The stunted figure was still moving painfully. It edged round the foot of the bed and stooped to my pillowcase. I saw it draw the pillowcase up over itself and sink down. As it sank its hood fell back, and I saw the charred turnip roll about in the hood, as if there were almost nothing left to support it.
I should have had to pass the pillowcase to reach the door. I couldn't move. The room seemed enormous, and was growing darker; my parents were far away. At last I managed to drag the sheets over my face, and pulled the pillow, like muffs, around my ears.
I had lain sleeplessly for hours when I heard a movement at the foot of the bed. The thing had got out of its sack again. It was coming towards me. It was tugging at the sheets, more strongly now. Before I could catch hold of the sheets I glimpsed a red fur-trimmed sleeve, and was screaming.
"Let go, will you," my father said irritably. "Good God, it's only me."
He was wearing Dr Flynn's disguise, which flapped about him--the jacket, at least; his pyjama cuffs peeked beneath it. I stopped screaming and began to giggle hysterically. I think he would have struck me, but my mother ran in. "It's all right. All right," she reassured me, and explained to him "It's the shock."
He was making angrily for the door when she said "Oh, don't go yet, Albert. Stay while he opens his presents," and, lifting the bulging pillowcase from the floor, dumped it beside me.
I couldn't push it away, I couldn't let her see my terror. I made myself pull out my presents into the daylight, books, sweets, ballpoints; as I groped deeper I wondered whether the charred face would crumble when I touched it. Sweat pricked my hands; they shook with horror--they could, because my mother couldn't see them.
The pillowcase contained nothing but presents and a pinch of soot. When I was sure it was empty I slumped against the headboard, panting. "He's tired," my mother said, in defence of my ingratitude. "He was up very late last night."
Later I managed an accident, dropping the pillowcase on the fire downstairs. I managed to eat Christmas dinner, and to go to bed that night. I lay awake, even though I was sure nothing would come out of the chimney now. Later I realised why my father had come to my room in the morning dressed like that; he'd intended me to catch him, to cure me of the pretence. But it was many years before I enjoyed Christmas very much.
When I left school I went to work in libraries. Ten years later I married. My wife and I crossed town weekly to visit my parents. My mother chattered, my father was taciturn. I don't think he ever quite forgave me for laughing at him.
One winter night our telephone rang. I answered it, hoping it wasn't the police. My library was then suffering from robberies. All I wanted was to sit before the fire and imagine the glittering cold outside. But it was Dr Flynn.
"Your parents' house is on fire," he told me. "Your father's trapped in there. Your mother needs you."
They'd had a friend to stay. My mother had lit the fire in the guest-room, my old bedroom. A spark had eluded the fireguard; the carpet had caught fire. Impatient for the fire engine, my father had run back into the house to put the fire out, but had been overcome. All this I learned later. Now I drove coldly across town, towards the glow in the sky.
The glow was doused by the time I arrived. Smoke scrolled over the roof. But my mother had found a coal sack and was struggling still to run into the house, to beat the fire; her friend and Dr Flynn held her back. She dropped the sack and ran to me. "Oh, it's your father. It's Albert," she repeated through her weeping.
The firemen withdrew their hose. The ambulance stood winking. I saw the front door open, and a stretcher carried out. The path was wet and frosty. One stretcher-bearer slipped, and the contents of the stretcher spilled over the path.
I saw Dr Flynn glance at my mother. Only the fear that she might turn caused him to act. He grabbed the sack and, running to the path, scooped up what lay scattered there. I saw the charred head roll on the lip of the sack before it dropped within. I had seen that already, years ago.
My mother came to live with us, but we could see she was pining; my parents must have loved each other, in their way. She died a year later. Perhaps I killed them both. I know that what emerged from the chimney was in some sense my father. But surely that was a premonition. Surely my fear could never have reached out to make him die that way.
Patrick Kill
EGGNOX & EXLAX
IT ALL STARTED one night after work when I bashed Jen in the skull, dragged her into my car and headed back home.
As I drove, Christmas lights glowed off houses and miniature manger scenes flickered in front lawns. The winter scene reminded me how much I hated Christmas. If you ask me it’s the worst time of the year. For me, it’s not about family issues or bad experiences during the holidays, it’s simply people in general. Approximately eleven and a half months out of the year, people are two-faced, worthless sons-of-bitches who could care less about anyone…then like magic: it’s Christmas-time and everyone suddenly cares about everyone and everything!
Suddenly your co-workers act like your best friends and strangers begin to smile and say “hi.” These are the same co-workers who talk behind your back, too chickenshit to face you, and the same strangers you get into barfights with over crowded stools and the last handful of beernuts.
It’s no wonder why I picked Jen to sacrifice. She was a two-faced blabber-mouth who didn’t know when to shut up. She’d ramble non-stop for hours and her favorite subject always seemed to be about her chronic diarrhea. The only thing that was more spastic than her colon was her mouth, although both pumped out a similar amount of shit.
“Oh, I had to shit before work,” she’d say, “I shit all morning long, shit at supper time.” “My diarrhea was so bad I crapped down my leg again.” “I crapped on my husband when we were having sex last night.” “My dog thinks it’s okay to shit all over the house just because I do.” “On the way home from the grocery I shit my pants, had to wipe my ass with soft tortilla shells and later that night my kids thanked me for buying them Taco Bell! How embarrassing!”
It was the strangest thing—she told everyone about her bowel movements, like they had a keen interest in the subject.
A few weeks into the regular NFL season, my friend Jay stopped by my workstation and asked me how I liked the Colts game the previous Sunday.
“I think this is the year,” I stated.
“Damn, did you see the fourth quarter?” he asked.
“I sure—”
A dark shadow crept into my vision. The scent of bathroom spray wafted towards my nose and I cringed. Jen pulled up next to Jay and smiled. As we spoke, she shifted, obviously baking an air biscuit. She smiled, her face twisted in relief. A dead smell rose from her trenches as she cut in. “I wanted to watch it, but in the first quarter my diarrhea hit me. It was so bad that I had to literally stick a tampon up my ass just to make it to half time. I spent most of the afternoon in the bathroom, missed the fourth quarter, but at least I saved my outfit this time.” She motioned to her pants and her matching-colored socks. Jay made an excuse and got the hell out of there and I just stared, repulsed by this forty-something-year old woman, dressed like a schoolgirl, but smelling like my Great Uncle Carl who was wasting away in the nursing home, trying to impress young nurses with his sloppy-sounding farts. Through endless sponge baths and countless bottles of Old Spice, he still smelled like the product of his own amusements, as if what leaked from his nether regions had permanently seeped into his pores.
Weeks progressed and I avoided Jen at all cost, fearing she would again snag me if I wasn’t careful.
Her fascination with her poop grew. Soon, she was referred to as the “Diarrhea Woman” by everyone in the workplace.
After getting cornered into several conversations about her watery bowels, I had already decided that after she died, I’d honor her by going to her grave each year. But while some people leave flags for veterans or flowers for spouses, I’d leave a great big pile of shit in her memory—for the Diarrhea Woman whose life
revolved around her own defecation.
Back then I never thought that I’d be the one to actually kill her. But she was perfect—she symbolized the holidays for me—a vacant wasteland of CRAP. And the bottom line was that someone had to do it. So I became a martyr to the farter, a zapper to the crapper, a scooper to the pooper. It was time to revolt instead of being revolted.
As we drove through the countryside past lakes and farmhouses, she came around, moaned, farted twice and then crapped in my back seat. I rolled down the window and cursed God for a moment before another burst of flatulence took my breath.
“What the fuck is wrong with you, bitch?”
She stared at me with her bulgy brown eyes and grunted, “Please let me go, I crapped my pants.”
“Big fucking surprise there!”
We arrived back at my place and I threw her in the basement that was now one big sandbox filled with potting soil. I duct-taped her entire body except for her mouth, nose and asshole after I cut a square patch out of the seat of her jeans.
I had big plans for the holidays.
A Christmas to remember.
And I had waited all year for this. Everything was perfect.
See, I wanted to design my own special tree this year, one that would be as unique as my own personality. I took evergreen seeds and crossed them with Venus flytrap seeds, combining elements of both into one solid seed. (I dabble as a botanist in my spare time.) From there, it took a little something special: a touch of goat’s blood mixed with some herbs, an incantation and a sacrifice. (I also dabble in black magic.)
And of course, lots of fertilizer.
And what were my chances of finding a specimen to serve as both a human sacrifice and as a continuous source of fertilizer? Well, I hit the (jack)pot when I first met Diarrhea Woman. She would become the center to my holiday festivities.
I learned a lot about Jen that week. Feeding her just one Tic-Tac started her diarrhea, but it wasn’t enough. I ran to the grocery, and, in the spirit of the coming season, picked up several gallons of eggnog and a case of Exlax.
The two worked well together.
The seed germinated within minutes of Jen’s first bowel movement. Later, I added a dash of Miracle Grow atop the mammoth piles of fertilizer that had mounted in less than one week.
A few days later the tree was already full-grown!
* * *
I moved the tree upstairs on Christmas Eve. A little tensile and some flashing bulbs were all I needed. The rest was perfect.
Now Jen’s half-eaten body lay strung across a series of wiry branches, like an ugly crucified Jesus with breasts. Her skin is torn, her asshole the doorway to a thousand vines and branches that crept from the soil over days, entering her rectum in search of blood and nourishment. The tree slowly sprouted as she endlessly screamed. It emerged from within her flesh, through her eyes and ears, mouth and vagina.
It is a sight to behold. Now brown flowers blossom in her empty eye sockets. Shimmering lights flicker on her pale skin. She is like a hideous angel inside the tree. Empty, paper-like, a wiry branch crammed up her ass.
I crack open a beer, put my feet up and just stare at my Christmas tree. It’s a work of art—such a perfect symbol of the holidays. The house is silent, except for distant chewing inside the tree, though I swear I heard something fart.
I turn the radio on to Christmas music and hum along with the Chipmunk’s Christmas song, their munchkin-like voices drifting through me, filling me with holiday cheer.
The tree spasms, farts and shudders in the night. Something is running down the base and the hair-tensile just caught fire.
Ah, just like old times as I sing along to the radio, though the lyrics are a little different.
Christmas, Christmas time is near
Time for shit and time for beer
Hate it all but I don’t care
Who said life is ever fair?
Santa sent me a bitch that poops
Me, I could’ve used some hula hoops
Now she’s dead and shits no more
In Hell, she’s Satan’s whore.
As I finish my beer, I truly laugh for the first time in a year. Sometimes it takes a season like this to really understand what your calling in life is. I now know mine. I’ve got acres of unused land to cultivate behind my house. And I’ve got enough hate to fill it with trees.
So this season think about one thing. Are you like Jen—a person so obsessed with her own shit, who only spews out that same shit day after day without any real meaning in life, but to create waste? What good are you when the focus of life becomes your own bowel movements?
Well, I got a shovel and a scooper and enough seed to validate that there is indeed more than corn in Indiana. But wherever there’s corn, there’s also fertilizer. Lots of it.
So before I’m done with this story, would you be interested in your very own Christmas tree? If so, I’ll pick you up and we can discuss it over some eggnog back at my place.
As long as you don’t shit in my car.
Nick Contor
‘TWAS THE NIGHT
SHE WANTED - NO, she needed—to find the perfect one. With no one to help her, decorating for the holidays was going to be tough enough this year. Had she been completely alone, she wouldn't have bothered at all. But with two little ones at home, she dared not give in to the creeping lethargy, the desire to stay curled up in a ball every morning and snuggle deeper into her bed. The desire was strong, but her maternal instincts trumped it. For now, at least.
Which was also why she was out tramping around the forest on a frosty December evening. Since her husband died, it was important to her that the holiday season be as normal as possible. She had told him how dangerous it was to be out there during hunting season, but he never listened. Anger at him flared briefly, then settled back into the dull ache of loneliness and pain that was her constant companion now.
She brushed past pine and fir trees, scrub oak and juniper, shivering as the wind crept through her coat. The daylight was rapidly fading. Night would have its way in a short while. She had to get back soon to prepare dinner for herself and her children.
A light snow began to fall, dotting the trees here and there. She briefly thought of giving up, going back, but then she spotted it, standing out from among the trees like it was lit up. She could already imagine it adorning their home. It was perfect.
A clatter as the miniature bow-saw dropped from frozen fingers. This was her chance.
As the man bent over to retrieve the saw, she raced from the underbrush. He turned and raised an arm; her muzzle brushed past it easily. Only one small mewling cry escaped his lips before she ripped out his throat. She stood for a moment as silence descended once more, panting from the exertion, ashamed. She was getting older, but once the pups were grown, they could take on some of these hunting duties.
She grabbed a hold of a jacket sleeve and tugged, leaving behind the saw and the small tree the man had been dragging behind him.
John Edward Lawson
AN IDEAL FAMILY HOLIDAY
"OH YOU KIDS, settle down now, settle down. For gosh sakes!" Really now, I wish Darla could get these children to behave in a manner at least approaching "proper" some of the time so I wouldn't always have to play the heavy. "Sit down, sit down now. You're going to miss it!"
Darla opts to sit on the chair, leaving room on the sofa for the kids to sit next to me. With the familiar sounds of bells and choirs and that crooner from the fifties coming from the television, Darlene and Billy realize that the festivities really are about to get underway. Without further dramatics they plop themselves down next to me, directly across from the screen, almost shaking with anticipation.
"I always liked this version of the song better. That rock 'n roll one they did really stunk to high heaven."
"Oh," Darla says, realization making her sit up straight as a board. "I should have put on the holiday CD. Should I do it now or later?"
"Later, later," I sa
y without taking my eyes off the screen.
I'll admit that maybe the child in me still becomes all giddy on the eve of our most important family holiday. On the dinner table wait the alluring holiday puddings, homemade, their comforting aromas making it all the harder for us to sit still. The coffee table directly before us holds a number of utensils, some of my tools, and a bunch of the children's pencil sharpeners, those little plastic ones that fit over the pencil. I really wish they would learn to empty the things before bringing them out here; wood shreddings leak all over the place. On the television some pseudo-celebrity-Gassley, I think his name is-fades in surrounded by the large crimson-petaled flowers of the season. What are they called again? Grow in dark places and all that.
"Darla, honey, what do you call those things again?"
"What's that dear?" she asks, not entirely answering me.
"I said, what're those-"
"Quiet, quiet," little Darlene says. "They're starting already!"
Normally I'd give her 'what-for' if she interrupted me and I almost do, but then thinking of what is about to happen stops me. I should just let the holiday spirit take over, right? What's more is I can't remember if we all took our holiday vitamins.
"Greetings out there across the land, and welcome to our holiday special!" Gassley proclaims, his eyes boring into the camera. "I'm Edmund Gassley here to wish everyone A Very Gassley Holiday!" What's that supposed to mean? He looks out of place in that red outfit with the white cuffs and boots. "My oh my what a program we have in store for children of all ages to enjoy. As usual we'll be starting the holiday festivities right here nationwide on live telebroadcast, so I hope everyone is ready. But first let's turn our heads to the past to remind us just what it is that makes this season such a special time of year, all the wonderful memories that we'll always treasure in our hearts, and let us turn our heads to our loved ones to remind us of what we hold precious here in the present."
Gift-Wrapped & Toe-Tagged: A Melee of Misc. Holiday Anthology Page 38
