This piece made the top 3 for December at the Beacon Flash 500 Word Short Competition. Their post is found on this link: Beacon Flash December Top 3
There! I see them.
Big black boots with high cotton tops.
Holy crap! Wait til’ my friends hear about this.
Wait.
Is that my mom’s voice down there too? My mom knows Santa? That’s
ridiculous.
I scooch down the steps, slowly as to not alarm anyone. I’m
stealth, like a ninja.
Suddenly, my mom laughs like my sister when she’s on the
phone with her boyfriend, all giggly and girly. Do not ruin this for me mom. I
will not be able to handle it if she causes Santa to leave because of that
cackly giggle.
“I hope I wasn’t being too forward at the mall, but it’s not
often I see a beautiful lady without a ring on.” The fat, jolly man giggles
like mom. Weird.
Wait a second, is this the mall Santa we got pictures with
yesterday? It couldn’t be.
I scooch some more, until I’m two steps from the bottom. The
entry way into our living room is so close now, I could stand up and they’d see
me. I lay back, partially covered by the fake garland decorations on our
stairs.
“Well, I know the kids sure took a liking to you, so I
figured it wouldn’t be harmful to talk at least.” This sentence is punctuated
by more cackling and giggling.
I think I’m going to be sick.
Silence.
Except for smacking and moaning. Why aren’t they talking?
This is driving me crazy.
So much so, I jump from the stairs and burst into the living
room. Oh my God. Right next to our 7-foot Douglas Fir, my mom is lip locked
with Santa!
“Gregory Taylor, what are you doing?” she takes her lips off
him long enough to yell at me.
“What am I doing? Wait. Where’s your beard, Santa?” I notice
the baritone lip-locker is only wearing his Santa pants and boots and a plain
white t-shirt. And he’s skinny!
“Hey, little buddy…”
Before he could get anything else out, I bounded up the
stairs and slammed my door shut behind me.
My breathing was heavy, and my head was dizzy. I laid on my
twin, muscle car bed and grabbed a baseball and tossed it toward my ceiling.
That didn’t just happen. It was all a dream.
A faint knock on the door, followed by my mom, poking her
head into my room, “Gregory? He’s gone now. I’m so sorry, honey.”
Her cheeks are red, ironically.
“Just answer me one thing, mom. Was that the real Santa?”
“Of course not, dear. Santa only comes on Christmas Eve.”
Thank God. I smiled and said goodnight, as she flipped off
my light.
I turn on my starry sky light and they fill my ceiling like
the night sky.
At least he wasn’t real.
He was a fake Santa.
Sweet dreams to me.
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