Stories

Christmas Cat-alog
(monolog for a cat)
by Kaitlin Hughes, age 16

I don't know what to get my human for Christmas.

I’m a little under a year old, which is fine for a cat, but I’ve never experienced Christmas before. It seems to be fun, and I would like to participate. By participate, I mean giving my human a gift. I have heard her talking about it to her friends. Silly humans do not realize that we can hear and understand their language, simply because we cats do not possess the correct vocal cords to respond. Anyway, my human is going to get me a mouse toy, which could keep me amused for hours (one cannot defeat one’s instincts). She is also knitting me a sweater, though I detest receiving clothes. Fortunately, she will be satisfied to see it on me once, and then I never have to wear it again.
As I am the superior being in this relationship, I feel that I should be at least as benevolent as my human. However, it is not as easy to attain presents that humans like if one happens to be a cat. I have no money because I cannot get a job, and if I did have sufficient funds I could not negotiate with a clerk in order to purchase. Most of the time, animals are not allowed in human stores.

I could give my human a present that I would enjoy, but we have differing tastes. For her birthday, when I was younger and did not realize the differences between human and cat likes and dislikes, I gave her a ball of yarn that had been lying on the floor, after I had worked on it for hours to unravel it and sculpt it into a masterpiece. She didn’t like it; she wanted her yarn in a ball. Bo-o-ring.

So I need to get her a “human” present. A day ago I snuck into the mall and tried to take something out of a store, but an alarm went off. They laughed when they caught me, and called me a “cat burglar.”

However, we continue to humor the humans because they do everything for us. We are lazy, and we like it that way. I am saddened, though, that I was incapable of finding a suitable gift for my human. It is good to show appreciation, even if one is superior, for I could not maintain my current lifestyle without her.

Here she comes in the door. She looks exhausted. She’s carrying six large bags of presents from her last-minute shopping. “Hello, Kitty,” she says to me. “I think I’ll wrap these later.” She drops them at the door and sits down slowly on the couch. I jump into her lap, curl up, and begin purring as she pets me. “Oh, Kitty,” she sighs. “In all this craziness, being at home with you is the greatest gift!”

Well, fancy that.

Grownup Santa
by Kaitlin Hughes, age 15

I don’t believe in Santa anymore. It wasn’t really something I consciously chose. It was one Christmas that I realized that Santa had not come. I was being pulled into the adult world, full of secrets I had no desire to know. The harder I clung to childhood, the more I was tugged away. And now I find myself, this Christmas, no longer a child at all. I would say I was an adult, but I’m not that, either. Truthfully, I’m starting to wonder if anyone really becomes the child’s definition of adult.

I ponder these questions looking out the window, sitting on a cushioned chair. One hand is warm, holding a mug of hot chocolate, while the other is cold, touching the glass that has been refrigerated by the snow falling outside.
I just wish everything could be simple again. There was a time when children’s stories were nonfiction, when all endings were happy, when all things had conclusions that were obvious and decisive.

The only thing left now in the mug is the syrupy chocolate at the bottom. Some people like that part, but I don’t, so I set the mug down. The snow is letting up a bit. Usually, I would go out and build a snowman in this weather, but I don’t feel like getting cold right now. I stand up to get a blanket off the couch, but as I do the doorbell rings. I sigh and walk slowly to the door and open it.

“Hi, I’m from the Salvation Army, and I was wondering if you would like to make a donation. There are a lot of families in need this holiday season.”

“Yeah, hold on a minute.” I fish my wallet out of my jacket pocket. It’s there because I wanted to drive to the mall today, but decided against it because the weather has been bad. “It’s good of you to be doing this in the snow.”

“When it’s cold, people need even more supplies.”

“Yes, I suppose.” I had pulled out a five, but I change my mind and give her a ten instead. “Thanks for all you do.” I put the money in the bucket.

“Your donation is greatly appreciated.”

“I hope it will make a difference. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas to you.”

I watch her leave, then remember I’m letting the heat out, and close the door.
Maybe I do believe in Santa, but differently than I used to.

Warmth Pennies
by Kaitlin Hughes, age 14

I don't like Christmas. Sure, you get presents and all that, but the weather is terrible. My mom, on the other hand, loved it. People say that I stopped liking Christmas because that's when she died. They can think whatever they want. I just don't like the cold.

What I love is going to the beach. My favorite thing to do is to listen to the waves and build a sand castle as high as I can. That would be a great way to spend Christmas: warmth, waves, and sand castles.

I'm waddling down the icy sidewalk in about fifty layers of clothing, and carolers are singing "Jingle Bells" on the corner. It has to be the most annoying song in the world. I'm just about to enter the store to routinely buy gifts for my family, but there's this little girl standing just outside the entrance. She hands me a penny.

"What's this for?" I ask.

"A present," she says.

"Your mother would probably be angry if she found out you were giving money away," I warn.

"Mommy told me to do it, instead of getting a present for her," responds the girl, frowning a little. "She's sick in the hospital. She says to give warmth pennies to other people instead of wasting the money on her."

"What is a 'warmth penny'?" I ask suspiciously.

The girl smiles broadly. "Me and Mommy invented them. The pennies have love inside, to keep you warm!"

That's not the kind of warmth I need, but I take it anyway, to humor her. "Thank you," I say.

I go into the store, figuring I'll spend the penny on sales tax. But a few minutes later, I glance back to watch the girl through the open door. A man in a business suit embraces her. He must be her father, I presume.

The man is crying. "Your mother has died," he is saying. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. They did all they could."

The child does not cry. Instead, she hands him a penny. He scoops her up and they disappear into the snow.

Walking back home, carrying my presents, I can feel the penny the girl gave me in my pocket. The man crying reminded me of how I felt when my mom died. I wish someone had given me a "warmth penny" back then.

I enter the house, hide my presents in the back of the closet, and pull my piggy bank off the shelf. There are seventeen pennies inside. I wonder if I can turn them into warmth pennies. Maybe not by myself, but with the help of my mother, I can.

I put the seventeen pennies in my pocket, adding the warmth penny the girl gave me. I can give it away too, because I don't need it anymore.
I go outside, intending to return to the store to pick up where the little girl left off.

But first I think I'll build a snow castle.

Nine Eleven
by Kaitlin Hughes, age 13

“9-1-1…Please state your emergency.”

“You’ve got to stop them! They’re hijacking planes, crashing them into buildings and killing people! Innocent lives—gone! People—“

“Excuse me, but do you have a real emergency?”

“This is the emergency! They’re killing—“

“I’m sorry. Prank calls to 9-1-1 are against the law.”

“No, wait—”

Click. Boooooooooop…

“Aaaaah!” I sat up in bed, sweating. Darn! I let myself fall asleep again. That was the third night in a row I had that nightmare. It was September 14.
I live in New York, and was asleep when “it” happened. Asleep! When I turned on the news I was traumatized. I hadn’t gone outside since.
Finally my sister came over and dragged me out of bed. “Fresh air will do you good,” she insisted.

“I told you, Sis, I don’t want to go outside.”

“Too bad,” she said, as she yanked me out the door.

I gazed around at the semi-familiar, yet different New York, squinting from the sunshine and the smoke that still hung in the air.

My sister began leading me by the hand through the city streets. It embarrassed me, so I pulled my hand away and just followed her.

After a half an hour, we finally stopped to rest, in a schoolyard where kids often played. But not today. We sat on the benches there, in silence; the schoolyard was still empty, and so was I.

I looked out into the distance where the Twin Towers should have been. There was only smoky sky.

“I get sad, too, when I look over there,” said a voice coming up behind me.
I turned to see a little boy, with a basketball under his arm. He couldn’t have been more than eight or nine. He knew, and yet he was outside playing!

“My Dad’s a firefighter. He was gone for awhile, but then they found him.”
“I’m glad,” I told him.

“When he was gone, I didn’t want to do anything, but Mom made me go to school. She said that to stay inside and be scared would be what the terr—“ he struggled with the word, “ter-ror-ists want, and we have to be strong.”

“That’s right,” I said, learning from him, but pretending just to agree.
“Jacob, time to go home!” I heard a mother call.

“I gotta go,” he said.

“Bye, Jacob!” I replied.

About ten weeks later, I was having Thanksgiving dinner with my family. I said an extra prayer for Sis and gave her hand a squeeze. If she hadn’t cared so much, I might still be hiding from the world, and missing out. Especially in these times, being together is so much better than being alone.

One Small Voice
by Kaitlin Hughes, age 13

September 11.

It was a sad day when terrorists stole four airplanes and crashed them into the important buildings of America, killing so many innocent people. How could they do that? My mother tried to protect me from this terrible news, because I’m only 8 years old, and she was afraid I wouldn’t understand. She was right. I will never understand how the people who call themselves Muslims could think this was the “will of Allah.”

She had to tell me, though, despite her better judgment, because September 11 is why my father is never coming home. He was killed in an explosion.
The day it happened I met up with a boy on the street I did not know, but I could tell what he was thinking about.

“Did your parents tell you everything?” I asked.

“Yeah. How could they do it? How could they just kill them?” the boy responded.

“I don’t know.”

“And we can’t do anything! We’re at their mercy.”

“Yeah.”

My mother is very poor and we don’t have a television, but I still see awful things happening all around me. It gives me nightmares.

Is the world coming to an end? Why do men hate each other so much? I pray every day for an end to this war.

I miss my father. I need more food. But I just want peace again.

It’s hard being an Afghani child.

The Best Gift
by Kaitlin Hughes, age 12

ll I wanted was that one doll! She was the most beautiful doll in the toy store, maybe the world. She had curly brown hair, beautiful green glass eyes, and skin the color of pink sand. She wore a red-and-green plaid dress with a matching bow in her hair, and cute little red shoes. Her snow-white socks were ruffled, and she wore a necklace.

Everything about her was perfect, down to an eyelash.

It was early December, and I dreamed of getting that doll for Christmas. She was the perfect doll. Every girl would want one. Of course, not every girl would get one. That saddened me.

“Honey, come to the car!” my mother called. I sighed and went, leaving the window with the doll.

We could never afford it, anyway. Such a wonderful doll was something only richer people could afford. Children like me could only admire it from the window. My family would be lucky to be able to stay in our house until Christmas. I’d never get the doll, and probably not any other presents, either.

My mom and I drove home in our beat-up old junker. When we got home, mom plopped the groceries for the week on the table. Later, my dad came home. He still hadn’t found a job. Just like usual.

I went to bed on the floor (we had already sold most of the furniture), and drifted off to sleep, dreaming about the doll, and hugging my tiny teddy bear to my chest.

The day before Christmas, Mom took me on another shopping trip, and again I found myself looking in the toy store window.

But this time, there was another young girl, also looking in the window, also longing for that doll. She was poorer than I. In my pocket, I felt my tiny teddy (which I always carry around with me). I thought that if she couldn’t have the doll in the window, she should at least get something for Christmas.

“Here,” I said, offering her the bear. “Merry Christmas!”

(I would miss my teddy, but I knew she would love it too.)

The girl refused, reached into her own pocket, and gave me a tiny cloth doll dressed like an angel. Then she started to walk away.

“Wait!” I called. The girl stopped, and I went to her. “Thank you,” I said. “Won’t you at least have my bear?”

“Where I come from, we don’t need possessions,” she said, smiling. “But thanks.” After a pause, she pointed to the store window. “Do you need that fancy doll anymore?” she asked me.

“No!” I replied, cuddling her tiny cloth doll. “This is the best gift. It’s so sweet!”
“I’m done, then!” said the girl as she quickly departed. I didn’t follow her. Mom returned, and we went home.

That evening, Dad came home happy, too. He had found a job.

The Best Symbol of Christmas
by Kaitlin Hughes, age 11, and Doug Hughes

Christmas Eve is a night of magic and miracles, when all the toys and decorations come to life. Normally, they sing carols and give thanks for the gift of Christmas, but this year—in one house—they began to argue about which of them was the best.

“I am the best symbol of Christmas!” said the official Star Wars® collectible ornament, “because I remind people of the joy and excitement they experience at the movies during the holidays.”

The boxes beneath the tree shook in disagreement, as the toys inside them tried to get out.

“You’re too violent!” shrieked Millennium Barbie®. “Two of me are sold every minute, and everyone knows that Christmas is about toys!”

“That’s not true,” corrected the star hanging proudly in the window. “Christmas is about the birth of Jesus, and I led the wise men to Him.”

“So did I!” said the angel on top of the tree. “I led the shepherds to Jesus, and I also sang the first Christmas carols!”

“You’re all wrong,” declared a small voice from the Nativity set on the mantel. It was the plastic Baby Jesus. The other decorations stopped arguing, and were embarrassed.

“Hey, it’s your 2,000th birthday,” admitted Barbie.

“Yeah, the Force is with you,” said the Star Wars ornament.

“Amen!” sang the angel.

“You’re definitely the best symbol of Christmas,” said the star.

“No, I’m not,” said the tiny statue. “I’m just a piece of plastic. The best symbol of Christmas is in the next room.”

“The next room?” echoed the ornaments in puzzled unison. “But all of the ornaments are right here on the tree! There’s no one in the next room except a sleeping child.”

“Exactly,” said the Baby Jesus. “Children are the perfect symbols of Christmas. Through them, I live. Through them, I bring my love to the world. Through them, my people are reborn.”

As if to confirm this statement, the child’s parents came in and turned off the tree lights. They tiptoed into their child’s room, smiled lovingly, and kissed their precious Christmas gift goodnight!