THE LITTLE BARRIO BOY

And so it was Christmas Eve; a cold and moonless night. He was on
his way home. Her mother must have been worrying. It was not
likely for a six-year old boy to be out at this time of the night.

He had been singing christmas carols to every house on their little
barrio so that he could buy her mother a gift. And he was doing this
alone. He had no friends to go with. Because they were poor, he
was despised by the other children for his worn-out shirts and often
dirty looks. But he was unmoved by this fact. Even if he had to do
this caroling alone, he had no second thoughts. Her mother had
been wearing the same old clothes since as far as he can remember.
He had to buy her a new dress this christmas. For the love of his
mother, he would do anything his frail, young body could do.

With his tiny uncalloused hands, he had tediously made a parol fitted
with a candle in the center. He had used this lantern for his nightly
carolings. Since the remoteness of their community made it almost
impossible to have an electricity, the lantern served its purpose of
lighting his way. And now he was happy to go home because he had
collected enough money for her mother's new dress.

He was halfway home, walking the grassy trail in the remote, tree-covered
area of their barrio. It was too dark that all he could see was the flickering
light of his star-shaped lantern and the twinkling stars in the moonless sky.
then he heard something behind, following him.

Beads of sweat started to roll down his little forehead. His pace went faster.
But he could still hear animal hoofs pounding the ground, thundering behind him. A thought about aswangs crossed his panic-stricken mind. It was enough to send him running as fast as his feeble legs could take him. He shouted for
his mother but the noise behind him still inched closer and almost drowned
his weak cry. He ran even faster with arms now thrown in the air. And then he
tumbled to the ground.

The thundering hoofs stopped a few feet away from the fallen boy. Amidst the
darkness and his watery eyes, he saw silhouettes of men dismounting from their horses.

One of them spoke. "We are from the East. Are you the king of kings? You
grew so fast! The Angel in our dreams said that we follow a bright star and it will take us to the newborn King. It was too dark but we still saw your star and we followed it. But we never thought that you can already walk and run. Anyway, we brought you some gifts."

The Three Kings paid their respects then left afterwards.

 

A NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS:
THE MAN ON THE WATCHTOWER

It was a cold dark night. the chilling december breeze gently
brushes his numb pale face. He should be with his family now
preparing for the sumptuous noche buena meal. He thought
about his two year-old boy eagerly waiting for santa to come.
Somehow, it managed to bring a smile to his dreary face. Ahh,
how good it is to be home, he thought.

But somebody has to guard the adamantium walls of this morbid
prison. Somebody has to serve as the watchful eye of the state.
Somebody has to be the first and last line of defense against any
unscrupulous act - specifically the suicidal idea of bolting out of a
prison cell - so that others may sleep tight and worry-free under
their roofs. So here he is, manning the watchtower of the correctional
building at Christmas Eve.

He felt pride at the thought that nobody has ever escaped under
his watch - alive. This made him grip his rifle tightly. the biting cold
of the barrel comforted his longing for his wife and child.

Suddenly, his trained peripheral vision caught something in the
shadows. A movement on the roof of the building. With the starry,
moonless night at the backdrop, he saw a silhouette of a crouching
man, tiptoeing around the roof. Then, he saw a flashing red light.

An aspiring fugitive, he thought. "Freeze!" He shouted. But the shadow
further concealed himself above the roof. The would-be fugitive was
about to jump, but he would not allow this to happen.

"Not under my watch, baby," he said to himself as he pulled the rifle to
his shoulder, took his aim and squeezed the trigger.

The deafening crack of his gun resonated in the silence of the night.
The would-be fugitive fell to the ground with a bullet penetrating his
head.

He turned the powerful spotlight on and veered it towards the fallen
shadow. He saw a white-bearded obese man in red pyjamas and black
boots sprawled on a pool of blood.

Santa was dead on the spot.