Invent a holiday for which your character is a big fan.
I am revisiting the world of Turion - several centuries in the post apocalyptic future. For other stories on him click here
Humming and pinning scraps of crinkly silver paper on a wire triangular frame, Turion worked methodically to cover the shape with the fluttering material. He stepped back and looked at his work and frowned. He rummaged in the open box and brought out a selection of socks and proceeded to artistically arranged them on the upper level of the shape.
He suddenly grew sad placing the last one on the triangle. Last year, his mother had been here and she had shared this activity with him. He stood poised holding onto the sock as if by letting it go, may let go the memory of his mother.
“Well lad you’ve got it looking very festive, well done.”
Uncle Rishe clamped his beefy hand onto Turions bony shoulder and stared at the silhouette.
“The others will be here soon and it will be time to start our party. Here have one of these.”
Turion grinned madly as he was handed a wooden toe shape. He blew into the whistle and laughed at the high pitched squeak which it emitted.
“That’s the spirit lad.” Uncle Rishe honked his Whistle Toe and linked arms with Turion spinning him about.
“Sorry boy - forgot about your dicky legs. Better sit down hey?”
Uncle Rishe cleared a space on the couch and guided Turion onto the cushions. He beamed up at Riche with undisguised love. Apart from his mother, Riche was the only one who treated him as a normal person; ignoring his crippled legs.
The table was set with red and green trimmings and blaster bons lay on each placemat. Turion couldn’t decide what the best part about Chrishmis was, but was certain setting off the explosives in the bons ranked highly.
Rishe strode over to the table lifting a large platter from the middle of it and brought it over to Turion.
“What to you think lad? Not as good as your mothers; but then she had a gift for cooking and preparing protein in the right way.”
Turin peered over the top of the silver tray. Perched in the middle was a protein log, shaped like large bird. multi coloured sticks, shaped like feathers, protruded wildly out on all angles.
“I never understood why we do this or what this is about Uncle Rishe?”
“Humm” he said, scratching his stubbly beard. “Me neither. Why would anyone eat a bird is beyond me.They’re so tough! You know, as a lad I tried bird – I boiled it and a stone in a pot for hours. Ended up eating the stone – it was softer.”
Roared with laughter slapped Turion on the back
“Drink up lad Merry Chishmis!” Riche handed him a mug of frothy Ek-Knock, “ Its my own brew. It’ll know your socks off!”
Turion sipped it and grimly smiled – it was sweet and burnt his tongue with the acidity.
A weedy voice sung a well known Chrishmis tune as it entered the hallway.
“…..as Shelters washed their socks at night….. Text the whore with poison ivy……….”
“Harry! Good of you to pop by.” Shouted Riche , now tanked up with the festive spirit. “ have a Ek-Knock.”
A low rumble of voices heralded the arrival of the rest of the Lost Folk family. Although none of them related by blood, survival in the junkyards surrounded the outer city walls brought them closer.
Turions grin widened as he greeted each person, his eyes sparkling in the flickering of the fireplace.
“Now, before we have dinner, whose up for a game of Senter Claws?”
Squeals and choruses of “Me Me Me!” Filled the tiny room.
Uncle Riche held his hands out to quieten the ruckus and looked slyly over at Turion, arching his eyebrow at him. “Turion is this years Senter Claws – so you’d better watch out, he’s coming to town to get you!”
The children shrieked with delight and ran off through the house to find a secure hiding spot.
Uncle Riche handed Turion a red sack filled with odd shaped packages and smiled. “Go get em boy!” As Turion turned, Riche plonked a large pointed red hat on his head.
Turions face ached with smiling. Since his mother had been kidnapped he could not recall a smile crossing his face since. He hobbled out the door on his search for the children. Seeing a small foot poking behind a chair, he grabbed it. “ Roar !– got you!”
Squeals of laughter from the lucky captive as she stuck her hand out toward Turion. He reached inside the sack and drew out a gift.