My Italian Christmases
I moved to Northern Italy in the 1500’s, and lived there for a few hundred years. The cities of Venice, Genoa, Milan, Bologna, Rome, and of course Florence (the jewel of this planet) all played naive host to my particular brand of murder and mayhem. I made so much money when I was in Italy that I thought about commissioning a pirate navy to utterly cease commerce in Europe, just to amuse myself. I started the endeavor, but when you employ pirates, thieves, and brigands, it turns out that they steal from you too.
Christianity was firmly rooted in Italy when I lived there, and it was spreading. I resented this, of course, so I turned the Pope, but no one noticed. I murdered civic leaders and turned preeminent clergy. Christianity plowed on.
I had an idea that intrigued me; one that I knew would take many years to have an impact if it worked at all, but one that had the potential, the underpinnings if you will, for my revenge.
Italians all carried on the traditions of the winter festival and had parties and gave gifts. I had enough money to buy Sicily at the time, so I had my servants across Europe purchase and ship to me absurd amounts of clothing, wine, and toys leading up to the holiday.
The Italian Christmases that I first performed in featured me rolling around in a horse-drawn cart, then stopping in the streets and putting on a big production. I called families out of their houses and apartments and made sure to inquire whether the children had been good or bad over the whole year. When I received excited confirmation that they had been “good,” I gave the whole family gifts. Adding to the spectacle, I donned an enormous red coat and red hat, and I wore a false beard as a disguise.
I was subtly robbing Christ of his birthday, taking the Christ out of Christmas, and making the gift giving about being “good.” I was also adding a central character, one that I called “Father Christmas” at the time. This was an important element, as humans always look to a leader. It’s human nature, a fault in the wiring. Mankind has done self-defeating, stupid things over the millennia just to “follow the leader” or fit in with the crowd. I was erasing Christ’s presence in a Christian celebration, replacing him with a different “hero,” and a focus on gifts and children’s behavior instead of faith and salvation. Like I said, I got the idea from the holidays the Christians commandeered from the pagans.
I was energized and encouraged by the first small attempt at stealing Jesus’ birthday, and word of the incident spread throughout Northern Italy, so I took some of my turned clergy slaves and had them act as duplicates, or doppelgangers, of Father Christmas. There were twelve Father Christmases that year, all performing the same routine in red coats and false beards. We were met with adoration and exuberance all over the countryside, and my plans expanded.
Every creature that is turned develops changes—some are positive and some are negative. When a horse is turned, its running ability is enhanced by a factor of ten, but its life expectancy is dropped by a factor of 50. We pulled our carts on those first Christmas nights with turned horses to cover as much area as possible, and by the seventh year, I had a presence in every European country. The Dutch started calling me Sinterklaas, which is the origination of Santa Claus. Charming, eh? Humans even made me into a saint!
Jesus was really not thrilled with all this. Efforts to remove me from the equation grew in intensity and severity, and I became quite a murdering savage just defending myself. This was when I decided to change my locale. I chose the Arctic because my VSA (vampire slave army) and I are impervious to cold, the destructive sun stays down for months at a time, and the journey is so impossible for mortals that I can actually rest in seclusion. We constructed a vast underground complex, and for several hundred years, we actually made the toys up there ourselves. I stopped going out on Christmas night myself, and had the VSA take care of all deliveries. We used turned reindeer to pull our sleighs. Turned reindeer are pretty interesting. They can fly.
You Better Not Pout
We were almost worldwide by 1640. I ignored non-Christian countries, because there was no holiday to steal there. Around 1700, the greatest thing happened: we quit. We didn’t go out on Christmas night. There were a couple years where it was touch and go, but as I suspected would happen, parents took over. For many years, parents had made sure their children had received gifts in the houses that we couldn’t get to (just to keep their kids from feeling left out), so I had a hunch and I followed it. Santa Claus went from being real to being a myth, a tradition, a children’s story, and simultaneously managed to grow in influence, importance, and popularity. I never could have imagined my revenge to be so complete and so thorough.
Christmas is now the biggest holiday on earth, and it is all about Santa Claus, gifts, spending and buying, spending and buying, spending and buying. It has become a three or four-month holiday, and it has next to nothing to do with religion, salvation, or Jesus.
I am impressed with myself, to say the least. I live a sort of retired lifestyle now, but I do adore America. I couldn’t have done all this without that country’s unknowing support and leadership. I spend a lot of time there, and am thinking about getting into politics someday. I think it would be a good fit for me.
THE END
THE FULLFED BEAST
By J.B. Toner
”Last season’s fruit is eaten
And the fullfed beast shall kick the empty pail.”
— Little Gidding T. S. Eliot
“Hail Satan, full of grace, the Lord is...”
I caught my breath. God forgive me, what a slip of the tongue! I shook my head and returned to my prayers.
“Hail Satan, full of...”
Elise, what is wrong with you? Get a hold of yourself!
“Hail—hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee.”
My body relaxed as I heard my voice murmuring the old words in the stillness. Kneeling by my cot in the pale soft light from the window, I touched the silver cross around my neck and quieted my mind for a night of rest. Christmas was coming, and there was much to be done around the convent tomorrow.
“...now and at the hour of our death. Amen.”
I made the sign of the cross and climbed into bed, absent-mindedly reaching up to invert the crucifix on my wall. Then I lay down and pulled the cotton sheets up to my neck.
Wait—what?
Sitting up with a jerk, I stared at the carven image of our Lord over my bed. What was I thinking? Why would I do such a thing? I carefully turned him right side up, raising my eyes to the ceiling and the sky in a wordless apology. Then at last, I settled back into bed. All of a sudden, I felt incredibly sleepy.
“Hello, Sister Elise.”
A man’s voice! Sharp, amused, confident. I tried to fling back my covers, but I couldn’t move. A sweet lassitude spread over my fear like honey, and I found myself accepting the strangeness of it all. Clearly, I was dreaming.
“Open your eyes.”
I obeyed him, and found myself in a vast, dim chamber, lying in a bed of crimson silk. My simple nightgown was gone, nor had I blankets to cover me. The light glimmered on my body, and on the cross that was my only ornament. Around me on the sheets I could see my strawberry hair, a disarrayed halo.
And there: the man. He stood at the bedside, clad in white but with a black clerical collar at his throat, like a priest’s photographic negative. His body was thin, but he held himself like a man of enormous strength; his face was grave, but his eyes contained a pandemonium of laughter.
Still, I couldn’t move or speak. The man reached down, slowly, and touched my silver cross. A shiver went through me. “This won’t do. We’ll find you a more fitting symbol very soon.”
Some part of me retained the presence of mind to start praying, though not aloud. Our father, who art in heaven, hallowed be—
“No more prayers, Elise,” the man said. “Not tonight.”
My inner voice went silent. I gazed up at this nameless visitor, unresisting, an empty vessel waiting to be filled.
“I understand there’s a lady who comes to see you on Christmas Eve. A special lady.”
At last, the smile burning in his eyes began to kindle his cold visage.
“But I understand that she comes to bring forgiveness to sinners. Perhaps you should offer a sin.”
In the pit of my stomach, an unfamiliar warmth awoke.
“Is it a sin to touch yourself?”
Free to move for the first time, I nodded.
“Touch yourself, Elise.”
Obedient to him, my hands rose and pressed against my midriff. The warmth spread in both directions, and my palms pursued it, gliding up and down the bare sleek skin. My lips parted. My eyelids fluttered and closed. And I heard my own voice whispering, “Yes.”
Opening my eyes, I found myself back in my cot. The light was gone. The man was gone. But my hands were still moving over my flesh, pulling the folds of my gown aside and cupping the forbidden places.
With a supreme effort of will, I stopped myself. I felt that I should pray; but I just couldn’t muster the desire. Not tonight. Rolling over to bury my face in the pillow, I pushed down through the mattress to a dreamless sleep.
When dawn came, I dressed in my habit as always. But something bothered me. This cross around my neck, it felt—wrong, somehow. I took it off.
“Good morning, Sister Elise!”
Sister Teresa, my best friend. At twenty-four, she was two years older than I, but had only come to St. Clare’s eight months ago. Willowy and tall, she had dimples and boundless energy.
“Shall we decorate the sanctuary today? Mr. Benning, the florist, donated a whole basket of roses.” Her beaming smile faltered for a moment. “Sister, are you all right?”
“I—yes, I’m fine. Just tired.”
“No time to be tired! Come on, let’s get some breakfast.”
There were eggs and fruit in the refectory, and Sister Madeleine had made eggnog coffee. We all prayed together, then went joyfully about our tasks. The dream (a nightmare? It hadn’t felt like a nightmare) grew faint in memory, and I put it behind me. A small voice nagged at me that I should confess it to Father Peter; but another voice, more persuasive, disagreed. I kept the visitation to myself.
As Sister Teresa and I were adorning the columns of the church with holly wreaths, she glanced about and stepped closer. “Sister,” she said in a lowered voice, “do you think she’ll come again this year?”
I couldn’t help smiling. The lady had appeared to me the last two Christmas Eves. All the sisters—including myself—were excited to see if she would return, but the Mother Superior had instructed us not to speak of it. “It is not for us to know,” she said in her stern, prim way. “The Blessed Virgin is no topic for idle gossip.”
“I hope so, Sister. But we’ll just have to wait till Friday to find out.”
She pouted prettily. “It’s easy for you to have patience. You’re a saint.”
“We’re none of us saints, my friend. Not till we reach heaven.”
“Or heaven comes to us.”
Now and at the hour of our death, I thought.
Then a look of puzzlement crossed her features. Her eyes seemed to gaze into some great distance, and became almost glazed. “And sometimes Hell comes too.”
I took a step back and stared at her. “Teresa! Why would you say such a thing?”
She shook her head, and her smile came back. “Hmm? Oh yes, of course, till Friday. God bless your patience!”
What on earth? I thought again of going to Father Peter—but again, that persuasive voice inside of me spoke against it. I listened and obeyed.
That evening, as I made ready for bed, I opened the Bible on my bed. Sinking to my knees, I read aloud directly from the Gospel of Luke, so there could be no mistakes.
“Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee.”
Tired—so tired. All at once, I simply couldn’t keep my head up any longer. I pushed the book onto the floor, crawled into bed, reached up sleepily and turned the crucifix. Flopped onto my pillow and slumbered like the blessed in their tombs.
The clock in the vestibule read 3:00 a.m. My robe rustled in the night breeze as I pushed open the doors. Snow crunched gently underfoot, and my breath was a ghostly fog. I made my way into the cemetery, past the iron gate and the old stone crosses, to the ancient mausoleum. The door stood ajar, and I stepped inside.
And there: the man. He stood in the shadows of the grave, poised and patient. “Welcome,” he said.
I opened my mouth. “Am I—dreaming?”
His cryptic smile returned. “Come closer, Elise.”
Could I have resisted him? I’ll never know.
His hands were cool and gentle. Parting the collar of my robe. Cupping my face, brushing back my hair, resting on the sides of my neck. I stared endlessly into his eyes, and there was nothing else. Then his lips on my throat. Then a sweet, piercing pleasure like twin needles. Then the dark.
“Sister.”
“Mm.”
“Sister Elise?”
“Mmmmm.”
“It’s past eight, Sister. Are you feeling all right?”
I stirred and mumbled. Back in bed. Vague memories of another sinful dream.
“Come on, choir practice has already started.”
“Close the curtains,” I muttered.
“They’re not open.”
“So bright in here.”
“You’ll feel better with some coffee.”
Frowning and grumbling, I dressed myself. We headed for the refectory, but nothing looked appetizing. All the lights were too bright. Especially the glint from the crosses.
The day was a haze. I went to bed early; didn’t even try to say my prayers. Stuffed the crucifix into a drawer and climbed into bed naked. My heart felt heavy and slow.
At midnight, when I entered the sanctuary, Teresa was waiting. Her eyes were open, but she seemed unaware. I felt a thirst—a longing. Her skin was like perfume. I took her to the altar. I kissed her. Kissed her again and again, kissed every part of her. When she began to tremble with crescendo, I could hear a tiny sigh escape her lips: “Hail Satan.”
And Friday morning came.
Sister Madeleine came to rouse me from bed. “Sister Teresa’s sick, dear. We need a hand tending to her.”
I raised my head and looked into her eyes. “Tell the Mother Superior I’m not to be disturbed. And stop honoring your vow of chastity.”
Her eyes closed, slowly, and opened again. “Yes, Sister.”
At dusk, I rose. Christmas Eve had come. Once again, I headed for the sanctuary.
And there she was. The lady in blue, standing at the altar with a tender azure glow, radiating love and peace.
“Elise,” she said sadly.
“Hello, Mary,” I replied, and grinned. “I’m so glad you could make it this year.”
“What’s happened to you? You’re no longer one of my saints.”
“Oh, I’m still a saint. I just switched sides. Why don’t you come closer, and we’ll talk about it?”
“There’s little to be said, dear one. I must leave you to the mercy of God.”
I held her gaze. “No. You’ll stay here with me.”
Her mouth opened. Closed again. Then, unwillingly, she said, “Yes, I—I will stay. Only to talk.”
“Come closer, Mary.”
Slowly—very slowly—she came to me. Her face was beautiful. So beautiful. Her neck, her body. Her soul. I could see them all. Touch them all. Take them all.
“Christmas will be different this year,” I breathed. I raised a finger to her face, traced the curve of her cheek, tilted back her chin. “And forever.”
THE END
HOLY MEAT
By Hari Navarro
I lay here naked on this cold stone slab and Father John De Lellis positions my body into that of the redeemer. My arms are outstretched and his dear, dear wife, Tessa, she sits and she knits at the clawing tip of my fingers. Her needles click and the thickened mess
between my legs sticks as it parts and the Father—he feeds his old cock down and into my soul.
She does not look up from the blur of fingers and yarn, but she manages a nonchalant and ruddy cheeked smirk as she hums and taps her hard-soled foot into the verse that swirls in her head.
“They are the ones who caused the plague to strike the Lord’s people... la la la... Now, kill all the boys and all the women who have slept... de de de... with a man... la la la... Only the young girls who are virgins may live... do do diddly do... you may keep them... for yourselves... la, la la la la,” and her voice is smooth and soft as it glides over words never meant to be sung. And her husband grunts like a pig.
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