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Christmas tales to warm the heart

At Christmas time especially the tradition of sharing stories at bedtime, or by the fire, takes on a special feeling.
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At Christmas time especially the tradition of sharing stories at bedtime, or by the fire, takes on a special feeling. As children, most of us would cherish the time loved ones spent sharing a book, or a family story — a wonderful way to create and share memories. With that in mind Pique writers and contributors have decided to share a few of our own stories with you for Christmas — some will make you laugh, while others will remind you of the true meaning of Christmas.

Happy holidays from all of us to all of you.

Stories by Alyssa Noel, GD Maxwell, Vince Shuley, Cathryn Atkinson & Brandon Barrett

Crashing Christmas

By Alyssa Noel

 

I've never cared much for Christmas.

Not in the Scrooge, bah hum bug sense — gift giving is wonderful when you find the perfect present for someone you love. It's just that the holidays have always seemed a little dull. Every year shopping malls are filled with the same old carols, the same Christmas TV shows are on heavy rotation and the same dry conversation is exchanged over fruitcake and eggnog.

Some people call it tradition, but I call it a small step above watching paint dry. And that's why my best Christmas ever will always be the year I drove a fire truck through town hall.

It was an unusually warm December that year in the prairies — around -15 C, or bathing suit weather in those parts. My family and I — uncles, aunts, cousins, grandparents, a few dogs — had gathered in the small town where we grew up to consume our weight in perogies, cabbage rolls and nalisknyky (common fare in the prairies where everyone's Ukrainian ancestors were tricked into settling on free land, uninformed about the freezing winters and bug-filled summers).

"Hey," my uncle Joe said after dinner. "Let's all go for a walk. We can stop down at town hall. I'll give you the grand tour."

He had been the mayor for some time, but this was our first invitation to his office. We shrugged and nodded indifferently as we clutched our stuffed stomachs and groaned in pain. I mean, municipal politics aren't exactly riveting; how exciting could the building that houses them be?

But faced with watching It's a Wonderful Life for the 18th time or playing a board game that would surely devolve into chaos, we reluctantly began to search for our boots, piled in a heap in the doorway. A few short hours later, footwear secured, scarves wrapped tight, we shuffled down the block as one big, loud, underwhelmed family.

We admired the Christmas lights, draped lovingly over the houses, their windows glowing as friends and families laughed and gathered around fireplaces inside. We stopped to check out a life-size nativity scene propped up in the front yard of a local church. We may or may not have climbed inside next to the baby Jesus to offer him a birthday high five.

Finally, our noses runny, fingertips frozen, we arrived at our destination: the squat, non-descript town hall. Joe unlocked the door and took us into the chamber. Eight seats were set up behind a long, horseshoe-shaped desk. Little placards marked the names of councillors. My cousins and I took turns at Joe's desk, imagining the bylaws we would pass (free chocolate milk for every citizen over 15!) and the trouble we'd get into (laws of the road need not apply to us and us only!) as mayor. Things might have been more illicit if we had had Rob Ford for inspiration back then.

"Cool field trip," I told my uncle politely, after we'd exhausted the imaginary bylaw game.

He raised his eyebrows: "You guys wanna see the fire hall?"

None of us had any idea that the big, red trucks of our childhood fantasies were in the same building. "Hell yes!" we sang in unison, the prospect of wailing sirens perking us up.

As in most Canadian small towns, the fire station was manned by a group of volunteers, all of whom were home with their families on this Christmas Day. They would only be called in if something were in the process of burning down. Even then, I imagine it would be hard for them to leave their warm, cozy kitchen with its turkey and figgy pudding to help some ding-dong who accidentally left a candle burning.

In other words, we had free reign of the firehouse. Tromping upstairs, my uncle unlocked the door that adjoined the mundane (town hall) with the bad ass (fast trucks that spew water). The florescent lights flickered on one by one, illuminating the scene. Two giant trucks served as the centrepieces, surrounded by rows of green rain boots caked in mud, heavy jackets soiled from smoke and large helmets with visors.

"Woah!" my sister Amy shouted from a corner. "Look at this guy!"

She attempted to lift a life-size dummy filled with sand that was used for training. After a few grunts and no luck, she sat on him instead.

On the other side of the cavernous room my cousin Deanna was somehow already head-to-toe in gear. She shuffled towards a truck in the too-big boots, attempting to climb its massive steps. "It's unlocked!" she cried, after jiggling the handle cautiously.

"Of course it is," I said. "Do you think the firefighters have time to search for lost keys while a building is burning?"

But she couldn't hear me. She was already plopped happily in the driver's seat in the middle of a mock fire call. She spun the wheel using both hands, her legs kicking out from one side to the other as she made fake turns. If she were really tasked with driving the truck, the whole town would surely be crushed before she even made it to her first call.

Still, it looked like fun. I grabbed a helmet that was big enough to protect a watermelon to join her. "Push over," I said, after climbing up into the hulking machine.

She grumbled only a little before relinquishing control.

"I'm going to one up you," I said, under my visor, turning the key in the ignition. It grumbled, then roared, to a start.

"Alyssa," my uncle yelled from the other side of the room, "Turn fanting sloft! Loon! Loon!"

I frowned, pointing at the helmet, which, along with the groaning engine, was muffling his voice. "Loon?" I thought. "What does he mean?"

"Fumes!" I quickly realized.

Looking down to locate the key, the monster helmet slid over my eyes. I pulled it off and absentmindedly placed it on the gearshift sticking out of the wheel. Suddenly the vehicle lurched forward. In a panic, I slammed my foot to the floor in an effort to stop it, only to have every piece of my driver's training fall out of my head. I hit the gas.

The beast accelerated surprisingly quickly and we careened towards the closed garage doors. My cousin and I screamed in unison as we slammed into it. In the chaos, I managed to hit the breaks, almost hard enough to puncture a hole through the floor. Putting the vehicle into park and turning the key, I sheepishly opened the driver's door.

My family appeared on the other side of the gaping hole in the fire hall, their mouths hanging open, unable to speak. My uncle, a volunteer firefighter himself, remained calm in the face with disaster.

"Well," he said, expressionless, "I guess you've sealed your fate on the naughty list for the next 50 years."

Surprise me... no, dont

BY G.D. Maxwell

 

"What would you like for Christmas?"

The question was as simple as stepping through a minefield... in the dark... blindfolded... with huge clown shoes on.

"World peace," Matt muttered.

"Don't be silly," his wife said. "I want to know; what do you want?"

There were really only two answers to that loaded question. The straightforward answer, "I want X," was so far outside his psychic comfort zone it was, quite simply, impossible. As a young boy, he'd learned a bitter lesson: The quickest way to not get something he wanted was to ask for it. Why? Years of therapy hadn't adequately answered that question and he'd given up trying to figure it out, chalking it up to what he cynically called family values.

The other answer was, "Surprise me." He'd used that answer only once. And the lesson on that occasion was, while not bitter, poignant: Never again.

His aversion to holiday surprises had started a decade earlier with a pleasant visit from an old friend. Zach was the last surviving member of the Peace Through Whole Grains commune, which is to say the only one still scratching out a living milking goats, harvesting anemic crops of organic veggies and, as they used to call it, moving a bit of product on the side. He was in town pursuing his other main source of hard currency — teaching school children about caring for animals.

Zach had a streak of Dr. Doolittle in him; he could talk to the animals and, seemingly, they could talk to him. It was a gift, one he'd quite likely had since birth. He'd brought the core of his performing menagerie with him to wow the elementary school kids: Gretchen the German Sheppard, Pete the parrot, Xavier the coatimundi and, of course, Suds the monkey.

Xavier did tricks like a dog, but with his pointed snout and raccoon tail always confused the kids as to exactly what kind of animal he was. Pete spoke good English, a bit of Spanish and could be coaxed into singing a sea shanty or two.

But the stars of the show were Gretchen and Suds. Gretchen wore a small, dog-size howdah, usually draped in some colourful tapestry and Suds had a cowboy suit, a miniature lariat and a homemade hat that made him look like some kind of deranged Roy Rogers.

Since it was so close to Christmas though, Gretchen was decked out like a reindeer. Suds was dressed like an elf, complete with tiny white beard. Pete the parrot had a small Santa hat on and Xavier bore Rudolf's red nose. It was too precious. No, really, it was.

Instead of doing faux cowboy tricks, for Christmas, Zach outdid himself. Suds rode around with a hobo's sack, handing out penny candy to the children. It was too precious. Oh, I said that already.

Away from the spotlight though, which is to say back at my house, Suds' best tricks happened when a joint was being passed around. He'd watch to see which way it was going and clamber onto the shoulder of the next recipient. Then he'd intercept the pass and smoke the thing with the enthusiasm of an old Afghani.

That's when his socialization broke down. It was bad enough he'd bogart the joint. Unforgivable, really. But he'd also turn into a bully, instinctively singling out the one person most ill at ease with him and getting in their face, shaking his monkey fist at them and acting like he was going to beat them up. As long as you weren't that person, it was hilarious. Or maybe it was the weed that made it seem so.

Zach's visit was epic and very festive. It obviously made quite an impression on Matt's not quite, live-in girlfriend, who showed up four days before Christmas with his surprise present — a capuchin monkey.

To say he was speechless is an overstatement. He was stunned. Shocked. Nearly catatonic. His lifestyle, attention to detail and, truth be told, love of animals was stretched to the breaking point just taking care of his antisocial cat, Fartin' Franklin. Franklin had been a rescue of sorts. He'd found him on his doorstep, starving and near death. He offered him a home, food and even an expensive trip to the vet. In return, Franklin mostly hid under the bed, emerging only long enough to eat, defecate and, whenever company was over, walk into the living room and expel the sort of gas that made grown men cry.

His girlfriend, no heavyweight in the common sense department, had brought the monkey over in the kind of flimsy cardboard box you might use to transport a sick kitten. When she opened the box to show him his present, the inevitable occurred. The monkey made a break for it. What happened next wasn't pretty.

If the basic stress reaction is fight or flight, the monkey was adept at both. It scampered around the living room, knocking over lamps, an open beer, several breakable knick-knacks and his turntable, which crashed to the floor, breaking into more pieces than he thought possible.

It raced up the curtains, pulling them and their rods down, ran across the room, jumped up onto the dining table and from there up onto a high shelf, from which it proceeded to evacuate its bowels and fling monkey poop at both of them.

At this point, Franklin wandered out in response to the commotion. Upon seeing the cat, the monkey apparently thought he'd make a good hostage, leaping down off the shelf, grabbing the startled cat under one arm and high-tailing it into the bedroom, accompanied by cat howls, hisses and sounds generally only heard when cats are mating.

Finally cornered, the monkey used the cat as a shield, a wasted move as they were both ultimately able to get a firm grip on his squirming torso, though not before suffering scratches, bites and blows.

"Jesus Christ," he said, as they struggled to get a collar and leash she'd at least had the farsightedness to buy on the beast. "What were you thinking?"

"I thought you'd like him. I thought he'd be like Suds," she sobbed.

He wasn't.

Matt spent the better part of the next day building a dining table-size cage for the monkey out of 2x4s and wooden dowels. Needless to say, the monkey didn't like it but eventually settled down, passing his time in fits of autoeroticism, feces throwing and middle-of-the-night howling.

In the days leading up to Christmas, the monkey managed to thoroughly disgust — generally by throwing poopballs with remarkable accuracy — everyone who dropped by. They agreed the monkey had to be taken back to the "pet" store from which it was purchased. He practiced a speech in anticipation of the resistance he was sure he'd encounter, given he'd concluded the owner was of questionable scruples. Lawsuits and arson figured prominently in his prepared remarks.

And then, around noon on Christmas Eve, a remarkable thing happened. A friend, a former girlfriend actually, dropped by with her four-year-old son. Davey was, at a time it was still socially permissible to say so, retarded. Born with his umbilical cord wrapped around his neck tight enough to starve his brain of oxygen, Davey was slow to develop in every way and faced a severely limited future.

But as soon as he walked into the room the monkey calmed down, fixed his gaze on the boy and became simultaneously docile and intensely curious. Davey walked slowly over to the cage and the two of them stood silently for some minutes, as if locked in a kind of telepathic link.

"Unbelievable," Matt said.

After briefly explaining the horror show that was the monkey, the two of them slipped gingerly past the cage and into the kitchen to prepare a pot of tea. Davey and the monkey continued their empathetic communion.

As time passed, the monkey started making soothing sounds. Eventually the two touched each other's hands, an embrace that eventually led to the monkey sitting on Davey's shoulder, albeit still securely tethered to the cage. It was a touching, if implausible, scene.

Ever hopeful, he leaned close to his friend and whispered, "Wouldn't you like to give Davey a monkey for Christmas?"

"Are you offering me your monkey?" she whispered back, smiling.

"I'll even throw in the cage. Look at the two of them; he'd love it."

"Let me think about it," she said, looking pensively toward the ceiling. "Not a chance," she said, before she'd even taken a breath.

"You want me to ask Davey?" he queried.

"You want to be on crutches for Christmas?" she replied. "I've got a seven-year-old daughter, Davey and a husband unable to cope with the fact the only son he'll ever have is retarded. And you want me to take your head case monkey?"

"Point taken," he said, firm resignation escaping with his voice.

After they'd gone he called his whacko girlfriend, donned his thickest gloves, stuffed the fighting monkey into the cat's crate, picked her up at her house and headed for the pet store. Upon seeing them enter the store, the owner seemed to scan the premises for a magical escape route, sensing exactly what was about to happen.

The refund, grudgingly given, was easier than he expected. On the way to the car, his girlfriend said, "So what would you like for Christmas?"

"No surprises," he said. "No surprises. Never again."

Sang froid: the white wolf of Christmas

BY Vince Shuley

 

Sang Froid: \ sä - f(r)wä\

Coolness and composure, especially in trying circumstances.

literal English translation "cold blood"

 

Another bone-chilling blizzard had set in. Godefroy sighed as he stared at the heavy snowflakes outside his window, kindling crackling in the fireplace. There will be hours of shovelling tomorrow. Why did every Christmas have to be so much work?

It was Christmas Eve in the year 1859 near the village of Val-Jalbert, Lower Canada. Godefroy lived in the hills above the village in a cabin he built himself. He worked as a hunter, trapper and occasionally at the lumber mill when game was scarce. There was no road between the cabin and his village, the only way there in the winter was on foot with snowshoes. Godefroy rarely received any visitors — just the way he liked it. He cherished his solitude.

The snap of burning kindling suddenly woke him from his doze. The fire was running out of fuel. Opening his front door he immediately felt sharp snowflakes against the weathered skin of his face. He grunted as he waded through thigh-deep snow towards his firewood shack. The windows in nearby Val-Jalbert were all glowing this evening as families sat down to their Christmas dinners. Godefroy had been invited by the butcher's wife Josette to join the family tonight, but he had politely declined as he did every year. Godefroy had no family left and had never taken a wife, and he despised being pitied for it. Besides, gorging on food for this silly tradition was a waste of a good month's worth of meals.

As he reached the shed he froze in his steps — the howl was unmistakable.

His hunting senses instantly aware, Godefroy quickly followed his deep footsteps back to the cabin and dropped the logs into the corner of the room. He reached for his loaded rifle by the door, donned his hunter's hat then hastily tied on his snowshoes before running back out into the blizzard.

"Why are the wolves here now?" he said to himself as he quickly yet quietly moved through the snow. Godefroy had kept packs of wolves away from Val-Jalbert's eastern hills for the last decade since he settled here. The villagers respected him for it, particularly since no other hunters in town were as capable as he at keeping these animals at bay. But the predators never came in the darkest winter months when livestock was housed securely in barns. Something wasn't right.

Approaching a buttress for a better view he looked down at the valley towards Val-Jalbert. The clouds began to part as the moon shone onto the snow, illuminating Godefroy's search area. If a wolf pack had indeed travelled this close to the village, he would find them and he would kill them.

The tracks weren't hard to find in the snow. There were two wolves — no, three — but the third set seemed to be retreating from the others. After an hour of tracking he found the pack in a clearing. Two gray wolves were circling a third, which was unlike any wolf he had ever seen. It was larger in stature and had a thicker coat, white as snow on the ground. Godefroy had heard tales of these creatures from the explorers returning from the far north, but had never believed such tall stories.

Keeping his distance and readying his rifle, he waited for the growling grays to make their move. They were obviously defending their hunting area and the white must have wandered into their territory. That must be why the grays had ventured so close to Val-Jalbert this Chirstmas Eve.

Godefroy was a good shot, but knew he could only kill two of them before they scattered. He lined up one of the grays in his iron sights and let the wolves finish their feud.

The grays attacked in unison, one aiming for the neck and the other at the foreleg of the white. The white reacted by dropping to the ground before leaping at the attacker on its left, catching it by the neck. With a flick of its head it tore out the throat of the gray.

But the second gray had landed a bite squarely on his front leg, the white fur now soaked with blood. Wounded but not beaten, the white squared off with its second attacker, blood now dripping from the bared teeth of both creatures. The two tussled again, this time the white unable to dodge its attacker. The gray leaped again as Godefroy fired, hitting the attacking wolf behind its ear.

The sound of a firing rifle would make any animal on this earth bolt for its life, yet the white wolf stood its ground. Poised for his second shot, Godefroy exhaled as he pulled the trigger.

The shot rang through the cold air.

Godefroy blinked, and shook his head in disbelief. How could he have missed at this range? The remaining wolf, wounded with its white fur bloodied, made eye contact with Godefroy. Quickly re-bolting his rifle, the veteran hunter again stared down his iron sights, aiming at the eyes of the strange beast. He froze.

Someone, or some thing, just saved this creature.

Godefroy had already witnessed two uncanny occurrences; a wild animal that didn't flinch after two shots from a rifle, and a bullet that seemed to pass through the wolf without harming it.

Let it go. No one will know.

It ran against every rule Godefroy had learned as a hunter, but for some strange reason he couldn't bring himself to fire again. Shouldering his rifle but unsheathing his knife, he approached the white wolf. A miracle may have saved it, but Godefroy was taking no chances.

Their eyes locked again. He had never been this close to a live wild animal. Godefroy looked at the wound on its leg still oozing blood. Keeping his knife readied, he tore a strip of fabric from the hem of his jacket and dressed the wound. The white wolf did not move.

It was time for them to part ways.

"Go on, away with you!" shouted Godefroy, swinging his arms and even prodding the wolf with the butt of his rifle. Still no movement.

Godefroy backed away and began the walk back to his cabin, his knife at the ready in his right hand should the mysterious creature change its mind. After a few minutes he noticed the wolf had begun to follow him.

"Try anything, and I'll gut you," he muttered under his breath.

The sky had cleared completely by the time Godefroy reached his home. The sun would rise in a few hours and he was tired from hiking all night. The wolf came within several metres of his door, but no closer. It knew this was Godefroy's den.

"Here, eat something," he said, as he tossed the wolf a hunk of dried salmon. It was devoured within seconds.

"You are persistent, Sang Froid," he chuckled, closing his door and retiring for the night. Godefroy realized he had just named his new companion.

On Christmas morning as the children of Val-Jalbert played in the sun-drenched snow, Godefroy opened his door to find that Sang Froid had not moved. He sighed. This was going to be difficult to explain to the villagers, who had feared wolves for generations.

"Joyeux Noël, Sang Froid," he said as the two set off into the woods.

For the first Christmas in many years, Godefroy was not alone.

Tweedledum and Santa

By Cathryn Atkinson

 

Janis was awakened very early in the morning by heated, childish voices. The twins were arguing, quietly. It was no surprise; it was Christmas, after all.

She lay back in the bed, listening for a moment, straining to hear the girls above the air-forced-through-a-blocked-nozzle rumbles of Todd's snoring. She put her pillow over her head and relaxed her body. Then she thought of the turkey and tensed up again. Her feet hit the floor and the show was on the road, on its way to the kitchen via the Christmas tree.

Romilly and Emily weren't born yesterday. They were five years old. They knew that elevated noise was a bad idea and both agreed to rip open some presents in a clandestine operation; they calculated — correctly — that Mom and Dad would be OK with two unwrapped presents and the stockings. They knew from past experience that Janis and Todd would rush to join them in order not to miss the show, though not until the icky-gross coffee was switched on.

This time, the situation was reversed. Janis was in the living room first. "Stop squabbling," she told them without waiting for a reply. Following through the dining room to the kitchen, she switched on the percolator and stole another nano-pause. She looked out the window at the deflated snowman and Santa lying in the snow, wondering if she should switch on the air already and fill them up. Then she went back to the tree.

The twins had almost complied with her request; sitting sweetly side-by-side on the couch with new bunny slippers on their feet, they merely muttered to each other and kicked the air. Each held a destroyed festive envelope, a card and what appeared to be a brochure.

"I said we could call them Tweedledum and Tweedledee," said Romilly, who was turning out bookish. "But Emily wants..."

"Let me say!" Emily shouted. "I want them to be called Mr. Fluffy and Mr. Horns."

"Who is that from?" their mother asked them wearily.

"Auntie Cassy," they both said at once.

Oh God. Cassy. Of course. Her sister was coming to their Christmas dinner, unencumbered by the ornament of a date this time. She was solo this year and looking for projects.

"OK. What did she get you?" Janis asked Romilly and Emily.

The twins showed her the card and what ended up being a certificate.

Tweedledum-Mr. Fluffy and Tweedledee-Mr. Horns. Janis went back to the kitchen to wait for the coffee. Out in the front yard, the snowman and the Santa were now standing erect and she decided she would suggest those names. Tweedledum-Mr. Fluffy-snowman and Tweedledee-Mr. Horns-Santa.

Todd, who had flipped the switch to fill them with air and share their good cheer, with the neighbours, sleepwalked into the kitchen and kissed her. "Merry Christmas, Baby," he said. "Have I missed anything?"

"Goats," Janis replied.

***

"I could practically see the carbon escaping from those damned inflatables and making the ozone hole bigger! What are you guys thinking?" Cassy had arrived and she was seated with the family. Demolition of the turkey was well underway, the twins actually liked the asparagus and the parmesan loaf and the Moroccan meatless ragout was a hit with everyone who needed to be struck by it.

"Why goats?" asked Todd, trying to change the subject. They had avoided the difficulties of the purchase up to that point.

"I was looking at some necklaces," Cassy replied. Romilly and Emily raised their eyebrows. "But I thought, 'What the heck, children love animals.'"

And they did. So much. Romilly and Emily had not been allowed a puppy or a kitten because Janis had no time to care for it between her home and her job. Apart from arguing about the names, the girls had been thrilled by the thoughtful goatiness of their Christmas presents. The best-ever presents. Reaching détente, they had agreed that Romilly's would be called Tweedledum and Emily's would be called Santa, which she liked more than Mr. Horns.

It was up to their parents to explain to them before Aunt Cassy arrived that the goats would not actually be living with them. They were being given to poor families in Africa. The girls howled for five minutes until they realized there was a world of prezzies unopened still under the tree. Stocking chocolate was eaten. And while the goat situation was not quite forgotten or forgiven, they could almost accept the argument that goats could make a real difference "to the poor African children" because they could have "a farm of goats and that would be nice." Todd told Romilly and Emily that one day they would get a puppy and argue over its name instead.

Thus, the children were in good spirits and politely thankful by the time Cassy arrived, bearing a bottle of chardonnay and a bottle of Jim Beam.

At the table, Janis had been slowly seething and Cassy noticed.

"You're not happy, are you?" Cassy asked Janis.

"You should have warned us, Cas, so we could explain it without misunderstandings," Janis said.

"Romilly and Emily shouldn't have charity explained to them at this age. They should know it already," Cassy retorted.

"We do!" Romilly piped in. "It begins at home."

Todd rubbed his eyes with his fingers.

"Ha! Very good, Rom. You are a good parrot," Cassy said.

"Squaawk!" said Emily. Romilly frowned.

"Don't call me Rom," she told her aunt.

"I have daughters, not parrots!" said Todd, and he got up and left the dining room.

"Are you off your medication?" Janis asked Cassy, and got up to do the dishes.

Five minutes after Janis filled the dishwasher with plates and bowls and cutlery, Cassy joined her. They started washing and drying the pots together.

"Todd is playing with the girls and their new wooden train set. It's really nice," Cassy said.

"They love Thomas the Tank Engine that much and wanted the trains. It's perfect, they get to build together and Todd gets into it, too. And it comes apart, so if they aren't speaking to each other they can each take half the set and go wherever they want and play. It's getting better, though," Janis said.

"Maybe you should get two Thomases. They will fight over him," Cassy said.

"Maybe. They don't argue as much now."

The sisters worked through the pots.

"I am off my meds, to be honest," Cassy said. "A friend of mine on the same pills committed suicide in November. I can't take them anymore. I just can't."

With wet, soapy hands, Janis embraced her sister. They stood there a long while, quiet and together. Janis kissed her on the forehead and they continued drying.

***

Elias got up and dressed and drank some water; his grandmother was already out at work. The sun already felt warm, the dust dry. The boy remembered that Bilal's family was receiving a goat today from the charity people and hurried out to see him before school. The company trucks drove past Elias and the workers stood precariously on the flatbed, hanging on as it left for the mine. He turned a corner; it was a short journey to Bilal's hut.

It was there. He could see it already, a fine black and white nanny that would give milk and have kids. Before he got closer a thought struck him, he wondered what the catch was. Seeing the smile on his friend's excited face, the thought evaporated as he smiled back.

Operation Santa fraud

By Brandon Barrett

 

Julius was always a curious child, even by 10-year-old boy standards.

When he wasn't nose-deep in one of the countless science magazines he would badger his mother to buy him on a weekly basis, he was dismantling various household electronics for no other reason than to better understand how they worked. It was a risky pastime as far as Julius's parents were concerned, forced as they were to hide the toolbox from their precocious young son to keep him from electrocuting himself on the toaster.

But the ever-inquisitive Julius, or Jules as his classmates affectionately dubbed him, refused to derail his scientific inquiries into one particularly hefty, red-nosed, ashen-bearded fellow.

From the moment his father explained the machinations of Christmas night in great detail, the mere notion of Santa Claus was a major affront to Jules' more rational sensibilities. From the logistical difficulties of running a multi-national gift delivery service from frigid sub-arctic confines one night a year, to Santa's apparent omniscience when it came to the naughty or nice behaviour of millions of children around the world, to those gosh darn flying reindeer, Jules was a skeptic.

By the time he reached the third grade, he was pretty tired of hearing about this Kris Kringle character, and was determined to unravel history's greatest hoax. But how? It seemed to him like every single adult in his life was in on the ruse, and his friends were so blinded by the prospect of a shiny new bike, or the latest video game, that they were content with continuing on in ignorant bliss.

So Julius went to the only person he thought could give him the cold hard truth: Santa himself. He realized the risk he was undertaking in possibly uncovering a generation-spanning conspiracy that was keeping toy companies flush with cash, but saw it as a chance to do something for the greater good. Taking apart your parents remote control is one thing, but this, Jules thought, this would make him a hero, a crusader for Christmas justice.

So, instead of his usual affectless letter he sent to the North Pole every year, Jules decided to pen a scathing takedown of jolly ole' St. Nick. He wasn't convinced it would even make it past Santa's mailroom elves, but he had to at least try. It was time to put the Fat Man on notice.

------------------------------

"Dear Santa (if that is your real name),

I'm not going to start this letter with small talk or try and tell you what a good boy I've been this year, because we both know that's not true. There's something else that I know, Mr. Kringle, and I think you know it too: You are not who you claim to be.

It's time we heard the truth, Santa, before another generation of wide-eyed kids is brainwashed into believing you're some kind of superhero that visits every single child on the face of the planet in a mere 24 hours. By my calculations, this is a mathematical and physical impossibility.

This doesn't even begin to address the ridiculous notion of your flying capabilities, or how a man of your girth can fit into my chimney without leaving so much as a speck of ash on mother's rug.

I don't know how you manage to pull this off year after year, Santa, but you can bet your bottom dollar I intend to find out. Consider this fair warning.

All I want for Christmas this year is the truth, Santa. I think I deserve it. We all do.

Sincerely yours,

Julius Sanderson

Ps. I didn't want to leave any cookies out for you this year, but my Dad says I have to. Jokes on anyway, they're the ginger kind and they taste awful.

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"How much money do I need to get to the North Pole?" Jules asked a bemused bus station clerk.

"Why, you goin' to go visit Santy Clauuuuse?" the woman drawled, Jules' boyish appearance belying his real purpose.

"Yes, you could say that. Reindeers and elves and all that," he said, anxiously looking over his shoulder for the unwelcome sight of his parents, who he hadn't told of his clandestine mission.

"Well, hun, if you want to see some reindeer, just head on over to that Christmas tree farm by the railroad tracks. I think it's called Tinsel Town. I can't help you on the elf front though sweetheart," she chuckled, satisfied with herself.

Despite the lame attempt at humour, the bus lady was onto something, Jules thought. He had never seen a real reindeer up close, and he thought maybe if he could observe a few going about their business, he could prove once and for all that there was no way they could fly. Besides, the North Pole was cold and far away and Jules had only packed a few bags of beef jerky and some old Spiderman comics for the trip.

He exited the station hastily, making his way to Tinsel Town. But first, Jules wanted to enlist the help of his usual partner in crime and overall genius, Arthur. He dropped a quarter into the payphone, and called his friend's house.

"Hello?"

"Meet me at Tinsel Town in 20 minutes."

"Julius?"

"You used my name!"

The line crackled.

"What else am I supposed to use?"

"They could be listening in on the call. Can you get there? It's by the old train tracks." "What are you talking about?"

"It doesn't matter. Just be there."

"OK. I have to finish my homework first. Can we pet the reindeer?"

Jules hung up.

As much as Julius enjoyed the company of his oldest pal — the two were essentially inseparable at recess, choosing rousting rounds of Gameboy over the playground antics of their classmates — it always irked him how easily the wool was pulled over Arthur's eyes.

Like most kids, Jules had a vivid imagination, escaping into the fantasyland of books, TV and video games whenever he could. But he knew they were just that: fantasy. Arthur, on the other hand, firmly believed in ghosts and aliens and Bigfoot and just about anything else that's been largely discredited by experts.

So, it's no surprise the boys were deep in debate at Tinsel Town's reindeer pen ("If they aren't magic, then why does Rudolph's nose glow red?" Arthur posited) when Jules saw something rustling in the bushes.

Expecting a bunny or squirrel to appear, Jules didn't think much of it until he noticed the tip of a green felt hat sticking out of the leaves. But as soon as he caught a glimpse of it, it disappeared.

It was a satisfied Jules who left Tinsel Town soon after, his resolve strengthened after witnessing the fat, sickly reindeer grazing at icy clomps of grass at the old farm. These sad animals were more likely to catch a cold than flight, Jules thought, and even Arthur seemed a little doubtful.

So the boys began to make their way home, braving the chilly winter air. They turned onto Julius' street, and, nose running, he asked Arthur if he wanted to come inside for a cup of hot chocolate to warm up.

But before he had the chance to respond, Jules noticed his front door, ajar, and knew something was amiss. His parents wouldn't be home from work for another hour at least, and Jules initially assumed a robber was ransacking the place.

But the reality, it turned out, was much stranger, and as he cautiously approached the house, Jules saw his Christmas letter — the very same he had dropped in the mailbox only hours before — stabbed through the front door with a sharpened candy cane.

Mouths aghast, the boys followed a trail of black soot to the kitchen table, where another letter was found, with a large hunk of coal doubling as a makeshift paperweight.

Terrified, the boys peered at the ominous message, scrawled in red and green lettering.

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You have been a very naughty little boy, Jules, very naughty indeed.

The other children don't ask questions. The other

children get everything they want for Christmas. But

not you Jules. Not this year, not ever.

This will be your only warning:

I see you when you're sleeping.

I know when you're awake.

I know when you've been bad or good, so be good for goodness sake.

 

"Santa"

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