Connor Geroux Writing

Tag: fiction

  • Portrait of Santa Claus

    I was 6 years old when I met my first monster. His name was Santa Claus.

    My grandparents would often have my brother and I over to stay the night. Whether my parents needed a night off, or had a trip to go to, or anything else was out of my frame of reference. All I knew was that I would be staying over at Grandma and Grampas. I’d most likely have chicken nuggets and macaroni out of a frog-shaped paper plate, and we’d perhaps play a card game of some kind. 

    But in the night, when the banging of plates and low tones of local news had left the premises, I would find myself needing to use the bathroom. And though the bathroom was simply the room next door, to get there I would need to come face to face with this first monster: a painting of an old man with a scraggly white beard. This painting is long gone by now, as far as I know, and for all I know now this could have been a prominent historical figure, or a commentary on the passage of time. But what my small brain could compute at the time was simply Santa Claus, and so it was Santa who I would have to meander past. 

    And when I stepped out of the room my brother and I slept in, I would come face to face with this painting. And the slight moonlight coming through windows would only reveal certain facets of the creature: his Eyes. Walking past this painting took me to a past life: one where I was a wild boar in the jungle, and a tiger had selected me for its next meal. The eyes would bear down on me with no discernable intention, a human with no heart. After looking at the love in the eyes of my grandparents the entire day, here was a face with no love or hatred, only intention. An intention I could not possibly understand. And so I would run to the bathroom, do what I needed to, and run back. 

    And there was one night in particular where this all came to ahead. Where I decided it was time to face this fear once and for all. So as I slipped off the bottom bunk bed and out into the hallway, I steadied myself and bore my eyes deep into the painting. Santa Claus’s devilish smile brought me into a strange trance, and the darkness around me began to close in. My legs began to wobble, but I did not cry. My brother was in the room behind me, and my grandparents in the room next to my next. Certainly, if I do not expel this spirit from this house, it will be more than myself feeling its weight on my chest. 

    And as I did, my eyes were adjusted to the darkness. I could make out his nose, his cheeks, the cigar he held in his mouth. Until eventually, I could see Santa for the jolly fellow he is. Now, this did not make his eyes any less uneasy to me. But it did allow me to use the bathroom in peace. And ultimately, when you are six years old, that is all that matters. 

    I am not sure if I have ever spoken about the Santa painting to my grandparents. They may never know the profound impact that portrait had on me. But I think often about that night. 

    I have encountered my share of monsters since then, and still reckon with them to this day. I often find myself out in public being chased by a shambling pool of water. I seem to be the only one with knowledge of this hulking mass, its slug-like moments unnoticeable to anyone else but my own eyes. And every so often, I will speak words without thinking, and in that moment my spit will be absorbed by the shambling mass, and it will get just a bit larger. One day, the spit will be all that is left, and it will drown all I care for in its viscous muck. 

    I have encountered other monsters with a more fast-paced ambition. In my dreams I find myself in a race with a shadow. Its legs are twice my size and move at twice my speed, yet I miraculously keep pace with it. There are even times in this race where I pass this shadow, and all I see is the track in front of me. But even in these moments where it is simply me and the open air, I can feel the weight of my shadow behind me getting heavier and heavier. And I know that by the end of the mile, it will have won. 

    But the other monsters I have encountered only appear every once in a while. I do not find myself meeting any monster more often than I do the spider in my closet. When the air sounds only like an old air conditioner, and the clock hands are in the double digits, the spider will crawl out from the closet door, and grow to the size of a labrador. But this spider remains just as dexterous as it was before, as it crawls along the walls and ceiling, its eight legs scraping the drywall with the sound of a couch being drug along tile. And when it reaches me in my bed it sticks its front legs in my chest and past my ribcage. It does this to expose those tender heartstrings: those sacred veins I dare not show anyone. For this spider is a fiddler, and my strings are in tune for its melancholic song. In the depths of its melody and the weight of its body I find myself short of breath, and only the calming breath of slumber and the race of my shadow can relieve me of this monster. 

    Yes, I have encountered many monsters in my life. These shambling mounds, these dragging shadows, these wicked musicians will only become more grotesque as I age. Which is what reminds me of Santa Claus and that fateful night when I was six. That moment where I looked into the beast’s eyes, and began to see it for what it is. 

    The eyes are exceptional sensors. What this means is that they take in light as information, and create a picture in our heads to interpret that light. By some ordained act of God we have developed the ability to absorb light into our minds, and create images from it. I know this now. But I think back to that first night when I saw Santa for who he is. I had no knowledge of what my eyes were doing, and yet they were doing it all the same.

    In a room of complete darkness, I took in the light that I could find. And when I did that enough, I was able to face the monster, and see it for what it is. This has always been the key to defeating a monster. And though the monsters grow and change with me, this technique will always be true. 

    And so every day, without fail, I must make this a practice. No matter what new monsters I meet, I must approach them and look them in the eye. I must let myself take in the light that they attempt to steal from me. I must see them for what they truly are. 

    For though they may be more complex, they all end up the same: a Portrait of Santa Claus.

  • The Boy and the Bear

    In a green forest with towering trees and brambles of bushes lived a boy and a bear. 

    Now the bear had lived in this forest for quite a long time. So when it came across the boy for the first time, it was unlike anything the bear had seen. It looked to have been wearing thin furs unknown to the bear. Thin cottons and denim for legs. Yet, despite these differences, the bear found the boy and him had many things in common: messy hair, large ears, and a love for rolling in the grass. So the bear took the boy in as one of its own.

    But the bear had lived in the forest for a long time. And it knew that one day, as it does every year, a large, white blanket would cover the forest. The blanket was the perfect time to take a loooong nap, and the bear had plans to do just that. It had picked out a nice cave for itself so it may take a looooong nap when the white blanket falls down. 

    But the bear now had the boy. And so, one day, the bear took the boy to a babbling brook, and said this to him:

    “Look here, boy. This is how you chomp with your mouth.”

    And the bear opened its gaping jaw, and a large salmon flung into it. It then crunched down on the salmon, gulping it down into one bite. 

    The boy, seeing this, leaned his small head to the side of the river, and opened wide. And when a salmon flung at the boy’s head, his mouth was too small to bite down on it. So SMACK! It hit him square on the cheek. 

    Now the bear was worried. How will the boy eat when he takes his loooong nap? And it turned its head in shame. 

    But the boy laughed at the matter, and grabbed a rock. His eyes squinted, as he threw it into the river. And in the ripples of the current, a salmon floated to the top. And the boy now had a fish. 

    Another day, the bear took the boy to a large pine tree, and said this to him:

    “Look here, boy. This is how you scratch with your legs.”

    And the bear leaned his furry back against the tree, moving his body up and down. How it loved the sensation! And after its massage, it plopped itself onto the ground and wiggled around in the leaves and branches. 

    The boy, seeing this, leaned its back to the tree and did the same. But a yelp was sounded from the boy. His back was red, with small bits of wood stuck to it. He quickly scrambled to pick the splinters off of his back. 

    Now the bear was worried. How will the boy find comfort when he takes his loooong nap? And it turned its head in shame.

    But the boy laughed at the matter, and grabbed a branch that the bear had wiggled in, and used it to scratch his back. And the boy had a new walking stick. 

    Now, at this point, the bear believed itself to be a bad teacher. But it knew that the white blanket was just around the corner. And when it laid itself down, many creeping beasts would try to poke their heads among the forest. So the bear asked a nearby fox to help him with a lesson.

    And on another day, the bear took the boy to the fox hole, and said this to him:

    “Look here, boy. This is how you roar with your chest.”

    And as the fox poked its head out of its hole, the bear got up on its back legs and roared a mighty roar. As it did, the birds rustled themselves out of their nests, and the fox hurried away, back into it’s small home it had made for the blanket. 

    The boy, seeing this, took a large breath. And when the fox poked its head out of its hole, the boy yelped as loud as he could. But instead, the fox laughed at the boy!

    “You sound just like a small fox cub!” The fox proclaimed!

    Now the bear was worried. How will the boy protect himself when the creeping beasts come? And it turned away in shame.

    But the boy furrowed its brow, and began to stomp its feet. And the sound from the ground made a deep groan with each foot step. And the fox’s laughs turned into small whimpers, as it scurried into his hole, the lesson in his mind clearly over. And the boy learned to stomp.

    But the time had come for the blanket to fall. But the last moments before the bear’s looooong nap were ones of fear. How could the boy the bear had grown fond of possibly live in the large blanket? So the bear looked to the boy before it closed its eyes, and said this to him:

    “I am sorry boy. You didn’t learn to chomp with your mouth, scratch with your legs, or roar from your chest. I am afraid I am not very good at teaching bears.”

    But the boy simply laughed at the matter, and stood up in the bear cave. He grabbed a stone and threw it perfectly into the log fire. He took a stick and scratched his back. And he stomped, and stomped and stomped until the leaves in the cave bounced along with him. And the boy leaned in front of the bear’s gaping maw and said this to it:

    “Silly bear! You took me to the river, played near the towering trees, and let me make friends with Mr. Fox.”

    And the bear would not know what would happen when the blanket would fall. But as it looked at the boy with messy hair and large ears rolling in the grass, this occurred to it:

    Perhaps I didn’t need to teach him to be a bear at all.