This story was a 10-minute exercise in writing class in which we had to use nonsense  words created by each other. The word I got from my classmate is in bold – all other nonsense words are a product of my overactive imagination.


Most people enjoy getting presents. The thrill of unwrapping a sparkly box, pulling a bright red ribbon, peering into the unknown to discover a tiny bit of instant happiness. But not me. Not since I met my husband, the world’s most insane gift giver.

My eyes were open when we married, of course. His first gift of a punkwhipple on my birthday in the first three months of our relationship was astonishing.

The surprise gift of a magadagatrunkle –‘just because’ — drove me to lie in a dark room for a whole week.

Had he given me his wedding gift of a snackaleckadoople before the priest asked if anyone had a reason to stop the marriage, I might have been the one to raise my hand and stop the whole thing.

His Christmas gift of a snoodfrackle was most certainly the cause of grandma’s stroke in ’98, unveiled as it was for the whole family to see.

And I’ll never forget the pomp and ceremony with which he presented me with that God awful frackawackle on our first anniversary.

Chains and earrings and watches are so boring! He proclaims. He wants to buy me things that no one else has, things I’ll ‘treasure forever’, things I’ll never forget! But how I wish I could forget the flimgles and parkamousses, the frockadellies and the miggelflammkas. And most of all, the skimmeridinkipankelwhiffles.

Tonight is my birthday and I dread what’s coming as I see that familiar gleam in his eye. I take the small, silvery box, my hands shaking with what he believes is excitement, what I know to be fear and trepidation. I slowly tear the paper away and open the lid to reveal…

…a gunsch.

Mother fucker.