Truesday: By Example

Well, I’ve never been a huge fan of those. But I’m guessing their popularity stems from various creative writing classes across the nation. And who can argue with popularity, right? So, okay. I’ll take a swing at a couple of those. Anything to get those juices flowing.

1. There’s a Dreidel with crayon drawings over the carved Hebrew letters: a tree, a gingerbread man, a star, and box with a bow on top. A grown man is crying.

2. The Magi are running heroin through Israel and need an alibi.

3. A stocking hanging above a fireplace is leaking a strange, rust-colored liquid.

4. Santa emerges from the chimney to find himself in the peak moments of a suburban sex party.

5. There’s a surprise birthday party for Jesus at a local chain restaurant and his dad was left off the invite list, but shows up anyway, just to prove a point.

Told you I wasn’t too keen on those things. But you can’t say I didn’t try. How about I spit out some examples? Something to lead by?

Perhaps a quick semi-descriptive narrative?

A hipster drunk Christmas. Hipstmas. By: Myself.

When Johnny Eyebrows stepped to the Thursday scene, he was ready for some holiday fuckin’ cheer. “Tonight’s the night, kid!” He had his red pin tie, one red Chuck Taylor, and he considered drinking only Tecate all night, because it was dressed in a festively red can. But then he realized that it might not be on special, and so left himself open to other less-festive dressed options. At first he planned on taking his cash tips from barbacking at the TGI Friday’s in the Arboretum whole paycheck from his graphic design job at GSD&M over to LaLa’s. You know, to get his yule fire warmed up. But then he remembered that this chick he made out with during Dashboard Confessional at ACL, like fifteen years ago (before DC started downing that super-sad-fucker koolaid and got popular), well, that crazy beeatch ended up stealing some slap bracelets from his classics collection and giving his roommate herpes. Nowadays she lives back in that neighborhood behind LaLa’s in a tent colony in some dude’s backyard, and Eyebrows didn’t want to accidentally run into that weeping wound. So he self-referred and said “Eyebrows my dude, sometimes a man’s gotta say fuck it,” deciding to head elsewhere.

“First I’m hitting up Side Bar, because they’re always good on the Lonestar, yo. Then I’m going across the street to Beauty Bar, because that’s where my connects are at on Thursdays.”

He got obliterated on shitty beer, lied to four chicks about being an architect in Prague, then spent the remainder of his money on designer-priced-but-super-cut cocaine, and eventually forgot where his moped was parked (by Beerland, as usual). So he caught a ride with an ex-girlfriend from college who still thinks he’s gay, and then threw up on his front porch. The end.

* * *

Or perhaps something a little more sinister and open-ended?

In the moonlit sky of pre-dawn Christmas, he took the tree out back where it was lit on fire, glass balls, blood and all. Then he piled snow over it in a burial fashion and knelt by the mound. “Dear lord, please let us remember these-“

“Daddy, why are you burying the tree?”

It was little Cindy Shoehoo, his youngest daughter of three, who had apparently thought he was Santa Claus, and followed him out into the cold dark of the back yard. He steadied himself, drawing the notched-handled Christmas hatchet from his belt. With tears welling in his eyes,

“Go back inside Cindy.” Still kneeling, facing away from his daughter, a tear trickling down his right cheek. “I don’t want to bury any more Christmas memories this year.”

* * *

Maybe you’re more into Haiku.

Hanging by a thread
From the tree’s lower branches
Like a lynched yard gnome.

---OR

Rotund red fat man
Why would I believe in you
Obesity smile.

* * *

And there’s always the irreverent/ironic fake Dear Santa letter.

Dearest Santa Man,

I want you to giv my big sis a blak eye for crismass this yere.

That is al. Yors in candicanes,

Dave Eggers

Now it’s your turn.