I think this is the last long-form piece before Christmas, which is a little bit of a shame for these guys, but still. Let's cover the delivery of the presents so that Famine gets his job done :)
Presents Famine had no trouble sliding down chimneys and, where modern houses lacked them, he simply forgot that walls existed and walked through them as though they weren't there. The sleigh would draw to a halt and he would leap agilely over the side, ignoring that it might be parked halfway through a tree or someone's garage door, and walk confidently into the house. Ordinarily his affect on humans was to make them feel a niggling hunger at first that would slowly grow into insatiable desires for something -- what, exactly, depended on the person and their base needs and wants -- but with the job of Santa surrounding him like a cloak instead a sleepiness settled over the occupants. Even the most eagle-eyed, heavily caffeinated and alert children found themselves momentarily drifting off, distracted and sleepy and unable to see Famine stalking through the room to the tree and setting down odd little packages wrapped in slightly oily paper. He would look around, drawing in whatever there was most of and leaving behind a famine. Greed and avarice were like mince pies, and venal capitalism was like a glass of milk. As he walked away he left behind a familiar emptiness in unfamiliar places for the children and adults of the house.
When they awoke the next morning, their dreams having been dark, shadowy nightmares of something huge looming over them, long fingers stretching out to caress and tickle, they found themselves feeling their loss but unable to express it. The ordinary presents seemed lacklustre and gratitude was hard to muster. The oily-papered presents though, ignored at first as less attractive and somehow poorer than the gaudily wrapped ones, finally drew their attention and they unwrapped them, slowly, their fingers sliding over the surfaces. The labels were cryptic and seemed to change depending on who read them, and there was always one per person in the house and each item, though beautiful and intricate and -- finally -- satisfying, was so covetable and sacrosanct that they ran off to hide it and refuse to share. Like a small sack of food in a time of famine, each recipient somehow knew that this needed to be hoarded and protected from others.
"You got fat," said Death as Famine's sleigh landed in War's back garden. He was tending the roses, which Famine thought was a very Death thing to do. He had long wondered that Death seemed to be able to keep the flowers alive even though it was practically the antithesis of everything he was. "It'll pass, sis," said Pest. "Did I get that right?" He looked at Famine. "Sure fam," said Famine. "Ho, ho--" he burped unexpectedly. "Yeah, I picked up a lot of... clutter, let's say. I dunno how the fat man does this every year, you know?" "Practice, I expect," said Death. "It's how I do it." The doorbell rang, its no-mans-land chimes echoing around Finca Vigia like the bells for the last Christmas ever.
Greg - I have always - and shall continue to - appreciated the care you take with these characters. It's a bit awkward to do a theme week with all these interruptions but I'm extremely pleased you've found a way to work around them.
Love all the details and descriptions of the night's activities. I rather think Famine enjoyed himself!
2 comments:
I think this is the last long-form piece before Christmas, which is a little bit of a shame for these guys, but still. Let's cover the delivery of the presents so that Famine gets his job done :)
Presents
Famine had no trouble sliding down chimneys and, where modern houses lacked them, he simply forgot that walls existed and walked through them as though they weren't there. The sleigh would draw to a halt and he would leap agilely over the side, ignoring that it might be parked halfway through a tree or someone's garage door, and walk confidently into the house. Ordinarily his affect on humans was to make them feel a niggling hunger at first that would slowly grow into insatiable desires for something -- what, exactly, depended on the person and their base needs and wants -- but with the job of Santa surrounding him like a cloak instead a sleepiness settled over the occupants. Even the most eagle-eyed, heavily caffeinated and alert children found themselves momentarily drifting off, distracted and sleepy and unable to see Famine stalking through the room to the tree and setting down odd little packages wrapped in slightly oily paper. He would look around, drawing in whatever there was most of and leaving behind a famine. Greed and avarice were like mince pies, and venal capitalism was like a glass of milk. As he walked away he left behind a familiar emptiness in unfamiliar places for the children and adults of the house.
When they awoke the next morning, their dreams having been dark, shadowy nightmares of something huge looming over them, long fingers stretching out to caress and tickle, they found themselves feeling their loss but unable to express it. The ordinary presents seemed lacklustre and gratitude was hard to muster. The oily-papered presents though, ignored at first as less attractive and somehow poorer than the gaudily wrapped ones, finally drew their attention and they unwrapped them, slowly, their fingers sliding over the surfaces. The labels were cryptic and seemed to change depending on who read them, and there was always one per person in the house and each item, though beautiful and intricate and -- finally -- satisfying, was so covetable and sacrosanct that they ran off to hide it and refuse to share. Like a small sack of food in a time of famine, each recipient somehow knew that this needed to be hoarded and protected from others.
"You got fat," said Death as Famine's sleigh landed in War's back garden. He was tending the roses, which Famine thought was a very Death thing to do. He had long wondered that Death seemed to be able to keep the flowers alive even though it was practically the antithesis of everything he was.
"It'll pass, sis," said Pest. "Did I get that right?" He looked at Famine.
"Sure fam," said Famine. "Ho, ho--" he burped unexpectedly. "Yeah, I picked up a lot of... clutter, let's say. I dunno how the fat man does this every year, you know?"
"Practice, I expect," said Death. "It's how I do it."
The doorbell rang, its no-mans-land chimes echoing around Finca Vigia like the bells for the last Christmas ever.
Greg - I have always - and shall continue to - appreciated the care you take with these characters. It's a bit awkward to do a theme week with all these interruptions but I'm extremely pleased you've found a way to work around them.
Love all the details and descriptions of the night's activities. I rather think Famine enjoyed himself!
Post a Comment