Jude Potts
I don’t know how long I’ve been lying here when the floor begins to roll away. I pull myself up, gripping the window sill and peering out into the purple night. Nothing has been right for so long. I can’t shake the feeling something’s coming for me. Memories fall out of wardrobes waiting to floor me. Failures haunt every shadow, a foot extended, waiting to trip me.
It all started when the world began to believe you and I killed Santa. Tequila always made us crazy. Now you’re not here, the sound of you shattering echoes in all the empty space you left behind. I think about how we stole the sleigh last year and took it on a joyride, crashed it into the corner shop window.
I slump against the window and rest my head on the cold glass. Two boys, hips like coat hangers, shirtless and shoeless, infest the scrubby yard. They feel achingly familiar, an echo of boys I used to know. Boys we used to be.
The valley sweeps away behind them, as they stand, faces raised to the sky, arms outstretched above their heads, wearing chicken wire crowns. A storm is roaring up the valley, apocalyptic, uprooting trees as it rips along, slamming gates and rattling window panes.
“We want to catch the lightning,” the boys chant in unison, pointing to their crowns, eyes glazed, hypnotized by the storm. They begin to hum along with the thunder, calling the apocalypse home. I cease to exist to them the second their eyes meet the spiky lightning dancing along electricity cables.
I slide, boneless, down the wall, gripping the floor to stop myself from slipping out the door. On the swirling nylon carpet, I realise I’m not alone. A grizzled man, beard white flecked with grey, torso so scarred that no smooth skin remains, is writhing across the room, arms flat against his sides, propelled purely by the movement of his stomach. His face, muscles unnaturally contorted, eyes mere slits, takes on the shape of a snake’s. He hisses at me, and I taste the poison on his sibilant breath. He’s been here a while, tumbled from the suitcase at the bottom of the bed. The arm of his crimson suit is caught in the hinges of the case. He doesn’t need it anymore.
I remember a hearse was the only replacement vehicle we could find for the fucked up sleigh. How the kids cried when they saw it, thinking Santa died.
I drag myself up onto the bed. Heart pounding, I roll away from his undulations and whisper-snake mouth. I pull myself, dry-mouthed and panting, towards the door, away from the hissing and the humming boys out back. The whole building lurches, awash with vibrations. Or maybe it’s just me.
I need to get out.
On the weed-strewn gravel out the front is Santa’s hearse, with the floral tributes; MERRY on one side and CHRISTMAS on the other. A coffin filled with baubles and tinsel. It’s sat there on bricks since Christmas; frightening the neighbours, making little kids cry. I think about how the world shifted off-kilter somehow the day you died and no one noticed. The day everyone thought Santa died. It tilted in a new direction and headed towards tonight’s storm.
Lightning crackles down a broken telephone wire and kisses the hearse. It snakes its electric path along the vehicle, sparking life into one of those dancing Christmas trees that we planted on the roof. Sleigh bells jingle. The tree initially moves at its normal speed, but it can’t keep time. Santa Claus is coming to town too damn fast. The tree looks like it’s in its death throes, then runs out of juice. Or maybe that’s just me.
The building lurches. From somewhere, I smell burning. The two boys out back have stopped humming. Somewhere I can hear crying. Or maybe it's just me. Just me. Crying. While the world ends.
It all started when the world began to believe you and I killed Santa. Tequila always made us crazy. Now you’re not here, the sound of you shattering echoes in all the empty space you left behind. I think about how we stole the sleigh last year and took it on a joyride, crashed it into the corner shop window.
I slump against the window and rest my head on the cold glass. Two boys, hips like coat hangers, shirtless and shoeless, infest the scrubby yard. They feel achingly familiar, an echo of boys I used to know. Boys we used to be.
The valley sweeps away behind them, as they stand, faces raised to the sky, arms outstretched above their heads, wearing chicken wire crowns. A storm is roaring up the valley, apocalyptic, uprooting trees as it rips along, slamming gates and rattling window panes.
“We want to catch the lightning,” the boys chant in unison, pointing to their crowns, eyes glazed, hypnotized by the storm. They begin to hum along with the thunder, calling the apocalypse home. I cease to exist to them the second their eyes meet the spiky lightning dancing along electricity cables.
I slide, boneless, down the wall, gripping the floor to stop myself from slipping out the door. On the swirling nylon carpet, I realise I’m not alone. A grizzled man, beard white flecked with grey, torso so scarred that no smooth skin remains, is writhing across the room, arms flat against his sides, propelled purely by the movement of his stomach. His face, muscles unnaturally contorted, eyes mere slits, takes on the shape of a snake’s. He hisses at me, and I taste the poison on his sibilant breath. He’s been here a while, tumbled from the suitcase at the bottom of the bed. The arm of his crimson suit is caught in the hinges of the case. He doesn’t need it anymore.
I remember a hearse was the only replacement vehicle we could find for the fucked up sleigh. How the kids cried when they saw it, thinking Santa died.
I drag myself up onto the bed. Heart pounding, I roll away from his undulations and whisper-snake mouth. I pull myself, dry-mouthed and panting, towards the door, away from the hissing and the humming boys out back. The whole building lurches, awash with vibrations. Or maybe it’s just me.
I need to get out.
On the weed-strewn gravel out the front is Santa’s hearse, with the floral tributes; MERRY on one side and CHRISTMAS on the other. A coffin filled with baubles and tinsel. It’s sat there on bricks since Christmas; frightening the neighbours, making little kids cry. I think about how the world shifted off-kilter somehow the day you died and no one noticed. The day everyone thought Santa died. It tilted in a new direction and headed towards tonight’s storm.
Lightning crackles down a broken telephone wire and kisses the hearse. It snakes its electric path along the vehicle, sparking life into one of those dancing Christmas trees that we planted on the roof. Sleigh bells jingle. The tree initially moves at its normal speed, but it can’t keep time. Santa Claus is coming to town too damn fast. The tree looks like it’s in its death throes, then runs out of juice. Or maybe that’s just me.
The building lurches. From somewhere, I smell burning. The two boys out back have stopped humming. Somewhere I can hear crying. Or maybe it's just me. Just me. Crying. While the world ends.
Jude is a full-time carer, sometime writer from near Portsmouth (UK). She's a typical human bin fire; 75% sarcasm, 25% toxic fumes, allegedly writing a crime comedy novel about the extortionate cost of spa days. Lover of tea, cats and puns, mortal enemy of jelly and squirrels, writes flash fiction for the dopamine - words in Punk Noir, Does It Have Pockets and Trash Cat Lit, amongst others
