How the saviour of the world spends Christmas

He’s always been a trendsetter, ahead of the curve, long before there was a curve to be ahead of. He’s eco, green, a friend of the earth, who’s rebelled against extinction. He’s still alive, isn’t he? He places the Christmas card from five years ago back on the fireplace. Recycles with care. It’s the one from the local churches with a manger on the front, addressed to Dear Friends. He moves it slightly, nearer the edge, to see it better from the sofa. The Christ child stirs in his crib, but sleeps on in heavenly peace. That’s the Son of God’s job at this time of year.

His job was lost at the same time his front tooth started to wobble. At first it rocked gently when he touched it with the tip of his tongue. Then it moved when he least expected it. It made a noise he heard in his skull. Like a prisoner making a scraping bid for freedom. A visit to the dentist in the next street brought no relief. His claim hadn’t been processed, so officially he didn’t exist. He’s not entitled to free dental care. His bank account is threadbare. He’ll have to wait, then bring the proof in and show it at the front desk. In front of everyone. He waits for the brown envelope. The backlog. It’s a thing, see? He couldn’t see it, but he felt it when it bit at his insides. Apart from the choking fit, the tooth did him a favour by moving out before it was evicted.

His survival instinct’s kicking in, now it’s winter. That’s what animals do, they curl their soft bodies around the shape of the season. He does this instinctively, folds in two and crumples onto the sofa. He curls his fearful body around the final demand. Holly berry red, fitting for the season. The colourful bar chart shows his energy use. He’s a regular in the minimum usage bar, got the knack of supping a pint of mild without it going down. He’s never been in the high use bar. He suspects it wouldn’t be to his taste, but he’d like to holiday there once in a while. What he’d like, he doesn’t get, so there’s no use dwelling. He lives in the real world. He’s saving it by not putting the heating on.

Tracey Pearson is a poet and flash fiction writer from Newcastle upon Tyne. Her writing has appeared online, in magazines such as Poetry Wales, and various anthologies. Tracey won a Bread and Roses Poetry Award in 2022. In 2023 she was shortlisted for the Bridport Prize in flash fiction, and the Oluwale poetry competition. Tracey’s shortlisted poem appears in the Oluwale Now anthology published by Peepal Tree Press.