SRU All He Wants for Christmas
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SRU: Christmas Miracles free porn video
SRU: Christmas Miracles
Copyright (c) 1999 by Chilli TNG
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Notes:
The Spells 'R' Us Universe was created by Bill Hart; any characters from
that universe that I've borrowed are ultimately his and I thank him for opening
this universe to everyone.
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to anyone living, dead, or
undead is totally coincidental. Anyone who thinks otherwise needs to get a
life.
Comments and thoughtful critiques may be sent to [email protected]; flames
will be deleted with extreme prejudice.
This story may be archived on any site provided that it is a free site. If
it is ever found on a pay site, the pay site administrators will be prostituted
to the fullest extent of the law.
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Dedication:
I'm dedicating this to a bunch of people: to Janice Dreamer, to P.J.
Wright, to Wendy-J, to L. Rochelle, and to Carrie Gore, with whom I have become
friends and who were most upset that I'd decided to hang up my word processor
and never write again. As you all can see, that has changed -- Merry Christmas!
However, this is ultimately dedicated to Mindy Rich, the founder of
FictionMania. Thank you, thank you, thank you for what you created, for the
friendships it generated, and for the opportunity you gave to everyone to write
and to read some truly wonderful, magical stories.
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Spells 'R' Us: Christmas Miracles
by Chilli TNG
It was late on Christmas Eve and I was feeling sorry for myself . . . as
usual. Snow was falling gently, and the slight breeze that swirled through the
park stirred the flakes into never-ending patterns along the shoveled walkways
of the park. I was sitting on a bench, as far from the streetlights as I could
get. Somewhere in the park, a group was playing in the snow, their squeals of
laughter drifting to me along with the snow.
"At least someone is happy tonight," I muttered to myself. I certainly
wasn't. It had been a couple of weeks since all the joy had gone out of my life
. . . since my favorite 'Net site, FictionMania, closed down for good. No
family, no friends outside of my on-line ones, a dead-end job. Who wouldn't
have been depressed? And the loss of FictionMania was quite literally the straw
that was ready to break this camel's back.
I swung my foot lazily at the drifting mounds of snow, creating new ripples
and patterns with each swipe of my shoe. I was full of "If Only" statements,
like "If Only I'd written more" and "If Only I'd tried to do something to be
more helpful" and "If Only I'd taken a stand against the riff-raff" and "If Only
I hadn't quit writing." Lots of "If Only-s," but only one "Then": "Then
FictionMania would still be here."
The revelers in the park had grown quiet and I thought that I was alone in
the park. Sure, there was the occasional person walking or jogging, but such
individuals didn't tend to venture into the more secluded areas of the park this
late at night. No telling what kind of nasty surprise might be waiting there in
the dark. That's why I preferred the darkness. I kept hoping that one of those
"nasty surprises" would happen by; I felt the need to either hurt someone or be
hurt by someone, and it didn't matter which happened first.
By the time the park officially closed for the evening, it had gotten quite
cold. I'd been sitting there, alone on a secluded park bench, for several
hours. And still I sat, not wanting to go home. There wasn't anything at home
to go home to. Signing onto the 'Net didn't pack the same sense of joy and
anticipation that it had prior to the death of FictionMania. Before, every time
I'd signed on to FictionMania had been like a mini-Christmas; there was always
something new to explore there, even if there weren't any new stories in the
archives. But now, it was gone. And sitting in the cold, snowy night at 11:17
just seemed like the right thing to do.
In the distance, I heard a faint pounding sound that I identified quickly as
the rather heavy footfalls of a jogger. "What in the hell is he jogging in," I
wondered, "lead-lined combat boots?" Each "thwap" carried with it the strangest
combination of tones, sounding like a combination of small thunderclaps mixed
with the distinctive pinging of a cold chisel against marble. And they were
getting closer. Each passing second brought the sound closer and closer and
revealed even more subtle tones, which now included something that sounded like
the soft slap of leather against dirt and the oddest clicking sounds which
reminded me of the sound that hail makes as it falls against glass. Odder still
was the fact that these new sounds had their own rhythm when compared to the
louder ones I'd heard earlier.
I was totally engrossed in the sounds and strained my eyes in the darkness
to catch a glimpse of whatever could be creating these mysterious noises. The
park bench I'd been polishing with my butt for the last several hours was well
shadowed and I was certain that I would see this jogger long before he saw me.
The sounds continued to grow louder, the deep thunder sound now so intense that
I felt each clap in the pit of my stomach.
Slowly, I began to make out movement along the far end of the trail that
passed in front of where I was seated. The only details I could discern at
first were general shapes -- yes, shapes. There were two shadowy figures
jogging along the trail at a most leisurely pace. The taller shape appeared to
be dressed in a long coat -- possibly a duster -- with a hood, and the shorter
shape was almost certainly a dog. I hunched down in my seat, trying to minimize
my visibility.
"Hello, Chilli," a voice rang out. "You're a hard man to find, you know?"
I could feel my sphincter threatening to loosen involuntarily. I was too
terrified to say a word, preferring instead to draw myself up into an even
smaller object. How could this stranger have known who I was, let alone the
pseudonym I used when writing?
The two figures drew closer, the sounds of their jogging nearly deafening.
They stopped just in front of where I was seated. I held my breath, not wanting
even its tell-tale vapor to belie my presence.
"Let's talk, shall we?" said the figure.
I continued to hold my breath and maintained my silence.
"What's the matter?" asked the figure. "Tigger got your tongue?" He
laughed at that, although I continued to sit stock-still.
"Ahhh," the figured said, "I see. That is, you can't see. Maybe this will
help." He brought his hands together with a loud "clap," and then, from no
discernable place, we were bathed in a soft, warm light. I let out an
involuntary gasp. It was impossible for me to mistake just who was standing
before me.
It was the Old Man. The Wizard. The Spells 'R' Us Wizard.
He appeared to be a kindly sort, his white hair and beard disheveled from
his jog. He was dressed in his traditional bathrobe-like garment, although it
looked subtly altered to account for the single-digit weather we were
experiencing. He was smiling warmly, and his eyes twinkled with a youthful zeal
that simply did not correspond to his otherwise wizened visage.
"You're really him, aren't you?" I finally sputtered. "You're the SRU
Wizard."
"One and the same," he said, bowing deeply.
"You know," I started, "if you were just a bit heavier, you'd really . . .
."
"I know, I know," he said. "There is a certain family resemblance, isn't
there? I just watch my weight more closely; of course, I don't have to worry
about eating milk and cookies, either."
"So this is your wolf?" I said, moving from the bench and dropping to one
knee.
"Yes," he said, "but I don't think he'll . . . ." As he spoke, the wolf
walked over to me, sniffed my outstretched hand, then moved closer so I could
scratch him behind his ears. "I'll be," the wizard said. "He hasn't done that
with anyone in a long, long time."
"I've got a way with dogs," I said as the wolf began thumping his right rear
leg in appreciation for the scratching I was giving him.
"And you've got a way with words, too," the wizard said.
"Not any more," I said, the smile that I didn't even realize I was sporting
fading back to a glum expression. "I never was much of a writer. I used to
delude myself, thinking I actually had a Muse."
"You do, my boy," the wizard said.
"Yeah, right," I said.
The wolf let out a snort and a growl.
"He liked your stories," the wizard said. "So did I. So did a lot of
people. Why doubt yourself now?"
"Maybe you've been busy," I said, the sarcastic tones in my voice tinged
with sadness, "but, just in case you missed it, I'll give you a little news
update: FictionMania has closed. It's gone. History. Vanished. Why should I
bother writing now? What would be the point?" I sat back on the bench and
wiped the tears from my eyes.
The wizard walked over and sat down next to me, and the wolf came over and
rested his head in my lap. "I've heard all about Mindy's difficulties and
frustrations," the wizard said. "I can't say that I blame her, either. How
much frustration is a mortal supposed to endure voluntarily?"
I hung my head at that. "I know," I said. "I sure didn't help matters,
either. If only . . . ."
"No more," the wizard interrupted. "You cannot blame yourself for the
things that happened. At least, not entirely. You know the things that you
did, good and bad, and I don't need to rehash them for you. But, ultimately, it
was Mindy's decision."
"So why should I bother to write? Who's gonna read my crap anyhow?"
The wolf let out another snort and nipped my hand. Not hard, mind you, but
enough to let me know that he wasn't happy.
The wizard frowned at me, too. "Why is it," he asked, "that mortals have
such a hard time accepting their abilities? You should continue to 'bother to
write,' as you so negatively put it, because you have a gift. Your gift of
writing is so special, in fact, that a Muse -- a rather minor one, to be
certain, but with all of the rights, powers, and responsibilities that go with
the job -- has attached herself to you. She was not assigned to you; she came
to you voluntarily. Without her, you're a pretty good writer; with her, you can
go far and can really touch many, many people."
"How am I gonna touch anyone now?" I asked, but with much less sarcasm than
I'd expressed before.
"There will be ways," the wizard said rather cryptically. "There are any
number of plans out there now to implement the successor to FictionMania. Not
the replacement . . . there will never be another FictionMania. But there will
be something new. And, if you truly feel guilty over some imagined slight you
may or may not have committed which may or may not have contributed to the
demise of Mindy's FictionMania, you can make it up to her by not abandoning your
writing, by contributing to whatever successor rises like a phoenix from the
virtual ashes of FictionMania, and by doing whatever you can to help other
writers with their craft."
The wolf snorted a couple of times. "Oh my yes," the wizard said, "you're
so right. It's getting quite late and we've got a lot more work to do before
this night is through." He stood and I stood along with him. "Merry Christmas,
Chilli," he said, extending his hand. Without even thinking, I took his hand in
mine and shook it firmly. A split second after I did, I wondered just exactly
what kind of trick he was going to play on me through that handshake.
"No trick," he said with a laugh.
"I wasn't . . . ."
"Remember: I can read minds. Of course you thought about something bad
happening. And, had you hesitated in shaking my hand, something bad might have
happened. Don't worry; nothing's going to happen to you just from this
handshake. But I really do need to talk with Bill about getting a little more
good press."
"You're not going to transform me?"
"What makes you think I haven't?"
"Huh?"
"Before I came jogging by, you were a washed-up has-been of a writer . . .
at least in your own mind. Now, that's all changed. If that isn't a
transformation, I don't know what is."
As he turned to head back down the path, the faint peals of a church bell
could be heard. "It's Christmas," he said, "a time of miracles. Anything can
happen. But it's up to all of you to see that it does happen."
"Thanks again," I said, as warmly and as sincerely as I've ever said
anything in my life. "I'll do my best to not let you down."
"Speaking of letting me down," he said to the wolf as the pair began to jog
away, "I wonder how Dannie's been doing tonight. I told her to stay open late
for those last minute swappers . . . er, shoppers." A little gust of wind
stirred up some loose flakes of snow behind the pair, obscuring them from my
sight. When the burst of flurries dissipated, the two had vanished.
I headed back to my own place, a renewed sense of purpose and confidence
brimming within me. I walked out of the park and past several downtown stores
as I headed to my car. The windows of the stores were still lit, lending a
sense of magic to the scene nearly as potent as my visit with the wizard had
been. I caught a glimpse of my reflection in one of the storefront windows; to
my surprise, reflected back at me was not only my image but the additional image
of a beautiful, willowy, ethereal woman, her slender arm gracefully draped over
my shoulder, holding me tight. I could feel the warmth of her body, the gentle
touch of her hand. I looked to my side in disbelief. No one was there. I
looked back at my reflection. No one was there, either, just my image.
"Merry Christmas, Muse," I said with a smile, then started jogging towards
my car. I felt the sudden urge to write about this experience, knowing that no
one was going to believe it. I mean, what are the odds of getting a visit last
year from Mindy Claus and from the Spells 'R' Us Wizard this year? How lucky
can one guy get?
~Fin~
Yvette
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