I'll look at everyone's pressies tomorrow, just wanted to quickly post mine. I got inspired to write a story
Merry Christmas Trek BBS - A post Trek XI story
That's hilarious, and it has a very TOS feel, despite being nu Trek.
I have a Christmas story, too, but it's not Fan Fic, so I'll Post it here. This is the story I wrote for
J's writing contest over at Starscape:
____
THE ROAD
© 2009 by Rick Hutchins
The room was dark and filled with lights; among the deep shadows in the corners and around the furniture, the tiny glittering bulbs strung on the branches of the Christmas tree cast a twinkling glow, and the star at the top shone softly. On the other side of the room, a low fire crackled gently, bringing warmth and a saffron radiance.
Colorful ornaments and icicles adorned the tree, and decorations-- reindeer, elves, sleighs and snowmen-- were scattered on the mantel and the shelves and the tables. On the coffee table in front of the couch, a pitcher of hot apple cider and some mugs had been set out. It was the cozy living room of a family celebrating the holidays.
Demont Robinson lived alone.
Dressed in his red Christmas robe, Demont poured himself some apple cider and sprinkled a bit of cinnamon on top; he sat down on the couch.
Twenty-five years ago, when he was a small boy, Christmas was not like this; there was only a small tree and very few presents in those poor days. His parents did not have much and worked hard for Demont and his sister and brother to get their practical gifts. Every Christmas Eve he prayed for a bike, a sleek red bike that would ride like the wind-- every Christmas morning he woke up to underwear and clothes for school.
But that was all right; things had gotten better. His parents struggled to send him to college and he struggled to finish, and it had all paid off. A good job and promotions followed and he was able to support his mom and dad in their retirement, was able to afford a family of his own, was able to give his wife and two small children the kind of Christmas he never had.
Five years ago, Dana and Reggie and Jessica had set out to spend Christmas Eve with his parents as they did every year. Demont had the flu and couldn’t make it. It was snowing and cold, on the edge of freezing; the snow melted when it touched the roads, the wetness then turning to ice in the wind. There are always a lot of accidents on the roads around the holidays, a lot of fatalities. It doesn’t always just happen to somebody else.
Dana had asked him. She had asked him.
Do you want us to stay home with you? You shouldn’t be alone on Christmas Eve.
No, he had said.
Go ahead. The kids want to see mom and dad. I’ll be fine.
I’ll be fine.
***
The past was a road, he knew. He could see it in his dreams and he knew it really existed as a place and not just a memory. It was a perfect road, paved and black, its single lane stretching backward through the hills and valleys and fields of time, through sunny Summer days of green trees and swimming holes, through orange Autumns of pumpkins and homemade beef stew, through blowing Winters of snowdrifts and hanging rows of icicles, through melting Springs of budding branches and the smell of newly mowed grass. It stretched back, all the way back to the crystal nights of his childhood when his only prayer was for a sleek red bike that rode like the wind.
But he didn’t have to go back that far. Five years was all he needed.
The past was a road that really existed as a place and not just a memory and he knew that he could find it. He knew that he could travel back along that road and return to that other Christmas Eve and he could change it, he could say to Dana
Yes. Yes, I need you to stay with me. Don’t go out tonight.
Christmas Eve was his window; one Christmas Eve to another. Every year on Christmas Eve he set up the tree and the decorations, locked the doors, turned off the phones and closed his eyes. And then he did it. Somehow he went to that road that stretched back through his life and he ran and walked and stumbled until he was breathless and sore and doubled over in pain, heading back to that other Christmas Eve so he could change it, stop them, save them.
And every year Christmas morning came before he could reach them, his eyes opening to his empty house.
***
He began to think he was crazy. He began to think that his grief had unhinged his mind, that his loneliness had driven him insane. The past was the past, yesterday is gone. There’s no road in the mind that stretches back through the hills and valleys and fields of time. Nobody can travel back and change what has already happened. Nobody can undo their mistakes. Nobody can bring back the dead.
His parents worried about him. So did his friends.
Demont decided to see a shrink. He made an appointment and, on a day of low gray clouds and a blustery chill wind, just a couple of days before Christmas, he showed up at the doctor’s office. The receptionist had taken the day off to go shopping, so the doctor answered the door himself.
This doctor was a man of large girth, rotund, with a full white beard and moustache and a hairline that had receded nearly back to the base of his skull, and cheeks that were rosy red.
Demont’s surprise must have shown on his face for the doctor chuckled at him.
Yes, yes, I’m Santa Claus, he said with a wink.
Don’t worry, I’ve given the elves the day off. Now come on in and let’s talk.
So Demont had sat in the comfortable high-backed chair in the quiet, dimly lit office and told the story of how he had traveled back along the road of time every Christmas Eve for the past five years to find his lost family and save them, to undo that terrible night once and forever. He talked about how he ran and ran and could never make it before morning came, he talked of how the road grew longer every year, his family retreating farther and farther into the past, he talked of how his efforts grew more and more hopeless.
Then he waited to hear about denial and delusion and post-traumatic stress disorder; he waited to be advised to make lifestyle changes and to be handed a prescription for an antidepressant.
Instead, the doctor had shaken his head and put aside his pen and paper.
You shouldn’t be here, the shrink had told him.
Go home. Go celebrate the holidays in your own way. Don’t give up your dreams. Keep doing what you’re doing.
The doctor had charged him nothing and Demont figured that was about what his platitudes were worth.
***
Now it was Christmas Eve and time to go through it all again.
Demont finished his apple cider and placed the empty mug on the end table. He got up off the couch and sat down on the rug before the fireplace; he crossed his legs, staring at the fire, and took several deep breaths, releasing them slowly.
He closed his eyes and let his mind and body grow quiet, then more quiet, and then quieter still. He was patient. This could not be rushed. Slowly, the stillness filled him and, as he became perfectly at one with himself, a threshold was crossed and he felt sunlight on his eyelids.
Opening his eyes, Demont saw the road, a perfect ribbon of black stretching out to, and beyond, the horizon.
How ironic, he thought,
that the only thing before me is the past. The hills and fields that bordered the road were new since last year; once again the road had grown longer.
This is hopeless.
Demont stood up and set off down the road at a brisk pace, hopeless or not. This year he would run like he had never run before. But he had barely gotten ten steps before he stopped stock still, frozen, the hairs on the back of his neck rising. He was not alone. He felt someone or something– some presence-- on the road behind him. Slowly, he turned around, and gasped with disbelief and joy.
There it was, after all these years, standing in the middle of the road, propped up on its kickstand, shining and red and sleek as the wind.
His bike was here.
____
)
