I have never been so discombobulated in all my life as I am right now. What with the pandemic and politics going on, half of which is a bunch of marlatkey. That thingamajig for a TV doesn't tell me anything new; it's the same nincompoops all the time spouting the news. Just once I'd like to hear or see the truth for a change. Maybe.

I get so flummoxed at times listening to one of these dingleberry wanna-be news anchors spitting out a bunch of hogwash and gobbledygook, I almost want to throw a whatchamacallit, you know that, that, oh, I remember now; tantrum. It's just a bunch of poppycock if you ask me. They might have bamboozled a lot of people with their persnickety reporting, but we all know they speak gibberish like nobody's business and the majority of people who listen end up being just like them. I should know. It was my misfortune to be stuck next to a chatty flibbertigibbet during my nightly bus ride home the other day. He couldn't have been more than sixteen, too. I was flabbergasted when the young whippersnapper acted as if he knew all there was to know. I listened politely, nodded my head, then when my stop arrived I practically ran from his still moving lips. I wasn't about to miss my stop and hear him muttering away and let myself lollgag away and waste my personal time. I did the quickest skedaddle off that bus like you have never seen before.

When I finally came home, there were a bunch of people standing around having a regular brouhaha about some doohickey thing that can drive itself these days. I think they call them self-propelled electric cars. Now them things, I wouldn't trust for one second. Whatnot with all the possibilities of saying, "Car, turn left" at such and such a street and end up in a real kerfuffle when the car ends up in a neighbors kitchen, or worse, their bathroom. Talk about being gobsmacked, and can you imagine the look on the owners face?

Anyway, on that day, when I was finally home, I had to face a situation I had put off far too long. I had an unfinished renovation project that had left the laundry room cattywampus; the washer and dryer were unhooked, the walls were unpainted and the sink was disconnected. I wasn't really in the mood for this but I needed to wash a few things I did by hand and afterward, I set up a makeshift set of tenterhooks to hang my clothes up so they could dry. I know, I know, I could use the laundromat three blocks away but I wasn't about to take the time ro whatits ... waste? The time it would take me to get their, wash and dry would take much longer than the time I used and the clothes would be dry in the morning. A quick ironing and they would be ready to wear. I'll do the washer and dryer tomorrow.

That crowd I mentioned, started getting really too loud and things looked like they might get out of hand. So I opened my window and told them to take their shananigans someplace else or I would call the police for the disturbence they were making. That made them quiet down. Of course that was just a bunch of codswallop. I'd never call the police on them, but the mere mention sent them off to someplace else to do their thingamajig. I doubt thay had ideas to canoodle.

They made me laugh a little. What a sight that would be. Half a dozen young men getting suddenly romantic with one another, but who knows? Maybe they will, maybe they won't. Not my concern but that sure would make for an interesting video to put on Youtube.

I need to have something to eat. I know just the thing. Sliced ham, some turkey, bacon, lettuce and a tomato slice on pumpernickel.

Then a shower and the news. Yeah, yeah, I know. It's all fake but I gotta get good lies from some place don't I?

"Louis Mason, is that you?"

"Yessir."

"I don't know what shenanigans you all are up to over there but you better skedaddle on out this store right this instant!"

Little Louis and his ragtag gang of hooligans were all discombobulated when they realized they'd been found out, so they ran out in a tizzy almost knocking over some of the regular customers entering Jim's Convenience Store. The biggest convenience store on Main Street, Jim supplied the town with anything they could every need. The latest furnishings, county and national newspapers, and locally sourced foods.

"Good morning Jim, how are things? I see the usual crew are up to their regular tricks and whatnot."

"What a way to start the morning Bob. But I suppose you can't fault the youth for their energy."

"What I wouldn't give for my own boost of vitality. Not that I was much allowed to rabblerouse when I was a whippersnapper, but I can live vicariously in my imagination at the very least."

Bob Thornton was young at heart but old in body. At 61 years of age he was among the older members of the little town of Fluexom. An active man, socially and physically, Bob was best known to all as the town's secretary. Every Monday morning he did his rounds, greeting the shopkeepers. Only 46 himself, and much more sedentary, Jim admired Bob's zest for like.

"How's the family? How Mrs. Martha?"

"Well, the missus sent me over for one of those breads. Whatchamacallit, one of those pumpernickel loaves."

"Truly Bob, you have left me flummoxed. Perplexed. Would you believe we ran out of them just this past Saturday? Well you know Luann, down by Martin's? She usually bakes them for me. Has them baked and delivered every Sunday morning. Well, she told me she and her man got into an argument, a big kerfuffle about their expenses. Well, long story short, he was refusing to drive to the town they get their rye from, like he usually does, and now, no pumperknickel."

"I'll do you one better Jim. You know how the ladies get together for tea? Well Mrs. Saxony, who lives next door to Luann and Joshua, overheard the argument. Martha calls Jessica a bit of a flibbertigibbet, but she always knows what's going on in town."

"Mrs. Saxony's name is Jessica?"

"Yes, I'm surprised you didn't know that."

"Well she always introduces herself as Mrs. Saxony. You learn something new everyday."

"Anyway! Apparently Joshua has been known to canoodle with Bridget Evers from time to time. Jessica saw them, told Luann. Luann brought it up to Joshua, and now we're here, no pumpernickel."

"I don't believe it!"

"Yes!" Bob leaned in for the most mischevious of whispers then. "Joshua's been dipping his finger in Bridget Evers' pie."

The old men snickered heartily and as quietly as two gossipy men could.

"The scoundrel!"

"The nincompoop!"

Jim had considered Luann one of the fairer beauties of Fluexom. A younger woman than himself, Luann was one of the few eligible bachelorettes in town. She was hard-working and mindful of her duties. Kind to all in town and much loved by them too, nary a soul could malign her. As their snickering abated, Jim kept his thoughts on the slighted woman. Why Joshua would ruin his courting of such a wonderful woman was beyond him.

"We do have whole wheat and white bread, but I can't believe that man's malarkey. I don't even know what he does really. Do you know Bob?"

"I've passed him, walking through town. He seems to be real handy with tools. Carpentry and whatnot. He's got a mechanical mind he does. Owen's stop sign was all cattywampus the other day after the storm. Joshua took some doohickey that was lying around and fixed it. Used some tenterhooks to fix Mr. Hadley's door. One thingamajig to fix another thingamajig. Real handy. Real handy."

Jim caught the implied innuendo but ignored it, trying not to think of Ms. Luann and Joshua together, in any carnal fashion.

"Yeah, he's smart, but not too smart apparently."

"So it would seem."

"I guess I see why she said their argument was over expenses. Who wants to go around letting everybody know you were bamboozled? Bamboozled by a persnickety twit like Joshua Beale at that. The dingleberry!"

"Well, I don't doubt the argument did get to expenses at some point. Joshua's smart but he's not the best with regular employment. His family, while they were still around, God rest their souls, were very earnest folk. And I suppose he's been scatterbrained with his intentions ever since their untimely departure. A young man-- If you don't mind my saying Jim, you seem a bit out of sorts."

"I'm sorry Bob, I'm a bit flabbergasted by this news. Gobsmacked even. Luann deserves better than Joshua Beale."

"Sure does, but who else is chasing after her? She's got limited options."

"I wonder what she'll do now."

"Luann doesn't have family in town. She might go elsewhere, or wherever her heart roams."

Fluexom without Luann didn't seem like a bright prospect. Jim had always viewed Luann with kind eyes. Seeing her on Sunday mornings was a delight he looked forward to.

"That'd be a shame."

"It sure would Jim. If only she had another reason to stay."

Only the force of Bob Thornton's stare brought Jim from his stupor.

"Why are you looking at me like that Bob?"

"Jim Andrews, are you dumb?"

"What do you mean?"

"Why would you get this angry about Luann and Joshua if you weren't sweet on Luann?"

It took Jim a while to compose himself.

"I'm not the spryest chicken in the coop Bob. I'm not bad looking, but I ain't a looker either."

"But you're a good man, a stable man."

"All I have to offer, all I have to my name is this convenience store."

"And love and affection. You can't just lollygag when it comes to romance Jim."

"What, so I just go up to her and tell her, 'hey, I heard about you and Joshua, how's about giving me a chance?!'"

"Jim, this is all hearsay. It could all be a bunch of codswallop. I don't know, just make friendly conversation the next time you see her. You greet her, you throw in some baking gobbledygook, you make eyes at her... I mean, goodness, don't you know how to flirt?"

"If I knew how to flirt would I still be a bachelor?"

Over the store entryway was a bell to alert all and any inside to an unexpected entry. Luann looked despondent. She had a pleasant face on, but her usual chipper attitude was noticeable diminished.

"Good morning Ms. Luann."

"Good morning, Secretary Thornton."

"My dear, never call me secretary. I am always Bob to you."

"Good sir, I will never refer to you without the respect you deserve."

"A charmer Jim! She is ever a charmer! Well I was just on my way out. Martha sent me for pumpernickel but now that I know there's none I guess I'll have to see if she wants another loaf. I'll be back Jim. Ms. Luann."

"Secretary Thorton."

With a tip of the hat and shared giggles, Bob Thornton left the scene and a blushing Jim was left to conduct some kind of unawaited business with the fair lady.

"What was the brouhaha you and Bob were up about?"

"Ah, so you do call him Bob!"

"Never to his face, he'd be too pleased with himself."

Even with a tinge of sadness Luann's smile was a warm salve on Jim's forlorn heart.

"So how can I help you Luann?"

"Well Jim, I wanted to apprise you firsthand. You might have to find a new baker?"

Damned Bob Thornton and his reliable sources.

"Why? Over some pumpernickel?"

"A funny man you are Jim Andrews. No, I might be relocating soon and I thought I would let you know that you might need to start looking."

"Malarkey! No baker could replace you Luann. The town runs on your breads. What ladies' luncheon is without your scones. And your raspberry shortcakes are irreplaceable. Lemon tarts, black currant pies-- "

Jim could and would've gone on with the baked goods jargon, but in his flustered state he spoke his truth.

"You're irreplaceable Luann."

A shared glance that conveyed many different things drew a smile on Luann's craftily obscured, but obviously troubled face.

"Thank you Jim. And I did say I might be leaving, not definitely would be."

"Well until you give me a definite, I will count on you being here."

With nothing but honesty, sadness, pending heartbreak, and loving admiration, Jim spoke his words and meant them. He hadn't borne the entirety of his heart out in some grand admission of love. Instead he took a big step and stood confident in his emotions, willing to take a chance on taking a chance. Luann might leave, but not before Jim would say all he had to say. In a timely fashion. Hopefully.

My senior year of high school, I read a book by Margaret Atwood called, The Handmaid's Tale. I had never read such a thing before. It was unlike anything I'd ever encountered. It was vulgar and sexual and none of the women in the book were particularly kind or even pleasant most of the time.

I grew up in the south where women were expected to be "lady-like." In that book, none of the women were lady-like.

They were not polite. They thought horrible, violent things. They wore provacative clothing. They said crude, sexual words. They performed sexual acts because they wanted to, and never apologized for any of it.

And I had never even considered before then that women could be such a thing. That it wasn't natural for us to behave as what society tells us to be.

Women can be far more than what society, particularly southern society dictates. And that book made me see it.

I realized that the violent, mean, horrible, rude, sexual thoughts that I had were not abnormal. All women had them. I was not some monstrous thing that had broken the mold. Women just hid the parts of themselves that didn't fit what they were told to be.

It was an enlightening realization on my part. I was not a mutant. Just because everyone told us, as women, we were to behave a certain way, we did not actually have to do so.

That book brought me a level of clarity in my life I had never had before. I saw that the world's views of women were wrong. For the first time, I looked around and thought about how different women are, how much more we are than the ways we are often portrayed.

What is "lady-like" anyways? Just another word made up to tell women who they are meant to be.

Women are not only kind and soft and feminine. We are also fearsome and mean and masculine. We are terrifying and strong and sexual. We are violent and bold and intimidating.

Women can be anything we want to be, and Margaret Atwood taught me that.

Dear me,

I didn’t want this.

Common now...my dears,

You can’t really believe this was all your fault?

All the war...

Screams...

Death.

It was your wish,

But common...

impossible.

I know you try to understand me.

You know I try to understand you.

We don’t seem like we belong here.

We don’t.

Me and you...

We wanna be two different things...

Two different people.

Yet- we search for the same opportunity:

Just a chance to live again.

To feel again...

Just a moment where we can feel like something.

Like-

Like maybe we’re not just one little star,

In a sky so large.

We both dream...

To be more.

Yet-

This is just us.

You and I,

We’re nothing.

Maybe it won’t stay that way...

But for now,

Look at us,

We are alone...

Lost...

Sacred...

And we have no idea who we are,

And where we’re going.

Maybe with time we will find our answers...

We might find our...

...purpose...

But,

We stand upon a floor that has collapsed years before we came along.

Must we try to rebuild?

Must we?

You saved me.

I saved you.

We need each other.

Maybe once we know one another better,

We might actually start to understand,

Why we’re here.

We know nothing more than pain now.

Let me believe one more lie-

Let me fall once more...

Because if anything they told me was true,

Then if we keep moving,

And fighting,

And pushing,

If we keep climbing,

Then we will do so much more than just survive.

Yet I see no progress.

I see no life...

I see no hope,

I see no one in my future...

I see nothing at the end of this road...

For the fog is too thick,

And the road is too long...

So let them carry me a little farther.

Keep running through this rain...

Cause even if they were lying to me,

By heart I know that if I stay behind,

I will be:

Forgotten.

So let me run.

-Your mind

Alarm clock goes off.

Depressed sigh.

Bones creak upon rising.

Tired groan.

Stub my toe - the little one.

Muffled grunt

Head to the kitchen.

Tuneless hum.

Open the cupboard.

Chirpy whistle

There is no coffee.

Blood-curdling scream.

I’ve been thinking about this a lot, lately:

If the main thing that separates a sociopath from a normal person, is lack of empathy, what does that say about how feelings and emotions guide us as a society?

Some hard-nosed cynics will say feelings don’t matter. Only facts. But then why does that one single feeling of empathy, make such a difference?

Oral histories spin yarns

Of verifiable mysteries

That only had true form

In a speck of time

But like table salt

Or sugar in your tea,

Are flavors for life

We grow fond of

And always seek to taste

Through acquaintance

But without nausea

Of full persuasion

The creator of this prompt has asked writers on this site what love is. I decided to try and explain it, but to be completely honest, I'm not exactly sure what love is either.

Is love what my mother says she feels for me after yelling at me to shut up and do whatever meaningless task she wants me to perform? Or what my friends claim to have for me before ghosting me for 4 months? Is love what I feel for the people who show me an ounce of kindness before their true personality comes out in all its horrid glory?

Or is love beautiful? The kind of feeling that makes you want to get out of bed in the morning no matter how sucky the day before was. The feeling that you are floating through the clouds and not walking on the boring grey pavement like the rest of us. Is love a sense of never ending happiness, so long as you are with the person you hold so close to your heart? Is love even real?

I'm not sure what love is. But with all the suffering I've gone through looking for it, it better be pretty freaking great.

You always hid behind a mask, created from your fictitious mirror

The things you said, were they lies? Can you make it clearer?

I can’t justify those things you’ve uttered using your native tongues

The harsh pressure that pierces my lungs

You’re not you when people are around,

You’re true self is nowhere to be found

The mirror that reflects your genuine personality

I can’t even see your unique individuality

He told me, “They act like they do, but they actually despise you,”

Are the words he spoke really true?

Am I so despicable that you have to put on a fabricated mask?

If you wanted to lie so badly to me, is that really an onerous task?

Acting so hypocritical in front of me, admonishing me to not do the same

Just how am I supposed to believe your claim?

I used to think you had a perspicacious judgement

But now its seems you just made a lousy adjustment

The “him” that he hid, was to maintain his favorable image

While in front of me, he appears in a cruel visage

His eyes glowing red like a venomous snake

You act kind to others with your reputation on stake

You’re different than him, but yet you act so similar

Could you two really be that familiar?

I thought both of you were disparate

He’s atrocious, while you’re supposedly considerate

I guess you’re just no different

You only let your mask slip when its urgent

The you behind the mirror, I don’t want to see it

I can already see your nefarious intentions being bit

In the past, I thought you were kind

But now I think something impaired your mind

Now you flaunt me around to your people

What a ostentatious mother you are, making others feel unequal

I never asked and never want to impress

I don’t need you to criticize the way I dress!

The ways people whisper to you about the lies you concocted

Why can’t I just be adopted?

Your desire for other men,

is despicable and unfaithful while I look through my pen

Where is the ‘you’ that I used to admire?

All your reprehensible actions only lit a fire

I can’t even stand looking at your fakeness

I ignore your guests without sparing my kindness

Heading towards the person you betrayed,

my heart filled with hatred, I toss away the image you portrayed

The you behind the mirror that I used to love

But that was before when “truth” gave me a shove

I soon realized that you’re not the one,

with all those atrocious things you’ve done

You yell awful words at me to relieve your own anger, you problem maker

I’m not someone you shout at, you’re supposed to be my caretaker

I want to just shut my ears to your voice and escape

I feel so trapped, so depressed because of your grotesque shape

Dear Mom,

I’m going to kill Santa Claus.

Okay, I know that sounds bad. And maybe it is. But listen –– Santa Claus? He’s worse.

Let me explain.

So there I was –– actually, before I get started, how are you? I know it’s been a few weeks since I wrote you. How are things in the Keebler factory? Still good? I hope they’re alright, because I’ll need a place to hide out after I do this murder. Anyway . . .

So there I was, December 26th –– yesterday. I was enjoying one of my very few days off a year, when who should appear? Mrs. Claus herself!

‘Dingle,’ she said. ‘You’re needed upstairs. In the Official Naughty or Nice List Room.’

Now, as you know, almost nobody’s got the clearance to go in there. So I was like, whaaaa? But I went up, fully expecting to meet a grumpy day-after-Christmas Santa. I thought: Maybe I’m on the naughty list? Maybe I accidentally parked my work sleigh in a reindeer-only lane?

But nothing –– nothing –– could have prepared me for what I found up there.

It was . . . Mrs. Claus!

Now, obviously the first thing I wondered was why she’d gone to the trouble of telling me to meet her in this secret, high-security location, when she just as easily could’ve talked to me before. So I asked her.

‘I have to tell you a secret, Dingle,’ she answered. ‘And no one can overhear.’ And she looked me right in the eyes and said: ‘I’m in love with you.’

I know! I was shocked too!

Now, I can’t say I hadn’t thought about Mrs. Claus romantically before. I mean, those rosy cheeks? Adorable! The way she spreads joy and cheer wherever she goes? Admirable! Her love of experimenting with new cookie recipes? Delicious!

But of course, whenever those fleeting thoughts entered my brain, I had to remind myself: Dingle, she’s married. To your boss, no less! But now, here she was, confessing her love for me!

‘Does Mr. Claus know?’ I had to ask. If he did, that would complicate our next moves.

Unfortunately, he does know. You see, Mrs. Claus told me she’d gone to Santa and admitted her secret love –– but he’d said, in no uncertain terms, that such a romance would be expressly forbidden in the North Pole. The old villain!

So I thought: poor Mrs. Clause. Her husband is too busy for her –– too busy making toys and spreading goodwill! Not even doing anything worthwhile, like lifting weights or practicing chess in the mirror. Mrs. Clause needed a big, strong, aggressive elf, not that irritatingly cheerful old man she’s saddled with. (And yes, I know I’m only 3’9’’ – but that’s considered big for a North Pole elf!) And now, that old man stood in the way of our happily ever after.

The next step in the plan came easy now: kill Santa Claus.

Honestly, I’ve been complaining about wanting to kill old Saint Nick for a few years, since he demoted me from Head of Video Game Console Testing to Junior Stuffed Animal Stuffer –– just because I kept throwing controllers through the TVs! I’m sure I’m not the only one who wants the old man gone –– although, everyone I’ve ever asked has been too wimpy to agree that Santa needs a permanent vacation.

You know, I bet word got around. I bet that’s why Mrs. Claus fell in love with me! (Like I said before, big, strong, aggressive elf.) Wow, it all makes sense now!

So back to my secret meeting with my new lover, Mrs. Claus. Together, we crafted an ingenious plan: Mrs. Claus will ask Santa to meet her in the middle of the sports toys and equipment factory. There, I’ll use my massive muscles and equally massive brain to create a “tragic accident” involving a bunch of baseball bats falling onto Santa’s stupid head. Then I’ll whisk Mrs. Claus away to the Keebler factory, where we’ll live out the rest of our days eating cookies and being in love and stuff.

Now, I’ll be honest, it does seem odd that Mrs. Clause would want me to murder her husband in such a high traffic area . . . but who am I to question the will of my beloved? I only hope we can escape before the security elves catch us –– they hang out in all the factories, especially the more dangerous ones like sports and gardening. Oh well! I’m sure my dear Mrs. Claus has her reasons.

Our plan is scheduled for tomorrow. Prepare for me to arrive at the Keebler factory sometime this week! Oh, and maybe keep my and Mrs. Claus’s plans on the down low. You can’t trust anyone these days!

Tell Dad I say ‘hi,’ and remind him that I’m a grown elf and I do not need anger management classes.

See you soon. Your favorite son,

Dingle

#letter #Christmas #murder