Bad xmas

#hungrybutnotlooking: A Charlie Brown Story

Xmas is the emptiest time of year. Charlie Brown’s been eating chocolate santas all month in an attempt to stay warm. From cherry hat to toothache, he gorges on the supple little santas & kisses Lucy with bleeding gums & molars. She cums & goes home to her parents a vampire—such a pale Xmas miracle! They dress her in a gold funerary gown & put her in a coffin full of wilting hollies, covered in a coaled despair. May she rest in pieces, thinks Charlie Brown plopping another chocolate santa into his poisoned gut. He barks wildly the night searching for blood, maddened, stomach churning. A jovial toxicity swells as the santas form an insatiable hunger within him. He serves the bodies at Xmas dinner, stuffing every bit of bone & tendon down his throat, each psychedelic moment rip-roaring then swiftly fleeting. & when there are no more bodies lying in smithereens, Charlie Brown digs up Lucy’s snowy corpse & carries her home where he slides himself in her to keep warm, despairingly consumed with chocolate santas.





Grandpa & I are cocking rifles, Santa’s here to plague us all.

Grandma got shit-faced on margs at O’Delles last night, didn’t want to pay for a cab, so she decided to walk home in a blizzard. It was like every other December in the North, her eyes were blinded by whiplashes of icy shards, tongue & lips dried out from the salt. Death was a distinctive taste in her mouth—she had felt it before the only way to cheat it was to vomit & as she expelled lime juice & tequila, every synch of warmth she held, death would not let her. A chariot of blood came plowing down the path pulled by a voracious herd of reindeer, skin liquescent & eyes paled. One sight & sniff & Grandma was being violently eaten by the reindeer, gnashing & gnarling over her floral gown, Santa bellowing a cold hard laugh.

Grandpa & I are wearing black & cocking our rifles. We’ve boarded up the cabin & we’re ready to war, Grandma’s pie covered in corpse flies at the windowsill. A football game roars in the background, the players are eating each other on the field—the referee calls a penalty for the home team. The channel turns to an emergency broadcast, but the newscasters are eating each other on screen. The radio hums through static—the voice on the other end, gargling madly. Grandpa hands me more bullets & nails. He’s going out to look for Grandma.

Grandpa returns with her, bungee cords wrapping throat, fishing pole pulling her behind. I’m not about to celebrate Xmas with the dead. I put my rifle to my shoulder & take a shot, missing her by an inch. Grandpa yells STAAAHHHPPP, but I take another shot & break the fishing pole. Her mouth collides with Grandpa’s throat & blood splatters the snow. I take a third shot & pop her blank in the forehead. Grandma falls beside Grandpa, slowly dying in his own gurgles of blood—

[a picture of two morbid snow angels on a greeting card.]

Merry Zmas & have a Happy End of the World.


The Earth is turning on us. She no longer wants human inhabitants—we are the cruelest. We tear down, we dig up, & bury the secrets of our resource & burn it all to hell. We endanger other species, we murder each other over & over again, a man-made cycle of death. We are no longer the natural order of things, no longer dwelling in this organic illusion. Mother Nature is out for revenge. She has grown chemical fangs & we gave them to her. In holiday spirit, she mixes blood with mistletoe creating a deadly swirl of toxic breath. Mother Nature is releasing her own apocalypse, her own deadly narcosis, expelling her own dramatic disease. This is how we die in the interim. One by one, slowly picked off like the lives on the ground we step on. As we kiss each other under doorways, hallway arches, beside the epic Xmas trees—she spreads her antibodies. This Xmas, we will die with the roses & fall with the bees. This Xmas, our Earth will mourn with us. This Xmas, we will re-discover lost hope in the violence of trees. We will open our throats to the moon, we will polish our ground in mourning.

About the Author: Courtney Leigh is the author of “the unrequited <3<3 of red riding hood & her lycan lover (Dancing Girl Press, 2016)”. Her work has most recently appear in Rogue Agent & Gone Lawn, & is forthcoming in Bird Pile. She resides in Arizona & is The Bowhunter of White Stag Publishing.

Artwork: Sean McCollum