Christmas

CHRISTMAS EVE, 1967 ISLINGTON, LONDON, ENGLAND Old Tom Foxley sat in his living room by the fireplace hearth, the logs of the fire burning brightly. His dog, Mack, lay next to his armchair, like a pile of laundry, his shadow flickering on the wall behind him. The warmth of the fire was the only warmth Tom felt this Christmas, for many of his friends were now gone and his dear wife, Elizabeth, had passed away the previous spring. In the corner, a beautiful Christmas tree towered above the room. The golden halo of the angel which adorned the top brushed the ceiling. She had been in his family a long time, dating back to an era when his parents had lived in this very house. Her once-white robes were ivory now; her wings, originally covered in soft downy feathers, were more than a little bit spotty. Yet she still played her celestial harp, her eyes closed in quiet concentration, her face showing nothing but goodness and peace. The warmth of the fire was the only warmth Tom felt this Christmas The giant fir seemed illuminated by the many gleaming orbs that hung from its fragrant limbs, even though they made no glow of their own and only reflected the light from dozens of glowing candles that lined the tree’s branches. Certainly not the safest of decorations, the candles were a reminder of a special long-ago Christmas, and it just never seemed right not to have them on his tree. Tom sighed as he thought of how Elizabeth used to complain about the fire hazard they created. He decided that he missed her fussing almost as much as he missed her. He gently reached down to stroke old Mack’s head, remembered more happy Christmases of the past and then… the most memorable that he had ever witnessed. *          *          * It was Christmas Eve Day, 1914, and the continual barrage of shells and gunfire seemed to pound his ears like a hammer. Young Tom, just seventeen years old, kept as low as possible as he moved through the sloppy trench, the water in the bottom rising well above his knees. As explosions rocked the earth, dirt was sent hurtling over the crest of the trench, where it fell into the water, mixing into a muddy soup. The place reeked of death and decay, for the bodies of his fallen comrades could not always be removed from the trench safely. Snipers were everywhere, and their fire was an ever-present danger. Holding his rifle above his head in an effort to keep it dry, Tom plunged through the water, moving toward a firing step. The man already on the platform ducked as bullets whizzed over his head. Then he gratefully stepped down, allowing Tom to take his place. Looking over the edge of the trench, Tom could see bodies scattered across No Man’s Land, the area between the German and the English trenches. In this war, gains came at great cost. They had been trying to hold this single trench for weeks as the Kaiser’s army had advanced across France like a puddle of water across a stone floor, seeping slowly but steadily in every direction. When Britain had entered the Great War the previous summer, no one had expected it to last this long. They’d thought victory would be theirs in a matter of months. Now here it was Christmas, with no end to the war in sight, and the men were all miserable and longing for home. Tom glanced up and saw Fred Mooring trudging toward him through the trench. Fred was struggling through the muck, lifting his legs high in an effort to evade the mud that was threatening to suck the boots right off his feet. If only the weather would turn colder, they might have some relief from living in standing water. That alone would be a blessing. A German mortar round suddenly landed nearby, the roar of the explosion causing temporary deafness. One minute, Fred was there. The next he was buried under a wall of earth as part of the trench collapsed. Tom leaped forward, grabbing his spade. He attacked the earth, digging furiously, struggling to uncover Fred, while straining to keep his own body upright in the slippery mud. Finally, he found Fred’s leg. Grabbing hold and using all his strength, he pulled Fred from the earth. Fred was gray but breathing, alive but unconscious. Medics ran to his aid and carted him away on a stretcher. Tom collapsed from exhaustion on a pile of earth. This war was dirty business, in more ways than one. The medics offered to tend to him as well but he pushed them away, wanting only sleep, something he hadn’t had in days. No one slept well in the trenches. Some men simply slept standing on their feet, while others preferred to sleep in dugouts, small holes crudely cut into the earthen walls of the trenches. They were cramped and damp, and sometimes rat-infested, but not nearly as wet as the trenches themselves. Tom went in search of his sergeant. He found him at a small table set up in the driest part of the trench, consulting with the lieutenant over a series of maps laid out in front of them. Tom saluted and waited to be acknowledged. When the men finally looked up, Tom couldn’t help but notice the exhaustion etched in the lines of their faces. “Corporal Foxley,” the sergeant said, “what is it?” “I’d like to retire for a few hours, sir,” said Tom. “Very well,” replied the sergeant, “but first, take this package.” He handed over a large box wrapped in plain brown paper. Tom took the box and saluted. A look at the return address, 23B Lancaster Street, Islington, London, England, told him that this package had come from home. Mum had chosen to brighten his Christmas in the only way she knew how. Inside the box, Tom found his favorite chocolates, some

Stars gazed drowsily out from the folds of an indigo night sky. The yellowish glow of the moon painted shadows of the toothy Chicago skyline over the streets. A white expanse coated the city and, for once, the bustling streets were quieted. The ground was vacant of footsteps because the only visitor that would be out tonight traveled in the air. My dad stared out of his bedroom window, his eyelids hanging heavily as he waited, drowsy and impatient, for Christmas morning. My dad pressed his hand against the cold, wooden frame of the window, popping it open. A crisp, cool wind briskly grazed the tip of his ear and a pleasant shudder rippled through his body. He stuck his tongue out to catch a playful snowflake flitting in front of his nose. It did a gentle pirouette and landed on his tongue, melting like an ice cube in hot cocoa. He stuck his head further out the window, like a dog in a pickup truck, leaning over the sill. The pointy rooftops, surrounding his home, sparkled in the moonlight, edges softened by the snow. Snowflakes tiptoed across the spindled branches of the naked birch outside his window, spiraling gracefully to the ground. My dad longed so much to jump out of the window and join them. His chin rested against the palm of his hand, and, as his thoughts drifted into sugarplums and gingerbread, promises of tomorrow danced in vivid bright colors. A noise, almost like a tower of blocks crashing down, split through the silence. My dad jerked his head from the window with a start, pulling himself out of a peaceful sleep. He blinked his eyes groggily, gazing from his bookshelf to his bed stand, both painted a hazy black by the shadows. The only sound was the continuous ticking of the clock, both of its bold black hands pointing at the twelve. I knew it wasn’t morning already, he thought as he lay his head back down, disgruntled. The door swung open and a tall majestic creature stepped through It was exactly 12:31 when the door was gently bumped open. The light from the hallway streaked a yellow line across his dark wall. A brown, furry snout pushed its way through the small crack of the door. My dad watched this scene from half-open eyelids, his brain still trying to decide whether this was real or still part of his dream. As the door creaked, my dad pressed his body against the windowpane, the cold, smooth glass chilling his skin through the thin fabric of his pajamas and waking up his brain. This was not a dream. Fear arose in his heart, the nightmares of his earlier childhood ran through his head like a black-and-white film. The snout was crested with a twitching, black nose, cautiously searching for a hint of what was behind the door. The creature took a delicate step forward, revealing a thin, bony leg covered in brown fur. The door swung open and a tall majestic creature stepped through. The reindeer’s forehead was marked with a white diamond placed in between two dark, brown eyes. They were so innocent and gentle, sparkling in the moonlight. The fear that had once pulsed along with my dad’s heart was immediately wiped away. The deer stepped closer with its head bent down and its ears pricked. He sucked in his breath. The deer’s coat was the color of cinnamon on a freshly baked roll with spots scattered over its back, white as snow. The deer was in arm’s reach now. Should he dare? He didn’t have time to decide though, because the deer leaned forward and gently nuzzled him in the ribs. Its touch was warm and soft, sending magic unfurling in his heart like a morning flower, its exuberant, orange petals peeling open in the light. Bursts of fireworks sizzled in his head, as my dad lifted his shaking hand and laid it on the deer’s smooth coat. He stroked the deer’s fur, back and forth, back and forth. Then a small chuckle erupted from the hallway. The deer immediately turned and silently galloped out of the room. The warmth of the reindeer still tickled his skin as my dad watched the door gently click shut. Bowing his head down, he explored his hand with all his senses, it smelled like snow and warm honey, it was warm, sticky and moist. Smiling, he curled up against the windowsill, pressing his hand to his chest. It fit snuggly and felt like magic. His tired eyes flew across the sky one more time and rested on the pale, white orb, the queen of night looking down upon her loyal subjects, the twinkling stars. My dad smiled, his eyes dancing from the trees to the endless heavens above. “Merry Christmas!” he whispered, his words carrying through a crack in his window and up into the indigo, night sky. Based on a story Lizzy’s dad told her every Christmas. Lizzy Teerlink, 13San Francisco, California Katya Lopatko, 13Grapevine, Texas  

Pearly white crystals flutter gently around the buildings and houses, covering the town in a delicate sheet of snow. The soothing silvery color of the snowflakes contrasts beautifully with the somber blues and greens of the busy streets and malls. Pedestrians scramble across the streets in bustling pods to grab last-minute Christmas presents. Giant evergreen trees, decorated ever so carefully, light up the concrete pathways with multi-colored ornaments, making it almost impossible to feel anything but joy. Cars and buses slide along the icy roads, slipping mindlessly with not a care in the world. In every store there is a different Christmas carol echoing through the racks of clothes and the toy-covered shelves. A luminescent smile spreads across everyone’s face. Anticipation for the blissful holiday to soon arrive once again fills the minds and bodies of every little boy and girl within blocks. Snowmen rest peacefully in what is now a blanket of white, with their scarves and gloves to keep them warm during the chilly winter evening. I let out a reluctant sigh and take one last glance at the joyful, snowy town My mother’s voice calls to me from across the store, waking me from my reverie, “Come on. We have to go home to prepare Christmas Eve dinner.” I let out a reluctant sigh and take one last glance at the joyful, snowy town. I softly stroke the glass that separates their world from mine, shake the globe lightly, and then hesitantly reposition it back on the shelf. Running to catch up with my mother, I bound out the door and into the blazing California heat. Emily Schneider, 13Grand Rapids, Michigan Charlotte Eisenberg, 12Peaks Island, Maine