A/N: Is this actually a story? I'm not sure. I only know I wanted to write it down. It's not set on the island, it's just about Gilligan. I apologise for that. Happy Holidays to one and all. xx

The Pennsylvania evening air is crisp and clean. Ten year old William Gilligan stands in the middle of the backyard, listening to the sounds of the neighbourhood. Amid the clamour and clatter of people going about their daily lives, he imagines he can hear sounds from far away. A distant church bell, carried like spun glass on the cold night air. Trees rustling in harmony. The twinking of stars like crystal fragments, tiny diamonds scattered on a velvet midnight cloth.

A pie wedge of yellow light slices through the darkness. Gilligan's mother comes out of the kitchen. She smells of flour and baking.

"What are you doing out here, little man?" she says with a smile in her voice. "You'll catch your death of cold."

"I was just thinking," says Gilligan. He lifts his young shoulders, bony like a bird's.

"Thinking, were you?" Mrs. Gilligan says gently. "Do we have a philosopher in the family now?"

"Mom," Gilligan says shyly. "What happens to lonely people at Christmas?"

Mrs. Gilligan puts her floury hand on the back of her son's head. "Why, the Lord takes care of them," she smiles, sadly.

"How does he take care of them?" Gilligan asks. "Does Santa Claus bring them presents? Who cooks their dinner?"

Mrs. Gilligan sighs gently. "I can't answer all of your questions," she says, honestly.

Gilligan looks up at the sky. A torn shred of cloud hugs a sliver of moon.

"Mr. Mackie down the road is lonely. I never see anyone going into his house except him."

"Mr. Mackie has a grown son and daughter," Mrs. Gilligan says. "He's not as lonely as you think."

"I've never seen them visit him," Gilligan persists.

"Now what are you doing snooping all around the neighbours for?" his mother chides softly. "You've no more idea of what goes on behind closed doors than the rest of us. You and Skinny Mulligan, always with your dreams and ideas. Mr. Mackie has a family who loves him. Now stop your worrying and come inside for a glass of warm milk."

Gilligan nestles into his mother as she turns him away from the darkness and into the warm, cookie scented light of home. "Yes, ma," he says.

The next day Gilligan stands at the door of a house a little way down the road. The front yard is unkempt, no one swept the leaves and they lie in sodden, rotting piles beneath the bare limbed apple tree. The paint on the front door is grubby where impatient hands have pushed it open over the years. The mat says 'welcome', but the letters are barely visible now.

Gilligan swallows. He shuffles his feet, looks up at the face of the house which looks back at him, waiting for what he might do. He lifts his hand and raps nervously on the door. "If no one answers in the next five seconds, I'm running away," he mumbles to himself.

No one comes in the next five seconds, and he's just about to turn away when he finally hears a noise. His heart quickens. He wants to run, but now his feet are rooted. He looks despairingly down at his shoes, wondering why they've suddenly become so heavy that he can't move from off of Mr. Mackie's front porch.

The door cracks open. Mr. Mackie appears like an apparition in the gloom.

"Yes?" he says in a voice as dry as parchment. "What do you want?"

"M-Mr. Mackie, I l-live down the road there," Gilligan stutters, pointing. He wishes he were back there right now instead of talking to this strange old man. It seemed like a good idea at the time.

"And?" says Mr. Mackie. "I hope you're not coming to prank an old man. I'm too old for chasing youngsters down the street with a shotgun."

"Sh-shotgun?" Gilligan's eyes fly open.

"I'm teasing you," Mr. Mackie replies. "Most I ever chased anyone with was a rolled up copy of the Times. Best use for it, in my opinion."

Gilligan isn't sure whether the old man is joking or not. The teeth grinning at him are slightly yellow, a little crooked. But the milky eyes are surprisingly kind, so he carries on, summoning up all the courage his ten year old heart can find within itself.

"I just came to wish you a Merry Christmas, Mr. Mackie, sir," he blurts.

There is a silence during which a small icicle breaks off the rusty guttering that runs along the edge of the roof and tinkles to the ground. Gilligan smiles, stops smiling, smiles again. The skin beneath his collar begins to itch uncontrollably and he swivels his head, trying to ease the itch.

"Well, I declare," Mr. Mackie says. But he doesn't declare anything. He just stands in the quarter-opened doorway, staring down at Gilligan.

"That's all, really," Gilligan says, nervously.

Mr. Mackie shakes his head and smiles his nicotine stained smile. "Will wonders never cease," he murmurs.

"Beg pardon?"

"Nothing, sonny. Never you mind. A very Merry Christmas to you too, er...?"

"Gilligan," says Gilligan.

"That your first name?"

"No, my first name is William. But everyone just calls me Gilligan."

"Very well, Gilligan. A very Merry Christmas to you, too."

Gilligan's feet miraculously uproot themselves from Mr. Mackie's porch and he bounds down the steps, suddenly feeling light as air. It's a good feeling- a wonderful feeling, and he's not quite sure where it came from. He's halfway down the path before he hears Mr. Mackie's voice telling him to wait. His heart seizes again, he turns around hoping that he hasn't made a giant mistake, that Mr. Mackie hasn't suddenly decided to be mad at him after all. But Mr. Mackie is smiling. And it looks like he's crying, as well.

"Thank you," Mr. Mackie says. "Thank you for stopping by, Gilligan."

Gilligan's heart soars. "You're welcome, sir," he beams. "If my mom lets me out of the house on Christmas morning I might come by and say hello again."

Mr. Mackie shakes his head. "You've already made an old man very happy," he says. "Now you go off and enjoy your Christmas, and may you get everything you ever wanted, and all the love you'll ever need."

Mr. Mackie closes the door quietly while Gilligan is still standing at the end of the path. He watches the door shut, imagines Mr. Mackie going back to whatever it is he was doing. Sitting in his chair, watching the world go by. But maybe, with a smile on his face this time.

Gilligan opens the gate and closes it behind him. Leaving Mr. Mackie's world behind, he runs back down the street towards his home and the warmth of his family, and for once he looks forward to the teasing play of his siblings, the constant noise and clamour for their mother's attentions. Because at least he's not alone, and not alone at Christmas.