When the Kids Believe in Santa

When the kids believe in Santa but are aware of the disturbing rumors being spit in the wind, it should have only been natural to realize how violent Christmas Eve could be. They began the day jubilant and very helpful, cleaning their room, dressing the tree, helping to sweep and mop the house so that even the floor was pristine. They were so good. 

The father had to run last minute errands which took a few hours until the evening. He arrived home to make their dinner and get them early into bed. During the meal, one child began to question the father while the other, having found the good Christmas wrap, started wrapping utensils in the kitchen. The father couldn’t keep his story straight while fretting at the loss of expensive Christmas paper, ribbon and cinnamon sticks which he used to scent the tags. 

Those children did believe. They believed in Santa so much that they justified in their minds how to prove him true. With a tender voice, the older child said to the father, “Dadda, have you ever dreamed and suddenly woke just to realize the things in your dreams were able to pass into this life? Have you ever believed in something so much that it became real in this life? I have.”

With that, the kids beat the dad with a baseball bat and golf club as a sacrifice to incapacitate him from giving into the fraud of lesser, lying parents, the ones who claimed credit over stiff drinks, boasting how dumb children can be. He was beat into a pool of blood in the dining room. His raw body was limp. The children washed up. They snuggled into their blankets on the couch in front of the tree. They set out some gingerbread and eggnog. They could hardly contain their grins as they awaited Santa Claus.

This happened every Christmas Eve for six years. The kids always fell asleep and the father was able to make the dream become real for the kids in the nick of time before sunrise. With a groan, he pocketed the wipes he used to clean his footprints from the floor. He laid himself to rest in the scabbing blood to await their thrilled gasps of delight.

The Grito

The Grito

A banditi swarm is anxious, oily and sweat through their sand stained shirts. The razor wire strung along territory boundaries keep those bandoleros at bay briefly before the grito takes a shot at a son of a bitch on methamphetamine.

“Maten a esos hijos de su chingada madre!”

Gunfire slung out rounds dipping into sand and breaking off the tangled stems of weed. The shots echoed out across the high desert causing a jackrabbit to take careful steps and pause.

This is near the huecos of modern day. A man is mid lecture. His auditorium voice has the pacing of an American academic who has just discovered the sweat rings left on the antique nightstand from the previous night’s visitor. It is irrelevant, the point he is reaching for in each pause he takes to think through the last few days or months. There is so much missed from what he reckoned and what has passed.

His voice is just outside the bed covers pulled over his head, lying face down in bed in the middle of night. It is a low battery flashlight and his daddy’s voice come to tell him about the rainstorm coming.

“Don’t be afraid.” His daddy says.

There are legs which free-fall over knees, out of skirts, and his voice lingers on the stained tissues in the trash can left beside the bed.

He speaks with arms stretched out as if holding the world or bleeding from wounds in his wrists.

"This auditorium, the climbing hueco tanks, heard the Waldstein last night. Your voice was shaking last night. It shook the baby from the crib, raging from being unprepared. It shook like turbulent air the way it must be to give up on lift, dwelling on the weight of machines and losing speed to fall from the clouds and crash into rolling waves or rocky cliffs or sand shaped by wind from dried up seas a million years ago. You are nowhere there. A voice alone.”

He steered young feisty bulls to the mountain with several cohorts in trance. They cut the animals, filling the huecos with blood. They spread the blood and burned the carcasses. They showered in the blood. Later they drank the blood and ate eachother. This was noticed by some elderly bird watchers with long range scopes.

This is in five minutes, off topic but illustrated.  Tarasius is a micro human built like Atlas, pushing his boat up the desert mountain. His abdomen sparks like a pinwheel firework, shooting off arcs of orange. Down one side, in the sand, pistols whipped up bloody sand, coagulated and sprouting with fire ants biting at the ankles of the runners, the gun runners and the narco runners. The micro Atlas man puts a shoulder to the hull as he pushes it up the rocky mountain. As it teeters on the rocky peak, Tarasius swipes his brow and shoots yellow beams of light out his eyes, striping the blue sky. His abdomen is a firework of spinning embers which cool to droplets of water beginning a cascade down the mountain side. Water levels rise. The residue of fighting men sifts into nooks and aquifers. Bodies careen against toppling rock. On the starboard side, Tarasius makes his muscles hard.

This is put into sequence over a longer time frame. Forty thousand years ago, the gods visited the earth….

Eighty thousand years ago bushy hair became the style. Sex and drugs were all the rage. An era of running and diet made herds anxious when men were near. So the men absorbed the smell of the earth to hide and hunt. In their spare time they painted and sculpted until forty thousand years ago.

One hundred twenty thousand years ago, the ink war poisoned the balloonist union. The balloonists fought amongst themselves in dark wells where they dug fuel. One balloonist went home early with an ache in his stomach and possibly heart. His wife brought groceries and liquor in to find him so distraught as to be suicidal. She wished he would do it as the bags fell to the table. She had no other burden but his grief and no children due to planned reckoning. This is how the human race dwindled in numbers until eighty thousand years ago.

One hundred sixty thousand years ago, the paper chief rules made clear the illegalities of the matryoshka spacejet clan. Concrete busters rode west to demolish the cities of the banks. The money was shredded and the concrete was pulverized to fine dust. The paper chief was burned by a new brand of liberal rounding out the arc of extreme, who burned all the books with rules of good trade. There, the human race was stranded until one hundred twenty thousand years ago.

Down by the calming water of the rio, Horserider is the bather no one speaks with for now. The other fellows splash in the river with joking taunts, flinging their wrists and aggressive palms through the water. Skinshaver beats his razor out on the banks. Some bitch left a note for Horserider about a kid being born soon and that it is his. Skinshaver had it folded in his sack.

Horserider kept busy figuring a way to keep his wife at home out of this. The boys washed out the deep seeded discharges from all the whores they had been seeing and some pissed in the water. Skinshaver yelled, “Jesus don’t give two shits anything about it son! He know what go down out here. Fuck that bitch!” Horserider prayed he was right.

The Grand Canyon

 

 The girl took her sister’s hand to help her into the car for a long ride just as the last minutes of darkness hushed their voices to sleepy good mornings all around and a gaze at setting suns very far away, with the quiet rumble of the engine accelerating tires over pavement. The Guide West talks of hours on the road and history. There are machines in the field, listening to the space above the sky just a few hours northwest of here. The girls are asleep. The radio is on at low volume. The Guide West says avoid the news and embrace what’s been before. The radio plays the oldest songs to be found.

The Guide West is prosaic. No map indicates places of interest. It is only by reading through the long histories of men and women of the west and how the train and theme park were invented that any notion of direction can be deciphered. Out west, a house was made to replicate a prehistoric home, to sell comforts of the east and authentic artistry to rail travelers. The guide west says, if you must you may find one map there and clues to other maps can be parsed from other sites too. 

The first map was figured to be  found in a valley of radio telescopes. The array was found by driving in circles in search of pie. By a cow guard, pavement and grass wedded the boundary where no cow conquered. The cow guard was worn and it took a while to sit and watch the sunlight angle through the edges of the steel grate. There, along the edge the image of the highway formed and the children tossed small rocks between the slats. The map was transferred to gravel. Then the replicant map was stamped out of existence by tires on gravel. The children were buckled with snacks in hand ready to continue onward until a more proper dining option was found. 

Lunch was prepared in part from store bought groceries and leftover stains on picnic tables. The stains fell from sandwiches and burritos and from the birds perched in pines. The green wilderness was a cool repose en route to the fallen fossil forest out west. The Guide West painted it as must see.

The Guide West is full of three lefts and three rights type stories in order to get the reader lost in the changing colors of mountain passes and desert. That is how this band of discoveries was made. Water bottles marked the way from volcanoes to desert to Chaco and trains. Trains are speeding guardians encouraging further expedition  to find things like holes in the Earth out west. From Kilbourne to Barringer to the Grand Canyon, the car speeds on and calluses on heels rest until another western sunset and sunrise mark the trail. 

Mistletoe

Mistletoe

“…ah, Telluric is a thief! He fucking stole it! I know. I can just see him pulling my shit across the yard, rubbing it in the dirt. Hildegarde was probably with him. Snooping in our trash. She probably stuck her nose on our windows trying to catch a glimpse of how good other people live. She’s a dumbass for fucking him. She’s no good; and he’s a fucking thief.”

Barnard wrote on the side of the stable using good crayons from the art store. His stories were handmade and covered the building like old advertisements in an out west town. Mistletoe had goaded him into telling her one more story. Barnard was just getting into it now, something of a sibbling rival theme. “Father is blind. I will go to Parson!” That type of thing.

He dropped his shoulders and crayons by his side. There was Mistletoe, about one full day away from a flight upstate. For a moment the story was tacit as the missing was already developing. Barnard knelt down into the mud like he knew he shouldn’t and grabbed a handful and slung it high into the sky so that it came down and got all smeared on their skin and truck. This was a mess of a situation he had no way of changing. He continued, while crawling on all fours then popping up as if he had a gun and pointing it to aim at far off trespassers. The breeze pushed back at his tired squint as his voice cracked accordingly. 

“…ah Telluric, my boy” said Parson, “come along and lets get you all ready to get yourself married now. Parson Klingschtall got Telluric just passed the whipping post when the old man came down as a Vesuvian pyroclast from a burning pit of righteousness, with rope and black hood in hand, pulled from beneath his vestments in the fashion of the darkest inquisition. Parson had Telluric bound and scared like a mischievous child about to be beaten right.”

Mistletoe curled over with that feeling like she gets during a thunder storm when the loud crack of thunder rattles the windows. Every story Barnard told had a beating scene. Mistletoe curled up as the Parson burned the rope into Telluric’s skin to get him tied to the post. Barnard snuggled up to Mistletoe knowing this was his last chance to tell her his best beating scene, better than Jesus, better than Auschwitz, better than Jim Crow.

The Copper and Tin Factory

A brief account of an unfortunate impasse at the copper and tin factory, gleaned from sources emphatic in their preferences and cunning too. So much is to do with whose seed is whose, whose right of birth passes into diverging paths due to poor sight and comely women, that the gist of the matter, that is blood and lots of it, had not made enough of a statement to settle the matter for sure so that more factions had time to come by their own conclusions making the setup of the impasse complete.

 

Now then, “In the beginning…

…from the mischief of the slinking prompter who whispers in the hearts of men; from jinn and men. In the name of god, the compassionate, the merciful.”

 

And there is the impasse, perpetuated through the generations by endless strife as if children spoiled in the belief the toy is theirs and the tantrums which ensue are displays of honor, righteousness, and warrior pride. I close with my heart content in the beauty of the universe and a family to love.

Opening Theme : Games With Animals

august 2015 140

http://youtu.be/1DSCIaEWvlw

This is the opening theme which links to youtube.

Composed by Guerino Panfile

This is before the music. A banditi swarm is anxious oily and sweat through their sand stained shirts. The razor wire strung along territory boundaries keep those bandoleros at bay briefly before the grito takes a shot at a son of a bitch on methamphetamine. “Maten a esos hijos de su chingada madre!”