Elat Mast Risch-- a Christmas tale

The red jacket sleeves pushed up, the arm naked, spotty old skin, too old to hold another needle. The mind already floating with the snowflakes outside, the stupid snowman and the ever dark sunrise. It was winter. I can’t bear it anymore. This white grey pushing my brain, my will, my existence for the lies that hold the dreams of a few… I can’t bear them anymore. Their parents’ letters demanding once more, again and again and again. Every winter the postmen laughs at me. When they were children they looked out for me, as adults they feel pity for me.

My crew is sinking under the ice as thin as my veins after so many shots. They also feel the oppression of the lies. They will soon leave this dimension for the underworld. Very soon, or I will blast squeeze them with my sledge! My rotten pullers went from twelve to three, from three to… I want the sky blue again, the stars as my guide and their smiles naïve. I miss their open little hands, their breathing hearts, their wishful minds! I miss my belly fat, my arms strong, my bag full, my route straight, my night plentiful for them.

While I look to the past it all seems so empty, so useless, so absurd… they grew with a sense of purpose and I developed a taste for bitterness as they reached that age when they do not want me anymore and get lost. Part of the game, they said. They betrayed me as much as I betrayed them. The lies. The thick white lies, now battering my bruises.

My sleeves pushed down, my snowflakes high, my red mouldy jacket covering my folded belly, my sledge hollow, the presents in the past, the future a blink. I get on it and fly high, higher than ever before. The crash was brutally deadly. With a smile.

To all the children to be: The ones that were, they had the chance before they spoiled it in their acts of parenthood, accepting answers for the wrong questions.