Short Stories – *ddileo

music box

She used to kiss my cheek and whisper “cherish each day.” The rhythms of her voice gently danced on my face. Looking back, I never quite knew what she met at such a young age. Through my years of time with her she kept a music box. Nothing fancy, just a simple wooden box. For the longest time, I never knew what she kept in there. Only sometimes I would walk past her bedroom, the door slightly cracked, and hear music. It became clear to me, whatever was in that music box meant a great deal to her. Sometimes I would walk in on her just closing the box; the music coming to a soft end. She would just look at me and gaze. Almost marveling like she never saw me before. Like I was still a newborn baby,

As I grew older I started to wonder more and more what could be in that music box. Teenage years and adolescence blinded me from seeing things from a simple angle and such the magic of the music box drifted away. Nevertheless, from day to day my mother would still have that look on her face. That “music box” look. Although things got loud and fast in my life, I still recognized her look of awe. How couldn’t I? The music box melody streaming in the background of my life like a constant love from a mother to a child.

In my 30’s life started to slow down, in unison as did my parents. They were growing older and time was slipping away. My mind starting bending back to what my mother would always tell me as a child: “cherish each day.” Something I was beginning to desire and something my parents were mastering. Age started to mature and humble me. I started spending more quiet time in my life. Reading, pondering and spending time with them. I learned quiet is good medicine for any cause or concern.

One day everything connected. The idea of the music box started making sense to me. I still didn’t know what it contained, but the idea of simple and pure enjoyment was a yearning I had gained in my older age. I approached my mother and asked if I could see the contents of the music box. To my surprise, she declined. She said softly “Sometimes, the journey is finding your own music box.” I took to her words. I understood. It would be simple for me to crack open this box. It would be a whole different thing to discover my own. “It’s something that finds you” She said, “Not something you look for.”

In my 50’s, My parents were talking slow and moving even slower. Unfortunately, time has a way of passing in a tricky yet constant manner. I spent many moments in thought pondering their lives and how I appreciated them so. The sacrifices they made, their discipline as parents and most importantly, their love for me. I started to wonder what kept them so strong, so in unison, so in immense enjoyment. Not only of each other, but of life also.

After my parents had passed, I went to their house to help box belongings. While cleaning, a twinkle from the corner of my eye sparked. Sitting peacefully, the metal from the music box shined in humbleness. Gently opening it, a paper appeared with my mom’s handwriting, underneath that paper were dozens of old photos of our family. The paper read as follows:”we’ve reached the end of our journey, son. Yours is just beginning, One picture a day is all you’ll need. Look at it, cherish it. These pictures are all you need to know what’s important in this life. When you’re having a rough day, week or year, know whats really matters. It’s in this box, thats all that matters.”

After that, I never went a day missing the opportunity to pull out a photo and just admire every inch of its contents. We need time daily to truly appreciate what is important to us. People, not things.

Whether you know it or not, all of us have a music box. It’s not about creating one, its about letting it find you. Find what’s really important to you and be true to who you are, thats the winning recipe. More significantly, work to prioritize your life in such a way that when your gone, someone, somewhere will say your life was worth living. If not for you, for them.

Life, Short Stories

a gift for santa

Each life was a lonely tumble down a cold, dark chimney, falling, falling, then blackness. These were Santa’s thoughts as he prepared snickerdoodles in the kitchen. In the other room, the elves performed Christmas tunes and do-si-doed.

Carefully, he carried the tray of sweets into the living room. His wife, Martha, had been dead five years now, and he was alone, alone in a house full of elves. Jesus had dignity, apostles. All Santa had was high blood pressure and a communal toilet the size of a cereal bowl.

He sat down on the couch and watched the elves dance to “Feliz Navidad.” Jingles broke from the group of dancing elves and approached him. “You’re killing yourself with the doodles,” Jingle said. And lately, he’d been on Santa’s case to stop overeating, to get out of the house, and to get himself a girlfriend.

Glenda, the good witch of the north, lived only a few miles away and had just been left by her boyfriend, a walrus hunter who looked somewhat like a walrus himself. “Glenda’s into the Wilford Brimley type,” said Jingles, “so you’ve totally got a chance.” “Glenda?,” said Santa, “but she’s so sparkly. I miss Martha,” Santa said quietly.

He knew this was true, though not the entire truth. There was missing, of course, but there was also fear. “Look, I miss Martha too,” said Jingles. “But it’s time to move on now.”

“She was the only gal for me,” said Santa. Jingles put his tiny hand on Santa’s knee. “To be frank,” Jingles said, “I always thought your relationship a little narcissistic. Mrs. Claus was like your twin but with bosoms. Did you plan your outfits together?”

“We just had the same taste,” Santa sobbed. “Jingle Bell Rock” started up on the squeeze box, and Santa took that as his cue to head to bed. He never could stand rock and roll Christmas songs.

He liked Christmas songs, and he liked rock and roll. He just didn’t like them together. Martha had felt the exact same way. On their first year anniversary, Martha presented him with a pen, the fancy kind that came in a box.

“Oh, for the love of Saint Nicholas,” Santa had said, “what good is a pen? I’ll just end up losing it. Save your money and buy yourself something nice, or let me buy for you. That would make me most happy of all.”

For a man famous for his giving, Santa was terrible at receiving. Martha took the pen back and apologized. And that was the end of the gifts.

After she had died and Santa was cleaning out her stuff, in a jewelry box filled with the old love letters he’d sent during their courtship, he found the pen. He clutched it on the edge of the bed and wept. Jingles took it upon himself to just go ahead and arrange a date for Santa unbidden.

“Glenda’s expecting you at eight,” said Jingles, sidling up to him in the reindeer stable one morning. “And do me a favor. Trim your whiskers.” As instructed, Santa appeared at Glenda’s doorstep that evening, a paper bag of roasted chestnuts in his hand.

“Come on in, Mr. Claus,” said Glenda with a sweep of her arm. She was dressed all in white, and the house smelled of fresh gingerbread. Santa observed with a smile that there were several magic wands, gold and sparkly, in the umbrella rack.

For most of the evening they sat by the hearth and made clumsy conversation about the loneliness of living at the North Pole, mostly. “Unless I absolutely have to, I don’t even bother going outside,” said Glenda. “And when the cable goes out, it is out,” said Santa.

After a beat of silence, Glenda looked at him, a smile across her face. “Is this a good conversation?” she asked. Santa laughed and assured her it was.

They played cribbage, drank eggnog, and watched the snow outside the window fall. And in the vestibule, before leaving, Glenda placed her hand on Santa’s shoulder and kissed him right beneath his eye. As she did, Santa felt as though his chest were a chimney, and inside a sleeping dove was stirring awake.

They made a date for the following weekend. And just before he left, Glenda gave him a container of cranberry mini muffins she’d baked. Santa told her he could not accept such a gift, at which point she thrust it into this chest with surprising force. “Take it,” she said. On the sleigh ride home, Santa realized with mixed feelings that he’d hardly thought of Martha the whole night.

When he showed up the following Saturday, Glenda was all apologies. “Change of plans,” she said, stopping him in the vestibule. “Sheila’s here, flew in this afternoon from Tampa.”

“Sheila?” asked Santa. “AKA, the wicked witch of the east,” she said quickly, “My old college roommate.” “College?” asked Santa. “For witches?”

“She’s always showing up like this,” Glenda went on. “Every time there’s trouble in Tampa, I get a knock at the door.” In the den, Sheila was lying on the couch in a kittenish tangle, all in black and smoking what smelled like European cigarettes.

She studied Santa while playing with her hair. “Hey, chubs,” she said. “I told you to smoke outside,” said Glenda with exasperation. She went into the kitchen to get some fruitcake as Santa made his way over to the couch.

Sheila didn’t move. So he squeezed into the corner, her black stocking toes touching his thigh. “So what do you do, fatso?” Santa began to stammer. “Oh, I–”

“Relax, I know who you are. You’re famous,” she said, taking the last cookie from the tray. “So how do you know Glenda?”

“Oh, we’re neighbors,” said Santa. “And you buy this good witch crap?” she asked in a whisper. “A downward turn in the black arts, and all of a sudden she’s moved to the North Pole and rebranded herself a good witch. Whoever heard of a good witch, am I right? It’s an oxymoron, like baby grand or jolly fat man. Everyone knows fat men are sad. Look at you, totally depressed. Am I right?”

“I mean, maybe a little,” Santa said. “My wife recently died.” “And what’s with this Glenda nonsense?” interrupted Sheila. “Her name’s Linda.”

Often, when Santa didn’t know what else to say, he’d break into a jolly sounding chuckle. He tried it just then, but the chuckle got caught in his throat and came out sounding sweaty and choked. Sheila stared at him.

“You have this weird crap in your beard,” she said. She reached in to pull it out, and as she did, she brought her face in close enough for Santa to smell her. Whereas Glenda smelled like baby powder and cinnamon, Sheila smelled of something he couldn’t quite put his finger on. Cigarettes, of course, but something else, too. It set the chimney in his chest ablaze, ashy black doves trying to flap out their flaming wings.

As Sheila rummaged through his beard, the look on her face was all little girl concentration. “You have nice bone structure,” she said. “You should try wearing black. It would have a slimming effect.”

Withdrawing a tiny shriveled raisin from Santa’s beard, Sheila crinkled up her face and flicked it on the carpet. “Eww, gross,” she said. Glenda walked back into the room with drinks. And when Santa reached for one, he realized his hand was shaking.

He excused himself to use the bathroom, where he thought he might hum a few carols to calm himself down. Everything inside the bathroom was glittery and white, white glittery soaps, shampoos, curtains. But there, hanging from the white shower curtain rod, was something black.

Strung there for all the world to see were a pair of silky black stockings, Sheila’s black stockings. For years, Santa had dealt intimately with stockings, stuffing them with coal or presents, and never thought about it twice. But just then, seeing those black stockings of hers, being alone with them, something came over him. And suddenly, he was on his toes biting the tips like a playful pup, like a fat old playful pup.

Returning to the living room, Santa sat back down on the couch and listened, enraptured, as Sheila encouraged him to revise his policy on naughtiness. Santa nodded his head as though giving her suggestion some thought. In bed that night, Santa replayed each of Sheila’s words and gestures.

Sheila said whatever she felt like, touching and smelling everything like an animal. She was not afraid to take, avail herself of the world, drinks, cigarettes, hospitality. Without so much as asking, she’d even plunged her hand into Santa’s Shirley Temple, plucking the maraschino cherry right out and using his hat to wipe her hands.

For Santa, one so in love with giving, he could not help but see before him a kind of black hole, a sexy and sublime black hole into which he could deliver forth his greatest gift. In Sheila, he saw an insatiable hunger for life. With such a woman to give to, to give himself to, it would feel as though every day was Christmas.

When they had made plans for the following weekend, Glenda had asked if Santa could bring along a friend for Sheila. And so he showed up with Jingles. Anything to help a brother out, Jingles had said. Strolling into Glenda’s living room, Jingles did that thing where he jumped onto the couch while crossing his legs in midair. He landed right beside Sheila.

“You are just too cute for words,” exclaimed Sheila. “Try anyway,” said Jingles, snipping the tip of his cigar. It was the length of his forearm.

“I’d prefer to keep the house smoke free,” said Glenda. “More like fun free,” said Sheila. “Say, what do you call people who live around here anyway? North Pollack’s?”

Sheila and Jingles had a million things to talk about. All the while, Glenda and Santa just sort of sat there smiling awkwardly and watching the snowfall. “It’s an uninhabitable wasteland,” Santa heard Sheila say. “Tampa sounds awesome,” said Jingles. “If only I could convince El Jefe over there to move the operation south.”

Jingles looked over at Santa, and seeing his bro struggling with his date decided to kick things into gear. “Come on y’all,” said the elf, addressing the group. “Gather around for a little spin o’ the bottle.”

“I’ve got just the one,” said Sheila, downing the last of the red wine straight from the bottle. “Spin the what?” asked Glenda. Sheila rolled her eyes, placed the bottle down on the carpet, and spun.

Santa watched the bottle spin with an anxiety that bordered on mania. What if the bottle dictated that he was to kiss Sheila? He would almost certainly die.

But he did not have to ponder such a kiss for very long, for soon the bottle slowed to a halt, pointing directly at Jingles. And when Sheila licked her lips and leaned her face downward, Jingles grabbed her head in his small hands and planted his tiny mouth on hers. Santa felt the chimney fire in his chest snuff out.

He and Glenda watched them kiss. Then after a while they watched the snowfall. Then they went back to watching them kiss. Eventually Jingles led Sheila into the vestibule where he said he wanted to show her the secret to getting the tips of his shoes so curly.

Left alone, and at somewhat of a loss, Glenda got up and fished around in a cabinet drawer beside the couch. Santa thought she might be looking for a game of some sort. But then she said,” “I have something for you.”

She held out a glistening package. “No way, Jose,” Santa said. “I’m the gift giver around here. And it’s not even Christmas yet.”

Santa was about to really kick up a fuss. But then, as a downright witchy look fell across Glenda’ face, he trailed off. “It’s nothing that big,” she insisted, thrusting the present at his chest. “Besides, it was fun trying to find the perfect something for you. And then to actually find it, there’s no greater feeling in the world. But look who I’m telling this to.”

Hearing her words and seeing the look of excitement on her face, Santa had a puzzling thought. Perhaps he’d somehow misjudged things. Perhaps he’d somehow gotten it wrong.

By refusing the gifts people wished to bestow on him, he’d consistently failed to give the experience of giving. He’d hogged that particular pleasure all to himself. And so he took the package. It was flat and square.

Tearing the wrapping paper open, he saw it was a record, Rocking Christmas Party Songs, Volume One. He absolutely hated it. Not just because the thought of listening to it made him feel like one of those old white haired hippies who had to make everything, from getting their prostate checked to celebrating Christmas, not just a good time but a rocking good time. But it was also one of those gifts that said something about the recipient, something that was hard to swallow, like the gift of a back scratcher that says you’re alone in this world and must fend for yourself or the gift of a warm house coat that says your days of party dresses are over.

The gift of a perfectly awful Christmas album being handed to you by a woman who liked you said loud and clear, you must learn to compromise. For after all his years of giving, Santa knew better than anyone that we don’t always receive what we want nor even what we deserve. We receive what life brings us. And when it comes to life, we haven’t a choice but to open our arms.

“I love it,” said Santa with a half smile. Unpeeling the plastic, they placed the album on the record player. Santa held out his arms, and Glenda entered his embrace. And together, they danced about the room as Chuck Berry belted out “Run Rudolph Run.” And it was almost enough to drown out the sounds in the vestibule.

Short Stories

says the moose

A moose is standing in the forest when he suddenly hears a noise. He looks up and sees a plane flying overhead. As he watches, a man jumps out. A parachute bursts open, and the man floats safely down.

The moose goes over and looks at him. “Hello,” says the man, gathering in his parachute. “Hello,” says the moose. “What are you doing?” “Oh, nothing,” says the man, “nothing much. I just jump out of planes every now and then.”

The moose looks up at the sky. “Is it fun?” he says. “Oh, yes,” says the man. “Have you never done it?” “Me?” says the moose. “Oh, no.” “Well, come along with me,” says the man. “We’ll go back to town and get you all suited up, and then off we’ll go. What do you say?”

“I don’t know,” says the moose. “Isn’t it dangerous?” “Dangerous?” says the man. “No, not at all. Well, a little, but hey, isn’t everything?” “I guess,” says the moose, “when you put it that way.”

And after a while, he starts to nod. “All right,” he says, “OK.” “Great,” says the man. “You’re going to love it.” And he claps the moose on the back, and the two of them start off.

When they get to the edge of the city, the moose suddenly stops. “What about the people?” he says. “What about them?” says the man. “Well,” says the moose, “I’m not saying that I’m afraid of them, understand. But they’re always out in the woods looking at me. It makes me nervous. I don’t know what they want.”

“Hm,” says the man. “I doubt they want anything. But OK, here’s what we’ll do.” He takes an extra t-shirt and hat out of his bag. “Put these on. Nobody will recognize you,” he says. The moose looks at the offered disguise for a moment. “All right,” he says, and puts it on.

The man and the moose wander into town. The moose is very, very nervous. “Hey, Tom,” someone says, and a group of people come over. “How’d your jump go today, and who’s that?”

The man turns and looks at the moose. “This is my friend, Lawrence,” he says. “He just came in from the coast.” “Quite a grip you’ve got there, Lawrence,” says one of the men. “Are you bringing Lawrence to the party?” says another.

“Shoot,” says the man, looking at the moose. “I completely forgot about that. You mind coming along to this thing tonight? It’s sort of a shindig for my most recent jump.” “Sure,” says the moose, feeling self-conscious, “Sure. That’ll be fine.”

That night the man and the moose go to the party. It is at the Explorers Club. There are a number of long tables arranged in a square. The man and the moose are in the place of honor.

The moose is having a wonderful time. The food is really very good. Different people make different speeches, and the moose finds the waitress quite fascinating.

But then, suddenly, something draws his attention– heads, animal heads. They’re lining the walls all around the top– lion, zebra, deer, elk, and moose. Fear grips the moose’s heart.

“What is it?” says the man, sensing trouble. The moose turns and looks at him in horror. “You’re trying to kill me,” he says, his voice a whisper. “You brought me here to kill me.” “What?” says the man. “Why would I do that? I don’t understand.”

But the moose is too scared to explain. He stumbles backward to his feet. He points a hoof at the abomination on the wall.

The man sees it, then his eyes go wide. “oh my,” he says, “I just didn’t think.” He reaches out to reassure the moose, but his hand grabs the t-shirt, and it rips and falls off. And then, to make matters worse, the moose’s hat tumbles to the floor.

Everybody turns. “A moose,” they cry. “Get him. Get him. Get the guns.” The moose takes off. He galumphs out of the ballroom, knocking people over left and right. He barrels through the doors and off down the hall. The members of the Explorers Club are striking the glass on the gun cases. “Hurry,” they are yelling.

The moose careens out into the street. He’s weaving in and out of cars. There’s honking and screaming. The moose has never been so terrified.

“Wait, wait,” cries a voice. The moose looks back. It’s the man running after him. “I’m sorry,” yells the man. “I didn’t think. I’m so stupid. I’ll make it up to you. I’ll get you out of this, I swear.”

“Are you kidding?” yells the moose. “Why should I trust you?” Just then, gunfire erupts. It’s the Explorers Club hot on their trail. Bullets whiz past, close, closer. “I can take you to the plane,” says the man. “It’s your only chance.”

The moose thinks. Another bullet whizzes by. “All right,” the moose yells. “Climb on.” The man jumps on, and the two of them charge through the streets. “Turn left,” yells the man, and the moose turns. Up ahead is the airfield, behind, the men with guns, getting closer with every passing second.

“There’s the plane,” the man hollers, and the two dive on board. The man guns it, and the plane taxis toward the runway. Behind them, the Explorers Club lines up in a row. “Fire,” says the leader. “Fire more.”

The plane is hit in 10,000 places, but still, it manages to lift off. Behind it trails a cloud of smoke and fire that is terrifying to behold. “We’re not going to make it!” the man yells to the moose. “We’re going to have to jump.” He turns and looks for the parachutes, but there is only one.

“You take it,” says the man, pushing it to the moose. But the moose just stares at it in silence. “No, you,” says the moose. “I don’t even know how to use it. Besides, I wouldn’t have gotten this far without you.”

The man thinks for a moment. “We go together,” he finally says. “It might work. It might not. Who knows?”

He straps the parachute around them both and edges the moose toward the door. “On the count of three,” the man says. And the moose jumps.

The man and the moose plummet through the air. “Is that the forest,” the moose calls, “down there?” “Yes,” says the man. “Isn’t it pretty?” “It is,” says the moose. “I can see why you like doing this.”

At this point, the ground is coming up pretty fast. “All right,” says the man, “moment of truth.” The two grip the pull cord tightly together. “I hope we can be friends,” says the moose.

Family, Life, Short Stories

Room 0925

In a world where people are cold, dark and harsh; I found love. I found warmth. Most importantly, I found innocence. I found all of these things in a little girl. The bravest, most robust human being couldn’t measure up to what this gentle angel was.

She died on Christmas Eve. I remember thinking nothing could be more suitable; a gift to God would be an understatement. I had the grandest pleasure of witnessing her final days. Seeing her strength and love for her family was foreign to me. I grew up an orphan, was lucky enough to find parents. But having parents is different than having someone you called a mother and a father. They did their 18 years of duty and please don’t get me wrong, I appreciated every inch of it. But this little girl had it different. There was genuine care and love. Not from her parents, but from her. It can almost be explained as if she was conducting an orchestra, no one fighting her, just playing along in unison. But it was clear she was the conductor.

Maybe this was all due to her condition. You see, I’m a janitor in a hospital. So my visions of this little girl are only similar to vignettes of my passing by. She had no hair, she should of looked weak, and she should have looked frail and pale. She didn’t. You have never seen someone more vibrant in your life.

She had leukemia. She was in her final stages. This was evident. What wasn’t evident was that she would teach me more in a week than I would learn my entire life. It took me a couple days to figure out something special was occurring in room 0925. Day after day I did my rounds, saw Doctors in and out of the room. Balloons and gifts engulfed her surroundings. But one gift changed my life. One gift.

Before I got to my rounds on her floor on day 5, she was gone. The room was grey and ordinary. Nothing special. Nothing vibrant. Nothing innocent. It made me think how quickly things can change. It made me sad that I never met her. I went in to mop and sanitize room 0925 on day 5 sad, but working here, you get used to people leaving. This was different. The happiness on that little girl’s face sparked my life with light. It didn’t seem fair that she was gone. It didn’t seem fair that we never spoke. But sometimes that’s how life is. It just leaves you with unanswered questions. Working in a hospital for a while, I should have known better. But the energy that little girl gave off was so rich and pure. It was a breath of fresh air I couldn’t resist.

Not all was lost. While cleaning her room I found something of significance. Something I would have passed by any other day, in any other room. A business card lay peacefully behind a chair. Sure enough the address was richly printed on the front.

My decision to go the address was a simple one. Up until the moment I first saw her, my entire life was idle without being conscious of it. I had to go to this address. Call it selfish, call it what you like.

When I arrived at the address, I was shocked it was a private home. I don’t really know what I was expecting, but there was a moment that happened to me in that driveway. I like to call it a moment of clarity. I guess when something special occurs in anyone’s life, theres always a pinch me moment. You always must take a step back from it. Let your feet hit the ground. I mean that’s life. That’s reality. So here it was. Do I let life put another stop sign in front of me to obey? Or do I leave my own path in the woods? I was too tired of stop signs.

The reason I am writing you isn’t because I put my car in reverse. I walked up those steps and knocked on that door. Each knock was a sound of optimism. I waited and waited, studied the door and waited more. There was no answer. For a moment that door seemed like my life. It stood as still as static. Waiting for something to occur was all too familiar in my life.

Ironically, the door was unlocked. Letting myself in was a simple enough choice. Pictures of the little girl surrounded the house. The environment was calm, dim and peaceful. Silence echoed and soothed the air. I was wondering where everyone was, there were so many cars in the driveway?

Suddenly, a knock on the door intruded my silence. I looked back quickly. I was in shock to see the little girl standing in the doorway. She smiled at me gently and continued to slowly walk up to me. I felt a urge of rush accompanied with infinite questions. How is she OK? Is she healthy? All these obvious questions seemed so irrelevant. So fake, compared to the reality of her footsteps.

She handed me a letter, it read as follows:

“This is a private letter to you. A letter from me to you. It’s not important who I am or Where I live. I could be your grandmother. I could be your son. I could live across the street or on the other side of the world. But maybe just maybe I caught you at a time in your life where the magic has left. Maybe you needed to hear about optimism and innocence. Maybe this letter was specifically written for you. On the other hand, maybe you have already written this letter to someone and have grown weary of life. Maybe you need to be encouraged. You need to believe that the world around you doesn’t define you. Maybe you just need to hear, no matter who you are, that life is beautiful. That life has treasures. That life has miracles. And most importantly, and so vital for you to understand, life is what you make it.“

I put the letter down and looked for her. It was no coincidence she was gone. She didn’t need to stay. Her purpose was fulfilled. Whatever it was, it was complete. I took one last look at the interior of that house. So calm, so peaceful. I exited softly and drove my car pondering what I just experienced.

The next day at the hospital, I started to notice a difference in myself. I was more open to people. More open to help, more available to talk, more apt to listen. I started valuing people instead of evaluating them. I started living life with my arms open. A change had struck. A real change.

Years have gone by, but not a day passed I didn’t put that letter in my pocket. I assume it’s only suitable that you know the truth. Today I am in a hospital, but not for work. My time isn’t long here. I lived a long life. Some good, some bad. But it seemed a unison belief my time was limited.

When the nurse asked me what instructions I had regarding my death. I only requested one thing. I handed her the letter and told her softly “read it and pass it to a stranger.” She smiled and accepted.