Christopher Tully Bloodworth

“Gerald, would you please grab two eggs and a box of butter from the fridge?”

Gerald was six.

“Yes ma’am.”

Gerald, who was—despite his best efforts to live up to the maturity implied by his name—still only half the height needed to reach these perishables, dragged over a kitchen barstool and clambered atop it to retrieve the eggs and butter for his mother. He paused just before closing the refrigerator, his eyes having landed on the milk.

“Here you go, Mum. Um, can you pour me a glass of milk, please?”

“Sure, sweetie,” she said, and, having transferred the items to a space on the counter where she was shortly to prepare the cookie dough, she pulled out the milk and poured Gerald a glass. He set it aside.

From his barstool vantage point, Gerald watched and encouraged his mother as she expertly whisked together all of the ingredients for the cookies that were a Christmas Eve tradition in their household. One might have assumed that these cookies were intended for Santa, but Gerald, on the advice of his parents, didn’t believe in such things. The cookies were purely ritualistic—a holdover of his mother’s own childhood traditions—for Gerald’s was a modern family, and his parents did not hold with telling lies to their children, whatever the reason. And so, on Christmas Eve, they made cookies and left none for Santa.

Of course, Gerald had complete faith in his parents, and they had never yet given him reason to doubt their wisdom. His confidence was without question—absolute. Although, he did find there were times when, despite his certainty… it was difficult to say. Children are nothing if not outspoken about their opinions on things, and Gerald was finding that at school, his seemed far and away the minority opinion. Not that he could be so easily seduced by something as banal as peer pressure. It was just that the only other child willing to dismiss the legend of Santa so readily was a new kid—a little atheist boy named Samir, and Gerald wasn’t certain he wanted him as his only ally.

When he first experienced these doubts—no, not doubts. More like follow-up questions—Gerald had decided to seek clarity on the matter from his father who seemed to live in the family’s reading chair and was, therefore, an authority on most subjects that could be found in a book.

“Dad?” he had asked tentatively, thinking how to frame the question as nonspecifically as possible. “How do you know if something is real?”

“Mmm? If something is real?” Even though he was sitting in his armchair, his father still had to look down at Gerald over the top rims of his reading glasses. “That’s a pretty big question.”

His father had looked up thoughtfully at the corner of the ceiling, a practice Gerald had learned not to interrupt.

“Well, I suppose the easiest way is to look at it—to get your hands on it, or even taste it if you have to. In fact, they used to test whether gold coins were real by biting on them to make sure they weren’t actually gold-plated lead, which although heavy like gold, is so soft that your teeth would leave a dent in it.”

Gerald wasn’t sure biting Santa was an option.

“Ok. But what if you can’t see it?” he had prompted.

His father had looked at Gerald as though he were thinking very hard.

“That one is a bit tougher. There are things we know are real even though we can’t see them. We can’t see air, for instance.”

“But we can feel air, right? Isn’t that like seeing it?”

His father laughed.

“Very true! Well, how about this? There’s something in space called a black hole. It’s a collapsed star where the gravity is so strong, that light can’t bounce off of it or shine from it, which means it’s invisible. They’re totally black, just like the space around it, so we have no way to see them or feel them, and they’re so far away that you could travel for hundreds of millions of years and never reach one.”

“Then how do we know they exist?” Gerald had asked skeptically.

“Precisely the question! The answer is that we know they’re real because of the effect they have on the things around them! We cannot see them directly, but their gravity is so strong, it influences the stars and gasses close to them, and we can see those. It’s like knowing it’s a windy day without going outside because you see the trees swaying through the window. So even when we can’t see something, we can know it’s real because it has an impact on the things around it.”

Gerald had thought a moment, and simply said, “Ok. Thanks, Dad.”

It wasn’t that his father’s answer wasn’t helpful. Gerald had thought the answer quite good. So good, in fact, that he was tempted to drop the matter entirely after that simply because a man who knew all that about black holes in outer space millions of lightyears away would certainly not be mistaken about the existence of Santa Clause. However, there was still the matter of his classmates’ overwhelming opposition as well as his skepticism of his ally, who was new, and who was an atheist, and whose name was Samir. And so, with the balance of these things in mind, Gerald had decided to settle the thing in the manner suggested by his father: he would stay up and see for himself.

In the time it took for his parents to go to bed on Christmas Eve, Gerald felt like he might have completed several round trips to one of these "black holes.” But, at long last, they had retreated to their bedroom, and Gerald emerged from his.

He wasn’t really sure how to summon Santa, if that’s what one did, but he tried to go about the thing properly—if Santa didn’t appear, he wanted to be absolutely sure that it wasn’t because of some technicality of failed preparation. Thus, he had stolen his father’s largest and thickest wool socks, and with thumbtacks, pinned them on the mantle to serve as Christmas stockings. Using the platter of leftover cookies and a TV tray, Gerald then set about making a handsome display conveniently close to the fireplace, and he even arranged the cookies so that the edge of each one overlapped elegantly with the next. With a finishing touch, he added the milk, which was a simple matter of retrieving the glass his mother had poured for him earlier that evening.

Gerald hadn’t thought to check a clock at the outset of his vigil to track how long he had waited, but it was well past midnight when he began wondering at what time he should declare the experiment a success and Santa a fraud. The seconds ticked away, and the sounds of the house seemed to be amplified in his ears. More than once he thought he heard something from inside the chimney, but nothing happened. The last time, he even went to look up into it and found that the flue was closed. He didn’t remember any rules about flues being left open or shut, but as with the hanging of the stockings, he decided to open it, just to be safe. It creaked loudly—much louder than he’d expected—and cold air poured down from the opening and flooded the room.

Gerald’s eyes watered against the frigid draft as he peeked up the chimney. Blinking away tears, he thought he could see something. In fact, he was sure of it. It was difficult to see properly, but he was certain this wasn’t Santa. He didn’t know how Santa would fit down the chimney—probably some magic suited to the task—but Gerald was quite sure that Santa would take up the entire cavity if and when he finally descended. Whatever this not-Santa was, it appeared to be stirring, as if Gerald’s gaze had awakened it. Then, much to Gerald’s alarm, something like legs slowly unfolded from the thing’s body, and it began to crawl down the fireplace.

Gerald backed away from the opening, conscious not to turn his back on the creature whose legs were now blooming from the fireplace the way a rose opens its pedals in a time-lapse, but black—blacker than any black Gerald had ever seen. He knew without a shadow of a doubt that this was a black hole, and no amount of light could ever escape it.

“You…Um, you’re not Santa…are you?” Gerald asked bravely, with as much strength as his small voice could muster.

True, this creature was not red, round, and jolly—now that it had fully emerged and risen to its full height, it most reminded Gerald of an enormous stick bug—but it was not as if he had not planned on meeting a stranger in the chimney that evening, and it seemed rather a strong coincidence that something else should be making use of the chimney on Christmas Eve.

“…In a way.”

It spoke slowly, its voice like a whisper, and Gerald couldn’t decide if his surprise would have been greater had the creature not spoken. It didn’t look like anything he’d seen speak before, yet the fact that it could seemed somehow…natural.

“If you don’t mind my saying, you don’t really look like Santa.”

“I am not.”

“Oh,” Gerald said in surprise, "but you said—”

“I exist because of your Santa, but I am not him. He is not him. He is not anything.”

“Oh, I see.” Gerald said, although he didn’t. “Then…” Gerald trailed off, unsure of what to say next, and to fill the silence, he opted for common politeness. “Uh, I’ve saved some milk and cookies for… well… I don’t know if you eat these, but…you can have some…if you like.” And Gerald held out the tray.

“Yesssss,” it hissed, “I am hungry.”

It was over quickly, which was nice for Gerald, who would have been sad about his fate. Sad, and not a little confused as well. For as smart as Gerald was, his schooling as a six year old was yet deficient on the subject of evolution, the principle by which this creature’s species had adapted through the centuries to lay dormant in chimneys, hibernating undetected throughout the year, waiting for the one night when the myth of St. Nicholas would prompt children to sneak from their beds and lay in wait by their chimneys.

He might have reflected, had he lived, that his father’s proclamation on the nature of what is true was not quite complete. For though we may pinpoint a black hole by its pull on its surroundings, until we can see or feel it, it will always be unknown to us. Except to those it swallows up—and perhaps even then—its true nature will remain a mystery, certain only to be different than we have imagined.

2021

(A brief trigger warning for my family and other sensitive souls—this story contains strong language for comedic effect)

“God-fuckin’ damn it! Shee-it!”

The blasphemous words, in all their profane glory, exploded through the woods like a firework for all the neighboring campers to hear. Gary winced and looked apologetically at his wife, Jen.

“You should say something to them, Gary.”

Gary looked doubtfully at their camp a dozen yards away. Evidently, the man who had shouted the string of curses had sliced a finger while trying to open what Gary supposed must have been his twelfth beer by using one hand to wedge the edge of the bottle cap against the bark of a tree and then slamming his other hand down on the top of the bottle to pry the cap. Gary recognized the brand of beer and rolled his eyes. It was a twist cap. The other man was still laughing drunkenly at his injured friend.

“Please, Gary? Just go talk to them. For heaven’s sake, our kids are here.”

Gary groaned inwardly. Jen was a wonderful woman, but she was…sensitive, and if she confessed to him that her plan for educating their two children on the birds and bees was to hand over a letter on their respective wedding nights that should touch tastefully upon the essential highlights of the business, suffice it to say, Gary would not be surprised. As for strong language, if Jen had her way, the children of the world would live and die without ever hearing so much as a “piss” or a “crap,” let alone a “fuck” or a “sheeit.”

“I…could talk to them I guess,” he mumbled.

“Well, get over there then.”

“Ok, ok, I’m…I’ll…”

But Gary didn’t know what he would do. He tried thinking of something to say, but the harder he thought, the blanker his mind went. He was standing, then walking, then—to his horror—presently found himself a mere arm’s length from these men who had fallen into perplexed silence at his awkward approach.

“…Can we help you, sir?”

“Hi, yes. How are you?”

They nodded.

“Good. Yes, well… You see, we… We wondered—well, my wife, she wondered. See, our kids are here, for a little family vacation, and we—my wife—she, she wanted to see if you could maybe keep some of the spicier profanity down. A bit. For…for the kids, you know. And…for my wife…”

The drunken cussers looked amusedly at each other. The injured man replied with a mock sincerity that nonetheless told Gary he wouldn’t have any more trouble from them.

“Yessir, we hear ya. We’ll try to keep it down. Y’all enjoy your vacation now.”

“Wow, we really appreciate it, fellas! Thanks, and sorry for the bother.” With a diminutive bow of the head, Gary turned back towards his family. He knew his performance had lacked…finesse, but he felt a deep pride in his accomplishment. Unfortunately, the injured cusser didn’t trouble to keep his voice quite low enough as Gary walked away.


“Shit, if his wife wanted us to pipe down so bad, maybe the bitch shoulda come over to tell us herself.”

Gary froze, face rigid, ears hot with the men’s laughter. He’d barely registered that he was back at his family’s tent until his wife interrupted his thoughts.

“Hey, how’d it go?”

“Hmm? Oh,” he said, coming back to himself, “they said they’d keep it down.”

“Really?”

“Yep.”

“Well, thanks for doing that. I’m proud of you for standing up to them.”

“Yeah…no problem.”

But it was a problem. It was a big problem. ‘Thanks for standing up to them?’ He hadn’t stood up to them. But he would. By God, before the day was out, he would.

“Hey, Jen? Any leftover coffee from this morning?”

“It’s in the van.” She raised an eyebrow. “It’s late for coffee though. Dinner’s in an hour. Won’t it keep you up?”

“Well, I think I just need a pick-me-up. Might even make a bit more.”

Thermos in hand, Gary stared at the cusser camp with blazing intensity, keeping eye contact even when he tilted his head back to drink the warm coffee, which he swigged with the vigor and purpose of an alcoholic.

As Gary drank his coffee, the cussers drank through their stockpile of beers until, running out, they opened the bourbon. Gary smiled.

“Honey?” It was Jen. “It’s time for bed.”

“You go ahead. Guess you were right about the coffee,” he smiled, shrugging apologetically. “Can’t sleep.”

She rolled her eyes but smiled back and whispered goodnight as she zipped herself into the tent. The time had come.

Gary rose, walked to the cusser’s camp, unzipped their tent, and entered. There they both lay, their filthy mouths agape in drunkenness. Gary smiled as he felt the coffee roiling through him, shaking his bowels. Quietly, he moved to a squatting position, pulling his pants to his ankles. Holding one hand behind him to catch, Gary concentrated on pushing. He needed only two deposits—one to place in each foul mouth whose tongues were unworthy to even say his wife’s name.

One.

Two.

Neither stirred in their drunken sleep.

Wiping up as best he could with their clothes, Gary departed for his own camp, knowing he could rest, satisfied in a job well done, his family’s honor defended.