Yule
Filed under:nanofiction,writing,Rob Andrews
We don't know how the Christmas Tree Girl came to be, but she makes us happy, in this season of the Yule. What is she? A cocktail of flora and fauna, delicately mixed, served on ice. She appeared with the stockings and the candy canes, her feet planted into the frozen soil with a great deal of effort. She can't move, but then again, trees don't. City workers water her daily. Generous shoppers pour coffee and hot chocolate on her feet .Except for the flashing lights draped around her like a sarong, she's naked. Her skin is a mixture of flesh and pin needles. If you touched her face, you'd be surprised how smooth it is. Tough jade. Her breasts are bountiful, like fruits. Her areolas are wooden knots. She smells great, men lick their lips when they pass by. Her fingers are long, fragile. A zealous child breaks off a finger, as easy as a branch. She bleeds blood and sap. Guards are stationed around her after that. Don't hurt her.
She holds a Salvation Army bucket and smiles. The eyes of a child, the vocabulary of a dog. "Merry Christmas!" She'll say, repeating, over and over again. That's the sound of wind blowing through her branches. People from all over come to see her, and soon her bucket fills over. The local cable station has a camera tracked on her, pre-empting the log channel. Strange pornographers webfeed her picture to the internet. There are more perverts in the world than you think.
Network cable infests the city like voles. The Christmas Tree Girl is the Next Big Thing. They interview her, ask her what she thinks Christmas is about. She smiles to the rest of America, acorn eyes glinting.
"Merry Christmas". News spreads around the world. There's debate. Does the girl represent Christmas? What happened to Christ? Should a woman, with the intelligence of an infant be promoting charity? And so on and so forth.
Time passes and Christas is over. Crows sit on her arms, snatching stray wrapping paper. She's ignored. Christmas decorations are replaced with candy hearts. Valentine's Day is coming. A fat worker cuts her off at the ankles and throws her in the back of a truck full of Christmas trees. Did she scream? The fat man wouldn't know. He's listening to a junky old walkman, a soundtrack to his work. The media doesn't record her death, they're more pre-occupied by Artificial Prime Minsiter of the Moon. Her body is tossed into a firepit with the rest of the trees. She's baptised with gasoline. A match is thrown onto her. She wriggles as her skin bubbles and burns. The smell is unpleasant. The worker leaves. There is little fanfare for her death. No eulogy, no songs, no pictures. Back at the square are what's left of her feet, rooted and growing. It'll take a while, but she'll be back. Christmas comes once a year.
We don't know how the Christmas Tree Girl came to be, but she makes us happy, in this season of the Yule. What is she? A cocktail of flora and fauna, delicately mixed, served on ice. She appeared with the stockings and the candy canes, her feet planted into the frozen soil with a great deal of effort. She can't move, but then again, trees don't. City workers water her daily. Generous shoppers pour coffee and hot chocolate on her feet .Except for the flashing lights draped around her like a sarong, she's naked. Her skin is a mixture of flesh and pin needles. If you touched her face, you'd be surprised how smooth it is. Tough jade. Her breasts are bountiful, like fruits. Her areolas are wooden knots. She smells great, men lick their lips when they pass by. Her fingers are long, fragile. A zealous child breaks off a finger, as easy as a branch. She bleeds blood and sap. Guards are stationed around her after that. Don't hurt her.
She holds a Salvation Army bucket and smiles. The eyes of a child, the vocabulary of a dog. "Merry Christmas!" She'll say, repeating, over and over again. That's the sound of wind blowing through her branches. People from all over come to see her, and soon her bucket fills over. The local cable station has a camera tracked on her, pre-empting the log channel. Strange pornographers webfeed her picture to the internet. There are more perverts in the world than you think.
Network cable infests the city like voles. The Christmas Tree Girl is the Next Big Thing. They interview her, ask her what she thinks Christmas is about. She smiles to the rest of America, acorn eyes glinting.
"Merry Christmas". News spreads around the world. There's debate. Does the girl represent Christmas? What happened to Christ? Should a woman, with the intelligence of an infant be promoting charity? And so on and so forth.
Time passes and Christas is over. Crows sit on her arms, snatching stray wrapping paper. She's ignored. Christmas decorations are replaced with candy hearts. Valentine's Day is coming. A fat worker cuts her off at the ankles and throws her in the back of a truck full of Christmas trees. Did she scream? The fat man wouldn't know. He's listening to a junky old walkman, a soundtrack to his work. The media doesn't record her death, they're more pre-occupied by Artificial Prime Minsiter of the Moon. Her body is tossed into a firepit with the rest of the trees. She's baptised with gasoline. A match is thrown onto her. She wriggles as her skin bubbles and burns. The smell is unpleasant. The worker leaves. There is little fanfare for her death. No eulogy, no songs, no pictures. Back at the square are what's left of her feet, rooted and growing. It'll take a while, but she'll be back. Christmas comes once a year.
posted by Rob at 9:55 p.m.
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