Christmas short story competition
We had a huge response to our Christmas short story competition, judged by Chichester writer Greg Mosse.
The moving winning entry by Daniela Norris, based on a real life experience, can be enjoyed in the Observer Magazine this week, and these are the runners-up.
Thanks to all for your entertaining festive tales.
Merry Christmas!
Runner-up in our Christmas short story competition
Christmas Past, Present and...Future
By Sharon Ivall
The consultant's office was bland, impersonal, not that she really noticed. What she did notice, as she sat down next to her father, was the box of tissues set prominently in front of them.
The consultant began talking about the treatment given, she nodded to show she was paying attention but his measured, well modulated voice seemed to be just there in the air between them. She couldn't look at him, had no idea whether he was young or old.
The soft, creamy white tissues in front of her were peeping out of a blue-green box. She had always liked a certain shade of blue and green together, it reminded her of early summer days; of sitting on a gently sloping bank of fresh new grass, soft and springy to the touch with a little stream timelessly passing by, busy with its own concerns.
"There's nothing more we can do." The voice had stopped. The silence seemed to be waiting. She was aware of her father, still and unreachable beside her. She couldn't stay in this sterile place. She made her body move. She leant forward and reached out towards the soft inviting whiteness. With the tissue clasped tightly in her right hand, she didn't look back. Somehow she was aware that he had called for a nurse. She kept going.
The two short weeks that followed were frozen in her memory; the beseeching look on her mother's childlike face, grey eyes appealing for reassurance. If only she could have kissed her mother better as she had been kissed and chant those magical, healing words, "There, there, it's alright". She was aware that life carried on. That people went to work, went out in the evening, but she had slipped away, was only a distant observer.
Yet each new day began gloriously; crisply white and coldly beautiful, with grass and plants intricately frozen under a clear and resolute sky. An exhilarating late-autumn air leapt to meet her as she left the house making her cheeks tingle and arousing her senses with memories of exciting childhood birthdays; of those special cold mornings when she had woken in the dark too excited to sleep.
Peeping over her heavy, warm covers she would be aware of the cold waiting to pounce hungrily on her soft, bare skin. As the dark gave way to exhilarating sunlight she would take the plunge. Breaking free from her cosy, well-laundered cocoon she would fly downstairs. Memories of a woollen hand-made rug, warmed by a large coal fire and piled with exciting presents came automatically to mind, as much a part of her as her moving arms, her pacing legs.
She had always loved autumn, a time of childhood anticipation, of birthdays, bonfire nights and the exciting build-up to Christmas.
Gradually she noticed that the cold bright days had gone, replaced by dark, dreary weather. Shops began to take on a glittering new look, feverishly-enticing shoppers with their particular vision of Christmas perfection. Mesmerised by the tiny white Christmas lights twinkling amongst the plastic pine she let her thoughts drift back over the years.
A white tinsel Christmas tree took root in her memory covered with multicoloured fairy lights; baubles of every colour reflecting the room beyond almost as if each small, fine glass orb had cast a magical spell and imprisoned the room and its inhabitants within its shiny, fragile surface.
Christmas had been a busy time for her mother. No freezer in their house so her mother cooked her way through Christmas Eve whilst she endured that longest of long days. Treats such as jam tarts made with left-over pastry kept her going until night time when her father, finally home from work, would lift her onto his shoulders and give a coalman's carry to bed. She would try so desperately to fall asleep but always woke in the small hours.
Finally, not being able to wait any longer, she would turn on the light and see a colourful heap of presents just waiting to be discovered. One year there was a doll as tall as she was, another a little polar bear skiing along with a baby bear bobbing alongside.
She would open all these wonderful gifts, examining and exploring each one and when she couldn't wait any longer would tiptoe into her parents' darkened room, going without hesitation to her mother's side of the bed to share and prolong the excitement.
The typically flat, wet December weather continued. On her way home from work she decided to stop at the garden centre. A soft misty rain filled the air and somehow managed to soak her by the time she had locked the car and put the keys in her handbag.
As she stepped through the door her eyes were drawn towards a warm and cosy world of tradition; of reds and golds, of cupids and candles nestling amongst fragrant pine needles, of twinkling white fairy lights and fine glass baubles. As she walked amongst these treasures the mood changed to frosty snow scenes and jolly snowmen.
She rounded an aisle and was suddenly confronted with a black Christmas tree surrounded by square glass vases holding stylish silver and white baubles, modern but impersonal, cold and lifeless. She turned away back to the Christmas of her childhood and searching amongst the decorations she found it. A small, round cake tin just like the one her mother had used to hold the carefully made Christmas cake. It was red and covered with lots of laughing Santa faces, all chuckling up at her. She could almost hear his deep, "Ho! Ho! Ho!"
On the way home she stopped at the local store to buy ingredients. Finding the recipe book had been a struggle but as she worked her way methodically through the instructions a sense of peace began to steal over her. She slowly stirred the thick, spicy cake mixture watching the dark fruit contrast with red cherries and golden mixed peel.
She smelt the comforting and oh-so-familiar smell of mixed spice, of cinnamon and brandy. As she worked in the warm kitchen she became aware of a feeling of companionship, she didn't feel quite so lost and empty. Inspired she worked on; measuring the round tin and lining it carefully with greased paper all the while aware of an invisible presence looking on, watching her efforts.
Even though it was late she was determined to bake the cake that night. She placed it in the centre of the oven and suddenly exhausted sat down and closed her eyes. And she knew she was there. She couldn't look but she knew her mother was standing right by her. Her fingers trembled wanting to reach out but she knew if she moved she would break this fragile moment.
Her mother was with her and she finally understood. Life didn't end with death but continued as if embedded in the air, in forgotten memories, in simple actions. She felt her mother leave as if now free to continue her own journey but the feeling of peace remained.
She knew this would be a good Christmas.
Third in our Christmas short story competition
Christmas Every Day
By Darren Green
I used to love Christmas, at least until last year I did.
It was autumn when Cassie came to work with us and I have to admit we never hit it off. She made it clear that she thought me tedious and after stabs at friendliness I concluded that she was too precious to bother with. She was self-obsessed and miserable; I flatter myself perhaps but the complete opposite of fun loving me. We acted with barely polite professionalism towards each other for a while...then came Christmas.
I first realised that she was probably not the biggest fan of the festive period when I caught her tutting at my advent calendar. I am a traditionalist in these matters, no chocolate filled advent for me. I had a snowbound scene with glitter and cute animals celebrating Christmas in their own anthropomorphic way.
Cassie stomped in to the room, aggrieved at some merriment that she'd not approved of. Glaring at my calendar, she huffed "not you as well" and barked some order at me before I could reply. Later that day the card I'd sent her came back...in pieces.
Some days later I went to Fountain for a drink with some friends where I noticed Cassie, talking with a tall, dreadlocked man in an earnest manner. Neither of them appeared to be enjoying themselves. My friends left after four pints but as I was not satiated I remained.
Cassie's friend left abruptly, exchanging expletives and insults with her as he went. I sat alone for a while before my blood-alcohol level reached such heights as common sense and me were strangers. At this point I decided it would be a good idea to talk to Cassie, who had spent the intervening period with an expression somewhere between angry defiance and pathetic grief plastered across her pale, countenance.
"Cheer up, it may never happen!"
As an opening gambit this would have been poor even had I been twice as drunk and been talking to somebody five times as good-humoured. She glared at me with contempt, clearly 'it' had already happened and she hadn't yet come to terms with 'it'. She was not forthcoming about the cause of her misery but I guessed that romance between Cassie and the young man was now a less likely proposition than it had been.
Realising that the gravity of the matter probably required a little more in the way of seriousness, I countered my opening with astounding depth.
"You ok?"
All right, not that deep at all but certainly an improvement. "Yeah..." she returned, "He's a git anyway."
Being the first time she had used that word without implying that I was one I felt we had reached a new level of understanding and bought her a drink. Briefly we were as close as we were ever to be, drinking together without abuse. It wasn't to last, and it is all the fault of Roy Wood and Wizard. I Wish It Could Be Christmas Every Day started to blare from the juke box and I decided to sing it. Not the best decision I've ever made, in retrospect.
In the following tirade that spewed from her I discovered many things. The young man was Jake and he had been Cassie's lover. They had been followers of a pagan religion with a dark, supernatural element until Jake had fallen in with a bad crowd, some Christians, and had renounced his former faith and had left her to devote his life to Jesus. Cassie was none too pleased about this and decided to take it out on me due to her being in love with Jake and regarding me as pond life.
"You wish it could be Christmas every day do you? Well, I'll fix it for you!" she snarled at me with a fury seldom seen in humans. At this point my bladder advised me to go empty it before it emptied itself so I dismissed myself and swaggered to the men's room. By the time I returned she had gone.
I poured the remains of her drink in to mine and downed it, it tasted a little odd but I assumed this was due to the involuntary evacuation of my digestive system that had occurred in the gents so thought little of it.
The next day was fine, not even a hangover, so I went to work. I was nervous about running in to Cassie but it turned out she had called in sick so...no problem. She didn't return before Christmas and there was a great atmosphere in the office for those few days before we broke up.
Then I enjoyed Christmas like I never had before, it just felt so special, like the ones I remember from my school days. It is just as well that I enjoyed it so much as to all intents and purposes it was my last.
It was weeks later I realised something was wrong. It had been a particularly jovial New Year so it didn't surprise me when it took a while to get over the excitement. Then everything started to feel decidedly odd. At first it was just the atmosphere. I don't mean the air but the feeling one gets in one's bones at special times.
It was like the feeling I used to get at school when the headmaster did his reading of A Christmas Carol instead of doing prayers in assembly, the feeling I get when the enormous tree went up by the market cross at the beginning of December or when Auntie Rose visits with her brightly wrapped gifts. This was fantastic, I loved that feeling!
But how quickly things spoil when they are left out in the wrong weather. By March the daffodils were appearing and the sun was out and by Easter it all felt so, so wrong. It was around this time that I realised that Christmas every day was becoming a horribly real prospect.
It went on. Every flesh I taste is turkey, every drink tastes of those horrible liqueurs that only get drunk on Boxing Day. Television is a chore with that feeling when one watches a Christmas special of some comedy show and it isn't set at Christmas time and it isn't very funny and it's all massively disappointing; every show is like the 2001 special of Only Fools and Horses. Every chocolate tastes of the coffee one from Quality Street that nobody likes except Auntie Rose. Auntie Rose is around constantly, drunk on Bailey's.
The sofa is full of nutshells, sticking in me when I sit down and the aroma of Satsuma peel invades me with every breath.
I don't know what Cassie did to me but I know it was her.
She never came back to work and the last time I tried to find her I discovered that Jake had 'saved' her and they had gone to do Christian work together. I always said religion ruined Christmas.
It is now December again but I am at odds with the latest festive season. For me the last one hasn't ended yet...
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Weather for Chichester
Tuesday 14 February 2012
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