by The Awethors
The woman stopped outside a building and Dave managed to decipher part of a sign above the doorway before she moved on.
Children’s Home.
Dave couldn’t stop the smile spreading across his face. Perhaps this year would be different after all.
“I hope you’re up for this, little man. These kids could do with some magic.”
Oh yes. He was ready. He was born ready for this.
A Very Spartan Christmas
Natasha Madden
“SCRATCH, THUMP, MEOW!”
Groan. The deeply asleep teenager flopped over, just resting on the edge of her bed.
“MEOW, SCR-SCRATCH!”
She muttered again, pulling the blankets over her head.
“CRRAASSHH, THUD, MEROW!”
Gasp! She exclaimed, jumping awake, adding to the commotion with an ungraceful and painful fall to the floor. “Ow, what was that?” she asked, getting to her feet and rubbing her rear.
Standing in her heaviest PJ’s, her feet protesting at the cold wood floor, she took stock of the room and realized that the door to her room was open.
“Oh, you better not have.” she uttered, moving towards the door.
She hesitated, almost unwilling to look out. The door creaked slightly, and the view of the living room came into focus. The assorted decorations, some having seen too many winters, made the room seem cheery with red and green hues. The fireplace heater added a toasty atmosphere and the light coming from the windows accurately illuminated the perfect Christmas setting.
Her eyes rested on the horizontal, and fake, Douglas Fir, its fixtures scattered across the floor. She rushed over, concerned that the presents were damaged. She carefully lifted the tree so she could grab the gifts underneath. They seemed unmarred, but she noticed that a couple had the wrapping paper torn and a few various other decorations were disturbed as well. She looked around, knowing the culprit was somewhere close.
“There you are!” she shouted as the feline peeked out from under the couch. “Gotta be close to your crime eh, Sparta. You little troublemaker.” she chided, trying to grab him. “Come here.”
He meowed and slunk around the other side of the sofa, making a run for the bedroom. She followed, but decided to just close the door with him inside.
“There’s no point in scolding him too bad. After all, it’s his first Christmas. Thankfully it’s Christmas Eve though, so I can fix this before my sister gets here tomorrow.”
So, while the cat protested his imprisonment, she proceeded to put everything back in its place.
When she finished, she opened the bedroom door, assuring the cat he was on parole. She went about her day, having to occasionally shoo Sparta away from the tree or the other decorations. Luckily, it was one of her days off so she could keep an eye on him. He seemed especially fascinated by the snow globes and the tinsel. She managed to get through the day without him destroying everything.
When the day turned into the night, she made sure that everything was where it should be. Then, she got ready for bed. However, that was easier said than done. Sparta was in no way sleepy and evaded her at every step. It looked like a ‘Three Stooges’ episode.
She could almost hear the music playing, the sound effects as she basically chased her own tail. It should have made her laugh out loud, but she was so flustered. She finally got the idea to pretend to ‘go to sleep’ and hope he’d use the opportunity to come out.
She laid in her bed, barely breathing, waiting to see if he was going to head for the tree. Eons seemed to pass when, barely perceivable to her ears, she heard a jingle. With a smile, she sat up and rushed into the living room. He looked like he was about to jump into the tree when she appeared. This time, he was cornered. With no means of escape, he laid down, yowling his displeasure. She scooped him up and carried him into the bedroom. This time, she ensured that the door was closed and laid down. With the cat curled up at her feet, she sank into deep sleep.
The next morning was chilly and started early. Sparta was scratching at the door, meowing, begging to be released. He ran out and climbed into the window to watch the birds.
“Whatever. I have some cooking to do anyway.” she responded, moving to the kitchen. “After all, I have my two little nieces to please.”
She cooked for most of the morning, preparing a small feast, and all the while Sparta seemed to stay out of trouble. When her sister showed up with her husband, their twin daughters fell in love with the little rascal. While the adults talked, the girls kept him occupied. When they ate dinner, he slept in the sun like a lizard basking after a cool night.
“Sorry about the girls harassing your new cat.” her sister said.
“Ah, it’s okay. That little hellion has been dead set on destroying all of my decorations. It’s good to channel his kitten energy into something not so costly. Trust me, you’ll think there’s a water buffalo herd in the house.”
“Oh, he’s got nothing on the TNT sisters. Those girls are going to have worthy tales of rebellion to tell their children. And they aren’t even ten yet. I’m worried about when they hit their teens.”
After a bout of laughter, the girls came running in.
“Can we open the presents now?! Can we, can we, can we?!”
With a smile, she said, “Sure. Just let me get the camera and put Sparta up. Don’t want him opening them all.”
Finding the former didn’t take long, but the latter was an entirely different story. She enlisted the help of the girls, and still couldn’t find him. After ten minutes of searching, her sister came up to her.
“Hey, don’t worry. He’ll turn up when we start shredding paper.”
“Yeah, you’re right. Girls, let’s get started.” she said, laughing as the girls pushed each other, tying to get to the tree. She sat everyone down in view of the camera and hit record. She then proceeded to pass out all of the presents. The girls’ shrieks of joy almost masked the sound of ripping paper. The family lost all thought of anything other than what the next parcel might hold. When everyone was about halfway through their piles, there was a noise. A small jingle, just audible to her ears. She looked around, but didn’t catch a glimpse of the fiend. She stood up, about ready to run around like a maniac, when she noticed a bulb move in the tree. She paused, waiting to see if she just imagined it. There was no way he was that far up there! She almost sat down when another bulb, slightly further up, shifted.
“Oh, no. Don’t tell me he’s…” her sister began.
“Oh yes, he is.” She responded as, poof, Sparta poked his head out. He was replacing the star on top of the tree!
“I guess he’s the star this year.” Her sister laughed.
“Yes, it’s a very Spartan Christmas.”
Starlight
Chris S Hayes
Arboria, Landfall Colony, 278th Year from Sol Departure, December 25, 2336
The children stooped like hunting falcons, grabbing footfuls of candy from the bowl Marla held aloftwith prehensile toes before soaring off to sit on the rafters and enjoy their treats. The colony’s first cocoa crop had with much labor been transformed into the first chocolate available to the colonists since their arrival. The children’s bright grins and smudged faces spoke of the success of the project, named ‘Operation Christmas Candy’ by all involved.
“Come down, boys and girls,” Marla called through her oxygen mask. One by one her students—twenty four of them aged five to eight years old—spread their delicate bat-like wings and launched themselves into the swirling air currents of the recreation dome, landing lightly on their feet at all sides of their ground-bound teacher. Marla, as usual, felt bulky and awkward compared to her charges, who’d been genetically engineered for Arboria’s gravity and atmosphere. She, on the other hand, was just an ordinary woman doing an ordinary job.
“Everyone gather around the tree. Santa’s coming soon,” she announced, smiling at their enthusiasm. The children’s flutelike cries of excitement, painfully high-pi
tched in the dome’s helium enriched atmosphere, rang out as they settled in a semicircle around the Christmas tree. Aurora’s flora did not include conifers, and the pine seedlings had thus far failed to flourish, but Marla still had hopes for future plantings. The colony’s biologists were miracle workers. In the meantime, they’d settled for an artificial tree.
“Ho, ho, ho…Merry Christmas!”
In Arboria’s atmosphere Carl Washington’s usually deep and vibrant bass voice sounded more like a chipmunk’s, and the adult colonists’ controlled calorie regimen spoiled his chances of a Santa-like belly, but the quartermaster had done a stellar job on his Santa suit, and the bushy white beard underneath his mask was right on point. He had a huge red velvet bag slung over one shoulder, improbably bulky in Aurora’s lighter gravity and stuffed until its seams strained. The children’s squeals passed up into the inaudible range for the adults within earshot. Marla winced, chuckling. Controlled pandemonium ensued as presents were distributed and unwrapped. Wooden gliders and dolls and flying discs and balls were admired and traded until every child was satisfied.
The geneticists swore up and down that they’d done no temperament tweaks during the engineering process to cause the kids’ almost unnatural non-competitiveness.
Carl, the colony’s chief psychologist when he wasn’t passing out presents, theorized that raising the children as a close-knit group on a dangerous planet where their survival depended on cooperation had done it; that and the fact the kids spent nearly every moment together, with only a few hours a week spent with their parents during family visitation.
Once the geneticists had decided to engineer the colony’s children—and all future generations of Aurorans—to live on the surface without supplemental oxygen, they’d had no other choice. Earth’s normal atmosphere contained too much oxygen for the children, Aurora’s atmosphere too little for their parents.
“Stow your presents and line up, everyone. Lookouts, gather your team members!”
The children immediately fell silent, put their new toys in the zippered pockets of their jumpsuits, and put on their ‘gloves,’ booties with separate toes to protect their prehensile feet. In groups of six, consisting of two older ‘lookouts’ and four toddlers, they gathered at the dome’s exit.
Marla adjusted her mask, then tapped her earpiece to activate her comm.
“We’re ready for our excursion, Lieutenant Marshall.”
The colony’s security division was a highly disciplined bunch. They had to be, given their high-risk assignments. There was a good reason that the geneticists had decided to engineer the children to fly. The air was the only safe place on Aurora. The planet’s islands were rife with lethal predators. So far they hadn’t lost a single child, but the adults hadn’t been so lucky.
The exit irised open. It was night outside. Nick Marshall and the four other members of his team stood at the periphery of the clearing, arrayed in a semicircle facing outward with infrared goggles on and their double-barrel shotguns ready to fire. The colonists had learned from painful experience that lesser weapons didn’t have the necessary stopping power at close range.
Marla forced herself to look away from Nick’s broad shoulders and muscular biceps, a challenging task, and focused her attention on the children as they filed out of the dome. Immediately the little ones turned their faces upward with murmurs of delight. For safety reasons they were rarely allowed outdoors at night, but tonight was special.
The midnight blue sky glimmered with stars. One stood out, brighter than the others and directly overhead. Carl, still dressed in his Santa suit and an oxygen mask, parked himself on a foldable camp stool in the center of the clearing, and the children sat down in groups on the wiry blue-green sward. Most of the children were of no particular religion unless their parents were faithful to a specific belief, but today was Christmas, and so the story of the evening would be from the Christian scriptures. Carl pulled a tablet from his coat and settled himself to read aloud.
“Now this is how the birth of Jesus Christ came about. When his mother Mary was betrothed to Joseph, but before they lived together, she was found with child...”
As Carl read to the children, Marla allowed herself a closer inspection of Nick Marshall. It was past time for her to choose a father for the children she was required to bear. Nick was rumored to be a popular choice for obvious reasons, but he had yet to say yes to any offer. Marla had daydreams about being the one to convince him, if she could only summon the nerve to talk to him, but they were unrealistic fantasies. As far as she could tell, Lieutenant Marshall had yet to notice she was alive.
“The angel of the Lord appeared to him in a dream and said, ‘Joseph, son of David, do not be afraid to take Mary your wife into your home…’”
Carl held the children’s rapt attention. Although Marla knew it was unwise to distract the guard detail, she felt compelled to do what she did next. The front pocket of her coverall was filled with what remained of the children’s Christmas chocolates. It was only right to share them. She approached the periphery of the clearing with a determined smile behind her mask.
“Merry Christmas, Lieutenant,” she said. “Mind if I pass out some treats to your team?”
Instead of refusing outright as she’d half expected, Nick Marshall tapped his comm. She heard his quiet voice say, “I’m tapping out for five minutes, guys. Cover my sector.”
Then he lowered his shotgun, pulled off his infrared goggles, and directed the full force of his long-lashed hazel eyes and chiseled chin toward her. Marla had to remind herself to keep breathing. Through the clear polymer of his oxygen mask, his smile was hesitant.
“That’s very kind of you, Miss Rodriguez.”
He does know my name. Maybe this will work…
“Call me Marla,” she said, returning his smile, and extended both hands cupped, filled with bite-sized paper-wrapped handmade chocolates. His large hand dwarfed hers as he reached in to grasp one between thumb and forefinger. She watched, enthralled, as he un-wrapped the dark morsel, lifted his mask, and tucked it into his mouth. The expression of sheer delight on his face at his first taste of the chocolate made her bite her lip to keep from laughing. Behind her, Carl continued his storytelling.
“Behold, magi from the east arrived in Jerusalem, saying, ‘Where is the newborn king of the Jews? We saw his star at its rising and have come to do him homage…’”
“Is that the Christmas star?” piped Eric, one of the braver five year olds. Marla turned. The child was pointing upward toward the brightest star in the sky.
“Well…it’s not the same star the magi saw, but it can be our Christmas star,” Carl told him. “It’s called Sol, and it’s the star that shines on the planet where Jesus was born.”
Marla realized the truth of it. She looked up and half-seriously made a wish.
“Starlight, starbright, the first star I see tonight…”
Nick Marshall’s tenor voice chimed in. “I wish I may, I wish I might, have the wish I wish tonight.” He chuckled. “Haven’t heard that one in years. What are you wishing for?”
Marla met his gaze and gathered her courage. She smiled wryly. “It’s funny you should ask that, Lieutenant…”
The Trial of Santa Claus
Stewart Bint
I’d always thought of Santa Claus as a kindly old man who loved children. So it came as a shock when he appeared in court, charged with cruelty to children.
One of my regular jobs as a newspaper reporter in a small English town is to cover the local magistrates’ court.
On this particular day, December 18, Presiding Magistrate, Mrs. Eleanor McHarris, was just peering over the top of her fancy horn-rimmed spectacles at the latest chap in the dock, when her whole body started weaving about.
Her pale, blue-rinsed hair was streaming out all around her head and the top and bottom parts of her face were blowing to the left, while her nose and cheeks swayed to the right.
And it wasn’
t just Mrs. McHarris going haywire. A weird type of greyish-white mist began swirling before my eyes. For a few seconds it blocked everything out, then disappeared. Mrs. McHarris stopped weaving about, but somehow looked different. Most of that blue-rinse was now tucked up inside a long black pointed cap, with only a few wisps hanging loosely past her ears and trickling on to her shoulders.
A heavy black shawl with a long fringe replaced her grim tweed jacket, and the fancy horn-rimmed glasses stretched out sideways, curling up to a point, giving the impression of a flying bat.
And when she spoke the words cascaded out in a thin, whining cackle.
“You’ve heard the charges against you, Santa Claus, how do you plead, guilty or not guilty?”
The immediate answer from the dock was booming, almost boisterous: “Why, not guilty, of course, Madam.” Now, that didn’t sound for one second like the sort of voice the frail young man who’d been standing there just a few seconds ago should have had. It had rich, deep tones, as if it belonged to a jolly, middle-aged, or even old, man.
And wait a minute. She’d said Santa Claus.
I tore my gaze from Mrs. McHarris and stared across to the dock. The wimpish-looking wally charged with some insignificant breach of the law was no longer there.
Instead, there stood a man with a myriad laugh-lines creasing the skin around his eyes, and the lower part of his face was concealed by a bushy white beard. He was about six feet tall, and a bright red tunic encased his more than ample girth. White hair flowed out on to his shoulders from under a red drooping cap.
I gave up trying to work out what had happened. I could have speculated all day and still been a million miles from the truth. There! With my mind wandering I’d missed some of the court procedure. The prosecuting lawyer was getting to his feet, ready to put his case to Mrs. McHarris.
