Wow, how is it Christmas Eve already? This year seems to have flown past. And I realise that once again I’ve been pretty poor at updating you all on what I’ve been working on this year. I have been writing and recording and creating, but I’ll save that for an update that is coming next week.

For now, please enjoy this new short story I’ve written for Christmas! It takes place in the world of, and features, Edison Crow. As ever, please leave me a comment on it as I’d love to know what you think. It’s not the final polished form, given I’ve just finished it, but wanted to share it with you in time for Christmas!

***

Flaming pyres burned all over the city. Angry flames reached toward the ink-black sky, casting an orange glow above the city. Shrieks and screams echoed around the alleys and streets of the ancient city. People ran in all directions, scattered and with no obvious direction in mind. Dark shadows danced and flickered in the deep orange glow. Thick palls of smoke rose above the streets, blotting out the starlit sky. Strains of seasonal music served as a backdrop to the sounds of giggling children and frustrated parents trying to keep up with them. The air was cold, crisp, and biting. Nipping at any exposed flesh, children’s faces were flushed red but did nothing to diminish their excited energy. And from the night sky, snow fell in a silent blanket.

As it settled silently, it buried the worn cobbles under a veil of white, somehow seeming to deaden the noise of the city. Closer to the celebratory fires, and the smokestacks of the ever-churning factories, the white powder darkened, infused with ash. There it quickly turned to slush. Lanterns hung from trees on either side of the main thoroughfares of Murkvale. Those who lived and worked in the area added their own touches, turning the streets into a veritable melting pot of decorations. 

Christmas was the one time of year when Murkvale truly came to life. Everybody was a little bit kinder, more tolerant and willing to offer a pleasant greeting. It seemed the festive spirit possessed all, bringing them out of the usual gloom and into the light and warmth of the season of goodwill. And in the heart of the ancient city, in the plaza stood the most enormous fir tree. It reached high above the shops and office buildings that bordered the square. Glass decorations glittered and twinkled in the stuttering light of candles perched so precariously amongst the boughs that they seemed to defy physics.

Shrieks and cheers rang out around the square, the crowd as one turning to stare up into the night sky. A break in the thick clouds and smog allowed the full moon to bathe the city in its cold silver light. A gleaming red sleigh suspended beneath a gold balloon drifted down, its skis settling upon the snow-covered cobbles. It was piloted by a large man with a long flowing beard. His rosy cheeks shone below his aviator goggles. A red hat topped his head, matching the white-trimmed red coat and trousers. A sash of gold finished the outfit. 

The figure boomed a joyous laugh as the masses greeted him. He jumped down from his sleigh theatrically, taking in the adulation of the excited children. Pulling an enormous velvet sack from the back of the sleigh, a grand show was made of handing out presents to the eager children. To the casual observer, it seemed an altruistic soul had taken it upon himself to bring festive cheer and gifts to the youngest residents of Murkvale. The constant presence of an entourage jostling to get photos of the jolly philanthropic man in red as he handed out his gifts, and the fact that only children from well-off families were present, demonstrated it was nothing more than a PR campaign masquerading as a Christmas miracle.

But behind the pageantry and spectacle were The Forgotten. Beneath bridges, down darkened alleys or in the dilapidated factories on the fringes of the city those that slipped through the cracks existed. Not just the usual street dwellers, beggars and vagrants. Children. Young children. Young children who chose to chance life out of sight and mind rather than in the workhouses and orphanages. It wasn’t that those more fortunate didn’t want to see or acknowledge those poor, unfortunate souls. Such was the ability of these children to disappear that the population merely forgot about them. 

As the families surrounded the vast tree and the excited children jostled and pushed to be the next to receive a moment of time and a gift, there was activity in the shadows. Street children scurried amongst the crowds, picking pockets and lifting purses while everyone was absorbed in the festivities. Some even broke into shops, desperate for food and clothing. Except for one. A young boy, too young to truly understand what was happening around him. He watched on from a distance, wishing he wasn’t unseen, wishing he could enjoy the emotions of those with a more comfortable, happy life than his own. He was too preoccupied to join in with the others until a child was noticed rifling through the pockets of a high-society gentleman. The sudden commotion broke his daydreaming and, along with the other children, he dissolved away into the darkened alleys of Murkvale.

~ ~ ~

Edison Crow had not set foot in Murkvale since he had escaped it many years earlier. So much had happened since the last time he had left. And yet he never forgot that night as a child, watching only those from important or well-off families receiving gifts. There was no justice in it when The Forgotten lived and died on the street, far from sight. They lacked basic necessities while those with little needs reaped the benefit of their social status. But not this night.

From his vantage point on atop the ancient city walls, not a lot had changed he mused. The sights and smells took him back. The sounds of joyous shrieks and children at play mingled with music to fill the smoke and smog-filled air. He pulled the hood of his cloak low over his eyes, a scarf covering the lower half of his grizzled face. Shouldering two bulging bags, Crow strode into the outskirts of the city, his feet carrying him by memory. He knew that The Forgotten were likely still inhabiting the same spaces they always had done. Knowing that they would be out looking to prey upon those celebrating, he took his time.

Drainage canals beneath bridges, dilapidated warehouses, disused factories and tenement blocks close to collapse all made for likely hideaways for scores of orphans seeking shelter from the falling snow and bitter winds. Confirming his thoughts, dimly flickering embers in hastily extinguished fires told him he was on the right path. Picking his way through these depressing locations, some of them bordering on squalid, brought back unpleasant memories for Crow. Desperately trying to shut out the cold in his worn, tattered clothes – more holes than material. Scratching around for scraps of food and even just a little relatively clean water to drink. And as for presents, they were non-existent. Oh, how young Edison would have loved to have received a gift, something just for him.

At each of the locations, he quietly sought out where the children were making their beds at night, or at least what might pass as a bed in such circumstances. Edison unshouldered his bags, rummaging in them for crudely wrapped parcels. In each were new clothes, bedding and food and drink. Nothing of great value to most, but for The Forgotten, it would mean the world. Selah and the crew were leaving similar packages around the city, their goal to leave something for as many street children as possible on this festive night.  There was no pretence or pageantry. Not like the man making a show of handing out gifts in the square to children in need of nothing. Crow wanted no adulation, attention, or praise for his gift. He merely wanted to ease the lives of children no different to himself once upon a time. A part of him wished he could see their reactions when they saw his gifts. But most importantly he wanted them to know they were The Forgotten no longer. He resolved to return each year to repeat this special mission and ensure the most unfortunate of children knew there were seen, that they were no longer forgotten, at least at Christmas.