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This Chirstmas Advent collection is 28 stories, one for each day of the Advent season. The stories focus on the themes of Joy, Peace, Hope and Love.
This little booklet is a gift. I trust you will be flooded, overwhelmed, and snowed in by memories and wishes of Christmases past, present and future. Merry Christmas. Excerpt from one story, Guitar Man: The cold wind drove the rain through the streets, splashing angrily off towering concrete and glass pretenders to the throne of money and icy hearts. Curtis D'Angelo futilely turned up the collar of his faded, thin overcoat that used to be gray but was now more brown. He had a hat, a Dodger's hat he'd picked up somewhere. Threadbare at the rim, it caused tiny waterfalls in front of his face. Curtis paid no attention. He pressed against the building, somebody's Savings and Loan, working his way around to the alley, and there down a block or two. There was a restaurant whose back door had a little awning, and sometimes there was scraps. The others let him have that one - it was Curt's Place. He knew there wasn't going to be any money today from people dropping singles, sometimes fives, into his guitar case while he played. Truth was, he was pretty good. Or anyway, he had been, back when. Back before. Back before … you know … Sheila left … before the bottle. He'd told himself her leaving was first, then the alcohol, but maybe it was the other way around. Now he mostly wondered … what was all this for? The rain showed no sign of mercy as sheets swept the roads and sidewalks. The few people who dared out, dashed under big umbrellas to waiting cars, or sometimes to the dark, dryer, subway tunnels. The advertising lights behind the glass sparkled like Christmas lights, and they were surrounded by real Christmas lights, but the gray rain washed a curtain over the windows and Curtis didn't appreciate the intended festiveness. It had in fact been some time since he noticed things like Christmas lights, St. Patrick's Day clovers, Fourth of July banners. Someone would remind him of the current season and he'd try to work in a song or two that fit; sometimes the swarms of workers and tourist bees were bigger. Whatever, as long as they dropped a few bucks in the case. … He sat back down on the bed, leaning against the wall. Night noises, cars, horns, some people talking - he heard as background. To him, it was a quiet night. Like so many others. But then he heard a new sound, a voice. He couldn't tell exactly where it was coming from, only it was outside. A woman was singing. He went to the window and saw the rain had stopped, but he could tell the wind still whistled between the buildings. The woman was singing a Christmas Song, The First Noel. How could that be?
This little booklet is a gift. I trust you will be flooded, overwhelmed, and snowed in by memories and wishes of Christmases past, present and future. Merry Christmas. Excerpt from one story, Guitar Man: The cold wind drove the rain through the streets, splashing angrily off towering concrete and glass pretenders to the throne of money and icy hearts. Curtis D'Angelo futilely turned up the collar of his faded, thin overcoat that used to be gray but was now more brown. He had a hat, a Dodger's hat he'd picked up somewhere. Threadbare at the rim, it caused tiny waterfalls in front of his face. Curtis paid no attention. He pressed against the building, somebody's Savings and Loan, working his way around to the alley, and there down a block or two. There was a restaurant whose back door had a little awning, and sometimes there was scraps. The others let him have that one - it was Curt's Place. He knew there wasn't going to be any money today from people dropping singles, sometimes fives, into his guitar case while he played. Truth was, he was pretty good. Or anyway, he had been, back when. Back before. Back before … you know … Sheila left … before the bottle. He'd told himself her leaving was first, then the alcohol, but maybe it was the other way around. Now he mostly wondered … what was all this for? The rain showed no sign of mercy as sheets swept the roads and sidewalks. The few people who dared out, dashed under big umbrellas to waiting cars, or sometimes to the dark, dryer, subway tunnels. The advertising lights behind the glass sparkled like Christmas lights, and they were surrounded by real Christmas lights, but the gray rain washed a curtain over the windows and Curtis didn't appreciate the intended festiveness. It had in fact been some time since he noticed things like Christmas lights, St. Patrick's Day clovers, Fourth of July banners. Someone would remind him of the current season and he'd try to work in a song or two that fit; sometimes the swarms of workers and tourist bees were bigger. Whatever, as long as they dropped a few bucks in the case. … He sat back down on the bed, leaning against the wall. Night noises, cars, horns, some people talking - he heard as background. To him, it was a quiet night. Like so many others. But then he heard a new sound, a voice. He couldn't tell exactly where it was coming from, only it was outside. A woman was singing. He went to the window and saw the rain had stopped, but he could tell the wind still whistled between the buildings. The woman was singing a Christmas Song, The First Noel. How could that be?
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