Christmas Day - By Xin Yun

Written By: Xin Yun

Category: Short Story

Competition: Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026

In the compelling short story "Christmas Day" by Xin Yun, a vivid tapestry of family traditions unfolds during the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. This narrative captures the essence of a young protagonist's Christmas morning, filled with routines and reflections that resonate deeply with themes of family, faith, and self-discovery. As we navigate the holiday rituals through the protagonist's eyes, we are drawn into a world where the warmth of family gatherings contrasts with the inner quest for meaning and belonging.

About the Work

"Christmas Day" immerses readers in a rich narrative that juxtaposes the warmth of familial customs with the protagonist's internal journey. Xin Yun weaves a poignant tale that explores the tension between external celebrations and personal reflections. The story's vivid imagery and evocative language paint a picture of holiday traditions, while also delving into deeper themes of faith and self-awareness. The mood is contemplative, capturing the nuances of holiday gatherings and the silent conversations within the heart.

Christmas Day

Original Submission by Xin Yun

Christmas morning is different from the other winter mornings. Mom wakes me up when the sky has just turned blue, bathes and dresses me in formal wear, then does the same for my sisters and then herself last—wearing the dress which is said by Dad to better complement her growing baby bump—like it was a Sunday. Dad is ready in his suit and reading the morning papers when I join him at the dining table for toasts and milk. Mom, with her hair still freshly dried, helps my sisters up onto the chairs, and they eat away faster than I, still messy eaters and leaving crumbs on the table, which are left undusted as Dad decide we should arrive at church early.

Dad is warming up the car—two steps ahead of the rest of us as always—while Mom puts us into our boots, coats, scarves, gloves and beanies by the entrance. The sky is still blue and dull. It is all snow and slippery pavements that we drive past as we listen to the same Christmas songs played in malls and on the radio. In the back seat, my sisters are playing with the frills of their dresses and sharing complaints of the itching material while I watch out the window at all the landmarks I've familiarised myself with as the path from home to church: the pine trees, the stoplights, the racing powerlines, the turn which leads straight to the centre of town where shops and bars are visible—all of which in this time of year are covered in white and ice spikes.

The car slows and turns into the parking space outside the church. We follow the crammed line into the chapel's entrance, as families, friends and people outside the church are invited to today's service by our parishioners. Inside, the chapel is decorated in green and red with the same tinsel and ribbons as last year, and every grown-up and elderly person exchanges their Merry Christmases with us. It is the first time that day that I finally hear Dad's voice when he speaks to the men he respects and has shared drinks with. Every older person familiar to my family bends and lowers themselves to greet my sisters and me, asking anything similar to: 'Have you checked what Santa got you this year?' And I smile to myself, knowing that Santa isn't real and that the presents under our Christmas tree are hollow decorations, and say, 'Mom said he couldn't make it this year.' They would smile back, sorry and without a word, and sometimes promise that the next year would be different, that it wouldn't be missed.

Madam Susie, who teaches in Sunday school and whom I've stopped meeting as much since I started listening to the grown-up sermons, pats my head while bending over, softly wishing me a Merry Christmas, but quick to gloss over it to get on one knee, with gleaming and lively eyes, to meet my sisters, pinching their cheeks and feeling their faces with her warm fingers and showering them with more than a simple Christmas blessing. It is the same way that she did to me before I became the older one. I know it wouldn't get any better the older I get.

I sit on the pews for the service with Mom and Dad, like I have since I was 7, while my sisters are in Sunday school. At the beginning of the pastor's sermon, it is about the birth and life of Jesus and a reminder of his sacrifice on the cross. But I don't need the reminder. I think of it every time I pray before I eat and sleep, by the bed and facing the wooden cross nailed above the headboard, or when I read the Bible, even when Mom isn't forcing me to. Pastor continues and shares how we should be celebrating the life of Jesus every day, rather than only on Christmas Day, in the same way God is with us, even in the moments that we don't remember or outside of church. 'God is with us beyond the times you realise His existence', he says, 'even in times of tribulations, He is there, helping us in the ways we don't see.' I know all this—I thought to myself. I know and feel that Jesus is with me every day. We don't talk, but I've come to learn, between the silences of the days, the bond that comes from feelings only. I feel closer to him when it is quiet and when Dad isn't leading prayer or when Mom stop calling me for chores. I know by 'tribulations' it meant times like when Dad was hours late to pick me up from school or when Dad had too much to drink and didn't take me to baseball practice.

After church is lunch at home, and then finishing my homework in my room. Just as I start, I hear Mom from behind the door, 'Andy!' Before my two sisters follow behind the opening door, led in by Mom for me to watch over and to stop one from pulling the other's hair or fighting over toys as she prepares for Christmas dinner. I can continue my focus over the noises just fine; I've learned which types of cries call for actual concern and which are harmless. But a new noise starts to rise outside of the room, and the two of them are quiet as they hear it too. Mom sounds like she's whispering loudly at first, before raising her voice—I don't hear my name called, thankfully—and then Dad's voice, fast and piercing through the walls, then silence for too long. It is still distracting.

I look at my sisters, who both face away from me and toward where the noises came from, forgetting what they were battling over earlier, and I wish they would remember and continue. I hear footsteps going upstairs, knowing it is Dad's, then a heavy slam from a door, the sound of cutlery clattering and the sharp scratch of a plate being dragged.

By the time homework is done, my sisters are quiet and found asleep on my bed. I leave my room, feeling the heat from the kitchen and smelling roasted herbs. 'Andy!' Mom calls from the kitchen, where I can hear her and see her busying, but can't read her face. 'Go wake your father up.'

It is almost 5, and the dinner party starts at 6. I have to wake up Dad before it gets any later and he's any madder. I follow up the stairs to Mom and Dad's room, and into it, I find him on his side of the bed, stomach down, skin bared, snooring, and shake him awake. I know to stop when I hear the groans and see his body starting to come to life. I leave after informing him of the time, and downstairs, Mom is looking for my sisters, already worried. I don't give her a chance to call my name and tell her they are sleeping in my room, which kills the frantic energy in her eyes, and she tells me to wake and dress them myself while returning to the kitchen.

The first guests begin to arrive as I am dressing myself last. It is Aunt Ella and her husband, as I hear Mom's voice greet them from the living room. I don't hear Dad's voice yet, nor the sound of his door opening. I wonder if Mom would come chastise him or me first for being rude by not greeting the guests. Not long later, the second group of guests arrive—I can hear children, my cousins who are closer in age to my sisters than to me—and I ask God to give me the courage to leave my room, and do so.

There aren't as many people as I hoped there would be, as I wanted to disappear into the crowd, and so I face the few adults—some gloss over me and some greet me like I was still my sisters' age—and is push by Mom to greet my toddler cousins. Dad comes downstairs, styled and put together and beaming with an energy only seen when he's with other men, just as his brothers arrive with their wives and more children, and the house is beginning to get packed. Dinner starts when I am collecting myself in the bathroom; I missed the prayer. My other cousins, who are teens and older, don't stay long for the food and the grown-ups talking over it; when they finished, they either went to the living room to entertain themselves or out in the snow, possibly ruining my snowman, which I now realise I forgot to destroy before they arrived. Most of my family are males, which is what makes my sisters and one of my elder cousins stand out. She is what Dad called a 'real delinquent', and Mom once told me that the cross pendant she wears doesn't represent the cross we know; that it is demonic, along with her black, stretched clothing and dark circles.

Food is good, and I say it is good when Aunt Christy, next to me, asks me in a hushed voice. But she tells me I don't have to say it just because I am my mother's child, as her thin red lips stretch into a wry smile. The grown-ups talk about the children of the family, with my cousins and their successes in school and life mentioned. When asked, Dad brings up my baseball, but nothing about my failures in it, and so the attention moves on quickly, as there is nothing more to say. Dad gets the beers out when his plate is clean, and I stuff my food down quicker, wanting to go to my room already. The grown-ups' attention is elsewhere when I finish my plate clean and leave my seat without the politeness to announce my departure. I hear cans cracking open behind me once I am out of the dining room.

My older cousins are making up their own games in the living room with my baseball and bat, playing near the TV and the Christmas tree. I stay clear of being caught in the potential consequences, nor do I try to warn them of it. I go to my room to find that the young kids had found their playground, or perhaps were thrown in here by their own parents, and are playing with toys which did and did not belong to me.

I go back to the living room and smell that Dad and his brothers are stinking up the house with their beers and are loud because of it, even on Christmas Day, while Mom is looking around down at the crowd's feet with the frantic expression she gives when she realises my sisters are not found. She is going to call me; I know she is going to call me, and I feel the fuzziness in my heart again, the one that's there when Dad had too much beer or when he speaks to Mom when I know she's feeling irritable. It tells me to run, and it speaks loud and clear—was it Jesus, after all the prayers, speaking back to me? I pray again to God and ask what I should do in these conditions, and in my heart, I hear that I should choose not to worry about my sisters anymore, and I should go somewhere else for myself. With the belief that I can go alone and trusting it, I make my way to the front door and put on my boots myself, the way I think Mom would, and then my coat and beanie, tucking my ears into it the way Mom does—even if it was my first time doing it myself, I knew how to do it.

I leave the house, into the cold wind, only to realise the heat at home had suffocated me to breathe. Once the door closes, I cannot hear the noises from inside nor the sound of my name being called. I feel the warmth in my face and hands battle the chill of the air, and I look over to where my snowman was built to find that it is now beaten flat into the rest of the snow, with brown tracks of boots visible. Leaning on the picket fence and next to the mailbox is the darkly dressed cousin of mine. I didn't know she had disappeared out here, and neither does she notice me watching her smoke a cigarette, which I know no one in my family allowed.

I start my walk from the doorstep with church as my only destination, where everything is quiet. I have no way of leaving without alerting her, who I know is watching my back as I go in the direction opposite to her. As the last thing I don't want to but will do, I turn to her, and we look at each other and can tell that the intention to speak is there. But we don't; she doesn't start. Maybe, just like the rest of them, she can't tell if I am old enough to understand what she would say.

By the time I make it out of the block, I realise I've forgotten my gloves as the chill starts to bite into my fingertips. I make it to the big road and realise that car rides are faster than on foot, and that the landmarks I've memorised so well are now obscured without the light of day. I keep my hands in my pockets, yet they still freeze; so does my face, as I now know I have forgotten the scarf, too.

Luckily, I make it to where light is, and I know the familiar side of town is close. I see families and lovers with warmth shared in their joined hands, and some of them pass by me with curiosity, always with a look and not a single word. The shops are bright from their windows and still lively with shoppers. If I had money on me, I would've gone for a meal by myself, gotten the hairstyle Mom never let me have at the barber shop, or gotten myself gloves and a scarf.

I arrive at the front of the church only to realise the gate is locked. Holding the gate bars, I realise my hands, despite seeming red, no longer feel the freeze nor tremble from the cold, and I feel as if I've breached beyond my limit, turning stronger.

It could get quieter than this—I hear the voice in me say—the noises aren't limited to just home. So I take the unfamiliar path, the one I can never take alone for being younger.

The longer I walk, the less I feel my working legs, yet I move forward. The light of the town diffuses as I become closer to the woods and further from the part of town I know, having walked half as far as home to church. Here in the snow would be my ground to pray, and as I try to kneel, I fall onto the snow face down. I roll to my side, look at my hands and see that red is now purple. I can't move anymore; my breath is short. But I know Jesus will save me, for if He, as man, could heal the blind and the sick, what can't He do as God?

Knowing that there is nowhere further or back I can go, I count my seconds before I meet my saviour, for if I will be found, only He can do it. The noise is still there—the wind—and I ask God to hurry. Just from that, I see a light approaching in front of me, blinding me the bigger it grows, and hear the songs of the angels, which ring louder than the whistling wind, and prepare to be taken. I raise my arm, which is stiff and unmoving, and know that I am no longer in control of my body but of my spirit. A dark silhouette reveals Himself from the light as He approaches me and takes me off the ground into His embrace, which I only know in knowledge, as I cannot feel the embrace, nor the wind, nor the cold. I shut my eyes, only to smell it—the scent of Dad's beer. I hear the angels again, closer, and now know it is no song but the hysterical wails from Mom. Right then, I know that it isn't Jesus who has come for me, and it is home I will be returning to. My eyes open and I see the headlights of Dad's truck and Mom trudging through the snow, towards us. They bring me to the back seat, and I feel warmth again. I feel being alive and my senses returning to my body, even as I try to cling to the numbness and the unfeelingness I felt as I was fading out of this life, as I'm dragged back into the reality of senses and flesh, away from my God in heaven.

About the Competition

The Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026 by Hashtag Kalakar is a prestigious platform celebrating diverse voices and creativity in literature. This competition invites writers from around the world to share their stories, poems, and essays, fostering a global community of artists and readers. It highlights the power of words to connect, inspire, and evoke thought, providing a stage for both emerging and established writers to shine.

We extend our heartfelt thanks to Xin Yun for sharing "Christmas Day" with us as part of the Global Poetry and Creative Writing Competition 2026. This beautifully crafted story invites readers to reflect on the intricacies of family dynamics and personal faith during the festive season. We look forward to seeing more of your evocative storytelling in the future, Xin.

About Hashtag Kalakar

Hashtag Kalakar is a creative platform dedicated to providing artists, writers, singers and other creative talents with opportunities to showcase their work and reach wider audiences through competitions, features and creative initiatives.