Dream Myself Alive At Christmas

by Brian Lovestar

I Killed Santa!

  By

  Brian Lovestar

  Copyright © 2015

  www.brianlovestar.com

  Introduction

  Brian Lovestar has published 2 novels and is currently working on his 3rd, 4th and 5th. His creative juices are positively overflowing, in fact he’s worried he might drown or cause a tsunami. When he’s not creating such a flood, he likes to travel and has been on over 25 flights (so far) this year. He also once dropped a record player on his head and took Louis Walsh nightclubbing.

  Legal Notes

  First published in Great Britain in 2015.

  Brian Lovestar has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 to be identified as the author of this work.

  This is a book of fiction and, except in the case of historical fact, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced without the prior consent of the copyright holder.

  Cover image by ?

  Copyright © 2015 Brian Lovestar

  All rights reserved.

  I Killed Santa!

  Christmas 1978 through 1984. I wanted a Mr Frosty crushed ice drinks maker.

  I got a Biffy Beans doll, a Raleigh Chopper, Charlie’s Angels annual, an Etch-a-Sketch, a Viewmaster, Scooby Doo annual, Guess Who, Buckaroo, Simon Says, Mr Microphone, Beezer annual, Bucks Fizz’s Hand Cut LP and a record player or three (I burned one out in just one day, one Christmas.)

  But no Mr Frosty crushed ice drinks maker.

  Each year my Mam would say “No, Zac. Sorry son, but it is a waste of money.” And she refused point blank.

  Even so, I never gave up hope. I got to touch it one year in Fine Fare, but that was as exciting as it got.

  This Christmas all I want is to spend the day with Kelly. The only problem is she died in April. Not that I’m going to let that stop me.

  I’ve been trying to master the art of lucid dreaming for a few months now. I’d like to say I’d got it down pat, but sometimes I feel like I’m seemingly at war with my own subconscious psyche. Part of me knows I probably shouldn’t be doing it and likes to throw the occasional spanner in the works.

  So I’m awake in the dream, but finding my way to Kelly is going to be a whole other obstacle.

  I find it a little bizarre in this day and age that parents expect their children to believe in Santa Claus. I say expect because I’m pretty sure from the age of about the age of 6, kids figure it out now anyway. That Santa is not real. They are too smart for their parents’ own good. Just like the new latest iPhone has better spec, a modern child’s brain ram is usually far superior to a parent made in 1972.

  And do you - despite your romanticised ideal of Christmases past - really want your child to believe it is okay for a fat man with a white beard to come down your chimney? (And there is purely no euphemism inferred there, those of you with a dirty mind.)

  Not even sure a 5 year old would believe now, seeing as we haven’t had open fireplaces for about 20 years. So what is it we tell them these days? A fat man with a white beard has a special magic key that allows him to enter your backdoor? Yikes! I’d be terrified if I was a kid these days.

  I’m sorry, and again I don’t meant to spoil your romance with Christmas and be a big bah humbug, but I guess it isn’t any less believable and probably slightly more so than most of your religions. We laugh at children for believing in the myth of Father Christmas, then go right back to believing in our own imaginary creator ourselves. Is Santa any less real than God is? Are they brothers? They both have a white beard. Both fat. They look like the same person. They come from the same place (a gullible imagination.) Perhaps they are one and the same?

  And another thing. I’m scared of both of them. God - because if he does exist - he’ll ring my neck for not believing in Him; turn me away from Heaven’s gates and send me to Satan’s Hellfire. (As long as it’s not Hartlepool, I’m good.) Santa, however, for a very different reason.

  My mother died when I was a nipper. I had to spend that first Christmas without her, with my Uncle Arthur. It was nice of him to dress up as Santa and play the part for me. Try to convince me that there was still a real Santa. By this point I was already sure there pretty much wasn’t a real God. Not after what happened to my mam.

  But in surprising me, he also surprised Aunt Lyndsey – his wife - who wasn’t expecting him back from the pub so soon. Milkman Joe hopped it out of her backdoor (he must’ve nicked Santa’s special magic key) fresh out of milk, while Aunt Lyndsey was left to explain that she had her knickers round her ankles just to ensure her ankles didn’t get cold.

  Uncle Arthur didn’t believe her of course. I don’t think he believed her shiny new pearl necklace came from Santa. So he beat on her. I heard the commotion and came downstairs to witness Santa attacking my favourite Aunt. I grabbed and hit him over the head with my etch-a-sketch.

  I KILLED SANTA. I f-ing killed Santa!

  Of course I didn’t really. Aunt Lyndsey just kicked him out and took out a restraining order on him. But it took me years to get over that. Even to this day I still have nightmares.

  So now of course, whenever I try to find Kelly in a Christmas dreamscape, I encounter Dead Santa aka my Uncle Arthur, a zombified Father Christmas. So I wait until Christmas Eve, and all is quiet. Not a creature is stirring, not even a mouse.

  I’m current day me but I’m in the home I grew up in. I wait till Uncle Arthur goes to the pub and Aunt Lyndsey leads her latest gentleman caller to her boudoir. Shortly thereafter ‘Santa’ arrives and - as if on cue - hears bouncing bed springs and Lyndsey squealing like a pig with a feather duster u its rec… …. |He goes upstairs.

  I take this opportunity to sneak out of the house only to find Santa’s sleigh parked out front. Golly! Was that the real Santa and not my Uncle Arthur? Does Santa really exist after all? Anyway, I get in the sleigh and away we go. Down to Dover and over to Calais.

  Morning breaks and I land in Paris on the green just opposite the Eiffel Tower. Except it’s not green, it’s white - evidently adorned by a sumptuous blanket of fresh snow – and Kelly is waiting for me in the middle of it.

  We have a champagne breakfast with warm croissants and Tattinger. It starts to snow and the tower starts to sparkle. We are immune to the cold weather, lost in the beauty of our love for each other and the magical surroundings. Then we exchange gifts.

  I give Kelly my heart for the ten zillionth time. She gives me a note with a clue that refers me to the attic in the house I grew up in, only this time she means the one before my mother died. When I get there I find a present wrapped up in 1984, covered in dust and cobwebs and a tag signed “Love, Mam”.

  I dust it off with the sleeve on my shirt and tear it open in pant-wetting haste. It is a Mr Frosty crushed ice drinks maker.

  Pop Tarts in Space!

  This was going to be a Christmas unlike no other.

  Felix and Holly were spending it on the moon.

  It was one small step for man, one giant leap for mankind.

  They’d been sent there by shape shifting superwitch Ritazilla, who had then shifted into a fly and been swatted herself.

  So they were basically stuck there.

  And had been for a few months now.

  Luckily she’d included refreshments in the package deal.

  A lifetime supply of white zinfandel and a variety of pop tarts.

  The breakfast of champions.

  All inclusive or what?

  They were surrounded by a magnificent desolation.

  And seemingly pissed 24-7.

  And Neil Armstrong was right.

  The moon did s
mell like spent gun powder.

  And it was dark and grey and covered in dust.

  And there was nothing to do.

  So each day they walked for a few hours.

  And hoped they might come across something new.

  But they never did.

  It all looked the same.

  Desolate terrain.

  Dusty rocks and dark pot holes, which they kept falling into.

  They were also starting to annoy each other.

  Sure it was love, but despite living on what was technically their own planet, there was no space to breathe.

  Ritazilla had been kind enough to alter the atmosphere so there was plenty of oxygen.

  But the conversation had dried up in October.

  This despite them having 20 something years to catch each other up on.

  Anyway a new day dawned.

  It was Christmas Eve.

  But it just looked like every other day.

  They got up, had some Travis Van Winkle flavoured pop tarts (Ritazilla had been kind enough to vary the flavours and even invent some new ones) and set off upon their routine daily sojourn.

  They passed rock after rock, mound of dust after mound of dust.

  They must have walked several thousand kilometres by now.

  And just as they were starting to tire, they thought they saw something in the distance.

  It looked lit up and sparkling.

  Were their eyes deceiving them?

  Was it a mirage?

  They picked up pace and started to excitedly run.

  Soon it turned into a sprint.

  Ritazilla had provided gravity but it was a bit hit and miss.

  So they bounced and floated a little too, tripping over and rolling into somersaults.

  Or maybe they were just drunk.

  They weren’t sure what it felt like to be sober anymore.

  And you thought having a miniature bottle of wine on an aeroplane was intoxicating enough!

  Finally they came to a small cottage which was adorned by sumptuous fairy lights, and twinkling every colour of the rainbow in complete reckless abandon.

  They peered inside the window and saw a fat white bearded bloke in a red coat, sat eating chestnuts roasting by an open fire.

  Was it…? Could it be…?

  Neither had believed in him since they were about 9 years of age.

  But they hadn’t believed in black magic or time travel either and now here they were living on the moon!

  It really did seem that anything might be possible.

  And if that were possible, maybe it was possible to find their way home again.

  They knocked on the door and the fat man answered.

  He certainly looked like him, their thoughts both echoed.

  “What can I do for you?” he asked, smiling.

  “Are you really him?” they asked in twin unison.

  They had been trapped alone so long, they were not only thinking the same thoughts, they had even started finishing each other’s sentences.

  “Ho, ho, ho” he chuckled and winked back.

  “Can we…” Felix stuttered, nervously.

  “…make a Christmas wish?” Holly nonchalantly finished off for him.

  She was too shy to speak to him when she sat on his knee back in 1984 and ended up not getting a Girls World hairdressing salon.

  So she was determined not to miss out again this year.

  But she no longer wanted a Girls World hairdressing salon.

  She just wanted to go home.

  And Felix beat her to it.

  “Can we have a one way ticket back to earth please?”

  Meanwhile back on that very planet, fellow band mate Rhino Zagreb was spending Christmas at the Battersea Dogs home, having been turned into a poodle with a bad pink rinse perm, courtesy of the same evil incarnate.

  And remaining pop tartlet Cherry Fontaine was spending it alone and feeling lonely, still puzzled by the sudden disappearance of the others several months ago.

  So she went to the dog kennels to get a pet to keep her company.

  Rhino had his paws crossed.

  He knew he’d been in the kennels for a few months now, hadn’t quite worked out how to speak in woof and that he would soon be passing his expiry date.

  But there was to be no Christmas miracles this year.

  Santa on the moon really was just a drunken mirage for Felix and Holly.

  And no matter how much Rhino fluttered his fluffy pink eyelashes, Cherry realised that a dog was for life, not just for Christmas and went home to spend it alone instead.

  She sat miserable and poured herself a glass of wine, picking up a magazine to read because as usual there was nothing on the telly.

  It was the same Smash Hits magazine she’d taken from Felix and Holly’s place the day they had disappeared.

  She hadn’t realised she still had it.

  And still squashed to death on the back of it:

  Ritazilla.

  But her wing began to flicker.

  Perhaps she wasn’t quite as dead as initially thought?

  And her bottle buzzed.

  Perhaps there really was a Christmas miracle after all?

  Author Interview

  Can you briefly tell readers what your debut novel, Dream Myself Alive, is about?

  Zachary Knight loses the love of his life Kelly in a tragic accident, but finds it doesn’t necessarily mean he has to say goodbye forever. He masters an art in which he can be reunited with her in an alternate reality he never knew existed. But was Kelly’s death really an accident? And with a possible killer on the loose - and secrets and revelations being unearthed - it seems there are dangerous consequences involved with entering this new and exciting world, from which there may be no return.

  Who were your hardest characters to create and which ones were the easiest?

  The easiest was Zac because I wanted him to be an open book. This guy pulls no punches and tells it like it is. He’s not afraid to wear his heart on his sleeve. He can be blunt, crude and opinionated, but it’s always with his tongue firmly placed in cheek. I wanted readers to go on a rollercoaster of a ride with him and fly by the seat of their hot pants, so you better hang on for dear life. The other characters were a little trickier because I wanted to keep them shrouded in mystery. Zac didn’t know who he could trust and I wanted the readers to share that emotional part of the journey with him.

  What are three words you would use to describe your novel?

  Spiritual, exhilarating, and thought-provoking. I hope.

  What is your second novel ‘Pop Tarts’ about?

  I’m really think I took my second novel ‘Pop Tarts’ to another level. It’s about a flamboyant, tri-sexual pop star called Felix, who is about to turn half a century and his life is a glorified hot mess. He was lead singer of an 80s pop band and after starring in a reality TV show and winning another 15 minutes of fame, he faces an ultimatum to reform the band that made him a star… but they hate each other and haven’t spoken in over 20 years following an affair, an attempted murder and a scandal involving a strap-on microphone and a blow up goat! It’s even sillier than it sounds. I just wanted to have a bit of fun with this one and hopefully my readers will too.

  What are your three tips that you would give to other writers?

  Don’t start a story at the beginning, start at a peak of excitement in the third quarter and then flashback to the beginning. And it may sound a little clichéd but write about what you known and self-embody the characters. Or write about people you know, just remember to change the names to protect the guilty! And above all just believe in yourself. You can do pretty much anything you put your mind to. Expect maybe speaking French backwards while tightrope walking over the Grand Canyon. Leave that to Joseph Gordon-Levitt.

  What are your future plans for novels, if any, that you can share with readers?

  I have a few ideas that I am working on, hopefully one or two of which will soon come to
fruition. Without giving too much away, one is about some cousins that have lead a sheltered life in a small pit village and then make it to the big city. I’m basing it locally, so hopefully I’ll have a bit of fun with that. The other is top secret, so you’ll just have to just wait and see.

  Is there any chance of a ‘Dream Myself Alive’ or ‘Pop Tarts’ sequel?

  It’s always a possibility. Even though ‘Dream Myself Alive’ was a complete story and technically reached a natural conclusion, I do have ideas where I could pick it up again if I wanted to do. ‘Pop Tarts’ could very easily pick up where it left off. It kind of ended on a cliff hanger and even though the special Christmas chapter I wrote answers a few of those questions, it also leaves a few loose ends of its very own.

  Where can readers connect with you and find your work online?

  They should be able to find me just about everywhere. I have a Facebook author’s page. I tweet. I have a blog on Word Press. I try to connect on Good Reads as much as I possibly can and I release previews, bonus material and deleted chapters/alternate endings of new and existing work on Smash Words and Wattpad. There’s a new Christmas chapter of ‘Dream Myself Alive’ I wrote that forms a sort of interquel. It’s not really a prequel or a sequel. You have to kind of slot it in the middle somewhere. I also have my own web page - www.brianlovestar.com - where you can add yourself to my mailing list, so please feel free to do so.

  Chapter 1.

  I hadn’t seen Kelly since the day she died. And now here she was, right in front of me, looking more beautiful than ever before. Her face almost luminous, her pale skin, dainty nose, and her succulent lips looking more kissable than ever before. The way her long blonde wavy hair danced in the cool breeze was simply breathtaking.

  Darkness surrounded us but all I could feel was light. I stared into her sapphire blue eyes. I couldn’t stop staring. I was too scared that if I looked away she would be gone again. I was too afraid to even move an inch. Was she really here? Was I going mad? I reached out and touched her. I took her hand in mine. She felt real. Tears streamed down my face. My heart was beating so fast, I felt like it was going to burst right out of my chest, the same heart that was so brutally broken just months earlier when I got the call.