The Anthologist Fall 2021

The Saint’s Clause //Chana Fisher Standing in a light green building in a dark grey suit, Tom, our protagonist, appears in a hunched position examining his coffee. The great debate of the morning had begun: sugar or no sugar. Please the doctor, or please his own semi-irrational thoughts. The innate desire for the packet of white specks seized Tom to put the sugar into his coffee. Tom sighs, slumps to his desk, and begins his job. Next to Tom sits Jerry and next to Jerry sits Gary and next to Gary sits Owen. For Mr. Owen Wilble, life is the color blue; Mr. Owen Wible travels the skies and seas building fortresses that loom high to the top of his computer screen. But for our friend Tom, there are no hidden castles with hidden mysteries. For our friend Tom, one may argue, life is grey. Now grey is not a disinteresting, non-controversial color; in fact, there are great debates about the spelling of the color. The debates, however, may be passionate for a few seconds before the desire to return to mundane events creeps into the minds of the debaters: this is the life of Tom. When Tom finishes his work, he takes his computer, lightly places the laptop into his bag, grabs the top of his satchel, and begins to leave for the weekend. The right foot trots before the left foot and left foot trots before the right foot. Tom begins to whistle as he examines the cracks on the sidewalk. Too bad, Tom thinks, a person was here one day and may or may not have been passionate about fixing the pavement. The person left one day, and the pavement stood to be walked on without people remembering either the people who produced the cracks, or the people who produced the pavement. Maybe we will remember the owner of the pavement company, but we will not remember the crack producers because we can not remember what we can not see.

As Tom contemplated the cracks on the sidewalk, a small man, who Tom could not see, stepped directly on Tom’s right toe. A slight aching pain began to creep up Tom’s leg.

Tom stops his contemplation and begins to acknowledge the pain that has risen to his head.

Tom glances at the small man with a large frown on his face. “Yo, watch where you're going,” the angry little man shouts.

A confused Tom dismissively states, “Um, sir, you are the one that stepped on my toe, but I do apologize for not paying attention to you. I hope that you may forgive me eventually.” Tom then begins to walk away towards his shabby apartment. The small man follows Tom to his shabby apartment. At first, Tom, who is whistling down the block contemplating the soup that he will eat for dinner, does not notice the short stubby man follow Tom's feet step for step. Tom does not notice the man until he feels a short, stubby finger sear directly into the back of his jacket. Tom turns around with a slight angst written on his face and sees a short, stubby man with a short stubby finger pointed in the direction of Tom’s face.

“Yo, dude, I am instructed to bring you back to the pole.” In response to the absurd statement, Tom scratches his head and begins to move his legs back and forth at a quick pace.

When Tom reaches his apartment, he struggles to grab his key from his pocket, turn the knob of his door, and lock himself in his bathroom. Tom knew the event that was about to occur: when Tom was ten he had a dream that travelled to the North Pole.

In Tom’s life, his dreams did not come true: Tom dreamed of being an astrophysicist, of having a loving wife, of playing with a cute, curly brown dog. Tom once pet a cute curly white dog, but left the encounter with a bruised, bloodied hand, and a new mild disdain for pets. Tom, therefore, was scared of the idea of having a dream become reality: Tom was scared to live in a world of exploring his desires. Tom, therefore, sat on the floor of his bathroom, and began to pray. Tom began to pray for a heat wave to cause the man to 9