Page 3 of All I Want for Christmas Eve

When I arrive on the scene, I curse again, realizing that I should have brought a flashlight. It’s dark. Super dark. Some parts of the plane are on fire, releasing thick black smoke. Maybe it’s an engine? I don’t know much about the anatomy of planes.

“Hello? Is everyone okay?” I call out, trying to peer inside to see how many people are aboard. Souls—they call them souls, don’t they? My heartbeat is racing and pounding in my ears. I am not totally ready to know the answer to my question.

It is only then that I realize I should have brought my cell phone to call for help. I nearly slap myself upside the head for my idiocy.

And it is only then that the flames illuminate the name of the plane.

Santa’s Sleigh.

Santa’s Sleigh has crashed in my backyard.

What kind of an omen is this? Is Christmas ruined forever?

I jump a little when the door of the plane opens, revealing the grunting sounds of a man. A young man. Maybe about my age, maybe a few years older. He looks disoriented and dizzy, and he’s bleeding a little.

I stand there frozen, afraid, and unsure of what to do.

He coughs, as he manages to fully open the door of the plane. He stands there for a second, too dazed to exit. He stares at me.

“Are you an angel?” he asks finally.

“No,” I respond awkwardly. My body finally starts moving into action, and I offer him an arm to help him out of the plane.

“Are you the ghost of Christmas past?” he asks, as he takes my arm and stumbles forward shakily.

I shake my head as I struggle to keep him upright, and keep him from falling into the snow. “No…”

“Then you must be my wife,” he announces.

“Okay, buddy,” I say softly. “I think you really hit your head. We need to get you help.”

“No, I’m perfectly fine. Just a mere scrape or two. I meant that you must be my future wife.”

“Excuse me?” I respond.

“I’m a very positive person. I like to look on the bright side of every bad situation. What other good reason could there be for destroying a perfectly good plane in the middle of this Santa-forsaken tundra wilderness, other than meeting my future wife?”

“Did you just say Santa-forsaken?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says, leaning heavily on my shoulders.

“Well, that makes no logical sense, because Santa lives at the North Pole, which is pretty much just a bunch of ice and tundra. So, the tundra is technically the only ecosystem that Santa wouldn’t forsake, because it’s his favorite topological… never mind, you’re bleeding.”

“My good lady, I fear that these droplets of blood on my brow are not the source of our major concern at this moment,” the strange man says against my ear. His hot breath warms my cold skin, and sends a shiver through me.

“My good lady? Did you just call me ‘my good lady?’”

“Yes, I mean—if you’re going to wear a nightgown like that out in public, I assume that’s what you like to be called.”

“Don’t make fun of my nightgown,” I tell him seriously.

“A storm is coming,” he says gravely. “A winter storm.” Then he pauses for effect. “A winter storm is coming.”

I sigh, then look around curiously. “I don’t see anything. Are you sure?”

“I barely outran it with my plane,” he explains. “But not before the blasted blizzard took out my engine.”

Aha! Itwasan engine. See? I know things.

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