Ho, ho, ho—It's here!

Acid Christmas has begun!

Hi folks, I’m going to keep this short and sweet! My latest psychedelic novel, Acid Christmas, has arrived! The paperback is on sale today for its lowest price of 2023, and to show extra love to my Canadian readers, since the book takes place in Toronto, Canada, land of raccoons, snow, skyscrapers, hockey, and maple leaves, the Canadian price is FOR ONCE below the US price! Grab the book here. Or search for it wherever you like to buy your books. It’s available in paperback at all major book retailers worldwide.

Acid Christmas by Charlotte Dune

Please give it a peek, share it with a friend, or grab it for your mom! It’s a fun conversation starter for any occasion you celebrate. 😉 Also available in paperback wherever books are sold.

And here is chapter one in audio and written to give you a little taste and a tease. Enjoy! Audio narration by the amazing Harley Taylor.

PART 1: ARRIVALS

Chapter 1: Candi Boards

There are always those who can’t, won’t, or don’t follow the rules. Some are oblivious and others are assholes. On an airplane, it becomes real clear, real quick, which is which. 

The early morning of Black Friday, as dawn arose and stretched its pink lips over the simmering neon Las Vegas city strip, Candi Burns flew to Honolulu, to Austin, to Miami, to New York, to London, to Portugal, to Amsterdam, like blah blah, blah. For days. Destinations repeated. Two weeks passed. She came home and left again, lost track of her circadian rhythm and ran out of makeup remover. Then finally, her return plane arrived in the Netherlands. This would be her last leg. After a layover in Toronto, she could sleep at home, surrounded by the umber sands of Nevada… albeit alone. 

In the Schipol airport, she restocked her skin wipes and went to the lounge’s bathroom to smooth her lightly-rolled, auburn hair, its ends a perfect curve. She reapplied pressed powder, bronzer, and a light maroon matte-lip, only enough makeup to freshen and enhance her natural features. The sink’s cold water washed over her manicured nails, Santa-suit-red for Christmas, and, in the mirror, with tired hands, she blended a light blotting of beige concealer to the blue-tinted half-moons under her pale, hazel eyes. 

Despite a schedule perfect for a possum, Candi strove to appear as polished as a Macy’s holiday window display. It was her job, after all, sort of, to be pretty and pleasing to customers, and if she let one thing slip, reduced her rituals even a little bit, well, she wouldn’t. Changing herself would betray him, betray their past. Nothing should be different, not her makeup, not their house, not even his underwear drawer, nothing.

Back in the lounge, she sipped a venti black coffee and struggled not to yawn. 

They boarded fifty minutes late. Passengers carrying winter coats and shopping bags roamed the aisles, chatting and moving luggage, stuffing books into backseat pockets and adjusting neck pillows. Candi answered questions and counted missing names. 

They taxied at the gate for another thirty minutes before receiving the necessary clearance to leave, but as the captain announced their impending, belated departure, halfway down economy, a misshapen black duffel squeezed out from an open bin like a constipated turd. 

Gosh darn it. Who put that there? She thought. I already closed those bins. 

The lumpy bag loomed over the silvery head of a sleeping lady, and threatened to tumble. 

This would not do. Why, oh why, did people think it was fine to stuff their shit where it didn’t fit? There wasn’t enough caffeine on the planet for this. 

The duffel and Candi’s mental stamina teetered on collapse. She’d wanted to go home for hours, for days, for Jasper’s… She clipped off the end of her thought like a hangnail. Focus on the current task. Move the bag. One thing at a time—that’s what her Zoom therapist said. But this wasn’t supposed to be the current task. Jasper’s mother needed her to prepare… 

The bag creaked out a smidgen. 

The dangling luggage could be a symbol for her entire year, maybe her whole life, and the desire to yank it out and fling it around like a medieval flail, to throw it out the airplane’s emergency exit door with a triumphant scream, almost overcame her, but Candi resisted, like she resisted 99.99999% of her in-flight emotions.

She could force it in the bin or find a different spot, but where? The plane was as full as a chipmunk’s cheeks in pumpkin season. 

A hungry, stale breath of recirculated air escaped her mauve mouth, and she made her way to the un-securely stowed item. A few multicolored, iron-on patches decorated the dark fabric. Before reaching the bin, however, she bumped into a stray limb. It blocked her entire path, extending from row to row. A bright green sneaker the size of a bowling ball connected to a lengthy leg in red track pants. Silver reflective stripes ran from the owner’s ankle to his jacket, then to his collar, and finally to his face, and a cloth mask which said, “minimally compliant” in big white letters on a black background. Over his eyes, he wore a satin purple eye mask fashioned as a unicorn’s head, complete with a stuffed, pearlescent, protruding horn, something straight from a bargain rack at Claire’s Boutique. Candi frowned, though her expression was nearly as frozen as her emotions, only with Botox instead of avoidance; this person was 100% the owner of the vagrant luggage.

“Excuse me sir, can you please move your leg?” 

The overgrown teen showed no signs of registering her polite request. Massive red headphones bedazzled with faux diamonds covered his ears. Quite tall, possibly the tallest person she’d ever seen on a plane, he was like an NBA player compressed into a grocery cart. He’d also already reclined his seatback in an unapproved fashion prior to takeoff. 

“Sir,” she raised her voice, “I need to secure your bag.” 

He didn’t stir. Beside him, an overweight man slapped at a laptop, oblivious, and in the row behind him, the stray sack inched above the elderly woman’s head like a guillotine. 

“Sir, move your leg,” Candi repeated, allowing exasperation into her tone. “We’re preparing for takeoff.” 

Nothing. 

“Sir,” she practically shouted. Techno music streamed from the youth’s headphones. His cologne contained the undertones of a forest-dwelling skunk. She wanted to pinch her nostrils shut. His knee was so high that if she stepped over him, it would force her to hike up her skirt. Instead, she nudged his calf with the side of her shoe. “Sir, wake up.” 

“Mmhhhmm.”

She wished she could gate check his bag—gate check it straight to hell. 

The plane rolled toward the runway. Before she was able to muster the nerve to ‘accidentally’ stomp on the kid’s foot, someone poked her—hard—from behind. 

Candi let out a high-pitched “yip,” and whipped around. 

It was Chad, the A flight attendant. “Step aside, my lady,” and with a brush of his hand, he pivoted her hips, moved the young guy’s leg, and yanked out the bag, then slammed the bin shut. 

The tall kid shifted his lengthy body and returned to the same position. Chad sauntered up with the bag and a coy smile. His boyish, gingerbread eyes flickered with amusement. “Can you find a spot for this?” He shoved the duffel at Candi, and she stumbled backwards, clutching the heavy thing with both hands like a full-grown golden retriever. 

“Tsk, Tsk,” Chad shook his blonde head, “Girl, you gotta get to the gym; work those arms.” He took the sack from her and strolled off.

Candi scowled at his buoyant rear. She was pretty sure he’d gotten a butt lift. No man could have an ass that perky. Why am I always two seconds behind everyone else? She wondered.

The young guy roused and removed his unicorn sleep mask. “Oh hey,” he said in a preppy British accent, “Could I trouble you for a glass of cold Chardonnay?” 

Are you fucking serious? Candi screamed in her groggy head, then pretended not to hear him and left.

“Excuse me,” the young man called.

She knew his type: nineteen and entitled, treating every female like their own personal maid—exactly how she never wanted her own son to act, except she would probably never have a son now… She would have named him JJ. Jasper Junior… Ugh, those thoughts again. They were worse than lousy passengers. At least passengers went away. Why couldn’t she go an hour without wanting to cry? 

Her mother thought she needed a hobby, to travel more, to do fun things, but travel more than she already did? When nothing was fun anymore… She involuntarily yawned. What would be fun would be a nap, for like a year. Which was basically what her therapist had prescribed. Unlike her mother, he believed she didn’t get enough sleep, but that was easy for him to say. He worked from home with his cat, not with the scourge of humanity she served Diet Cokes and SunChips to on every flight, morning, noon, and night.

“You could change jobs,” her therapist had suggested, “You could benefit from a stable, 9-5 schedule.”

“What job would that be?” she’d asked, genuinely curious if he had a specific idea for her. He didn’t.  

“Whatever you want to try next.” 

Like it’s all so simple, she thought.  

Back at the front of the cabin, Adrienne, the B attendant, offered her a stick of gum. “Saw you with that tall guy; I think he’s an actor or something.” 

“Why?” Candi took the gum with gratitude, letting the cherry taste replace her frustrations.

“He was taking selfies with girls at the gate.” 

Chad joined their conversation. “The big guy? I’m amazed he made it through airport security. He stinks like a stoner’s butthole.” 

Candi stifled a laugh. Even with his blond crew cut, fake rear, and steroid-filled arms, at least Chad knew how to crack a butt joke. 

“I thought that was his cologne.”

“Oh God, Candi, you’re so sheltered. That’s the smell of some sticky icky mari-ju-ana.”

Adrienne smacked her bubblegum. “He’s stocking cute.” She emphasized the words, as if saying “fucking cute,” but Candi clearly heard “stocking.” 

“Stocking cute?” 

“Yeah, like you want him to slide down your chimney and stuff your Christmas stocking, and stuff ya’ real good with his big candy cane, if you know what I mean?” Adrienne’s mask was off, and her glossed lips glittered like a 90s slap bracelet.

“Santa’s gonna put you on his naughty list,” Chad hissed. 

Candi rolled her eyes. “I’m old enough to be his mother.”

“Girl, no woman can resist a handsome, tall man. He’s over twenty-one; that’s legal,” Adrienne said. 

“I’m almost 40,” Candi said. 

“35 is not almost 40.” 

“Close enough. Fine, almost 35.” Hardly any difference, Candi thought.

“Oh my God, see. You’re still young as cum.” 

She blushed, good lord Adrienne could get crass.  

The plane slowed to a stop, and the pilot apologized again; they were fifth in line for takeoff. More waiting.

“I’m getting a better look.” Adrienne unbuckled her seatbelt and cat-walked down the aisle, hips swinging. 

Chad watched her go. “Adrienne thinks every flight is a wedding, and she’s ‘bout to catch the bouquet.” 

The overhead speakers announced an even longer wait, and Chad instructed her to serve more drinks to first class.

She obliged and hid the coach section with the slide of a curtain, a still-remaining clear line to divide the haves from the have nots. How she’d love to delineate her own past like that, to separate it from her stupid brain. 

Most of the guests in the privileged seats took their hot towels and drinks wordlessly, more interested in their phones than reciprocity. No one said “thank you” anymore. Since the last pandemic, people avoided each other. 

She passed flutes of Champagne to a middle-aged man and woman, and their microscopic white and gray teacup puppy barked at her. 

“Oh, he’s so cute,” Candi said because honestly the little pup was adorable, though he probably cost more than her entire wardrobe. 

“This is Terry Fox,” the woman said, petting the dog’s ping-pong ball-sized head. “But we call him Foxy.” 

“What kind of dog is he?”

“A teacup schnauzer.” 

“Hey, Foxy, can I pet you?” 

The pup backed away from Candi’s outstretched hand. 

“You’re playing hard to get? Well, hold on. I’ll be right back.” She went to her seat, and from her purse, retrieved a plastic pouch of dog treats. The peanut-sized artificial sausages flew with her on every flight. Candi offered pet owners the yummy goodies to appease their often-stressed furry companions. Yet their meaty scent triggered a hollow sensation in her throat; they reminded her of PumpkinChai, her beloved schweenie. 

Candi swallowed, suppressing the melancholic swell. PumpkinChai had passed away a month after Jasper and their deaths connected in her mind, forming one long stretch of time, of tears, of wiping off streaks of mascara in the bathrooms of different airports, of nights spent sobbing, unable to get through a single television episode. Oh, how she missed Jasper and their little spicy ball of apricot fur. 

Treats in hand, she returned to the southern couple. With their pandemic masks lowered, they happily drank Champagne and flipped through the inflight entertainment. The gray and white puppy posted at attention on the woman’s lap. It barked at her again. 

“I’ve got a little something for you, Foxy,” Candi said in a baby voice and opened her hand to reveal the mini wiener treat. “Would he like a sausage?” 

“Of course,” the woman cooed. 

Foxy sniffed the air and strained to reach the treat, then gobbled it up. 

“See, we’re friends now,” Candi said. “Though you will have to stow him soon for takeoff.”

“He’s a good boy. He’d be better off on my lap. He’s not a fan of the case.” 

“It’s for his own safety. Here,” Candi gave the couple a few more treats. “Use these to entice him.” 

“Could we get another drink?” The husband asked, as if suddenly entitled to additional treats like his designer dog. Candi said sure and returned with more Champagne. Best to keep the rich folk satisfied, especially given the delay, she thought.

 After another thirty minutes, the plane’s chance to depart finally arrived. They lifted off the Netherland’s snow-dusted terrain. In seven hours, she’d land in Toronto, then suffer a six-hour layover before flying home to the Vegas airport. Almost no longer awake, Candi served dinner, cleaned up trash, and ran through her required paperwork, but before she could finish her duties and relax, a passenger’s emergency button flashed. She sluggishly went to the call signal, but as she waded closer to the button, a piney fragrance met her nostrils. It was the tall guy pressing it. You’ve got to be kidding me, she thought. Business class nerve on an economy budget.

She switched off the button. “Can I help you?” 

In his hoity-toity accent, he said, “Yes, do you have any sleeping pills?” 

Her painted lips parted with surprise. Sleeping pills? What, the weed wasn’t enough? 

“I’ve been trying to sleep, but I can’t.” He batted silky black eyelashes. 

“No, we don’t give out sleeping pills.” 

“No? Some flight attendants have them. Wine then? Umm,” he looked at her name tag. “Candi?”

“We’re not serving drinks in economy right now.” 

“So, not in economy, but in first class?” He didn’t wait for her answer. “Are you saying I should sneak up to first class with you to have a drink?”

Candi was glad her mask hid most of her reaction.

“We can live a little, right?” He winked. 

Is he flirting with me? She wondered, thinking—GenZ has no shame.

He stood and his body unfurled into the aisle like someone shaking off a picnic blanket. “If there’s an empty seat in business, I wouldn’t mind moving.” He towered over her. “It’s pretty cramped here. I’ll follow you.” 

Under him, Candi understood why normal people committed assault. Though Adrienne was right, he was slightly cute. The accent, the unusual tallness, his tan skin, thin nose, high cheekbones, dark, onyx eyes—the combined package at least rendered him memorable. 

But the unicorn mask was a no-go. Nope. Also, if he was famous, why wasn’t he in first class already?

“Sorry sir,” she said.

The plane lurched, and the guy crammed himself back into his chair. Candi widened her stance. 

Chad’s voice came over the loudspeaker. “We’re heading into some turbulence. Please return to your seats and fasten your seatbelts.” The seatbelt sign flashed on with a ding.

The plane jolted again, and the smelly tall guy clutched his arm rests and squeezed his eyes shut, mumbling as if counting out a game of hide and seek. 

She held in a chuckle; Mr. Messy Bag was afraid of flying. No wonder he wanted sleeping pills. 

As she returned to her position, Chad pulled her aside. “Word from the captain—unexpected high winds, strap in tight. We’re rerouting over The North Pole and we’re in for a very rough flight.”

Continue the story here.

Thanks for reading!

XXXOOO

Charlotte Dune