Stolen Christmas by Sarah M Eden

Excerpt from Stolen Christmas

Everyone has a favorite Christmas. Mine, without a doubt, was the year I stole each and every one of my family’s Christmas presents.

We were fairly newly married, though at the time I felt like a very seasoned and wise wife. We had a one-year-old son whom I had never forgotten at the grocery store, therefore, I considered myself a very successful mother, as well.

Our adorable little family had earlier that year packed up our meager belongings, donated our non-operating car, and moved from the mountains of Utah to the arid deserts of Arizona. My husband was in his first year of graduate school with what felt like decades stretching out ahead of him. He was gainfully employed, if one could consider paychecks in the double digits “gainful.” We lived in a tiny apartment just below a heavy metal enthusiast whose enormous set of speakers were, apparently, only capable of playing extremely loud music, and only between the hours of midnight and five o’clock in the morning.

These things could be overlooked, though. Christmas was coming. I had always loved Christmas, but being a wife and mother had taken my devotion to a whole new level. I desperately wanted it to be perfect.

At the beginning of December that year, I packed up the little sweetie-pie and the two dozen diapers that a one-year-old requires for an hour long expedition into the vast world of retail shopping and made a trip to my own personal Mecca: the craft store. I bought a spool of discounted ribbon that I argued was close enough to green to be considered festive and the largest undecorated wreath I could afford, one that could, after the holidays, double as a very earthy-type bracelet. Several diaper changes and a short car ride later, I unpacked my purchases and set to work.

Glue guns and I have never truly understood one another. I cannot for the life of me manage to keep my fingers safe when using one. Tears were shed, but I soldiered on. Christmas required a wreath. I hung the final product on the front door with a short piece of silver duct tape and prayed that when the bass began thumping upstairs, the vibrations would not shake my little creation loose.

With that promising beginning, I set about decorating. We had no Christmas lights to hang and probably could not have afforded the electricity, anyway. I pulled the decorations out of storage, meaning, of course, I crawled under our bed and grabbed a tiny box. Inside sat the greatest Christmas-decorating invention since tinsel: an inflatable Christmas tree. After only thirty minutes of hyperventilation, I had an entirely portable, child-proof Christmas tree complete with ornaments painted onto its plastic exterior. Things couldn’t have been better.

At least, that’s what I told myself. In my heart I knew the entire thing was pathetic. There was no smell of gingerbread in the air or gentle, falling snow. We did not even have an electronic, animated Santa figurine in the front yard. I wanted the perfect Christmas. Years down the road when I pulled out pictures of that holiday season, there would be no sighs of blissful remembering.

Christmas was a complete flop!

     

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Shepherds and Kings by Angie Lofthouse

Excerpt from Shepherds and Kings

Leila was dying, and she knew it. Death tasted bitter in her throat. She’d really blown it big this time, and now there was no way out. I’m a failure, just like everyone said I would be. Leila shut the blinds in her tiny one room apartment to keep out the lights and general good will of the world around her, the cheer of the stupid holiday she would probably never celebrate again. Some neighbor’s Christmas music floated through the walls, and the memories sprang unbidden into Leila’s mind.

She could see herself as a little girl again, healthy, happy and hopeful—before everything started to go wrong. She’d always set up the little Nativity scene near the Christmas tree. She pictured the shepherds and the wise men gathered around Mary and Joseph and Baby Jesus, offering the Christ Child their gifts. All shining softly in the glow from the tree and surrounded by the scent of pine.

Now it was gone, all of it. She couldn’t go back to the past and she had no future to speak of. Now there was no way out.


     

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Arrows to Heaven by Tristi Pinkston

Excerpt from Arrows to Heaven

I’ve been the owner of the O Tannenbaum, a Christmas tree lot, for twenty years. It's the only lot in the valley that doesn’t cut their trees weeks in advance, expecting them to last through the holiday season without losing their needles. We take pride in the fact that our trees are cut the week before the lot opens, and that we cut fresh, as needed. In fact, the majority of our trees come in buckets, so the environmentally conscious can plant the tree after they’re done with it.

 Ironic. People can be so worried about the environment, but pay so little attention to why they’re buying the tree in the first place. I guess it's trendy to take care of the earth, and maybe not so trendy to talk about Who created it in the first place.

A lot of things struck me as ironic a year ago. I had reached the age where I was expected to turn into a grumpy old coot, and rather than disappoint, I'd gone with the flow. There were few men grumpier, or cootier, than myself. I was turning into a cynic, barely able to stand the holiday. Don’t get me wrong; I’m a Christian to the core. But as I get older, my tolerance for certain things has been reduced to a mere shadow of its former self. Situations that used to merely make me shake my head now caused me great consternation. I've always loved that word—consternation. It sounds exactly like the kind of word a grumpy old coot would use on special occasions.

Take, for instance, the woman who came to the lot and stood for twenty minutes debating whether or not a certain blue spruce was taller than the one Nancy Englebrecht had in her foyer (she pronounced it “foy-yay”—I guess no one ever told her we don’t have those in Utah), as if I should have known who Nancy Englebrecht was.

I was on the verge of telling her I had been to Nancy’s house with a tape measure, and the blue spruce in question topped Nancy’s by a whopping six inches, when the lady in question turned, sighed, and told her husband that they had better keep looking. It just wouldn’t do.

It was a tree, for crying out loud, and a right pretty one, too. I had cut that one myself and felt a sense of pride whenever I looked at it. But for some reason, if it couldn’t compete with Nancy What’s-Her-Name’s tree, it wasn’t good enough. After all that, I’m not sure I would have sold it to her anyway. Sure enough, that woman caused me a great deal of consternation.

I had given myself up as a lost cause, resigned to my fate of scuffing around in bedroom slippers, shaking my cane at the newspaper boy and grunting "Bah, humbug" at the season. But one particularly bright and clear night midway through December, my cynicism vanished.

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Those Darn Shepherds! by Christine Thackeray

Excerpt from Those Darn Shepherds!

They’re at it again.” Brother Fortner, one of the three wisemen in the pageant, adjusted his royal robes and rolled his eyes.

 I huffed, putting down my clipboard. “Those darn shepherds. What is it this time?”

 The entire cast of almost one hundred people was shivering under their sewn up sheets at the dress rehearsal of our live Nativity. This event had become a wonderful tradition for over twenty years running, and the entire town looked forward to coming on the Saturday before Christmas to watch the Mormon pageant. It was a great missionary tool, using the talents and resources from all three wards in our building. The angels sang in perfect harmony, and the three kings wore lavish costumes with gifts of real myrrh and frankincense. We even had a live donkey that behaved beautifully—if only I could say the same thing about the shepherds.

 In the past it had always been an ‘adults only’ experience, but for some reason this year the bishop had gotten the idea to use the sixteen-year-old priests as shepherds. It was a huge mistake. Everyone else took their parts seriously, but the shepherds had spent most of their time joking around or pulling pranks. They had sort of devolved into their own shepherd gang with my son as the ringleader.

As I rounded the corner where the boys were supposed to be waiting for their cue, I nearly fell on my face. Josh had been holding his crook out to intentionally trip me. I barely caught myself and turned to face him, “What are you thinking? This isn’t funny.”

The three other boys held in their snickers while Josh shook his head. “It wasn’t supposed to be for you. Ty said Bro. Fortner was coming over…”

“Listen, you guys, I am serious.” I shook my finger at them in desperation. “This play is important, and I want to see you change your attitudes.”

“Mom, we don’t even want to be here. You can fire us. We won’t mind.” The other boys nodded their heads in agreement.

I looked at them and took a deep breath. “The pageant is tomorrow. Please, I beg of you, just behave for one more day.”

Ty shook his head. “This is stupid.”

 “It is so sad you can’t see what we are doing here,” I said to him and then turned to all the boys. “If you try to feel the spirit of this event and remember what we are celebrating, you might get something out of this.”

I walked away feeling hopeless. Later when the shepherds started poking the ugly doll in the manger, I let them go home early and we finished the dress rehearsal without them.

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The Choir by Sandra Sorenson

Excerpt from The Choir

Hannah hurried to the stage. It was time for the choir to warm up. Her new white dress, long and flowing, made quiet whispers as her silver slippered feet took her down the hall. Her long red hair was a beautiful contrast to the white silk. Her hair and the twinkle of happiness in her deep blue eyes were the first thing others noticed about her.

There was a buzz in the air. Everyone was busy rushing here and there, getting into their places. Sopranos to the right; altos to the left; tenors and basses along the back. Hannah was one of the last to take her place with the other singers.

White robed orchestra members, their silver trumpets nearly glowing with recent polishing, scurried to their spots behind the singers. The gold of the french horns gleamed in the light. Timpani and cymbals also made their way to the gathering place. Excited chattering filled the hall as the orchestra hastened to their assigned places. This would be the best performance ever.

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Christmas Joy Ride by Gussie Fick

Excerpt from Christmas Joy Ride

Tyler sat on his grandfather’s golf cart, sucking on a peppermint candy cane. He looked out the open carport at miles of desert rimmed by jagged, treeless mountains. Tomorrow was Christmas Eve, big deal. He could hardly wait for it to be over so he could go back home. His snowbird grandparents lived in Idaho six months of the year and flew south as soon as the weather cooled in October.

“It’ll be fun!” Tyler’s mom said, when his parents decided to spend Christmas in Arizona with Grandma and Grandpa. “You can bring your skateboard.” Bad idea. Every time he rode his skateboard, the old fogies in his grandparents’ trailer park complained. There was nothing for a twelve-year-old boy to do here. He had no friends, no video games, and since his iPod had lost its charge, no tunes either. Tyler was bored.

“Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow.” The merry jingle came through the open kitchen window. Grandma and his older sister were baking Christmas cookies, singing along. Tyler frowned. He wished it would snow. It wasn’t Christmas without snow. He needed only a sweatshirt to keep warm in Arizona. If he were home in Utah, he’d be snowboarding right now. Dang. Winter wasn’t even winter in Arizona.

Tyler grabbed the steering wheel of the golf cart and pretended he was on his four-wheeler at home. That’s when he noticed the key in the ignition. Without a second thought, Tyler started the engine and drove out of the carport. Grandpa wouldn’t mind; he was watching the afternoon news. Mom and Dad wouldn’t be back for hours. They’d gone to Phoenix to do some last-minute Christmas shopping. The golf cart was quiet. No one heard him drive down the street, not even the old fogies next door.

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Too Old For Santa by Janice Sperry

Excerpt from Too Old For Santa

"Michael? That thing of yours is broken.” Michael looked down at his little brother. Usually it was cute, the way Trent said his name. My Coal. It wasn’t so cute now.

 “What’s broken?” He kept everything that Trent could break up on his bunk bed. What could Trent have gotten his little hands on?

“That thing…of yours…that’s broken.” “What’s broken?” Michael struggled to keep his voice calm, especially with Mom listening. Nine-year-olds are too old to believe in Santa. Michael knew that Mom was Santa. The magic of Christmas was gone, but getting presents was still fun. Even Dad behaved himself at this time of year.

“That thing,” Trent said.

 “Mom!” Michael said. This conversation was going nowhere.

 “Calm down, Michael.” She got down on her knees and made Trent look at her. “Trent, honey, can you show Mommy what’s broken?”

Trent nodded and took Mom’s hand. Michael followed, wishing Trent could move his little legs a bit faster. After what seemed an eternity, they entered the crime scene. There sat his favorite airplane—minus one wing.

“My airplane!” Michael cried. He and Dad had worked for weeks on the plane. “You ruined it.”

“Michael,” Mom said. “Did you put your airplane away? How did Trent get to it?”

 “I had it on my bed.” Michael knelt by the ruined plane and gathered the pieces in his arms.

“Oh.” Mom’s cheeks turned pink. Michael glared at her. She felt guilty about something. “I forgot to tell you. Trent climbed to the top bunk bed yesterday while you were at school.”

A sick feeling settled in Michael’s stomach. His bed was his last refuge. The last place he could go to get away from his little brother. The last place where his stuff was safe from Captain Destructo.

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From Dad by L.T. Elliot

Excerpt from From Dad

We lost Grandpa on Christmas Eve. He was a man of strength and silence. His softness bespoke greater power than any raised voice ever would. His tools were those of reason and thought and anything shaped with their wisdom hummed with the warmth of sun-polished wood.

Where other men might have railed against the unjust discovery of an inoperable brain tumor, Grandpa humbly bowed to the will of an all-knowing Father and trusted Him to do what was best.

And the Father called him home.

On the night the world celebrated the Savior’s first drawn breath, we mourned the loss of another great man. There was little time to reconnect to the joy of Christmas. So much needed to be done and in the midst of it, my parents strove to keep the spirit of the season from dispersing. The younger children had long awaited the joy of Christmas morning and my parents, though devastated, still planned to give it to them. Their sorrow was buried beneath loving duty.

 I will never know what strength it took for my father to carry on, preparing a world of magic and wonder when his own had been swallowed beneath a mantle of loss. I imagine that many quiet tears were shed and that his heart was burdened with the unsaid. Somehow, he did what he had to do.

Morning came, our front room littered with Santa’s gifts in bright red, green, and white. Stockings brimmed with treats and essentials: toothbrushes, lotions, and a traditional orange. Not a single thing had been forgotten, despite the tragedy that befell our family.

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The Cat Who Ate the Quiche by Laura Craner

Excerpt from The Cat Who Ate the Quiche

The cat had never been spry. Not in all the years she had lived with the family had she been spry. The kids had long since learned to leave the cat alone. They didn’t even try to pet her anymore—especially near her hindquarters—because, even though she had no front claws, the cat was a biter and a scratcher. Every now and again one of the kids would wake up to find the cat snuggled up and snoring next to them in bed. They’d have to climb gingerly around her to get out or else the cat would turn into a snarling flurry of pure fur fury.

The cat had shown up one snowy November evening. The family was eating mushroom-broccoli quiche for dinner. Or, more correctly, the family was not eating mushroom-broccoli quiche for dinner. Well, the father was eating it. He always ate it, whatever it was. The mother would have been eating it had she not been telling the children (she always called them children because, after all, they were not a herd of goats) to eat it regardless of what they thought of the smell. And the kids, they were, well, they were prodding it.

Just as the mother warmed herself up for a round of “you-don’t-always-get-what-you-want-and-sometimes-you-have-to- try-new-things-because-I-am-your-mother-and-I-said-so-and-what-about-the-starving-children-in-Africa?” they all heard the sound. The kids stopped their prodding. The mother closed her mouth. The father swallowed.

It definitely wasn’t a meowing sound. If it had been, the family would have recognized it and opened the door immediately. It wasn’t a purring either. The wind was too loud to hear purring. In later years, after the cat died, the family decided the noise could only be described as a demand—if a demand could be wordless and completely other-worldly and animalistic.

At the sound, the family rushed to the back door and jostled it open. (It was a sticky and temperamental door, especially in wet weather.) As soon as the knob turned and the latch freed itself from the frame, the wind pushed the door open and the family discovered they had opened the wrong door.

The family rushed to the front door and also jostled it open. (It refused to be bested by the back door. Especially in wet weather.) Again, they found nothing. But the noise—the demand—was louder. So the boy, the quintessential middle child who was always running ahead, walked out into the snow and peered into the juniper bushes that lined the front of the house. He was still holding his fork and began to prod the bushes—apparently prodding the quiche had not been enough for him.

That was how he found the cat.

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Walking In a Weevil Wonderland by Melanie Goldmund

Excerpt from Walking In a Weevil Wonderland

I love my job. There’s something incredibly satisfying about hunting down were-creatures and blasting them into oblivion. Of course, since I’m on call as soon as the moon rises, it plays havoc with my social life, and a lot of guys get turned off when you say that you’re basically an exterminator. But that’s the price you pay for keeping the world safe, or so I tell myself whenever I’m feeling lonely.

Like every December, we were battling were-weevils. True were-weevils take advantage of the full moon to open a transdimensional gate from the Were-world and cross over to ours, to destroy Christmas and the entire Christmas spirit. They chew anything that looks or smells or sounds like Christmas, and bite anyone who tries to stop them.

You can guess by the word “were-” what happens to those unlucky humans who are bitten by a were-weevil. Within two heartbeats, they turn into six-legged creatures with long snouts and teeth capable of biting through almost anything. And if they can’t chew it—Christmas lights, for example—they drool on it. The acid in their saliva burns through and destroys it just the same.

Transformed were-weevils chew until the sun comes up and they turn back into humans, at least until the next holiday season. True were-weevils, on the other hand, chew until they’ve absorbed enough Christmas spirit that they can sprout wings. Not only can they then fly to any other source of Christmas spirit that they fancy, they’re also capable of breeding, they can move independently of the moon phases, and worst of all, they’re almost impossible to catch. My job is to make sure they don’t get to that point.

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Believe, Mr. Thomas by Don Carey

Excerpt from Believe, Mr. Thomas

Across the desk sat an older, well dressed man, and he was getting on my nerves. Our meeting had been arranged by my Board of Directors, and I silently cursed them when the man asked if I would run his brand new, as yet unnamed Christmas non-profit.

I shook my head in disbelief. “Well, you see, the thing is, um, Mr. …”

“Nicholas,” he said. “Nicholas, right. You see, Mr. Nicholas, the thing is I already have a job—a very good one, in fact.” I adjusted the nameplate on my desk which read ‘Reginald Thomas—Chief Executive.’

“Yes, you do have a good job,” he said, smiling through his trimmed white beard. “For now.” I wondered what he meant by that, but decided not to ask—it would only delay the meeting’s conclusion. “Nevertheless, I would suggest you seriously consider my offer, Mr. Thomas.”

 I was seriously considering a call to office security instead when he continued, “Ordinarily I wouldn’t bother you with this. I certainly don’t like to be a bother, but I’m here as a favor to my dear friend Holly Garland.”

I stopped, and he smiled at me again. “Yes, that Holly Garland. Your grandmother.”

“Mr. Nicholas,” I said icily, “had you done your homework, you would know that my grandmother died over thirty years ago.” The only thing worse than a shameless name dropper was a clueless one.

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An Epiphany Gift for Robin by Joyce DiPastena

Excerpt from An Epiphany Gift for Robin

"Why, Arthur, what is this?” Marriot stared down in surprise at the large, thickly wrapped bundle her husband placed in her lap.

The Christmas season was drawing to its close on this, the twelfth day following the Nativity of the Lord. The extra rents of eggs, bread and a fine speckled hen they’d been forced to pay to help supply the baron’s Christmas feast had been somewhat offset by Lord Beckford having selected her husband as one of two peasants he traditionally invited to the castle on Christmas day.

Arthur, representing the poorest of Beckford’s poor serfs, had carried away as much food and ale as he could balance in one cloth, a cup, and a wooden trencher, while the second tenant, a free farmer on the manor, had been allowed to take two friends and feast for two days at the baron’s own table. Arthur had returned all a-grumble at Beckford’s stinginess, claiming he’d heard that at many another manor, the lord or abbot invited all his serfs to a Christmas feast.

Still, he’d managed to return with enough good food to make a fine, if modest, Christmas dinner for their family.

The food was long gone now, along with the merry games played by the villagers to keep warm in the winter snows. The ivy and holly so gleefully gathered and hung by the children to brighten their tiny thatched cottage had grown dry and crisp, crackling off their garlands and crushed by shoes to form a fine, fragrant dust on the earth-beaten floor. Today, Epiphany, the day the Magi had presented their gifts to the Christ Child, was the last day of respite her family would have from the backbreaking work in the baron’s fields.

“What foolish thing have you done?” Marriot demanded of her husband. Gifts were only given to small children on Epiphany, especially among the poor. Her husband’s dark eyes danced with that mischievous gleam that had won her heart ten years ago. “Sometimes a bit of foolishness is just what a man needs to bestow on the woman he loves.”

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R. Edwin Dugert by Brian C. Ricks

Excerpt from R. Edwin Dugert

Bob Dugert jogged up the path to the front door, looked at his watch, and for the thousandth time got ready to explain to his wife that it wasn’t his fault the bus was late. Brushing the snow off his construction helmet and overalls, he pushed open the front door.

 The front room was empty. His son’s books were strewn across the floor, but he wasn’t there and neither was Alice. The light wasn’t even on. Bob slipped off his boots and helmet and listened for sounds of life. He could hear the soft music of Alice’s yoga video coming from the family room around the corner. He took a deep breath and walked down the hall, into the room.

The TV was on showing dozens of women in the same strange contortion. Alice’s yoga mat was there on the floor, but there was no Alice. He took another few steps forward and then saw her curled up on a chair staring—somewhere.

“Hi,” Bob offered.

“Hi.”

Bob knelt down next to her chair. “Darling, I’m really sorry. I know you needed me home early but the bus was really late.”

Alice remained silent.

Bob looked into her eyes, but she continued her nowhere stare. He sighed. “I told my boss I needed to get off early because we had Christmas shopping to do and—”

“No, it’s not that,” said Alice, finally focusing her gaze toward him.

“Are you worried about your parents this Christmas? Maybe we should look at the tickets again. Maybe they’ve gone down in price since we last checked them.”

Alice looked up. “Your son won’t talk to me.”

 “Our son won’t talk to you?”

“He’s not supposed to learn the silent treatment until he’s a teenager. He won’t forgive me and it’s your fault!”

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A Sudden Resolve by M. Gray

Excerpt from A Sudden Resolve

"You find me wicked, don’t you?” Ava jutted her fingers outright, exhibiting her newly acquired diamond. Her ring finger buckled slightly under the colossal rock’s weight—the thing must have weighed nine pounds.

“Cider?” I asked, looking away, reaching out for an empty styrofoam cup on the refreshment table.

“A diversion!” She laughed, flashing those florescent teeth, her grin matching the cheer of her family’s Christmas party. “Logan, why can’t you seem to care?”

Because you’re supposed to marry me? 

I laughed, indifferent. “It’s better than the cocoa.” I squeezed the thermos button, steaming liquid spewed into the flimsy cup.

“We haven’t chosen a date yet,” she took the cup from my hand, brought the warm liquid to her lips. They parted. Just a slit. The precise crack I needed to tell her how I felt.

“Told your parents?” The careless words fell from my lips. I must tell her. But to remove the façade—

“Richie’s speaking with Daddy right now.”

I traced her nose with my eyes, noticed the smoothness of her cheeks. The scar peeking out from under her left eyebrow—evidence of her love for that brutal game, ice hockey. Three years ago, her favorite choker had broken while she scrambled for the puck. The chain had whiplashed into her face. She had meant to replace it but she never had.

And so I did.

At last.

The most intimate Christmas gift I had ever purchased.

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A Little Magic by Taegan Hutchinson

Excerpt from A Little Magic

The icy streets of Chicago were silent save for the sound of a single pair of tennis shoes pounding against the pavement in a steady run.

Noel’s breath turned white in the frigid nighttime air and though it was Christmas Eve, there was no sign of it on the dirty, rundown streets she was traveling. Her greasy hair flew behind her in a bright banner of gold as she desperately clutched the brown paper bag filled with tiny trinkets for her brothers and sisters.

Technically there was no blood relation, but those living at St. Clarence Orphanage were the closest she had to family. Weaving her way between parked cars and down alleyways, she hurried through the darkened streets, praying she wouldn’t meet with any trouble. She had to get home as soon as possible. The precious gifts she carried were the only presents the younger children of the orphanage would receive from ‘Santa.’ While Noel’s illusions of Christmas had been shattered at an early age, she didn’t want the same for the tiny tots of St Clarence. They deserved to hold onto what little magic they were able to grasp.

Using a parked car as leverage, she leapt over a large patch of ice, a small grin touching her lips as she made it safely to the other side. A quick glance around told her she was not too far away from the place she called home. If she hurried, the front door would still be unlocked when she arrived. It would save her from having to jump the rusty chain link fence and climb in through the back window.

Noel had almost made it to the corner of Harmony Avenue when a patch of black ice sent her sprawling. Pain exploded behind her eyes as her head met with the sidewalk. Dazed, it took a moment for her to recover, but when she did, she gingerly pushed herself to her knees. Noel looked down to see her frozen red hands cut and torn, one knuckle bleeding slightly.

“Perfect,” she muttered to herself as she rose to her feet, her sharp eyes instantly searching the ground for her gifts. The brown bag lay a few feet away from her and she picked it up counting the gifts quickly. She was missing three.

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Calico and Lace by Lori Nawyn

Excerpt from Calico and Lace

The cries roused Herman, but his memories kept him awake. Peaches and Christmas, dreadful day that it was, and a girl dressed in calico and lace.

“Lily, what’s wrong?” Reflected from the snow outside, the mid-afternoon sun blazed through the window. Herman squinted against it and raised a gnarled hand to his brow to shield his eyes. He’d fallen asleep right in the middle of reading the Farmer’s Almanac. Right in the middle of trying to determine the best days for pruning peach trees next spring.

“Lily? You say somethin’?” He looked across the room to where his wife was taking a nap on her bed. “Where’s John? Nah!” He drew a shaky breath. Cobwebs of sleep still draped his mind.

Every fruit farmer knew that a good pruning was the key to a successful harvest. His son always helped. “John, time to prune.” Herman tried to get up, but his arms lacked the strength and his lower body refused to cooperate.

Disinfectants mingled with bitter medicines and human suffering assailed his nose and all at once the cobwebs dissipated, cotton candy dreams thrust under a stream of water. Herman thumped the armrest of his wheelchair with his hand. Unable to bear the truth, he’d turned to the almanac in an attempt to erase the horrors of his life. Impossible. He could no more hope to attend to pruning than he could stand on his own two feet. He was a crippled old man in a nursing home. John was far away. There were no trees anymore.

And it was Christmas Day.

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The Crooked Christmas Tree by Roger Bonner

Excerpt from The Crooked Christmas Tree

Guschti was a farmer high up in the Swiss Alps. He had a hard life and money was always scarce, which is why he worked at many things to feed his wife and five children.

It was December, when people in the nearby town wanted Christmas trees and Guschti could earn extra money for presents to give his children. So early one morning he hitched his horse, Blitz, to a sleigh and headed for the forest. Blitz means lightening in German but the horse was getting old and could only plod along the path.

Guschti and Blitz stopped on the edge of a small clearing where strong young fir trees grew. Blitz shook his head, making the bells on his harness jingle. Guschti climbed down from the sleigh and pulled out an axe from under the seat. He trudged through the glittering snow to the first tree, a tall fir with even branches that would fetch a good price. He raised the axe and felled it with a few quick strokes, brushed away the snowflakes that had fallen on his cap and bushy beard. Then on to the next tree he went, a medium-sized one with a firm trunk that could bear the weight of many candles and ornaments. This would be a good year indeed.

When he had cut down ten trees, he dragged them to the sleigh and loaded them into the back. Blitz turned his head, steam curling from his nostrils, and watched him. Guschti was about to climb back onto the seat when he noticed a small tree on the edge of the forest. He strode over to it. Its branches were crooked and he thought that it would never grow well next to all the big ones surrounding it. Perhaps he could sell it. He lifted his axe and with one stroke cut it down. He tossed it on top of the others and returned to the farm.

Anna, his wife, was shoveling snow from the walkway leading to the house.

“Why did you chop down such a crooked tree?” she asked when she saw his morning’s work.

“It wouldn’t have grown anyway,” he said. “If I can’t sell it, we’ll use it as kindling wood.”

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