I was hungry. It was dark.


BJ Crisostomo

I was hungry. It was dark.

It was night. Of course, it was night. Even the sun is afraid to set foot in my world. Well, it was night and the Christmas lights shone as stars would, as I imagined stars would. It wasn’t Christmas. No. No one celebrates Christmas here no more. It was night, and Christmas lights shone as starlight would, and then the angel came. No of course, not an actual angel but she sure did look like the angels on old Christmas picture books. So again: it was night, not Christmas, the Christmas lights shone like starlight and an angel came. I was hungry and she gave me bread. Then she left. So it was night, not Christmas, no more angel but I had bread. I had bread. Probably it was Christmas after all. I had bread didn’t I? I gobbled up my bread— it didn’t have butter, jam or turkey. There were no gifts, no family. No nothing. But I had bread, and Christmas lights. It was Christmas probably. I hummed a tune to myself, a tune of what I thought Christmas songs would sound like— na na na na na na da pa ra pa da ma na pa ba ba ba qua qua tra la la— and I ate my piece of bread. After a while, there was no bread, and no angel, and I thought to myself maybe it’s not Christmas after all. It was night, and it wasn’t Christmas, and I was still hungry, and it was dark.


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