Tis the season?

July 3rd, 2018. This was the date of my very first sighting, the first hint of the shadow to come. I’d found its birthsack in south Georgia, on the second floor of a decrepit, water damaged old building. Not a snowflake in sight, either—just a rare white mold. Unfortunately i’d missed the crucial moment. The cocoon had hatched…the bird had flown…Elvis had already left the building. Or perhaps he had actually remained, watching from some ceiling peep hole as I inspected his decaying, stinking shell? Had he sewn his spiritualsuck tethers on my unguarded neck back then, had he gained his first sloppy taste? Likely. Santa is a dark god.

Wherein a Solid-State Santa beholds the tuber

I am writing this confession a year and a half after that event. Quite a lot has changed since then.These days, Santa and I are hive-mind. Santa and I think As Unity. Yes my friends, I have been “santa-snatched”, as they say. And inside his thought, it is so very unlike Our Thought. It is deranged. It is tricksy. The Santa-thought is a “Beyond Thought’. And so? My account here, it too will be somewhat deranged. Forgive Us.

Wherein Salvation Santa is made checkerboard

Listen. Santa is the warming of humanoid toelice, he is a dog in the impression of Sad Manikin. Listen. In a Santa-filled world, every shadow, every honeycomb, every slice in the dead dumbo pavement is filled with sticky, screaming Elf. In a Santa-filled world, even a beard is hydraulic. It is a haunted-house world, it is the place where every creature-critter that you meet may hide the bloodied needle. It is a jump-scare world too, a land filled with fungal jack-in-the-box sadists. Though you may cut off thousands of laughing, bouncing heads, their wind-up mycelium remains…

Wherein Santa jumps skips hops his way to the Platonic

The best stocking-stuffer is a centipede. This has long been regarded as this dimension’s sole cosmological truth. Everything else? It shifts, it drips, it leaks… Up may suddenly turn into Down, the white sugar cookie may suddenly turn into the blackest of sludge. Provoked or unprovoked, this matters very little.

Wherein Santa is shown to be yarn-based, Saturn-made, a traveler among Elk

In a Santa world, the smaller the critter, the more violent and unrelenting it is likely to be. My Deep Self has often been sliced within by those sassy unborn twitterbugs…their long yellow tubulars already penetrating into my delicates…before that lazy mother of theirs had even bothered first to birth them! And the air here in the north pole is so thick with musical tapeworm that a True Breathing never comes easy. My advice? Stick the gum in your ear, and “walk away”.

Goodbye christmas, goodbye old st. nick!

Once the Santa-Thing chooses a victimlover, it will penetrate the base of its neck with a tether, as I mentioned before. It will then break off a piece of its own soulself and deposit it inside of the mind of the host. The soulself of Santa is Infinite, and thus there can be no numerical limits to these evolutionary shatterings. All mankind may one day become “Of Santa”. But anyway—as for the recently infected humanoid host, it will soon begin to see near-constant outpourings of disturbing Santaface. This is the first sign of possession. The second sign is the loss of all coherent thought, and the third is the growth of large red-and-green gills. Many of the Santa’ed ones spend their subsequent lives caroling in the depths of the polluted solar lake. They subsist primarily on the genital papilla of All Accumulated Fish. And how do they die, you ask? These holiday byproducts? Well! At age 70, their cold aquatic eyes go suddenly white. This is the first metamorphosis, the first symptom, the last scream. On the eve of the following day, their weary bodies are dissolved back into primordial mother-milk, and the mountain bird then drinks them. Do not cry about it, my friend. It is true that I am now one of those men. But I am forevercontent. I am MerryMerryMerry.

-Text by SC, Photos by SC & JA