the dog in, but Matt and I did a lot. Miracle was smart and never yipped or made a noise until he was safe in our room. Then, he would run around in circles with joy, as if to celebrate that we had made it again. Carefully, we snuck past Mom and Dad’s room, past Carrie’s room, up the stairs to Matt’s. Softly, I knocked on the door. “Come in,” Matt’s reply was quick. I opened the door and closed it softly. Then I let Miracle loose. He ran around in circles, as usual, but I didn’t pay any attention. I had a question. Dad says that when I have a question I can never rest until I’ve asked it. “Matt can I ask you a question?” I probed to see if he was in a good mood. “Mm,” he grunted. I spoke quickly while I had his attention, “What do you think the second-best Christmas present would be?” “A car,” he answered, right off the bat. “I mean that can’t be bought with money,” I added. That was a hard one for Matt. He thought for a minute. “I dunno,” he finally said and went back to gluing something on his half-finished model. Matt wasn’t gonna be any fun right now I decided; he was too focused on building his model. . . . Dad says that when Matt starts something he will hardly stop to eat, which is almost true. So I grabbed Miracle and went to my own room. Safely behind the door, I let Miracle loose. Then I lay down on my bed, and started to think. Before I knew it, Matt was shaking me and it was time for dinner. The next couple of days were normal. I did my school (I’m home schooled), went to a party on Tuesday and to Wednesday-night youth group. Wednesday night was normal, too. When we got home from youth group, we all grabbed something to eat and started laughing and talking about what so-and-so had said or done. Then Dad stuck his head out of his room and told us to “lower it down and go to bed.” We did. I let Carrie and Matt go up first. Then I let Miracle in and took him up to my room. I knew it would be a cold night. As I snuggled under the covers, that question came back to me—the one about the second-best Christmas present. I was sort of annoyed. Why does this question keep coming back? I tried to push it aside, but it wouldn’t go away. Miracle whined. I looked at him. He was scrunched up in a very small ball. I laughed quietly. “Are you cold boy?” I asked him softly. He looked up at me with pitiful eyes, then got up, walked over to the bed and stuck his nose on my arm. I laughed again. “Just this once,” I cautioned him as I lifted my covers up. Miracle crawled in and I snuggled up against his rather cold fur. The next morning a loud knocking on my door woke me. Then Carrie stuck her head in. “Dad wants us all downstairs,” she said, then closed the door. Why isn’t Dad at work? I hurried into some clothes. Downstairs, Matt and Carrie were already there with Mom and Dad. I sat down on the floor and looked expectantly up at them. Mom’s eyes looked red and Dad seemed to be having trouble with his throat. Finally Mom said, “Last night Grandmother died.” It took me a minute to take it in, but when I realized what she meant, the tears came quickly. Carrie had already started crying and Matt’s face was very red. Mom said something else, but I don’t remember what it was. Things were starting to buzz and I needed to get away. Quickly, I got to my feet and ran upstairs to my room. I shut the door behind me and started breathing hard. Then I spotted Miracle. I sank down on the floor and sobbed into his warm fur. He must have sensed I needed something to hold onto ‘cause he didn’t wriggle out of my hands. After a while, I recovered enough to scoot over and lean against my bed. Miracle stayed with me, licking my face and roughhousing a little bit. “You know what Miracle?” I asked in a shaking voice. “Grandmother’s dead. She’s gone Miracle, gone.” This time, though, I held my emotions back. I heard voices downstairs. The pastor must be here. Miracle was whining at the door. “You’ve been inside long enough, huh? Okay,” I relented, “but if I get in trouble, it’s your entire fault.” I grabbed his collar and took him downstairs. Pastor Mike and Dad were talking. I overheard Dad say, “I’m a little worried about Mindy; she seems to be taking this hard.” I brushed past them and took Miracle outside. Outside, I climbed up into my tree fort. Dad had built one for each of the kids. “Why?!” I yelled, “I loved her so much! Why did You have to take her? You broke Your promise. You said You would do what was best. This can’t be best! You don’t love me!” Then I broke down and softly said, “I’ll miss you, Grandmother.” I stayed in there for a while. I didn’t want to face everyone with his or her sympathy and stories of worse times. I just wanted to be alone. After a while, my stomach started growling. So I climbed down and went inside. Inside, there were some of Mom’s friends. Mom was crying, so I went to the kitchen. I couldn’t stand more than one person hurting. Friday was a blur of visitors, food and tears. I kept to myself in my room or my tree fort, hardly appearing to eat. I was very sad, convinced that God had ceased to love me and was punishing me in his anger. On Saturday, a miracle happened . . . and it changed my view of everything. I woke up with a feeling of dread. Tonight was the visitation. Tonight the heartache really began to set in. Tomorrow was the funeral and the inexpressible pain. I walked through the house in a daze. Then Mom asked me to take a bucket of rotten potato peels to the compost pile. I took them out and dumped them. When I turned, my eye caught something colorful. It was over by the pile of pots whose plants had died, and Mom had stuck them over there to use later. It was a perfect red rose! “Wait!” I thought, “Mom had never had a rose. She said they were too much trouble.” Right away came the thought, this is a message from God. As I knelt down and touched the crimson colored flower, I heard a small voice within me. A loving voice that said, “I do love you, and this is My promise that I will never leave you or forsake you, that no matter what happens to you I will always love you and be with you.” I began to cry. How could I have doubted that? Then the voice came again, “I love you; I will always love you,” It said. With tears running down my cheeks, I picked up the rose and took it inside. “Look,” I choked out. “Look at this beautiful rose.” Gently Mom took it in her hands and started to cry. “It’s just what I needed,” she said. The next day when I woke up, my heart wasn’t quite so sad and I was able to smile some through my tears. In church, Dad went up with my rose and explained how it was a miracle of God’s love to us. I heard a lot of sniffling. At the funeral, things weren’t quite so bad as I expected, though I shed more than a few tears. Matt, Carrie and I sang Grandmother’s favorite song, “How Great Thou Art.” We tried not to look at people’s faces, because we knew everyone was crying. The gravesite was the worst. It was hard knowing that Grandmother’s body was going into the ground, even though I knew the part of her that I had loved wasn’t in there. On Christmas Eve, we all bundled up and went to the candlelight service. I liked holding the candles in the dark. I thought about how much Jesus must love me to consent to being born into such a rotten world and to suffer so willingly because he loved me. The next morning, Matt and I woke up at Finally, we got them up. Carrie and I helped Mom with breakfast, while Matt and Dad finished last-minute wrapping. At last, we all finished our breakfast, cleared the table and washed the dishes. Then, we all snuggled together in the living room and listened while Dad read The Christmas Story aloud. When he was done, Dad put his Bible on the lamp table beside him. He cleared his throat and said, “This year we haven’t been able to buy big presents for you because Grandmother’s funeral took a lot of our money.” Everyone was silent for a minute, not knowing what to say. Then I piped up, “You know Dad,” I said. “Christmas isn’t about us. It’s Jesus’ birthday not ours, and anyway we have the two best Christmas presents ever.” “Jesus is the best present,” Dad agreed. “But what’s the second best?” He asked. “We have each other’s love, and God’s love most of all,” I glowed. Everyone smiled and Mom sniffed happy tears back. “Let’s pray and thank God for our presents from Him,” suggested Dad in a rather hoarse voice. We all bowed our heads and closed our eyes, but as Dad prayed, I couldn’t resist glancing up and looking at our happy family. That rose had changed our lives. It was a miracle, I was sure. The End © Copyright 2005, Jenna Burdett “I want to get up and do something but have no idea what. I pick up the phone to call the police, but the phone is dead.” Alma Bond’s “Ginger in GINGER IN KEY WEST By Alma Bond The large glass coffee table top rests over a massive acrylic base. I run my fingers over the glass; it feels cool and smooth. On the table sits a head of Hercules made of weighty blue stone. A mass of carved blue curls covers his head. Round sightless eyes watch the room. A glass figure of a woman kneels beside him. She is pliant, graceful, fluid. I lean back against the shell-colored leather couch and feel beloved of life in Suddenly there is a crash. The house rumbles and rocks, and seems to sink further into the ground. Is it the dreaded hurricane, the fifth one this season? I couldn't bear another one. I have had to evacuate I look out the window and the street is empty. Even the traffic light on the corner has gone dead. I wait. Five minutes.Ten minutes. Fifteen minutes. The house is calm now. It evidently wasn't a hurricane. Whatever has happened apparently is over. I lucked out this time. What was was, I think. Whatever will be will be. I sink down again into the shell-colored couch and idly look at another piece on the table. It is a smooth white stone I found on I pick it up. The stone is cold, so cold. The black ears droop. She looks sad, so sad I could weep. I do. It happened the week of Christmas, the week my husband died. We still lived in Ginger was a large old dog who was almost twenty by then. She once had been a pretty little terrier, but age had made her hideous. She was full of tumors which distorted her legs and neck and made her look grotesquely ugly. My daughter's boyfriend called the dog "Tumor." She also had glaucoma in one eye and it was all red and puffy. My children were all grown up and on their own. I was living in a large apartment house in My son Zane volunteered to take her to the ASPCA to have her destroyed. He put on her faded leather collar and tried to attach the chain leash. With more strength than she had displayed for months, the dog yanked away. But Zane soon recaptured her and connected the leash. Then he pulled her to the elevator. Ginger balked every inch of the way. I swear she knew where she was going and would have none of it. Sick, old, and deformed as she was, this dog loved life and refused to leave it. A few minutes later, I looked out of the eleventh story window down to the cold February street. There I saw Zane dragging the dog down the sidewalk. All four of her legs were turned out flat on the ground, and her belly rubbed against the cold concrete, as he lugged her the length of the pavement. I stood there watching until they turned the corner and disappeared from sight. Years later, I am filled with shame and guilt that I allowed her to die in this ghastly manner. I felt even worse when a friend described how her dog was put away. She held him on her lap, gave him a cookie, and hugged him while he was given a shot. Then she remained with him until he slipped into his final sleep. Ginger loved me above all others. Once when I arrived in "Forgive me, Ginger," I said softly. "I'm sorry I betrayed you. You were a good friend, and you deserved better. If I had it to do over again, I would behave very differently." I pick up the figure again and hold it to me. The stone grows warm on my breast. Suddenly, I move it away from me and looked at it closely. Am I imagining it, or is there a tiny smile beneath the painted black nose? © Copyright 2005, Alma Bond The Reason Why There Are Red Fuzzies All Over Your Chair Today In Liz Donovan’s heartwarming tale, Sally Poorchild must find Christmas for herself. Note: A well-written story probably normally needs no explanation, but in this case the context is important. I wrote this over Christmas, while at work after not sleeping all night. I had to be in on a Sunday to help out on customer service, since the office was short staffed that week. I sat at my friend’s desk away from everyone else and when I got up I realized that there were little red fuzzies from my sweater all over the chair. My friend is very picky about people using her things and I knew she would be upset about this occurrence on Monday. I decided to write an explanation and had a little fun with it. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ Once upon a time, there was a fabulous shiny red sweater. The sweater spread joy and love to all fortunate enough to receive its blessings. No matter who the owner was, the sweater would fit comfortably snug and was always the right length. Never would the sweater tear or unravel, nor would the colour fade. The sweater’s origins have been debated, but some have said that it was once owned by he goddess Aphrodite, ruler of beauty. It is important that the reader understands the true magnificence of this godly article of clothing in order to understand the fascinating tale that follows. Sally Poorchild was a sad and lonely girl. Her parents were greedy, evil people who preferred to pass their meager earnings to the local pub owner, rather than to put it aside for their bothersome child. Being unable (and more likely, unwilling) to give Sally a proper Christmas, they were forced to tell her that Santa Claus had fallen off his sleigh while practicing his route for the coming year. Sally was disappointed, but she understood that things didn’t always work out for the best and decided to find a gift for her parents anyway. Sally walked from street to street, selling charm bracelets that she made from walnuts and string. Eventually, she earned enough money to purchase small gifts for her uncaring parents. She found an old pin that was a bit worn, but a perfect match for her mother’s favourite blouse. For her father, she found a used wallet that remained in excellent condition. “Wow,” she thought excitedly, “Mother will be so happy to wear something as rare and beautiful as this! And father has been complaining about his old ratty wallet for years!” She could hardly wait for Christmas morning to present her extraordinary finds and to please her parents. She knew that with just a little more effort she could make them love her like the families she had seen on television. Come Christmas morning, Sally bounded the stairs and ran to her parents. The Poorchild’s, annoyed that Sally had awoken so early and interrupted their holiday celebrations, said calmly, “Now Sally, remember, we told you that Santa has died you will be receiving no presents this year. What a greedy, selfish child you are to expect that you will get presents when none of the other children do.” Sally said nothing, but beamed the biggest smile a child of her age could manage and presented her parents with the treasured gifts for which she had worked so hard. “Oh Sally,” exclaimed Mrs. Poorchild. “I thought we had taught you better to NOT bring garbage into this house!” “Yes,” Mr. Poorchild agreed. “We’re going to have to disinfect everytBy Liz Donovan
All You Need at Christmas
By Arthur Carey
By Sue Scherzinger
By Jenna Burdett
By Liz Donovan
“Sally Poorchild was a sad and lonely girl. Her parents were greedy, evil people who preferred to pass their meager earnings to the local pub owner, rather than to put it aside for their bothersome child.”
The Reason Why There Are Red Fuzzies All Over Your Chair Today
By Liz Donovan
