A CHRISTMAS TALE IN 25 PARTS: PART ONE

Ah, December…! Here already…

I suppose that I’m going to need to find some kind of a story to tell in the run up to the big day. After all, this is what I do. Or at least, this is what I do now… Does anyone else really care whether I do have a story to tell or not, however…? And, perhaps more to the point, will anyone bother to read it, keep the narrative strings in their head, and let out a gasp of surprise when it finally reaches its exciting conclusion…?

Probably not…

Best keep it simple then.

That’s something to ponder upon as the story unfolds… or doesn’t. Perhaps, in the end, I simply won’t bother at all… Of course, the piece I wrote about not having written anything would now be pretty redundant if I did go ahead and recount some kind of a tale, so maybe I’ll just publish that instead. After all, it’s so hard to find the time to actually sit down and tell a story that maybe I won’t…

We live in an interesting metaphysical state… Perhaps that’s what the story ought to be about…? A story that exists in a quantum state, in which the reading of it proves that I didn’t actually write it…

No, that’s far too complicated. Keep it simple, stupid.

Just tell a simple story about a man in a room.

Fair enough.

Well, we’re going to need a protagonist, and, because it’s me, he really ought to have a suitably unchristmassy name. I know! Let’s call him, for the sake of having nothing better to call him, Mr Snatch. After all, it’s a name that sounds just a tiny bit rude under certain conditions, and, perhaps just a little bit angry, too. It sounds like a very good name for a miserable git which is, of course, what he has to be for the story to unfold properly as it should, assuming that we can find a story to tell…

Mr Snatch (for it is he) switched off the TV set and sighed.

Oh come on! It has to be at least a little bit about telly, at least in some way. After all, telly is just about the only thing I really know anything about. Well, watching it at least.

Tom and Barbara had just berated Margo for having her “Christmas in a van” as they had done for as many years as Mr Snatch could remember.

Ah yes! People will remember that reference, won’t they…? Of course, anyone coming across this little tale might now be thinking that our story is trying very hard to be as contemporary as the author likes to think he is… Which is, of course, not very.

He wondered whether anyone might appear today.

So what does he look like, this Mr Snatch? Well, I suppose, spindly. I guess that’s a given, but Whoa! Wait! What’s this…?

With a reluctance born mainly out of apathy, he placed his top hat and goggles upon his head, shrugged on his overcoat, and began once more to climb the many rickety stepladders and old staircases which he had salvaged and roped together so that he could manage his twice daily climb up to the very top of the white iron tower to the tiny platform on which he kept his brass telescope.

Because, to no surprise to the reader at all, this “Mr Snatch” is living in a “post-apocalyptic” landscape, and therefore, as far as he knows, he is utterly, utterly alone.

I’m so festive and full of Christmassy cheer, aren’t I…?

This might make the arrival of Santy Claus into our little narrative a tad unlikely, but then Chrimbletide is a time for miracles and magic, so you never know.

He shivered (it being midwinter) and pulled his muffler tightly about his throat as he felt a sharp wind cutting into his exposed skin, before placing the lenses of his goggles against the eyepieces and surveying the battered grey landscape until he had covered every direction. It was always the same, day in, day out; Never a hint of another life, never a wisp of smoke rising over any of the distant horizons, never the remotest possibility of ever having a conversation with another human soul.

He sighed a sad little sigh to himself, and opened up his ledger, scratching a mark onto one of the pages with the precious stub of pencil he kept precisely for that purpose. Me let out a mournful little “huh!” when he realised just how close to Christmas it was. He glanced down towards his feet, wondering whether it might be just a tad too optimistic to hang one or other of them next to the stove overnight at the appropriate time, and decided against it.

The warmth they gave to his toes was gift enough for him, and if that meant putting off another firewood hunt for a few more days, then that was fine by him. That thought reminded him that he needed to head down into the basement and wind up the generator again if he was going to be able to rewind that battered old tape again and get another jolly dose of Tom, Barbara and Margo.

He really wished that he could remember how that episode had ended, but the only part of the tape that would ever play was the first ten minutes, and the picture was getting worse every time. Perhaps, he considered, he ought to restrict himself to only one viewing a day for a while, at least until Christmas, but the thought of hearing no other voices at all for two days or more really didn’t bear thinking about. He was beginning to think that another trek out to the old landfill site might be in order because he might just get lucky and find another old tape.

Then he froze stock-still as, behind him, he heard a creak coming from the stairs…