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. 

A bunch of Christmas Thoughts 2020 Dec 8th -- Merry Little Christmas

'Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas' from the film 'Meet Me in St Louis' is one of the songs I hate most to hear in Christmas shops. It's such a sad song. Why on earth would that ever be popular? Judy Garland I suppose. I don't 'do' Christmas music any more because music is very evocative and I don't like nostalgia. It serves very little purpose to cry over a piece of music. It butters no parsnips; though buttered parsnips are overrated too. There are many more genuine reasons to cry. You only have to look at the News! This year I have been spared the music because I am not going to the shops and I don't have any of these tunes at home. This seems a great idea which I may make a new Christmas Tradition! 

But there have always been things I loathe about Christmas. Our house was always filled with extended family on Christmas Day. I used to find that stressful. Turkey makes me ill. They always said I'd eaten too many sweets and I knew I hadn't but on Boxing Day I was always ill and when I left home and stopped eating turkey, I found out the real reason. The gifts were so numerous that one Christmas we had to go through the bins looking for something that had accidentally been discarded with the wrapping paper. With hindsight, all the waste of Christmasses past seems disgraceful. Most of the stuff will have ended up in landfill by now, waiting for the future to find it and curse us for out neglect.

Why do we always put so much pressure on just one day that we wreck any chance it has of fulfilling our expectations? I don't like any 'special occasion'. I like to keep life on an even keel if I can. That way, I can enjoy my pork and apple sauce, roasted parsnips and my Gewurtramminer in peace.

HAVE YOURSELF A TAWDRY LITTLE CHRISTMAS

Disappointment
when the bright, shiny wrappers
fall to the floor
like a bride underneath all that dress
same old skin

the turkey de-fleshed, devoid of stuffing
dirty dinner plates
same old bone

the cracker pulled
same old jokes

paper hat that never fits
tinsel and glitz
tat that looks so drab on boxing day
TV ads for next year’s holidays
the next big fix
the next the next the next
crunch
crisis before the champagne pops
and flattens.

Give us some credit.
We’re not completely dim.
The stars are all
in Heaven and Hollywood.

This tawdry little show will win
no Oscars and year on year I see
a little more magic
disappear.

Oonah V Joslin

A bunch of Christmas Thoughts 2020 Dec 7th -- Notre Dame de Little Lessing

 I watched a programme the other week about how the renovations at Notre Dame are going. It was fascinating. They were using every available means from 3D photographs to denrdrochronology to gather information on how to go about their task -- multidisciplinary teams all working together, scientists, artists, masons and carpenters using modern technologies to solve retro-architectural problems. The entire site is contaminated because of the leading of the roof. Protective gear has to be worn for all tasks. I hope they do an update soon because I love that stuff!!

Well Simon and Reggie here, don't have quite that scale of problem but hey-- they're doing their best anyway! Give them some appreciation.

Reformation

“Are there any photographs of the window?”

“Not that I know of. We can put an appeal out in the local media but this place wasn’t used for years.”

“Architectural specs?”

“Pardon?”

“Blue prints.”

“We could look in the local library.”

“That burnt down years ago. All the records were destroyed.”

“Microfiche?”

“Don’t know where that’d be. The Little Lessing Herald clo...”

“closed years ago, I get the picture.”

“Actually I don’t think anyone has the picture any more.”

“Mmmm this isn’t really a matter of conservation then,” said Reggie.

“No, more renovation.”

“Reclamation?”

“Re-formation.”

“Okay so we’ll wing it. It’ll be like doing a jigsaw puzzle without the box. Fun.”

Simon and Reggie had never taken on such a task before. Mostly they had to replace a few pieces of stained glass, take a window down and clean it, repair some of the lead framework but this was a mess. How to proceed?

“So – you collect all the straight bits and arched pieces that look like the window shape and I’ll gather all the rest and we’ll do our best to make some kind of framework that would fit the original window size.”

“Seems a fair enough place to begin.”

“At least we’re singing from the same hymn sheet,” said Simon.

It took months but Simon and Reggie were quite pleased with the result. Some of the pieces of glass that hadn’t been too burned even fitted into the leads. Admittedly the fire had twisted some of the framework but it made sense and slowly began to take shape. The central figure in white looked – familiar. The bottom right corner however was completely missing. It was also within their remit to customise glass for that missing corner but first they had to know what the missing piece might be.

They soldered in a strip of lead to hold it all together so they could fit it into place in the apse to properly assess how far they’d come with the work. They stood back to admire their work.

“Is that what it’s supposed to look like?” asked Reggie

“Search me,” Simon said.

As light flooded in, the central figure shone at last in all his glory out of the renovated window and it became clear what was missing from the piece. The main figure was obviously looking down towards someone he loved, perhaps a beloved friend. Reggie and Simon looked at each other and as one voice they said what the other was thinking.

“Woodstock!” they chimed. And Reggie swears to this day that at this point, he looked up and saw Snoopy smile.