Eyes pinged open with a chime. Sunlight through the blind was flaring. Birds chirruped like fighter jets. The bells in the square burst with clangs. Clang. Clang.
A choir singing El Burrito Sabanero. Flamenco guitar attacking from the side. A cajonero thwacked a cajón in time. A crowd gathered stomped their feet offbeat. Whomp. Whump.
The song played in an unintended key sounded awful. My rhymes weren’t rhyming at all.
Notes were bending, voices mewling. The room spinning. Tinnitus twanged. Stomach sprang into action.
I jolted up, pulled back my covers.
Got tangled, fell over. Ran to the toilet. Vomited.
Misbehaving. Out of whack.
I looked in the mirror. A gash on my cheek was scabbing, a trickle of dried blood from my ear.
My shoulder had popped, my neck was swollen, and the smell of goat piss was overwhelming.
“Where’s Mother?”
I ran to her room. She wasn’t there.
The apartment was small, I couldn’t run anymore, and there was nowhere to hide anyway.
As my daughter would say, “You’re not that bright are you?”
But Christmas Day it was not, and out of the corner of my eye–a movement. Something standing in the doorway.
Not the Ghost of Christmas Past. Or the Ghost of Christmas Present. And I’m relieved it wasn’t the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come. No. It wasn’t a spider. It was me. Or an alternative.
Breathe. Go figure.
Swept over hair, shaved at the sides, blue eyes, and several days of stubble. Tall and geeky, some would say handsome, but this guy had more hair than me. All greased up in a slick flick of the wrist.
“We don’t have much time,” it said. It sure sounded like me.
I shrugged my shoulders, palms up, and screwed up my face, mouth twitching for something to say.
“Look. I get it. A helluva case,” it said with a snicker. “So let me explain. I’m the Ghost of Christmas Alternative, sometimes referred to as a Parallel Universe. Call me Fox,” and he thrust out his hand for me to shake it. “Fox. You know—spooky. The truth is out there.” He woooed and arched his brow.
So I shook his hand, my palms all clammy. His too.
Fox sat me down on the edge of my bed, while he tapped out a Marlboro from a carton and lit up. Snap. Fwoosh.
“Hey, I don’t smoke. And why are you talking so funny?”
“Relax kid, it ain’t your body. I look like you, but I ain’t. And I sure as hell don’t smell like you. What the heck have you been doing?” Fox nodded and wafted his hand in front of his face.
“Not everyone gets the opportunities in life that you had. And I grew up where people talk like that. I guess your evening has been quite the ride. But I reckon you’re gonna make good on your promise… right?” Fox sucked deep on his cigarette, and blew out a perfect circle of smoke.
I coughed.
“Of course, I will. Is that what this is about?”
I must have looked lost.
“No, kid, it’s about your ending!” Fox paced, sprinkling ash over the lino. “When you take a classic, like Poe or Dickens, well that’s bad form. But messing with Clement Clarke Moore, jeez, we got real bad reviews Stateside, fouling up a national treasure. Do you know how many parents read that story to their kids on Christmas evening? All over the world–that’s desecration.”
Fox offered me the cigarette. I declined. He puffed again.
“Suit yourself, but you may need it. I got a few things to show you myself.” Fox flicked the lit butt to the floor and smushed it out with his sneaker.
He pulled out a folded up bunch of papers from his jacket pocket. Stapled down the left-hand side. Opened them up to a type-written mess of words, and sentences and paragraphs. He nodded, “Bright kid. The Studio got a kick out of your prose, the imaginative twists, close to the bone with old Jun Lin. But you handled it well.” He shoved the papers back in his jacket. “But what the Chief wants is a well-rounded protagonist. One with a well-rounded arc. You dig? And your ending kinda sucked.”
I wanted to speak, but the words got stuck in traffic. Accident on the freeway–a collision. So I shuffled my feet, and stared at my hands that were busy flexing and twitching. “But I… “
“Don’t sweat it, kid. It won’t take too much to rectify. But that’s why we’ve got to get going.” Fox turned, made to leave.
“So, how do we do this? Am I going to get beat up again?”
“It’s kinda like going to the movies. I set up a show for us in the other room. Popped some corn, too. Caramel, butter, and salt,” Fox hollered over his shoulder, as he shuffled into the living-room. I ran to the toilet and spewed.
When I came out Fox was sitting on the couch, a bucket of popcorn on his legs. He patted the seat beside him, bouncing over to make room, corn flying everywhere, tossed out a cushion, and handed me some cheapo 3-D glasses. Picture houses gave ‘em out for free in the eighties. The slogan on the side read: Real just gets ‘realer’ when you watch in 3-D!
I sat down, tossed out a second cushion, and he handed me the bucket of corn. I shook my head, a feeling of dread.
“What’s the worst that could happen?” I said, and plucked out a handful. My stomach was grumbling, acid on the rise, but I hadn’t eaten for a while. ”Let’s do this!”
“Do I have to put these on?” I asked, head tilting, slack jaw. I waved the 3-D glasses in front of me, the red and green cellophane twisting in the carton frame.
“Hey, trust me,” he said, as he slicked hair back from his face, “I ain’t gonna lie to myself!”
“I guess not,” I muttered, as I dragged my own hair back, “but they make you look like a goofball.”
“No change there, goofball!” Fox said, digging my ribs and throwing popcorn. “Shows about to start!”
It went dark. Completely.
All I could hear was Fox rooting through popped corn, and now I heard slurping through a straw. “Hey, you got a Coke?” I said, but I couldn’t see anything.
“No!” Fox jibed back. “We’re boycotting that. What I got here is coffee–black–an extra shot of espresso, a dash of rum, and a hit of cream. Did you want one?”
Fox shook the popcorn in the carton under my nose.
I smelled the nutty corn, caramel and butter, but my nose tingled with something else. Cardamom? Yes. And it got hotter. I pulled at the neck of my festive sweater. Much hotter. Real quick. Sweat beaded at my brow. “Are you feeling this heat?”
Fox didn’t answer. But I sensed his gaze on me now. I still couldn’t see. Like shutting your eyes at three in the morning. Not asleep. Not snoring. The couch vibrated.
Then I heard it. A deep, throaty sound like nothing I’d ever heard before. “Did you hear that?”
“Put the glasses on,” Fox said, and his hand grabbed my knee in the dark. “Trust me. You’re gonna love this.”
I hesitated, the 3-D glasses trembling in my hands. “Do I have to?”
Snap. Fwoosh.
Fox lit up another smoke. In its glow I saw him smirk. “Okay. But don’t come bawling to me if you miss all the action.”
I slid the glasses on.
The world exploded.
Colour blinding, sounds drumming, smells flooding.
Eyes blinking. Body bouncing. Guts turning. Blood rushing. Joints popping. Everything shook. I lurched forwards, grasped for something to hold onto. Scraping, slipping backwards. Then tossed forwards. Rumbling, deafening, beating. That animal stink. Not me this time. I glanced down. No couch! No popcorn! What was that? Black leather? “Fox!” I shouted.
Then that roar. Vibrating me like a tuning fork. I scrabbled for purchase. Thrown upwards like riding a trampoline. Nothing but air between my butt and the canvas.
“Hold on!” a new voice shouted. Not Fox. Not my voice.
“Wait! Can you see me?”
I peeked through my eyelids, shot sideways glances. No longer sitting next to Fox. Not Kansas. Still shaking.
But who’s the kid in front of me?
An old building loomed at me, we shot past it. Another flew by. A roar of the thing shaking me. Red dust road blurring beneath. Then it hit me. The kid with the beetle. Abyssinia?
I stared straight ahead, and couldn’t believe it. Eyes blinking.
I was perched on the back of a giant stag beetle. Charging through the narrow streets of what I guessed was Ethiopia.
The boy in front of me, rode like a cowboy on a bucking bronco, squealing with laughter as the beetle’s shiny black carapace bucked and twisted beneath us.
“Take hold of its antlers!” The boy hollered.
Before I could say anything. Tossed forward like a Raggedy Anna doll. My arms flung out, fingers outstretched. Like slow motion manga. Boy’s free arm catching my chin on the way through. “I got it!” I shouted. “I got it!” Blood rushed through my ears.
The beetle’s legs—massive, spiked, and twinkling in sunlight—hammered the ground, leaving cracks in the sidewalk. Every step sent up clouds of dust, that sweet smell of cardamom.
Villagers screamed, diving into doorways and alleyways to get out of the way.
“Hold on!” the boy shouted, his voice high and wild. He threw his hands into the air, gripping the bright red antlers only with his knees. “This is amazing!”
The beetle lurched, its back legs kicking up, sending me crashing forward into the boy’s back. The boy laughed again, his joy infectious.
Ahead of us, a soldier came into view, barrelling down the street. A hulk of a figure, his uniform dusty and torn, rifle slung over his shoulder. His gold teeth flashed as he shouted at the villagers.
It hit me.
“Out of my way! Move, you fools!” he bellowed, rumbling, a raw force of nature, shaking his weapon like a conductor directing bedlam. Villagers scattering like rice at a wedding. And I’m all out of analogies now.
The beetle roared—a deeper force of nature, expelled from volcanoes—and charged faster. Legs pounding the ground, antlers glowing brighter, molten metal, but pretty.
The soldier turned, eyes widening as he saw me and the boy, the massive beetle bearing down. “What—what is this?” he stammered.
He spun on his heel and ran, boots slamming against the ground. His gold teeth flashed again as he shouted at the villagers, “Help me! Someone stop it!”
But no one moved.
The boy whooped, pulling back on the antlers like reins. The beetle skidded, body twisting as it chased the soldier into a narrow alley. I could feel the heat radiating off the beetle’s back, the sharp edges of its carapace pressing into my legs. The sound of its hard shell scraping against the walls of the alley would have had me screaming and clamouring.
Glad not to be the soldier.
The man stumbled, falling to his knees. He turned to face the beetle, his chest heaving. The rifle slipped from his hands. “Please,” he spat, with a whimper. “Please, don’t hurt me.”
The beetle stopped.
Its massive body blocked out the sun, casting the soldier in shadow. Its antlers glowed like white hot ironwork, and it clicked its mandibles together, click, click, click, click, like a countdown.
The boy slid off the beetle’s back, landing like a cat on two feet. He walked up to the soldier, his hands on his hips, his face flat and unreadable.“You’re scared,” the boy said, his voice resistant. “I get it. I was scared, too.”
The soldier flinched, his gold teeth chattering. “I—I didn’t mean to—”
“You crushed it,” the boy interrupted, “no, I ain’t singing your praises. You crushed it, man. You stomped on the beetle. You didn’t even think about it. Made it one with your jackboot.”
“I’m sorry,” the soldier whispered. “I didn’t know—”
“That’s the problem,” the boy said. He reached out a small hand and touched the soldier’s shoulder. “You didn’t know. But you’re gonna.”
The beetle shifted, mandibles clicking again. The soldier’s eyes darted to it, face stretched, pee trickling down his inside leg.
“Please,” he begged, his voice trembling. “Please, forgive me.”
The boy smiled—a small, soft smile—and stepped back. “I do.”
“Compassion,” Fox said, his voice cutting through the scene. “It’s a hell of a thing, isn’t it?”
I snatched off the 3-D glasses, my breath blowing in short gasps. My hands were trembling, my hair soaked with sweat. “That was—”
“Amazing? Horrifying? Both?” Fox smirked, lighting another cigarette. “Yeah, I know. Kid’s ballsy, death-or-glory. More than you, I’d say.”
I just glared at him, but Fox just laughed. “Don’t worry, kid. You’ll get there. One day.”
Fox jabbed me with his elbow. “Glasses on, kiddo.”
“What? Can we go again?” I smirked, grabbing a handful of popcorn from the bucket. “So hungry!” Shovelling it into my mouth as I reached for a second.
I snatched the tall paper cup of coffee out of Fox’s hand. Sucked with a slurp. “Man, that’s good. What did you say was in it? Never mind. I’m ready.”
Fox grinned, lighting a Marlboro.
“Oh! Wait. Nobody’s gonna kick the crap out of me? Drown me? Or string me up? Right?”
I hesitated, the 3-D glasses dangling from my fingers. “I don’t think I can handle that.”
“Sure you can, champ. This one’s got a happy ending.”
I sighed and slid the glasses on.
The smell of instant noodles and tea tree oil smacked first. Damp. Dingy. Basic kitchen. The faint hum of a laptop casting a flickering light. The clink of chopsticks against porcelain.
I snatched off the glasses.
“Hey! That’s not different. That’s what happened, Fox.”
Fox turned and looked at me, raising his hands, palms up and open. “Easy. Some things never change, but what comes next… Well, that could lead somewhere better. Don’t you want to see how?”
“Yes. Okay. Sorry.”
“Nothing to it, kid. Put on the glasses.”
I was back in Lin’s kitchen. Tea tree oil and noodles. Chopsticks on porcelain. Laptop humming.
I took a step forward, holding my breath.
“Is this…?”
Fox’s voice echoed in my ear, though I couldn’t see him. “Yep. Jun Lin. Alone. Eating. You know how this ends, don’t you?”
The door to the kitchen creaked open.
A dark shadow loomed in the hallway.
“No,” I whispered. “Stop it. Don’t let it happen.”
The shadow moved closer. Jun Lin didn’t see it.
I reached out, “Jun, look behind you! Please!”
The shadow pounced.
“Guess who?” Two hands covered Jun’s eyes. Lin didn’t move.
But his lips curled up, cheeks glowing. “Hey! You made it!”
He jumped up, kicking back the chair, and spun around, wrapping his arms around the shadow’s neck. Not a shadowy killer. A lover.
The lover leaned in, arms resting on Jun’s shoulders, “Of course, I did. I told you I would. Come on. We’ll clean up later. I snagged two tickets to David Byrne.”
Lin grabbed the guy’s butt.
I snatched off the glasses. “Woah! Jun Lin looks happy!”
“Yep,” Fox leaned towards me. “Lin found his guy. House in the mountains. Snow. A couple of dogs. Adopted a kid. They’re happy.”
“What about the killer? Is he at loose?”
“Oh, that fella. Got his own journey, kid.” Fox took a long drag of his cigarette. “He had a little run-in with some greaser friends of yours. Arid, Lifeless, Desolate, and that mouse kid with the rock. The whole gang of synonyms. That’s what you called ‘em, isn’t it?”
I nodded, “So, is that like a job for them?”
“See, you’re funny, kid. They’re keeping him company.” Fox tapped ash on the floor, and shook his head. “That fella won’t wake up anytime soon. I see him getting dragged off into the mountains by a troop of glowing bugs.”
“But he’s batshit crazy!” I grabbed the bucket of popcorn. My nose scrunched up. “We’re out.” Shook the bucket in case. Just a few dead kernels. “I don’t get it.”
Fox blew out a smoke ring, his expression unreadable. “Not every story needs a happy ending for everyone, but every story deserves a chance for one.”
I frowned, words sinking in. “And Jun Lin?”
“Happy,” Fox said simply. “You can’t change his past, but you can honour him by sharing his story.”
Fox got up. “Are you hungry?”
Before the words left my mouth I heard the sounds of chopping vegetables, onions and meat sizzling in a pan, spitting fat.
Fox waved the large chopping knife at me. “There’s another movie lined up. A certain girl with red hair and green eyes. I reckon she caught your eye.”
Fwit. Fwit. Fwit. Fwit. One hand chopping, Fox crashed through the contents of the fridge with the other. “Green peppers. Oh. Tabasco.” He slammed shut the door with a clang and a shudder. A red cloud of chilli powder exploded over the pan. Hot sauce. It clanked against the hob.
I sunk back into the couch.
Hooked the 3-D glasses back on my nose.
Immediate. Smacked by wet hay and goat piss. The smell was much stronger. Angry mob. Meaner. Red-haired girl on the ladder. Green eyes flashing.
This is insane,” I muttered, my heart pounding. “They’re going to kill her. Again!”
The executioner kicked the ladder. The woman dropped.
A bolt of lightning split the sky, striking the noose. The rope snapped. The woman landed on her feet, her hair igniting into flames, her eyes glowing emerald.
The crowd screamed as the woman raised her hands, her voice tore through the valley. “You want a witch? I’ll give you a witch.”
With a wave of her hand, the villagers transformed one by one—the man who cursed her bread became a clucking chicken, the woman who accused her of hexing the cows became a lowing heifer.
I watched, wide-eyed, as the woman spun in the center of the chaos, her fiery hair whipping in the wind. But then, she stopped. Shoulders slumped. The flames in her hands dimmed.
“No,” she muttered. “This isn’t the answer.”
She waved her hands again, and the villagers returned to their human forms. They fell to their knees, “Forgive us, please!”
“I do,” she said. “Now away with you.” And with a clap of her hands she disappeared in a burst of golden light.
I tore off the glasses, my chest banging. “That was…”
“Justice,” Fox said, slopping a ladle of bubbling chilli into a dish. “And forgiveness. Sometimes they’re the same thing. Sometimes they’re not. Depends on the witch, I guess.”
I slumped back on the couch, my hands trembling. “I don’t think I can handle one more.”
“Eat this.” Fox handed me a bowl of steaming chilli and tortilla chips. “A little spicy. The Tabasco got the better of me.”
“But what about Agatha? Can we see Agatha?”
Fox’s smirk returned, dipping a chip into the pot of chilli. “She’s off radar, kid. Youngest boat captain ever, rescuing folk lost at sea. But…” He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small, glowing seed, its light pulsing faintly.
“She did leave me this. Said you’d know what to do with it.”
I stared at the seed, my throat tight. “What is it?”
Fox grinned. “Hope. Now, what are you gonna do with it?”
“Do you hear the bell, Fox?” Fox was gone. “Fox?”
Ding. Dong. Ding. Dong. Ding. Dong.
The bells in the square. I didn’t believe it.
So I kept my eyes shut tight.
Sunlight dazzled through my eyelids. No. I’m not ready just yet.
So I listened for the sounds of waking up. Am I really home?
I didn’t have to wait long to realise.
A kettle was boiling. Ting. Okay.
Water sloshed onto a teabag.
A splash of milk.
Tinkle of a teaspoon stirring. That sound.
It pinged loose a sudden recollection. Jun Lin’s happy ever after.
Island FM on the clock radio—Christmas hymns.
A snippet of chat in the room below. “No turkey for me! I’m vegan.”
And Noddy Holder’s voice in an interview—in a West Midland’s accent—gotta look to the future, Ernest. It’s only just beginning.
I shook my head, gritted my teeth, squeezed my blanket. Still I refused to open my eyes. Lest I forget.
I smelled cardamom. I remembered the boy and the stag beetle.
And Agatha?
A warm breeze through the open window prickled the hairs on my arm. My nose twitched.
“Stop it! That tickles!” I couldn’t take it any longer.
Eyes snapped open. I stifled a scream.
A spider beside me on my pillow.
Regular-sized, not ghostly, green, or ghastly.
For a moment I thought it was Sylvia.
I held my breath. No. The incident with the plumber. I shivered at the thought.
The spider fluttered its mandibles. Tapping its forelegs on the cotton. Tap. Tap. Tap. How friendly.
More the colour of an Oxford brogue, two bright orange markings on its back. Eight legs in black and white striped stockings.
In the past, I would have jumped up in fright. Knocking the poor creature to the floor. But if the ghosts had taught me anything. And of that I was wholly on board. We should all learn to be kind to everyone and everything. Big and small. No matter our differences.
And I lay there and watched it instead. “Hello,” I said. “How are you?”
I reached out, my hand trembling, and let it crawl onto my palm.
Its tiny legs dancing, tickled me.
I whispered, my voice soft. “Come on. I won’t hurt you.”
I carried it to the window, opening it just enough.
“You’re small, but you matter. We all do.”
The spider hesitated for a moment, its legs twitching, before scuttling away towards the patio.
I rubbed at my face, my palms rough against my skin. And I yawned like a donkey, and scratched beneath my chin. The smell of chlorine and my chocolate deodorant. And I looked outside the window. The sky wasn’t grey, but cerulean, a good day for a swim. Christmas on the island. I smelled sage and onion.
“Wait! I’m back!” I shouted. “Mother. I’m back!”
“Sorry, dear.”
I heard the shuffle of her slippers on linoleum.
“Tea’s in the kitchen.” She called out. “Oh! Merry Christmas!”
I hugged her and wished her one back.
Turkey was stuffed. Sausage rolls in the oven. Vegetables were all peeled and bubbling. Ten lengths in the cold pool, counting the strokes. Cold shower. Now chill.
I towelled off and sat on the hot slabs. Out of the wind in my suntrap. I heard a dog snuffling at the gate, a laughing child pulling it back.
Red hibiscus in bloom, the whistles and rattles of a hoopoe bird. My stomach rumbled. My knee popped.
I walked up the path and greeted neighbours with a Christmas smile, who returned it with a pat on my arm. “Gotta run,” they said. “We’re baking cherry pie. A yellow butterfly fluttered over my shoulder.
The kitchen was steaming when I got back. “Mother, tear open your shutters. Open your window. It’s a beautiful day. Let it in.”
I whipped up some custard to make a sherry trifle. Chopped up garlic and bacon for the sprouts. The carrots and parsnips I glazed with butter and honey. But Christmas wasn’t the same. Not without Dad and my sister. Not without my kids—thousands of miles away.
I still felt rotten about Sylvia. What about poor little Agatha?
So I went for a walk on the beach.
An octopus trapper scrambled across the weed and stones, rapping certain rocks, bending over, cupping his ear, listening for a chime. Tap. Tap. Ping. He cheered. Waving his prodding stick in one hand, conducting with a bottle of vodka in the other. He sang a koliadka in some Slavic dialect—I looked it up. Ping. Ping. Cheered again. Took a swig from the bottle.
I flopped down to the coarse sand, feet splashing in a rock pool, drawing attention from the shrimp. I’d brought a little food offering—many back-payments included.
Out on the ocean, the bluest I’d seen it, minty white peaks, white boats sailing, bells tinkling, horns blowing, comings and goings. Wolf Island twinkling in the distance.
All that time in the sun, my mind stumbled over the ghosts’ visions. What had I learned? Had it taught me some value? Was I the same?
I had drawn my conclusions:
Hope wasn’t easy. But it was worth holding onto. I can’t fix everything. But I can do something. One thing at a time.
I walked a little further, shuffling through white pebble popcorn, and I dug my hands into my shorts. Along with the lint, a coin and a sea shell, I took out a tiny seed–warm and green. “Hope,” I mouthed. That’s what Fox had called it and I put it back in my pocket for safekeeping.
Pulled up a wicker chair in a bar next to the sea, ordered a café latte in Spanish.
“We’ve camomile, lavender, peppermint or rose, if you prefer.” She smiled with an American accent. Her green eyes and flaming red curls made me think I’d seen her before. Bewitching.
“Good for the soul.” She said with a wink. “Though, ain’t you got some place to be.”
I wished the girl, “Feliz Navidad.” She vanished. Only to return with my coffee in a flash. And a cake on a small plate, decorated with tiny red flowers.
She saw my wide stare, “It’s Christmas!” she declared. “And the carrot cake—that’s organic. No charge!”
Island FM playing Chris Rea. Interrupted by a Christmas miracle.
A cargo ship, the Sylvia Bell sailing out of Port-au-Prince, picked up a family in the early hours of Christmas morning.
Their small boat got into difficulties in heavy seas.
The family, including a child of seven, Agatha, were fleeing violence and poverty in search of asylum.
Agatha and her family, who did not die, are now celebrating Christmas on board with the Jamaican crew and their families.
Authorities said they’re lucky to be alive. I guess that’s a real Christmas miracle.
“Agatha made it.” I said under my breath. I wasn’t crazy. “Maybe there’s hope for the rest of us. If Agatha lived, so could I. So could we all.” I smiled, “A true Christmas blessing.
I had plenty of them, too. Coffee, cake, the Atlantic Ocean on my doorstep. Small things that meant everything.
Yeah. It sucks I’d lost people. And my daughters were a thousand miles away.
But I closed my eyes, the African sun warm on my cheeks, healing me, and thanked Sylvia. The spider who gave up everything to give my life back to me.
I wouldn’t waste it.
I waved goodbye to the flame-haired girl at the bar, wished her “Happy Holidays”.
Then I marched home. A spring in my step. A grin on my face.
Determined to keep my promise—to Sylvia, to Agatha, to myself.
I reached into my pocket and held the seed in my palm, its faint glow a promise of something better.
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