Category: Christmas Stories

Story removed.

“Why, Arthur, what is this?”

[move up to previous paragraph] Marriot stared down in surprise at the large, thickly wrapped bundle her husband placed in her lap.

The Christmas season was drawing to its close on this, the twelfth day following the nativity of the Lord. The extra rents of eggs, bread and a fine speckled hen they’d been forced to pay to help supply the baron’s Christmas feast had been somewhat offset by Lord Beckford having selected her husband as one of two peasants he traditionally invited to the castle on Christmas day. Arthur, representing the poorest of Beckford’s poor serfs, had carried away as much food and ale as he could balance in one cloth, a cup, and a wooden trencher, while the second tenant, a free farmer on the manor, had been allowed to take two friends and feast for two days at the baron’s own table. Arthur had returned all a-grumble at Beckford’s “stinginess”, claiming he’d heard that on many another manor, the lord or abbot invited all his serfs to a Christmas feast.
Still, he’d managed to return with enough good food to make a fine, if modest, Christmas dinner for their family

The food was long gone now, along with the merry games played by the villagers to keep warm in the winter snows. The ivy and holly so gleefully gathered and hung by the children to brighten their tiny thatched cottage, had grown dry and crisp, crackling off their garlands and crushed by shoes to form a fine, fragrant dust on the earth beaten floor. Today, Epiphany, the day the Magi had presented their gifts to the Christ Child, was the last day of respite her family would have from the backbreaking work in the baron’s fields.

“What foolish thing have you done?” Marriot demanded of her husband.

Gifts were only given to small children on Epiphany, especially among the poor.

Her husband’s dark eyes danced with that mischievous gleam that had won her heart ten years ago. “Sometimes a bit of foolishness is just what a man needs to bestow on the woman he loves.”

She heard a trio of high-pitched giggles from the children.

“Open it, Ma, open it!” little four-year old Lottie trilled.

“Aye, Ma. Da’s been ready to bust for days, waiting for you to see it.” [need to identify speaker–assuming it’s Robin?]

She [Marriot] cast a suspicious gaze at her middle child. He bounced excitedly on the balls of his feet, the exact image of his father at the same age with his black hair and bright dark eyes.

“Do you know what this is, Robin?”

Robin smiled slyly, but neither shook nor nodded his head.

“Gilbert?”

Her eldest son grinned but refused to speak.

Marriot slowly drew the cloth wrapping away. “A lute? Good heavens, Arthur, you’re as mad as milord says you are! We cannot afford something like this! Unless… Tell me you didn’t…”

“I didn’t buy it,” Arthur said, quelling her sudden fear. “I made it, with some help from that minstrel who wandered through the village last spring.”

“But the wood… Where did you find so much wood?”

He shrugged. “The minstrel was a game fellow and helped me gather it deep in the woods late at night, when there was no one about to see. He’s long gone now so his tongue won’t wag. Beckford will never know I’ve taken more than my daily quota.”

“And I went with them, Ma, and helped,” Robin said earnestly, “so the gift is a little from me, too. Will you teach me how to play it? Please?”

Also like his father, seven-year old Robin had a restless, curious mind, always eager to learn something new. Marriot feared for him when he grew older…old enough to balk, as Arthur still did, at the limitations placed on a serf who’s sole purpose in life was to work his own narrow strips of land along with the lord’s demesne.

“And what will milord think when he sees me with this?” she demanded. “He’ll want to know how one of his serfs came to possess such a thing.”

“I’ll tell him I’ve been saving for years to buy it,” Arthur said. “He knows I raise and sell excess grain at market. He must wonder what I do with the extra money I earn.”

Their eyes met for a meaningful moment of silence. They both knew exactly where that extra money went.

“What about me?” little Lottie squealed. “Did you make me something this year, Da?”

“Indeed I did, Lottie.”

Thanks to her husband’s clever hands, this day of gift giving never went unfulfilled for their children, as it did for so many others. Arthur could carve nearly any wonder from a piece of wood.

Arthur scooped his daughter up in his arms and carelessly mussed her tangled red locks with one of his large, calloused hands, then perched her atop their trestle table. Marriot, despite her misgivings about her own gift, began plucking gently at the strings. She had never played a lute before, but she was as gifted at music as her husband was with carving. She would soon discover the right combinations of sounds to accompany the lullabies she sang at night.

She smiled and glanced briefly up at the coo of glee her daughter gave as Arthur placed the new wooden doll he’d made into her plump little hands. Gilbert’s gift came next. Marriot nearly laughed at the delight on his face when his father handed him a fresh-made spade, just sized for a sturdy boy of nine. Only her practical minded older son—a trait she reluctantly admitted he’d inherited from herself—could possibly have glowed with pride to receive such a utilitarian tool for his very own.

“What about Robin?” Lottie piped. “What’d you make him, Da?”

“Ah, Robin.”

Marriot tried to catch her husband’s eye, as curious as her daughter. Robin’s was the one gift, besides her own, that Arthur had insisted on concealing from her. She watched him reach around Lottie to pick up the threadbare cloak he’d dropped on the table when he’d come in earlier from the winter’s cold. Until now, she hadn’t wondered about why he’d rolled it up, instead of hanging it on the peg inside the doorway.

He unfolded it now and removed the object it concealed. A dull green cloth, fraying a bit at the edges, stretched tightly over a stiff rectangular frame.

Arthur placed it in his younger son’s hands. Lottie jumped off the table and ran to her brother’s side to look. Gilbert drew near, too.

“What is it?” they echoed together.

Marriot had only seen such an object once before, much, much larger, chained to the altar in the village church. By the flush of excitement that ruddied Robin’s cheeks, she realized that he, too, knew exactly what it was.

“A book!” Robin whispered the words almost reverently. Marriot set the lute aside and approached her son as he flipped the object open. “It’s a book, like the big Bible in the church! Da, is it really mine?”

Marriot gazed at the meaningless scratches of ink on the parchment pages. She could not make heads or tails of the marks. Why would Arthur give Robin such a thing?

“Nay, Rob,” Arthur said, “Father Elias only let me borrow it. Would you like to learn to read it, though? Would you like to study half-days with Father Elias?”

“That would make Robin a priest, too” Gilbert said, “wouldn’t it?”

“Eventually,” his father answered. “Well, Rob? What do you think?”

A small fire sputtered and smoked on an iron plate in the middle of the room, inadequately keeping the cold at bay, but the chill that smote Marriot had nothing to do with the drafty cracks in the cottage walls. She whirled and dashed into the bedroom.

Scattered about another iron plate, this one covered with a pile of dead ashes, were the thin pallets they slept on at night. Once one of the wealthier serfs on the manor, Arthur had given up nearly everything he’d owned, including his much larger house, to marry her, the daughter of a drunken, money-squandering cottar. He’d sold everything, his father’s bed along with his house, to raise the marriage price the baron had set for her hand, leaving them to raise their children in her father’s two-room hovel.

Aside from the pallets, only a large wooden chest that held the family’s clothing occupied the room. Marriot shoved at it desperately, but it was too heavy—intentionally so—for any but a strong man to move.

“Here, let me,” her husband spoke from behind her. “I think you know what you’ll find, though.”

Marriot’s heart hammered. Or not find.

“It’s gone, isn’t it?” she whispered. When he’d sold nearly all for her hand, he’d saved a single coin and buried it deep beneath this chest. A symbol of all he had fought so hard to achieve before they’d fallen in love. A symbol of what he’d yet sworn to achieve for them all. But now—
“Our emancipation money. You said you were starting over for us—for all of us. You slave in the fields, plowing by moonlight to raise more crops than other men. You sit by our precious kindling on moonless nights carving items to sell to our neighbors for extra coins. And I’ve seen how you count and count and count before you bury them here—” she pointed at the base of the chest— “each coin bringing you closer to your dream.”

“A dream I will never reach,” he said quietly. “Not for all of us.”

Her tears fell freely, her emotions a mixture of guilt and relief. “Because of me. Because of the children. There are too many of us to ever raise enough…but oh, how I feared you might kill yourself trying!”

He took her in his arms. “If we had a fairer lord…but Beckford never intended to let me go, with or without you. He proved that when he demanded so high a marriage price for you. And our entire family? No. I could never raise enough to persuade him to give up the labor he would lose from us all.”

“But why Robin?

“Gilbert is like you, content with the security of the manor despite the cursed rents and services. And Charlotte is too valuable for the future serfs she will one day bear.”

“But he agreed to lose Rob’s half-day labor, and if you have your way, he will lose him entirely when he is twelve. How did you persuade milord of that?”

“He agreed to the half-days’ labor because he knows I will make it up myself. And five years is a long time. He undoubtedly trusts that I’ll find I need our second son fulltime to meet all the week works and boon works he lays upon us. Or that I won’t scrape together enough money to purchase his permission for Robin’s vows when he turns twelve. Either way, Beckford will keep the money I’ve paid him for this day’s benevolence. He’s the richer for it either way.”

“But you will scrape the money together, won’t you? If it kills you, you’re determined to set at least one of us free. You’ll work twice as hard to sell more crops than ever. You’ll carve yourself blind by the fire.”

“And when I do, I’ll have your nimble fingers on the strings of your lute to bring peace to my restless soul. Five years is all I need to see Robin free.”

Free. What was it she’d heard her husband repeat so often? When Adam and Eve first walked the earth, who then was lord and who was serf?

Her husband was right. The security of manor life contented her. But even she knew that Robin’s quick, bright mind required more. Free. One day a priest. Teaching peasants like herself the story of the Magi and the gifts laid before the Christ child on this day.

What I liked best: Pretty much all of it. This is a good story.

Magazine ready? Yes. But you need to add a few more dialog markers during that last long discussion. Once or twice I had to look back to see whose turn it was to talk.

[Every story must have a title, even if it’s not a good one.]

Early on Christmas Eve morning if 1944, Martje’s momma put the largest pan on the makeshift wood-stove her father had crafted out of the toy galvanized bucket. It took a very long time to cook anything on this tiny stove so her mom had to start early in the day to have something hot by nighttime. Martje was very hungry, something she was accustomed to by now.

“What are you cooking for Christmas dinner, Momma?”

“You will see.”

It had been a very hard winter. Most of the ponds were frozen over with snow on top. Her [Martje’s] papa made a straw pit in the back yard where he stored some carrots, potatoes and rutabagas—but that was empty now. All they had left was some sugar beet pulp, a couple hands full of flour and a smidgeon of oil.

Martje was curious about what was going to happen this Christmas Eve. They had a tiny tree from their own back yard. Her mother had allowed Martje to place the nativity underneath scrub they kept in a bucket. She noticed her mother set the table as she always did for special occasions and every Christmas Eve Dinner. She used her nice linen tablecloth and her finest china and polished silverware. Her mother picked some holly that grew by their front bay window and decorated each plate with a tiny branch of holly and a candle with a red ribbon tied around it.

That night, the main thing that was missing was the usual holiday aromas from the delicious meals her mother cooked. Martje’s mother brought in the soup terrine [is this a regional word? or do you mean tureen?] and placed it on the table. Her father gathered everyone around the table,[–] Martje, her sister Greet, and her mother. The only one missing was her brother, Ton, whom she missed fiercely. He was fighting for the resistance and she hadn’t seen him since the day he mysteriously showed up and rescued her from her school before it was bombed.

Her father said a prayer. He thanked the Lord for blessings of health and safety. He thanked God for sending the wonderful gift of His only begotten Son. He pleaded [personal peeve; use “pled”–also pled to whom?] to guard his son and bring him safely home. After the amen her [Martje’s] mother placed one beef bouillon cube in each of their soup plates. “I’ve saved these so we could have something special.” Then, as if she were serving a most exquisite cuisine she ladled out hot water from the soup terrine and poured it over the top of each cube. “Stir your bullion.” And so they did. The soup plates were deep so nothing spilled.

The family sat slurping up their “soup” without comment. All of them had participated on [in; not sure this is the best phrase] hunger walks trying to gather food from outlying farm areas over the past few years. But as the war raged on, there was less food to be obtained and greater danger anytime [two words] they wandered that far from home.

After the soup was gone; [comma] each had a thin slice of tasteless sugar beet loaf. It was not enough to assuage the hunger, but eleven year old Martje knew it would do no good to complain. She did wonder why her mother went through all the trouble to set a fancy table, when they could have easily drunk the bullion from cups.

When dinner was finished, her father read the Christmas story out of the Bible. Then they all sang Silent Night. That would have to do this year as the usual live nativity at their church was not allowed due to the German occupation.

That night when Martje got ready for bed she asked her mother, “Why the fancy table?”

“What day is it?”

“It’s the night Jesus was born.”

Her mother looked her in the eye. “Christmas, [no comma] hasn’t changed. We can still celebrate the birth of Christ, and honor him [capitalize]. We can thank God for the birth of His son. It does not require fancy food. It does require a nice looking table, even for only a bouillon cube. We should show proper respect and so we always use the best and look out nicest. That way we can be ready to invite Him to be our guest.”

It was a meal Martje never forgot. Throughout her 75 years she has shared the story with many people so that they can know that we should always remember the reason for Christmas, and give thanks for what we have, no matter how little or humble it may be. We don’t need this. Instead, have Martje think and react to her mother’s words and end it there.

What I liked best: The idea that war and/or poverty does not change what Christmas is.

Magazine ready? Close. Needs a new ending and a title.

Need a hand around the house this holiday season? Someone to clean, wrap presents, and cook Christmas dinner? At my house, I have a Christmas elf- a magical guy infused with the season’s spirit. With his help, I manage to make my way through tinsel and trappings, finding peace and meaning despite December’s maddening pace.

My elf first appears at Thanksgiving. He helps bundle my two girls in jackets and mittens, and then holds them on a wagon ride deep into the snow- covered Western Pennsylvania woods.

“Let’s go pick out some greens for our wreath!” he gushes [nor really a gush; even it it was, don’t label it that way], jumping off the wooden wagon as it stops deep in an evergreen forest. As the girls gather pine bows from the forest floor, the elf dashes about, bounding through the snow like an excited young fawn. “Look over here!” he gleefully announces, “Some holly berries!” The girls’ faces shine like holiday lights, glowing and ruby red.

“Can I help make our wreath this year?” my eldest asks, knowing full well the elf’s standard response to all things Christmas: “Why, of course!”

Later in my uncle’s barn shed, the elf sets to work helping my aunts and cousins thread pine bows though metal wreath forms. “You can help make one, too” he assures my daughter, helping her add crimson berries and bright red felt bows to each creation. Smiling easily, he seems at home in this workshop, accepting the season with skillful, open arms. An hour later, my wreath is finished: a circle of Christmas love intertwined in fragrant, fresh pine.

By the first of December, our holiday helper kicks into high gear.

“Time to get out the decorations!” he announces, ascending from our basement storage rooms with bins labeled “Ornaments”, “Holiday Books and Music,” and “Christmas Crafts.” Magically, the CD player, which I cannot ever get to work properly, starts playing Bing Crosby’s “White Christmas” and “Anne Murray’s Christmas Favorites.”

“Hurray! It’s time to get out all the stuff!” the girls chorus, then instantly start rummaging through candy-cane scented candles and tangled tree lights. Soon, they unearth treasure: Plastic Santa face stampers with red and green ink pads, golden jingle bell necklaces, and an oversized, stuffed gingerbread man. I stand back, feeling stress rise from the bins to my already aching head. As I reach for a Tylenol, the elf whistles a tune, already having strung half the banister with imitation pine garland. (How did he hide those green twisty ties? Though he used them to secure the garland, they are mysteriously gone from sight, vanished under bows of plastic pine.)

“There! Looks nice, right?” I nod, amazed at his good cheer.

“Want to take a break?” I ask, hopeful for a bit of eggnog to ward off my throbbing headache. (Pounding more than ever now that I think of what’s left to do: Christmas cards, shopping, meal planning, four recitals, three parties, and at least one cookie exchange.)

“I want to get the outside lights on before it gets dark,” he suggests.

[move up to previous paragraph] “Why don’t you just come out after a few minutes and see how I’m doing?”

A half hour later, the front porch twinkles. The doorframe, outlined in pine garland and glittery white lights, makes the perfect backdrop for my homemade wreath. A mechanical deer, complete with glowing red nose, softly paws the snow-covered yard. Two small evergreens, runty stumps guarding the front steps, now seem majestic, even proud. Like a teenager illuminated by a little makeup, these trees seem to smile, glowing with newfound importance. I smile as well, my Scrooge-like attitude melting under the season’s radiance.

A few days later, I am handed a gift-giving list, outlining possible purchases and shopping locales. “I think three presents per person is fine for this year,” the elf says, nodding toward the troubled economy. “I’ll shop for your mother, so you don’t have to worry about that.” A week later, a Simple Abundance devotional arrives from Amazon- a perfect fit for my spiritually minded mom.

“Look what I found for the girls,” he says the next afternoon, crinkling open several plastic bags filled with miniature-sized doll clothing.

“Take a look at this dude hat!” he laughs, unwrapping a small black beanie with the words “Dude” inscribed on the front. “This will fit perfectly on either the Webkinz Gecko or the Cheeky Monkey!”

My girls, avid collectors of Webkinz stuffed animals, will be thrilled. I feel light and almost giddy, the burden of long lines and crowded shopping malls magically lifted from my shoulders.

One evening after the girls are in bed, the elf cranks up the radio, pours each of us a glass of Christmas cheer (Merlot, it turns out, helps gift wrapping speed), and sets up shop: a rainbow of ribbons, six tubes of festive wrapping paper, and eight rolls of Scotch tape.

“I’ll wrap everything if you’ll do the bow and labels,” he suggests, already cutting a piece of red Elmo paper for my nephew’s new Matchbox cars.

“Ho! Ho! Ho!” I write on the tags, amazed at my revelry. Maybe it’s the Merlot, or the carols playing on the kitchen radio. Despite the snowstorm raging outside, I feel warm and surprisingly settled. I take another sip of wine and soak up this Norman Rockwell-like moment. At my core, I am grateful- for this evening, this season, and my exuberant elfin assistant.

To me, an elf is worlds better than Santa. Santa does not address Christmas cards, print ink jet, alphabetized labels, or purchase postage stamps. (“I wasn’t sure if you wanted Madonna and Child or Snowmen, so I got plenty of both,” the elf says, avoiding any possible hassles.) Santa does not shop, wrap, and mail packages to far-flung relatives, weeks ahead of the big day. (“I’ll just stop by the post office during lunch,” my able assistant smiles, throwing two boxes in the back of the SUV.) And, I am pretty sure Santa does not agree to walk miles upon miles through the snow-covered woods to select and chop down the perfect Christmas tree. (Blue Spruce, over six feet tall, with a pointy, angel-worthy top branch.) Even if Santa does chop down a fresh tree, I am pretty sure he has help with the decorating phase. My elf, donning white surgical gloves for protection from prickly pine branches, insists on stringing the lights himself. I join him for the fun part- ornament and tinsel hanging. As I hang a glitter-covered Popsicle stick star, I think about my children. How lucky they are to be exposed to the elf’s selfless giving.

As I sit down to Christmas Eve dinner- sautéed scallops and jumbo shrimp atop a bed of garlic mashed potatoes, I feel a little guilty. As usual, my holiday helper cooked a delectable feast. My contribution, a bag of pre-washed salad greens tossed with cranberries and pecans, looks sophomoric next to the artistically designed seafood. Fresh carrots jut out from the potatoes- a tower of goodness, presented with flair. “You outdid yourself again this year,” my mom raves. I smile, but I am not fooling anyone. My secret is out: Elfin magic, delivered by a generous guy I deeply love.

Wearing khaki Dockers and a brown wool sweater, my elf looks surprisingly ordinary. No green tights or pointy shoes for this guy. Standing just over six feet tall, he doesn’t fit the image of a munchkin or diminutive sprite. In fact, he looks like a middle-aged dad. As I spy a few wispy white hairs on top of his head, I make a holiday wish: May we grow old together, sharing Christmas cheer for many years to come.

Years ago, I made the wisest decision of all: I married an elf.

I couldn’t survive the season without his boundless energy and loving heart.

You know, don’t you, that every woman who reads this story hates you now and secretly hopes in their green-with-envy hearts that this is all fiction. 🙂 I like the story but I have to wonder what’s the point? It’s a great description of a wonderful husband/father/elf and your family will love it, but I’m not sure there’s a good readership for it. Now, if you changed the focus to the overstressed wife who doesn’t have the Christmas spirit, and have the husband/elf start small and have her notice it, and then maybe be overcome by his joy that her heart joins in…? Also consider your audience. This is an LDS site, and although I didn’t state it was an LDS magazine, you should still assume those values apply and switch the drink from Merlot to cocoa.

What I liked best: Some of your descriptions were really good.

Magazine ready? Technically, yes, but will get bumped for another story that will appeal to a larger group of readers.

The cat had never been spry. Not in all the years she had lived with the family had she been spry. The kids had long since learned to leave the cat alone. They didn’t even try to pet her anymore—especially near her hindquarters—because, even though she had no front claws, the cat was a biter and a scratcher. Every now and again one of the kids would wake up to find the cat snuggled up and snoring next to them in bed. They’d have to climb gingerly around her to get out or else the cat would turn into a snarling flurry of pure fur fury.

The cat had shown up one snowy November evening. The family was eating mushroom-broccoli quiche for dinner. Or, more correctly, the family was not eating mushroom-broccoli quiche for dinner. Well, the father was eating it. He always ate it, whatever it was. The mother would have been eating it had she not been telling the children (she always called them children because, after all, they were not a herd of goats) to eat it regardless of what they thought of the smell. And the kids, they were, well, they were prodding it.

Just as the mother warmed herself up for a round of “you-don’t- always-get-what-you-want-and-sometimes-you-just-have-to-try-new-things-because-I-am-your-mother-and-I-said-so-and-what-about-the-starving-children-in-Africa?” they all heard the sound. The kids stopped their prodding. The mother closed her mouth. The father swallowed.

It definitely wasn’t a meowing sound. If it had been, the family would have recognized it and opened the door immediately. It wasn’t a purring either. The wind would have drown out purring. In later years, after the cat died, the family decided the noise could only be described as a demand—if a demand could be wordless and completely other-worldly and animalistic.

At the sound the family all rushed to the back door and jostled it open. (It was a sticky and temperamental door, especially in wet weather.) As soon as the knob turned and the latch freed itself from the frame, the wind pushed the door open and the family discovered they had opened the wrong door.

So the family rushed to the front door and also jostled it open. (It refused to be bested by the back door. Especially in wet weather.) Again, they found nothing. But the noise—the demand—was louder. So the boy, the quintessential middle child who was always running ahead, walked out into the snow and peered into the juniper bushes that lined the front of the house. He was still holding his fork and began to prod the bushes—apparently prodding the quiche had not been enough for him.

That was how he found the cat. Or, more correctly, how the cat found him. He peered and prodded and the cat bit and scratched. Undeterred, the boy announced his discovery and the quick thinking oldest sister brought out their dinner to see if it would lure the cat closer. The father suggested it was the eggs. The mother insisted it was the mushrooms and broccoli (such a combination!). But the kids knew it was near-starvation that brought the cat out of the bushes to wolf down the quiche and they gave up a sigh of relief and a high five as their “what-about-the-starving-children-in-Africa?” dinner disappeared.

The cat stayed in the bushes for another week or so. The kids conjectured that she had been there for a week before she made any noise. The had all agreed that something had been watching them from those bushes for at least a week. Maybe even a month. The youngest, a girl who was prone to dramatics, said she remembered the eyes from her nightmares. The family took that with a grain of salt.

It was the next snowstorm that drove the cat indoors. It was the day after Thanksgiving and the wind was whipping snow in and out of the bushes as the kids took the cat her dinner. The moment the door opened the cat hurried inside. Or, more correctly, tried to hurry inside. Because, of course, the cat was not spry. Something in her hips or legs didn’t move like other cats. There was no feline fluidity or elegance to her gait. Her movements were heavy and awkward and as the family watched her entrance the cat snarled as if to say, “I’ll kill you if you ever mention this again. I know where you sleep.”

Indoors was cozy enough. The family had been putting up Christmas decorations all day and there were boxes laying about. The cat, slowly, gracelessly, inspected it all. She sniffed the stockings that had yet to be hung. She pawed at the garland. She sneered at the wreath. But it was the artificial Christmas tree that caught her eye. She walked around it in ungainly circles, her eyes scanning it up and down. She lifted a single front paw and batted a branch. She sniffed it and then she scorned it. Turning her head, lifting her tail, the cat lumbered away and fell asleep in the tree’s coffin-like box.

The cat repeated this process every year. It was the same inspection of the Christmas tree. The same laborious trip around and around it and the same scorn in her eyes as she curled up in the box. In fact, the cat was so repetitive in its ritual that the family took it for granted. And it was because they took it for granted that Christmas changed that year.

The mother had always longed for a real tree. Christmas, no matter how well coordinated and planned, always felt wrong with a plastic one. The synthetic nature of the thing seemed to infect everything. That year, since the children were old enough to avoid knocking it over, the mother decided to buy a real Christmas tree.

It was a warm-ish Christmas Eve afternoon and the smell of hot chocolate and cinnamon buns wafted across the grocery store parking lot (the mother had been picking up a few last minute doodads). It was intoxicating. In a haze of tis-the-season glee the mother selected a decadent, eight foot balsam fir. Sipping cocoa and planning the location of each ornament, the mother watched the men saw the stump and tie the tree to her station wagon. This was a Christmas tree to remember and it would make a Christmas to remember.

After driving the thing home, muscling it off the top of her car, lugging it inside, and wrestling it into the stand the mother began decorating the tree. The family had already decorated their puny plastic tree and as the mother removed the decorations she looked at it in scorn. How had they lived with such a thing all these years? She hummed as she went and slowed down only when she discovered the real tree was too tall to fit the star on top. The mother went to the kitchen and grabbed her kitchen shears. Surely, she reasoned, if they could cut up a chicken they could snip off the top of a tree. She angled a chair as close as she could to the tree and reached up. As she began to gnaw away at the top of tree it began to shift in its stand, but, no matter, the mother succeeded and placed the star on top. The tree wasn’t as stable as it had been before she mangled its top but it still looked good. When the father and the kids returned home from sledding, they oohed and aahed over the tree so much that the mother agreed, just this once, to let them eat dinner in front of it.

Perhaps it was because of the surprise of the tree that no one stopped to think of the cat. Perhaps it was the excitement of opening new Christmas Eve jammies and reading aloud the Christmas story that no one realized the cat had not eaten her dinner. Perhaps it was the visions of sugarplums and ipods that danced in their heads that made the family completely forget the cat. Whatever it was, no one remembered the cat and no one remembered the cat’s feelings about coniferous plants.

The cat, who was admittedly getting on in years, had been asleep in the laundry room. It was quieter down there in the basement and she liked the baskets of clothes sitting around the dryer. It warm and nobody but the mother, who was adept at ignoring the cat, ever came in. Not to mention it was where her litter box was and convenience was of paramount importance to the cat.

Most days cat usually awoke when the house settled down for the night. The older she got, the more set her in ways she got and the less often she was awake when the family was. It simply wasn’t her prerogative and if she had learned anything in her old age, besides the importance of convenience, it was to follow her prerogative.

As she heaved her haunches out of the laundry basket the cat smelled something. Something musky. Something woody. Something . . . Her nose twitched and her eyes closed. Her back seemed to straighten and firm up. Opening her eyes the cat carefully, deliberately, and almost nimbly worked her way up the stairs, through the kitchen, and into the front room. There, sparkling and winking in front of her, was the source of the smell.

The tree was indeed spectacular. The mother had chosen well and the star covered any disfigurement her hacking had caused. The gold of the garland combined with gumdrop colored lights and classic glass bulb ornaments gave the tree a heavenly glow. Surrounded by presents with perfectly coordinated wrapping paper and bows, the tree was the ideal of every Christmas card and cheesy holiday album.

The cat began to circle the tree. Slowly she made one round of the tree taking in its height and depth. She made another round, working her way closer to the tree, taking in its scent. She made a third round and batted it. The branch sprang back toward her paw, sending a shiver of excitement down her aged and crooked spine. The cat backed away and settled, sphinx-like, on the floor and stared at the tree.

It was when the sun was just beginning to come up that the cat made her decision. She reached her front paws forward, pushed her hindquarters back and stretched—purring in anticipation. She stood on all fours and licked her lips and cheeks, never taking her eyes off the tree. She leaned back into her haunches and sprang, running like she had in her kitten years. As she neared the tree the cat, aiming for the star, leapt.

The sound that woke the family was most definitely a crash. But there was something else too, something that reminded them of that November night, years before, when the cat had come to them. But this time the sound wasn’t a demand or a snarl. It was something like a meow, but more. Like a meow that was also a triumph and a laugh and a “see ya later.” And it was that sound the family remembered when they found the cat pinned under the tree. It was that sound they remembered when they buried her in the yard that day, under the juniper bushes, not a single one of them shedding a tear—except for the youngest, who was still prone to dramatics. And, well, the family took her with a grain of salt.

What I liked best: Uhmm, this is one of those really quirky stories that is so unexpected and weird that I actually like it. I like the writing. The omniscient POV works here. I like the anonymity of the family and the cat. I like the little parenthetical asides. It’s sort of warped at the end and it’s not really what you’d expect for a Christmas story, but it works for me.

Magazine ready? I’m gonna’ say yes. 🙂

Christmas was not on my mind when I decided I needed to go back to college to get a better job. I applied for financial help and received a grant to college in another state. Jennifer and I prayed about our decision and knew it was the right one.

The move was hard. It was hard to leave family and friends. But the move was harder on us financially. We moved during the summer to get settled before I started school. I also had to start over with a new job. We watched our small savings dwindle. Jennifer and I looked over our finances when school started and I needed to buy textbooks. We decided we would need to drop our cell phone, internet and cable service. We would barely have enough money for food and diapers. We knew we were in the right place doing the right thing, it was just going to be tight.

A few weeks before Christmas my company downsized and I lost my job. I went home to tell my wife. She was putting in a pizza when the phone rang. I watched Jennifer paint Jordan’s hand red and press it to a paper wreath while I listened to her end the conversation. [She was painting a toddler’s hand while putting pizza in the oven and talking on the phone?]

“Yes, I had heard the Wallace’s baby was still in NICU.” She painted Jordan’s other hand green and pressed it to the paper. “We’ll be happy to bring in a dinner.” She hung up and looked at me. I nodded. Jennifer packed up our pizza, garlic bread and salad and left. We ate Jordan’s favorite dinner when she got back: PB&J. [not everyone will know what this is.] Over dinner, Jennifer told of the Wallace’s bare apartment.

I looked at our own little tree. We bought it when we were first married. It had one present under it. At Enrichment, Jennifer had made an etching on glass of the temple we were sealed in. I looked at Jordan. I knew he wouldn’t know if he got anything for Christmas. But at two-years-old he made the best car sounds a father could hope for.

I looked around our little one room apartment. Jennifer and Jordan had colored Christmas and Nativity scenes and hung them around the living room. Paper snowflakes adorned the windows. I went to the kitchen and opened the fridge. It looked like we had a choice of PB&J or tomato soup for Christmas dinner. If the food lasted that long.

That night, I decided it was time to swallow my pride and talk to our bishop. Jennifer had loving suggested I make an appointment with him but I said no, we are fine. I called the bishop’s secretary. He told me the bishop could see me tonight.

“Welcome, Brother Whitlock!” Bishop Draper shook my hand and motioned for me to sit in the chair across from him at his desk. “What can I do for you? Or sometimes I like to ask, what can the Lord do for you?”

“Well, Bishop, I came today because there is too much month at the end of my money. Our cupboards are bare and I have no job.” I tried to smile.

Bishop Draper sat back in his chair, steepled his fingers under his chin and looked at me. He asked about Jordan and our medical bills. He asked me about school, my skills and previous jobs. His next question surprised me.

“Have you been paying your tithing?” he asked, quietly.

“Yes!” I replied, emphatically. It was always the first check written after I got paid.

He nodded and smiled.

“Then all will be well, Brother Whitlock. All will be well.” He stood and walked around the desk to me. “Do you have enough faith?”

I hesitated while I thought about his question. I slowly nodded.

Bishop Draper extended his hand to me and I stood up to shake it.

He put a hand on my shoulder. “The Lord knows your needs. He loves you.”

As I drove home, I wondered what I would tell my wife over another PB&J dinner. There was a knock on the door. One of the local youth held out a manila envelope, requesting a small donation to help a local family who lost their husband and baby to a house fire. The rest of the family were living with grandparents until they could get on their own feet again. I put all the money in the envelope I had on me: $1. Now I had no money for a toy car, but I knew I had given the widows mite.

The next day, I grabbed the mail. I had sent my resume to several organizations and was waiting for a phone call or a letter. All I found was the usual credit card applications and last minute Christmas shopping ads. I threw the mail on the table. A red envelope caught my eye. I picked it up and looked at the return address. “Santa Claus, North Pole.” I looked at the postmark. “North Pole.”

“Jennifer! We got a letter from Santa!” I opened the letter with Jennifer looking over my shoulder. The letter told us that Santa has helpers around the world who gave to those in need. One such helper wanted to help us. Jennifer and I looked at the gift card in her hand with big eyes. Arms around each other and tears flowing down our cheeks, we knelt in humble prayer to thank our Heavenly Father for his tender mercies.

We bundled Jordan up and went Christmas shopping. We bought Jordan a ball and a toy car. I bought Jennifer perfume and she bought me a robe. She said she was tired of seeing my holey pajamas. We also bought food for our cupboards and Christmas dinner.

When we checked out we were surprised to see the amount of money left on the card. Our Santa Helper had given us enough money to cover our purchases and more. Jennifer and I looked at each other and smiled. We took our purchases to the car and went back inside.

We went to the card aisle and found a big card with Santa on it. We went home and found the address of a family who needed a Santa Helper. We put the gift card inside the card and mailed it the next day. Now we were one of Santa’s Helpers.

The feeling of this Christmas are indescribable on all levels. The joy of giving and receiving this season will not be forgotten.

What I liked best: Good story. Gives you that warm fuzzy Christmas feeling. Needs a tad more zing to it. Not sure what to suggest. It’s good. It’s nice. It’s not spectacular. Maybe it needs a little more personality. ??

Magazine ready? Yes, but might get bumped for something more original.

Christmas was magical in those days. [what days? even though it’s in the title, you need to establish the time and place within the story.] We would rise around eight, the sun out but hovering beneath a layer of clouds, the snow glimmering dimly in the pale light. The children were easier to wake than when they were smaller and after rousing Daddy we would all troop into the living room, Christmas carols playing in the background, the children’s faces awash in the glow of tree lights and the sure, pure knowledge that Santa exists.

Sometimes Santa would leave brother a train or a car and then there was the year that jovial elf left a dragon complete with expectorated fireball and a plastic knight which was, as brother observed, “too statued” to allow proper placement on the dragon’s back making it a flawed toy, but the favorite, none-the-less. And after fully inspecting the toy of his dearest wishes he would become the Christmas Elf, passing out parcels and presents, his cry of “See, I told you this would be a fun day!” filling the air.

In the days of Colorado, sister was finally old enough to appreciate the promise of Santa. There were houses for her Barbie dolls, whistles and dollies, doll clothes and doll beds, doll cars and doll sleds. She, being young and blessed with an uncarnal [is this really the word you want to use?] mind, was happy to receive just one or two little gifts, enjoying the proceeding ones with greater and greater pleasure, pulling the red and white sweaters from the wrappings with oohs and ahs and drawing the soft mittens and hats and stockings along her cheek in fondest appreciation until she had had so many presents to open that she became quite querulous and demanding, stamping her little foot in a fury designed to produce more presents when there were simply no more to be had. [long sentence] She could only be induced, in those days, to calm down when the various boxes and wrappings were opened to free her dolls from their moorings, whereupon she would often be heard to say, “It is beautiful and I am beautiful and Mommy is beautiful!”

After all had opened their gifts; the children their toys, Daddy, one jewel box after another containing not jewelry but money and checks, and Mother, her silver and house wares and books, we would go to the kitchen and rummage around in the fridge and the cupboards, where it was known that ham, eggs, bread, bacon, hash browns and juice could be found. Daddy would set himself to the task of cooking, assigning mother the chore of timing the toast, just so, while the children scampered downstairs in their pajamaed feet, sliding and bumping down the dark narrow stairs to the basement, their arms full of the morning’s loot, to while away the time until breakfast with a showing of a favorite holiday movie. Then we would all have a long, lazy breakfast in front of the television.

It always came as a surprise when Mother would announce, with no sign, no warning, that it was time to go, to hurry, to get dressed, to get cleaned up, to put on our boots, to find our mittens and hats, and then to go! We would scamper up the stairs, our startlement lending wings to our feet, zoom past the windowed door leading out to the garage where the dog, could be seen at the back door, Christmas bone in his mouth, then on through the kitchen, past the Christmas tree, where papers, bows and boxes would fly from our precarious path, and on into our rooms. Hurriedly we dressed for no other reason than Mother told us so, then presented ourselves, never missing anything more important than a pair of socks or even a shirt, in front of our mother who would scold and hound, whisking the gloves and hats and boots from unknown origins onto our rarely cooperative hands and feet.

Daddy would back the car out of the garage and warm it up while loading the trunk with water and blankets, apples and oranges and whatever else he thought we might need if we were stranded somewhere in the white wilderness. Then we were off to places unknown. The journey itself was an exciting one, to be abroad on Christmas day, when all the world seemed to stop and stand still and listen. The mountains to the west beckoned us on into their snow-draped folds, the branches of the trees, bare except for an ancient bird’s nest here and there, would articulate, with their snow-white fingers, the way we should go and that is where we went, always; past the snow bleached field dotted with the black tracks of incipient geese, over the hill and past the white-frozen pond, then down under the train tracks and onto the open road.

A few cars would whirl past us but we took our time, rolling past houses and barns, their cake-icinged roofs boasting icicles jutting out over doorways which were gaily foil-papered, green-wreathed and red-bowed, waiting for someone to come Christmas-knocking.

Even the hills knew how to decorate for Christmas, it seemed, being bearded, here and there, with waterfalled icicles, frozen in place, skipping and dripping down the unmoving rock and onto a large lake dotted with motionless white caps that seemed to scud along the glassy surface amongst the ice fisherman sitting on crates and their dogs. Snow could be seen falling in the distance to meet the already white-capped mountains, which rose, in their turn, into the misty snowfall so that one could hardly tell where the sky ended and the mountain began.

Entering a tunnel, we would Hallooh! and scream until, reaching the other side, we would emerge into a sea of green firs, towering and white-capped or dusted with snow while tiny snowflakes flew into our windshield like aged dandelion seeds, as if God were making a wish. Drifting snow smoked across the black road while, up on the hill, red and blue skiers slogged down the long length of white, always with one or two black shapes sprawled, skis askew, in the powder-soft, cold, wet snow.

One town often arrived at in our Christmas travels was a real Victorian survivor, close to the skiing and filled with all the delights for which even a Floridian tourist could wish. We would ride the city transit system, a red and green trolley, up and down the main street for free and slide along the wide wooden benches into various other passengers who would smile and nod because it was Christmas.

Sometimes, if it were open, which it often was, on a Christmas Day, we would go into a little shop for cocoa and cinnamon buns. You opened the door and were met with the choice of going downstairs to stand in a long queue or up, up the narrow stairs to the fourth floor, the ski-chaleted, coffee-warmed, table-crowded room where one could watch from over the railing the tea-sippers on the tiny third floor below and the fat flakes floating forever eastward past the window in one direction and due south past the windows in the other. At the top, you could sit for many amusing hours watching the die-away-light in the eyes of numerous customers who, upon gaining the fourth floor, juggling coats and hats and mittens and sunglasses whereupon balanced precarious trays filled with doughnuts and rolls, coffees, cocoas, plastic forks and spoons –paper napkins–only to find there were no empty chairs, just as there had not been anyplace along their trek up the wooden-stepped, narrow-pitched, stair-wayed mountain.

Most usually we guzzled our cocoa and bun and then it was back on with the snow gear and out to find that it was still snowing in large, lazy spirals towards the ground and the air had warmed and the once gray sky had turned to a quilted cottonball white. The snowflakes fell so slowly, so densely, so perfectly for catching them on one’s tongue, it was easy for one to wonder why the entire population of sidewalk walkers and shopworn shoppers didn’t stop what they were doing to stick out their tongues and invite the snowflakes inside. We always did, halting just where we were in the middle of the pavement, arms flapping in delight whilst our tongues flapped in time, delving for just the right flake at just the right moment. Then we stuck our tongues to a nearby tree, trying our mightiest to hold them there while tilting our heads to sideways-smile in shared delight at the passers-by who pointed and laughingly shook their heads and who had doubtless seen the same Christmas movie we had in which a child is warned not to stick his tongue to a frozen metal pole, and who does and gets stuck.

Then, invariably, Mother and Daddy would return us to the car where we would be buckled into our seats and the doors closed behind us while they walked a pace or two down the sidewalk holding hands like a pair of teenagers with no cares in the world only to turn and come back and stand, kissing, with red noses and snow-whitened hair. Finally, they would open their doors and charge into the car on a fresh blast of arctic wind, whereupon Daddy started up the motor while Mother complained about the cold and the chill and the future puddle on the floor sure to form under her snow encrusted boots.

We would drive for awhile around the town’s neighborhoods and imagine what they would be like a month from that day when the unstopping-snow would pile up to the tops of the steps or to the bottoms of the windows until finally, the oft-shoveled drift-piled snow would tower, in our imaginations, to brush the icicle-strewn eaves. Then we would drive north into the teeth of the storm, the snow flying into our windshield and zooming past the windows with such urgency that their silent striking upon the glass made one think of deafness, or of cotton wadding. Finally, we would be heading home, past a whirling dervish of a snow-devil, funneled and flowing towards the sky as if, perhaps, in a former life, it had been a snowman even then on its way to the angels. The mountains and lakes and icicle waterfalls would all look different and new, watching them, as we were, from the opposite direction, yet, tired and warm, our heads would nod and some of us would slip into sleep.

Those who stayed awake would often be rewarded with the sight of a setting sun celebrating Christmas—an orange-pink, light-filled cloud would rise from behind a green-fringed mountain with such luminescent, glowing shine that one could not help but wonder if no Christmas tree, however gaily strung, could ever inspire such magic.

Eventually, we would be jostled out of our reverie by the sound of tires crunching along the ice-filmed drive in front of our house and we would stir and yawn and drift soundlessly from the car, trailing our possessions into the cold, dark house. Weaving our way around the wrappings and boxes still littering the floor around the tree and spilling on into the hallway and other rooms, we would pick up one treasure after another to re-inspect it in the bright lamplight whereupon, settling on one or the other, we would quietly play until, lids drooping, we grew tired.

The children went first–soft cuddly toys tucked under their chins or held in their fat little fists–without a murmur or complaint to be washed, brushed and pajamaed and finally to be blanketed over and folded up into instant slumber, never to see, or know, or care, how Mother and Daddy staggered down the never-longer hall to their own room where they collapsed into bed with the sheer exhaustion of the utterly replete. Outside, the Christmas-lighted houses glowed like candied gingerbread under their layer of snow. Their winking and blinking, as far as I knew, went on and on far into the dreaming night.

What I liked best: The language. Some of this is quite beautiful, painting a very lovely image. We are so accustomed to a fast-paced story, with action and dialogoue and something IMPORTANT happening, that we forget that its sometimes good to just slow down and be in the moment. This story captures that.

Magazine ready? Yep. But it needs a better title.

Sitting at the foothills of the mountains, life in the small town was
very laid-back and unhurried. Neighbors visited in the streets,
discussing the events of the world happening so far away. Children
played kickball on summer evenings, and the park was always filled with
young boys playing baseball. Everyone was concerned about their
neighbors and willingly helped them when any need arose. Neighbors
waited for neighbors as they crossed the only bridge into town. If a
car had already entered the small, one-lane bridge, other vehicles had
to wait. [Cut and combine.] Such neighborly kindness was evident everywhere in town.
Well, almost everywhere.

At the top of one street lived an old gentleman with a full head of
white hair. He had lived there by himself for as long as anyone could
remember. He was known as “old Sylvester”. [capitalize the Old and you don’t need to use quote marks, which are sometimes awkward.] The adults in town
tried teaching [taught] their children to be polite to him, but never invited him
to their homes for Sunday dinner. Sylvester was a loner.

Children were known to be “mean” to him. Some of the big boys
might even throw rocks at him, just to hear him yell. He suspected the
boys in town of being the cause of his troubles. If a window was
broken, it was “the boys”. If something was missing, it was surely
“the boys.” Sylvester sometimes walked to the boys’ homes and had
a little visit with their parents. Trouble stopped for a little while,
then a new group of “boys” took their place and the cycle started
over.

Sylvester had an old, bent bike which he rode everywhere. He rode
downhill to the small grocery store where he picked up meager supplies–
a quart of milk, a loaf of bread, and sometimes a few other items. He
reached into his pocket and pulled out a few coins to pay for his
purchases. Most of the time the coins were not enough and the grocer
told him he could pay later when he had more change, knowing that he
would never see the money.

Sylvester continued on to the post office where he checked his mail for
any sign of friendship, but all he received were the monthly electricity
bill, water bill, and a few advertisements. “Good morning” he said
to anyone who stopped to nod at him. But it seemed that no one ever had
time to really talk to Sylvester. Waving his hand, he put his mail
alongside his groceries into the basket, and pedaled uphill this time,
to his ramshackled home.

Sylvester rode that bike during all kinds of weather. The streets of
the town were not paved, just gravel and dirt. This created many
problems for Sylvester, for the weather changed the road conditions
continually. During the hot, dry summers the road was dry and dusty,
settling on his clothes. In spring and fall the road turned to thick mud
during sudden rainstorms, making it very difficult to ride his bike.
After a storm, cars splashed mud as they passed him. Winter brought its
own problems. The snow froze on the road, turning it to a sheet of ice,
nearly impossible for riding a bike uphill, and so easy to lose control
going downhill to the store. So during the winter, Sylvester would walk
in the cold.

Sylvester’s clothes were old and worn. He wore an old pair of blue
woolen pants and a frayed white shirt. His shoes were loose and worn.
His coat was a size too big, with patches on the elbows, repaired by one
of the nicer ladies in town. He always had an old dusty top hat on his
white hair and fingerless gloves on his hands.

Sylvester walked with a shuffle, bent as though he walked
against the wind. His head was bend and his tousled hair shaggy in his
face as he passed everyone on the streets. Sylvester was quite the
“odd” character in town.

Sylvester could always be found in church on Sunday morning. His
clothes were the same that he had worn during the week. His
transportation was the same, that old bike, or his own two feet. But
there was something different about him on a Sunday. Every Sunday he
carried his violin case with him to the church house. He walked up the
flight of stairs to the chapel carrying his old tattered case with his
precious violin tucked lovingly inside. The congregation shook their
heads as they watched him slide into the pew at the back of the chapel.
People turned and whispered to each other, no doubt asking the same
question, “Will he do it today or not?” and secretly hoping the
answer would be “no.”

Sylvester had one problem that was very obvious to everyone in town.
He had a difficult time speaking. His words came out mumbled, making it
very difficult to understand. He tried to speak during the church
services, sometimes standing and expounding for a very long time, or so
it seemed. Children snickered and laughed behind their hands, following
the examples of their parents and church leaders who tried to shush the
children at the same time. Many times Sylvester then walked to the
front of the chapel, pulled out his violin and proceeded to play hymns.
The boys laughed at him, ducked their heads and chortled in their hands.
Girls giggled behind their paper fans. Adults rolled their eyes as
they listened, praying he would soon end and allow the meeting to
continue. It was obvious that he had musical talent because he made
that violin speak in a way no one else could, but everyone felt
ill-at-ease because it was not the appropriate thing to do at that time.

One cold, snowy Sunday afternoon, while eating dinner with his family,
a newly-ordained church leader made a surprise announcement. The next
night the family would be going on an adventure to spread Christmas
cheer to several of the needy families around the town. The three young
daughters rolled their eyes, knowing that they were being involved
because of their father’s position, not because they could actually
spread Christmas cheer. They would rather stay home and complete their
homework, or do some other household chore, simply because they really
didn’t want to go. But their father insisted, not telling them
exactly where they would be spreading this fabulous cheer.

Monday evening arrived. Following their father’s lead, they climbed
into the car. The first two stops were at homes of widows, friends of
their grandmother. The visits were friendly, the ladies happy to see
the girls and their parents out visiting on such a cold night. While
climbing into the car after leaving the home of the second widow, they
learned the destination of their last visit for the night.
Sylvester’s home.

The house at the top of the street was a scary thought to the young
girls. It was a place they had never been and was not on their list of
places they wished to ever visit. Their father assured them he would
protect them, and everything would be fine. He told them if they
approached this visit, looking through understanding eyes, they just
might learn a lesson that they would never learn elsewhere.

The father led the way with their mother following and the girls,
youngest to oldest, walking behind. They walked up the squeaky, wobbly
steps to the side door where the father knocked loudly so the old man
inside would hear.

Sylvester was excited to see the family at his doorstep. He quickly
invited them into his home. As the girls walked in, the lesson
immediately began. They entered into the dark and cold kitchen of this
humble home. The cupboards had no doors so it was easy to see they were
empty and bare. An old plate and cup sat in the dirty sink, along with a
dented tin saucepan, a coffee-pot sat on the counter. The coal-burning
stove had a small fire, not large enough to warm the house, but with
enough smoke pouring out to create a smoky haze throughout.

The family followed Sylvester into his living room. They passed a
small Christmas tree empty of decorations except for a few cards that
had been saved from past years. Sylvester picked up a small pillow
sitting on his couch. He pounded it against his leg, sending billows of
dust and smoke into the air. Apologizing for not cleaning up his place,
he invited them to sit on the couch. The girls looked around and
noticed bits of food left on the floor where he obviously ate his last
few meager meals. The room was cold, dirty, and smelly and the girls
were amazed that someone in their town actually lived in this type of
environment.

Sylvester was telling the father about his own children living in
California. This was the first time the girls realized he had children. He said they were planning on coming to visit him, but they wouldn’t
be able to make it this year. He rushed over to the Christmas tree.
Reaching behind, he pulled out a picture frame, wiped off the dirt, and
showed the photograph to the family. With pride in his voice, he
explained this was his daughter, his pride and joy. He couldn’t wait
to see her again; after all it had been more than 15 years since he had
last seen her.

He spoke of his years in California where he played the violin during
the silent movie era. The girls learned that he once had a wonderful
life, a life that he lost because of his own choices, a life he would
never get back. He said he learned from his mistakes and was trying to
be the best person he could with what little he had.

Sylvester was humbled when the mother gave him a loaf of bread and a
dozen of her famous raisin-filled cookies. He explained that he
didn’t keep gifts on hand to give out to his friends because people
did not visit him during the Christmas season and it was very difficult
for him to travel around town to deliver gifts. Continuing to make
excuses for this lack of gifts, he suddenly stopped. Turning around, he
said “Excuse me just a moment,” and disappeared down the hall.

He returned carrying his violin case. Wiping off the dust, he opened
the case and pulled out his precious violin. Turning a few of the
tuning pegs, he tuned the violin with the expertise of a master
musician. Then, in that cold, dusty room, he gave the young girls a
concert of the most beautiful Christmas music they had ever heard.
Sylvester closed his eyes as his fingers warmed with the notes of music
learned long ago. He played song after song, never stopping. He
connected the carols together in a way that made the songs flow one
after the other, like a bow wrapped around a present. All too soon, the
music slowed to the end of “Silent Night”. With tears in his eyes,
he bowed his head and said a prayer, thanking God for bringing these new
friends into his home, and for letting him share with them his precious
gift, the talent of his music.

Humbled, the family quietly shook his hands, knowing they were
shaking hands with a master. They thanked them for this wonderful gift
and quietly returned to their car.

Words could not express the lesson the girls learned that evening.
Sylvester was now a different person in their eyes. Not someone to be
laughed at and ridiculed, but a person of worth, someone who had paid
the price for his choices, and still had so much to give.

What I liked best: The theme of not judging, of being willing to see with your heart and not your eyes.

Magazine ready? Not yet. But this has potential. It’s a lot of telling, not enough showing. I’d like to see this played out in real time from the point of view of one of the girls, maybe a teenage girl, or a boy from the town.

You have to have a title. Even thought it might be changed, never submit without a title.

“Did you just hear what I just heard?” The chickens clucked to each other as they scrabbled in the yard for bits of food.
[paragraph]
“It’s going to happen tonight just down the lane at that old stable,” a matronly hen announced.
[paragraph]
“I just wish we could go,” a younger hen sighed.
[paragraph]
“You’re all so silly,” the gamey cock proclaimed. “Can you just imagine all of us marching down the street to a barnyard? What would people think?”
[paragraph]
“But this is such a special time…” [who said this?]
[paragraph]
“I know, I know. And at least, we do know that.” [who said this?]

[need some type of connecting sentence]

“I wish we would stop for a little while. I wish I could stop all these people hurrying by and tell them just what will soon be happening. But everyone is going by in such a rush and no one is even looking. Doesn’t anyone see? Doesn’t anyone care? I know, I am just a donkey that has been given this most important task of all. I hope I’m doing all right. If only someone would say something. Doesn’t anyone know?” [who says this? Needs to be broken into shorter sentences said by various animals.]

“Move over a little more. There. That’s much better.” The older cow said to her companion.
[paragraph]
“You do know who this is, don’t you?” she replied. [who is she? another cow? baby cow?]
[paragraph]
“Of course. And what an honor it is to think they have come here to our stable at this most important time.” A third cow spoke up.
[paragraph]
“You would think our owner would have provided a better place. I mean, after all, look who this is…”
[paragraph]
“Ah, but you know how people are. They just don’t get it.”
[Each speaker above needs to be identified]

“I wish they would just hurry up, so we can get there.” The camel looked across at his partner.
[paragraph]
“Be patient, my friend. This is, of course, royalty.”
[paragraph]
“But at this rate, it will take ever so long to get there,” the third camel exclaimed.
[paragraph]
“I know it will,” the older, wiser one answered.
[paragraph]
“But we will, eventually, get there. And along the way, think of all the others we will see and share this great event with.”
[paragraph]
The other two nodded knowingly.
[Identify each speaker a little more clearly.]

“Oh, my. Do you think they really know where they’re going and who they’re going to see?” The sheep huddled together and wondered.
[paragraph]
“Probably not,” spoke the gruff dog to his mate.
[paragraph]
“I don’t understand.” She turned to look at him with a puzzled expression. “This is about the most important thing ever and they leave us behind.”
[paragraph]
“But you know,” he added. “They are only human and they just don’t know…”

For unto us a child is born; the Savior of the world.

And the animals knew…

What I liked best: The idea that the animals know and the people are too busy with the hustle and bustle.

Magazine ready? Despite all the red, this one is closer than you think. It would make a great picture book. Remember the rule of three–have three groups of animals. I’d also like to see the animals make more specific comments about what the people are doing that causes them to miss the event.

“Michael? That thing of yours is broken.”

Michael looked down at his little brother. Usually it was cute, the way Trent said his name. My Coal. It wasn’t so cute now.

“What’s broken?” He kept everything that Trent could break up on his bunk bed. What could Trent have gotten his little hands on?

“That thing…of yours…that’s broken.”

“What’s broken?” Michael struggled to keep his voice calm, especially with Mom listening. Nine-year-olds are too old to believe in Santa. Michael knew that Mom was Santa. The magic of Christmas was dead, but getting presents was still fun. Even Dad behaved himself at this time of year.

“That thing.” Trent said.

“Mom!” Michael said. This conversation was going nowhere.

“Calm down, Michael.” She got down on her knees and made Trent look at her. “Trent, honey, can you show Mommy what’s broken?”

Trent nodded and took Mom’s hand. Michael followed, wishing Trent could move his little legs a bit faster. After an eternity they entered the crime scene. There sat his favorite airplane – minus one wing.

“My airplane!” Michael cried. He and Dad had worked for weeks on the plane. “You ruined it.”

“Michael,” Mom said. “Calm down. Did you put the airplane away? How did Trent get to it?”

“I had it on my bed.” Michael knelt by the plane and gathered the pieces in his arms.

“Oh.” Mom’s cheeks turned pink. Michael folded his arms and glared at her. She felt guilty about something. “Michael, I forgot to tell you. Trent managed to climb to the top bunk bed yesterday while you were at school.”

A sick feeling settled in Michael’s stomach. His bed was his last refuge. The last place he could go to get away from his little brother. The last place where his stuff was safe from Captain Destructo. He was too old to cry so he blinked away the tears that were threatening to fall.

“Sorry,” Trent said.

“Maybe we could glue it back together?” Mom said.

Michael ran his finger over the splintered wood and shook his head. “I don’t think so, Mom.”

Mom scooted over and put her arm around Michael. “Maybe Daddy can do something with it.”

Dad could do some amazing things, but fixing the airplane was impossible. “Sure, Mom.”

Mom squeezed his shoulders. “I really am sorry, sweetheart. He climbed up yesterday but couldn’t get down. I thought he’d learned his lesson.”

“Michael, look at me!” Trent called from the top bunk bed. “I’m big!”

“Get off my bed, Trent,” Michael yelled. “It’s bad enough you ruined my plane.”

“Michael, don’t yell at your brother.” Mom grabbed Trent and pulled him off the top bed. “Don’t forget, Santa is watching.”

“Mom, I’m nine years old. I’m too old for Santa. And, if there is any justice, Trent won’t get anything for Christmas because all he does is break stuff.” Michael knew he’d just made a huge mistake when he looked in Mom’s eyes. She looked like she was ready to shoot laser beams with her eyes.

Mom put Trent down. “Trent, why don’t you go see where your sister is?”

“Okay, Mom,” Trent said. “Linda!” [Maybe “Minda”] he yelled. It wasn’t fair. He never got in trouble. He couldn’t even pronounce their sister’s name right. Me-lin-da.

Mom sat on the bottom bunk bed and took Michael‘s hand. “You don’t believe in Santa?”

Michael shook his head, too scared to open his big fat mouth.

“Then I guess it’s time for you to be Santa.”

Michael almost dropped the sad remains of his airplane. “What?”

“There are two sides to Santa. You’ve experienced receiving from him. Now you get to be him.” Mom explained this like she explained how he should make his bed after he slept in it. Both were beyond his comprehension.

She had to be kidding. He only got a dollar a week in allowance and that was only when he actually did his chores. There was no way he could be Santa. “I may need a raise in my allowance.”

Mom laughed. “That’s not what I mean. I want you to find out what your brother and sister want for Christmas. Report back to me and then we’ll go to the store and pick out their presents. You can help stuff the stockings on Christmas Eve too.”

Michael smiled. That was more like it. This year there would be no nasty candy canes in his stocking. Nothing but chocolate.

When Dad got home from work, Michael couldn’t wait to tell him the plan, but Dad wasn’t smiling. “I don’t know,” he said. “Christmas is going to be lean this year. We aren’t going to get our Christmas bonus.”

Mom’s cheerful smile faded and was replaced by worry. “But we depend on that bonus for Christmas presents,” she said. “What will we do?”

Michael felt his excitement drain. Not only was he not going to be Santa, there wasn’t going to be much of a Christmas this year.

“We have enough for the clothes the kids need,” Mom said.

Clothes for Christmas?

“We can give our parents some of those peaches you bottled,” Dad said.

Mom nodded. “And our brothers and sisters too.”

Even worse. “We’ll still have some peaches left, won’t we?” Michael asked.

“Of course. Our trees gave us more peaches than we could eat in a year.” Mom mussed Michael’s hair. “We’ll have plenty for us.”

“Oh, good.” Michael let out a sigh of relief. “But what about our presents? I don’t think that Trent or Melinda want peaches in their stockings.” He thought of his own Christmas list. He hadn’t really expected to get a Wii, but now there was no chance.

“We have a little bit of money,” Mom said. “We’ll just have to keep it simple. Do you still want to play Santa?”

With a little bit of money, they’d still get candy in their stockings. “Sure.”

Mom smiled. “Then I guess you’d better go find out what Trent and Melinda want Santa to bring them.”

“What about my plane?” Michael asked.

“Your plane?” Dad asked.

“Trent climbed on my bed.” Michael took Dad to his room and showed him the remnants of the once proud plane. “It’s ruined.”

Dad examined the plane. “It does look pretty bad. I’ll take it to my shop and see what we can do.”

“Play with me!” Trent yelled from the doorway.

Michael didn’t want to play with Trent. He was still mad that he [Ternt] had gotten away with breaking his plane.

“Good idea,” Mom said. “You two play while I finish making dinner.”

“May I help you make dinner?” Melinda asked. She was pulling the polite card. Michael grinned. This year Santa didn’t care about the polite card.

“Oh, thank you, Melinda. I still need someone to set the table.”

Michael found some memory cards and opened the box to play a game with Trent. Two of the cards were ripped in half and several were chewed on. Trent snatched a card from his hand and held the picture up.

“Monkey!” He put his hands in his armpits and jumped up on the couch.

“Don’t jump on the couch, Trent,” Michael said.

“I’m not Trent,” Trent said. “I’m a monkey!” He jumped off the couch and grabbed another card. “Lion! Roar.”

“That’s a tiger, but you can’t tell because the head’s been chewed off.” Michael pointed to the stripes.

Trent put the card in his mouth and shook his head. “Rrrrr!”

“Trent, you’ve ruined these cards. Now we can’t even play the game.”

Trent took the card out of his mouth. “Play!”

“Dinner,” Mom called.

“Come on, Trent.” Michael put the soggy card back in the box. No wonder he never ate dinner. He was too full of playing cards.

“Mother,” Melinda said, still using her polite voice. “I am going to ask Santa for a dollhouse. My dollies don’t have anywhere to sleep.”

“Yes they do,” Michael said. “They sleep on your floor.”

“Michael,” Mom said.

Her [Mom’s] eyes looked so sad. Dollhouses were expensive. She must be worried that Melinda would be disappointed Christmas morning. She probably would be.

Dad came upstairs, brushing sawdust off his pants. His workshop was so dusty you couldn’t go down there without getting sawdust all over your clothes. Then Michael got such a great idea he had to check and see if a light bulb turned on over his head. No light bulb, but it was still a great idea.

“Dad,” he whispered, “how do you feel about being an elf?”

*****

Melinda screamed when she saw her present by the tree. It was too big to wrap so he and Dad had put a big red bow on it.

Mom put her hand over her heart and gasped. “A dollhouse! How?”

Michael couldn’t stop the grin from erupting all over his face. He and Dad had worked hard to make that dollhouse. Dad used a broken piece of furniture for the wood. They both hammered and sawed and painted. It was pretty cool, for a dollhouse, and hadn’t cost a penny.

“Santa and his elf made it,” Dad said.

Melinda ripped open the other package – the one that Michael helped pick out from the dollar store with Mom. “Doll furniture!” Melinda screamed.

Michael popped a piece of chocolate in his mouth. Delicious.

“Airplane!” Trent screamed. That was the dollar store gift.

Michael picked up another present and handed it to Trent. “Open this one.”

“What’s that?” Mom asked.

Trent and Dad exchanged knowing looks.

“Monkey!” Trent screamed. He took the thick cards out of the box and spread them before him. The finish reflected the blinking lights of the tree.

“Slobber proof cards,” Michael said. He had spent hours on the computer finding the right pictures. Then Dad helped him glue the pictures to particleboard. Slobber proofing with the non-toxic finish was the final touch.

Trent held up a picture of a cow. “Horse!”

“Now you can learn all of your animals,” Michael said. “This is a cow.”

“I see another gift beside the tree,” Dad said.

There was a box next to Melinda’s dollhouse that hadn’t been there the night before. Michael pulled the box to the middle of the room and unwrapped it. It was a large wooden toy box with a lock. His heart began to pound when he saw the lock. He tried to open the lid.

“It’s locked.”

“Look in your stocking,” Dad said with a grin.

Michael dug through the chocolate and found a key in the toe of his stocking. He put the key in the lock and opened the box. There in the bottom of the box was his model airplane.

“You fixed it!”

Dad shook his head. “An elf fixed it.”

A toy box all his own that Trent couldn’t get into. It was exactly what he’d wanted and he hadn’t even asked for anything. He looked up at his parents. They were so happy and they didn’t even get any presents. That was when he realized that the magic of Christmas didn’t end with his belief in Santa. The magic of Christmas got better when you got to be Santa and make others happy.

Mom knelt next to him. “Merry Christmas, Michael. You did a great job.” She wiped a tear from her eye.

Michael put his arm around her. “I was wrong, Mom. I’m not too old to believe in Santa.”

Mom smiled. “I thought you’d see it that way.”

What I liked best: Everything. Characterization was great, dialog great. Yes, this is a story we hear every year about someone learning that Christmas comes in the giving, not the getting. But we need to hear it every year. This is a good one and very much deserving of being a winner.

Magazine ready? Absolutely!

Stella paced the small apartment. She didn’t have a Christmas present for her daughter, and she was flat broke. Recently she had a job doing homecare duties for an elderly lady who had a stroke, but that had come to an abrupt end when her client fell down and broke her hip. Now she found herself without work, trying to cough up enough money to pay the dentist bill. Well at least she didn’t have a tooth ache any more. Even the dentist said it was a tooth from hell. So the problem was Christmas and what to get her five year old daughter. But what? It wouldn’t take a lot to please her, but she didn’t want her daughter to start her early life [how old is the daughter? If a baby, she won’t feel deprived. If older, we need to have an indication of that] feeling deprived.

Stella took the bus downtown to order a hamper from the Salvation Army, so at least food would not be a problem on Christmas Day. Still, she couldn’t think of a nice but cheap gift for Willow. The days passed quickly as she handed out her resume [need the accent mark], hoping to pick up some extra cash, but it was one of those times when nothing seemed to happen. A fallow time, she thought, knowing that at other times in her life she would be overwhelmed with work commitments.

One morning after she got Willow safely off to school, she fell to her knees and told the whole sad story to Heavenly Father. “Help me,” she begged. “All I want is a good present for my sweet little girl. She deserves it. She’s always so helpful and she still believes in Santa Claus. I don’t want to let her down.”

As she [Stella] stumbled into the living room, she noticed a delivery truck outside the apartment building. Mr. Sneider’s fridge had given up the ghost and the landlord was springing for a new one. “I know!” Stella shouted, as she clicked her heels together in mid air. [really? Kind of corny.] She ran down to Mr. Sneider and asked for the refrigerator box. “I want to turn the box into a playhouse for my daughter,” she explained.

Mr. Sneider grinned as if she had just given him a million bucks. “Can I help?” he asked.

“What do you mean?”

“I used to be a set designer for CBC [what’s this? Better to say for a tv station or a theater]. I’d love to help. I have all the supplies that we need.” He then offered to keep the box in his apartment until Christmas Eve so it would be a big surprise on Christmas morning.

The word got around. Everyone wanted to help little Willow have a great Christmas.

On Christmas morning Willow discovered a colorful playhouse in the living room. It was painted pink and blue and yellow, and had shutters and window boxes. Santa had also given her clothes and books and dolls, and games and movies, more than she had ever expected. [in a list, use and or commas, but not both]

That night as Stella thanked Heavenly Father for this Christmas miracle, she realized that the people in the apartment, the ones who had parties late at night, the who left junk in the hallways, the ones with addictions, the ones with bad breath in the elevator, the ones who sneezed in your face, the ones who used the washing machine and dryer on the wrong day, she realized that they were all angels in disguise. And perhaps that was the greatest gift of all.

What I liked best: I liked the basic story idea–that Heavenly Father inspires us with ideas and that other people can become angels in our lives.

Magazine ready? Not quite. It needs to be expanded a bit. I’d like to see more sense of place, more descriptions of what’s happening in the moment, get to know some of the people who help her and see how Stella’s perceptions of them change through this experience. Good start.

Julie decided to leave Choir Practice [not capitalized]. She had found [passive] it impossible to sing that day without breaking into tears. It was only two weeks until the ward choir would sing the Christmas Cantata in Sacrament Meeting [don’t think it’s capitalized. Check the LDS Style Guide], and she . She knew that they were in dire need of sopranos, but she wasn’t going to be any help to them. They would be short not only one good soprano, but two. Her mother would have been standing beside her singing in her smiling rich tones if the Lord had not called her home exactly three weeks before [earlier]. The three long stressful weeks had gone by. Preparations for Thanksgiving and the holidays had been swallowed up in the family sorrows and the funeral. At first Julie didn’t think she could deal with it, but the Lord had given her a measure of peace–except when it came to singing.

She [Julie; when starting a new paragraph, reidentify who the “she” is] sat by herself in the foyer, the tears still wet on her cheeks, waiting for her ride home with Sister Cameron. Weather permitting, she would have walked home and let the tears flow freely; but the snowdrifts were already starting to pile up in the afternoon snowfall, and the temperature was dropping quickly as dusk set in early on that December afternoon. [sentence too long; also, don’t tell us, show us. Have her observe the snow fall through a window or something.] She could hear the Choir beginning the strains of “Angel’s We Have Heard on High” and sing until they reach the chorus, “Glor-ia, in excellsis Deo“. At that instant the dim foyer seemed to glow in a misty shimmer, and Julie felt the light touch of a hand on her arm. She looked up into the eyes of–Mother, only young, smiling, wearing a long white dress and her shoulder-length brown hair blowing as if in a gentle breeze.

“Julie, my Darling [don’t capitalize],” whispered Mother. “I am going to take you with me to a Christmas Past [don’t capitalize], and then you will understand, see that there is wisdom in why things happen as they do, and you will be comforted.” [too long]

Mother took Julie by the hand, and they passed through what seemed to be Temple Doors, down a long broad hallway where there were concourses of people, dressed in white and beautiful to behold. They all seemed to be in a blissful, excited [not sure these two states are compatible] state, conversing happily. Julie asked Mother what was going on. She just smiled and beckoned her to follow. In a few moments–or a few hours, Julie did not sense a particular passage of time-they entered into a Great Hall. It was full of bustling people, all with rustling papers and some with musical instruments, many which Julie didn’t recognize, taking their places. [too long] It was obviously a rehearsal hall. Mother guided [awkward; use “led”] Julie to the top row of a great choir loft, the seats so numerous that Julie couldn’t begin to guess how many there were. People were beginning to fill up the seats, and the whole room was electric in anticipation.

In walked the Great Conductor. The confusion in Julie’s mind began to clear. The situation began to be vaguely familiar to her. She suddenly recognized the conductor, as he raised his baton and the whole chorus erupted into the beginning strains of the great “Hallelujah Chorus”-he had been known on earth at a later time as George Friedrich Handel. He had written the great oratorio “The Messiah” in just twenty-one days, “in or out of the body” he “knew not”. [quoting like this doesn’t really work in this story. Have Julie remember reading about it and him sayin it or something] And now Julie knew that he had really written it eons before that time in a pre-earth life.

It was to be the last rehearsal before the Grand Celebration–the Great Redeemer was going down to earth to be born as a little baby in mortality, and Julie was going to sing in the Great Choir!

Soon the time was at hand. The Great Choir had gone down to earth and assembled before a little group of shepherds sitting in the fields with their flocks of sheep on a lovely spring evening, just outside of Bethlehem. Gabriel, who in earth-life had been the Prophet Noah, announced the Holy Birth to the humble shepherds, and then Julie sang with her whole heart and soul, all the time grasping on to the hand of her best friend Aimee, who in mortality would become her mother!

Julie gradually became aware that she was once again in the dimly lit foyer. The Ward Choir was still singing “Angels we Have Heard on High”. Only a few moments had gone by! The tears on her cheeks had dried. Julie went back into the Chapel, took her place in the soprano section and sang with her whole heart and soul, “Glor-ia, in excellsis Deo!”

What I liked best: Some people don’t like the Christmas past/ghost coming storyline, but I liked it here. That experience helped to heal her heart. I thought it was sweet.

Magazine ready? No. Brush up on your basic grammar. I’d like to see it expanded a little more, details on the physical sensations, thoughts and emotions.

Marney‘s was so excited! Her[don’t tell us, show us] little heart was beating [beat; avoid passive voice] in anxious delight as she was helping [helped; passive] her mother trim the tree and decorate the house. She held the figure of a little lamb tightly in her fingers so she wouldn’t drop it.

“Don’t squeeze the lamb so hard dear. It is very delicate and you might crush it. Put it by the baby Jesus.” [watch out for long sentencees.]

“Ok, Mommy,” she said, and reluctantly she placed the figure of the little lamb in the Crèche [not capitalized] under the tree.

“The little lamb also has a meaning, dear. It is the symbol of our Lord Jesus, who was called the ‘Lamb of God’. He was called the lamb, because in the ancient days the Prophets looked forward to his coming, and lambs were sacrificed as a remembrance of the Lord Jesus who would be born, and who would die for us so that we would be able to go back to live with our Heavenly Father someday. We take the sacrament for the same reason now, dear.”

Marney didn’t understand much of what Mommy was talking about, she just knew that every time she said her prayers that she had a warm feeling inside that told her that Jesus loved her. [two sentences.] She bent over the Crèche, touching each figure of the manger scene, [no comma] ever so gently with her pudgy finger. She let her finger linger [be careful of unintended alliteration] for a while longer on the baby Jesus, and then back to the little lamb.

“Lambs are a lot like babies, Marney,” said Mommy. “They are very helpless and small and need a lot of watching and care. Jesus called us his lambs and his sheep, and he also said that he was the Good Shepherd.”

“Oh, Mommy, Jesus is just a little tiny baby. These are the shepherds. You tell funny jokes sometimes.”

“Yes dear, Jesus was born a tiny baby in a manger, just like you see in the Crèche. But he grew up to be our Lord and Savior. Just like your daddy was once a little baby and grew up to be your daddy.”

When you are four years old, big words like “Lord“ and “Savior“ and “symbol” are a little confusing, but Marney still was happy and excited about getting ready for Christmas, and she was feeling a warm glow in her heart that told her that Mommy was telling the truth and sometime she would understand more.

Mommy was standing on a step stool, placing a glowing star right up on top. “Why do we put a star on top of the tree, Mommy?”

“Long ago the prophets said that Heavenly Father would send a new, bright star to tell people that the Lord Jesus had been born. The new bright star appeared in the sky, just like the prophets said it would. It was a sign that Jesus is the Light of the World. It guided [awkward; use “led”] the Wisemen to see the baby Jesus; they had been watching the sky for it to appear.”

“Did the baby Jesus shine like a star, Mommy?”

“Let me explain it to you, dear. Do you remember a while ago when I plugged in the string of lights, and look at them to see if any were burned out and needed to be replaced?” Marney nodded her head thoughtfully. “Well, come over here and touch the light bulbs, now that the lights have been unplugged.” Marney wrapped her fingers around some of the bulbs.

“They feel kind of warm,” she said.

“How did you feel in your heart at Home Night [what is this? You need to make sure your audience will recognize a term. If there’s any question, explain it.] when Daddy told you how much he loves Jesus and that he knows He is real?”

“I felt warm in my heart and my tummy. I felt like laughing and crying at the same time,” said Marney.

“Well, Marney. We can’t see the light on the Christmas bulbs anymore, but we can feel that they are warm. You can’t see the light in your heart, but you can feel it is warm. That is the light of the Spirit of the Lord. [I love this analogy!] That is your heart light, dear. Jesus is the Light of the World because his [capitalize] spirit shines in our hearts. The Lord Jesus sends His Spirit to us, because He can’t be with us in person like He was when He came as a little baby. When the shepherds came to see the little baby Jesus, they could feel the light of His spirit shining in their hearts, too.” [I don’t know if you capitalize spirit or not. I don’t have my LDS Style Guide handy. But you need to be consistent. You can be forgiven for doing it wrong, but not for being inconsistent.]

“If Jesus came and stood here, you would see that He shines like the sun, Marney dear. But He can’t stand here with us right now, so He sends us His spirit to light up your heart light.”

Mommy finished putting the long string of lights on the tree, and then she plugged it in. Marney looked at the sparkling lights in awe. “They look just like a zillion sparkling stars!” squealed Marney.

“When you look at all the beautiful Christmas lights, Marney, think about the Christmas Star that Heavenly Father sent us to tell us that the baby Jesus was born, and that He is the Light of the World. And think about your heart-light [hyphen or not; be consistent]— the warm feeling you have inside you that is His Holy Spirit shining in your heart and soul.”

[End the story with a reaction from Marney.]
* * * * * * * *

Marney was standing and looking at the newly decorated tree, holding her newborn baby girl and watching as Ken was plugging in the lights, and the tree blazed into holiday glory. She remembered back to that day she had helped her mother decorate the tree so long ago. She now understood to some extent, what love really was, and the meaning of the words “Light of the World and Lamb of God.” But she still knew, as she knew back then as a tiny four year old, the feeling of her heart-light, and the Knowing, beyond words, of the Love of the Spirit of Christ in her heart.

What I liked best: The analogy of the Christmas lights/heart light.

Magazine ready? No. Brush up on your grammar. You have quite a few run-on sentences. Who is your audience? Children? It’s too complex for young children. Also, we need a little better sense of place, character, physicality and other descriptions interspersed with the dialog.

“It’s time for bed, Wolfgang. We have to get up real early to get in on all the deals tomorrow,” Beverly yelled from downstairs with an urgent tone. [Need some identification of who Wolfgang is—her son? brother? dad? the dog? If it’s not the dog, change his name.]

She tapped her foot anxiously as she felt that people were already lining up outside for the shopping rush to begin the next morning.

Looking out the kitchen window at the darkening sky, she noted the dark (change one) clouds forming together. Tomorrow was Black Friday, the biggest shopping day of the year. She was still [delete] determined to get out and snatch those bargains, whether it rained or not. There was one sale in particular she just had to get in on.

“Good night, Wolfgang. Sleep tight!” The family was ready for bed and all hoped for a Silent Night. [trite]

[I’d cut all of the above and start here. Weave in the important info below.]
4 a.m. came too soon as the buzzing alarm clock startled Beverly awake. She forced herself up and started a pot of coffee and jumped in the shower. Dad finally forced himself out of bed. He had to work that day. He rarely got any time off other than the major holidays. He was hoping to get home in time for the last quarter of the football game. He sat down in his old beat up recliner and had a cup of black coffee just as he likes it. He thought to himself as he looked at his dusty, broken guitar in the corner that one day he should throw it out. [You’ve switched POV. Don’t do that. Stay with Beverly. And who is Dad? Beverly’s dad? or her husband?]

“Get up, Wolfgang!” Beverly said. “There is no time to eat. We’ll have to pick something up while shopping.”

Beverly looked outside and noticed that it had in fact rained. In the distance she noticed what appeared to be a Grey Rainbow. [What? Why is it capitalized? Is this important? If so, need some description. If not, leave it out.]

Traffic was pretty heavy that morning. Everybody was out. If they weren’t driving to work, they were speeding to and from the retail stores trying to get a bargain. They [they who? Where have they already been? How long?] had just one more stop to make that morning at a strip mall just south of town.

“You stay in the car Wolfie, I won’t be too long.” [Who is Wolfie??? If it’s a kid, she better not be leaving him in the car. If it’s a dog, wouldn’t she have left him in the car the whole time?]

Wolfie was used to staying in the car for short periods of time every now and again. This time, however, he felt All Alone. [Changed POV again. Don’t. Why is All Alone capitalized?]

Sometime later [when? 10 minutes, an hour, two? Be specific.], Beverly came out carrying a large box.

“I got the last one, Wolfie! I almost plowed over a couple people but I got it!” Beverly said as she loaded it into the trunk.

She soon realized that Wolfie had fallen asleep. She turned on the radio, keeping the volume down.

As they drove past the church Beverly noticed a small group of people outside holding up signs saying “Honk if you love Jesus.” Heading up the rally was local do-gooder who was known in the community as Brother Walt. She tried with all her might to honk in support of them but the horn was not working.

“Daddy, they don’t love Jesus,” a little boy complained. [Switching POV. Get back to Beverly. We only hear and see what she hears and sees.]

“We Can’t Get Them All,” [Don’t capitalize.] Brother Walt replied. “Come on son, let’s go have some lunch. It looks like it’s going to rain again. We’ll come back later this afternoon.”

Beverly was almost back home when she starting thinking again of the group of people outside the church. She decided it would be nice to bring them all some fresh coffee. She quickly turned around and started to head towards the local coffee shop about a mile before town. She bought plenty of coffee and sweets for the group and headed back towards the church. About a mile before she got back into town her car stalled.

The car just wouldn’t start back up. She tried everything she could think of but had no luck. It all started to make sense. Her horn was not working earlier because her car battery was going out. Wolfgang was still fast asleep so Beverly got out of the car and opened the hood in the hopes that someone would come to their rescue. Finally, after what seemed like forever she saw a car coming!

“Dad, it’s the lady who doesn’t love Jesus. Should we stop?” said the boy from the church. [Jumping POV. If you want to have this info in here, you need to change to an omniscient POV from the beginning.]

“Nah, maybe next time she’ll honk.”

Brother Walt sounded his horn three times as they passed by.

Not long after another car drove by. This time, however, the car stopped. It was Robert and Carol Bell, a young couple from town. Robert quickly set up his jumper cables and got her car running again.

Carol of the Bells was recently married. [No, no, no. Too trite. And we really don’t need to know anything from this paragraph.] It was a nice ceremony, though Carol’s father did not attend. It’s not that he refused to come to the wedding, he just so happened to have other plans that day. It was obvious he did not approve of the marriage.

Carol learned what Wolfie and Beverly were up to and offered to take the goods to the church goers, letting Beverly and Wolfie drive home. Beverly hoped that Dad would be able to replace the battery.

The coffee was still steaming hot when the Bells arrived. They parked in back and went inside.

It had been a couple years since Carol had been inside that Church. It looked, smelt [smelled] and felt exactly the same. This was where she spent every Sunday for most of her childhood. There was old Mrs. Bucky at the reception desk. She hadn’t changed at all.

“Hello Mary, do you remember me? This is my husband Robert. We brought some coffee for everyone“. Carol said.

“Oh of course I do, Carol! Brother Walt, your daughter is here and she brought us all some coffee.” Mary shouted.

“Praise the lord, it’s my daughter. Thank you! That is a very nice thing for you guys to do,” Walt replied from a distance.

“We’re dropping it off for someone else, Dad. A nice lady and her son stalled just outside town. We stopped to jump her car and she let us know she was on her way here to bring this for everyone,” Carol said.

“Dad, was that the lady we passed by on our way back?” Walt’s son asked.

“Yes son, I think it was.” Walt said. He then paused briefly and asked, “Carol, how about I take you and Robert out for dinner tonight? It’s been too long since we all got together.”

Robert was quick to answer for them. “We’d really enjoy that! I can drive us.”

Brother Walt grabbed his purple raincoat that was thrown over a chair and the four of them left. [All this stuff about Carol and Brother Walt is tangential to the story. It’s actually a second story of its own.]

Meanwhile Beverly and Wolfie made it home and were surprised to see Dad. He had already made it home for the second half of the game.

Wolfie went upstairs to play while Beverly sat down next to Dad. [Still don’t know who or what Wolfie is.] He was now enjoying a drink and was pretty happy about how the game was concluding. Beverly just smiled as she looked over in the corner at the old guitar, thinking of the big yellow box hiding in the trunk. [assuming there’s a guitar in it?]

What I liked best: I liked the theme of not judging others.

Magazine ready? No. This one needs a lot of work, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t have potential. First, take a refresher course on Point of View (POV). You need to decide which one works best and stick with it. Second, decide which story you’re telling—the one about Beverly who goes out of her way to get her dad a new guitar; or the one about Bro. Walt who learns a lesson about judging others and reunites with his daughter, Carol.

For Beverly’s story, use her POV and pump up the part about her father and how he loves his music, but his old guitar is really beat up. Describe her struggle to get a new one for him. Put in some challenges–like it’s Christmas Eve and she barely makes it to the store on time to get it, or something. Drop the whole part about Bro. Walt and Carol.

For Bro. Walt’s story, use his POV. Pump up his judgmental attitude, let us know how he aches over missing Carol and her husband, why he didn’t approve, etc. Then have him learn his lesson and realize how wrong he was. He needs to show by his actions and thoughts that he really gets it and is changing.

Black Friday really has nothing to do with either story. And please, please, identify who Wolfie is.

There would be no snow for Christmas this year. The winter was far too warm to allow it. Cricket sat alone outside his doorstep. He watched many [the other] animals scurrying back and forth on the roadside in front of his home.

Field Mouse must have been preparing a great feast. He was running in every direction scavenging any [all the] nuts and berries he could find that had been left by the late coming winter.

[Insert Rabbit here. Rule of threes.]

Snow Owl sat quietly in a bare tree over head. He was just waking as the sun set behind him. Cricket watched as Snow Owl left his perched position and flew high into the evening sky, his wings stretched out wide as he glided in front of the rising moon.

It was Christmas Eve and all the animals were rushing to finish their preparations for their Christmas celebrations. [Move to the end of first paragraph.] Cricket had no one to spend Christmas with this year. His preparations were very meager and so he sat and watched the bustle of others.

As he sat, Cricket began to play his favorite violin. He loved to play even though he never had an audience. On this night he played a beautiful medley of Christmas hymns. As he played he thought of the Christ Child. His feelings and his melody grew deep and strong. He played with all his feeling and the hymns floated through the still night.

Cricket put down his violin long after the last rays of sunlight had disappeared. The animals were still scurrying from place to place. No one seemed to notice his melody in the air. The night was now dark and cold. Cricket entered his home, stored away his violin and prepared for bed.

Before retiring, Cricket knelt by his bedside and prayed to the Lord. Cricket thanked the Lord for His goodness in sending the Christ Child. Cricket cried. In part for joy and in part for loneliness, for Cricket had no one to share his joy with this Christmas. In time, Cricket climbed into bed and fell asleep.

Cricket was still drowsy but he awoke to a voice calling his name. “Cricket,” the voice called again. [Switch these two sentences.] Cricket lifted his head and looked around his room. A man with a long white beard stood at the foot of his bed smiling at him.

“I am the Spirit of Christmas,” he said. “I have come to deliver a gift to you. This is no ordinary gift. It has not been crafted by the hands of men, but instead is created in their hearts.” He then beckoned to Cricket saying, “Come with me.”

Cricket pulled on his night-coat as he crawled out of bed. Together they stepped out of his house and into the street. Walking with the Spirit, Cricket did not feel the cold chill in the air. They stopped at the home of Field Mouse and entered the house, but no one could see or hear them.

Field Mouse was singing merrily as he added finishing touches to many of the Christmas decorations around his home. Eventually, he was satisfied with all his preparations and sat down in a chair next to his lovely wife. His wife looked up at him as he quietly finished the melody of a beautiful Christmas hymn. She spoke softly, “I have never seen you so happy before and never singing so joyfully.” Field Mouse looked thoughtful for a moment and then replied, “As I was out gathering the last preparations [nuts and berries] for Christmas, I heard the most beautiful music. A single violin echoed the voice of heaven as it filled the world with the hymns of Christmas. I guess I have been singing ever since.”

The Spirit of Christmas beckoned and led Cricket from the home of Field Mouse. As they walked together Cricket said, “I didn’t think anyone heard me play tonight.” The Spirit smiled and said, “We never know what the hearts of others see and hear.”

They continued on their journey to the home of Rabbit and his family. [If you’re going to talk about Rabbit here, we need to see him above, before Cricket plays his violin.] While at Rabbit’s house Cricket learned that Rabbit had opened a window upon hearing the echo of a violin. He gathered his wife and children around him and told them the story of the birth of Jesus in Bethlehem. He told them how angles had filled the sky and sang to shepherds who tended their sheep in nearby fields. That night even the youngest children sat quietly and listened to the sounds of the nativity. Their hearts were full knowing that they were allowed to hear the heavens rejoice on this Christmas Eve.

[Insert Snow Owl’s reaction here. Rule of three.]

The Spirit of Christmas led Cricket from home to home that night. Each residence held similar convictions. They all felt that they had been blessed to hear a heavenly melody ringing in the Christmas celebration.

Cricket returned home and cried again as the Spirit of Christmas left him. He knelt by his bedside and thanked the Lord for the vision [what] he had been shown. He was no longer lonely, for he had hosts of people to serve and bless. Cricket still plays his violin each year to usher in the Christmas celebration. If you listen very closely this Christmas Eve you to may hear his heavenly melody playing in your heart.

What I liked best: This was wonderful! It would make a fabulous picture book. Pursue it!

Magazine ready? So close! There is a rule of three in writing, particularly for children’s books. You need three examples—three animals seemingly not aware of Cricket, then the reactions of those same three animals.

Picture books have a specific number of pages and a specific formatting required for submission. Do some research, polish this up and submit it somewhere. Good story!

I’m assuming, from the use of quote marks, that this first part is a conversation between two people, who we later learn are Dave and Dave. But this initial conversation is too confusing. You don’t have to completely identify both speakers, but you do need some tags to make it clear that you’ve got two people speaking here. Also you need to differentiate the voices in some way. We need to be able to figure out which is the “real” Dave speaking and which is his alter-ego, or split personality or whatever it is that he is. Or, if it’s the same “person” speaking here, you’ve used the quotes incorrectly.

“I am going to have the most perfect Christmas this year. I won’t let anything or anyone stop me. I had a perfect Christmas once when the kids were little, maybe four and six. Well, I am going to have another one this year. Nothing, and I mean nothing, is going to stop me.”

“This year they get to come for Christmas vacation. They live in the snowy north so when they come to Arizona it’s really different weather. [a little trite] I’m a good dad. Really I am. I plan all kinds of good things for them to do when it is my turn to have them. Look, I never agreed that they should go to that fancy-schmancy private school. So when I get them here, I get crazy to give them freedom and a no–worry existence. They’ve got to do good at this school or it makes my ex and her new husband testy. “ [Paragraph is choppy. Rearrange the sentences so it flows better.]

“So here we go camping. [awkward] Eat fast food. Go to bed late and get up late. Neither of them have to read anything and I buy new video games for my Wii just for them. I got a girl’s game this year for Sammie, she’s eleven and Devin is nine. She still likes dolls so I got a few Barbie dolls and some new clothes. Devin loves those Transformer things so I got him a couple of those.” [choppy; if this is intentional, to show that he’s unstable, you need it to be a little more obvious.]

“But that’s not Christmas. That’s just to show them I love them. You know, presents I hand them when they get here. I always get them presents when they come to visit.”

“For Christmas, we’re going to decorate a palm tree. Yep, I said palm tree. I bought little pepper lights to string along the fronds and lizard ornaments. But that isn’t the big big present. You know I got them something really wonderful this year.”

“I don’t have to tell you what it is. On Christmas Day my sometime girl friend [narrators use this type of description, not the actual character], Rita, is coming over to cook a Southwest dinner and after we’re all going to the movies. It’s going to be great.”

“Want to come with me when I go to the airport to pick them up? Okay, well, it’s tomorrow at noon and we’ll go out to the airport. They always like my friends, Dave.”

# # #

“There they are, Dave.”

“Hi kids! Hi Sammie, Hi Dev! Look how you’ve grown.” I grinned and waved at them. “Dave, I told you they were cute.”

“Hi Daddy! Hi Daddy!” They yell and run at me; they’re not so old that they don’t do that any more. I swept them up in my arms and hugged them. It seemed a long time since last summer.

We all got in the car. The kids were talking a [at] the same time. About school and their friends. They said they had a dog.

“Daddy, the dog’s name is Snuffy. He walks around smelling everything.” Dev was all boy, despite [delete-of] his frailty. He was small and thin for his age with horn-rimmed glasses. I use to think [thought] it was some Harry Potter fixation but his mother said n,o he didn’t like Harry Potter but did like the glasses. A little egghead just like me. Sammie was more like my sister, Vera. She was taller and just as thin because she was at that age when girls shoot up but don’t look very female [feminine]. She was almost to my shoulder. She wanted to play basket ball in middle school.

“Dave, these kids are my whole life.”

“Oh, yeah? What about the lab? What about your ‘project’ that you keep telling me is SO important? Important enough to change the world?” Dave’s eyes blinked at me.

“Well, sure it’s important but not as important as the kids. Kids are the future.”

“Ha,” said Dave in a lower voice. “I thought you said I was the future.”

“Shut the heck up. They don’t know anything and they’re not going to know anything, Dave.”

He lapsed into a sullen silence as the kids continued to tell me more about their lives. Before we got home my head was muddled with all the noise and stuff from the kids. [awkward] I’m not use to kids any more. But I love my kids, don’t get me wrong.

We went out for pizza after the afternoon playing in the pool. [awkward] I wanted Dave to come but he decided not to. I sort of minded that Dave wasn’t there to enjoy the fun. [awkward] Rita met us at theDel’s Pizza Parlor; she’s a great woman. Kind of ditsy, if you know what I mean. Never reads anything. Watches a lot of TV. But she’s smart in her own way; you know, like clever. I decided Dave didn’t want to come because of Rita. For some unexplained reason he didn’t like her.

But the kids did. Rita was able to talk to them about all kinds of things. She gave them a couple of dollars each in quarters so they could play the game machines. I hate those games. I play my games with the sound down. But of course I wouldn’t make the kids do that. They like noise.

We got ice cream cones after at a mall shop [awkward] and wandered for a bit looking at Christmas things. I asked the kids what they wanted for Christmas.

Dev yelled, “A dirt bike! Or an ATV!”

Sammie stood still smiling in front of a beautiful blue party dress with a low-cut front. “I don’t care; I like everything.”

Rita said, “I bet you’d like a dress like that, huh?”

Sammie shrugged. I lost it and shouted at Rita.

“She a kid for crying out loud, quit pushing her.”

“Okay, okay. You’re cranky. Maybe you’d bet go home to bed. You took these two weeks off didn’t you? You said you were going . . .” [???] Rita scowled at me, standing with a stiff back and her arms folded over her bosom. “Dave?”

“Sorry.” I mumbled not meaning a word of it. [it’s only one word] We walked a bit further and then turned back. The whole mall was alight with music, people and lights. It was a zoo. At the door we parted. [what door?] The kids and I watched until she got in her car and drove off. Then we went to my car.

“Dad, you going to marry Rita? Are you?” Sammie asked, not getting in when I opened the door.

“Get in with your brother. I don’t have time to marry anybody. I am working on THE PROJECT. I still work in research and design for Zen-nano Byte, inc. If I don’t produce a PROJECT a year they’ll let me go.”

“Dad are you still trying to get the cat that is allergy-free and glows in the dark?” Dev never forgot anything.”

“Not anymore. That was last year. Somebody else beat us to it. I have a new project this year. Actually it’s finished. I hope the new models will make us lots of money.”

“Cool, Dad.” He immediately lost interest and started looking out the window. In the rear view mirror I could see his face slacken and his eyes start to close. He was tired.

“Dad, what’s your project this year?” Sammie was persistent. Just like her mother.

“I’ll tell you later. Maybe. It’s a secret secret. Very big secret.”

“Please tell me. Is it another animal?”

“It’s better than an animal. You will love it, I promise.”

“Tell me, Daddy, please.” She was nagging me now. That is one reason the kids bother me. Their mother nagged me too. I shook my head at her, scowling in the mirror. I almost drove off the road trying to shut her up. It would have been her fault too. What does she want from me? I said no rather vehemently.

We got home and the kids went to their rooms. I kissed them good night and went back to the kitchen.

Dave was sitting at the table. He sat a beer in front of me.

“Gee thanks, Dave.”

He nodded.

“I didn’t hear you come in.”

“It’s my little cat feet.” He smiled in that familiar wry way.

“Good to see you, Dave. You should have gone with us.”

“No I had to think. Do you think that THE PROJECT is a suitable, responsible choice as gift for your children? I mean, what if they freak out or something?”

“They won’t freak out as you so succinctly put it. They are the children of a scientist, for crying out loud.”

“Okay, but remember I brought it up.”

“Don’t jerk me around. You wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for me. I made you my friend.”

“I thought we were more than friends.”

I picked up my beer and went to bed. Dave could just cope by himself. I don’t need to hold his hand.

In the morning we planned our Christmas Eve day. First we decorated the palm tree. Then we drove to the mall and I gave the kids money to shop for me, their mom, and their step-dad. That step-dad guy was a car salesman. I bet with this economy and everyone wanting little cars he won’t be making much. Serves him right.

After shopping, I was tired and hungry but I wanted to show the kids a good time so we went to Chuckle Cheese and then a stupid panda movie. They ate way too much candy and were so hyper I felt like I wanted to drop them off at park and go on home. I didn’t, of course; after all, I am a responsible father.

They should have known how much candy to eat. After the movie we stopped for a barrel of chicken and mashed potatoes to eat at home.

We watched a bunch of sick Christmas stories on television. You know the kind, where something bad happens to ordinary people and then something else totally UNBELIEVABLE happens and make it all right again. I don’t think anyone believes that crap. The kids love it though. Especially that old one where nobody believes there is a Santa Clause, only Natalie Wood when she was little. Too bad she fell off the boat. Her stupid husband was probably to drunk or she was kidding around with that other guy. She was wearing a coat, for crying out loud. And nobody heard her or anything. Poor Natalie.

Finally, after the kids got so tired they were stumbling, I led them to their beds and kissed them on their sweet foreheads. There’s nothing like your own child’s forehead, is there? It symbolizes all the hope you have for them and for yourself.

Just before I went to bed I talked to Dave. “You be here early, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah.”

“And sit under the tree.”

“You’re kidding me?”

“Just do it. I’m still in charge, Dave.”

I didn’t say another word but went to bed and slept like a baby.

First thing I knew I heard the kids screaming. I sat up bleary and dazed. Christmas.

They must have found Dave.

I wandered out to the kitchen to pour a cup of coffee then went into the living room.

“Dad, where’s our presents?”

“Look under the tree.” I laughed but it sounded hollow and echoing to me.

“Dad, there’s nothing there.” Dev was anxious and worried.– I could tell.

I looked under the tree. There was Dave just sitting there grinning. I looked at the kids.

“See! I made you a new daddy. You can take him home with you. He’ll always be with you.” I laughed happily. “He’s just like me, only invisible.”

They really started screaming then. [Why? Wouldn’t they more likely think their dad is joking with them? Or if they did realize he was nuts, wouldn’t they be really quiet and withdraw from him, rather than scream?]

“ Merry Christmas !” I shouted.

What I liked best: There are places where you show the psychotic break very well, like when he gets mad at the kids for eating too much candy, then later loves kissing their foreheads.

Magazine ready? No. Other than the fact that this is set at Christmas, it’s not really a Christmas story. For it to be a Christmas “horror” story, you’d need to tie various Christmas items more closely into what is happening with Dave—almost like it’s causing his breakdown. Also, it’s really not clear enough what is happening. I’m guessing psychotic break, but I’m not sure. We need a little more development to make it clear what’s going on.

“Come on, honey. We’re going to be late.”

I ignored my husband and continued shoving laundry into the washing machine. I knew Jason wanted to go to the ward Christmas party like we had every year since we’d been married. But I couldn’t take one more evening of Christmas carols and ho ho ho’s, or hearing one more story of a destitute family who got what they most wanted for Christmas. Those things were good and I didn’t begrudge them to others, but no amount of mistletoe and holiday cheer would solve my problems. [Love this paragraph. We get a very clear picture of her.]

We’d been married only six months when we decided to start having children. Jason and I both came from large families and we couldn’t wait to fill our home with the pitter-patter of little feet, even though we knew those feet would need shoes and we were living on a tight budget. But time passed. We finished school, Jason got a good job, and in all that time, no baby.

At first I tried to be cheerful about it. After all, we were much better off financially now—maybe the forced wait had been a blessing. But eight years of hoping and fasting and praying had taken their toll on me. I felt angry and betrayed. God had told me to have a family. It had been confirmed to my mind over and over again. Why couldn’t I get pregnant?

Jason appeared in the laundry room doorway, holding my coat in one hand and our contribution to the feast in the other. He’d baked a cake. I thought if I didn’t scrounge something together, maybe he’d change his mind about going. But he’d hunted in the cupboard until he found a cake mix. I knew I should have hidden it better.

We drove to the church in silence. Jason tried once or twice to get me to talk, but I refused, and he gave up. My determined sullenness didn’t seem to put a damper on his holiday spirit, though—he waved and smiled at passing cars, even if we didn’t know the drivers. I wanted to strangle him with his own scarf.

“Can we leave right after dinner?” I begged.

“I’d like to stay until Santa comes. You know, see the kids’ faces?”

That was exactly why I wanted to leave early. Jason found comfort in surrounding himself with children, while I watched them from a distance and envied their parents. He couldn’t understand my standoffishness and I couldn’t explain how badly it hurt to let my guard down. I wanted to share the joy of the holiday with my own children, to see their eyes light up with excitement. I couldn’t live by proxy like he could.

I didn’t say anything. Jason took that as agreement and tucked into his dry turkey dinner with good appetite. I just pushed my food around until the meal was over.

The microphone squealed when our ward activities director flicked it on.

“Sorry,” he said, clearing his throat. “Um, brothers and sisters, we have a special treat for you tonight. I’d like to ask you to remain seated and be as reverent as possible during our presentation.”

He stepped aside and the stage curtains opened. I gasped as I saw the elaborate scenery that had been constructed to depict a stable in the dark of night. The bishop began to read a narrative of the Christmas story, and actors filed onto the stage, taking their places and then holding their poses. I didn’t recognize any of them. They must have been borrowed from another ward.

I sat and listened, somewhat dispassionately, until I saw a tiny fist pop out of the bundle in Mary’s arms. She wasn’t holding a doll, like I first thought—she held a real baby.

I watched that hand wave back and forth while tears streamed down my cheeks. Mary got what she wanted for Christmas. But I wouldn’t.

I slipped out of the gym and went outside, not bothering with my coat. I wrapped my arms around myself and looked up at the sky, seeing thousands upon thousands of snowflakes rushing toward my face. I closed my eyes and let the snow mingle with the tears on my cheeks.

“Why?” I whispered, the stone in my heart growing heavy and constricting my breathing. “Have I done something wrong? Am I being punished? Why can’t I have a baby?”

I don’t know how long I stood in the falling snow. My pain took away all sense of time. From inside the church, I heard the faint strains of music, first “Silent Night” and then “Away in a Manger.” I couldn’t help but picture that holy baby, welcomed to earth by concourses of angels at what had to be the most glorious baby shower the world has ever known. I imagined that baby and my empty arms ached to hold him.

I glanced up and noticed a break in the clouds just large enough to let me see a patch of stars on the other side. At that moment, I felt a warmth seep into my soul, and my shivering stopped. The thought that struck my mind was so powerful, my knees nearly buckled.

Jesus was not just God’s baby or Mary’s baby or Joseph’s baby. He was sent into the world for all of us—He was my baby, too. And then He grew and fulfilled His mission on the earth, suffering to take away my suffering. He was my baby and He was my Savior and He was my brother and He was my friend.

I started to cry again, this time with relief at being understood and loved so completely. I felt as though a prison had been thrown open and I was allowed to walk free.

My coat came down over my shoulders as Jason stepped up behind me. “It’s freezing,” he said, wrapping the coat snugly around me. “What are you doing out here?”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t. Instead, I turned to face him. He wiped my tears away with his thumbs, then just held me.

“You see that patch of sky?” he said after a moment. “The stars aren’t any less bright—they’re just hidden away for a little while. We’re going to make it through this, and there will be stars on the other side.”

I let him lead me to the car and we drove home, again in silence, only this time, my head was on his shoulder and my heart was full of gratitude. I didn’t know if I would ever be a mother, but I was a daughter, and that knowledge was priceless to me.

What I liked best: Great characterization. I get a very clear sense of who this woman is. And her change in attitude is believable, although it needed just a tad more development.

Magazine ready? Almost—I’d send it back and give you an extra 100 words to add to her attitude change.

We haven’t had many submissions for the Christmas Story Contest. I have a few that will be posted next week, but not quite enough to make a contest out of it.

Remember, Saturday, December 13th, is the last day to submit for the contest. For more details, click HERE.

Please spread the word—send emails to your friends, blog about it, announce it in your writer forums and groups. We need more stories!

We also need two more sponsors for this contest. If you’d like to provide a book for a prize winner (you’ll need to ship it to them), please send me an e-mail ASAP.

And thanks. 🙂

Jacob almost wheezed as he set his heavy burden next to the dry-stone fence at the top of the grassy knoll. He glanced behind himself to be sure neither of his dogs had followed. As far as Jacob could tell by squinting, the dark specs [specks] he assumed were sheep dogs still slept in shade by a well. He wiped sweat from his stinging eyes with a sleeve, brushed his nearly ink-black hair out of the way, and looked up. A white puff in the summer sky hid both Aqua and Azure from his gaze. [I’d prefer to have them identified as sister-suns here.]

He grabbed up the cloth-covered reed basket, and gingerly leaned over the rock fence. Jacob stretched and let go. His mother’s basket dropped but did not topple. Jacob heaved himself to the other side, picked up his burden once again, and started down the other side of the hill. About half way down, the full fury of the sister-suns beat upon his back again.

A bleat from a goat caused Jacob to look eastward across the narrow valley where a few of the animals milled about near a stone hut almost too small to be called a house. The stone structure did not seem to get any bigger once he found himself at the bottom of the valley. He stepped onto a wooden foot-bridge which spanned a mountain stream. Thick planks bounced under his weight. Jacob shifted the bulging basket to his other hand and started up the hillside towards Eder’s home.

He purposefully avoided looking to his right, where a bow-shot away, a burnt-out oak tree stood alone. The dark, leafless remnant was a contrast to forested peaks in the distance. He hastened on.

The goats which grazed on the eastern slopes mostly ignored him, but some chewed their cud almost thoughtfully as Jacob passed by. Their curious heads turned to follow. After passing Eder’s well, Jacob shuffled up the dirt path made hard by frequent use.

“Jacob, is that you?” came a voice from within the stone hut.

Amazing. How did he hear me? Jacob hadn’t made a sound, or so he thought, and the only window in Eder’s home didn’t have a clear view of the pathway.

“Yes – mother sent me to market this morning. Did you know the grapes are turning? I brought you some.”

“Wonderful! Please come in!”

Jacob turned the door handle and stepped into the dimly lit, but cool room. He left the door slightly open. The thin beam of light which fell upon Eder’s round table, swirled with dust. Just the thought of it made Jacob sneeze.

“To health!”

“Thank you, Eder,” Jacob said as he pushed the basket to the center of the table. He turned and shut the door. The small home was a single room furnished only by the table, a wide, stone fireplace, a dry sink, cupboards, two chairs, and a goose-feather bed in one corner. Eder sat on the edge of the bed with hands clasped in his lap. He looked as if he had been recently napping. Jacob pulled a chair close and sat down.

Eder reached for Jacob’s knee, and then fumbled until Jacob moved a hand where the old man could find it. The gray-haired goatherd pulled Jacob closer, and patted his top of his hand.

“I am so pleased you came, Jacob! It has been awhile since you have come to visit. Where is your younger brother?”

“Mother sent Micah to check on the flock.”

Eder patted Jacob’s hand more firmly. With a knowing smile, he said, “I asked your mother to send you in Micah’s stead.” The old goatherd didn’t let go.

Guilt swept through Jacob like a winter blast. I knew I should have come last week, Jacob thought. He sighed.

“I am fine, Jacob. But I miss our visits.” Eder reached for his walking stick which leaned against the bed, and stood.

Jacob followed him to the table. “I am sorry. I have been so busy.”

“Hmmm. What did you bring?”

Eder was feeling his way into the basket with both hands. He found a cheese wheel and pulled it up to his nose, inhaling deeply.

“Ah! This is a ripe one! Good and strong.”

Jacob smiled. “Picked it out myself.”

“It will be delicious. Can I share lunch?”

“I thought you might ask, so I packed our lunch separately.”

“You are a fine young man, Jacob! Just like your father.”

Eder sat at the table expectantly. Jacob pulled two leather bags from the basket and set them to the side. Jacob described the rest of the items as he placed them carefully on a cupboard. In addition to the cheese, there were grapes, breads, dried meats, dried fruits, a bag of wheat flour, a flask of oil, and oats – enough to feed the old man for a few days. Eder was particularly excited about three tin containers: salt, sugar, and dried mint leaves.

Jacob tidied the area, filled two fired-clay goblets from a water bucket, grabbed a wooden platter, and sat down. He opened the first bag and placed a chunk of cheese and small sausage on the platter. He watched Eder’s reaction closely as he pulled a small wicker bowl from the second bag. It was brimming over with berries. Eder’s eyelids fluttered over lifeless orbs as the scent of the berries reached him.

“Ooh! Thank you Jacob, those are my favorite! May I pray?”

“Yes, of course.”

Eder thanked their creator for the bounty. He asked for a blessing to be upon Jacob, Micah and their mother. The words he chose in closing were heartfelt and touched Jacob deeply. They ate in silence.

When they were done, Eder insisted that they take chairs outside to sit in the growing shade of a birch tree next to the house. They were grateful for a cool mountain breeze flowing down the valley. Eder’s goats still wandered over the grassy hillside.

As they sat there, both quite content from their lunch, Eder began to sing a tune known throughout much of Gideon. He sang about the beauties of mountain flowers, verdant trees, and cold, pure waters. He sang about a king who would come from a far-away land, and a promise of a peace.

Eder’s voice was clear and strong, the notes in perfect pitch. Jacob’s chest tightened as he recognized the melody as one his father would often sing when Jacob was a boy. Jacob turned away from his father’s closest friend, and fought back emotion.

When Eder finished, he sat as if in quiet reflection. Jacob was grateful for the silence. He did not comment on Eder’s singing.

“Joshua was a fine singer. He actually helped me to improve my technique. Do you remember your father singing?”

Jacob looked down the hillside, and his eyes found the burnt-out oak tree. Why he had associated the tree with his father’s singing, Jacob did not know at first. Then it came to him. [What? We need to know.] He looked away.

“Jacob? Jacob?”

“Yes?” Jacob replied after some delay.

“I am going away – the day after the crossing of the sister suns.”

Jacob was shocked. “Where are you going?”

“I am going to live in Hasor for a while, but I do not know when I shall return. Would you help me?”

“Help you?”

“Yes – with my herds. I have asked your mother. Dinah has consented for you to stay here at my home. She is proud of the young man you have become.”

Jacob swelled with pride. Mother considers me a man? He was only fourteen, but having her confidence meant the world to him. He looked over at Eder who was smiling.

“Yes! I . . . I . . .” Jacob stumbled over his words.

“Thank you. It is settled then.”

***

Almost two weeks later, Jacob sat in the cool of a summer evening. He waved one last time as his mother and little brother, Micah, disappeared over the dry-stone fence at the top of the hill between [the] two homes. Yes – I have two homes now, Jacob thought. It is nice that they now come to visit me.

His mind wandered to recent days when he would visit Eder [awkward–to days recently past?]. Jacob missed him. He worried if Eder had arrived in Hasor safely, but dismissed the thought. Jacob remembered the contingent of Gideonite soldiers which had escorted Eder as if he was a king. Eder the Goatherd: Ambassador and Counsel to the people of Daniel. The idea warmed Jacob.

As Jacob reflected, he once again heard Eder’s song in his mind. He softly hummed it. The burnt out oak tree seemed to call to him.

Jacob retrieved his shepherd’s staff. With an almost leisurely pace, he left Eder’s home, and walked towards the tree. Today he was strong. He wanted to go. Jacob had put this off for far too long.

When he found the valley floor, he followed the stream until it veered away, then arrived at the tree. Most of the upper trunk was pure charcoal, except for one spot where it had been split. The large fallen branch still lay on the ground, and was nearly rotted through. Grasses around the branch were tall, undisturbed by the herd.

Jacob reached. He touched the splintered wound. It was dry and rough. His fingers traced down the blackened trunk. Jacob looked down. At the base of the tree was the place where Jacob was on that fateful night [awkward sentence structure]. He knelt there and brushed his hand across the ground. Jacob looked up again, and rolled off his knees to sit. He could almost feel the rain and hear the thunder.

“Eder does not blame me,” Jacob said to the tree. [Why would Eder blame him? Did Jacob do something to cause this? Is this why Eder is blind? Need to answer these questions.]

The tree did not answer.

“I realize now I was protected, even though . . .”

Jacob did not complete the thought. He remembered his father in the field. Joshua was with Eder. Both of them were running to him. He heard them calling loudly. The lightning was fierce. Jacob hugged the trunk of the tree. As they approached, Jacob let go. A bolt of energy hit the tree and sprang forward.

He saw them fall.

Jacob wiped his eyes. Low in the eastern sky, Aqua and Azure were now touching. By morning, their weekly cycle would be complete. Their crossing would mark the Sabbath day. He looked away for a moment, then again checked on their progress.

When the suns finally dipped below the eastern horizon, all of the color of a typical evening filled the sky. But then, just as the last beams hurled themselves over the mountains, the heavens brightened.

The light came from the west, just like any other suns-rising Jacob had ever seen. Jacob watched the curious display, his eyes full of wonder. Jade, Ebony and Sienna, the three moons of Gan, all rose, nearly together. The sky was full of light.

Then he heard music. There was singing! Unseen voices from above increased in volume until, like the unrolling of a scroll, the heavens opened. Jacob saw the angels. The magnificent power of their shining presence, all in shimmering white, caused Jacob to fall onto one elbow. He raised his other hand as if to call to them.

The angels declared their message with boldness. Worlds away, the King had been born. [I’d end it here.] They sang His praises. Their voices lifted again heavenward. They began to depart.

One angel turned. Jacob saw joy in his face. The angel smiled.

“I love you, Jacob.”

You have a good sense of place. I like the slow and thoughtful way the story unfolds. I like the idea that angels announced the birth of the Savior on other worlds, to other shepherds. However, Jacob’s world is just a little too much like ours. I’d suggest making it more different—unusual names, unusual animals, unusual customs.

What I liked best: Angels announced the birth of the Savior on another world. Unique twist on the shepherd story.

Magazine ready? Not quite, but close.

Get ready for the holidays by entering the Christmas Story Contest

Submission Rules:
Write a Christmas story in any genre. Stories should be positive and family friendly. I reserve the right to refuse any story I deem inappropriate for this blog.

Maximum word count: 2000; no minimum.

Stories published anywhere other than your personal website or blog are ineligible. (That includes books, magazines, e-zines or other contests.)

Stories submitted for previous years’ contest are also ineligible.

Paste entire story into an e-mail. NO ATTACHMENTS, please.

In your e-mail, indicate whether or not you are a published author. “Published” is defined as someone paid you money (or comp copies in the case of magazines) for your story or book. (So either a publisher paid you, or you self-published and people bought your book.)

You may submit more than one story. Send each submission in a separate e-mail.

SUBMIT your story any time between now and Saturday, December 13th.

I will post the stories starting December 1st, in the order that they arrive.

Voting Rules:

VOTE between December 14th and December 20th.

There will be four winners: Readers Choice (Published authors), Readers Choice (Unpublished authors), Publisher’s Choice (Published authors), and Publisher’s Choice (Unpublished authors).

Publisher’s Choice winners will be chosen based on quality of writing and uniqueness of story. You can vote by whatever criteria you want, just don’t make it a popularity contest.

You MAY vote for yourself.

You may vote twice in each category: Published and Unpublished. You may only vote once per story. We’re on the honor system here.

You may make all the comments you like, but VOTING COMMENTS must clearly indicate that it is a vote. (Ex: I’m voting for this one…)

I will post comments on stories and announce the winners on Friday, December 19th.

PRIZES

I need FOUR prizes for this contest. I’d prefer that they be Christmas-related books. Prize sponsors will have a listing on a bio post and will display in the sidebar, like the monthly sponsors do. If you want to sponsor this contest, please make that clear when you e-mail me. I will need photos of the author(s), book cover, author bio info, a link to author website and/or blog, and a link to where the book may be purchased online.

Help spread the word! Post about the contest on your blog, in your forums, and e-mail all your friends.

All contests on this blog are mostly for fun. They are also a learning experience for you.

So. Here are some mistakes that were made by the authors submitting to this contest. Funny thing (or not so funny, depending on how you look at it), NONE of these items were singular events. More than one person made each of the mistakes listed below.

1. Submitting after deadline has passed. Deadlines were clearly stated in large, bold, colorful type. Submissions received after the deadline were excluded from the contest.

2. Word count too high. Before you submit, make sure you check your word count. Most software will do this for you. If your’s won’t, invest in new software. Most contests/magazines don’t give you a chance to fix and resubmit.

3. No title on your story. I didn’t explicitly state that each story needed a title, but these are short stories. Short stories need titles.

4. Additional submissions did not contain contact info. Your name, contact info, word count and, for this contest, whether you were a published or unpublished author, needs to be included in every submission. Treat each submission as if it was your only submission. Don’t assume the editor will know and/or remember that you’re the same John Doe who submitted a story a week before.

5. No title in Subject line. I didn’t specify that you include the title in the subject line of your e-mail, but it helps. Especially when an editor is looking for a specific story but can’t remember the author’s name, and 80% of the submissions say “Christmas Story” in the subject line.

6. Authors did not know if they were published/unpublished author. I thought the guidelines were clear on this. There was one person who had a situation that did need clarification from me, but the others should have been able to figure it out by reading the submission guidelines carefully.

7. Authors sent published stories. Again, I thought it was clear what was to be considered published and what was not. And again, there was only one request that really needed my clarification.

8. Authors asked where to send the submission/Authors asked where their stories would be posted. ??? I’m guessing someone told them about the contest, gave them my e-mail, but didn’t send them to my website. But still. All of that is covered in the submission guidelines for the contest. The funny thing is, the second question was asked several days after the story was submitted. Never submit your story anywhere if you don’t know the details of the contest.

9. Adding me to your joke list. You don’t know the editor. The editor is not your friend. The editor gets enough e-mail already. Do NOT send the editor jokes or sentimental e-mail spam. Don’t send them to me either.

10. Did not vote for yourself. The whole reason I gave you TWO votes in each category was so you could vote for yourself, and then vote for someone else. Okay, in real life, you rarely get the chance to vote on whether or not your story gets accepted for publication. But it’s the attitude of not voting that’s going to work against you. If you don’t believe in your story enough to “vote” for it, why should the editor?

I am now heading off for my Christmas vacation. I will be back after New Year’s.

Thanks again to all of you for participating in this contest. I hope you feel you’ve received some helpful feedback—either confirmation that you’re on the right track or some tips and pointers on where you need to improve.

I decided to pretend that I was looking for stories for an imaginary Christmas magazine. As I evaluated each piece, foremost in my mind was the question, Would I accept this story, as is, for publication in my magazine? I’ve included my answer in my commentary. If the answer was yes, that doesn’t mean the piece was perfect. It means it was close enough and would only need a slight bit of editing before publication. If the answer was no, I’ve tried to indicate what you’d need to do to fix it.

I also included what I liked best about your story, it’s strengths. As you consider rewriting your story for an actual submission, build on those strengths.

Although the majority of my comments are critical—pointing out what you did wrong—please know that I believe every single submission could be publishable with time and work. All of your stories touched me in some way. I hope each of you will come away from this contest feeling that you have learned something and with a renewed determination to continue writing.

With every contest, it gets harder and harder for me to choose a winner. Rarely is there a submission that stands out as a clear winner, without first having some debate with myself on the merits of the competition. This contest provided lots of debate.

For the first time in the history of this blog, the readers (you) and the publisher (me) actually agreed on who should be a winner in the Published Author category. Since Reader’s Choice takes precedence, that left me having to narrow down down my winner from six* very good stories. I liked each of them for different reasons. I finally chose by asking myself which one I would buy.

In the Unpublished Author category, I couldn’t make up my mind between two of them. I argued with myself all night and finally decided to make it a tie. (I’ll provide the extra prize.)

With all that said, let’s see who the winners are:

Readers Choice Published Author Category: Christmas Story #10—Arrows to Heaven by Tristi Pinkston

Publisher’s Choice Published Author Category: Christmas Story #21—The Crooked Christmas Tree by Roger Bonner

Readers Choice Unpublished Author Category: Christmas Story #14—A Dark and Cold Miracle by John Parmley

Publisher’s Choice Unpublished Author Category (tie):
Christmas Story #19—Believe Mr. Thomas by Don Carey
and
Christmas Story #11—Walking in a Weevil Wonderland by Melanie Goldmund

Winners: Please send me your mailing address within the next thirty days to claim your prize.

A very BIG thank you to the authors who provided prizes for this contest. I hope everyone who submitted a story took the time to read the sponsor bio page and to visit the websites of these very generous authors. If you haven’t, please do so today. It would also be nice if you sent them a message letting them know you appreciate their generosity.

For those of you who did not win, if you want to take credit for your work, please identify yourself in the comments section of your post.

*#4, #6, #7, #20, #21, #26

Voting has ended for the 2007 Christmas Story Contest.

Thank you to everyone who participated. I will tally up the votes and post the winners tomorrow.

All stories have now been posted. Voting is open.

Voting Rules:

VOTE between 12:01 a.m. December 16th and midnight December 19th.

• You may vote twice in each category: Published and Unpublished. You may only vote once per story. We’re on the honor system here.
• I suggest you click on the Submissions by Published Authors link (here or in the sidebar), read those stories and vote for two. Then click on the Submissions by Unpublished Authors, read those and vote twice more.
• You may make all the comments you like, but VOTING COMMENTS must clearly indicate that it is a vote. (Ex: I’m voting for this one…)
• You MAY vote for yourself.
• You may vote anonymously or using your Google ID. Just remember to be fair and follow the rules. (Anonymous comments are not eligible for the December Comment Contest.)
• I will use the date/time stamp on your comment to determine if your vote is eligible.
• You may tell everyone you know about this contest and invite them to vote, but please do not tell them which story is yours. We want the stories to win based on their merit and appeal, not on how much your friends and family like you.

There will be four winners: Readers Choice (Published authors), Readers Choice (Unpublished authors), Publisher’s Choice (Published authors), and Publisher’s Choice (Unpublished authors).

Publisher’s Choice winners will be chosen based on quality of writing, uniqueness of story, and whether or not I liked it. You can vote by whatever criteria you want, just don’t make it a popularity contest.

I will announce the winners on Friday, December 21st. I will make comments on each of the stories some time during Christmas week.

PRIZES
This contest is sponsored by and prizes provided by:

• Publisher’s Choice, Published Author: Sorry, the Stork Takes No Returns by Claire Bowen
• Reader’s Choice, Published Author: The Man from Shenandoah by Marsha Ward
• Publisher’s Choice, Unpublished Author: Kindred Spirits by Christopher Bigelow
• Reader’s Choice, Unpublished Author: Grasshopper Pie by Rebecca Talley

Please visit our sponsor bio page to learn more about the sponsoring books and authors.