Day Two: The Drum

[jfs.livejournal.com]

We used to sing carols together, before my father left us. He and mother would sing, with their arms around each other, and I would try to keep up; try to be part of their circle.

My father would start. He had his favourites, which we would join in with as quickly as possible.

*"Come they told me"*

That was my cue. "Pa-rum-pum-pum-pum" I would sing, beating in time on the floor, or with a wooden spoon on a biscuit tin.

*"A new born king to see"*

And again, I would hammer away, with more enthusiasm than rhythm. And we would go through that song, twice, three times in the evening. My father loved that carol, and I loved the ending.

I played my drum for Him
Pa rum pum pum pum
I played my best for Him
Pa rum pum pum pum,
rum pum pum pum,
rum pum pum pum
Then He smiled at me
Pa rum pum pum pum
Me and my drum

One Christmas; I think I was five, I didn't have to use a biscuit tin. My father had bought me a drum for a present. It was green and red, the colours of Christmas, and it had two drumsticks like a proper drum should. Like the drums the soldiers used to wear. When I swung it around my neck and marched up and down the hall, practicing what I imagined at the time were impressive drum rolls, my father laughed and applauded, inciting me to play longer and louder. My mother had a headache, I remember. She did not enjoy the drum, but my father spoke to her in the lounge while I was in the hall, and she went upstairs to bed for a while, and I continued my marching.

My father smiled at me; me and my drum.

Door

[delvy.livejournal.com]

(Sorry its late. And then I realised that I wasn't actually a member, and this is my first piece to go public in a long time, but here we go)


--------------

It is jammed.

Pulling desperately at the handle he squirms and shouts as he clutches at it. His hand slaps ineffectually at the glass as the car spins on it's roof, slowing as it goes, his anguish going unheard above the sound of the engines and car alarms and the other cry's around him. He can see the pool of clear liquid that spreads from the broken barrels in the road ahead of him. Flames lick up round the side of the remains of the car that drove into the checkpoint ahead of him. He can't see the barrier anymore or the armed men that stood there.

He has not noticed the blood pooling on what was the ceiling of his car or the bullet holes in his door, made by the firing of the soldiers at the incoming vehicle. He has not even noticed that his daughter is a crumpled ball on that same ceiling as him. All he can see is the spreading liquid and the handle at which he scrabbles.

It is still jammed

Day Two (Chapter One - Our Hero Lies Down - In the Pub)

[wulfboy.livejournal.com]

( Behind Door Two )

Day Two: The Tooth Fairy

[delvy.livejournal.com]

I was seven years old when I found out the truth about Father Christmas. No longer did I believe that he struggled down the chimney. He did not leave the stocking hanging over the end of my bed, all the presents beneath the shining tree, or take time to sup the whiskey mum and dad made me leave out for him, eat the mince pie or even let rudolph nibble at the carrot that was there too.

It was an accident I found out at all really; a school project about mythology and a simple question of my mum. I had asked her what myths there were and we had spoken of the greek heroes and the knights of Arthur. And then she said the fateful words, "and there are the obvious ones, like Father Christmas." To this day I would swear that she thought I no longer believed such things, I always was a pretentious child and questioned everything, but I did.

A horror emerged in me and for a few seconds I could not speak. She says that the colour drained out of my cheeks and I failed to catch my breath. In my mind thoughts raced along, such as what had left the teeth marks in the carrot then? What did his elves do without him and how did everyone get christmas presents if there was no Santa? Mum tried her best to placate me once I was drawing air again. She explained that it was her and dad that bought and wrapped the presents and that I was not to tell my little sister. Gradually I remember calming down and saying okay to her and that I was not upset. She seemed very worried that I might cry.

Eventually she was happy to let me go and as I turned away to go upstairs a thought leapt to the front of my mind. With my lip quivering I turned back to face her and asked accusingly, "what about the tooth fairy?"