xCHRISTMASxFOREVERx: 2015

by Connor McNerney

Fruit & Nut Mix Ingredients:

-2 1/2 cups mixed dried fruit: dark cherries or cranberries, golden or dark raisins, black currants or black mission figs, pitted deglet dates, apricots (sulphured or not)

-Grated zest of one large orange

-Grated zest of one lemon

-Juice of 1 large orange

-Juice of 1 lemon

-1/2 cup sugar (coconut, sucanat or light cane sugar)

-1/4 cup light molasses

-1/4 cup agave or maple syrup

-3/4 cup thick unsweetened applesauce

-1 cup chopped pecans

-1 cup slivered blanched almonds

-1 Tbsp vanilla extract

Optional: 1 tsp rum extract OR 1/2 cup rum

Dry Ingredients:

-2 1/2 cups unbleached white flour (substitute half whole wheat or spelt flour if desired)

-Gluten Free Option: 2 1/2 cups All Purpose GF flour mix (see below) + 1 tsp xanthan gum

-3 tsp baking powder

-1 tsp baking soda

-1/2 tsp salt

-Protein Ebook

-2 tsp cinnamon

-1 tsp nutmeg

-1/2 tsp cloves

Instructions:

Eat all ingredients raw. Wait 12 hours. Light plenty of seasonal fruitcake scented candles. Shit directly onto serving platter.

ENJOY!

Dear Santa,

Good old Johnny H. Allen. We'll call him, J.H. for short. Best detective on the force. Or was. Now the best vodka and seltzer-water drinker in the city. Drinking became part of the job at this point.

Sixty-Seventh and Western. Bad area. There was not one cop on the force alright with hanging around that part of town. J.H., though, he could give a rat's ass. Loved the smell of a raw crime scene. He rushed to the location as soon as he got the call. Didn't even bother finishing the fresh vodka and seltzer he made. Brought it with. Showed up well before anyone else on the force. What is a man to do to kill that amount of time? Drink, yes. That was a given. Good old J.H. was always a bit of a reader, so he picked up the only reading material he could find. Basically had to pry it from the cold, dead victim's hands. A notebook. First page, flip a few through, the only page. A half bottle of bottom shelf gin was at rest on the coffee table above the body. Good old J.H. helped himself. Took a nice hard sit on a leather recliner that farted a plume of dusty air as it took his weight. He began to read the messy handwriting on the first, and only, page of the notebook,

"Alright. Here's a story for ya. Well, more so my confession. Oh, Merry Christmas, or whatever. Ok, so it happened last Wednesday, Christmas Eve." He put his lips to the bottle and sucked. It was three days shy of New Year's Eve, confirming the smell and look of the body as "an old girl." Precinct lingo for a not-so-fresh body. It now made sense to good old J.H. why no one else was there in that house. A smell call. Good old J.H. loved those. He took another bottle hit and continued reading as an old wood ticking clock high up on the wall did its business, "My uncle. I hated him. Always have." She uses too many short sentences, good old J.H. thought, "He needed to go. Go for good. Like. Die." Good old J.H.'s ears perked. Death. Murder. Yes. He sucked away and read on, "He came over here. You know. Just like, out of nowhere. Christmas Eve and shit. I'm all alone. He know that. Comes on here all drunk." Good old J.H. related. He took a swig for the mention, "That mother fucker... I KILLED HIM DEAD!"

Good old J.H. sat up without a sound. Stood, bottle in hand, and motioned stiffly to the front window. He split the dusty venetian blinds just so slightly to peak outside. Not a soul. Not a sound. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a wrinkled pack of Dunhills. Fingered the inside of the flimsy package as he looked at the time on his watch. Good old J.H. found he only had two cigarettes left as his eyes made out the numbers. Two AM on the dot. This part of the city was usually teaming with life at this hour. He looked out the window one last time. Nothing. Placed a Dunhill between his lips and lit it before he sat back down. He picked up the notebook from the arm and carried on,

"I didn't mean to. He just needed it. It needed to stop. Mama is never home. I just wouldn't let him. Couldn't let him do that to me anymore. I prayed. Begged for it to stop. It finally stopped. I'm glad it did. Merry Christmas, or whatever." And that was all there was.

Good old J.H. flipped through the notebook one last time. All blank. He threw the notebook on the coffee table and stood back up to his feet. Finished the remaining gin in one last gulp. The windows filled with bright white light. Good old J.H. fell backwards onto the floor and into the pool of blood. A mellow throbbing thick roar filled his ears. He could feel the sound on his skin.

Good old J.H. wondered what was in that bottle of gin. The front door opened slowly, the bright white light streaming into the house. A figure cast a shadow into beam. Good old J.H. squinted, trying to make it out. He pulled his gun. Cocked it with his frantic fingers.

"Stop right there! Show me your hands!" He yelled at the figure. "STOP!" Good old J.H. yelled once more as the figure ceased to obey his command. He fired a single shot. The gun was gone. He was hallucinating, he thought. Good old J.H. closed his eyes and let the moment happen.

The light continued to pierce his eyelids, the throbbing hum grew louder. He fished around the floor with his trembling hand in hopes of finding cigarette that he had dropped. His eyes still closed, waiting for the hallucination to pass. Nothing. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled the last Dunhill from the pack. Good old J.H. brought it to his lips with the lighter. He opened his eyes just a bit to light it when he saw it hovering just over him.

It was glowing bright white and red. It hissed and swayed. Decayed and rotting, yet a silky stream of white majestic hair flowed from it's head and face. Just like hair in water. It spoke,

"Johnny Allen..."

"Yes?" Good old J.H. replied trying to mask the terror he was feeling with a smug grim and puff from the Dunhill.

"You've been on my list..." The thing said, smacking the Dunhill from good old J.H.'s hand and mouth. J.H. was suddenly blanketed by the physical connection of the thing he was oh, so sure was not there. In his mind. It was not real.

"Oh... Oh my God... Wha-" J.H. farted as he franticly trying to stand, scoot, slide, scrape his way anywhere. He was cornered. "What are you?" He reached out to stop it. He recognized the feeling as he touched the figure. When he was seven years old he stuck his hand into a dead pig's chest in this his grandpa's freezer. It was romantically, nostalgically, horrifying.

"You started off so well..." The thing hissed, "We rarely see a revisit to the naughty list for over a decade."

"You can't be real. This is not happening. No way." J.H. covered his face with his hands and tried to psych himself out of it.

"You have no reason. You're selfish. You lie. You Cheat." Its breath smelled of stale cookies and rotten milk, "You stole the lives of the good officers you've thrown under the grating with your evil ways, little Johnny Allen."

"I didn't mean to hurt anyone!" J.H. screamed in defense.

"You hurt everyone you have ever known. Your partner. Your friends. Family. Wife..."

"STOP!" J.H. continued trying to convince himself that this was all just some sick moral subconscious hallucination.

"Your son and daughters." The voice hissed softly.

"You don't know anything! They were all accidents!" J.H. began to sob.

"I know the truth." The figure rose to the ceiling.

J.H. spotted a clean getaway to the front door between deep gasps of air to calm himself. He decided to take it. As he started for it the dead body on the floor disappeared. The front door slammed and the room fell pitch black. Utter silence. He fell still,

"Hello?" J.H.'s shivering voice bounced off the walls in a thick echo.

"You know who I am, don't you?" A hissing whisper.

"A fucking figment of my fucking imagination!" J.H. shouted into the darkness.

"No..." The whisper was close now. Close enough to brush J.H.'s arm, "We've met before."

"I just need to relax... Chill. Let this pass. Oh God, let this pass." J.H. closed is eyes tight, shook out his hands and arms. Took three deep breaths. Counted in to the silence. Opened his eyes.

"I'm good old Saint Nick, and you're going to Bad Boy Land, good old Johnny H. Allen!"

J.H. felt nothing as the ceiling disappeared and he was lifted into the mood-lit clouds. Good old Johnny H. Allen had never before been more at peace, rushing high towards the stars, towed by the strange ghostly Santa Claus.

Is this true?

Truly yours,

IM Cunj