SOUND of pouring rain, wind rattling a window
The space is narrow, claustrophobic. A seven-foot Douglas Fir is wedged violently in the doorway.
JULIAN (34) is pinned between the tree and the doorframe, his cheek mashed against the damp, rough bark. He smells raw pine and the muddy roof of his car. Pine needles drag across his neck. He GRUNTS with effort.
The tree doesn't move. It's winning.
Across the living room, SAM (33) stands by the TV, holding a steaming mug of tea. Her posture is one of detached, analytical critique.
Julian wiggles. The tree shudders, shedding a cascade of dead, brown needles onto the freshly vacuumed hardwood floor. A branch snaps back and WHIPS him in the ear. Rainwater clinging to the boughs soaks into his flannel shirt.
Julian plants his feet, his socks slipping on the floor. He heaves, putting his entire body into it.
A sound like TEARING CANVAS as the tree POPS through the doorway, taking a one-inch chip of white paint from the trim with it.
Julian stumbles forward, hugging the beast, and nearly topples over the coffee table. He wrestles it to the ground.
He stands, breathing hard, and wipes a smear of pine sap from his forehead. It just spreads, tacky and grey.
Sam takes a slow sip of her tea.
He cracks his back, surveying the dark, looming presence that has invaded their living room. It smells of wet woods and impending labour. He stares at it, a flicker of memory in his eyes—a perfect, glowing tree from his childhood, appearing as if by magic. The memory vanishes, replaced by the grim reality of the mess before him.
She points with her mug to a red metal contraption in the corner. The tree stand.
THE IRON MAIDEN
Julian lies on his stomach, cheek mashed into the carpet. He holds the stand: a chipped, aggressive red water bowl with four rusted eye-bolts designed to maim human fingers.
Sam grabs the trunk, straining.
The trunk rises. A shower of dirt and wood chips falls from the stump, directly into Julian's eye. He blinks furiously, tears welling, but shoves the metal stand underneath.
THUD. The impact vibrates through the floor.
He grabs the first rusted bolt. It won’t turn. Fused with the sap of Christmases past. He strains, the metal biting into his thumb. Nothing.
Julian grits his teeth, pulls a pair of PLIERS from his back pocket. He clamps them on the bolt.
With a horrible SCREECH of metal on metal, the screw turns.
Sam tries to spin the tree. The stand spins with it, SCRAPING a long scratch into the hardwood floor.
Julian rolls onto his back, staring up into the dark, spider-like undercarriage of the fir.
He crab-walks around the base. He cranks the second bolt. The tree shifts.
He loosens the right. The tree LURCHES. Sam GRUNTS, planting her feet. Julian furiously tightens the other three screws. His knuckles are scraped raw. His hands are black with grease and pitch.
She releases the trunk and steps back.
The tree stands. It holds.
Then, slowly, majestically, it tilts three degrees to the south-east.
Sam tilts her head, squinting.
THE GORDIAN KNOT
Julian hauls in a large plastic bin. On the side, his own sharpie handwriting: ‘LIGHTS - DO NOT TANGLE.’ He pops the lid.
Inside sits a single, dense, malevolent sphere of green wire and glass bulbs. A frozen snake orgy.
Sam, now on the sofa with a magazine, doesn't look up.
He plunges his hands into the mass. It’s cold, stiff. He finds a plug and PULLS. The ball tightens. He sits cross-legged on the floor, the sphere in his lap, and begins the maddening process of threading, weaving, pulling.
The only sound is the rain and the soft CLICK-CLACK of plastic bulbs.
He frees a two-foot section. A small victory. He pulls again—and the whole thing snags on a single rogue bulb. He YANKS it in frustration.
A tiny CRUNCH.
Finally, the snake uncoils. A twenty-foot strand lies defeated on the rug. Julian stands, triumphant.
Julian sighs. He walks to the wall outlet, plugs it in.
Nothing. Not a flicker. The entire strand is dead.
He stares at the outlet. Wiggles the plug. The silence in the room is heavy, judgmental.
He scrambles back to the bin, dumping its contents. Spare bulbs, a broken candy cane, dust bunnies. No little plastic baggie of fuses.
He attacks the second ball of lights with frantic energy. He claws at the wires. He uses his TEETH to pry a loop loose, tasting bitter PVC.
Minutes later, he has the tiny glass fuse. He uses the tip of a steak knife to pop open the little door on the dead plug. He swaps them, his hands shaking with caffeine and rage.
He plugs it in.
A glorious, warm, incandescent LIGHT floods his face.
He throws his hands in the air. Sam offers a slow, deliberate clap.
He approaches the tree. He begins the clumsy, sticky waltz. Around and around, ducking under branches, getting slapped by needles. The wire snags. He tugs. The tree WOBBLES.
He reaches the top and steps back, sweating.
Julian GROANS. He shoves his hands into the prickly interior, pushing wires back. Sap glues the hairs on his arms together. He steps back again.
The tree glows. It’s not perfect—bunched on the left, a dark patch on the bottom right—but it’s lit. The warm light softens the room, makes the rain feel cozy instead of hostile.
GHOSTS IN THE TISSUE PAPER
The frantic energy is gone. A quiet rhythm has taken over. Sam sits on the floor, opening a box of ornaments.
The CRINKLE of old, yellowed tissue paper is loud in the room. She unwraps a delicate silver glass sphere.
She hands it to him. Julian takes it with two fingers.
He places it carefully. Next comes a wooden soldier. A felt reindeer with one eye. A weird, shrapnel-like wooden star.
She unwraps another. She stops. Julian looks over. She’s holding a cheap, scratched, plastic blue bauble.
Julian lets out a short, sharp laugh.
She holds it for a second too long, her thumb rubbing a deep scratch on its side. Julian watches her. He sees the eight years between then and now. The cheap wine and the new mortgage. The weariness in her shoulders.
She looks up, catches him staring.
She gives him a small, tired, genuine smile and hangs the blue plastic ball on a prominent branch.
They finish the box. Julian drags a dining chair over and steps onto it, holding the topper: a simple, gold plastic star. He reaches for the tip of the tree. The branch is too long, flopping over under the star’s weight.
He bends the branch in half, jams the coil on. It sits, slightly askew. A drunk monarch.
He steps down. Kicks the empty boxes aside. He walks to the wall switch controlling the overhead lights.
He flicks the switch. CLICK.
The room plunges into darkness, then is instantly reclaimed by the tree.
The warm lights glow through the needles, reflecting off decades of glass and glitter. The silver balls throw light onto the walls, making shadows dance. The ugly blue bauble shines just as brightly as the antique glass.
It’s beautiful. It’s messy, leaning, and there’s sap on the carpet, but it’s beautiful.
The wind HAMMERS the window, but inside, it’s still.
Sam walks over to him. She leans her head on his shoulder. He puts his arm around her. His shirt is damp and sticky, but she doesn't mind.
Sam laughs softly against his shoulder.
They stand there for a long moment, the tension of the day unspooling in the warm glow.
He squeezes her shoulder and pulls away to find his phone. He steps over a tangle of leftover twist ties and broken bits of pine.
He looks down at the extension cord running from the tree to the wall. It’s pulled taut, hovering an inch off the floor like a tripwire. A guitar string of potential disaster.
He smiles to himself. A small, weary smile.
He doesn't finish. He just shakes his head and starts dialing. Tomorrow's problem.
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