Salutations

Well, now, isn’t this cozy? Hello all you happy internet folk! I suppose an introduction is in order. My name is Clara Maxwell, but I also go by the name of my crime fighting, pin up alter ego, Charlotte Foxtrot. I was asked to be a contributor to this web journal by my dear friend, Miss Lucy, and while I found the idea a bit daunting at first, I couldn’t say no. It’s just not done, you see, saying no to Miss Lucy.

Getting into the habit of writing on a schedule is going to be pretty hard for me. I mean, it is difficult enough finding time to work on my own projects. But I figured if I can’t write a little something every week (and for a friend) then I have no business trying to write at all. Anyway, it can only help, right? And in the immortal words of Jeremy Clarkson, “How hard can it be?”

So, there I was, sitting at my desk while the sound of Frodo whining played softly in the background. I’d been wracking my brain trying to find a subject befitting my first post on this (hopefully) soon to be illustrious journal. A million subjects raced down my neural pathways and each seemed more ridiculous than the last.

I suppose that it is a good thing a theme of sorts was set for this journal. If not, then I’d surely start rabbiting on about super cars. (Unapologetically, I must warn you that I am a car bore. Under no circumstances must you engage me in talk about cars; I’ll never shut up.) I also gave Miss Lucy my word that I would not follow the natural inclination of my mind, which leans heavily towards smut.

It all seemed hopeless then, since the only thing my brain wanted to think about was all the fun that could be had in a Lamborghini Gallardo. And then I heard a noise behind me; a soft rustling, a small tinkling of bells. I turned and looked. An apple, one of my favorite ornaments, had fallen from my Christmas tree.

As I placed the apple reverently on its branch I was struck with how very beautiful a Christmas tree can be and, in particular, how beautiful my tree was. It was an uncomplicated beauty with just the right amount of ornaments in a simple color scheme; red and gold, green and white. I stood there admiring the soft glow of the white lights and then I had it. In the space of a few seconds, this tree had made my car addled mind calm and serene. It made me happy and I felt a great growing love for humanity, which is odd given that I’m normally a misanthrope. Now if that wasn’t magical, I don’t know what is.

I dashed to my desk. Almost feverishly, I began a stunning and brilliant essay on the wonderful magic that a Christmas tree holds. It was poetic, it was meaningful, and it was everything this journal was supposed to be about.

I was nearly finished with my epic thesis when another sound came from my tree.
“You have got to be kidding me.”
The sarcastic voice drifted, unseen, from the fake pine boughs. This is impossible, I thought, as a frustrated sigh escaped from behind an embroidered angel.

As I approached the tree, I began to wonder if perhaps my piece of writing on the magic of Christmas trees had been so magnificent that it had driven me mad, sort of like Geoffrey Rush in the movie “Shine.” I needn’t have worried.

“That is the biggest load of bollocks I've ever read.”

I looked deep into the recesses of my tree and came face to face with my small red dragon. He had been relegated to the status of ornament and judging by his expression he wasn’t too happy.

“Alonzo?”

“Who were you expecting, the Queen Mum?”

“How?”

“Apparently,” Alonzo smiled as best a dragon can, “Christmas trees are more magical than you thought.” He twisted his tailed around a neighboring branch and gave it a shake, causing an angel to float helplessly to the floor.

Well, isn’t that something? Somewhat bemusedly, I studied the dragon who had until so recently been a toy sitting on my stereo. While I marveled at his tiny, consternated expression and his beady little eyes, I was struck by a surmounting horror; a horror which surpassed the miracle of a life-giving Christmas tree.

What had happened to the other toys I had put in my tree?

“Happy fecking Christmas.” Alonzo’s snarky tone dripped mellifluously from the tree as he sank back into the pine depths.

Oh, great.