A writing doodle

[minakichan]

I don't consider myself a writer. I haven't ever written prose fiction outside of what was required for English classes, save for a Sailor Moon fanfic that may have been just over a single sheet of notebook paper, done in my innocent youth. I do, however, talk to myself a lot, as I did today while checking out my groceries, and for once, I kind of felt like writing it down, so here it is. Since this is kind of a "doodle" so to speak, and I'm not really in the business of improving my writing, I'm going to go ahead and say that I'm not terribly interested in constructive criticism. =/ It kind of came out of my mind, so tell me if it doesn't make sense.

I hope this isn't too colorful for CAA; I thought it was kind of tame though. It's also a joke. But if it is too much, I'm sorry.

Excuses out.
***

It was in my ninth year, on the third evening after the winter solstice, that every aspect of my understanding of the little world in which I lived was shattered, as I witnessed evidence of a scandalous romantic affair between the woman who gave birth to me and an eldery, obese, unemployed Scandinavian man standing before the hearth of my home. I had retired to bed early that night and by all means should have been asleep, but some inexplicable, irrational sense of anticipation, the cause of which fully escapes me today, compelled me to sneak downstairs and ultimately discover this obscenity.

"Mother," I cried, interrupting that woman so focusedly engaged, "you unscrupulous whore! What in the name of all that is good, lovely, and faithful, is this?" Those two pairs of lips, which had been so tightly intertwined that they might as well have been one, ripped apart with an intensity only matched by that with which they had been previously thrust together.

My mother turned to me with a pleasant smile that failed to mask the panic in her eyes. "Sweetheart..." I wondered if she was addressing me or the male with whom she had previously been dancing tongue tango. "You misunderstand, sweetheart. This is not what it looks like."

Of course! Surely a trick of the light, an obstruction of fine dust particles, an errant failure of my ocular nerves had mutated what must have been an innocuous gesture of friendship into an act of savage, barbaric hanky-panky.

With a sound from his throat and a slight twitch of his untamed snowy beard, the corpulent stranger called the attention of that unfaithful harlot. "Uh, hey, Scarlet," he started oh-so-eloquently, "maybe we should go ahead and tell him."

She nodded, twice. "Timmy, sweetheart," my mother sang with dulcet tones that must have been used in her own siren song, "this man," gesturing to that oozing, fleshy thing, "is your father."

What could she mean by that? Was he my new father, a replacement for the delicate but otherwise decent man with whom she had conceived me? Or was that perhaps a lie; could it be that this newfound infidelity was in fact just the symptom of an extended hidden tryst that had originated before even my birth? Oh frailty, thy name is Scarlet Annamarie Cox-Jacobsen!

And to say nothing of her standards! True, the man in question was a celebrity of sorts, but was that woman so attracted to fame-- and undoubtedly, fortune-- that she would take some decrepit old corpse for her unconsummated mate?

Seeing my confusion and rage boiling visible under my controlled restraint, that dinosaur of a man heaved a sigh as heavy as his meaty frame and, in an unexpected movement, removed his frumpy fur-lined red hat and pulled off his cloud of-- now obviously revealed to be false-- white facial hair to reveal the more youthful face of my father.

"Timmy, son," he spoke, voice no longer impeded by that deceitful disguise, "the truth is... there's no such thing as Santa Claus."