Christmas Wish

All six-year-old Charlie wanted for Christmas was a baby brother or sister. When he sat on Santa’s plump lap, he asked him for that wish. His response to the young boy was: “That’s out of my control little one.” Charlie sighed, slumped off his lap and walked in silence back to the car with his mom.

On Christmas morning, Charlie went to the Christmas tree and saw one large red gift box that moved and made whining noises. He lifted the cover and inside was a Shih-Tzu puppy that jumped into his arms.

The wish for a sibling faded away.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Home For Christmas

I finished arranging the last of the ornaments on the Christmas tree. I pressed the switch and the bright red, green and blue lights lit the room, and the star topper sparkled.

The manger was arranged with Mary and Joseph beside the baby Jesus and the wise men holding their gifts.

My children were getting the milk and cookies ready for Santa Claus before going to bed and awakening to presents and my laughter, even though Hal wasn’t home.

I sat on the large sofa and sipped my hot cocoa when the doorbell rang.

My Hal, home from the war.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Christmas

Ten-year-old Richie helped his mom decorate the Christmas tree with colorful red, green, and blue lights, and an array of ornaments. When he lit the tree, everything in the room illuminated.

His mom sank into the couch. “Maybe this year Christmas won’t be so lonely.”

Richie sulked, grabbed a chocolate chip cookie from the tray and nibbled on it to savor the taste, when the bell rang, and he ran to answer it.

His eyes widened when he saw who stood in front of him. His dad in his navy uniform.

The war had ended, and Christmas was whole again.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Angel

My father always says Christmas is a time for family not gift giving. Me and my wife Lili tell my son the same, and it doesn’t fly. So, now I’m driving to the electronics store in the snow to purchase an Xbox video game.

His grades are excellent, and he cleans his room, so we figure, why not splurge, it’s Christmas season after all.

I enter the store and it’s busy with shoppers. There on the front table I see the game he wants. I nearly collapse at the price tag.

Now I know why he’s been such an angel.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving, a time to spend with family. The turkey is in the oven filled with my famous bread stuffing, the pumpkin pie is cooling, and the vegetables are ready to go.

I sip wine and watch the parade waiting for my company. It’s half past 4 o’clock. I told everyone to be here over an hour ago for anti-pasta.

My cell phone rings.

“Hey, Myra, sorry, but we all came down with the stomach flu. We’re not going to make it this year. Hopefully, we’ll see you at Christmas.”

I pack up my dinner and take it to a shelter.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

The Thermonuclear War Is On

The wind is blowing. The strong wind means something from memories. Memories? 1978 Christmas.. Jimmy Carter used nukes against Russia. How do I know? Same reason why I know Douglas MacArthur in Korea had to be changed out so many times, making him look crazy. Because? The soul swapping allows that dead reality to live more. Same with JFK did the governor of Texas wear a cowboy hat? Or did someone else kill him? Thermonuclear war is not winnable. Alternative realities are dying right and left just 90 degrees from your sight is not funny. Laugh but Hawaii was nuked.

From Guest Contributor Clinton Siegle

True Meaning

As a boy, I remember my dad telling me Christmas is about family and spending time together. Secondary, exchanging gifts.

My own children are opening their presents and their beaming faces light up the room. The Christmas tree is sparkling with silver tinsel and an angel at the top of the tree, its wings white and glowing. Decorations and food consume the house this time of year, the baked ziti’s sauce filling the air with a delicious aroma. But these delightful things are not what my children celebrate.

The birth of Jesus Christ is the reason we celebrate the holiday.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Soldier’s Return

It’s been years since I could feel my wife’s hands on my body, and I can’t wait to lay next to her in bed caressing her soft skin.

I didn’t know what to give my kids for Christmas, so I made a collage of all the letters and pictures my son and daughter sent me. I made the same gift for my wife, but with a personal touch, for her eyes only. Their pictures and letters helped keep me strong through the long war.

The bus has come to a stop.

The three of them are here, smiling, anxiously waiting.

From Guest Contributor Lisa M. Scuderi-Burkimsher

Spoiler Alert

“There’s, like, a huge pile of packages out here, did you know?”“Get out of the way!” I shout, toppling my children like bowling pins.“What’s in there, Mom? Is it for us?” ask my mosquitoes.“None of your business!”My stomping covers the clamorous clattering of toys as I drag the heavy stack upstairs. I cram the boxes in my closet and hide them behind rarely-worn dresses. An old blanket covers the teetering mountain.“Can we see?”“No! Don’t come in here!”Slamming the door shut, I wonder if they might have guessed that their Christmas presents had arrived.From Guest Contributor Sarah Czarnecki

Sarah is a dog-walking, fast-knitting, list-making Sconnie who sometimes writes.

Token Of Christmas Cheer

A man shuffled down a city block, ringing doorbells. His spirit motivated by optimism.

With mounting rejections, hopelessness soon took over. He had an inkling of what they were thinking: another solicitor, begging on behalf of a charity. He would prove otherwise if given a chance.

Last house. He paused. Should he ring? A smiling child waved through the picture window. The front door opened. A woman appeared.

“Sorry, I have little cash,” she said, noting his disheveled appearance.

He left with a bag of festive cookies gifted by her; a token of appreciation for his shoveling of her walkways.

From Guest Contributor Krystyna Fedosejevs

Krystyna is a writer of poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. She is based in Edmonton, Canada.