STORIES FOR THE SEASON

FICTION BY ROBERT CRAIG

Angels we have heard below. Bruce shuts the water off and waits for the last weird burst before reaching for his towel. He dries himself off and slides the shower curtain open. Grabs his glasses off of the sink. Steam hangs in the air and obscures the mirror, blocks the window view. The old radiators ping and hiss as heat roars out of the furnace.

Then the sudden chill. Down the hall and into the bedroom. He hangs the wet towel on the door. When he turns towards the closet to get dressed, he notices it's snowing. He goes to the window to look. A huge snow squall has burst across the countryside. Upwards and downwards. Gusts like a snow globe shaken.

From the window, he sees Roy pull in, the truck making fresh tracks in the snow. And in the back of the truck bed, a pine. A Christmas tree. Bruce smiles and watches Roy pull it out, shake the loose needles off. He leans it against the woodpile. Roy hesitates and looks up towards the snow coming down. Then he calls the dog and together they disappear under the porch eaves.

Downstairs he hears Roy kicking the snow off his boots. Then the kitchen door bursting open and shut. The dog barking for fresh water.