Estronomicon Christmas 2006

Christmas Edition 2006

Contents

ESTRONOMICON The Official SD eZine *** Published by Screaming Dreams *** Edited by Steve Upham *** Cover Artwork 'Winter Forest' Š Anne Stokes 2006

Page

Festive Greetings A Christmas Pilgrim Snarling Santa Distant Early Warning No Place For The Cross Winter Child Of Ice Not For Publication The Artful Collector Christmas Card This Ain't No Christmas C a r o l They Swarmed Over Him I Don't Believe In You Santa Cloak And Dagger I've Only Got A Few Minutes Ice Dragon Nightmare On 34th Street Ornament Winter Solstice On A Night Like This Guidolon Christmas Tabitha's Angel Snowman & The Gift The Stuff Of Life And Death Wentur Faery . . .

O Christmas Tree Wizard's Christmas The Merry Elf

All content remains the Copyright of each contributor and must NOT be re-used without written permission from the original Copyright holder(s). Thank you.

1 2 6 7 11 12 13 23 24 40 41 51 52 53 54 57 58 69 70 71 85 86 89 90 96 97 102 103

Festive Greetings : 1

Festive Greetings

by Steve Upham

First of all I'd like to wish everyone a Merry Christmas and Happy New Year! I hope 2006 has been kind to you and that 2007 will continue to bring good fortune and happiness.

I'd also like to thank all the contributors who have generously donated their time and work to this eZine over the past 12 months. It has been an honour to publish so many great features in each issue. And thanks to all the readers who make this project worthwhile! Your continued feedback and support is always very much appreciated.

So what's ahead for 2007? I will be continuing to build on the success of Estronomicon with about half a dozen issues planned for next year. The format will stay pretty much the same except there'll be some new content appearing alongside the usual material. So keep reading, thanks.

Don't forget that I will also be releasing a selection of free eBooks throughout the year, which will further expand on the fiction available from many of the eZine authors. This will provide the opportunity to offer longer stories and/or collections of themed short story anthologies.

Screaming Dreams will also be entering the small press domain with a few printed books during 2007. Due to the level of interest I have been receiving about this idea, I felt it was the next logical step for the publishing venture. There will be further information about the forthcoming books on the website shortly.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy this Christmas edition of the eZine. A big thank you to all the authors and artists who provided the material at very short notice!

Catch you in the New Year.

2 : A Christmas Pilgrim

A Christmas Pilgrim

by Neil Davies from an idea by Cathy Davies

The old man grumbled to himself as he shuffled through the slush on the pavement, worn shoes squelching as ice-cold water seeped in with each step. He pointedly ignored the carollers singing 'Jingle Bells' outside a brightly lit shop doorway, was equally disdainful of the glittering window displays and the hurrying late-night shoppers, all wrapped in coats and gloves and warm hats.

He felt every icy breeze through the thin, torn jacket and old T-shirt hanging loosely on his gaunt, emaciated frame.

It wasn't that he hated Christmas, but it was an inconvenience, a trouble. The rest of the year he could lie low, hide from most people, live his own, solitary existence. True, he would be hungry most of the time, but he preferred it that way.

The hunger kept him focussed. When he was well fed he changed, became a different person. Even his personality changed, and he didn't like what he became.

"Sorry."

He looked up at the woman he had walked into and smiled, almost laughed, at the automatic politeness that led her to apologise, even as she stared at him in disgust and horror.

"Fuck off lady!"

He didn't watch, but he knew she would be pushing fast away from him, turning to look back. She probably felt nauseous, and that did make him laugh.

He hadn't looked in a mirror since last Christmas, but he didn't need to. Every time he touched his face he felt the sagging skin, dripping like melted plastic off his bones. Not even the beard he allowed to grow could hide the horror of his ill-fitting flesh. Once he had tried to shave, but chunks of flesh had come away with the hair and it had taken months to heal. He had never tried since.

His stomach growled, reminding him of his hunger. This was the one time of year he looked for food.

No, not looked. Hunted.

A Christmas Pilgrim : 3

He shuffled further through the crowds, finding a certain grim amusement in the way they parted in front of him, afraid to touch him.

So much for the Christmas spirit.

Still, if they knew what he fed on, what he hunted, they would be on the other side of the street.

That thought made him laugh so hard he fell into a coughing fit, stopping, bending forward, spitting phlegm into the dirty-white slush at his feet.

He lifted the black plastic sack he carried in his right fist, shifted it to his left to balance the agony that shot through his bent, claw-like fingers, and turned into the alleyway that opened on his right.

He knew it well. This was a good hunting ground.

As the bright, Christmas sounds of the main shopping street faded behind him, he heard the less joyful, but more welcoming, sounds of hushed voices up ahead.

He did not hesitate in his shuffling gait, did not care if he was heard or seen.

Why would they bother about a crumbling old man like him? They were young.

They were strong. They would be so high by this time that, even if they did notice him, they'd find him a joke. Certainly not a threat.

The stench of dog shit and overflowing restaurant bins drifted around him and he found it comforting. So like home. Home, except at this time of year.

He never looked forward to the hunt, the kill. It was not a pleasure. It was a compulsion.

The five teenagers, sharing a bottle of vodka and a poorly rolled joint, barely noticed the old man until it was too late to do anything but scream.

He fell on them, not with relish or satisfaction, but with an almost bored resignation. This was what he did, not who he was.

Except at Christmas.

He tore at their throats with sharp, ragged fingernails, ripped windpipes with stained teeth, pulled still pumping arteries out with arthritic fingers and drank the hot blood that spurted, then dripped, then pooled on the alley floor. Handfuls of

4 : A Christmas Pilgrim

flesh and organs were pushed into his mouth, his chin dripping with lumps of bloody tissue. He lapped at the spilt blood like an animal.

And as he fed, his body began to fill-out.

The sagging skin of his face grew taut as his cheeks expanded, so tight the wrinkles were smoothed and the eyes no longer hid in deep sockets. His T-shirt grew taut across his growing belly and he had to loosen his trousers before they burst.

Still he ate and drank, a glutton sitting among the raw, steaming mess that was his food. He sucked the last flesh from a finger, gnawed at a soft, well-fed arm, teasing out strings of muscle from between his teeth, too tough to digest. He amused himself for a while in a spitting contest, seeing which travelled further, fingernails or toenails. He judged the toenails won, but only because one was deformed, thicker, and therefore heavier, than the others.

He did not hurry his food, not wanting to suffer indigestion later.

At the end of the alley, shoppers hurried past, laden with parcels and bags. None looked down the alleyway, and he was able to savour every last morsel of flesh, of organ, every last drop of blood.

Fully sated, he allowed the next part of his compulsion to take control.

He stripped naked, pulling his now tight clothes off over rolls of fat, and washed himself in the pools of ice-cold water gathered in the hollows of the alley floor and the still fresh drifts of snow against the alley walls. Opening the black sack at his feet, he drew out his new clothes, his once-a-year special occasion clothes.

As he dressed in the red trousers, the black boots, the red coat, he could no longer remember why he thought he hated Christmas so much. Christmas was the best time of year, a time of giving and caring. This was the time he waited for all through the annoyingly bright spring, the unbearably hot summer, the depressingly long autumn. This was his time of year.

Stepping from the alleyway, back into the packed throng of shoppers, he smiled and stretched smooth, straight fingers over the bulge of his stomach. Once more the people parted before him, but this time with a cheery 'Merry Christmas' or a laugh and a wave. He no longer sneered at the window displays but marvelled at the ingenious animatronic animals and sparkling fairy lights. In a moment of

A Christmas Pilgrim : 5

spontaneity he stopped and sang a couple of verses of 'The Holly And The Ivy' with the carollers, shaking hands with their leader before moving on his way once more.

Laughing, smiling and full of the joys of the season, Santa Claus made his way along the decorated city streets on the start of his annual pilgrimage North. *** Copyright Š Neil Davies 2006

Thanks to Neil for writing this new story at such short notice! Don't forget to visit his website at : www.nwdavies.co.uk

Cover Artwork : Copyright Š Steve Upham 2006

Also keep watching for his new book 'The Midnight Hour' which is being published by Screaming Dreams and due out in the New Year!

6 : Festive Artwork : Snarling Santa

'Snarling Santa' : Copyright Š Les Edwards 2000

Find more amazing art by Les at : www.lesedwards.com

Distant Early Warning : 7

Distant Early Warning

by Paul Ray

"SNEW." "What?"

"SNEW. You know, S.N.E.W., like snow, only SNEW.” Gordon clasped his hands behind his head and fought a grin. "This is the D.E.W. Line, after all."

"You're an idiot," replied Spencer, not amused. "Hand me that chart."

Defeated, Gordon silently passed the chart roll over and picked up his steaming mug.

The two scientists were holed up in a small observation hut at the base of a massive radar dish, furnished with the barest necessities required to conduct their research. A sparse line of such stations stretched across several thousand kilometres of frozen landscape in the far Canadian north.

"I can think of a million places I'd rather be on Christmas Eve," said Gordon, between sips of hot liquid, "and a million things I'd rather be doing."

"You didn’t seem to mind joining on the last trip," said Spencer, still studying the chart.

"Last time it was summertime. And it wasn't the exciting task of reconfiguring all this archaic equipment that got me to tag along I might add... but now, fishing season is definitely over." He made a mock shiver sound. "Besides, I thought you’d appreciate a little company."

"How noble. There’s a toolbox over there if you’re still keen. Maybe you can find something to gnaw a hole through the top of Great Slave Lake and pull out a few frozen minnows.”

“Thanks, I’ll pass. The only thing I want to catch now is the next sled heading south.”

“Well, if this Cold War relic will perform for us tonight we'll be gone soon enough."

8 : Distant Early Warning

"This station was originally designed to watch for nukes coming over the pole, not for spying on Saint Nick. Do you think we'll actually even see anything?"

"Well, if our calculations are anywhere near correct, then yes. Don't forget, we're not the only ones interested in proving his existence once and for all."

"Right, right, all of our investors..." Gordon leaned forward to see what Spencer was studying. "Well, our tiny grant, anyhow. But do you think the effort will be worth it? I mean really, so what if there is a Santa Claus?"

Spencer looked up.

"Proving he's real is just the first step," he said. "If we can figure out how he actually does what he's rumoured to be capable of, then there's no telling what uses such fantastic technologies could have for the betterment of mankind."

"You mean like how such a fat guy squeezes down a narrow chimney pipe? Or how he gets airborne in that sleigh of his-" "And how he does it all so quickly!"

Blip.

"The scanner." Spencer glided his chair to the radar console. A green line slowly swept its radius.

Blip.

"There!" Gordon pointed.

"Yes, yes, I see it. Over Newfoundland." There was excitement in Spencer's voice.

"That makes sense, right? I mean, considering time zones.”

Blip.

“I guess.”

“Just look at him go. This is amazing!"

Blip.

Distant Early Warning : 9

“Here it is, Gord, our proof! We did it!" Spencer grinned a big grin and looked up at his friend. "SNEW!" he exclaimed and spun in his chair. "SNEW, SNEW, SNEW! The Saint Nick Early Warning line!" He burst out laughing.

"Oh..." the tone of Gordon's voice killed the laughter.

"What? What happened?"

"He's gone."

Spencer looked blankly at the quietly sweeping line. The blip had vanished.

"I don't understand," he said, somewhat perplexed. "Where did it go?"

"Well,” offered Gordon, “I suppose one possibility that you might want to consider...”

“Yes?” “Well, I mean as a grown man and all...” Gordon was trying to break it to his colleague as gently as possible. “Well, perhaps there really is no Santa after all. I mean it could have just been some sort of malfunction all along. Are you sure the equipment is properly calibrated?"

"Yes, positive. We spent the better part of a day on it, remember?” He thumped the side of the monitor several times. “Everything's working perfectly."

"Well then, maybe he just had to go home and get some more toys..." Gordon said.

"Of course! He's just taken care of every kid in South America, and on his way to pick up another load he decided to get Newfoundland out of the way, too. Like you said, it makes perfect sense with them being half-an-hour ahead and all."

And it did make sense: even Santa couldn't possible carry an entire planet-load of toys in one go.

The pair watched the screen intensely, waiting for the sleigh to return. Minutes passed, and each wondered if the other had yet blinked, let alone breathed. Their chairs creaked as the pair leaned in and stared at the hypnotic line sweeping the spotlessly dark screen for what seemed like the hundredth time around.

Bleep!

10 : Distant Early Warning

"There!" they both shouted, and embraced. The green dot had reappeared, moving away from the very North Pole itself!

"Will you look at that?" exclaimed Gordon. "His trajectory!”

Spencer slammed his hand down on the chart and slid his finger across it. “It'll pass right above us!"

Gordon grabbed some binoculars from a hook on the wall, and handed a pair to his friend. "Let's get a first hand look at this jolly old elf!" he said, pulling on his coat.

A blast of arctic air rushed into the hut as they stumbled out the door. A mere sliver of a moon shone down on them, yet an endless blanket of whiteness reflected a brightness of its own.

"SNOW!" shouted Gordon.

"I know," replied Spencer.

"No, no, SNOW! S.N.O.W., instead of SNEW." "SNOW?" But then Spencer clued in.

"SNOW!" they shouted in unison. "Saint Nick Overhead Warning!" Together they broke into fits of laughter.

They were both looking up through their binoculars when the warhead exploded directly above them, melting them and the knee-deep snow for miles around.

One by one, more green dots appeared on the tiny round screens of other radar stations all along the SNEW line, indicating that several more Santas were on the way. *** Copyright © Paul Ray 2002

Check out Paul's blog here : paulxray.journalspace.com

No Place For The Cross : 11

No Place For The Cross

by Alexis Child

In Golgotha, throne of bone, parched earth spurned by the light of sun, over ancient graves of blood and moss, he rises like smoke from the blood of the pierced. The wind summons the gust of a stronger wind, whispering ashes to scatter, raising a king from immortal bones.

Floating through the skull's jaw, he returns to an empty Eden, capturing Heaven's tears, gloomy before God, "This is not my world, I was made for another."

Unwilling to give up his dust, stares into chaos, kissing wrath. Stealing earth's attic, and light from the stars, eclipses the angels to seed a world unborn, suspended within the womb of our awakening, and the matrix of space, in which there is no place for the cross.

*** Copyright Š Alexis Child 2005

Alexis Child hails from Toronto, Canada; horror in its purest form. She works at a Call Crisis Centre befriending demons of the mind that roam freely amongst her writings.

Visit her website where the guillotine continues to gush forth with blood : www.angelfire.com/poetry/alexischild

12 : Festive Artwork : Winter

'Winter' : Copyright Š Ben Baldwin 2006

See more of Ben's work online at : www.benbaldwin.co.uk

Child Of Ice : 13

Child Of Ice

by Tony Richards

Ontario in winter. The green of the pine forests darkens till the trees seem almost blue. Ice tests the margins of the lakes like a wary bather before spreading out. A reverent silence falls across the land and the sun, high in the bleached blue sky, is bright and round and small as a new nickel. Below, the dormant earth waits to be sealed and refrigerated, stored away for the next spring.

It comes about October, the snow. Always has since the Earth cooled and the climates settled down. In August so blazing hot that grass shimmers and the sky sweats, but a mere two months later ... the first flakes, large as falling oak leaves, tumbling and spiralling on the vagrant wind to find rest. And be joined, and joined, until the entire landscape has been smothered white. It stays that way until the end of April and right up to the week before the thaw it seems that it will never go.

Night.

Outside the newly-built log cabin, cold that is almost palpable. Inside, sudden heat.

'My God, Jack! It’s coming!’

Jack Mangold looked up from his warm place by the fire to the sofa, where his wife Celese was sitting, clutching her swollen abdomen. She had gone pale. From fright, he realized, not pain. He jumped from his seat. The Toronto Star, a pencil, ashtray, several dead cigarette butts, flew in all directions, ‘Are you sure? This early?’

He looked at the expression on her face and knew that the answer was yes. No cramp, no false alarm. His first child was on the way. He crossed to the hooks by the door and snatched down his fur-lined coat, donned it, scrabbled in the pockets for his car keys.

‘The hospital!’ shouted Celese. ‘You’ve got to phone them first, let them know we’re coming.’

‘Okay. Now keep calm, or you’ll rush the birth.’

14: Child Of Ice

He wasn’t sure if that was true, but it seemed to do the trick. Celese controlled herself by breathing deeply, just as the lessons had taught her. She glanced at her wristwatch, timing the next contraction, then put on her own coat while Jack was phoning into town. Half of the buttons wouldn’t do up; no one had thought to buy a larger coat. She smiled at the stupidity of it, completely calm now.

‘They’re ready any time we get there,’ Jack said, putting the phone back in its cradle. ‘I’ll go start up the car.’

He went to the door, opened it, and stopped dead.

A wind had sprung up, skimming the top layers of snow off the ground, whirling it into an animated frenzy. The sky, the distant lights of the town, were obscured. New drifts were forming all the time.

Jack thought, Oh God, why couldn’t this have waited till the thaw. Just one week longer, that’s all.

And Celese, No, I didn’t choose this moment. This is not my fault. Guiltily.

‘They say nothing good comes easy,’ she managed to blurt.

Jack just glared.

‘Get packed,’ he said. ‘I’ve got blankets and a spare heater in the back of the car.

We’ll need them. If,’ he added, ‘we ever get that far.’

Celese considered staying put. Jack could deliver the child himself, following the manual. But one look at his clumsy, crop-farmer’s hands, at the way they shook with panic, dismissed the idea. She hurried to the bedroom.

Jack had the car out by the door when she came back. He was gunning the engine furiously. Thick white smoke billowed from the exhaust; a million white locusts swirled in and out of the headlamp beams. The car was becoming covered with snow even as it stood.

Jack leaned across and shoved the passenger door open., ‘Come on! You’ll freeze!’

Behind the anger and the fright, there was deep concern his voice. It was as if, in the urgency of the moment, he had only just remembered that he loved her.

Child Of Ice : 15

Celese scrambled in, waited while Jack tucked a blanket over her shoulders. The car’s heater was still blowing cold air through. She shivered.

‘I can’t even put on my seat-belt,’ she said mournfully.

‘I’ll drive carefully,’ said Jack, and gazing out at the exploding night he knew there was no way to drive carefully enough. He put the car into first and, bearing down hard on the gas, moved off. The tyres made deep, narrow ruts in the snow.

Within seconds, they were covered up again.

On the road, there was ice beneath the snow. Celese and Jack rode in silence, concentrating on the way ahead as the windscreen wipers scythed back and forth and still did not completely clear the glass. Condensation formed on the inside, and every time Jack went to wipe it the car swerved a little. Eight miles an hour, so slow and yet too fast. Around them, the snow snatched and tried to hold and, failing, tried again.

Celese winced and said, ‘The contractions are coming every ten minutes now, Jack. We don’t have that much time.’

Jack edged the speed up to twelve. Immediately, a flurry of snow blew flat into the windscreen, stayed there. The wipers cleared it to reveal that he had nearly gone off the road.

‘It almost trapped us,’ Jack said.

Outside, the snowstorm howled. Like an animal. The veil of white parted for an instant to reveal distant lights. The town, dangled like a bait. For the first time since they had set off, Jack and Celese felt hope. It blinded them, made them unwary. Jack’s foot inched the gas pedal further down.

The car took the next bend at fifteen, and Jack practically did not see the drift until he hit it. Huge and solid, blocking the whole width of the road, it loomed out of the night like a tidal wave. Jack braked as hard as he dared, spun the wheel, and the car skidded round. It hit the drift rear on. Celese screamed as she was flung back against her seat. She clutched at her neck in agony. ‘Are you okay?’ asked Jack, hoarsely.

Celese managed to nod, though she was hardly sure. The impact had set the life inside her kicking madly, sending sharp slivers of pain up through her stomach.

What if the child had been turned upside down? A breech birth, after all of this.

Perhaps even a still birth. She curled up inside, focusing every thought, every

16 : Child Of Ice

muscle, nerve and ganglion on her womb, trying to protect it. Her breathing was ragged. She fought to steady it, won.

‘It’s not coming yet?’ asked Jack.

‘No.’ Celese gazed out of the window. ‘Wonderful, isn’t it? I can oversee my body almost like a machine, but that doesn’t matter a damn now. The snow has never heard of breathing exercises or contractions, and even if it had heard it wouldn’t care.'

She screwed her eyes tight shut.

‘I wonder what the manual has to say about this?’

Jack looked at her as he had never looked before, and said, ‘I’m going to get help.'

‘That’s crazy, Jack. They’re bound to find us soon.'

‘It could be hours. We can’t take that chance.'

He leant across the back of his seat, rummaged, surfaced with the last blanket and a cylinder of brass.

‘I won’t be long,’ he said. ‘The blanket will help keep you warm. And keep your left foot on the gas pedal. Here. If the engine stops, the heater stops too. It shouldn’t; there’s a full tank of gas and a new battery. But if it does ...’

He held up the cylinder. It looked like an old-fashioned miner’s lamp.

‘This is what I usually use to warm the crop shed. It runs off kerosene. You just have to light the wick. Here -- here’s my lighter. Don’t lose it. And open the window a fraction first, or the fumes will get to you. All right?’

‘I suppose so. Jack, be careful.’

‘I will,’ said Jack. ‘For the sake of all three of us. I love you, Celese.’

And then, without waiting for her reply, he was out into the storm. Turning as far round as she could manage, Celese watched him clamber up the side of the drift, terrified that he would sink through it and be lost. Jack reached the top at last, vanished from sight.

Child Of Ice : 17

She was alone. *** The snow. It understood. Seven days left. Seven suns. And then, gone. The warmth of spring. Thawing. Melting. Death.

But in the iron thing, something fresh, something new. Waiting to be born. To live. To see the spring. To exist always. Never melts. Never dies.

It understood, and it wanted. *** Celese’s left foot was getting cramp by the time she heard the scream. She had been pressing on the gas pedal, just as Jack had told her. It was difficult. She had to stretch her leg to reach it, and the contractions were coming faster now. It was like a carefully devised torture.

The scream broke through her dazed discomfort, bringing her to her senses. She sat bolt upright, peering out. It came again. It could have been the wind. So often, on the winter nights when she lay in her bed, the gales had seemed to shriek with human voices. But this was not her bed, and her husband was out there somewhere.

‘Jack?’ she said. Then loudly, 'Jack?'

Something replied and, not caring what it was, Celese unlocked the passenger door. The wind blew it open, wide, beckoning. She stumbled out and immediately lost her footing. Face down she fell, yelping in fear for the child inside her, knowing that the shock might injure it. The snow did not let that happen.

Live. Must live.

Soft as down, it cushioned her. She sank into it and the space behind her clenched eyelids was filled with dazzling white. The pure, crisp coldness seeped into her body like a drug, soothing her, draining her last reserves of energy. The area around her womb began to tingle. It felt so, so pleasant, so good. She could stop fighting now, and sleep.

No! Celese burst out and clawed the snow from her face, from her front.

Especially from her front. As soon as she stood up, the cold became a hostile thing,

18 : Child Of Ice

tearing at her like a beast. She folded her arms protectively over her abdomen, glared at her surroundings. Hating them, she hated herself. She had almost given in.

Another contraction, the closest yet. She could not stand up straight.

‘Please wait, baby,’ she whispered. ‘Don’t come now. Not yet. We’ve got to find your Daddy.’

Behind her, the car door was slammed shut by the wind.

‘Jack!’ she yelled. ‘Where are you?’

The air was filled with cries for help, from at least a dozen separate directions.

Celese could not get her bearings in the storm. She staggered forward, her arms outstretched, her frozen hands grasping. They captured only snow. It swarmed at her, a horde of moths and she the light, filling her mouth, clogging her nostrils, coating her with ice. She was crying; the tears hardened on her cheeks.

The car was very far behind. Ahead, the flying snow made shadows which looked like men. Like Jack. Jack trapped in a drift, flailing. Jack fallen, his leg broken. Jack numbed with cold and dying, needing her, needing her. She hurried to him, only to find he was not there. At last, exhausted, she stopped to rest against the ivory pillar of a tree.

She leant there, gasping, her breath gossamer on the wind. Something Jack had said came back to her.

It almost trapped us.

Almost.

There were rows of footprints nearby, her own. She had already passed this tree twice, walking in circles. She groaned. Inside of her, the child struggled in sympathy. Celese realised that, in her panic, she had ignored its existence. She was torn between duties, loyalties. Jack, or the baby? At the final count, with the live warm thing moving inside her and the contractions coming fast, there was no contest. Jack was strong enough make it by himself. The child, on the other hand, relied on her alone.

She glanced back in the direction she thought the car lay, could not see it. Only more trees that way. They were all around her. She had wandered into the forest,

Child Of Ice : 19

quite how deep she could not tell. Lost. The thought welled up inside her like a sickness, like a sea of bile, filling her mouth with foulness and her mind with terror. She could not let go of the tree trunk; ice formed on her hands and held her.

She jerked her head from side to side, trying to see the car. Snow and more snow met her gaze. And trees. And ... there! A glimmer of light, lost at once. The headlamps.

Tearing herself free as if her hands and feet had become roots, Celese headed for the source of the brief light. All the way, the wind battered her head on. She leant into it and pushed. Does the wind change direction like this, to suit itself? It lashed pine branches into her face, grasping.

Must have. Must have.

The snow was knee deep, sucking at each footstep, making progress practically impossible. She would have given up had it not been for the child. So tiny, so helpless, its presence gave her the strength to challenge the elements. There were two storms raging, and the one inside her was very powerful and very warm. She forged on.

The car was still running when she got back. That was a miracle in itself. She tugged at the door, but it would not give. Frozen. A thin, clear sheet of ice sealed tight the jamb. Past caring now, Celese struck at it with her elbow, once, twice, very hard, too cold to feel the pain. The ice shattered, and she was in.

It was quiet inside the car, unearthly quiet after the shrieking of the wind.

Warm air from the heater caressed Celese as she flopped into her seat. She lay back, shivering, enervated, her body prickling with flushes of hot and cold. The snow on her melted, drenching her clothes, her hair, her skin. Water streamed across her lips and bubbled.

The child. It must be dead by now, she thought.

It stirred inside her, and the next contraction came. She smiled.

‘Tough kid. Your Daddy would be proud of you.’

She wondered how Jack was doing. There was one way to find out. Reaching for the dashboard, she switched on the car radio. ‘... a world record ...'

20 : Child Of Ice

The voice was drowned in static, surfaced again like a cork. It was crackly, but Celese could make it out. '... slalom. Which makes him the overall winner of the championships for the third year running. Southern Ontario still shivers in the grip of the worst recorded blizzard for sixteen years. The snow ploughs are making progress, but police warn that all roads are now impassable and no one should attempt to drive tonight.'

Thanks for the advice, thought Celese. ‘On a human note, rescuers are still searching for a man and woman believed to be trapped in the snow. Jack Mangold and his wife were thought to be hurrying from their farm five miles out of town to Toronto General, to deliver their first child, when the blizzard hit. They were an hour late arriving before the police were called. Dozens have joined the hunt. Rescuers fear the worst, but no one is giving up hope just yet. We’ll keep you posted.’ So Jack had not got through yet. Celese snapped the voice off.

At least help was on its way. Hear that, kid? And in the car, she was completely safe. *** The snow flurried across the sides of the metal box, probing, testing, finding its weaknesses. It came at last to the engine, the warm heart, and entered.

It piled up, throwing itself against the hot steel, melting, dying, dying. However much turned to water, there was plenty more, a continent more. It had always ruled this land in wintertime, and it would not be beaten. Suicide, steam, and still it came. The engine began to cool.

Celese was gliding through a waking dream, of hospitals, of beds, of cribs and baby clothes. Jack beside her, the proud father. She the mother, cradling the baby in her arms. The grandparents. The presents. And, next Christmas, the three of them sitting around a tinsel tree. In Florida. Where it was warm. Not here. Never again.

The ignition light flashed on, bright red. The engine began to stutter.

Celese stamped her foot down on the gas pedal. It did no good. The engine continued to lose power and, with a final half-hearted shudder, stilled. The heater

Child Of Ice : 21

sighed its last breath. Alarmed, Celese switched on the light inside the car. It was fading too; the cold was destroying the battery.

There was a rustling noise from near Celese’s feet. She stared down to see snow pouring in through the heating vents. How in God’s name could it do that? Her right foot was already covered, the snow creeping towards her ankle. There was a knob which closed the vent ... somewhere. Celese scrabbled till she found it.

Safe?

Above her head, the light went glow-worm dim, flickered off. The headlamps and the lights on the dashboard followed. Darkness. The car became a bubble of pure black surrounded by pure white.

Celese was far too tired to panic now. She found Jack’s lighter in her pocket, sparked the flint. The glow of the butane flame reflected off the windows, came back white. The car was covered with snow, there was no way of telling how deep.

Celese sat rigid, fighting back a surge of claustrophobia. It was like being locked in a padded cell. She felt the urge to hurl herself against the walls. The breath from her mouth was turning to mist. The temperature was plummeting. Celese picked up the kerosene lamp.

You just have to light the wick. Open the window a fraction first.

She gazed at the window, at the thick snow outside. Surely if she opened it a mere half inch the snow could not get in? Surely? The alternative was to freeze to death, her and the child. She busied herself with the wick, goading it into flame.

An orange, mellow light oozed out, and with it a strong oily smell. Celese coughed.

The fumes will get to you.

She grasped the window handle with one trembling hand, turned it. Just one quarter of an inch. For the snow, it was enough. Alive, with the blind fury of an avalanche, it rushed in. Celese struggled to close the window again but the handle was stuck. The snow found footholds in the gap, applied a fraction of the pressure which had shaped mountains. The glass shattered, and then there was no stopping it. Like crystal water, it flowed.

Celese dragged herself across to the driver’s seat, flattened herself against the door. There was no further to go. The snow filled the car around her until she was isolated in a pocket of air with her precious burden. Within, the birth pains

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slammed her like a hammer.

Fort of hot blood, wall of ice. The snow hung there, waiting, wanting, and Celese knew that she would die before she let it have her child. She flung the kerosene lamp at the snow. It hit, gouged a deep wound, was finally extinguished.

The snow crashed down on Celese, burying her, tightening about her. She screamed until her mouth was filled, and then went on screaming inside her head.

The noise echoed through her skull, growing distant, vanishing down a deep well ...

Silence, save for the howling of the wind.

The snow poured into her. *** ‘It’s tragic,’ said the nurse. ‘Pregnant, and trapped like that.’

She walked quickly along the corridor, beneath the rows of bright, sterile lights.

Beside her, the doctor ran a hand through his matted hair. His eyes were still puffy with sleep. He had not shaved.

‘Christ,’ he said, ‘what a night to have a baby.’

‘They found the father half a mile from the city limits,’ the nurse continued.

‘Dead. Half-buried in a drift. The mother was in the car, much further back. She was dead too, but the child was still alive, inside her. They removed it by caesarean section.’

The doctor nodded bleakly. ‘It’s been heard of before. The mother stays warm for a while and that keeps the child going.’

‘No, that’s the amazing thing. The mother was stone cold, the child too. Like ice, and white as snow. A little girl. It’s a miracle she lived.’

They turned a corridor together, headed for a wide swing door.

‘We’ve got her in the incubator now,’ the nurse said. ‘It’s on as warm as we dared.’

Entering the room, they stopped and stared, aghast. The incubator was empty.

From below it came an unfamiliar sound.

Child Of Ice : 23

Drip, drip. *** Copyright © Tony Richards 1981

Be sure to visit Tony's website at : www.richardsreality.com

'Not For Publication' : Copyright © Edward Miller 2004

More fantastic artwork can be found at : www.edwardmiller.co.uk

24 : The Artful Collector

The Artful Collector Column 7 "To give or not to give . . . Art and Collectibles as gifts"

by Jane Frank

If you've ever spent hours tramping through a shopping mall, trying to imagine what on earth would please Aunt Harriet, convinced that no matter what you choose to give her this Holiday Season it will be considered eminently unsuitable, you can at least triple that anxiety if you are contemplating the purchase of a gift for Harriet as personal - and as idiosyncratic - as ART. Like perfume, lingerie, cigars, and ties (all infamous for their ability to antagonize the object of your affection, if chosen indiscriminately), there’s no sure way to fathom a collector’s tastes, short of an itemized “want list” - which surely saps the joy out of Christmas morning, not to mention the drain on your bank account ;-) Nor will relying on manufactured collectibles guarantee a warm reception, if the giftee takes a dim view of consumerism.

'Gifting', as merchandisers like to call it, is no simple matter these days. It's no wonder major department stores have special gift consultants; too bad these services are totally useless where collectibles are concerned! The stakes are even higher than for purchases of the aforementioned lingerie/tobacco/perfume/ties, which are dangerously personal, but can at least be returned. Very often, art and collectibles not only will be misunderstood, but cannot be returned – and this contributes mightily to the angst of gift-giving. Your temperature will rise when you visit close friends on Christmas day, and see your precious oh-so-cool and quirky Ugly Doll™ (meant for your niece) being handed off to the family dog as a chew toy. What were you thinking? That your niece would want to collect all ten in the series….as you have?

Cute & collectible Ugly Doll™ called “OX” as in HUG and KISS

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Is it sheer folly to presume to know another's taste in art? Is it worth the drama on a Holiday morning, when Aunt Harriet - who has previously disclosed her interest in "Smurfs" - discovers your Smurfs Animation Papa Xmas original animation cel (your eBay find, only $20.) Will she give you big hugs, pleased to be able to add to her collection of Smurf memorabilia?

It depends.

Knowing Auntie’s tastes is not enough, She is just as likely to be underwhelmed , as overjoyed, by your gift and for a number of reasons. Let’s review a few.

1.) Because she is a purist: she collects only the little blue characters, or only the characters in the xxx series, or only those made before 1975 or (you fill in the blank) and has no interest whatsoever in any other related or promotional items beyond her area of interest (keychains, pez, lunchboxes….or cels).

2.) Because she’s an advanced collector, and is picky about condition and type and what “fits into” her collection. And what you (well meaning, but ignorant) are likely to come up with is not only the least valuable example (because you can’t afford better) but least rare (because the commonest examples are easiest to find) – hence whatever it is, it will be totally useless to Auntie. She’ll smile broadly of course and thank you effusively and auction it on eBay, from whence it came.

3.) Because you don’t know what you are doing, and she hates the idea that you may have overpaid, or bought a fake, etc. Collectors think about those things. It won’t take Harriet long before she’s chivvying that information out of you. After a seemingly benign query or two, on the order of “oh, how interesting, where on earth did you find that?” You’ll quickly find yourself the subject of an interrogation, with no details spared. Don’t confuse this with sincere interest in provenance (see below). Think “debriefing” by the CIA. ”What!” Harriet will

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exclaim, after she’s extracted the penultimate detail, “you paid $$$ (how much???) for stamps from Staffa? Why on earth didn’t you ask me FIRST?” Your Auntie Harriet, lifelong animal lover and dedicated stamp collector, whom you thought would be thrilled, is aghast. The ultimate detail, of course, is WHOM you bought them from…so she can go wring the neck of the rotten dealer who took advantage of her favorite nephew.

Bogus stamps, unlike forgeries, do not even resemble anything that the entity did produce, and only rarely are any shipped to the place that is shown as issuing them. They are generally issued to deceive collectors.

Among these are the issues for the uninhabited Scottish island of Staffa.

But all the above reasons pale, indeed seem almost irrelevant, when compared to the simplest and truest of all reasons that a collector will be disappointed when they discover you’ve found something for them as a gift that (horrors!) they actually wished they owned: For many collectors, the whole point, and almost all the fun, lies in the QUEST for objects of desire and the THRILL OF DISCOVERY (and not the actual acquisition) Put another way, collecting is not just, or even always, product-driven (“mine is bigger than yours”). It may seem like that, to those who aren’t collectors. But trust me (I love writing that phrase ;-)…. Just as often – even for those fanatics who carry checklists in their wallets – it’s a process-driven hobby, more akin to

The Artful Collector : 27

woodworking, or bird watching in that regard. It’s all about “what you had to go through to catch that fish” – the memory of which will make for a grand tale years after you’ve forgotten what it tasted like at dinner. Questing, whether it takes place at flea markets or second-hand book stores, is all about the pleasure of THE HUNT. Poking around, looking for, praying to find, and finally pouncing on “X” before someone else does. Better yet, identifying “X” as a rarity, when everyone else had overlooked it! The collector’s dream!

Ironically, by shortcutting the process of happy and serendipitous exploration and discovery, by giving collectors what they’ve (ostensibly) been hunting for, for years….and thereby eliminating the need for further “questing,” you have essentially, and in effect, robbed the giftee of all the fun they get from collecting.

How mean-spirited can you get???? What, are you the GRINCH? <grin> Which brings me ask: WHY? As in, “Why are you doing this at all, going through this pain, searching for and buying art or collectibles as gifts, to begin with?” You could be buying any number of impersonal but desirable gifts. Battery-powered toothbrushes, travel clocks, rhinestone bedecked Ipod covers, a lovely umbrella from some Museum shop. Even a gift certificate. So, tell me: WHY? It’s ok, I know the answer already. Because there are some gifts that people would never buy for themselves that only you can find and give to them. And chances are, it’s because you are the collector here, and not them. In other words, this is your passion, not theirs. That’s all right. Fine by me! You can buy art and collectibles as gifts because it gives you pleasure, or because it gives Harriet pleasure. It can be fun either way. But think about this, before you go shopping.

Who is having, who is going to have, the most fun? Just like the Uncle who bought me a model kit so I could make a WWII bomber in balsa wood……propelled by rubberbands….who is ultimately going to be having the fun?

Gifting for the Purposes of Spreading Infection Yes – that is exactly what I am trying to do, whenever I buy gifts that expose others to my disease collecting interests. Most often, these are drawings or paintings or hand-crafted art objects that feature motifs that are associated with the sf/f/h genre – and they don’t have to be extreme examples to be effective. We have been very successful in commissioning fantasy portraits from artists whose work we know and appreciate. These take planning, and require the cooperation of artists and craftspeople who share your vision and your need to keep to a timetable. But the happiness (or humor) these engender is priceless.

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Jaelâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s portrait of our grandaughter Eve gift to her parents, last year.

But gifts can also can be mass-produced toys, games, or functional items (mugs, pencil holders, mouse pads). And just for fun. No need to really use them, or play them. Theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re just to make a point.

The Artful Collector : 29

Genre conventions, those with art shows or which feature “artist’s alleys,” and craft shows, are great for this: the prices are reasonable for the quality and the objects are unique. Every time I give others a little resin sculpt of a dragon, or a small glass sand-etched with a mermaid, or a crafted wood sculpt of a rocket ship, I’m convinced that contaminating the world with my idea of imaginative art, is a good thing. Plus, I’m making three people happy in the process: myself, the artist, and the recipient…what could be better? Why buy a plebian tie, when you could be buying something that is not likely to be duplicated by anyone else, and will be memorable, to boot?

“Flyby” by Johnna Klukas : www.jykboxes.com

If you and the recipient both enjoy the same collecting interests, then there is a higher likelihood that your gift will be well-received, so long as you keep a close eye on what your giftee is collecting. I buy items with skull and skeleton motifs for one friend, and anything Dragonish for another. If the recipient is a collector, but you don't share collecting interests, how much - exactly - do you know about their collection, or the 'collectibles' in question? If the answer is "not much," you run the risk of buying an item that the person already owns, or would not consider worthwhile owning. And if you are buying something unique, unusual, and valuable beyond its obvious looks, and the recipient is not a collector at all, will they know what they are receiving? Ahhhhhhh…

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I know collectors who have a wonderful Holiday time because they use it to indulge their sense of humor: inexpensive ray guns, Star Wars watches, and so on. I have also heard horror stories about rare ray guns, toys, models that arrived in their original packages, MIB, only to have the box discarded and the model handed over to the recipientâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s son for a plaything. Both outcomes are equally possible if the recipient is not a collector, but you are. So take care!!!! Donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t make assumptions!

Would you want your precious Star Wars Burger King glasses washed in a dishwasher?

Many times, the effect of giving collectibles as gifts are lost on the recipient because we are shy about disclosing background information (the provenance), or reticent to make clear that the item is not what it seems. Thanks to mass marketing, we have learned to be ashamed of gifts purchased at flea markets even though these are just the places where we're likely to turn up highly desirable collectibles. But, if you are giving a (strange and) collectible gift, it behooves you to present it properly, and with appropriate instructions, if you want to diminish the probability of misunderstanding, mishandling or destruction.

Action figures in their original packaging, for example, demand huge premiums - at least two to three times as much as a loose figure. Plus, items must be in top condition - or very close to it - to retain 'collectible' prices. If you know that, but chances are your gift recipient won't, doesn't it make sense to alert them? Will this matter to them?

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For example, if practically everyone who knows you also knows you are a Trekker, or love Disney, or are absolutely zonkers about anything Dr. Who, then they might be amused to find you've made this Holiday season a memorable one by gifting everyone on your list with an object related to your collecting passion.

You will match gifts to age, gender and size of the recipient, to be sure. There are dolls, stuffed animals, t-shirts, jewelry, games….And your budget will influence your choices. But, year after year, you can keep up this practice, until you, and your collecting interests, are unforgettable.

Mickey Mouse Dreidel Game Menorah: Mickey and Minnie Mouse play the Dreidel Game in front of the fireplace one evening during Chanukah. Gelt and presents lie on the floor waiting to be opened.

A box o f dripless Chanukah candles will complete the Menorah.

It's fun and easy to do this if you - or the recipient - are 'thematic' or “category” collectors because there are usually available inexpensive items in all price ranges.

Pins and memorabilia for office colleagues, special edition tree ornaments for those who have Holiday trees, limited edition porcelain and pewter items, even special Barbies to celebrate Kwanzaa. . .plus rarer collectibles for those on your list who deserve something special.

Whether the interest is gargoyles, unicorns, dragons or mermaids, Beauty and the Beast or Star Wars, Superman or The Hulk, if the collecting theme is known to you, culturally wide-spread and popular, and sociologically harmless (even if zany), Holidays can be “the” ideal time to exploit them and share your personal obsessions with family and friends in a relatively harmless (if unconventional) way. To repeat, we happen to like fantasy portraits, and I would recommend this

32 : The Artful Collector

idea to anyone. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m the one who came up with this idea a couple of years ago, knowing that Alice in Wonderland (1866, 1st ed) was a major addition to our book collection that yearâ&#x20AC;Ś.and surprised my husband with this painting (note: the rabbit is a family "in-joke"). Many artists enjoy taking these kinds of portraits commissions and you get to be the art director!

Jane and the Mad Hatter by Carol Heyer

It's Holiday Time and I need presents!

Where were you in August? No one says you have to buy gifts just when you need them. You could have been with me, in Los Angeles, buying Holiday presents at the SF Worldcon. The year before, I was buying them in Glasgow. Part of the pleasure of buying collectibles for others is being freed from the tyranny of having to go shopping at the last minute. When you see just the right piece, at the right price for your gift-buying budget, you should buy it, 'then and there'. Then stash it away for the appropriate moment. The trick is to know a potential gift

The Artful Collector : 33

when you see it, and act! And, for original art and sculpture, plan ahead.

Remember that art and collectibles don't go 'on sale' the way that everyday commercial products may. . . nor are they likely to rise in price just before major Holidays when they know shoppers will be out in force. The most critical factor affecting collectibles is supply and demand. The combination of an influx of new fans, who are hungry for SF/F items, combined with older collectors, who are hungry for original merchandise and who still have fond memories of SF/F from their youth, has resulted in a recent tremendous interest in many SF/F collectibles.

Both categories of collectors have driven up the prices, but will this last? The recent sell-off of Star Trek memorabilia at Christies’, which took in about $7 million [40 Years of Star Trek: The Collection, October 5 - 7, 2006] suggests that at least some 20t h century pop-cultural icons may last. On the other hand, historical evidence suggests that however much SF fans try to downplay the impact of trends in the greater collectibles marketplace, fads and buying trends do tend to be cyclical and are impacted by larger market forces. For that reason: PLEASE try not to think in terms of “worth” or investment when buying or giving a collectible as a gift, because you can't control the outcome.

In other words, if in 1983 your budget afforded the purchase of a Darth Vader cermaic mug (by Sigma) and at the time it seemed like an entirely appropriate gift for your husband, then it's healthier not to dwell on how much that mug is selling for today ... or you will find yourself lunging at him every time you see him using it for his morning coffee.

RISKS AND OPPORTUNITIES. . .

'Collectibles' covers a wide range of gifting possibilities, and one of them is unique works of art. It takes real guts to buy a 'one-of-a-kind' item, but here’s one example of a gift we received one year from dear friends in Philadelphia….the wife is also a sculptor. As they said in the card that accompanied the well-packed box “we saw this and knew instantly…. this was for you”. And you know, they were right!! But such gifts are not for the faint of heart (double entendre fully intended).

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We don’t know what became of the sculptor of “The Gollum,” (1977) but (and unbeknownst to the person who gave it to us) because the character happened to look exactly like a Dean at the Univ. of California whom we used to know, this is a gift we will always cherish. Gifts are like that: you can’t always predict WHY they will be so successful, all you bet on is a person’s tastes.

One of the best gifts I ever gave to a friend, and surely one of the most memorable he has ever received, was a small painting I purchased at a science fiction convention for only $45.00. The recipient was an avid golfer, and one of his special goals was to play every 'masters' golf course in the world before he died.

He had no interest in things science fictional or even in collecting art; indeed, he wasn't a collector of any sort or kind at all (as we who are writing this column would define that term). Nor do we play golf…never have. No, sf was our hobby and interest, and golf was his. But at a convention I spied a painting portraying a conventionally cute little BEM teeing off on the greens in the foreground, while in the middleground was neatly parked the requisite flying saucer. And I immediately thought "now, wouldn't this make a appealing present for Bob?" It was a piece of fan art, i.e., done by an amateur, but it was so entertaining and so inexpensive that I couldn’t resist. I got very lucky, but even if I had had to pay slightly more, it would have been a great buy because it allowed me to accomplish four important things at the same time, which I’ll call

The Artful Collector : 35

The Benefits of Giving Art and Collectibles as gifts: 1. They can be very modest in cost, yet be perceived as priceless. Comparison shopping or price checking is impossible with items that are one-of-a-kind, handmade.

2. They satisfy my missionary urge to introduce friends to the aesthetic pleasures and satisfaction of owning original art.

3. They can be tailored to a recipient’s interests in intimate ways that mundane gifts cannot, and because of that will have much greater impact – whether the intent is humor, education, or entertainment.

4. Once you find 'something special' you can stop searching. The purchase required nothing more acting on the spot, and thinking ahead: no lines in a department store, no last minute panic. little 'gifting' effort on my part.

5. Such gifts, if they fit into collectible categories (such as this one, 'golf art') – are easily comprehended and described And for that reason might just spur my friend to become a collector….!

But you don’t want to ignore the Downside, which I’ll call The Risks of Giving Art and Collectibles as gifts: 1. Rarely can others “second-guess” a serious collector when it comes items that they would consider “good” or “useful” adjuncts to their collection. This is especially true for items that would be considered extensions of collecting categories, such as ephemera, or mainstream products that are marketed to dilettantes, so-called collectors. And unfortunately, these are just the sort of things a well-meaning non-collector gravitates toward, For example, you know you can’t give a fountain pen collector a rare pen, but why not give them a fancy box of colored inks for their pens? Will they use fancy commercially sold ink in a vintage rare pen? I doubt it. Other examples that come to mind: pipe cleaners/racks/ for pipe collectors, jewelry boxes for costume jewelry collectors, special watch display cases, pocket watch holders, or autowinders for watch collectors, collector books related to the hobby (e.g. “Collecting Depression Glass” or “Collecting Sylvac Pottery”), book marks, bookends, book plates for book collectors.

The rightness or wrongness of such gifts largely depends on WHERE, along the collecting continuum, the recipient is – and how open they are to making light of their hobby. If they don’t have a sense of humor, if they can’t be silly once in a

36 : The Artful Collector

while, they’re not likely to think as highly as I do of my Wizard.

Joe Broers’ Wizard A handmade Christmas gift from a fan, friend, and customer which looks very nice displayed beside a Christmas cactus in my kitchen

But in general, the more advanced the collector, the less acceptable will be any item or product that is seriously meant to extend, augment, or reinforce their hobby. Take (as one example) custom book plates: for neophytes these can be fun, and quite artistic. While you can still find them [labels identifying the owner of the book] in books found in used book stores, and modern book buyers and readers may enjoy carrying on this historical tradition, with plates stating ex libris “from the library of,’ rare book collectors would be horrified by the idea of defiling their books in this way – by pasting a paper label inside the front cover – it would be tantamount to vandalism, and a sure-fire way of reducing the book’s value.

2. Collectibles are perceived as 'special', hence carry obligations not associated with ordinary gifts, such as the need for display, careful handling, potential for future value, etc. all of which may be a burden, not a blessing, to the recipient.

Who needs more “care instructions”? The right way to clean pearls; to wash pewter; to polish silver; to care for wood finishes; to dust figurines; to frame watercolors.

3. Not everyone likes Star Trek (almost everyone, but . . ) If you can believe this, I have actually met people who have not seen The Lord of the Rings trilogy of movies.

Worse, I discovered that a person I had invited to our recent Thanksgiving dinner

The Artful Collector : 37

saw movie #1 . . . and decided (on that basis) not to see #2 & #3. Can you believe it???? Much as I love her, she’s not going to be getting a LOTR wine stopper in pewter, from Royal Selangor. No. She’s getting a classic Spode-Copeland “Christmas” pattern candle holder. To match her dishes.

4. Shopping for a collectible has the potential for being much more time-consuming than shopping for an ordinary gift – if you take questing as seriously as the recipient of your gift might take it, but don’t have the same contacts, sources or expertise. All you do is exponentially increase the questing time without increasing the chances of success.

5. Not every collecting hobby lends itself to gifting. I’m thinking here of Medieval bronzes and renaissance glass. Unless Bill Gates is your godfather.

6. The recipient may not realize the value of what you are giving them – especially those who are too old or too young or too inexperienced to grasp the (actual or implied) importance of your gift. To men who love the idea of wearing expensive ties, but who wouldn’t dream of wearing anything wider or narrower than what is in fashion, let alone any piece of clothing that is “used” (however “gently”) and who think “uniqueness” is the critical determiner of value, you are wasting your time buying a 1963 Hermes silk tie, in pristine condition, thinking that playing the “nostalgia card” is going to win you points come Christmas. It won’t. I tried. ;-( You’re better off with this little gem, which can only be appreciated by someone who loves Gahan Wilson and is old enough to remember Leona Helmsley, the “Queen of Mean” [note: this one was a winner with Howard; it helps to be married for 41 years]]

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I can’t emphasize enough, that what is a valued 'collectible' to you, a valued artwork to you, may be only a book, comic, toy, miniature, model, amateur-looking painting of golf-playing aliens, to the recipient.

Joan Daniziger’s Madonna It’s takes an especially strong friendship to accommodate gifts from artists who pluck them out of their closet, just for YOU.

And this risk (especially) applies to everyday items with (apparent) utilitarian value which are (seemingly) in working condition, such as radios, tools, cameras, vases, dog bowls. Indeed - Uncle Harold may be terribly insulted to find a broken (dusty, torn, used) 'toy' under his tree. He's "too old to play with toys!!” And no amount of documentation (“one of the only remaining examples of……..” ) is going to change his mind. If you aren’t prepared to deal with this kind of disjunct and dissonance….don’t go this route. Save your money. That’s what cozy sweaters and teapot cozies are for.

Can There Be Too Much of a Good Thing?

Sometimes, all you have to do is mention that you're hooked on Superman, or your passion is pentagrams/mermaids/frogs, or you crave C'thulu, and you'll enjoy an endless stream of gifts from me with that theme. And what fun that is for me! I love to buy presents for people that I know they will like . . . don't you? On the other hand, and as one friend confessed, "how many penguins can one person have?"

The Artful Collector : 39

If you're a casual collector, it really is possible to have too much of a good thing.

Too many salt and pepper shakers gathering dust, too many kitchen magnets, too many rhinestone pins. If you’re on a team, or are associated with a public institution that is known for a logo, mascot, etc….you’ll understand what I mean here. Sometimes you need to exercise restraint, be judicious in acting on your Holiday spirit. Not everyone can accommodate very large or very fragile items.

They can be a burden, not a blessing. Even maniacal serious collectors like the occasional mundane present. Like a box of fancy dark chocolates, @ $30. A pound (just e-mail me for my home address).

But whatever you do, please don’t try to come up with something that looks like this little box of chocolates that I’ve been holding onto since 1993. Every time I thought of eating one, the thought of preserving the box intact overcame my craving for chocolate – until the very thought of eating a tiny alien seemed like sacrilege. The colors are getting a little faded now, but the cellophane is intact.

How many years must I wait before calling this “vintage” and auctioning it online as the perfect and “rare” Christmas collectible edible… for chocolate-lovers?

Don’t hesitate to let me know if you are interested in a purchase…..

Happy Holidays!!!! *** Copyright © Jane Frank 2006

Remember to visit Jane's website at : www.wow-art.com

40 : Festive Artwork : Christmas Card

'Christmas Card' : Copyright Š Jason Beam 2004 Model : Mithre

Visit Jason's online studio at : www.jasonbeamstudios.com

This Ain't No Christmas Carol : 41

This Ain't No Christmas Carol

by Garry Charles

I stopped believing in Christmas when I was ten years old.

I know this is probably normal with most kids. It happens easily. You can’t sleep because you’re so excited at the thought of Santa bringing you all those new toys. You know that if you fall asleep he’ll come, but you want to see him, you want to get a peek at the generous myth that treats you to everything you want once a year.

And so you stay awake and then the disappointment hits when your parents enter the room. They’re probably giggling with their own excitement, eager to hear your shouts of joy first thing the next morning, keen to see the look of wide-eyed amazement as you manically tear the paper from around the gift you’ve snatched from the top of the festive sack. They try to be quiet, but they stumble around the room as they attempt to get the sack to stand at the end of the bed.

You watch through narrowed eyelids, keeping the fact that you’re awake a secret. You see them and, in that instant, the illusion is shattered.

It happens just like that to every kid. Eventually you are forced to realise that childhood is a big joke and that magic isn’t real. On that night you take the first step towards being an adult.

If that’s how it happened to you then you’re lucky.

For me it was different.

I saw Santa and he ruined Yuletide for me.

I know it’s late and you’ll be wanting to get home to your own children, but if you’ve got an extra ten minutes I’d like to get it off my chest.

Despite everything else that happened over that Christmas my strongest memory is of sadness. Sadness that Father had to work away.

He travelled all over as part of his job, but in previous years he’d always managed to avoid work at Christmas. He always insisted that it was a time of year

42 : This Ain't No Christmas Carol

for family. But over the last six months he’d spent more and more time on the road.

“Don’t worry, son.”

“But, Dad.” “I’ll be back on Boxing Day. I promise.”

“But, Dad.” “It’s only a couple of days and I’ll be home.”

Promises should never be made to a child if they can’t be kept. If I had children I’d never promise them anything. Promises are empty and can destroy innocence.

I remember the knock on the door later that day.

I was still upset that Father wouldn’t be home on Christmas morning, but Mum had said it was OK. She smiled at me and said we’d get two Christmas dinners this way and we’d get to watch Father open his presents. She even made me agree to leave some of mine wrapped up so he could watch me open them.

She promised it would be the best Christmas ever.

Another false vow; an oath broken.

“Can you get that, dear?” Mum asked as she ran to the kitchen. “It’ll only be Phyllis from next door.”

I jumped up and made my way to the hallway. I liked Phyllis; she always came with a pocketful of sweets for me and an earful of gossip for mum. Not a bad trade off.

The happy smile left my face when I swung the door inwards and looked up at the two men stood on the front step.

“Is your Mummy home?” the tallest of the pair asked, crouching down so he could look me in the eyes.

“Yes,” I answered meekly.

“Can we talk to her please?”

“Sure,” I said, unsure of how to progress.

This Ain't No Christmas Carol : 43

Did I ask them in? Did I make them wait with the door open? I’d never answered the door to complete strangers before. I had to think quickly.

“MUM!” I shouted from my place on the threshold of the family home.

“SOMEONE WANTS TO TALK TO YOU!!”

“Who is it now?” I heard Mum muttering as she came into view, wiping her hands on a tea towel that hung from her waist band.

“Mrs Holdness?” the shorter of the two asked as Mum reached the door.

“That’s right,” she replied.

“Can we talk to you in private?” As he asked he glanced down at me.

“Of course.” She stepped outside and then looked back at me. “Harry, go watch cartoons.” She pulled the door closed.

I know I should’ve done as she told me to, but at ten years old all children are curious. I stayed where I was and placed my ear against the wood of the front door. I could hear them talking in soft voices and only caught snippets of the hushed conversation. “…bad news…” “ is it Jeff?…” “…I’m sorry Mrs…” “…ice…” “…car skidded…” “ oh, no…” “…tried to resuscitate…” “…without regaining consciousness…” “…leave now, please…”

I ran to the living room and flicked on the TV. I knew something bad had happened, but I also knew I’d be in big trouble if Mum caught me eaves-dropping.

I didn’t turn around as Mum came into the room, keeping my eyes on the screen and doing my best to pretend that everything was OK. Little did I realise just how not OK things were.

Mum didn’t talk; she just fell heavily into Fathers armchair and sat silently. I waited and listened for her to say something, anything. Eventually I turned

44 : This Ain't No Christmas Carol

around and looked at her.

The first thing I noticed was her eyes, the makeup blurred by tears and streaked down her cheeks. She looked like a Goth panda bear and, at any other time, I would have laughed.

“Mum?” I whispered and she looked at me as fresh tears fell.

“Come here,” she sobbed, holding out trembling arms.

I ran into them and she pulled me close, my head held tightly against the safety of her bosom. I could feel her entire body shaking as the tears racked her frame. I don’t know why, but I started to cry too.

“I’m so sorry, darling,” she managed between the sobbing. “I’m so sorry.”

“What’s wrong?” I asked, pulling free from her arms. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s Father,” she said, taking a deep breath before she could continue. “He won’t be coming home.”

“Why not?” I questioned harshly. “He promised.”

“There was an accident.” As she spoke my young mind pieced together the conversation I had listened in on.

“He’ll be OK,” I insisted, but Mum just shook her head.

“He died.” Those two words hit me with more force than a bullies punch.

“No.” I refused to accept it. “NO!” Even as my heart was gripped by the finality of it all and torn from my chest I tried to deny what Mum was telling me.

“They tried to save him, but he never woke up,” Mum cried.

I threw myself back into her arms and we cried together.

Now this may sound like more than enough to ruin Christmas for anybody.

And it should have been. Unfortunately it was only Christmas Eve and I had yet to meet Santa. Only then would all of my dreams be torn to shreds and left in the gutter.

This Ain't No Christmas Carol : 45

The rest of the afternoon was spent without a word spoken between me and Mum. Phyllis came around and handed me the sweets before disappearing in the kitchen with Mum. I remained in front of the TV but I wasn’t watching the happy pictures and the colourful story lines of the cartoon channel. I laid the sweets on the arm of the chair but made no move to eat them.

I listened as Mum’s and Phyllis’s chat floated in from the kitchen, whispered words of concern and heartbreak. “…didn’t feel a thing…” “…you be OK…” “ have to be…” “ anything I can do…” “… keep an eye on Harry…” “…anything…” “ identify the body…”

I zoned out and stopped listening, falling into my own world of inner thoughts and sadness. I vaguely remember saying goodbye as Mum left for the Taxi and Phyllis tried to get me to talk. What was the point of talking?

Father was gone and he’d never be back.

I went to bed early that night without a bath – something never done in the Holdness household. Mum came and tucked me in, kissing me gently on the forehead as she pulled the covers up to my chin.

“Try and sleep, darling,” she said in my ear. “Santa won’t bring you what you want if you don’t sleep.”

I nodded and closed my eyes, trying to smile but failing. She was being strong under harsh conditions and I didn’t want to let her down. I could feel fresh tears building up behind the closed lids and fought to stop then until she had left the room.

I don’t know how long I cried into my pillow, the hot tears soaking the fabric and feather stuffing, but eventually I fell asleep.

Something Mum had said hampered my nightmares.

And I awoke with a start and an idea that would make everything alright again.

46 : This Ain't No Christmas Carol

“Santa won’t bring you what you want.”

I knew what I wanted and, if I wasn’t too late, I could still ask for it. I’d have to be quick. I threw back the covers and crept across to the small desk in the corner of my room. I sat down, flinching as the chair creaked under my tiny weight. If Mum found me awake I would be told off and sent back to bed.

I couldn’t let that happen.

If my plan worked then it would be the best surprise ever for Christmas morning and Mum wouldn’t have to spend the day hiding her tears from me.

I took a pen and a then ripped a sheet of paper from one of my school books. I took a moment to think, chewing the tip of the pen as I carefully contemplated how I’d word the request. Only then did I write.

Dear Santa, I know you are very busy tonight. And I know you will have just carried all my toys down the chimney, but I need you to take them away again. I want you to find a child that really needs the presents more than I do, somebody like Tiny Tim from a Christmas Carol.

Can you please do that for me?

There is only one thing I need for Christmas and that is my Father. I know it is last minute notice, but if you can do this for me I’ll never ask for anything else ever.

I don’t want Mum to be sad on Christmas.

Thank You Harry Holdness Age 10 I re-read the note and smiled, folding the paper and scribbling SANTA across the front before slipping it into the pocket on the front of my pyjamas. I slid off the chair and sighed when it remained silent. …not even a mouse…

Luckily Mum hadn’t fully shut my bedroom door and I only had to move it a little to allow my thin frame to squeeze through. She’d also left a night light on the landing so I could see where I was going if I needed the toilet during the night.

Though, tonight I had more important things on my mind than taking a pee. I remained close to the wall as I made my way to the stairs. Every couple of paces I stopped and glanced back towards Mum’s room. Her door was ajar and the bedside light was on. Chances were that she was still awake.

This Ain't No Christmas Carol : 47

At the top of the stairs I paused, breathing quietly through my mouth as I stared down into the unlit lower floor. The only light was a dim orange glow from the dying fire in the living room.

Santa got stuck up the chimney.

I checked my pocket, ensuring the note was still where it should be. My courage boosted by the feel of the paper against my fingers. I had to do it and I had to do it now.

I took a final deep breath and descended the stairs, once again keeping my back against the wall to avoid the noisy steps about halfway down.

Once I reached the hallway the going became easier. My eyes had grown accustomed to the poor light and I headed without hesitation to the living room. I moved with purpose, taking the note and making my way over to the fireplace with all intentions of leaving it next to the glass of milk and tray of cookies I knew Mum would have left out for when Santa visited.

I’m too late.

I stared down in horror at the glass with only a drop of milk left and the tray that held nothing more than crumbs. How could this have happened? I couldn’t have missed him, could I? They’d been no sack of presents in my room and there was nothing else in the room to suggest that the man in red had been here. But he’d drank the milk and eaten the cookies.

Was he still here?

Then I remembered the light in Mum’s room. Had Santa already gone upstairs?

Was he carefully laying my Father in the bed next to her ready for the next morning?

I considered all my options before deciding to sneak back upstairs and peek in on Mum’s room. I wouldn’t disturb her, I just wanted to see Santa and thank him for his kindness before he left. I’d let Mum sleep and imagine her face when she woke up in Father’s arms.

Had he heard my wish as I wrote the letter? It would explain why I’d seen no sack of gifts back in my room.

48 : This Ain't No Christmas Carol

Christmas is saved.

I made the return trip as quietly as I could, but I was no where near as stealthy as earlier. I was back on the landing in less than half the time it had taken me to go down. Only then did I stop, wondering what I’d say when I met the famous Father Christmas.

Then I heard laughing and ran along the landing in the hope of seeing my Father with Mum, both of them thanking Santa for the wondrous gift he had bestowed upon us.

Santa, baby…

I froze in the doorway and just stared at the scene with the eyes of a ten year old child that has just had his world taken and turned upside down.

I’ll tell you exactly what I saw in the room, though at the time I had no idea what was happening. I do now and it lives with me through everyday, taunting my daydreams and haunting my nightmares.

Santa is there and he’s holding a sprig of mistletoe above Mum’s head. I can only see the back of him, but I can see Mum’s smiling face as she leans in to kiss him. With his free hand he touches her leg, moving the gloved fingers up under her thin nightie. She responds with a deep moan, pushing Santa down onto the bed.

They haven’t seen me.

I can’t make out Santa’s face; it’s obscured by the thick white beard. I do hear him chuckle and the sound fills me with anger.

This isn’t what I asked for.

Why are they doing this?

Mum works at the heavy black belt at his waist, fumbling with the buckle as she leans down to kiss him again.

She pulls at the red trousers, revealing that Santa isn’t one for underwear. I’m surprised to see that his body is covered in dark hair, not the same white as his beard. She lowers her head towards his waist and I back away as the anger turns to hatred at being betrayed by the one man apart from Father that I thought I could trust. I don’t want to see anymore. I’ve seen enough to know what I must do.

This Ain't No Christmas Carol : 49

I saw mummy kissing Santa Claus.

For me that is the moment when Christmas was ruined. I was only a child and everything had been taken away from me in less than a day. Someone had to pay and I’d already decided what I would do.

I returned the way I’d come, no longer bothered about squeaky floorboards.

Santa was too busy to be listening out for nosey kids. As I went down the stairs I could feel the heat of the anger burning in my gut. I let it build, knowing it would fuel my strength for the task ahead.

Surprisingly the front door was unlocked and I let myself out, closing it behind me with a click. I walked around the side of the house, the snow burning my bare feet. I fed on the pain, I let it envelope me as I entered the shed and took hold of Father’s chopping axe. I’d show Santa what happened when he was bad. I’d take something of his. …the red nosed reindeer…

I searched the garden for his sleigh and the reindeer that pulled it, but they were nowhere to be found. The only footprints I found in the snow where my own. I walked to the back of the garden and gazed up at the roof in a hope of finding them there. I didn’t know how I’d get to them, but that didn’t matter. All that mattered was that I taught Santa a lesson for marring the Christmas spirit.

Nothing on the roof, only a cloudless sky hanging above that was filled with a thousand flickering diamond-like stars.

I looked up at Mum’s bedroom window and, through the open window I saw that both her and Santa were stood up and saying there goodbyes. I watched as she kissed him on the lips and saw him leave the room.

I ran through the snow, clearing the back garden in record time and sprinting down the side of the house. If I couldn’t find Rudolf then I’d have to make the lesson personal.

The front door opened.

“I’m sorry about Hank,” Santa said to Mum. “But that shouldn’t change what we have.”

“I know, I just need some time alone,” Mum replied. “Thanks for tonight; I just

50 : This Ain't No Christmas Carol

needed to feel close to some one.”

“No problem, babe.” I heard them kiss again. “Gotta go.”

Santa stepped out onto the front step.

“HEY, SANTA!” I yelled as I raised the axe.

“HARRY!” I heard Mum scream as I brought it down.

The blade hit him in the chest and he staggered backwards as blood made the suit an even deeper red. I didn’t let go of the handle and he dragged me with him until it came free. More blood stained the snow at his feet.

“HARRY!” I swung again as he fell to his knees and this time the blade cleaved through half his face, an eye exploding from the socket under the force of the blow. I let go of the handle and let him fall back into the snow.

“HARRY!” I didn’t answer. I just stood and looked down at Santa as he twitched on the ground. It wasn’t the blood or the exposed bone that intrigued me. It wasn’t the fact that I’d just killed Santa that held my curious gaze. It wasn’t the way his fingers beat out an erratic rhythm that sounded like the tune for Santa Claus is coming to town that left me dumfounded I was more surprised to discover that Santa looked so much like Uncle Ted from next door.

Go figure. *** Copyright © Garry Charles 2006

You can find Gary online at: www.garrycharles.com

Festive Artwork : They Swarmed Over Him : 51

'They Swarmed Over Him' : Copyright Š Alan M. Clark 1997 This is a colorized version of a mono interior from 'Santa Steps Out'

See many more delightful images at : www.alanmclark.com

52 : I Don't Believe In You Santa!

I Don't Believe In You Santa!

by Bob Lock

I don't believe in you Santa Don't look at me with those eyes, I know you’re just a store-boy Dressed up in that disguise.

I don't believe in you Santa 'Cos you did it to me again!

Last year I wanted a Barbie But the present I got was so lame.

I don't believe in you Santa Who asked for a pretty new frock?

You know it wasn’t what I asked for Did you laugh 'cos I had such a shock?

I don't believe in you Santa 'Cos now I'm almost seven, (Too old now don't you see?)

Now I only love baby Jesus In his crib beneath our tree

I don’t believe in you Santa, Bet my present this year will be socks But... if I did believe in you Santa Do you think I could have an X-Box? *** Copyright © Bob Lock 2002

www.scifi-tales.com

Festive Artwork : Cloak And Dagger : 53

'Cloak And Dagger' : Copyright Š Tony Mauro 2005 Model : Christine Anderson

Browse through more fine images at : www.darkdayproductions.com

54 : I've Only Got A Few Minutes

I've Only Got A Few Minutes

by Hugh MacDonald

"I’ve only got a few minutes, so we’ll have to be quick," Vaughan said, pulling the door closed behind him. "What is it you’re looking for?" he asked, with bored indifference. He hadn’t made eye contact with the young woman seated across from him. It had been a hell of a day dealing with those in financial need, and he didn’t like unannounced visits. The role of caseworker required an empathy that he’d never possessed. The new girl on the front desk hadn’t grasped that Vaughan didn’t do walk ins. How difficult was it to tell the person who presented at the front desk that they would have to phone for an appointment? He didn’t care that they might need emergency assistance. Vaughan wasn’t aware that he had become an insufferable prick over the past ten years, but most of his co-workers were all too aware of his inappropriate behavior. His attendance at the office Christmas party was something most of his co-workers wished wouldn’t happen, but Vaughan fancied himself the life of the party.

Vaughan sighed loudly which was his way of making clients hurry. It also made them feel unworthy, and he liked that. He certainly enjoyed the power the job of caseworker afforded him. However, he would have denied such an accusation.

Ragged breathing was the response to his sigh. Got her now, sounds like she’s ready to cry, he thought. He hoped his smile was hidden. He raised his eyes to meet hers, knowing full well that she would be teary-eyed, sniveling, like all the other whiners.

He felt his heart thud in his chest as he drew in a breath. The young woman, whose name was written on a piece of paper, stared at him, trapping his eyes. His voice caught in his throat and he continued to stare. Feral. Everything about her was feral. Her eyes were translucent, and her teeth--which seemed too small for her mouth--were pointed. Vaughan believed her teeth capable of piercing flesh and ripping it apart. Something she’s done before, came to mind. She dropped her eyes to the desk and the Release of Information Consent form on it. Vaughan cleared his throat as he tried to compose himself. His racing heart rate began to slow, but his hands continued to tremble as he tried to steady the pen and fill in the blanks on the application form.

The name on the small piece of paper said her name was Strill Papus. Vaughan had lived in the area his entire life and had never heard a name even resembling the odd-sounding Strill Papus. He wasn’t aware he was a bigot. Growing up in a small town, attending a small university, and then finding work a mile from

I've Only Got A Few Minutes : 55

home, ingrained his ignorance.

His only cultural experience was seeing foreign fishermen, who arrived on trawlers and came into town in search of alcohol and sex. Vaughan and his friends liked to poke fun at the men–usually from a distance. They would laugh, proclaiming the men were good for the economy, saying they provided self-esteem building by screwing the ugly women of town. He’d once had sex with a woman who had a dark, exotic beauty, but declared to his friends, "she was almost as good as a white woman." His prejudice knew no bounds.

Vaughan’s comfort level returned. "So what is it you want? As I said, I’ve only got a few minutes. I have a Christmas function to attend." He eagerly fingered the plastic mistletoe in his jacket pocket. Vaughan wanted to get to the Christmas party to use the mistletoe on the unsuspecting women. A kiss can’t be sexual harassment if there’s mistletoe, he reasoned. "What kind of name is Strill?" he asked.

Her skin had a lovely light brown hue, but Vaughan saw it as off-white, as something less than. She didn’t answer and Vaughan felt his uneasiness return.

"I’ve only got a few minutes..." Vaughan paused, as he saw she was about to speak.

"It is a name that comes from the Ancients. One of power. You are right, you only have a few minutes. I’m not here to seek money or goods. I’ve come to transfer you," Strill said.

Vaughan wondered what she meant--he hadn’t put in for a transfer. His was the best gig in town. "I think you’re mistaken, I’m not going anywhere." Something inside him said she’s telling the truth, but that was an irrational thought and he was nothing if not rational. "You’ve obviously come to the wrong place, and you’ve taken enough of my valuable time, so please leave." Vaughan hoped she didn’t hear the pleading that was present in his voice. Fear and pride caused his voice to rise in tone and pitch. "Excuse me, Miss, but what part of ‘I’ve only got a few minutes’ didn’t you understand?" His breath came is nervous bursts, adrenalin coursing madly throughout his body.

Strill rose from her chair, the feral look no longer disguised. "I came to give you a chance, to make amends, to change even a little in the spirit of the Season, but I see it is time for the transfer."

Vaughan pushed the chair back against the wall, trying to increase the distance between them. The alarm button was now out of his reach, hidden under the corner of his side of the desk. He was tall and heavy, but the slightly built girl across the desk terrified him. He reached behind, fingers searching for the door handle. These were new rooms, with safety being the primary concern; three feet

56 : I've Only Got A Few Minutes

of desk top separated caseworker from client. The exit door behind him further added to the illusion of safety. Until that moment, Vaughan believed he had been safe, but now with this young woman standing, poised to pounce, he knew it was an illusion. Physiological changes were happening to him, instinctive reactions to danger. His testicles were crawling inside, seeking cover in an attempt to preserve his ability to reproduce, his heart rate and respiration increasing along with huge butterflies in the pit of his stomach signaling fight or flightâ&#x20AC;&#x201C;the latter, as always, being selected.

Vaughan watched, horrified, as Strill leapt onto the desk, clothes shredding as her lithe body appeared to add muscle and size. In a futile attempt to ward off her attack, he raised his arms chest high, but felt them pushed against the wall and over his head, as Strill now stood on his side of the desk, towering over him. He looked at her rippling body, her nakedness somehow arousing him as he felt her nails penetrate the skin on his wrists. He watched, entranced, as she opened her mouth. Her teeth no longer seemed small. They were in rows, one set for piercing, the other for ripping crossed his mind, and he shivered. He was aware of bright blood spurting against the walls of the interview room. Red for Christmas, was Vaughanâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s last conscious thought as his body slid to the floor and crumpled.

Strill pulled together the remnants of her coat and hurried from the room. She knew the police would look for a crazed killer, not a quiet young woman down on her luck at Christmas. She kept a hand tightly closed as she exited the building.

The sunlight was brilliant on the freshly fallen snow. Strill opened her hand, freeing the essence of what had been Vaughan. She watched it get caught up in a breeze, then disappear in its transfer to a dark place.

*** Copyright Š Hugh MacDonald 2005

Hugh MacDonald has a passion for writing horror fiction, but also writes and performs music, and is planning to produce one of his screenplays into an independent film. He lives with his wife Joanne and son Keith on scenic Cape Breton Island on Canada's east coast. Hugh believes that when you look into dark places, something looks back.

Festive Artwork : Ice Dragon : 57

'Ice Dragon' : Copyright Š Anne Stokes 2005

Many thanks to Anne for providing the two amazing dragons for this issue! (she did the cover art piece as well as the Ice Dragon above) Check out her website for even more wonderful creations www.annestokes.com

58 : Nightmare On 34th Street

Nightmare On 34th Street

by Paul Kane

Christmas Eve. A time of loving, of giving. Peace on Earth and good will to all men…(Or should that be “persons” in this politically correct day and age?) Yeah, right.

Officer Mal Docherty hadn’t seen much evidence of “Peace on Earth” recently, hadn’t seen much evidence in all his years on the force come to think of it. Yes, it was true that the crime rate had gone down in New York, so the figures said. But here on the streets, down here you saw plenty. Muggings, stabbings…and shootings - there were never any shortage of those. The last one he’d seen involved a drugs case back in August. Mal and his partner, Norman Young, had provided back-up for the cops in charge of the case, and they’d witnessed the worst possible outcome of a deal gone sour. Mal could see the blood now, exploding out of the victim’s chest as the bullet… He shook his head; he’d seen worse anyway.

Much worse.

“Here y’go, Tee,” said Harry Grable, handing over two steaming cups of coffee to Mal. “That’ll keep you going for a while.”

“Thanks, Harry.” Mal had been coming to Harry’s stall ever since it became part of his beat a few years ago. Harry made the best damned cup of java you’d ever tasted, and his hot dogs and doughnuts weren’t so shabby either. The large man with salt and pepper hair and a glowing red nose that would give Rudolph a run for his money leant against his cart, grinning as Mal fished about in his pocket for change.

“No need for that, Tee. On the house tonight. It’s Christmas.”

Mal looked up and down the street, surveying the scene. The swell of bodies filling up the space, bobbing in and out of stores - most notably Crosby’s, the biggest store on 34t h Street - all doing their last minute shopping. Not too far away a Salvation Army band was playing “O Come All Ye Faithful”. Quite who the faithful were, Mal had no idea, but the bandleader was conducting the music for all he was worth in case they happened to show up. Lights glimmered in the darkness, the festive decorations illuminating the whole area. Above, giant screens advertised everything from aftershave or perfume at one end of the present scale to outrageously expensive sportscars at the other: a stocking filler for the man or woman who has everything.

Nightmare On 34th Street : 59

“So it is,” said Mal. “God bless us every one.” He raised his coffee in salute, then took a sip, the liquid warming him up temporarily. It was freezing out here tonight, the weathermen - sorry, weather-people - promising snow again before the evening was out, to top up the layer that had already settled the day before last.

Mal wasn’t looking forward to working on Christmas Eve, of all nights. But he and Norm had drawn the shitty straw once again so he’d just have to accept the fact that he was on shift now till the wee small hours. It meant that he’d miss all the preparations that were going on back at his home. His children, Lauren (seven) and Brad (five) getting all excited, ready to put out the mince pies and sherry for Santa, Wendy helping them make out their wish lists, a tradition from Mal’s own childhood. Then they’d put them under the tree in the hopes they’d be replaced with brightly-coloured packages tied up with bows the next morning. That’s really what it was all about, the innocence of being of kid - their belief in the magic. Mal missed that now he was a grown up.

“You been watchin’ too many old movies, Tee,’ said Harry.

“Yeah,” replied Mal. There were plenty on TV to choose from at the moment, the titles more of an irony nowadays: It’s a Wonderful Life… Is that right? Still, better than living in the real world, he supposed. “Well, cheers, Harry. You have a good one, won’t you?”

“You too, Tee. Say hello to the missus and the little ones from me.”

Mal raised the coffee cups, and turned his back on the vendor. He made his way past the crowds, back to the distinctive blue and white patrol car parked on the opposite side of the road. In shop windows he saw his reflection: the dark uniform of an NY policeman, peaked cap, padded jacket and belt, with baton and gun hanging from it. Mal sometimes wondered why he’d ever joined the ranks of the boys in blue. To make a difference? To make the city a safer place for your average citizen, if such a thing existed? To help create a decent world for his children, to give them something to believe in? At times it just felt like he was fighting a losing battle.

The lights changed as he got to them, the signal stating he was able to cross safely. Norm was sat in the passenger side of the vehicle. He wound down the window as Mal approached, eager to take possession of his drink. The sounds of the radio wafted Mal’s way: U2’s “Angel of Harlem” playing on a non-stop X-Mas station Norm had found. Mal heard the lyrics talking about New York looking like a Christmas Tree, how tonight it belonged to Bono, and thought how appropriate the first part was. New York did look like a Christmas Tree that night, with all the decorations and lights, while the real thing - a giant Tree not too far

60 : Nightmare On 34th Street

away - was attracting ever more visitors. But the city did not belong to the singer, didn’t belong to anyone. It was an entity in its own right, one that shouldn’t be judged by looks alone.

“About time,” Norm called out through the gap in the window, “I was beginning to think you were grinding the beans yourself.” He took the cup from his partner and drank a mouthful, the coffee sticking to parts of his moustache.

Norm looked at Mal. “No doughnuts tonight?”

“Like I said before, Norm, you can do without them.” Mal pointed to the policeman’s paunch, hanging over his belt. “Save some room for that turkey tomorrow.” Mal knew that even though they were separated Norm’s wife, Cynthia, would be cooking a huge spread the next day for him - Mal always got a report back about it when the pair met up again… And she made enough to feed most of the division.

“Oh I can always find room for one of Harry’s doughnuts,” Norm assured him.

“I’m sure.” Mal drank some more of his coffee and looked back over at the crowd again, seeing the faces this time. None of the people on the streets of New York tonight seemed particularly happy, or festive. They looked stressed, impatient, irritable. Christmas had become almost a mirror of modern day society in a way. Everything had to be done in a hurry and there was more pressure than ever to get things right: to keep up. Lose your footing on the treadmill and you were a goner. The ads showed a perfect world that couldn’t possibly exist, and was all but impossible to live up to. Happy families, friends, lovers, all gathered around the fire playing games and having fun. The reality? Most family get-togethers ended in rows, most parties relied on booze to kick start them - and as for those on their own at this time of year, thinking they were missing out, well there was no wonder the suicide rate rocketed between December 24t h and 26t h …

“What’re you thinking about?” asked Norm.

“Mmm? Oh, nothin’ much. Nothin’-” Mal’s sentence tailed off as he noticed a disturbance out on the street. There were a handful of folk piling out of Crosby’s, a couple of maroon-suited staff following them. But these people didn’t look stressed; at least, not in the same way as the other New Yorkers. They looked more panicked than anything, tumbling out of the entranceway, arms flailing as they did so.

“Norm?”

Nightmare On 34th Street : 61

“Still here.”

“Norm, take a look across the road.” Mal pointed in the direction of Crosby’s and what was rapidly becoming a small-scale riot of sorts.

Norm frowned. “Something’s up.”

Mal glanced back at him. “No shit, Sherlock. Your finely honed police skills tell you that? Here,” he said, handing Norm the other coffee cup, “hold this. I’m going to check it out.”

Mal made his way back across the road, not bothering to wait for the traffic signals to change now. Instead he dodged in and out of the cars, earning a blast on the horn from one yellow taxi-cab. The police officer pushed past the gathering crowds to get to the people in the entranceway. Just what the hell was going on? A fire maybe? That would explain the pandemonium… Or, heaven forbid, something worse. Something man-made…? Surely this city had seen enough of that kind of thing to last a million lifetimes?

“Okay, okay, what’s the problem here?” Mal asked, his hand on one woman’s shoulder.

She turned, a look of surprise and bewilderment on her face.

“Ma’am. Can you tell me what’s going on?”

Still she stared at him, dumbstruck, so Mal looked around for someone else who could help. One of Crosby’s staff came up, eager to oblige. “Officer, oh thank the Lord.”

“What’s happened, sir?”

“There’s…” the man paused, not knowing quite how to explain the situation.

“There’s been an incident, one of-” And then Mal heard it; the distinctive blast of gunfire, coming from inside.

Somebody in the crowd screamed and there was even more commotion. Mal grabbed the member of staff before he could be swallowed up by the churning mass of bodies.

He looked the man in the eyes. “How many?”

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“Just one guy, he’s gone nuts-” More shots rang out.

“There are still people inside,” said the man from Crosby’s. “Children…”

“See that squad car over there, go tell the officer inside to radio for assistance.”

“I…yes, I think someone’s called the authorities.”

“Go tell him anyway!”

The man nodded and began to push back through the crowd. It took a second or so for Mal to lose sight of him completely.

Alright, Malcolm Docherty…What should you do? Back-up’s probably on the way right now… Wait for it to arrive? Might be too late by then…And he’d said there were people inside…children…I have no choice…Have to do something…

Mal had to go inside.

Fighting against the tide of humans that were still pouring from the store, he headed for the doors, and headed inside Crosby’s department store… *** It had actually been less than a week since Mal had been in here, last Saturday to be precise, but it had been under such different circumstances. That day he’d been looking forward to visiting the store, bringing Lauren and Brad to town to see Santa in his den. In spite of the superficiality of it all, word had it that the fella they’d hired this year was good: extremely convincing and a wow with the children. Mal had to admit that was right. They’d queued for hours on his day off just so his little girl and boy could sit on Father Christmas’s lap. Had it been worth it? You bet. Just to see their cherubic faces light up as they entered the grotto decorated with candy-coloured stripes, balloons, fairies, huge fluffy bears, and trees laden with baubles, stars and chocolate treats… There was even a toy train chuffing around the tracks above parents’ and children’s heads.

And then, as Lauren and Brad were finally allowed up to the podium, where Santa sat in all his glory, dressed in the customary red and white outfit, they’d both beamed so broadly all Mal could see were teeth.

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“Ho, ho, ho,” Santa had said, also smiling - although you could only just see it behind his big white bushy beard. Brad and Lauren took their turn to whisper in St Nicholas’s ear, as female helpers dressed as elves readied presents to give them when they were done. And when Mal took their hands to lead them away, Santa pulled down his half-moon glasses and winked. Nice memories, and something to hang on to when everything else was gloomy…

All Mal could think was what a shame this had to happen here. What a shame that whatever might unfold now would wipe out that memory and replace it with something completely different, something likeBang-bang-bang-bang-bang!

Mal heard the shots as he walked through the foyer, another handful of shoppers running past him. They were coming from the direction of the grotto he’d visited. Obviously someone else had been pondering the nature of this season a little too much, and he’d come up with his own way of coping with it. Mal broke into a run himself. But he ran in the opposite direction to the fleeing customers drawing his own weapon as he went. There hadn’t been too many occasions when he’d had call to discharge his pistol, and only one instance when he’d had no choice but to… Mal hoped with all his heart that it wouldn’t come to that again tonight. Not tonight.

The first thing he saw as he entered the grotto was the train on the tracks above his head. It had been derailed and now hung down like a limp member, flaccid and useless. There was a break in the tracks, ragged pieces sticking out where the blast had hit it. Mal crept further inside, his forehead dripping with sweat - partly due to the change in temperature and partly to his anxiety at what he might find in here.

It was like a snapshot from some kind of nightmare, the Aladdin’s cave transformed into a hellish underworld. Bullets had riddled the brightly coloured walls, the fluffy bears and the mock presents on display. Parts of the scenery had been almost shredded in half by the gunfire, baubles on trees shattered. Mal saw an elf helper propped up against some steps, holding her arm. A stark redness was pouring through her fingers, dripping down her lime green costume. Their eyes met, and for a moment he saw a glimmer of hope in them.

Then a hail of gunfire splattered the wall behind him. Mal ducked, rolling over on his shoulder and spreading himself down on the ground flat. He tried to work out the position of the shooter based on where the bullets had come from…It was all but impossible; the whole thing had happened too quickly. From his place on

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the floor he could see more bodies, feet upon feet. He couldn’t tell whether the people they belonged to were just injured, like the elf, or… And he could hear children crying, adults half-screaming and half whimpering with fright. Jesus, who would do something like this?

Mal crawled along on his belly, wriggling like a snake. His hostage and siege training flashing through his mind. He should try to engage this person in conversation somehow, get them talking. At least then they wouldn’t be shooting anyone. But who was to say this guy even wanted to talk? Only one way to find out…

“Hey,” shouted Mal. “Hey you!”

Silence.

Mal tried again. “Hey, I want to talk to you.”

Stupid…What a stupid fucking thing to“Don’t want to talk,” came the answer in a voice that was deep, gruff, and on edge. It was capped off by another shot.

Mal flinched, but persevered. “Then just listen, okay?”

Nothing.

“You can’t be doing this…Look, put down your weapon and we’ll sort all this out peaceably, okay?”

“You can’t sort anything out. No one can!”

Good, thought Mal, you’ve engaged him…keep going… “Why, what’s the problem?

There’s nothing that can’t be fixed…”

“That’s what you say.”

“So, tell me about it. What is it, money, your job? Something more personal?”

“My job! Hah! That’s a good one…”

Okay, so it’s his work…He’s lost his job or something…Maybe his family too? That’s enough to set anyone off…at any time of year…

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“It can’t be as bad as all that, can it?”

“It’s worse…They…they never stop coming…”

“Who, who don’t stop coming?” Mal raised his head slightly, figuring he just about had an angle on the direction of the voice. Over on his far left. And then he saw the gunman, and it turned his blood colder than a winter’s day in Lapland.

There, by the side of Santa’s golden throne he stood; bottle of whiskey in one hand and a rifle in the other. By his feet was a sack of other weapons - Mal saw a machinegun poking out of the top - and tucked in his black belt were two automatic pistols. “The letters,” said Father Christmas. “The children, the presents…”

“Oh my God,” Mal whispered under his breath. It was the same man who’d been bouncing Lauren and Brad up and down on his knee, who’d winked at them as they left. Mal couldn’t believe the turnaround though, from a happy, gentle fellow to raging lunatic, eyes wild, buttons undone half-way down his scarlet tunic.

“I just can’t take it anymore,” shouted the man. “It’s the same every year…They never stop coming…never…”

“Listen…What’s your name?”

“You know my name, my names.”

He couldn’t be serious, surely. “No, your real name.”

“You know that as well, deep down…”

“Right, okay…Listen, it’s only once a year. It’s just a job…”

The man laughed. “Once a year, but for sooo many years, so many decades, so many centuries. On and on, never-ending… And it’s not just a job; you can’t quit, there’s no way out. No way. It’s too much for me, too much. I can’t stand it any more…”

“Look, I can help.” Or at least get you some help… thought Mal. “No, no you can’t. It’s too late for that, much too late.”

Mal raised himself up a little, so he could see the Santa but duck down again

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quickly if need be.

“Ha! I know you,” said the man, waving his bottle in Mal’s direction.

Mal was surprised he remembered, given the amount of people who must have passed through here… “Er…yeah, I was in with my children...” Talking about Brad and Lauren made him look around for the other kids in the grotto. There were several hiding behind a mock-up of Father Christmas’s sleigh, some more at the rear of a particularly large present. They looked terrified.

“No, I mean I know you, Malcolm.”

How did he know Mal’s name? Must’ve mentioned it when he was here, that’s the only thing he could think. “I don’t think so.”

“Oh yes, I know you. Remember that year you went on and on at your folks for that toy garage? Yes, the one with the little orange car wash and bell. They told you they couldn’t afford it and you cried. Still arrived though, didn’t it? You got your wish.”

“What the f…How did you know about that?”

“I know a lot of things, Malcolm. So many things… I know what a naughty boy you’ve been in your time as well. Haven’t you?”

“Naughty…?”

“Does Wendy know about Officer Kelly? No, I don’t think she does, does she?”

Mal’s mind was reeling. This was impossible, nobody knew about the fling he’d had with Kelly, not even Norm.

“And that druggie. Wasn’t your fault, though. You did what you had to…”

“Shut up.”

“Just like we all do.”

“I said shut up.” Mal stood and raised his pistol, aiming straight for the man’s head.

“Go on, do it then…” said the Santa. “Wouldn’t be the first time, would it?”

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The crying got louder and now there was more screaming. “I mean it,” shouted Mal. His hand was shaking, finger twitching on the trigger.

“Can’t you see? All this,” Father Christmas nodded at the grotto, “all this is bullshit. The world’s changed, son. You know it, I know it. Everything’s gone bad.”

“Including you.”

Santa didn’t answer him, but Mal could see a tear trickling down his cheek, heading for the forest of white below.

“It really isn’t too late, you know,” said Mal. “Isn’t it? You really believe that? You really believe in anything anymore…?”

Mal fell silent.

“Thought so.” Santa raised his rifle, ready to shoot. Mal briefly saw a picture of the drug addict he’d killed all those months ago, and froze. He heard the crying of the children - of the adults - in that store. Did he really want to do this in front of them? Time was running out and he had to make up his mind.

There was a shot. And Santa dropped his gun and his whiskey. Another blast echoed around the room, then the man was falling over, toppling against the golden throne. He raised a bloodied hand to clutch at the chair arm, but it slipped off, too wet to find purchase.

Mal looked down at his pistol, expecting to see the telltale smoke rising from the barrel. But then he realised he hadn’t been the one who’d fired. He glanced over his shoulder and saw Norm there, along with a number of SWAT officers and, unless he was mistaken, a few FEDs too.

They swarmed in, checking on casualties, ushering the children to safety, securing the area. Mal moved forwards with Norm and the SWATs to find the man dressed as Santa keeled over on the floor. They snatched the handguns from his belt, kicked away his rifle, and trained their own weapons on him. Somebody called for a paramedic, and Mal noticed that a number had already entered the grotto to treat the wounded. He feared it would be too late for this particular one, though.

Father Christmas coughed, and smiled at Mal. “Ho…ho…ho…” he wheezed.

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Then he winked from behind his pair of cracked half-moon glasses, before closing his eyes forever.

“You alright?” Norm asked his partner.

Mal nodded. Physically he was fine, if maybe a little shaken up.

“Jeez Louise, look at the hardware in that sack,” said one of the SWAT guys.

“Guess not everyone wants computer games for Christmas…”

Mal turned and started to walk away.

Norm jogged up alongside him. “Hey, where are you going?”

“Home,” said Mal. “What about the report? Hey…Mal, hey wait up…”

But Officer Malcolm Docherty was already on his way out of the den. *** It began snowing while Mal walked the streets, but he barely even noticed. And it was close to midnight by the time he arrived back home. Mal let himself in, heading straight for Lauren and Brad’s rooms first. They were fast asleep, their innocent faces as pale as angels on the pillows.

Mal left them in peace (heavenly peace…?) grabbed a Bud from the fridge, and walked into the lounge. The TV was on - the end of some stupid Christmas special featuring a variety of “Z list” celebs. Wendy was dosing on the couch; she only stirred slightly when Mal came in. He took a gulp from the bottle just as a newsflash came up on the television. “…in Crosby’s tonight. The shootings left several people injured but only one person dead, the gunman - who has since been identified as a Mr Christopher Cringle. A spokesperson for Crosby’s said ‘He has only been in the employ of this store for the last month, and his credentials seemed very impressive…’”

Mal switched off the set and took another swig of the beer. The clock on the mantle chimed twelve. His eyes were drawn to the tree in the corner of the room, and the wish lists below it. He wondered whether those wishes would ever be granted, now that…

Nightmare On 34th Street : 69

No, he didn’t want to think about it. Didn’t even want to consider the outrageous possibility that one of the last shining lights, one of the last symbols of hope was no more. That He’d been tainted by this world, driven mad by the demands placed upon him…

Cringle had just been some guy in a Santa suit, just another person who’d lost it and gone ape with America’s favourite adult toys.

“I know you…You’ve been a bad boy…”

Mal took out his notepad and pen, and scribbled something down. He walked over to the tree, bent over, left the note there. Then he joined his wife on the couch, slumping down beside her…

And waited till morning to see if his wish would come true. *** Copyright © Paul Kane 2003

Surf along to Paul's site at : www.shadow-writer.co.uk

'Ornament' : Copyright © Julie Rodriguez Jones 2002

See more of Julie's astronomical art here : www.artfromthesoul.com

70 : Festive Artwork : Winter Solstice

'Winter Solstice' : Copyright Š Sean Woodward 2006

Discover more of Sean's creative work at : www.seanwoodward.com

On A Night Like This : 71

On A Night Like This

by Ivan Zoric

…Ideas are born.

Mike White was sure of this, but it looked like his ideas went to some other womb instead. Creative block came around the corner, like a cheap hooker, and did not show any intentions of letting him get off that easy.

He was sitting in front of sterile white screen trying to break through the dam blocking his mind’s flow.

It did not work. Not even a simple metaphor could come to him.

He stretched and yawned on an uncomfortable chair looking at the clock. Small hand was trying to persuade big one how only she reserves the right on midnight hour.

Still too early to go to bed. Too late to call Diane, though. She was probably already asleep - she needed rest anyway. She has been working day and night on her latest project, and if he was as much as to propose some time off - she would get furious. “ I do not have time to waste!” she would recite her favorite mantra.

Well, if nothing else, at least she did not have problem with lack of ideas.

He tried to force himself to write. Nope, just didn’t work.

Ten minutes later, he turned off the computer and went to the kitchen, scratching his butt on the way.

He pulled out a carton of milk out of the fridge and started drinking, not even trying to look for a glass (one of the thing that drover Diane crazy). He sat in front of TV, surfing through channels. All shows looked like insults to intelligent life forms, so he turned the TV off and looked through the window. The winter had its teeth deep in the flash of the city. Streets were deserted; holes in the road covered in ice reflecting blurry light from a few leftover posts.

He felt the need to take a walk.

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He did not wait to think about it - he was a man driven by impulses. On the other hand Diana has always been so cold and calculated. Sometimes he would wonder why are they wasting time with each other. Well, probably because she was stacked - both with money and lingerie content (not to mention that she was also a blowjob queen). He felt shivers going down his spine. God, she could have been such a babe if she hadn’t been such a bitch.

While exiting the building he heard a baby cry somewhere on the third floor.

The rest of the tenants were sailing the high seas of dreams, tucked under stinky blankets.

The moment he got out he felt chill biting into his face. He put the hood on and looked down the street towards the downtown. Nah. He needed something else this night. “ City Lights” were not the main feature for tonight’s show.

He decided to take a walk through Memorial Park instead. It lied just a few blocks away from his building and it looked terrifying at night. Morbid atmosphere just might bring his inspiration back.

He was a horror writer after all and it would be stupid of him to look for it in trendy places.

First snowflakes started flying by and he knew that rooftops would soon look like covered in frosting.

He smiled. Tonight might not be a night for a Great American Novel, but at least a child within will emerge on the surface following the tempting promises of snow fairies. *** On a night like this monsters are born.

David did not believe in monsters but he has been certain that his wife was a witch.

In last twenty years he had thousands of opportunities to verify that. He was a mellow guy - most of their neighbors considered him to be a very nice and well-mannered fatso. Zora has been the exact opposite. Skinny, tiny women with venomous tongue and eyes she could go on for hours yelling at him about insignificant stuff. Toilets sit left up, or hair leftover in s bathtub.

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Than night she was in her element. “ You fat horse, just how many times must I tell you not to leave your dirty socks on the bedroom floor?

There is a place for them - in the fucking bathroom!”, she was standing in between David and TV. He frowned and moved to the side so he could see the game. He knew better then to get involved into these confrontations. She could go on for hours.

Sometimes he would get amused imagining her as a mill - with wheat coming through her ears and flour coming out of her mouth. A fucking mill… “ Oh, I see we’re playing “ ignoring me” game!” she said. “ Not this time, mister!”

Arm, that she kept hidden all that time behind her back, longed forward and before he could evade it a pair of black, smelly socks landed on top of his nose. “ Do you see this?” she was speeding up now.” Do you really think I have time to run behind you collecting dirty laundry? Twenty fucking years I’ve been repeating some things, but it looks I’ve been talking to a wall!”

Socks were swinging inches away from David’s face, huge gaps in places where his feet were supposed to go. Speaking in percentages those were not socks - more like holes with some socks in them.

He couldn’t contain a smile. That, of course, threw her into the frenzy. “ Funny, ain’t it? I work like a slave in this house and all you do is smile…” tiny drops of spit were shooting out of her mouth while she continued into eternity.

That was the moment he felt the first contraptions.

Monster that grew inside of him, like a fetus, decided to come out. David knew that the day was going to come sooner or later. Years of insults and humiliations were feeding the beast developing in the womb of restrained anger. The day had come for it to see the world.

David got up, carefully placing unfinished bottle of beer on the coaster. On TV, Bill Walton was screaming about Pistons.

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David went to the kitchen, dragging his feet. Zora followed him, waving her arms, talking about well deserved vacation in some spa.

He smiled, looking over a set of knives on the kitchen counter. Birth pains grew stronger. “ What are you hungry now?” he heard her voice behind his back. “ Make your own goddamn dinner, pig! That is if you can after all that beer..”

He chose the one with wide blade (some things never go out of fashion). He turned around to the woman he had spent half of his life. He was smiling, because unlike her he was just bringing a new life into the world. Even when he lifted the blade high above his head she had not been aware of what was going on. She was still spitting poison, blind for everything around her.

They screamed at the same time. Zora in pain, when the knife went in between her ribs digging its way through flesh; David in relief, because although he was dying he was leaving his most precious possession to his child - his own body.

Newborns first scream was heard only by a guy in hooded jacket, that had left the building only moments before that.

Monster, once called David continued on cutting the lifeless body on the floor.

Half an hour later, it came out of building with a bunch of loaded plastic bags and threw them into the Dumpster followed by a group of hungry stray dogs.

It did not know its own name. Father left him without a name or place in this world.

With knife safely tucked inside its pocket it began searching the streets looking for someone who will give him purpose. *** On a night like this desires are born.

Experienced law enforcer like Gene Stanton knew very well how to satisfy them.

Eighteen-year-old girl that was jumping on his lap screaming and sighing knew the same thing.

Night patrol in a town like Newberg can really be boring. That is why officer

On A Night Like This : 75

Gene walked into a bar called “ Aureus”(also known as Pigsty in some circles) with every intention of picking up one of the girls that were hanging around. It was a quiet understanding - a fast one in exchange for a brother’s or dads speeding ticket that will get lost the next day and never find its way to the court.

One could almost call it prostitution. One could also find himself with a hole in the head made with a bullet from hunting rifle that ME would readily proclaim “ hunting accident”. It’s good to be a king, remember?

He picked up a blonde wearing way too much makeup, sitting in one corner all by herself. They had couple of drinks, with conversation that was pretty much just a bunch of cliches they’ve both seen in movies. Yvonne, that was her name, readily accepted his proposition to take a ride in a patrol car.

He was wondering now, with her nipple in his month, how many men she has had. She looked far too young for the technique she possessed and that was confusing him.

He picked up the pace, sensing she was getting close to orgasm. She screamed, clawing into his back. He pumped for another minute or two and then emptied out, shaking wildly She gave him a kiss like a child, on the cheek. That confused him, again. “ You were great! Honest to God!” she said buttoning up her shirt.

He smiled in reply.

“It’s my birthday today,” he said. “ Really? How old are you?” “ Thirty five” he lied without blinking. “ Cool! So, this was like birthday fuck for you then!” she said. “ Not if I have to do something in return”. “ Wow there cowboy! What do you think I am? Some cheap hooker?” she tried to sound angry. She was not convincing. “ I fucked you ‘cause I like you, NOT because I need a favor. Besides, you still don’t have a beer gut like most of guys in this fucking place”.

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She hit the nerve. He was proud that his body still looked that good going on thirty-nine. “ I apologize. Did not mean to insult you,” he said.

She was looking through the window. It started snowing outside. “ It’s ok. I just did not want you to think I was one of those…Would it be too much to ask to drop me off home?” “ We’re already there, Hun! Just let me know where we going?” “ Pussyville” she said and quickly added” …And it’s not funny” He did not laugh. Name that someone gave to that part of town was distasteful in his modest opinion.

Ten minutes later they stopped in front of her house. She gave him another kiss on the cheek and ran away. He watched her slowly opening front door and sneaking up inside. He wondered if her parents knew who their daughter really was.

Gene shook his head and lit a cigarette. He turned back to the town - after all he was a cop and had a job to do.

In a small town like Newberg (a great place to grow!) crime was something you see on TV. Breaking and entering every now and then, bar fight, or domestic dispute - that was his usual cup of tea.

Most of the time he would be cruising round looking for drunk or high kids, who were walking around at night like army of zombies. He would take them to the station, slap them a few times - just because he could - and let them out again, only to have them arrested again next week.

He was not in a mood to go around the bars that night. Most likely he would just go to the park. That place was a capitol of stoned zombies and there was not a doubt in his mind that he would find some there tonight, even though it had been snowing.

“Time to catch some bad guys!” he said parking the car. “ Just follow the yellow brick road and you will get your wish”

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No one heard him. Wearing a snowy cloak town was dreaming of spring… *** On a night like this love is born.

Billy felt his arms shaking while he was sitting on a bench in the park waiting for Helena. He was almost certain it was not from cold. He was absolutely inexperienced in matters of a heart. He was almost eighteen but girls were still a great unknown to him. Not that the opportunity had not present itself - he was just much more interested in a session of D&D then he would be in a party and girls.

Billy’s idea of a perfect night was a long game of Heroes of Might and Magic with friends, six-pack of Pepsi (die Coke fans, die!) and surfing the web in search of free sci-fi downloads.

Going out? No, thanks! …And then, there was Helena.

Billy saw her for the first time on someone’s birthday party. He almost did not go - what a mistake that would be!

She was sitting by stereo going through CDs. He was pretending to drink screwdriver and trying to focus on a conversation about new models of cell phones that his buddies were into. People around him were tripping in slow motion to some hip-hop music he found absolutely annoying. “ Shit party! he thought” Snoop Dogg or 50 cent will probably be the peak of the night:.

Surprise! Slow music that flowed through the room stopped for a second. Then, speakers just exploded. “ Not some puppet anymore!” Natasha Cox was screaming followed by abrasive guitar sound. Industrial, at its best, shaking every single fiber of his being.

He turned to stereo looking for a person that saved the night. There she was, dancing to the music.

That was the moment Billy started believing in cyber goddesses. She was wearing vinyl jacket with grace of heroine from Anime. Even her eyes were that big. He approached her without hesitation, surprising even himself.

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“ You like Mankind? he asked. “ Yeah” she said “ You?” “ Are you kidding me? I’m like their number one fan”.

“Well, Number One - meet Number Two” she said shaking his hand. It was cold and smooth as icicle.

She looked so unreal, too digital for a place like that.

“I’m Helena,” she said. “ Billy” “ Nice to meet you Billy” her hair dyed red went in all directions like ripped sail in the storm. New sensation coming from a place he never thought existed in within him broke Billy’s proverbial indifference. He had no idea how to name it, but he knew that he wanted to spend every single moment until the end of universe with girl in vinyl. Two of them had spent the night dancing to cosmic sounds of Mankind is Obsolete, Livefeed and Orgy.

In days that followed he discovered how similar they were. He would bet is life they were long lost twins. They spent afternoons walking in unusual places like old rusty river boats or art shows that no one attended. That night they chose the park.

Billy shook the snow out of his hair and looked at watch. It was twenty pass midnight and she was late.

He did not mind. He would wait for her eve if that meant kids would have a new Snowman in the morning. He was blowing in fists turning purple trying to se through snowstorm. It was a beautiful night. Rolling hills in the park looked like snow dunes. Not a single sound interrupted the perfect silence of the scenery.

Like snow queen, she came out of mist in whirlwind of snowflakes. Dresses in white - according to the moment. Vinyl, of course. “ My digital princess” he thought, pressing lips to hers.” If only this moment could last forever…”

He wanted to copy those few seconds on emotional hard drive and save it from

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erosion of time. Nothing and nobody could separate them - they were linked on the same matrix. Till the end of time…

Voice behind them said “ My name… What’s my name?” *** Mike refused to believe in destiny. The concept that humans were deprived of free will and possibility of choice seemed stupid to him. He refused to believe that there was just one road for him to follow. Mike always imagined life as an infinite series of crossroads and in very center of them sat His Majesty Randomness.

It was The Majesty that brought him behind the curtains of the play waiting to happen on the stage of snowy park. Unknown to him, actors were already taking their places on boards, equally unaware of it.

He had been chosen as a critic, who will make this play sink or swim…

Mike walked slowly, enjoying in sound of snow under his feet. Snow fairies (in whom he believed with same enthusiasm as in greedy agents) dresses the town into a completely new costume.

Newberg did not fit into that costume. The innocence of white roofs, snow covered cars looked hypocritical to him. It reminded him of a whore in a wedding dress - undeniably pure and white on surface, but with herpes under “ something old, something new, something borrowed, something blue”.

Mike knew very well just how much dirt was lying under it.

He walked through ghostly empty woods behind his apartment complex and headed in direction of park.

The trail was completely covered with snow and he was really careful not to twist his ankle. He knew the trail even with his eyes closed (he had spent the entire childhood playing there) but you can never be too careful.

Park spread in front of him magnificent and deserted. He felt like intruder, unwanted guest disturbing peace of decades of lonely nights. There were several murders in that park throughout the history and they were all coming to his memory now. He shivered from scenes dancing in his mind’s eye. Diana was right - vivid imagination is a curse not gift.

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He forced himself to think about nicer things. Didn’t work. In the end he felt like he needed to take piss and he looked for a secluded place to do so.

While he was signing his name in snow he felt tingling sensation in his back. He shook his Willie three times (cause everything over that is already masturbation) and put it back in a warm nest of underwear.

He headed towards the bench where he planned to sit down for a break.

He stopped. Someone was already there. Some kid not more then eighteen was sitting there blowing in his hands. Mike was in a weird situation. He was maybe thirty feet away from the boy, hidden by a tree and if he would come out he would probably freak the kid out. Boy could even think he was some perv waiting to get some action. Mike did not want any of that so he decided to stay hidden; hoping that whomever the boy was waiting for would come soon… …Which turned out to be good decision. A few minutes later a girl came along dressed in something that looked like space suit. They ran to each other and started kissing like actors in sleazy romantic flicks.

In a way Mike was envious. Diane and him never even came close to what these two kids had. Even while making love to her he could feel how distant she was.

No, what these two had was as far away from Mike as summer rain.

Interesting, but none of them noticed a guy that suddenly came out of blizzard.

He walked to the couple and asked them something. What followed, Mike had only seen in one of those terrible fantasies. *** It was lonely.

Baby - monster roamed the city streets in search of company. It looked for the One that would give him name, Father of all known things. Father will give it name, and once named it will know the purpose of coming to this world.

Park has been deserted. It walked over hills clumsily; tripping and falling all the way down to its knees into holes that were opening in the snow like gaping mouths. It screamed, in agony.

That’s when it saw her. White, just like the thing falling all around him she could have been the Lady of the Place. She moved through the night, as she owned

On A Night Like This : 81

it. In all its infantility it thought that she was the one that knew where the Father-of-all-known-things was ad it started following her.

It laughed, swallowing snot running from its nose.

The moment was closing… *** Billy decided that guy in front of them was a complete nutcase.

Guy was standing in front of them and like total psycho repeating that he doesn’t know his own name.

For some reason, he obviously thought Helena knew it. Helena had never seen him before that night. “ Leave us alone, man” she said clinging to Billy’s arm. He could feel her body trembling under the jacket. “ You heard the lady. Get lost!” Billy really hoped that it came out as a valid threat. He was scared as much as Helena. “ My name….My name…What’s my name?” guy was really persistent. “ I do not fucking know! OK?” Billy screamed.

Expression on guys face started to shift. Excitement and admiration gave away to disappointment, followed by anger.

With howl guy reached for pocket.

Billy felt his legs giving up when he saw psycho pulling out knife.

Behind him, Helena screamed. *** As soon as he heard the first scream Gene grabbed his gun and with curse on his lips ran towards the park. Something was wrong. Very wrong.

Usually, the only noise coming from the park had been laughter and singing of

82 : On A Night Like This

druggies.

Screams that ripped the sky were not anything like that. Someone screamed in genuine horror. “ Great! Rape case is the last thing I need tonight,” he thought while sliding down slippery slopes. Some drunken trucker was probably playing rough with a hooker. Wouldn’t be the first time. If that was the case Gene had every intention of making sure guy would never drive again. He would pay for this unplanned night dash.

Gene could see the guy now. With his back turned to Gene, he was wrestling some girl in white jacket.

Officer lounged towards the guy planning to hit him on the head wit gun handle.

Too late he noticed body on the ground and red puddle all around it. He slid with both feet and fell backwards, dropping the gun. He lost his breath. His eyes went black.

Killer turned to him, growling “ Name….”

With wet sound blade came out of girl’s body, turning jacket instant red. She fell down, gurgling.

Fighting dizziness Gene got up, just in time to dodge lunatic charging at him.

Not fast enough. Knife found its way to his shoulder, tearing muscles stopping at the bone. Gene grabbed the guy by the hand holding the knife and kicked him in the balls. Screaming, guy went down to his knees pulling knife with him. Gene felt the cold steel going down to his armpit and simply fell over a guy. Struggle continued on the ground and somehow Gene managed to pull out the knife push the lunatic away with his legs. He was looking for his gun, but couldn’t see it anywhere. Snow swallowed it whole.

On the other side, killer was getting up slashing the air.

It was bad. The wound was stinging like hell and guy in front oh Gene had the strength of a madman.

Gene did not believe he would come out alive from this one.

On A Night Like This : 83

Maniac was charging again….

Gunshot froze them both up.

It was a moment for the one who watched it all from backstage to come out. *** Mike, paralyzed by horror watched how stranger butchered unfortunate couple.

He snapped only when gun that flew out of officer’s hand dropped in front of him.

Mike lifted the weapon, his arms shaking, checked if it was loaded and came on the stage with a bang.

Cop and killer were looking at him, frozen still. The bullet went high above their heads.

Cop was the first one to react “ What are you waiting for? Shoot the son of a bitch!” he screamed.

Mike looked at the killer. Guy was crying.

“Please…my name…Tell me my name…”

Mike hesitated. Cop started screaming again” What the fuck? Are you gonna wait till his butchers us both? Fuck man! Shoot!”

Mike looked at the killer again. This time guy returned the look.

In that moment that lasted and lasted two things happened.

First - Mike became aware that somewhere deep in his subconscious something that lied there hidden for years started rising; that something was grabbing his mind, taking over control of his body.

Second - Monster’s face turned into a smile for it finally fund the one it had been looking for.

Gene was still screaming at Mike to shoot. In vain.

84 : On A Night Like This

The two have met.

Gunshot echoed through the night. Right after it the word.

Name…. *** On a night like this strange friendships are born.

Father-of-all-known-things and the one now called by its true name left the stage without applause, without cheers. There will be time for that, of course.

Right now they had more important things to do. Wake up the rest of the Sleepers, gather the tribe.

It was still snowing when strange tandem started their search. All around them, in houses, in apartments, in hotels humans were sleeping.

Soon, some of them will wake up……… *** Copyright © Ivan Zoric 2006

Dedicated to Natasha - without her dreams this story would never come to life….

Thanks for the inspiration!

Ivan Zoric was born in Sremska Mitrovica, Serbia in 1977, and lived there until 2002. Most of his work has been published in his native Serbian language. His stories are a blend of dark fantasy, horror and old Serbian myths. In January 2002 he moved to Portland OR, and for the next three years it seemed like he gave up on writing. Fortunately, after seeing and meeting band "Mankind Is Obsolete" he realized just how much writing means to him and decided to start writing in English.

This story is his first one published in English. Ivan is currently working on a collection of short stories titled "The Second Eternity".

Check out Ivan's MySpace page here : www.myspace.com/clonedivan

Festive Artwork : Guidolon Christmas : 85

'Guidolon Christmas' : Copyright Š The Guidolon Team (Frank Wu, Todd Tennant, SuRa Forbes) 2006

This short animated film is about a giant space chicken making a film about a giant space chicken. He has delusions of grandeur, thinking he's a Shakespearean tragic hero, when really he's just a giant space chicken. Here we see Guidolon (on our right) celebrating Christmas with Takashi (on our left). Takashi is a washed up human Shakespearean actor in a chicken suit Guidolon hires to play himself.

Find out more on the Guidolon website : www.guidolon.com Watch it on YouTube : www.youtube.com/watch?v=zCCn8ejw1Ks Frank Wu : www.frankwu.com Todd Tennant : americankaiju.kaijuphile.com SuRa (Suzanne Rachel) Forbes: www.rachelforbes.com

86 : Tabitha's Angel

Tabitha's Angel

by Marie O'Regan

“Please God, I don’t ask for much. I won’t ask for anything ever again, just please God…” Her voice trailed away and she dropped her face into her hands, trying to hide its wetness. She couldn’t disguise the shaking of her shoulders, though, nor prevent the noise.

“Oh come on now, sweetheart, it can’t be that bad, can it?” Tabitha looked up, amazed that anyone could be that stupid. It was an old lady, who looked nice – she had a kind face that seemed almost familiar somehow, and she meant well, so Tabitha bit back the retort that had risen to her lips. The lady looked placidly back at her, not quite smiling but almost, and in spite of herself Tabitha offered as much of a smile as she could muster.

“It’s pretty bad.” She thought back to the scream that had woken her that morning, and the sight of the blood spreading in a pool around her mother on the bathroom floor. The rest of it was a blur, blue lights and sirens, ending with her being left here on a chair in the waiting room to wait for something. News, her father, something. Anything.

“I’m sure your mother will be fine, dear.” She reached out to touch Tabitha’s hair, and Tabitha leant back, away from the slightly sickly aroma of violets.

Where had she smelt that before?

“How did you know about my mother?”

“I saw you come in, dear. I thought maybe you could do with a little company while you wait for your dad.”

“How did you know my dad would be coming?” The lady started to reach out again, she was sure, but she stopped herself. She paused before she answered. To Tabitha it looked like she was trying not to cry.

“Your mother’s in there, dear. Who else would be coming to get you?” Tabitha didn’t answer, but she thought the lady was out of touch. These days, her mother said, there was no guarantee of a happy ending. Tabitha wasn’t quite sure what she meant by that, but she had a feeling it had something to do with Aunt Sarah’s divorce, and Uncle Simon heading off to Canada. He hadn’t been in touch with

Tabitha's Angel : 87

anyone in the family since, although he and Tabitha had always got along really well. She missed him, but you couldn’t say that around Aunt Sarah.

She didn’t want to miss her mum.

“Let’s talk about something else, shall we dear?” Tabitha nodded, happy to not have to think about what life would be like if her mum…

“What about Christmas? What do you want from Santa this year?”

“Oh please, I’m a little old for Santa.”

“Are you now? And you all of seven.” Stung, Tabitha drew herself up to her full height. “I’m eight, I was eight last week.” This time there was no mistaking it; the lady was trying to hide a smile. A notion struck her, and she looked more closely.

“Do I know you, ma’am?”

“I knew your mother, Tabby. We lost touch when you were what, three?”

Maybe that explained it, she thought. Things about this lady seemed familiar, like her perfume for instance, and the way she looked at Tabitha with her head held slightly to one side, like a bird. It also explained why she had just called her Tabby, when no one else had called her that since she had decided she was too grown up. She had been at least five.

“I don’t really want that much for Christmas.”

“Nothing?”

Tabitha shrugged. “I like books, and movies. I wanted to wait this year.” The lady regarded her gravely, as if the answer to everything hinged on her next question.

“Why did you want to wait, Tabby?”

“To see if God gave me what I asked for. A baby brother. I only had to wait another month.” She fell silent. She didn’t want to talk any more. The lady did touch her then. She stroked her hair, twisted a strand of it absentmindedly. Tabitha relaxed against her. She felt safer here, now, than she had since her mum had tucked her in last night. Her mother had spent the day putting up the Christmas decorations, and Tabitha had helped, not wanting her to hurt herself. She remembered she had told her mother to wait. “Daddy’s going to be mad if you

88 : Tabitha's Angel

tumble, mum. He said he’d help you tonight.”

“It’s Christmas Eve, sweetheart. Let’s surprise Daddy.” He’d been surprised, all right. By the time he got home they were finished, and mum was exhausted. He didn’t get cross, but he made mum lie down and ordered pizza. While they were waiting he fixed her some hot chocolate, and told Tabitha to get plates and glasses of milk for the two of them.

This morning he’d already left for work when Tabitha had heard her mum fall.

She wished he was here. As if he’d heard her, the doors at the end of the corridor swung open and her father came hurtling through. Tabitha hurled herself at him; eager to feel the safety of his arms, hear him tell her it was all going to be fine. She was vaguely aware of a sigh, carried on a violet breeze.

She must have dozed off while sitting on her dad’s lap, as the next thing she knew the doctor was standing in front of them, and her dad was trying to ease her onto the chair next to him as he stood up. She resisted, and he shifted her to one hip instead. She peeped out at the doctor from against her father’s neck, scared to hear his words.

“Congratulations, Mr. Paxton. You have a little boy, and your wife will be just fine.” Then they were led in to see her, and Tabitha was looking at a wizened little scrap with a shock of red hair, just like hers. She didn’t think he’d get saddled with a nickname like Tabby cat, though.

Her mum reached out, pushed a strand of her hair back. “Hi Tabitha, say hello to your little brother, Noel.” There was a whiff of violets, and for a moment Tabitha saw another, older face superimposed over her mother’s features, and remembered.

“I saw nana, mum. Here.”

Her mother started, then smiled, a sad, sweet smile that almost stopped Tabitha noticing how brightly her eyes shone through her tears. “I wouldn’t be surprised, love. She always called you her little angel, maybe she thought it was time to return the favour.” *** Copyright © Marie O'Regan 2001

Read more from Marie here : www.marieoregan.net

Festive Artwork : Snowman & The Gift : 89

'Snowman' : Copyright Š Marilynn Flynn 1983

Explore the wonders of space at Marilynn's site : www.tharsisartworks.com

'The Gift' : Copyright Š David A. Hardy 1999

Unwrap the delights of the universe at David's site : www.astroart.org

90 : The Stuff Of Life And Death

The Stuff Of Life And Death

by Dave Cook

The tiny bed-sit was perched on the second floor of a typically run-down property in East London. The boards were bare and the furniture shoddy, the walls grimy and black with mould. In the hearth, a few glowing embers helped fuel the stench of poverty while fighting the winter chill.

By the light of a rusty oil lamp, Beth McBride and her two guests sat huddled around a small table. Dr. Amos and his fiancée, Winifred, were somewhat quieter than usual. Not that it bothered Beth. She was knocking back her first glass of port in six weeks. Jail had been a nightmare. But now that it was over she intended to make up for lost time. Her sole intention of the evening was to get drunk. First, though, she had a bone to pick with her young protégé, Winifred. "’Ere, Win," she began. "The landlord says you been comin' in and out of my little bed-sit like a fiddler's elbow lately. Cheeky cow! You been treating my home like a knocking shop while I was away, girl?”

Win threw Dr. Amos a glance but said nothing.

"If I find out it is true," Beth went on regardless, "I'll ‘appily roast you on a spit till your eyes pop out. Got that, girl?"

"I’ve no need of this hovel!” Win snapped back. “I've got my own place now…"

Outside, a shrill scream pierced the night. A dog barked. It was a half-hearted effort, however, and the hound soon fell silent.

Dr. Amos rose from his chair and made for the window. He was in his mid-thirties, well-dressed and of medium height and build, with intelligent eyes and dark features. He was so obviously a gentleman, although a gentleman who seemed oddly out of character with his present surroundings. The windowpane was covered in condensation. He wiped it away with a gloved hand.

"See anything?" Beth asked.

Dr. Amos peered through the opaque glass at the poorly-lit streets of East London.

"Not on the night before Christmas!” he declared. Removing a gold fob watch

The Stuff Of Life And Death : 91

from his pocket, he studied it closely before slipping it back from whence it came.

“Even the chestnut seller on the corner of Dorset Street seems to have gone home early."

Beth poured herself another glass of port. Despite the soft glow of the lamp she looked older than her 35 years. Her hair was thin and unkempt, her features haggard and drawn with huge dark shadows under her eyes.

"Maybe it’s Jack the Ripper," she said. ‘Up to his old tricks, I shouldn’t wonder.”

This time it was Winifred who rose to her feet. Blonde, bright-eyed, and buxom, Win was one of the most popular girls in the area. In a good week, even before Beth had gone to jail, she could earn up to three times more than her friend. "You really think it could be Jack the Ripper, Beth?”

“Maybe.”

“Well I reckon there's more chance of me turning out to be Father Christmas!"

Beth belched loudly. "What in blazes are you goin' on about, girl?"

"You know as well as I do that Jack ain’t prowling the streets, tonight.”

“And how would I know that?” “‘Cause we both know he’s right ‘ere in this room," Win said.

Beth screwed up her eyes. "You're sayin' Dr. Amos is Jack the Ripper?"

Win said nothing as she headed towards the single bed situated in the corner of the room. She dropped to her knees and fumbled briefly under the bed before retrieving a long black overcoat, a black hat, and black bag. She tossed the items onto the table. Opening the bag, she thrust it towards Beth. "See what I come across while you were in jail, Beth."

Beth peered into the bag, which contained an assortment of surgical scalpels, pliers, and clamps.

"Well I'll be buggered!" she exclaimed. "Where did they come from?"

"You should know. You just saw me pull 'em out from under your bed."

92 : The Stuff Of Life And Death

"Well they're nothin' to do with me."

"You sure about that?"

"Of course I'm bleedin' sure," Beth said. "What’s all this about anyway? Are you accusin' me of lookin' after 'em for Jack the Ripper or something?"

"That’s not what I’m saying at all, Beth. I'm saying that you are Jack the Ripper."

Beth burst out laughing, which turned rapidly into a fit of coughing. She hawked the phlegm into the fire before pointing a grubby finger at Dr. Amos.

"More likely it was lover boy ‘ere who dumped 'em.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I bet Dr. Amos knows how to use those instruments. Maybe you haven’t heard this, Win, but a lot of folk around these parts are sayin' Jack's a medical man."

"And I knows they're wrong," Win said. "See, Beth, I knows for a fact that you were in the Whitechapel area around the time of the murders. Not just once or twice, either. You were seen on all five occasions."

"That's the daftest thing I've heard this year," Beth said. "What would I gain by killin' one of my own?"

"Money!” Win snapped. “’Cause with fewer girls working the streets, the more pickings there'd be for an over the hill slag like you."

Silently, Dr. Amos took a position directly behind Beth.

The close proximity of the doctor made her nervous. She tried to get up just as her stomach was racked with pain. She fell back into her chair. "My God!” she exclaimed. “What've you done to me?"

"Blame the port," Dr. Amos told her. "It’s laced with poison."

Beth bent forward, clutching her stomach. Her intestines felt as though they were on fire. "I don’t believe it. You've poisoned me 'cause of a few bleedin' scrubbers?"

"I’ll have you know," Win retorted, “that the last girl you killed was my sister."

The Stuff Of Life And Death : 93

"No! Mary Jane Kelly was your sister?"

"Cut her up good and proper, didn't you? But then you went and got yourself jailed for something silly and suddenly Jack disappears as well. For six glorious weeks Whitechapel’s been murder-free. But now you're back on the streets, Beth, what's the betting the butchering will start all over again?"

"The girls were raped," Beth hissed. "How could I have managed that, you bleedin' fool?"

Win picked up the overcoat from the table. From a pocket she withdrew a small glass phial. Even after six weeks the remnants of a creamy, off-white substance still stained its base.

"This," she said, waving the phial in front of Beth, "is the stuff of life. What a man leaves behind when he's done fornicating. Only in your case it should be called the stuff of death. Since you’d insert some into the bodies of those poor dead girls so the police would think Jack's a man.”

Beth didn’t say anything. She was too busy groaning.

“Heed my words, Beth. You'll never do it again."

Directly behind Beth, Dr. Amos removed a small scalpel from his inside pocket before placing his other hand on her forehead, as if waiting for a gesture. The signal arrived in a matter moments as the distant pealing of church bells announced the arrival of Christmas Day. Beth’s eyes were almost popping out of their sockets. Dr. Amos tilted her head back. With her neck exposed, he used his other hand to scoop the scalpel across her jugular. Blood jettisoned from the wound, squirting across the table and beyond in a pulsating rhythm of crimson; while the faint gurgling sound coming from Beth lasted barely more than a few seconds.

Eventually, the doctor transferred the body to the bed. Then, crouching over the cadaver like a chef preparing food, he proceeded to cut away the flesh from her face, chest, thigh, and ribcage. He slashed her from rectum to breast bone as he set about duplicating Mary Jane Kelly's well-documented fate in every gory detail.

Win observed the scene in complete silence, amazed at the depths of depravity the doctor would sink to make her happy.

94 : The Stuff Of Life And Death

He was almost the perfect partner.

Almost, but not quite, she reminded herself. He'd barely raised a smile during their six-week courtship, let alone his manhood. Not that she was bothered, mind.

Her punters were more than willing to make up for the doctor's failings. With her looks she could have sex ten or more times a day if she felt like it – and sometimes she did.

The small room was crimson-red by the time Dr. Amos was finished. His face speckled with blood, he begrudgingly moved away from the body just as a small object slipped from his trouser pocket to land unbroken on the wooden boards.

The glass phial was identical to the one Win held in her hand.

“No!” The look in Win's eyes was worth a thousand words. "Please say it isn't true."

“I can’t do that, Win.” “You mean Beth was right all along.”

"Now hang on, Win. Let's not forget that killing Beth was your idea."

"Only 'cause I thought she was Jack!"

"But don't you see? Jack died six weeks ago, the moment I fell in love with you."

"The same six weeks Beth spent locked up in jail."

His lips parted in a smile. His eyes, however, were cold and devoid of humour.

"That was sheer coincidence," he admitted. "But it was damned useful. It certainly had you fooled."

Win knew her life was in danger. She had to come up with something fast. “But things could have been so different. You could have told me your secret and I wouldn't have told a single soul."

The doctor's laugh was hollow. "What… confess everything only to have you report me to the police? No fear, Win. I'm nobody's fool, though my undying love for you is real enough."

"But we had such a wonderful time. We still can!"

The Stuff Of Life And Death : 95

He raised his eyebrows. "You still want me, despite knowing that I killed your sister?”

“Why not? It’s not like we were close or anything.”

“No, Win. I could never trust you entirely. I’d probably end up doing you in as well, just to be on the safe side."

Playing for time, Win said, "Tell me about the phials."

He blushed. "I thought you knew."

"Knew what?"

"That no matter how much I love you, Win, to me the sex act is degrading and dirty. I could never enjoy a normal man woman relationship."

Win was taken aback at the sheer hypocrisy of the man. He couldn’t bear to have sex with a woman, yet he thought nothing of slicing her into little pieces! Win, though, was nothing if not a good actress. She grasped her hand in his and said, “I don’t care about the sex either. Please let’s start afresh, my love. Please! Please!

Please!”

Dr. Amos fell silent while he pondered the consequences of killing her later instead of now.

"Very well," he said at last. "Give me five minutes to destroy the evidence in this room and then I promise Jack will vanish forever. His disappearance will become the world's greatest mystery. It will leave us free to marry, move away to the coast perhaps and live happily ever after."

At last, Win could see a way out of this mess. She need not die in this room with Beth after all. Suddenly, she was coyness itself. "You would really marry me?"

"Yes." "And you’d look after me… always?"

"Always," he promised. "I want us to be happy."

"Then do it. Destroy the evidence. Burn the place down."

96 : The Stuff Of Life And Death

Win was making plans even as she talked. She would choose her moment with care. Poisoning had been good enough for Beth. In a matter of days, she would make damned certain that poisoning would be good enough for the real Jack the Ripper. *** Copyright Š Dave Cook 2006

Visit Dave's site to read more about his work : www.dcook.co.uk

'Wintur Faery ; Dance, Dream, Awaken' : Copyright Š Vicki Visconti-Tilley 2005

Enter the enchanted world of Vicki here : www.vickiviscontitilley.com

O Christmas Tree : 97

O Christmas Tree

by Jeff Brown

"It's the most wonderful time of the year," Cory sang as he climbed down from the attic. In one hand was a small white box. He rolled the ladder up, closing the door to the attic. "With the kids jingle belling, and everyone yelling-" He paused, his song not sounding quite right. As the lyrics ran through his head, he tried to recall how the song really went.

"It's not 'yelling' you dense fool," he said to himself and began singing again.

"It's the most wonderful time of the year. With the kids jingle belling and everyone telling you 'Be of good cheer.' It's the most wonderful time of the year."

Nodding in satisfaction, Cory walked into his living room and set the box down on the coffee table. He looked around at the other boxes that held lights, ornaments, tinsel and other little knick-knacks. There was a Santa Claus doll and a train, complete with tracks and a smokestack that blew out real smoke. He also had several houses in little red boxes.

"I love this time of year," he said and clasped his hands together. "Don't you, Charles?"

Charles looked up at him from his mat on the floor, his muddy brown eyes holding that forlorn look that all basset hounds seemed to have. His tail lifted off the floor and flopped back down-his best attempt at a wag.

"I knew you did," Cory said and opened the box labeled LIGHTS. He pulled out several groups of green chorded bulbs, bundled together and tied neatly with twine. Setting each strand of lights aside, he thought of what he wanted on his tree this year. White lights? Multi-colored lights? The big ones or little ones? Bubble lights or maybe the little twinkly ones? Cory's eyes lit up when he saw the blue lights. "I haven't used these in years."

As he untied the twine around the chord, Cory began singing again.

"Have a holly, jolly Christmas.

It's the best time of the year.

I don't know if there'll be snow, but have a cup of cheer."

98 : O Christmas Tree

Cory plugged the lights in and smiled when they came to life. "Blue it is, this year."

Carefully, he began to string the lights onto his tree. Though it was bare of branches and leaves and that wonderful sap smell, it would still serve its purpose, even if it was unconventional. Cory shrugged at the unconventional thought.

Most new-agers weren't into all the Christmas tradition, but Cory was, so not having his normal lush green pine tugged at his heart a little.

With only two branches near the top, Cory had to put hooks all along its trunk.

Occasionally a little fluid seeped out where the hooks were, but Cory didn't seem to mind. Charles always cleaned it up. For some reason, the old dog liked the way it tasted.

As he strung the lights, he sang again, changing a couple of words to reflect his own tree.

"I'll have a blue Christmas without you.

I'll be so blue thinking about you.

Decorations of blue on a white Christmas tree, Won't mean a thing if you're not here with me."

After the lights, he pulled out a long strand of garish yellow garland. He strung it a little more haphazardly, but tried to make sure it didn't clash with the lights.

"I'm loving it," Cory said to himself and opened a box of ornaments.

He was searching through them, trying to find the right ones when he heard a soft moan. Cory's head jerked up and he turned around. A smile creased his face.

"Awake so soon, my dear?"

The lady in the corner said nothing, but her eyes spoke volumes.

"Oh, don't be afraid," Cory said. "They're only Christmas decorations."

Another moan escaped the blonde's throat, this one coming out much louder than the first one.

"Please, don't fuss, sweetheart. It's Christmas, remember? The holidays?"

A third, louder moan that would have been a scream if she could have opened her mouth.

O Christmas Tree : 99

Cory shook his head in disappointment. "I knew you wouldn't be in the holiday spirit," he said. "Well, maybe when I'm done, you'll change your mind."

Turning away from her, Cory picked up two ornaments, both bright purple with white sequins forming a curly-queue pattern on them. He attached a metal loop on each one and then walked back over to his tree-to the lovely blond who had been less than vigorously ringing the bell outside of the department store earlier in the evening. She hadn't been too cheerful at all and she made it obvious when Cory dropped his change in the bucket. Cory thought it was because of the charity hour she had to donate to the cause of the homeless.

"Have a nice Christmas," he had said and listened as the coins rattled in the bright red kettle.

"Yeah, right," she murmured under her breath.

Cory didn't think he was supposed to hear the comment but he had, and it bothered him. He stopped and looked at the woman, her green eyes underneath eyebrows that were furrowed down, making her look angry. She wasn't the most appealing woman in the world but there was a certain prettiness even through her cold demeanor.

"Ma'am, would you like to have dinner with me?" he asked.

"You're kidding, right?"

"No, I'm serious. You seem like you're not too much into the Christmas spirit and I would like to help change that."

"No," she said, flatly.

"Suit yourself," Cory said and walked off.

By the time he reached his car, Cory was distraught over her reaction to him. "I must change her mind," he said.

Waiting, he watched her as her shift ended and she made her way to her car, a couple of parking spots down from his own. With her back to him she wasn't able to see him until his reflection appeared in her window. Her eyes grew wide as she spun around to defend herself. Cory grabbed her face and smashed her head backwards into the driver's side window. The window cracked into tiny outstretched lines, like a spider's web, as a smear of blood rolled down it.

100 : O Christmas Tree

"You're a mean one, Mrs. Grinch," he sang as he lifted her to her feet and helped her to his car. "You really are a heel. You're as cuddly as a cactus. You're as charming as an eel, Mrs. Griiiiinnnnnch. You're a bad banana with a greasy black peeeeeel."

"Aren't these lovely?" he said and held the ornaments in front of her. "I think they'll look great on you."

He hung the ornaments on two of the many hooks that dotted her body and went back for more. Again he sung a song as he decorated her with ornaments of all different shapes and sizes.

"It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas everywhere you go. There's a tree in the Grand Hotel, one in the park as well; the sturdy kind that doesn't mind the snow. It's beginning to look a lot like Christmas, soon the bells will start.

And the thing that will make them ring is the carol that you sing right within your heart."

He looked up at the tears tracing down his young blond tree's face. Wiping them away, he frowned. "This isn't working, is it?"

She screamed the best she could, but with her lips sewn shut with green thread it came out muffled.

"That's okay," Cory said and pulled the Santa Claus from its box. Lifting it up, he brushed off a year's worth of dust that somehow got into the box and set it at her feet. It matched her red toenails and Cory smiled.

The houses went along the mantle above the fire place, set up in a precise manner that had the town's small Christmas tree in the center. Santa Claus was on one roof, about to set foot in a chimney. All the while, Cory sang Christmas carols, sometimes stopping to put his hands in the air, dramatizing each movement and word he belted out.

"All that's left if to plug up the lights," Cory said, happily.

Carefully, he plugged all of the lights into surge protectors and turned off the overhead lights. The lights came alive when he flipped a switch on the main power chord and the room became a glow of blues and yellows and whites. Santa Clause danced at the foot of the tree and Charles even sat up for a moment, his tail smacking hard on the floor.

O Christmas Tree : 101

"Something is wrong, Charles," Cory said as he stared hard at his beautiful tree.

"What is missing?"

Charles only glanced up before lying back down on his mat, closing his eyes, as if to try and forget what his master was doing.

"A-ha," Cory shouted in elation. "Why, she is missing the star at the top."

Cory knelt down and started rummaging through several of the boxes and then he stopped. Standing up, he walked over to where the little box he had pulled out of the attic was. Opening it, he pulled out a silver star.

"I thought I cleaned this, last year," he said and began to wipe the crusted red flakes from its sharp steel tip. Underneath the flakes was rust that had set in and wasn't coming off easily. "Oh, well, I guess she'll be the last one that gets to wear this star, Charles. It gets tossed out with the tree this year."

Cory stood and walked back to the tree, singing.

"O Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree, how steadfast are your branches!

Your boughs are green in summer's clime And through the snows of wintertime.

O Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree, how steadfast are your branches!"

"You're going to be so beautiful," Cory said and stepped onto a step stool.

Charles sat up, his tail wagging faster than it had in a long while.

"O Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree, what happiness befalls me When oft at joyous Christmas-time Your form inspires my song and rhyme.

O Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree, what happiness befalls me."

The woman screamed just before Cory drove the star into her skull. It cracked and then gave way under the tip's pressure. Blood trickled from around the star and dripped down her face. Her body convulsed, violently at first, slowed and then ceased moving altogether.

Cory stepped back and wiped a speck of blood from his brow. "I almost toppled the tree this year, Charles," he said. "That would have been a terrible thing, don't you think?"

102 : O Christmas Tree

Charles stood and walked over to Cory, his eyes fixed on the small puddle of blood underneath the woman that was growing larger by the minute. He lowered his head and started lapping at the puddle.

Looking up at his work of art-the woman with no Christmas spirit-Cory began to sing once more as tears brimmed in his eyes.

"O Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree, your boughs can teach a lesson That constant faith and hope sublime, Lend strength and comfort through all time.

O Christmas Tree, O Christmas Tree, your boughs can teach a lesson." *** Copyright Š Jeff Brown 2006

Jeff is a contributing writer at : The Horror Library

'Wizard's Christmas' : Copyright Š Roz Eve 2004

Find more magical artwork at : www.rozeve.com

Festive Artwork : The Merry Elf : 103

'The Merry Elf' : Copyright Š Jeff Ward 2006

See Jeff's fantasy, sci-fi & astronomical work at : www.stungeonstudios.com