By Yash Seyedbagheri
I buy a fake tree. Festoon it with lights, strings of reds, greens, and blues.
The lights flicker, casting shadows on empty walls and that ripped green couch. It takes up space, but it’s seen dropped popcorn, older sisters, smiles, whispered dirty jokes, and forbidden R-rated movies.
I flick off the lights. It’s like a funeral parlor.
The lights go back on. I flop on the couch.
Slender silhouettes form.
Laughter rises, tinkling, harmonious.
I swear I feel an energetic hug, fleeting but forceful.
Pot overwhelms my nose.
And I absolutely hear a whispered “Merry Christmas” while I slip into slumber.
I enjoyed reading this. It is how the ghosts of Christmas past ought to be remembered
The talk about marajuania and r rated movies confused the tone of this story, and the one sentence paragraphs seem kind of choppy.