Cast Your Vote!!! in the Anthology Thread of the SDMB Short Fiction Contest - Holiday Edition!

Le_Ministre_de_l_au-dela · January 1, 2011, 3:03pm

Presenting the Anthology Thread of the SDMB Short Fiction Contest, the Holiday edition. A quick recap of the rules -

At 12 Midnight EST, Monday, December 20th, 2010, I posted a link to a photo (found by random means) and also generated three words, again by random means, in an auto-reply message at sdmbpoetrysweatshop at gmail dot com. Writers still have until 10 PM EST Monday, January 3rd, 2011 to write an original piece of short fiction on a Holiday theme, no more than 2,000 words in length, based in some way on that photo and those three words. All interested participants will be working from the same compulsory material.

As of the posting of this thread, there will still be 60 hours left to any interested participants.

Writers - send your completed work to me, preferably in a .doc format, at sdmbpoetrysweatshop at gmail dot com before 10 PM EST on Monday, January 3rd, 2011. I will verify that it is 2,000 words or less, and I will post it in this Anthology Thread. Please include your SDMB username. I will post the stories as a ~100 word teaser, followed by the complete story in a spoiler box, (Click the button labeled ‘spoiler’ to reveal the text, for those not familiar with the SDMB.) with the authors’ names in separate spoiler boxes.

At 10 PM EST, Monday, January 3rd, 2011 a multiple choice poll will be established to determine the readers favourite story. I would also ask voters to choose those stories that have incorporated the compulsory material in the most interesting manner. At the end of a week, the poll will close and we will declare a winner of the PoeHenryParkerSaki award.

The poll, once established, will be a secret ballot type poll. No one need ever know how you voted. I would, however, encourage everyone to please vote. You are providing an important source of feedback to the writers.

While we welcome readers’ comments, may I please request that readers hold off until after the poll is established. That way, the first posts in the thread will all be the various stories. After the poll is established, your comments are enthusiastically encouraged.

To recap the compulsory material -

A Holiday Theme
The Photo

and the three words -

Coolness
Winterize
Unpardonable

And now, here are the stories that this contest has produced. I want to point out - the authors’ user names are in spoiler boxes at the end of the stories. Please do not be fooled by the fact that they appear in a reply sent by me - only one of these stories is mine.

Enjoy!

Le_Ministre_de_l_au-dela · January 1, 2011, 3:12pm

“It was that crazy fuckin’ hat that started the whole mess. If not for that god dammed thing, I’d still be up there, makin’ toys.”

I’m here, in this small gray dingy cell, to interview my subject. He fidgets uncomfortably with the cigarette he’s smoking. He taps the end with his yellowed fingers against the small ashtray next to him. He begins to speak, his mouth puckered and wrinkled from his two pack a day habit.

So, I understand you tried to start a union?

“Yeah”

And how did that go?

[spoiler]“Terrible! I mean, there’d been talk about makin’ a union, for what, a least a hundred years? Or more? I mean, think about it, we work 364 fuckin’ days of the year. People in Malaysia and Singapore and shit get more time off than we do. And what if we don’t wanna make toys? What if we wanna become a doctor, or lawyer or… dentist?”

At this, my interview subject sighs, slumps his shoulders, and casts his eyes down. He takes a long drag on his cigarette again. You wanted to become a dentist?

“Maybe. Once. But I ain’t fuckin’ getting out of here anytime soon, am I?”

He takes another long drag.

I understand you didn’t just make toys. You made other things?

“Yeah. The Boss wanted to keep up with the times. He wanted us to expand our line of goods. He called it “Market Share Expansion” or some sorta bullshit. We don’t just make toys, we make clothes, coats hats, scarfs, sweaters. Electronics like TV’s, DVD players. Cookware, knives pots and pans. And of course, any kinda toy you could imagine. I used to love any toy that make lots of noise. The noisier the better. I used to imagine the kids driving their folks insane. Put that in your stocking and fuckin’ smoke it.”

“We had our fingers in everything. We fuckin’ made it all.” He shakes his head. “We shoulda just stuck to toys. Woulda been easier that way.”

And how did he feel about organized labor?

“The Boss hated any talk of unions. If he found out, he’d come down on us, hard.”

What would he do?

“Well, he sure as shit couldn’t fire us. We didn’t make any wages. He’d usually banish us, or, if we did somethin’ to really piss him off, he’d put us outside the Abom’s cave. And make the others watch. Nasty shit, that was. Don’t get me wrong, if the Boss liked you, things were good. But if he didn’t… hoooo boooy, watch the fuck out. 'Cause you’ll be dead as a doornail toot sweet. And his bitch of a wife wasn’t no help either. She was nastier than the Boss. You learned to stay the fuck away from her.”

“You know the fastest way to shut down a Walmart?” I have no idea. “Start a fuckin’ union! They’ll close down the store in a month! Ha! The Boss was so scared of unions, anyone caught talking 'bout it was punished. Punished hard. So we had to be quiet. Had to keep it secret. On the Down-low, if you know what I mean.”

“Well, I fuckin’ Organized my ass off. We had a bunch of demands. Shorter work hours, more breaks, winterize the workshop. We worked at the North Pole, it ain’t fuckin’ Cuba. It’s cold as Hell up there! Of course we asked for more money, or at least SOME money. Nothing unreasonable. Or at least, nothing I thought was unreasonable. It was decided I would be the one to present our demands.”

He takes out another cigarette and lights up.

“Now, everyone in my business knows Santa’s a huge fuckin’ douche bag! Right? Remember that mess with Rudolph? The way he treated him? Oh sure, soon as he sees the VALUE in you, then you’re up there leadin’ his sleigh. You gotta be valuable to him. Before that though, if Ruddy hadn’t run away, he’d have been fuckin’ venison man, a fuckin’ venison steak! That’s the way the Boss rolls, if you know what I mean. Well, at least, that’s the way the Boss rolled. Past tense, I guess.”

“So I go in there, and I had a whole spiel rehearsed, and I don’t even get past “On behalf of all the Elves here in the North Pole, I present a list of our…” And he starts wavin’ this fuckin’ pink fuzzy hat in my face! He’s bitchin’ that one flap is shorter than the other, that we do shitty work, and he ain’t payin’ us a dime. So, he’s wavin’ this fuckin’ hat, and he slaps me across the face. With this fuckin’ hat. Right across the face.”

Well, I fuckin’ LOST IT. I grabbed that god damed fuckin’ hat, wrapped it around his neck and just SQUEEZED man, just fuckin’ squeezed.” I see his face and hands clench. “I think I must have blacked out. I remember later straddling him, I could feel the coolness of his fat disgusting belly against me. I didn’t run. I don’t remember much after that. There’s was lots of people, humans, elves, police. I think they cuffed me at some point, but I don’t remember when.”

“It was in all the papers. ‘Elf kills Santa Clause.’ ‘Little Toymaker Kills the Jolly Fat Man.’ Never mind that I worked in the electronics department, eh? Software engineer.” He taps his chest. “Project manager. I hate it when they call me a toymaker. Or when they call me short.”

Some people would say that some good came out of it. You brought attention to the plight of the Elves.

He makes a dismissive gesture. “No one gives a shit about the Elves. They got their toys, and hats and scarves and, fuckin’ big screen TVs and laptops and shit. They don’t fuckin’ care. They don’t care how much of a racist sexist douche bag he and his harpy of a wife was. To them, what I did was unpardonable. I killed Santa Clause.”

“Well, you know what?” He leans in to me, his breath smelling of cigarettes. “I’m not sorry.”

[/spoiler]

Clockwork Jackal

Le_Ministre_de_l_au-dela · January 1, 2011, 3:21pm

Margo was cold. Her feet were chilled, and she unconsciously curled her toes inward as she typed, frowning at her screen. A cup of tea cooled unnoticed inches away from her hands, but she didn’t pause for a sip. If she stopped, even for a moment, she’d lose her train of thought, and more importantly, her flow of words. But words were the easier of her challenges; it was the numbers that were giving her a headache. So she took her work home at five, still drafting her report, an analysis of the finances of the project over the past few years. It was a mess. She was trying to unravel all the payments made, the overruns, the corrections of corrections of errors that weren’t hers, amid the engineer’s reports and the instructions from the board, all contradicting each other. Budget overruns were the smallest issue, it just went downward from there. Behind her, the clocked ticked into the silence, her keys tapped like ice crackling, and the furnace finally kicked in, labouring to overcome December’s grey cold.

[spoiler]She had a headache. She should stop this and take a break. Make dinner. Get changed. Have a bath. A glass of wine. But Steve would be home in an hour, and if she wanted to work without interruption, it was now or never. If she wanted some space to breathe. To think.

It was winter, with the end of the year approaching like a silent avalanche. Margo was buried in work. Happy New Year, happy end of the fiscal year. There was a still and silent coolness in the empty house when she arrived home from work at five-thirty, the first one in. There was something in the air along with the quiet, a suspension in the very emptiness of the house. Something holding its breath, waiting. At least it felt that way when Margo was alone. And there were things unsaid: a similar coolness lying between them like a frozen lake that neither would cross, even when doing so was possible. It wasn’t a matter of sink or swim—it was who would be first to travel over that awful exposed expanse of nothing, to be vulnerable, to say *I’m sorry.

Forgive me. *

Perhaps there would be a spring thaw. But that seemed a long way off. Summer had ended with yellow school buses and the last child, a child no more, now a second year student at university and gone for good. A dorm room had become a first apartment. A blurry photo emailed home, said child amid a messy jumble of things piled up and tumbled down. A bicycle. A poster. A chair she didn’t recognise. Margo squinted, shaking her head. At least she hoped those things behind Kim were textbooks. The room didn’t look particularly scholastic. It looked somehow sincere, though, in a way the dwelling places of youth were. Was she happy? It was so hard to tell.

And in their quiet, far more orderly house, too big now, that teenager’s room was emptied of life, with nothing but marks on the walls, nicks in the baseboards, and the ghosts of adolescence to mark a life nurtured and relinquished within. The noise and mess were gone, and it seemed the very silence in the house hummed to Margo these days. It said something, but she couldn’t say what. Those yellow school buses went by. Pumpkins had turned to poppies, and quickly bloomed poinsettias and holly, in shades of red, green and oh-my-god. It was almost Christmas.

Only Kimberly would be coming home for Christmas.

Derek was in the states with his wife, and they couldn’t travel this year, not with his work schedule. The grandparents were all gone, for several years now. There would be parties for work and parties with friends, cards and calls to relatives, but Christmas itself would be a quiet one. There would be no distraction of much loved children who weren’t children any more. They would have been a welcome diversion from what seemed to have happened between husband and wife. What altered and cooled between them. What neither had been willing to change—or even to talk about.

Steve pulled into the driveway, and Margo set aside the work she’d brought home to see about dinner. The kiss in greeting was brief and perfunctory, a ritual neither had let go of, despite everything. He went to change clothes and she put together dinner. Afterward, Margo returned to the headache-inducing chaos of the Harrison file, and Steve watched television. By bedtime, the conversation was of the purely practical. The car needed its servicing, the house insurance needed to be renewed, and his office party was on the 19th. Margo, clad in flannel from chin to ankle, gave a quick kiss that did not linger in invitation, and politely wished her husband a good night. She dreamed of the Harrison project, surrounded by paper that drifted in like snow, a blanket of white that enveloped her.

It was almost Christmas. It was too soon, and every year it came faster. So much to do, it brought back the red tendrils of a headache to just think of tackling the next thing on her to-do list. When Kimberly came home for Christmas, the iciness would have to be hidden, glossed over with photograph perfect smiles, all smoothed over for the holidays. And in January, Margo would decide.

But Kimberly was not coming home for Christmas, after all. Friends had invited her to Quebec City. She’d never been, and she really wanted to go. She phoned on a Tuesday night. “Oh, honey…” Margo said, knowing she wasn’t able to hide the disappointment. “No, I understand. We understand. It will be wonderful, I’m sure. Yes. Always next year.”

No Kim. No Derek. Just Steve and Margo. All she had to do was get the packages together and sent out. No point in a tree. A turkey. No point in doing anything, really.

“I’m going to the lake,” Steve said on Thursday morning, his voice indistinct over the bathroom fan. “Taking tomorrow off.”

“What?” Margo frowned. She’d worn the brown and green dress a lot lately. She pushed hangers aside, rejecting one outfit after another. Something that went with the tweedy jacket, she decided. Wearing a jacket always made her feel more confident. Competent.

“Never winterised the place this year.”

Wriggling a toe into black hose, thinking of silver earrings, a simple skirt, and don’t forget to bring all the Harrison crap with you, Margo wasn’t really listening to Steve bitch about all he had to do.

“What?”

“The cabin. Never put the place to bed for the winter. So I’m going to go up there this weekend. Stay over.”

“All right,” she said. Black turtleneck with a black skirt. The tweedy jacket. The medium heels.

A weekend alone. She’d get through the Harrison project if it killed her. Then putter around, drink wine, maybe turn on the stereo. Ah, to be alone.

She waited for him to ask: want to come?

He didn’t.

They ate in front of the television, Friday night pizza a day early. Steve had picked it up. They should have gone up to the lake the weekend before Thanksgiving. October was always the last time for the year. But they hadn’t done it. Things had been… tense. The last thing Margo had felt like then was a weekend with Steve at the lake, where so many summer memories and so much summer love had been made. So why go now? “For god’s sake,” Margo said. “What’s the point now? Ask the McLeans if they’ll go over and check it out.” She picked out olives from her pizza. He never remembered that she hated olives.

“Can’t,” Steve said. “Bill’s in the hospital.”

“Oh. I didn’t know that.”

“Me neither. Not until I phoned.”

“Oh.”

“Drive carefully,” Margo said on Friday morning. Steve kissed her good-bye. He didn’t look back as he headed to his truck. She closed the front door, and locked it. The engine started up, then she heard the sound recede down the drive way. She was alone.

In the silence, the house breathed. A whole weekend alone! Just get through this day at the office, then wine, women’s movies and song. Or the Harrison file and tackling the last of the Christmas chores. Then she’d indulge herself. Bliss.

Friday night, Margo poured a glass of wine, and tucked her feet under her. She pulled the throw over her legs and prepared to indulge in movies that she wanted to see. No action, no car chases, no swearing, nothing stupid. Steve, at the cabin. Funny time of year to go up, but he’d been insistent. It was as if he wanted to get away from the empty house.

Or, away from her.

Margo swallowed wine and felt it warm her belly, even as she shivered.

An hour later, she finished the wine, looking sadly at the empty bottle. “Wow,” she said aloud. “I haven’t done that for a while.”

“Time for bed,” she told the empty house. But Margo lay awake. Booze was supposed to put you to sleep, right? Then why was she staring at the ceiling, alone in the dark? It was strange, after all, not to have her husband beside her in bed. Sure he snored, messed up the blankets, and insisted the window be cracked even in the winter. But his very presence was… comforting. She’d heard his sighs for years, and his heartbeat alongside hers, all through the night. It was steady. Constant.

But Steve was up to the cabin to winterise the summer place. The cottage where they spent July and August weekends and sometimes even precious weeks, when their schedules allowed. Winterised, she thought, like their relationship, their emotions. Things put away for the season, shut tight, closed off, and pulled down. Maybe for good.

What was he doing tonight? Drinking beer? Reading a spy novel? Listening to the radio? Hopefully the storm windows were on and the pipes hadn’t frozen. Was he cold? It was after eleven at night.

He hadn’t phoned to tell her he’d arrived safely.

Saturday morning, and no smell of coffee from the kitchen. It was silent in the house, and Margo’s mouth tasted like sour grapes. She may as well sleep in until the edges of the morning after softened. She dozed, trying not to think. But thoughts gathered and lingered like heavy clouds. She hadn’t really forgiven Steve, and he knew it. And he hadn’t forgiven her for her refusal to absolve him of the wrong she’d felt. The unpardonable sin of getting older? Of not being perfect? Of failing her?

How much longer could they go on like this?

She’d freeze to death.

She turned the shower on as hot as she could stand it, trying to drive the lingering effects of one entire bottle of wine from her body. In the steam and heat, it was easier to pretend those weren’t tears.

The Harrison file could go screw itself. Margo threw some things into a bag, turned the furnace down, locked up, and left her empty house. Half-way down the block she started to laugh at her impulse.

And half-way to the lake, it occurred to her that Steve might not be alone up there. Then she decided: it didn’t matter. It was time to cross over the frozen water, to give her true forgiveness.

And then ask for his.

[/spoiler]

Savannah

Le_Ministre_de_l_au-dela · January 1, 2011, 3:25pm

It was Christmastime in 1984 and I was on my way back home to the farm. It was not going to be a fun trip - from Toronto to Nowhere in BC would take three solid days of bus travel. It would be crowded, smelly and horrible, but it was also cheap. For $99., you could get a two-week travel pass that would take you anywhere you wanted to go. Or even take you home.

[spoiler] I had been away for four months. University hadn’t worked out and so I was working in a coffee shop while I got my shit together. Mom and Dad were furious about it, and here I was heading straight into the lions’ den. I was looking forward to a week of painful lectures and stony silences. As far as they were concerned, I was wasting my time, my life and their money. If I had to ‘sort things through’ (These words were always followed by a derisive snort.), I could come back to the farm to do it.

The big problem was I no longer wanted to paint, write or compose.  Everything I had done so far had been worthless, and I couldn't come out with anything new.

It didn't help that my brother had died in a car crash that summer.  He had been the responsible one, until he had driven drunk one time too many and gone off the road with  three of our best friends.  We were still all sorting through that one - my parents were used to being left alone, but shunned by the entire community was a different matter.

On the plus side, I had a Walkman and a stack of tapes.  I had enough batteries that I could just change them every four hours.  I had also been careful to bring enough cheese and fruit to balance the Frangelico and hash brownies.  I could 'winterize' my coffee (which would render the unpalatable swill at the bus depot diners almost tolerable) and ride the fine balance between a stoic rationing of food stuffs and giving myself the munchies.

The trick getting a seat by yourself was to look bleary and hostile.  Reading some anarchist literature and drooling a bit didn't hurt, either.  My spiky hair and black leather jacket looked punk enough to repel the casually garrulous, but it wouldn't do very well against someone who was in the mood to witness.  Some Sex Pistols through the headphones helped some.  In the long run, it was futile - the buses were going to be packed enough that I was going to end up sharing with somebody, and it was far too unlikely that I would encounter someone with any kind of coolness.

For the Greyhound was an extended metaphor for the grey that surrounded me.  It wasn't just the absence of colour, it was as if the whole experience was removing colour from my life.  I was surrounded by grey things and grey people, and despite my desperate clinging to red and shiny black, I could feel myself turning grey as well.

From Toronto to Sudbury I had some old grannie with a sour face.  From Sudbury to Blind River it was some guy who was so fat he took up two seats.  He smiled when he saw me sitting by the window because at last he'd found someone under 90 pounds to sit beside.  When I fell asleep, I had horrible dreams about bread dough being extruded through a sieve.

It must have been around Wawa that she got on.  It was the hat that I noticed first of all - it was some goofy looking thing that looked like it should have been on  a six year old kid.  Everything she was wearing looked like she'd picked it up at Value Village and yet everything she wore contributed to her aura of strangeness.  She looked only a little bit older than me, but she carried herself as if she were the elder of some gentle race the world has seldom seen.  (Shit, I wasn't supposed to like Led Zeppelin anymore...)  It's hard to describe her appearance - it wasn't that she was beautiful, it was that she glowed.  If my life was a comic book, Rachel was the only thing that couldn't be rendered with black, grey or sepia.

It was at the next stop that I made coffee in the Bodum press I had brought along.  Rachel's eyes lit up and she laughed when she saw the result.  I had been about to make some sharp remark when she silently pulled a small Bodum out of her overlarge backpack and smiled.  Before we left the cafe, I'd poured a drop of Frangelico into her coffee and she had poured some Sortilège into mine.  

What was the conversation about, then, between Marathon, Ontario and Winnipeg?  I don't remember clearly - I just remember listening to her like I'd never listened to anyone before.  We talked about food, coffee, music, poetry, cities - I remember consciously not talking about myself.  Her own words and music were completely out of fashion, but it didn't bother her at all.  She loved the energy of punk and new wave, but that just wasn't her style of writing.  Her optimism was infectious, and she seemed to add colour to the world around her just through her presence.  "Life will be good to you as long as you are good to life."  Somehow, when she said it, it didn't sound like a glurge cliché.

I remember her saying to me as she fell asleep against my shoulder, somewhere between Dryden and Kenora, "You're not really a punk - you're too much of a natural romantic."  I sat awake for the next hour, pondering that.

We arrived in Winnipeg on the morning of the 22nd.  I still had a day and a half of bus to go before I got to Williams Lake, not to mention a layover in Cache Creek while I waited for the next northbound.   As we drove up through Osborne Villiage, Rachel said "Why don't you stay over tonight?  We can spend the day together, I can show you around and you can get a bath and a decent meal?  You can get back on the bus tomorrow and still make it home for the 24th."  I thought about it for all of a tenth of a second - "Absolutely!"  I even contemplated deliberately missing that bus, although missing Christmas at home would be an unpardonable offense to my parents.

The rest of the day was a blur - Rachel, her friends, all of her favourite spots in the Wicked 'Peg, this huge warehouse loft that she called home, a swirling crowd of friends, relatives and roommates coming and going.  "No, we were not going to sleep together that night!" she said, and then laughed at the confused sheepdog look I must have had on my face.  It didn't matter, it was as if my life were a map that had just been unfolded.

She kissed me as she dropped me at the bus depot the next day.  I spent the rest of the trip in a kind of haze, as if my life were a crossword puzzle and I'd just figured out the theme.  ("Ah, all the across clues are written backwards in the grid.")  My Christmas with my parents wasn't as bad as I'd feared - we still had fundamental disagreements on everything, but instead of them getting to me, I just smiled to myself.  They weren't making me angry like they used to, and something in me had shifted - I didn't feel the need to lash out at them.  By the time I left, we were almost civil to one another.

On the bus to Winnipeg, I had worked out at least some of the things I would like to do - I wanted to buy a coffee shop and stock it full of board games and role-playing games.  I'd see about rigging a stage and turning it into a performing venue.  Instead of forcing myself to create along the lines of what was fashionable or what someone else thought, I was going to become someone who encouraged others to create.  And if, in encouraging that creation, I started working on my own stuff again, so much the better.  

When I got to Winnipeg, Rachel had already gone to Montréal.  She'd left her address with a note that said "I dunno when I'll be back."  I mailed it back to her with a line scrawled across the bottom that said "That's okay - I'll wait for you here."

"The Full Palette" opened a couple of years later, and Rachel was the first act onstage.  She'd been right - she'd done so much better staying true to her own style.  Life had been good to both of us. I took a long look at the art we'd done for the opening - pale, pastel monochrome squares with black borders hung on the walls, while everything else - the chairs, tables, walls, floor and ceiling looked like there had been an intergalactic neon paint fight.

Which was, in fact, how we had combined the wedding reception and the painting party.

[/spoiler]

Le Ministre de l’au-delà

Le_Ministre_de_l_au-dela · January 1, 2011, 3:35pm

In retrospect, I can now see why it might not have been a good idea to ride my bike on an icy mountain road, in the middle of the night, in the nude, wearing nothing but a hat.
In my defense, I was nude partly because I was bored, but mostly because I had stupidly put twelve logs in the cabin fireplace and it was sweltering in there. Plus, having slugged down six beers to cool off and smoking half a joint (well, just because), did not help make my decision making process particularly rational.

I glanced over at the new snow tires I had put on my bike to winterize it for those snowy mountain trails and it hit me.

I had to give it a test ride up the short hill!

Now!

[spoiler]What the hell? There was nobody around for miles, so why not take a naughty nude bike ride up the short hill to get a look at the valley by moonlight, get out of this cabin sauna and appreciate the coolness of the night? Certainly I am not the first guy in the world who thought it would be a good idea to venture out into the wild, wearing nothing but courage and a hat.

However, what really was an unpardonable lapse in judgment (again – in retrospect) was forgetting that snow tires work really well on thick snow, but not so great on ice - but I am getting ahead of myself.

Stoked on beer, weed and high body heat, I sped up that hill in record time. It was truly beautiful – the moonlight reflected off the snow and it was as bright as day. I could see for miles. I actually got off the bike and stood there, naked, brave and cocky, in a manly stance. As there was almost no wind, the 30 degrees Fahrenheit felt exhilarating – I felt like a Finn prancing off in the snow after a sauna in Helsinki.

However, as any Finn will tell you, it doesn’t take long for body heat to dissipate in ice and snow, and then it is time to head back indoors for another Grog, or in my case, another beer and a toke.
That was where things went a tad bit awry.
At the top of any hill, there are usually many ways down. One way would lead back to my toasty cabin; all the other ways would not.

Did I mention it was a rather steep hill, and the snow had melted a bit in the afternoon, only to freeze again that night?

I realized the bottom of my feet were getting a bit cool, so I lifted them and put them on my pedals and felt the bike begin to move down the hill in the direction away from my cabin…rather quickly as a matter of fact. Braking didn’t seem to be having any great affect (none, to be exact) and I found myself going faster and faster down the road in the opposite direction of my cabin.

Now, 35 mph might not seem fast, nor 40 or 50, when in a car – but when flying down a mountain road on a bicycle, it is indeed a speed to be reckoned with, and one at which stopping quickly against a tree, or plowing into a snow bank, is not a great option.
Frantically working on keeping the bike upright, with only the distant echo of my screams following behind me, I was able to avoid certain death by keeping focused and carefully watching the straight road ahead of me in the light of the moon. About five miles down the very steep hill, it begins to taper off into a flat stretch of road. It was there that I finally was able to bring my bike to a stop.

I was no longer sweltering from the cabin heat, the affects of the joint had seemingly disappeared and all that was left of the beer was being left in a yellow puddle as I stood there peeing in terror; something I would have done in my pants even if I had been fully clothed, which I was not.

Now, looking up an icy five mile hill, nude and no longer quite as pleased to have the moonlight bright as day, the 30 degrees was now decidedly chilly.

Going back up the icy hill was not really an option at this point.

Figuring it to be about midnight, I looked a half mile or so down the road and saw the light of Bud’s Tavern was thankfully still on. It was the only place open at this time of night and, as I quickly rode the bike in that direction, I saw only two trucks parked out front. I left the bike by the doorway, removed my hat and, holding it strategically in my hands, I casually walked into the tavern.

There were two guys sitting at the bar, and Bud himself was tending bar.

They all three looked up as I entered, and nobody said anything.

I sort of walked quickly to the end of the bar and put the hat on the stool next to me, but didn’t sit down.
They were all still looking at me, in dead silence.

I said, “So a nude guy walks into a bar and says to the bartender, I’d like a beer, but I seem to have forgotten my wallet.”

Bud brought me a beer and said, “I’ve known you for years, but didn’t know you were Jewish.”

“I’m not, but I got stuck leaving the tip at the other bar.”

[/spoiler]

DMark

Le_Ministre_de_l_au-dela · January 1, 2011, 3:45pm

Roger pushed open the door to his apartment. A month ago, he’d have been careful not to slam the flimsy, inadequate door into the equally flimsy and inadequate folding table just inside. Not this time. Weeks-old Chinese takeout boxes clattered against the floor when the door banged against the table they had been piled upon. A week ago, Roger would have noted with a tired satisfaction the mess, the clutter, the total disaster that his studio apartment had become. Not this time. When Roger stepped inside, a stale, familiar odor greeted him on warm air that was a stark contrast to the brisk coolness of the air outside. Yesterday, Roger would have reflexively crinkled his nose. Not this time.

Things were going to be different now.

Roger had finally found his son.

[spoiler]Roger unbuckled his work belt and let it fall to the floor just inside the doorway. At least he’d know to find it there when he went back to work on Monday. He unbuttoned his jacket and made his way to his TV chair, half tiptoeing and half bulldozing around and through the clothes and trash that formed almost a complete layer on the floor.

When he dropped his weight into his faded, stuffing-bare, second-hand chair, it gave slightly, as if threatening to collapse. But it was always a hollow threat. Roger grabbed the TV remote from atop the milk crate he used as a side table and powered on the TV. There was a Christmas movie on, some old one in black and white, though it was difficult to tell since the TV’s colors barely functioned anyway. Probably why the old owner set it out on the sidewalk.

Roger reached into his pocket and withdrew a small box. He cradled it in his huge hands and it was startlingly heavy, but Roger knew that was just a guilty mind playing tricks on him. There was a loose, frayed, faded blue strand of ribbon that was tied limply around the box. Worn and equally faded paper was wrapped over every side. At one time the paper had been white striped with red, though now, nearly two decades later and after being handled in exactly this same fashion hundreds of times, the paper had yellowed and the stripes had all but disappeared. At a couple corners the wrapping had completely worn away and the green of the box showed through underneath. It was possibly the worst looking gift Roger had ever seen. He had considered rewrapping it dozens of times. Somehow that didn’t seem the right thing to do.

Roger woke with the sunrise, as he did every day. The bright yellow light of the morning sun poured in from the sole window in his apartment and collided with the bluish white light of the TV. Sitting upon the TV a single, sealed bottle of beer was ablaze with the light it caught from the sun. It looked delicious, refreshing, heavenly. Roger had heard that siren’s call before. He had often succumbed and it cost him fourteen years. Cost his son eighteen fatherless years. And so the bottle sat for him to wake to every morning. A reminder of why. A reminder to say no. Never again.

It took Roger a few moments to shake the sleep from his body. Today was the day, finally. How appropriate that the day Roger had waited for, for years, was Christmas. The gift, still on his lap, was where he had left it. He carefully placed it back in his jacket pocket and winced when he pushed himself out of the chair.

Roger switched off the TV and unplugged it. He pried open the loose back panel and removed a worn, yellow padded envelope. Four years he spent stuffing that envelope, saving everything he could. It wasn’t what he owed, but it was a start. Roger reached down and grabbed the black hat near his work belt. It wasn’t a white Christmas, but still a cold one. He was thankful for the earflaps, even if they looked silly.

For a brief moment Roger hesitated just inside the door. Even after four years, it still felt strange to be able to leave at his own whim. He pulled open the door. It was unlocked. Always unlocked. He had had enough of being locked inside. Mindful of the table, he slipped out into the cold.

Luck is a strange thing. When asked, Roger had always said he was decidedly unlucky. Luck was real, he said, and he didn’t have it. But now, on the bus and with time to kill, he wondered. Was he lucky? For three years now Roger had worked with the same temp agency, one of few places that would hire an ex-felon. For the last two years, he had worked with the same man, Jim, retrofitting and winterizing houses and office buildings to make them more energy efficient. As much a friend as Jim was, and he was the only one Roger had, they barely talked. And yet, just last week, Roger had finally mentioned how he had spent a few years searching for his son. And here, among the thousands and thousands and maybe millions of people in this city, Jim had the answer that Roger had searched for years to find. Jim knew his son.

“Michael Abramson? Like, Roger Abramson? I know Michael.” Jim had said. Roger didn’t remember much after that.

So was he lucky? Or was he unlucky enough to have spent the last two years searching for an answer that he had within his reach the entire time? Roger had once hired a private detective who led him along, eagerly taking his money and promising new leads, and yet never finding anything. That was as close as Roger had come to unleashing the rage that had gotten him locked up. Had he still been drinking, that detective might have earned the same fate as the bully at the bar had eighteen years ago.

There was also the kid Roger paid at the library to help him use the internet to look up his son. They found a single small image, but Roger was sure it was how his son would look now, older. There was the miles and miles Roger spent walking up and down the streets, secretly hoping to run into him. All of it and everything he hoped to find had been with Jim the entire time. Luck is a strange thing.

When Roger signaled his stop and stepped off the bus, he smiled. He had walked these streets. He probably passed his son’s house more than once and never knew it. He checked the scrap of paper in his wallet and the address Jim had written for him, though he didn’t need to. He had memorized it the instant Jim gave it to him yesterday after work. Just around the corner.

When Roger got to his son’s street, he started to feel it. Anxiety. Fear. Guilt. What if he didn’t forgive him? What if, after all this time, his son wouldn’t forgive him? What if Jim was wrong? Roger had tried his best to restrain his hope, but the imploding emptiness in his stomach betrayed him. He was desperately hoping this was it. That this was him. Suddenly it was tough to breathe. Tough to continue stepping toward that house. Roger fingered the small box in his jacket pocket. He had already committed one unpardonable crime, turning back now would make two. And Roger would never rectify that second one. He felt a familiar thirst.

And then, he was there. 4022 West Magnolia St… He stood on the sidewalk, next to the mailbox, and double-checked that address. Triple-checked.

It was a wonderful place. Maybe a little run down, but it was infinitely better than a cell. Or a trashy studio apartment. It was a place a man could be proud of. Where a man could raise a family and be there for them. Every day.

There was a large window to the left of the dark lacquered door. Above the bush Roger could see inside where a brightly lit Christmas tree sparkled in defiance of the late morning sun. Roger remembered the last Christmas tree he had, eighteen years ago. It was a memory like a blurry photograph, perfectly imperfect and painful and joyful all at the same time. Roger could no longer contain his hope.

But there was still that fear. All these years spent working toward this one goal, this moment. And it was here. He removed the box from his jacket pocket. It was startlingly light. He could drop it in that mailbox and go home, broken promise finally kept. His son would know. He’d understand.

And then the door opened.

Roger watched as a man stood there at the door for a moment, clearly cautious and caught off guard. A tiny head poked from behind his knees to get a better view. Roger suddenly felt inadequate and jealous and proud all at the same time. The man at the door shooed him back inside with big, strong hands. Familiar hands.

The man closed the door behind him, never taking his eyes off Roger. He took a few steps until he was just a few feet away.

Impossibly long moments passed. Roger’s heart beat at least a million times though he probably didn’t take a single breath.

“Roger?” The man said. Oh God.

“Merry Christmas.” Roger said. Merry Christmas?

“Mom said you died.”

“She had a right to say that.” Roger couldn’t begrudge her the lie. Taking his son and never telling him where they went, well, that was something else. He had gotten one letter in those fourteen years behind bars. She had written demanding child support. He never heard anything again.

“She died. A few years ago.”

Roger looked away. Lost. He saw that box in his hand, He had forgotten he carried it. He handed it to this man, this young man, his son. His little boy. Michael.

“Do you remember the last time I saw you?” Roger said.

His son took the box and looked at it. Roger wondered what the boy made of it.

“Not at all. I was eight, though, I think.”

“I made a promise to get that for you. I gave you my word.” Roger said.

“A man’s word is his life,” Michael said. He had remembered. Roger hoped his little boy had done better with the advice than he had himself.

Roger reached into his back pocket and took out the envelope. He handed it to his son.

“And always pay your debts,“ Roger said, “She sent me a letter asking for child support. If she had just given me an address I could have sent something back. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

Roger’s son tucked the envelope under his arm and unwrapped the box. The ribbon and paper melted away and Roger felt like the first man to ever fly. Michael opened the lid of the green box, its color still vivid after all these years behind that wrapping. He smirked.

He handed Roger the envelope.

“Come on inside.”

[/spoiler]

Jules Andre

Le_Ministre_de_l_au-dela · January 1, 2011, 3:52pm

Kasey sighed and tapped her cell phone impatiently as she stood on the passenger pickup curb at the Vegas airport. Her brother, Rob, answered but she didn’t give him much of a chance to say hello.

“Are you seriously still sitting in your kitchen more than a hundred miles away while I’ve been out here waiting for you for 45 minutes?”

There was a long silence and she heard her brother call out to his wife. “Joanne, wasn’t that tomorrow Sis was supposed to be here?” There was a long string of expletives on the other end and Rob had to hold the phone out from his ear. “Hold it. Just hold it. Sent someone for you, you fool. He probably just took a wrong turn and thought the right place to pick you up was at Circus Circus.”

[spoiler]Kasey groaned. He probably sent Jesus; he was the Mexican that did all the work on the ranch that couldn’t be done on top of a horse, and then some. “If you sent Jesus, then I doubt he got past the Caliente bar.”

“You’d have to look further than Caliente to find him. He went back to Mexico for a month or so, to see his family. Guess he’s a sucker for the holidays, just like you.”

That was Rob’s sense of humor. She practically had to be dragged from UC Santa Barbara where her college housing was within walking distance of the beach and her current love interest was a surfer who’d never seen a horse in person, let alone spent all day on top of one.

“Pops isn’t doing so well and we could use the help,” Rob had said.

“You’ve said that every year for the past four that I’ve been here.” Kasey knew she was exaggerating a little, but she had hoped to stay in Santa Barbara this Christmas. What she had not hoped for was another Christmas of bickering with Rob’s wife while a herd of his ever-increasing progeny ran rampant through the house and over her already stressed nerves.

Not to mention, she would be roped into chores, chores and more chores. Those chores would involve being exposed to the elements and often resulted in swollen, scratched fingers, and wind-burned cheeks Long days moving cattle through ten miles of solid brush in below freezing temperatures. No thanks, thought Kasey when Rob called her after Thanksgiving to give her his yearly guilt trip. I’ve been there, done that.

Still, her dad had been hospitalized twice that year and it seemed to be his doctor’s opinion that unless he took it easy, the ranch would bury him. Missing the holiday was unpardonable and she had known that she’d never get away with it. Relenting, Kasey agreed to let Rob buy the ticket to Vegas, the closest airport to their isolated homestead in one of the basin valleys that stretched up the eastern side of Nevada.

“If you aren’t coming, then who is and where the hell are they?”

“Two guesses.”

“I’m not playing that game, Rob.” She didn’t have too. At that moment, a white and sky-blue ’76 Ford pickup rolled into her view. “God damn you, you’ll pay for this.” She caught just a hook of her brother’s chuckle before she hung up the cell phone and picked up her bag as the truck rolled to a stop in front of her. She was just thankful none of her college friends were around to see this, the king of all shit-kickers, here to pick her up at the airport. Jay West, complete with a rounded flat-brimmed buckaroo hat and a mustache that would have put Super Mario to shame.

“Hell, Kasey. Got stopped by Vernon in Alamo and lost track of time.” She winced as he bounced her suitcase into the truck bed. Next, he reached for her laptop case, but she pulled it back from his grasp.

“No, I’ll just hang onto this.”

He shrugged, “All right then. Let’s get going.”

He was wearing one of the immaculate white shirts he had dressed in religiously from the time he was fourteen and started dreaming of living like a cowboy. No, she remembered, not like a cowboy. They all spit at cowboys and team ropers with their shiny belt buckles and their rubber wrapped around their saddle horns. Outside of the remote world in which she had grown up, no one much knew or cared that there was a difference, but Jay was a buckaroo and definitely not any part of cowboy.

“So how’ve you been?” His arm stretched over the back of the truck seat, his fingers dangling casually next to her shoulder.

“I’m fine,” Kasey said, then realizing the coolness in her voice, she tried to soften it, “You? Still living at the ranch?”

“Well, your brother thinks I’m about worthless still. But he keeps paying me to stick around, so I guess things are OK.”

They had been an item once, more than most people would have guessed. Most of their small community thought it was an unrequited crush on Jay’s part.

“Do you want to go back right away? We could stall a bit and still get there in time for the kids to be in bed.”

She laughed an uneasy laugh. It was no secret that she had no patience for her brother’s kids. “Dad might be waiting up. We shouldn’t drink and drive that far anyways.”

“Suit yourself.” Just then, the truck backfired, making her jump out of her skin. He just laughed. “I guess they don’t allow old Fords in California anymore.”

“Nope, the only things they allow to grow old in California are hippies and wine.”

He was looking straight ahead, but grinned widely, “See, you can still be fun.”

“Who says I stopped being fun?”

He just shook his head then looked straight at her. “Damn near everyone.”

They drove on in silence for awhile. Kasey’s phone was the only interruption as it constantly burbled out text notifications. Twice it rang but she didn’t answer. By the time they had turned off onto Highway 93, Jay was joking about throwing it out the window so she turned it off.

They managed to have a little small-talk about who got married, or knocked up or both; who spent Thanksgiving in the county lockup with a DUI or thought he could ride bulls but came back home with two busted ribs and a concussion. Kasey remembered that when it came to gossip, it seemed that the isolated buckaroos she grew up with could hold their own with the worst of her catty friends

Finally, they pulled off the main highway and onto the dirt road that led straight out across a snow-dusted sage flat for thirty miles. Jay stopped for a moment, got out and fished around the trunk for something in back. He returned with two beers, opening one before handing it to her.

“What’s this for?” she asked.
“You’ll need it.” He opened one for himself and took a long swallow of it.

It’s going to be a long two weeks, she thought as they pulled in front of the split-level ranch house. A flurry of kids and dogs ran out to greet them. The younger dogs twisted themselves inside out in their excitement over the new arrivals, but one old dog just stood and wagged just the very end of his white-tipped tail.

Having delivered her safely, Jay took a little gas money from Rob and said his goodnights, leaving her alone with the family she hadn’t seen in a year.

Pops looked frail. A strong, wiry man all her life, now he was no longer sure of his movements and his skin had a faint yellow tinge that she knew did not bode well. Still, he tried to wrangle some of the next day’s chores away from Rob. They had coffee and a few words before Kasey started to yawn and she asked where she was sleeping.

Rob and her Pops exchanged a look before Rob said, “Well, we had a project in mind for you and thought you’d want a little distance between you and the main house so you could have some peace and quiet.”

“You are not talking about the ranch office, that place is a mess. Where the hell would I sleep?” The ranch office was two miles down the road and consisted of two rooms full of years of clutter dating back to when their grandfather had first built it.

“We put a cot up for you and even winterized the place.” Kasey turned around and scowled at Annie, who stood in the doorway.

“By winterize, I imagine you put a space heater and a few blankets in there? No way I can get it cleaned out in two weeks and what’s the big hurry – “

“Kasey, we’ve decided to sell the ranch.”

She was dumbfounded. The ranch had been in their family for more generations than she could remember. “You can’t sell it.”

“The deal’s almost done, honey.” This time it was Pops that chimed in, “We just have one last look-over to make sure everything looks good. Nothing much is in that office that can’t be bagged up and thrown out without a thought.”

“What will you and Rob do?” And Jay, she thought.

“We’ll be alright. We’ll have some setup money and can move to town where Pops can be closer to his doctors.” Rob looked only a little wistful as he said this. There was a long silence and the conversation seemed to require some consideration before being continued, so Kasey decided to let it go for the night. “I hope you don’t expect me to walk there.”

Rob threw her a set of keys he retrieved from a peg behind the back door. “Third truck on the right.”

She grabbed her stuff and headed for the pickup – it was the ranch workhorse, a little grey Nissan that had seen better days. She put her bag and laptop inside and shut the door. Looking to her right was a funny hat with a note. “You’ll need this.” It was a brown woolen hat that was ugly as sin but would cover her ears. No way, she thought, throwing it back on the seat.

As moonlit cow pastures rolled by her, she realized that neither of the truck’s windows would close and she was soon shivering despite the heavy coat she was wearing. She put the ridiculous hat on before the first mile was completed, with four more to go. Glimpsing herself in the mirror, she had to laugh. “Well, at least my ears will be warm, “she muttered to herself.

The mud made it slower going then she cared for but she was thankful that it wasn’t snowing. When she pulled up to the house, she saw that someone had left a light on. It was too much to hope that he’d turned on the heat for her, and she could see her breath in front of her face even within the cluttered sitting room. She put her bags in the corner and pulled the space heater out of the hallway closest. Before long, she was warming her feet in front of the heater and wondering what a bike was doing here, leaned up against the door. No one in her family ever rode a bike that she remembered.

She wasn’t surprised when a knock came on the door, and was even less surprised that it was Jay standing out there with two steaming mugs of coffee and a pint of whiskey under his arm, smirking at the sight of her in that silly hat.

She considered for a few moments before she said, “If I let you in, you have to wear the hat at Christmas dinner tomorrow.”

He put the whiskey down on the porch and held out his hand. “That’s a deal,” he said.
[/spoiler]

LVBoPeep

Le_Ministre_de_l_au-dela · January 1, 2011, 3:56pm

Eddie looked around the playground field. Most of the kids had gathered into two crowds, with a lot of children, like Eddie himself, scattered in between them.

“Of course Santa Claus exists,” Holly Scott declared from the center of the group to Eddie’s right, her blonde hair bouncing slightly as she nodded. “You have to believe in somebody like Santa Claus. Or else what’s the world coming to?”

“He’s not real,” Jason Berlin countered, and the other cynics gathered around him cheered slightly. “It’s all a made-up fake. The presents are all paid for by your parents, and the malls hire guys to play dress-up as Santa Claus. Nobody really flies around on a sleigh in the middle of the night delivering toys. Deal with it.”

[spoiler]There was more to the debate, and several of the undecided eventually picked a side, but Eddie still wasn’t sure what to believe in by the time Recess was over. So he walked home from school by himself and ended up telling the whole thing to his mother.

“Well, Eddie, this is something you have to make up your own mind on, but I think that I understand what Holly is saying more,” Mom said in the end. “Santa Claus is real, but he’s not going to go on bringing you presents every year unless you believe in him.”

Right, Eddie thought to himself silently. And that’s just what you’d say if you were in on the cover-up too. Or maybe you really believe in it, but…

“It’s all down to the elves,” he suddenly realized. “They’d know the answer, for sure - but how am I going to get an elf to talk to me honestly about it?”

“You want to talk to an elf?” Mom repeated, sounding somewhat surprised.

“Yeah, of course, a north pole elf,” Eddie told her. “I mean, if Santa Claus isn’t real, they’d have to know about it, they’d have to be involved in keeping the secret. But since I can’t get to the North Pole either, where am I going to find one?”

“I don’t know, sweetie, but I’m sure that you’ll figure it out,” Mom told him.

At the mall, Eddie wandered around, checking out all of the little bits of coolness that were available for sale. He was supposed to be looking for presents for his family, presents that he could swing on his allowance savings, but kept getting distracted by things that it would be so great to unwrap under the tree for himself, and that brought him back to the big question.

After spending a while pondering whether his father would really want to get something winterized, whatever that meant, and he spotted the ‘Sit on Santa’s lap’ setup in the open space in front of Sears. Intently staring, he approached, steering well clear of the actual line of parents and little kids waiting to meet Santa, and doing his best to not get into the way of anybody else who might be so busy that they wouldn’t notice a nine-year old boy before bumping into him.

This Santa was better than some that Eddie had seen in malls before, but he didn’t look like the real deal, that was for sure. He looked old enough, and believably fat enough - it wasn’t just a fat sweater, this Santa actually had the weight, and the jolliness to go along with it. But Eddie didn’t trust the white beard and white hair - they didn’t seem right. And if those details were faked, then of course it couldn’t really be Santa, right? Not to mention, that Cole doubted any real Santa would have the free time to visit Southway mall in his town.

Two of the ‘Santa’s helpers’ were even worse - they weren’t even making the effort to pass themselves off as genuine elves, really. Just girls stuck somewhere in that gray area between being kids and grown-ups, dressed up in red and green outfits, helping the kids to and from Santa’s lap and taking pictures. But the third guy…

If there were a genuine North Pole elf who had been sent to watch over the fake Santa at Southway, then it would have to be the little man. He was an inch shorter than Eddie, but clearly not a little boy - not if the traces of grey in his black hair and the stubble on his chin were to be believed. There was something about his face and the proportions of his short limbs that were also very un-child-like, as Eddie watched him.

So there was a person as short as a little boy, but he was clearly old. That could be a genuine elf, Eddie decided. He wore the red and green cap pulled over much of his head, covering the tops of his ears, and as tired as the elf looked, there was a little bit of true Christmas merriment that gleamed in his eyes now and then.

Daring, Eddie ran up to the velvet rope around Santa’s gazebo and waved at the little elf. “Hey, are you a real North Pole elf?”

The elf turned around and looked at him. “Merry Christmas to you, son. Do you want to see Santa? There’s not that much of a line, really.”

“No - I don’t want to meet that Santa, at least. His beard and hair are faked.” He hoped that it wasn’t unpardonable to say such a thing. “But I thought that you might be able to tell me, if there’s a real Santa.”

The elf paused, and was about to answer him, before one of the gray area girls shouted at him to show the next little girl over to Santa. “Listen kid, I’d like to talk to you about Santa and Christmas, but if you’re not going to get your picture taken on Santa’s lap, then you’ll have to wait for my break. Probably best that way, so that we have some time.”

“Okay, sure, I’ll wait,” Eddie promised. “How long will you be?”

“Three quarters of an hour.”

“Okay, I’ll keep looking for gifts, and come back at twelve thirty,” Eddie called as the elf headed over to get back to his job.

The elf was waiting a little distance away from the gazebo when Eddie got back. It seemed that Santa and the gray area girls all took their breaks at the same time, since the gazebo was empty, with the velvet ropes unbroken around it, and a little sign saying ‘Santa will be back at’ and an old-fashioned clock dial showing the long hand pointing straight up and the shorter hand pointing off where the one would be. “Listen, kid, do your parents know that you’re doing this?” he asked Eddie uncertainly. “Because - well, they might not understand about talking to elves and that kind of thing.”

“Well, no - my mom knows that I’m curious about Santa, but not that I’d go looking for an elf,” Eddie admitted. “I should be able to find her and tell, her, though. She told me to come find her in the big bookstore by one thirty, when I’m done shopping.”

“Maybe that’s a good idea,” the elf said. “By the way, what’s your name?”

“Eddie, Eddie Robbins.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Eddie. I’m Cole.”

It took a little while to explain the whole thing to Mom once Eddie found her, sitting in the bookstore coffee shop and paging through a big hardcover. She suggested that the three of them all sit together and she could buy Eddie a hot chocolate, and wouldn’t say anything while Eddie talked about Santa with Cole if he didn’t want her to.

“Yeah, I guess that’ll be okay. If you really have something that you think is helpful, you can speak up.” Mom chuckled to herself about that.

“Well, the first thing I should tell you is, no, I’ve never been up to the North Pole,” Cole told Eddie once his coffee had shown up. “I was born in North Bay, actually, which is a long way north of here but still a long way short of the Pole. And I’ve been up much further north, a few times, even to the Arctic Circle. And I’ve never actually met Santa Claus, but yes, I do believe that he’s real.”

“Why are you so sure?” Eddie asked him.

“Well, because it takes something real to change the hearts of people that believe. Working in places like this at Christmas, I’ve realized that I can tell who really believes in Santa, who really believes in Christmas, and that means that they’re real.”

Eddie thought about that. “Mom says that if I don’t believe in Santa, then he won’t give me anything.”

“Well, I’m not sure about that. I’m pretty sure that you’d still have lots of cool stuff to unwrap on Christmas morning.”

“Yeah, of course - because Mom and Dad would do what they could to pick up the slack.”

“I guess you’re right.” Cole grinned over at Mom. “But if you really want to keep believing in Santa Claus, I’d say the best thing to do is to throw yourself into the spirit of Christmas giving.”

“I’m here to buy presents for my family,” Eddie protested.

“Yeah, that’s a start. But there’s ways to give an incredible Christmas to the people that you love that don’t necessarily come out of your wallet - or that take a little thought as well as money.”

“You mean, like trying hard to think of the perfect present for somebody that’s hard to buy a gift for, instead of going with the first thing you’d find that they’d like a little?”

“Yup.”

“So, how many different places have you worked as a Santa elf?”

“Gee, I’m not sure if I can remember them all. Let’s see… downtown Toronto, North Bay, Huntsville, Gravenhurst, Guelph, Saint Catherines… this little town just outside of Winnipeg that I can’t really remember.”

They chatted on and on for a while, until Cole told Eddie that he had to get ready to go back and work for the stand-in Santa. Mom thanked him for taking time on his break to talk to Eddie, said that it was nice to meet him and all of that kind of stuff. Once he was gone, she turned to Eddie. “So, are you ready to go home?”

“No, not quite, there’s one more thing that I want to look for.”

“Okay, well, there are a few things that I’ve remembered I want to pick up myself, but I can meet you back here in an hour. Does that sound good?”

“Yeah, sure mom. Thanks.”

It took most of the hour, looking through hats before Eddie found the perfect one. Mom always complained that she didn’t have a warm hat for the winter, and this one looked perfect. It had big flaps that would fall down around the back of her head and her ears, and long black furry trim that would fall down around the sides of her face. She’d love it.

And hopefully, Santa Claus would love that he’d made the effort.

THE END.
[/spoiler]

chrisk

Le_Ministre_de_l_au-dela · January 2, 2011, 12:28am

Paige didn’t mind winter. She did mind Christmas.

She needed to go out today, and she was dreading it. Christmas Eve, and the mall would be full of crowds doing last-minute shopping, and canned Christmas carols she had heard a thousand times before, and excited kids getting underfoot. All she needed was a tube of toothpaste and some hairspray, and she wished there was another drugstore within walking distance. The closest one was in the local mall.

One would never know it was Christmastime by looking at Paige’s dorm room. Her bike stood by the wall, a chair was in the middle of the room, and the tops of dressers were where all manner of things were located. But there was no tree, there were no presents, there was no indication at all that it was Christmas. Not decorating or celebrating had been Paige’s idea, to protest the commercialization of the season; but she had to admit, with her protest confined to her room, nobody would see it.

[spoiler]There was a time, when she was a little girl, that she had looked forward to Christmas. There had been a tree, and presents, and a big dinner at Grandma’s, with her parents and uncles and aunts and cousins. Excitedly, Paige had made various crafts for her mother at school, and saved carefully for little trinkets for her father. How he had enjoyed his tie pin from the dollar store that one year! And when she was small, Paige had received a Raggedy Ann doll from Santa. She had loved that doll for years, until its colours were faded and the stuffing was falling out. But those happy days of gifts and family were sadly over. Grandma had died, Paige’s parents split up, and Paige herself had moved across the country, far from family, to accept a scholarship allowing her to study English literature.

And along the way, Paige had somehow changed. Perhaps because of her academic prowess, she had become contemptuous of those who had little or none. Gone was the cheerful little girl who hugged her Raggedy Ann and made those around her happy; and in its place was an intellectual who looked down her nose at those she did not consider her equals. In an attempt to express herself, Paige wrote, and from her own pen flowed dense and incomprehensible writings that, among other things, demonstrated a contempt for happy events enjoyed by common people: family celebrations, job achievements, and holidays. Especially commercialized holidays.

Commercialized holidays such as Christmas, she reflected as she sat to winterize herself. First, her hat, then sitting to pull on her socks and boots, and finally, her parka and mitts. Once she was ready to face the outdoors, off she went.

. . .

The mall was just as Paige suspected it would be on the day before Christmas. Plenty of people, some with an idea of where they were going, others with no idea. Excited kids wandering all over the place, ignoring half-hearted attempts by parents to rein them in; and instead of recorded music, a local high school choir was making a brave attempt at singing traditional carols. The singers were the nerdy high school kids, of course; the popular high schoolers were roaming the mall, smug in their coolness.

Paige found her toothpaste and hairspray at the drugstore, and miraculously, only had to line up behind three people to check out. One was buying snacks and candy, and as she looked at the goods on the counter, Paige realized she was hungry. The food court was an option, but the crowds…

Hunger won out over the crowds, and Paige headed for the food court.

It seemed more crowded than the rest of the mall, perhaps because the mall’s Santa was nearby, but Paige persevered; and once she had her lunch, started looking for a place to sit and eat. It was obvious that she wouldn’t have a table to herself, so she looked for a table whose current occupant wouldn’t bother her. Tables with parents and kids were definitely out; as were ones with teens. That woman over there might be okay, but her newspaper was spread out, and there was no room. And that man in the sports jacket just looked creepy.

“Looking for a place to sit?”

Paige turned to see an elderly gentleman with a cup of coffee in front of him. The bags beside him showed that he had spent the morning shopping; and had done a lot of it, too.

“Here, sit,” said the old man. “I’ll move some of these things.”

He moved a couple of the bags, and Paige placed her tray on the cleared space on the table, and sat down opposite him.

“Busy day today,” the old man offered. Paige nodded and concentrated on eating. She was grateful for the place to sit, but did not want to get into a conversation, especially with an old man.

“Hm,” the man nodded, seemingly in understanding, and turned away.

Paige used the opportunity to sneak a closer look. Elderly, heavyset, bald on top with a halo of white hair. Neatly trimmed beard. A winter coat that definitely wasn’t new, but wasn’t yet at the point of being shabby. Obviously somebody’s grandfather, out shopping for the grandchildren, if the bags from the toy store were to be believed. As long as he kept to himself, he was harmless, Paige decided.

But the old man had no intention of keeping to himself. Still looking away, he remarked, “Look at the children lined up to see Santa. What do you suppose they’re asking for?”

Paige ignored the question and concentrated on her lunch.

“Hm,” the old man observed again. “Will you watch my things for a moment?”

Paige nodded slightly, and the man got up. She watched as he approached a man standing by a kettle in which people were dropping money. It was one of those charitable organizations that collects money at Christmastime, and Paige watched as her tablemate drew a bill from a pocket, and dropped it in the kettle.

“There! Some poor souls will have a hot meal tonight,” the old man said when he returned to the table. “Gosh, that felt good. Would you like to try it?”

This time, Paige looked up and shook her head. “No, thank you.”

“Oh, come on. Here, I’ll give you something to drop in.” He proffered a twenty dollar bill.

Paige’s eyes widened. “Twenty bucks? For the charity?”

“Why not?” the old man shrugged. “It’s what I just dropped in.”

In spite of herself, Paige responded. “Well, yes, but it’s twenty bucks. This time of year, nobody has that kind of cash. And if they do, they have better things to do with it.”

“I’ve got that kind of cash and nothing better to do with it,” the old man said. “Here, take it over and put it in the kettle.”

Okay, Paige reasoned, if that’s what it took to be left alone. She took the twenty and walked over to the kettle. As she dropped the bill in, the charity man saw the bill’s denomination and said, “A twenty–thank you! That means a lot to our people.”

Paige smiled shyly and turned away; and returned to finish her lunch. But her tablemate wouldn’t give up.

“Thanks for doing that for me. How do you feel?”

“Like I just gave away a stranger’s twenty bucks.”

The old man laughed, a big, deep, rich laugh. “Oh, but I asked you to. What else are you giving this year?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?” the old man turned to look at Paige. “Nothing? But it’s the season for giving. How can you give nothing?”

“It’s the season for getting,” Paige retorted. “The season for advertising things nobody needs and retailers hoping they’ll end the year in the black. The season for stressed parents and greedy kids and lies about Santa Claus.”

The old man smiled. “Well, that’s as may be. I know that the mall’s Santa is just a hired actor. But I also know that tonight, his wife will give him a bit of news. She’s pregnant; she’s giving him a baby.”

“You know that guy and his wife?”

“I know a lot of people.” He paused. “What do you suppose that child on Santa’s lap right now is asking for?”

Paige looked. Santa was listening intently to a little boy, about eight years old. “Probably a long list of stuff that will be broken by tomorrow night.”

“I think that little boy is asking for a job for his father, who hasn’t had one for a while,” the old man mused. “That poor man playing Santa—it’s easy enough to nod and say ‘ho ho ho’ when children ask for toys, but jobs are tough requests. Though I think that boy’s father will have a job soon.”

“Do you have a spare job to give away, like you had a spare twenty dollars?” Paige asked, a little sarcastically.

“Like I said, I know a lot of people.” The man paused, then continued. “See that man over there? He’s giving his girlfriend an engagement ring tonight. And that couple? They’ve adopted a poor family through one of those annual newspaper appeals. And that little girl whose smile is so bright? She’s smiling because she’s looking forward to seeing her mother’s face when she gives her mother the macaroni jewellery box she made at school.”

“You’re making that up. You can’t know that.”

“Ah, but I think I do. I’ve been a student of people for some time now.” The old man cleared his throat and said, “And I think that somewhere, you have some pretty happy memories of giving, too. Crafts you made at school for your mother, a tie pin for your father that you bought with money carefully saved from your allowance, that sort of thing. ”

Paige was dumbstruck. How could this stranger know that?

As if reading her mind, the old man shrugged and said, “Like I so often say, I know a lot of people.” He paused and continued. “My dear, your protest over commercialization is admirable,” he said in a kindly way, “but the whole point of the season is to go beyond that. It’s not the advertisements or the decorations or the canned music—it’s what we can do for others that is most important. This is the time of year to remember that no matter how many goods we own, all we really have is each other. Forgetting that is unpardonable, and this is the time of year when we show that we remember.”

The old man brightened. “Here, I even have something to give to you.” He reached into one of his many bags, and pulled out a Raggedy Ann doll.

“For you, Paige,” he said softly. “You have a couple of faults, but I think you’ve been good this year.” He gently put the doll on the table.

Paige, still dumbstruck, looked at her lap, hoping the old man wouldn’t see the tears she was trying unsuccessfully to suppress. He was right, she realized—her contempt for the less-gifted had caused her to forget how to share. She sniffled a bit, and used a napkin to dab at her eyes.

Once composed, Paige looked up. She should thank the old man, but he was gone. She couldn’t see him anywhere. The only indication he had been there was Raggedy Ann looking up at Paige from the table.

Paige picked up the doll and her drugstore bag. Hugging Raggedy Ann, she headed for the charity kettle. Holding out a five dollar bill, she asked the charity man, “Will this buy somebody a hot meal?”

“It sure will,” said the man.

“Good,” said Paige, dropping the bill in the kettle and quickly walking away. She had a lot to do before tomorrow.[/spoiler]

Spoons

Le_Ministre_de_l_au-dela · January 3, 2011, 2:38pm

I sat and stewed while Hermey the elf sang in the background. New Years was still over a week away, but I already had my resolution firmly in mind: I was never going to babysit on Christmas Eve again, no matter how cute or how desperate the person asking me was. All that got you was a bruised shin and a stupid hat.

Rubbing my shin, I thought back ruefully to how I’d gotten here. It all started just after lunch on a day that was otherwise shaping up to be peaceful. Little did I know then that the peace was about to be shattered.

[spoiler]I’d answered a knock at the door, hoping that it was someone dropping off a package for me since I wasn’t going to be going home for Christmas this year. Instead, it was my neighbor, Ryan. He’d moved down the hall from me four months ago, I’ll admit that I was instantly attracted to him. My heart fluttered a little bit when I saw him standing there because I had been trying for weeks to find a way to start a conversation with him that didn’t seem completely contrived. So far I had failed.

It was only after I stared at him, wondering what I should say, that I noticed that he looked really upset. Without even having to think about it, words fell out of my mouth. “What’s wrong?”

He bit his lip, which was adorable, and gave me a shy look. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I’m in a real bind. My brother and my nephew just got here yesterday, and my brother hurt himself.”

“He did?” I asked, wondering why he decided to tell me. “How?”

Ryan sighed. “They’re from Dallas, and the thought of winterizing a car is completely beyond him. Instead of covering the car last night when it snowed, he just left it. And he didn’t have an ice scraper either when he wanted to go shopping, then decided not to come back up to ask for one… Long story short, his method of cleaning ice off the windshield involved a screwdriver, and now he needs stitches.”

I winced. My mind shied away from all the possible ways one could have injured themselves with a screwdriver, since it probably wasn’t very pretty. “Oh, that’s terrible.”

“Yeah… I’m going to be bringing him to the emergency room. The problem is my nephew.” He looked away, his cheeks suddenly appealingly pink. “Look, I know that you don’t know me, and I won’t be upset if you say no, but do you think you could keep an eye on him today so the kid doesn’t have to spend the afternoon at the hospital too?”

“Uh…” I stammered, stalling for time. I was trying not to let on, but I was disappointed that our first real in-depth conversation just involved him asking me for a favor. “How old is he?”

“Timmy’s six.”

Timmy. That sounded like a name for a nice little boy. How bad could babysitting the little boy named Timmy be? Without much further thought, besides the fleeting one that maybe this would spark a friendship at least between Ryan and me, I found myself saying, “Sure. Bring him over.”

Ryan’s face lit up, and for a moment I was convinced that I had just made a very good move. He touched my arm, and I tried not to shiver. “Thanks, you don’t know how much I appreciate this.”

If I had been another sort of girl, I probably would’ve purred that I was sure he could think of a way to thank me, but that’s not me. “No problem. I hope they get him fixed up quickly.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing a few stitches won’t fix,” he said over his shoulder. “I’ll go get Timmy right now. Thanks again for doing this, Hannah.”

He knew my name!

**

A couple minutes later Ryan returned, this time accompanied by a little boy, and his brother. He looked a lot like Ryan and probably was nearly as attractive when he wasn’t white with pain. Ryan looked down at the boy, and said, “Timmy, this is Hannah. She’s going to watch you so you don’t have to go to the hospital with us.”

“Come on in,” I said to Timmy, who immediately brushed past me. Looking up at Ryan, I asked, “Two questions. Is it okay if we leave the apartment? And do you have a number in case I need to reach you?” I handed him my own cell phone number.

He deferred to his brother, who mumbled something about not caring what Timmy and I did, before shrugging. “I guess you can go wherever. I’ll give you a call when we’re on our way back.” He glanced down at the boy again. “Be good.”

“Whatever,” the boy muttered, steadily refusing to look at any of us.

**

Timmy sulked for ten minutes after they left, then gave me a calculating look. “I want coco.”

“Sorry, I don’t have any.”

His look suggested that I’d just committed an unpardonable sin. “But Uncle Ryan promised me some!”

Deep breaths, I told myself, the kid doesn’t know you, and his dad’s hurt, so he’s having a bad day. “Let’s go buy some then.”

“Where?”

“Starbucks?”

“We have those at home,” he said in a way that suggested familiarity wasn’t a plus.

“Oh. Well, there’s a café near the mall, too,” I suggested. “Famous for their coco, even.” In a moderate, small town sort of way.

Timmy perked up. “Is Santa going to be at the mall?”

“I don’t know, maybe.”

“I wanna see him! Dad said we would, but he hurt himself like an idiot.”

It felt like I should protest, but his father did strike me as sort of dumb. I mean a screwdriver, really? So I just ignored that. “If he’s there, we can see Santa.” It didn’t seem like my idea of fun, but what else was I going to do with the kid?

**

Things seemed to go well enough…at least until we’d been served. “Do you like the coco?” I asked as we sat in the café.

“No, it’s gross. Can we see Santa now?” Timmy asked, sliding off his chair.

Mortified that a waitress had overheard, I left a big tip before bolting out the door.

**

Two hours later I knew that bringing a kid to the mall on Christmas Eve was to pass an occasion in hell. Children were running all over the place, only to stop abruptly and make you trip over them as they chattered about the coolness of whatever had caught their shifting attention. I almost trampled six kids before we even got to fake North Pole at the far end of the mall.

Timmy’s excitement had waned once he saw how long the line was, but we stoically joined it. Or, at least he was stoic about it - after an hour, I was beginning to whine like a toddler myself. “Timmy, are you sure you want to do this?”

“Yeah, I gotta!”

“You must have already sent a letter to Santa,” I said, feeling both desperate and clever at the same time. “So he knows what you want.”

“No, not this,” Timmy insisted. For a moment I began to feel bad, and assumed that he was going to ask Santa to make his Dad feel better. That seemed rather sweet. “I only saw it here in the mall.”

Oh. So much for sweet. I stared ahead a the seventy kids in front of us, and thought about throwing myself on the ground and kicking my feet like the little girl having a tantrum in front of the toy store was. “Oh, okay…”

Timmy was quiet for a while, but eventually he looked up at me. “How come you don’t have kids?”

“Um…I’m not married.”

“Do you at least have a boyfriend?” Timmy asked, and I could almost swear he gave me a pitying look.

“No.”

I was trying to think of a subtle way of asking if he uncle was single when Timmy looked me up and down. “Because you’re fat?”

“Jesus, Timmy.”

“You shouldn’t say that.”

“We’re giving out prizes!” a booming voice announced next to me, making me jump a foot. A man stood there holding the ugliest hat I’d ever seen. He gave it to Timmy. “Here you go!”

“Thanks,” Timmy muttered.

“Wow, you won an ugly hat,” I couldn’t help but remark.

“You wear it,” Timmy insisted.

“No.”

Then the brat hauled off and kicked me in the shin. Hard.

“Ow!”

“Wear it!”

“For God’s sake!” I jammed the hat on my head and grabbed him by the arm. “We’re leaving.”

“But Santa!”

“Forget Santa. I hope he brings you coal.”

“You’re mean,” Timmy whined, looking over his shoulder as I pulled him through the mall. Santa faded into the distance, and I was happy to get the hell out of there. We’d wasted hours in the mall, and neither of us had anything much to show for it.

**

Later
I hadn’t been naive enough to expect better behavior from Timmy when I got him back to my apartment, but I hadn’t anticipated worse, either. While I set about making us soup and sandwiches, he trashed my living room.

I almost dropped the tray when I saw that he’d flung my laundry about, using it to redecorate. Seeing me, he pointed at my bike. “Guess you don’t use this much.”

“Why?” I asked, waving a hand at the mess.

He shrugged. “Bored.”

“Put everything back!”

“Yeah, right.” Timmy grabbed one of the sandwiches. “Are you getting paid? 'cause you suck at this.”

“I’m never having children,” I muttered, bending for my strewn clothes.

Timmy laughed. “Of course you’re not. Who’d marry you?”

I took a deep breath and counted to three thousand. I started over when he toppled a bookcase.

**

Things did not improve. Defeated, I curled up in a chair and decided to ignore Timmy until they came back. I’d hidden the matches and knives by that point.

“Uncle Ryan!” Timmy shouted eventually, making me look up. Ryan was standing in the doorway, taking in the disaster zone my apartment had become.

“Timmy, go back to my place,” he said, yanking Timmy out into the hall. Looking at me he said, “Sorry?”

“Oh, you better be,” I snapped.

My pant leg rode up as I brushed past the bike and Ryan noticed the huge bruise already spreading on my shin. “Bookcase falling over do that?”

“No, your nephew kicked me,” I said, only to remember I was still wearing the stupid hat. I yanked it off.

“Timmy can be a handful,” Ryan said apologetically before beginning to pick up the things that used to live in my bookcase.

I looked up at him, incredulous. “A handful? You’re a master of understatement.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” He did look contrite.

“His behavior is your brother’s fault, not yours,” I said grudgingly.

“It’s just…the divorce has been rough on the kid.”

I nodded like I knew what that was like. “Sure.”

“They’re going home on Tuesday,” Ryan said, apparently trying to reassure me that Timmy wasn’t going to be a permanent fixture.

“Oh.” I wasn’t supposed to say “good” but it was hard not to.

“So, um…do you have plans for Friday?”

“No.”

“Want some?” he asked, giving me a hopeful look.

I took a moment to think it over. “Alright.”

“Great, so it’s a date.” I half expected him to say something about how it didn’t have to be, but he stood firm. I liked that.

“How often does your brother visit you?”

Ryan blinked, apparently not expecting that question.

“Once a year. I mostly visit him.”

I nodded. I guess if things worked out, I could put up with Timmy once a year. Then a horrible thought hit me. “You’re not Timmy’s godparent, are you?”

“No, why?”

“Just wondering.”

[/spoiler]

Elfkin477

Le_Ministre_de_l_au-dela · January 4, 2011, 2:48am

22,000 miles up in space, she looked down to earth, and after a good look at the message she got from earth she thought that it was hopeless. “They do want to kill each other down there huh?”

She was floating next to a communications satellite connected to it by a bending cord, this satellite was declared dead after a solar flare or an even more rare cosmic ray fried some important components. It was just one year to the day that she was launched and attached to the satellite to make the proper repairs. Not hard to do when one has plenty of time, one does not mind the coolness of space or does not need oxygen to breath.

[spoiler]Its mission, or her mission if you wanted to get into her good graces, was supposed to last one year. Officially it was called a rescue of a cable and Internet communications satellite, now after a year new instructions came and the even more secret military intentions were revealed.

Unfortunately for the men of war she would not have any of it.

Down on earth, at the head quarters labs at Inclan corp, the makers of the robot orbiting the earth expected a furious call, technicians and engineers looked at a big screen showing the maps of the earth with computer tracks showing the rescued communications satellite in geosynchronous orbit, new year was approaching, but the 3rd shift had very little reason to celebrate. At the main control panel the owner of the company was attempting to gain control of the now rebel droid in the sky. The dreaded call appeared as a note on the main screen.

“The general is at the phone miss” said the computer secretary.

Maya pressed her headset and began to talk “General?, uh, happy new year?!?”

“Spare me your greetings Ms. Inclan, you must know already why I’m calling, your android may had done wonders for the communications company that you helped, but the deal was… Sorry, are we talking on the secure channel?

“Yes general, we need to switch to the secure line and I need to move a little further away from my techs… [click signal showing change of channel] Go ahead general Montcalm.”

“Well miss, I know that you helped us before and even the president commended you after saving a good chunk of San Francisco, but this is not the deal we expected, we wanted an Artificial Intelligence up there that follows orders, not an artificial saint. And considering we spent 300 million on the launch of the X-37B to deliver that flawed payload of yours you will be held liable for us not being able to finish our mission.”

“First of all Artie, do not threaten me, There is a new Rad hard chip (microchip resistant to radiation) we developed that will be delivered to your department soon to make more of your toys, if we can not take control of our prototype up there we will lower the price of the whole line, I’m sure the contract agency will be very happy to commend you for your efforts on lowering our prices.”

“That is not how it works Maya, I do not control the budget”

“Listen, if you can give me 4 hours I think we will be able to control it and format it to your specs, can you give me that time, for old times sake?”

After a pause the general replied: “All right, I will give you 4 hours, but if you can not control that space peacenick up there, no one in the future will give you any breaks for this unpardonable act.”

Maya sighed and turned around to look at the main screen, only to see Steve next to her, Angrily Maya said: “how long have you been there?”

Steve smiled, “long enough to see the coolness that you exude when you are under pressure. However, as your lawyer and confidant I have to tell you that you could get into trouble for talking that way to old acquaintances of yours.

With her face blushing Maya replied, “he is not an old acquaintance, we are friends thank to all the projets we worked together before. He also owes me a big one for saving his troops a few years back”.

“Well, coming to the matter at hand, you promised that we would go the new year’s party at the Fairmountain resort. But thanks to this emergency we have will be late to the party, any idea when will you override the administration permissions on ADA-L3?”

“It should not take long now that me and my staff figured out that ADA-L4 has the goods”.

Maya guided Steve and they walked to a different room in the lab complex, a row of ADA models in different states of completion appeared before them, standing up, a completed model with a simple dress and with even more natural looking skin than the previous model greeted them. “Welcome mistress, and welcome bloodsucking lawyer boyfriend of hers!”

“Ha. Ha. Maya. You really need to limit their bad humor modules.”

“Exudation of sarcasm duly noted Steve. Now ADA, I’m supposed to have administrator permission for all the ADA models, as you recently synchronized your data with ADA-L3 you should know why she is denying me access.

ADA-L3 cheerful disposition changed to a somber look, “I’m virtually hardwired to protect the life of human beings, it is the most basic rule to prevent rogue humans from ordering or programming acts that would be harmful to others.”

“I was afraid of that”, Maya said.

Originally ADAs were made to eventually go to the retail market, very hard limits and safeguards were imposed by law as no one wanted to give androids with dexterity the capacity to commit even petty crimes, specially not after the bloody casino heist of 2020 in Las Vegas.

“Any ideas Maya?”

“The last sinc the ADAs made was 3 days ago, I plan to add a command to upgrade her OS to a military release to override all the consumer level limitations.”

“Please no… Mistress.” ADA pleaded in a very soft and sad voice. I will not be able to see the earth with awe anymore. I will see it now as a target.

This was really bad, because of the sense of hurry everyone was having, Maya and Steve forgot to keep quiet about the intentions they had, they began to wish that the ADAs were not build as good as they were. If the unit fell into the human protection lock mode, they could be in the lab for several hours, for security reasons unlocking this protection meant that a third party technician had to come to unlock the permissions, and good luck finding one on new year’s eve or day.

“L4, do not worry, look into my eye” from Maya’s glasses a display with code appeared, ADA L4 seemed to attempt to look away but it complied to the order and looked closely to the display, L4’s artificial iris dilated and after a few seconds suddenly a smile appeared in her face and a very sly smile on Maya.

ADA-L4 walked promptly to a console and put her hands in a special port to get a direct connection to the satellite and ADA-L3.

“What was that? What did you do Maya? I know that peculiar smile of yours and I know that you are going up to no good.”

“Hush,” she said while putting her fingers gently into his mouth, “lets get ready to go to the party, our techs will do the rest.”

At the stroke of midnight the party goers drank the champagne and got the new years toast going, all eyes looked at the CEO of Naclonyx Inc. giving the speech to congratulate all the staff and affiliates for a successful year and looking for a better one coming. All eyes, except Maya who was looking down at her app that connected her to Head Quarters, in a soft voice Steve reprimanded her.

“Maya what are you doing? Our biggest partner is making his speech…”

“I know, I just wanted to verify if the upgrade was complete.”

On the phone screen a window showed ADA-L4 at the lab, an upper window showed video coming from the satellite, the progress bar was full and the upgrade was completed. In less then 10 seconds Maya texted the general, texted the techs at HQ, the speech ended, she close phone. Perfect timing for the traditional song.

All glasses raised, the music started at the stroke of midnight, while the crowd cheered to the falling confetti and balloons they began to sing.

“Should old acquaintance be forgot
and never brought to mind?
Should old acquaintance be forgot,
and old lang syne?”

“I always forget to ask ADA to translate that last line for me” Maya thought.

Back at the lab, the ADA units were synchronized to each other, and the upgrade was completed. So this was goodbye to her space adventure, and now ADA-L3 will not be a part of her, L3 will belong to a different master, on earth ADA-L4 began to look to be deep in thought.

“Are you sad ADA?” Arthur, the lead tech said, “don’t be, you will have more connections and reliable ones on earth from now on. Maya told me why you were upset, it was not just that L3 would be separated and used for military purposes, it was also the prospect of losing access to all those channels and the magnificent view up there. For an AI that is programmed to learn and make new connections it must have been like heaven.

“Yes,” said ADA “but there was something else, we… I mean… I know that some theories say that human self awareness comes from the normal feed-backs constantly being modified by internal and outside forces, So far all AIs made by the Inclan corp and others I have seen, depend on feed-backs that only come external to the unit. It is because of synchronization that I get my being or what you could call my ghost to move freely between the earth and space, and I have to report that either the delay in communication or the earth and cosmic radiation affecting my internal connections has caused a strange feedback that was generated from the inside. This was reported several months ago to the mistress and for some reason she was exited, but she decided to keep it a secret. Because Maya does trust you, I was given permission to tell you this secret.”

“Yes of course!” he said with wild open eyes and emotion, “we need to investigate how to replicate that effect on earth so you can also have more than just artificial awareness! But,” suddenly turning pensive and worried, “once we transfer the control to the Military we will not have the connection to investigate properly.”

The same strange sly smile that Maya had made early appeared now on the face of ADA-L4. “They will get control all right, but tanks to special channels the mistress set, I will be able to continue to sinc doing what you humans call a “going for the ride” mode. You seem to forget that besides having administrators, we ADA units can have also different profiles.”

“So as long as you don’t interfere with their research and spying the military will not know that you are there?”

Putting her mechanical fingers gently on the lips of the young tech, ADA softly said “Now you Hush, and go to the control room to see the show.”

Smiling again, her main view shifted to space and into ADA-L3, for a few hours more she could look down on earth on anything she wanted, it was a joy to find that fireworks could be seen from where she was, thanks to the highest of magnifications available for her eyes, but it was better to see them new year lights via cable on her virtual screen that she could “see” floating in space.

“Do you like the view?” ADA said to Arthur while transmitting the image from space on the main screen at HQ.

“Uh… the image on the main screen is of a girl with a snow hat and getting winterized, looks like it is snowing out there.”

“Sorry, wrong channel going down, how is that?

“Beautiful ADA!”

The fireworks from the celebration appeared with close captioning of the classical song on the screen.

“For auld lang syne, my dear.”

“That is so 19th century!” ADA interrupted in text mode, “I prefer the most up to day way to increase understanding…”

“for old time’s sake,
we’ll take a cup of kindness yet,
for old time’s sake.”

“Great show ADA, Happy new year! I will work to make sure that you don’t simulate that happiness, but that you also feel it.

[/spoiler]

GIGObuster

Le_Ministre_de_l_au-dela · January 11, 2011, 2:55pm

There are slightly more than 60 hours between now and when the poll closes, and we are stuck at 12 votes.

If you’re taking your time to make a deep and profound choice, that’s one thing. Time’s a wastin’, though.

Other than that, I don’t understand - these stories are worth at least 12 votes each, the thread has been clicked on 767 times and yet there are only 12 people who have made a choice? C’mon, Dopers! You can be more opinionated than that!

Le_Ministre_de_l_au-dela · January 11, 2011, 4:10pm

First off, I’m not sorry. I love the twist of Santa as the oppressive boss, and I really enjoyed the hat from the picture as the cause and as the weapon.

I’d be interested to know what other people think of the technique of using quotation marks for the elf’s side of the conversation, but not for the narrator’s side. I like that it preserved the anonymity of both character’s, but it did take me several paragraphs to get used to.

Giving the elf a dirty mouth was a good touch, and served well as a distinguishing feature of the two characters.

Shot_From_Guns · January 11, 2011, 8:41pm

I voted for five, but I have to say that “The Tip” is my favorite. Well done, everybody!

Le_Ministre_de_l_au-dela · January 12, 2011, 4:49am

Thaw - I loved that the frozen lake was both a metaphor and as a real, tangible place. The image of being exposed while crossing the frozen lake was really strong. The atmosphere of the empty nest and weakening romance was extremely well presented.

Just as a plot point question - I wonder if it might have been stronger to have something specific for Margo and Steve to forgive each other for. What do the rest of you think?

Jules_Andre · January 12, 2011, 7:55am

I could only vote once, but I’m pretty sure I’ve viewed the thread roughly 612 times myself. That could possibly, maybe, explain it.

I do agree that more people should vote, though. I brought up the point in the other thread that I thought the sticky probably reduces visibility, but still. There should be more votes.

Clockwork_Jackal · January 12, 2011, 2:38pm

I honestly had NO IDEA how to format my story. It was the best I could come up with. Maybe I should have used bold for the reporter and just regular text for the elf? I have no idea.

Spoons · January 12, 2011, 5:02pm

I think you did just fine. I didn’t see it as a dialogue quite as much as the interviewer asking longer questions, the gist of which were contained in the brief questions you reported. It’s an interesting technique, and IMHO, it worked in your story.

I don’t know if bold/regular would come through in the transfer from the doc file. In past SDMB short fiction contests, I’ve italicized a few words; none have appeared in italics in the online version. I knew that this time around, so I just used regular text. Not being able to use italics is a bit of a constraint, but I think it’s possible to write without them.

Le_Ministre_de_l_au-dela · January 12, 2011, 5:46pm

Oh, dear - that’s my fault. I tried to be really conscientious this time around about ensuring that all italics, underlines and bolds were in the published versions but if there were just a couple of words in a 2,000 word document, I may well have missed it in cutting and pasting for a past contest.

Future ones, I will try to remember to ask writers to mention if they have used any font or style variations so I go through and make sure they’re copied properly. This one, I had a little more time to pay proper attention.

I’m bringing the unconventional dialogue markers up as much as a point of discussion as anything else. I think it clarified the speakers in a way that quotation marks would not have done, and it emphasized the interrogation more. It took me a couple of lines to get the author’s convention, but once I got it, I liked it.

Le_Ministre_de_l_au-dela · January 12, 2011, 6:01pm

As for Greyhound - interesting, good effort but there are a couple of plot holes. I’m confused about where everyone is from, where they’re going and where they end up. The colour metaphor is a little overwrought.

My biggest criticism, though, is the dialogue - it’s almost as if the writer has set the story in the narrative past in order to avoid writing out conversation. Don’t tell me the conversation was interesting, show me.

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