First it was Stuart MacBride tra-la-laing about holiday happiness. Then John Rickards weighed in with a festive tail about peace on earth and goodwill to all men.
Such heart-warming tales of merriment had me misty-eyed and I was zapped by a flash of sudden inspiration to write a real shorty - the shortest story I've ever penned. And if you like it, then just pop on over to Stuart's blog and do the double-click to donate food. And read his stories about true love and Christmas cheer.
“We have problems with allergies here, too.” She smiled. “Standard chocolate chip recipe with no nuts, with your favourite substitute. I baked them myself.”
“Ho ho ho! Smartie cookies!” Santa took a bite. “You wouldn’t believe what they’ve started leaving for me in California. Wheatgrass juice and celery sticks. How can I be a jolly fat man with snacks like that?”
She wrinkled her button nose. “That is bad. Here, in the South Pacific, we want to see a fat Santa. A very fat Santa.”
He let his gaze drift over her body as he munched. She looked as fit as any hoola dancer he’d spied on when he finally got the naughty list up to date. Which wasn’t as often as he liked, especially since so many writers started blogs.
But here she was, in nothing but a bikini top and a grass skirt, on a tropical island, baking cookies for him, a trickle of sweat running down her neck and pooling on the little lip of clothe between her generous breasts.
“You know, Christmas just isn’t the same. Damn Canadian government cracked down about seatbelts and airbags…”
“Shhh,” she said, placing her index finger over his mouth, her lips lifting into a coy smile. “Have the last cookie.
“You should relax. Not worry about this anymore. Here,” she said, running her hands down the front of his velvet jacket. “You not need these warm clothes on a tropical island.”
She winked as she reached for his belt buckle. Within minutes she’d stripped him down to his briefs.
Tracing a finger down his chest, she started to kneel. “I want Santa’s special delivery,” she said. “I want to try reindeer style.”
“You want…?” He stood, gaping at her as she ran her hands up along the inside of his legs and released the last item of clothing and smiled again.
“Those blue bits in the cookies weren’t smarties, Santa.”
“Ho ho… hoaaah.”
Santa’s broad smile was frozen on his face when she went outside. The chief was waiting.
“Do you have it?”
She handed Santa's clothes to him. “Yes. Everything’s there.”
“Good,” he said. He gave the red suit to another woman, with instructions.
A group of men carried Santa out of the hut.
The chief and the girl followed as they carried his body down to the beach. They looked up to see Santa’s sleigh pulling up into the sky.
“Santa 25,” the chief said as Santa 24’s body was positioned on the spit. The fire crackled as some body fat dripped into the flames.
“Are you sure no one will notice?” she asked.
“You think that if they really believed Santa hit sixty and stop aging that he’d be let loose to make presents and play with elves? They’d be trying to find the secret to eternal life, dissecting him in some laboratory.
“They need a jolly fat man to deliver the goodies and we make sure he never loses his festive cheer or thinks about retirement. Gets them off the hook for his pension. It takes a while to bulk up the shipwreck victims, but a few years of milk and cookies and he’ll be nice and plump. And we've got a few spares to tie us over in the mean time. Everybody’s happy.”
One of the women approached them and extended two plates to the chief. “Santa or Santa’s helper?”
“Santa,” the chief said. “I’m allergic to elf.”