My Cardboard Balcony

Black Ship by Belinda Roddie A shadowy vessel emerged on our shores seven hours into Christmas morning. From its maw, six pirates disembarked, all burdened with boxes and parcels. We half-expected chests of gold as we watched them hobble onto the sand, but instead, we were greeted with far more appropriate gifts and treats. Fresh, clean fabric for making shirts, furs and pelts for hats and accessories. Crates of chocolate and other sweets from countries we had never heard of. Bells and instruments to play while we sang the carols of our land. And of course, bottle after bottle of fine ale, wine, rum, and mead. We knew that these buccaners had come not to raid but to provide, and we offered them new swords and pistols so that their war on water could be a bit easier to manage. After all, it was Christmas, and even rascals need a break to celebrate. A toast to the rogues of the black ship - just don't get under the mistletoe with any of them.

I got an ornament for Christmas this year, but I never bought a Christmas tree. My mother bought me new socks and a shirt, which I appreciated it, of course. My father didn't show up until after we had eaten dinner, and he was totally baked, of course, and my two brothers got into a shouting match with him because their "good Christian souls" were negatively impacted by his love for weed. And I just dangled my new ornament in front of our obese tabby cat so he could swat at it while the "good will toward men" raged on by the front door.

Elsewhere by Belinda Roddie There's a circle drawn on Christmas Eve a circle that leads to a winding staircase of ice a portal that draws us into a festival in a tiny village where people are thankful for what they have There's a circle drawn on Christmas Eve They are celebrating They drink hot tea mulled cider and they eat the stale cookies from last year yet the royal icing somehow still tastes sweet as two girls kiss under wilted mistletoe There's a circle drawn an infinity is hidden in rain and ice in a blizzard that reduces vision to white and in the static you hear the hiss of a fire that still burns despite the withering splinters There's a circle drawn an etching, a basic rune that reminds you of your first gift: a bauble from your grandmother silver and sapphire Her hair was crowned with red light and green holly She smiled when you laughed and the whole world felt as light as the orb cupped in your tiny hands...

I found a Christmas card in my locker after finishing my last final, which had been a grueling two hours of algebraic equations and sad attempts at understanding the fundamentals of trigonometry. I half expected to open the envelope and dump glitter out, given that my friend Chuck was prone to silly pranks and tricks to make me laugh for the first time in an entire week. Instead, the card was simple, yet sentimental - a beautiful hand drawn Yule tree on the front, with simple, "Best wishes," on the inside. But no name.

While the children drank hot cocoa and egg nog, the adults all convened around the kitchen counter, pouring themselves glasses of beer and wine and partaking in the smells wafting from the oven. As I refilled my uncle's glass with Cabernet, I began to notice how much he was already beginning to slur, and I dreaded the idea that I could be enabling a bad habit. Luckily, my grandpa winked at me before telling his son, "That's the last glass you get tonight, my boy."

by Belinda Roddie He will break bread with us, and he will refill tired bottles with life as sweet and plentiful as our prayers. We will offer him our finest bed, but he shall demur, and he will rest his head on the wooden floor instead. And when he sleeps, he will sing - his body will shake with the hymns of his dreams, his chest rising like a heat wave and igniting the tired bones beneath with music. I will notice how weary he is then - how emaciated and haggard he looks, as if he is thirty but has aged to look like he is fifty. I will fight back the desire to cut his hair, to trim his beard, to pinch and pluck his eyebrows, even, as they descend close to his still fluttering lids. I will ponder filling a basin with hot water to soak his weathered brown body in - that misshapen flesh, baked by too many treks in the desert, scarred too much by the caressing hand of the devil. And then I will see his open wounds. That famed stigmata on the palms of his hands - it will stand out t...

Let's make a blanket fort in the living room. Let's set up thirteen Christmas trees, string up so many lights that we'll glow like a multicolored sunrise. Let's build a gingerbread house, laughing at the fact that we certainly couldn't be architects in the real world, but hey - gumdrop roofs are a great aesthetic in Winter Wonderland Real Estate. Then let's make tea and cocoa and watch the classic films again and again.