I'LL BE HOME FOR CHRISTMAS by A.C. Raymond

A flash fiction piece of one man’s dream of Christmas.

I’ll be home for Christmas. You can count on me. Everyone planned on it. Even NASA. No one planned on a wormhole dropping us right in the middle of an asteroid field, though. It’s okay. Really. I got to the lifeboat in time. 

Amenities aren’t much. Stuck some scraps of cloth from my jumpsuit to the window. Made the circular window into a triangle, picture of Anna underneath. Chubby little cheeks, smile with a missing tooth, blond hair under the Santa hat like tinsel. When I cry, the stars look even more like lights on a tree. 

Food synthesizer makes one thing: beige gruel in a spectrum of flavors adjusted to the lifeboat’s assessment of my dietary needs versus remaining supply. Hacked it. Made the gruel taste as close to egg nog as possible. 

I’m basically stuck in the acceleration couch. Either that or I float around, bumping into the walls. Bedsores get hot. Sometimes, I can imagine their heat is from a fireplace behind me. Imagine us dancing in front of it. I managed to keep my palm computer with me. Bing Crosby’s been crooning his head off in here. 

Sometimes, I dream. You and Anna, crumpled wrapping paper on the floor, mistletoe overhead. Dreams come from dimethyltriptamine. Floods your brain when you die. Makes things easier, makes you see the tunnel of white light, grandma and all. So, the pod’s suicide program pumps the cabin full of it.

I’ll be home for Christmas. If only in my dreams.