They had gathered at Louise’s house that Christmas Day, twelve of them in all. Everybody made it, despite the snow. The house made a wonderful Christmas venue, with a large sitting room dominated by a beautiful inglenook with a roaring log fire, and the dining room had a table long enough to seat everybody. It made a real Christmas card picture, and it seemed that nothing could disturb the cosy atmosphere.

Seasonal music played whilst the presents were distributed and opened. Pride of place went to the little boy’s remote control rat, and there was much bumping of skirting boards. The adults oohed and aahed with genuine pleasure at the gifts they received. Louise, well into adulthood, was delighted at the CD of songs from Annie, the film, and played it for the rest of the afternoon, singing along to it. The children didn’t need much encouragement to join in, whether or not they knew the songs!

It was a wonderful, typical Christmas, with the usual cooking-by-panic, with the odd fingertip being chopped off by the peeler. The food, late of course, was delicious, washed down by Nick’s well-chosen wine. You could always rely on Nick for a good wine.

The children were getting tired, and it was time for them to go home. Those who were staying had a lovely evening, with much consumption of cheese. All were feeling very lazy, very full, but above all, very happy. Yes, alcohol had been consumed, but not enough to distort the senses.  At about half past one in the morning they were starting to think about going to bed, and Ceilidh braved the cold outside for a cigarette. As she stood there, she was surprised to hear the noise of tools. First she heard the screech-scrinch-screech-scrinch of what was possibly a saw. This was followed by the unmistakeable tap-tap-tapping of a hammer. Who would be hammering in the early hours of Boxing Day morning, and for such a length of time?
‘Rob’, she asked, as he came out of the house to check that she was all right, ‘Did you hear that?’
Rob replied that he had heard nothing. They stood and listened, but there was nothing more to be heard.

They went back in, and Ceilidh told of the strange sounds she had heard. Everybody wondered what they could be. Then Sue said, ‘You do realise that this is allegedly the most haunted village in England, and that the pub just around the corner is called the Blacksmith’s Arms? Nobody ever seems to stay there long…’

‘Well, we know have to call him Santa, said Mrs Claus, but he looks like a little Nick. We will name him Santa Nicholas Claus.’
‘You are so special’, sang Mr Claus, whose name was Canta, ‘Our special little Santa Nicky-Nicky-Nick-Nick.’

Weeks went by, and the whitish hairy covering gradually fell off from Santa’s body; it fell from his back, his arms and his legs. But somehow, it didn’t seem to be completely disappearing from his face. It remained around his mouth and chin, giving the impression that he was wearing a white beard and moustache.

As he grew, still bearded and moustached, his parents kept telling him how special he really was, and that he would have a special mission in life, following in his father’s footsteps. He loved hearing these legends in which he was to play a modern-day part. They told him of the travels he would undertake, and the joy he would bring to children everywhere.

When he started school, the other children laughed at his facial hair, cruel as children often can be. The teachers took the bullies aside and explained about Santa’s special differences. As time went by, these children learned to love and protect Santa from cruel strangers. They played with him and helped him as he mastered his sleigh technique, and befriended his reindeer playmates. They helped him to memorize the maps from the atlas, so that he knew the routes to every country in the world.

When he was thirteen, he was given a very special group of reindeer for a birthday present. The leader of this herd was called Rudolph, and could be recognised from quite a distance by an unusual red colouring on his nose. He trained these reindeer to obey his every instruction. In these training sessions, as he munched his mince pies washing them down with a drop of contraband sherry, they would do anything he asked them to for carrots.

At the age of fifteen, it was time for Santa to start to fulfil his destiny. On December 24th of that year, an elf came to escort him, with Rudolph and the other reindeer pulling the sleigh, to the elf factory where they made all the toys. When his sack was laden and he was seated on his sleigh, he commanded the reindeer to fly off to begin the deliveries. The magic he brought to children everywhere was indescribable.

This went on year after year, and children began to expect their visit from Santa. One year, however, he got to hear about somebody called the AntiSanta, or Anta for short, who was going around in a sleigh pretending he was the real Santa. He also wore a red suit, and carried a big sack, and went around scaring children and stealing and breaking their toys. They thought that Santa had turned bad, and didn’t really love them. At this, Santa went into action. He harnessed up his reindeer, and drove his sleigh to where he had heard Anta was operating. He demanded that Anta should stop his tricks immediately, or he would have to stop him; he couldn’t risk the children being so upset. Anta was not one to give in easily, and jumped into his sleigh, whipping his reindeer to make them go. Santa was so angry to see this, and requested Rudolf and the gang to fly after them.

They were running neck and neck, and Santa was formulating his plan to stop Anta, when he realised there was a small child in Anta’s sleigh. The boy called out to him, ‘Santa! Please will you help me to escape from my father? He is very cruel to me and many other children, and his evil nature breaks my heart. If you take me with you, I promise I will be your helper and make each Christmas Eve easier for you. I want to help to make the children happy.’

Santa could not resist such a plea, and, urging Rudolph to go even faster, he flew past Anta’s sleigh, plucking the boy from there and settling him in his own sleigh. The boy, who was called Fanta, begged Santa to somehow prevent his father from continuing his evil practices. Santa tucked Fanta securely down into the depths of his sleigh, and sped after Anta. As he got near to him again, Anta shouted that Santa would never stop him except by killing him. Santa knew that he could never kill anybody, but realised that he would have to destroy Anta’s sleigh to be able to thwart his plans. Anta flew high and fast, but Santa flew higher and faster. He passed Anta, and managed to bump him off course. Anta was enraged and from then on it was sleigh bells at dawn. All hell was let loose. Anta charged at Santa’s sleigh, again and again. As each charge came, Rudolph would lead the other reindeer to duck and dive, just getting away from Anta’s sleigh at the last minute. Anta flew high and he flew low; he flew sideways and backwards and even upside down. Rudolph choreographed Santa’s flight, soaring even higher, lower, further to the side and back, and spinning over and over. Fanta felt exhilarated. His cheeks were red, his eyes sparkled and his hair stood on end.

The fight, however, was soon to come to an abrupt end. Anta zoomed in on Santa, aiming to smash him into a big, old oak tree. Santa and his reindeer stayed perfectly still until the last moment, then slipped to one side, causing Anta to crash straight into the tree. His sleigh crumbled into a million pieces of wood, and he was left sitting in a heap of snow in the middle of the remains of the sleigh. He had banged his head, which now felt as though it was whirling around. Santa took a harness which had survived the disintegration of Anta’s sleigh, and tied up Anta in a web of reins and buckles. Anta was led into Santa’s sleigh, and sat helpless as Santa transported him to the elves factory. He was handed over to the chief elf, who had instructions to keep him imprisoned until he was an old man, and to make him help with the toy manufacture in exchange for his food.

Fanta was a kind boy, and didn’t wish to see anybody suffer as he had suffered, but he knew that was the only way to prevent Anta’s cruelty to all the boys and girls. As it was now Christmas Eve, the elves loaded all the presents onto the sleigh, and Fanta got to ride with Santa, helping to deliver all the presents around the world. He was so good at this that Santa gave him lots of presents and promised to make him his apprentice, and to take him with him every year. ‘You’re hired!’ he said.

When they got back to Lapland, Santa took Fanta into his home, and promised that he would always be able to live there. He noticed that Fanta was holding something, which he held out to Santa. ‘You give presents and joy to everyone around the world, but you don’t have any presents yourself, since your parents are now too old and frail to get you any. I have made you a model reindeer from a piece of my father’s sleigh. It’s not much, but it’s all I have. I hope you like it’, he said shyly.

Santa really loved it. With tears in his eyes, he hugged his adoptive son, and told him that he was special too, and that one day, he, too, would be equally renowned and adored. If you wake up one Christmas Eve, and you see a small boy helping Santa to fill the stockings, do not be surprised, for that will be Fanta.

HAVE A VERY HAPPY CHRISTMAS!

Story inspired by @735songs

‘Thou shalt not kill.’ That is what it says in the Bible. But what could I do when it was a choice between killing him, and protecting my children, or at least those that are left to me. God had already taken two from me before I lost my poor Margaret. She had been trying to help her father, carrying his ale to him, when she tripped on his foot and the ale spilled out. He beat her about the head: battered it until the blood ran from her nose and her mouth. I tried to pull him away, but he knocked me out of the way onto the ground. When she groaned, I thanked God that she was still alive, but groaning was all she could do after that, groaning and weeping. My beautiful daughter was no longer wholly dwelling in that shell; her spirit was with God, and he had left me with just her frail body which could do nothing. I tended what remained of her, and somehow she continued to exist.

The little ones had always feared him, but after this they were filled with terror. They crept around him like little mice around a cat, and took such care when he gave them orders; but children do make mistakes – we all do. It happened some months after he had devastated Margaret’s life, and mine with it. This time, he had forbidden Thomas to eat supper, because of a minor misdemeanour, but caught him taking some bread. There was no time for me to stop him – just one slap to the head, and Thomas was gone from me; this time, not even a living shell of Thomas was left to me. He buried my boy under a bush.

I knew what I had to do; I had to save the little ones. I could not lose any more to this monster. I had to consign my soul to eternal damnation in order for my children to live. If I took them and ran, he would come after us. He would pay spies to find us, and would not rest until we were back under his control, so that he could punish us. .

My chance soon came, and I did not hesitate: he was slumped in a beer-drenched stupor, snoring heavily. I took a pillow and pressed it over his face. He moved a little, but was too drunk to save himself. In death, his body appeared larger and uglier than ever. Most look at peace on their deathbed, but not him; he had no peace within him

It was vital that I got away before my actions were discovered. I needed to act instantly and decisively. I felt fear for the future, but this was nothing compared to the terror to which the children and I had been accustomed.

I had left Margaret in her usual corner. I could feel her eyes on me, but I don’t know how much she understood of what had occurred. She was making a low moaning sound, she was weeping, but that was her usual state. Did she realise what I had done, what I had to do? She looked weary; weary of this life, or, rather, of her limited life. I could read the pain through her eyes, and felt it in every nerve of my body. I could feel her lost spirit pleading with me. I had to do this, there was no choice. Had I stayed, they would have taken me away. She would have no one; no-one to gently unclench those twisted, cramped limbs, to wipe her brow with cooling cloths, to pour drips of liquid sustenance into her open mouth, and hold up her chin until they have found their way down; to do this slowly enough to allow her to breathe and not choke and die on the very thing that keeps her alive. It had to be this way. The little ones would have no one to give them just a chance of a future. I had to do it, for them.

I gave her beer to make it easier for her. The delay was agonising in my need for haste. As I let it trickle down her throat, I poured it too quickly, and her eyes rolled as she fought for breath. I covered her beautiful face with my hand. It didn’t take long.

I will take them far from here. We will walk away and see where God takes us. Perhaps some kind soul may pity us and will take us in, and give us a pittance in exchange for labour. We could go to the sea, to the docks, where there will be sailors far from home. We could maybe find a space in a room where other poor souls like me do what is necessary to keep their children fed. The sailors could help me sustain them.

And if not? Then I know what I have to do.

Hurled through a fortified metal door that creaked open as he approached, banging his elbow as he passed, he found himself in a blisteringly hot, cavernous space, lit by a liquid fire in its depths and by greeny-yellow shuddering orbs, floating by forever. The sound was that of an ocean, aeons deep, with a tide of sobs ebbing and flowing. A stomach-churning smell of roasting rancid pork surrounded him, and a small dark figure, looking disconcertingly like Hitler, pranced around near the bottom, cackling: “Don’t stint on the crackling, lads!”

Satan, for he it was who danced that infernal tango-for-one, spied Barry, reaching   him in one impossible leap. “You’re not ready for us yet”, he snarled, “You need more practice. Piss off!”

On his rebound through the ancient door, banging his elbow again, Barry was aware of a tunnel of light pulling him, and he heard an educated voice saying, “He’s coming back.”

“God?” Barry wondered, before the light was switched off and he was told that he was in hospital and had nearly died.

“Mwaaaeurgh”, Barry attempted.

“Never mind, old chap”, soothed the doctor, but Barry’s shout could be heard across the wards:

“CALL THE JOBCENTRE!”

Many thanks to Diandra on http://shortstoriesandmadrants.blogspot.com/ for the Fabulous Flash Award last week.

For details on Fabulous Flash Award see http://jmstrother.com/MadUtopia/

The rules state that on receiving this award, you should pass it on to four other fabulous flashers, so here goes:

http://www.nettiethomson.blogspot.com/ Nettie is mistress of the unexpected. She extracts the slightly creepy from the ordinary situation or person, and makes you believe.

http://jackyfowler.wordpress.com/ Jacky writes fabulous, original stories, with wonderful twists. I particularly like ‘Creation’ in her short stories category, which is beautifully written, and sees things from an unexpected perspective.

http://ramblingsofarustywriter.blogspot.com/ I love Rebecca’s’ writing, it is always so fresh and alive. She can turn her hand with ease to several different genres. My favourite of her stories is Listen, posted on 1.07.10, which is very poetic, and can be read on several different levels.

http://eit.posterous.com/ I’ve only discovered Elijah Toten today, and immediately want to post an award for him. He is able to see things from an unusual perspective, and writes about life, but not quite as we know it. All is beautifully written.

I have taken far too long deciding on the above, and hope that I have carried the Award on it the way it is meant to be done. I deliberately chose 4 writers with totally different styles, and above all, whose writing I enjoy.  I aimed at blogs where fiction is clearly separated from other writing, to enable easy access to the stories. There are so many wonderful writers on Twitter, I wish I could choose you all!

‘I’m sorry dear; I seem to have upset you. What have I done?’

‘Sniff!’

‘Whatever it was, I’m sure I didn’t mean it.’

He replayed events in his mind, and realised that the frost had descended soon after he reached home after picking her up from work. It must have been when she was recounting the tale of her attempt to get poor Ben to give up smoking; he had obviously given the wrong reaction. The crime of smoking was one of the many bees buzzing around in Babs’ bonnet. He had often mused on the possibility that these bees were a direct result of the plethora of ‘B’s in her name – Barbara Bradbury. He was sure that she didn’t have so many bees before she bustled him off into married life, when she was still Barbara Jones.

Peter knew she’d had her problems: her parents died within three months of each other, when she was sixteen, and she’d had to live with a stern grandmother; she was compelled to leave school immediately and earn a living, despite being earmarked for a certain university place. The school she had attended had fed her insecurity, coming as she did from a poor background, armed with a scholarship, and arriving into the halls of middle class self-assurance. It taught her a snobbery which she still wore like a cloak, although she had nothing with which to feed it. She adorned herself with evidence of the most suitable hobbies, and never allowed anybody who gave her a lift home to drop her off outside the terraced ex-council house, requesting instead to be dropped round the corner, which had far more desirable residences.

It was her sense of fun that had first attracted him, the witty off-the-wall jokes and the streak of rebellion that peeped out frequently from under her assumed cover of refinement. He forgave her the arrogance; it wasn’t her fault. He knew her controlling habits were an obsessive result of her difficult childhood, but dealing with them got more and more difficult. Take the doors, for instance: they always had to be tightly shut. The upstairs ones would, if left open, ‘cause fire to spread throughout the house’. Downstairs, these open doors would ‘let people see right through the house’. He didn’t really see the problem with that, but tried to keep Babs happy by complying when he remembered. She ruled the garden with a green fist of iron. He obediently mowed the lawn, when ordered, and took great care not to shred flowers in his path, or at least to hide the evidence afterwards. She said that this rose should go here, so it went there; twelve inches, or as near as possible without a ruler, were pruned off certain shrubs, as instructed. The plants spread into and throughout the house. They brought a freshness and naturalness to the rather rigid interior decor of harsh, solid colours, stern furniture, and curtains tied back to within an inch of their life. Peter would have appreciated them, were it not for the strict regime of caring, feeding and watering that was imposed on him.

Meals were another problem. Babs wasn’t a bad cook, but she followed fads. Heaven help him if he turned down a portion of his five a day fruit and vegetables, or requested red meat. He used to love her desserts when they were first married; she made a mean apple crumble with her own delicately flavoured vanilla pouring custard. These had been vetoed long ago in favour of an orange or an apple to follow his meals.

Television viewing was strictly monitored for suitability. News programmes and  documentaries of a serious nature were judged appropriate, as were Pinteresque dramas and adaptations of the classics, but soap operas never dared to show themselves in that house. As for reality programmes, which Peter secretly would have loved to have watched, they were deemed to be like ‘watching paint dry’, the worst type of sop for the masses.

Babs’ most outrageous demand was that he should kneel down to use the toilet:

‘You will never learn to aim straight, I won’t have you dripping and splashing everywhere.’

‘Couldn’t we get a lavatory mat, dear?’ he snivelled, appalled at this attack on the final vestige of manhood that remained to him.

‘Lavatory mats are naff. I’m not having one in my house. They are unnecessary if you kneel down.’

She performed spot checks, spying on him when he was in the bathroom, which he was not allowed to lock.

‘I never know what filthy habits you get up to in there if you lock the door.’

She sniffed like a bloodhound to find evidence of illicit peeing. He gave up and allowed himself to be brought to his knees.

During workdays, whilst silently rejoicing in his daytime Babs-free existence, he felt a deep sorrow for the members of her department. Liz was fine, she could more than look after herself, mistress of the rebuff or refusal so subtle that it was only later that people asked themselves ‘Was that really what she meant?’ But quiet little Paula, and the lads, Ben with the artistic soul and little Rob, six foot two and still growing, were not yet equipped with the tools to manage their manager. He could just see her demanding: ‘Coffee, Paula!’ ‘Door, Rob!’ Why Babs had been appointed manager, God only knew. Maybe she had demanded it, and nobody had the guts to refuse her. He could not deny that it was useful; money was very tight after his redundancy, but the power inevitably went to her head, making his life unbearable. She had requested that people, including Peter, call her Barbara after her promotion, but although lip service was paid to that demand, everybody still thought of her as Babs.

Later during the evening in question, that of the icy silence which was eventually cracked by Babs with a sharp throat clearing, the nature of his misdemeanour was revealed to him when she exclaimed, ‘I am not a bully!’

‘Whoever said that you are, dear?’

‘You did.’

‘I would never have said that!’

‘You accused me of hectoring Ben.’

‘I was teasing you, dear. I only said that the poor chap must have dragged himself into work from his deathbed with that dreadful ‘flu, only to be met by you hectoring him to give up smoking. It was a joke, dear, nothing was meant.’

‘I am not a bully. I will not stand for people calling me a bully.’

‘I’m very sorry dear, It won’t happen again.’

Not long after that, it happened that Babs died suddenly. The post-mortem revealed a myocardial infarction, but was inconclusive on why the heart attack had occurred. It was put down to excess weight. Peter did grieve for the Babs he had first known, but he had been doing that long before her physical death. He did all the things he had to do, notifications, registrations, funeral arrangements, financial appointments, hardly knowing that he was performing these ritual actions, unable to focus on dates, details or documentation.

The sun beamed down on the day of the funeral, a gentle breeze played round the hearse. Peter was giving Babs a funeral to remember, the send-off she would have required: majestic, but not over the top, accompanied by just the right amount of choral music; a dignified eulogy with no mawkishness; a reception in a tasteful hotel, with excellent food chosen for its simplicity and suitability. All their old friends were there, including some who had only been a name on a Christmas card for too many years. Babs had wondered why they had stopped visiting. Their daughters, Chloe and Phoebe, came of course, with boyfriends as escorts, and all Peter’s family turned up. Bab’s older sister, had stopped talking to her years ago, and had also died young, without any attempt at rapprochement ever being made. A large contingent from the office attended, some who had known her since she first started working there, twenty four years ago.

‘Well we need to be sure that she really has gone’, muttered little Rob.

The guests started to leave, and the girls insisted on accompanying Peter home.

‘You can’t go home to an empty house today,’ worried Chloe.

Once there, he felt guilty that he couldn’t wait for them to leave, but they fussed around him until he persuaded them that his headache needed nursing in bed, in silence.

As soon as they had gone, he went around the house, throwing open every door as wide as he could. He threw out the pot plants that were looking agreeably brown and droopy without the attentions he had lavished on them under the dictatorship. He switched on the television and found the Big Brother live feed, increasing the volume to a pleasingly high level. He ate two cream cakes and a bar of chocolate, and savoured the slightly nauseous feeling they left in him. He went to the bathroom, leaving open the door, of course, threw up the seat, and peed standing up, deliberately misaiming at times. He had been saving up his urine for this occasion. He whished and whooshed it with wild abandonment, leaning over the loo in ecstasy. He had just a few last drops still to come when the seat and lid seemed to hurl themselves down upon him, with demonic force. He sat on the floor and cried.

Looking back, nobody remembered how it started or whose idea it was, but all in a moment they were brandishing their rhubarb swords, and, armed with the leaves as shields, they were transformed into knights of the garden, fighting to win the rhubarb crown. They lunged and parried, ducked and dodged, thrust and went right for the kill. If a sword snapped, what did it matter? There were plenty more held in that rose-red armoury.

The entire surrounding world was focused on that outbreak of joy. The bees’ chuckles reverberated in their throats, the doves cooed in wonder. The magpies scolded as they scavenged, the wood pigeons beat their wings in applause. The bonfire in the next garden sent smoke signals of encouragement at first, until the breeze held its breath in wonder. Uncle Mick’s geriatric spaniel, already three feet in the grave, jogged doggedly towards the arena, scenting a sense of fun he had not experienced since his puppy days; a reminder shot through his limbs that he was no longer a pup, and he sank back down to rest, but the pain couldn’t blot out the gleam in his eye that had not been seen for months.

Eventually, the sun could last out no longer, and brought to an end that perfect day. The jousting abated and the tournament was over, with everyone a champion. The children went in, tired but happy. Their arms and legs were painted red and green. Their clothes, Picasso-style, would reveal a perfect image of childhood joy, if you knew how to look. The ruby memories went with them into adulthood.

To muse upon life’s triviality.

I have not the intention to abuse

- Albeit I’ll show partiality,

Reacting to injustice with “j’accuse”,

But celebrating joviality.

My humour (dire) I beg you to excuse,

Along with my peculiarity.

Her GP can do nowt.

Mick’s taken her to hospital

To have her insides out.

They’re shaving her to operate

She says ‘Don’t take much trouble

I hear it’s a la mode to have

A slight designer stubble.

The prepping’s done, the needle’s in

She says a little prayer,

While Mucky Mick investigates

The nurses’ underwear.

His ogling’s getting far too close

For comfort for the nurse.

She turns round with a backhand swipe.

He topples with a curse.

He’s hit his head, he’s out stone cold

They’ve put him on a trolley.

The doctor wheels him off while cursing

Loudly at his folly.

‘We’ll deal with him’, our doc declares.

‘Twill only take a minute’

And soon enough the trolley’s back

With Michael lying in it.

‘Please do not fear, he now will be

Unable to embarrass.

We’ve bound him up from head to foot

In Plaster sent from Paris.’

The op takes place, our Maggie’s fixed,

She wakes to whooziness

‘Oh dear’, she groans, I’m feeling now

A good and proper mess.’

‘Oh doctor, what has happened

To make me suffer so?’

He answers, ‘Its gone very well

In general, although

There’s been a little accident –

This doctor standing next to me,

He lost his balance, knocked my knife,

And performed a vaginectomy.

But do not cry, your luck was in,

He’s a transplant expert too,

We found a donor pretty fast

And got to work on you.

You see that horse in yonder field,

Jumping like Sally Gunnell?

We whipped it out and sewed it in,

It’s as big as the Channel Tunnel.’

The stallion’s not too happy

He’s galloped off to pack.

She said you’re welcome to it

It will get him off her back.

‘Its all in working order now’

The errant surgeon gloats,

‘We’ll swiftly make you stable and

Soon Mick will get his oats.’

*******

Now Maggie’s home and healing well,

When Mike wants his wicked way,

He’ll say “’Ere ‘ow about it then?”

She’s sure to answer “Neigh!”