The Twelve Days of Christmas: 6

On the sixth day of Christ­mas, my true love gave to me: six geese a-laying.

“I don’t think you love me enough,” said my true love sternly, while lead­ing the new acquis­i­tions in an orderly line through the house and out into the garden, “so I’ve bought you six geese.”

“And what the hell am I sup­posed to do with them?” I asked, as I gazed down at the parade mak­ing its way past my feet.

“Well, if you love me — if you really, really love me — then you’ll be able to get these geese to lay golden eggs.”

“But that’s just the stuff of fairytales,” I replied, bemused. “It’s not real.”

My true love fixed me with a cold, with­er­ing stare. It was a look I’d seen too many times before — like when I was ordered to bring back the pot of gold from the end of the rain­bow, pur­chase a uni­corn as a birth­day gift, or provide undeni­able proof that fair­ies did indeed live at the bot­tom of the garden. This was no joke. I could not afford to fail, because fail­ure would mean los­ing the love of my life.

An aer­o­sol can of gold spray paint was my sal­va­tion. The next batch of fresh goose eggs that I retrieved from the garden, instead of find­ing their way into the kit­chen, were taken into the gar­age and sprayed a won­drous shade of rich, lus­trous gold. Once the acrid smell of freshly applied paint had dis­solved, the decep­tion was complete.

My true love was ecstatic and wept with emo­tion on see­ing the six golden eggs lined up proudly on the mantlepiece. After kiss­ing me on the fore­head and thank­ing me for prov­ing my eternal devo­tion, my true love retreated to the moon­lit garden. A few minutes passed before I heard the anguished screech­ing of one goose, then another, then four more, as their throats were cut through with a carving knife.

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