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Gifts for Good Friends: The Christmas Stories 1992-2001
During the 1992 Christmas season I decided to send a short story to everyone I knew.
At the time my "friends and associates" list contained about 100 names. I couldn't afford to send gifts to all of them, at least not gifts of any real value. But I could afford to give of my time and write something.
Choosing a subject to write about was easy. The first actual hurdle I faced was convincing myself that anyone would read the story when it arrived. I hoped that an attractively-designed book/card could entice them.
My short story stretched into a medium-length one and its subject matter -- the sad lives of four troubled children -- was not exactly light holiday fare. But I trusted my instincts, made 100+ booklets of A Windy Day, and mailed them out.
My friends seemed excited by my card/gift. None had ever received such a thing before and many expressed hope that I would do it again. My very own Christmas tradition was born.
As of this writing I have published ten Christmas stories and hope to continue publishing them annually for as long as I live. The act of writing, designing, and actually making the books myself has invigorated all of my work -- screenwriting, playwriting, directing, acting, painting, filmmaking, photography -- in a beautiful and exciting way.
Some of these stories I put into other forms either before or after their yuletide publication. Teenagers From Outer Space! and So Much Snow began life as treatments for stage musicals (and may take that form again someday). Mailmen! and Terwilliger Kernagan were originally written as episodes for television shows. Santa's Letters was adapted for the screen, then the stage, then the screen again. In 2002 Santa's Letters became my feature motion picture writing, directing, and executive producing debut.
Some years I dread the task of writing my Christmas story; other years I look forward to it. The deadline at first seems terribly far in the future -- why rush? -- then springs upon me suddenly. Some years I design the booklet itself very lavishly and other years I just use a tried-and-true "working" layout to get the job done quickly. Some years I include my photographs and paintings; some I don't.
My Christmas stories have provided me with a laboratory in which to dabble. I am free to flesh out a tale, to try a new direction or genre, and I am free to fail.
Some changes worth noting:
Rock And Roll's Tale is a major overhaul of my 1994 story Rock And Roll's Scrapbook. Although their plots are identical, Scrapbook is literally a scrapbook of fictional newspaper articles, notes, memos, and e-mails between the characters while Tale takes a more conventional linear approach.
I have omitted my 1998 Christmas story Clawdette The Cat because I am currently readying dear Clawdette for publication as a full-color children's picture book. In her place I have included a never-before-published play called Peace and Quiet which I wrote in honor of Easter season activities at a friend's church but which is also appropriate for Christmas time.
Something is happening to the children of Greymalkin -- something wonderful! Twelve-year-old Richard's closest friends are disappearing, one by one. Richard must find them! His search leads him to an amazing discovery -- and new hope for his own, troubled life.
Judy spoke Spanish at home. Her mother was always friendly and welcoming but often we had no idea what she was saying. Judy filled us in later.
Her father was a loud, jolly man who worked as a carpenter and plumber. His income was relatively high so Judy and her sisters had a steady supply of new dresses and toys. Judy preferred her old clothes.
At her eleventh birthday party, Judy unwrapped her father's gift while fourteen pairs of eyes, including her parents', looked on. The markings on the large box were from a boutique in Mexico City. She gently shook out the most beautiful dress any of us had ever seen: a blue and white vision fashioned from soft, gauzy cotton and trimmed in lace.
While the rest of us gasped in wonder, Judy's mother looked grim for some reason. Her father asked Judy over and over "¿Te gusta? ¿Te gusta?" ("Do you like it?"), but got no answer except tears in his daughter's eyes. They didn't look like tears of happiness.
Judy had some strange habits. She kept her money in her sock, which was probably why we never borrowed from her. She and her family locked their doors and windows with religious fervor even when they were home and awake. And she harbored a deep mistrust of adults which would have been understandable in a large city but not in our town of 25,000 people.
I guess Judy realized how much I liked the blue and white dress her father gave her because she wore it to my twelfth birthday party. The fact that she was willing to wear it for me even though she'd cried when she first saw it made me feel honored.
When I saw her in that dress that day, her dark hair swept fetchingly to one side and her intelligent, even sensuous brown eyes gazing at me, I was speechless.
I had a great time at the party but couldn't even look at Judy, much less speak to her. When I unwrapped her gift, a book on how to make paper airplanes, I could only offer a vague nod of thanks in her general direction.
That made Judy cry.
Aunt Sandy was chaperoning the party as a favor to my dad, and she dragged me out onto the back porch where Judy waited, still tearful. I was to apologize.
I could not. I simply could not form words. I felt as though I was in the presence of Mother Nature herself.
Minutes ticked by as we faced each other. I remember the shoes Judy wore that day very well because that was the only part of her I could look at (white leather with pointed toes). Inside the house, curious whispering swelled.
Aunt Sandy demanded an explanation. I whispered, "She's too pretty to talk to," and ran back inside.
A few minutes later, as we were finishing a round of Hide-and-Seek, Aunt Sandy led Judy back inside.
For the rest of the party Judy would not look at me, either.
Ten-year-old Edward Krieger doesn't want
Santa Claus to stop by this year. Why not? Because there's too
much yelling at his house.
Claus himself writes back: "Ed, you
threw Santa Claus for a loop. The last time somebody told me not
to come, the guy's name was Scrooge. I had to send out three of
my best people to work him over."
Thus begins an innocent correspondence.
But Mr. Claus is a busy man, and Edward is busy himself, growing
up, beginning to notice a certain Miss Shannon Lunt... and helping
his family through a rough time.
Through his letters, Santa inspires Eddie
to bring Christmas to his family and friends all year long...
even when that means doing something yucky like telling his big
sister that he loves her. Of course, Santa picks up a few pointers
along the way from his young protégé as well.
But as Eddie's family continues to struggle
with loss and new hopes, Eddie asks one more Christmas wish of
The Fellow In The Red Suit.
This time Eddie needs a real miracle.
This story served as the basis for Mr. Loverde's stage and screen adaptations of the same name.
January 28
Dear Santa,
Sorry it's took so long for me to write back, but my sister Maureen ran away from home for a couple days so we had to find her. Shes 13 and shes always mad at me. I cant ever do anything write. Shes mad at Dad a lots, too. I think she misses my Mom.
I guess it's hard to keep track of all us kids. I'm sorry I got all mad at you because you forgot I only had one more sister sides Ingrid.
Dad thinks it's really cool that you write back and stuff. I showed him your letters and stuff and he whistled and said that those people were really bending over backward. I figure he meant your elves. Do they do gimnasticks?
I was brave today like you said. I told my teacher Miss Schmall that I didn't think I should get in trouble because I laffed when Andy pushed Annabelle's face into her masht potatos at lunch because she was saying stuff about Andy's clothes that he got for Christmas and stuff. It was funny. Some potato even got up her nose. Miss Schmall looked at me like I was from Marz or something when I told her about it wasnt fair, but she didn't send me to the princibal's office like she sent Annabelle and Andy.
I guess you can see I cant spell too good. I'm trying to learn. I hope you can read my letters any way.
Ingrid plays Nintendo all the time now. Shes really good. She lets me play some times. She askd Dad for another game. He said maybe on her birthday (in Auguts).
I miss my Mom but people dont yell so much any more. But we all still miss her. I hope you are good and your wife is too. Do you go some where after Christmas, like to Florida or something? Say hi to the elves and the rain deer and stuff for me.
Love,
Edward
P.S. I am sending you the photo we took with you at the mall this year. How come you didn't recognize me?
January 31
Dear Edward,
It's none of Santa's business, but I'm curious why Maureen ran away. Didn't she like what I brought her this Christmas?
Mrs. Claus, the elves, the reindeer, and I continue working all year long. Many children are needy outside of Christmas time, so we send our other friends to help them the rest of the year, like the Easter Bunny and the Great Pumpkin. Since Santa has the "big list", the others come to me to find out who needs a special treat or just a smile.
We do take a month off every August to go to Saratoga for the racing season, but we travel incognito to avoid the paparazzi.
I want you to do something for me, Edward -- something very brave and very special. You can be an "honorary elf"!
I want you to ask your sister Maureen not to run away again because if she does you'll miss her a lot, and you'll be sad. Tell her that, even though she thinks that you can't do anything right (Santa does not agree with that), you love her and want her to talk to you if she ever thinks about running away again.
Thirteen is a tough age. Be a good brother for Maureen and maybe she'll be a good sister for you when you're thirteen. I know this is mushy stuff to say, but I bet you can handle it.
Thank you for the photograph of you and your sisters sitting on my lap at the mall. Tell your sisters I think they are very pretty and you look just like the strong young man you are.
I'm sorry that I didn't remember you when I saw you in person, but you all had grown so much since the previous year that I didn't recognize you. This photo will be placed in your file so I'll never forget you again.
It's almost Valentine's Day -- do you have someone picked out to send a special card to? Carnations are nice, too.
Say hi to your Dad for me, and to your Mom next time you see her.
Love,
Santa
Of Santa's Letters, one reviewer raved: "I thoroughly enjoyed this sweet tale of a little boy who really wants his family to stay together. I had tears in my eyes when he asked Santa Claus for... well, I'm not going to tell you, but it really touched me. A wonderful new twist on the old legend of St. Nick."
What happens to pet birds when
they escape from their humans' houses?
When eight-year-old Nicholas'
lively young parakeet Rock And Roll aims for the head of Nicholas'
mother just as she bends down to open a window on a particularly
hot day, the bird shoots right out into a big, wild world far
beyond anything he ever expected.
Rock And Roll is tossed into Smog
City, the birds' version of Los Angeles, right before the launch
of their ambitious plans to contact the human race... in spite
of the danger that may include.
Will Rock And Roll's repeated
attempts to reunite with Nicholas "fowl-up" birdland's
plans?
"Mom, look!" shouted Nicholas first thing the next morning. "A note! Rock And Roll left me a note!"
Nancy stepped out onto the patio, her bathrobe wrapped around her and a mug of coffee in her hand. "Read it. What does it say?"
His fingers trembling with excitement, Nicholas opened the small envelope. He pulled out a card that featured a hand-drawn picture of a parakeet on the cover. He opened the card and read it aloud.
Dear Nicholas,
I'm sorry I had to go away. I don't think I'm going to come back, but I miss you. You're my best friend. I didn't go away because of anything you did.
Love,
Rock And Roll.
Nicholas looked up at his mother sadly. "Why won't he ever come back?" he asked.
Nancy answered, "Nicholas, he's a bird. Maybe he wants to see what it's like living with other birds." She smiled. "He still calls you his best friend," she said as she put the card under the open window for everyone to look at.
The next day during breakfast, Millie and her family explained to Rock And Roll that birds called the city in which they lived "Smog City", while the captors called it "Los Angeles". Chloe warned Rock And Roll that some of the other birds might make fun of his name and tell him to change it.
"Why?" he asked.
She cocked her head to one side as though she were shrugging. "I don't know," she said.
"Do you think I should change it?"
"No," said Chloe. "I like your name. It's fun, like you are."
Then Rock And Roll asked Millie whether any of the birds could help him find his way back to Nicholas and his mother.
Millie was grave. "I don't think they'll let you go back to your captors," she said.
"Why not?" asked Rock And Roll.
"Because," said Lucas, "captors keep birds in cages, and sometimes they eat them."
Rock And Roll's eyes widened in surprise. "They eat birds? Why?" he asked.
"Maybe because we taste good," said Lucas.
Rock And Roll stared at the floor of the nest sadly, which Chloe noticed. "Maybe humans just don't know how smart we are," she said cheerily. "But they will!"
Millie nodded. "In December they'll know. At the time humans call 'Christmas'."
"Are we going to talk to them?" asked Rock And Roll.
"We sure are," said Lucas.
"Daddy's on the Advance Team that's going to make the first contact," announced Chloe proudly.
"We're going to speak to just a few of them, and then those few will tell others," said Lucas.
The tiny world of a pond is the setting for a ten-year-old boy's magical adventure.
He sat on a flat rock near the water's edge and unwrapped a turkey sandwich. It had gotten flattened and soggy in his jacket pocket, but he wolfed it down anyway, since he considered austerity and peril the hardened explorer's daily curse.
Blip! A slap of water so quiet it would have gone unnoticed in the world outside The Hills.
Evan looked down at the surface of the pond. Though mirror-smooth in patches, much of it was scabbed by plant life: tiny water lilies, bold reeds, lacy green doilies of what looked like clover. Also borne upon the water's sheath was a pair of enormous fish eggs.
Those weren't fish eggs -- they were eyes. The eyes of a frog. And the pupils seemed to follow Evan's movements attentively.
Evan didn't want to catch the frog; he hoped to meet it. Talk with it. Find out how things were down in the pond. Apologize for all the noise that airplanes made.
Without moving a muscle save his mouth's, he spoke quietly. "Sorry about the mess."
The frog's eyes continued to follow him intently; it made no move to leave.
Emboldened, Evan continued. "You're probably wondering why I'm here." I sound like a dork, he said to himself. "Um...what's it like in there? Under the water, I mean?"
Evan, you dunce, he thought, the frog can't hear you because his ears are underwater -- aren't they? Or do frogs have ears on top of their eyes so they can see and hear --
"Come on in."
He heard the words clearly in the crisp morning air.
Could the frog have spoken them? The voice was deep and croaky, but...
As Evan watched, the frog raised its head above the water's surface enough to say, "Come on in and see what it's like," in its resonant voice.
Evan gasped in astonishment. Things like this just didn't happen -- or did they? He'd only been alive ten years; it was possible that he had yet to see everything.
"Hurry up and come in," advised the frog, its voice touched by impatience.
"How?" asked Evan.
"Jump. It's the best way I know."
Not having conferred with many frogs, Evan was unsure whether he could trust this one. So, instead of jumping in, he reached down and poked a finger into the water.
As his finger entered the pond, it seemed to disappear.
Perplexed, Evan thrust in his whole hand. It, too, disappeared.
The frog rolled its eyes. "Don't trust me, do you? Just be careful you don't lose your balance."
Evan didn't pay attention; he was too busy being amazed. He could feel the cold water against his skin, and the liquid resisted when he wiggled his fingers, but his hand was invisible except for a tiny image just below the water's surface. An optical illusion?
He thrust in his arm. It, too, disappeared save a tiny arm to match the tiny hand.
Evan stuck in his other arm, which vanished in the same manner.
Suddenly Evan lost his balance and tumbled into the two-foot-deep pond head-first. He braced himself for impact with the slimy rocks strewn about the bed of the pond...
...but he hit nothing, just descended further and further into bluish depths.
Instinctively, he waved his arms and kicked his legs, and soon was swimming quite naturally. He opened his eyes, and found he could see well, too. And, most remarkable of all, he could breathe water!
Spotting his old friend still up bobbing about at the surface, Evan swam toward the frog, who ducked into the water and propelled down to meet him.
"What happened?" asked Evan.
The frog shrugged (as best he could). "You asked what it was like in here. Now you know."
"But how did I... Did you... How did I get..?"
The frog laughed. "Evan, does it matter? You're here. And we could use your help." He turned and swam downward.
Evan followed. "How did you know my name?"
"My name? Vincent. Call me Vinnie," said the frog as it sped away. "And speak up -- sound doesn't travel as well down here."
Evan thought he'd heard that just the opposite was true, but couldn't remember where.
"Vinnie the Frog"?
One reviewer called The Blue Pond "A magical and funny story about a 10-year-old who saves a pond from a predatory kingfisher. One of a collection of well-written stories by author Emmett Loverde."
They look just like us, but they
dance better -- and they have ray guns.
Heads up.
A few moments later the three reached the clearing where the ship landed. But there was nothing to be seen.
"Where's the ship?" asked Sheila.
Arex reached down and picked up a tiny round object about the size of a toy car. "This is it."
"That's a little small," said Sheila.
Nessa shot her a withering look. "We have advanced technology," she gloated.
"So?" sneered Sheila. "We have big ships!"
"Miniaturization," said Arex. "Your planet will discover it soon. It makes things easier." He put the tiny ship into his pocket.
"My dad says miniaturization is impossible," said Sheila. "He read it in a book."
"Can we go inside?" sighed Nessa. "If we're going to argue, let's not freeze to death, too."
Sheila shrugged. "You can come to my house if you want. Just don't, you know, do anything weird." She looked at Nessa. "My mother has a wig you could probably borrow. I don't know what we're going to do about him, though."
As Sheila led the aliens away, Hank stepped out of the bushes, his eyes wild with horrifying theories. "They brainwashed her!" he thought. "They're taking her hostage!" Thoroughly juiced, he ran off toward the sheriff's office.
June Hayden, Sheila's mother, lay dozing in front of the television when her daughter crept through the living room with two bald strangers in tow.
When they snuck back through moments later, one now sporting a somewhat outdated platinum pageboy, June was just waking up.
She stood, yawned, and ambled toward the kitchen to start dinner. There she found her daughter fiddling with the dirty dreadlocks of an otherwise nice-looking boy while a grumpy blonde monitored.
"Hi mom!" Sheila volunteered cheerily.
"Good evening, sweetie," June answered. "Are your friends joining us for dinner?"
"Oh, uh" Sheila glanced at the two aliens, who shook their heads.
"Please do," said June. "We're having macaroni and cheese -- Sheila's favorite!"
"Mom! Mac and cheese make me gain blobs of weight!"
"Don't be silly you look wonderful," June assured her. "Aren't you going to introduce me?"
"Mom, this is, uh..." She didn't know his name!
"Arex," he said with a smile.
"And this is his girlfuh..."
"Nessa," said Nessa. "His fiancée."
"Well, you lucky thing, you!" June grinned devilishly. "Maybe you can get him to wash that mop!"
"Oh -- do you need it back?" Arex reached up to his head, about to remove the orphaned appliance.
"No!" shouted Sheila. "No -- everything's fine." She added in a whisper, "Don't take that off, whatever you do!"
"Are you sure you're not hungry?" asked June. "It'll be ready in a skoshe."
"What's a 'skoshe'?" asked Arex.
"One of mom's weird words."
"A skoshe," said June, "a dash, a second. In a jiffy."
"We can't deal with your food," said Nessa.
Instantly dying several additional deaths, Sheila added, "Allergies."
"Complexion," Nessa volunteered.
Trying to be helpful, Arex added, "Nerves." Sheila died again.
"Too bad," said June sympathetically. "Are you both high strung?"
"No," answered Nessa sunnily. "Just extraterrestrial."
Sheila began nudging the two toward the back door. "Ma, is Miss James still out of town?"
"Yes, till tomorrow evening."
"Well, uh, we're just going up to have a look at that clogged-up drain she mentioned."
"What drain? I never heard --"
"I must have erased the message," said Sheila. "Arex here has a gizmo that fixes everything."
"I don't know that it will function on plumbing..."
"Out we go!" sang Sheila, grabbing the spare key to Miss James' apartment off the nail as she herded them through the door.
Once outside, Arex turned to Sheila, a troubled look on his face. "Sheila, I don't think my instrument can --"
"I just needed an excuse to get in," she said as she led them up the steps to the apartment above the garage. "You guys can sleep here tonight." She grinned. "After we get back from The Big Dance." She opened the door and they entered.
"What are you talking about?" asked Arex.
"I'm not sure I want to know, Arex," said Nessa, removing her wig. "These people are bizarre, these wigs are hideous, and this planet's ridiculous. Can we go home?"
"Nessa," he urged, "this might be our one chance to see how Earth teenagers dance! That's why we came in the first place!"
"I just came to get away from my parents. You've got some weird fetish."
"In about two hours," said Sheila, "there's going to be this huge gathering at my school -- with music and lots of people -- and everyone will be dancing! You'll love it so much, you won't ever want to go back home!"
"We only have enough food to last about twenty-four Earth hours," admitted Arex.
"Well, whatever!" Sheila exclaimed. "Let's get you fixed up."
"What's wrong with the way we're dressed?" demanded Nessa.
"Nothing," said Sheila. "It's fine for the street, but at a dance you have to look hot."
"Hot? How do we look hot?" asked Arex.
"It's just an expression," said Nessa.
"He doesn't pick things up as easily as you do, does he?"
"No," Nessa nodded, "but he has other qualities." She gave Arex a knowing wink, and Sheila was startled to feel a twinge of jealousy...
One critic published this four-star (out of five) review of Teenagers From Outer Space: "Well-written and entertaining. Good stuff for pre-teens and young adolescents, especially the bored version who would love to have dancing aliens visit their town."
A young boy comes to terms with the many changes in his and his mother's lives one very eventful summer.
You play steel drums by hitting the pencil things on all these bumps all over the top of each garbage can and each bump sounds different and when you hit the bumps in the right order they sound like music. And when everyone is hitting bumps at the same time it sounds like a symphony.
Not much more happened last summer cept the time I tried to swim in the mud and Nick really let me have it. Tami got caught swimming with me well not with me but she was going swimming at the same time and we planned it that way but I mean it wasn't like a date or anything. We both got on our swimming trunks and tried to swim and kick our legs and stuff which I guess probly looked pretty stupid cause we were just lying on top and slapping our feet and we didn't go anywhere. Man did we get muddy! It was funny but then Nick came so it got serious. But me and Tami were still busting up.
When camp was over my Mom came up to get me but first they made all the parents watch this show where us kids sang songs and played instruments. Mom brought some strange man up with her and she told me his name but I forgot. When he went to the bathroom I said Mom what's the deal with this guy and she said well I kind of like him and I said but do you like him like him like really like him and she said I don't know which I thought was way stupid I mean my Mom's not stupid but I sure know if I like somebody but then he came back from the bathroom.
I didn't play the clarinet in the show but that was okay cause I got to play the Gamalan and we sounded pretty cool at least from where I was sitting which was right in the middle of the instrument.
Then these girls did some stupid dance thing and then we played "Isn't She Lovely" on the steel drums which sounded good. At the end us kids all sang "Oo Oo Chile" and then the old people started singing along and that kind of made me mad cause if they want to put on a show they should go to their own camp and eat camp food and practice and stuff like we did also what's the fun of singing a song if everybody listening already knows it?
But the song sounded nice with everyone singing at once and I looked up at the Empire State trees and they made the place kind of feel like church especially with the sun all going down and the camp fire all leaping up and everybody looking at each other and smiling while they're singing. Smiling while you're singing kind of messes up your singing and you really shouldn't do it but it was okay I guess cause so many people were singing that you couldn't hear when they messed up.
I was going to make a face at Tami to mess up her singing but she looked at me first and her smile got real wide which I bet really messed up her singing but I couldn't worry about that cause when she looked at me my stomach got all gooshy and queasy and I almost messed up singing myself I mean what happened?
A one-act stage play about a young man seeking "peace and quiet" who attempts to purchase it from fast-talking
salesman Dr. Guerin T. Gales in the form of a device designed
to repel other people, but whose solace is constantly interrupted
by crowds following the doings of a wonderful King.
When the King faces death at the hands of
His enemies and the young man is given a choice to reunite the
King with His mother or continue his own search for peace and
quiet, he learns that one can easily find quiet in the
world but peace only happens deep in the soul.
(DR. GUERIN T. GALES introduces himself to the audience and to a small group of TOWNSPEOPLE. Among the crowd lurk NATHAN SMALL and SHIRLEY STRONG. GALES is a fast talker.)
GALES. Greetings ladies and gentlemen, pals and gals, well enough and bad enough. It is I, the one and only Dr. Guerin T. Gales, returning once more to tell you, yes you, ladies and gentlemen about a once-in-a-lifetime offer of a dramatic new home appliance that will not only improve your life drastically -- guaranteed -- but could quite possibly save it, yes, save it, ladies and gentlemen...
TOWNIE #1. Doctor of what?
GALES. I am indeed a doctor of wit, sir, and I thank you for recognizing it; that way I wasn't forced to point it out myself, you kept me modest, and modesty is a virtue, that's what it says in your Bible, folks, read your Bible every day and it will bring a little more quiet into your life, and Heaven knows we all could use more quiet, which is why I --
TOWNIE #2. He means what's your degree??
GALES. Afraid not, sir, for man may beg, but only God decrees, that's what it says in your Bible, folks, read your Bible every day and it will teach you to sacrifice, just as I am here today to ask you to sacrifice just a minuscule portion of your hard-earned income for the gift of quiet, the gift of solitude, the gift of health and longevity --
TOWNIE #3. Where did you study???
GALES. Steady -- that's me, sir, steady and solid as a rock, a rock-solid foundation, and we should all do our part to be a foundation, that's what it says in your Bible, folks, read your Bible every day...
NATHAN. (Stepping forward:) What are you selling? Are you selling peace and quiet? I could sure use some...
GALES. Silence! (Pause.) That's what I'm selling, son, silence: quiet, solitude, privacy, seclusion, retreat, withdrawal, departure. Quiet.
NATHAN. How? I'd... I'd do anything for some quiet in my life! How much is it?
(GALES whispers a figure into NATHAN'S ear. NATHAN'S face falls.)
That much?
GALES. Tell me something, my boy... what's your name?
NATHAN. Nathan, sir.
GALES. Tell me, Nate, how much is it truly worth to you? How many sleepless nights have you spent worrying about other people, about your place in the world, about whether you were making a difference, about all those trivialities you find in Hallmark cards? The holidays are the worst! You could go crazy! And what I ask in exchange for alleviating all that guilt is a pittance, a few cents that you'll never even miss.
NATHAN. Well, I suppose it's not that much...
GALES. That's what I like to hear! Now... (Glances at NATHAN'S pockets.)
NATHAN. Oh! (Pulls out money and hands it to GALES.) There you go.
GALES. Sales tax?
(NATHAN hands him more money.)
Commission?
(NATHAN hands him more money.)
Overhead?
(NATHAN hands him more money.)
Gas and tolls?
(NATHAN gives him a suspicious look.)
Okay, skip gas and tolls. (Pulls out a Hula Hoop with two shoulder straps attached.) Here it is, your key to quiet: The Magic Ring!
(NATHAN, unsure of what else to do, takes the hoop and puts it around his waist and tries to twirl it around himself.)
2 females/2 males/10+ either; 12-20 minutes; 1 set.
A group of strange and wonderful
creatures find themselves stranded in the middle of a large snow-covered
field...and time is running out.
Also available as a stage play.
Before the Woman could lament the children's coldness, a long, furry ear poked up from out of the snow.
"Is that one of yours?" Cap'n Price asked Bear.
Bear felt for his own two ears -- which for the moment remained in place -- and shook his head.
"Then whose is it?" Price pondered.
Bear stroked his furry chin as though it were a beard. "Maybe it belongs to a cat."
Price shook his head. "The ear's too skinny."
"A bird?" offered the boy.
"A bird?" jeered the Woman. "Where are its feathers?"
"What do I know?" protested the boy, pointing at Bear, "I thought he was candy."
"Maybe it's a weed!" squealed the first girl.
"A furry weed?" asked her sister.
The first girl shrugged, pointing at Cap'n Price. "I thought he was soda pop."
A second long ear appeared next to the first.
"A bunny rabbit!" exclaimed the Woman. And, sure enough, the cute little head to which the ears were attached popped up a moment later...but the creature had no long teeth.
Before anyone could hazard another guess what it was, the bunny-like creature began to bounce.
It bounced higher and higher each time. With each successive leap, the others glimpsed more and more of a handwritten yellow sign on its chest which read "Dog".
"Do dogs do that?" wondered Bear.
"Certainly not!" snapped the Woman, her voice like a switchblade. "If that's a dog, then I'm an --"
"Right, you're an elephant," nodded Bear impatiently. "We got it."
On its latest bounce, the pouch on the creature's belly peeked into view.
"It's a kangaroo!" said Bear. Nods all around.
The kangaroo's final bounce carried it all the way out of its hole in the snow...
...and into the arms of the surprised Snow Woman. "Mommy!" it squeaked with joy.
She put the rather portly kangaroo down as gently as she could and backed away. "I'm not good with animals," she told it. "Besides, you're the mommy -- a mommy kangaroo."
"I'm neither!" shouted the kangaroo.
"Then what's with the pouch?" asked the boy.
"That's a satchel," maintained the kangaroo.
"And the big feet?" demanded the second girl.
"I am specially-abled," the kangaroo insisted, "so please mind your comments."
"You can call it a satchel if you want," Bear sniffed, "but it's still in your tummy and still for carrying babies."
"And the only animal that's specially-able to jump like that is a kangaroo!" said the Woman.
The kangaroo started to cry. "Please call me something else," she begged.
Cap'n Price looked at the others. "Does anyone have a problem with calling her 'Dog'?"
No one did.
"And please," said Dog the Kangaroo, "if you must also give me a nickname, could you make it something along the lines of 'Slim' or 'Toothpick'?"
"But you're anything but!" snapped the Woman.
Dog began to cry.
"There, there," said Bear, "she didn't mean it."
"Of course I did," the Woman sneered. "If that enormous creature is 'skinny', then I'm --"
"About to eaten alive!" growled Bear.
"Accept who you are," said the Woman sullenly. "I'm made of snow. That means I'm going to melt soon."
Alarmed, the snow children crowded around her. "We're made of snow, too. Does that mean we're not going to live forever?"
She nodded sadly. "I'm sorry I brought you into a world you would have to leave so soon."
Mad scientist, devoted father,
failed inventor. A young woman comes to terms with conflicting
memories of her late father when she returns home for the first
time since childhood.
As soon as the mysterious old
house realizes who has arrived, it begins to come to life...
"You got a question for the professor?"
"Yeah, um, I'm not sure that I want to get yelled at by a can-opener or something."
Kernagan nodded: a reasonable concern. "You would be able to turn it on and off."
"With a switch?"
"Or just don't answer your phone."
This took P. Greg by surprise. "They'll talk to us by phone?"
Kernagan shrugged. "Until I can come up with something better."
P. Greg chuckled. "So my sixteen-year-old daughter will beg me to lend her the car, and the car will beg me not to!"
Big laughs.
Kernagan looked at him, momentarily impressed. "You have a daughter?"
"Not at this rate." P. Greg tapped the book. "This is a bestseller. Why?"
Kernagan laughed. "Because the future is going to be fantastic -- I've seen it."
The audience cheered.
"Is the caller there?" P. Greg asked the ether.
A clumsy male voice filled the studio. "Kernagan, it's Rod."
The professor frowned. "Rod, I'm working!"
The host stared at his guest. "You know this guy?"
Kernagan nodded. "It's my Blazer." He glanced up toward the ceiling, which seemed to be the disembodied voice's current home. "What is it, Rod? I don't have a lot of time."
P. Greg frowned. "Your 'blazer'? Your coat?"
"My car."
"A Chevy Blazer?"
Kernagan nodded. "My first successful experiment."
"Rod" spoke again. "They're almost done with my brakes, but they're worried about my oil filter."
Kernagan guffawed in disgust. "Of course they're 'worried' -- that's how mechanics make money. How do you feel?" He glanced at P. Greg. "Imagine your car telling you it needs to be repaired!"
"The filter's a complete mess," said Rod. "I mean -- I'm embarrassed."
"Fine," Kernagan huffed. "A new filter it is."
P. Greg stared incredulously. "You're talking to your car?"
Kernagan nodded.
"Could I also have them put in a new left headlight?"
"It's out?" sputtered the Professor.
"It's gonna go any day, and I'd hate to be seen --"
Kernagan sighed. "Fine."
"Also my fender..."
P. Greg struggled with a host's urge to step in and take over versus a showman's instinct to let the drama play out.
"What's wrong with your fender?"
"You remember that little snafu with the red Miata?"
"I thought there was no damage!" Kernagan groaned.
"Nothing serious, but come on -- it looks terrible!"
"You can't even tell."
"Maybe you can't, Kernagan, but my friends won't stop laughing!"
P. Greg grinned. "To his car, ladies and gentlemen. Do you believe it?"
In unison the audience shouted "No!"
That last-place TV network's ratings are
always in the toilet... until they discover Marvin Hale: The Dead-Letter
Mailman!
Marvin delivers strange mail to people and
places that shouldn't exist: fictional characters, the dearly-departed,
mythical beasts. When the desperate network features Marvin in
a "Cops"-like show about his rounds, their ratings go
up... and Marvin's journeys take the eyes of the world deeper
and deeper into mystery and danger.
"And so, ladies and gentlemen, tonight we reunite these doomed lovers -- torn asunder by awful, awful, very bad tragedy over a century ago -- with this letter here in my hand that you see before me..." He turned to squint at Harriet. "Harriet, I got discombobulated. Can we take the intro again?"
"It was fine up to the last sentence, Marvin."
"I'd feel better if I could take it from the top..."
"We're running out of tape, Marvin."
"We are?" whispered Lance.
"Shhh!" Harriet hissed.
Marvin began again. "Tonight, before you live on camera in this very cemetery in this town live right here..."
"Cut!" Harriet sighed. "Marvin, you're not live."
"I can't say 'live on camera'?"
"No. Sorry."
"Okay. Okay. I just need a minute."
While Marvin "prepared", Lance smiled at the others. "Remember, it's a paycheck."
Marvin gently placed the tattered letter
at the base of the gravestone. He then wasted four matches before
one caught fire. ("Don't worry," Harriet whispered,
"we'll save it in post.")
Marvin touched the flickering match to a sad little candle they
had found somewhere in the van.
"Hold on the candle for a few seconds, Lance," Harriet hissed. "We can use this shot for the closing credits."
The candle started to sputter.
"Block the wind, somebody," said Lance.
"There is no wind."
The candle shook and danced
"Cut that out," Lance growled, his eye glued to the Betacam's viewfinder. "I haven't got the shot yet."
"Nobody's doing anything."
Suddenly, the candle toppled over and rolled a few inches. The earth directly under where it had been seconds before was rising.
Something was reaching up.
"Lance, are you getting this?" Harriet shivered.
"It looks great," he answered. "Wonderful effect."
Something flickered out of the corner of her eye. "Barry, get back here!" Sheepishly, Barry crept back to the grave, holding the microphone pole as far away from his body as possible.
A decaying hand had worked its way out of the ground. It was little more than bones and dried tendons. A tarnished wedding ring clung to one wasted finger.
"Terrific!" whispered Lance. "Is that a puppet?"
The others were too petrified to answer.
The ghostly hand reached around until it touched the letter. It caressed the envelope lovingly with two fingers, then clutched it.
Moments later the hand and its letter sank back out of sight into the earth.
"And...cut!" Lance hooted. "That looked fantastic! Why didn't you tell me you were planning a stunt?"
"We didn't know," shrugged Harriet.
"I got a flood kit in the van," exclaimed Lance. "Let's do another take. I could light the heck out of that sucker."
"I don't think we can do another take," said Harriet. "Do you, Marvin?"
Marvin shrugged. "Once the customer accepts the letter, it's no longer in Postal Service jurisdiction."
"'Customer'?" frowned Lance. "What are you talking about?"
"The customer accepted delivery."
Two heavy thuds echoed through the cold graveyard: one was Lance's camera and the other was Lance.
Copies of Gifts for Good Friends: The Christmas Stories 1992-2001 are available for purchase from Mr. Loverde directly, from BookSurge.com, or from your favorite bookseller.