In your best prose, write anything about Christmas

In your best prose, write anything about Christmas.

It was Christmas and that was good because I liked Christmas and she did too and that was cool because we liked each other –; forever.

I believed in Santa until I was 11 because I couldn't bear the reality of living in a world where a man so generous and pure of heart couldn't exist
true story desu

Behold the line of Christ. Scream and joy in its wake. For it is Christmas, for it is the time and space of unforgiving joy, of metastasis of love in all walks and boards of life; a scenery in which the bird does not hit the invisible window, where the homeless people dance and sing around the roaring flames of the street, where the prostitutes, ever loving, ever Christ-like, hand you the gift of release, and the snow falls heavy on our small heads, burdened with existence, with asphalt of greed and bathos. So remember The Fat Red Man In The Dress, vibration of old, good, times. The sacred.

I wake up on Christmas morning. Gentle specs of snow are lightly bestowed upon the pearly white country. In the distance you can hear OP sucking dick.

ITT: Anons too self-conscious about their writing to create a serious answer to the prompt

mary crimble

Please tell me you got the idea for this because of the dogshit tier thread with holiday story that faggy dad posted

This is what Christmas is to me: lights glowing on the snow.

Santa is real though. He was a Saint Nicholas in the 4th century. He's in Heaven now and he loves you :-)

We were in a homeostasis of gift giving: every relative was too well off to need anything practical and too busy to know what each other really liked or wanted. In silence, and for many years, we all agreed that the ritual of standing around and slowly consuming enough alcohol and ham to make the cold tolerable was enough, and the family tradition carried on.

The prompt has to be stimulating. Look at e.g. the semen demon thread

Sweat - a coinflip between humidity and ariditiy, anticipation. Blue heavens, waves and salt-stain. Presents under the tree, the soft caress of aircon and its humble festive smell. Laboured Christmas exuberance.

If I ever had to describe Christmas growing up to someone, I feel like all I'd have to say is this: My father always signed our gifts in a fat Sharpie, no tags, just our names in his large sharp capital letters.

Whenever I found myself growing cold about the face; whenever my breathing is weighted with the crisp, blue air; when my eyes have become too lost in the snow's veil; when my beard stiffens and ages too white too soon; then, and only then, is it winter.

Here it goes then, help me if you want. Would love to receive criticism for my English prose.

A layer of snow formed for the first time that winter. It was a slow process, flakes falling on flakes until they’ve covered every inch, building up, strangling the earth at a steady pace.
X wasn’t in the mood for snow. He never liked the winter, Christmas, or New Years Eve. He went with it, “with the cynicism of an old man,” he joked. He decorated his Christmas tree with silent resignation. Another thing he must do for the reward of vague “festive feelings.” It used to be easier to come to terms with: his friends would visit and they’d be delighted to see his mother’s old decorations. 30 year old globes, bigger than the new ones, shining in red, blue, purple and green as if they were made yesterday. Nora would steal candy off of the tree and leave the wrappers hanging. He’d never take them down, it added to the sight, he said. She’d wake up at night, put X’s present under it, sneak back into bed, and kiss his forehead. X always woke up when she did, but she couldn’t tell. One time he kissed back and saw a hint of disappointment on Nora’s face. He never did it again, he kept his eyes and mouth effortlessly shut as if dreaming, and kept pretending. He did not want to ruin their tradition and disappoint her.

That was a long time ago. It’s been years since he could last put a smile on anyone’s face with his tree. He decorated it with the same resignation, with the familiar hope of feeling good, or at least making someone else feel good. Winters passed and there was no one to see his Christmas tree but him. There’s been no reward the last few Christmases, they snuck by on their white legs and left nothing but mud and clean up chores he could barely get himself to do anymore. He always knew it’s futile, and he wondered if others know so too. He couldn’t ask, however. Christmas was ruined for him when he realized Santa Claus isn’t real. There’s no man in heavy red robes, gifting and caring when no one else does. There are family, friends, and lovers. Who knows if those he’d ask about the futility have any of these? It’s better not to say anything. It’s better to believe he’s keeping a dangerous secret.
He had these thoughts while walking, and while walking the first layer of snow has long formed, rising still until he had to exert more power than usual just to walk.
He’d promised himself that he’d decorate his tree one last time. It wasn’t really his tree this winter, but he was sentimental enough to call it his own. It stood in the open as opposed to his warm living room. He was familiar with it though: These woods, suffocating in the heart of the city, always reminded him of an oasis in a desert of shifting sand. It wasn’t far away from his home. He was sure that if he were to climb the first tree on the edge of the park, he could look at his neighbors festive lights, and the silhouettes of hugging and tearing up wrappers and boxes. His tree wasn’t on the edge however. He couldn’t see anything when he climbed up.

The snow started to melt by morning. Christmas left nothing but mud and a mess to clean up.

For sale - present bought with love, never used.

Call me Frosty.

A sleigh came screaming across the sky.

Gramma got ran over by a reindeer today. Maybe yesterday. I don't remember.

I am cold. There is frost on my window that forces me to use the heater, and leave the car running, and waste gas. I don't have the money for this. Family expects presents. They live so far away all I can afford is to write shitty 4 line limericks in blank cards. They say they like it but it's bullshit; nothing I write is ever anything good. Fuck it's cold. I don't want to get out of bed. I put Christmas lights on my fake potted fern tree, but the cats keep knocking it over each morning and shitting on the carpet. Merry Christmas Birthday. Maybe one of your rich relatives will send you a check so you can finally buy that vacuum cleaner you so desperately need.

Yule (or was it jewel?). That's what Santa said, but I never understood til my stocking was finally filled, stuffed. 'Twas it yule? Twas it jewel? Either way, me and my friends were hosed. What was Quincy thinking? leading us into the sewers. "No gators anymore," he'd said. "Shot em all to death or worse."
"But what is worse than death?" I thought, then I realized, it was Auntie Magpee's St. O'Louie soup, which I'd have to stomach for the sake of her merriment, she deserved it. But first I had to escape from the sewers, as Quincy had led our little troupe down a troublesome knot of plumbing.
"What a Christmas Eve this is turning out to be," sighed Dannyelle. Some part of me agreed with the sentiment, but another knew it could be worse, as bad as a spoon of St. Louie.

The street santa rang his bell, pushed out his fat belly, leaned back and laughed into the snowing sky, "ho, ho, ho! Do your own fucking homework! ho, ho, ho!"

It was Christmas

Is that a motherfucking L'etranger reference?

;)

There are times even now, when I awake at four o'clock in the morning with the terrible fear that I have overslept; when I imagine that my father is waiting for me in the room below the darkened stairs or that the shorebound men are tossing pebbles against my window while blowing their hands and stomping their feet impatiently on the frozen steadfast earth. There are times when I am half out of bed and fumbling for socks and mumbling for words before I realize that I am foolishly alone, that no one waits at the base of the stairs and no boat rides restlessly in the waters by the pier.

At such times only the grey corpses on the overflowing ashtray beside my bed bear witness to the extinction of the latest spark and silently await the crushing out of the most recent of their fellows. And then because I am afraid to be alone with death, I dress rapidly, make a great to-do about clearing my throat, turn on both faucets in the sink and proceed to make loud splashing ineffectual noises. Later I go out and walk the mile to the all-night restaurant.

In the winter it is a very cold walk, and there are often tears in my eyes when I arrive. The waitress usually gives a sympathetic little shiver and says, "Boy, it must be really cold out there; you got tears in your eyes."

"Yes," I say, "it sure is; it really is."

And then the three or four of us who are always in such places at such times make uninteresting little protective chit-chat until the dawn reluctantly arrives. Then I swallow the coffee, which is always bitter, and leave with a great busy rush because by that time I have to worry about being late and whether I have a clean shirt and whether my car will start and about all the other countless things one must worry about when one teaches at a great Midwestern university. And I know then that that day will go by as have all the days of the past ten years, for the call and the voices and the shapes and the boat were not really there in the early morning's darkness and I have all kinds of comforting reality to prove it. They are only shadows and echoes, the animals a child's hands make on the wall by lamplight, and the voices from the rain barrel; the cuttings from an old movie made in the black and white of long ago

WRONG! Saint Nicholas and Santa have nothing in common. The Santa tradition comes from Germany and has nothing to do with the real life Bishop who lived in Anatolia whose feast day is celebrated on the 5th, 6th, or 19th of December depending regional tradition which puts him solidly in the Advent season and not within the Christmas season at all. Santa is Satan and pagan

The first time I ever thought about the fact that I was gonna die one day was at Christmas time. Ever since, it's been a melancholy time. It never "feels" like Christmas anymore.

Christmas is the most solar celebration when one minds its origin as a divinely inspired celebration of the winter solstice. Yule (a more appropriate name) is the most divine celebration because of the snow and its polar symbolism, and because of the fact that the sun transitions into a period of rising. It marks the beginning of a new period of an increasingly solar environment.

It's Christmas Eve

CHRISTMAS IN AUSTRALIAS HOT
COLD AND FROSTYS WHAT ITS NOT

Christmas was rarely ever 'white'. The streets of the city filled with a thin sludge of filthy tire-rent snow; it was a sight only slightly less unpleasant than the dead grass which peaked through the equally filthy slush that lay ontop of each lawn of every suburb. It was almost a comforting reprieve to see stores stocked with the archetypal christmas fantasy: blankets of soft, fresh snow whiter than fresh linen that promised warmth and unity to every picturesque Rockwell family that stood, walked, or played through it.

>I'm not a writer
>Pls respond.

Let snow fall from forest brances , that were moved by voices of joyous laugher from small wooden houses celebrating Christmas. The fallen snow soon takes the form of laughing snowmen , and the makers of the constructs proudly glaze them with hot beverages in hand.
Merry Christmas everybody!

I like it, especially as someone who despises suburbia and cities and yet somehow must live in both.

sludge is usually thick
is dead grass really 'unpleasant'?
was the reprieve comforting or not?

All I want for Christmas is a big booty ho.

Good point. I meant thin layer of. Sludge is think of course, but i meant the left over slimy sort of filament of slush you typically get in Southern Ontario. Usually the streets get that way after fresh snow melts on the salt. And as someone who very often sees dead, yellow, limp grass intermittently between snow drifts its pretty nasty and depressing to see personally.

I got lazy with reprieve really. When I say almost that necessarily implies that it wasn't. The subtext which I sort of leave out is that the hollowness of commercialized "holiday spirit" is a comforting fantasy thats offset by its falseness.

Thanks bruh,

There was a billy bob goat that morning, with a beard and two rows of teeth. The goat troppled down the hills, it could be seen from the house. The goat ate some snow.

Inside it was warm, especially in the children's feet. Eddie raced his sister down the brown wood stairs in the cool crisp apple morning. Eddie won and jumped to the couch by the fireplace and the tree. Parents weren't up so they waited and talked about toys.

Outside, the goat took a big fat shit. The shit passed by the goat's comically sized testicles. What what in the butt, what what in the butt. An image appeared in the sky that only the goat could see. The image was a picture of a happy overweight girl at the zoo.

Eddie looked to his sister and his mouth opened as wide as it could go, and then impossibly wider, and it tore the flesh of his cheeks. A stream of dark red blood sprayed from his gullet. He sprayed it to the heavens, covering the bare lightbulb above with red fluid, leaving it dripping, and making the room glow truly.

And that, folks is how you do creative writing

When I was a kid I had an imaginary friend. Whenever I brought it up to mom she was always visibly shaken.
She says "Your imaginary friend is named after your dead uncle you never met".
Just then the portrait of the uncle started floating off the wall.
His face was smiling an unnaturally wide smile.
Next I Hear a notification on my ipad
I got an email from uncle.com with an attachment.
Inside of it was a picture of me sleeping taken from the cieling.
There's no way anyone could take a picture from that angle without being a ghost.
We moved out of that house a few years ago, but I still tried to keep in contact with the new owner,
an old woman named Abigail.
Suddenly she cut off contact for a few weeks.
I was really distraught but then I saw my old house on the news.
Abigail had been found dead and rotting in the washing machine.
She was naked and all her limbs were twisted at the joint.
There was a note on the mirror that said
"Last night I looked in the mirror and saw somebody's uncle standing behind me"
I was really scared.
I decided to talk to a fortune teller
Her name was Madame Hamsly
She was old and wore a purple doo rag on her head.
She looked into her crystal ball and screamed so loud my ears thought that they were being hurt.
Next she was visibly shakin, she pointed at me with dusty decrepit finger
"Your uncle is going to kill you"
I ran home and locked myself in my room.
As I'm typing this I feel his greasy bear paw hands carressing my inner thighs.
My locked door started violently heaving back and forth.
It broke open and then I suddenly just realized that my uncle was a christmas gremlin

I disobeyed mother that night. I awoke to use the bathroom, only quickly and without meaning to catch my imagined santa as he was. The cream-colored floorboards snored with each step, begging me to hold my bladder and go back to bed. My heart pumped blood throughout my body like an engine, fueling my youth to its burning light in seeing... I pushed the doorhandle back refusing to look from the floor - still cream-colored but now tile. I left the linoleum behind to empty my bladder of that christmas night's drunken milk. And how meek was this fright, to refuse to look at what and such a thing as this. Relieved, I exited the room of tile with a courage to look. To look and to only look, just but a look. I looked and I saw: mommy... kissing Santa Claus.

snow falls
from the sky
as it
heralds
the joy
of a
Christmas beginning
once more
and another New Year's Day
rejoice

once there was two niggers coming along the road and a nicens little baby names jesus christ thank you god i love my twopunchonetwothreefuckmyass

Tangled fairy lights illuminate iridescent husks of opened presents and we eat at the same table in the same city in the same country to fill the void for once.

Santa, santa, baby boy, not three years old yet you have a bushy beard. Rosy cheeks, have you, you smarmy, shadowed image, like the vision of Christmastime itself. I know your future, you do not. Your first words were "mommy," but I, your father, have raised you alone. A pitter patter calls from above, our slanted A-frame home's roof creaks under the weight of SEVEN inches of snow.

Santa, santa, growing boy, older now I've seen you grow. Your plump belly squirms as I guide a heavy spoon into your beckoning mouth; your rosy cheeks bob as the biscuits and gravy slip down your throat. Yum, your eyes say to me.

Santa, santa, now I leave. Hurt and dying, the comfort of the frilly white fir lining your plump red coat keeps me fighting; that and the spoonfuls of biscuits and gravy your nimble hands send me.

Santa, santa.

I giggled at this, for what that's worth to you.

"Are you done yet?"
"You sure this is gonna work?"
"Yes I'm sure. Are you done yet?"
"Hold on, I just need to put some under the star"
Then Tommy placed the last bag of gunpowder, under the highest branch he could reach, right under the star.
"Kay I'm coming down"
In a couple of hours the plaza is gonna be choke full-a people. This is gonna be great! It'll all go up in flames and it's gonna be great. I always loved the smell of gunpowder.