Brandy is the mother of four, stepmom of two, homemaker, college student, and lover of the mysterious. She grew up with a single mom in the military and spent the most imaginative summers with her father and bonus mom, both kindergarten teachers. Most of her youth was spent enveloped in books, a passion that has recently rekindled itself, along with the joys of writing.
You can find her here on Facebook HERE.
THE ORNAMENT TREE
by
Brandy Cornett
Crisp. Clean. Perfect.
That’s what I look for when working on my masterpiece for the year. The material must be large enough so that should my first attempt fail, there’s a chance to try again. My first year taught me that. How devastating it was to find exactly what I needed, only to have my tool slip and break the fragile piece. The intricate details require a delicate touch. I steady my hand as the Dremel smooths away the rough edges. My mind drifts to this year’s donor and I am reminded again at how large the donation had been.
“My final piece,” I said with sadness and relief pulling equally at my words.
I finished the last filigree on the image and set it down under the magnifying lens. My eyesight wasn’t what it used to be. Wiping my hands clean, I eyed my handiwork. Yes, that would do quite nicely.
My special ornament tree was always the talk of the town. It sat in the window of my shop, with crisp white ornaments hung by a velvet ribbon, clean white lines of garland, and this year, a perfect angel adorned in lace would soon be sitting atop. Taking a bite of my homemade cookie, I added the only color to don the tree, a soft blood red ribbon, identical to the ornaments below, to wrap around the waist of my angel.
It was depressing knowing that my final project had come at last. I knew it was inevitable. 60 years of work went into this tree. 59 handmade ornaments and one angelic topper. There were stars and trees, snowflakes and Santas. Of course, Santas. Never Krampus. Only sacks full of presents. Never sacks full of naughty children.
They were there though, in a way. A smirk crept to my face. Yes, their donations were greatly appreciated. A glaze of nostalgia iced my eyes as I remembered the Christmas I turned 30. The year I first met my horned friend. The year I made an unbreakable pact.
A fire had dimmed in the one-room cottage. My son lay sleeping soundly under the weight of decades of our ancestor’s needlework. I sat at my table whittling the last wooden ornament for our slight tree. We had a rough year, and the only hope of gifts was the blessing of warmth from the firewood I had managed to chop before the storm had begun.
Amell was usually such an angel, but the loss of his father and sister to the fever that had befallen our village left a darkness in him that I could not heal. It shouldn’t have been a surprise when I heard rapping on the window, followed by a gust of furious cold from the door left agape by the large horned creature.
No one escaped Krampus, yet here I was. A deal was struck to ‘temporarily’ save my son. Each year of my life, my son would be spared. Each year I would carve an ornament from the bone of one of the children in our village. On the last night of my life, Krampus would visit my son once more, collecting the debt due. He would personally deliver my final bone donation, to be fashioned into a gift for Amell’s savior/murderer. The angel topper I now held in my hands shook as I raised it to its final resting place. I took one last look through water-rimmed eyes.
My Angel. My son.