alchera #29.

prose / option one (a)
written in first person, the scene begins in a department store on december 23rd. as stated before you are to write this in first person and the narrator (the "i") is a man in his mid-thirties. he is single. he is christmas shopping. these are the only things you must follow. from there the story is wide open for you.
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bloody hell.

that was mine. i saw it first. i had my bloody hands on it first. what more do i need to do? plant a flag? sign a treaty? there's no justice in this world. they took that poor blindfolded lady with the scales, shrunk her to the size of my palm and then stuck a douglas fir up her bum. bloody bigots.

oh great. they're all out of wrapping paper as well. guess it's more current affairs for the kids this year. i'll try to lay off the world news this time. i remember the grief i caused the pallenides's last christmas with that article on the christmas eve attacks in israel. little stephen thought the gruesome pictures were cool, which of course, made mr and mrs pallenides lose theirs. local news it is, then, with cheer and spirit and that sort of bollocks.

what sort of mall runs out of wrapping paper?!

oh i see mrs parekh there, looking at dresses for her daugter keila. she's got the loveliest cornflower-blue eyes and she makes sumptious christmas cookies too. santa would have trouble getting back up the chimney if he ever really stopped by their house. there she stands, holding the dress aloft in half-astonishment, as if she'd just sieved out the last gold flake from the periwinkle waters of the nile delta. and now she's gone and put it back on the rack. keila would look beautiful in that.

i've picked up the dress, seeing as how mrs parekh can't afford it anyway. she really shouldn't be walking around in here amongst these ovine bargain-hunters. she'll make herself feel worse. she doesn't belong here and only she and i know that. pity. this was the last piece. it really is a beautiful little dress.

to the check-out counter. i've had enough. i'll be back tomorrow. you haven't gotten me yet, you christmas rabble!
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it's christmas eve, and as expected, half of yorkshire and the entire population of northern ireland is in here today. it's the same story every year, with last-minute shoppers packing the boutiques searching for exclusive gifts that were already snapped up by eager hands as far back as september.

i've picked up everything i need for yet another lonely christmas. i was standing in the line at counter five and it dawned upon me that i enjoy my last-minute clambering for presents despite the savage hordes i have to contend with. it's a different kind of loneliness here; one i can deal with.
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there's nothing but snow out tonight. some neighbourhoods are quieter than others. some doors remain unlocked only because bolts are far too expensive for some pockets.
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christmas morning. the images in my mind have me smiling now. i'd be infinitely happier if i could see their faces. let them think it was saint nick who put those presents in their houses. merry christmas, everyone.
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