On the fourth day of Christmas…
Last year, for Paul’s 12 Blogs of Christmas, I wrote nine short-short prose stories, all on a Christmas theme. These were stories called drabbles, which is a recently coined word for a story of exactly one hundred words, not a word more, nor a word less. Titles don’t count against the word total, and hyphenated words count as one. Those are the comfortably few rules for a proper drabble.
The thing I like most about the hundred-word story is the practice it brings in writing small, tersely. To bring off a complete story in so few words requires a surgeon’s mindset – a willingness to cut away any part that doesn’t absolutely have to be there.
Because I can, I’m going to repost the nine Christmas drabbles I did for Paul’s site last year. Looking back at them, there are exactly two that I think stand up as legitimate stories – tales I’m proud to have crafted. A couple more I still sort of like. One or two others at least have jokes that still almost tickle my weird funnybone. The rest? – meh. But you can decide for yourself.
Then, after the nine reposts, I’m going to add new Christmas drabbles for this year. I have no idea how many. I’m not going to add them all tonight. I’ll add more to this day’s blog as I think of them. That way, not only do you have to come back daily to read each new day’s Christmas essay, you’ll also now have to come back to Day 4’s blog, to see how many new ones I can add, before Christmas Day. This is a blatant act of thievery. I’m stealing more of your time than we bargained for.
Then again, this is a theft easily thwarted, if you want to get all humbug about it and simply decide not to come back. If that turns out to be the case, don’t come crying to me if a handful of ghosts visit you one night soon, to inspire a change in attitude.
So here then are nine year-old Christmas drabbles, followed by a few more.
Flying High
He was Spritzer, one of the original team, when they were nine, rather than the more famous eight, but few remember him, since considerable effort was made to erase any mention of him from official records and the larger legend beyond.
“Not everyone can handle the level of fame this job brings,” the fat man said.
“Nonsense, I’m fine.”
“Not even close. You’re high as a kite.”
“Flying is our thing.”
“And now this,” Santa said. He set a videotape in front of the deer. “Porn? Seriously?”
“My chance to break into movies.”
“Disgusting!” And with that, Spritzer was out.
Black Christmas
This was Bindelbob’s first year working the black gang, the elite team of elves responsible for filling the coal hopper on Santa’s sleigh.
“What are all these deductions from my paycheck?” he asked Senior Elf Crumplehat. “Reform for Troubled Teens? Solutions Dot Net? The Rehab and Reentry Project?”
“Some of the charities we underwrite,” Crumplehat said.
“But how can deductions be mandatory here? Back in Toy Production I was free to pick my own causes.”
“In this case it’s a legitimate work expense,” Crumplehat said. “When we support what turns the naughty into nice, we have less coal to load.”
Concerning Our New Rules of Conduct for This Year’s Christmas Party, After the Unfortunate Events That Occurred as a Result of Incidents (Alleged) Which May or May Not Have Taken Place at Last Year’s Office Christmas Party…
She had a fancy frock and dangerous shoes,
Strong enough to kill the Christmas blues,
At the office party up on floor thirteen.
She arrived in soft resplendence,
Displaying but a small hint of dependence,
On the pint or three she’d had in the canteen.
“You’re Betty from Receivables, isn’t that right?”
Said the exec named Mr. White.
“Right as rain,” said Betty with her fortified smile.
“And I know you. You’re the man,
“Who bedded my best friend Anne,
“Then denied it at the wrongful termination trial.”
That’s when Betty pulled the gun.
And now, alas, our story’s done.
A Small Part of the Legend
It was a humble thing, the last candle off the line, when the paraffin was running low, not worth restocking so late on Christmas Eve, since all would be shut down the next day. In a production of four-hour candles, it was good for ninety minutes at best.
“Can’t honestly sell it,” the candle-maker said. “We’ll keep it.”
They placed it in the window, where it spent its flame quickly, shedding small light, not accomplishing much.
Except…
Before it expired, its tiny flicker attracted one ragged, weary traveler to their door.
“A shelter against the night?” asked the king disguised.
Behind the Scenes
Santa was weary (hardly news there), but at least he was nearly done. Sixty thousand more deliveries and he could rewind The Watch, starting time again on its normal pace.
The Great Powers That Oversee didn’t mind him fiddling with the catholic timeflow, since his mission was benign. He brought free stuff. Everyone likes free stuff.
But those Powers didn’t realize Santa was just a front. A gaudy, colorful distraction. Elder things, dark, remote and resolute, took action whenever time halted. Soon they’d make their move into our bright and lovely world, pre-corrupted by all the free stuff, magically delivered.
Marching to the Beat
The son of God and Lord of Hosts seemed a restless sort, constantly traveling from town to town, never staying in one place for long.
“It’s his mission,” one of his followers explained. “The life of an itinerant preacher.”
And that much was true, but he was also a man searching. One day he’d find him, that shepherd boy, grown up now. The drummer who wouldn’t stop, beating, beating, beating, while he lay helpless in his cradle, already terribly aware, but unable to act.
“Now that I’m in my power, I can finally thank him properly for his Christmas gift.”
Under the Tree
And finally all the presents were opened, save one.
“I don’t remember wrapping that one,” Father said.
“It’s not addressed to any of us,” Mother said. “Wait, here’s a tag on the back.”
“What does it say?” Bobby said, hoping it would be another gift for him.
“It says, ‘The last gift for the last Christmas,’” Mother read.
“Don’t open it!” Father nearly screamed. “That’s some end of the world type language.”
“I’m not a moron,” Mother said. “We’ll put it away and never touch it.”
And that’s how the Andersons became the guardians of all mankind. Except Bobby, who really, really wanted to know.
A Man in Full
He received such delightful things. A Scotty Cameron golf putter. An Atomic Aquatic Cobalt nitrox-integrated dive computer with digital compass. Handmade Italian leather driving gloves. A case of Shafer Vineyards Relentless 2008.
Everything was perfect, exactly what He wanted, because it was on his list, which is how efficient Christmas giving should be done.
His gifts to others weren’t so carefully targeted. They were also on a list of what he wanted – what he knew they should want, if only they had the education and character to realize it.
“Master your life,” he oft opined.
Elsewhere flames were efficiently stoked.
True
She’d no money to buy a tree, so she drew one on her apartment wall with colored chalk. Over the next days she sketched packages underneath, bright and bedecked.
On Christmas morning no miracle had occurred. The tree and gifts were still lines and pigments on a wall. No one called, because her phone had been turned off months ago for non-payment. No one arrived. No spontaneous gathering of old friends and loves bringing good food and spirits, despite hopeful daydreams that they might.
Then again…
The way the morning sunlight fell across the snow outside. “Blessings enough,” she said.
Join in any…
“Crap on toast, you mutant-nosed moron!” Blitz sputtered. “For the millionth time, your bishop can’t move into a space occupied by a checker! You have to either move the checker, or draw a card. But first you never placed chips on the Pass Line or the Don’t Pass Bar, allowing you to roll the dice and establish the point!”
“Jeeze, Blitz, these games of yours are confusing.”
“I tried to keep you out, little buddy. For your own good, I tried to protect you from the complex vices of immortal aero-ruminants. But no, you had to whine to the boss.”
