Christmas Krampus

Gather round little children,
For it's time that you hear,
'Bout a little known figure,
That will strike you with fear.
Christmas isn't just about
Collecting candies and toys.
It's about learning to be,
Good little girls and little boys.
If you behave all year long,
On Christmas day you'll see,
Loads of big shiny presents,
Waiting for you under the tree.
But if you are rotten,
You'll provide a great feast,
To the Christmas Krampus,
A terrible beast!
With two sharp horns,
Curling out of his head,
And a slobbery tongue,
Long 'nough to wrap 'round your bed.
The Christmas Krampus is called
By your mom and your dad,
To eat you all up,
If you've been very bad.
So be good and be kind,
Don't lie, cheat or steal,
Or the Christmas Krampus,
Will have you for his meal!

If Spiders Have Souls

Chuck slowly opened his eyes but it didn't seem to make a difference. He was surrounded by darkness. Where was he? He didn't feel cold or warm, in fact he didn't feel anything. Chuck tried to get his bearings to feel around in the inky blackness, but there was nothing. Panic began to rise in his chest.

"Relax. Stay calm. Everything you're feeling is completely normal," a disembodied voice in the darkness spoke with measured words.

"Who's there?" Chuck spun in circles trying to determine the location of the speaker. "I said, 'Who's there?' Where are you?"

"I'm here beside you. I'm here to help."

Chuck felt some of his anxiety wane, "Thank you, it's just I feel so disoriented not being able to see or feel anything."

"Well that will get better once you stop trying to use your body," the voice gave an exasperated laugh.

"Stop trying to use my body? What does that mean?"

"It means, you can't use sensory organs that no longer exist. You're dead Chuck."

"Dead?!" and as soon as he said it the world became clear. Chuck was at the bottom of the sink trap. Around him was a dank, mildewed mess of hair and soap scum. Then he looked again and saw the crumpled mass of his own body, the legs akimbo in a gruesome display. "Dead?"

"Yep, dead," the voice now had a body...well, sort of. The voice echoed out of the hood of a dark cloak, peaking out of the edges of which was a hallowed out exoskeleton.

"Who are you?"

"I'm the Grim Reaper, the harvester of souls. And I'm here to guide you to the next life Chuck."

"Oh..."

"Are you okay?" the Grim Reaper asked.

"Well, it's just, I'm not sure how to feel. I mean, my life is over, but it wasn't the greatest life. I sort of regret all the things I didn't get to do, but you said there's a next life, right?"

"Yes."

"Hm, then I suppose let's go. No point in wallowing in a sink trap." Chuck found he was feeling less and less upset by the idea of his own death.

"Follow me," the Grim Reaper began to rise, and Chuck followed after. Now they were out of the sink and hovering up through the bathroom. Up they went through the ceiling and into the second floor. They were steadily rising up towards the roof, when a voice caught Chuck's attention.

"Hey listen to this gross story, you guys. So last night I went to get ready for bed, and there was this big gnarly spider in the sink. So I wash him down the drain, and I go get changed. I come back to take out my contacts and there he is again! A little waterlogged and bedraggled, but the same spider in the sink again! So I almost just wash him down again, but then I'm thinking what if he just keeps crawling back up. So I had to get the Raid and spray him. But after I sprayed him and watched him die, I washed him down the drain again, and I thought, what if I just rinsed all the poison off and he crawls up again!"

"Thrilling story. They should make a nursery rhyme out of it."

"That's gross. So did it crawl back up?"

"No, I think it's pretty dead. Can you imagine if it had still come back? It would have been like the Rasputin of spiders!"

Chuck gaped in horror as the cruel humans laughed over the details of his vicious murder. He remembered the flashflood that had washed him down the sink. He remembered clinging to the stinking, slimy hairs waiting for the downpour to end, then finding the strength to pull himself back onto the gleaming white porcelain of the sink bottom. Then came the poisonous death cloud. The burning and churning of his insides, and in his final agonizing moments one squealed word, "Gross!"

"What is it, Chuck? Why'd you stop?" The Grim Reaper had descended back to where Chuck had frozen.

"They're talking about my death, no, they're laughing about my death."

The Grim Reaper turned and watched as the humans broke out in raucus laughter as the human who had killed Chuck rolled onto her back with legs and arms curled into the air in an impression of the dead spider. A meaningful silence fell between them.

"You know, there are exceptions. Well, I should say delays, of sorts." The Grim Reaper continued as Chuck looked at him quizzically, "I can give your spirit a little more time here if, say, you had some unfinished business."

"You mean..."

"Yes. I don't think the Boss would blame me for this one. But remember, you can't hurt anyone, and try to do some good. I'll be back soon." With that the Grim Reaper disappeared and Chuck was left hovering alone.

His murderer had gone downstairs and was saying goodbye to the two other humans. Chuck heard the door close and his murderer whistling merrily as she walked towards the bathroom.

--

Diane walked into the bathroom to begin her nightly bedtime ritual. She pulled her hair back into a ponytail and pinned back her bangs with a triangle snap clip. As she examined her skin with a critical eye in the mirror, out of her peripheral vision she saw a small black shape in the sink reflected in the mirror. With a gasp Diane jumped back, but looking into the basin she saw nothing there. Although she could see in an instant that the sink was clear, she spent several seconds searching it with her eyes, then looking back in the mirror to see if the dark object would reappear. Diane even bent down to look under the bowel to see if it had crawled under, but she could find nothing.

As Diane stood back up she caught the unmistakeable smell of bug spray. She felt her heart begin to race, and once again she scanned the basin and its mirror doppelganger. Diane picked up the motley assortment of items that littered the counter: brush, face wash, contact lens solution, lotion, mouth wash, hair cream, face cream, powders, blushes, clips, hair ties, and barettes. Why do I have so much crap? Diane wondered to herself. After a thorough search, Diane still had not found anything. She looked herself in the eye, and with a shake of her head she turned and walked out of the bathroom.

She returned moments later wearing her pajama top. As Diane walked through the door she felt the silky threads of a spiderweb across her face. Spitting and swatting at her face, Diane flailed about the room. She rubbed her face until it was red and splotchy and then tentatively returned to the bathroom. Holding her hands up protectively, like a blind person, she crossed the threshold into the bathroom again. With her hands she caressed the door frame on both sides but could find no indication of the remains of a web. Struck by an idea, she searched the top of the frame and then struck out wildly into the air. Nothing. She felt no further strands.

Looking at herself in the mirror, Diane once again shook her head, but this time neither her nor her reflection seemed reassured. Diane turned on the faucet and cupped her hands. She splashed water on to her face and neck and rubbed vigorously, and then pumped a handfull of liquid facewash into her hands. As she lathered her face she felt a series of tickling sensations along the back of her neck. With a grunt of panicked disgust she slapped both hands to the back of her neck and felt around for the cause. Nothing. The face wash stung her eyes. She quickly doused her face, nearly holding it under the tap to get off the soap.

Diane stood up and reached for her towel when she once again felt the tickling sensation, this time traveling down her chest. Squealing, she slapped at herself, realizing then that the feeling was caused by water running down off her face. Breathing hard, Diane patted dry her face and flung the towel back on its rack. Bracing herself by clutching the sides of the sink, Diane tried to steady herself with deep breaths.

Diane rapidly blinked her right eye. Something was irritating her lower eyelid. With exasperation Diane thought she must have rubbed an eyelash into her eye amidst all her panicking. She leaned in close to the mirror and pulled down her bottom lid. Years of contact wearing had helped desensitize her eyes, and while poking around unaffected, she saw the edge of something black. Rolling her finger, Diane captured the object on her finger tip. Holding it up to her face, Diane saw the unmistakable, jointed leg of an arachnid.

--

Chuck laughed to himself as a high pitched scream broke from his murderer. She turned in sheer panic to run from the bathroom, when a small baby spider scurried onto the door frame. The spider was so small that his eight tiny legs looked more like fuzz. Chuck's murderer instintively grabbed a magazine from the back of the toilet to smash this tiny innocent. Chuck's stomach lurched, and he found himself frozen in horror as the scene unfolded before him.

The murderous human reached back with the magazine poised to strike, then paused. A look of terror still contorted on her face, she lowered the magazine to a level position. With a shaking hand she pushed the magazine up to the baby spider who crawled unto its glossy pages. Swiftly she turned, opened the bathroom window and shook the spider onto the flower box outside, and promptly shut the window again. Muttering to herself, the human left the bathroom and headed up the stairs to her bedroom.

"You did good Chuck."

Chuck turned to see the Grim Reaper once again floating next to him.

"I'd be lying if I said that was my intention," Chuck replied.

"I know, but if the Boss asks, do me a favor and go ahead and lie." They both laughed and began again their ascent through the ceiling.

Trophy #1

From corkscrew roots that twist and wind their way through my skull cap to plant their home in grey matter, out shoots my hair in lightning bolt tresses. Like poorly curled ribbon, some locks loop downwards in large lazy spirals while others form tightly-wound manic half-dreadlocks, and still others defy gravity slithering skyward like a weave from Medusa.
The mightiest hairdresser has been brought to her knees, humbled by her inability to tame the beast. Combs have been reduced to plastic splinters. Bobby pins have been sacrificed to it's dark abyss.
Only one thing has been proven to temporarily render the unruly tentacles docile. Water. Fully hydrated my mane lays limp and helpless, but inwardly plotting. Once free of its liquid shackles the tresses again become vicious free agents, obeying the goddess Eris and causing chaos wherever possible.
Over the years I have waged war with my pelt, claiming victory and admitting defeat in turn, but the first time I felt grudging respect for my furry frenemy was freshman year of high school.
One of the cruelest jokes my school's administrators played on the new class was to schedule the swimming unit for PE during the first month of school. So as you tried to navigate the awkward, oily waters of freshman year, you literally had to navigate the awkward, oily waters in PE...in your bathing suit. Not to mention for someone like myself getting my hair wet meant washing out all controlling products and adding a kicky zing of chlorine. In short, it was welcome to Fro Town, population -- me.
One day after swimming I was running particularly late and my hair was in rare form. Like a coarse wool cape streaming out behind me, my own bizarro super hero, I scurried through the quad which was densely populated with the first period lunch crowd. As I scrambled through the cliched cliques I felt my hair snag on some object. Without much thought I tugged my head forward, more concerned about reaching my next class on time, and then felt an unfamiliar weight hanging within the out of control mass.
Instantly images of gum, lollipops and all manner of sticky sweets popped into my head. Cursing to myself I flipped the mass of rapidly drying frizz over my shoulder and began raking my fingers through the coils trying to find the mysterious source of the new weight. My hand closed around something hard and oddly-shaped. I pulled and wiggled the object until it came free from my beastly locks and I looked down into my hand to see what the item was. There in my palm, entwined with a few torn out hairs, was a pale blue butterfly hairclip. There were a few seconds where time seemed to pause as my brain was unable to process the visual cues. This moment was shattered by a scream from back in the crowd I had just passed through. Where my brain had been sluggish before it now sprinted to come to the realization that my hair had just stolen a clip out of another student's hair and the implausability of explaining that to my peer struck me through with dread. Even viewing first hand the tangled mass of seaweed on my head, surely no one would believe someone's hair was capable of theft. So instead I beat a hasty retreat to my class.
Once out of danger the humor of the situation hit me, and I had to appreciate the bold audacity of my hair. Being an uptight square myself, I would never have engaged in something so wicked and lawless, but on some level I could still appreciate the unbridled wildness of this mobster mop. Sometimes I feel as though the intractable locks writhing out of my follicles echo my id. I can try to make them decent for society: slather them with mousse and gel and anti-frizz serums; blow dry them; curl them; cut them; dye them; flat iron them; or even chemically alter them through Brazilian blow-outs. But down to the root, to the DNA, they remain unaltered and, like the inevitable move towards entropy, their true nature asserts itself and the twining tresses surface, order cedes the ground to disorder.
For this reason, I have come to love my hair, and this first assertion of its lawless nature has remained as a cherished high school memory, with that pale blue butterfly hairclip sitting enigmatically on my trophy case.

Minimum Wage

I sold my soul
For a minimum wage.
Put the collar 'round my neck,
and bent my back like a slave.

With every indignity
I get pushed a bit further.
With every inanity
I feel my soul being murdered.

My eternal being
Is ladened with your corruption.
I'm losing my ability
For a violent eruption.

A rebellion, a scene,
A means to break free.
To wrest back from your grip
The mortgage of me.

My job has become
Anticipating your incompetence,
A psychological profiler
documenting your pattern of ignorance.

I entered into this contract
Agreeing to relinquish my right,
To call out your ineptitude
For a compensation so slight.

I speak to your face
A futile common sense,
'Til you accuse me of insubordination
And demand my penance.

So I bite it back,
And try not to seethe,
But I'm miserable, loathsome,
Guilty by association with your sleaze.

With a sigh of longing
I'll dream of the time
And the look on your face
When I'll finally resign.

But the unknown devil
Strikes my heart through with fear.
Is it possible another place
Could be more Hell than here?

So like the songbird
That fears the open door of its cage,
I leave you with my soul,
And keep my minimum wage.

My Friend and His Knife

Back when I was 18 and a freshman in college I had my heart broken. Or to say it more accurately, I broke my own heart. I fell deeply in unrequited love with my co-worker, and when we ceased to work together and no longer saw each other, I fell into a Hamlet-level state of melancholy. The kind of utterly pathetic self-indulgence where you find yourself writing poetry. I hate poetry. For that matter, I hated Hamlet.
So, that summer when I began working at the mall back home and met David it was easy to let myself fall for him to get over my lost love. David was the most friendly and easy-going guy I had ever met. He was tall and lanky, and he walked in lurching, lunging steps with his chest out and arms poised at his sides. He had blue eyes and spiky hair, and a goatee that he absentmindedly stroked. David had studied martial arts and liked to rough house and practice his skills on unsuspecting co-workers, or else he'd have lengthy conversations about home-made bombs. He could easily have been an imposing figure but he wasn't.
The first day I met David was my first day on the job. As a shift manager he gave me the orientation and offered to walk me out to my car to help me find the Vehicle Identification Number (VIN) to give to mall security so I wouldn't be ticketed or towed. On the way out he showed me the employee-only tunnels I could use to cut through the mall. At the end of the hall were two heavy metal doors that led out to the parking lot. With a Bruce Lee-style "Kee-yah" sound effect, David booted open the doors, sending them flying and banging into the walls and back into each other. I just swallowed and nodded at him, neither wanting to encourage or discourage this behavior.
We walked out to my car, got the VIN, and when we again reached the metal doors, they stuck. Struggling with the door, David said, "I don't know why these stupid doors always stick."
To which I replied,"Maybe 'cuz some psycho just ninja-kicked them?"
David stopped mid pull and then looked at me considering this connection he had never made, and then said simply, "Shut up," and we both laughed.
How could I not fall in love with him there and then? He was bizarre and dangerous enough to interest my teenage heart, but truly good inside. As Pepe Le Pew would say, "Le sigh."
My favorite story of David happened one uneventful afternoon. It was a lazy summer day, and not many people were visiting our eccentric little store. We worked in the most odd store in the mall, an eclectic collection of imports: from incense to sarongs, windchimes and masks, digiridoos and big brass gongs. In the back room was a wall pinned with exotic bugs that had been discovered in the monthly shipments sent to us by the store owner. Over the store PA system played the panflute-heavy world music that we sold but no one ever bought.
I stood at the cash wrap tagging necklaces. Next to the register was a stack of grainy brownish paper used to wrap the customer's fragile purchases. As I leaned against the counter, a picture of summer job malaise, David walked up to the counter. He pulled from his pocket his box cutter, not the store-allotted one but a serated flip-out knife David had brought in himself. In one fluid motion David pulled out the knife, flicked out the blade, brought it over his head, and with a visceral cry of rage stabbed the knife into the stack of wrapping paper. He then proceeded to growl, letting flecks of spit fly from his gritted teeth and trembling lips, while he dragged the jagged blade through the thin paper.
I watched David's display unaffected while continuing to tag the jewelry. Then out of the corner of my eye I noticed an elderly woman in a pink tracksuit, with tight white curls and large turquoise glasses, clutching her purse to her chest and gaping in outright horror at my co-worker. Before I could move or say anything she turned and rapidly scurried out of the store.
"David!" I pulled his attention from disemboweling his parchment victims, "Dude, a little old lady was right behind you!"
"Oh, man, really?!"
We laughed it off, until several minutes later I was ringing up a middle-aged woman. We were making polite conversation, and I was trying my best to wrap her items in the mangled mess of paper left by David, when she asked me if I had seen her mother.
"She was wearing a pink tracksuit? Gosh, I hope she didn't wander off, she's getting a little old now and having some signs of senility."
Trying to keep my eyes from getting too big, I shook my head and shrugged. As soon as she left I disposed of what was left of the wounded paper.

The Red Light Writers' Group

"Why are you going to this meeting?"

"Because it encourages me to write."

"You've been in this group for over two years. How many chapters of your novel have you written?"

"That's inconsequential."

"Besides, those people are a bunch of freaks! What are they going to teach you about writing."

"It's more about a community--"

"A community you haven't been a part of for half a year."

"That's why I have to go!"

"You'd never catch me hanging out with a bunch of freaky freaks."

"Enough!"

My brothers are often perplexed by my actions- joining a writer's group, doing a solo road trip from California to Wisconsin, watching Glee-and they respond with nagging disapproval. This time they were attempting to talk me out of going to my monthly writers' group. I had been part of the group since it's inception two years ago, hoping that the pressure of a monthly meeting would motivate me to finally commit my novel to paper. It had not. Plus, after getting swamped at work I had missed several months of meetings. However, I was rededicating myself to writing, and I had determined that I would go. So in spite of my brothers' warnings I set off for Chino.

The meeting used to rotate between different coffee shops in three different cities to accommodate the various group members, but in the months of my absence it had settled in one location, an office complex in Chino. If you've only seen the city of Chino on "The OC" you might have the mistaken impression that it's some kind of ghetto hellhole, which is simply not true. In fact, on my drive through the lovely city I noticed several reputable porn stores, strip clubs and bail bonds. I was admiring a quaint little liquor store when I missed my turn and drove straight up the driveway to the Chino Men's Correctional Facility. A hasty u-turn later and I was once again puttering down Chino's cracked streets and litter-strewn alleys.

When I finally found the meeting I was the last to arrive, looking around I realized our group leader was not in attendance and there were only two people I recognized: a heavy middle-aged woman named Stephanie and an effeminate elderly gentleman named Tim. Stephanie, a divorced mother, was working on a novel in which a mad group of NASA scientists had worked out a way to use satellites to target groups of people they didn't like such as 'Mexicans' and 'Mormons.' Later I found out from our group leader that she also wrote erotica, and to be honest, this is exactly the type of person I imagine as an erotica writer. When I first met Tim, a Chino native, I was sure he was gay, and so I had to restrain my eyebrows from leaping off my forehead when he stated that he had a wife.

At the old group meetings we'd only have three to five people on average, but here sat a dozen people. Since I was late the meeting had already begun and I had missed the introductions. People were casually chatting but two individuals dominated the conversation, Stephanie and a young man in his late twenties named Jeff.

I've often been chided by family or friends for my staring problem. In a restaurant or at a mall I will stare with fascination at groups of people, trying to understand the dynamic and the individual psychologies that create such a dynamic. However, my intrigue can be perceived as downright gawking, like I'm at a human zoo. If that's the case, I was surely treating this meeting as my own personal monkey house.

I watched with confusion as Stephanie and Jeff performed what can only be described as flirting. Jeff, a short doughy braggart, painted himself as an unreformable rogue with outrageous antics right out of 'Animal House' or 'The Hangover.' I listened to him recount the wild weekend in Vegas when he got his tribal tattoo arm band and nearly shaved off his soul patch. To which Stephanie giggled and made awkward and obvious innuendos, letting her short lank hair fall coyly across her face leaving greasy smudges on her glasses. The few moments of conversation I witnessed convinced me that Jeff had no real interest in Stephanie, but simply enjoyed the ego stroking her pandering provided and the confirmation it gave to his bad boy persona. This disturbing tango continued as Jeff shared his writing.

During my tenure in the group, the meetings were typically unstructured with members sharing any writing they chose, be it a chapter in a novel, a poem, or a free form writing exercise. Only twice before had our leader given us writing assignments. The last meeting I attended our leader had assigned each member to write a scene from a strip club. The idea had actually grown out of a joke between myself and another member, in which we challenged each other to come up with the best literary-themed name for a strip club. I can't remember them all, but some of my favorite were: The Coocher in the Rye, The C*$t of Monte Cristo, and A Tale of Two Titties.

Therefore, I was surprised to find out at the current meeting, five months later, that this assignment was still in effect. I listened to Jeff's story, about a real incident that had happened to him and his friends, that included wild happenings like fake IDs and dog fights. To my surprise, the other group members laughed with delight at Jeff's unbelievable antics and told him he should turn his life into a movie. Jeff humbly denied these accolades following with, "Besides, who would believe it?!"

Several more people read disgusting stories; attempts at edginess that overshot the goal and landed with a wet flop into the vulgar yet simultaneously mundane territory. I seriously considered leaving the meeting, but more for decorum's sake, when Tim began to read his piece. An autobiographical recounting of his time, as a young man, when he roomed with a stripper. With much eyebrow waggling and a sly wink he explained that nothing had ever happened between him and the stripper, though he had no explanation for why. I had one. As often happens after a member shares their writing, the others give feedback and the resulting dialogue leads to further stories. Tim told several about his womanizing ways, and nodding his head at Jeff, stated that he believed they might be cut from the same cloth. The look on Jeff's face made me believe he didn't appreciate the comparison, although I certainly did, and I found myself biting the inside of my lower lip to hold back a guffaw.

More stories were read, and with each successive tale my spirit and hopes sank further and my lower lip became rawer. Finally, an elderly white woman named Mae asked to share. I felt my optimism rise. Mae looked to be in her seventies. Her silver white hair was cut short in a pixie cut, and she wore a cotton shirt with a pro-environment message and army green cargo pants. I perceived Mae to be a California archetype, the progressive elderly woman, someone who literally marched in civil rights and feminist rallies; a wise elder who drives a hybrid, shops in thrift stores and intersperses her advice with eastern philosophy. I sat up in expectation, excited for the first time that night to hear what Mae had to share. She too had written a scene from a strip club, and I was interested to hear her take on it. She began thusly:

"Amber was a beautiful girl. She had dark hair and dark eyes. Firm young breasts and an ass like a black girl's."

I can only be grateful that no one's eyes were on me at that moment because my mouth fell open and it was only when I felt the first threats of laughter that I was able to close it.

Finally, as the meeting was drawing to a close, Stephanie spoke up about the assignment for the next month. She had done the strip club scene assignment long ago and wanted something new. I was eternally grateful, for a few seconds. Stephanie then explained some difficulty she was facing with her writing. She was working on a novel, but did not want it to be published as erotica. Apparently she had scrapped the mad scientists with satellites project. In her new novel she wanted to include sex scenes, but her usual gratuitous manner of writing would get it qualified as erotica. She wanted help writing a sex scene in a less graphic way. She suggested the next assignment be for everyone to write a sex scene. Jeff asked in a suggestive tone if they had to use euphemisms or if they could go hardcore. Snorting and chortling, Stephanie said he could do whatever he wanted and she would likewise bring in some samples of her erotica for comparison, though she warned some of it was based on true life encounters. This began what felt like a never-ending orgy of sharing from the members about sexual encounters.

Swallowing my bile, I looked around the room at the dozen of writers surrounding me. I opened my mouth to interrupt the conversation, to question the assignment, and the group itself. I wanted to ask if all of them were truly comfortable writing pornography. However, it was at this point I realized I had been out of the group too long. The small and struggling group of writers I had joined was gone, none of the original four remained. This new group was large, rambunctious, and thriving. The quiet coffeehouse hopefuls had been replaced by the baudy red light writers' group. With a silent curse at my brothers for always being right, I left the group.