The Beast Within

 It is funny how the world can catch you off guard and push you into places you would never want to be.

     I remember writing what I thought was going to be a simple assignment for college once;  it was the final assignment for my American Renaissance Literature class. We had read many great authors, and the assignment was to assimilate an author we had read, so I chose Edgar Allan Poe, for I loved his writing and I wanted to see what I could do with it. To assimilate his writing,  I had to reach my hand deep into the darkest pit of my mind and craft something that is only worthy of my nightmares. I reached in, and after what seemed like hours, I felt something brush against my hand; the idea had begun to grow. I entertained the idea without knowing what it was. It grabbed me and pulled me in deep into the chasms where it is dark and still, and then it disappeared.  I studied it out in my mind, hoping it would return.  It didn't.  It wasn't till I sat down and put pen to paper that the idea came crashing through in vivid color. I thought of greed, deceit, revenge, and all other loathsome characteristics that were foreign to me. With every word I had written I was transformed like Dr. Jekyll   ever becoming my version of Mr. Hyde. As I finished my final words, I went back and read my story in full. This was not me. Where had it come from? I was so bewildered that I promised myself that as soon as I handed in that assignment that I should never return to that dark place. I did not have to, for the beast that became my muse that day had followed me into my real life.

    So, here I sit with the flesh of a man, a stunned heart, and mind of beast. One day, when I can tame this creature, I will try to capture innocents of my former self and rekindle that what I was, but for now, I am going to enjoy the chaos.

Summertime

Though he was hungover with his backside out when he stumbled to this side of the hemisphere, the sun decided to emerge from his vacation, and he brought with him all the souvenirs he promised in spring. To give out his long overdue gifts of the season, he told the birds to pass the word along that he was throwing a party of sorts. All the elements of nature were invited. This would be the party of the century: a party that could not be missed, for the sun was known for his wild parties. It was all the buzz about the bees and the birds could not stop singing about it till the day arrived. (To be continued...)

Cold Weather

Every morning I look out the window to judge what what I should wear for the day. Oftentimes the weather looks promising, and oftentimes I am wrong. I can't help it that when I trudging through the snow in the mid-afternoon in nothing more than a tee-shirt and jeans I curse nature for her little games.

It was only a few weeks back that I saw a glimmer of hope on the horizon. I put my faith in a little rodent and it failed me. Our beloved pest saw his shadow and hid deep in his hole. He lays there cozy for six more weeks while the rest of us try to brave out the remains of the winter. Upon hearing the results of his prediction, I grabbed my wrist-rocket and I asked, "Can anyone kindly point the way to Punxsutawney?" Time, money, and threat of a guilty conscience kept me from making the trip,but this is certain, I will be watching Phil closely this coming year, and I am saving my money just in case.

Early Mornings.

Trying their best to hide behind heavy lids, my eyes were pierced by the morning sun. The alarm reverberated incessantly growing louder with each buzz. For five minutes, until I could take the torture no more, I hit the snooze button. With a groan, I sat up, gave stink eye to the world, and smacked my lips together. "Oh God", I thought. The taste was unbearable. Though the sleep was definitely worth it, I could only imagine the sick and kinky things the sandman had done to me in the night after he had slipped me "some sand"- my mouth tasted like ass. For a second I felt cheap. I shook the thought out of my head and rushed to bathroom and brushed my teeth vigorously.

Christmas Mania

The anticipation is unbearable. They stand together, reaching for him from behind the velvet ropes that barricade them. Pushing. Shoving. Moaning. Groaning. Ripping out their hair. They fall to the floor and spasm like Linda Blair tormented by an unseen force. There is much wailing and gnashing of teeth. Is this the end of the world? A recurrence of Beatlemania? Nope. He comes but once a year. Though he doesn't wear a mop-top or sing songs with a catchy beat, he has the celebrity status that is only comparable to the Beatles. He is Santa and they are the children of the world. One look and kids will lose their minds.

It is a very curious time. I must admit that when I was a kid I was caught up in the whole Santa craze, but I never lost my shit or passed out at his very sight. I did not have his poster hanging on my wall, nor did I write I heart Santa on my school notebook, nor sing along with Christmas carols (thinking every word was directed at me), but come Christmas time, I wanted to talk to the big guy. I admired the man from a distance and my mother made certain that that is all I did.

We would walk through the mall and the flashing of the cameras set up by santa's entourage would catch my eye. I would see the fat guy in a red suit sitting in a green velvet chair surrounded by the magic that was Christmas.

"Mom, can we go see Santa?"

"Maybe next time. We'll see. "

These words had often passed my mother's lips without hestitation or thought given to the notion. It was not something she had discussed openly at the dinner table, but I believed she had moonlighted as a gypsy and could see the future. In my mind, when I heard "we'll see", I expected my mother to stow away into her room, pull out a crystal ball, and check the future. I guess the future looked pretty drab for that little boy who waited anxiously year after year, for the time never came. It never happened and we never saw.

The flash of money exchanged at the Santa counter had a odd effect on my mother. With a tight grip on her purse under her arm, my mother's pace would hasten, and I would be pushed along. When Santa was in the mall, even when we had nothing better to do, we always seemed to be in a hurry or avoid that section of the mall completely.

Though Santa was never given the chance to become part of my yuletide nightmares, there was another personality to fill his slot; her name was The Talking Christmas Tree. Her eyes bugged like a gerbil when a child applies too much pressure to the gerbil's midsection and she had an unsightly under-bite. She looked as though Santa had punched her in the mouth for trying to take his lime light. My guess was that she once greeted children of all ages dead center of the mall, but as Santa's notoriety grew, Santa became violent, territorial, and gave her a offer she could not refuse. He warned her with pimp hand in the air, "This is my turf, my holiday. Step off bitch!" Black and blue he left her. It was a lesson lived and learned, for she now worked the front corner of ZCMI.

When you throw a rock at a trash can, a cat reacts the same way as a child when encounters The Talking Christmas Tree. Claws dig deep. There is a slight hesitation, a freezing moment in time, as the subject stares down the offender. Fight or flight are only options. With much hissing and screaming, the child usually ends up running away. If perchance the child can endure the torture of her presence, she will reward them with a coloring page and a repeat appearances in upcoming nightmares for years to come.