Make the North Pole Great Again
"Sir?" asked the head elf, Pippy Punkrocking.
"Yes, Pippy?" answered Santa.
"Sir, it’s about our NICE list. Last month someone from the NAUGHTY list was transferred over to it. I don’t remember authorizing that." Pippy held a tightly rolled-up scroll. Santa waved his fingers, indicating Pippy should let it roll open, spilling out onto the floor, which it did.
"Who?" Santa asked.
"Here, sir," the elf pointed out.
"Donald...J...Trump," Santa read slowly and deliberately. "Oh, that was me. I made the transfer.”
Pippy frowned, which if it were to continue for too long, could be life-threatening to him, as an elf.
“So what?” Santa argued. “What's the problem? I made the switch. I put him on. Don’t I get to vote?"
"Sir, you rigged it. He's naughty, not nice."
"That’s a matter of opinion, don’t you think? The people thought otherwise. And consider, Pippy, what it takes to be a leader. Some see naughtiness as leadership. You can't lead nations without being stern—even mean sometimes. You've gotta make tough choices. It’s hard. The free world is too important to leave it to someone nice."
"Well, sir, then, leave him on the NAUGHTY list, where belongs.”
“Oh, Pippy, you tricked me with our sharp-tongued little elven doubletalk. No, he’s naughty but, by our standards, he’s nice and stays on the NICE list.”
“But it's his choices that put him on the NAUGHTY list. Where do I even start?"
"You don't, you little Democrat runt!" Pippy's mouth dropped open in disbelief. The frown had only been the beginning; he felt pressure in his chest and began to feel faint. He had never seen Santa like that. He began to cry.
"There, there," Santa cooed, attempting to assuage him. "You have to be a little naughty to send out Seal Team 6, right? Or change regimes, right? Everyone thought Obama was nice, but he did some very naughty things, it turned out. Y'know, Pippy, I've never been elected anything. I'm Santa, because...well...just because."
"Because you're St. Nick! And Jolly. Jolly St. Nick. You're a saint, for goodness’ sake! You don't need to be elected.” Pippy clutched his chest and rubbed his left arm. “But Santa, what you just did wasn’t jolly or saintly. Not at all. It was naughty!"
Santa's assuaging countenance stiffened, becoming severe, even angry. He had a very dark moment.
"What did you just say?" he seethed.
"Oh! Oh! I didn't say you were naughty. Just what you did."
"You want I should put myself on that NAUGHTY list, do you?" Pippy was beside himself. He coughed on his sleeve and saw specks of blood. The animus in the room began to melt the snow outside the door, and some water began slipping over the threshold.
"Of course not, Santa. You? On the NAUGHTY list? Hahahahahahahaha! Never! But him? It's a mistake putting him on the NICE list. A big mistake."
"Not really. I’ve gotten a lot of letters from children asking for their very own Chia®Donald Trumps. And they’re asking me to bring their Dads Trump coins and watches and their Moms a Crystal Trump 2024 Memorabilia Lapel Brooch. I can’t break the hearts of over half the parents’ children out there."
"But," the elf said, "I think it is a mistake. I mean, there's a whole list of things that he's—"
"Pippy, Pippy," Santa cajoled him. "Do you think anyone's above forgiveness? Republicans? Democrats? Pyromaniacs? Remember little Jimmy Nubbins? Set his sister on fire but was really sorry after. Remember?"
“Yes…I remember.”
"Remember the uproar at the list-assignment conclave when half you little guys thought he should stay on the NAUGHTY list? And what did you say? Remember?"
"Yes, Santa..." Pippy answered, swinging a loose foot back and forth.
"You said, 'Don't judge someone by their past…but by the promise of their future.' Your eyes even teared up when you said that."
"I guess so..."
“And you said, ‘Give the little misunderstood tyke another chance. Was it really his fault? Is anything really anyone’s fault anymore?’”
“I suppose…”
“So moving, Pippy. And remember you said, ‘Aren’t we better than this? The NAUGHTY list is written in pencil for a reason. Have we forgotten what erasers are for? Things change. People change. And even if they don’t, who are we to judge? We’re not walking in their official Donald Trump footwear! We don’t know what can make someone choose anything on the spur of the moment. Inclusion means everybody.’ And, ‘Who are we to judge? Give ‘im another chance’—well said! You were such a persuasive and woke little elf—so persuasive that little Jimmy ended up on the NICE list again. He got that PlayStation 5 Pro last Christmas morning, along with his sister getting those finger extension splints. So, waddaya say now about Mr. Trump?"
"Pardon him?"
"Oh, no-no-no-Ho-Ho-Ho! He doesn't need me for that.”
“A nice fruit cake, then? Or better yet—the annual subscription—a new fruit cake arriving every month!"
“That’s the elf I know! Now, off wit’ ya, Pippy. Those Chia pets aren’t gonna grow green hair by themselves!”
Smut for the Proper
The streets of London shimmered with mist, the gaslights casting halos against the cobblestones. Eleanor waited by the wrought-iron gate of the square, her gloved fingers brushing and adjusting the satin hem of her gown. Though the velvet cloak draped around her shoulders spoke of elegance, and grace instead of the simpleton “Lady of the Night” that she was.
Seven pence, she thought. Just enough to see her through another week.
When William approached, she straightened, her practiced smile softening her features. He was taller than most, his coat finely tailored, his stride confident yet unhurried. A gentleman, Eleanor knew, and the air between them hummed with unspoken intent.
Should he offer the seven, she’d take him to heaven.
“Good evening, sir,” she said, her voice smooth and warm in contrast to the chilly night.
His gaze lingered on hers. “Eleanor, isn’t it?” he asked, the richness of his voice sending a shiver down her spine. “I’ve heard whispers of your … talents.”
She inclined her head, the flicker of a smile on her lips. “You’ve heard correctly. Seven pence for an evening you won’t soon forget.”
Without another word, he extended his hand, and she took it, allowing him to lead her into a nearby alley.
It was dark and cold, but their bodies would keep them warm and fight off the chill. The gas lamp’s flickering firelight playing across the face of Eleanor as she unbuttoned her petticoat.
Eleanor pushed the dress to the side with the grace of a queen, William’s eyes darkened as he stepped closer, his gloved fingers brushing the bare skin of her collarbone.
“You deserve more than seven pence,” he murmured, his voice low.
“And yet, seven is all I ask,” she replied, her lips curving into a smirk.
He moved with deliberate care, unbuttoning his coat as though unveiling something sacred. When he leaned in to kiss her, his lips were warm and searching, a curious mix of hunger and restraint. She allowed herself to respond, her hands sliding to his shoulders, feeling the strength beneath the fabric.
As his touch deepened, trailing over her arm and down her side, she felt her professional poise slip, replaced by a surprising warmth. When he lowered himself to taste his prize. He murmured under his breath about beautiful and delicate rose petals. His hands moved with reverence, exploring her curves as though she were a rare and precious artifact.
For a moment, Eleanor forgot about her price, the dreary streets, and the heavy weight of her reality. Here, in this fleeting moment, she was not a lady of the night but a woman cherished, her body and soul ignited by his touch.
The moments passed in whispers and sighs, her practiced art meeting his genuine anticipation.
After the milk had been added and mixed with her honey, he stood, buttoned his trousers and withdrew and placed the coins in her palm. But as moved toward the entrance to the alley, William paused, his fingers brushing her cheek.
“Perhaps next time, it will be more than seven pence,” he said softly, before disappearing into the morning mist.
Eleanor stared back, her lips tingling and her heart inexplicably lighter. It had been seven pence well earned. Now she was starving and with the seven pence in hand she would go in search for a different type of sausage. One to fill her belly rather than the area betwixt her nethers.
Keeping a Sense of Purpose
The old bag shuffled down the street. The wind billowed her slacks and pushed her along. She was worn, crumpled but not quite middle years, and a fellow or two passing had eyed her usefulness, from ample sagging bottom to lug handles, and had changed his mind. Not worth the effort it would take, stooping like that. For what?
So, she rolled on, past the elaborately decorated store fronts, feeling empty except for the receipt that lingered still. It documented the expenditure of eight dollars and seventy cents on a few five and dime trifles.
The seventy cents accounting for taxes.
The rest, consumables, already gone.
Yet the bag carried on.
12.01.2024
"Write a trashy story, but make it sound noble" challenge @Mariah and friend
Tin Can Man
Every night down in the street i heard him open bin lids sorting through rubbish for tin cans, i hadn't seen but i just knew it, on dark almost every night.
bang, bang, bang
At the time i didn't have much money as i waited to start university living above a Thai restaurant in the city.
I had saved up a bag of coins, dollars, twenties, fifties for emergencies, and i had resolved to give this to the man who i called tin can man.
One night i heard him at the bins, shuffling, banging and rushed down the wooden steps through the restaurant out to the street below.
What i saw was a little bent over old man, intent on the bin he was looking in not noticing me at all.
I walked up to him with the bag in hand and said, 'Hey mate, i have something for you'. He had turned quickly, flinching at the same time, expecting an attack.
'I have these coins for you please take them', i had said quietly. He looked at me for a moment then took the bag, not saying a thing.
Then i went back to my room, and he to his life on the streets, but at least i helped if only a little bit.
Titania and Coyote - a ballad
Tonight, Coyote drinks the wine
Of his own slit throat
And shuffles off to the Faerie court
In his ragged overcoat.
And when Titania turns him down
And bids him gone from here
He smiles a secret smile
And he sheds no tear.
How gay the Faerie dance!
How gay the Faerie court!
How gay the Faerie at his ease
And making raucous sport!
Coyote fits in here as well
As antlers on a bull
He steals a jug of Faerie gin
Eats till he is full.
Titania's consort laughs at his ragged grey muzzle
Dances 'round Coyote like a child with a puzzle
Titania's consort mocks
The ugly old beast
One's the fairest thing on Earth
The other is the least...
The younger of the Gentry
Almost look alarmed
To have a guest among them
Who cannot quite be charmed.
The older ones, in contrast
Must think him quite the mark
See Titania's consort
Circle 'round him like a shark.
"Come with me," Coyote says,
"Come walk with me a ways
Sister Moon does love me
And she'll bathe us with her rays."
"Never me!" Titania says,
Her bearing sharp and proud
She barely flicks her eyes;
Her consort laughs aloud
How gay the Faierie masquerade!
How gay the Faerie ball!
How stately Queen Titania
Presiding over all!
But for all her beauty
And for all her power
Her consort with Coyote lies
Within her very bower!
The Queen of Pine Haven
The crystal wind chime shattered.
Vicky Marlowe watched, transfixed, as her mama's last good yard decoration cascaded down in a waterfall of dollar store glass, missing her carefully maintained acrylic nails by mere inches. Her blue eyes widened—not in fear, never fear—but in a most unseemly, electrified excitement.
Sweet baby Jesus, she thought, pressing a trembling hand to the rhinestones on her "Live, Laugh, Love" tank top, he planned this.
James. That devil in Carhartt clothing. That Adonis with motor oil under his fingernails.
"Vicky!" Henley came charging out of the double-wide with all the grace of a stampeding elk. "You okay, girl? Should I call Dale?"
Vicky’s lips curled into a smile so wicked it would’ve made the pastor blush. "No, Hen. And you keep your mouth shut about this. You hear me? Not a word."
How could she explain it anyway? That her neighbor's brooding mechanic had somehow known exactly where she'd be standing at four o’clock sharp? That the wind chime’s fall had miraculously cleared her path to the tool shed, where even now he was waiting, his muscled form likely aglow in the golden shafts of the setting sun, like some pagan god of NASCAR?
Her husband’s voice bellowed from the trailer. "Victoria Lynn! The HOA president’s gonna be here any minute!"
The HOA president can kiss my authentically tanned behind, she thought, her manicured fingers clutching the well-worn copy of Rich Dad, Poor Dad she’d been pretending to read. Let all of Pine Haven Trailer Park burn.
With the practiced grace of a seasoned Denny’s waitress, she glided toward the shed, her Target sundress whispering secrets across the gravel path. The sticky humidity hit her like a microwave door swinging open, mingling with the perfume of marijuana wafting from Lot 23B—nature’s aphrodisiac.
"You could’ve killed me," she breathed when she saw him, towering amid Dale’s prized power tools.
James turned, his green eyes smoldering like a grease fire. "I’d sooner sell my F-150, darlin’," he said, his voice rough as gravel, sweet as Mountain Dew. "But I had to see you. Alone."
"The wind chime—"
"Was a calculated risk." He stepped closer, close enough for her to catch the intoxicating scent of WD-40 and unfiltered masculinity. "Like this."
Without warning, he swept the self-help book from her hands, letting it tumble to the oil-stained floor with a thud. Vicky gasped—at his audacity, his magnificence, the sheer unholy nerve of him.
"That book cost me a whole shift's worth of tips," she whispered, even as her traitorous body leaned toward him like a sunflower chasing light.
"Then let me earn it back," he growled, his calloused hands cradling her face with a gentleness that almost unraveled her. "With something worth more than money."
Outside, a bolt of lightning slashed through the Oregon sky, the storm roaring approval. Thunder rolled across the valley like a souped-up diesel engine.
"The HOA president," she protested weakly, her fingers curling into his oil-streaked Metallica T-shirt.
"Will wait." His gaze burned into hers. "The world will wait. Time itself will wait, Mrs. Marlowe."
"Just Vicky," she murmured, her voice cracking under the weight of want. "When we're alone, you call me Vicky."
He grinned—a wolf’s grin, a rebel’s grin, a grin promising pleasures no respectable trailer park queen should dare to know. "Vicky," he breathed, low and dangerous, "my desert rose, my forbidden flower."
Another flash of lightning illuminated the tool shed like a Walmart parking lot on Black Friday. Somewhere in the distance, voices called her name—her husband, Henley, maybe even the HOA president himself.
"They’ll ruin you," James warned, his lips grazing her skin. "If they find us, they’ll kick you off the Pine Haven Social Committee."
Vicky threw back her head and laughed—a sound of pure, wild abandon that would scandalize every lady at the Sunday potluck. "My darling, savage mechanic," she purred, her fingers tracing the hard line of his jaw, "don’t you know? The prettiest flowers grow right through the concrete."
As if in agreement, the storm reached its crescendo, rain hammering the shed like nature’s applause. Something ancient and wild stirred in her salon-perfect highlights—something far beyond her title as Pine Haven’s three-time "Most Spirited Resident."
"The social committee," she declared, her voice dripping with rebellion, "could use a little shaking up."
And with that, as thunder rattled the very bones of her double-wide, Vicky Marlowe made her choice. Let the wind chime be the first casualty of her fall from grace. Let scandal roll through Pine Haven Trailer Park like a tornado in a beer can.
Because some things, she thought as James's lips finally claimed hers with fierce possession, are worth losing your ‘Best Kept Yard’ title for.
Damian Sinclair, CEO
He's a leader, a visionary. He's relentless in his pursuit of a better future, a more perfect future. He's responsible for founding Sinclair Enterprises, the corporation that connects humanity with the latest technological advancements. He brought the first men to Mars back in 2063. He's a pioneer, a visionary. He's single-handedly keeping the national space program alive and the military outfitted in the most cutting-edge equipment.
The world seen from inside Sinclair's tower at the manufactured peak of Silicon Valley radiates abundance. His army of drones fly all throughout the sky, casting shimmering lights down on the modern city. He's old enough to remember when it was renamed the capital of New America, after the second revolution. He's young enough to witness with his eyes the havoc that humanity has wreaked on the world.
Pollution. Extreme poverty. Famine—crops withering up in waves throughout the globe. Plummeting fertility rates, which led to his forefathers beginning their research into genetic engineering. The Sinclairs went from owning 99% of the world's diamond mines to leading the world's largest tech empire. They make the smartphones you text on and the cars you drive.
Leaders around the world were failing to provide answers or solutions. That's one thing they all had in common: an inability to act. So he took control of the reins. If you can think of it, Sinclair Enterprises probably makes it or powers it—including the government.
He's the richest man in the world. If you ask anyone in the media, they'll say he's the smartest man in the world. His digital infrastructure happens to power every network. He happens to own the social media companies their messages are distributed to the masses on.
He just does so much good, you see. Seeing the chaos all around him shaped his philosophy: humanity is nothing but buggy hardware in dire need of a software update. People are incapable of self-regulation and true progress without the sacrifices of the many and the governance of the few. Disorder is humanity's greatest weakness. Consolidation of power and control is the solution.
Sinclair Enterprises continues to expand its reach into every corner of every mind and market. The latest venture he announced was a project that evolved his grandfather's clandestine genetic research into Project Genesis, a program intended to preserve the genetic blueprints of mankind to protect biodiversity in the event of inevitable manmade disaster. It was inevitable at this rate. The only question was: how? Mutually assured destruction via nuclear warheads? The complete elimination of our abilities to reproduce until every last one of us dies out?
With Project Genesis, we'll all be able to store our genetic code to rebuild a new wave of humans. A do-over. Thanks to Damian Sinclair, humanity has a second chance to do better. And it goes without saying that Sinclair will only deploy the genetic bank in the event of catastrophe—that must be why he doesn't say it. We didn't really get to read the fine print.
He shares a lot with his foe: their icy blue eyes, the unwavering ambition, the computer engineering skills. Oh, and 100% of their DNA.
Adrian is Sinclair's clone, which he finds out one late night spent investigating at his employer, Sinclair Enterprises. Sinclair's grandfather executed Phase 1, which began to seed Sinclair clones throughout the planet. He himself finished the total replacement of natural humanity, as the last non-clone died quietly in a secret government cell last year. Adrian uncovers the dark truth. And Sinclair hates him for it. Hates him for defying his programming.
All Sinclair wants to do is erase imperfection and unpredictability from the world. He could've followed through with his vision if it weren't for the foolish meddling of one young man grappling with his identity. He could've cemented his legacy, ensuring his influence persisted even after his death. But this junior engineer is hard to evade and even harder to catch.
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
This is my original character from my unpublished novel, Legacy.exe. Find chapter 1 on my profile.
Bourbon in the Pantry: A Thanksgiving Story
Let me tell you about the Thanksgiving that shattered like fine china and reassembled itself into something altogether stranger, because that's what families do - they break and mend and break again, like waves against a shore that's been there since before any of us thought to name it.
Sarah (my sister-in-law who spent three months at a French culinary institute and won't let any of us forget it) has been basting the turkey since dawn, each careful brush stroke a rebellion against our mother's decades of dry birds. The kitchen gleams with her intentions. Everything is mise en place, a term she drops like small arms fire across the gravy-scented battlefield of familial expectations.
And here comes Mom through the door clutching her own gravy boat like a shield, because she may have ceded the turkey but by God and all His angels she will not surrender the gravy. Her lips are pressed thin as paper, the kind of smile that's really a wound. Dad trails behind her carrying three kinds of pie none of us asked for, whistling through the minefield.
(I should mention I'm hiding in the pantry taking pulls from a flask of bourbon that belonged to my grandfather, the one who taught me how to tie fishing flies and curse in Lithuanian. The bourbon tastes like memory and regret, which is fitting for the occasion.)
Uncle Pete's already sprawled in the living room watching football with the volume too high, his hearing aid conspicuously absent, a convenient deafness that lets him ignore the rising tide of passive-aggressive commentary flowing from the kitchen like floodwater under a door. His new wife Cheryl (the fourth, or maybe fifth - we've stopped counting) keeps adjusting and readjusting the table settings Sarah spent forty-three minutes perfecting.
My brother Mike's kids are conducting what appears to be psychological warfare experiments on each other in the basement, their shrieks piercing through floorboards that have witnessed forty years of family gatherings. The youngest one - Trevor or Travis, I can never remember - has already broken something valuable, judging by the sudden silence followed by furious whispers.
And here we all are, orbiting around this bird that Sarah has transformed into some kind of glossy food magazine centerfold, each of us carrying our own unique burden of expectations like stones in our pockets. Mom remembers every Thanksgiving from 1973 forward and measures each one against some impossible standard of maternal perfection. Dad just wants everyone to get along and maybe watch the game. Sarah needs us to acknowledge her culinary superiority while simultaneously maintaining her role as the perpetually unappreciated artist.
The prayers, when we finally sit down, are a masterpiece of competing denominational interests - Catholic crossed with Baptist crossed with whatever crystal-based spirituality Cheryl's bringing to the table this year. We bow our heads and clutch hands and each silently bargain with our respective deities to just get us through this meal without anyone mentioning politics or that thing that happened at last year's Easter.
But then Sarah's turkey actually is perfect, damn her, and Mom's gravy performs its annual miracle, and Uncle Pete tells that story about the fish he caught in '82 that gets bigger every year, and somehow we're all laughing. And for a moment - brief as grace, fleeting as autumn - we're just a family, bound together by nothing more or less than blood and time and the peculiar alchemy of shared food.
The kids have escaped to their phones, and the adults are settling into their post-feast positions like birds coming home to roost, and I'm thinking about pouring another secret bourbon when Mom brings out the pies. And even though we're all stuffed fuller than that turkey was this morning, we each take a slice because that's what you do. That's what we've always done. That's what we'll keep doing until we can't anymore, and then we'll tell stories about the pies that were and the gravy that was, and the years will fold into each other like pastry layers, flaky and delicate and impossibly rich.