A subversive tome of poetry, observations, condemnations, and prose.

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Excerpt from "Blurt: Curses & Verses" (words and artwork copyright Darren Gordon Smith)    

Baby’s Last Christmas (My Christmas Carol)

Baby’s Last Christmas,

What a warm and cuddly affair

Mother sewed "Baby’s First Christmas" pillow case for Baby’s chair

Not a creature was stirring, not even Baby’s breath

Evil thoughts and sloth were Baby’s official causes of death

Why all the smiles when one is taken so young?

Because Baby was most certainly Satan’s spawn

Why, Grandma even heard Baby speak in tongues!

She said, “In my day, tots that talked like that were hung.”

So Mommy prayed that Baby would be Christ’s prey

When Mommy told Daddy of her prayer, he gave it the OK

He added that Baby, anyway

Would probably have needed dentures and a toupee

Mommy feared that one day Baby would talk

And heavens to Betsy, that monster would walk

So we better whack Baby’s knees

Before his terrible twos become his killing spree threes.


The townsfolk knew the parents were on the level

When they said that their Baby was spawned from the Devil

The citizenry took turns ripping Baby’s Christmas pillow

And with every able man, woman and child, all working in perfect harmony,

They smothered evil Baby and buried him in the willow

In a place so remote, it’s not even listed on Zillow.


But judge them not, for Baby was ugly as sin

And he’d probably grow up to kill his next of kin

And who’s to say

That Baby wouldn’t have one day

Grown up to kill scores of people?

Or worse, throw rocks at church steeples?


I’m the one to say, and I know the most

Because I was that cute Baby demon, smothered by the town,

Their gods, and their holy ghost.


Now, I’m happy and breathless, but far from listless

In fact, I’m savoring my death at Baby’s Last Christmas.

I’m the spirit who haunts this waning town

Making my spirits bright by dragging people down

Don them now, their mourning apparel

These days, this is what passes for my Christmas carol. 

Huffing and puffing up the arduous climb, he brought his best gal to the stone bench, a few paces from the well. “This reminds me of burying Sweetpea down the waterhole’s depth,” he was tempted to blurt.  But he didn’t blurt. Not after last time, when he picked up that honey from the bus stop and freaked her out and she ran away. Left him for good.  So no, he didn’t blurt. “No point in blathering on and on when you got a job to do,” he said only to himself. 

The two stopped at the bench. There, he grabbed a few items from his backpack. He surprised himself by saying aloud, “I’m neither a whiner nor a blurter. Hey, I’m a quality guy.” 

Merilee had to laugh, and she did.  He smiled back sheepishly.  She drank from his Thermos.

When his act was done, he carried Merilee to the well, where he forced water down her throat and into the rest of her lifeless body. He stopped when he felt how much heavier her body was with all that fluid in her. She felt like a cold and wieldy block of marble. He made a note to himself to either pump some iron at the gym or buy a hand truck. Or both.  For now, though, he’d have to deal with Merilee, his burden, and he decided that he’d better get over his perfectionism, and to squash his occasional nagging doubts. 

“Well,” he blurted to the wind, for there was no one around who could hear him, “If I can’t reach the waterhole, this is good enough.” He curled Merilee up into the bucket.  But because the bucket was smaller than the deceased, he had to chop off a few of her extremities into smaller pieces in order to fit all of her in.  Slowly he lowered her down the shaft. The bucket got about three quarters of the way down the well until it caught up against the side of the wall.  After that, not a blurt was heard.  Not even when the rains came and that thunderbolt hit him. 

To Make a Short Story Long

Here’s what happened:



And nothing.

And that’s the long version.

The short version?

I didn’t get laid.

I didn’t even have a date.

She’d been dead for hours when I got there.