Editor's Note: Since it's the holiday season, and there isn't much going on in the world of music, I'm feeling festive by instead giving you, the readers, this Christmas-themed short story I wrote a few years ago. Enjoy!
"Boxing Day"
Strings of lights stretched from pole to pole, carrying the Christmas spirit across the city, casting the bright cheer into any window not covered top to bottom in thick velvet. The light was inescapable, turning the snow a sickly shade of red, the only color lights that were still available in such large supply. The color was one shade of festive, rather sinister when not in conflict with the green of renewal. How an entire industry had arisen from such a violent clash of colors was mysterious, but color-blindness would not be the first or only way people don't see what is directly in front of their faces.
Plumes of smoke rose from chimneys like dirty cotton blotting the black of the night. From afar, they could be taken as signs of good cheer, families gathered around the fireplace to share company and warmth on a special occasion. Or, they could be seen as the industrial incineration of the trappings and wrappings of the day. Paper and boxes being turned into heat, saving money on a heating bill while splurging on the excesses of consumer culture. A healthy thermostat can't be bragged about as can having a television a few inches bigger than anyone else in a social circle. Size envy comes in all forms, after all.
The lights dotted red circles in the snow below their line, but they were not alone. Smaller circles followed the sidewalk, painting the path from one horror to another, not deformed by the haste of escape. They were the art of calm violence, a signature clear enough for anyone to read, if literacy had not fallen out of vogue long ago.
As the morning sun rose, the snow glistened like the tears of a God who could no longer recognize his own creation. Sadness permeated the air, the disappointment of never having enough mixed with the longing for time to move faster so the next bout of hope could be within reach. It was offensive to many that civility was seasonal, so the answer they arrived at was to fight the climate, to stop the seasons from ever changing.
With Christmas dinner still in the bottom of their stomachs, the people stepped out into the crisp air, looking upon the garish displays they plastered across every inch of their town. The trinkets and baubles replaced having to actually care about their fellow humanity, as symbols were just as good as the real thing. Perhaps even better, because they could last longer than the warmth of a hug caught in the fibers of a sweater.
"I know it's early, but we'd might as well get started with these decorations," Morris said.
His family stood behind him in the doorway. The air left their lungs as he spoke, as though they were coughing out the wadded paper that kept their gifts from getting crushed as the packages were shaken while the tree was unguarded.
"But you know the rules," Mickie reminded him.
He would not have argued with his wife the day before, but with Christmas spirit now packed up on Boxing Day, he had no fucks to give for holding back.
"Fuck the rules. There's no such thing as too much Christmas spirit," he bellowed.
"Wait, what?" she asked.
"Did you think I was taking the decorations down? No, we're going to start putting next year's decorations up," he said.
Mickie held her face in her hands, hoping the mottled colors from the pressure pushing against her eyes would be a better sight than her house covered in even more garish accoutrements. If she had known then what she knew now, she would have tied a ring of rope around his neck, rather than put one of gold on her own finger.
She reached down and picked up the newspaper, shaking the powdery snow from the bag. She slid the roll from its sheath, feeling the satisfying thunk of it hitting her outstretched hand. Bad news hit hard, and the metaphor pleased her.
In large red letters, the headline read, "Christmas Killer Takes No 'L' - Wins At Murder Again."
"Look at this," Mickie said. "That Christmas killer struck again."
"Well, that's one less person to compete with in the house decorating contest," Morris said, without realizing the callousness of his statement.
"It says here," Mickie added, "the killings begin and end every year coinciding with Christmas decorations."
"What are you getting at?" Morris asked.
"The police are saying if we all take down our decorations, the killings might stop," Mickie said.
"Balderdash!" Morris responded. "If a few people have to die, it's a small price to pay to rub it in everyone's face that I have the most Christmas spirit."
Mickie wondered if it was possible to murder someone with a newspaper, if the edge was sturdy enough to slash through the neck and drain Morris of the red liquid masquerading as his soul. She hated him, not just because he was growing more cruel by the day, but because he was now extending the holiday season to the entirety of the year, and he would tell her the holidays are no time to leave someone alone. She knew he was controlling her, but she did not think him smart enough to do it intentionally. He was, as so many are, a lucky asshole.
"You do you," Mickie sighed.
As the sun descended, the sky around Morris' house did not grow dark, as thousands of new lights became a glowing beacon, in case Santa got lost and circled back for a second night. Mickie pulled the blanket over her head, trying to find peace, but the incandescence seeped through her eyelids, no matter how hard she crimped them together.
Morris got in bed, his self-satisfaction swollen. At least, Mickie knew, that meant other parts would not be. She would at least have respite from that.
"Say, honey," Mickie cooed. "Why don't you wear your Santa hat with the lights on it? Really get the spirit flowing."
"Great idea, for once," Morris agreed.
He primped the hat, massaging it into the perfect shape, fitting it over his head as though he was being crowned King Of Christmas. He laid down, turning on his side, the flashing lights direction in front of Mickie's eyes. She knew it would be a long night.
As the sun rose again, Mickie felt unburdened. She could not see the flashing lights through her closed eyes, but they danced on the ceiling when she opened them. The light bounced on the points of the stucco, diffusing into a wash of color. She hated painting anything white, but she was sick of red and green.
She turned her head toward Morris, who was quiet. She stared at him, or at least what was left of him. A fake beard was stained red on his chest, two candy canes jabbed through where his eyes had been. A ball of mistletoe was wedged in his mouth, the same one from his obnoxious belt-buckle.
Mickie rolled back over, putting her hands on her chest. She took a deep breath, tasting the calm and peace in the air. Her fingers traced the edges of the Star Of David hanging from her neck.
"Now I get why people like Christmas so much," she said to herself.
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