We ruined Christmas without firing a single shot.
There were twelve of us sitting at the round wooden table, with the rest of us somewhere beneath, making soft purring sounds and lapping at the air. The oak table was completely bare, spare the four inches of snow. It was our last Christmas Eve together and we had nothing to create.
With all the exhausted spirit of an eight-year old experiencing midnight for the very first time, we took to our feet like newborn giraffes. We had the foolish notion that our antics of the past would pull us through. The speakers, designed to look like rocks, were playing a muffled Christmas song. We plunged into darkness.
We knew we were somewhere we weren’t supposed to be. There are a lot of those places, after all. The hall grew colder as we pressed onwards, giggling at how positively clever and hilarious we were. But a school of fish changes direction at the turn of a head, and someone, don't ask who, broke into a run.
She gave weight to everything, and our talking and touching ceased; everyone quickened their pace through the hall. Propelling ourselves along, our separate bodies felt as one. We were a breathing, vivacious panther jumping from tree to tree; an illustrious jaguar in the moonlight. We had the eyes, the ears, the racing heart, the spring-loaded legs: and the tail, which I regret was myself.
Night guards came running out of their poker shacks. Sirens echoed off the narrow walls, pulsing ruby and jade. Everyone suddenly had a gun, and a permit too. The wailing woke the entire Guard, who came pouring out in snowdrift waves. I wrestled with a petite blond girl garbed in black— until in walked The Big Guy.
Not slim in any sense of the word, The Big Guy walked slowly around the room, eyeing every face smushed against the frosty granite floor.
“Well, look at this motley crew. Tried something you thought you could get away with?”
“No sir, we never thought we could get away with it.”
Sometime later they let us go; everyone scattered about.
I lagged behind. The whole thing was very sad, so with a vague sort of heartbreak I went to see William Carlos Williams— either out of respect for his condition, or a curious desire for his presence. We talked for a while; it was probably the best talk I've ever had. Out of nowhere he handed me a book of poems. I didn’t know if they were his poems or my own from the future, and though they were in a different language, I knew they were exactly what I wanted to write. Someday.
The clock was 1:17 am and no one knew where I was. I stepped out onto the snowy street.
I woke up on Christmas morning standing on the corner, clutching a book of poems I couldn’t read while staring at the sun.
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