If you’re still eating leftover turkey, you might be fresh out of Christmas cheer. But stick with me – I’ve got a serve of short fiction chock-full of authentic Christmasocity. (I’m pretty sure that should be a word…)
The AWC’s Furious Fiction writing challenge for December was to write a <500 word story which:
· took place on Christmas Eve in either 1968 or 2068,
· included the words ‘it was gone in a flash’,
· had the first and final words rhyme.
Tricksy. You can check out the winner and shortlisted entries, or read on, below the bling, for my tale of a totally authentic 1968 Christmas according to entertainment experts in 2068.
Great Expectations smouldered but Martin Chuzzlewit was gone in a flash.
“Nothing like a good Dickens to get the fire blazing,” Rush said.
“Tradition, innit?” Anavrin’s knee-high, white vinyl boots gleamed in the firelight.
“On my eye, we always burned Dickens for Christmas when I was a kipper.” Jake forced a chuckle.
“Cut!” La-A screeched. “It’s nipper! Oh aye and nipper!”
Morez darted between the symbi-stars with an extinguisher and sprayed foam on the fire.
“Chi-chi.” La-A grinned at him. “We don’t need another carbon fine after that fracking turkey set off the alarms.” Her smile fell away as she rounded on the oldest symbi. “This is streaming tomorrow, Jake. For Christmas, memahami? We’ll get a viral-load symbiote interface if History 4Most corplug it.”
“Which they won’t if you snarf up the jargon,” Anavrin muttered.
“People want the authentic experience, mate.” Rush gripped Jake’s shoulder. “It’s why they sym it.”
“So, let’s sym it.” La-A’s holo-nails flashed lightning at her fingertips. “Tell me your nodes all veer-checked the fire.”
The men nodded. Anavrin tugged at her grotesquely patterned sweater. “Yeah, but this costume cooks. Did they have an Ice Age in the 1960s?”
“Morez, drop the ambient,” La-A ordered, fingers tapping on her palm plate. “We can’t risk another fire take, so the Grandad’s reminiscing’s out. Places for…” She checked the scene feed and smirked. “Parlour games. No challenge here, Jake – you’re napping on the sofa. Tilly, we need the Mother on set.”
“It was cold back then,” Jake said, shuffling to position. “Even when I was a kid, it was cooler.”
He lowered himself onto the pad which protected the antique fabric and waited until Tilly had walked past in her orange and purple pantsuit costume before he stretched out his legs.
“Cool?” Anavrin snorted. “At Christmas? I don’t think so.”
“Must have been colder a hundred years ago,” Jake said, closing his eyes. “I remember Grandad saying they didn’t even have air-conditioners. Mustn’t have needed them.”
Rush and Tilly fussed with vape sticks disguised as old-style cigarettes and Anavrin snorted again.
“No air-con? And stupid-hot snowflake sweaters? And cancer sticks? You’re trolling me.”
“If it wasn’t cold, why’d they have all those songs about it snowing?” Jake said.
Anavrin opened her mouth to answer but Morez tapped a button and some whisky-voiced dude started singing about dashing through the snow. She scowled instead.
“Perfect, Anavrin,” La-A said. “Just cross your arms. The researchers said by 1968 all teenagers hated the charades. Veer nodes to record?” They synched and she checked the feed. “Remember, we want merry and bright. People sym for an authentic, historical Christmas experience. Three, two, one – sym it!”
Tilly opened and closed her hands and placed two fingers on her forearm, then tapped one.
“Book title.” Rush leaned forward. “Two words. First word.”
Anavrin rolled her eyes as Tilly tugged on one ear and tapped her wrist.
“Sounds like…” Rush frowned. “Could it be watch? Time? Late?”