Joe Nation's Seasonal Stories

Hi Joe

Just read the whole thread - it is wonderful - and great to be reading something that takes me away and makes me want more - my favorite feeling

Thank you for sharing all this - I admire your subtle, yet provocative style!

happy writing
e

Joe's writing always needs a little tweaking for typos, etc. But that's not important. He has a clear and distinctive voice, and a sort of genius at understanding what touches people that makes his writing both easily accessible and highly entertaining. When he writes from the heart, nobody I have ever known can do it better.

Edgar, all those years ago when I edited Joe's writing, I always considered myself more of a secretary for him than an editor. Except that he never paid me.

E(it's not too late, Joe)va

P.S. That was a wonderful piece! Very colorful. Now I have to find a map and see exactly where Nelogany is. (Even if it's not on the map, it exists for me now.)

Yeh, I wasn't paid either, hah.

Reiterating, JoeN's writing is magic. I love every bit of it. Not to get mushy.

I picture it somewhere between Tulsa and Wichita.

Sleep well, Joe Nation...

The tale I have been working on, while I think it is a good one, got off on the wrong tone and that infected the whole work. I trashed it and will have to begin over.

Writing and trying to edit ones own works is a bear. I would suggest you let somebody else edit your works for you; they can always make suggestions to help improve the wording/phrasing that may end up satisfying you - rather than starting from square one.

This is an artistic decision, CI. It would suck as written, but can be worthwhile if the rewrite takes.

i was looking forward to that edgar and i still am

Me too.

Joe(i'm getting one ready for Sunday)Nation

Leave us not get overly anticipatory. Tis the stuff of dashed illusions.

But, edgar, have you not heard that "anticipation is better than realization?"

Joe Nation's writing is the exception to that rule, c.i.

Waiting with bated breath.
(Perhaps that should be "baited." I'm nibbling on Cheetos at the moment. I wonder what I could catch with Cheeto-breath.)

(Probably not compliments. 'Scuse me, I'll be right back...)

I'm off the boil as far as writing goes
Hope to have something from Joe and Edgar to read on Christmas Day!
Or whenever...

I have given up on that particular story. Sometimes, they just won't gell. The time it has taken from my book makes it not worth it this year.

I have dredged up one of my older works. I don't believe a2k has seen it. It is not the same ilk Joe has been offering, and for that I am sorry. This is a Christmas tale of another sort. I just typed it out of the book it appears in, and I am too tired to proofread. Indulgence, please.

Erin Christmas

1

The oppressive midsummer sun spread its stifling mantle over the divided land. Inside city walls hummed a smug citizenry, like throngs of fat bees. Outside, the greater mass of humankind struggled with heartbreak and starvation. One of them, an old man, foraging for food, held in his hands a few grubs and a questionable root with a pungent odor. Deeply absorbed and light-headed, the oldster wandered too near a checkpoint, coming on, with his head down, rheumy eyes barely sighted, the ravages of time like hounds at his heels. He had no business being out on his own.

Judged by his unsavory appearance, he might carry all sorts of plague and illness. One could not know. And, so, a fearful young soldier attacked, to drive him away.

The poor fellow had no knowledge of the blows he received, and in fact already lay on the ground before he was aware of the gargantuan youth in gray fatigues and heavy boots, who came at him a second time. His mind relayed pain in a detached, unemotional way. It is likely he would have been beaten to death but for the staying hand of an older, less murderous, fellow in a captain’s uniform. The two troops then moved behind the gate and allowed him to crawl away.

He pulled himself off of the scorching asphalt, and lost consciousness in the bush.

* * *

One eye opened on the lower east end jungle. He lay on a mat of decayed cardboard. A chunk of foam rubber cushioned his head. The other eye felt grossly swollen. A filthy rag testified to the cleansing attempt on his wounds.

His gaze sought a point of familiarity. Pain prevented his lifting his head. He could not see far anyway. Relaxing on the makeshift bed, he drifted out of consciousness.

After an indeterminate time he roused to feel himself being raised, and then spoonfuls of warm broth poured from a spoon through his lips. The good eyelid lifted, revealing a blurred vision of a woman with a red growth about her mouth and glassy white eyes. Her witches tangle of brittle hair rivaled his own matted growth. He grunted appreciatively, greedily swallowing every bit of the watery soup.

For her part, the crone was silent, her nut-brown face a solemn mask. She spooned the last of the flavorless liquid down his throat and eased his head back on the pillow. She carried the utensils away to clean them, using what medium God only knew. After, she put them in a sack on her pile of seemingly worthless belongings. The old man mouthed the words, “Thank you.”

And, he dipped again into sleep.

A commotion down the way awakened him. It was a whole day later, and he felt better, although he still was unable to walk. The woman had gone, apparently to forage, the one occupation left to the poor souls outside city walls. He propped his tired bones against a tree, straining his ears to learn why the group over there kept being so noisy. Within his vision, they were as a body of dark liquid. He tried to figure a small drop, squeezed from the whole. It was a small person, moving his way, swinging his arms angrily.

The little one came into full focus, bending before him. “There you are,” he said. “You didn’t come back. Where have you been?”

“At first, I went foraging. Then, I could not -” he began. “-walk,” he concluded after a bit.

The old man knew his revered Pumpkinpulp.

“Problem? Over there?”

“Ah, not really,” the elf responded. “The big fellow over there called me ’dwarf.’ The drunkard said, ’No; he’s a midget.’ Sassyfrassin June dunkers.”

“That was it? The whole of it?”

The elf had not the heart to inform him: He was the problem.
“Get that old bones away from here. He snores something fierce and he stinks.”

And while it is true, everyone in the jungle was dirty, he did have a particular stench that made even Pumpkinpulp blanch.

“Move him or we will,” a man-looking woman had threatened.

“I will move him,” the diminutive one responded angrily. “You bunch of simians. That man is a saint.”

“An unwashed saint.”

“A rotten saint.”

Now, the elf, regarding him, with hands on hips, smiling sardonically, had to agree with them. Such a stench. Perhaps, when the nearly divine dies, the decomposition is accelerated because the fading one has experienced life to the nth degree and so must taste death in equal intensity.

“Let’s have a look at you,” the small one said, dubiously.

The clothing, pulled away, revealed one leg tending to gangrene.

The old man winced. “Ouch. A long, unrelenting ache.”

In one ear was blood.

“Have you tried standing?”

“Yes. It’s hopeless.”

“I have to move you.”

“A travois. I saw a donkey -”

“Before or after your head got kicked?”

“I think I imagined it.”

“Those June dunkers spoke of the woman who brought you here. I saw her corpse where they dropped it. She had a donkey, all right. They robbed her, of it and the food.”

Pumpkinpulp took the rag and wiped the old one’s nose.

“At one time, I could have summoned a hundred elves, a thousand, even.”

The helpless one sneezed, prompting the elf to grimly employ the rag again. After doing so, he remarked he would return in a bit; there was bargaining to be done, with the big one running the miscellany of cutthroats over there.

“Perhaps that fellow might be persuaded to move you if I pay with one of my best knives.”

2

The Richcity streets were quiet in the low afternoon. Erin, self-proclaimed adventurer, strode down a residential one, with a quest to seek out a friendly countenance and use the wearer of the face to insinuate himself into the population. So certain was he, of his persuasive charm, he had no doubt that it would transpire. Soon enough, he had opportunity to test his notion.

He broke into a cheery grin as he spied a rosy maiden, cuddling a kitten and looking down over a balcony rail. Did he detect a returned smile? He affected a vainglorious strut, eyes aglow at comely features that could do so much for him.

“My name is Erin,” he boldly proclaimed. “I would like a word with you, my dear.”

The fair one motioned him nearer, but her face was dryly sober. “You are an outcast. What good are you to me?”

“Ha ha; I am resourceful, intelligent, strapping - an insatiable lover!”

The maiden flushed. She spoke to someone in the recess near the door. “He is near enough,” spoke the lure.

A bearded man, with cruel gray eyes, came from the shadow, pointing a long rifle. Erin eluded the rapid fire potshots, traipsing between rows of apartment dwellings and regaining his path to the world outside.

He scaled a twisted oak tree, and dove over the parapet into the jungle growth, jumping down from the matted foliage to the dry earth below. The brash adventurer jogged deep into the hobo jungle, threading through lean-tos and debris of decayed buildings, followed the whole way by suspicious eyes of wary residents. He ducked through the branches of a willow, hiding within its leaves, laughing at the ease with which he had avoided paying a penalty for getting caught within a Richcity’s walls. He might have lingered indefinitely, but for a commotion at a collection of rusted metal shelters. He stepped out to witness the antics of a tiny fellow being chased by a man of brawn.

The hulking one grabbed the small one, attempting to wrest a knife from his grip. But, those tiny hands were incredibly strong. They twisted themselves free and plunged the blade into the big fellow’s flesh. The big one shot a piston-like blow to the elf’s jaw, sending him crashing into a jumble of rubble. The squirt rebounded, holding his weapon at the ready.

The wounded man staggered away. He was bleeding fast. “Keep the blasted knife, you insect,” he shouted.

The elf made a face over the insult, but sheathed the blade. “Show’s over,” he said to the young man by the willow, who was motionless, dappled by leaves and sun.

Erin turned to go, the breadth of his shoulders and swell of his arms suddenly apparent.

“Wait up,” the elf said. “I would pay you to assist me.”

Erin paused. “Pay? With what?”

“How about this fine knife?”

“You don’t need it?”

“I have several. How about it?”

The young one had been sidling up as they spoke. Wiley Pumpkinpulp edged away, prepared to fight as often as necessary to protect his property.

“I am not one for labor,” Erin confessed. “I am an adventurer.”

“So, another thief. Look; I have an injured comrade to move. He is mostly skeleton, but it is a matter of miles. Help us and the blade is yours.”

Erin compared his own knife, which was dull, nicked, point broken off, and stuck out his hand. “Let me look.”

The elf pointed to the tree, under which the old man lay. “Yonder.”

“At the knife.”

The elf displayed his ware, holding it up high, but comfortably out of reach. It was a work of beauty, and of the finest metal. “Such a handle. No way is it slipping.”

“Friend -”

“Don’t call me that.”

“- I will do it. But, I promise, if he is diseased, that knife will be the death of you.”

“Don’t worry. Gather stuff to make a gurney. Even better, if you could scrounge a set of wheels.”

Erin went off to find the items, fretting that the mission seemed too much like actual work.

* * *

Pumpkinpulp discovered that his friend had become considerably weakened over the past hour. His ravaged body slumped against the rough bark; his eyes were closed. There was no detectable movement. He raised with his thumb the one working eyelid.

“Shut it. I am resting.”

“We are getting ready to move you.”

“Too late. Already dying.”

“My friend -”

“Help me to lie down. It is all I need.”

* * *

The small one sat on top of the old woman’s goods, looking down at the old one. Soon the vigil would end. A montage of their time together ran through his mind, of when his friend had been an unknown beardless whelp, all the way to the height of his career, when the entire world would break off its fighting in the spirit of perfect peace, one whole day each year. They had been a team, although he got the glitter, and Pumpkinpulp got the grit. No, it was not fair to characterize it like that. Each deserved a full measure of credit. But, all things in the universe turn. New becomes old and gets pushed aside. Together this man and the human will to prevail became weak. The powerful built the heartless cities; the masses became hoboes. Pity humankind. The inglorious, reeking bag of bones, the spark that once ignited the world, must expire. Now was total famine.

* * *

Erin came, towing a cart borrowed from some unattended habitation. He swore he would return it. He wheeled the contraption near the bed of rotten cardboard, and was prepared to lift the vile carcass onto the platform.

“Ah, forget it,” the elf said. “He won’t be moving. However, I feel I owe you the knife. So, here it is.”

Erin greedily snatched away his prize, holding it up to admire it. “Man without knife - not good,” he grunted.

Pumpkinpulp redirected his attention to his dying friend. When Erin persisted in hanging close, the elf snarled at him. “Be gone, June dunker.”

“Sorry. I just felt, somehow, involved. I guess I should be on my way.”

“That would be the gist of it,” the small one agreed. “This great saint from the past, whose sphere has shrunk to this miserable pallet, should pass peacefully, without the idly curious standing around.”

Erin sheathed his precious treasure. “Good-bye, then. Sorry about his dying, sir.”

Just then, the emaciated one croaked a string of highly unintelligible words. The next spate they understood. “Come here, young man.”

Erin looked to Pumpkinpulp for direction, but the elf was noncommittal.

“Come here.”

Erin knelt, placing his ear near the old man’s mouth.

“Your name?”

“Erin, sir. I’m an adventurer.”

“Would you like to hear my story, Erin?”

“Very much, sir.”

The one open eye had glazed and become sightless. Striving to not be sickened by the smell, the young man attended attentively.


“There was one like you. Pugnacious, saucy, quick-witted and strong. No goals. No ties to anything.”

Pumpkinpulp moved in very close, his raggedy hat taken off, getting twisted in his hands. Tears ran unrestrainedly down his cheeks.

The old one continued. “He came to me over twenty five hundred years ago, the first of his ilk. Nothing special about him, in the scheme of things, one might surmise. But then, one would be wrong.”

There ensued half a snore. The taleteller awoke to resume the narrative. Have you heard of Christmas? Father Christmas? The young man came to me. He hears and he understood. And, because he assented, the world became a better place. It did not become the dismal sewer it is until a few hundred years ago, when I was stricken by an astral fever, which weakened the universal will to peace. I recognize in you the same properties that can again lift the festering masses and resuscitate their good fortune. If you could do it. If you could save the world, would you do it?”

“I would. I truly would.”

“Touch my soul, if you want to save Christmas.”

“How do I do that?”

“I think you know.”

Erin took one of the skeletal hands in his own, becoming instantly electrified. He felt the essence draining out of his soul and even his body, all in an instant, folding in upon himself, becoming a heap of dross. The recipient sat up, vibrant and youthful. He looked at the elf. “As I was the day we met, so I am this moment. A new age for humankind has begun to germinate in every heart and soul.”

Pumpkinpulp must grouse. “Why didn’t you tell me to bring you a youth? Save me the turmoil?”

“Because, dear friend, Erin, the one and only, had to find me, not me him. As I have no last name to call him, in the lexicon he shall be known henceforth as Erin Christmas.”

“We are to revive the shop, then? There are elves to come, if you say it.”

“Yes. Do you think we could find some reindeer?”

Cool Edgar. The only suggestion is at the end, HAve Erins say'WHile were at it.... think we could find some reindeer"?


I wonder about a story of someone from , say the central America region , wanting to make an actual overland trip to the North pole. It would be like a Christmas "Survivorman"

Looking over the first few paragraphs, I already see the effect of no prior proof read. Spoonfed by a spoon is ridiculous, but I would have caught it had I waited til this morning. There probably are more such mistakes further on in it.

Thanks edgar! Enjoyed it very much.

thanks edgar - i told myself i'd save it - but read right through -really enjoyed the characterization. I thought the dialog worked especially well, keeping the pace moving -

have a good one, edgar
peace