SINS OF CHRISTMAS

{Courtesy Steve Z Photography}

“No space of regret can make amends for one life's opportunity misused”
- Charles Dickens, A CHRISTMAS CAROL

So many different kinds of death hunted us this Christmas Eve all through the French Quarter, I would’ve gotten a headache trying to count them all –

If I already hadn’t had one – to go along with the broken ribs, fingers, and nose. 

I looked over at Alice, my ghoul friend. The very sight of her made me smile sadly. The night was somehow better. 

Oh, the fear was still there.

We were going to die.

But seeing her love for me in her eerie eyes said the impossible was possible.

Her ability to turn to mist had been ripped from her by DayStar – but not her love for me or mine for her.

There were some things Darkness could not steal from you -- you had to throw them away yourself.

And I was holding onto her love with both bruised hands.


She sobbed softly, "Our first Christmas together is our last."

I had taken as many blows for her as I could. Wasn’t that what Love did? Sacrifice for the one loved?

My heart ached at the thought of all Alice meant to me, and I knew that love did more, was more.

Love was a magic garment, spun of a fabric so thin that it couldn't be seen, 

yet so strong that even my mother, Death, could not tear it,

A cloak that could not be frayed by use, that brought warmth into what is often an unbearably cold world - 

but at times love could also be as heavy as chain mail.

Bearing the mantle of love on those occasions, when it was a sacred weight, 

made it more precious. While in better times, it caught the wind in its sleeves like wings and lifted you. 

Murmuring a prayer for forgiveness, Alice had buried the statue of the Madonna and taken its shawl. 

I had done the same with the statue of Joseph, taking its robe and hood.

We kneeled beside the wooden manger in the St. Louis Cathedral’s courtyard Nativity Scene.

Right in plain sight of the slowly sniffing and scouting horrors prowling for us.

I didn’t even know some of the monsters hunting us. I knew enough to know Alice and I were goners.

Winged Gahe. Starved Amal. Scaled Soyoko. 

And the ghosts, given flesh, fangs, and claws by DayStar, of all the people Alice had eaten and I had killed in self-defense over the years.

I stiffened at the tolling in the distance. I heard the bells, ringing their familiar, mocking refrain:


PEACE ON EARTH. GOOD WILL TOWARDS MEN.


In despair, I bowed my head.

‘There is no peace on earth! God is only a ghost wind tonight. Hate is god now, and the strong worship at its feet. The innocent die. The helpless cry out. Does anybody hear them?’

The night winds became soft words:  

‘You kneel on holy ground and dare to ask that? And you, of all living, should know the reality of ghosts.'

I felt my hair ruffled by icy fingers.   

'Besides, you heard the cries.  You helped. Have you ever considered what Power brought you where Need existed?'

I looked up. A stern priest, a book of prayers or some such in his hands. Alice went as pale as I had ever seen her.

"Pere Antoine!"

He spoke in razored whispers. 

"For my sins in the Inquisition I am bound to this plane. So Friar Antonio de Sedella is now who I am."

I saw the self-hate in his eyes. I saw the same look in Alice's.

The world is filled with broken people.

The tragedy wasn't that people were broken. 

The world breaks most of us. 

The tragedy was that so few were mended. 

But if we are loved, we become stronger at the broken places.

I looked to the horrors so near. Though Pere Antoine and Alice had spoken low, the creatures had stiffened. To speak again would be to bring them to us.

None of us can ever save himself. 

We are the means of one another's salvation, and only by the hope that we give to others can we lift ourselves out of the darkness into the light.

Why not die, letting Pere Antoine know that I believed in him even when he no longer could?

I shook my head and whispered back. "No, before Katrina, you helped me. You’ve helped others before and since."

The winged Gahe spun at my words, and I blurted out, 

"With my last words, I say you don’t deserve to be bound here. You are Pere Antoine!"

So many horrors rushed us that I got sick to my stomach. I edged in front of Alice to take the brunt of the charge. This was going to hurt so bad.

Pere Antoine’s ghost eyes grew wet, and he cocked his head as if listening to words only he could hear, and he gestured, speaking loud:

"This is Holy Ground!"


The Shadowlanders must’ve forgotten that in their lust for our deaths. It bought them their own.

Pere Antoine, the prayer book tumbling to the grass, slapped both hands on the shoulders of Alice and me.

A warm tingle cascaded through me. Reality smeared in spirals of fiery, golden stardust as if God were wiping clean a chalkboard.

Sand not grass was suddenly beneath our knees. Cutting through me was a cold wind that can only be birthed in the desert.

The manger scene was now real.

A young man and a younger woman were looking sheer love at the cooing baby. 

Outside the stable, high in the night sky, rippled sounds that only angels could sing.

My bones were transformed into trilling tuning forks.

Pere Antoine kneeled beside me.

"God is not dead, nor does He sleep. No matter how dark, He always sees you. You are a part of His Heart and thus never alone. Because of their very natures, the wrong shall fail, and those who trust prevail."

The baby locked eyes with mine. 

Eyes clear and echoing with strange wisdom and delight, murmuring that while most of my life I had felt loved by no one, there had been One who always had.

Pere Antoine whispered.

"He wanted you and Alice to have a ‘down home’ Christmas."

The baby laughed a chiming sound of icicles dancing.

Alice reached over and squeezed my hand. "I was wrong, Victor. Our first Christmas together is THE first Christmas."

And impossible thought it was, the French Quarter bells rang all around us:


PEACE ON EARTH. GOOD WILL TOWARDS MEN.
***

If you enjoyed this Christmas tale, you can buy the audiobook of BRING ME THE HEAD OF McCORD:
http://www.audible.com/pd/Fiction/Bring-Me-the-Head-of-McCord-Audiobook/B00NHUX5KM/

You can listen to it plus 6 other tales of mine, including a chapter from 

HIBBS, THE CUB WITH NO CLUE!

The ROGUE ONE that wasn't

Thanks to 

http://lrmonline.com/news/five-reasons-rogue-one-a-star-wars-story-is-more-important-than-the-force-awakens

Remember last year's A FAMILIAR HOPE? 

 Oh, I mean THE FORCE AWAKENS with the same plot points of EPISODE 4.

ROGUE ONE is a great film, perhaps the best STAR WARS movie of the last four 

and on par with THE EMPIRE STRIKES BACK.

It just isn't the one promised in the first three trailers and featurettes.  

There are so many scenes and bits of dialogue in those trailers, 

hinting at a different story, that are just not in the final movie.

It makes me wonder what kind of movie the original cut would have been.

Have you seen ROGUE ONE?  What did you think of it?

SPOILERS ALERT! 

Here is a fun explanation and review 
of the final version of ROGUE ONE

THREADS OF TIME ...

FABRIC OF THE SOUL:

The Christmas Spirit seems

a thing of the past

 does it not?

There are no simple solutions to the problems facing city fathers I know.  

Still, cruelty seems a poor solution here where temperatures will go below zero in the days to come. 

Cruelty seems to be written into the code of Man's DNA.  

That is why compassion is so rare.  

It must overcome the inertia of Man's natural inclination.

“There is only one way in which one can endure man's inhumanity to man and that is to try, in one's own life, to exemplify man's humanity to man.”

- Alan Paton 

(South African author and anti-apartheid activist)

To end on a lighter note 

(for those who enjoyed ROGUE ONE):

ORSON SCOTT CARD

 https://www.amazon.com/dp/0765385872/

When you read that name, you most likely think of ENDER'S GAME 

and the subsequent novels in the series.

You know me:  

I write alternate historical fantasy with a slight poetic flair ...

So it is no surprise that I am quite delighted to have discovered the ALVIN MAKER series 

through the stellar audiobook productions of them.

It is  an unforgettable story about young Alvin Maker: 

the seventh son of a seventh son. 

Born into an alternative frontier America where life is hard and folk magic is real, 

Alvin is gifted with the Power. 

He must learn to use his gift wisely. 

But dark forces are arrayed against Alvin, and only a young girl with second sight can protect him.


“A tribute to the art of storytelling. . . highly recommended.”  
―Library Journal

“Card has uncovered a rich vein of folklore and magic here, to which his assured handling of old time religion 

and manifest love of children is admirably suited: an appealing and intriguing effort.”  
―Kirkus Reviews

“A beguiling book. . . robust but reflective blend of folktale, history, parable and personal testimony, pioneer narrative. 

The series promises to be a story of deep delight.” 
―Publishers Weekly

Do yourself a favor and try this series.  You won't be disappointed.

GOD CAN'T BREATHE

Ten days before a Katrina-bruised Christmas, 

and here I was out on the streets once more.  Alice had told me she never wanted to see me again.

Don't ask why.  

I'm Victor Standish. 

I always find a way to snatch defeat out of the mouth of victory.  It is my curse to be always alone.

It was night and cold for once in New Orleans.  A little black and white puppy, starved down to a walking set of ribs, shivered in the alley to my right.

I took the stale croissant from my lips.  I bent down and held it out to the poor little guy.  

"C'mon, Lucky. Good groceries."

I jerked as a black man appeared as if out of nowhere.  "You call him Lucky?"

"Yeah," I smiled.  "He's got a new friend ... me."

I petted Lucky's tiny head. "And he'll never be hungry or alone again."

The man looked ripped as if he pumped iron, and he laughed at me. 

"Not iron ... wood.  Plane a tree into planks, and it builds muscle."

He sighed as he saw Lucky hesitantly nuzzle my hand. 

 “No one's life should be rooted in fear. We are born for wonder, for joy, for hope, for love, to marvel at the mystery of existence, 

to be stunned by the beauty of the world, to seek truth and meaning, to acquire wisdom, and by our treatment of others to brighten the corner where we are.”

He squeezed my shoulder.  "Name's Joshua.  Yours?"

"Victor.  Victor Standish."

"Heard of you."

"I'm nobody.  Just a street punk living out another nothing day."

Joshua shook his head.   

“No day is without profound meaning, no matter how nothing it might seem, no matter whether you are a street kid or a movie star."

He nodded to Lucky.  

"Because in every day of your life, there are opportunities to perform little kindnesses for others. 

Each smallest act of kindness reverberates across great distances and spans of time, 

affecting lives unknown to the one whose generous spirit was the source of this good echo, 

because kindness is passed on and grows each time it’s passed, 

until a simple courtesy becomes an act of selfless courage years later and far away."

As Lucky ducked back into the alley, Joshua looked at a roving band of police heading our way, malice in their eyes and guns on their hips. 

(A really sucky combination.)

" Likewise, each small meanness, each thoughtless expression of hatred, each envious and bitter act,  

can inspire others, and is therefore the seed that ultimately produces evil fruit, 

poisoning people whom you have never met and never will."

Joshua pushed me behind him and into the alley with Lucky.  

"All human lives are so profoundly and intricately entwined—those dead, those living, those generations yet to come—

that the fate of all is the fate of each, and the hope of humanity rests in every heart and in every pair of hands."

 As the cops spotted Joshua and started to laugh like wolves, he said softly, 

"Every hour in every life contains such often-unrecognized potential to affect the world 

that great days and thrilling possibilities are combined in this precious gift called the present.” 

He slipped to his knees, putting his hands atop his head.  It wouldn't do him any good.  

What few cops were left in New Orleans were pretty much stressed-out, walking time bombs.  

I faded into the shadows.  Not that I was deserting Joshua.  My name wasn't Peter.  

You never leave a friend behind.  Friends are the only true wealth you can expect in this life and the only treasure you can hope to find in the next.

Lucky growled as the bully boys whacked Joshua with their night sticks to get him back on his feet.

"Hey!" yelled one.  "He's attacking!"

Another grabbed Joshua by the throat, fingers closing in on his wind-pipe.  

"Can't ... breathe," Joshua gasped out.

"Hey, Ass-Wipes!" I snarled with five ball bearings between the fingers of each hand.  "God can't breathe!"

"What?" snarled the closest to me.

I said low, "In as much as you did it unto the least of these, you have done it unto Me."

"Knee cap him, Jim!" spat the officer to his right.

I slung two ball bearings each into their open mouths.  

Suddenly, they were the ones on the ground not being able to breathe. 

Joshua got up.  "How did you know?"

With His words giving proof to my guess, I felt a great weight lift off my chest.  

While all these rough years I felt as if no one saw, no one cared.


Someone always had.  

"Well, you replied to my thought about you being pumped.  And I read a lot.  Jesus is just Greek for Joshua.  And it is your time of the year."

Joshua shook his head at me.  

"Every day is my time of the year.  Now, come help me with these officers."

"Aw, man!  I am not gonna do mouth-to-mouth on them.  I mean I might kiss a ghoul, and all, but even I have standards!"

"Victor!"

"Uh, can we at least wait until they're deprived of oxygen long enough to be brain-damaged?"

"Victor!!"

"Oh, yeah, that would be kinda redundant, wouldn't it?"

But it wasn't a total loss. Lucky peed on them.

THE SOFT GOODBYE

Do you humans feel it?  The Sense of an Ending.

The iron snow of despair swirls all about and within you.  

You do not sense it, of course.

It is like dining in a dim restaurant.  

The longer you are there, the lighter it becomes ... to you.

The interior has not become brighter.  

Your eyes have just become accustomed to the darkness.

Just as the eyes of your spirits have become accustomed to the darkness of the ever colder world in which you exist.

I would say "souls" instead of spirits, 

but you have become much too sophisticated and hollow 

to believe in anything which you cannot fondle or deposit in your banks.

Each of you is falling from this world as aimless and blind as a shooting star.  

You speed through the darkness of your perceptions ...

burning yourselves up, drawn by the gravity of your deeds to the harsh destiny born of your choices.

Living this way is much like leaping off a cliff, hoping to build your wings on the way down. 

 It did not work out very well for Icarus ... nor will it for you.

Who am I, you ask, to speak thus.  

I am sometimes called Guanyin.

The Chinese name Guanyin is short for Guanshiyin, 

meaning "[The One Who] Perceives the Sounds of the World". 

What I hear of late is the Soft Goodbye of that Concept for which I am considered the Goddess ...

Mercy

This Season is the Time when I call out to you with the most hope of being heard ...

But the sounds of cash registers and bitter recriminations 

have all but drowned out my Voice in your ears.

Selfishness is catching; it rubs off on people.

Yet so does Love: 

Infect those about you with Mercy, Compassion, and Love before it too late.

The Winter of the Soul is all about you ... 

brighten what you can of it with warm acts of kindness and caring ...

Let the Soft Goodbye of the Soul have at least the glow of one caring soul to light its way at the End.

If you wish to read more of me, you can find me in THE THREE SPIRIT KNIGHT

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00AD94EQE

CHRISTMAS IS DYING

Reindeer and Christmas trees are two of the most recognizable symbols of the Yuletide season, 



but future generations may never get to see either of them.

 New research has revealed that both are at risk of being wiped out, as a result of climate change.


 Arctic reindeer are becoming smaller and lighter due to the impact of climate change on their food supplies.

But is the Christmas Spirit itself being starved?  Are we becoming a country of Scrooges?

We cross out Christ in the windows of our stores with Xmas; 

We decree it illegal to show Nativity Scenes in front of the Courthouse, 

whose sculpture of the Ten Commandments over its doors have also been taken down; 

TV's bombard us with commercials of people only being made happy with the acquisition of more and more things.

 And we wonder why we feel cold and alone as we wander this culture of frozen hearts and grasping hands.

Do you long for that childlike innocence you had so very long ago?

Or does your sense of your childhood seem as far removed and cold as the withered, dead leaves of your past?

 But the wonder and awe still live in your thirsty heart and bruised mind.

Search the corridors of your heart and find a memory of a time as a child when you felt loved and safe.

Reach out for a smell that lives in that moment: 

Perhaps it is the scent of vanilla your mother is pouring into the preparation of your favorite Christmas treat.

Perhaps it the tingle of the cold morning grass beneath your bare feet as you play with your puppy as it runs beside you.

Love can have a feel like the tickling of your mother's hair about your cheeks as she hugs the pain of your scuffed knee away ...

Love is the sense of being made to feel grown up, though a child, as when your mother included you in adult things.

The Christmas Spirit lives within you still.

But like a fire that dies to cold embers if it is not constantly fed, 

the Christmas Spirit must be refreshed with such memories ... and more ...

It must be fed with acts of kindness to strangers, and even more importantly, 

to those close about us who we have stopped seeing as feeling, hurting souls

as we dwell on past hurts and slights.

Love is a perfume that lingers upon the fingers of those who give it to others.

Happy Christmas, Everyone, from me and Midnight