Happy Holidays, everyone! No matter what you're celebrating this month, we've got a story for you! Just take your pick from the offerings below and be sure to leave a comment!
Submissions are still trickling in, so be sure to stop back by and see what's new!
Hanukkah
Musical Hanukkah Celebration by Susan Helene Gottfried
Christmas
Forever Christmas by William Skye
The Perfect Gift by Jared Holt
Christmas Parade, 1968 by Virginia Lee
Age of Abundance by Ann Pino
Christmas at the Old Motel by Ann Pino, aka Bunnygirl
Why We Have an Artificial Tree by Sherry Antonetti
Sauce for the Goose by Sherry Antonetti
The Real Christmas Fruitcake by Sherry Antonetti
Arcady and Zene: A Decent Christmas by Arachne Jericho
The Christmas Gift by Kat Frass
Blunt Reality by Kate Boddie
Christmas Story by WriterKat
O Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree by Lee Ann
New Year's
New Year's Eve by Thomma Lyn
New Year's Eve in Dallas by Susan Helene Gottfried
Showing posts with label christmas. Show all posts
Showing posts with label christmas. Show all posts
Friday, December 21, 2007
Thursday, December 20, 2007
O Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree
Flash fiction by guest blogger Lee Ann
Rows of evergreen trees filled the field, stretching to the edge of the narrow road and back to where the woods began. Some were the right size, anywhere from four to six feet high but others climbed toward the dull sky, reaching up to ten feet and beyond. The wind that whispered through the branches reminded her of ghosts and the entire Christmas tree farm experience was surreal, reminding Bethany of an animated holiday special. If a talking or singing snowman emerged from the trees, she would not have been too surprised.
“Do you see one you like?” Raleigh’s voice interrupted her musing. With a borrowed handsaw, orange with wicked sharp teeth, he looked out of place. Under normal circumstances, he was handier with a pen or television remote than any type of tool so in this wild place, Raleigh looked like a deranged tree man bent on mayhem.
Bethany walked down the road, turned left and sauntered through more trees. An insane urge to hum carols seized her but she did not, dealing instead with the task at hand. How, she wondered, do you choose a single tree of the proper size from hundreds of like pines? And how do you adjust the concept of size from the wide-open field of trees to the close, confined walls of an apartment?
One tree, tall enough but slimmer than most of the rest, seemed like the ideal choice. She touched one branch, amazed at the give of a living object, and waved one mittened hand at Raleigh.
“I want this one.” She imagined it in a stand, decked with small multi-colored lights and ornaments. “It will look just right.”
He shrugged. “If you’re sure.”
Raleigh knelt on the frosty ground and began sawing at the slender trunk with the jagged teeth of the saw. The soft wind sounds through the other trees ceased and a high keening echoed in her ears, the awful sound of an emergency siren or a banshee.
“Stop!” Bethany screamed. “You’re killing it.”
“Huh?” Raleigh stopped, sap spattered across his freckled hands like blood. “What are you talking about?”
The tree’s screams grated on her soul like someone’s fingernails scratching down a chalkboard and she knew even though they stopped, it would die, mortally wounded. Still, she could not listen any longer so she pulled the saw out of his hands.
“I changed my mind.” The lie sounded fine as she spoke it, plausible and convincing.
“I think it would be better to buy a fake tree. Let’s turn in this saw and head for Wal-Mart.”
He scowled but pulled himself up from the ground, brushing the dirt from his jeans.
“Whatever, Bethie, whatever. I just wish you had decided it sooner. We drove by three different Wal-Mart stores on the way here.”
Raleigh turned to go and she followed. Although the screams softened into whimpers, she could still hear them but she did not look back, not even once.
Rows of evergreen trees filled the field, stretching to the edge of the narrow road and back to where the woods began. Some were the right size, anywhere from four to six feet high but others climbed toward the dull sky, reaching up to ten feet and beyond. The wind that whispered through the branches reminded her of ghosts and the entire Christmas tree farm experience was surreal, reminding Bethany of an animated holiday special. If a talking or singing snowman emerged from the trees, she would not have been too surprised.
“Do you see one you like?” Raleigh’s voice interrupted her musing. With a borrowed handsaw, orange with wicked sharp teeth, he looked out of place. Under normal circumstances, he was handier with a pen or television remote than any type of tool so in this wild place, Raleigh looked like a deranged tree man bent on mayhem.
Bethany walked down the road, turned left and sauntered through more trees. An insane urge to hum carols seized her but she did not, dealing instead with the task at hand. How, she wondered, do you choose a single tree of the proper size from hundreds of like pines? And how do you adjust the concept of size from the wide-open field of trees to the close, confined walls of an apartment?
One tree, tall enough but slimmer than most of the rest, seemed like the ideal choice. She touched one branch, amazed at the give of a living object, and waved one mittened hand at Raleigh.
“I want this one.” She imagined it in a stand, decked with small multi-colored lights and ornaments. “It will look just right.”
He shrugged. “If you’re sure.”
Raleigh knelt on the frosty ground and began sawing at the slender trunk with the jagged teeth of the saw. The soft wind sounds through the other trees ceased and a high keening echoed in her ears, the awful sound of an emergency siren or a banshee.
“Stop!” Bethany screamed. “You’re killing it.”
“Huh?” Raleigh stopped, sap spattered across his freckled hands like blood. “What are you talking about?”
The tree’s screams grated on her soul like someone’s fingernails scratching down a chalkboard and she knew even though they stopped, it would die, mortally wounded. Still, she could not listen any longer so she pulled the saw out of his hands.
“I changed my mind.” The lie sounded fine as she spoke it, plausible and convincing.
“I think it would be better to buy a fake tree. Let’s turn in this saw and head for Wal-Mart.”
He scowled but pulled himself up from the ground, brushing the dirt from his jeans.
“Whatever, Bethie, whatever. I just wish you had decided it sooner. We drove by three different Wal-Mart stores on the way here.”
Raleigh turned to go and she followed. Although the screams softened into whimpers, she could still hear them but she did not look back, not even once.
Forever Christmas
A flash fiction by friend and guest-blogger William Skye
The dream of winter. The dream of snow. Soft flakes falling in moonlight; the crack-crack-crackling of ice in a world gone still. Soft and cold, as white as the night is black.
Drifts piled high. Cold breath steams frosty and freezes in the ice thin air. Walking. Crunching and cracking. Slowly walking. Houses, some lit, some dark, some festive, some sullen. They cocoon their human larva and weave the dream of spring.
The path gives way to a flat land, where houses dare not grow. Snow piles and drifts in cold waves, pushed by the wind, watched by the moon. Soft flakes falling. Here it is deep, here it is hard. With each crunch-step a steam breath, and finally a rest. The slope down to the sea.
The moon is full and hard and bright in a sky filled with jewel lights. Bleached of color, a world of black white. Down the slope, to the slap of an ice fringed sea. Hard to walk. The sand gives way. She falls once, but catches herself and goes on. The sea is black and full of dancing lights. The moon paints a streak of white in the black, and in it she just sees something move. Up. Down. Up. Whales? Orca, yes, Orca. Their steamy breath, white cotton puffs clear in the moonlight. For a moment her heart is warm.
Quiet, she begins to shiver. Her breath is soft and white, and she is dizzy. Squatting on her heels she stares down, and sees it. Up. Down. Up with the wave. She pulls off her mitten and grabs into the freezing, burning water. Got it! A shell. She drops it in the snow and her mitten, warm and dry, wraps her hand again.
She stands and turns to go back, but first angles the moonlight on her prize. It is familiar, many ridges. She looks slightly away to catch any color; faint yellow. Tiger Lucina. What are you doing here, my tropical friend? And who is asking whom?
She zippers the sea gift into her jacket. Oh, the slope shines faraway bright. So much easier down than up. The snow crusted sand is hard walking. Finally, the dark base. She rests, then on to it, climbing, crabbing, jogging an inch at a time. Eventually, fitfully, to the top. Her heart is in her throat. Dots at the edges of her eyes. A step, a stumble, her strength fails, she falls.
A white light. A world of light. A whorl of sound, of traffic in the city. The woman who is not a mother stares into the face of the girl who is not a daughter. Not Mother not daughter, hand-in-hand on the curb they wait. The busses stream past, the sickly smell of burning fat, sometimes fishy, sometimes bovine, equine, porcine. The terrible heat and grit and unwashable staleness. Close bodies, standing, waiting. Not daughter is at the bottom of a well of humanity, breathing softly, trying not to inhale through her nose.
Talking. Mr. Li and Mrs. Li, always arguing. A parody of language, a song of anger and accusation. Waiting for the bus. Honking, swirling traffic. Jimmy and Eloisa, but that’s not right, kissing. He stares at her green eyes, and then at her tits, dappled with sweat, up, down, inside her white blouse. Laughing. “And do you think she doesn’t know?” not Mother said. Not daughter didn’t know what to think. She felt beads of sweat on her upper lip and drew her breaths in little pants. Eloisa wore little pants. Didn’t she know?
An age of the world turned and the sun blotted out, a white leviathan grunted and hissed air shot black from the blowhole on top, bobbed up, down, up and stop. Steps, pulled gently, she stumbled slightly but was caught. The blesséd blessed bus. Twice and thrice blessed. An end to waiting, Hail Mary! Motion, Ye Saints Be Praised! Air conditioning, Hosanna! But wait, the windows are all open, a dark breeze when the bus pulls into traffic, stifling heat when it stops. The smell of fried flesh. Oh, ye curséd and ye vile city transport.
Into the heart of the city. Shopping, yes, Christmas shopping. The air-conditioned mall. Not daughter one more piece of baggage for not Mother, but like an egg placed in her pocket for safe keeping, never a cross word or jar or snap. A soft touch, a gentle kindness, a smile, a cold drink with lunch and no tsk-tsk because she was too hot to eat more.
Encumbered and laden like llamas they return from whence, retracing and rebussing themselves across the sweat stain city. Not Mother proud her not daughter absorbs the lessons of stoic propriety and proper demeanor.
And walking. She looks up into not Mother’s face, and down into her own, and they are walking in Pertumbuco, yes, a few short blocks, and then the house. No air-conditioning, but ceiling fans, and no flat gassy smells, but not Mother’s airy scents, Lemon Grass and Lilac. Jimmy is napping, the TV murmuring. Not daughter can at last use the bathroom, pee, wash. She pulls off the white skirt, rolls up and rolls down the sweaty clothes. Naked, she runs the washcloth over herself. Luxury, pure luxury. Convinced Jimmy is asleep she dashes damp for her chest of drawers, grabs panties, white cotton, left step right step pull up, lays on the cool sheets, and dissolves in siesta.
Giggles wake her. “Don’t wake Granma,” boy whispers. “Too late,” girl whispers. “I’m tellin’,” boy whispers, hoarsely.
She sits up in the chair, and feels the fire’s warmth pleasant on her face. Christmas tree shines in the corner. “No one’s telling,” she says, and “go back to playing. I’m awake.” Smile.
Her husband rounds the corner. For a moment she is shocked, he looks so old. Hair gone, skin loose, sweater red, with a cup of tea, for her. She closes her eyes for a moment and pulls herself straight, and back to the present. He perches on the arm of her chair.
“I had a dream,” she tells him. “I think it was of when I was a girl. Ceiling fans on at Christmas, everything so hot, the city so still and stifling. The busses ran on that bio-diesel, do you remember? Everything smelled like cooking.”
“Umm,” he said. Not a yes or a no but an I Hear You. “Before the Big Snap.”
“Uh-huh,” she replies. “Before this damn new ice age. Before these damn glaciers everywhere.” She sips her tea. “God, what a world.”
“And this?” he says, picking the shell up from the end table. He runs his fingernail across the ridges, up and down.
She takes it. “I’m not sure where it came from. It’s Lucina. Tropical. Something, something to do with it, too, the dream. I can’t remember.”
“Tropical?” he says. “That’s not a word you hear much anymore.” He touches the shell. “All gone?”
She nods, “All gone.”
The dream of winter. The dream of snow. Soft flakes falling in moonlight; the crack-crack-crackling of ice in a world gone still. Soft and cold, as white as the night is black.
Drifts piled high. Cold breath steams frosty and freezes in the ice thin air. Walking. Crunching and cracking. Slowly walking. Houses, some lit, some dark, some festive, some sullen. They cocoon their human larva and weave the dream of spring.
The path gives way to a flat land, where houses dare not grow. Snow piles and drifts in cold waves, pushed by the wind, watched by the moon. Soft flakes falling. Here it is deep, here it is hard. With each crunch-step a steam breath, and finally a rest. The slope down to the sea.
The moon is full and hard and bright in a sky filled with jewel lights. Bleached of color, a world of black white. Down the slope, to the slap of an ice fringed sea. Hard to walk. The sand gives way. She falls once, but catches herself and goes on. The sea is black and full of dancing lights. The moon paints a streak of white in the black, and in it she just sees something move. Up. Down. Up. Whales? Orca, yes, Orca. Their steamy breath, white cotton puffs clear in the moonlight. For a moment her heart is warm.
Quiet, she begins to shiver. Her breath is soft and white, and she is dizzy. Squatting on her heels she stares down, and sees it. Up. Down. Up with the wave. She pulls off her mitten and grabs into the freezing, burning water. Got it! A shell. She drops it in the snow and her mitten, warm and dry, wraps her hand again.
She stands and turns to go back, but first angles the moonlight on her prize. It is familiar, many ridges. She looks slightly away to catch any color; faint yellow. Tiger Lucina. What are you doing here, my tropical friend? And who is asking whom?
She zippers the sea gift into her jacket. Oh, the slope shines faraway bright. So much easier down than up. The snow crusted sand is hard walking. Finally, the dark base. She rests, then on to it, climbing, crabbing, jogging an inch at a time. Eventually, fitfully, to the top. Her heart is in her throat. Dots at the edges of her eyes. A step, a stumble, her strength fails, she falls.
A white light. A world of light. A whorl of sound, of traffic in the city. The woman who is not a mother stares into the face of the girl who is not a daughter. Not Mother not daughter, hand-in-hand on the curb they wait. The busses stream past, the sickly smell of burning fat, sometimes fishy, sometimes bovine, equine, porcine. The terrible heat and grit and unwashable staleness. Close bodies, standing, waiting. Not daughter is at the bottom of a well of humanity, breathing softly, trying not to inhale through her nose.
Talking. Mr. Li and Mrs. Li, always arguing. A parody of language, a song of anger and accusation. Waiting for the bus. Honking, swirling traffic. Jimmy and Eloisa, but that’s not right, kissing. He stares at her green eyes, and then at her tits, dappled with sweat, up, down, inside her white blouse. Laughing. “And do you think she doesn’t know?” not Mother said. Not daughter didn’t know what to think. She felt beads of sweat on her upper lip and drew her breaths in little pants. Eloisa wore little pants. Didn’t she know?
An age of the world turned and the sun blotted out, a white leviathan grunted and hissed air shot black from the blowhole on top, bobbed up, down, up and stop. Steps, pulled gently, she stumbled slightly but was caught. The blesséd blessed bus. Twice and thrice blessed. An end to waiting, Hail Mary! Motion, Ye Saints Be Praised! Air conditioning, Hosanna! But wait, the windows are all open, a dark breeze when the bus pulls into traffic, stifling heat when it stops. The smell of fried flesh. Oh, ye curséd and ye vile city transport.
Into the heart of the city. Shopping, yes, Christmas shopping. The air-conditioned mall. Not daughter one more piece of baggage for not Mother, but like an egg placed in her pocket for safe keeping, never a cross word or jar or snap. A soft touch, a gentle kindness, a smile, a cold drink with lunch and no tsk-tsk because she was too hot to eat more.
Encumbered and laden like llamas they return from whence, retracing and rebussing themselves across the sweat stain city. Not Mother proud her not daughter absorbs the lessons of stoic propriety and proper demeanor.
And walking. She looks up into not Mother’s face, and down into her own, and they are walking in Pertumbuco, yes, a few short blocks, and then the house. No air-conditioning, but ceiling fans, and no flat gassy smells, but not Mother’s airy scents, Lemon Grass and Lilac. Jimmy is napping, the TV murmuring. Not daughter can at last use the bathroom, pee, wash. She pulls off the white skirt, rolls up and rolls down the sweaty clothes. Naked, she runs the washcloth over herself. Luxury, pure luxury. Convinced Jimmy is asleep she dashes damp for her chest of drawers, grabs panties, white cotton, left step right step pull up, lays on the cool sheets, and dissolves in siesta.
Giggles wake her. “Don’t wake Granma,” boy whispers. “Too late,” girl whispers. “I’m tellin’,” boy whispers, hoarsely.
She sits up in the chair, and feels the fire’s warmth pleasant on her face. Christmas tree shines in the corner. “No one’s telling,” she says, and “go back to playing. I’m awake.” Smile.
Her husband rounds the corner. For a moment she is shocked, he looks so old. Hair gone, skin loose, sweater red, with a cup of tea, for her. She closes her eyes for a moment and pulls herself straight, and back to the present. He perches on the arm of her chair.
“I had a dream,” she tells him. “I think it was of when I was a girl. Ceiling fans on at Christmas, everything so hot, the city so still and stifling. The busses ran on that bio-diesel, do you remember? Everything smelled like cooking.”
“Umm,” he said. Not a yes or a no but an I Hear You. “Before the Big Snap.”
“Uh-huh,” she replies. “Before this damn new ice age. Before these damn glaciers everywhere.” She sips her tea. “God, what a world.”
“And this?” he says, picking the shell up from the end table. He runs his fingernail across the ridges, up and down.
She takes it. “I’m not sure where it came from. It’s Lucina. Tropical. Something, something to do with it, too, the dream. I can’t remember.”
“Tropical?” he says. “That’s not a word you hear much anymore.” He touches the shell. “All gone?”
She nods, “All gone.”
Christmas at the Old Motel(a Will and Diana Adventure)
Wind was blowing through the broken window again. Before Amalia could get up, Diana set her knitting aside and wedged the rags back in place. She paused, peering out the grimy pane of glass.
“They’ll be back when they can,” Amalia told her.
“I don’t know why you wouldn’t let me go with them.”
“It’s Unitas’ rule, not mine.”
Diana gave her a disgusted look. “You could’ve told Harley I was the same age as Will.”
“Honesty is the best policy.” Amalia bent back over her journal.
Diana returned to her seat of duffel bags and an old seat cushion and picked up her knitting. “Well, you won’t be able to stop me next year. I’ll be old enough to go on all the same missions Will goes on. Even the dangerous ones.”
Amalia’s shoulders tightened and her pen quit moving. “And if something happened to you, your family—”
“Would still be dead.”
“I suppose so.” Amalia began writing again.
Diana examined her knitting and tried to pick up where she left off, but she kept dropping stitches and finally set the shapeless project aside.
“Why don’t you fletch a few arrows?”
“Don’t feel like it.”
“Take a nap. I’ll wake you for your turn on watch.”
“I’m not tired.”
“Would you like me to read to you?”
“No.” Diana got to her feet and paced the cold, narrow room.
“If you can’t find a useful project I can make sure you get assigned one.”
Diana sat down and sullenly picked up her knitting again. “I just want Will to come back.”
Amalia didn’t answer.
“What kind of dumb mission takes place over Christmas? Last year all the groups called a truce and we played soccer with the snipers from Hispanos Unidos.”
“And by New Year’s they had shot three of our camp supporters. We can't trust anyone.”
“So why did you let Will go? He's my best friend and he's the closest thing I’ve got to family and—”
Amalia’s voice took on an edge. “You’ve got me.”
“It's not the same. Some fucking Christmas this is.”
“Diana.” Amalia turned intense eyes upon her. “You obviously need constructive work to do. Go help Paloma with supper.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Go now, or I’ll make sure you get assigned something you’ll like even less.”
Diana spent the rest of the afternoon tending fires and stoking improvised brick ovens in the shelter of a collapsed wing of the motel. Finally it was time to go on watch. With a pocket full of dry cornbread, she went to her station on a low wall at the entrance to the motor court. Now that she had access to binoculars, she scanned the horizon anxiously. But she saw neither friends nor enemies, only the blank scrubland stretching toward the distant mesas.
As the sun set and a light snow began to fall, her hope faded that Will and the rest of their party might make it back for Christmas Eve. When Ikea relieved her, she handed over the binoculars and trudged back to the room she shared with Auntie.
As she stepped inside, she sucked in her breath. On the wobbly dresser, Amalia had arranged some branches of mesquite and lit her two precious wax candles, their light reflecting like stars in the dusty mirror. Occupying pride of place was a bundle wrapped in cloth and tied with a fraying ribbon.
At Diana’s questioning look, Amalia ducked her head. “I know we said we’d wait until Will came back. So consider it a surprise from Santa.”
“I’m a little old for Santa.” She picked up the gift. “Maybe I should open it later. I don’t have yours ready yet.”
“Santa gave me what I wanted.” Amalia sat on the edge of the musty bed and motioned Diana to her. “You seem to forget you're not the only one who has no home or kin. I know I'm hard on you sometimes, but you're my family now, and when I think what it would mean to lose you. . .”
Diana stared in silence as Amalia looked away, sniffling. Auntie never cried, not even on the day she buried her own sister. “I'm sorry.” She threw her arms around her. “I don't know what makes me so selfish. It's a good Christmas, just us together. Really.”
Diana opened her present, which consisted of some much-needed socks and a warm knit cap. Then Amalia read the nativity story from the Bible while Diana dozed beside her on the bed. Finally Amalia put the book away and they slept huddled in their patched wool blankets while snowflakes drifted lazily outside the window.
Just before sunrise, a soft sound awakened her and Diana opened one eye to see the door swing inward. Thinking it was the wind, she stumbled to her feet to close it.
A shadow in the doorway gave her pause. “You came back!”
Will was filthy and damp with melting snow, but he grabbed Diana tight, as if he might pull her into his body so he could have her with him always. Over the top of her head, he met Amalia’s suspicious eyes.
“Are you AWOL?”
Will limped to the bed, carrying a saddlebag. “I'm heading straight back after breakfast. What’s Harley going to do? Kick me out?” He reached into his bag and produced two paper-wrapped packages. “For my favorite ladies. Merry Christmas.”
Amalia’s eyes narrowed. “How did you get—?”
“Does it matter?”
“Stealing is no way to celebrate the birth of our Savior.”
“You know I don't care about that Baby Jesus stuff.” He opened his arms for Diana to sit on his lap, where he kissed her hair and wrapped her braid around a chilblained hand. “Aren't you going to open your present?”
“This is my present.” She looked to Amalia for approval. “Isn't that what's important? That we lost our families but made our own, instead?”
Amalia was examining her gift, frowning as if she might have something else to say about it. But instead her features softened and she put it aside. “Of course,” she said. “Being with the ones we love is the best gift of all.”
“They’ll be back when they can,” Amalia told her.
“I don’t know why you wouldn’t let me go with them.”
“It’s Unitas’ rule, not mine.”
Diana gave her a disgusted look. “You could’ve told Harley I was the same age as Will.”
“Honesty is the best policy.” Amalia bent back over her journal.
Diana returned to her seat of duffel bags and an old seat cushion and picked up her knitting. “Well, you won’t be able to stop me next year. I’ll be old enough to go on all the same missions Will goes on. Even the dangerous ones.”
Amalia’s shoulders tightened and her pen quit moving. “And if something happened to you, your family—”
“Would still be dead.”
“I suppose so.” Amalia began writing again.
Diana examined her knitting and tried to pick up where she left off, but she kept dropping stitches and finally set the shapeless project aside.
“Why don’t you fletch a few arrows?”
“Don’t feel like it.”
“Take a nap. I’ll wake you for your turn on watch.”
“I’m not tired.”
“Would you like me to read to you?”
“No.” Diana got to her feet and paced the cold, narrow room.
“If you can’t find a useful project I can make sure you get assigned one.”
Diana sat down and sullenly picked up her knitting again. “I just want Will to come back.”
Amalia didn’t answer.
“What kind of dumb mission takes place over Christmas? Last year all the groups called a truce and we played soccer with the snipers from Hispanos Unidos.”
“And by New Year’s they had shot three of our camp supporters. We can't trust anyone.”
“So why did you let Will go? He's my best friend and he's the closest thing I’ve got to family and—”
Amalia’s voice took on an edge. “You’ve got me.”
“It's not the same. Some fucking Christmas this is.”
“Diana.” Amalia turned intense eyes upon her. “You obviously need constructive work to do. Go help Paloma with supper.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Go now, or I’ll make sure you get assigned something you’ll like even less.”
Diana spent the rest of the afternoon tending fires and stoking improvised brick ovens in the shelter of a collapsed wing of the motel. Finally it was time to go on watch. With a pocket full of dry cornbread, she went to her station on a low wall at the entrance to the motor court. Now that she had access to binoculars, she scanned the horizon anxiously. But she saw neither friends nor enemies, only the blank scrubland stretching toward the distant mesas.
As the sun set and a light snow began to fall, her hope faded that Will and the rest of their party might make it back for Christmas Eve. When Ikea relieved her, she handed over the binoculars and trudged back to the room she shared with Auntie.
As she stepped inside, she sucked in her breath. On the wobbly dresser, Amalia had arranged some branches of mesquite and lit her two precious wax candles, their light reflecting like stars in the dusty mirror. Occupying pride of place was a bundle wrapped in cloth and tied with a fraying ribbon.
At Diana’s questioning look, Amalia ducked her head. “I know we said we’d wait until Will came back. So consider it a surprise from Santa.”
“I’m a little old for Santa.” She picked up the gift. “Maybe I should open it later. I don’t have yours ready yet.”
“Santa gave me what I wanted.” Amalia sat on the edge of the musty bed and motioned Diana to her. “You seem to forget you're not the only one who has no home or kin. I know I'm hard on you sometimes, but you're my family now, and when I think what it would mean to lose you. . .”
Diana stared in silence as Amalia looked away, sniffling. Auntie never cried, not even on the day she buried her own sister. “I'm sorry.” She threw her arms around her. “I don't know what makes me so selfish. It's a good Christmas, just us together. Really.”
Diana opened her present, which consisted of some much-needed socks and a warm knit cap. Then Amalia read the nativity story from the Bible while Diana dozed beside her on the bed. Finally Amalia put the book away and they slept huddled in their patched wool blankets while snowflakes drifted lazily outside the window.
Just before sunrise, a soft sound awakened her and Diana opened one eye to see the door swing inward. Thinking it was the wind, she stumbled to her feet to close it.
A shadow in the doorway gave her pause. “You came back!”
Will was filthy and damp with melting snow, but he grabbed Diana tight, as if he might pull her into his body so he could have her with him always. Over the top of her head, he met Amalia’s suspicious eyes.
“Are you AWOL?”
Will limped to the bed, carrying a saddlebag. “I'm heading straight back after breakfast. What’s Harley going to do? Kick me out?” He reached into his bag and produced two paper-wrapped packages. “For my favorite ladies. Merry Christmas.”
Amalia’s eyes narrowed. “How did you get—?”
“Does it matter?”
“Stealing is no way to celebrate the birth of our Savior.”
“You know I don't care about that Baby Jesus stuff.” He opened his arms for Diana to sit on his lap, where he kissed her hair and wrapped her braid around a chilblained hand. “Aren't you going to open your present?”
“This is my present.” She looked to Amalia for approval. “Isn't that what's important? That we lost our families but made our own, instead?”
Amalia was examining her gift, frowning as if she might have something else to say about it. But instead her features softened and she put it aside. “Of course,” she said. “Being with the ones we love is the best gift of all.”
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