A Mid-World Christmas Collection

By James L. Wilber

Get yourself a mug of cheer, settle in by the space heater and enjoy these touching holiday tales. Everything you expect from the indie authors of Mid-World Arts is here - gods, ghosts, aliens, and cannibals. Add a touch of Christmas magic, and you have the best sci-fi & fantasy reading your credit chip can buy.

A Mid-World Christmas Collection contains stories from Stephan Michael Loy, Shade OfRoses, and James L. Wilber. Find other great books by Mid-World Arts at midworldarts.com.

• Language: English
• Publisher: James L. Wilber
• Release date: Dec 18, 2013
• ISBN: 9781310898433

James L. Wilber

James L. Wilber describes himself as Anne Rice and Chuck Palahniuk’s bastard love child. He’s a pretentious prick who claims to pen, “literary genre fiction.” Which means he writes smarmy shit about wizards and vampires doing a poor job at hiding his symbolism and metaphor. He’s turned to self-publishing on the correct assumption his stories are just too fucking weird for mass consumption.He has contributed to numerous books for roleplaying games from companies such as: Wizards of the Coast, Paizo Publishing, White Wolf Studios, Bastion Press, and Atlas Games. He was also a writer on the Origins Award nominated, Buffy the Vampire Slayer Roleplaying Game by Eden Studios.Mr. Wilber also assumes the roles of husband, ceremonial magician, podcast host, and owner of a 100-lb Alaskan Malamute.He lives in Indianapolis, a dreary place built by masons obsessed with circles.Along with Stephan Loy and Dick Thomas, James is a member of Mid-World Arts, a collective of indie writers dedicated to helping each other produce quality works. Find out more at midworldarts.com.You can read his thoughts on politics, culture, and what he calls pagan chaos magick at scrollofthoth.com.He only uses social media that he enjoys, which means tumblr. Get to know him at scrollofthoth.tumblr.com, jameslwilber.tumblr.com, and geeksoutafterdark.tumblr.com.You can hear him on the podcasts Scroll of Thoth, and Geeks Out After Dark.Get more of his writing at jameslwilber.com.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

A Conroy Christmas by Stephan Michael Loy

Part 1: The Nativity

The place was a hole, a hole blacker and more disfigured than Kurtz's addled brain. Spencer Christopher Snow leaned against the sagging countertop and peered into the dark, dank den of lime-green metal shelves, flickering fluorescent lights, and faded, scraped linoleum tile. He knew the shelves held a madman's jumble of nuts, bolts, screws and nails, of washers, rock salt, four coal shovels and two coffeemakers, one with a cracked carafe. The place stank of sweat and mildew, mainly from the uninsulated cinderblock walls. Spencer wondered sometimes if Mr. Bennington had a stash of sweaty potpourri, just to keep out the riff-raff, that is, the double-x chromosome crowd. He wished it were so, a story better than the truth. He had watched those walls bleed water and ice for years. He had watched Chuck Bennington paint over the mold.

The horror. The horror.

Now, don't you go forgettin, Bennington said as he struggled his enormous fat-laden bulk into his ratty army-issue parka, you salt that sidewalk and turn out them chaser lights before lockin' up, y'hear?"

Chuck, do you really believe anybody's coming through that door in the next two hours? Chris didn't want so much to go home as to escape his sentence in Hell. It's Christmas Eve, man. Everybody's home swigging nog and watching Rudolph on the tube. They're not trudging out here in eight inches of snow to get acorn nuts or bird feed.

Snow shovels, Bennington announced sagely. In this weather, everybody needs snow shovels.

This is the Midwest, Chuck. Every house in town has two snow shovels and a spare.

Bennington was at the door. The bell rang from his grasp of the knob. You don't know so much, boy. Bennington's Hardware has stayed open till eight every Christmas Eve since 1969. We ain't changin' just yet.

I get it. But why isn't Bennington the one keeping it open?

The fat man yanked open the door, admitting a swirl of fat snow crystals. I got some shoppin' to do, young man. You know Ginger'll have my hide if I don't get that stuff--

Which we don't carry, and should.

--and you ain't got nothin' better to do.

Christmas is an over-commercialized excuse for conspicuous consumerism that has long since lost its original religious meaning.

Like I said.

It's run by a big eastern syndicate, you know.

And who said that? One of them philosophers of yours? Kant? Nit-she?

"Sally. On A Charlie Brown Christmas."

Bennington stared, frozen in the act of donning his wooly cap. Huh, he finally managed, and shook his head. See you the day after tomorrow, Spencer. Noon, no later, and don't forget them chaser lights.

He waddled out the door, the bell tingling as it shut behind him. Immediately, Chris reached below the counter and snapped on the ancient radio that Chuck never allowed during business hours. The Conroy County retransmission station pumped Jingle Bell Rock into the slouching excuse for a store, all the way from the city. Chris pressed open his dog-eared paperback of Conrad's Heart of Darkness and re-read the section deep in the narrative, Marlowe analyzing Kurtz's downfall. Isolation, the Great Solitude. No man should be alone in his mind.

At 7:45, Chris put down his book, cut off the radio, and started closing up. He recalled Chuck's admonition about the chaser lights over the entrance, and pulled that plug from the wall. Then he turned out the lights, took the keys in hand, and stepped onto the sidewalk to wait out the last seven minutes before closing time.

Conroy ranged pristine before him. The hulks of dead factories stared back from across the street, sandwiched between the black silhouette of the water treatment plant and the tinsel-like floodlights of the distant Coal and Coke. But snow drew a blue-white comforter over the town's old scars. Eight inches, maybe ten, could forgive a lot of failures and hide a lot of sins. Flakes drifted past the streetlights on silence, purposeless and beautiful.

Chris hunched into his parka, but didn't bother to zip it up. He wanted it open; he wanted to feel the beauty around him. Unwise, perhaps, but romantic.

He locked the door to the store. Three minutes wouldn't make a bit of difference. Then he rammed his hands deep in his parka pockets and started along the walk with that high-stepping gait assumed by all who lived in the world of white.

How did they walk down the street in Miami one day before Christmas? They probably dragged their feet, their manicured feet in their open-toed sandals. Marx had warned against Miamians, but Marx had been a cold man from a cold climate. He couldn't have seen open-toed sandals as anything but decadent.

A sound startled Chris out of his thoughts and drew him up short. He had just passed the alley between the hardware store and the low, brooding bulk of St. Barnabas. It was Christmas Eve. The Catholic Church was the last of the pre-industrial empires of thought, but as long as it wouldn't die, it should at least decorate for Christmas. All St. Barnabas did was brood, hulk, creep Chris out and make secretive metal scraping noises from its alley.

Chris looked up and down the road. Beyond St. Barnabas stood the China Grill Buffet, closed two hours earlier. Past the hardware store stood the Trash To Treasures, shut down since the twentieth. Chris was the only one on the street, though maybe Father Rick moped about inside his dark monument to fear and guilt. Or maybe Father Rick was the ogre in the alley, skulking about the new fallen snow, canvassing for converts. A boogieman to secular humanists.

Being a Marlowe, Chris investigated.

He tromped back to the alley entrance. Sneaking up on anyone in eight inches of snow was a foregone loss; the crunch, crunch, stumble, crunch telegraphed one's approach. But it made counter-attacks just as difficult, so Chris didn't worry about getting jumped.

He stood in the mouth of the alley. The light at the far end revealed a shadow hunching over the dumpster halfway back along the store's outer wall.

Hello? Chris called. Father Rick, is that you?

The figure had been reaching into the dumpster. It straightened and grew still.

Rick? Chris took several tentative tromps into the alley.

The figure backed away, spraying snow about its feet.

Oh, wait, Chris cautioned. You don't have to run. I won't hurt you. He kept tramping forward, slower now, and the shadow kept retreating. Hey, what's your name? I know you aren't Father Rick. I mean, he doesn't like me, but he doesn't run away from me. My name's Chris Snow. He gestured at the whiteness around him. Ha, ha, believe it or not.

For some reason, perhaps the laugh, perhaps the parallelism, the figure stopped backing away. Chris reciprocated by ceasing his advance. He squinted hard at the figure, but could make out little due to backlighting. He was fairly certain from size and movement that his company was female.

Yeah, he continued to fill the awkward silence, that's me, the snow king himself. I should have my own half hour seasonal special.

He called you Spencer.

Chris took a moment to figure that one out, at the same time noting the pitch of the voice. Female for sure, probably young. Oh, you mean Chuck? Wow, you've been out here that long? Spencer's my first name, but my friends call me Chris.

He called you Spencer.

Well, yes, but he isn't my friend.

She didn't say anything. She didn't move except to hug herself. Awkward.

"Say, you aren't from around here, are you? Chris put his hands back into his pockets in order to seem less threatening. I was just thinking, and don't take this the wrong way, but you kind of seem homeless. No reaction. And Conroy doesn't have any homeless that I know of, so I guess you're from out of town."

Yes. An arm came up, pointing toward the church. I'm from over there.

On a hunch, Chris imagined she did not mean the church. You know, just a friendly heads up, but the dumpster the next alley over is probably a better dive. It's likely loaded with Chinese food.

She didn't seem to catch the humor. Still, she didn't run. Nor did she visibly flinch when he took a few steps toward her.

So, you know who I am, Chris soldiered on. It's only polite to complete the introductions.

She stood her snowy ground, but turned a bit sideways to him, glancing down and up the alley. He could see her then, and she really was young.

Umm, introductions? That's the part where you tell me who you are.

You'll take me.

That gave Chris pause. Why, no, no I don't think so. I generally don't take anybody. It would be rude.

You'll take me back. She pointed again. Back there.

Ohhh. That was a relief. But no, I won't take you back there. I'm not a 'back there' kind of guy. Kind of a nonconformist's nonconformist-- Say, are you in some kind of trouble? Do you need help?

She failed to respond, unless staring at the hardware store's wall counted as a response.

You just sound as if you need some help, Chris explained, and started backing away. But I know appearances aren't always to be trusted. Anecdotes don't make a paradigm. Weakness is sometimes strength, y'know? I mean, if you need some help, I'm standing here offering. But if you've got it covered, I can leave you alone--

He checked himself. No man (or girl in her mid-to-late teens) should be alone in his or her mind.

She burst into tears. They just exploded out of her face, though the rest of her stood there like a post.

Whoa, whoa, whoa, Chris said. His hands came up, offering surrender. He tramped toward her, to her, grasped her shoulders lightly. He bent to her face, so much closer to the earth than his. Hey, it's okay. It's okay. Or it will be okay. You, we, we'll figure it out. You're okay.

I'm hungry and I'm scared.

I know, I know, and you're filthy. My goodness, look at all this crud. Here, let me wipe some off. He wasn't wearing mittens, but he fished one out of his coat pocket and started rubbing her face. Not that I begrudge you your dirt. Dirt is the badge of the proletariat. A little dirt and sweat are something to be proud of, though I think you're being ostentatious.

Her tears made a good solution with which to mop up her face. So, what's your name? You don't have to say, though not doing so could make things awkward. I'd have to call you 'Hey', y'know? You can make something up, if you like...

Mary Jo.

Mary Jo! That's good, that's real good. Pretty obvious, if you don't mind my saying. I mean, Mary Jo and Chris on Christmas. My ego would have preferred you be less in my face with the pseudonyms, but-- My god, you're pregnant!

She wasn't just pregnant, she was pumped up ready to burst. Her loose, threadbare wool coat and the shadows had hidden her shape somewhat; Chris had supposed her a little overweight. But she was pregnant, way deep pregnant. Chris expected her to dump at any minute.

She put one hand against her bulbous torso and tilted her tearful eyes to his. I had to escape, she said. They want to take him away.

Well! Chris yelped. I'll tell you! But he didn't tell her. He didn't know what to tell. He just breathed a fog of frozen air into her desperate face.

He could take her to the church. Mary Jo and Chris could show up at the parish door looking for sanctuary in a cold, impersonal world. Father Rick would love that. Except that Chris wasn't likely to turn such an urchin over to the ham-fisted mercies of ecclesiastical propagandists. They'd turn her into a woo worshipper. Nietzsche had said that whoever lives near the church lives near a black pond out of which an ominous frog sings its song of sweet melancholy.

Okay, how does this sound? All free will and above board. I have a place not far from here. Maybe you could come up, get warm, have something to eat and maybe some cocoa. I know, it sounds like a line from a street pervert, but it's the best I can do.

I'm caught. You'll turn me in.

No, that's going the wrong way. Let's turn this conversation around, why don't we. This is where you get a reprieve so you can figure out what to do next.

You'll turn me in...

To whom? A hospital? A millionaire baby merchant? The government? Why would I turn you in to them? They all work for the Rockefellers.

He looked at her. She didn't see him. She stared at the cinderblock wall of the store, the stone wall of the church, the light at the back of the alley, the snow. She flitted her eyes from one to the other and seemed as thin as an eggshell.

Okay, Chris said, stepping away. I'm not trying to trap you. I'm trying to help you. But there're trust issues here, I can see that. I tell you what. I'm going to walk this way... He started to turn up the alley, back toward the street. I'm walking this way. My place is this way. I'm going there and you can go with me or you can follow or you can stay here. His back was to her. He trudged toward the sidewalk. You can come along or you can stay. But even if you stay, you can change your mind. You can follow my tracks.

He stopped at the sidewalk, sure she had fled a long time ago, had run down the alley and out the back. Of course, you can't wait too long. It's snowing, and coming down hard. If you wait too long, my tracks will be covered-- Oh, hi.

She stood close beside him. You won't turn me in?

Kim Jong Il said that loyalty comes not in a good situation, but in a difficult one.

You won't turn me in?

I won't turn you in.

I'll go with you.

#

They made the two-block trek to Chris's walk-up rental. Warm if uncomfortable in his tiny two-room apartment, Chris rooted about in his bedroom while Mary Jo settled out front. She sat in the best chair, an old, sagging Lazy-Boy recliner with scratchy plaid upholstery. She leaned over Chris's coffee table, where he usually ate his bachelor suppers and had just cleared the aluminum remains of leftovers. She clutched a mug close to her lips and sucked cocoa past wisps of steam.

Chris dug clothing out of his closet, drawers and hamper and brought them into the front room in plastic shopping bags. Mary Jo's clothes were worn, dirty and mismatched. They didn't fit, either, and Chris supposed they were stolen.

See, I have some sweats here and some t-shirts. They'll be big on you and way long, but they'll be clean, sort of. He held up his prized Vikings sweatshirt, but she showed no indication she noticed. She stared instead at the nineteen-inch TV buried under precarious stacks of books and magazines. PBS served up a religious historian who prattled on about the three magi intercut with location shots of the holy land. I'm sorry it isn't all spring fresh and whiter than white, but the laundromat is closed for the holiday.

She kept her eyes on the tube, but snaked one hand to the table to root among the bits of waste from her ham sandwich and chips.

Mary Jo? Chris called. Mary Jo? Nativity Metaphor Girl?

She brought a chip to her mouth and munched it. Her belly was like a beach ball held between her knees.

Chris stepped over and switched off the TV.

Mary Jo blinked, and looked at him.

We need to talk, Chris said. He cleared books from a straight back chair and sat down across the table from her. Have you thought about what you're going to do?

She looked at him. Her face was round and framed in matted brown hair. She might have had a big nose, or that could have been the metaphor acting on Chris's perceptions. And she was small. Chris was rangy, so he knew there was a perspective issue, but she looked small and helpless. And blank.

If you tell me who you're running from, maybe I could help. Or if you told me where you're running to.

Her expression remained unchanged.

You don't have to say a thing. I'm just suggesting. I hate to give you some clothes and shove you out the door.

My plans.

Right. That's it. What are your plans?

To run.

Chris deflated. She didn't trust him. Well, she seemed to trust him, but her words were evidence to the contrary. He slumped in his chair and laid out his palms in surrender. Okay. You run. Got any money? Because you aren't running far in a foot of snow. They wouldn't find your frozen popsicle of a body until spring.

She stared, that same blank expression that refused to let him in. But it was only for a moment, a split hair of a moment that ended with her nose scrunching in confusion.

What's money?

Excuse me?

Is it warm?

Excuse me?

What's popsicle?

Chris thought she was kidding him. She talked big, showing a façade of streetwise cynicism. What's money my ass, he thought. Don't need no money, babe. Money won't keep me warm. Just need a burning heart and the will to be free and--

But her face was innocence. She really wanted to know what money might be. And popsicles.

Who are you? he asked, and this time not for polite introduction.

Mary Jo.

No. I mean, yes, I get that. But, who are you?

She stared at him some more with that wall in her face that she didn't know was there.

I'm Mary Jo.

She didn't know who she was. No, that wasn't it. Chris leaned toward her over the table. Mary Jo, who's your mom and dad?

My what?

Where are you from?

She thought a moment. She turned to one wall, then the other, and pointed toward the bathroom. Over there.

She wasn't retarded, no. It wasn't that she didn't know who she was. She just didn't know. Anything.

No, she knew she was pregnant, and she knew what pregnant meant.

Mary Jo, have you named the baby?

She shook her head hard enough to spatter cocoa from the cup in her hand. "No, I don't name him. They name him."

And what did they name him?

They name him; it's the rule. They haven't named him yet.

Don't worry about the rule. You're out and away, so--

Number 683 is his number. They'll name him later, when they take him out.

What the hell?

She put down her mug and worked at cleaning up every crumb of her sandwich and chips. She licked a finger and stabbed it at the tiniest scraps, and lifted those to her tongue.

Chris stood. The movement made Mary Jo cringe.

Don't worry, I'm just going out.

Out?

He looked around for his coat. He had dropped it to the floor by the television. Sure. You know, out.

You need money, so they don't find your popsicle.

No, no, that's not-- Forget it. He worked into his coat. His head was starting to