The Ghost of Christmas Present

O Holy Night! The stars are brightly shining, 
It is the night of the dear Saviour's birth.

Christmas Eve was dead silent. Beneath an underpass in the freezing cold, an indigent man huddled in a makeshift lean-to made of tarp and cinder blocks. Unbeknownst to him, less than twenty feet away, Joe watched and waited. He peeled off his gloves and removed his mask, tucking them all into the void of his dry-suit. He made his way towards the homeless man with a predatory gleam in his eye.

Long lay the world in sin and error pining. 
Till He appeared and the Spirit felt its worth. 

The man shivered violently as Joe stood invisibly above him. Joe leaned in close to inspect the man's features. Disheveled but not too worn, more likely a victim of bad fortune than bad habits. A man who might have once enjoyed a life of privileged before fate cruelly ripped it away. He fit the bill, perfectly.

A thrill of hope the weary world rejoices, 
For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn. 

Joe positioned himself over the man. He gently placed his left hand on the man's cheeks right at the corner of his jaw. The vagrant opened his eyes and stared in horror at the monster caressing his face. He opened his mouth to scream and just as he did, Joe's right hand plunged into his mouth up to the wrist.

Fall on your knees! Oh, hear the angels voices!

The man struggled to breath, staring a Joe with eyes that cried for mercy, but the only response was the frozen corpse inching his fingers ever further down the man's throat.

O night divine, the night when Christ was born

Finally the struggling ceased. The homeless man's blue lips and glazed eyes told Joe all he needed to know.

O night, O holy night, O night divine!

A few drops of frozen blood fell on the man's chest. Joe wiped his face, replaced his mask and gloves, and began to wrap the man up in the tarp of his lean-to.

Dark Depths

Joe approached the pools, the shriveled skin of his feet scratching at the concrete of the floors. He walked up to the edge of the pool and began to disrobe. He took off his apron, folded it neatly and placed it on the ledge. The same was done with the rest of his clothes. He slid into the water which immediately went tepid upon contact, little bits of frost forming on the moist stone around the water.

Joe swam to the center and when he got there rested a moment in a 'dead man's float'. He looked around in the water. He thought he saw something moving in the dark of the depths but it could have just have easily had been his imagination. He turned to float on his back.

"Kyrie, eleison," as the words escaped his lips he began to sink, the air in his lungs the only thing which kept his body buoyant.

"Christe, eleison," he sank deeper and deeper. Soon the light from above faded and concepts like "up" or "down" became meaningless in the sensory deprivation of the pools.

"Kyrie, eleison," as Joe finished, he bounced gently against the bottom of the pool. In the inky blackness of the depths, it was as if the world had ended and only he was left. Joe pondered whether or not that was a good thing as ice slowly began to envelope him.

Who Wants Cake?

It was approaching midnight when Joe made it to where he was going. It had taken a little bit of doing to get over the walls without anyone noticing but he had an appointment to keep, so that was that. 

He looked around trying to find who he was there to meet. They all sort of looked alike after a while, so it took him some time to find who he was looking for but eventually, he made it to the spot. He took from inside his coat, a black brick wrapped in plastic. He removed the saran-wrap and put the little E-Z Bake Oven chocolate cake on the ground. He produced a candle and a book of matches. He placed the candle in the cake and lit the match with a slight flinch. He lit the candle then removed his mask.

"Happy birthday to you.
 Happy birthday to you.
 Happy birthday dear Ralphie.
 Happy birthday to you."

The graveyard was silent as Joe watched the candle flicker in the wind and then die out.

Idle Hands

It would take four hours for the lacquer to dry.

After cleaning his hands, Joe spent the time by tacking up a map. For most people, this is a task which required a map and some tacks. For Joe, it required a map, tacks, a pencil, a "Mars Plastic" eraser, a measuring square, a level, painter's tape, a furniture dolly, a tape measure, tracing paper, a slide ruler, several cardboard boxes boxes, and an electronic stud finder (which he had never used but gave him some peace of mind to have on hand). Once the map was up Joe still had two and a half hours before he could go back to his other project so he considered the map.

He poured through his shelves and pulled out six reference books, each of which was fastidiously laid to a particular page and placed equidistant from the others on his desk. He traced routes with his fingers, some the map showed, some seemingly visible only to him. After each route, he'd consult one of the books, write something down in a small leather-bound journal and go back to the map.

"Maybe..." before he could finish, the kitchen timer which told him the lacquer had set went off. He put each of the books back on the shelf, put the journal away, and packed up the little model. He turned off the light and locked the door behind him.

Going to a Party

Joe sat down at the desk and brushed off the various maps and books that littered it. He opened a drawer and pulled out some stationary.

Felicitations on your nuptials!

Joe crumpled the piece of paper and threw it away. "Who says nuptials anymore? C'mon old man. Think!"  He pulled out a new sheet of paper.

Congrats on getting hitched!

"Too much," he said scratching out what he had written and putting the pen down. He tapped his temple pensively, the muscles of his finger making a faint noise like the stretching of a guitar string.

Joe's eyes wandered around the room, taking in the workbench, the wardrobe, finally resting on the pictures on the wall above his bed. He walked over to them, his attention transfixed on an old black and white photo of a couple on their wedding day.

He took it off the wall, kissed it, and tucked it into his coat. He turned off the light, and locked the door behind him.

This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things

Tonight's project was a table.

Last night's project was a rocking horse. He liked working on the rocking horse but it was painted and delivered and the table wasn't going to fix itself. He surveyed the gash in the table. It was pretty deep. It probably wouldn't sand out. He fingered the scar in the table as he looked at the shelves that lined the room. He picked up a box of wood putty and read the instructions. He looked at the table, then reread the instructions.

He filled in the crack, then got dressed to go out. It was going to take a couple hours to cure, and he had errands he could run in the meanwhile. "Butcher block next time," he said to himself. He turned off the light and locked the door behind him