by Carla René
"That visit to Field Lane ragged school in Saffron Hill in September really rent your heart," Catherine said, almost in a whisper.
"And did it not yours as well? Pray tell me, why, in God's infinite wisdom, does He allow such rapacity—at the cost of such undeserved suffering? I tell you, I cannot bear it further." He returned his gaze to the fire once more.
"Are you unwilling to allow your pen to feel what your heart is incapable of articulating at the moment? The Charles I married was a radical to the marrow, and oh, my, what power that pen, which you are unwilling to wield, doth possess."
He sat in silence.
Catherine kissed his cheek, and said, "Dearest, retire. Rest will relieve your suffering's severity in the light of morning."
He merely patted her hand and let his eyes stray back to the fire.
Now it is to be said, as you have probably well guessed by now, that Charles did not have fitful repose that night, as he drifted off in that very armchair, and who of us can rest easy in a chair?
He had been asleep not one hour and twenty, when a loud thud startled him to an upright position. He looked around, but finding the drawing room empty of inhabitants other than himself, drifted off again, when a second thud interrupted. Again, a cursory examination of the room yielded nothing but Porkchop, the family tabby, who appeared unaffected by the sound, as cats have never been a worthy barometer for much, other than an empty food pan. Convincing himself that the wind had blown a shutter from the chambres loose, he again stared into the fire. A full five minutes passed before the thud sounded again, and this time, as it did, the flames of the fire rose to a height of three feet and their volume increased two-fold. Charles was unsure if he should run for water, but just as he decided to do so, a strange, ghostlike and grotesque face appeared among the roaring flames, freezing Charles in his seat. As he stared at the face, which was now staring back at him, he realized that perhaps he was still in his dream.
But spirits, being as they are, heard his thoughts and said, "No, Charles, you are not dreaming."
"H-h-how did you know my name?"
The spirit beckoned him with a boney finger. "Come."
Returning to his senses, he replied, "No. Whoever you are, I will not come with you, not for your whim or mine." But as he finished, his body was pulled toward the flames and he could do nothing to stop it. He could feel the heat enveloping him and finding his voice, began to scream, which seemed to amuse Porkchop, as she had never liked her master.
Just as Charles was certain that he would be cremated alive, he heard a whooshing sound, and felt himself falling; falling down a cold dark tunnel, with the spirit flying at breakneck speed in front of him. After what seemed like several minutes, he landed on a pile of straw in a strange field. Pulling straw from his hair, he rose to his feet and said, "And now that I resemble the family ox, I demand that you tell me where you have taken me."
"I am the Spirit of Regret."
"And I am Charles Dickens. Pleased to make your acquaintance. Now what in the name of Victoria are we doing here in the dead of this wintry night?"
"You have a heavy heart."
Startled by this oblique response, Charles said, "Why, yes, I suppose I do. But did you really have to remind me of it in a deserted field? Surely my armchair would have sufficed."
Without another word, the spirit pointed directly ahead of them, and a barn suddenly appeared where there was none before. Intrigued, Charles walked through its open door and espied the scene. A young family—mother, father, and two small girls—were huddled in the corner of a cow's stall. They had no heat, no food, and wore only thread-bare coats.
"Spirit, what is the meaning of this?"
"Listen further," the spirit commanded.
"But daddy, how will St. Nick find us here? We do not have a chimney like we did at our house."
The father looked into his daughter's sweet face. "Do not worry, dearest, he will surely find us. He always does."
This seemed to content his daughter, and she curled her head on his shoulder, shutting her eyes and the cold of the world out with them.
The father looked at this wife imploringly.
She said in a whisper, loud enough for Charles and the spirit to hear, "Dear, you know how the Church feels about Christmas. Why must you continue to placate her fantasies?"
"The Church?" said Charles. "What does the Church have to do with it?"
"You have a deep heart for people in this most dead, most uncomfortable time of year, when they would suffer greatly from their poverty and the cold, yes?"
"Rightly so. If they have not hope, good cheer, warm fires, and Christmas Gambols to support them, they have lost the race entirely. Now, pray tell, what part does the Church play in this poor family's welfare?"
"All in good time," said the spirit. He waved the scene away with his hand.
Next, the spirit showed him a crowded street in downtown London, and this warmed Charles's heart, for he would never live anywhere else. But this London looked vastly different from the one he knew; there were no holly sprigs, no chestnut vendors, no shoppers crowding stores in hopes of finding the perfect gift, no fires for the homeless by which to warm themselves. In fact, it was a desolate and depressing place; the people in the scene appeared to carry nothing but contempt for their neighbor.
"Again, spirit, I implore you: what is the meaning of this?"
The spirit said nothing, but washed the image away, immediately replacing it with a new one. This was of his own drawing room. In the corner was a coffin, and standing over it, a much older Catherine.
"Spirit? Who is she mourning?" said Charles, his breath catching in his throat. A strangled cry escaped him as he realized who lay in the coffin.
The spirit pushed him toward the coffin, and the corpse that awaited him was more horrific than anything he could have dreamed to write about. For inside, staring back at him, was himself!
He let out a startled yelp and stepped back. "That cannot be me, spirit. Oh please tell me it is not. Importune and torture me no more. What have I done to set this course?"
"It is what you have not done that seals your fate."
"Then reveal to me what I have yet to do—and I will but do it, posthaste."
"It was your destiny from birth that you should be a great writer, but more than your amusing anecdotes and stories, that you should champion the less fortunate and indigent against the tyranny of avarice that runs so rampant in society today."
Charles steeled his eyes and refused to be swayed. "Did Catherine pay you to do this? I am not sure how you achieved it, but I know you must be one of her friends. Reveal yourself. I demand it."
"Numerous indeed are the hearts to which Christmas brings a brief season of happiness and enjoyment… . How many old recollections, and how many dormant sympathies does Christmas time awaken!"
"I still fail to see what I have neglected to do that would cause this to pass."
"You revealed to your wife, only hours ago, that you would never pen another story so long as you lived. I am here to show you, that the very next story you write, shall be the greatest champion for the cause you hold so dear to your heart."
"Nonsense. I am only a writer. What can my pen surely do that my radicalism has not?"
"Your pen can do exactly what your radicalism cannot, and that is bind the two together. Remember when your first manuscript was dropped stealthily one evening at twilight, with fear and trembling, into a dark letter box, in a dark office, up a dark court in Fleet Street?"
"I do."
"That young master Dickens wrote with zeal and passion. It was that passion that got your book into the hands of a publisher. And now that same passion shall be a voice for the voiceless; a bludgeon against the rich man's hobby, greed. The first scene you saw this eve was of a typical English family whose Christmas had been removed by the dogma of the Church. Without your story fueling men's holiday hearts, there was nothing to stop it from happening.
"The s
econd scene was of the future streets of London, again—abiding in desolation because no story gave them hope.
"Now listen once more to the scene in your own drawing room."
A young girl approached Catherine, and with tears streaming down her face, she said, "Dickens dead? Then will Father Christmas die, too?"
The spirit wiped the scene away and stood silent.
After a long moment, Charles said, "Spirit, will my work have that large an affect on the people of London?"
"Sir, Dickens, your work will have that large an affect on the people of the world. Happy, Happy Christmas, that can win us back to the delusions of our childish days; that can recall to the old man the pleasures of his youth; that can transport the sailor and the traveler, thousands of miles away, back to his own fireside and his quiet home! But it will never happen, unless you write the story that has been stewing in your breast since September."
At that, the spirit transported Charles back through the tunnel, depositing him in the armchair from whence he had come. Charles opened his eyes. The hands on the clock showed him to be gone a mere five minutes.
"Catherine!" he bellowed. "Do you know not to where my quill and ink have retreated?"
"No, sir, and I assure you that waking the dead will have no more effect," she said, exiting her bedchamber
"Come here, you saucy wench," Charles said as he hooked an arm around his wife's waist, pulling her to his lap. Catherine shrieked and they both dissolved into peals of laughter.
"What has you in such good spirits, pray?" she asked.
"The world, my sweet; mankind, Christmastide, my ability to write. All of it. For a fire is burning in my belly, and I must needs quench it with ink. I must fulfill my destiny with paper. Lost friend, lost child, lost parent, sister, brother, husband, wife, I will not so discard you! You shall hold your cherished places in my Christmas heart, and by my Christmas fires; and in the season of immortal hope, and on the birthday of immortal mercy, I will shut out nothing."
"Know you what you shall call it, yet?" said Catherine.
"Aye. It will be A Christmas Carol to those with no song in their hearts."
*****
"And that, dear Monica, is how your grandfather wrote his famous story. Now, time for sleep."
"Mama? Do you know what I want to be when I grow up?"
"What is that, dearest?"
"A writer, just like grandfather, for it was he who kept the spirit of Christmas alive for all of us."
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
A child-prodigy in both fine art and music, Carla knew creativity would be a large part of her life. After finishing college with a BS in Trumpet Performance, an illness limited her trumpet time, so she fell back on her acting minor and began acting with a local theatre who wrote all their own original comedies. It was here she got her first taste of improvisation, and fell in love. Soon, she was studying with Second City in Chicago, as well as stand-up comedy. She was filming TV sitcoms, performing comedy at The Kennedy Centre in DC, and eventually was the first-call comedic actress for video work. While continuing to act, she was learning how to write effective comedy; began performing stand-up, and soon branched out into comedic fiction. She still performs regularly on-stage in plays, for video and film, improvisational comedy groups, stand-up comedy, and this winter will be touring her original one-woman comedy show. And the rest, as they say, is gut-busting, lung-popping, hysterical-head-aching comedic history.
Find her online:
The Official Web-Site for Carla René —future book releases, a schedule of upcoming live shows, and a bunch of crap no one cares about.
… And Another Thing! —Her official blog
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COMING IN THE SPRING OF 2011
COMING IN THE SPRING OF 2011
Jack Ryan O'Hanlan has been a life-long atheist, and unapologetic for it. Aside from his severe social anxiety disorder, OCD and claustrophia, he's led a relatively simple life.
Until he witnesses a mob hit one afternoon in a Boston diner and is forced to enter witness protection. When he's assigned to a small-town prison as the local Priest, where he's assured things will be quiet and uneventful, he's certain his stress is over.
Then he meets his smoking hot boss, Julie Weston, a devout Catholic who's engaged to a man she doesn't love. When a medical outbreak occurs at the prison and Julie becomes ill, Jack is forced to man up so Julie doesn't lose her job. And when she begins to question her long-held beliefs and finds herself falling for him, it's then that Jack realises he's in big trouble.
But just as he's certain the crisis has passed and he can resume his quiet, uneventful and safe life, there's a prison break, trapping himself, Julie and the self-aggrandizing and cocky Bishop Ted Macguire, his district's Bishop, together during lockdown.
And as if that weren't enough, it's during the lockdown that Father Jack meets an inmate who knows the mob boss that Jack had to testify against.
A Most Devout Coward is an all out comedy of epic proportions, throwing an anal retentive coward into the worst of situations with the worst of people, pitting this professional chicken against a graceful and devout Catholic, and a beligerant arse convinced that if he'd been born earlier in history, he could've done a better job at being Saviour than that deadbeat, Christ.
From the same author on Feedbooks
Guns Don't Kill People...My Uncle Does (A Varied Collection of Short-stories Geared For A Man) (2010)
These short-stories vary from ghost, to horror, to military in nature, and are just perfect for the man with the short attention-spa...hey, a cookie!
When a mysterious illness attacks a community and the military families suffer, find out if Yancy will follow another blind order, or stand up for what's right, in Pocketful of Bullets.
In 1820, in a rural Tennessee community, a ghost of a suspected witch mocked and tortured one family. What did she demand when confronted? Only the death of the family's patriarch. Stone Witch is based on the real story of the ghost of Kate Batts.
Ever wish your insurance paid for you to completely smash into the car of the idiot in front of you? Road Rage casts a comic look onto what it's like to think you're not the one with the problem.
Currently now my best-seller! Find out why this book has been so controversial.
Zen In The Art of Absurdity (2010)
In “Sounds Like...A Self-Portrait” we see Fern’s struggle to go for it with Rogers or not. But will her gas keep them apart?
“Road Rage” shines a light on all those crappy drivers--who are driving YOUR car.
“See Dick and Jane Beat The Hell Out of Jack and Jill,” is an all-out farce that writers everywhere will love.
“Sleep Walker” is the same story, told from 3 different points of view, with 3 very different stories emerging.
An exercise in writing purely horrible fiction is what “The Tokyo Kens” is all about.
Watch Delores have a controlled meltdown in “It’s All Just Water Under the Fridge.”
In the essay “We All Need Traditions,” Carla’s mother asked for a pink azalea for Mother’s Day every year. And every year, her dad would buy it, and then mow it down. Why they never got hobbies, we’ll never know.
“That’ll Be Seven Lipsticks, Please,” is an all-out mockery of Canadians. All Sam’s wife wants is a bathroom. All Sam wants is to find someone who speaks Canglish. Or Englanadian.
Even the suicide notes from avid shoe-lovers can be funny in “The Suicide Ranks.”
Find out why living in the south in the winter, and being married to a man who picks his ears with his keys is comic fodder in “Radio Shack, Earwax and Toilet Paper.”
And finally, “Justifiable Lack of Initiative” teaches us to celebrate our under-achieving, and see why a writer in search of his own writing space is
driven to desperation by his wife in “Zen In The Art of Absurdity.”
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Food for the mind
Table of Contents
Title
Chapter 1 - You Can't Go Home Again
Chapter 2 - And So It Begins....
Chapter 3 - Isabella's Angst
Chapter 4 - A Taxing Proposition
Chapter 5 - A Plan Is Hatched
Chapter 6 - When Society Comes To Call
Chapter 7 - Returning The Favor
Chapter 8 - If The Truth Be Known
Chapter 9 - Of A Most Traitorous Nature
Chapter 10 - The First Cut
Chapter 11 - When It Rains...
Chapter 12 - ...It Pours
Chapter 13 - Round And Round We Go
Chapter 14 - Christmas Eve
Chapter 15 - The Ball Arrives
Chapter 16 - Was It All A Dream?
Chapter 17 - The Confrontation
Chapter 18 - Adding Fuel To The Fire
Chapter 19 - Up To No Good
Chapter 20 - There's No Beauty Like The Winter Rose
Chapter 21 - The Sword Cuts Both Ways
Chapter 22 - Tell Me You Will
Chapter 23 - A Most Embarrassing Predicament
Chapter 24 - Do, Come Dance With Me
Chapter 25 - You Have No Right
Chapter 26 - Surely, You Jest!
Chapter 27 - At Day's End
Chapter 28 - With A Vengeance
Chapter 29 - All's Well That Ends Well
SECRETS
A SLEEP TO STARTLE US
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
COMING IN THE SPRING OF 2011
From the same author on Feedbooks