(237 Words inc. Title)

“As my family and I gather once again at Sandringham, our thoughts go out this Christmas to you and your families wherever they may be.”

Mother, I’m trying to listen to The Queen.

Yes I know she’s looking older, Mother, but aren’t we all.

Please, Mother, I’m trying to listen… No, Mother, the vase behind The Queen is nothing like the one you saw reduced in Debenham’s.

Mother, I don’t know who cleans her windows. Does it matter?

No, I hadn’t heard about our window cleaner, Mother, who you say went in next door last week and came out half an hour later looking rather too pleased with himself. But I am trying to listen to The Queen.

Mother, you said the same sort of thing about me and Mr Gibson. And all because I helped him on with his coat at the Neighbourhood Watch meeting. Anyway, what about you when Daddy went off to his TA camp?

Never mind what Daddy got up to, Mother. I’m talking about you, and the insurance man’s bicycle clips that I found on your dressing table.

That’s a lie, Mother.

Mother, I did not put those bicycle clips on your dressing table.

I did not, Mother.

For God’s sake, Mother, I’m trying to listen to The…

“…And as we share together the many joys of family life, may I wish you all a very happy Christmas.”

“THE EPIPHANY”

“I can’t believe it!” gasped Angela. “They’re taking them down already.”

Cherie and Sascha were equally appalled. It was five p.m. on Christmas Eve, and the decorations were already being dismantled at the

Westfield Shopping Centre. “Our Lord hasn’t even been born yet,” said Sascha sadly. “Well, you know what I mean.” They sat on the upturned tables of the coffee shop and watched in dismay. The lights went out, and all was dark and quiet. “What about the Twelve Days of Christmas?” sighed Cherie. “Well, let’s put it all back again.” They sang as they worked. Just after midnight, they finished, and flew home to Heaven. On Christmas morning the television channels were bombarded with calls, and all had the

same headline for their evening news: “MIRACLE AT SUPERMARKET”

The stories dealt with decorations that appeared overnight and angelic voices that were heard

by people passing by. All swore they had been sober. People flocked into the supermarket to see the display. It was more beautiful than the original had been. Once the managers pulled it all down again, but the next morning it was back again, bigger

and better. Until January 6. The Feast of the Epiphany.

“We’ve shown them, haven’t we?” Sascha solemnly asked God. “Indeed,” He replied. Before the eyes of late night shoppers, each decoration, each star and streamer, each piece of

tinsel gradually faded into nothingness; and they swore to a person that they could hear angels

singing, “We Three Kings of Orient Are.” THE END

EXACTLY 250 WORDS

Beneath the stairwell the children huddled, week after week, watching for the one couple they could trust enough to approach for help.

Their real parents had both been injured when a produce cart overturned and landed on top of their carriage, crushing them and their matching team of greys while the four children slept in the back.

Their father had died instantly, but their mother had suffered for hours.

“Mind you care for the youngsters, Mary,” her mother finally told her. “You’ll be their mother now.”

Mary buried her head in her mother’s breast and sobbed, then dried her tears for she knew there was no use in crying.

“Look for a kind woman to help you and stay together,” she had warned. “Promise me!”

“I promise, Momma,” she replied. “But how will I know she’s kind?”

“The good Lord will show you,” she declared, and then she died.

It wouldn’t be easy to find one family to take in an 11-year-old girl, a set of seven-year-old twin boys and a girl not yet four, but Mary knew the Lord answered prayers.

“But I miss the children,” Mary heard her cry. “Christmas just isn’t the same without them. “

Mary’s heart leapt from her chest. She knew this was the sign, so she ran toward the woman, the children in tow, and tugged on her coat from behind.

The constable whistled, then screamed, “Halt—stop those vagrants!”

The woman turned, immediately understood their plight, and said, “Come home with Grandma.”

CHRISTMAS TAILS. ( A TRUE STORY ) (236 words)

It is Christmas eve, cold and wet, it has been raining for days and Colin stumbles in through the door and puts a heaving sack on the tiled floor. Brown stinking water oozes out through the plastic. Surely this cannot be the turkey that I sent him to buy. Nervously I peer inside and I can see four little heads of four tiny puppies. They are sodden and you can squeeze the water from their small furry bodies. They are icy cold to the touch and I consider that they must have been left in the cold and wet hours ago judging by their condition. Grabbing towels and sitting by the open fire we frantically rub their little bodies; trying to dry all four of them with two pair of hands is difficult. All seem so weak and in a desperate condition they are no more than six weeks old, shivering uncontrollably and terrified, allowing us to do what ever we want with them. Pulling out a drawer we fill it with blankets and hot water bottles and place the four little ones together by the open fireplace. Several hours later their fragile bodies start to warm up and they eat ravenously They spend their entire first Christmas eating and sleeping in front of a huge open log fire and we aptly name them, GOLD STAR FRANKINCENSE AND MYRRH..

‘Hello little boy, are you excited about Christmas?’ Santa asked as 6 year old Michael nervously entered the dimly lit room.
‘Go on Michael’ urged his mother behind him.
Michael sat on the stool next to Santa and played with his skinny pale hands in his lap.

‘What would you like from Santa this year? Have been good for mummy?’ Asked Santa gently, smiling encouragement.
‘I think I’ve been good’ said Michael quietly barely able to look Santa in the eye.
‘Is there anything special you would like?’
‘Well, I don’t know if it’s the type of present you can give me, but what I really want is for my mum to stop crying. She cries a lot’ replied Michael.
Michael’s embarrassed mother shrank into the shadows. As much as she’d tried to explain, he just didn’t understand. ‘Well,’ said Santa, ‘I’m sure I can try to help you, a twinkle sparkling in his eye.
Michael wasn’t sure but he was certain he felt something magical just happen, as though he was the most special boy in the world at that moment.

The moment was broken by the shrill ring of a phone.
Michael’s mum suddenly dropped to her knees sobbing into the phone.
‘You see!’ shouted Michael, getting up from the stool and running to the exit ‘I knew Santa wasn’t real, she’s never going to stop crying.’

‘No, Michael stop’ sobbed his mother. ‘It’s the hospital on the phone; they think they’ve found you a new kidney’.

When I heard the loud knocking in the middle of the night, I was sure it was Poppa returning early from his trip to get provisions. I grabbed my wrapper, opened the door and there before me was a giant of a man. I wanted the stranger to go away, but it was Christmas Eve and there was an awful blizzard outside, so even though we were almost out of wood to burn and food to eat, Momma invited him to stay. He nodded yes.

Momma was heavy with child and when her pains came, the stranger had only been there a couple of hours, but he took right over. He knew just what to do and even though he never spoke, we worked well together. My little sister was born just as the sun was coming up on Christmas morning.

We laid the last of the wood to burn before we all went back to bed and when I got up, the stranger was gone. Furthermore, I had discovered a pantry full of food and enough wood on the porch to last the entire winter!
I ran back inside to tell my mother what I had found, but she did not act surprised. She reminded my brother and me that the Bible tells us to be kind to strangers because we could be entertaining angels unaware.

Momma said, “Let’s name your little sister now.”

My brother and I looked at each other, smiled and in unison we said, “Angel.”

The robin perched snugly within the branches of the holly hedge. The fairy-lights sparkled
on the branches of the Norwegian spruce in the living-room. The still-wrapped presents lurked beneath the evergreen tree, while the children hurriedly ate their breakfast cereal.

Outside, Yuletide morning was as bright as ever. It was too cold to sit outside, but a short
stroll after lunch would definitely be on the cards. The children had never seen snow in December before and it again looked unlikely. Thanks to climate change, their father could not remember the last time it had snowed before mid-January.

Within a very short time the children decimated the wrapping paper. Parcels were opened
with ever increasing abandon and they became so excited that mother had to ask them to “calm down” several times. Presents were placed in careful piles to be played with later.

The dolly had come all the way from India. The latest gizmo had been brought from Japan.
The wines were from Australia and Chile, Dad’s socks were from China and his tie from the Philippines. Mum’s perfume was from France and her pashmina from Iran. The cheeses were from the Netherlands and the chocolates from Belgium.

Mum and Dad were happy that it had gone off so well. Some of Dad’s colleagues had taken
their families abroad for Christmas, but he and his wife had decided to be “green” this year and stay at home to enjoy an old-fashioned British Christmas!

From within the hearth I had built thirty years before, I squinted through the makeshift curtain of tinsel streamers tacked to the mantelpiece, and swayed to ease the pain in my knees. My posture was that of an arthritic spider in freefall. Even my false teeth ached.
Three lush open mouths glistened in the foreground. My grandkids, God bless ‘em. Their cheeks shone, lips parted in expectation of Santa’s grand arrival. Deeper in the lounge, my wife’s anvil-shaped posterior tilted under the merry lights as she reached upward and tended the summit of the Tree. My smile was instinctive and defied the pain.
My elder daughter, the grandkids’ mother, drooled shapeless on the sofa, a victim of Christmas Eve child-minding and two glasses of champers. Her husband, an IT specialist-with-his-own-business, sat beside her and played with a blackberry – careless of his wife’s drool and his nippers’ excitement, the useless sod.
Figures moved under the mistletoe. No! A scruffy young man with a hornbill of a nose – one better suited to opening tins or cracking nuts in the Amazon – was frenching my younger daughter. I watched the beak’s tip probe her earlobe, his soft white hand creep down her rump.
I growled behind my phony Santa’s beard, and the sack of sweeties slipped off my shoulder. I thrust my head through the streamers. The kids gaped, then squealed as their sooty grandfather lunged into the lounge like a sprinter on steroids.
“Ho-bloody-ho!”

Benjamin sat upright and silent in bed, hands gripping the duvet to his face, his body atremble with excitement and trepidation. He didn’t want to curse the moment, or wake up if it turned out to be a dream. Ben lived with his family on the top floor of the inner city high rise block, so before he had gone to bed this Christmas Eve, he had been able to look out on a snow swept East London, a magical pink glow cast across the metropolis. He had then slept soundly until the thud on the roof five minutes ago.

Now, in the dark of night, he could actually hear the muffled crunch of snow as someone walked on the roof above him. If it had been any other night but this, he would have surged with panic upon then hearing midnight footsteps in the room next door. The notion that the big guy could actually be real seemed to be certain now, for who else was rustling around with the stockings in the lounge?

After a few minutes the rustling stopped and the roof crunch could be heard again, followed by sleigh bells and an almighty whoosh!

Yet … still there was noise next door.

Rousing himself properly, Benjamin padded out into the corridor and across cold carpet tiles into the lounge. The wicked elf was hard at mischief, face awash in chocolate, wrapping paper flying around him like a tornado. It whirled round and grinned at child…

THE GEESE ARE GETTING FAT

Brenda watched the geese waddle across the farmyard enjoying their last day of a well fed life. The boss would start filling Christmas orders tomorrow.
She turned to the open wardrobe door and gathered the dress that hung there into her hands. Its satin bodice was sewn with sequins and the net skirts flared from a cinched in waist. She sighed. Surely Will would ask her to marry him when he saw her in this sparkling dress? Red was her colour.
There were only seven days till Christmas. Had she done enough? Twice weekly trips to the gym and starvation rations had turned her country figure into a svelte picture of sophistication.
She glanced at the wedding photograph of the boss and his bride, Rachel. City slim and glamorous she smiled into the camera. Brenda gathered her cleaning things before going down to join her for coffee.
In November, when the dress arrived after a shopping trip, everything in Rachel’s wardrobe fitted her perfectly but today, she was most often seen in trackie bottoms and sweat shirt.
‘I’ve brought some millionaire’s shortbread this morning,’ Brenda said.
‘Anyone would think you were fattening me up like one of the geese,’ Rachel protested. ‘There’s no point in taking that red dress with me when we go to Mum and Dad’s for Christmas. I must diet when we get back.’
Brenda smiled and toyed with the farmhouse keys in her apron pocket. She’d done enough.

“ Wrell little Miss, where on Earth did you come from?”

Overwhelmed by a sudden rush of instant love, awe, amazement and abject terror Shannon gazed into her face, bright pink and screwed up beneath a mass of blankets and sleeping peaceefully.

It was Christmas Eve, but that aside, it had been a normal day. Shannon had got up early, she was doing a half day, no biggie, the old folks still needed help irrespective of the day, life didn’t stop because it was Christmas Eve. She had surprised her parents, but she didn’t mind. She had New Year off and she could go out with the girls then.

She had a quick bite of toast and slurped coffee before setting out. Her periods had been playing havoc of late so she ignored the griping pains within her stomach and continued on. Come lunchtime though the pain was unbearable, searing all the way throughout her body, sending her into spasms over which she had no control.

It made her feel violently sick and with a sudden push Shannon was aware that she may have messed herself before needing to push again and finding herself surrounded by people. An ambulance was called.

3 hours later she was presented with a daughter. Knowing that she was carrying a little extra weight, Shannon had put it down to hormones, not pregnancy. Not that it mattered, Olivia was the only thing that did. The clock struck midnight. Shannon kissed her daughter.

“Merry Christmas darling.”

Ready-made bread sauce, quiet toys for Don’s grandchildren, Betty reminded herself on the two- hour drive to the retail park. Last year those noisy flashing things annoyed Barbara , who also couldn’t eat the turkey, which was too dry without my lumpy bread sauce. Her complaining caused Brian to say: ”Christmas is a pain in the arse”, upsetting Mum, who had to go and lie down for the rest of the day. Homeward bound, peering through the thickening snow, she thought: There’s presents still to wrap, the spare bed needs clean sheets. ... In a country lane, the engine failed. There was no signal for her phone. I need an angel, she thought. But angels help good people, and I am grumpy and incompetent. Then she saw him. Incredibly bright, breathtakingly beautiful, smiling at her through the windscreen. Miraculously, the bonnet flew open. The angel looked inside. Then he sucked in air through his teeth, shook his head, and pronounced: “This won’t be going nowhere today, luv.” “But-“began Betty, her eyes filling with tears. The angel turned his beautiful head and indicated a sign which, in the darkness, Betty had not spotted before: “Traveller’s Rest Hotel.” Sipping sherry in front of a roaring fire, she thought: Don will be angry. I could be stuck here for Christmas. I’ve let them all down again. But when she looked up and saw the angel, beaming radiantly from the chair opposite, her guilt melted away, and she was perfectly content.

Fed up, literally, to the teeth with Christmas present spending money, or unspent money, or saved money, the fat piggybank rattled, clicked and burped metallically all through the dark December days.

He sat plump with coinage on a dimpled cushion, trying to mute his internal rumblings. It wasn’t just indigestion, though he suffered a lot of pain and discomfort, and was embarrassed by the sight of his pale pink stomach bulging over his belt.

No, he was trembling too in terror. He’d heard tales. Gossip. The toybox and bookshelves were rife with horror stories – “ghosts of Christmas past,” The Collected Works of Dickens informed him.

There had been other pigs, he was given to understand, other pigs before him –

“If you know what I mean.” cackled the red felt hen.

The train, on its endless circle of track, choo-chooed relentlessy round and round, black smoke signals billowing from its funnel. The old, silent rag doll Indian, sitting cross-legged outside the wigwam, refused to interpret these signals, but the alabaster turkey had a sinister habit of waddling up to the piggybank and gabbling dire hints and warnings:

“Run away! Take the first train anywhere! Don’t be a sitting duck! Break out or be broken…!”

The pig, not sure whether to believe all he heard but unable to ignore it either sat paralysed with panic. He was too fat and fed up and frightened to raise his shivering snout from the trough of despond.

Lily slept badly last night. A voice had whirled around in her head and the awful cold that seeped into her bones was too much to bear. She got out of bed and headed towards the bathroom, her feet making little padding noises as she went. It was Christmas Eve and she was excited at the thought of getting into the big wide world to see what it was like.
Lily splashed her face with water and flinched when the coldness hit her skin. She had always hated water. She moved to the bedroom window and looked out across the courtyard and there was an old woman in a winter coat staring up at her surrounded by cats and deep snow.
Lily pulled on her coat, even though she knew she did not need it and walked towards the front door.

The black cat sat on the steps leading to the entrance of the deserted flats. It was silent and unmoving as the old woman approached and reached out her hand to stroke it.
“Come on then”, she said to the cat, “You were very naughty to run off like that, I missed you”.
With that she turned away and walked back to her family of cats, turning once to beckon to the black cat. The cat stood up and stretched gracefully. Its collar glinted in the morning sun as it moved off to join its family.
The name on the tag was LILY.

Nicolas, cold and hungry, arrived home at four-thirty on Christmas Morning. A steady snowfall had ensured a white Christmas; the first the village had seen in thirty years.

“It’s only me!” he called. “It’s been snowing all night; at least three inches by my reckoning.”

“I know. Wonderful isn’t it?” came the reply.

“I guess so. But the village gets bigger every year and I’m not getting any younger. Tonight was tough.”

“So? Find someone to take your place!”

“And let them get the rewards?”

“You do too much!”

“But I get so much pleasure. I love to imagine the kid’s faces as they peer into their stockings and sacks. Oh, If only I could live forever.”

Nicolas joined his wife by the fire. Life was good. The plan was good. Since moving to the village, the year after the last white Christmas, he would pack all that was required into a large sack before setting off after dark on Christmas Eve.

“You’re a saint,” said the wife.

“I do my best, and – I work hard at it.”

For an hour, the happy couple ate mince pies and drank coffee liqueur. A knock at the door broke the reverie.

“Nicolas Scrooge,” said the constable. “I arrest you for breaking and entering, stealing toys and mince pies.”

“How – why”

“The snow, sir. Your footprints are everywhere.”

“Bah…”

“Humbug?”

“Hmm.”

In the ebbing firelight he stroked the rusting skeleton of the train. He would not turn on the table-lamp, preferring instead the far-off glow of Christmas Tree candles from a dozen strangers’ windows.

He had given the train to Bobby one Christmas – 1972 it was. Bobby has begged him to come and play, but somehow he had never got round to it, not realising that his son would rather have had his time than the train. Just like he hadn’t realised that his mother would rather have had a letter from him once a month, than an expensive Harvey Nichols hamper once a year. And just like it had never crossed his mind, all those nights he worked late, that Rachel would have preferred an apology to another extravagant bouquet. That last Christmas they had together, he could have told her how much he still loved her; instead, he had given her a diamond bracelet. Some presents cost more than others.

He turned his face from the distant family scenes, his eyes resting on the pile of costly presents, ready to post to Bobby and the grandchildren. The packets filled with so much lavish thoughtlessness seemed suddenly cheap and, perhaps for the first time, he realised that there were gifts of greater value than his wages had ever provided for. Gifts that were long overdue. Gifts that it might not be too late to give.

Picking up the telephone, he dialled Bobby’s number.

I’ve never been a fan of Christmas, with everyone stressing about which relatives to spend the day with, and wondering what to buy for everyone they know plus their cat. From October onwards, you find Christmas trinkets everywhere, and the standard greeting seems to be “Are you looking forward to Christmas?” I want to reply, “I never look forward to Christmas. I have no family, so I spend it alone in my flat.” But I smile and nod, and try to change the subject.

Most people take time off over Christmas. I prefer to be at work. I love my job, and even more so since Andrew started in the office. He’s tall, with jet black hair, and a gorgeous smile. I am secretly hoping he’s going to be in work over the Christmas period too.

Christmas Eve arrives. The office shuts at twelve today so I have a quiet morning to tidy up any loose ends. Then back to my flat for a couple of days of solitude.

The door opens and, to my surprise, I see Andrew dressed as Santa. He strides straight towards me and says “Happy Christmas, Sophie!” I stand up, and before I know what is happening, he holds a piece of mistletoe above my head and leans forward to kiss me gently on the lips. He senses my lack of resistance and gives me a hug as he invites me to dinner.

Maybe it’s time I started to enjoy Christmas after all.

He rolled the crisp ball of snow along the edge of the garden. At the icicle-dripped cherry tree he stopped, the ball now so big he knew he wouldn`t be able to push it another inch. Then it was the head, finished off with a carrot and two lumps of coal he`d sneaked out of the house.

Briefly glancing back up the garden he surveyed his handiwork. Buttons. Of course, that`s what was missing. Scrambling in the snow he unearthed several small stones and stuck them down the glistening front of the snowman. Perfect. This was how it had been every Christmas he thought. The excitement of opening presents, Mum`s enormous turkey, the Christmas pudding and mince pies before rushing out into the snow-covered garden-

“Look at that!” the excited voice rang out across the frozen garden. He turned towards the figure tumbling down the patio steps, his bare white knees knocking together as he rushed towards the newly-built snowman.

“Can I do one. Please let me do one!”

“ Of course you can son. Come on, I`ll show you how to start.”

He watched the child, his eager red face buried in the ever expanding ball of snow. This was indeed going to be the best Christmas ever.

‘Santa, I have a question,’ Trish said.
‘Yes?’
‘Can Christmas wishes include living one’s dream?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Are you living yours?’
‘Yes.’
‘How?’ he asked.
‘Well, in the past, I would have been cheeky enough to ask you for a sporty Porsche the colour of fire and a visa card that never ran out.’
‘Really?’ Santa chuckled, imagining this eccentric grandmother whizzing about in a fiery red Porsche.
‘What changed?’
Trish looked deep into Santa’s eyes before she spoke. ‘During Christmas 2005, I suffered a major health issue that forced me to change my life.’
‘Tell me about it?’ Santa invited.
‘I’d been a classroom teacher for many years but by mid 2005 I was over it. I wasn’t growing inside and my spirit was dying. In early 2006 I was hospitalised yet again with another attack of glossopharyngeal neuralgia and placed on a drip because I couldn’t speak, drink or eat.’
‘Your spirit was crying out for nourishment,’ Santa murmured. ‘What happened next?’
‘I went back to work but I knew I couldn’t do it anymore. Then to my amazement a degree in creative writing was asking for students and I enrolled immediately.’
‘Mmm. Sounds like destiny, Trish?’
‘Oh, Santa, I’ve wanted to be a writer for as long as I can remember.’
‘Then what do you want for Christmas, Trish?’
‘My own personal muse,’ she said tongue in cheek.
Santa laughed and ordered his six white boomers to lift off.

Words: 250

Origins

Nicholas stared anxiously at the schooner’s wrecked left wheel.

“Can the horses pull us out?” Peter asked.

“Probably not.” He looked toward the sky, heavy with the threat of snow, and his gaze shifted toward Peter’s sisters, Pamela and Bea, seated by the fire. Nicholas, himself a wanderer, had found all three roaming the northern plains after their parents died and became their guardian, a responsibility that weighed heavily on him.

Nearby the creatures that appeared the night before created a zigzag of grazing trails in their quest for the choicest grass.

“Didn’t the Sami teach you survival?”

Nicholas frowned at the youngster’s question. “Not how to fix a broken iron wheel in a runoff trench.”

Snow started to fall; flakes held steadfast to Nicholas’s beard. He reached into the wagon. Could he use his skis as runners? No; it could worsen the damage. He pitched them into the snow.

A hiss snapped through the air. The prairie schooner bucked, transformed into a sled, a gleaming pair of runners replacing the wheels.

One of the creatures spoke: “Does that solve your problem?” The eight lifted skyward, flew toward them and settled back to earth.

“We’ll stay with you,” one said.

“We like you,” said another.

Rooted to their places, Nicholas and Peter gaped. Bea giggled wildly and Pamela clapped her hands, their sense of wonder restored against the prairie’s harsh emptiness.

Nicholas knelt and traced his hand along the silver lines. Brilliant as a new jewel, as a gift.

Zach and Polly admired their work, it had taken ages in the snowstorm; but now, the woodland had calmed, everything shimmered – pristine, not a single footprint.

‘Our snowman needs more than a carrot and coals,’ remarked Zach, so Polly donated her scarf and hair-ribbons. He sighed, ‘I’ve never seen a ‘lady’ snowman before; we’ll have to call it a snow-girl now.’ Poly giggled.

They played snowballs until dusk drifted with chill, entering their warm coats. ‘Where are we, Zach?’ He searched, looking worried. He grasped her hands – their red and blue gloves entwined. ‘We’re lost aren’t we?’

Her brother nodded, ‘we’ll miss the carol service.’

***

Fern, the row deer from watched from the shadows. ‘I should do something, Christmas is very special.’ She’d peeped through house windows and knew children needed happiness.’ She called woodland creatures for their help, and united, they set squabbles aside.

Slowly, the largest pine-tree became adorned with holly-berries, mistletoe, ivy, and strings of fluffy ‘old-man’s-beard’ creeper. The children were mesmerised; watching glowworms and chirruping birds settle about its branches. Magpies brought their shiny-things. Percy barn-owl perched atop the splendour with outstretched wings, and animals gathered at its base – singing their song; glistening and glowing like nothing else.

Drawn to such unusual sounds, worried villagers marvelled at the profound spectacle; their own gaudy displays…shamed.

Retiring wildlife melted into the forest, leaving nothing but their gift of ‘lost shiny-things’ and unconditional love.

In their wake, every stilted heart understood the true meaning of Christmas.

Santa smiled at the pinch-faced young girl.

`I`m sorry but you can`t…..I mean you`ll have to move on.`

`What da ya mean, move on?` the girl replied, stamping her thigh-length boots on the frozen pavement.

`The shop. They`ve asked me to stand here … entice the kiddies inside.`

The girl rubbed her bare arms.

`Look ya` whiskered old git, I`ve bin` doin` my business outside this bleedin` shop nearly six month now, so if anybody`s doin` any `movin on` it ain`t gonna be me.`

`Aren`t you, a little cold in those rather skimpy clothes.`

`Have ta` show the punters what ya` sellin`.. not that it`s any a` your bleedin` business.`

Santa squinted at the girl. `Excuse me but don`t I know you?`

`Look if ya` want a quickie it`ll cost you a fiver.`

`Sarah Jarvis, form 5c,` It is you isn`t it?`

`What if it is,` the girl replied defiantly.

`Good heavens child, what on earth are you doing?

`What da` ya` think I`m doin`. Not one a` them social workers are ya?`

`No, I`m your old teacher, Mr Horsefield.`

`Old dobbin!`the girl shouted. `What you doin` dressed in that poxy outfit.`

`Afraid I was made redundant. What`s your excuse?`

`Mam chucked me out if ya` must know.`

The man smiled.

`Look it`s freezing out here..how about a nice cup of tea.`

The girl grimmaced.

`Long as ya` don`t bore me with that ten sixty-six stuff.`

`I promise,` said Santa escorting her into the warmth of the shop.

‘Guilty as charged!’ the words rang out cold and harsh.

‘You will no longer be included in the Night before Christmas poem’.

A sea of whispers and gasps washed around the courtroom. Comments of “no they couldn’t possibly…” and “surely that’s too far” could be heard from every direction. I couldn’t believe this was happening, what had I done to deserve this? So I’d had a little brandy, Santa does it all the time.

‘I’m sorry mate’ I felt a hand on my shoulder and looked up. Barnaby was shaking his head, but I didn’t want his sympathy. Although, I couldn’t help thinking, a whisky wouldn’t go amiss.

How could they do this to me? It was an outrage, a conspiracy…a downright miscarriage of justice, that’s what it was.

‘Uncle Rudolph is that really what happened?’ his nephew stared up at him while munching on a chocolate Santa.

‘Absolutely, all because they couldn’t find something to rhyme with Rudolph, THAT was the real reason’.

Rudolph sat back in his large armchair and poured himself another drink.

‘Can’t you find a better Christmas story than that?’ said his sister as she hung stockings above the fire.

‘You tell the same one every year’.

‘When they change the poem, I’ll stop telling the story’ he replied petulantly and with that he lifted from his chair and set off for a busy nights work.

She was being followed and was terrified. Her sixth sense had picked him out among the crowds of Christmas shoppers and made her neck prickle. She quickened her pace and knew he, too, had speeded up.
Thousands of people filled this London street but she knew no one, and was now further isolated – contained in a bubble by fear. As panic palpitated her heart, sweat trickled down her back. She gritted her teeth. Look normal! Look normal! – that was important, somehow.
She stopped by a large store-window and glanced back. There he was! A down and out. Ragged, unshaven, he stood out among the well-heeled shoppers. She had given him money a few minutes ago. He limped – she should be able to lose him easily.
Darting into the store, she gave herself a moment to regain her composure then found the perfume department. She could at least buy a gift while she killed time.
Just behind her a commotion made her wheel round. Her dirty, unkempt stalker was feet away, being challenged by security guards. Inarticulate, he tried to state his case. He pointed at her, then broke away from them. She stifled a scream as he made for her, holding something towards her.

“You dropped this!” He handed over her purse – full of money and cards. Her heart opened.

She was always safe and cosseted. He was… unfortunate. She wanted to help him.

“It’s OK” she told the guards. “He’s my brother.”

There it was again… sounds of rustling. Daniel tiptoed from his room. Were his parents eating crisps… in the sitting-room on a night like this – Christmas Eve?

He’d carefully left Santa three mince pies and a large plate of carrot slices for his reindeer. Mummy had even allowed him to pour Santa’s sherry into a special glass. It was ready – just perfect. Now they’d spoil everything and frighten Santa away. He’d never leave their presents.

Daniel crept downstairs. He’d be told off; but it was a good cause – there might still be time. Peeping inside the sitting room, Daniel couldn’t believe his eyes! It was Santa – delivering brightly wrapped gifts. He clapped his hands with glee, forgetting he should be asleep. ‘Santa,’ he shouted, ‘I heard you.’

Santa Clause was startled. ‘You made me jump, Daniel… you’re alert. I hope you like your gift.

Daniel wailed, heartbroken. ‘Nooooo, Santa… I wanted the present on my list.’

‘I have brought the present on your list.’

‘But… I asked for a Spiderman outfit.’

‘You did, Daniel.’ Santa was puzzled.

‘But, Santa,’ he cried, ‘you said I was a Lert. Lerts sound horrible and I don’t want to be one… I want to be Spiderman.

Santa laughed, realising young Daniel’s confusion. ‘You should be asleep. I might just have one Spiderman costume in my sack… if you’re good.’

Daniel sped upstairs; he would be good; he would never-again stay awake on Christmas Eve. Those Lerts could stay in Santa’s sack….

Claire walked past the shop window and hardly dared look in. She barely turned her head to the left when she saw the pink dolls-house, still in the window. The dolls-house she so desperately wanted for Christmas but she knew that her mother could not afford. Yet, each time she passed the frosted window she looked, tentatively, hoping that it would still be there so that it could still be hers.

Today was Christmas Eve and her mother was in a rush to get home. She pulled on her mittened hand, dragging Claire, who was barely able to breathe misty breath before she was pulled through it. Claire didn’t mind not getting the dolls-house, she understood that times were tough, so tough that she had not even dared mention that she wanted the house, but a small part of her, like the child she was, wanted to believe that at Christmas some dreams could come true.

The next morning Claire awoke to see her stocking full at the end of her bed. Excitedly, she silently thanked her mother, who always did her best to ensure that Claire still had what she could. Claire rose out of bed and ran across the cold floorboards into her mother’s bedroom, ready to hop into her warm bed as they did every year. Except this year she came to a sudden halt in the doorway, for at the foot of the bed was the pink dolls-house, simply decorated with a pink bow…

It was madness, Claire knew, attempting a supermarket car -park on Christmas Eve, but somehow she got lucky. As she locked her car door, the wind caught her coat and rain stung her face, or it might have been sleet. She peeked at the sky, dark leaden grey closed in with dusk. An old man was sitting huddled beneath the building canopy, great boots drawn up towards his knees, only the tip of a fawn-and-white snout revealing the large and lumpy dog beneath the blanket at his side. Just as Claire passed, she met the tramp’s eye and he suddenly said, “Can you help me, my love?” “I haven’t got cash,” she said too quickly, although it was true. “Ah, that’s not what I want.” Claire paused to glance. He had no ‘Big Issues’ or even a cap. “I need some fuel from an honest wish.” He looked sincere, which made Claire sad, but she forced a smile. “I honestly wish Christmas wasn’t like this.” He patted her hand and then tapped his dog. “Now we’ve got the last drop.” “Merry Christmas,” Claire said. She forced her way through the peopled aisles, filling her basket with compromises – a lettuce now bags of mixed leaves were gone; soft brandy butter instead of sauce. She battled back out. The man had gone. The wind had fled from a clear black sky, but a single snowflake fell on her coat. She watched it melt as she thought she heard bells.

Christmas Charisma

Bone-cold weather made Frank’s breathing rattle. The café across from the subway beckoned through the falling snow. Maud would order hot chocolate if she were living. Frank slipped inside stomping his feet. “It’s starting to sleet,” the owner said. “Coffee?” Frank’s fingers shook as he held the mug to his lips. “Traveling for Christmas?” “No.” The year since his wife died had been brutal. Christmas would be worse. Despondently, Frank looked out the window. He saw a cat shivering under a bush. “That cat’s freezing,” he said. “A stray,” the owner said. “The widow across the alley feeds it sometimes.” Frank remembered seeing the old woman once or twice. Leaving, he scooped up the cat. It burrowed into his elbow. Frank crossed the alley and knocked on the door. A white- haired woman answered. “Yours?” “Oh no, no” the woman said. “It’s an orphan.” She studied Frank’s face. “I’ve tried to catch it, but it won’t let me. How did you manage?” “It was freezing.” The woman clucked. “Charisma.” “Beg your pardon?” “Charisma. You’ve got charisma.” Her eyes twinkled. “Christmas charisma.” “You want the cat?” “I can’t afford a cat. You keep her. She likes you.” “I, I, don’t ….” “Oh go on. Can’t you see she’s taken to you?” “I , I…” “I’ve been calling her ‘Maudie,’” the woman said. Frank was speechless. “Tie a ribbon around her neck. For Christmas.” Frank backed away. Maud kept wrappings and ribbons in a basket. He could find it.

Walking home along the dark country lane Mary was still singing the Christmas carols from choir practice. That cold starry evening suddenly felt and smelt like a summer’s day.

Mary stopped and lifted her face into the warm gentle movement of air, breathing the smell of hay. She worked out exactly where she was. Next to a hedge, beside the cow byre she listened. Sure enough there were quiet movements and the sound of munching.

“Away in a manger, no crib for a bed,” she sang through the hedge to the cows enjoying their hay. “The cattle are lowing, the baby awakes, but little Lord Jesus no crying he makes.”

“The stars in the night sky looked down where he lay. The little Lord Jesus asleep in the hay.”

Of course, the baby was lovely and warm under the gentle noses of those cattle breathing over him.

Multi-coloured lights chased each other around the artificial Christmas tree. After a slight pause, they began flashing in alternating colours; blue, green, red and back to blue.

Christmas was Daniel’s favourite time of year. He loved the excitement and expectation, the fuss and preparation. The only down side was the expense.

When he was young, his family had made their own decorations, paper strips looped together and wrapped around a real tree. Daniel smiled as he remembered those halcyon days. Christmas was about being together as a family, sharing, having fun and looking after each other.

Now, the festive season seemed more about the commercial aspect – shops displaying Christmas items from October and kids demanding the most expensive toys.

Daniel watched the dancing lights again. Things had certainly changed, he mused.

Moving towards the brightly wrapped presents piled under the tree, he shook his head. Gone were the days of home made decorations and simple gifts that meant so much more than today’s overpriced, mass marketed goods. Children today, including his own, expected far too much, putting their parents under unbelievable pressure to overspend.

Trouble is, kids today have no sense of true value, Daniel thought ruefully.

Sighing, he opened the large holdall and began stuffing the presents in until the bag was full to bursting.

Taking one last look at the colourful, flashing lights, Daniel quickly headed towards the broken window.

He couldn’t wait to see what his kids were getting this year.

The echo of Natalia’s footsteps was drowned out by a loud, out-of-tune rendition of Slade, being performed by a group of drunk squaddies outside the pub across the street.

They held each other and swayed, letting their pint glasses spill. Natalia quickened her pace to get past them, but they noticed her anyway and made crude comments. What a turn on.

The cold was started to get to her now; her beret had an open weave and she could feel the wind on her hair, and was starting to wish she was wearing boots.

The town’s sad, minimal Christmas lights had been up for weeks now. She had seen them on this walk home from work every night, and had expected them to have a particular poignancy on Christmas Eve, but they looked exactly the same.

“Natalia!” One of the drunk lads from outside the pub was crossing the street to speak to her, “I didn’t recognise you. It’s been years! How are you?”

“Yeah, OK,” she replied, crossing her arms to stay warm, “Happy Christmas.”

“We’re going to the kebab shop if you want to come and catch up. Apparently they’re handing out free mince pies.”

Natalia couldn’t help but grimace, “That’s the most disgusting thing I’ve ever heard.”

“Come on, you know you love it.”

She accidentally smiled and he grabbed her gloved hand to drag her across the road towards his mates, who were draining their pint glasses and choosing a new song to sing.

“Santa’s been!”
Sophie pulled her eyes open. “Lovely sweetheart.”
“Really Mummy, he left his footprint.”
Caleb dashed back downstairs ahead of her, she gasped in horror at the sooty imprint of a boot in the hearth. Someone had been in the house. Moving to a rural village after losing Mark was meant to be a fresh start. Perhaps her friends were right; it was too isolated, she was a victim waiting to happen. Paranoia flooded her; Christmas Eve was ripe for break-ins. She checked the room; nothing seemed to be missing and Caleb and Zoë were playing happily in the hallway, buzzing with excitement over Santa’s proven existence. She stared at the footprint, contemplating the wisdom of phoning the police.
Her heart leapt as soot fell from the chimneybreast. She reached the safety of the door before stealing a furtive glance backwards. Cascades of rubble landed in the hearth seconds ahead of the crumpled form of a man.
“Brendan!” Sophie contained her hysterics.
“I wanted to do this properly –well, not the chimney bit – but leave surprise gifts. You know; be Santa for my grieving sister and kids.”
“Couldn’t you use the door?” Laughter was choking her.
“Caleb disturbed me. I panicked. I had nowhere else to hide.”
Sophie wrapped her arms round her brother’s neck and kissed the smudge on his nose.
“I won’t tell, if you don’t. But maybe I should sweep that chimney. Santa’s union will get me on Health and Safety.”

“I’m not moving that. Weighs a ton!” Terence sat down on a delicate red satin bow and folded his arms. “He’s got to be kidding. What about the Industrial Relations Act? He’s living in the dark ages. I could sue him for the number of times I’ve put my back out over the last two hundred years. Hasn’t he heard of automation? He could at least get a fork lift truck.” “Oh, for Heaven’s sake, Terry!” Geoffrey scratched the tip of a pointed ear, the bells on his tunic tinkling under the brown foreman’s overall. “I warned him not to take on you lot when you got made redundant. Seven dwarves? Remind me. Are you Grumpy, Dozy or Lazy? If it was up to me you’d all get your cards tomorrow. Why don’t you … Oh. Good morning, St. Nicholas.” “Geoffrey. Ah, Terence. I’m pleased to announce you have been selected as my personal assistant this year. Congratulations. I’ll see you on Christmas Eve, six pm sharp.”

“How much more is there?” Terence heaved another parcel from the dwindling pile in the sleigh. “Nearly done.” St. Nicholas beckoned. “There’s something I want you to see.” Terence trudged across the roof and peered through the skylight. He recognised the heavy parcel from the warehouse. A little girl was waving her arms in delight at the bright red mobility scooter inside. “What were you saying?” asked St. Nicholas. “Nothing.” Terence found he was smiling. “Merry Christmas!”

When I went to sleep, I had my face buried in her hair. Now as I try to open my eyes it seems her hair is wet. Did she get out of bed and have a shower and get back in again? But how does that explain how cold she is? I’m beginning to panic a little. Then I wonder, why can’t I move? Moving my feet is like solving some impossible riddle because I can’t feel them. With supreme concentration I force my eyelids apart. Hold on, this can’t be, her hair has turned white.

Today is Christmas Eve, our first one together. I have to get out of this bed and figure out why she’s cold and wet and white-haired because we have things to do. Last minute things to buy, mulled wine sachets and cocktail sausages. The neighbours will be around this evening for my traditional Christmas Eve party.

She had wanted to go away for our first Christmas together, somewhere no one would know us. But I talked her into staying. “Well, it is such a lovely house,” she said, relenting, “I should start getting used to spending all my Christmases here. I’m so proud of you, darling. You’ve made such a success of things.”

In a minute I’ll try to open my eyes again. But for now I just want to sleep a bit more. I can hear the sound of sleigh bells in the distance. They’re getting closer. Funny, they sound almost like sirens.

You wouldn`t believe it but I was an environmental chemist. Well still am of course, technically. But no one needs to know if land is contaminated nowadays because no one is building anything are they.

So I got the push. No redundancy. Nothing. Sent off dozens of Cvs, joined a local volunteer canal clearing gang, anything really to keep me busy. Got one reply to my Cvs. Too qualified it said. You`ve got to laugh haven`t you. So here I am. Money`s poor but at least you`re in the warm. My mate Danny told me about it. Did it last year before he joined the army. Never thought of him as army material but needs must I suppose. Last I heard he was soaking up the sun in Cyprus.

Two days I do, Friday and Saturday. Friday`s my favourite day. It`s mostly really little ones then who haven`t had time to develop an attitude. Anyway I better go or I`ll be late. I use to go in on the bus but I felt such an idiot in the outfit. So I get a taxi now. I still have to put up with the `jokes` of course. `Lost ya` sleigh have we mate` or `reindeer took ill have they?`

Last day tomorrow. To be honest I will miss it when it comes to an end. I`ve loved watching them, uncertainty written on their little faces as they climb up on my knee. Perhaps I`ll forget Chemistry…...

As the drunken man stepped off the train, Stephen glanced up at the luggage rack. “Hey, you’ve forgotten…” he said. But it was too late. The doors had closed.

‘I’ll look in the bag, maybe there’s an address’ Stephen thought. He gasped when he saw Captain Claw’s Island, this year’s must-have present for boys. Since October Stephen had been trying desperately to get one of these for his son, Joe. Now, two days before Christmas, one had fallen into his lap.

Stephen looked up and down the carriage. It was empty. He could take this home for Joe. He imagined the look of joy on Joe’s face. Nobody would be any the wiser. Of course, he knew he should probably hand it in to a railway worker. But they might keep it themselves and Joe would lose out.

Joe let out a heart-wrenching wail on Christmas morning when he opened Captain Claw’s Island and found that the box contained only blocks of wood and a small card. He was inconsolable. Shame mixed with disbelief as Stephen read the card:-

Congratulations! You have taken part in a new reality TV show called ‘Honesty’ which tests the integrity of the British public. You have been filmed by hidden cameras on the train and in this box. To salvage your child’s Christmas please ring the number below. If you agree to allow broadcast, Captain Claw’s Island will be delivered to your home by ‘Santa’ within the hour. Happy Christmas.

We never tried to stop him. Grandad`s ritual, we called it. Every Christmas Eve he would put on his woolly hat and scarf, grab his scruffy old wellingtons from the garage and then fill mum`s washing up bowl with ashes from the kitchen Rayburn.

`I got a feeling about this Christmas,` he`d tell us all with a twinkle in his eye as he stepped out of the front door.

We would smile indulgently as we watched him, his sparse, bent frame bobbing up and down as he diligently scattered the contents of mum`s bowl along the bare concrete path. Ten minutes later he would be back inside, a glass of mum`s mulled wine pressed to his lips. `This year,` he would croak, `Definitely this year.`

But Grandad never did see the results of his labours. Christmas`s passed and we would sit eating our turkey and playing our silly games, our eyes occasionally staring out at a pale winter sun or the rain running in tiny rivers down the tinsel-framed window panes.

Then he died. November it was. Playing dominoes with his mates down at the Legion. And then it came, that cold Christmas morning, drifts of fluffy white waves piling up along the hedgerows and gradually covering Grandad`s untreated, untrammeled path.

Scrooge was a man as frosty and cold as the snowy Christmas morning before him. He had experienced a most unnerving night and one he wouldn’t like to go through again, and what had happened to him had given him food for thought. So now as he stood at his bedroom window he envisaged how his life would be if he didn’t mend his ways, as Marley and the other ghosts had warned.
He was interrupted from his thoughts by children in the street below him, laughing and throwing snowballs. He watched them for a minute and then opened his window and shouted down to the biggest in the group.
‘You boy! Yes, you with the cap.’ The boy looked up, whipped his cap off his head and looked up at Scrooge nervously.
‘Yes sir?’ he stammered.
‘You and your scurvy friends go and play elsewhere, if any of those snowballs hit my windows you’ll be sorry! Go, go on!’
Scrooge slammed his bedroom window shut again, shivering against the cold.
He went back to his musings. Bah! What did he care anyway, he always expected to go to hell, and it didn’t worry him. Besides business had been so bad last year that he hadn’t even been able to award himself a decent bonus, so he was buggered if he was going to give his money away this year.
‘Humbug,’ he muttered under his breath as he shuffled back to his warm bed.

SANTA AND THE GRIM REAPER
“What are you doing here?” asked Santa when he recognised the dark figure lurking in the shadow of the chimney.
“I’ve come for Bobby. What are you doing here?” replied Grim. He was tired and didn’t feel like a confrontation.
“I’m delivering his Christmas present. I don’t understand though, he’s only five and not due for another sixty-seven years, so why are you here now?” asked Santa.
“Where he’s going he’ll have no use for presents. Last night I made a deal for his soul with “you know who”, so I get to take him now and I suggest you move along and don’t make a scene, people are sleeping!” replied Grim, raising his voice slightly.
“I thought the deal-making thing was stopped? What deal did you make, and why wasn’t I consulted?” asked Santa.
Grim waited a while, considering whether he should tell him about the deal or not. The rules had changed and it was no longer mandatory to reveal details of any deals, but eventually he said, “We felt that your input wasn’t required for this one. As for the deal – I’m not sure if you are aware that Bobby’s dad has a terminal illness and that I was due to collect him tonight? Last night Bobby prayed and asked if “you know who” could take him instead of his dad. As you know, Bobby’s mom is bed-ridden and needs her husband more than she needs Bobby, so here I am.”

Madge stared happily at the dancing motes of snow drifting by the darkening window.

“Good King Wenslas last looked out,” she sang, inaccurately. So appropriate she thought, glancing at the bulging bags besides her. It really did pay to leave your shopping until Christmas Eve. A fiver for a twenty pound turkey was too good to miss. Hopefully it would thaw out in time.

“Bring me flesh and bring me wine …” she continued, until a stab in her shoulder confronted her with a po-faced woman with a rat-trap mouth and flinty eyes.

“Do you know this is a public transportation service?” she said icily.

“No,” said Madge, “you hum it and I’ll try and pick it up.”

A titter rippled round the seats, but stopped abruptly as a very un-Christmassy commotion broke out at the front of the bus. A brutish looking lad with nose ring held the Indian driver by the throat.

“Let me go!” he choked in terror.

“Shad up, Pakki! Empty that till before I throttle yer good an’ proper!”

Madge snatched up her bags and hurried forward.

“Let ‘im alone you little toe-rag!” she yelled, swinging the bag containing the frozen turkey into his face. The blow knocked him sprawling onto the pavement.

A huge cheer broke out as the driver slammed shut the doors and sprayed him with a tide of brown slush. Madge turned and grinned at her fellow passengers …

“Cold turkey’s got him on the run!” she sang.

Geoffrey’s father had sailed East, to fight the Saracen. Geoffrey knew this was where the morning sun arose, behind Steeple Hill. Land’s End, where everyone falls into nothingness, lay beyond. He was troubled as his mother cried because it was nearly Christmas, and his father might be swallowed by blackness.

Thus, he determined that bitter Christmas Eve, to run away and search for his father.

Wearing furs, and a small sword, he crept out of the warm Hall into the cold.

Marching, he followed the moonlit path towards the hill. The steeple bell struck the hour. Geoffrey felt cheered as he climbed. He knew there was a hidden song in each Holy Bell. They’d sing to tell him where his father was.

Near the summit someone called his name. Fires lit the valley. Geoffrey hid in a cranny. Later, an owl woke him from hypothermic slumber. He stood, shook himself and marched on.

The coruscated steeple loomed nearer. Choric bells pealed for Christmas. Hounds howled after him.

Geoffrey didn’t want to be waylaid in his quest. Like a young fox, he detoured into the village stream. Furs sodden, he sank. Sensibly he heaved himself onto land, and crawled towards the Church, where he prayed.

Lulled to sleep by the Liturgy, he awoke in his mother’s arms.

Later, sitting by the hall fire, serfs ruffled his hair, girls sighed. A strange, yet familiar Knight gave him the family shield.

Geoffrey stood up, his quest had failed, but he’d become a man.