Clydesdales/Athenas (200+ lb / 91+ kg) - A Christmas Carol

The Historian was fat, to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The scale groaned under the bulk, sighed 400 pounds, and gave up the ghost. It was as dead as a door-nail.

(Mind! I don't mean to say that I know, of my own knowledge, what there is particularly dead about a door-nail. I might have been inclined, myself, to regard a coffin-nail as the deadest piece of ironmongery in the trade. But the wisdom of our ancestors is in the simile; and my unhallowed hands shall not disturb it, or the Country's done for. You will therefore permit me to repeat, emphatically, that the scale was as dead as a door-nail, and The Historian was fat.)

One evening, The Historian took his excessive dinner in his usual melancholy tavern; and having read all the newspapers, and beguiled the rest of the evening arguing with trolls on rec.games.chess.politics, went home to bed.

The cellar-door flew open with a booming sound, and then he heard a clanging noise much louder, on the floors below; then coming up the stairs; then coming straight towards his door. The Historian recalled that that ghosts in haunted houses were described as dragging chains. He was frightened for a moment, and then reassured himself nothing was wrong.

'It's humbug!' said The Historian. 'I won't believe it.'

His color changed though, when, without a pause, the ghost came on through the heavy door, and passed into the room before his eyes.

'How now.' said The Historian. 'What do you want with me?'

'Much.'-The voice was curiously like his own, The Historian thought.

'Who are you?'

"Yourself." the apparition said. 'You don't believe in me,' observed the Ghost.

'I don't,' said The Historian.

'What evidence would you have of my reality beyond that of your senses?'

'I don't know,' said The Historian.

'Why do you doubt your senses?'

'Because,' said The Historian, 'a little thing affects them. A slight disorder of the stomach makes them cheats. You may be an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of an underdone potato. I had all of these at dinner. There's more of gravy than of grave about you, whatever you are!'

The Historian was unfortunately in the habit of cracking jokes, a trait he picked up while writing silly parodies on newsgroups and web forums. The truth is, that he tried to be smart, as a means of distracting his own attention from his very real problem. He had a Ghost in front of him, and what's more, a Ghost shackled with a chain, attached to which were fast food wrappers, pizza boxes, chocolate bars, bottles of soda, and other remains of meals past.

'You are fettered,' said The Historian, trembling and suddenly hungry from looking at the chains. 'Tell me why?'

'I wear the chain you are forging in life,' replied the Ghost. 'You make it link by link, and yard by yard; I girded it on of my own free will, and of my own free will I wore it. Is its pattern strange to you?'

The Historian trembled more and more.

'Or would you know,' pursued the Ghost, 'the weight and length of the strong coil you bear yourself? It was full as heavy and as long as this. You have labored on it, since. It is a ponderous chain!'

The Historian glanced about him on the floor, in the expectation of finding himself surrounded by some fifty or sixty fathoms of iron cable: but he could see nothing. And this is scarcely surprising, since he rarely could see the floor for the fast-food wrappers.

'I am here to-night to warn you, that you have yet a chance and hope of escaping my fate. You will be haunted,' resumed the Ghost, 'by Two Spirits. Without their visits,' said the Ghost, 'you cannot hope to shun the path I tread. Expect the first to-morrow, when the bell tolls One.'

"Why Two Spirits? I thought there were supposed to be Three?"

"We are economizing this year. Recession's tough."

'Couldn't I take them all at once, and have it over?' hinted The Historian.

'Expect the second on the next night at the same hour. Look to see me no more; and look that, for your own sake, you remember what has passed between us! Goodbye!" And the Ghost disappeared.

The Historian closed the window, and examined the door by which the Ghost had entered. It was double-locked, as he had locked it with his own hands, and the bolts were undisturbed. He tried to say 'Humbug!' but stopped at the first syllable. And being, from the emotion he had undergone, or the fatigues of the day, or his glimpse of the Invisible World, or the dull conversation of the Ghost, or the lateness of the hour, or from reading sentences with a seemingly endless series of clauses, much in need of repose; went straight to bed, without undressing, and fell asleep upon the instant.

(to be continued.....)

Do continue. :D

The hour bell sounded, which it now did with a deep, dull, hollow, melancholy One. Light flashed up in the room upon the instant.

'Are you the Spirit, sir, whose coming was foretold to me?' asked The Historian.

'I am.'

The voice was soft and gentle. Singularly low, as if instead of being so close beside him, it were at a distance.

'Who, and what are you?' The Historian demanded.

'I am the Ghost of Life That Could Be.' It put out its strong hand as it spoke, and clasped him gently by the arm. 'Rise! and walk with me!'

It would have been in vain for The Historian to plead that the weather and the hour were not adapted to pedestrian purposes; that bed was warm, and the thermometer a long way below freezing; that he was clad but lightly in his slippers, New York Mets t-shirt and sweats, and nightcap; and that he had a cold upon him at that time. The grasp, though gentle as a woman's hand, was not to be resisted. He rose: but finding that the Spirit made towards the window, said,'I am mortal, and liable to fall. Big guys like me aren't terribly aerodynamic.'

'Bear but a touch of my hand there,' said the Spirit, laying it upon his heart, 'and you shall be upheld in more than this!'

They flew swift as the wind over country and town. Soon they spotted a crowd of people bicycling along a country road. They, silently, unobserved, traveled among the bicylists. Then it was to a lake, in which people were swimming,and on which people were boating, and around which people were running and jogging. But few of them groaned under the bulk of excess weight, and those who did still moved with a grace that belied their bulk.. All were eating healthy food in sensible amounts. All were enjoying themselves.

"Spirit, why drag me from my slumber to show me these scenes?" asked The Historian.

"This is what your life could be free from your excess corpulence. Also, we need to sneak the moral into the story at some point."

"But it's impossible for me to run or swim or ride as these people do. Again, why do you show these scenes to me? Why, Spirit?"


"Because the chain you wear is tied with 'I can't' and 'no' and 'impossible.' Do you see that small child there walking on the path?"


"The lame child?"

"Yes. He is active because he knows that to be inactive is to cease to exist. But for his doing, his moving, there would be a crutch sitting in a corner without an owner. Everyone tells him he can't, but he doesn't listen. He is a weak child, but is stronger than you in many ways."

And with this, the Spirit disappeared, leaving The Historian back in his bed-chamber, pondering blatant moralizing in allegory, and awaiting the second Spirit.

The second Phantom slowly, gravely, silently approached. It was shrouded in a deep black garment, which concealed its head, its face, its form, and left nothing of it visible save one outstretched hand. But for this it would have been difficult to detach its figure from the night, and separate it from the darkness by which it was surrounded.

The Historian felt that it was tall and stately when it came beside him, and that its mysterious presence filled him with a solemn dread. He knew no more, for the Spirit neither spoke nor moved.

'I am in the presence of the Ghost of Life Yet To Come?' said The Historian.

The Spirit answered not, but pointed onward with its hand.

'You are about to show me shadows of the things that have not happened, but will happen in the time before us,' The Historian pursued. 'Is that so, Spirit?'

The upper portion of the garment was contracted for an instant in its folds, as if the Spirit had inclined its head. That was the only answer he received.

He accompanied it until they reached an iron gate. He paused to look round before entering.

A churchyard. Here, then, the wretched man whose name he had now to learn, lay underneath the ground. It was a worthy place. Walled in by houses; overrun by grass and weeds, the growth of vegetation's death, not life; choked up with too much burying; fat with repleted appetite. A worthy place!

The Spirit stood among the graves, and pointed down to One. The grave was littered with pizza boxes and fast food wrappers. He advanced towards it trembling. The Phantom was exactly as it had been, but he dreaded that he saw new meaning in its solemn shape.

'Before I draw nearer to that stone to which you point,' said The Historian, 'answer me one question. Are these the shadows of the things that Will be, or are they shadows of things that May be, only?'

Still the Ghost pointed downward to the grave by which it stood.

'Men's courses will foreshadow certain ends, to which, if persevered in, they must lead,' said The Historian. 'But if the courses be departed from, the ends will change. Say it is thus with what you show me!'

The Spirit was immovable as ever.

The Historian crept towards it, trembling as he went; and following the finger, read upon the stone of the neglected grave his own name.

'No, Spirit! Oh no, no!'

The finger still was there.

'Spirit!' he cried, tight clutching at its robe, 'hear me! I am not the man I was. I will not be the man I must have been but for this intercourse. Why show me this, if I am past all hope?'

For the first time the hand appeared to shake. Few things are as moving as a fat man in hysteria and tears.

'Good Spirit,' he pursued, as down upon the ground he fell before it: 'Your nature intercedes for me, and pities me. Assure me that I yet may change these shadows you have shown me, by an altered life? Oh, tell me I may sponge away the writing on this stone!'

In his agony, he caught the spectral hand. It sought to free itself, but he was strong in his entreaty, and detained it. The Spirit, stronger yet, repulsed him.

"I will lose weight! I will give up the sedentary lifestyle that will bring me to this place! This I vow, oh Spirit!"

Holding up his hands in a last prayer to have his fate reversed, he saw an alteration in the Phantom's hood and dress. It shrunk, collapsed, and dwindled down into a bedpost.


(to be continued....)

Yes! and the bedpost was his own. The bed was his own, the room was his own. Best and happiest of all, the Time before him was his own, to make amends in!

He was so fluttered and so glowing with his good intentions, that his broken voice would scarcely answer to his call. He had been sobbing violently in his conflict with the Spirit, and his face was wet with tears. The Historian spoke to himself again, this time louder: "I am here -- the shadows of the things that would have been, may be dispelled. They will be. I know they will! I will live life free from the shackles of obesity, in both the present and the future!"

His hands were busy with his garments all this time; turning them inside out, putting them on upside down, tearing them, mislaying them, making them parties to every kind of extravagance. He was standing there: perfectly winded.

'I don't know what to do!' cried The Historian, laughing and crying in the same breath. 'I am as light as a
feather, despite my bulk; I am as happy as an angel, I am as merry as a schoolboy. I am as giddy as a drunken man. I am running out of similies."


"There's the carton the takeout was in!" cried The Historian, starting off again, and going round the fireplace. "There's the door! There's the window where I saw the wandering Spirits! It's all right, it's all true, it all happened. Ha ha ha!"

Running to the window, he opened it, and put out his head. No fog, no mist; clear, bright, jovial, stirring, cold; cold, piping for the blood to dance to; Golden sunlight; Heavenly sky; sweet fresh air; merry bells. Oh, glorious! Glorious!

He yelled to a boy in the street below. "Hallo, my fine fellow!"
"Yeah what?" returned the boy.

He thought for the moment, and had an amusing thought. "Do you know the bicycle shop, in the next street but one, at the corner?" The Historian inquired.

"Yeah," replied the lad.

"An intelligent boy!" said The Historian. "A remarkable boy!
Do you know whether they've sold the red bike that
was hanging up there?--Not the little bike: the
big one?"

"Yeah, what about it?" returned the boy.

"What a delightful boy!" said The Historian. "It's a pleasure to talk to him. And they say the younger folks have no conversation."

"It's hanging there now," replied the boy.

"Is it?" said The Historian. "Go and buy it."

"Yeah sure." exclaimed the boy.

"No, no," said The Historian, "I am in earnest. Go and buy it, and tell 'em to bring it here. Come back with the bike, and
I'll give you a ten dollar bill. Come back with him in less than five minutes and I'll give you a hundred!"

The boy was off like a shot.

The Historian was better than his word. He did all the world thought he could, and infinitely more. He became as active a man as the good old city knew, or any other good old city, town, or borough, in the good old
world. Some people laughed to see the alterations, physical and otherwise, in him, and were amused to see him attempt the lifestyle of a much less stout man, but he let them laugh, and little heeded them; for he was wise enough to know that nothing ever happened on this
globe, for good, at which some people did not have their fill of laughter in the outset; and knowing that such as these
would be blind anyway, he thought it quite as well that they should wrinkle up their eyes in grins, as have the malady in
less attractive forms. His own heart laughed: and that was quite enough for him.

He had no further intercourse with Spirits, but lived upon the Total Abstinence Principle, ever afterwards; and it was
always said of him, that he knew how to keep active well, if any man alive possessed the knowledge. May that
be truly said of us, and all of us! And so ends our story. God bless Us, Every One!

I am running out of similies."I love you, Neil.

I love it! Fortunate is the man visited by spirits! Seriously Historian, you are an inspiration to me!

Terrific. I enjoyed it very much. Now if I could only have a similar catharsis.

Thank you, my friends. However, Dickens deserves most of the credit. Most of the writing is his, and despite my jokes about clauses and similies, his contributions far outshine mine in quality.

Incidentally, my own turning point, on December 22, 2005, is connected to A Christmas Carol. As I lay in a hospital bed, being woken up every two hours to have blood drawn, I recalled Scrooge's words in the graveyard. ''Men's courses will foreshadow certain ends, to which, if persevered in, they must lead. But if the courses be departed from, the ends will change." My hospitalization was for a false alarm. I wasn't having a heart attack, merely severe indigestion and stress. I thank God it was a false alarm, and that I had the chance to change my courses.

I would like to think that Dickens would approve. Thank you for the lark.

Wow, nicely done Neil. I believe change is inevitable for all of us. The path it takes is largely dependent upon whether or not we embrace it and take the rudder, or if we drift along with the wind and take what may come our way.

It really is about the journey.

I love you, Neil.

Thank you. I'm available since Ms. Bumble dumped me. :-(

Thank you. I'm available since Ms. Bumble dumped me. :-(

I really and honestly for one of the few times i can remember have nothing to say other than WOW!!! Truly Awesome!

*golf clap* I'm at work so I cannot make much more noise.


Bravo good sir. Well done.

Well done Neil. You did Dickens well and made it relevant to this forum.

BTW "dead as a door nail" comes from the practice of building cabin doors. vertical slats of wood (stiles) were affixed to horizontal slats of wood (rails). Nails were driven through the two layers of wood leaving a substantial amount of protruding nail. The protruding nail point was hit head on to produce an arch like bend which was driven back unto the wood. This is referred to as "killing" the nail.This performed two tasks. It created enough holding power that the door would last longer than if nailed with a short straight nail and it kept the occupants from getting snagged on the sharp end of the nails. This was common practice until screws were mass produced and affordable.

BUMP! A seasonal riff on Dickens, done when I had too much time.

Nicely done sir. You obviously are getting into your writing, so send more our way when you are moved to do so. Thank you....thank you.

Thanks Neil for bumping this. You did an excellent job with the retelling and it reminds me that 25 years is too long to go without rereading A Christmas Carol and in the coming week I shall correct that condition. :)

Nicely done sir. You obviously are getting into your writing, so send more our way when you are moved to do so. Thank you....thank you.

This was first posted to the newsgroup alt.support.diet in 2006. I revised it last year.