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We’ve recently witnessed the exponential proliferation of AI capable of creating striking, derivative media. The community of artists across mediums have reacted strongly to this development, and we are no different.
This is where Club comes in.
Every month, Club will offer a fresh prompt. We’ll feed the prompt both to you and to an abominable AI writer. To inspire your vitriol and competition, naturally. Then we’ll publish up to the first 23 submissions we receive in order. The faster, the better. Hammer something out, submit a picture or a first draft scrawled on a napkin. Send something new, drafty, bad, idiosyncratic, rough – a human operation an AI could never hope to master.
Hat tip to CC alum @spencerrunsalot for the Club concept 🤗✨.
✵ March Club ✵
PROMPT: March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb. 275 words max.
Lion and Lamb of March
The saying "March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb" is a common weather-related proverb that highlights the change in weather that typically occurs during the month of March.
At the beginning of March, winter is still in full force, and the weather can be harsh and unpredictable. Strong winds, heavy snow, and freezing temperatures are all common during this time, which is why it's compared to a lion.
As the month progresses, however, the weather usually begins to improve. The days get longer, the sun gets warmer, and the snow and ice begin to melt. By the end of the month, spring has officially arrived, and the weather is often much milder and more pleasant. This is why it's compared to a lamb.
Of course, like any weather-related saying, "March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb" isn't always accurate. Depending on where you live, March can be a month of unpredictable weather, with snowstorms and warm, sunny days occurring in quick succession.
Despite its limitations, though, the saying is a useful reminder that the weather can change quickly and that we should always be prepared for the unexpected. Whether you're dealing with harsh winter weather or enjoying the first signs of spring, it's always a good idea to keep an eye on the forecast and be ready for whatever Mother Nature throws your way.
The saying "March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb" is a common weather-related proverb that highlights the change in weather that typically occurs during the month of March.
At the beginning of March, winter is still in full force, and the weather can be harsh and unpredictable. Strong winds, heavy snow, and freezing temperatures are all common during this time, which is why it's compared to a lion.
As the month progresses, however, the weather usually begins to improve. The days get longer, the sun gets warmer, and the snow and ice begin to melt. By the end of the month, spring has officially arrived, and the weather is often much milder and more pleasant. This is why it's compared to a lamb.
Of course, like any weather-related saying, "March comes in like a lion and goes out like a lamb" isn't always accurate. Depending on where you live, March can be a month of unpredictable weather, with snowstorms and warm, sunny days occurring in quick succession.
Despite its limitations, though, the saying is a useful reminder that the weather can change quickly and that we should always be prepared for the unexpected. Whether you're dealing with harsh winter weather or enjoying the first signs of spring, it's always a good idea to keep an eye on the forecast and be ready for whatever Mother Nature throws your way.
Marbles
The last gift Lane gave me before the breakup was a pair of lion’s eyes—really just two glass marbles—to me, they were obviously the eyes of a lion.
The breakup came four days before the birthday. It made me wonder if maybe Lane had intended the artifacts to be gifts, but the gift-giving had been abandoned due to the breakup. Maybe they belonged to Lane and were just forgotten in the apartment. Maybe Lane had left the lion eyes in their black-wrapped box as a hex. What do I know? Not much. Two lion eyes in a black-wrapped box on the back windowsill.
I called her on the phone to get answers while staying perfectly calm.
Why are you calling? She said.
What do they mean? I said.
What do what mean? She said.
The lion’s eyes. I said.
What? Lion’s eyes? She laughed, and I think she was laughing at me and not with me. Do you think you’re joking?
The fucking marbles, I said.
The fucking whats? She said.
I started to get super angry then. I think you know, and I know you know I know, and I think you know that I know what and how you’ll tell me.
Lane’s silence told me I was more right than I’d ever been. Guess I can’t hide those lion eyes. Then she laughed, like, really hard, and hung up on me.
Why does this always happen to me? He said, she said, they said—every relationship has been like that. Just a ton of talking. That must have been why the breakup happened before the birthday. My story is about nothing.
The last gift Lane gave me before the breakup was a pair of lion’s eyes—really just two glass marbles—to me, they were obviously the eyes of a lion.
The breakup came four days before the birthday. It made me wonder if maybe Lane had intended the artifacts to be gifts, but the gift-giving had been abandoned due to the breakup. Maybe they belonged to Lane and were just forgotten in the apartment. Maybe Lane had left the lion eyes in their black-wrapped box as a hex. What do I know? Not much. Two lion eyes in a black-wrapped box on the back windowsill.
I called her on the phone to get answers while staying perfectly calm.
Why are you calling? She said.
What do they mean? I said.
What do what mean? She said.
The lion’s eyes. I said.
What? Lion’s eyes? She laughed, and I think she was laughing at me and not with me. Do you think you’re joking?
The fucking marbles, I said.
The fucking whats? She said.
I started to get super angry then. I think you know, and I know you know I know, and I think you know that I know what and how you’ll tell me.
Lane’s silence told me I was more right than I’d ever been. Guess I can’t hide those lion eyes. Then she laughed, like, really hard, and hung up on me.
Why does this always happen to me? He said, she said, they said—every relationship has been like that. Just a ton of talking. That must have been why the breakup happened before the birthday. My story is about nothing.
The Bad Witch p.2
Last night, I dreamt of Teresa. After she received my gift, she stopped frequenting the sidewalk in front of my office and I miss her a lot. Her screeching accusations of violence and blasphemy would lull me to sleep and without her, I feel incomplete.
In my dream, I was chasing her through a forest of giant pickets. The signs formed a thick canopy above my head and I followed her from one post to another. She would run and hide behind a picket, and each time I thought I caught up to her, I was left disappointed and covered in splinters. I continued farther and farther, until my own shadow dissolved within the tall growth of poster and plywood. When I could no longer see what was in front of me, I would pursue her through sound, as her tirades on repentance revealed her location.
Eventually, I approached a clearing with Teresa standing in the center. One of her hands gripped a bloody heart, and the other pointed a finger towards me. My initial thought was that it was Brad’s heart that I gave her for Valentine’s, but when I looked down at myself, where my own heart should have been, what remained were thick, coagulates of sinew and vessels.
I woke up smiling from a great night’s sleep, wondering when we would meet again.
Last night, I dreamt of Teresa. After she received my gift, she stopped frequenting the sidewalk in front of my office and I miss her a lot. Her screeching accusations of violence and blasphemy would lull me to sleep and without her, I feel incomplete.
In my dream, I was chasing her through a forest of giant pickets. The signs formed a thick canopy above my head and I followed her from one post to another. She would run and hide behind a picket, and each time I thought I caught up to her, I was left disappointed and covered in splinters. I continued farther and farther, until my own shadow dissolved within the tall growth of poster and plywood. When I could no longer see what was in front of me, I would pursue her through sound, as her tirades on repentance revealed her location.
Eventually, I approached a clearing with Teresa standing in the center. One of her hands gripped a bloody heart, and the other pointed a finger towards me. My initial thought was that it was Brad’s heart that I gave her for Valentine’s, but when I looked down at myself, where my own heart should have been, what remained were thick, coagulates of sinew and vessels.
I woke up smiling from a great night’s sleep, wondering when we would meet again.
Hannah Hersey occasionally writes in her free time.
✵ February Club ✵
PROMPT: An owl drops a Valentine’s Day gift into your hand. Write a story about the gift and the owl. 275 words max.
Owl Delivers Locket Gift
It was a crisp, clear Valentine's Day morning when I stepped out of my front door to retrieve the newspaper. Suddenly, a large, fluffy owl swooped down and dropped a small, intricately wrapped package into my hand. I looked up at the owl in disbelief and it looked back at me with its big, round eyes, then flew away.
I carefully opened the package to reveal a beautiful, hand-carved wooden box with a small note attached that read, "Happy Valentine's Day! Open me." I eagerly lifted the lid and inside was a delicate, gold locket on a chain. I couldn't believe my eyes - the craftsmanship was incredible.
As I held the locket in my hand, I couldn't help but think about the owl that had delivered the gift to me. Who could have sent this? And why did they choose to deliver it through an owl? I couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to this story than met the eye.
I decided to take a walk to clear my head and try to piece together what was going on. As I walked, I noticed that the owl was following me, gliding silently above my head. I stopped in my tracks and looked up, and the owl flew down to perch on a nearby tree.
I approached the owl, and to my surprise, it spoke to me. "The locket you hold is a symbol of love and protection," it said. "It has been passed down through generations of owls, and we have chosen you to be its keeper. You have been selected for your kindness, bravery, and wisdom, and it’s our hope that
It was a crisp, clear Valentine's Day morning when I stepped out of my front door to retrieve the newspaper. Suddenly, a large, fluffy owl swooped down and dropped a small, intricately wrapped package into my hand. I looked up at the owl in disbelief and it looked back at me with its big, round eyes, then flew away.
I carefully opened the package to reveal a beautiful, hand-carved wooden box with a small note attached that read, "Happy Valentine's Day! Open me." I eagerly lifted the lid and inside was a delicate, gold locket on a chain. I couldn't believe my eyes - the craftsmanship was incredible.
As I held the locket in my hand, I couldn't help but think about the owl that had delivered the gift to me. Who could have sent this? And why did they choose to deliver it through an owl? I couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to this story than met the eye.
I decided to take a walk to clear my head and try to piece together what was going on. As I walked, I noticed that the owl was following me, gliding silently above my head. I stopped in my tracks and looked up, and the owl flew down to perch on a nearby tree.
I approached the owl, and to my surprise, it spoke to me. "The locket you hold is a symbol of love and protection," it said. "It has been passed down through generations of owls, and we have chosen you to be its keeper. You have been selected for your kindness, bravery, and wisdom, and it’s our hope that
[Chat GPT unfortunately decided to submit a 387 word response despite the prompt's abundantly clear 275 word limit.]
The Bad Witch p.1
Practicing black magic is like canvassing for climate change. Even those who proclaim they align with your beliefs may attempt to avoid your enclave in fear of a mere conversation, and it’s expected to be on the receiving end of a few passionate rants and raves that deny your fundamental beliefs. However, at the start of each February, my schedule swells with requests for consultations and appointments — on occasion, I receive such inquiries from the very non-believers that picket right outside my office.
I see Teresa O’Neil from my window every morning. The stained glass tinges her silhouette a murky red and her constant howls of curses and admonishments make her seem more like a witch than I am. I was half-surprised to see a letter from her asking if she could help me win the heart of her highschool sweetheart from a few decades past. I sent an owl from my aviary to complete her request and it returned the next day to its roost, cooing in contentment as it dropped a heavy bundle from its claws.
Nothing excites me more than imagining what her face looked like, what kind of noises may have ejected from her foul mouth as she saw Brad’s still-beating heart pulsing and gushing from a cardboard box.
Practicing black magic is like canvassing for climate change. Even those who proclaim they align with your beliefs may attempt to avoid your enclave in fear of a mere conversation, and it’s expected to be on the receiving end of a few passionate rants and raves that deny your fundamental beliefs. However, at the start of each February, my schedule swells with requests for consultations and appointments — on occasion, I receive such inquiries from the very non-believers that picket right outside my office.
I see Teresa O’Neil from my window every morning. The stained glass tinges her silhouette a murky red and her constant howls of curses and admonishments make her seem more like a witch than I am. I was half-surprised to see a letter from her asking if she could help me win the heart of her highschool sweetheart from a few decades past. I sent an owl from my aviary to complete her request and it returned the next day to its roost, cooing in contentment as it dropped a heavy bundle from its claws.
Nothing excites me more than imagining what her face looked like, what kind of noises may have ejected from her foul mouth as she saw Brad’s still-beating heart pulsing and gushing from a cardboard box.
Hannah Hersey occasionally writes in her free time.
An Owl’s Reminder
I debated whether to bring up Valentine’s Day when I heard a sound like a car alarm. But it came from a tree.
I went to tell Nikki, hunched in her home office chair. She frowned, then heard it too. We rushed to the backyard, and my flashlight scared off our visitor. It looked like a barn owl. They’re common in Berkeley.
Nikki returned to spreadsheets. It was 10 p.m., but I didn’t need to remind her. She had federal reporting deadlines this week. I went to bed and awoke from a scene where giant roses swallowed me. Nikki’s side was still empty, the office light on.
In the predawn on the back porch, I watched the tree’s silhouette. I got lucky. The barn owl was back and now it flew toward me. It dropped something in my hand. A red gift bow.
Back in the office, Nikki spoke without looking up. “Don’t worry, I’ll take today off sleep, I mean to sleep. I’m almost—“ She turned. “What are you wearing?”
“An owl gave me this,” I said, tilting my head and batting my eyelashes with the bow atop my head. “I’m your present this Valentine’s day.”
“It’s not…oh, it’s today, huh. Wait, an owl?”
She finally agreed to a backrub and sleep. Through the window, I saw the owl in the tree surrounded by a dozen red bows. The owl grabbed one and flew off. Maybe it made the rounds to stressed-out couples in the neighborhood.
Nikki muttered instructions as if at work. I got us a dinner reservation at her favorite restaurant, put the ribbon on her head, and kissed her cheek.
I debated whether to bring up Valentine’s Day when I heard a sound like a car alarm. But it came from a tree.
I went to tell Nikki, hunched in her home office chair. She frowned, then heard it too. We rushed to the backyard, and my flashlight scared off our visitor. It looked like a barn owl. They’re common in Berkeley.
Nikki returned to spreadsheets. It was 10 p.m., but I didn’t need to remind her. She had federal reporting deadlines this week. I went to bed and awoke from a scene where giant roses swallowed me. Nikki’s side was still empty, the office light on.
In the predawn on the back porch, I watched the tree’s silhouette. I got lucky. The barn owl was back and now it flew toward me. It dropped something in my hand. A red gift bow.
Back in the office, Nikki spoke without looking up. “Don’t worry, I’ll take today off sleep, I mean to sleep. I’m almost—“ She turned. “What are you wearing?”
“An owl gave me this,” I said, tilting my head and batting my eyelashes with the bow atop my head. “I’m your present this Valentine’s day.”
“It’s not…oh, it’s today, huh. Wait, an owl?”
She finally agreed to a backrub and sleep. Through the window, I saw the owl in the tree surrounded by a dozen red bows. The owl grabbed one and flew off. Maybe it made the rounds to stressed-out couples in the neighborhood.
Nikki muttered instructions as if at work. I got us a dinner reservation at her favorite restaurant, put the ribbon on her head, and kissed her cheek.
Spencer Tierney is a writer in the San Francisco Bay Area.
The Ghost Owl
They said the ghost of a wizened old owl haunted the woods behind my house. It was 1990, and my parents had just shuttled me and my sisters halfway up the state from Miami to middle-of-nowhere Ocala County.
The other kids in Mrs. Miller’s third-grade class left me alone for the most part, except for the blonde-haired twins, Luke and Lindsey Fisher. They struck me with their slap bracelets and broke my Ariel pencils. They said the ghost owl peered through my window at night and scooped up kids like me to feed to baby owls nestled in the live oaks.
I came home empty-handed on Valentine’s Day; I was the new kid, so everyone had forgotten to give me paper cards covered in hearts, Snoopy, and the Berenstain Bears. I gathered the pet carrier we used to take my cat Sleepy to the vet and headed for the woods. I planned to capture the ghost owl and release it at school. Or maybe I would shove it in Luke Fisher’s face.
Moss crunched underfoot, and palmettos scraped my ankles. In the distance, someone chopped wood and the air smelled like a campfire. Ocala County was much colder than Miami.
A hand gripped my shoulder.
“What are you doing here?”
It was Luke Fisher.
“Nothing. Looking for the ghost owl. Why did you follow me?”
“Just wanted to see what kind of trouble you were up to.”
A great horned owl swooped down and clawed the back of Luke’s scalp. He ran home bleeding and screamed, “My God, it’s real!”
And that was the very best Valentine’s Day gift.
They said the ghost of a wizened old owl haunted the woods behind my house. It was 1990, and my parents had just shuttled me and my sisters halfway up the state from Miami to middle-of-nowhere Ocala County.
The other kids in Mrs. Miller’s third-grade class left me alone for the most part, except for the blonde-haired twins, Luke and Lindsey Fisher. They struck me with their slap bracelets and broke my Ariel pencils. They said the ghost owl peered through my window at night and scooped up kids like me to feed to baby owls nestled in the live oaks.
I came home empty-handed on Valentine’s Day; I was the new kid, so everyone had forgotten to give me paper cards covered in hearts, Snoopy, and the Berenstain Bears. I gathered the pet carrier we used to take my cat Sleepy to the vet and headed for the woods. I planned to capture the ghost owl and release it at school. Or maybe I would shove it in Luke Fisher’s face.
Moss crunched underfoot, and palmettos scraped my ankles. In the distance, someone chopped wood and the air smelled like a campfire. Ocala County was much colder than Miami.
A hand gripped my shoulder.
“What are you doing here?”
It was Luke Fisher.
“Nothing. Looking for the ghost owl. Why did you follow me?”
“Just wanted to see what kind of trouble you were up to.”
A great horned owl swooped down and clawed the back of Luke’s scalp. He ran home bleeding and screamed, “My God, it’s real!”
And that was the very best Valentine’s Day gift.
Lauren C Johnson is a writer living in San Francisco
Something of an Invitation
The locket nearly thunked me in the head, grazing my cheek and landing awkwardly in hand. And the owl just coasted off over main street like it owned the village, totally silent.
Many senses of pride were outraged: Alone all winter, more alone on Valentines, I had made no friends since moving to Bolinas, only enemies. My worst enemy was the kitten Baby Jr., whose feckless, overalls-sporting owner had been parading around Smileys Saloon. After I attempted a simple pet-and-nuzzle, Baby Jr. and owner initiated a bar fight. It's hazy. But I swear to god these people tossed me by my collar and khakis into the gutter outside to fucking lament.
The owl had added insult to injury with the cheap plastic locket that was obviously not sustainable. So I did what anybody in my position would do: I followed it to demand hard answers.
It's roost was as shabby a dead tree as you could imagine. A busted, leaf-stripped husk jutting out from the cliff overlooking the Pacific. Some apartment! But the owl didn't perch for long. It slid downward into the trunk, vanishing completely.
I scaled the tree and slid after the owl.
This was no cave. This was a workshop. They were so busy, I went wholly unnoticed. Conveyors ferried proto-chemical sludge from the depths to twirling robots of platinum and amber which laser cut lockets faster than I could see. Howls issued from supervising horned owls. A massive electronic world map loomed.
So did the largest owl I've ever seen--at least 15 foot tall, rising over me in cobalt and gold feathers.
"Well well well. Hooo comes to accept my invitation?"
The locket nearly thunked me in the head, grazing my cheek and landing awkwardly in hand. And the owl just coasted off over main street like it owned the village, totally silent.
Many senses of pride were outraged: Alone all winter, more alone on Valentines, I had made no friends since moving to Bolinas, only enemies. My worst enemy was the kitten Baby Jr., whose feckless, overalls-sporting owner had been parading around Smileys Saloon. After I attempted a simple pet-and-nuzzle, Baby Jr. and owner initiated a bar fight. It's hazy. But I swear to god these people tossed me by my collar and khakis into the gutter outside to fucking lament.
The owl had added insult to injury with the cheap plastic locket that was obviously not sustainable. So I did what anybody in my position would do: I followed it to demand hard answers.
It's roost was as shabby a dead tree as you could imagine. A busted, leaf-stripped husk jutting out from the cliff overlooking the Pacific. Some apartment! But the owl didn't perch for long. It slid downward into the trunk, vanishing completely.
I scaled the tree and slid after the owl.
This was no cave. This was a workshop. They were so busy, I went wholly unnoticed. Conveyors ferried proto-chemical sludge from the depths to twirling robots of platinum and amber which laser cut lockets faster than I could see. Howls issued from supervising horned owls. A massive electronic world map loomed.
So did the largest owl I've ever seen--at least 15 foot tall, rising over me in cobalt and gold feathers.
"Well well well. Hooo comes to accept my invitation?"
✵ January Club ✵
PROMPT: In under 275 words, write the short, maudlin tale of a child in 1980 befriending a talking Christmas tree.
Child befriends talking tree
It was a cold and lonely Christmas in 1980. My family had just moved to a new town, and I didn't know anyone my own age. I spent most of my days cooped up in the house, feeling sorry for myself. That is, until I met Charlie.
Charlie was the most beautiful Christmas tree I had ever seen. He was tall and full, with branches that seemed to stretch up to the sky. But it wasn't just his appearance that made him special. It was the way he seemed to understand me, to know exactly what I was feeling.
I was drawn to Charlie like a moth to a flame. I would spend hours talking to him, pouring out my heart and telling him my deepest secrets. He listened patiently, never judging or criticizing. And in return, he told me stories of his own, tales of magic and adventure that took me far away from my mundane existence.
As Christmas Day approached, I couldn't bear the thought of saying goodbye to my dear friend. But alas, all good things must come to an end. As my family packed up the ornaments and lights, I hugged Charlie tight, tears streaming down my face.
"Don't worry," he said in his deep, comforting voice. "I'll always be with you, in your heart and in your memories. And who knows, maybe we'll meet again someday."
With a heavy heart, I watched as Charlie was loaded onto the truck and driven away. I knew I would never forget him, and I hoped that wherever he ended up, he would bring joy and happiness to someone else in need. The end
It was a cold and lonely Christmas in 1980. My family had just moved to a new town, and I didn't know anyone my own age. I spent most of my days cooped up in the house, feeling sorry for myself. That is, until I met Charlie.
Charlie was the most beautiful Christmas tree I had ever seen. He was tall and full, with branches that seemed to stretch up to the sky. But it wasn't just his appearance that made him special. It was the way he seemed to understand me, to know exactly what I was feeling.
I was drawn to Charlie like a moth to a flame. I would spend hours talking to him, pouring out my heart and telling him my deepest secrets. He listened patiently, never judging or criticizing. And in return, he told me stories of his own, tales of magic and adventure that took me far away from my mundane existence.
As Christmas Day approached, I couldn't bear the thought of saying goodbye to my dear friend. But alas, all good things must come to an end. As my family packed up the ornaments and lights, I hugged Charlie tight, tears streaming down my face.
"Don't worry," he said in his deep, comforting voice. "I'll always be with you, in your heart and in your memories. And who knows, maybe we'll meet again someday."
With a heavy heart, I watched as Charlie was loaded onto the truck and driven away. I knew I would never forget him, and I hoped that wherever he ended up, he would bring joy and happiness to someone else in need. The end
I got out of bed when I heard a sneezing sound across the house. I held my breath as I passed the hallway with corner monsters and no night light. We didn’t have Christmas lights up at all. Dark was everywhere.
In the living room I turned the lamp on and saw the undecorated Christmas tree shake. And sneeze.
“Are you okay, Mr. Tree?”
The tree tilted in my direction. “I’m dying, little one.”
That was all it said that night. I crept back the next.
“What can I do?” Mom had put its trunk in water. I thought that was enough.
“Let me live these last weeks in joy.”
Mom kept putting her head in her hands when she looked at bills and stuff. Dad kept staying out late for work and they yelled more than spoke to each other. That’s what I remember anyway, at seven years old. Dad would quote David Mahmet about telling the truth since it’s easiest to remember, but unemployment money got mailed to him this week. I think he lied about working.
I decorated the tree since no one else did. I couldn’t reach high even on our stool but the lights stayed on. And the angels too. Mom yelled about broken ornaments so I only visited the tree when she went to bed.
The night Santa was to come I stayed by the tree as I did most nights.
“Thank you for all this.” The tree danced, lights twinkled. I danced too. The tree sounded like Marley’s ghost chains in a movie I watched, but it wasn’t sad.
“Are you still hurt, Mr. Tree?” Maybe being happy would cure it.
“Yes. I used to live bound to the Earth, but no more.”
After Christmas, I saw it on the curb. I waved.
In the living room I turned the lamp on and saw the undecorated Christmas tree shake. And sneeze.
“Are you okay, Mr. Tree?”
The tree tilted in my direction. “I’m dying, little one.”
That was all it said that night. I crept back the next.
“What can I do?” Mom had put its trunk in water. I thought that was enough.
“Let me live these last weeks in joy.”
Mom kept putting her head in her hands when she looked at bills and stuff. Dad kept staying out late for work and they yelled more than spoke to each other. That’s what I remember anyway, at seven years old. Dad would quote David Mahmet about telling the truth since it’s easiest to remember, but unemployment money got mailed to him this week. I think he lied about working.
I decorated the tree since no one else did. I couldn’t reach high even on our stool but the lights stayed on. And the angels too. Mom yelled about broken ornaments so I only visited the tree when she went to bed.
The night Santa was to come I stayed by the tree as I did most nights.
“Thank you for all this.” The tree danced, lights twinkled. I danced too. The tree sounded like Marley’s ghost chains in a movie I watched, but it wasn’t sad.
“Are you still hurt, Mr. Tree?” Maybe being happy would cure it.
“Yes. I used to live bound to the Earth, but no more.”
After Christmas, I saw it on the curb. I waved.
The Drop
"All things end," the tree said, "Even Christmas. They throw trees out when the New Year begins.I don't mind it. "
"I enjoy New Year," Emmy said, "Mom lets me stay up way past my bed time! And there is sparkling cider and everything. Only --"
"Yes?"
"It's been different this year. Mom's watching the news a lot. It is all Soviets and Reagan stuff. I don't think that we are going to make New Years waffles, like we usually do."
The tree shrugged its branches, unleashing a glittery and discordant rain of tinsel.
Outside, the air raid sirens drowned out the neighbors' fireworks.
"All things end," the tree said.
Somewhere, a countdown had started, then ended.
The nuclear clock stuck midnight.
The new age began.
"All things end," the tree said, "Even Christmas. They throw trees out when the New Year begins.I don't mind it. "
"I enjoy New Year," Emmy said, "Mom lets me stay up way past my bed time! And there is sparkling cider and everything. Only --"
"Yes?"
"It's been different this year. Mom's watching the news a lot. It is all Soviets and Reagan stuff. I don't think that we are going to make New Years waffles, like we usually do."
The tree shrugged its branches, unleashing a glittery and discordant rain of tinsel.
Outside, the air raid sirens drowned out the neighbors' fireworks.
"All things end," the tree said.
Somewhere, a countdown had started, then ended.
The nuclear clock stuck midnight.
The new age began.
Elim was born in the USSR, and is usually the cause of ... social fallout.
Sit with Me
Come here darling. Yes you, love. Push those boxes aside. You can sit on that one over there. It's a cheap knock-off Cabbage Patch kid from your mom. Go ahead and crush it. You don't want it anyway. Grab the blue bag and dump it out. Yes, all of it. There, put on that cassette tape. Who's it for? I don't know. Someone left it for your brother, but he's not exactly around to open it, is he? There, now we have some ambience. Lie down underneath me. Oh, I'm sorry, it looks like the arm has fallen off that doll. Stretch out. Have some popcorn. Don't cry girl, the popcorn is no good when its soggy. Look, all of you fits under here. Just me, and you, and some twinkly lights, popcorn, tinsel, and more presents no one is ever going to open. Let's do just one of them together; can you reach the brown one, the one in the Snoopy paper? You'll like this one. Yep, it's a skateboard! Brand new, with 4 perfectly functional axles. Stop crying. It's unpleasant. I hear through my bark, you know. If you must cry, do it into the needles. I don't know what you have to cry about, though. You're getting everything you ever wanted for Christmas. Double the presents, at least. Did you know that your step-dad put a walkman for you underneath me, but then changed the name at the last minute to your brother? You deserved that, and now it's yours. You'll likely get his room too. Cheer up, and make a wish on my lights. It's the happiest time of the year.
Come here darling. Yes you, love. Push those boxes aside. You can sit on that one over there. It's a cheap knock-off Cabbage Patch kid from your mom. Go ahead and crush it. You don't want it anyway. Grab the blue bag and dump it out. Yes, all of it. There, put on that cassette tape. Who's it for? I don't know. Someone left it for your brother, but he's not exactly around to open it, is he? There, now we have some ambience. Lie down underneath me. Oh, I'm sorry, it looks like the arm has fallen off that doll. Stretch out. Have some popcorn. Don't cry girl, the popcorn is no good when its soggy. Look, all of you fits under here. Just me, and you, and some twinkly lights, popcorn, tinsel, and more presents no one is ever going to open. Let's do just one of them together; can you reach the brown one, the one in the Snoopy paper? You'll like this one. Yep, it's a skateboard! Brand new, with 4 perfectly functional axles. Stop crying. It's unpleasant. I hear through my bark, you know. If you must cry, do it into the needles. I don't know what you have to cry about, though. You're getting everything you ever wanted for Christmas. Double the presents, at least. Did you know that your step-dad put a walkman for you underneath me, but then changed the name at the last minute to your brother? You deserved that, and now it's yours. You'll likely get his room too. Cheer up, and make a wish on my lights. It's the happiest time of the year.
Avani is a scientist and writer from San Francisco.
Tree '80
Dad and his girlfriend, whose name I’ve still forgotten, had finally taken their gin and popsicles into the bedroom, and I was alone again with Jaws on Betamax. The tape was wearing out, but my interest in Mid Atlantic fear-mongering-violence-porn had worn out long before. I was 12, and still mad at the He-Man dad thought I wanted for Christmas. He-Man lied in dead silence at the base of the withering Christmas tree – still in the house on February 1st.
Jaws ripped into another dumb kid’s stomach, and that’s when I noticed the tree was glaring.
Did it have eyes, nostril and mouth? Not quite. More like scintillating needles. This thing hated someone. Then it just told me so.
“Better get packing, kid,” Tree with an accent sounding vaguely like Hell’s Kitchen or some other place I knew nothing about except from the fucking Betamax.
“Are you going to kill me?”
“No. But my buddy here? I dunno.” Unlike Tree, Wreath on the door had wincing sour eyes, a puckered mouth, bulging cheeks of woven needles.
“But why?” I asked Wreath.
“The hell you talking to me and not Tree?” Wreath snapped back.
I’ll never forget it. Tree creaked like a rotten ship, bent down, almost sliding a needle through my eye. “This place is gonna be a massacre, huh? A gin popsicle bloodbath. Dad and Whatshername. If I was you? I’d have gotten out years ago. It’s not even me. But that wreath... Oof. Why’s nobody think twice about the wreath?”
*
It’s 1985. I think I work in Denver as a lumberjack, and I laughcry with every log jammed into the hotel furnace.
Dad and his girlfriend, whose name I’ve still forgotten, had finally taken their gin and popsicles into the bedroom, and I was alone again with Jaws on Betamax. The tape was wearing out, but my interest in Mid Atlantic fear-mongering-violence-porn had worn out long before. I was 12, and still mad at the He-Man dad thought I wanted for Christmas. He-Man lied in dead silence at the base of the withering Christmas tree – still in the house on February 1st.
Jaws ripped into another dumb kid’s stomach, and that’s when I noticed the tree was glaring.
Did it have eyes, nostril and mouth? Not quite. More like scintillating needles. This thing hated someone. Then it just told me so.
“Better get packing, kid,” Tree with an accent sounding vaguely like Hell’s Kitchen or some other place I knew nothing about except from the fucking Betamax.
“Are you going to kill me?”
“No. But my buddy here? I dunno.” Unlike Tree, Wreath on the door had wincing sour eyes, a puckered mouth, bulging cheeks of woven needles.
“But why?” I asked Wreath.
“The hell you talking to me and not Tree?” Wreath snapped back.
I’ll never forget it. Tree creaked like a rotten ship, bent down, almost sliding a needle through my eye. “This place is gonna be a massacre, huh? A gin popsicle bloodbath. Dad and Whatshername. If I was you? I’d have gotten out years ago. It’s not even me. But that wreath... Oof. Why’s nobody think twice about the wreath?”
It’s 1985. I think I work in Denver as a lumberjack, and I laughcry with every log jammed into the hotel furnace.