A quarter of a century of Christmases without song, No carols are sung door to door, no lit up neon driveways of ghostly reindeer. No midnight mass, although some gather to acknowledge the day. The bible still is carried by people, mostly end of day prayers. The Pope is somewhere in eastern Europe hiding from execution, because the church as it often does had a hand in the wars. But what remains are the tender moments between families, the chance to reflect on the last year, and how we survived. And once in a while a mistletoe will hang overhead, and you’ll get an unexpected kiss, its warmth lessening the December air. 

And maybe if you dream hard enough, you’ll see your childhood tree again, turn around on christmas morning as your father beams with pride for being able to provide, your mother watching the joy with tea on the kettle and cookies in the oven.

To be home on Christmas morning again. 

Jennifer thought it was Christmas, but who could be sure? Still she wrapped the doll she found in the empty drug store in some old magazine paper with shiny happy people on it. She looked at her hands as she wrapped it, dirty and worn, nothing like the clean made up skin of the people on the paper, slick and shiny. She wondered if they were even the same species anymore? 

Her daughter slept soundly next to her, little breaths rising and falling in rhythm with the world. It wasn’t much of a gift but it was the thought. Plus there weren’t many moments for joy in this place, so Jennifer tried to provide when able. She got up to boil some water at the firepit, perhaps some mint tea would set the mood. Her daughter rose then,

“Hey momma, whatcha doing?” She asked, wiping the sleep from her eyes. 

“Hey baby. Do you know what day it is?” 

I stopped learning how to love a long time ago.I stopped understanding where my place in the world could be.
It should be easy to be a good person, to have dreams for the future. To enjoy things that are meant to be shared. But the stone wall is easier, there is peace in loneliness.
There is selfishness there, but the pit in your stomach hurts less.

Another micro poem, this one about blood and fingers up at Five Fleas

Happy Thanksgiving.

My story Yoshida and the Nekomata is in the new collection from Alien Buddha Press, ARCANE MAGICK. It is me playing with the Samurai films of Akira Kurosawa mixed with a story of a great cat spirit (Yokai) in Japanese culture the Nekomata. It was fun to play in a style I don’t normally write in and has more violence than I usually use.

You can order a copy from Alien Buddha through Amazon,

Arcane Magick

It is a point of contention to who exactly we have to blame for the current predicament. 

But isn’t that really the reason we are here in the first place? 

Arguments instead of solutions. 

Sarah looked at Marc with hatred. Hatred because he was right. Hatred because he kept telling her so. But they kept walking together, his soon to be born son deep in her belly. He kicked her through the thin layer of skin separating him from the world. She smiled at the kicks unless they were too painful. 
Marc spoke again and she rolled her eyes without reflex. He saw it and just looked away, out across the vast landscape in front of them.
“We should get some rest for you soon,” he whispered. 

He shed a tear that she couldn’t see from this angle, about what life could have been, if they could just stop this endless argument. 

The sounds of a piano echoed through the ghostly halls of the old hotel. No one was there to tap away at the keys. No soul had exited the gift shop in ages. No sheets in the laundry room, and those left on the beds were a shade of dust from years of non use. The pool had evaporated and its tiles cracked in weird angles. Eighty two floors of silence. The trees in the lobby reached for the light in broken windows and birds nested, leaving droppings over the marble floors. Who was the last person to check in? Who was the last human to check out? Did the manager turn off the lights or just flee into the mass panic on the streets, another casualty to the end? The furnace hissed in protest occasionally sending steam up through the pipes rattling the floors like a dance. A cavern of memories, alone until the foundation gives way to the dirt below, like everything else left behind.

Awake, coffee and shower.
Get a few flips in,
The sound of silver hitting metal.
Announcements, smiles, friends
Can you do it?
Will yourself to endure?
Round one, a panic, a chance for glory.
By round 3 the tempo sets in.
Music from the Guns and Roses game echoes in the background.
It is for sale. I’d pay to not play it again.
Hallways lined with humans, bright and friendly currently, offering smiles, exchanging locations of origin.
Someone yells in frustration at a bad drain. Conserve your energy.
After round 5 a dinner break. The sun is setting on a beautiful November day in Connecticut. And with nightfall some players’ chances of winning evaporate, but they play on, unafraid of upcoming losses.
You must continue. It is a point of pride, this challenge in the name of love of a silly game. A game we all cherish. For the friends it brought us, or for the moments of control we do desperately need in this world.
Round 7 hits, then round 8. The red countdown clock signalling how many hours we have left taunts everyone.
My companions have made a makeshift hang near the woman’s bathroom, a location chosen for its proximity to a power outlet. We eat snacks between each round until we realize we haven’t been hungry for hours. Beers are drunk, stories exchanged. Some people here are partaking in other mind altering things, some are just losing their minds as the night wears on.
We change our clothes as the evening progresses, fresh socks are a must. The cold concrete floor of the venue starts pounding on your legs from feet that have been standing for too long. But you’re up on Rack em up, an old Gottleib with weird placement for a spinner. But when you hit it your tired eyes light up once again. You know how to play pinball after all.
In the parking lot a local player is grilling hot dogs. People go to their cars for moments alone. Surprisingly things are still pleasant. But you can see the strain on even the most seasoned players. Flipping when they shouldn’t. Playing out of turn.
I suffer through two bad rounds between 2-4 am. I can’t hit any shots I normally do. But it is okay, six hours to go.
People you played with earlier start saying hi out of recognition. No one is sure if you remember their name. No one minds if you don’t . A man makes grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup for donations to the Sanctums Christmas party. They taste like salvation.
The sun starts to rise. The clock says four hours left. Something strange happens to your body, its rhythm returning with daylight. You win two out of three games in the next round, just missing out on a bounty payday offered to anyone who has a perfect round in these tough conditions. Many have had perfect rounds throughout the night but I didn’t witness anyone do it twice. The final round is here. No new rounds can start after 10am. Each group here is chasing money. The winner takes home a cash prize. You would think it would become cutthroat, but it is not. Everyone is too tired to fight, or argue. We play our last games, smiling again, knowing the end is near and we are all champions.
Afterwards there is a playoff for first and second place on the game of Stars. The entire room watches both with intrigue and also with resistance to shout “Let us go home!”.
Then medals are handed out to each of the 100 players who survived the experience. No one dropped out. New friends were made, possibly new enemies.
We are warriors of pinball, clad in our hoodies and smelling like junk food and alcohol poisoning.
My son wakes up far away and sends me a text asking when I’ll be home? Three hours to a flight, and a drive after. By 9pm I respond. It turns out to be true, 39 hours awake for the glory of the silverball.
Will I ever do it again? I do not know.
But I’m glad to say I have.

Ross stared at the bank in this abandoned town and smirked. He thought about how much debt he was in before the fall. His brother had always said, “don’t take no credit, buy only what you can afford”. His drunk uncle, the outcast of the family said
“Spend their money, before you spend yours.” 

In the end, he guessed his drunk uncle was right. It wasn’t sustainable in the old economy, but Ross thought in this timeline he made out alright, not paying off his fifty year mortgage. It was a death sentence in the old world but now money had no value. The only value was finding the next meal, and gasoline was scarce, so cars were pretty much worthless.
No interest rates, and no interest in owning the next shiny thing. No swipe of the credit card. The bankers starved first after the fall. The people who were used to having nothing knew perfectly well how to make a sandwich out of whatever they found in the kitchens of the rich. 

And they danced on the graves of the CEOs of Mastercard and Visa. 

New micro #poetry out today on Five Fleas. It’s a Halloween crime #poem.
Thanks to Roberta Beach Jacobson for including it.
Free to read it and others here

https://fivefleas.blogspot.com/2025/11/morning-of-november-5-2025.html