A True Christian is one that believes that Jesus:

1. Is God's own son;

2. He came to earth as a baby;

3. Is fully man and fully human;

4. Died on a cross to pay for your sin;

And they:

1. Accepted the gift of forgiveness and salvation (and has been baptized);

2. Lives a life that honors God;

3. And shows by their actions and words that they believe what they say they do.

Today, I'm starting over. I'm beginning my healing process by letting everything that binds me, weighing me down go. I'm closing the door to my past, looking forward to what's coming next, and most importantly, believing that everything will turn out right. After all the pain I've been through I will always choose love, blooming between broken souls. Swallowing bitterness. I want to be bigger than love, bigger than life, bigger than pain. Love will always shine in the darkness, falling with the rain.

My granny was 81 when I was born, 96 when she died. She would have turned 97 that year had she survived till her birthday. Although she had lung cancer (she'd smoked unfiltered Camels and chewed apple tobacco till the day she died), it was pneumonia that stilled her heart.

One of my most vivid memories with her, is sitting at the kitchen table in her cozy, warm kitchen while she made a cake. It seemed to take hours. She moved slowly, gathering the ingredients: butter, eggs, flour, salt, and sugar. She told me stories that, sadly, I no longer remember while she softened, mixed and stirred, and stirred and stirred. Batter completed, she stood to pour it in the well-worn tins she'd prepared with shortening and flour. As the layers baked (not all at once as I recall), she made the best part: lemon glaze.

For my son’s first birthday (and many that followed), I made a Granny cake, as we have come to call it. I hunted for a lemon glaze recipe since my dad, grandma and great-grandma didn't know exactly how Granny made hers. I knew I had found it when the one I made sent me right back to Granny's kitchen, sitting on her lap, licking the spoon and eying the oven as we waited for the cake to bake.

Santa Claus was real. Monkey had seen him on the TV. And the TV had never lied to Monkey.

He wasn’t stoopid. He knew not every Santa was the real Santa. Shopping Mall Santas were as real as their cotton wool beards. But that was because the real Santa was too busy making toys in the North Pole to sit around all day having his photo taken.

Still, Monkey would have liked to have a photo. He would sit on Santa’s knee and smile the biggest Monkey smile any Monkey had ever smiled.

Monkey asked Hunter if he would take him to the Mall.

‘Are you nucking futs?’ Hunter asked him. ‘What if my friends see me?’

So then Monkey asked Marlowe. But she was writing in her diary and she wasn’t really listening to Monkey.

Monkey was worried. All he could think about was Santa’s Naughty list. Was he on it? He always tried to be good. But it wasn’t always easy. Being naughty came naturally to Monkey. All Monkeys were a little bit naughty sometimes.

He found a piece of paper that was purple and smelled like some kind of flower and a stub of chewed green pencil in the kitchen drawer where Mum saved things like rubber bands and bits of string and old batteries and wrote Santa a letter.

He asked for a tricycle for Christmas. A blue tricycle with rainbow coloured streamers on the handlebar grips. There was a picture of one just like it in a catalogue. Monkey cut the picture out very carefully with his safety scissors and folded it inside his letter. Then he looked in the same kitchen drawer until he found an envelope and a stamp.

He posted his letter with the picture of the blue tricycle inside it on the 1st of December. To make sure it got to the North Pole in time.

That night Monkey dreamed...

He dreamed he was riding his tricycle in the park. All the people in the park pointed and clapped and cheered and waved and smiled at how clever Monkey was. And how beautiful his new blue tricycle was with its rainbow coloured streamers fluttering and sparkling from the handlebars.

He rode and rode. Up and down and all around. He rode until his legs were too tired to pedal anymore.

He was the happiest Monkey in the whole world!

He dreamed the same dream every night.

The day before Christmas the postman knocked on the front door, and when Monkey answered it, the postman gave him a letter. It was his letter. The letter he had written to Santa. Somebody at the post office had stamped on it with red ink -

INSUFFICIENT POSTAGE

The postman said he was sorry.

The price of stamps had gone up, he said, and the North Pole was a long way away. Maybe Monkey could text Santa. Or send him an e-mail.

‘You can do that these days’, said the postman. ‘There’s still time for Santa to see it.’

Monkey wasn’t listening. All he could hear was his heart breaking into a million pieces.

Monkey knew he should say something to the postman. But he was too sad for words. He went to bed early without any dinner and cried himself to sleep.

He dreamed about riding his tricycle in the park again. But this time a big ugly bully pushed him off and laughed at him and called him a baby.

‘Only babies ride tricycles,’ the big ugly bully said. Then he told Monkey, ‘Only babies believe in Santa Claus.’

It was still dark when Gus the dog woke Monkey up.

‘There’s somebody in the house,’ Gus said.

Wearing his blue and white striped nightgown and cap, Monkey tiptoed down the hallway and peeked around the corner of the doorway into the living room. All he could see was a very large and very round bottom in white fur trimmed red trousers. It was so big and round it blocked out the twinkling lights of the Christmas tree.

‘That’s not a somebody,’ Monkey whispered to Gus. ‘It’s Santa!’

‘Can’t be,’ said Gus. ‘Everybody knows Santa’s not real.’

‘Oh, really?’ Asked Monkey. ‘So who drank the milk and ate the cookies Marlowe made?’

Gus looked sheepish. And that’s not easy for a dog. Unless it’s a sheep dog. But Gus wasn’t one of those. He was a Rottweiler Golden Retriever cross with a milk moustache and cookie crumbs in his fur.

‘It’s a good job you don’t like carrots,’ said Monkey crossly.

‘Uhm... Yeah... Well... I might have nibbled them a bit.’

Henry the cat crawled out from under the sofa and wrapped himself around Santa’s boots, purring.

Santa tried to nudge Henry away. But Henry wasn’t having any of it. He purred even louder and jumped up to claw at Santa’s leg.

‘Go away,’ said Santa. ‘I’m aller... aller... aller-CHOOOOH!!!’

He sneezed so hard his beard came off!

‘There,’ said Gus. ‘Told you so. Not real. Just Hunter and Marlowe’s Dad dressed up.’

Only it wasn’t. Behind the beard Santa was -

A WOMAN!

Monkey’s jaw hit the floor with a thud. ‘WHAAAAAAAT?’

Santa who wasn’t Santa turned around and saw him.

‘You’re not Santa,’ said Monkey. ‘Who are you?’

‘I’m not Mister Claus,’ said the old lady in Santa’s clothes. ‘He’s tucked up in bed with the flu. There’s a lot of it going around. Half the elves are down with it, too. Even Rudolph has a head cold. Why do you think his nose is red?’

‘But...’

‘But...’

‘But...’

Before Monkey could get another ‘But...’ out, Mrs Claus winked at him and disappeared up the chimney. WOOOSH!!!

‘She moves fast for an old lady,’ said Gus, standing with his front paws on a window ledge and looking up at the roof.

They both heard the jingle of sleigh bells and the clip clop of reindeer hooves. And then Mrs Claus shouting, ‘On, Prancer! On, Dancer! On, Comet and Blitzen! Shift yer hairy arses, ya dopey buggers! We don’t have all night, you know!’

Monkey went back to bed. But he was too excited to sleep.

In the morning there were presents under the tree. Lot and lots of presents. For Hunter. For Marlowe. For Mum and Dad. And there were presents for Henry and Gus, too. But the biggest most beautifully wrapped present of them all was for Monkey!

He bit through the ribbon and tore at the wrapping like only a Monkey can. Under all the paper and sticky tape was a big plain cardboard box. And inside that box was another box. And inside that box was another smaller box. And inside that box was another box that was even smaller. And inside that box was a framed photo of a Monkey who looked a lot like Monkey sitting on Santa’s knee. Smiling.

But how?

‘It’s magic,’ said Marlowe.

‘There’s something on the back of it,’ said Hunter. ‘Look.’

Monkey turned the photo over.

There was a map of their house sketched with green pencil on lavendar paper with an X drawn in the back yard.

They all went outside to look. And there. With an enormous red bow tied around it was a bright and shining new blue tricycle with rainbow coloured streamers fluttering and sparkling from the handlebars.

A faint earthy smell of fresh petrichor lingered through the air like a magical serenade. Coal black clouds boogied across the sky, opening up so gently to pour beads of mellow raindrops which soon beat and bickered on the clean sunshade. Chelsea rested her elbows on the window-stool and cupped her chin in her hands, staring out into the night. Drawing a heart over the condensed droplets of the glass window, she pulled up the casement, allowing the rain to caress her delicate cerise palms. She then folded her hands, and brushed her elbows, strapping her satin robe a bit tighter as her soft flaxen hair horripilated like a million needles from her silken skin. Colourful bright umbrellas started blooming quickly down the street like azaleas at the crack of dawn.

“Kwarh,” her little boy mumbled in his sleep. She turned and sat on his bed, stroking his flushed pink cheeks. Pulling the edge of the bedsheet a bit up, she kissed his warm forehead and smiled as she switched off the lights and sneaked out of the room, not making the slightest noise. She walked through a series of white rooms with little furniture and went downstairs, her hand running smoothly on the varnished wooden railing. A big television screen welcomed her as she went into the main hall, moving her hands around her neck to keep warmth. Winston sat slouching on the dove couch, dressed in checked blue pyjamas which smelled of new fabric. A dark woman in her late forties, her hair arranged in an old-fashioned style on top of her head stared out of the 40 inch television. She had a perfect looking face with big brown eyes and natural black hair that was just beginning to grey. Chelsea brought her arms forward and looped them around his shoulders, allowing his head to nestle under her chin.

“My dear comrades, we were all born equally…” the Congresswoman’s strong voice said from the speakers. Her fringe of hair, cut straight across the forehead danced as she talked suiting her intelligent and sensitive face.

“That woman’s definitely winning the elections. Just too good at canvassing,” Winston tilted his head up, his blue eyes staring at the upside-down face of his wife. Her sandy blonde lines of thick eyebrows which arched down at the ends, twitched into a frown.

“Come on, what’s wrong with her? She’s a great leader!” Chelsea said, pinching his hand slightly. He chuckled, switching off the television set and turned towards his wife, taking her cheeks in his hands.

“I know you’re going to vote for her,” he said with a little rise in the corner of his mouth, a stocky sweet smirk. She scratched her head a little and rolled her eyes, turning towards the direction of the glass window where spurts of rainwater flowed down like the cascades of Niagara. Winston breathed in a little and stroked her anomalously youthful cheeks.

“Nice weather, huh?” he said, pushing a chunk of hair behind her ear. She smiled, revealing her fine, pointy teeth.

“I hope this never ends,” she said to her husband.

“Me too,” he whispered with a strange light in his bright blue eyes. He kissed her forehead and pulled her close to snuggle against his chest.

The rain’s white noise sounded like a heavenly timpani. Leaves and branches of elm trees brushed in discreet whisperings. Baby birds ensconced close to their mother’s breast. And from a distance a nocturnal observer watched them all in tranquil silence.

***

Strong, puissant winds swept the city. Angry obsidian clouds spat out gouts of rain. Gummed up rheumy eyes shut tight with every single cry of hers. He brushed back with his calloused hands the dark coily hair which curled around on her little forehead. Drenched all over and shivering every second, the rainwater stripped his shrivelled body to the bone. Jeremiah wrapped her in a piece of rag and held her close within his tattered coat trying his best to keep her warm. He shook her body slowly, sending her to a gentle slumber when bold colossal electric streaks of a bright forked lightning tore the sky into four parts, vaunting its mighty prowess, paving way for a violent thunder which rumbled and roared conjuring a new batch of battering blood curdling rains.

The little girl fulminated again into a series of unceasing cries as the tent roof toppled and fell to one side. Ada crawled slowly beside him, taking the child from his arms.

“Tis alright, sweetie, tis alright. Look a’ Mama! Look a’ Mama!” She tried comforting the adamant kid. Her eyes fluttered as she put one hand under her belly, feeling the boy who kicked from inside. She tore a strip of cloth from her gown and wrapped it around her baby. Rocking the child in her arms, she sang a rhymeless lullaby kissing her back to sleep.

“Will this ever end?” Jeremiah growled as the downpour increased, dropping down gallons of water-bombs. He put one hand around his wife and held her tight. The tent collapsed a bit more and hit his head. He pushed the polythene sheets a little and stared out at the street. A television set nestled inside a local retail store which sat opposite to their crumpled tent.

“We were all born equally…” The Congresswoman’s voice travelled through the sounds of devilish drums from above and into his ears. Jeremiah chuckled and tilted his head down, shaking it wildly.

“Sweedart,” he said to the little figure on the television. “We ain't born equally. No, we ain't.”

The nocturnal bird hooted from a distant cottonwood tree. It flexed its talons and pressed the bough of its perch and lowered its body a bit down. It then held forth its ankles, pushing the whole body forward and opened its umber wings, hopping into an astute flight with one swift leap. It set off into the buffeting rains and flew through the deep dark ebony skies. Under her lay a bizarre city, festooned with pleasure and pain, life and death.

Two lovers walked under one red parasol on their first date, the girl collecting raindrops in her hand and splattering them onto the boy’s face. A peasant sat smiling inside his little hut, its thatched roof crumbling down over him, thanking the rain, for now his crops would grow well. A basenji stood sniffing at the body of a refugee, struck dead by a lightning; died without a proof, died without a birth or death certificate and no one to care if he was dead or alive. A rich couple fondled each other, enjoying the natural air-conditioner, whilst in the next street a doomed family sat on the asphalt pavement, trying to keep each other warm and alive. An old lady grumbled about her garbs left to hang in the clothesline being doused in the rain. A Congresswoman pushed back the reporters and paparazzi who blocked her way and got into her matt grey Mercedes, smiling to herself that her speech would make the headlines. A weatherman stood on a busy street wearing a raincoat and was reporting into the camera in front of him that the rains were expected to last not more than an hour, whilst in the background a wealthy merchant cavilled over his business losses, not realising how lucky and blessed he was.

The bird went on soaring upwards and jiggled its body altogether, whirring its wings, shaking off the water droplets from its feathers. Funny, is it not? How many dimensions this world can behold.

I was picked up

I was put down

Click

Tap

As I made contact with the paper

It was constant

I was happy.

I rose

I fell

I waited

To be lifted

once again

For I hadn't been used

in a long time.

So I waited,

hanging there, staying there,

expecting there

to be

a change,

but none arrived.

I was misused

Practically thrown away

but somehow I was seen

and so I was wielded once more

by the next person

who happened to pick me back up

Off of the ground.

Sure, I was lost,

but now I was found.

Cold Snap was the very first thing I wrote on Prose. I joined on Valentine's Day last year and I've got more than 300 posts since. It's pretty incredible how well Prose meshed with my creativity.

This is where you can find the poem:

https://theprose.com/post/411596/cold-snap

This broke a very long period of Writer's block for me and Prose has continued to provide inspiration when I'm blocked or otherwise uninspired to do anything at the keyboard.

PS: I entered the same challenge as you did many months after I started on Prose.