Bunkmore’s Christmas Wonderland

 

     Fizzbit Flutterbun was certainly not one of the popular elves at the North Pole. He never really mastered the art of elven magic. Every time he tried, something dreadful happened — like the time he accidentally turned off Rudolph’s nose. It took twelve of the most senior elf masters to figure out exactly how he managed that so they could reverse it. Rudolph did not speak to Fizzy for two months. The other elves were kind to him, but whenever he tried to use his magic, they usually scattered for their own protection.

It is no surprise, therefore, that after a bit too much egg nog at the pre-Christmas elf party, Fizzy accidentally transported himself somewhere across the globe to who knows where. Unable to see in the darkness of the wee morning hours,  he risked a bit of light magic, one of the few things he could do without… consequences. Looking around, he saw that he was in a bakery of some kind. Racks and racks of cooking sheets stacked ceiling high just waiting to be filled with fresh baked goodies. Three different baking ovens lined the outer walls, and through the glass door of a large cooler he saw several very large bundles of rising dough.

With only three days until Christmas, Fizzy knew he just had to get back to the North Pole as soon as possible. He would need to pull off a transport spell — on purpose this time — to make it back in time for Christmas. 

Just then he heard the door rattling as the baker arrived to make the day’s treats. Fizzy waved his hands around quickly in the pattern for the transport spell and then clapped them together quickly. Expecting to find himself back in the Toy Shop, he fell backwards instead, as an explosive burst of elf dust filled the room. The dust twinkled in shades of gold, green, red, and blue before settling to the ground and flickering out.

The baker walked into the room just as the elf dust began fading away, but he saw enough of the light spectacle to be astonished, wondering at its origin — or its meaning. He looked around to see what may have caused the display, but Fizzy managed to quickly hide himself behind the large stacked bags of flour. Seeing nothing, the baker shrugged and went about his morning business.

Unlike humans, who can only see the initial burst of elf dust, elves like Fizzy are able to see the dust well past its shining time. Fizzy could see that the whole room was covered with the residue of his botched spell. He watched in horrified angst as the baker began to make cookies, sweet rolls, and bread with items contaminated by his mistake. Fearing the worst, Fizzy could do nothing but sit back and watch.

Bailey’s Bakery was renowned for its sweets, especially during Christmas. Mr. Bailey proudly made all the kids’ favorites, including powdered sugar covered Christmas cookies, miniature Christmas tree cakes, and pumpkin spice doughnuts. When the doors opened at 7 am, several of the kids from the small town of Bunkmore were already waiting. Only Mr. Bailey’s fresh made treats would get them out this early on a Saturday morning.

Becky Grant was first through the door, and she quickly put down her six bits for a Christmas cookie. The price for the cookie was $1.25, but this was Christmas, and Mr. Bailey was not about to begrudge the small red-head her Christmas treat.

Becky quickly took a bite and let out a satisfying, “Mmmmm, mmmummmy”, but as she did so, she accidentally inhaled a bit of powdered sugar and sneezed.  As soon as she did, it immediately started snowing - inside the store!  All the kids — as well as Mr. Bailey — let out a gasp of astonishment. Fizzy could do nothing but watch in horror from his hiding place.

“Do it again,” said Jimmy Camden. 

“I can’t just sneeze on command,” she answered.

“Get her some pepper - and let’s try it outside!” exclaimed Jenny Marshal.

Curious as to the outcome of this experiment, Mr. Bailey gave them some pepper. The three kids ran outside, and within two minutes, snow was falling all around the town square.

Bobby Carmichael, determined to not be outdone by Becky’s discovery, stayed in the shop. While the others were frolicking in the new fallen snow, he ordered a miniature Christmas tree cake. He quickly scarfed down several bites, expecting something amazing to happen, but it did not. He even sniffed a little pepper to sneeze… still nothing. Disappointed, he took the last bite of his cake and was about to order his own Christmas cookie when suddenly he choked on the cake, erupting into a massive coughing spell, and spitting the half masticated piece of cake out onto the ground.

Fizzy shook his head in disbelief as he watched the result of the event. As soon as the piece of cake hit the ground it grew and transformed into a fully decorated and lighted Christmas tree, growing right there in the middle of the bakery.

“Hey guys,” Bobby yelled, running outside, “come check this out.”

Mr. Bailey scratched his head in astonishment. Fizzy just shank further behind the stacks of flour, wringing his hands and wondering how he could fix this.

The other kids ran back inside and gasped at the sight of the tree. Outside, other kids, drawn by the snow, which was only falling in the town square, were starting to emerge from their homes.

“Let’s try another,” said Jimmy as he ordered a pumpkin spice doughnut and a cola.

“You know those make you burp,” said Jenny, her hands firmly planted on her hips.

“I know,” said Jimmy with a smile as he ate his doughnut. 

Becky sneezed again and snow once more started falling in the bakery.

“Oh my,” said Mr. Bailey. What more could he say? Short of shutting down the shop, he didn’t know what to do other than watch his bakery transform before his eyes.

When nothing happened after he ate his doughnut, Jimmy took a big swig of cola.

“Here it comes!” he said, holding his belly and preparing for a huge belch. But when he opened his mouth, instead of a carbonation-induced, rumbling burp, out came Jingle Bells — not Jimmy singing Jingle Bells, but the dubiously melodic sound of Jimmy burping to the tune of Jingle Bells!

“Wow,” said the kids in unison, who immediately started laughing uncontrollably — except for Jenny, who found the whole thing disgusting.

     Very quickly, word got out about Mr. Bailey’s special batch of Christmas goodies. Before anyone could list the names of Santa’s reindeer, the whole town was filled with snow, newly grown (and fully decorated) Christmas trees, and the joyous sound of belching Christmas Carols.

“What have you done?”

Fizzy recognized the voice. He turned to see Wendell Moonfoot, one of the senior elves.

“I’m so sorry, I don’t know what happened. I was just trying to get back to the Toy Shop. How did you find me?”

“We could sense the rogue use of magic all the way to the North Pole. This is an absolute disaster. It will surely go down as one of the biggest elf blunders in history. Congratulations, Flutterbun, you might become the most infamous elf in North Pole history.”

Fizzy dropped his head in shame. “What can we do?” he asked.

“We? We do nothing. You go home; and tonight, after the baker closes shop, we will clean up this mess.”

“Yes, sir,” said Fizzy sadly.

Wendell waved his hands, and magical lights swirled around Fizzy as he vanished into thin air, transported back to the North Pole. Wendell turned to watch the spectacle unfolding in Bunkmore. To him, it was the worst elven disaster in history. He just shook his head. Nightfall could not come any faster.

Mr. Bailey watched the kids running around town. After the first few kids came through and were so excited, he just couldn’t help himself. He started giving the treats away for free. He had never seen so much joy and happiness in the kids of Bunkmore. Sure, there were some inconveniences, and more than a few adults were not happy with all the trees popping up all over town — not to mention old Mrs. Farley, who was running around trying to stop the boys from belching out Christmas Carols.  After all, that was just rude. To Mr. Bailey, however, watching the angelic faces of the kids frolicking in the snow was worth it all. Even Jenny had given in and ordered a pumpkin spice doughnut and a cola! Mr. Bailey didn’t know how it happened, but for one very special Saturday, his Christmas treats had turned the normally boring town of Bunkmore into a Christmas Wonderland.

 FOR ALICE

A Short Story

    Thomas Mays reached up with his gloved hand and wiped the mixture of salt water and sand from his goggles. He was close on the tail of his old friend and rival, Artie Walker, when Artie hit a slick spot in the sand and swerved into the surf. The resulting splash covered the open cockpit of his Hudson Super Six. As a result, Thomas had to slow and swerve to the right to avoid crashing into him. Two competitors passed them in their cars as a result. Artie’s Dusenberg was likely out of the race unless he could get it out of the water.

    The 20-mile speed race was an Ormond Beach staple, and had been a fan favorite since its inception five years ago in 1919.  According to rumors, the organizers were considering moving the race up to Daytona, so this might be the last time Thomas raced this particular stretch of beach. Ormond beach itself was about twenty five miles long, so this race was a straight shot down the coastline. On Thomas’s left, the Atlantic Ocean raced by. On his right, spectators found whatever locations they could to observe the spectacle. The beach itself was as wide as 500 feet, making it a perfect raceway.

    Thomas looked down at the picture taped to his dashboard. She was out there, somewhere amongst the spectators with her mom, Mary.  Alice was six, and the prize money from this race would help pay for the treatment she needed. 

    Artie’s misstep set Thomas back. Thomas placed spotters every five miles along the beach to give him key information he needed. He was coming up on the five mile marker, and he could see his man with a sign that said, “Eight”.  He was in eighth position. There was work to do, but there was plenty of time to do it.

    Thomas’s bright red Super Six, Reilly, was a good car. Yes, she had a name. Thomas named the car after his maternal grandmother — a spry and feisty woman that had always been there when he needed her. Thomas cared for the Hudson like it was a family member, pampering her to the point that Mary often called Reilly his mistress. He tuned the engine himself, boring out the cylinders to maximize top speed. 

    Thomas quickly downshifted, causing the engine to scream in protest, but she faithfully accelerated at his command. He looked down at the tachometer… just a little more… then shifted back into high gear. “Yes,” he thought. He was travelling at an astounding 89 MPH. Most of the racers out here today had a top speed of 80-85 MPH. Those new mods were definitely going to give him an advantage.

    Thomas recently read that some of the new Buchattis could reach 100 MPH even on the beach, but none of these new racers had shown up here yet. He doubted Reilly could ever hit that speed, but today he was pushing her to her absolute limit. There were several of the older Buchatti Type 35s in this race. They could reach 90 MPH on pavement, but not in the sand. They were likely his biggest challengers — those and one or two custom Milton-Durants.

    He quickly overcame the two cars that had flown by when Artie slowed him down, and he was closing in on one of those custom jobs — a deep blue Milton-Durant. It was the #18 car. He knew the driver of that car as well. Jackson Grady drove dirty. Nobody liked him, but he had a great car that was well maintained and engineered.

    As he approached the rear of the Milton-Durant, Thomas decided to play it safe and pass on the high side, away from the water. He nudged Reilly to the right, but Jackson, seeing his move, cut him off. He backed off and tried again, but Jackson anticipated his move, and he was once again cut off. He may play dirty at times, but right now Jackson was just doing exactly what any good driver would do. Say what you wanted about the man, but you couldn’t deny that he was a great driver.

    Thomas backed off one more time, but this time he feigned his move to the right. As soon as Jackson made his blocking move, he quickly braked, downshifted, and swerved left towards the surf. Reilly once again screamed in agony as he skirted the surf’s edge. It was a dangerous and bold move, but Reilly leaped forward like a war horse charging into battle. Jackson swerved back to the left in an attempt to block Thomas again, but he was too late. Thomas and Reilly were already alongside him and advancing. Thomas gave Jackson a quick salute as he pulled past into fourth place.

    Thomas turned his attention forward. The three lead cars were all fast. It would be a grind to catch them before the end of the race, but he knew Reilly could do it. Suddenly, up ahead, he saw a puff of white smoke — a blown tire. In this case, it was the lead car. He watched helplessly as the front-runner lost control and began serving uncontrollably. This was the most dangerous moment in racing. Every driver feared it, because there was no way to predict where a car with a blown tire would go.

    It happened so fast that Thomas did not even realize what happened. The lead car — a  Buchatti 35 — careened first to the right, then to the left.  The two cars in second and third place — a Hudson Super Six and a Buchatti 35 — each swerved — into each other. The lead Buchatti ended up in the surf. The crash between the Hudson and the other Buchatti resulted in the Hudson flipping end over end.

    Thomas reacted instinctively, swerving quickly to the left, into the surf, to miss the crash. In the process, however, Reilly lost her grip in the wet sand and began to spin. Water went everywhere, especially into the open cockpit. The force of the water ripped the picture of Alice off the dashboard, and it raced past his head out toward the surf. He let go of the steering wheel with one hand, grasping at the picture, but he could not catch it. Alice’s picture was gone.

    Reilly sat still in the shallow surf, steam rolling from under the hood from where the water stalled her engine. Thomas looked back over his shoulder at the wreck. He saw three drivers emerging from their vehicles. They were okay, but Thomas also watched as three other cars zoomed past them, with several others quickly approaching.

    Thomas couldn’t lose this race. He needed the money. He hit the ignition switch. Reilly’s engine turned over but didn’t fire. He thought of the moment Alice was born — the joy on his face holding his baby girl for the first time. He hit the switch again. Reilly’s starter groaned, but her spark plugs still didn’t fire. He thought of the day he taught her to ride a bike. She fell and skinned her knee. Alice wanted to quit and go home, but he had told her not to give up. She didn’t give up and she conquered the bike.  “Don’t give up!” he said as he hit the ignition again.  Still nothing. Two more cars passed by. Thomas slammed his fist down on the dashboard. “Come on!” he screamed.

    He sighed and took a breath. He then thought of the day the doctors told him and Mary that Alice had polio. The news devastated him, but his grandmother had been there to support them.

    “Thomas,” she had said, “this is probably the most devastating news you could ever imagine receiving.” Nana Reilly was not wrong. “But,” she continued, “that child needs you to be strong. She needs you to be there during her darkest days. She needs you to be her fortress. She needs you to be her rock.”

    Nana Reilly was the strongest woman he had ever known, and so was her namesake. Thomas gently caressed the steering wheel. “Come on, girl. You can do it. I didn’t mean to hit you, but I need you to shake it off and start.” He said a quick prayer and hit the ignition switch one more time.

    Reilly’s ignition groaned, and then with a loud backfire, the engine roared back to life. “Yes!” he screamed as he threw the car into gear.

    Wet sand filled the sky as Thomas spun the car around and back onto the course.  He knew many cars had passed him, but he didn’t know how many. They were almost to the ten mile mark, and when he got there, he got the bad news. The sign held by his spotter said, “Eleven”. Eleventh place with half the race to go.

    Ten miles. Ten cars. Reilly was strong and fast. She could do this. Thomas shifted into high gear and raced after the car directly in front of him. “One at a time,” he said out loud to no one.

    The wind roared in his ears as he passed the first car and headed for the second. Soon, he passed that one as well. Unfortunately, the next grouping of cars were much farther down the beach. He squeezed the steering wheel and floored the accelerator. Slowly he began advancing on them.

    As he watched, two of the cars swerved. At this distance he could not immediately not tell why, but it took only seconds for that mystery to be revealed. They were avoiding a wreck that happened in front of them. One car was overturned just inside surf.  Another had crashed into the dunes to the right. The crowds gathered around the vehicle, attempting to help the driver. A third car was on its side right in the middle of the packed sand track. As Thomas raced by, he saw that the driver was attempting to right the fallen Dusenberg to get back into the race. Poor Artie, he had managed to make it back into the hunt only to face another disappointing setback. He wondered if Jackson had something to do with this. He was still up there somewhere — but not for long.

    Thomas raced past his spotter holding a sign that said, “Six”.  Five miles left. Five cars to pass. Thomas downshifted. Reilly protested, the pitch of her engine rising high as the tachometer crossed the red line.

    “Hold on, girl.”

    He shifted back into high gear. 92 MPH. Reilly had never gone this fast. She was an amazing car. As he passed the next car, he looked down at the temperature gauge. Reilly was starting to overheat. He needed to do something. He couldn’t slow down now, but if he didn’t cool the engine, she wouldn’t make it to the finish line. He looked to the surf on the left.  Could he risk it? There were only a few miles left. He decided to take the chance and eased over into the edge of the surf. The water slowed him down slightly, but the splash cooled the engine just enough to lower the gauge below the red line.

    With about two miles left, Thomas and Reilly had managed to maneuver into second place and was hot on the tail of the leading car—the blue #18 Milton-Durant.

    

    “Jackson Grady,” said Thomas, sotto voce.

    Jackson and his modified Milton-Durant had the advantage of position, and Reilly was feeling the strain of the race. She was riding dangerously close to the red line.

    “Let’s go girl,” he said, stroking the dashboard. “We can’t let him have this race.”

    Thomas eased up behind the Milton, noticing the landmarks along the edge of the beach. He only had one mile to the finish line. 

    Forty five seconds, give or take at this speed. That’s all the time he had to make his move, and Jackson would not make it easy for him. He weaved and dodged a few times until he managed to work his way up beside Jackson on the outside. 

    Jackson looked over at him. They were, at most, four feet from one another. If they so desired, they could probably reach out and shake hands. Thomas had no such desire. 

    Jackson downshifted, and his Milton screamed in pain. Despite its protests, it lurched forward about half a car length and was starting to pull away.  

    Thomas looked at the temperature gauge, which was right on the red line, then looked ahead at the finish line. Three hundred yards is all that stood between him and victory.

    He downshifted. Reilly’s engine roared. The tachometer redlined. The temperature gauge began to ease above the red line, and a small stream of steam emerged from the radiator. Reilly was overheating, but he could feel the acceleration as she regained the lost ground.

    With less than 100 yards left, he shifted back into high gear.

    

    “This is for Alice, girl. Can you do it?”

    He looked down at the speedometer, ignoring the steam coming from the radiator. 94 MPH. Oh how he loved this car!

    He looked over at the finish line. It was approaching rapidly, and the crowds were jumping up and down cheering — but were they cheering for him — or Jackson? 

    With only a few feet to the finish line, he looked over at Jackson. As they passed the line, the Milton-Durant’s front end was six inches short of his own. He crossed the finish line first!

    “YES!”  he cheered as he let off the accelerator.  When he did, though, a loud clunking sound began coming from Reilly’s engine. Smoke billowed from under the hood. Suddenly, the engine seized, Reilly lost power, and the car slowly rolled to a halt.  

    Thomas let out a deep breath of relief as the crowds rushed towards the two of them. He won the 1924 Ormond Beach 20-mile speed run… but it had cost him Reilly.  

    Ignoring the crowds he jumped out of the car and threw open the hood. The hot smoke burned his hand as the white clouds billowed into the sky. He jerked back in pain, but quickly returned to examine the damage. 

    “For Alice…” he whispered, “… and for Nana”.   

    Vowing to rebuild her, Thomas turned to face the crowd and celebrate their victory.