After years of business suppers, his wife put him on a diet. The benefits were obvious. The uniform was looser and his delivery route was quicker. He could go in and out of buildings faster and travel lighter.
But refusing client generosity proved difficult. He never could resist mince pies.
Viv Burgess is aware that he also likes cookies or biscuits but on a diet he should really only eat the carrots.
Johnny finally reached Santa’s grotto.
“Ricky said my mom brings the toys on Christmas morning, but you’re real and I can prove it!” he gasped.
“Remember the cup of cocoa you drunk dry last year?”
“I put three sugars in that cup, and my mom hates sugar.”
John B. Sinclair is a much-travelled Scot who has now returned to Scotland, where he enjoys freelance writing on a variety of subjects.
Despite what he’d been told, Billy Donaldson still believed. They just had to be wrong. Santa was real.
He fell to his bed, weeping into his pillow. Only the action figures on his shelf and his puppy heard the mournful cries.
But the rustling on the roof gave him pause.
David Galassie is a fruitcake enthusiast and a history buff. His blog, chronicling the history and foibles of his old hometown, is at menashabook.blogspot.com
My neighbor told me that her son, Charlie, saw Santa at the mall the other day. Charlie asked Santa to get him a TIE Fighter from Star Wars for Christmas. Santa roared with approval and promised to get Charlie not only a typewriter, but some paper for it as well.
John Sheirer is the author of several books for adults and children. His most recent is a counting book called, Tim-Buck-Ten, featuring photos of his canine coauthor, Libby. Find John at johnsheirer.com
Cop cars escort an open flatbed truck, stopping at every block with bullhorn announcements.
Residents of all ages come out to cheer as frightened youngsters are enticed to climb aboard the fat stranger, pose for pictures, and take his candy before he’s hauled away in a whoop of flashing sirens.
Lee DeAmali resides in the Los Angeles area with grown children who claim to have fond memories of this annual local tradition.
“Merry Christmas!” She held out a box wrapped in spangles and mystery.
“Stuff it,” he replied, pulling the bedclothes over his head and tunneling down into fetid oblivion.
“You’ll have to come out sooner or later. We’ll have turkey with all the fixings.”
Exhausted and crabby, Santa did not respond.
As a follow-up to her frivolous and fun career in broadcasting, Sally Basmajian is working on a variety of writing projects. She has won a few prizes for short fiction and creative non-fiction, and has recently completed a fantasy novel for young adults.
It had started out as a cry for fairer wages, better living conditions, and dental. Then the revolt had become inevitable.
Santa sat in his cell and ate his microwave Christmas dinner. His wife had led the charge, and now she flew the sleigh. It was better that way…
David is a fan of Christmas, honestly. Last year he made his own crackers, minus the ‘crack’.
“Thank God that’s over.”
“What do you mean?”
“You know, it’s bloody hard getting the right gifts. No one’s ever satisfied, although I must admit the drinking and the food’s not bad. I think next year I’ll give Christmas a big miss.”
“You can’t do that.”
Connell would deny writing this, if it wasn’t for the fact that his name is plastered all over it. His son, six years old, in a deeply reflective moment, said, “You know, everyone’s special.” And Connell, in a less reflective one, replied, “And you know, after Christmas everything’s on special.”
There were still several houses left, but he stopped, clutching his belly. The cookies were taking their toll.
At the mantle, his stomach lurched. He doubled over, retching into one of the stockings.
Then it was up the chimney, wiping his mouth.
The kid was on the naughty list anyway.
JT is a 21-year-old college student in Virginia who lives and writes in worlds of his own. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Nanoism, 365Tomorrows, and ThickJam.