Making a List
by B. Nagel
You won’t hear my story in your schoolroom or bedtime books. I am the one who Santa keeps hidden, stashed behind the mantle, tucked above the firebox, slowly roasting. He says it’s for my own comfort, but it’s really so everything dries quickly. I am called Lyst. As each child is born, its name burns into the skin of my back, then He shaves it out to add to his book. Recently his angles have been slipping. Soon the burn and the slice will take me. He will clean the chamber and go seeking a new child to become Lyst.
--
This story brought to you by goat sled for Loren's Advent Ghosts 2012.
Live list of stories here.
Burnt Out
by B. Nagel
At the still point of the turning world,
my roots rotted and trunk besotted,
I, the tree, yearning beyond what I was meant to be
(a massive stillness), I roved until this,
broken, lost, tempest-tossed,
I found a bitter seed and cradled it deep
beneath my bark, in the fleshy dark
of my inner rings, and it sings
of hurt and hate and times too early and times too late
and yells loud, crowded speeches and wheedles lies and beseeches for freedom
while I, branches torn and travel-worn,
riddled with holes and I-told-you-so’s,
I let it grow.
Sent it all my knowledge and experience.
Show it my triumphs and regretful experiments.
I cradle the seed in the hollow of my cratered trunk,
Now neither flesh nor fleshless
At the still point, there the dance is,
I borrow from what I can’t afford to give.
As I die, I implore you to live.
by B. Nagel
At the still point of the turning world,
my roots rotted and trunk besotted,
I, the tree, yearning beyond what I was meant to be
(a massive stillness), I roved until this,
broken, lost, tempest-tossed,
I found a bitter seed and cradled it deep
beneath my bark, in the fleshy dark
of my inner rings, and it sings
of hurt and hate and times too early and times too late
and yells loud, crowded speeches and wheedles lies and beseeches for freedom
while I, branches torn and travel-worn,
riddled with holes and I-told-you-so’s,
I let it grow.
Sent it all my knowledge and experience.
Show it my triumphs and regretful experiments.
I cradle the seed in the hollow of my cratered trunk,
Now neither flesh nor fleshless
At the still point, there the dance is,
I borrow from what I can’t afford to give.
As I die, I implore you to live.
The HELPER has never once been seen.
The Fat One is sneaky, but careless.
The wife of the Fat One paid in full
for the snotnos’d and dirty of Gris.
The fourth house on Harkness held Erik,
hyped up on turnips and spiced nuts and
cocoa and loud lies of yuletide and
elfin carousing and courses of
reindeer, darting through the northern lights.
Erik’s eyes sparked when the Fat One flew
reckless and feckless before the clouds.
The HELPER took notice and stretched out
a parlous arm, plucked out Erik’s eyes,
twisted his ears, and wet his bed.
THE END.
--
(Part of Loren Eaton's Advent Ghosts 2011 shared storytelling event.)
The Fat One is sneaky, but careless.
The wife of the Fat One paid in full
for the snotnos’d and dirty of Gris.
The fourth house on Harkness held Erik,
hyped up on turnips and spiced nuts and
cocoa and loud lies of yuletide and
elfin carousing and courses of
reindeer, darting through the northern lights.
Erik’s eyes sparked when the Fat One flew
reckless and feckless before the clouds.
The HELPER took notice and stretched out
a parlous arm, plucked out Erik’s eyes,
twisted his ears, and wet his bed.
THE END.
--
(Part of Loren Eaton's Advent Ghosts 2011 shared storytelling event.)
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