Received

It doesn’t matter what is inside the box Sealed in the sky blue paper and binding red ribbon As long as it’s from you, I don’t care what’s given

It could be a gift bought with wads of title Or something purchased with soul It could be a gruesome wad of gum made white Or just some money to pay a toll

I’ll be happy with any, because you thought of me That means more than an object will ever be Anything you packed will be held in my heart Sweet or sour or bitter or tart

Giver

“Do you like it?” My stomach seems trapped in a pit I battled through a labyrinth of shops Looking for a gift that pops

Still my heart cannot be saved the practice of drums And my head joining in with its repetitive strums I should’ve gone with something else Did I misunderstand their true self?

I should be hated for this misunderstanding What if I misjudged and you leave me here standing? Should I just leave, say see you later Or see this through, this anxiety invader

I hope my sweat doesn’t show in the light And I hope I really am right Because I don’t know what I’d do If you don’t like what I gave you

Standing near them, I could feel their power, a buzzing that makes my ears hurt if I pay too close attention. Sometimes sparks flew, sometimes they reached and touched and burned. There’s Lichtenberg figures (scars, that’s what they are) all across my skin from some past 𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘴.

One of my new friends radiates something calming, and it’s hard not to relax. He has marks too, but not as many as me, and he’s more than a little tense when they’re mentioned… yet his entire being seems to be of peace.

When the sparking ones meet the calm, they create something horrific.

I have never liked storms.

ShopperShoutOut.com Discover the perfect place to gripe User: christmasStar247 Product: HomeMadeLove Shopping Channel All-American Bonnie’s Crafts Enchanted Christmas Village Angelic Choir December 15, 2020

I’m not one to complain especially not on one of these online review sites. Anyone who knows me know I’m never one to make a fuss. And I’m not one of these fancy pants kids with their avocado toast and 5 dollar coffees whining about their feelings all the darn time. Not me! Sometimes you just get what you get and you don’t get upset. And usually if I buy a thing and and it turns out to be a piece of garbage that’s just on me. But not this time. You see, the wife and I are big fans of ABC. We always watch her crafts section on the Shopping Channel. We have her Home is Where the Heart Is Aromatic Candles, the Kiss Me Anyway I Might Be Irish St. Patrick’s Day Cookie Jar, Happy Happy Easter Bunny Wreath, and our Proud To Be an American picnic dish ware where the hit of church barbecue. We love to celebrate, especially my Eleanor. She’s loves to talk, makes friends where ever she goes, natural life of the party type. This last year has been real hard on her, on us. It’s like when the world closed up so did she. I made plans for a trip even to go to the movies but we had to cancel over and over again. We ate Thanksgiving just the two of us. It was just too quiet. When my Nora went to sleep early again, I watched HomeMadeLove alone. Once I saw Bonnie’s exquisitely crafted Angelic Choir I knew this was just the thing to light my honey’s heart. Picture this: twelve little hand painted china faces with rosy cheeks hand stitched lace-trimmed robes complete with twinkle lights and little hands folded in prayer. Finally we would have some company for Christmas. I could barely wait to bring back my honey’s smile. Our mantelpiece was clear and ready. Imagine my disappointment when we opened our long awaited package. Plastic doll parts and cheap paper thin choir robes. Each little cherub was more ghastly than the one before. One looked melted. Another must have been run over by a truck. Nora asked if this was the Insane Clown Posse and I don’t know who they even are. I expect quality for the type of money I spent. I expect Christmas magic. These were nothing like our previous Enchanted Christmas decorations. When I turned one dolly over to see if it was made in China (it was!) It’s garnish little head fell off and cut right into my palm. Now I’m sitting in the emergency room of Delaware County Hospital where I’ve sat for the past three hours with a bloody headless doll baby impaled on my hand with my wife trying (unsuccessfully I might add) not to laugh her head off. I demand a full refund and an apology. I demand my Angelic Choir with twinkle lights. Damn it all, I don’t I have the right to complain.

Oh, precious liquid, you're so underestimated. People take you for granted, your value is underrated. Without you no being can thrive Human or not, nobody would survive You quench thirst More than food, you are first You keep us clean and neat Without you no-one is complete And what about a swim in the sea When it's hot, no better place to be It's only when you're not there That people get a proper scare Then they value but not for long I wish I could show them that they are wrong.

She glanced at the delicate box on the dining room table, meticulously wrapped in hot pink, which, of course, was her favorite color. She knew, immediately, before even opening the crisp white envelope placed next to it, who it was from. She smiled to herself, thinking of her aunt, who had managed, after all these years, to remember the small details she weaved into their conversations and how she paid equal attention to the important, unspoken ones as well.

She was sixteen today, after all. And aside from the unfortunate first date she went on months ago with the brooding, dark-haired, handsome young man she’d made eye contact with on the T one evening on her way home, convinced it was love at first sight, only to discover over coffee a few days later that his conversational skills were severely lacking, she couldn’t recall the last time anyone, other than him, of course, had asked her what her favorite color was. And even then, in spite of herself, and him, for posing such a question, she had lied, too embarrassed to admit to him that it was hot pink, lest he think less of her.

Hot pink was a color she had shied away from for years. When given the opportunity to choose a wall color for her bedroom, two winters ago, she had thumbed through Architectural Digest magazines and design websites, contemplating splashing her walls with a bright, fun, shade of pink.

“It’s much more mature,” her mother had commented over dinner one evening, when comparing the neutral shade she was considering to that of the lavishly pink one.

“It’s more elegant,” her father had added, eyeing the neutral sample she set before him.

“Are you going to ask for a red convertible, when you turn sixteen?” Her brother, Samuel, had asked. “You already look like Barbie, Claire. Now, you want to live in her bedroom? How cliche do you want to be?”

Of course, in the end, she had opted for a more practical, neutral color, but the day she returned home from school to find her bedroom renovation was complete, a pale blue shade donning her walls, she felt she had snuffed out a small part of her creativity. She realized in her choice, she had stifled a small part of who she was. The neutral color looked excellent, meticulously painted on the walls, but her mind wouldn’t allow her to so easily dismiss that perhaps the hot pink would have too. That Christmas, from Samuel, she had asked for a hot pink bathing suit for the summer, partially to annoy him, partially for her own joy.

Yet, there it was, sitting there on the dining room table. A small, perfect present, wrapped in hot pink paper. Of course, she already knew what was in it. She had known, for years now, that when she turned sixteen, her aunt would give her one of the three gold rings she wore everyday; one of the three gold rings she had worn everyday, for as long as Claire could recall. Which of the rings she was being gifted would be a surprise, but she knew, before even opening the present, that the ring would fit her perfectly. She knew, before even opening the present, that her aunt had gone to the trouble to have it resized. She knew, before even opening the present, that it would slide onto her finger, without a glitch.

And still, after all that, her aunt had known, without asking, that Claire still loved hot pink, and she had, in spite of her own distaste for the color, celebrated Claire on her sixteenth birthday and encouraged her, in the silent way that she often does, to always be herself. She had given her a sentimental gift. She had given her something that she would always treasure, but Claire smiled to herself, looking at the present, covered in hot pink wrapping paper, knowing that detail had meaning too.

It was an image. Nondescript. Subtle. A shrewd eye would find itself ignorant. A shrewd ear, however, might possess sufficient leads. She'd spoken of that tree before, though few had cared to listen. Their paper empathies were drenched in personal discomfort. Every time she dug up her precious, little story, her friends were forced to suffer through. They were all the same. Or so she thought. Until she unwrapped that subtle image and held it to her heart. Out of hundreds of ears she'd spoken to, there were at least two that cared.

‘Here,’ said the grey boy, proffering her his jumper, ‘put this on.’ Miku bit her lip, glancing across the room at her brother. He was in deep conversation with the Lieutenant, but she hadn’t missed the hard look he’d thrown this boy’s way. For whatever reason, Masahiko didn’t trust him. So should she?

‘It’s nice and warm,’ the grey-skinned boy pressed, holding the woollen mass at arm’s length, ‘I promise.’

Miku took a deep breath and counted to ten in English. Then in Japanese. Then in broken French.

The grey-skinned boy looked at her in confusion, arms wobbling from holding out the jumper for so long. The corner of his mouth tugged down in defeat.

Miku finally took pity on him and accepted his gift, noticing a small line of stitching at the collar. Five letters. OSWIN.

‘Thank you,’ she said, but Oswin acted as if he hadn’t heard her. He was too busy staring at the snake boy, the one who’d introduced himself as Selander, a delicate expression taking over his features. Miku recognised it as the way her brother looked at a particularly nice slice of pie. Complete adoration. He quickly joined the rest of the group crowding around the wall of maps, slotting back into place at the snake-boy’s side.

Meanwhile, Miku shrugged the dark fabric over her head. Oswin was right, the jumper really was warm, even if it stank like a furnace. A harlequin’s diamond pattern was meticulously stitched in alternating shades of black and grey across the chest. The arms, and sleeves, were black as midnight, dark as shadows.

It was such a simple thing. A tiny silver locket, rimmed with gold and inscribed with a single date. I ran my fingers over the gilded metal, repeating the numbers over and over again: Five. One. Nineteen ninety-five.

I shoved the locket back into the velvet box, trying to ignore the panic rising within me. There was no way they could've known. This was all just a coincidence. A very, very big coincidence.

If they really did know what I had done...

I shook the thought away. No one saw me do it. There was no way anyone could have seen me do it. I made sure of that.

Surely this was just someone else's anniversary gift, delivered to the wrong address. Or the birthdate of somebody's child. Or someone's first kiss, or a baby's first steps, or when a long-term illness finally ceased. Certainly, May 1st 1995 could mean a lot of things to a lot of people.

I shook my head and tossed the velvet box into the trash without a second thought.

There was no way they could've known.

Definitely not.

It was only when the second gift arrived that I really started to worry.

It’s bow was a dazzling red like a frosted snowy rose.

Its wrapping paper was a sight to behold with glossy green of a emerald stone.

It smelt so fresh like angel breath had one whispered under your nose.

And if you looked away then in your eyes corner it glowed.

“Ooh, what could it be billy bean?” Asked mama Joan.

Then billy pouted his lip and said “leave me alone”.

But Through his tears shined the gift that stuck out as if it stood.

He kicked back the torn paper of presents he thought no good

Deep down he felt a crawl, a butterfly or two

And with the flutter of their wings a warmth emerged and grew

“You really don’t want to know my bean?” The gift she raised up high

It seemed so lite but was so big he thought the gift could fly

The shop didn’t get many customers. It didn’t have realtors screaming “Location! Location! Location!”. But it was a shop no less and Diane was in desperate need to find a present for her father. Christmas had always been an ugly affair for Diane’s family. Gift giving was hard for a dysfunctional family like hers. Hopefully she could find an acceptable knick knack in this dreadful establishment that would at least put a faint smirk on her father’s pitted face. Inside she could see little to be excited about. A few stands were scattered about the claustrophobic space. Each stand had either a stack of books or a pile of gross looking jars. With each stand she scrutinized her hope drained slightly. How draft this poor shop was. Short and ugly, the ceiling still had the popcorn remnants from the eighties. Suddenly her draining hope turned into casual disappointment when she saw that no clerk was at the register. How am I going to get to the family party if I’m stuck in this heap of junk she thought to herself. Right when her despair and patience had reached its maximum a quaint and lowly voice spoke from behind her. “Such rush in the Christmas season brings ones eyes to droop, young lady.” Diane flipped around to see what appeared to be a glob of wrinkles and gray hair. But it was that of an old woman. “Yes,” Diane complained, “Especially when you do your Christmas shopping for the most impossible people on the eastern side of the Mississippi.” “Sure, sure, impossible people are the bane of the Christmas shoppers existence,” the old lady said, “Yet, this shop’s specialty is impossible people.” What luck, Diane thought sarcastically. “Well if it’s luck your seeking your in the right place, dear.” The old lady spouted dryly. Diane stood stunned in utter confusion. Had she let her tong slip the thoughts in her mind? Or had the entirety of this experience been one awful and sour dream. Unfortunately it was neither. “Who is it that you wish to give a gift to, dear” “My father” The women sighed with understanding. The woman turned her back to Diane and rummaged through the one of the many piles of jars. She turned and pulled out a ugly jar with a amber liquid inside. “A difficult whiskey for a difficult father.” Alcohol was a good present for an uptight bastard like her father. But Diane felt reluctance. “Home brewed I presume” Diane said. “Yes but the home this was once brewed in is now rubble in the mountains of Scotland” the old lady explained,” it’s been bottled for nearly a century. The one who was said to brew in that area these days was a eerie scientist. Who drunk himself mad on his own strong liquor.” “ a good story for a bad present”, Diane said, “How much for it?” “Forty dollars” Diane bought the jar. To her own displeasure she knew this would not get the faint smirk. But alcohol is alcohol.

Diane’s eagerlessness was apparent at the party. How she hated a family gathering. The political squander, the unnecessary yelling, and the hypocritical religious practices. But most of all the gifts are what killed her enjoyment most of all. No gift given to her was thoughtful. It was always a phone case for a phone she didn’t have or an electric blanket that broke on it’s fourth use. In a circle they sat in a showy living room. Diane’s siblings exchanged half-assed compliments and gratitude over regifted electric pencil sharpeners and boring card games. All while Diane’s father sat in his chair reading a book and smoking a pungent cigar. “Alright now,” Diane’s sister said” gifts for dad, Diane you have a small package so you go first”. Diane placed the wrapped jar on her inattentive father’s lap. He glared down at the package through thin spectacles. His attitude toward the gift when he opened it was expected. He opened the jar and then dipped the amber liquid. “It’s good,” he said,” thanks Diane. She felt good. Maybe it was a nice present. More exchanging went on and Diane’s father developed a stomach ache. Hundred year old whiskey does that to the average man. But this stomach pain was burning. Like a fi re inside his stomach cavity. Suddenly the shape of his nose changed. It shrunk into itself. Concern took over his furrow brow. He screamed with intensity. He slowly turned into a mush.