Jack Frost in Christmas Town

What if there was a Cthulhu tree that possessed paranormal powers to grant its owner's wishes? That would be pretty interesting, wouldn't it? 'Cause everybody would want to have a piece of such a tree especially, if it was a Christmas tree. What if this tree could not discern what was right from wrong-what if it granted any wish anybody asked it?

Now imagine what happens if this magical Christmas tree got in the wrong hands, the Jack-Frost-kind-of-hands? If you can imagine the bad stuff Mr. Frost could wish for, this poem sums all of that up in one rich stew of terrifying goodness.

Jack Frost Photo: doktorsnake.com

          O magical tree! From Christmas Town!
          Won't you set me free, grant this one wish?
          O magical tree! From Christmas Town!
          Hope you won't deny me one simple wish!

          
          One innocent wish of boom and doom for the world
          Of men who flourish and bloom in gloom and cavort,
          While their kids cherish balloons like loons with resolve.
          Oh, they just boorish. Yet, soon these goons will be gone.
          Lastly, they'll shh! like brooks these crooks will get plugged.
          How I wish my wish be thro and thro years to come;
          One prayer to garnish the book and cook the outcome.
          Cthulhu tree pray fish all rooms for oomph, let them burn!
          I'll stanby'n relish the crude and cruel of the rut.
          Make men impoverish'd. The good, make rude and deformed.
          
          O magical tree! From Christmas Town!
          Won't you set me free, grant this one wish?
          O magical tree! From Christmas Town!
          Hope you won't deny me one simple wish!
          
          While the angels watch, make toast of hosts at Christmas.
          Make men bear a grudge and ghost their foes with nerve gas.
          May the whole world lurch with groans and moans and setbacks.
          Ice their hearts and botch carol night shows, kill their laughs.
          May kids sucker punch the robed and gloved St. Nicholas.
          Use my breath and launch a bold and cold vengeful blast,
          Steal joys with a touch of stoic hate stoke flames in grass.
          Make earth a gray splotch and blow all hopes to breakfast.
          Pick a lens and scorch their toes, dispose th'universe.
          Just one wish as crutch then, go and close all Decembers.
          
          O magical tree! From Christmas Town!
          Won't you set me free, grant this one wish?
          O magical tree! From Christmas Town!
          Hope you won't deny me one simple wish!
          
          Grant that Christmas cease and brawls and growls seize the day;
          Send Pandora's beast and crawlies gosh! just make hay.
          Rain a plague release the gross and truss kids at play.
          Take away all feasts, outbursts and crush t'holiday.
          Bring it from the East encrust the Earth's horst with decay.
          Blow grit like ground grist and thrust the frost thro the pane.
          Raise hell break up tryst and cause the buzz lose its gait.
          Fulfill my wishes, rebuff their bluff, trash their game.
          Sever the cursed rift, repulse the Claus, prove him lame.
          One wish apocalypse makes crumbs of all; that's my gain!
          
          O magical tree! From Christmas Town!
          Won't you set me free, grant this one wish?
          O magical tree! From Christmas Town!
          Hope you won't deny me one simple wish!
          
          
          
         Akpan

Santa's Worst Nightmare

What if Santa had personal demons? (Of course, he does battle internal fears, everybody does... right?) But if Santa had nightmares what would be the content of his incubus? Would it be fear of his arch-enemy, Jack Frost kidnapping Santa Claus and ruining the Christmas fun? The Grinch who tries to steal Christmas? A psychotic killer turning his bullets lose on kids? If Santa had nightmares what would be his worst? Read on and try to see if you can solve that piece of jigsaw puzzle on your own.

     And while you're at it, try to picture a Santa's grotto void of laughing, joyful kids at the peak of the Christmas season, if you can. If I was Santa, I know that would scare me titless.

The refrain comes in after each verse. I bet you can do that on your own so I didn't bother repeating 'em.

Photo: babybitznpartypieces.com

          'Twas the night before stuff got awry
          And all things beautiful grew tawdry
          The season took a bad turn and went gory
          Need I say things fell out in one big hurry?
          
          How still I saw them lie
          Permanently immobilized in my mind's eye.
          The endless column stretched from East to West
          I gasped as my breath caught in my breast.
          What could this be?
          Who is this beast?
          For one moment, I heard my heartbeat
          The rhythm disjointed and out of sync.
          
          The moanful creak of the derelict carousel
          Carved a ring of finality like doom's peculiar tassel.
          These kids, I wish they had a childish sort of carousal,
          One fine night, without their parents' counsel.
          Darkness is fallen.
          Silence is omen.
          Carols have been altered to dirge,
          Deserted grottoes placed on the verge.
          
          What's the point of a universe full of tall people
          When who you really need are the small people?
          Who stole children voices, that quaint magical dialect?
          Who robbed the season of music and a chance to recollect
          Good, genuine memories?
          How do I reminisce?
          What was the weapon-a gun, sword or deception?
          Did the Pied Piper make a visitation?
          
          It's empty! Empty! The whole world is empty!
          The sound in the silence is deathly prophecy.
          I close my eyes and dare not open it for fear
          Of what may come upon the midnight drear.
          The crows are flying.
          The wind is sighing.
          I think I'll stop by some field and pick the new blossoms;
          Never dreamed I'd witness the day kids abhor Santa Claus!
          
          
          Akpan

Paranoid Noel

I want you to close your eyes and try to imagine a kid who's grown up but is not done and over with his dread of Santa Claus. He still believes Santa is a maniac from some unidentified alien planet who is out to strangle little kids and eat them up. But wait, there's more. What if this guy (man or woman) believes Santa is still tailing him after all those years of going to visit the bearded one at the mall? What if his paranoia has driven him to the lip and actually, pushed him over the edge into the abyss of insanity?

These are the things I need you to keep in mind when you read this verse if you find you have any strength left in you to go on. I know you do.

          I seen him sitting in the mall all but acting Santa Claus.

          I seen with my eyes a kid he throttled with his glove-concealed claws.

          Don't you patronize me, I can tell dragons from dinosaurs.

          I know what I saws like I know meteors are slugs from catapults

          Of the gods released over their tireless and dumb cosmic wars.

          I watch my back 'cause in point of fact, his stare penetrates walls.

          

          I hear rats in the walls by the sound but I know who's really in there.

          You don't fool me old sorcerer, I know your tricks and I'm prepared.

          I saw a deer yesterday. It didn't look my way but it saw me clear.

          A spy from the Old One as every Christmas card's bugged with ears.

          I don't take cards, they all looking out for him with the gloves and beards.

          Mom and dad worked for him too, dragged me screaming into his lair.

          

          Woulda sucked my blood with vampyre fangs but I numbed him with my screams,

          Broke into a run and I never been back to see him since.

          It's same story for father and mother. Lord, forgive me my sins.

          As a man, I paid them a visit and chopped them in pieces.

          I made them pay for all my pains; the nightmares that stalk my bliss.

          I'm here now, a lonely man, peace won't allow my fantasies.

          

          I saw that old fool yesterday. Have I told you that it's Christmas?

          He walked up to me all  Ho! Ho! and hypocritical farce. 

          I saw the bulge of his belly and it all came back in a blast,

          What would have become of me had I not taken off in a flash.

          I coaxed him into a corner no more fear of Christmas past.

          I wrung the neck off his bulk and fed scavengers his carcass. 

          

          

          Akpan

A Psycho Christmas Carol

Well, did I say I was going to try my hands on horror-themed Christmas poetry or not? This is the first of my Thirteen Days of Christmas (13 being the evil number). It looks through the eyes of a psychotic killer who sees himself as one of Herod's soldiers who were sent on the killing spree during the search for Christ. There are 12 more dark verses for Christmas. Stay close to me and not one of us will be lost in this journey through the darkest night of the season.

          The coldness stung; the night was dreary.

          The wind played songs; the skies showed nary

          A cosmic stud; moonlight was tardy.

          From Rachel's womb; the tide flowed steady.

          

          Rip the wombs wide open, spare no swords;

          Flood the streets of 'Salem with a curse.

          Search the sewers, wash your feet in blood.

          If any mother resists thee, put her to the sword.

          Herod the Terrible has spoken

          Get The City smokin' n tokin'

          To the slaughter of the Only Begotten

          Herod will be lord or nothin'

          

          The coldness stung; the night was dreary.

          The wind played songs; the skies showed nary

          A cosmic stud; moonlight was tardy.

          From Rachel's womb; the tide flowed steady.

          

          This ain't no Sesame Street I'm playin',

          I came to dig for all that's breathing.

          If he's two, a fetus or still toddling

          I'll slit his throat till warm blood starts gurgling.

          Hang 'em with their umbilical cords;

          Bash 'em against the rocks.

          Write their dust-to-dust before they're born

          Wet your sword with baby blood.

          

          The coldness stung; the night was dreary.

          The wind played songs; the skies showed nary

          A cosmic stud; moonlight was tardy.

          From Rachel's womb; the tide flowed steady.

          

          I'll do them one at a time, gangland style.

          Two to the head and watch them die

          Slow while infant blood flows half a mile.

          I hear mothers curse but I'll let it slide.

          I got an arsenal of dynamites

          To initialize strange delights.

          I'll free 'em from their plights,

          Kill 'em off when they're in my sights.

          

          The coldness stung; the night was dreary.

          The wind played songs; the skies showed nary

          A cosmic stud; moonlight was tardy.

          From Rachel's womb; the tide flowed steady.

          

          

          Akpan

          

          

Why Horror Sells at Christmas

Why do people create horror-themed works for Christmas?

Well, do you think they have a choice? 'Tis the season to be gory. Let the season come upon a midnight scream!

Horror-themed Christmas movies (art, books and poetry) reveal our dark side. They tell us there is a reason to celebrate and look beyond all the terrors and waking nightmares that taunt and haunt us. And people really do find it intriguing to be able to sit back on their sofa during the holidays, grab a bowlful of popcorn in their hands and munch away while watching a really good shock/suspense Christmas movie.

Photo: audio-history.blogspot.com

I'm not trying to make fun of a noble event or blaspheme a holy cause or anything of the sort. But the birth of the Christ was horror-themed. Somebody did try to murder him, if my knowledge of the Bible is not all that rusty, when he was born. A king, I believe it was. And you do remember how that chapter of the Holy Book ends, do you not? The Herod eventually executes every child from age two and beneath thereby, setting himself up as the most infamous infanticide in history.

Besides, as we celebrate, we ought to be made to recall not everybody enjoys the same privileges like us. There's somebody someplace going to get robbed naked on Christmas day; a child on life-support might not make it through the season; life will never be the same (for worse than for better) for some folks after this Christmas. You think I'm sick for mentioning stuff as troubling as these are during the season? Well, take a look around you. Is life more promising during the yuletide than it was in say, November? I'll bet my shirt, it's not.

The war in Syria, the fighting in Afghanistan even in Nigeria (though, of recent things have looked up at least on one occasion, when the military trapped a few members of the bomb-chucking maniacs and annihilated them) the terrorist group, Boko Haram is still very much around and in business.

I don't quite understand the mechanism of some people's minds, but it seems people are more terrified by horror-themed movies than they are of real life-deleting scenarios. Folks watch a horror flick, look away in disgust and exclaim, "What sort of sick individual could have imagined such a thing?" Now here comes the news guy with gruesome images of war and homicide-man actually, killing his fellow man-and this same folks sit up and yell for more live video shooting of the whole drama. If you told them that's gross. They'll probably reply, "Why. That's  the NEWS. It really happened!" And you wonder if that ought to make it less or more horrifying.

Every Christmas (since 2010), I write Christmas-themed poetry. This year, I'm taking a crack at horror-themed Christmas poems. 13 dark verses which I have named Thirteen Days of Christmas. It's definitely a new experience for me and I do hope to learn a few new tricks in the art of shutting people's system down, even though temporarily, through the art of fear. It's always a lovely thing to find new reasons to celebrate. Gore came down at Christmas! (Sorry, I mean, love.)

There ought to be a chicken in every pot but you and I can name a few cases where there was no pot and the chicken caught a cold and died a few days before Christmas. Try to get yourself a very merry Christmas and keep in mind that it's better to visit the house of mourning than a place of fun especially, fun for the sake of it. That's probably, why horror sells at Christmas.

Have a horrific Christmas!

Akpan

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Lovecraft: The Greatest Short and Unhappy Life

H.P. Lovecraft

The Cthulhu Mythos genius who once enjoyed the privilege of a wealthy grandfather lived the last days of his life in one of the worst states of human misery. He died in abject poverty but now he is providence. The life and times of H.P. Lovecraft is one of an enduring true story of how one man's passion was the singular causal agent that set the tone for the future generation of horror and speculative fiction writers as a whole.

He is one of the first authors to mix elements of science fiction with elements of the Gothic horror story. Sickly as a child, his mother plugged his formal education for good at age eight. Lovecraft married and divorced out of financial constraint and never found the courage to take another wife. He never had children and died young of cancer of the small intestine.

The wealth of his grandfather was a form of security for young Lovecraft but when the man died and a mix-up in the inheritance paperwork robbed him of a the pomp and pride of the rich, Lovecraft's life was thrown into the kind of chaos that would feed the theme of his stories for decades.

However, despite tales of malnutrition and reports that Lovecraft was haunted by constant nightmares, his life has become beautiful beyond description in the long haul.

The author of the famous novel Psycho the basis for a great movie of the same name by Hitchcock, Robert Bloch was a protégé of H.P. Lovecraft. Lovecraft was Bloch's mentor and deeply influenced his writing style as well seriously encouraged his talent. Bloch went on to write hundreds of short stories and 30 novels and won many awards like the Hugo Award, the World Fantasy Award and, the Bram Stoker Award, in his lifetime.

About ten years after Lovecraft departed this world, a baby boy was born in Maine. A boy that would come to be known as the greatest horror writer of all time. A boy whose, when he was just two, father left home purportedly on going out to catch a smoke. He has never returned. A boy who discovered Lovecraft's books among his dad's abandoned belongings and whose life from that point on took a dramatic turn for the best.

Stephen King's journey into the world of the macabre was influenced by his contact with Lovecraft's works. King claims Lovecraft as his singular most important influence in fiction writing. King's books have been adapted to over 100 movies, TV series, short films and graphic novels. 

You begin to wonder how short or unhappy Lovecraft's life really was when you consider how many hundreds, thousands, of writers have been inspired by his weird fiction and by his resolve to go on beyond his misery.

Lovecraft's life though, short and seemingly besieged by sickness, pain and unhappiness has accomplished a far greater feat than most lives lived to the ripeness of old age could ever possibly  dream to achieve. Lovecraft's is the true story of a man who willed a light to the end of the tunnel even when all evidence pointed to the contrary. His fans were limited during his lifetime; the money from his stories barely paid his bills; his dad and mom were confined to an asylum to rot away.

Today, there's hardly a corner of the world where Lovecraft is not known. The writers he influenced, whose books have sold hundreds of millions in copies (Stephen King, Robert Bloch, August Derleth, Clark Ashton Smith, Clive Barker, Peter Straub and many more) have driven his name like the blast from a hurricane to the ends of the world.

In matter of fact, the traumas he endured during his short lifetime dims in light of the immortality that his suffering achieved. And said immortality not for the sake of the word but for the change-consistent, positive payload-the struggles of one man has delivered, despite extreme setbacks, in the lives of millions of people all over the world and across many generations.

It is possible that had Lovecraft not encountered such fierce opposition, which fed the weird theme in his works, writers like Bloch and King will never have been.

    Now what would be the odds of that?

Keep your pen bleeding.

Akpan

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Science Fiction + Predictions: Estranged Bedfellows?

Jules Verne

There is an ongoing debate about whether Science fiction as a genre is all about predictions or if it mainly revolves around speculations on the advancement of technology. The concurrent trend in the genre seems to connect closely, the advancement of technology and making didactic points about society through science-oriented stories.

The argument of whether to tell a story grounded solely in the explorations of science or to present an intriguing tale hauling a didactic purpose in its tow, continues to haunt and taunt science fiction nerds.

At some point, all parties concerned must come to terms with the fact that the genre because it is fiction and because it is such a daring adventure, lends its power of speculation to writers to muse over serious scientific speculations that may otherwise sound extravagantly humorous to the logical mind.

H.G. Wells

Writers like H.G. Wells used science fiction as an instrument of social criticism. These didactic elements can also be observed in Stephen King's approach to the genre. In scifi books like The Stand, Under the Dome (about which he wrote because he was bothered about how sometimes, the sublimely wrong people can be in power when you really need the right people), and Firestarter, King addresses social issues as well as moral issues. All the books listed above contain some sort of prophecy (or prediction, if you like the word better) but much of those relate to morality rather than technological exploits. Yet, there are instances of scientific speculations and there must be, you see or it could not be labeled science fiction.

Science fiction writer, Jules Verne who is called "the world's first full time science fiction writer" because of the level of commercial success his works achieved, "mixed daring romantic adventure with technology that was either up to the minute or logically extrapolated into the future (Wikipedia)-which, in everyday language means he made predictions about the future of technology.

While some writers like H.G. Wells and Stephen King usually gloss over the scientific process

Arthur C. Clarke

 in their tales so they can get on with the message of their stories, (King, for one, does not go to great lengths to explain how the scientific process in his stories are achieved. He focuses his energy on what those elements are meant for and the overall effect it has on the fate of the people in the story.) these writers still deliver exciting fiction of what-might-be if men do not curb their enthusiasm in a named field but from a science-driven perspective.

In his book, Profiles of the Future published in 1962, Arthur C. Clarke who in 1945, predicted the use of satellites for TV and radio communication describes two articles which feed "negative statements about scientific possibilities." 

The Failure of Nerve:

According to Clarke, this is the more common of the two and "occurs when even given all the relevant facts the would-be prophet (this could mean a scientist or science fiction writer) cannot see that they point to an inescapable conclusion... They could not believe the truth even when it had been spelled out before their eyes.

The Failure of Imagination:

It arises when all the available facts are appreciated and marshaled correctly-but when the really vital facts are still undiscovered and the possibility of their existence is not admitted. That can be summed up as "trying to define the limits within which scientific knowledge must lie."

Stephen King

I do not know about you but these examples seem to point to the fact that you can't take predictions out of science fiction and said predictions must be made in the light of advancing the development of the humankind-morally, technologically and in any other positive way. What is really needed is an open and unprejudiced mind.

As Clarke said,

"Even things that are undoubtedly impossible with existing or foreseeable techniques may prove to be easy as a result of new scientific breakthroughs."

This is what the genre drives for when it makes predictions-the essence of science fiction . This is the sum total of science-oriented stories.

But should there be a limit to scientific speculations?

If half of the things Michael Crichton talks about in his novels (Jurassic Park and The Lost World, for example) came to pass would mankind be the better or the worse for it? These are the questions science fiction writers presume to answer when they cook up a story. This is the basis of their predictions. To show man his good side and what explorations into weird technological experiments might mean for the survival of mankind.

Every scifi plot is aimed at telling a good and exciting story; creating characters people can associate with; inventing realistic technology (although, in light of what Clarke has deduced, this one is really dicey); and make didactic points. The bottom line is that it must leave behind for us a message through a science-themed story as well as deliver on the goodies good fiction is known for.

Permit me to end all this rambling with a quote from Arthur C. Clarke's Profiles of the Future:

"The only way to discover the limits of the possible is to venture a little way past them into the impossible."

Let these words be your guide every time you read or write a science fiction story.

Keep your pen bleeding!

Akpan

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