A bunch of Christmas Thoughts 2020 Dec 15th -- CUTS

 I had my hair cut today -- very short in case of another lockdown after New Year. It reminded me of a story I heard in the salon one day; a true story about times past right here in the village where I live. It reminds us that 2020 has not been the only terrible year. History gives lessons, all too often ignored by those in charge of things; and it's always the vulnerable who suffer.

I am glad I heard this old gentleman's story. I am glad I could write it down and pass it on.

CUTS

Janet’s scissors were snipping away at an old man’s silver hair when I walked in.

‘…divint kna’ they’re born these days.’

His accent was richer than Geordie; more rural.

‘Aye that’s right, Jimmy.’ Janet winked at me.

I got ready for the tirade of ill feeling towards young people though I’m getting to that age when I sometimes take a similar view.

‘Time’s used to be very hard, roon here.’

I buried my nose in the magazine I’d lifted and listened to the interjections of the hairdresser as she clipped at the little hair he had left.

‘They get everything these days…’

‘So they do.’

‘An’ they appreciate nothin’.’

‘Just put your head a bit forward for me there, Jimmy?’

‘They ha’ mobile phones and computers ye kna.’

‘Just straighten your head again…’

‘When A was a lad, my mother didn’t ha’ ony fancy washin’ machine or cooker. We had just the range an’ the tin bath an’ me father used tae wash in that efter a shift doon the pit.’ Jimmy laughed and his laughter was like bubbles rising out of the dark. ‘He’d be that black, ye cudna see ‘im al winter lang unless it snawed!’

Janet laughed at that and so did I.

‘We hoyed the dirty watter intae the back lane.’

‘Where did you live, Jimmy?’

‘First Row, the colliery hooses, just round the corner here. An’ I went tae the juniors too. Mind you the school was nearly new then. That was a lang time noo.’

‘What age are you anyway?’

‘Eighty nine.’

‘You don’t look it. He doesn’t look eighty nine, does he?’

He did look every minute of eighty nine, but such are social mores that I agreed.

Jimmy gave a hefty sigh. ‘There wisn’t many got tae my age. A was just a wee lad. We went back tae school after the summer an’ there was that few o’ us left so the teacher telt us tae double up classes. In fact ye cud ha’ taught the whole school at once.’

I put down my magazine.

‘We used tae play footy doon the lonin at the back o’ the hooses an’ there was an open drain doon the middle. Al the watter we used for anythin’, used to gan doon that gully. It was like an open sewer, you understand. Weel, it was hot weather an’ first Freedie Fenwick an’ then Eddy Cuthbertson went doon wi’ it – cramps and a nosebleed. Freedie didna last lang, like. Twenty four hours and he was gone an’ my father told me himself. Explained it was the cholera. Before I knew it there was naybody tae play with. Aye…’

Jimmy shook his head and rubbed the back of a wrinkled hand. I could feel the loss of his pals ooze out of him.

‘Aye,’ he said. ‘That was a terrible year.’

A bunch of Christmas Thoughts 2020 Dec 14th -- In a 1950'S Christmas Card

When I was a child I always loved those old fashioned Christmas cards where the snow sparkled. I'd take one down and look at the Victorian scene and play the light onto the glitter. I loved the long dresses worn by the ladies, the fur capes. The cold of the snow, the yellow warmth of windows, carriage tracks in the rutted streets; it was all very 'Dickens' and demure. It was another world. Another world is always attractive when you are young. I still like cards with a bit of glitter on. It's not very eco-friendly these days. But as I was saying -- another world is always attractive. The 1950 was certainly another world!

In a 1950'S Christmas Card

I wanted to sparkle

more than anything

to be that elegant

lady descending

from a smart coach and four

on a gentleman's arm

her gloved hands extending

exuding poise and charm.

I wanted to enter the high-spired church,

and hear the choir and sing

carols to the fading light,

praises to a newborn king.

And afterwards supper

by firelight and candle-glow

behind leaded windows

safe from swirling snow,

safe from the possibility

of it becoming slush,

secure in unreality

where everything is Christmassy.

I wanted to sparkle;

to inhabit the card.

A bunch of Christmas Thoughts 2020 Dec 13th -- wee dark days

To flash is to send forth light with a sudden, transient brilliancy.
A spark of life; the guts of every story from zygote to dust, each pain from light to terror of the dark, and in between relentless needs that motivate the imagination, galvanizing all actions of the body and seekings of the soul.

In the vast universe, we are a flash. 

Oonah

Published in Smokelong Review 

Today has been dark -- raining. Any light there was this morning had disappeared by 1:30 as we drift into the wee dark days before Christmas. The sky is battleship grey as I write this. Boris is battleship ready! It seems we sink deeper into darkness with each passing day. It's being so cheerful that keeps me going! 

But there's the Christmas Tree and cards from friends and on this third Sunday of Advent, chicken dinner. Chicken dinner, I can cope with!  I'll see you tomorrow -- light permitting!

A bunch of Christmas Thoughts 2020 Dec 12th -- Same old

I once asked my mother, rather cheekily when I was 20, what it was like to be 60. I expected to be chased out of the room for my impudence. Instead she looked at me with those two-tone eyes of hers that made it seem she could see straight through you, and answered me. And I really wished she hadn't:

Well it's just like being 16, you know. You're always the same person inside.

My mother was a very wise woman and she knew she this was not the response I wanted. It was however the response I needed and I never forgot it.

There are many ways in which life changes but, wherever you go, to the ends of the universe, there you are! Same old you. 

Pack light, people! There's a lot to carry.

Winter Blue

It was winter and a blue snow fell again covering the plains of this insignificant planet in a fine cobalt dusting of fresh, deep powder. Janey liked to kick it around exposing the light blue layer beneath the darker surface; jumping, leaving little tracks and sky-skids all over the place. Our igloo stood out pink this time of year, glowing warm within, half way up the Mont. Our closest neighbour was miles away down in the valley where it never snowed and his igloo shone yellow on ubiquitous grey. Farther away I could see the comforting white and green of the hydro-polydomes.

“Where’s Janey?” I asked.

“Outside playing,” said Joel.

I stepped out too. “Janey! Not too far, now. Don’t wander too far!”

“Let her alone, Miriam. She’s okay. There’s no harm going to come to her out there and Dog is with her.”

Dog was the robot friend she’d got last Christmas. They were inseparable and it was a great comfort to me. Botdogs are so reliable. Looking at the orange of the sky I knew it wouldn’t be long until the next precipitation. More blue dust. It would fall until midwinter and then purple flowers with turquoise leaves would bloom in its rich dirt. I looked forward to spring.

Janey came running back all breathless. “It’s beautiful, Mummy, isn’t it?” she squealed. “Tell me again about the snow in Montana.”
“Well, it’s a great deal colder than this snow, and very deep and white; so bright it could blind you,” I said. “And tremendous dark trees grow out of it, and when you roll it, it sticks together into a ball and—”

“—makes a snowman!” Janey had seen pictures of snowmen but you couldn’t build a snowman with this chilly dust. She lay down and flapped her little arms leaving a light blue imprint on all that inkiness. She reminded me so much of my little brother — same excitable nature, same sweet face. An angel. Someday I would tell her about Jamie. Whenever she was ready. Whenever she asked.

I imagine him sometimes, still perfect in the snow where he was lost. I see my father and our friends searching; calling. I see my mother weeping. I feel the cold fear that gripped my heart. I see again the spring blossoming sad. Why did I turn my back? Why did I build that snowman? Why?

I was five. And all that was on a different planet and so very, very long ago but some lessons are never forgotten though one’s tracks are soon covered.

DECEMBER 11, 2015 EVERY DAY FICTION

A bunch of Christmas Thoughts 2020 Dec 11th -- Oh yes it is!

Yes it's PANTO time! 

Oh no it's not.

Oh yes it is! 

No -- it's not.

Pantomine happens in pretty much every theatre in the UK every Christmas -- except of course this Christmas because theatres are closed. One of the saddest things about this year was that Esme and I didn't get to see Matthew Bourne's Red Shoes again. I see it's on BBC on Christmas Day. 

The arts have been devastated by Covid and there is little or no safety net when it comes to  performing arts. Some funding has been provided but what of the performers themselves? Normally a young out of work performer would work in the service industries to tide them over. I know some have gone back to 'the day job' nurses for example. Many have found alternative ways to perform. 

Creativity is an important human function and it's something we all need. It's not an economic necessity but it is a HUMAN one. Nonetheless, until we are sure that gathering indoors is safe again, the theatres will suffer. I hope not too many people give up on their dreams.

The premise of all Pantos is the impossible happens. In Newcastle upon Tyne they intend to run the panto in April 2021 as an Easter treat. I sincerely hope that is possible.

Never Trust a Talking Cat

Ever since that cat arrived

my life’s gone down the chute.

To start with he demanded

a pair of shiny boots.

I tried to state the obvious;

I was the one in charge

but he stood up on his hind legs

his eyes all bright and large,

he put his forepaws on his waist

and whiskered his disdain,

'I'll need a coat and trousers too.

Us cats don’t like the rain.'

His stolid and unflinching look

crumpled my resolution.

To give him what he wanted

seemed the easiest solution.

When he started poaching pheasants;

taking presents to the king

I thought Oh good! I’m rid of him

You know -- it’s a cat thing.

But not a bit of it. This cat

had hatched a plan you see

and part of it involved a bit

of subterfuge – and me.

The Royals had a daughter

a bit plain -- a bit rotund,

for whom it seemed no suitor

suitable had yet been found

and Puss, that’s what I called him,

fancied a life of luxury

and decided in his scheming way

that she should marry me.

So while I was skinny-dipping

he purloined all my clothes,

flagged down the princess' carriage

and she said: Here put on those

and made her footman take his off.

She said I looked quite fine.

Then she drove me to the palace

and ordered meat and wine.

I don’t recall what happened next

but it seems I am engaged.

That furtive and rapacious cat

had my whole life story staged.

It’s the night before the wedding

and I’ve never been more sure

her father the King’s an imbecile

and the princess is a whore.

I know I can’t go through with it.

Marry? I’d rather kill her.

I was never meant to be a prince.

I’m content as a simple a miller.

I am writing this for you today

‘cos I won’t be here tomorrow.

Don’t mess with talking animals.

They’ll only bring you sorrow.

Don’t be like me, so innocent!

Talking cats aren’t at all cute.

They’re malevolent, maleficent.

Just give the cat the boot!

Published in The Linnet's Wings

A bunch of Christmas Thoughts 2020 Dec 10th -- The Gospel according to Oonah

Covid has certainly brought out the best and worst in people. On the one hand we have had self sacrifice on an astounding scale from key workers all over the world. Vaccines have been produced in record time by medical science. Acts of kindness and philanthopy in the midst of economic melt down have been inspiring and the avarice of the few, who own such wealth as they can never possibly spend, has been exposed. Political towers have toppled. Foundations crumble.

2020 hasn't been easy for anyone. A virulent pandemic, an American election which polarised populations, and here, the threat of a no-deal Brexit which has to be the domain of the deluded. It doesn't seem as if 2021 will be any easier as livelihoods and trade agreements disappear and the slide into poverty for the many continues while the few exploit misery.

I suppose I would say, as I have always said: 

there's just no cure for stupid. 

 Still -- you gotta have a laugh!

I think you'll find this -- illuminating.

The Gospel According to

“Where’d they find it?”

“That’s the beauty of it. ‘Xactly where you’d expect. Digging foundations in Bethlehem.”

“That’s too spooky.”

“Darned right!”

“And it was just there?”

“Yip! Staring ‘em in the face. Of course it’s only a fragment.”

“Naturally. Like them Dead Sea things.”

“Well, you’d hardly expect to find an entire Gospel. Ripped out of an old exercise book, it was. S’pose paper must’ve been scarce.”

“What’d it say?”

“Well, according to the news, pretty much what you’d think. Ask and it shall be given unto you. Take and ye shall have. Bomb and it will be opened unto you.”

“And ain’t that the authentic language, though.”

“Sure is. Wrote in old fashioned English -- just like the original.”

“Does it say anything else?”

“Says the people of Gad shall prevail, 'gainst economic crisis, enemies and allies - or all lies. The writing’s not that great in places.”

“Well, it’s a comfort to know.”

“Best of all at the bottom it’s signed ‘Jesus AD 29’ and it has one of them thar ichthus marks on.”

“A what?”

“A fish – you know; it’s like a goldfish or something. And right on the last line it says Gad Bless America.”

“Hey Buddy – Amen to that!”

First Published in Short Humour

A bunch of Christmas Thoughts 2020 Dec 9th -- Silent Curse

 It's time I gave you a Microhorror. Horror is a kind of Christmas tradition too, isn't it. In October I gave you horrors all the way through the month and I always intended publishing them but I expect this is as close as I'll come. I have well over a hundred of them. My own horror is that I am pusilanimous as hell. Oh look it up!

Silent Curse

“There’s still a present under the tree,” said Erik.

“Don’t touch that!”

Various voices chimed caution.

Tanya took Erik’s hand. “It’s great uncle Bertie’s Christmas box,” she explained, which of course meant nothing to Erik since it was his first Christmas with them and he’d never heard of Uncle Bertie.

“It’s a tradition,” added her mother Poppy, who was very conservative in all her ways and needed no other reason for this particular eccentricity.

“It’s supposed to be cursed,” said Toby eagerly.

Tanya’s teenage brother could be a nuisance at times but he could always be relied upon to let any cat out of any bag and so Erik liked him. Tanya interrupted but Toby would not be contained. He loved the story of the Christmas curse and Erik was scarcely less eager to hear it.

“Great uncle Bertie died horribly from gas,” Toby enthused. “Not the sort you get from too much turkey either! Blisters all over his body, throat burning and eyes stuck with puss. He was in the trenches. They say you used to drown in your own lungs!”

“Mummy…” appealed Rachel. "He’s going to make everyone sick.” .

“Yes, Toby, that’s enough! My unfortunate ancestor was reported killed on Christmas Day1917 on the Western Front,” said Poppy. “When his wife Philomena was informed of the circumstances of his death, she was doubly horrified. She claimed to have had some premonition of his fate, you see. She preserved this gift unopened and it has passed down through the family ‘til the present day.”

“So nobody knows what’s in it then?” Erik loved mystery.

“No. So sad. They never had children of their own. They weren’t long married -- rather like you and Tanya. Anyway, Philomena expressly forbade tampering with it,” said Poppy. “It would be bad luck to touch it. Disrespectful perhaps, to Bertie’s memory.”

“Told you,” said Toby, “it’s cursed.”

“The only curse is that mankind perpetrates such cruelties,” said Poppy.

“So who placed it under the tree?” asked Erik.

“That duty falls to me. I do it every year,” said Poppy, “to remind us all that Christmas is a time of peace.”

“And is it heavy? Does it rattle?”

“No. In fact it feels as if there mightn’t be anything inside at all.”

“Oh,” said Erik, “how strange.”

“Now, Toby, go and wash your hands. Girls, maybe you would help me lay the table?”

And so Erik found himself alone with the mystery box. He couldn’t wrest his eyes from it. It drew him, goaded him, dared him. At length he picked it up. Its cubic symmetry was perfect. The green tissue paper wrapping was yellowed but firm. He shook it gently. It made no sound. It did indeed feel as if it was empty. No label indicated ownership…

He ripped the paper open. Underneath was a plain cardboard box. Erik opened the lid and laughed. “There you see,” he said aloud with much relief at the sound of his own voice, “nothing – zilch -- fresh air.” And the thought came to him,’ Of course – because she’d had a premonition that he was dead!’ He turned the box upside down.

Immediately, a yellow spiral began to circle and spread, accompanied by a sweet aroma; a spicy scent, reminiscent of lilacs, garlic, horseradish – no mustard! Erik’s eyes began to burn, his skin to blister and more and more of the gas spilled from the box as he writhed.

Tanya, standing by the door, screamed.

“Bitter…” Erik managed to say – or was it ‘Bitte’ or was it ‘Bertie’? He never uttered another word. He lay dead. The gas swirled back into the box.

It was Toby who later replaced the lid and buried the box. But having seen for himself, the blisters on Erik’s skin, his eyes stuck with puss, his face contorted and pleading, he too never uttered another word.

by Oonah V Joslin first published in MicroHorror

Today's Bonus Read is in PostcardPoems&Prose just click the link.