So, back to my Christmas story! Let's seen, the Ghost of Christmas Presents is about to turn up -- that's a good thing, right? :)
Wounded “Idiot,” hissed Tristram, his fingers scrabbling at the card and trying to pick it up. The card seemed to be stuck to the rug, and his fingers slid over the edges as though they were bevelled glass. “It’s a card,” said David, shrugging. “The floor’s not that dirty, just pick it up and dust it off.” “I can’t,” said Tristram, his teeth gritted as he forced his fingernails into the pile of the carpet to try and get some leverage under the card. It might as well have been epoxied to the rug though, for all effort he was making. “That’s daft,” said David. A note of concern crept into his voice though. “Stop messing about, I’ll get it.” He came forward, kneeling from the sofa to the floor, knocking Tristram‘s hands away roughly. Before he could reach for the card himself though, the card illuminated, bright light spilling upwards from its face and revealing scorch marks and cobwebs on the ceiling. Tristram looked at him, and in the card’s eerie light their faces were white, washed out of colour and set into high relief by the shadows. Both of them looked two-dimensional, almost like line art in a comic. There was a jingling of bells somewhere in the distance, and a sudden smell of roasting chestnuts. “Ho, ho ho!” roared a voice outside the building, and then a foot appeared on the rug. There was a grunt, and a knee followed it, and steadily a large, muscular man in a red jacket with white trim climbed up out of the card. Tristram threw himself away, sprawling across the floor and still kicking with his legs to get to the wall, where he pressed himself into it as hard as he could, wishing it would break so he could get outside, get to his feet and run away. David unknelt, uncoiling back to the couch and sat there, back erect and head upright, staring at something he couldn’t accept was happening. “Merry f’ing Christmas!” roared the man as his fingers grasped the edge of the card and he pulled himself out and through, into the room. The card’s light faded away, leaving Tristram and David seeing stars. “Celebrity scandals for everyone; hope you dream of the Kardashians!” “What?” David was staring straight ahead, his eyes unfocused, but his voice was level and calm. “What’s a card action?” “Kardashian,” said the jolly man. He rubbed his head. “Wait, that’s slipping away. You’ve… you’ve not got them in this world.” He licked his lips. “Well, that’s a relief, I can tell you. What… ah, this is the Unreal City? Then where’s that ancient bitch?”
“This is near the Unreal City,” said David. He smiled. “Though actually we’re about eighty miles south, on the Isle of Wights. I’m David.” He stuck his hand out in front of him, not actually seeing anything in his stupor. “No,” whispered Tristram, and the jolly man ignored David’s hand and turned to look at him. For a moment their eyes met, and then the jolly man squinted, and really looked at Tristram. “Magelet,” he said after a moment. “I can see lingering traces of the Old Magic on you. Where is she then? Did she put you up to this?” “No,” whispered Tristram again. “I don’t think we’ve met,” said David. “My name is David, and my companion—” “Shut up!” “--’s name is Tristram.” “Truth,” said the jolly man, his eyes twinkling. “And since you’re being so very helpful, David, I am the Ghost of Christmas Presents, but very reluctantly so.” David’s eyes came back into focus at last, and as he looked at the jolly man his hands started shaking. “How can you be a ghost?” he asked. “You’re standing here and you’re clearly solid.” “He’s not a ghost,” said Tristram. His voice came out high-pitched and reedy. He swallowed, and tried again, his voice cracking but staying at his normal pitch. “He’s a dybbuk.” “Calumny!” The jolly man pointed at Tristram and he jolted as though receiving an electric shock. “Dybbuks are formed from dead men, and I am not dead. I am the Ghost of Christmas Presents, and that means I am alive still, otherwise I’d be the Ghost of Christmas Past or Christmas Future. I am no dybbuk, for all I am of the Shed’im.” He jabbed his finger, and Tristram jolted again, and a let out a wheezing moan. “My body lies in the Unreal City, tortured and broken, wounded, held inches away from death,” he said. “And now that I am back here, I want this undone. The crone shall pay for her crimes. And you two gentlemen, who have been so helpful so far, shall be more helpful still.”
3 comments:
So, back to my Christmas story! Let's seen, the Ghost of Christmas Presents is about to turn up -- that's a good thing, right? :)
Wounded
“Idiot,” hissed Tristram, his fingers scrabbling at the card and trying to pick it up. The card seemed to be stuck to the rug, and his fingers slid over the edges as though they were bevelled glass.
“It’s a card,” said David, shrugging. “The floor’s not that dirty, just pick it up and dust it off.”
“I can’t,” said Tristram, his teeth gritted as he forced his fingernails into the pile of the carpet to try and get some leverage under the card. It might as well have been epoxied to the rug though, for all effort he was making.
“That’s daft,” said David. A note of concern crept into his voice though. “Stop messing about, I’ll get it.” He came forward, kneeling from the sofa to the floor, knocking Tristram‘s hands away roughly. Before he could reach for the card himself though, the card illuminated, bright light spilling upwards from its face and revealing scorch marks and cobwebs on the ceiling. Tristram looked at him, and in the card’s eerie light their faces were white, washed out of colour and set into high relief by the shadows. Both of them looked two-dimensional, almost like line art in a comic. There was a jingling of bells somewhere in the distance, and a sudden smell of roasting chestnuts.
“Ho, ho ho!” roared a voice outside the building, and then a foot appeared on the rug. There was a grunt, and a knee followed it, and steadily a large, muscular man in a red jacket with white trim climbed up out of the card. Tristram threw himself away, sprawling across the floor and still kicking with his legs to get to the wall, where he pressed himself into it as hard as he could, wishing it would break so he could get outside, get to his feet and run away. David unknelt, uncoiling back to the couch and sat there, back erect and head upright, staring at something he couldn’t accept was happening.
“Merry f’ing Christmas!” roared the man as his fingers grasped the edge of the card and he pulled himself out and through, into the room. The card’s light faded away, leaving Tristram and David seeing stars. “Celebrity scandals for everyone; hope you dream of the Kardashians!”
“What?” David was staring straight ahead, his eyes unfocused, but his voice was level and calm. “What’s a card action?”
“Kardashian,” said the jolly man. He rubbed his head. “Wait, that’s slipping away. You’ve… you’ve not got them in this world.” He licked his lips. “Well, that’s a relief, I can tell you. What… ah, this is the Unreal City? Then where’s that ancient bitch?”
“This is near the Unreal City,” said David. He smiled. “Though actually we’re about eighty miles south, on the Isle of Wights. I’m David.” He stuck his hand out in front of him, not actually seeing anything in his stupor.
“No,” whispered Tristram, and the jolly man ignored David’s hand and turned to look at him. For a moment their eyes met, and then the jolly man squinted, and really looked at Tristram.
“Magelet,” he said after a moment. “I can see lingering traces of the Old Magic on you. Where is she then? Did she put you up to this?”
“No,” whispered Tristram again.
“I don’t think we’ve met,” said David. “My name is David, and my companion—”
“Shut up!”
“--’s name is Tristram.”
“Truth,” said the jolly man, his eyes twinkling. “And since you’re being so very helpful, David, I am the Ghost of Christmas Presents, but very reluctantly so.”
David’s eyes came back into focus at last, and as he looked at the jolly man his hands started shaking. “How can you be a ghost?” he asked. “You’re standing here and you’re clearly solid.”
“He’s not a ghost,” said Tristram. His voice came out high-pitched and reedy. He swallowed, and tried again, his voice cracking but staying at his normal pitch. “He’s a dybbuk.”
“Calumny!” The jolly man pointed at Tristram and he jolted as though receiving an electric shock. “Dybbuks are formed from dead men, and I am not dead. I am the Ghost of Christmas Presents, and that means I am alive still, otherwise I’d be the Ghost of Christmas Past or Christmas Future. I am no dybbuk, for all I am of the Shed’im.” He jabbed his finger, and Tristram jolted again, and a let out a wheezing moan. “My body lies in the Unreal City, tortured and broken, wounded, held inches away from death,” he said. “And now that I am back here, I want this undone. The crone shall pay for her crimes. And you two gentlemen, who have been so helpful so far, shall be more helpful still.”
Greg - this, is an excellent arrival/introduction. I like him already, despite Tris' misgivings.
Post a Comment