Victoria's Diary

By Late Night Writings

I’m a dramatic person and it does actually cause a lot of unnecessary problems, but I’m not going to change. Katy didn’t respond to my text yesterday. It was a question. Isn’t she terrible? I certainly think so. Darla didn’t like a tweet I posted last week. That’s the first time she hasn’t liked one of my tweets, since she started following me on Twitter five months ago. What kind of statement is she trying to make? I think she’s trying to say she’s better than me. Nobody is too good for my tweets, especially not Darla Peggy Pots. That’s right, her middle name is Peggy. Nobody can pull that one off. I know you might think these things sound stupid and I want you to know that I think they sound stupid, too. I used to get really hung up on how stupid this sort of stuff is. I’d get home from a date and immediately tell myself that “I made such a fucking mistake” because I didn’t get great vibes when he dropped me off. Vibes. Then I would get angry at myself for having that reaction. Then I would get upset with myself for getting angry at myself for having that reaction. It went in circles. Now, I just let myself feel my stupid feelings and I don’t get angry. I’m better for it. I throw a tantrum, cry, tell myself “I need to stop making these stupid fucking mistakes”, and then I get over it. Now that I don’t let myself get angry at myself for being irrational, I recover from irrationality a lot faster. I still know I’m an idiot, but I don’t get mad at myself for it. Being dramatic keeps me connected to my feelings. My many feelings. Well, I guess I don’t have a big variety of feelings. By “many feelings”, I mean I feel two or three things very often. Those would be disappointment, sadness, and frustration. That’s just me. I’ve accepted it. I still feel the other ones, for sure, but not as much. Just last week, I was real happy because I was getting the attention I needed. It sounds a bit pathetic, but people just need attention sometimes. That applies to everyone. The really pathetic part of it is that I felt like shit after because I felt bad for relying on other people to feel good about myself. Yeah, I think I need help. Anyway, I’m in-touch with my feelings. I get them. Obviously, I’m big on overthinking things and that helps me understand myself. I’ve tried a lot of things to get myself to be normal. Nothing sticks. Nothing ever sticks. Nobody ever sticks. Around. For long. Anyway, nothing sticks and I think I need to stop worrying about that. If I can’t change, I really need to stop trying to. What am I going to do to fix the problem? I’ll control it. I’m not going to get better. All I can do is keep myself in check. Know when I’m overreacting. Katy isn’t really terrible. She was busy and I knew she was busy. I also need to recognize when I’m one-hundred percent right. Darla is absolutely playing a game. If I didn’t believe that, I wouldn’t have told everyone about her fugly middle name. She’s not going to win this one. I know I’ll change in other ways. I might be more refined. I might be more confident. I might be more exciting. I won’t be changing in this way though. I will always be overly dramatic. I will always read too far into things and read too far into things that aren’t there. I’m never going to process my emotions in a normal way. This is me. I’m not perfect. I’m not amazing. I’m fine.

The Benefits of a Krampus Tradition

By Jem Morgenstern

Here comes the time of year to spread holiday cheer and douse ourselves in unholy fear. Santa makes his way through chimneys to leave charitable gifts for all the good little children as Krampus slips into the rooms of all the naughty ones to drag them off and devour them the next day.

Primarily in Austria, Christmas tales and folklore include a wicked character that has yet to be introduced to the majority of Christmas-celebrating households. There is a multitude of names to call him by, including Knecht Ruprecht, Certa, Perchten, Klaubauf, and Schmutzli, but he is most commonly known as Krampus. His image is most comparable to fauns of the Narnia variety, but with more upper-body hair. The fur covering his body is as black as night, the horns on his head scar the rooftops of naughty children’s homes, his astonishingly long tongue writhes and twirls at the sight of his next meal.

It’s difficult to see how anyone, no matter how jolly, wouldn’t enjoy beating snivelling little brats into the next eternity, but Santa relinquished the pleasure of punishing burdensome youth and handed the job over to a more capable companion. Children are generally led to believe that, if their behavior is unsatisfactory that year, Krampus will sneak into their home and beat them with whips and rusty chains before hauling them off into the night to be eaten.

I believe that adopting the Krampus tradition would benefit our community. Familiar Christmas traditions have been around since the late 1800s and having the same yearly routine for more than 100 years gets dull. It’s obvious, it’s in the air, the classic Christmas is coming to the end of its holiday lifespan. Hollywood is running out of Santa tales to tell and if stores began their Christmas sales any earlier, we would be seeing trees and ornaments “for cheap” in all twelve months of the year. It’s time for a change.

Over the years, children have stopped believing tales of Santa Claus at younger ages than previously recorded. During the few years of childhood they have, each generation of kids has decided to end the magic a little sooner. Introducing Krampus surely wouldn’t extend the years of the illusion any further, but it would add an extra kick to the fairy tale magic.

The point of rewarding children with cute little presents on Christmas was to let them feel appreciated. Though our alternative to the gift giving isn’t much of a punishment. Our version of Christmas cuts out Krampus completely and, instead of being beaten and eaten, we’re told that Santa will leave a lump of coal in our stockings. Coal, even just one lump of it, could entertain a child for hours. It’s chalk, it’s a magical stone, it’s a relic of the old age, it’s coal! Coal can be whatever a child decides that it is, but being beaten and eaten is just what it is. A child cannot make any fun out of such a dreary punishment. Children who believe tales of Krampus will feel truly grateful for the gifts they see in the morning and any child who wakes up to see a room devoid of gifts will be truly terrified.

Adults and us teenagers are less impressed by Christmas as more years go by. Giving and receiving gifts or getting emotional with people we may or may not actually be that close to are the only things people our age have going for them on Christmas and (face it) all of that could be done during any other time of the year. Aside from the time off school or work, Santa is what makes the holiday special, but his antics don’t appeal to anyone older than twelve. The holiday loses its standing as a unique day of the year. However, the entire concept of Krampus appeals to nearly everyone. Introducing Krampus to the American version of the holiday would give the holiday more substance and pull more mature audiences back into the celebratory scene.

Telling tales of an anthropophagus beast is all it takes to rekindle the Christmas spirit. We are more than ready to spread the word of Krampusnacht, we are more than ready to spin new tales of holiday cheer, we are more than ready to celebrate a new Christmas.

Brandon, OR/ID: Part II

Flower Stuck in Gums

By Jem Morgenstern

Anne is a recent high school graduate from West Kilby High School, which has no counterpart in the East, North, or South. It is the smallest high school in the city and is mainly reserved for the elitist children of the classist wealthy adults. Their sports teams are ranked as the worst in the region despite having the best equipment. West Kilby High School’s archrival is The Deng Xiaoping Catholic School for the Gifted, which is the school with the least and worst sports equipment and also ranks as second-best in the region despite their condemnation of extracurricular activities because, as quoted from their introductory guide, extracurricular clubs and activities distract students from achieving their full intellectual potential. West Kilby High School doesn’t have much to show for its overfunding besides its orchestral dominance over other schools’ music departments. This is mostly because the school is able to afford having a music department. Of the six high schools in the city, only three have musical classes to offer. Anne, although a student of West Kilby High School, didn’t play in the West Kilby Orchestra. Instead, she played for the Callcott Loyal Orchestra, whose home was Callcott Loyal Orchestral School for the Musically Talented. Callcott Loyal, although being dedicated to the musical arts, only had the second-best orchestra of the three schools that have music departments. This is mostly because the students of the school had no teachers. Callcott Loyal Orchestral School for the Musically Talented let the students teach themselves. Considering that many students at Callcott Loyal were completely self-taught musicians, them ranking second-best in the city is actually very impressive. Anne is a musically-gifted, 19-year-old, kind romantic. She often has a difficult time hearing what people say and is too shy to ask for repetition. She chews rose flavored gum, she hates talking to the elderly, and she too often drives over the speed limit. Her life had reached a stasis where positivity and negativity lifted each other up and dragged each other through the dirt. There was no movement in her emotional vortex, which left her with a pleasant blank feeling most of the time. This was what she had expected her life to feel like after achieving her ultimate goal, but she questioned how it could possibly feel this way if she hadn’t yet met her true love.

Anne had never cared about romance or marriage. She tried so hard not to care about romance or marriage. She almost succeeded, but she couldn’t stop herself. Love was what she wanted most, out of everything. She always had the feeling that it might be hiding around the corner, but every time she turned that corner, nothing was there. She sat in her room, listening to the wind and her neighbor’s radio that always played too loudly, thinking so fondly of her perfect future. She doesn’t want anything spectacular, nothing worth writing books about, nothing anybody would care to hear about. Anne wants a calm, sweet, clean future. Anne wants that future to be now. The love she yearns for takes time and patience - truckloads of patience - she understands that, but she can’t help it.

From outside of her bedroom window, he caught her eye. He: twenty-three and already dead inside, commonplace brown hair, commonplace white skin. His name is John, often referred to as The Gardener by Anne’s parents and - for the sake of narrative eccentricity - by me. In all honesty, The Gardener is such a boring character. He isn’t boring in a way that makes him interesting, unlike Anne, who is boring in a way that makes her quirky and relatable. The Gardener is so simply boring, but has won Anne’s love so simply by standing in her view. Henceforth, The Gardener - however uninteresting he may be - is now an important character. Anne looked at him. Only looked. She had not one thought of him, she did not listen to his rustling in the bushes beneath her window, she did not attempt to speak to him. Anne knew this was love, but how could this be it? It changed nothing and everything inside her, but how could this be it? She is drawn towards him. She wants to garden beside him so badly, despite hating working in the yard (as well as her parents, which is one reason why the hired The Gardener). She hated him already for cutting her bushes too short, but she forgave him immediately because her love would not allow her to pay mind to such a small thing. He finished with the bushes and turned the corner. Her heart bleeds with his absence, because she is so deeply in love. Anne is in love with The Gardener she knows nothing about. She does not catch another glimpse of him for the rest of the day.

It’s 8:45 PM, well past the usual 8:30 PM dinnertime. Anne glances at her clock, back at the screen of her computer, back at the clock, back at the screen of her computer, at the clock on the screen of her computer, back at the clock. It’s 8:45 PM and she has not been called down to eat whatever it is that John - The Cook, not The Gardener - should have prepared for her to eat by now. She brought herself up from her chair, casually so as not to seem angered or hurried. Then, casually, she walked to the door of her room. She opened her door, casually, as if just to use the bathroom. She stepped from her room and walked to the stairs that led downwards to the first floor of the house, which contained one of three kitchens on The Property. The first of the other two is in the basement level of The Home. The second of the other two is in The Maid’s Cottage, which is currently home to The Gardener, The Butler, The Maid, and The Laundryman. The Cook lives in The Home, along with The Breadman, The Tailor, and The Family. In all, The Property is home to only three people who are not men: The Tailor, Anne, and Mother Anne. Mother Anne is the mother of Anne, and those two are the only two women on The Property. The Tailor, who is not a woman and also not a man, is the only one on The Property to identify as either or neither. While still not identifying as either of the one-two genders, The Tailor prefers to be referred to with the use of the pronouns typically used for women: she, her, and such others that can be inferred from the given information. Of all the men on The Property, only two are not named John (John is a very common name in this city). John, the son of Father John and Anne’s younger sibling, is the youngest of the Johns. The youngest of Anne’s two siblings is one of the two men on The Property to not be named John. Mother Anne and Father John decided that naming both of their sons with the same name just wouldn’t be practical, so they named him Jon. The other man on The Property not named John is The Maid, who is named Anthony.

Anne is now in the primary kitchen. The time is 8:55 PM. The house is rather large, so it takes some time to get from room to room. The Cook is finished preparing dinner, twenty-five minutes later than usually scheduled, as requested by Mother Anne and Father John. Anne arrived just in time, along with her parents. Anne questioned her parents and asked for them to reason why dinner was scheduled twenty-five minutes later and they said plenty, but it could have been easily summarized with no good reason. They began eating: carrots and potatoes prepared in a variety of ways, caramelized onions with mushrooms, lentils, and pulled pork.

Anne needed to ask about The Gardener. She couldn’t stop thinking of him. The thought so fondly of him. Every minute of the time she spent watching him was etched into each each minute of the rest of her day and she could not stand living a minute longer without knowing who he is. The clock ticked dramatically, as if it were being held up to her head to taunt her with each passing second. She was nervous. She knew asking about him would raise her parents’ suspicion, but she had to. To herself, Anne promised that she would ask straight after swallowing the bit of mushroom that was in her mouth. She chewed slowly. Before swallowing, she paused and thought more. She made an agreement with herself to eat one more mushroom before asking her parents about The Gardener. The rearranging and rescheduling of her planned actions continued for some time, before she realized that it would never happen. She knew herself well enough to know that she would never be brave enough to ask even one thing about him. She finished eating, left her seat at the table, and began the long walk back to her room.

The time is now 10:01 PM. Anne is alone in her room. She regrets not having the courage to ask about The Gardener. She regrets not having spoken to The Gardener herself. She goes through every crevice in her mind, searching for anything to wallow over and regret. Her window is open, her room slowly loses its heat to the chill of the dark Autumn air, and her blankets have never felt more cozy. All she wants is to sleep. She wants her consuming thoughts to be brushed aside by exhaustion. Then, she wants to fall deeply into her sleep, so that her mind refuses to let those thoughts back in.

The morning came quickly (not literally any quicker than usual, but Anne felt it had). Anne woke with a startling sense of rest. She wasn’t tired and she didn’t mind the fact that she had awoken half an hour earlier than she wanted to. The sun shone brightly through her window. The Property’s figure was sharpened by the contrasting shadows and illuminations. The gentle sound of garden shears snipping at her bushes wafted upwards and into her ear. She could not believe he dared to cut her bushes any shorter, but she was glad to know that he was nearby. She peered through the immaculately polished glass, down at him. He looked just as perfect as he did the day before. The Gardener’s perfection, which is so obvious to Anne, is not obvious to most others. Even in his own narrative, The Gardener was less than important. That day, Anne was the only one to value him. He didn’t value himself, as a person. Mother Anne and Father John didn’t value him, as an employee. The Staff of The Property paid no mind to him and didn’t value him, as somebody who had shared an experience with them. His mother and his father didn’t value him, as a child. Even before speaking to him, Anne knew that The Gardener would be boring and valueless, but she loved him for being genuine. He was real. All she saw, all he showed: it was physically and limitlessly real.

After staring, watching, gazing, and glancing for weeks, Anne finally talked to The Gardener. They talked and they both enjoyed the conversations they had together. Their chats became more frequent. When Anne felt the timing was right, she asked The Gardener if he would like to go on a date. They went on a date. They enjoyed their date and they both agreed upon going on more dates, so they did. They went on many dates. This continued for many months. The Gardner changed Anne’s contact name in his phone from Anne to Anne(GF). Anne never changed The Gardener’s contact name in her phone to anything besides John. Despite their many dates and many efforts, the two never fell in love. In the end, it was Anne who put their dates to a stop. He was simply boring. Even in Anne’s ridiculously romanticized reality, his combined personality traits couldn’t create any dynamic of interest or allure. Anne’s first impression of him was completely inaccurate. It wasn’t even a struggle for Anne to decide whether or not she break her ties with the boy. One day, she simply said to herself, “Anne, it’s not going to work”, and she texted him right then and there. She didn’t take care to be gentle with it either. Anne knew that The Gardener would not flinch regardless of what it said. The day it happened, Anne removed his number from her phone, but The Gardener kept hers as Anne(GF) until the day he died. That was the first time he developed any character. He couldn’t bring himself to delete or even change the label in his contacts because, to him, it felt as if that would remove or alter a time in his life that he hadn’t even realized he enjoyed so much. For the first time, The Gardener was an actual being with actual feelings and a real personality. He acquired the trait of being sentimental. He acquired a genuine appreciation for time and memories. Now and then, he would come upon a moment he found to be beautiful yet he knew without effort that he would forget that moment only hours after. In these moments, he would strain himself to remember every detail, so that he could look back on it and recall the mundane sense of bewilderment that came from them. It was in one of these moments, only months after the day of Anne’s last text, that The Gardener died.