Anywya, or anyway, if you prefer, here for your amusement or simply to make you wonder even more about the speculative/horror/weird/absurd fiction writer's mind, is a delightfully devious lil' flash fiction tale for the season, "The Christmas Tree." It appeared online in an ezine called, Camp Horror, in 2004. Now, I usually don't get into holiday horror and goofy stuff of this nature. Sure, a more serious nature of goofy, but this tale, well...
I actually wrote the foundation for this one, I'm thinking, many years before it got published. One of those one-joke short and sharp tales, for a giggle. A spurt of nuttiness. I say I think it was written a few years before publication because I know exactly the person the female character was based on, a friend I knew at least 12 years before, so...yeah. Old words.
You see, writer's go through transitions, growth. When I was first writing seriously, I thought, "horror." I liked to get icky. But over time, we discover many different ways to draw out the icky, or the dread, or whatever is necessary. We grow. We learn. Even now, my focus tilts between two rather diametrically opposed genres: magic realism...and weird fiction. I've always been interested in weird fiction but only dabbled; I see digging in much deeper now, at least with the shorter fiction. And magic realism, man, that's quite close to my heart. I cannot explain it. Actually, I could see it relating to Surrealistic art, which is my favorite art, so there's a partial explanation. But these two elements have risen to the top and are more indicative of the writer I am now. Oh, and laced with deep psychological elements and...er...
Excuse me, where was I? Sorry about that...
Yeah, so now, here, this blog, it's just me saying this story, it's a goof, enjoy it for a giggle, but if you want to see where I am as a writer now, be sure to check out my collection, The Dark Is Light Enough For Me.
Enjoy!
***
The Christmas Tree
She sat, silently engrossed in the filing of the hook attached to an
ornament, a silver ball. Filing it to a
fine, piercing point.
He stood, arms extended from his side at just enough of a trajectory as
to give the impression of a triangle, a pyramid or, perhaps, a Christmas tree.
She said she wanted a Christmas tree.
He was broke. She said she really
wanted a Christmas tree. So, what’s a poor boy to do, but
improvise?!
She handed him the silver ball.
“I suppose you expect me to decorate the whole darned thing, too?”
He’d already hung nineteen of the silver balls on the “tree.” It was really beginning to hurt. His pained, crumpled paper bag expression let
her know this.
“So, what’s your point?” As if
she was saying: What’s a little pain between lovers?
Ah, but pain was the point. When
she got like this--calloused, insensitive--he wondered why he put up with her. The things he did for love…
“It friggin’ hurts!”
“You told me you’d get me a Christmas tree, no matter what—”
“But…but…”
“I don’t need excuses. I just
want my Christmas tree.”
“Okay, fer crissakes.” He sighed,
exasperated. He took the silver ball by
the finely-honed hook, silver balls hanging from his arm, swaying to his
movement; he, the Christmas tree. She
motioned to him. He acquiesced, piercing
his left nipple with the hook, the silver ball dangling gently against his
flesh. He mouthed, “Ouch.” He assumed the position, balls dangling from
the straining skin of his arms, legs and torso.
One even pierced the tip of his unhappy penis.
She admired him, her flesh made Christmas tree, blood trickling like
crimson tinfoil streamers.
Thank God that was the last ball, he thought, looking to her for
confirmation. She only grinned
mischievously. “Not quite.” She pulled out a huge silver star, the topper
for her Christmas tree. A four-inch nail
protruded from between two of the star’s points.
He harrumphed. “Well, you’re
going to have to put that one on yourself.
“I know,” she said, jamming it into the top of his skull.
“I know,” she said, jamming it into the top of his skull.
That really shot fire into his brain, soft gray matter raging in protest
to the nail’s intrusion, screaming for only him to hear. He hoped that was all, prayed that was
all. This was getting ridiculous.
“Is that…it?” The words stumbled
from his lips. Blood warmed his ears.
“No. There’s one more thing.”
The thought flashed: What else could she possibly…? A stream of drool flowed from the right
corner of his mouth, all normal function deemed impotent by the hidden tumult
in his skull. She understood his awkward
silence, answering his unasked question.
“What did you get me?”
Want want want…
***
Next time, we get more current. What will it be? Not sure, so strap in and relax. We've only just begun. Have a lovely day/eve/morning/afternoon/midnight snack, er...yeah...
;-)
No bloody Christmas tree, but a bloody silver ball, perhaps even more appropriate.
No comments:
Post a Comment