AJ lives in Athens and works in Corporate Communications. She has participated in two collaborative novel writing projects and a Halloween anthology for CWC Publishing. Her work has also featured in an evening of tales at the New Venture Theatre in Brighton and was a winner in the AuthorTrope “I Made The Darkness” writing contest.
Read more of her words at http://shemeanswellbut.blogspot.com
Secret Santa
By Jason Pere
I watch you like I always do. You are the same, perfect just as you were the day before. The fresh, white, Christmas season snow falling catches in your hair and forms an argent halo to match your angelic beauty. You hold your long, brown coat tighter over your chest as you walk down the street. You must be so cold; how I wish you would let me warm you on a freezing night like this. I could keep the cold from you, if you would only let me. Oh, why don’t you let me keep you warm?
You adjust your purse as you enter the store, checking your pocketbook the same way you did before you left from your work at exactly five thirty-five tonight. Nothing could have changed in your frigid walk from the office to the department store, but you always like to be sure and double-check yourself. That is one of the things that makes you so wonderful, how mindful you can be. It is not the greatest thing about you; that would still be your beautiful face.
You do not see me as I slip into the department store behind you. You speak with the clerk at the fragrance counter. I make sure you don’t notice me by keeping myself next to the men’s wristwatch display around the corner. The polished silver bulbs hanging on the department store’s Christmas tree catch your reflection and let me know where you are. They help me watch over you while you shop without giving myself away. I can’t let you see me, not yet.
The clerk at the counter is very rude to you. She tells you that the coupon you try to use to buy your mother’s Christmas present isn’t valid. She says you can’t combine it with the holiday promotion. The clerk must be jealous of you. She’s ugly, and you are so beautiful. She didn’t have to be so cruel to you. She makes you pay full price for your mother’s gift, and that’s wrong. She should have treated you nicer. Don’t worry, my love. I will make her sorry for the way she treated you.
You leave the store with your bags and continue the walk home. The city is bathed in the twinkling of red and green lights amid the falling snow. It’s a beautiful sight, but not as beautiful as you. It’s not far to walk from the store, but the wind cuts through your coat and makes you shiver all along the way. I long to put my arms around you and ward off the frost of the yuletide season. You come to your townhouse and walk up the front steps. You do not see your neighbor. You do not know him like I do. You do not see him like I do. You should hate him. But then, you could never hate anyone. You are too perfect to feel hate.
Mr. Donald looks at you with his dirty stares. He ogles you when your back is turned. You only think it’s coincidence that he always comes to check his mail right at the exact moment you get home. You do not know that he waits for you so he can look at you when you bend down to check your mailbox at the front door. You think Mr. Donald is well-intentioned when he offers to help you with your bags, but he only wants to try to brush up against your soft skin or look down the top of your blouse that you never button up all the way. His eyes are disgusting, and they’re used for an ugly purpose. He doesn’t deserve to look at someone so beautiful.
Mr. Donald waives to you and wishes you a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year as he ambushes you in the lobby of your building. You waive back and wish him happy holidays as well. You are too kind to see through his rouse. He asks you about your shopping as he stares at your bag from the department store with his ugly eyes. You tell him that it’s perfume for your mother. He tries to draw you into deeper conversation, but you’re too wise to fall into his trap and you tell him you have to go. You’re able to escape from the horrible Mr. Donald and his ugly eyes before he can proposition you with the idea of joining him for a hot festive beverage. You are too nice to that ugly man. You will not have to endure his inappropriate gawking much longer. I’ll make him regret the way he looks at you, and very soon his ugly eyes will never bother you again.
It’s late at night when your light comes on. You should have been fast asleep, warmly bundled in thick comforters and mountains of blankets on a cold winter’s night like this. You can’t sleep. It happens too much for a beautiful person like you. Barking, barking, barking—the dog next door is always barking. It’s an ugly dog. The couple in the townhouse next to yours, Mr. Ballesten and Miss Tommly, can’t keep that dog silent. They have had that dog, that ugly dog, for three years now, and it still barks all the time. They are ugly people, too. Mr. Ballesten and Miss Tommly always put that dog out at night. It barks and barks. I see your form in the window of your bedroom. I know you must be calling them on the phone. They never pick up the first time, but you call and call while the ugly dog barks and barks. Your perseverance is so admirable. You will not let that ugly dog keep you from beautiful sleep.
Every time it’s the same, and every time it’s sad. Once you finally get them to answer your calls, Mr. Ballesten comes out the back door of his townhouse and tells his ugly dog to be quiet. The dog stops barking. It only lasts for a little while after Mr. Ballesten returns inside. The silence keeps only long enough for all lights to go out, and just by the time you’re able to get to sleep again, something happens to make that ugly dog start barking, barking, barking. You are too kind to call your ugly neighbors more than once a night. Don’t you worry. Soon that ugly dog will be quiet, and then you’ll be able to get as much sleep as you want, you beautiful queen.
It’s morning, and Christmas is in a few days now. I see him leave your townhouse as you walk him to the door. He’s the one who came home with you last night. You’ve been meeting with him for drinks after work for two days now. He’s a big, strong-looking man, but he’s ugly. You are so kind, you must have tried to decline his advances politely, but he is so big. He must have forced you to take him to your house. You must have been so frightened when he stayed the night. He must have put his big hands, his ugly hands, all over you. You are so beautiful, but you are too weak to fight off someone as big and as strong as he is.
Your hair is disheveled and you’re still in your bathrobe as you see him to the door. You kiss him on the lips. I know you don’t want to, but he must hurt you if you don’t do as he wishes. He holds you close and he puts his big ugly hands around your waist as he makes you kiss him. It’s disgusting the way he forces you to please him. He makes you smile at him. You are so brave. You’re able to force a fake smile and laughter as he leaves your home. You even manage to bid him a Merry Christmas. You say the words like you mean them. You’re so convincing it amazes me. You return inside after the disgusting man and his ugly hands are gone. You must be going back in to wash his stench from your beautiful body. You must be crying after all the horrible, disgusting things he’s done to you. You will not have to cry much longer. I will make sure that you are safe from him and that he never puts his ugly hands on you ever again.
Here it is, finally Christmas Morning. All the city is silent save for the faint sound of church bells ringing in the distance. This is the only time of the year when things are slow and people are not rushing about, trying to get here or there. Everyone was precisely where they needed to be the night before and have awoken to a beautiful, snow-swept Christmas morning.
You are awake now. You must enjoy the bittersweet taste of your morning coffee that you take with one packet of Splenda and just enough one-percent milk to turn the drink a lighter shade of brown. Like you’ve done every Christmas morning since we met, you pick up your phone and you call your mother. You talk with her for a long time. You must be laughing, you must be smiling. You are so beautiful that you should have things to make you laugh and smile on a perfect Christmas morning like this one.
After you finish your phone call with your mother, you come down to the front ste
ps of your townhouse. You heard me ring the bell, but you didn’t see me as I returned to the shadows, out of sight. You can’t see me, but I can see you. Your face is alight with a bright and magnificent smile when you see the big, brightly wrapped present I’ve left on your doorstep for you. You shake your head and sigh as you look down at the gift. You take the white envelope with your name on it that I tucked under the curly green ribbon and bow. You pull out the card that I made for you and begin to read it. Your face changes in so many ways. You smile, you laugh a little, and you even shed a little tear as you read the Christmas card and the depth of my feelings contained therein. You have never been more beautiful than you are now, in this moment.
You put the card to the side of the box and unlace the exquisitely tied evergreen-color ribbon binding your present. After you undo the ribbon, you peel back the bright red, sparkly wrapping paper. Your face is set with anticipation for the breathtaking bounty waiting for you inside the box. You open the box and then I watch and am stunned as you defy all sense of reality. Your already perfect beauty becomes even more so as your face contorts and screams. You must be so overcome with joy and excitement as you look at the plethora of gifts I have given to you on this glorious Christmas morning. What is your favorite, I wonder? Could it be the teeth of that ugly department store clerk? She will never speak another rude word to you. Perhaps the wretched eyes of the ugly Mr. Donald are your favorite. They will never look at you with lust ever again. Maybe the head of that ugly dog is your most treasured gift. Now, you shall never be awoken from blissful sleep by that horrendous barking. No, it had to be the hands of that ugly man who has so violated you. He won’t be able to touch your beauty with those vile hands, not any more.
The excitement is clearly too great for you to bear. You run back inside your townhouse and shut the door behind you. You don’t stop screaming. It’s wonderful. How you must love your gifts. Now it’s time for you to give my Christmas present. Now it’s time for us to meet face to face, the way I have always known you wanted us to meet. Now we shall be beautiful together. Merry Christmas, my love. I’m coming.
About Jason Pere
Jason self-published his first novel ‘Modern Knighthood: Diary of a Warrior Poet’ in 2012, and has continued to pursue self-publishing with his sophomore novel ‘Calling the Reaper: First Book of Purgatory’. Jason discovered CWC early on in 2015 and has been a passionate member since, diving into multiple collaborative fiction projects with other CWC authors. When not writing or enduring his “Real World Job” Jason enjoys Netflix time with his family, breaking out obscure board games and dorking out with friends, firing up the his game console and surviving a Zombie Apocalypse, or indulging in baked goods and sleep.
Snowman
By Eleftheria Crysochoou
Humans had always been better at killing than any other living thing.
-Dmitry Glukhovsky, Metro 2033
The night had fallen upon the little town of Mount Gordonville, where winter had arrived for good. Covered in snow and decorated with the most colorful ornaments, most of the houses emitted a warm yellow glow from within. Illuminated angels and reindeer hung among Christmas lights over traffic. Families, most of them with a relative working at the nearby forest, had finally found the time to unwind and light a fire in the fireplace as Christmas fast approached.
Outside a red-roofed house with a smoking chimney, in the shadow of its wooden fence, the wind picked up frozen particles of water from the ground and swiveled them around. Gradually at first, then more intensely, small clouds of flakes rose from the ground, turned into small whirlwinds, and twisted in the air. No one was there to see how they formed one large body of snow and settled on a particular place on the ground, creating a large snowball. Within seconds, two smaller snowballs had formed on top of the first in the same manner. When the last snowflake rested on top of the smallest snowball, the snowman was complete.
The snowman stood at the corner of the yard next to a metal shed, not far from the house. From there he had a view inside through the open curtains. There was no light in the kitchen, but a little boy, with tree topper in hand, tried to reach the top of the Christmas tree in the living room. When the child grabbed one of the tree’s branches and started to pull for leverage, his mother appeared, laughing at her son’s determination. The mother lifted her son all the way up, just so he could place the star, then brought him back down. Shortly, the father made his appearance and approached them both, also laughing and sipping from a glass of red wine. The blonde, skinny man was almost as tall as the Christmas tree, wearing black-rimmed glasses and a black cardigan in contrast to his pale hair and fair skin. When the man offered a glass of wine to his wife, wispy snowflakes detached from the snowman’s invisible face.
Despite his size, the family could not see where the snowman stood; the neighborhood was often empty well before sundown. The snowman was bound to spend the night alone and unnoticed.
The following morning found the sun still hidden behind white clouds, yet the snow had stopped falling. The chimney of the red-roofed house no longer smoked, the curtains had been drawn, and nobody was heard or seen laughing. The snowman was gone. The shed, along with the yard, had been sealed off with yellow-black police tape and the sheriff’s silver pickup truck was parked in the front. The family home was now a crime scene.
Deputy Jonah Oliphant made his neighborhood rounds in the black, orange-striped patrol cruiser. He was young, too young for his receding crew cut, and almost fresh out of the academy. As a child he was often teased for his freckles, which he had once attempted to mask under a dense light-brown beard, but at some point in his teens he just stopped caring about them.
Even though Jonah had never left Mount Gordonville, he never got used to the winters. He had set the heating inside the vehicle so high and he drove so slow he could easily fall asleep, but a bleep from his radio caused him to sit up straight in his seat. He was informed that the sheriff was on his way to investigate a property where an electrical incident appeared to have taken place earlier that morning or late in the previous evening. A whole family had been found dead and, due to bizarre circumstances, the case was temporarily classified as non-accidental. The sheriff would not be available until further notice.
Jonah stopped tracing his goatee when the radio silenced. He was glad he didn’t have to be the one investigating that scene, even if it turned out to be the most challenging and prominent in the town’s history. Still, wanting to make himself useful, he drove to the town square, where most of the local criminal activity took place these days.
As Jonah was about to turn at an intersection, he spotted a drunk man staggering down the street. He was rather below average height, overweight, with thinning hair and a bald spot on his head. One could attribute his bright red cheeks to the alcohol he had consumed. As Jonah pulled over, the man slipped and, despite efforts to keep his balance with flailing arms, he fell backwards on the sidewalk, hitting his head.
“Hey, buddy, are you all right?” The deputy hurried to the injured man, who had maintained consciousness but looked lost. He also looked very familiar. “Are you hurt?”
“Black ice, they call it. When you can’t see it…” the man mumbled. It was his voice that Jonah recognized the most.
“Craig?”
“Yeah, who…who are you?” The man seemed to be on the verge of losing consciousness.
“Hold on, I’ll call you an ambulance. Don’t move.” Jonah looked around for the ice that had caused the accident but found none. The sidewalk was salted and clear. He rushed back to his vehicle and called for help on his radio.
The ambulance arrived quickly. Craig, his childhood friend, waved as he was slid onto the stretcher, and Jonah asked the paramedics to update him on the man’s progress. Still shaken by the event, the young deputy returned to his duty.
The following day, Jonah decided to spend some of his free time before work on grocery shopping. It was the day before Christmas Eve, and he liked
to keep a few essentials around—eggnog, apple cider, cookies, and a dozen candy canes. As he put away the groceries, he looked outside his kitchen window and saw a large, three-ball snowman standing at the corner of his yard. The plain white figure had only been decorated with two branches for hands, and something blue lay next to it in the snow. Looking closely, Jonah realized it was a blue, rubber, toy whale with a while belly. Kids must have built it and dropped their toy, he thought. Determined to improve the snowman’s appearance, he grabbed a carrot from a paper bag in front of him, put on his coat, and walked outside.
Jonah stuck the carrot in the snowman’s head to create the nose, then he grabbed a stick and chipped away at the ground, searching for something to serve as acceptable eyes. He found a few flat stones, skillfully placed them on the snowman’s head, then inserted the stick under the carrot, completing the mouth.
Before he could continue, he heard his older sister Grace call him from the street. Little Edward, his nephew, with a blue beanie hat one size too large, motioned for her to hurry so he could play with the snowman.
“This is so cool! Did you make it yourself?” Edward asked, adding more snow to the figure with his bare hands.
“Honey, put on your gloves, please. Hey, did you really build this by yourself?” Grace asked Jonah, who had suddenly started to feel very cold.
“Some kids in the neighborhood.” He shrugged.
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