Frieda's Wonderland
The busy season was over. She was worn-out; he lay in his plumped up bed and would expect her to wait on him with sugary tea and biscuits.
'Oh how it took it out of him' she thought sarcastically ' lazy fat slob' What was worse is that everyone else expected her to run around after her husband with a jovial bounce in her step while supplying warm bosoms for him to snuggle into.
Well she'd played the dutiful, do all the work, stay in the background, smiley wife for what felt like a thousand years and now she'd had enough. She didn't care anymore, she was all cared out. She didn't even care if they thought she was terrible for not caring. She felt like being terrible. She'd had a wicked urge earlier, in the middle of the busiest day to strip naked and stand in the middle of the loading bay and scream one of those scorned women popstar's songs about 'not really giving a fuck' she'd be more visible then. Did she do that? Noooo she didn't. She rallied the troupes, she gave the thumbs up, she even high five's when required and made sweet tea and banana butties until they were coming out her ears, as usual.
She sat in the dusty forgotten room, wooden beams were laced with spider webs, patchwork bags strewn open where she'd delved into her former life, trying to find hints of who she was. It was as quiet as death, not even a mouse stirred. Faded old plans quickly and excitedly written in pencil as their ideas grew and were stuck with tape over every wall and glitter was intermingled with the dust..
It had been different at the beginning; they'd started this whole business to give something back, to put a smile on the kid's faces. But that was a long time ago; his motivation was all different now. He had become a bit of a celebrity, he'd believed all the hype about himself, she'd faded further into the background and he'd let her almost disappear.
Covering her knee were old clothes she'd stitched together with young fervent hope. The light was creeping into the small church-like window. There was a low thud and the quiet was broken. She crawled slowly towards the window. cleared a tiny peephole with her dusty, raw fingers and eagerly scanned the frosty landscape. She stared hard by the sweet factory, scanned every doorway, every window, each icy statue and behind every tree. A tear dropped silently onto the window sill. There wasn't any one there; she pretended she was glad; she didn't want HIS entourage spying on her. She picked things without really seeing and placed them in her bag, until she came across an envelope addressed to Frieda. Frieda was her old name. No-one had called her by her real name for so long. It had been deemed 'unsuitable'. She'd spent so many lonely nights surrounded by 'his people' scurrying around bigging him up, laughing at his oh so old jokes, looking at her as if she was the most privileged woman on the planet. She didn't blame them, they were naive, caught up in the whole utopic dream, and they were almost child-like. In fact it was them that she'd miss the most. It was them that would feel the full force of her leaving, as the empire the'd built crumbled round them, as they saw the sadness.
But of course there is always more than one side to every story..........................................................................................................................................................................................
Lying in his bed exhausted but content Father Christmas slept deeply. His well-worn, fur suit lay crumpled at the end of the bed and he slept with his hairy leg hugging the outside of the quilt.H snored, a cartoon snore, each one ending in a whistle, his beard and his eyebrows which were rather bushy, long and curly danced with the vibrations. Father Christmas was deep in sleep, was deep in meditation.Erotic beings danced slowly with purpose trying to allure him with the sound of a thousand angels and scents of love and lust, he sat in a meditative equipoise. The dream changed quickly without warning. Shriekish demons attempted to claw the skin from his face and climb into his mind, he sat peacefully and undeterred. The things Father Christmas had once been attached to had floated by, trees growing chocolate covered biscuits, rivers of warm cocoa, happy memories wrapped in see through paper. Still he sat peacefully with a light which grew from his heart and emanated into every atom, into every being and the dream being's dissipated through the power of his mindfulness and all the restless beings in all of the worlds let out a sigh of relief and smiled.
Mother Christmas held her knees and looked into the distance, Christmas trees were dotted for miles across the horizon, lit with very small, very bright, fairy lights, each one representing a child who would wake up soon full of energy and hope. This time the lonely tear was followed without warning by many lonely acquaintances, some which merged but none which spoke, all feeling similar despair, all not sure why, no-one sharing with the other the overwhelming sense of desperation. Frieda hugged herself tighter until her limbs fell listless and her whole being collapsed in on its-self. She rolled over onto her side and quietly, unheard, made involuntary whimpers and the tears poured from her sore eyes and she lay sprawled like a very old dog across the floor, her body jerked and her voice made strange moaning animal-like cries and her mind gave up, and she felt almost peaceful.
Sickle, a tall wiry excitable elf whose eyes always held a look of innocent wonder had been waiting outside Father Christmas' door, impatiently stepping from foot to foot and letting out muffled squeals for almost four hours. He was waiting for him to wake up so that they could open their presents, although the elves were not children, Santa never forgot to fill their stockings with toys and trinkets. Santa didn't wake well into Christmas day; he rolled his legs out of the side of the bed let out a little cough followed by a chuckle. He could still see that little girl's face. She'd 'caught him' . She'd sat up, stared, tumbled out of bed, jumped quickly into bed, dived under the covers and reappeared out the other side, with a cheeky 'got ya' look on her face. he chuckled as he put his comfortable joggers on and the furry slippers his wife had given him. It still got to him no matter how long he did it - he still believed it was the best job in the world,
Sickle peered from behind the door. 'Dad,' he shouted. 'Dad it's Christmas.' 'You're joking, is it here already?' Sickle leaped in the room giggling, he looked around the room and spotted Santa's favourite woolly jumper, picked it up like it was an old friend and vollied it over to him. 'You're missing it - they're just about to start the snowball fight.' And before the jumper had reached him, Sickle had left the room. Or at least most of him had, his very long scarf had hooked itself onto the handle, Sickle flew back into the room, 'aaaaaaagh', he crash landed at Santa's feet. Santa chuckled and reached out a stubby pink hand. 'Where's Ma?' 'Ooooh,' wondered Sickle. 'She's, she's, I don't know' he said, surprised at his own answer.
Frieda was awake now and had resumed her hugging, rocking position, she had not been visited by the spirit of Christmas this year and every bit of her elf spirit had left her. She was vacant, devoid, lacking, empty, she hummed a monotone continuous low hum, her eyes were glazed over and her heart had become oh so sad, it had moved away not able to bear it any longer. She didn't know why.
Father Christmas stood at the doorway silently. He had lived for many years now, he knew that most people experienced these kinds of feelings at least once in their lives; he knew his job helped but didn't cure. He was aware that fairy lights and presents, feasts and forgiveness were sooooo important but he was also aware that sprinkling glitter on the suffering wouldn't make it go away. He knew he had a job to do and he wasn't alone.
He wrapped Mother Christmas in the blanket of love which was her Christmas present and slowly walked with her. She would be all right, he would be especially gentle with her and she could take time to recuperate. They would carry on as normal, things would stay the same and things would change, and when she was feeling better they would sit and travel deep and be within and meditate and find some answers to a happiness which never dissolved.
© Louise Jones
'Oh how it took it out of him' she thought sarcastically ' lazy fat slob' What was worse is that everyone else expected her to run around after her husband with a jovial bounce in her step while supplying warm bosoms for him to snuggle into.
Well she'd played the dutiful, do all the work, stay in the background, smiley wife for what felt like a thousand years and now she'd had enough. She didn't care anymore, she was all cared out. She didn't even care if they thought she was terrible for not caring. She felt like being terrible. She'd had a wicked urge earlier, in the middle of the busiest day to strip naked and stand in the middle of the loading bay and scream one of those scorned women popstar's songs about 'not really giving a fuck' she'd be more visible then. Did she do that? Noooo she didn't. She rallied the troupes, she gave the thumbs up, she even high five's when required and made sweet tea and banana butties until they were coming out her ears, as usual.
She sat in the dusty forgotten room, wooden beams were laced with spider webs, patchwork bags strewn open where she'd delved into her former life, trying to find hints of who she was. It was as quiet as death, not even a mouse stirred. Faded old plans quickly and excitedly written in pencil as their ideas grew and were stuck with tape over every wall and glitter was intermingled with the dust..
It had been different at the beginning; they'd started this whole business to give something back, to put a smile on the kid's faces. But that was a long time ago; his motivation was all different now. He had become a bit of a celebrity, he'd believed all the hype about himself, she'd faded further into the background and he'd let her almost disappear.
Covering her knee were old clothes she'd stitched together with young fervent hope. The light was creeping into the small church-like window. There was a low thud and the quiet was broken. She crawled slowly towards the window. cleared a tiny peephole with her dusty, raw fingers and eagerly scanned the frosty landscape. She stared hard by the sweet factory, scanned every doorway, every window, each icy statue and behind every tree. A tear dropped silently onto the window sill. There wasn't any one there; she pretended she was glad; she didn't want HIS entourage spying on her. She picked things without really seeing and placed them in her bag, until she came across an envelope addressed to Frieda. Frieda was her old name. No-one had called her by her real name for so long. It had been deemed 'unsuitable'. She'd spent so many lonely nights surrounded by 'his people' scurrying around bigging him up, laughing at his oh so old jokes, looking at her as if she was the most privileged woman on the planet. She didn't blame them, they were naive, caught up in the whole utopic dream, and they were almost child-like. In fact it was them that she'd miss the most. It was them that would feel the full force of her leaving, as the empire the'd built crumbled round them, as they saw the sadness.
But of course there is always more than one side to every story..........................................................................................................................................................................................
Lying in his bed exhausted but content Father Christmas slept deeply. His well-worn, fur suit lay crumpled at the end of the bed and he slept with his hairy leg hugging the outside of the quilt.H snored, a cartoon snore, each one ending in a whistle, his beard and his eyebrows which were rather bushy, long and curly danced with the vibrations. Father Christmas was deep in sleep, was deep in meditation.Erotic beings danced slowly with purpose trying to allure him with the sound of a thousand angels and scents of love and lust, he sat in a meditative equipoise. The dream changed quickly without warning. Shriekish demons attempted to claw the skin from his face and climb into his mind, he sat peacefully and undeterred. The things Father Christmas had once been attached to had floated by, trees growing chocolate covered biscuits, rivers of warm cocoa, happy memories wrapped in see through paper. Still he sat peacefully with a light which grew from his heart and emanated into every atom, into every being and the dream being's dissipated through the power of his mindfulness and all the restless beings in all of the worlds let out a sigh of relief and smiled.
Mother Christmas held her knees and looked into the distance, Christmas trees were dotted for miles across the horizon, lit with very small, very bright, fairy lights, each one representing a child who would wake up soon full of energy and hope. This time the lonely tear was followed without warning by many lonely acquaintances, some which merged but none which spoke, all feeling similar despair, all not sure why, no-one sharing with the other the overwhelming sense of desperation. Frieda hugged herself tighter until her limbs fell listless and her whole being collapsed in on its-self. She rolled over onto her side and quietly, unheard, made involuntary whimpers and the tears poured from her sore eyes and she lay sprawled like a very old dog across the floor, her body jerked and her voice made strange moaning animal-like cries and her mind gave up, and she felt almost peaceful.
Sickle, a tall wiry excitable elf whose eyes always held a look of innocent wonder had been waiting outside Father Christmas' door, impatiently stepping from foot to foot and letting out muffled squeals for almost four hours. He was waiting for him to wake up so that they could open their presents, although the elves were not children, Santa never forgot to fill their stockings with toys and trinkets. Santa didn't wake well into Christmas day; he rolled his legs out of the side of the bed let out a little cough followed by a chuckle. He could still see that little girl's face. She'd 'caught him' . She'd sat up, stared, tumbled out of bed, jumped quickly into bed, dived under the covers and reappeared out the other side, with a cheeky 'got ya' look on her face. he chuckled as he put his comfortable joggers on and the furry slippers his wife had given him. It still got to him no matter how long he did it - he still believed it was the best job in the world,
Sickle peered from behind the door. 'Dad,' he shouted. 'Dad it's Christmas.' 'You're joking, is it here already?' Sickle leaped in the room giggling, he looked around the room and spotted Santa's favourite woolly jumper, picked it up like it was an old friend and vollied it over to him. 'You're missing it - they're just about to start the snowball fight.' And before the jumper had reached him, Sickle had left the room. Or at least most of him had, his very long scarf had hooked itself onto the handle, Sickle flew back into the room, 'aaaaaaagh', he crash landed at Santa's feet. Santa chuckled and reached out a stubby pink hand. 'Where's Ma?' 'Ooooh,' wondered Sickle. 'She's, she's, I don't know' he said, surprised at his own answer.
Frieda was awake now and had resumed her hugging, rocking position, she had not been visited by the spirit of Christmas this year and every bit of her elf spirit had left her. She was vacant, devoid, lacking, empty, she hummed a monotone continuous low hum, her eyes were glazed over and her heart had become oh so sad, it had moved away not able to bear it any longer. She didn't know why.
Father Christmas stood at the doorway silently. He had lived for many years now, he knew that most people experienced these kinds of feelings at least once in their lives; he knew his job helped but didn't cure. He was aware that fairy lights and presents, feasts and forgiveness were sooooo important but he was also aware that sprinkling glitter on the suffering wouldn't make it go away. He knew he had a job to do and he wasn't alone.
He wrapped Mother Christmas in the blanket of love which was her Christmas present and slowly walked with her. She would be all right, he would be especially gentle with her and she could take time to recuperate. They would carry on as normal, things would stay the same and things would change, and when she was feeling better they would sit and travel deep and be within and meditate and find some answers to a happiness which never dissolved.
© Louise Jones