Holiday Resolve
by
Russell Helms
Gripping a hatchet and a bottle, Samuel exposes a colostomy bag near his bellybutton. He smashes the bottle and dumps mescal flecked with glass into his mouth. Happy Holidays! he screams, spitting blood. He opens the colostomy valve, creating a slow brown leak. Another slosh of mescal and he hacks at the piano, then tenderizes the walls with the hatchet.
Dressed in Christmas sweaters, Samuel’s wife Celia and daughters June and Florence sit on the lime-green couch weeping. Celia’s mother Agnes covers her eyes.
Samuel hacks his right thigh and falls into the Christmas tree. Hugging it, he careens into the front window overlooking the roses. The window cracks jaggedly and Samuel sails through halfway, withdraws quickly, and dissects his left arm below the shoulder.
He bellows the thunder of a thousand Santas in wooden boots stomping steel cookie sheets. Blood courses from his shoulder, a warm waterfall, as he jerks free the fake colostomy bag and flings it at the headless turkey glistening on the table. He spins and leap-kicks the mantle, severing stockings from hooks, smashing pictures, upsetting candles. He reaches into the fireplace and grabs the grate filled with burning logs, spilling it onto the rug. He charges the fireplace headfirst, splitting his head. Inside his skull seems a slick red cabbage. He swings his fist, and without further ado, falls heavy onto the hot glowing logs, a portion of bloody, watery brains spilling onto the carpet.
A smoke of roasting flesh. Celia vomits, but no one moves, pondering the implications—Samuel does not like Christmas, and he has finally made himself clear.
Later, after opening presents, and eating pie, it’s agreed the colostomy bag was over the top, distracting, and, according to Celia’s mother, disingenuous although interesting.
Dressed in Christmas sweaters, Samuel’s wife Celia and daughters June and Florence sit on the lime-green couch weeping. Celia’s mother Agnes covers her eyes.
Samuel hacks his right thigh and falls into the Christmas tree. Hugging it, he careens into the front window overlooking the roses. The window cracks jaggedly and Samuel sails through halfway, withdraws quickly, and dissects his left arm below the shoulder.
He bellows the thunder of a thousand Santas in wooden boots stomping steel cookie sheets. Blood courses from his shoulder, a warm waterfall, as he jerks free the fake colostomy bag and flings it at the headless turkey glistening on the table. He spins and leap-kicks the mantle, severing stockings from hooks, smashing pictures, upsetting candles. He reaches into the fireplace and grabs the grate filled with burning logs, spilling it onto the rug. He charges the fireplace headfirst, splitting his head. Inside his skull seems a slick red cabbage. He swings his fist, and without further ado, falls heavy onto the hot glowing logs, a portion of bloody, watery brains spilling onto the carpet.
A smoke of roasting flesh. Celia vomits, but no one moves, pondering the implications—Samuel does not like Christmas, and he has finally made himself clear.
Later, after opening presents, and eating pie, it’s agreed the colostomy bag was over the top, distracting, and, according to Celia’s mother, disingenuous although interesting.
NUNUM
Blending Flash Fiction & Art
