D. Wallace Peach's Blog, page 119

Iraq Vet, RPG Game Master turns Sci-Fi Author

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Clayton Callahan

Clayton J. Callahan is one of my writer’s critique group buds. Every other week, we scour each other’s chapters, make suggestions, call out problems, and cheer for those perfect paragraphs. I love talking with authors about writing, learning how the creative spark ignited, exploring their choices, and seeing how they work through the creative and occasionally grueling process of bringing a story to life.

When Clayton offered to give away a war-game on my blog, I suggested an interview. Below you get both. Enjoy.

DWP: Welcome to my blog, Clayton. You only started writing only a few years ago. What was the motivation?

CJC: Boredom. I’ve always enjoyed doing creative things. I met my wife in a medieval reenactment troop (the SCA), I’ve painted models, and played role playing games all my life. My last tour in Iraq was in 2011 and, to be frank, there wasn’t much to do at the end of the drawdown. But I had a laptop my daughter gave me and a story idea I always wanted to try. The rest is history…or mythology…or whatever.

[image error]DWP: What drew you to science fiction as a starting place?

CJC: Are you kidding? I was ten years old when Star Wars came out (1977). People forget what passed for entertainment in the 1970s. Action movies with happy endings were considered passé and you only need watch one Planet Of The Apes film to see what I mean. My dad took me to the vintage theater so I could watch old Errol Flynn films and get something out of a movie besides popcorn and soda.  Then Star Wars came out and suddenly there was this fun and exciting world to play in. When I had my fill of Star Wars, I flipped the channels to find Battlestar Galactica and Star Trek re-runs. My father’s generation had swashbucklers, I had space ships.

DWP: Science fiction is a broad genre. How would you describe your books to a potential reader?

CJC: I’d call it “space opera.” First and foremost, I write entertainment. I’m working on the assumption that people don’t have a lot of time, and when they pick up a novel, they want to enjoy themselves. My work features lovable characters, bar fights and space battles. After that, I tackle politics, religion and ethics. But I truly believe you’ve got to entertain folks first or they’ll donate your book to the church thrift sale before they finish chapter one.

[image error]DWP: You created roll-playing games before you began writing. How has your experience with RPG’s translated to writing?

CJC: Very well actually. In a role playing game, you sit around a table with friends and engage in a mutual storytelling exercise. I started with Dungeons & Dragons back in the 1980s but soon moved on to science fiction games like Traveler.  Funny thing, I often found myself in the position of “Game Master,” meaning it was my job to create the setting and the plot for the game. I must have been good at it because at 16 I was running standing room only games for players in their 20s and 30s. Again, it’s about engaging with an audience that makes it fun for all involved.

DWP: Your most recent book, Red Coat Running, is a completely different genre. Why the change?

CJC: As you mentioned at the beginning, I’m new to writing. That being said, I’m still in the process of learning how to craft a story. For my first book I wrote a series of interconnected short stories (a framed novel). My second book was a chapter by chapter space adventure and my third book a non-fiction.

For my fourth book, I wanted to try something completely different just to see if I could pull it off. In the army I served as a counterintelligence agent, and I thought that experience could translate well into a spy novel. I set the book in 1948 so I wouldn’t have to cover any aspect of modern electronic surveillance (and so I wouldn’t slip out anything classified). Frankly, I think it’s my best work yet. We’ll see how the public reacts when it’s released in the fall of 2015.

DWP: As a new writer, what advice do you have for other new writers?

CJC: I get that question a lot. Co-workers will congratulate me on my books and then mention that they have always wanted to try it. Honestly, I don’t see any reason why they shouldn’t. There is no special magic to writing. You just have to be willing to put in the work and learn from your mistakes. In college I used to say, “I let the red pen guide me.” I’d write a paper, and when it came back all marked up, I’d learn what to do and not do next time. Writing fiction is no different for me.

[image error]DWP: You’re offering a free miniatures war game as part of this interview. Tell me about it.

CJC: I’ve also always loved modeling and history. The hobby that puts the two together is war-gaming. The first set of rules were written by (no kidding) H.G. Wells and involved model soldiers being moved across model terrain to simulate a battle.

It’s a great hobby and I’ve had a lot of fun with it over the years, however two recent trends in the hobby tick me off. First is that the model soldiers are getting very expensive; and second the rules are often too cumbersome and slow moving. So I wrote a game especially for the cheapest (and most widely available) model soldiers with a set of easy to learn, fast moving rules.

The soldiers are known as HO or 1/72nd scale and they come in every historical period from the 300 Spartans to the modern US Army. I wrote the rules to cover every conceivable historical era (it’s much easier to do than you’d think). Since that went so well I added rules for fantasy armies (orcs vs. elves), post-apocalyptic survivors and even zombies (why not?).

Download the full PDF here: From Broadswords to Bullets

[image error]DWP: Finally, give us a run down on your books.

CJC: Here you go.

Tales of The Screaming Eagle is available as an e-book on Amazon, Books-a-Million and Barns & Noble’s sites. Paperback copies are available through Double Dragon Publishing.
Beer Today Gone Tomorrow is a sci-fi short story, available on Amazon.
The Adventures of Crazy Liddy will be released by Double Dragon this summer (June?)
Red Coat Running , the spy thriller, will be released by World Castle this fall.
A Writer’s Guide to Adventurous Professions sold well, but is currently seeking a new publisher and hopefully will be available later this year. It’s a long story…
If folks are interested in my games, they can visit my blog wordpress.com or buy them from Indie Press Revolution.

Indomitable

D. Wallace Peach:

There’s something to be said when a blog post moves you to tears. This is a poem written by Lopa Banerjee dedicated to Malala Yousafzai. It’s stunning and I’m delighted to share it.

Originally posted on Reflections, Ruminations, Illuminations:

Note: My humble dedication to the beautiful, emancipated young soul, Malala Yousafzai, the Nobel peace prize winner in October 2014, and the battles she has fought and won as a crusader of women’s rights to education.

“One child, one teacher, one pen and one book can change the world.”

–Malala Yousafzai

(1)

In the sunken rays of the setting sun, she trudges past

The wind that blows away her head-scarf.

She picks it up, resolute, rustling in brisk feet,

Walking her familiar paths, lonely, ethereal.

In her shoulders, her schoolbag dances in cozy warmth.

She has chortled on the streets with friends in a visible glee,

Her hands splattered in ink and crayon, washing away the dirt,

Licking away the succulent home-made mid-day meal in school.

In her loving home, her verdant dreams

Of knowledge, of love and acceptance have sprouted.

In the night, staring at the starry firmament, she…

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Hybrid Publishing: An Experiment

[image error]In my school days, I was unimpressed by science. Now that I’m older and know a mere fraction of what I did as a teenager, I’ve changed my opinion. I’ve dusted off my white lab coat and decided to conduct a pseudo-scientific experiment in publishing. My analysis of results will be totally subjective, a fact I’m willing to guarantee.

After six books with a traditional publisher, I’ve decided to self-publish the next one. Am I the first to do this? Of course not. But I’ve always been one of those kids that learns by doing. Don’t tell me the ice is too thin, the cliff too high, the dive too deep, the shark too toothsome; let me discover those things for myself! It’s an impactful approach—I have the stitches and mended bones to prove it.

So, why the switch, Diana? There are two reasons:

One is timing. In my totally unqualified opinion, it takes a loooong time for books to cycle through the traditional process. I’m in no way attempting to minimize or disparage the role traditional publishers play. I understand that producing a quality book is careful, painstaking work. Editors and publishers know their business and bring immeasurable value to the process and product. As a new writer, I depended heavily on their expertise and learned tons about the business. The editorial feedback made me a better writer. That’s a fact…in fact.

That said, traditional publishers have multiple clients—it’s not all about me! Can you believe it? Since my name isn’t George R.R. Martin, I’m still a publisher’s long shot. Yep, I’ll admit it. I have to respect priorities and get in the queue with everyone else. My publisher is currently working on my Dragon Soul Trilogy—a sequel to Myths of the Mirror—and honestly, I’m too impatient to slide a new book to the bottom of the pile for a 2016 release.

The second reason boils down to a desire to experiment with marketing. Even with traditional publishers, particularly small presses, marketing falls heavily on the author’s shoulders. This seems to be the norm these days, and whining about it hasn’t improved my sales one red penny. I’d like to experiment with discounts, pointed giveaways, and other pricing strategies that I currently have zero control over. My hope is that more aggressive sales of The Bone Wall (due out this month) will result in readers picking up my other books, which is good for me AND my publisher.

I suspect that I’ll ultimately end up doing a hybrid of traditional publishing and self-publishing. And my experiment is just starting. It may be wildly successful, a total bust, or make no difference at all. I’ll be sure to give everyone an update on results. I might even cobble together a chart!

The Bone Wall will be available this month, initially via Kindle…

Blue light ripples and crackles as the shield walls fracture. The remnants of a doomed civilization stand vigil outside, intent on plunder and slaves, desirous of untainted blood to strengthen their broken lives. With the poisons, came deformities and powers, enhanced senses and the ability to manipulate waves of energy—lightbenders and fire-wielders.

For those who thrived for generations within the walls, the broken world looms, strange and deadly, slowly dying. While the righteous pray for salvation, Rimma prepares for battle, fueled by rage and blinded by vengeance. Her twin, Angel, bound to her by unbreakable magic, seeks light in the darkness, hope in the future, and love in a broken world.

Premio Dardos Award

[image error]It always surprises me when these things pop up. Because they’re unexpected, they bring a ripple of excitement and a giddy smile.

I’m honored that my little blog has captured the attention of wonderful writer C.E Robinson and encourage you to visit Before Sundown. Please take a moment to check out one of her recent posts that typifies the beauty of her words http://cerobinsonauthor.com/2015/01/12/the-heartbreak-of-dementia/

The Premio Dardos Award recognizes cultural, ethical, literary, and personal values in the form of creative and original writing.

[image error]For me, the best part about this award is the opportunity to nominate 15 fellow bloggers that I admire for their writing ability. The worst part is only being able to pick 15. Whether they choose to accept this nomination or not isn’t a major factor; I’m happy just spreading the word. In giving you their sites, I’ve directed you to a post that particularly moved me or made me laugh. Enjoy.

Storyshucker: Stuart Perkins writes mesmerizing short stories that delve into the ordinary details of daily life. His blog is the very first I followed, and I still look forward to every post. https://storyshucker.wordpress.com/2015/01/02/why-do-this-to-myself/

Fred Colton: Fred’s writing strikes me as raw and witty, brimming with male libido. I can’t pick out a favorite. Here’s a good one: http://fredcolton.com/2015/01/07/something-i-need-as-soon-as-im-famous/

Kevin Sampsel: Kevin is a poet. His words are rich, rich, rich. http://kevinsampsel.com/2014/11/29/in-lieu-of-intimacy/

Renegade Press: Chris Nicholas is one of those powerful writers who digs deep. I loved this post http://monologuesofawouldbewriter.com/2015/01/10/wolf/

JJ Anderson’s Blog: JJ is another writer who takes on that role of witness. Rich in detail, all of the posts are worth reading. This recent one is a favorite of mine:  https://thevelveteenmaraca.wordpress.com/2014/12/10/a-vanquished-foe/

Heylookawriterfellow: Mike is just plain funny. One of those people with a natural knack for humor. I get a kick out of his posts: http://mikeallegra.com/2014/11/11/a-mouse-divided/

The Task at Hand: Linda Leinen paints pictures with her words. Her writing is stunning. Read it and marvel: https://shoreacres.wordpress.com/2014/12/29/the-way-of-all-words/

Holistic Journey: Diana is the holistic wayfarer, reflecting on the human journey. Her words flow. I would love to give you a handful of posts. Here’s one: http://holisticwayfarer.com/2014/12/31/we-dream-again/

Ocean Bream: This blog is a little gem. It was hard to pick my favorite post among the offering. This one is beautiful: https://oceanbream.wordpress.com/2014/11/22/dear-november/

Captain’s Log: Pete Deakon offers a variety of posts in addition to his own writing. This post pulled on the heartstrings: http://petedeakon.com/2015/01/12/still-she-tugs/

Just a Crazy Dreamer: Nakul Arora says he’s on a personal journey and shares his wonderings, questions, and discoveries. Check out: http://justacrazydreamer.com/2014/11/21/being-still-learnings-from-a-tree/

On the Heath: I of July is a poet. He’s prolific and his work is sharp, often striking at the core of love, hope, and loneliness. You name it. https://htmm.wordpress.com/2015/01/15/origin-of-obscene-before-the-sins/

Boy with a Hat: Vincent writes a variety of posts from prose to poetry. This is one of my recent favorites: http://vincentmars.com/2015/01/04/ode-on-solitude-modern-edition/

Mike is Happy: Mike’s posts are a little different from those above. They’re short and hysterical. They have a place in this cultural line-up. https://mikeishappy.wordpress.com/2014/11/18/another-day-in-the-life-i-dont-really-deserve/

Rachel Being Chatty: Rachel’s posts are another dip into absurd humor. I read every one of her Deep Thoughts and start my day with a smile. http://rachelbeingchatty.com/2015/01/17/deep-thoughts-27/

There you have it. Now that this post is up, my job is to notify everyone on the list of their nomination. Happy Writing!

… yeez wanna come to a Pajama Party?… Author Diana Peach tells yeez how the best writers do it…

D. Wallace Peach:

I had a lot of fun guest-posting on Seumas Gallacher’s blog. He’s a entertaining character, and if you’re not already familiar with his work, I encourage you to take a peek. We had some chuckles about this post. Hope you enjoy.

Originally posted on Seumas Gallacher:

…there’s sum’thing so bluudy refreshing about other Authors who demonstrate that wunnerful irreverence to the stereo type of how a writer is supposedto behave… Guest Scribbler today, the LUVLY Diana Peach, captures hilariously, (and so accurately), the freedom of having entire days in yer PJs… have a read and yeez’ll see what I mean:

Writing in Pajamas

When Seumas asked me if I’d be interested in pulling together a guest post, well…I couldn’t resist the opportunity to muse. I enjoy the old Jurassic’s sense of humor and will attempt to do his blog justice. Thus…Writing in Pajamas.

To me, flannel pajamas are symbolic. Whenever I get the chance, I wear them all day, and in case you were wondering, I’m pj-clad as I type this post.

In my mother’s generation, all-day pajamas indicated a mortifying degree of sloth. Pinch-lipped, gossips would roll their eyes toward heaven, conjuring images…

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Birth

D. Wallace Peach:

I am always stunned by the utter beauty of Meg Dekorne’s posts. She writes lush prose, with intense depth. I just had to share her with my readers. Enjoy.

Originally posted on megdekorne:

I am everthing , all colors laying open like the blue sky softening into grey shadows of a thousand doves . I am dolphin , ocean , plant and the knot in my throat unravels like the path of that wind , making rustles so gorgeous that it unites my voice , the eternal song into a sob . I am traveling to the land of the living where every tear is wiped away and I will taste the goodness of the waters .

I died today in a fetal position . Just before , the rain came in my window and a fox laid down next to my bed . Did you know that the scent of birth and death are exactly the same … rivers and mushrooms , pomegranate and musk . What’s that strange music I hear , wonderful music , is it the voice of God…

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A Writer goes to the Dump

I’m a proponent of the belief that every experience contributes priceless raw material to a writer’s treasure chest. I’m a hoarder, cramming the niches of my brain with sensory inputs, emotional extremes, and reams of interesting and often useless information. No detail is too small, especially if it is painful or gross.

My husband’s back is on the fritz, so this morning I made my first solo trek to the town dump. Not a chore I anticipated with delight, I adjusted my mindset and used it as an experience-gathering expedition, adding several disgusting sensory inputs to my writing stockpile.

There are a few things you should know in order to fully appreciate this literary endeavor:

It’s January in Oregon. That means it’s raining.
Due to a series of unplanned mix-ups and timing obstacles, my husband hasn’t been to the dump in six months.
Our trashcans are missing lids, having blown away during his previous dump trips (no comment).
The back of our pick-up truck is full of logs.

After two cups of coffee, I don my wool hat, an old pair of mittens, a ratty coat, and my sneakers (a mistake). I clamber into the back of the pick-up, and start pitching logs over the side. My mittens are soaked within thirty seconds, and though I try to lift with my legs, my back is now whining like a teenager. Despite my freezing fingers, I’ve worked up a sweat and my wool hat is itchy on my forehead. As I kick a forty-pound log off the tailgate, I contemplate all the miserable discomfort I’ll subject my characters to and conjure up a few choice words for husbands that I stash away for future literary reference.

With the truck empty, I skirt the log pile and slog over to the trashcans. They’re lined up against a tall retaining wall with a mountain of trash bags piled on top of them. This was hubby’s solution to critters, which was not entirely effective, I might add. The top bags aren’t overly nasty, and half of them are bulging with stuff for recycling. I sling the lighter recycling into the truck bed and then lug the rest like a yoked peasant with no hope for a better life. Such is the back-breaking toil  my villagers will endure for their cruel masters.  The conditions will be dismal—wet, filthy, and cold.

Now, I’ve unearthed the cans and, of course, the bags of rotted garbage are submerged (no lids, remember). They’ve been stewing in a fetid swill for months. I tip the cans over and the brown water pours out with a ripe stench that makes my head spin. It’s swamp water with half-decomposed bodies, the reek of a medieval midden heap. Thank goodness, it’s not summer or everything would be crawling with maggots and swarming with flies. I gag and breathe through my mouth.

The water-logged bags are bloated pigs and weigh a ton. I stab them with a pointed stick. Putrid water bursts out, drenching my sneakers. Lacking a choice, I heave them up with my soaked mittens.  They leak and dribble on my jeans. Not caring anymore, my brain numb to the horror, I grunt as I heft them to the tailgate. I’m a slave in the dank sewers outside the castle walls. I reek of death and drowning. Foul water splatters and pools in the truck bed. My poor characters are going to despise me.

The F350 is our chore truck, driven far less than our cars. I climb in and the distinctive odor of mouse shit assaults my nose.  Somewhere—in the seat cushion probably—a comfy little mouse family is waiting out the winter. To my core, I know the turds are lethal, but I make the ultimate sacrifice for the king of the castle and head to the dump. The truck smells so gross I roll down the windows for the ten-mile ride to town. Rain blows in with a stinging wind, but I bravely endure it over the stink. And I’ll remember this for when my protagonists hunker down in an old lean-to, thankful to suffer the icy drafts over the reek of vermin as they labor to rid the realm of evil.

Then, I arrive at the dump…

Confessions of a Clueless Blogger

Internet Map

I’ve been posting for 3 years now, and most of you savvy bloggers might assume I learned a thing or two about this art and craft during that time. The wretched truth is, until recently, I floundered in a quagmire of cluelessness. I blogged for the sake of blogging, because someone (my publisher, probably) advised me it was mandatory. Every month, I dragged myself away from my latest writing endeavor to spend a full day laboring over a few hundred words that maybe someone would read.

Now, you have to understand that back in the olden days we had typewriters…yep. Computers existed, of course. They hummed in the secretive cellars of IBM and flashed on Captain Kirk’s console. Don’t get me wrong, there was life before cell phones, microchips, and social media, but it wasn’t wired. Social, in my day, was trespassing at the reservoir with a bonfire and keg on Saturday night and hoping the police didn’t break up the party and send us home.

Once I graduated from keg parties, I toiled in business where keeping up with technology was routine. I spent my waking hours on spreadsheets and typing with all ten fingers. After that, a switch to mental health counseling, followed by a decision to write, began a rather rapid descent into technological fossilization. The social media thing, when it reared its monstrous head, felt overwhelming. It didn’t come with instructions. I was supposed to learn it by osmosis without a teenager’s eye-rolling guidance.

Then this great thing happened.

Nicholas Rossis, awesome blogger and author from the far side of the planet, read one of my books and reached out through social media.

Huh. Tiny synapses flickered in my primordial brain as I pondered this curious event. You mean…social media is supposed to be social? Yeesh. Took me long enough to figure that out.

Rossis offered advice on blogging and writing, as well as other features that intrigued me. Determined to climb the evolutionary ladder, I started following his blog (http://nicholasrossis.me/). This was a giant leap forward. Up until this point, I didn’t know how to follow blogs without provoking cryptic computer-generated warnings riddled with exclamation points.

Well, I clicked the button and nothing crashed. I dodged the chilling meltdown anticipated by the technologically primitive, and propelled by this remarkable feat, I started poking around. I discovered blogs that shared invaluable information and was swept up in the sublime words of immensely gifted writers. Who knew?

It’s been several months since my mini blogging enlightenment, and I still find the left-brain advice on how to market through social media somewhat overwhelming. I read it and tuck it away for later, content to just be me and offer you a peek inside my writing and my head.

But, I follow lots of blogs now.

I read your stories, pour over your advice, share your trepidation, laugh aloud, and hoot for your victories. I “like” often and comment when something strikes a chord. Who wouldn’t marvel at the talent out there in the blogosphere and want to be part of the vast, supportive community of writers, artists, and readers? Little by little, I’m making those connections. I found an island of solid ground in that quagmire of cluelessness, and I’m leaving a few muddy footprints behind me…finally.

Happy New Year!

The Terrible Night Before Christmas

My month of writing short stories comes to an end. I’ve finished the outline for my next book, and in January I’ll be plugging away on chapter 1. That’s exciting, but I’ll admit this diversion has been a bundle of fun.

This final tale won the Kellan Publishing contest for this week, and I’m happy to report that I’m ending on a humorous note. Once again, Happy Christmas to all and to all a good night!

This story had to fall between 1000-1500 words, and use the following words/phrases: Santa Claus, Popcorn, Photo Album, Black Cat, Train, Slide, Police, Sled, Typewriter, Horn, Alarm, Church, Glue, Bow, Fire, Dragon.

 

The Terrible Night before Christmas

The whole escapade started with the black cat. Santa leaned forward in his rickety office chair, puffing on his stumpy pipe and wreathing his head in smoke. He pecked with two chubby fingers at his typewriter, finishing a last letter to a second-grader in the Bronx. The kid was bound for disappointment this year, the result of a spectacular imagination and a dose of new-fangled animation that left make-believe characters appearing plausible. A challenge for the elves who prided themselves on unabashed creativity.

Dear Chuck,

I hope you enjoy the train set, hand-carved by a master elf in my workshop. I realize you requested a live dragon, but creatures that breathe fire are not only exceedingly rare but generally discouraged in apartment buildings where they’re apt to smoke the place up if not burn it down. Be good and Merry Christmas.

Yours Truly,

Santa Claus

He slumped back in the worn seat, adding the letter to his “regrets” pile. That’s when the black cat appeared in the window, yowling to come in. Why a cat haunted the North Pole in the midst of winter was beyond him. No doubt, a practical joke offered up by the elves who reveled in some idle time now that this year’s orders were filled. He’d have to remember to check the sleigh’s bench for Insta-Glue. Last year’s mischief had cemented his britches to the seat, leaving him to deliver gifts in his skivvies.

He cranked open the window to let the creature in, hoping a blast of bad luck didn’t blow in with the snow. Not that he was superstitious, but Christmas Eve was the wrong time for screw-ups.

Just then, the alarm clock on the mantel burst into a raucous version of Jingle Bells, jolting him into action. He quickly slipped on his black boots, red coat and furry hat, crammed the letters in a back pocket, and kissed Mrs. Claus on the check before bolting out the door.

The sleigh stood ready, the reindeer harnessed and snorting in the crisp air. Behind the driver’s bench, the elves had wedged a dozen red sleds and a mountain of bulging sacks. Shiny bows and curlicues of ribbon peeked from the cinched openings, and the elves had sprinkled the entire load with magic dust as white as new-fallen snow.

Santa checked the seat and studied the reins. A quick inspection of the runners revealed not one string of tin cans, and he made certain the reindeer weren’t sporting cowbells. Finally, he hefted the bags of magic dust, and satisfied that they were full to the brim, he clambered up and took the reins for the long winter’s ride.

With deliveries to Canada wrapped up, Santa breezed through New England. He descended on New York long after the children were all nestled in their beds. He planned to work his way south to the tip of Patagonia and eventually west across the Pacific toward the International Date Line, the last leg of his journey. Despite the late hour, the Bronx sparkled. Light-entwined trees and storefront displays twinkled with color. Christmas trees glimmered behind darkened windows, and from above, the streetlights formed strands of holiday cheer.

The reindeer landed on the roof of Chuck’s apartment building, raising the ideal amount of clatter. Santa hopped down and did a few lumbar stretches for his back. He lifted a sack from the sleigh and reached into the final bag of magic dust, tossing a handful over his head. With a finger pressed to his nose, he nodded. And nothing happened.

Another handful. Nothing.

He tentatively licked a finger…”Sugar!” Santa scowled and shouted at the reindeer, “Those blasted elves are going to pay if I have to stuff every perky little head in the coal bin!”

After several minutes of ranting, he puffed up his rosy cheeks and blew out a sigh. He grabbed his set of emergency lock picks from the sleigh’s toolkit, slung the sack over a shoulder, and headed to the stairwell.

Quiet as a church mouse, he crept through the building, picking locks and sneaking into apartments. Dutifully, he ate gingerbread cookies and drank milk, packing carrots into his pockets. He stuffed carefully-hung stockings and unloaded his sack beneath the bright trees before tiptoeing back into the hallway and starting on the next door.

In Chuck’s apartment, the sugarplum cookies were homemade. Santa snacked first and then rearranged the presents beneath the tree, placing the train set and letter in front, and flanking it with gifts for the girls. He was just closing the door with a soft click when a light flipped on and he heard a tense voice, “Who’s there?”

Santa took off at a scamper, not glancing back as the apartment door opened. “Hey, you!” the voice yelled. “I’m calling the cops!”

As Santa ran, he cursed the naughty elves once again. In a panic, he burst through the building’s front door onto the snowy street and took off down the slick sidewalk, the bundle of toys bouncing on his back. His belly jiggled like jelly as he high-tailed it around a corner, trying not to slide into traffic. Police sirens wailed and a horn honked as he dashed across the street. Ducking into a narrow alley, he tripped on a filthy snow pile, whirled into a trashcan, and landed flat on his back in the city’s ashes and soot. Lights flashed as a police car screeched into the narrow entrance.

The fluorescent lighting in the police station gave Santa a headache. A plastic tree sat atop a file cabinet, decorated with looped strings of popcorn, and the remnants of a holiday celebration littered the desks.

Santa’s interrogation hadn’t gone well, his candid explanation regarding recent activities rendering him fingerprinted, photographed, and handcuffed to an interview table. His captors were arranging for a mental health evaluation and overnight accommodations, prospects that didn’t bode well for Christmas.

“We’re booking you on breaking and entering,” the tired-eyed detective stated. “Do you have an attorney?”

“I was delivering presents,” Santa explained again.

The man sipped from a cup of black coffee and ate snowman cookies from a paper plate. “Want one?”

“No, thanks, I’ve already eaten about two billion.”

“Yeah, right.” The detective shook his head wearily. “So you were delivering presents with a lock pick. Isn’t Santa supposed to use magic?”

“Ordinarily, yes,” Santa assured the man. “But the elves gave me sugar instead of magic dust.”

“Uh huh.”

“They’re ruthless pranksters,” Santa explained. “Last year they glued me to the sleigh.”

“Uh huh. And the carrots we found stuffed in your pockets are for the reindeer?”

“Precisely.”

“What about the sack of presents?” the detective asked. “Some children are going to wake up without gifts under the tree.”

Santa heaved a sigh and scratched his cherry nose. “Only if I don’t finish my route. I’ve two continents to cover before dawn.”

“That’s only three hours from—“

The interview-room door opened and a uniformed woman entered. She leaned over the table and whispered in the detective’s ear. His chin drew back as he frowned at her. “Is this a joke?”

“Nope. Eight tiny reindeer. I counted.”

“On the roof?”

She shrugged. “And a miniature sleigh filled with presents.”

“Stolen?” the incredulous man asked.

“No one’s missing anything,” she informed him. “In fact, they report unexplained gifts.”

“Holy…moly.”

While both officers stared at Santa, he raised his eyebrows and smoothed his white beard. “I have a route to finish if you don’t mind.”

“Uh…yeah…okay. I guess.” The detective unlocked his cuffs. The pair not only escorted him from the station but drove him back to the apartment building. With the officers in tow, he hiked the stairs to the snowy roof. The reindeer pranced and pawed their hoofs, impatient with the delay.

“You should probably get rid of this,” the detective said, handing him a folder. “We’ll just pretend it never happened if that’s alright with you.”

Santa accepted the folder, and after they removed the yellow police tape from the sleigh, he passed each of them a gift from his sack. “Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas,” the two murmured in unison.

With a twinkle of his eye, Santa mounted his sleigh. He whistled and shouted the reindeer’s names. Eagerly, the team dashed to the edge of the roof and leapt. The sleigh dipped, and then the harnesses snapped taut as the reindeer flew up over the city rooftops with their sleigh full of toys.

As the dawning sky pearled the horizon, Santa left the team in the elves’ care, too tired at the moment to exact his revenge. Mrs. Claus met him at the door and took the folder as he unbuttoned his coat and kicked off his boots. “My, my,” she exclaimed. “Here’s one for the photo album.”

Santa glanced at his mug shot as he plotted this year’s retaliation, a merry grin curving his lips like a bow. “Ho, ho, ho, ho, ho.”

 

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A Christmas Story – The Snow Globe

Once again, I attempt my hand at a short story requiring 16 specific elements:

Mop, purple slippers, orange tree, 1966 Mustang, Ferris wheel, mistletoe, light post, armadillo, newspaper, stilts, pea pod, nail file, train tracks, Christmas stocking, snow globe, record player.

I hope you enjoy. Merry Christmas.

 

The Snow Globe

Delores perches at the scuffed counter of Dee’s Diner on Christmas Eve, keeping one bespectacled eye on Angie as the waitress mops the linoleum floor. The sign on the front door has already flipped from “open” to “closed,” and the crimson Panhandle sky fades to a duller shade of rose, a single bright star glimmering on the eastern horizon.

“Thanks for closing early, Dee,” the teenager says.

“No problem, honey. I got plans too.”

Angie looks up and smiles, clearly skeptical, but too kind-hearted to ask. It’s no secret Delores lives alone, unmarried, and childless—except for Buster the cat, who’s not particularly festive when it comes to the holidays.

At closing time, sole proprietor, boss lady, and down-home cook, Delores has slipped off her God-ugly orthopedic lace-ups and donned her purple slippers. She’s been on her feet since a quarter to dawn, and the dogs are hurting puppies. While Angie dumps the dingy water and tucks in the chairs, Delores cleans the kitchen grease from her fingernails with a tarnished nail file. She squints at an old yellowed newspaper, occasionally popping wilted pea pods between her dentures, too soft to serve up and too wasteful to toss out with the trash.

“Are you going to the carnival this year?” Angie asks.

“No need.” Delores looks through the front windows, ignoring the old rain streaks. Across the paved lot, just to the other side of the train tracks, this year’s carnival is setting up at the parish fairgrounds. Through the thick lenses of her bifocals, the colorful lights trimming the booths and spanning the spokes of the Ferris wheel blur into a kaleidoscope of stars. A white-suited man on stilts, graceful as a heron, hangs gold garland decked with chrysanthemum blossoms along the arch over the entrance.

“Have you ever gone?” Angie asks, her tasks done, a denim purse hanging from the crook of her elbow.

“Not since I was sixteen, the first year they came.” Delores looks at the young waitress over her glasses as a lock of white hair slips from its bun, brushing her cheek. “Honey, it’s the same carnival every year.”

“For a hundred years?” Angie asks straight-faced, and then giggles.

“Not quite, but close enough,” Delores replies.

“How come you don’t retire, Miss Dee?”

“And miss out on working Christmas Eve?” Delores shoos her off with a huff. “Get going and have a Merry Christmas now. I’ll see you Monday.”

Angie gives her an awkward kiss on the cheek, and echoes a “Merry Christmas” before letting herself out.

As Angie’s taillights turn the corner, Delores picks up the paper and shuffles back to her closet-sized office. She rummages in the bottom drawer of her old metal desk, finding the small box she stashed there a year ago and leaving the paper behind. From the box, she gently lifts a snow globe the size of a plum.

Back at the counter, she places the magic ball before her, adjusting her glasses to better see the tiny carnival inside, its eternal snow blanketing the painted fairgrounds. With a sigh, she waits, tapping cracked fingernails on the counter, clicking her false teeth, and peering into the night.

The light post at the corner flickers on, attracting swirling bugs like gold dust, and an armadillo in search of insects scurries from the palmetto and arrowroot at the lot’s edge. That’s the sign she’s been waiting for, and her memory draws near.

Reverently, she shakes the globe, the tiny Ferris wheel and colorful tents caught in a swirling underwater blizzard. In the corner of her eye, Christmas lights trimming the window sparkle on. The diner shines like new, red booths without a single burn or duct-taped patch, floors pristine, the counter gleaming like a sheet of ice. A garland bearing real pinecones drapes the kitchen door. Dainty jelly-jars with sprigs of native mistletoe and sand pine adorn every table. And a Christmas stocking hangs from the counter by the register, filled with gingerbread stars she baked that morning, on sale for a nickel.

In the diner’s corner, The Dean Martin Christmas Album spins on the record player, the needle hitting the vinyl with a soft crackle and hiss. White Christmas fills the warm Gulf air.

She hears it before she sees it. A brand spanking new 1966 Mustang convertible cruises into the lot. The car with its long hood is the color of ripe cherries with a red and white pony interior and Rally wheels that shine like polished silver. The man at the wheel parks by the orange trees that border the diner and glances toward the door, looking disappointed until she hurries over and flips the sign from “closed” to “open.”

He smiles and steps from his car, tossing the keys and snatching them from the air like a man with a silver dollar to spend. He’s a few years older than she, maybe twenty, dark-eyed with a halo of black gypsy curls and a black leather jacket. The bells over the door jingle. “Are you open?”

“A little while. It’s Christmas Eve,” she explains, brushing back a blonde lock and fighting a blush. “I was closing, but I can get you some pie or something.”

“Coffee,” he says. “Twenty of them…in a box if you have one.”

“Twenty?”

“For the carnival.” He gestures over his shoulder.

“I’ll have to brew a pot.” She walks behind the counter. “It’ll take a while.”

“I don’t mind waiting if you don’t,” he says.

He sits at the counter while she scoops coffee into the big percolator and Dean croons I’ll Be Home for Christmas. “Is it fun traveling so much?” she asks, turning to face him, elbows on the counter between them. “Do you ever wish you were home for Christmas?”

From his pocket, he pulls a snow globe and swirls the snow. The tiny carnival inside comes to life as the storm spins. He holds it up between their eyes. “My home,” he replies.

“The carnival,” she whispers, caught in the whirling snow. “How long you been with the carnival?”

“A hundred years,” he replies softly, his words drifting into the air like magic.

She smiles as the snow falls. “Will you stay with the carnival forever?”

“Forever if I could.” His eyes catch hers over the globe. “You sure are pretty. Are you alone?”

“Yes. I was closing.”

“Would you like to dance?”

“Dance?” She laughs. “Where? Here?”

He nods and reaches across the counter, taking her hand and guiding her to the end and into his arms. Silver Bells sings from the record player as they dance in the center of the diner floor, hand in hand, like a pair of old lovers. He plucks a sprig of mistletoe from a jar, and holding it over her head, kisses her, a first kiss that lays open her heart and seals it like the carnival in a swirling globe of snow.

“I should get back,” he says, finally letting her go.

“Oh, the coffee!” She laughs and hurries behind the counter. In minutes, the steaming coffee cups are nestled in a sturdy box. “That’ll be three dollars, please.”

“Leave the globe on the counter next Christmas Eve,” he says as he hands her four singles and cants his head toward the snow-laced carnival. “I’ll come home for Christmas.”

“For a hundred years?” she asks.

“I’ve loved you a long time already.” He kisses her sweetly and picks up the box. She holds the door open to the balmy night and watches as the red mustang crosses the track and glides under the carnival gate.

“I’ll wait for you,” she whispers and flips the sign to closed. Silent Night ends with heavenly peace and the record player’s arm lifts.

Delores drags her feet to the office and tucks the snow globe in its box in the desk drawer. She pulls out the paper and rereads the old article about a young carnival worker killed in a Ferris wheel accident back in ‘66. David Williams. She’d never asked his name that night.

The paper slides into a plastic bag and joins the small box. Back in the front room, she switches off the old diner’s lights and steps outside to lock the door.

Across the tracks, the carnival is a radiant haze of color and light. “Merry Christmas, David. See you next year.”