Bailey has a tattoo of Jesus on the cross.
It covers her whole back.
She loves to show it off at parties.
She takes off her jacket, pulls her shirt up.
When she rolls her shoulders, it looks like Jesus is struggling with the nails in his hands.
She tilts back her head, and Jesus slumps, dead.
Pulls her shirt back down, puts her jacket back on.
Thing is, she’s an agnostic.
The tattoo was from an ex-boyfriend who drugged her.
She dumped the guy, but kept the ink.
“Jesus has my back” she says.
And she laughs and laughs.
Totally Lying
Sure, people talk about the Christmas Truce in World War One, but how many talk about the Easter Escalation of the Crimean War?
Of course people don’t. Because I just made it up.
I make up a lot of things.
As long as they sound good, you’ll believe them without questioning them.
But a few people will bother to Google the event, maybe look it up in WikiPedia.
And they discover that I’m talking out of my ass and making things up.
At that point, you won’t believe a thing.
And I can pretty much write anything I want to.
Elvish Bonfire of the Vanities
Year after year, Santa’s Workshop produced its wooden toys and dolls and the traditional crap nobody wants anymore.
The fat old man, slumped in his throne, smiling and nodding.
Signing papers the elves brought to him.
More wood, more paint.
“Very good, very good.”
The Workshop. Raw materials came in one end, and toys went out the other.
But instead of loading them on to Santa’s sleigh, the elves put it all in a pile
And when the pile was high enough, they poured kerosene on it and lit a match.
They’d sing a few carols and return to work.
Milk and Cookies and More
It’s tradition to leave out a plate of cookies and a glass of milk for Santa.
Where this tradition began, I’m not sure, but leave it to consumerism and capitalism to exploit the shit out of it.
Cookie companies buy a lot of advertisement space to make people think that they’re Santa’s favorite cookie.
From the size of Santa, they’re probably all right.
That big fat pig will eat just about anything.
Except for a salad, maybe.
One vegan company claims that Santa prefers soy milk to regular milk. Their soy milk, obviously.
But not even Santa drinks that crap.
Rack of the Magi
Olga Rudnik asked Santa for only one thing.
Well, technically, two: Mindy Swenson’s tits.
Olga had been good all year, every year.
And Molly was, to be blunt, a stuck-up bitch, forever on the naughty list.
Santa left two lumps of coal for Mindy that year.
On her flattened chest.
Then he flew to Olga’s house, went down her chimney, and replaced her tits with Mindy’s.
He thought about giving Olga’s to Mindy…but he was running late and had to many more stops to go.
The next morning, Olga woke up, looked down, and screamed with joy.
Mindy just screamed.
Weekly Challenge #764 – STILL
- Lizzie
- Richard
- Serendipidy
- Tom
- Norval Joe
- Rick
- Planet Z
LIZZIE
He looked outside. Nothing… He squinted and felt trapped. The river was still there, flowing freely. But where were they? No boats, no whales, no dragons. They weren’t coming after all, were they? He squinted again and thought he saw a… No, nothing. The people here mustn’t know he was expecting them. Then the horn sounded. Alarm, alarm. He rushed back to the window, but… “Ronnie, what’s going on?” He shook his head. “Come on. It’s time. Let’s get you bathed.” He knew one day they’d come and rescue him. “And don’t forget to take your pills,” said the nurse.
RICHARD
Sparkling or Still?
“Sparkling or still?” The waiter asked, his face cocked expectantly to one side.
“Tap!” I responded bluntly, and his upper lip curled into a semi-snarl.
Yes, I’m one of those annoying people who balk at the thought of paying for ridiculously overpriced bottled water in posh restaurants.
It’s bad enough being charged for the dry and tasteless bread rolls that they slip onto your table without invitation, but it just adds insult to injury when you’re expected to pay for water too.
“One tap water”, he snarled.
“Oh, with ice, please – I assume that’s made from tap water too?”
SERENDIPIDY
At first, there is the terror – the screaming and crying; the frenzied fighting. The heart pounds, arms and legs flail, the body twists and turns maniacally as the pain courses through.
Time passes; your struggles begin to cease, breathing becomes heavy and laboured. Then comes sobbing, the weeping, the whimpering.
Soon, exhausted, broken and beaten, both physically and emotionally, you cross the boundary between hope and despair. The will to live that has driven you so far, now fails and fades.
Succumbing to the inevitable: There is nothing, save the occasional involuntary twitch.
Until, at last, all is finally still.
TOM
Cluster Fuck III
As music dies down, all that is left is the rustle of paper and fabric. Then just a still. On the stage is a lone mic, a singular silver thread in a mass of mat black flats and curtains. Greg slowly walks across the stage dozens upon dozens of eye tracking him. In the row ahead and to the left sits the woman who was the departed woman’s best friend. I know because she has said as much the whole week. Greg tracks the room and takes hold of the mic stand like a man born to the touch.
NORVAL JOE
Billbert held his breath when the federal agents approached Linoliamanda. “Okay, young lady. Tell us what you know about this boy’s super powers.”
Linoliamanda stood there, as still and silent as a winter night after snow fall.
Mr. Withybottom put his hand on her shoulder. “Come on, Linny. Tell them what you told me.”
She glared at her father, fire burning in her eyes. She pressed her lips still tighter together and shook her head.
The federal agent folded his arms. “Your dad knows something and we don’t have all night. Do we need to take you downtown for interrogation?”
RICK
Still
Meditation is the art of doing nothing constructively. Our conscious mind steers our lives, for the most part, from infancy to old age. There is an incredible benefit to be had in training oneself to release control of our thoughts by the conscious mind, and allow the subconscious to take the wheel.
Once the mind is truly motionless you may be surprised, or enlightened, by that which fills the void … or skitters along a distant but visible horizon.
Observe and contemplate.
Observe is a powerful verb!
It can be all encompassing!
Observation done properly, well contemplated, can be / should be life-changing!
PLANET Z
It’s been twenty-six years since you died. Twenty-seven?
Our baby, the one you were going to tell me about, would be about that old.
A boy? A girl?
I didn’t ask.
But they’d be on their own by now.
Graduated college, maybe finishing medical school.
Or some time in the military, maybe make a career of it.
Like you did.
Would they earn honors and medals, raise kids of their own, or earn an early grave?
Like you did.
It’s easy to live in the past and the never-was.
And be just as dead in the now as you are.
Santa’s Wife
Andrew was fascinated by Santa Claus.
After decades of research, one thing he could never answer was: what was Mrs. Claus’ name?
While out hiking in Norway, he came across a strange cave.
It was warm and green inside, populated by tiny people, singing happily, building toys.
All watched over by the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.
“Niobe,” said a voice, and Andrew turned to face an ancient man with a long white beard.
“Which makes you… Merlin,” said Andrew.
The ancient wizard smiled. “And I can’t let you leave.”
Meat made the elves work harder and sing happier.
Santa credit ratings
Santa knows when you’ve been good or bad.
He also knows if you’re a good or bad credit risk.
Credit rating agencies constantly ask Santa for assessments.
Because it’s easy to fool the credit rating agencies.
Or fill their records with all kinds of false reports.
But, try as you might, you can’t fool Santa.
Leaving milk and cookies on the mantel is one way to get your credit score up.
And sending a thank you note after Christmas will net you a few points.
As for sexual favors, well, the naughtier, the better your chances for a Gold card.
The Red of Christmas
It was the first Christmas for the peacekeeping mission, and we sent out teams with trees and ribbons and gifts and supplies to make nice with the Christian minority population.
We were greeted with hugs and thanks and what little they could scrape up, offering candies and treats and dances and songs.
Wreaths on their doors and a moment of peace and love in their hearts.
We might as well have painted bullseyes on their front doors.
The deathsquads sent out more men to shoot and blow them up.
The green of Islam, the red of Christian blood.
Merry Christmas.
Candy Cane Factory
I remember when candy canes were made by hand.
Every step… mixing, heating, rolling, stretching, and so on.
All done by people.
As each machine took its place in the line, there would be people putting things in it or taking things out of it.
But there were still people involved.
Eventually, the machines all connected to other machines, a fully integrated process, and no room was left for people.
They clean themselves now, they manage themselves, and they repair themselves too.
The candy canes taste horrible, but they look nice.
We just put them on the tree these days.