[stylist] Holiday exercise: Tattered Remains of Christmas, fiction, language & strong content

Mon Dec 12 02:54:11 UTC 2011

Here is a contribution to our holiday exercises. It does contain some
language and it deals with some adult themes. Keep in mind I wrote this
between baking, running after a toddler and cleaning, smile! And I
haven't written much fiction in a while either. I hope to maybe work on
something that is creative nonfiction for this exercise too since that's
been my focus for so long. We shall see. It is attached and pasted in
the post.

950 words

Tattered Remains of Christmas

Bridgit Kuenning-Pollpeter

Shards of glass litter the floor, reflecting light like drops of water.
Red, blue, green, purple-a shattered rainbow whispering about days now
past. Mocking the serenity oozing from Christmas cards standing in
judgment around the room. Cozy scenes of warm hearths, glowing Christmas
ornaments and families full of joy.

Wailing breaks the silence pushing against the walls. Marisa cries for
comfort in her crib; my heart stretches hoping to reach her. Her cries
blare through my mind in surround sound. This can't happen anymore, I
think.

The world has turned to stone outside, a bitter cold silencing the hope
of renewal. The wind whistles a sorrowful tune replacing the shouting,
the anger, the rage. Mounds of snow land on top of the ground beating
it, pushing it down. The white purity of the snow is tainted by dirt and
gravel and the piss of Homer, our neighbors golden retriever.

A warm, sticky rivulet trickles down the side of my face. The blood shed
for you, a message poured from the pulpit. Sanctity, redemption,
mercy-words I don't know. Touching a welt leaving its purple, green and
yellow mark; a mark the world knows well, but glances over as though
nothing were out of the ordinary.

Blood streaming down my heated face, I close my eyes. It pools in the
corners, single drops of blood replacing the tears I can't summon. In
the darkness behind my eyelids, I escape to another time; another
moment.

Water ran down creasing my face. Rain cast iridescent shimmers around
the park as we reached for one another. The static in your hand charged
through me as we ran for cover. Laughing, ready for anything, we felt
the future blessing us. Young and foolish, bitterness, misery,
disillusionment-these words were foreign to us.

Leaning in towards one another, leaning towards our future, towards
lives not yet shaped, we shared our first kiss, the brushing flutter of
warm, gentle wings. Energy crackled around us as each moment brought
forth a cascading prism radiating brilliant tones, deepening and
lengthening with every touch.

I open my eyes feeling the echo of that kiss dream across my lips. Tears
of blood seep through the part in my mouth. The salty tang of blood
awakens me. This will not happen again, I shout through the recesses of
my mind.

Shattered ornaments crunch beneath my feet. Memories scattered about in
broken, jagged pieces.

The crystalline white globe, filigree designs dancing around its
sphere-given to us on our wedding day. Promises made but never kept.

Glittering green Celtic knots representing friendship, loyalty, love-the
gold and green bulb lays cracked on our floor; open, empty, nothing but
a shell.

Victorian ballerinas pirouette around the soft pink shards of what was
Marisa's first Christmas bulb. A fitting tribute, the fractured life
embracing our daughter.

My body aches as I search the room for any remnants promising relief,
hope, love. Marisa's cries wail like sirens. Her fear mingles with the
tattered remains of Christmas.

The Christmas tree cowers in a corner. Broken in half, it resembles the
homeless man crouching in the alley on Fourth Street; small, shrunken
and hopeless, wishing for the end. In this moment, my heart tightens,
the wreckage of this life bearing down on me; then I glimpse the figure
huddled in front of the tree. Finality hits me in the gut. Terror seizes
me as I fall to my knees.

Reaching a bloody hand out, scabbed, fresh and old wounds scream for
relief. Condemned and charged, my death sentence lingers in unspoken
words. Images fire through my brain like bullets.

Arms and legs tangled, creating a tapestry budding with vibrant colors.

Laughter filling the house to capacity. Capitulating in and out of each
room.

Sharing late nights on the worn sofa-father, mother, baby-contentment
saturating each breath.

Silence once meant joy; a deep, rich comfort supported by love. The
cracks in the foundation grew too wide though. Snow drifted in frosting
each word, each glance, each action. Anger is the only warmth left.

Huddled in front of the decimated Christmas tree, a bruised ball of
fury, I reach my hand out to you. You turn, seizing my gaze, piercing my
mind, and I know it's hopeless.

Beauty stains your face; the angel of my life. Fear is replaced by
wrath. Red sparks shimmer around you; deep anger unleashed, bidden by
your desire to survive. A gash on your left cheek only accentuates your
beauty.

Swiping gold hair from your blue eyes, you stand. Slender grace
radiating power. Your quiet words cover me in layers of ice. "Get out."

"Please, baby?" I plead.

"I told you never again. Get out." Each word falls, daggers piercing my
flesh.

"Tonya, I'm sorry-"

"You fucked with me for the last time. I'm not raising a daughter like
this." She waves her arm like a banner.

I notice a bruise the size of my fingertips decorating her upper arm.
"Tonya, I'm sorry- I love you- please-"Remaining on my knees, I await
the killing blow.

"It's over, Trevor. Get out." She walks away, each step cracking already
broken ornaments. Blood leaves faint footprints accompanying the
shattered relics of Christmas.

I lean back on my heels, surrendering my life. Tonya coos a lullaby to
Marisa. Warmth generates her words as they dance from her mouth soothing
our nine-month-old daughter.

Left alone in the wrecked living room, I am embraced by the cold taking
up residence. Hollow, weakened by a dark growth, I splinter, now
resembling our busted Christmas tree. Broken vestiges of a life lay in
ruins; I add my shattered life to the wreckage ornamenting the room.

Sincerely,
Bridgit Kuenning-Pollpeter
Read my blog at:
 <http://blogs.livewellnebraska.com/author/bpollpeter/>
http://blogs.livewellnebraska.com/author/bpollpeter/

"History is not what happened; history is what was written down."
The Expected One- Kathleen McGowan

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