The Christmas Code, a prose by Doug Bartlett at Spillwords.com

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The Christmas Code

Doug Bartlett·December 30, 2020

Poetry English

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The Christmas Code

written by: Doug Bartlett

If you had to pick, who would it be, Jesus or Santa? Which person has the most impact or is the most important in your life, Jesus or Santa?

The outcome of your decision should be based solely on reason. Some would say that emotional decisions are not always for the betterment of the individual. Long-term thinking is usually the best way.

Both persons are focused upon during this season.

To break the code, simply read each 10th word and you will discover who my choice is, not just for the season but all year long. Merry Christmas.

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Doug Bartlett

Doug is retired from two careers, one as a Special Education teacher and the other as a real estate agent. He lives in central California with his wife and they have two daughters. He enjoys playing golf, woodworking, relating the Jewish faith to his Christian faith and life in general (Not necessarily in that order).

Suman Pokhrel

Suman Pokhrel is a Nepali poet, lyricist, playwright, translator, and artist. He debuted in 1999 with a poetry collection and has since published works, including translations of Shakespeare and global poets. His poems are translated into many languages and taught across South Asia. A two-time SAARC Literary Awardee, he also received Asia’s Inspiring Poet Award and was named Author of the Month by Spillwords in June 2023. Beyond literature, he works as a freelance consultant in socio-economic research, rural development, entrepreneurial development and creative writing. He began his career in Nepal’s civil service and later worked with international NGOs. He holds degrees in Science, Law, Business Administration, and Economics.

Condoms by Seán Óg Ó Murchú

They all laughed at me. All the dinner ladies. It started with your one, I’m after forgetting her name now… Smelly Nelly’s ma. A wet little tear trickled toward her tattooed cheekbone. She was roaring red. Her harsh, wheezing laughter sounded like a black taxi tackling the Whiterock Road, her throat destroyed from all the fegs she used to be hoofing into her. She called over the other dinner ladies then, an army of them. Or maybe it was the curiosity of her horrid laughing that brought them over… I can’t remember.
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I looked between herself and the girls. Jesus Christ, I said in my own mind, Mental Mick is after stealing all my crayons that I’d been hoarding for myself there before the break...

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