Caroline watched the man with the pocketknife from the car window. He sat on the bench under the lights to the right of the entrance, twisting his knife into a stick. His clothes were dirty and had holes. The gloves on his hands didn't have fingers on them.

Caroline's mom didn't seem to notice the man as she helped her daughter out of the booster seat and put her mittens on. Her mom paid no attention to him as they walked past where he sat, muttering to himself, but Caroline watched him.

She watched his crooked smile, and the way he stuck out his tongue just a little when he looked at her with his almond-shaped eyes. She watched the clouds of steam that billowed in the frosty air in front of his face. She saw the way his feet bounced up and down in the snow beneath the bench, eager.

She saw how his fingers gripped the handle of the knife.

"C'mon." Her mom pulled her toward the entrance. "Daddy wants more Christmas lights for the yard. We're going to have the best house on the block."

Caroline rode in the front of the shopping cart while her mother pushed. The man was still there when they came out, rolling the stick under the edge of his knife, against the bench.

"Betty?" It was Caroline's aunt, going into the same store. "Loading up on lights again? Larry's never going to stop with that, you know. He's obsessed with Christmas."

They carried on, talking about things like all mothers do when they meet. Caroline quickly grew bored with their conversation.

The man said quietly, "It was more than lights."

Only Caroline seemed to hear him.

"It was a gift, a symbol, to man. Do they remember?"

Caroline saw that the man cut the stick into a short length, and was making something out of it, but she couldn't tell what.

He looked right at her. "Every soul gets one chance to touch the whole world, to show them the way."

Caroline pulled on her mother's sleeve. "Mommy, why does that man look like that?"

Her mother noticed him for the first time. "I think he has Downs, honey. He's got the eyes. Never mind him."

He held up the stick and Caroline saw it was hollow. The holes he had poked in the sides made it look like a flute.

Caroline's aunt ruffled her hair. "Anyhow, we'll see you at Mom's next week. Bye."

"Bye."

Her aunt walked into the store.

The man stood up. He held out the flute to Caroline, the pocketknife still in his other hand. "Does any of His love still exist in this world?"

"What?" her mom demanded. "Get away from us."

Her mom steered the cart away, but waved to a man in a blue vest pushing carts back into the store. They spoke so quietly Caroline couldn't hear what was said, but her mom pointed at the man on the bench. The cart man nodded and spoke into his radio.

The man put his knife in a pocket and put the flute to his lips. Music like Caroline had never heard before filled the air. The notes were so pure, so crisp, that from one end of the parking lot to the other, every soul listened, and watched the man play. It was as if the whole world paused, stopped still except for a few snowflakes falling through the air.

Caroline loved it. The notes moved her, made her feel in touch with everyone, everything. She felt warm inside, and happy.

Until the squad car screeched to a halt in front of him.

The policeman sounded mad. "Yes, I heard the music. You are done playing it, now."

The man stared at him with sad eyes. "They don't understand."

The policeman put his hands on his hips. "I don't think you understand. You've got to move on. You're scaring the kids."

"They should know Heaven."

"You gotta go."

Caroline and her mom stood on the opposite side of the squad car, Caroline in her arms.

Caroline asked, "Why won't they let that man play, Mommy? I really liked that music."

"You wouldn't understand, honey. Sometimes people like that aren't right in their heads. Sometimes they can want to hurt kids."

"Because of the Downs?"

"No." Her mother frowned. "There's something else wrong with him. He's different. A religious wacko, or something."

Caroline's little brow scrunched with confusion. "But he made pretty music. It made everybody stop and listen. And he wanted me to have that flute. Maybe I could make pretty music with it, and make them all listen and feel good, too."

Her mom sighed. "No, honey. We don't want to take anything from him."

"But Mom, I think I could. I know I could." The notes from the man's tune rang in her head. She could remember them all. She knew she could move her fingers just as the man had. Every part of her was sure she could, like it would be easy for her, if she just had that flute.

"No."

"Mom!"

"I said no, and that's final!"

The man said, "I want to give her something wonderful, something only she can receive."

"I don't care, buddy. I don't think you were trying to hurt the little girl, but whatever you are trying to do, you can't do it here." The policeman stabbed a finger towards the street. "Git, or you're going downtown!"

The man looked up to the sky. "Father, no one will listen. They would not hold love for a stranger." He turned to Caroline. "They will not know your music."

Tears rolled down his face, and the man faded away until there was nothing left of him in this dimension.

Caroline knew there was nothing else the angel could do. The grownups had lost His love, and she wouldn't get to play His music.

Ever.

© N.J. Kailhofer 2008

Alvon paused and slowly ran his sweaty fingertips over the smooth wood of his Keepsake. He hadn't felt this hot since winter had come. . .early. Once again he marveled at the simple craftsmanship that some unnamed great-something grandfather had put into it. Married couples were allowed five kilos for their Keepsakes, so he knew for a fact that his weighed-in at 4.215 kilos, exactly. That Marta's family Bible was just shy of 0.8 kilos had seemed like an omen, or perhaps a sign from her God that those two precious objects should be what they brought when they left Earth, forever. Even Alvon—confirmed skeptic of all things irrational—had dared to believe that this happy coincidence was a sign that his worst fears would not bear bitter fruit.

He'd used it, of course, he'd seen the pics. And he certainly remembered his little sister, Katra, using it in her time. So many memories, so much life had been consigned to his Keepsake's protection over the generations. He wondered if, perhaps, this wasn't the first time it had failed to protect its delicate, fragile charge. And now the Colony Council wanted to use it for the Christian part of their insane and fictitious Midwinter Celebration.

Celebration? Celebration for what?

As if they had a mind of their own, his fingers found the only irregularity on the Keepsake, his vision blurred by fresh tears, he didn't need to see it to know what the carving on the bottom corner said:

No name. And no family history as to how the craftsman was related to him. It had simply passed to the first married child in each successive generation. He'd webbed the date and place, of course, and from what he'd read, those people were colonists, too. They'd made a long journey to an unknown and inhospitable climate looking for a new life. Wasn't that what he and Marta had done? They were cut-off from their version of civilization almost as completely as the Colony was. And when sickness struck them, they too had to simply endure it. They would get no medicine that they couldn't make themselves, no shipments of supplies to combat the hunger when the snows came early. And when the ground thawed enough, only then could they bury their dead.

Alvon felt a strange connection with this ancestor. He imagined him, full black beard and calloused hands, working with leftover wood by the flickering, weak light of a sod fire as the harsh Montana winter howled outside. Burning sod was a smoky business. Did the bearded man pause to wipe his eyes as he worked? Alvon's eyes watered in strange sympathy and he wiped them with his sleeve. He imagined a sod house, continuously cold and leaking air and precious warmth in all directions. What Alvon was doing wouldn't have worked for this man. The prefabricated living modules were small, but they were airtight. He'd turned the heat up to maximum an hour before. He hoped the fire and the full discharge from the fuel cell would thaw. . .everything. . .before the fuel supply was exhausted. He could still see well enough to tell that the readout on the vid screen showed -45°C outside, and dropping. He ignored the urgent message icon flashing magenta in the corner. It had been doing that for days.

No nails were used on the Keepsake, for they were too precious. Each piece was laboriously shaped and notched, a carved wooden pin to hold it in place. The time, effort and hope that had been put into it was incomprehensible to Alvon. An odd thought struck just as another coughing fit ended. What if it wasn't so much a pervasive hope that allowed this man to spend endless hours shaping this future family keepsake? What if it were faith? He and Marta had often spoken of faith. Just like The Sickness, she had it, he didn't. From what he'd read concerning Montana 1844, his ancestor probably had it, too. Would he be doing this if he too had that kind of faith?

Probably not. Alvon felt an odd pang of gratitude for his inability to embrace the insanity that most people call faith. It was the first good feeling he'd had since he had placed the two bundles—wrapped in the warmest blankets they had—into the cold storage closet. He was also grateful for the thickening smoke, for it blurred the two shapes lying on the bed, waiting for him to join them. Just a few more chores to do. He'd already disabled the ventilation system and the fire suppression program, he'd welded the door shut and preprogrammed a message to the Council. He'd told them he had one last use for his Keepsake.

Abruptly, he tossed the wooden cradle onto the makeshift fire he'd started in the middle of the unit. It caught almost immediately, joining Marta's Bible, every scrap of burnable cloth and paper and some alien tree limbs he'd managed to scrounge through the bitter cold. He hoped it was enough. Soon all three would be warm, and together.

He felt his way to the bed and gently placed the lifeless body of his baby daughter on Marta's still chest. When he was in position, he moved her one last time. Spring would come, soon enough. Somewhere in the smoky haze, his 4.215 kilograms of broken promises for the future sucked the last of the oxygen out of the air.

© Bill Wolfe 2008

David Kearns stood on the small balcony of his second floor hotel room staring at the sea wall across the street. Avoiding the newer area of town, where the big beachfront establishments catered to weekend tourists and college students, David had checked into the Monte Carlo, a cheap, slowly decaying hotel in the old part of Mazatlan. Now, with the dark of Christmas Eve approaching, he was alone waiting for a phone call.

Feeling an unexpected chill, David walked back inside and sat in a chair beside his small bed. His backpack lay by the pillow and he reached inside it to pluck out a hand-made wooden chocolate stirrer, the elaborately carved kind that locals used in the creation of molé sauce which spiced up many Mexican food dishes, especially enchiladas. He had bought the stirrer for Suzie. Suzie, for whose call he waited. Suzie, the beautiful blonde Austrian and his constant companion during the last two weeks of study at the Academia Linguistica in Guadalajara. He checked his cell phone. He had bars. She could call.

"I'll call you, Christmas Eve," Suzie promised at the Guadalajara Train Station. "It'll be my present."

"Will you meet me there after?" David asked.

"You know I want to," she said.

"Promise?"

"You'd better go. The train is loading."

David checked his phone again. The battery was charged. He tucked the phone into his shirt pocket and went downstairs.

"Tuvo, er, tuve una llamada telefonica?" he stumbled through bad Spanish to the desk clerk. Maybe Suzie had called the desk instead of his cell. He had left her a message where she was staying.

"No, señor," the clerk replied in English, "no phone calls."

"Gracias," David thanked the man.

"Por nada, señor," the clerk smiled. "Feliz Navidades."

"Merry Christmas, to you, too," David said.

David decided to take a walk while he waited for Suzie's call. A block or two from the Monte Carlo he found a liquor store and bought a bottle of wine to have later. Looking at the bottle made him think of Suzie and the fun they'd had in Guadalajara: walking arm and arm around the little plaza near their language school on Sunday nights, dancing in a local bar all one glorious evening, joking in the streets about the ubiquitous Mariachi bands.

Suzie was only twenty-one, small, energetic, full of life and uninhibited European ways. She spoke perfect English, worked as a paralegal in Vienna, and belonged to rock and roll dance clubs there. David was completely captivated. But there had been competition.

There were her Austrian friends – always around, always taking her here and there. And then there was the Jim guy, an American who showed up late at the language school. He had made a beeline for Suzie – pushing himself into the scene, making a move for Suzie's attentions. Jim had also been at the train station when David left. That was annoying.

Back in the room, David sat for a long while with his mind on hold, zoned out as it were. As the evening wore on, he came out of his stupor and ate a snack of mixed nuts he'd bought from a vendor outside the Mazatlan train station. He went out on the balcony again. He couldn't see the sea wall very well anymore but a half moon had risen and it cast a soft yellow light on the quiet water in the ocean beyond.

After a few minutes, he went back downstairs. Still no call. He checked his cell phone. Plenty of bars, plenty of charge. No call. About nine-thirty he broke out the wine, drinking straight from the bottle. By ten-thirty he was feeling it. Then the phone rang. It was Suzie.

"Merry Christmas," she said, her voice like a tinkling holiday bell.

"Where are you?" David asked, imagining her down in the hotel lobby playing a joke on him.

"Guadalajara," came the fantasy-shattering answer. "I told you I'd call you Christmas Eve. Hello, Merry Christmas."

"I'm sorry," David said, feeling fuzzy-headed, and not just from the wine. "Merry Christmas."

"That's better," Suzie said. "Are you having fun?"

"I'm by myself. I have some wine."

"Your own Christmas present."

"Yes."

There was a short pause in the conversation. David broke it.

"Are you coming here?" he asked nervously. There was a longer pause. "Suzie?"

"Yes?"

"Can you come out here?"

"David…" Suzie began. It was all he needed to hear.

"Is it that Jim guy?" he asked foolishly, too desperately.

"Can't we keep this fun?" Suzie asked. "Like always."

"I had hoped …" David's words trailed off.

"My Austrian friends want me to go to San Miguel de Allende before we go back home," Suzie explained.

"Is Jim going, too?"

"Yes, but that's just because he's here, David."

"I see."

"I told you I would call you tonight," Suzie reminded him. "It's my present to you. I promised, but it's all I can give you."

"I thought maybe you would be coming here," David said, glancing back at the wooden stirrer resting on top of his backpack.

"I'm sorry" Suzie said. David was silent. "David," Suzie queried, "are you still there?"

"I'm here."

"I've got to go now," Suzie said. "Everyone's waiting. Please have a wonderful Christmas. Goodbye, David. Thank you for Guadalajara. I'll always remember it."

"Goodbye," David said, slowly shutting off his phone when he saw the connection was gone.

That was it then. That was his Christmas present. A goodbye call. In a flash, a series of conflicting emotions ran through him. Anger, shame, self-pity, anger again, a grudging resignation. Sighing, David gathered himself and poured the wine down the bathroom sink. He didn't need that anymore.

Walking out on the balcony, he looked at the calm, moon-lit ocean. Tomorrow was Christmas. He would give the chocolate stirrer to the first nice Mexican lady he saw and then catch the train home, be back by New Year's. He would begin life anew, go forward – without Mexico, without Suzie.

© J. B. Hogan 2008

"Baby, can you hear me," I said to my precious wife, brushing the hair back from her forehead. I leaned close to her face and kissed her eyes, my tears a virtual fountain, each drop falling on her cheek as she laid there unconscious before me, wasting away, transforming from a once beautiful angel into an emaciated, withering figure awaiting death.

"I'm tormented in agony!" I cried out inside my thoughts, contemplating suicide the day she passes from my life.

The door opens abruptly as the physician on record walks into the room. He glances at her chart, but only for a moment and then looks at her and remarks, "Well" pausing briefly, "It won't be long now!" And with that, he left the room.

I resent that son of a bitch and I wish that he were afflicted as I am, the callus bastard! I hate him for his lack of concern toward my wife's suffering and of my own wrenching anguish.

As I looked into her thin, gaunt face, I traveled back in my thoughts to our first Christmas together, when she and I went shopping that Christmas Eve at a local crafts fair. We found nothing of interest until suddenly, she spied a hand carved wooden tree ornament, made by one of the traveling craftsman. She had to have it and although we had so little money, I bought it. We had spaghetti noodles that night for supper, which was all we could afford, as we dined in the reflection of the peaceful lighting from our Christmas tree. She stared at the ornament with a glow on her face that illuminated our darkened room and most certainly, my heart. From that moment on, Christmas never really began for her until she placed that ornament on the tree each year at which time she would cry.

"How are we today?" a gruff, boisterous voice boomed from behind me as the door once again flew open, jarring me out of my remembrance of happier times. It was the priest that frequented the hospital, dressed in robes, beads and religious jewelry all to let us know, he was somebody important. Well maybe he was to those that played into his act, but I can't imagine that God gave a damn about what he had become, a self righteous, self important piece of…self!

Before I could stop him, he placed his thumbprint dipped in holy water onto her forehead and began chanting in Latin over her 70-pound, skeletal frame, she being too far-gone to realize what was happening. How dare this pompous bastard push his way into our moment of grief and afflict us with his voodoo witcheries. I grabbed him by his collar, causing him to spill what was left of his vial of holy water and shoved him out the door, accidentally bumping his head on the doorframe as he fell into the hall.

I looked upon her emaciated, near lifeless body that lay before me. I knew she was in pain, I could feel it. I knew what I must do. I promised to love and protect her in sickness and in health. She needed me now all the more, now that she was at her weakest.

I had asked the hospital's administration to pull the plug on her life support a few days earlier, so she could be spared the pain that the cancer was inflicting on what remained of her body. They stated it was against the law in our State to assist suicide, which included all forms of assisted death. I asked if I could do it and they said that I would be arrested and very likely put to death for murder.

Whether or not that was true, I know what I have to do.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the wooden ornament she loved so much and placed it in her hands, cupping my hand around hers. With hand shaking, I reached for the plug and disconnected her life support. I turned to see her draw her last breath as she passed away peaceably in her sleep.

Unbeknownst to me, an alarm was set off at the nurse's station when her life support was severed. The doctor on record slammed open the door, rushing into the room along with two male nurses and a security officer with the intention of reestablishing her life support.

The doctor screamed at me, "What have you done!" He turned to the male attendants and said urgently, "Check her vital signs! Begin resuscitation, stat!"

The doctor pointed to the security officer and ordered, "Arrest him!"

As the officer approached me, pulling his revolver from his holster, I reached into my other pants pocket and removed a pistol, pointed it to the officer's forehead and shot him between the eyes. A couple of female nurses approached the door of the room, recoiling in sickened disbelief as the others were paralyzed with fear.

I shot the officer first, because he was the only one with a gun. I proceeded to shoot the doctor in the face and both male attendants in the chest. The nurses at the door ran in terror.

I placed the pistol to my right temple and pulled the trigger. As I fell across my wife's body, the room began to fade from view as my spirit hovered over her.

And then, her own spirit rose to meet me from the confines of her sickly corporal form. I reached out to her with great joy.

But then, in an instant of time, a gulf began to separate us. I caught a glimpse of her and I could see that her countenance radiated with the glorious light of the angels. As I gazed at her holy beauty, I was immediately plunged into darkness where I began to fall, gripped by the beast's fiery grasp!

© Mark Edgemon 2008

Amber shifted her car into park after we pulled into the driveway. She stopped, leaning back against the headrest. Her black hair was drawn into a sloppy bun at the top of her head. She wore no makeup. Both not her usual carefully coiffed and styled self. I placed my hand over hers as it held the car's stick-shift.

"Heck of a way to spend Christmas Eve!" I said.

Amber sighed, and moved her hands up to remove her small wire-rimmed glasses. She tossed them up on top of the dashboard. "Gotta be done, and I don't want my Dad to have to do it. He has so much on his plate: the memorial home, the obit, Fr. Kawiecki's funeral mass after Christmas."

"And," I replied, "you don't want him to pick out the wrong dress."

Amber smiled, but it was a small smile all the same, just a tiny piece of happiness at the corners of her mouth.

"Yes. He's even more sartorially challenged than you," she said somewhat smugly.

Opening the car door, I said, "If it's got to be done, we better do it."

Amber reached in her purse, picking out a white pack of Camels and a blue disposable lighter. She glanced at me and frowning, didn't like my look. Lighting up her cancer stick, she told me: "Yeah, I'm smoking again. I just need it now. Only my third today." I hadn't realized I had been judgmental.

We stepped up the walk to the house. Amber fumbled with the keys. I took them and unlocked the door. "Is it cold in here?" I asked, feeling the chill in the entryway.

Amber went ahead of me, after tossing away her unfinished cigarette into a thin powderpuff of fluffy snow. "The heats off," she replied.

"Oh man!"

"What?" I rushed over. Amber stood before an empty corner in the living room.

"Grams has already moved the table and lamp for her Christmas tree. This is where it stood, always stood." It was an empty space to me, but did Amber see a big New England fir with colored, flashing lights and badly, but lovingly, wrapped presents scattered all about its trunk? "Well, we better pick out the dress she's to be buried in."

We passed through the kitchen on the way to her grandmother's bedroom.

"Oh, look. There's her rolling pin." Amber picked it up. It was the length of an elementary school ruler. It was a solid piece of white wood. It had no plastic handle, the ends just tapered to a thinner diameter for people's floury fingers. If you looked closely you could see the chip-marks on the kitchen tool. "I used to help her with the holiday sugar cookies; her cutouts must be here somewheres. Her father – my great-grandfather – made this for her. You know: he was blind when he made it, carving it by hand. Some pre-OSHA industrial accident, I'm told. A nice euphemism that, like friendly fire and collateral damage.

"Or passed away." she said, dropping the wooden pin back onto the kitchen table, walking away.

"Oh, yeah. We should find her Rosary beads, too. For the casket, I mean. You know: I've never said a complete Rosary; always stopped before the last bead. Bet Grams went to the final prayer.

"Her jewelry case is over here. Hey, here's her father's Irish war bond. If you look closely, the second five dollars installment is registered in pencil. I always found that funny or maybe quaint in some way. What was that worth in 1920?"

I took it from her hands. FIRST LOAN Of The Elected Government Of The Republic Of Ireland, it read. "Hmm. Ten bucks. 'Payable six months from the date of the withdrawal of the English Army'. Never cashed in. Wonder what it's worth today."

Amber snatched the small scrap of cardboard from my grasp. "What would Patrick Pearse or Michael Collins think, you West Briton narrow-back?" she chided me, but that small smile resurrected upon her lips for a sparse moment.

Amber picked up a small broach from the case. "I gave her this. It's the worst piece of costume jewelry you can get outside of a bubblegum machine. And she kept it. I can't believe it. Isn't that great?"

I looked up to bureau's mirror, but saw two images. Amber and her grandmother. How is this possible? I thought. The old woman stood next to the younger. She smiled a wide smile, full of teeth and joy.

"You know," Amber continued,"looking at all this stuff, I wonder about what my Dad is going to do in that newspaper obituary. Daughter of him and her. Predeceased by my grandfather. Survived by a bunch of us. But what does that really say. Yes, I want to be listed, but what does it mean? Maybe if I could speak with her just one more time, knowing it would be the last, and tell her how much I love her."

"Amber, don't you see?" The elderly woman looked different than the last time I saw her. There were no tubes up her nose, no I.V. dripping fluids into her veins.

Her grandmother reached for her granddaughter's face. Amber brushed away an errant lock of hair. "See what?"

"She's here."

"I know. She is alive in our memories and in our hearts. I'm sure someday I'll recognize the truth in those platitudes, but today it's kind of trite and hollow. When the adult baby Jesus's best buddy died, He went to the tomb and cried, 'Lazarus come out.' We ain't so lucky. Sorry. Me so cynical."

"No, she's here, really here. Here! I can see her in the mirror."

Amber glanced at the glass, then shook her head. "What have you been smoking? Come on. I said we had to get this done."

Amber walked past me toward the closet, as I stared at the aged, kind face in the mirror. There'd be no last words.

© G.C. Dillon 200

The basswood decking was complete, edges butted against each other. The cannons were turned true. The boat was to be this Holiday's gift for an old teacher as a token of deep appreciation. He had researched it for years in order to make it just right. Most people celebrated Christmas. To him, it was the spirit not the name that mattered. And, a master model maker's gift was no cheap toy. He hand stitched the battens to sails, first the foresail, main and lastly the mizzen. As he rough fit them to the wooden built-up masts, it hit him. Hard.

I was all of nine years old. One Christmas holiday season my huge extended family was gathered at my grandfathers'. Grandpop was called "The Cat". Mom and Dad said he landed on his feet in some tough political times. No one explained just what that meant. They laughed. He owned the buildings the family lived in. They were happy.

The smell of all those foods, Jewish, Spanish and Italian drifting through the whole of Pop's building. It was a stew for the senses. The cacophony of children's voices throughout drown out the adults. One grandmother was on the baby grand, playing classical, boogie woogie, jazz, accompanied by holiday singing and yelling. It was The Holidays and no one in the family cared what it was called. Spring was on the way. Hooray!

My Grandpop would come by as was his wont and state something pithy in all senses of the word. "Remember son, where ever you are you celebrate the local traditions. They are all the same down deep."

"Yes Pop." I thought Pop should know.

"Enjoy the spirit of the time and place." He added with a loving look. I nodded.

One uncle, drunk and strange as usual, handed him some money. "Hey Mario, don't spend it all in one place".

"Yes sir. Thank you" Be polite I was instructed, especially when they are drunk.

The corner store sold food, magazines toys and all that. It was "always open", especially after services, on the holidays or after a phone call. I snuck out and ran there. As I came in the owner asked if Great Grandpop wanted more stogies. "No sir. I wanted to buy a model kit, some glue and maybe some paint too. That is, if you have anything new."

"Funny you should ask. Here's a model of one of our newest jet fighters. It just arrived. You think you're up to it?" He said this with a smile.

"Yes sir." I thought, sure. If dad can make these things, more complicated of course, so could I.

"I have $5.00. Will that be enough for all I need?"

"More then enough. Here's your change." Later I found out he knew better than to cheat our family.

"Oh I forgot I need some brushes too."

"Do you know how to clean a brush?"

"Yes", I said politely. Of course I did. Mom was an artist. A gallery/studio was attached to the apartment. Turpentine and linseed oil were the perfumes I live with. Everyone helped. Cleaning brushes was a basic and easily learned task. Even dad, a ship designer and model maker, helped.

Dad's work was perfect. Everyone said so. The designs when presented never required modifications. I was proud of both of them.

"I'll take a small fine one and a medium one please. This is a small model." They were cheap but tools of the trade. Tools were to be respected no matter.

Back at the party the piano room was empty. I sat in a corner, read the instructions twice, reviewed the parts to see if they were all there and began. I had to swipe a hat pin from grandmothers' hat to open the glue tube. That would not have been good to be caught. Later that evening it was completed. I returned the pin and threw the almost spent tube of glue in the trash. I liked the smell.

This was my very first model. I was so proud. No one helped me. I did this myself.

Mom comes in see where I am. I was unusally quiet. "Mita…Mario, what's that?" She asks.

I explain.

Shaking her head and smiling, "That's nice. Now go show your father."

"Flying" my jet into the main room I approached and presented it to Dad. "Look Dad, I just did this!"

He looked down lifted the model from my hands, turned it around and inspected it. "You have glue smudges all over. The paint is all wrong. The wings are not attached completely. The decals are not placed in the correct positions," and on and on.

I was hot, my face was burning up. I just wanted to make him proud. The expression about feeling 2 inches tall, it's real. I was red with embarrassment. I didn't hear the rest of what he said. I just stood there and waited for him to finish, holding back. I took the jet and left. I spoke to no one.

Sitting there in the model shop, he realized, all his life he has been attempting to please his father, get his approval and love, only to fail in his eyes again and again. No amount of success, marrying the "right girl", or anything would ever lead to his approval.

He looked to his wife, saw her face and… Oh my god, how obtuse. He had married the same person. It never really ended. The same lack of respect for his talents, for his loves. Of course Dad liked her, she was exactly the same.

He oiled and cleaned his tools. He wiped down the hard rock maple workbench he had made with hand tools, only. He wanted to experience the work and effort the old timers would take. The joinery was perfect. The tools were folded in an oiled cloth. He stored them in their proper locations.

He never looked back.

© Richard Tornello 2008

Today is Jack's Day. The worst day of the year, as far as I'm concerned.

Bitter? Yes, I suppose you could say so. Not their fault, though. They don't know. They can't know. You see the little wooden handcarved spaceship that man's holding? All wrong. The real thing wasn't streamlined at all, because it was never intended to go through atmosphere. Not that that matters. And those detachable bits on the back of the ship… silly. The power stations were on the sides. All wrong.

Old Jim sent you, did he? Well, he's right - there's nothing that I don't know about Jack's Day. I was there, after all, when it happened.

We were the first colony ship in from Earth. Multigeneration, of course; we didn't have cryogenics in those days. At least, not cryogenics that you could wake up from. If you wanted a quick ticket to frozen death, though…

I was the duty officer when it happened. Still have no idea how it happened, but - we had three nuclear generators, and the ship only needed one. Multiple redundancy, you see; if one stops working, we just switch to another. It was supposed to keep us safe all the way here. Of course, a nuclear plant can fail in two ways; it can die down quietly and refuse to start up, or it can suddenly decide to work all too well, in which case it turns into a nuclear bomb. If reactor one blew, it was the end of the ship.

We all knew it. The designers had known it, too. All three reactors were designed to be jettisoned if necessary. As long as you caught a meltdown soon enough, you detach the reactor and trust to the rather expensive cosmic ray shielding to protect you from the worst of the blast. Each reactor had its own engines to help get it far away; one thing about a meltdown is that there's plenty of energy to spare right before it happens.

The problem was that after fifty years with no problems, we'd been a bit lax on maintenance. The engines, the catches that held the reactor on, even the reactor itself… well, to make a long story short, the only way to save the colony was to ditch the reactor, with someone aboard to coax that little bit extra out of the engines, replace bits that blew from the power load, delay the reactor just long enough for the main ship to get clear.

It was a death sentence. But one death to save ten thousand lives. And it had to be done quickly. I was in the reactor room and casting off pretty quickly, let me tell you. I had two children, both grown up; my wife had perished long since; there really wasn't much for me to lose, compared to anyone else. Ah - not that I thought all that through at the time, you know. I was just there, and I went.

Of course, I died in the explosion. Left me as you see me today; a ghost, much like yourself. Only not as bitter about the whole thing.

The bitterness? Ah - you're new to being a ghost, right? Have you ever heard it said "Man's not dead while his name is still spoken"? That's how long a ghost lasts - as long as the original person is remembered. I've watched generations of ghosts turn up and move on to wherever ghosts go when they're not remembered anymore, heaven or hell, maybe even just total oblivion…

They've been remembering me for close to three thousand years now. It's kind of complimentary, but… I just wish they wouldn't.

She was the only one they were able to save. Dewey watched her for a moment, trying to understand what she must be going through. The little girl stood in a white jumpsuit. She was looking at a monitor in the corner of the room. The room was fluorescent; the furnishings sparse.

"Come here dear. I have a surprise for you," Dewey said. The little girl ran across the room and stood in front of the wide window filled with an endless array of stars in the black field of the cosmos. Dewey carefully placed the small artificial evergreen tree with tripod on the floor before her. It was hardly taller than she was.

"Is that a Christmas tree?" she asked. Her face lit up with excitement at the prospect of something new.

"It is. I found it in storage, along with some ornaments. Here you go," Dewey said handing her an antique ornament from a box he was also carrying, "place this on the tree." She took the ornament in her hand. It was blown glass, nearly translucent with a pink tinge to it, delicate, and even cracked in one spot. She held the tiny metal hook in her tiny fingers, but hesitated. She looked from the hook to the tree and back. Dewey nearly laughed. He had to remind himself, she had never done this before. He took the ornament back and demonstrated how to place it on the tree.

"There… like that."

She smiled and a warmth seemed to fill Dewey's chest.

She reached into the box and pulled out another. It was a small wooden soldier, hand-carved. It had a little helmet, painted silver, and a wooden sword at its side, also painted silver. The rest was painted red except for the face which was the color of wood. The painted expression on its face was grim, but chivalrous. The girl cupped her hands and held the little soldier for several minutes; she studied it with intensity, trying to memorize all its details.

"Here, I found this too," he said. The overhead speaker crackled and an old recording started playing. It was tinny as if converted from an old record.

She stood quietly examining the little soldier, her breathing shallow and calm. Dewey suddenly felt sad and empty.

"Mr. Dewey, what are summer days and winter snow?"

"That is hard to explain dear. They are far off, but someday maybe you will know them."

The old lady sat with her back to the window, forever tired of the endless parade of stars. Her fingers had become stiff and contorted. She seldom tried to move out of her chair.

In the room she looked at the old Christmas tree Dewey had gotten out of archive for her every year since she was four. He would be there soon to perform the traditional decorating. It was such a simple tradition, but it was one of the few memories she really treasured.

The door slid open, and Dewey came in. His joints creaked as he moved; time was taking its toll.

"I'm here to decorate the tree. Should I start the music?"

She had the box of ornaments on her lap and carefully took one and handed it to Dewey. He meticulously searched the branches of the tree for the perfect place to put it, a branch it maybe hadn't been on in years past. He turned to her for the next ornament.

She held the little wooden soldier in her hand. She stared at it intently and Dewey remembered their first Christmas together.

"You know, this was always my favorite," she said, "it always reminded me of you." She held the little wooden soldier up and twirled it slowly with her fingers.

Dewey felt the need to blush. Why was she being so sentimental lately?

"You all take such very good care of me. What will you do with yourselves when I'm gone?" She was smiling but that didn't mask the pity in her eyes.

"We shall find… something to do with ourselves." Dewey felt choked up a moment. He couldn't fathom it. Even though he knew it was coming; the day when she would be gone. His insides hurt.

"You know I love you, Mr. Dewey."

He thought about how much she had not experienced… only videos, books, and recordings… only this small room and a few stray corridors… only a bland diet grown in tanks. Perhaps they should have left her… frozen with her family, in an icy grave.

"Please, let's hang the ornaments. It's Christmas and it's supposed to be a happy time."

Dewey didn't know how long he had stood there. The tiny soldier was still in his hand. Forever there was an endless field of stars, moving slower and slower by the window all the time. They would slow forever until every last light in the ship had lost its last bit of heat. Protocol called for preservation now. No nonessential functions. But the Dewey Archival Unit had some latitude. He listened and it still played.

© Casey Callaghan 2008

The End

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