Two snakes, very poisonous, were engaged in a friendly conversation. One said, “Oh! It’s no use biting them. Our venom doesn’t harm them. Perhaps theirs is more potent than ours.” The other said uneasily, “Yes. I feel they have fangs all over their body, even in their eyes. Whatever they touch turns into poison. They move about the air, it becomes nocuous. They go to the water, it turns toxic.” The first one, unfurling its hood, asked gravely, “Then how can we defend ourselves against them?” “By learning their art of biting—by learning how to bite for pleasure.”
“I think the star is moving,” said Balthasar, shifting his heavy pack.
“What do you mean?” asked Melchior. “Well, we keep traveling, but get no nearer our destination.” “Oh, well, that’s just a trick. That star is so far away, it will never actually appear nearer.” “Then how will we know when we are close?” “Perhaps we will hear the child’s cries,” suggested Gaspar. “I hope we hear him soon,” whined Balthasar, shrugging his shoulders to relieve tired muscles. “You two have only the incense to carry, but I’ve got the gold, and it’s heavy.” “I never get what I want.”
“What?” “World peace.” “Never?” “Look around! War, crime, protests-” “The matter is perspective. For example, there is violence within your body. Blood cells, bacteria, cancers, parasites-” “And...” “Ever experienced peace?” “Yes. I meditate.” “Is your body a world to those organisms?” “That’s a stretch.” “Perhaps. Possibly, your wish may have been granted, but you’ve phrased it wrong.” “I should rephrase it?” “Exactly.” “Okay.” George wrote his letter, requesting an end to war, protest, crime, corruption and evil on Earth. At midnight on Christmas Eve, a massive asteroid strike occurred. Not a soul survived. The criminal raised his weapon, a sleek black revolver.
The old man’s smile did not fade. He did not raise his hands. He was not frightened. “You want to die?” asked the thug. “Of course not. But you won’t kill me.” “I have every right. You are a home invader! What gives you the right to go into people’s homes every year, uninvited?” “It’s called implied consent,” offered Santa. “Consent!” screamed the burglar, “I don’t give you permission to come into my house!” “Ho ho ho,” laughed Santa, “I don’t go into your house, Francis. You’re on my naughty list!” He waited until his daughter was in bed before grabbing the stack of wrapped presents and dashing towards the Christmas tree. The multicolored lights flashed intermittently on the tall pine tree as he quietly placed the gifts under it. He then took the smaller presents towards the various Christmas stockings on the fireplace mantel and cautiously dropped each present into them.
As he stood back to look at his handiwork, he heard footsteps behind him to which he turned to see his daughter beaming at the gifts under the tree. He hesitated then rapidly exclaimed,“Look what Santa brought you!” “Tell me about yourself.”
“I’m convinced critics wildly overrate ‘Casablanca’ and ‘Citizen Kane’. I’ve survived two threesomes, one polyamorous and prolonged, the other a one-nighter; I detested both but don’t care to explain why. I hate fruitcake but love long walks in the snow—the light, dry kind. I enjoy listening to rain on a tin roof while drinking hot chocolate and re-reading Dostoevsky’s ‘The Idiot’. I vote for the lesser of two evils without dismay. In my perfect world, people relegate football an inconsequential status and presume accused folks innocent. And you, what floats your boat?” “I’m just leaving.” Jäger Shots and Anime, a Normal Christmas Eve with my sister.
"Excited about tomorrow?" I shrugged. Ordinarily, after a bottle of my favorite liquor, I'm full of holiday cheer! But not tonight. "Where's the enthusiasm, Paul? You love Chinese Food on Christmas!" "That's true... but it's different this year." Vivian laughed. "So what if if I'm not invited? You should still go." "Seriously? You can't expect me to go without you!" "I won't let you snub our family because of me." ""They snubbed you, just because you're gay." I shook my head."Why shouldn't I?" "Cause you have Christmas Spirit." “What are you doing here?”
He was dressed in a red flannel suit trimmed with soot spotted white fur. He was eating a double mint chocolate chip cookie. “What do you think I’m doing here?” She was dressed in a spotless white lab coat. She was carrying a sack of half-dollars. “This is my one night of the year. Don’t you have a calendar?” “Sorry, Tubby. When duty calls I go, 24/7. And don’t forget to brush your teeth and floss after you eat that cookie.” He climbed back up the chimney. She disappeared into a cloud of Listerine vapor. Keith felt not welcome in the room he rented from Darla, whose widow status warranted taking in boarders.
Sadly he admtted: I'm alone, turned sixty today, tomorrow is Christmas, and only three months left of unemployment benefits, He rose to investigate scratching on the door to the garden. Before he saw it, a white cat raced between his legs and scrambled under his bed. Stunned, worried if the cat belonged to someone, he sat down. The cat quickly jumped onto his lab and immediately gave birth to three kittens. Awed, in wonder,Keith cradled his warm moist cat family. Put your phones on hold and listen-up you bunch of losers. We’re changing the game today. You all must know that the market for blessings has been hot lately. The goal is $20k for the day, and the top earner of the day gets, wait for it, a $500 bonus.
I see a hand raised? What can I do for you sprout. “Sir, I’ve gone over the script, and it seems odd to be pitching blessings.” That’s a great point, Mike. You’re fired! Mr. personal man, get on that list of wannabes. I want that chair filled by noon today. Sandy was stuck for a topic for her Flash Fiction story. She’d brainstormed for an hour, but had nothing. Frustrated, she put on her jacket and took a walk.
Immediately, her senses became sharper. She heard the calling of the birds and the flowing of the river. She felt the winter breeze on her face and the sun’s glow on her neck. She saw the kids throwing snowballs and enjoying hot chocolate. She’d never really NOTICED winter’s activities, but so much was happening. Sandy U-turned and headed for her computer. Ideas were rampant, thanks to what she’d just seen. Eureka! Frosty moon. Pretty flakes like shards of glass floating through the black sky. Ornamental trees, wrapped packages, the scent of cinnamon--depressing. On radio: Dean Martin's "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer.” Every goddamn time the bells in that song ding, you flinch. Never your phone.
"Refill?” says Stacy, carafe in hand. “On the house.” The way Dean holds a note. The fucking way he drags it out. Bells, hollow, tinny, taunting, mocking. Ring, goddammit. Stacy wipes down counters. Drink up. Next year, a new life. As in, get one. "’Night.” You wait, hope. “Merry Christmas.” Just another silent night. For once, I was surprised to see a mutilated body at the morgue. The body's owner was the victim of some horrific murder; the flesh covering his stomach was sliced off, his intestines were unraveled. Blood stained his body and the floor beneath it. My coworker pulled out another knife, completely unfazed by the carnage. When I closed my eyes, I still saw the organs. Both the sight and thought of this mangled body made my breath falter.
I’m a mortician, so seeing guts doesn’t scare me, but it does bother me when said guts are mine. My new house is creepy as hell. Well, maybe not the whole house, just one room in particular. The room in question is full of mannequins; there has to be about a dozen, probably more. I thought it was no big deal until I saw three of them move.
After seeing three mannequins take a few steps, I thought I was just paranoid. However, my suspicions regarding the dummies were confirmed when I heard the three from earlier talk and smelled two more rotting. Picasso saw Monet standing next to his car in a rest-stop on the highway to heaven. He stopped to criticize: What were you creating, all blurred?
Monet: Impressionism, Monsieur; supposed to be enjoyed from a distance. I attempted to break away from prevalent Realism by creating impression of moments from everyday life. Now tell me about all twisted arts of yours. Picasso: That’s Cubism; fragmentation of everyday life as wars and technological inventions were taking over humanity during my life time. Monet: We both then labored creating novelty. Picasso: Now show me the shortest route to the gate to heaven. Every Christmas Eve, I got a gift from him. People said he was not from the North Pole but a local man disguised as Santa. I was fourteen and curious about everything. That evening I followed him secretly. I saw a portly man put off his white beard. I saw a family photograph on his hut’s wall. I recognised the tiny me in it. The next morning, I rushed to him as he entered the house. He said, “So impatient? Ho Ho Ho” I said, “Yes. I want to give you a gift. I’m Charlie, your lost son, Papa.”
Howard kept a meticulous shed, so he knew immediately that something was amiss.
On Monday, he found scattered seeds. On Tuesday, crooked canes. On Wednesday, tangled twine. By Saturday, stood amongst the dusty disarray, Howard knew exactly who was to blame. ‘I’m sorry, Trevor. I should never have cheated. I swapped our marrows over. I admit it.’ A watering can nodded in agreement, then levitated. It sprinkled Howard with stagnant water until he was soaked. Behind him, the metal plaque (a silly gift from his grandchildren) clanged three times. On it, the now ominous message ‘Never mess with a gardener.’ In the time it takes for him to walk around the site, the screams become muffled until eventually they stop. Long strands of brown hair are caught on his black boots as he strides. Two skeletons sit, counting out gold rings, silver jewellery, metal fillings. He reaches down for a pocket watch, still ticking. He shakes it to his ear, satisfied. The grey building is nearly silent. Only small scratching sounds that match the second hands of his new watch. He adjusts his red armband and tucks the watch into it after a final glance. It won't be long now.
‘My Mum likes pink flowers best!’
‘Er yeah, they're cool, love.’ The teenager flits around the carriage for support but her friends only snort as they film on their phones. ‘Pink flowers, for my Mum.’ ‘Yes, so I see.’ The elegant lady curdles her face and expertly turns to the window, as if what she sought has been out there all along. ‘Bye everybody, I'm going to see my Mum now.’ An invisible weight lifts as the passengers relax. Shared smiles of relief abound, and normal service resumes. The cemetery gates are fleetingly visible as the train speeds away. They stared at the picture of their new daughter-in-law, wearing a hijab.
“Do you think there’s a bride price?” Mom asked. “I don’t know,” Dad answered. “Does it matter?” “Not really. I do hope she likes to shop.” “I do too!” Dad said. “It’ll get me off the hook.” Mom threw a pillow at Dad, and sat back, intent on the photograph. “Maybe a terrorist?” Mom asked. “Doubtful,” Dad countered. “She supposedly works for British Petroleum.” “So, you think she's harmless?” “Honey, I've never thought you were harmless,” Dad grinned. “But I don't think you're a terrorist either.” They gathered in the town square, where every important event took place. They talked excitedly with one another.
“I wonder what he looks like.” “I wonder what he’ll be wearing.” “He’s a prince! He’ll be wearing a robe, of course.” “And riding a white horse.” “I’ve heard he’s filthy rich.” “I just hope he’s generous.” A commotion arose at the edge of the crowd. It was a beggar. How embarrassing, especially at such a long-awaited moment. “They’re like parasites.” The authorities rousted the man, easing the crowd, allowing everyone to prepare for the arrival of their most special guest. At a campground at the edge of a freshwater lake in Canada’s north, a couple with young children has pitched a tent for the night. The night sounds invade the silence: tin garbage cans and lids crash like cymbals, a high-pitched howl pierces the air. The father looks out through the mesh opening and sees many eyes gleaming out of the trees and a huge shadow passing the tent opening. The full moon reveals the shadow to be that of a fully mature grizzly bear moving on. The eyes multiply and move toward the tent. Help!!!
Gurdeep and Ramesh, two elder immigrants were sipping Sunday afternoon masala-chai in a café in Edison (“Little India” to locals).
Gurdeep: It’s been happening to us now: a Moorestown teenager with a skinhead friend, spray-painted swastika on a synagogue, a local university student spread countrywide computer-virus, and in Wall Street major recent crooks were our brightest MBA-s. Ramesh: Look at history. First generation European immigrants worked hard staying honest to become successful. For next generation, no such hurdle existed. Gurdeep: If Nazi-era “pogrom” starts in current xenophobia, guess who’ll be the first targets. Ramesh: I’ll have my last samosa then. Ruth fled north, escaping her first widowed Christmas. Traditions were the last thing that she wanted. She’d chosen a luxury Lodge offering a gourmet menu and organised activities.
Ice cracked under boots as they climbed and exhaled breath formed a cloud. The group leader yodelled. Nothing, the hills seemed bare. Another yodel and then shapes began to appear; silver-grey, approaching down the hillside. Closer, and antlers became apparent. Ruth’s offering of pellet food on up-turned palms was nuzzled up gently. The reindeer gazed at her as she stroked its warm, luxuriant fur and Ruth’s petrified heart thawed just a little. Mrs. Archibald loved her neighbors. Her black cat did not. She called on them regularly with homemade pies. Wolfie chewed up their tulip heads. All got along even though they could never get rid of the cat.
One day a new neighbor arrived. Unschooled to friendly neighborhood practices she crowed victoriously. 'I did it!' 'Our fixture?! Nothing works.' 'Wolfie is dead!' '...weed killer?... poison mushroom in muffins...?...' '...ran him over and over...squashed flat - SPLAT!' 'But what did he do?' 'Crossed my path.' 'Were his legs sticking up?' 'How do you know...?' 'Purrr...That's him sitting there licking those paws!' |
"Classic"
|