Ugly Christmas Sweater Day
When the sweater gets to rest on my shoulders, a tickle flows from my chest to the tips of my fingers. Gaudy LEDs sewn into the fabric bounce with light more than they would usually, and that lumpy pom-pom on the chest starts softly humming as if alive. Just before I manage to comprehend what's going on, the very air about me seems to shimmer and warp into a flow of colors.
I stop spinning, and, suddenly, the living room is not what I experience. Where I am standing is now in the midst of a village covered by snow, with cobblestone streets and gingerbread-style houses lining them. The air is crisp, smelling of peppermint and pine. Twinkling lights deck the rooftops while elves scurry back and forth carrying sacks of presents and trays of cookies. In the middle of the village is a grand sleigh lying in a pileāits runners are dry, its paint has withered away, and its much-better-looking reins lie limp in the snow.
"Finally!" A freckled elf with a tool belt around his waist and a candy-cane-striped hat runs to you. "The sweater chose you! We've been waiting for one to help."
"Wait, what?" I stammer, still trying to process the sudden change of scenery. "Where am I? What's happening?"
"This is Treedale, Santa's workshop village," the elf finishes. "Tomorrow is the big day, and the sleigh is broken; without it, all will be horribly doomed on Christmas day! But Magic Sweater has brought you in to help."
I look down at the now strangely warm and comforting sweater. The pom-pom pulses softly, and a voice whispers in my mind, "Believe in the magic. You have what it takes."Ā
I hesitate, then nod. "Alright. What do I need to do?"Ā
The elf claps their hands. "Follow me!" They lead me to a workshop blaring with tools and raw materials. "Use magic from the sweater to mend the sleigh; one hitch, Grumblethorn knows you're here."
The elf shudders. "Nasty creature, living up by the holiday spirit, trying to ruin Christmas for decades. He'll stop you if he finds you."
My heart pounds, but the sweater hums reassuringly, and I feel a surge of confidence. "Let us do this."
I work on fixing the sleigh for hours. With each weld of cracks, each sanding of a splinter, and repainting in gaudy reds and golds, the sweater seems to have a hand glowing dimly as my work progresses. Every task feels like second nature, as if this is something I've always done and been good at. The elves cheer me on, bringing cups of hot cocoa and sometimes lending tools when needed.
Just as I finish adding the last runner, there is a shadow over the workshop. The door bursts open, and a hulking shape with cold eyes and a twisted grin steps inside. Grumblethorn.
"Well, well." He sneers. "Fixing your sleigh, are you? Not with me around."
The room plunges in temperature, and the elves scatter to find cover behind furniture. I can feel a flicker of fear, but the sweater starts humming louder, warming you up with confidence. You stand tall.
"You won't stop Christmas, Grumblethorn," I say stiffly.
Grumblethorn lunges, but the sweater is quicker than that. Its lights blaze like a beacon to blind the creature. An energy field, shimmering in the light, surrounds you and throws off his icy attacks. The sweater's voice whispers again, "Share the joy."
And so, I really will know what to do. To close my eyes and think about all the blissful holiday memories I had: family dinners, opening presents, singing carols. A sweater that multiplies my feelings and sends into the room waves of warmth and light. Grumblethorn stumbles back, clutching his chest as the laughter pierces through his frigid exterior.
"No!" he cries as he shrinks to the size of a mere puff of smoke. Then he gives a last wail before disappearing into the night.
Cheers erupt among the elves, and the lights of the sweater softly twinkle in their own triumphant way. A moment later, Santa himself comes in, his eyes twinkling with gratitude. "You have saved Christmas," he says, shaking my hand. "But there is one more thing you'll need to do."
With the sleigh repaired and the reindeer hitched, Santa asks me if I'd like to ride along for Christmas Eve deliveries. With the sweater, I'm cozy as I soar through the night, dropping gifts and cheer to every corner of the world. I've never felt more alive.
When the trip is over, Santa returns me to my living room, lights dimming on the sweater; the pom-pom hums one last time, then falls silent. Time to take it off and fold it onto a chair carefully. As you do, I hear a whisper so soft it can barely be perceived: "This is not the end of this taleājust the beginning."
And I can't help but believe it.
