((So, yes, this is a short story that will be in roughly two pieces. I have yet to finish it but I will update it soon. I'm hoping to get some input on what I do have, although. P.S. This is for the December Contest. Yeah. Hence the need for fast input.))
WINTER CHANGE
POLLIE:
“I want a Barbie for Christmas, one of the brown-skinned ones with the dark hair? And a Ken doll! And some new clothes for my other dolls,” my sister, Sally, informs me, eyes wide and lips pouted as she looked up at me.
I’d barely managed to enter the living room, to top it off.
“Shouldn’t you be asking Dad? Or writing a letter to Santa?” I suggest, frowning as I look down at her.
I’ve just noticed she looks scrawny, too. “And would you like some toast and eggs?” I suggest.
“...With grape jelly?”
“With grape jelly,” I say with a nod.
I walk into the kitchen, which rests directly off the living room, and she scampers after me, acting much like the puppy I’d compared her to.
“But about the dolls?” she asks.
“Like I said ask...”
She huffs. “I know you’re the boss around here and I know Santa isn’t real, Pollie.”
And my Christmas headache returns.
I put a skillet on the oven top and turn it on, then hurry about making the rest of her breakfast.
While the toast is cooking, I turn back to her. “Who told you Santa isn’t real?” I ask finally.
“Toby did,” Sally responds.
I nod slightly. “Well, Toby’s Jewish so Santa doesn’t come to his house.”
She mock gasps, then rolls her eyes. “I’m not six, Pollie, and the toast is burning.”
“You’re seven,” I grumble, before I snatch the toast out of the toaster, which I soon realize is a bad mistake once my fingers feel like they’re on fire.
I hop around like an idiot and finally find a plate to lay them on, then immediately put my fingers in my mouth--as if that ever helps.
Well, maybe it helps a little.
“Okay, then tell me how I’m the boss?” I ask her, as I crack an egg and shove the plate of burnt toast towards her.
She makes a face but eats it anyway.
“Well, Daddy used to make breakfast and now he doesn’t.”
I just swallow hard and focus on the eggs.
“You know he just misses Mommy.”
“I miss Mommy, too, and I don’t sleep in bed all day.”
“He goes to work, Sally,” I hiss.
“Yeah, but he sleeps in to nine and I’m in Science Class by then and when we come home from school he’s at work, and then he goes to sleep again. He used to play games with us.”
I sigh and just serve her breakfast. “He’s just tired, honey.”
“Why?”
“He just is.”
“That’s a stupid excuse.”
“What have I told you about saying stupid?” I ask her, glancing back briefly as I clean up my cook station.
“Sorry,” she mutters, as she smears grape jelly all over her food.
I sigh once again after everything is clean and look around the house. The windows are drawn; hiding the fact the yard is full of slush, and nothing but three stockings hanging on our empty fire place show the fact that it is Christmas time.
If it weren’t for Sally wanting things and people being oh so very happy, I’d have forgotten all together.
“Finished,” Sally announces a second later.
“Go up and get your school stuff, then,” I say and she dashes off.
I roll my eyes and clear her plate, before screwing back on the grape jelly jar’s lid and opening the fridge. I halt as I see the bottles of Corona in a neat row, then put it back and slam the fridge close quickly.
There was no need to focus on the negatives.
And I needed to string up some lights. If only I weren’t so tired myself...
***
MOSS:
“Your name is Moss? Are your parents, like, hippies or something weird like that?”
I narrow my eyes at the girl before me. “Here’s your coffee,” I say instead, handing her the cup.
“But, seriously. I mean, it’s cute, in that anime way, but seriously? Speaking of which, you look sort of Japanese. Are you Japanese?”
“I’m not Japanese. Look at my hair. All Japanese guys wear their hair one way.”
“Wait, what?”
“Your coffee is getting cold,” I remind her.
She sighs and just takes it, before walking back over to her two girl friends. They’re giggling and pointing.
This is why it’s bad to be the cliché guy working in a coffee shop--black hair, ear piercing, etc. It causes mass mayhem. And now I had to bother with being all smiles and happy since it was Christmas. What did a holiday have to do with happiness, anyway? And then people think I’m some sort of Scrooge for not celebrating, even though I don’t:
a. Have the money to pay for the stuff that Christmas entails--presents, a tree, lights, ornaments, and even freaking cookies cost money. I don’t have money. I work at a coffee shop part time; unless I robbed a bank, I wouldn’t have money to spare.
b. My family has never celebrated Christmas, probably because we all hate each other.
c. I dislike the fact I’m only supposed to be a wonderful person on some holiday and then I can do whatever I want on the rest of the year--or, well, that’s how it works for everyone else, it seems. As long as you give to the homeless on Christmas, you’re a great guy! As if!
d. Like Samhain, Christmas is a wholly mutilated holiday that has had its whole original meaning stripped from it.
So, yes, those would be my four main reasons for disliking Christmas. And it’s also probably because I use the right side of my brain more than my left. All those lights and decorations—I swear, someone’s trying to make me discover the wonderful nature of seizures.
“Can’t wait until I can go home,” I mutter in annoyance.
“Cinnamon latte,” Tony hisses at me and I scuttle over to start working on the order.
In turn, he just watches me, leaning back against the counter as a prim lady in a business suit waits impatiently for me to be done.
Luckily, she’s the last costumer waiting.
I hand her order to her and she puts down five dollars on the counter. She’s gone before Tony can move to get her some change.
Then, I have nothing to do.
“So, it figures we’re the two working on Christmas Eve,” Tony says, while he’s glancing all longingly out the huge windows in the front.
I frown as I follow his gaze, the light-reflecting snow not helping my eyes at all. The coffee shop is bloody dark, after all.
I glance away quickly, of course, and just try to ignore my fellow barista.
“So, are you upset at all?” he asks me. “I know you sort of have that creepy psycho shtick going for you with the ladies, but honestly.”
I can’t help but narrow my eyes as I wipe up the counter, something I started doing as soon as he started talking—just for something to do.
“I don’t really mind,” I respond quietly.
“How can you not mind? I mean, I’m freaking out right now. You know Stephie is eight months pregnant? Yeah, the doctor gave her bed rest. Something to do with...”
“I don’t really care, either,” I snap. “Please just leave me alone, for once.”
Tony gives me a once over, then nods. “Okay, mate. But you have some issues, let me tell you. Didn’t your Mom ever tell you to speak nicely?”
“No.”
***
There was another thing I didn’t like about Christmas, that had nothing to do with the massively mutilated holiday; the cold.
Yeah. See, even with a scarf, that whipping, wet chill to the air was harsh. And it happened to be windy. I let out a sigh, before rounding the bend. Luckily, my house wasn’t too far away from the coffee shop. Well, it wasn’t really a house. More like an apartment, if anything. It was connected to a bunch of other houses, all exactly the same.
I frown, thinking of it and its perfect lawn, knowing that those other houses were filled with bitter, old people who didn’t know when to keep their petty comments to themselves.
And the thought of them all with bright, cheerful Christmas decorations all over their homes and yards just seemed to clash with their spiteful personalities.
Then, as I’m walking along, thinking about all that and narrowly avoiding poles, trees, and other hazardous objects, I’m slammed to the ground.
At first, I think it was an accident. Then I feel a foot come in contact with my stomach. I curl around myself, clothes making a ripping sound for whatever reason and I just glance up in surprise—bad idea.
Boot to the face equals lights out.
Of course, that barely clicked in my brain before I felt my nose make an unnatural crunch sound.
Then everything was black.
Thank goodness.
***
“Oh!” I wake up to the sharp gasp along with the sound of shoes on ice. “What did you do?” Whoever she is, she seems shocked.
Wait, where the heck am I? And why is it so cold.
I can’t seem to open my eyes, though.
As assumed, I begin to freak out. I try to move, but I seem to be, well, stuck. And it hurts, badly.
I feel hands, dainty, soft hands, run along my side. “Shh, it’s okay. Try not to move. I’m calling nine-one-one.” It’s a whisper, but it allows me to relax—a small amount, anyway.
“Wait, why do you think I did it?” The response sounds slow to me, but I feel totally out of it—so I can’t be sure.
“You’re a drunk!”
“I am not, now go inside. It’s cold. I can take care of it”
“Um, excuse me? There’s a guy on the sidewalk in front of our house, beaten bloody, and you expect me to go inside? Are you insane? And I bet you can’t even get off the couch.”
There’s no response for that.
“Oh, right. Yeah, there’s a guy in front of my house. He seems to have been attacked. What? How bad? Um, I’m not sure. There’s blood all down his face, from his nose, and he can’t seem to get up...”
I listen to the one-sided conversation before I sink into unconsciousness again.
***
((Thanks for reading. I hope you're enjoying it so far...and will feel the need to help me out. *chuckles* Oh, and, yeah, I'm not sure if I want it to be her Dad [probably not], though I think I'm going with a general thug sort of person. And...I'm not sure if I want her to, say, find him on her porch and think he's a hobo. Either way, she'll act in a cute sort of way towards him. Yeah.
And he might learn the real meaning of Christmas. Just maybe. Or not. *shrugs* I like twist endings. We shall see.))
