The divorce happened back when I was a toddler, and I barely have any memories of my biological dad. I've seen him once or twice, but he's always been more of an academic concept to me. Somehow after the car accident, though, he became important. Even mom seemed to forgive him, in her own way.

I was at the hospital every day. Mom joined me about half the time. When mom was there, the two of them talked and I got to stand there dumbly following the conversation. When mom wasn't there, I couldn't figure out how to start a conversation, and I guess he couldn't either. Those days I only stayed maybe five or ten minutes, and they were always an awkward five or ten minutes. But it was important to me that I at least show up.

He seemed to deteriorate every day, and after a week the doctors basically told us he was just going to keep on deteriorating. Too many internal injuries. Too many infections. They would do all that they could, but it would take a miracle, an act of God, to keep him more than two more weeks.

It was a week later that I became an atheist.

The first night we went to visit we saw his second wife, Angie, and his daughter, Carly. Carly was three years younger than my seventeen. She was the reason for the divorce in the first place. My mom kinda told me to keep my distance that first night, so that set a precedent for me and I just tried not to be in the same room as them when I visited.

It wasn't until after the funeral, while everyone else was milling towards their cars, that Carly actually came up to where I was sitting on a bench and started talking.

"So you're Jake?" she asked, looking down with the remnants of tears in her eyes.

"Yeah," I said. I was trying to stay distant, keep up the emotional wall I'd worked all morning to erect.

"You know, he always talked about you."

I shrugged, "Okay."

She sat down next to me, slowly smoothing the skirt of her black dress. "Even in the hospital. When mom wasn't there, he kept saying things like, I dunno, did he say anything about me when he was talking to you?"

"We didn't really do much talking," I replied.

"Huh."

We both sat there in silence. I'm not sure what she was thinking, but my mind was a total blank. I felt like I owed her some kind of response, but it was just too much pressure to come up with something to say, and I just sat there, looking at my knees while she did about the same. Something came to mind, but it just wasn't anything I wanted to share with her. It was just like those afternoons at the hospital.

We were freed from our prison of silence by Carly's mom, who called for her to come to the car. Carly said goodbye, and I grunted some reply and turned back to my knees. As soon as she was outside of my perceptions, my thoughts found their focus. I was repeating what I'd done at the hospital. I don't know what I wanted to accomplish by going there every day, but whatever it was I didn't do it. And I was continuing to not do it.

Something tugged from inside of me to stand up and find Carly. But nerves tugged me back down. I turned to look towards where she'd gone, even opened my mouth to call for her, but nothing came out. When she opened the door to her car I told myself it was my last chance, and I had to do something. But I didn't, and the car pulled out of the parking space and rolled through the gates of the cemetery, and I was still sitting on the bench.

I started to rationalize. I told myself that I wouldn't have done any better with Carly than I had with dad, that it was just some crazy whim, and moved back into my own thoughts until mom called me over so we could leave.

As she turned on the engine, she said to me, "You know, I'm not too fond of her mom, but that girl is your sister. Maybe you two should try and get to know each other better."

"I dunno," I replied, "I just, well, I don't know her enough."

My mom chuckled as we pulled out onto the main road. "That's kinda the point of getting to know someone, kiddo."

I gave her a wry look and said, "You know what I mean. Like, what can we talk about except, y'know, him?"

"I don't know," mom said, "But you should figure it out. Me and Angie were talking, and we've agreed that we're going to bury the hatchet. You two are family, and we're not going to let our fight separate you anymore. You've got the rest of the year until you fly off to college, and after that you won't have this chance anymore. I know this is important to you, Jake."

"You saw us sitting together?"

"Yeah, we saw you sitting together."

I leaned my elbow on the armrest of the door and looked out the window. We were down in the outskirts, the part of the city I don't usually see. Lots more trees here than over by the house. Fewer buildings, fewer intersections. A lot of random blurs whizzing past the window for me to look at and take my attention away from my thoughts.

The car stopped at a red light and I didn't have any moving objects to look at anymore. My thoughts returned and I turned my head and looked over at mom. "Hey," I said, "do you think we have Angie and Carly's phone number in the house?"

George Kelsey trudged through the snow, his tired legs struggling to carry the massive twenty five stone frame. The past twenty minutes had seen innocent little white flakes of snow turn into a full blown storm covering everything it touched. It had always looked so much more picturesque on the front of the tacky Christmas cards people insisted on sending each year; children laughing and playing, snowmen with their carrot noses and sticks for arms and the family gathering round the fire. The family. Must get back to the family, thought George.

George's put his right arm up and blocked his face in an effort to protect his eyes from the snow, but the storm was fierce and whistled round his ears. George was not dressed for the snow; jeans, t-shirt, jumper, socks and training shoes. The rest of his belongings were on the plane. He'd never see those again. A sixty dollar tie was crumpled up in his jacket pocket, a tie that had no suit. The idea of wearing a suit and tie to work was one that brought constant amusement to George. He had no respect for authority. Nor did he have any wish to wear a suit and tie but this tie brought him solace.

When George was eighteen he sat his driving test and passed first time. His older brother, Walter, who was two years his senior, was already driving and had agreed to pick him up in his flash car and drive him around a few car showrooms. When Walter showed up on the Saturday morning at exactly fifteen minutes past eight, he wore a blue pin-stripped suit that must have cost at least six hundred bucks, accompanied by a million dollar smile on his perfectly shorn face. George, as always, wore jeans and sported a less than designer stubble.

“Where to first, George?” asked Walter.

“I don't know. I can't really afford much, so, where ever's cheap, I suppose.”

“You really should get yourself a job, George. Things don't just pay for themselves, you know.”

Walters brow furrowed and a condescending smirk stretched up the left side of his face.

“Thanks for the advice. How much will that cost me?” asked George.

“Ha ha. That one's on the house. F.O.C.”

Walter slipped the gear-stick from second to third like it was a chess piece. “Checkmate.” he said.

“I think I may have just clinched the deal of the century this morning. I made 40k in twenty seconds.” bleated Walter.

Still frequenting gay bars then, thought George.

“Twenty seconds,” Walter went on “that works out at 2k a second. Two...thousand...”

George sank into the comfort of the heated passenger seat and Walter's words faded into the distance.

The birds could still be heard singing their early morning song and as they passed the shops, the soft noise of a train on the tracks took George on a long journey away from Walter's boasts. The car engine mellowed to a low humming drone.

“Would you like a drink, sir?”

“Sorry, I was fast asleep.” George sat up and took in his surroundings.

The jet engines hummed and vibrated in George's ears making the air hostess' words sound slightly distorted.
“Sir, would you like a drink?” she asked again.

“No, thanks. I'm fine.” George gripped his briefcase tightly. “Where's my tie?”

“Sorry sir, your what?”

“My tie!” George searched his pockets frantically. “I need my tie. It's my tie! Who has...”

The suitcase slipped from George's grip and hit the floor. The contents scattered on the floor: a pencil, a Christmas card, a set of cuff links and a tie with the initials W.K. embroidered on it . The air hostess bent down to pick up the tie but George grabbed it from her and stuck it in his pocket.

“I've got it!” snapped George.

“There's no need to be so rude. I'll leave you be then, shall I?” said the hostess.

George lifted the Christmas card and read it: Merry Christmas George. I hope this year's the one for you. Love, your big brother Walter xxx.

“Stupid, tacky card!” George placed the card back in the suitcase and slid it underneath his seat.

As the case hit the leg of the seat, one of the engines on the left side of the jet stopped. The noise level grew as more people noticed the fault. Another engine stopped, this time on the right. Both engines were out and the weather was getting worse. An announcement was made over the intercom system that the pilot would have to make an emergency landing and everyone should prepare themselves.

When the jet plane ploughed through the trees and smashed into the mountain it sounded to George like a high powered sports car colliding with a tree.

George blinked his eyes open to see a wreckage. The whole front half of the plane was missing, and most of the rear. They had indeed crashed and he had survived. He turned to his left and a man sat beside him wearing a blue pin-stripped suit.

“Walter? Are you alright? We've crashed! Walter!”

“It's ok George. I'm here. I'm fine.” said the voice.

“Walter?”

George was lying in the snow face down. He raised his head and saw a figure in front of him, hand extended, ready to help him.

“Yes, it's me. It's Walter. What are you doing face down in the snow? Come on, up you get.”

“What about the plane crash?” asked George.

“Nevermind. You're Ok now. Just you come with me. Everything will be fine. I'll take care of you now.” said Walter, putting his arm round George.

“I've missed you Walter.”

“And I, you, George.”

“Can we go home now.” asked George.

“Yes, George.” replied Walter.

George felt a warmth he had never felt before, then...he faded away.

You could hear the snow crack with every step. Your breath came out like a fog machine. Fear entered all our hearts,
as we opened the garage door. "Anyone in here?" we all shouted at different times. The silence was unforgiving. We each
looked at each others faces as if to comfort. It seemed a long walk back to the house. We all held hands. In our entire
lives, we have never held hands, but we did today, we did on this Christmas day. For today a child was kippnapped from
her home. Police asked all citizens to look in their homes and garages, in hopes that the little girl had escaped. As
we entered the house, we gathered around the television. Not to watch a parade, not to cheer for our favorite football team,
but to catch the up date news reports. Where is that little girl? Something was on the screen, but I couldn't tell you what
is was, it might as well have been blank, because that's all I saw. Then an up date. The sheriff was thanking the thousands
of volunteers on the seach effort. As we checked our homes, we were to tie a red ribbon on our mail box to let the police
know that this house had been searched. He swore he would never give up the search. The tears in his eyes met with my
own. I got up and reached under the tree and pulled a red ribbon off of one the still unopened presents. I walked outside and
tied the ribbon on the mailbox. It waved in the wind like a flag. I looked up and down the street and saw everyone else
tieing red ribbons on thier mailboxes. Neighbors that I've only seen once or twice, were tieing their ribbons too. We all looked
at each other and gave a wave, and it was just as strong as the wind waving all our ribbons. I went back into the house
and sat. The tree we had was beautiful, but not as beautiful as that little girl's smile. Her photo kept flashing upon the
screen. Where is that little girl? We did get something to eat. We all shared in the love that the food prepresented. Honey
glazed ham, spinach casserole, potato salad, fried tomatoes, deviled eggs, and sugar cookies. We all told each other,
over and over, how wonderful, the food they made had tasted. But all times, we were looking at the television, waiting. Then
it happened, the up date we all feared. The little girl was found...dead. All our hearts sank. We all cried for a little girl that
we didn't even know. We held each other and prayed. We prayed for the little girl and for her family. We prayed for all
little girls and all thier families. We prayed for our troops. We prayed for ourselves. We prayed that this would never happen
again, to any family, at any time of year. We prayed that our prayers would be anserwed. Christmas Day 2009 will go down
as this most bitter-sweet of my life. A little girl, that I didn't even know, gave the most wonderful gifts. She gave our family
hope. She helped us find love for one another again. She gave us prayer. She gave us each other. God bless you little girl.

It’s a quiet room, not much of an echo there, with the dining tablecloths wavering slightly from artificial breezes. A person can sit in there for hours on end, the edge of the stage looks like a good spot to watch them walk through the door. And they do, the whitewash floor and walls with crystal clean windows and blindingly bright sunlight blend the white tablecloths whose dignified positons and presentations quickly become passé at the arrival of the paint for the canvas into a white marble floor. Brushstroke after brushstroke they arrive, they see me, sitting at the edge there, and I get to see their amazement at the setting, people are funny when picking seating, even families have cliques. Different tiny rivalries as simple as favorite handbag styles, cause ripples. So they sit together in their little clusters all over the room. They watch with smiles on their faces as I run around making sure everyone’s doing okay, their smiles to each other are real, but their smiles to me, are fake. The room fills and I get the DJ to start the music, we all haven’t seen each other in a few years, and we’ve all grown, changed, gotten shorter or taller. Everyone gets a special treatment, each individual loved and treated as royalty, they deserve it. Each approach by me brings about another injured facial expression, followed by a smile, they know they can’t do anything about it, but they can’t change me either. They want to be in my position, but I refuse, just the way I am. Getting people to dance is easy, grab my cousin, and make a fool out of myself, they’ll all join in after that, nothing stuffy about these guys, the most serious and lighthearted people on the planet. Uncle Paul there went to Tokyo, and can’t stop talking about the women, ”˜Uncle Paul, that happens when you ask a woman to do that’, mans too old for his pastimes and hobbies, at least this time he was divorced…and insured. New wives, they’re easy to notice, shy about meeting the family but instantly in a more comfortable environment with the way the room is set. We invite the ex’es, the family is so into each other, marriage after a month makes you an active member of the gossip club, divorce means more interesting conversation at family gatherings. I move around like a choreographed dance, checking to make sure everyones somewhat happy, a little wine and beer always dissolves the cliques. Conversations start with work and lead to home repairs and ex-girlfriends and ex-boyfriends, and theres always someone that throws in high school, and the flings. The more wine and beer drinking, the more ex’es talk goes on. I don’t say much, there’s nothing to be said, and they know it. Crying babies are always an issue, usually means that couple will end up leaving soon, getting them dessert before everyone else becomes a priority, maybe I should have brought earmuffs for the babies…that’s a lot of earmuffs, maybe not.

Eventually things wind down, everybody’s eaten, and I finally get to sit down. There’s nothing worse on the planet than drunk family members looking for a microphone and speaker system to compete with the DJ, ”˜no, don’t hurt the DJ, he isn’t keeping his equipment from you because you’re ugly’, at least this time they didn’t nudge the DJ mixing table…

But somehow, some idiot gets a hold of the mic, which starts up the stories and jokes, old family stories, and new ones. Floorspace in front of the stage gets cramped with seats and rear ends, as well as the stage, kids love that mic. We all joke around, most of us crammed into the little area around whomevers holding the mic, after they’re really drunk, and stupid I usually, finally, get the question…

”˜Have they released you?’

That’s usually when I leave and drunk people I love have to clean up. It’s the closest they’ll ever be to being in my position, what’s funny is they never regret it, they’ll comment about it later on, but they’re never really angry with me about it, makes it easier to leave with a smile.

”˜No, they haven’t.’

Maybe next time I’ll get red tablecloths with a dark red and gray theme…