ext_51842 (![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png)
luckychan.livejournal.com) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
31_days2005-12-24 11:13 pm
luckychan.livejournal.com) wrote in 31_days2005-12-24 11:13 pm
[December 24] [Original] The Candle's Christmas
Title: The Candle’s Christmas
Day/Theme: December 24th, Seule en ce lieu sauvage/ Alone in this savage place
Series: Original
Character/Pairing: Strangely enough, not a human character. A personification of a candle. ^^;
Rating: G
Author’s Notes: Basically a Christmas story for children, but also meant for adults as well, to celebrate the season. It seems that Christmas is becoming more and more merely a commercialized holiday, which is a pity.
It’s also a strange interpretation of the theme, but there is that one scene that fits the theme…^^;;; (Excuses, excuses.) Comments are very much appreciated.
Oh, and translations:
Kuya is “older brother” in Filipino, while Ate means “older sister”.
Out of the hard work of the gentle hands of an old woman, she was born.
She was not a very large candle, but she knew she was special, for other candles were made and designed by machines, but she was made by hand, painted with care by the old woman who was her maker. The old woman gazed at her with pride in her eyes when the paint on the candle had dried, her hand gently brushing over the painting of the little child in the manger, with His mother and father watching over Him protectively.
“It is finally finished,” said the old woman, turning to a young man who had dozed off in a chair beside her.
“Oh, good, ma,” said the young man, eyes fluttering awake. “They are beautiful—I’m sure they’ll really sell.”
“My son,” the old woman said, a slight reproach in her voice, “You did not even look at them.”
The son headed over to his mother, and stopped in his tracks, gazing candle in her hands. He held out the little candle in his hand, his lips slowly melting into a smile.
“The money does not matter to me, son,” the old woman said, gazing at her own son now. “I only wish to make other people happy, with what little time I have.”
The young man put the candle down, and the last scene that lay before the candle was the image of a son holding his mother close, and then everything else went dark, as the young man closed the box that held the old woman’s works.
I was made to make people happy, thought the candle in the darkness, and strangely, the very thought made her feel happy, as well.
The candle was now displayed on a shelf, along with all the old woman’s works, in a small department store. Many people passed her by, exclaiming, “Oh, how beautiful!”, but one by one, her companion candles were taken from the shelves, until only she was left, alone and forlorn.
A young man suddenly came to the shelf, and though he did not stop to admire her like all the other people who passed by, he took her from the shelf. He motioned for a saleslady to come to him, and said, “How much is this?”
“Seventy-five pesos, sir.”
“Perfect,” said the young man, and handed the candle to the saleslady. “Not that expensive, but beautiful. She would love it, I’m sure.”
You did not even look at me, thought the candle, and true enough, the man’s attention was now on a pair of boots that were on sale.
The saleslady brought the candle inside a small cardboard box, while the young man snapped, “Will you hurry it up? I still have other gifts to buy, you know.”
Soon, everything else went dark as the saleslady closed the box that held the small candle.
I will at least make the lady the man mentioned happy, thought the candle in the darkness, refusing to give up hope.
The sound of gift wrappers being torn could be heard from outside the box that held the little candle, and soon, the lid of her box was lifted up. The light from a hundred bulbs on a Christmas tree shone on her, and a woman’s hand brought her out of the box.
“Oh,” was the only thing the woman said.
The woman frowned, and she gave the candle to another woman beside her, who was also opening gifts.
“That’s what he gave you?” said the other woman, her face crumpling into a scowl.
“I saw these candles in the department store,” said the first woman, her shoulders sagging to the floor. “They were made by some old woman who was dying.”
“It is beautiful, I’ll give him that,” said the second woman. “But it is an impersonal gift. He didn’t seem to even give it much thought.”
“I know, ate,” said the first woman. She placed the candle inside the box again, sighing. “I think I can still make use of this candle. I forgot to buy a gift for Trish, and this would do.”
“He really doesn’t love you, you know,” said the second woman, and then everything else went dark, as the first woman closed the box that held the small candle.
Maybe the lady’s friend will be happy to receive me, thought the candle in the darkness, but the hope in her was now fading, and a cold loneliness was slowly creeping up on her.
The lid of the box that held the small candle were once again lifted up, and a woman’s hands picked her up once more.
With nary a glance at the small candle, the woman put her back into the box again, saying, “Oh. How nice. More things I can give as gifts to my officemates again next year—it seems I wouldn’t have to spend as much.”
The man beside her looked at her with reproach in his eyes, and said softly, “But it was given to you as a gift.”
“It’s the thought that counts, right?” said the woman, shrugging. “I have no use for such trinkets, anyway. Christmas is such an expensive holiday.”
And then everything else went dark, as the woman closed the box that held the small candle.
In the darkness, the little candle sobbed to herself, for after everything, she was still not able to make anyone happy.
And thus, it continued, Christmas after Christmas. The little candle was always given away to someone else, and she gave up hope of ever making anyone happy.
And one Christmas, all her hopes was snuffed out, already a dying flame, blown out with one icy breath.
“Why would she give me something like this?” cried the woman who held her now, gripping the little candle tightly, her nails digging into the candle’s paint and chipping them right off. “Does she think that I can forgive her so easily with this?”
She threw the candle into the air, and up, up she went, then straight across the woman’s room—then down, down, straight into a trash can.
The woman threw the rest of the gift wrappers into the garbage can, and soon, everything else went dark, as the little candle was buried underneath them all.
And the little candle was alone in the darkness.
The little candle was brought to the trash dump, along with all the other garbage the entire city had produced for the holidays. There she stayed in that savage place, alone, unhappy. Dirt piled up on her, and soon, the rains washed away most of the image painted on her by the old woman, leaving only the single figure of the child, vulnerable and lonely.
“Oh, look, kuya!”
A pair of grubby hands had carried away the rubble that had covered the little candle, and lifted her up from the ground.
“So beautiful,” sighed a small boy, gazing at the candle in wonder.
“Do you think we can sell it?” said an older boy, looking at his brother briefly, before turning back to the mound of garbage at his feet. “Come now, Utoy. Don’t stop. We still have to collect more stuff to sell from this dump.”
“Mother would love this,” said the smaller boy, his gaze still fixed on the little candle. “We should give this to her.”
“What?” exclaimed the older boy, raising an eyebrow.
“Just this once, Kuya. Please. It’s Christmas.”
“Christmas.” The older boy snorted once, and laughed. “We cannot afford to celebrate it anymore,” said the older boy sternly, “After they demolished our house and all. We still have no place to stay in but the streets. What sort of Christmas can we have, during these times?” He pointed at the little candle, still laughing bitterly. “And look at that candle, anyway—it’s dirty,and only very little of its design is left…”
“But He is still here, right?” said the little child stubbornly, pointing at the baby in the manger.
The older child looked at the candle, then, his lips slowly melting into a smile.
“Yes, He is still here,” said the older child, putting a hand on the candle. “And He is enough reason to celebrate. All right. This year, we celebrate Christmas.”
I have made someone happy, thought the candle as the older boy lit the candle with a match he begged off some stranger in the streets. The flame now burning brightly on the little candle’s wick shone on the face of the woman before him, a face once ravaged by hunger and sadness, but now looked ten years younger, with the smile that lit up her features.
“So beautiful,” said the woman, hugging her two sons close. “Merry Christmas, my sons.”
“Merry Christmas, mother.” They set the little candle on the street pavement, and though only dried fish and cold rice, donated by a passing kind old woman, served as the family’s Christmas dinner, this Christmas was certainly one of the happiest they ever had. The little candle burned on brightly, and even the baby painted on her seemed to smile at them all.
Merry Christmas to everyone, whether you celebrate it, or not. ^__^
Day/Theme: December 24th, Seule en ce lieu sauvage/ Alone in this savage place
Series: Original
Character/Pairing: Strangely enough, not a human character. A personification of a candle. ^^;
Rating: G
Author’s Notes: Basically a Christmas story for children, but also meant for adults as well, to celebrate the season. It seems that Christmas is becoming more and more merely a commercialized holiday, which is a pity.
It’s also a strange interpretation of the theme, but there is that one scene that fits the theme…^^;;; (Excuses, excuses.) Comments are very much appreciated.
Oh, and translations:
Kuya is “older brother” in Filipino, while Ate means “older sister”.
Out of the hard work of the gentle hands of an old woman, she was born.
She was not a very large candle, but she knew she was special, for other candles were made and designed by machines, but she was made by hand, painted with care by the old woman who was her maker. The old woman gazed at her with pride in her eyes when the paint on the candle had dried, her hand gently brushing over the painting of the little child in the manger, with His mother and father watching over Him protectively.
“It is finally finished,” said the old woman, turning to a young man who had dozed off in a chair beside her.
“Oh, good, ma,” said the young man, eyes fluttering awake. “They are beautiful—I’m sure they’ll really sell.”
“My son,” the old woman said, a slight reproach in her voice, “You did not even look at them.”
The son headed over to his mother, and stopped in his tracks, gazing candle in her hands. He held out the little candle in his hand, his lips slowly melting into a smile.
“The money does not matter to me, son,” the old woman said, gazing at her own son now. “I only wish to make other people happy, with what little time I have.”
The young man put the candle down, and the last scene that lay before the candle was the image of a son holding his mother close, and then everything else went dark, as the young man closed the box that held the old woman’s works.
I was made to make people happy, thought the candle in the darkness, and strangely, the very thought made her feel happy, as well.
The candle was now displayed on a shelf, along with all the old woman’s works, in a small department store. Many people passed her by, exclaiming, “Oh, how beautiful!”, but one by one, her companion candles were taken from the shelves, until only she was left, alone and forlorn.
A young man suddenly came to the shelf, and though he did not stop to admire her like all the other people who passed by, he took her from the shelf. He motioned for a saleslady to come to him, and said, “How much is this?”
“Seventy-five pesos, sir.”
“Perfect,” said the young man, and handed the candle to the saleslady. “Not that expensive, but beautiful. She would love it, I’m sure.”
You did not even look at me, thought the candle, and true enough, the man’s attention was now on a pair of boots that were on sale.
The saleslady brought the candle inside a small cardboard box, while the young man snapped, “Will you hurry it up? I still have other gifts to buy, you know.”
Soon, everything else went dark as the saleslady closed the box that held the small candle.
I will at least make the lady the man mentioned happy, thought the candle in the darkness, refusing to give up hope.
The sound of gift wrappers being torn could be heard from outside the box that held the little candle, and soon, the lid of her box was lifted up. The light from a hundred bulbs on a Christmas tree shone on her, and a woman’s hand brought her out of the box.
“Oh,” was the only thing the woman said.
The woman frowned, and she gave the candle to another woman beside her, who was also opening gifts.
“That’s what he gave you?” said the other woman, her face crumpling into a scowl.
“I saw these candles in the department store,” said the first woman, her shoulders sagging to the floor. “They were made by some old woman who was dying.”
“It is beautiful, I’ll give him that,” said the second woman. “But it is an impersonal gift. He didn’t seem to even give it much thought.”
“I know, ate,” said the first woman. She placed the candle inside the box again, sighing. “I think I can still make use of this candle. I forgot to buy a gift for Trish, and this would do.”
“He really doesn’t love you, you know,” said the second woman, and then everything else went dark, as the first woman closed the box that held the small candle.
Maybe the lady’s friend will be happy to receive me, thought the candle in the darkness, but the hope in her was now fading, and a cold loneliness was slowly creeping up on her.
The lid of the box that held the small candle were once again lifted up, and a woman’s hands picked her up once more.
With nary a glance at the small candle, the woman put her back into the box again, saying, “Oh. How nice. More things I can give as gifts to my officemates again next year—it seems I wouldn’t have to spend as much.”
The man beside her looked at her with reproach in his eyes, and said softly, “But it was given to you as a gift.”
“It’s the thought that counts, right?” said the woman, shrugging. “I have no use for such trinkets, anyway. Christmas is such an expensive holiday.”
And then everything else went dark, as the woman closed the box that held the small candle.
In the darkness, the little candle sobbed to herself, for after everything, she was still not able to make anyone happy.
And thus, it continued, Christmas after Christmas. The little candle was always given away to someone else, and she gave up hope of ever making anyone happy.
And one Christmas, all her hopes was snuffed out, already a dying flame, blown out with one icy breath.
“Why would she give me something like this?” cried the woman who held her now, gripping the little candle tightly, her nails digging into the candle’s paint and chipping them right off. “Does she think that I can forgive her so easily with this?”
She threw the candle into the air, and up, up she went, then straight across the woman’s room—then down, down, straight into a trash can.
The woman threw the rest of the gift wrappers into the garbage can, and soon, everything else went dark, as the little candle was buried underneath them all.
And the little candle was alone in the darkness.
The little candle was brought to the trash dump, along with all the other garbage the entire city had produced for the holidays. There she stayed in that savage place, alone, unhappy. Dirt piled up on her, and soon, the rains washed away most of the image painted on her by the old woman, leaving only the single figure of the child, vulnerable and lonely.
“Oh, look, kuya!”
A pair of grubby hands had carried away the rubble that had covered the little candle, and lifted her up from the ground.
“So beautiful,” sighed a small boy, gazing at the candle in wonder.
“Do you think we can sell it?” said an older boy, looking at his brother briefly, before turning back to the mound of garbage at his feet. “Come now, Utoy. Don’t stop. We still have to collect more stuff to sell from this dump.”
“Mother would love this,” said the smaller boy, his gaze still fixed on the little candle. “We should give this to her.”
“What?” exclaimed the older boy, raising an eyebrow.
“Just this once, Kuya. Please. It’s Christmas.”
“Christmas.” The older boy snorted once, and laughed. “We cannot afford to celebrate it anymore,” said the older boy sternly, “After they demolished our house and all. We still have no place to stay in but the streets. What sort of Christmas can we have, during these times?” He pointed at the little candle, still laughing bitterly. “And look at that candle, anyway—it’s dirty,and only very little of its design is left…”
“But He is still here, right?” said the little child stubbornly, pointing at the baby in the manger.
The older child looked at the candle, then, his lips slowly melting into a smile.
“Yes, He is still here,” said the older child, putting a hand on the candle. “And He is enough reason to celebrate. All right. This year, we celebrate Christmas.”
I have made someone happy, thought the candle as the older boy lit the candle with a match he begged off some stranger in the streets. The flame now burning brightly on the little candle’s wick shone on the face of the woman before him, a face once ravaged by hunger and sadness, but now looked ten years younger, with the smile that lit up her features.
“So beautiful,” said the woman, hugging her two sons close. “Merry Christmas, my sons.”
“Merry Christmas, mother.” They set the little candle on the street pavement, and though only dried fish and cold rice, donated by a passing kind old woman, served as the family’s Christmas dinner, this Christmas was certainly one of the happiest they ever had. The little candle burned on brightly, and even the baby painted on her seemed to smile at them all.
Merry Christmas to everyone, whether you celebrate it, or not. ^__^