The following story was read aloud at Story Slam.
Speak Memory, of the abduction of imagination, December 24th 1981, a child is seen in bed, but he is not asleep. Tucked under his covers, he gazes about his room, his eyes darting from left to right piercing the shadows. Encouraged by the dim glow of a nightlight, his imagination begins to run free: Shadows around curtains and in closets take shape, forming into space vampires, rogue androids and fantastic creatures. In that dim light, the wooden toy box against the wall becomes a Thunderfighter and the child becomes Buck Rogers. Slowly he crawls from his bed, careful not to make a sound, lest the vampires and androids hear him. He holds out his hand and, in the darkness behind him, he feels Wilma Deering clasp onto it. Slowly they creep to the Thunderfighter aiming to escape from Draconia. They crawl into the ship and Buck can sense the quiet gratitude pulsing in Wilma’s hand. He flips the switches and prepares the engines; just then he hears the familiar bleep bleep of Twiki, and sees him break from the shadows and rush towards the Thunderfighter. The space vampire is now alerted to their presence, diabolical androids slip out of the shadows, blasters firing, narrowly missing Twiki as he rushes to the ship. The bay doors to freedom begin to close as Wilma helps Twiki aboard. Lasers fly rapidly by the heads of our heroes as Buck engages the engines and launches toward the narrowing gap in the bay doors. Can he make it through? Only an expert pilot could roll the Thunderfighter at this speed and narrowly slide through the closing doors. Buck Rogers is an expert pilot. As they fly out into the haze in the mountainous region of Draconia Wilma embraces Buck tightly and Twiki bleeps and blops emphatically in the back of the ship. All is right in the universe; our heroes are going home. In 1981 the imaginations of children were free to fly and they had no shortage of fuel for their long journeys: the lightsabers of the Jedi; the cruel red eyes of the Cylones; the exciting space adventures of Buck Rogers. Shadows became the oxygen to let that fuel burn bright and the flames danced with wild abandon. But I digress. As Buck lands his ship something shatters the fantastic bubble of the 25th century: a noise, outside the child’s door, a shuffling of feet and the creaking of the stairs. A quick glance at the clock shows 12 o’ clock, someone is outside the door…Santa? Slowly the child creeps to the door, ever careful to muffle his footsteps. He listens at the door and, being satisfied there is no one there, he quietly grasps the door handle. Pushing the door against it’s jam, to avoid the click of the latch, he slowly turns the handle. The door opens on to darkness, pure darkness. The hallway is silent; a slight glow shines up the stairs, but it is completely dissipated upon reaching the landing. The child sneaks down the hall, creeping like a thief. Slowly he comes to the landing and peers down the stairs. Nobody in sight, a soft, colourful glow shines out of the living room and up the stairs. The child can’t hear a thing, nor is there anything to see. Just the flashing reds and greens of the Christmas lights reflected on the patterned carpet at the base of the stairs. Down the stairs, slowly, on his bum, hands down, silent as a ghost. A noise. Stop. Shrink. Blend into the shadows. There is someone down there, shuffling about, almost silent…almost. Again, the child begins to descend, ever careful to not make a sound, silently, stealthily like Starbuck sneaking past Cylone guards. Soon he comes to the last two stairs. From here he can see into the living room, the only light coming from the Christmas Tree. Peering into the living room, the child strains his eyes to see. Nothing. Suddenly, he hears a sound. He clasps the stair railing and stares into the shadows by the fireplace, the source of the sound. What is that? A shape, a form, out of the shadows, but…no, not what he expects, not jolly, not fat, limbs like a tree, no elf…height at seven feet…a beast. Horns spiralling to the ceiling. Dark, wiry hair, greasy and matted. A red sack, yes, but… Stop now Memory, don’t speak, don’t make me see... Bent and lurching, hunched and lumbering, creeping and sneaking, but that gait is not Santa’s…Krampus! Not jolly, no saint, old Nick, yes, Old Scratch, old folly. No Santa…Satan? Slowly it creeps, toward the chimney, a large sack in its hand. A small shape, a lump—lumps—moving in the sack. The child sees the shape of a hand pushing at the walls of the sack and then another. What is that, revealed in the sack, as it opens a crack? A hand? A face? From the shadows of the sack’s flap a face—a familiar face—stares out, beseechingly. Then up the chimney it disappears. The world seems to change. It desaturates somewhat. The shimmer fades, but wait…there, under the tree. What is that! Oh, my God! Is that? Yes! An Intellivision!
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