A Christmas Prayer
by S. Parker

A silent house under a blanket of snow. Only the young boy at his window, watching flakes fall, eyeing each one as he surveys the sky in hopes of catching Saint Nicholas’ sleigh in the night. Lids heavy, he wanders downstairs, to watch the tree’s colored light, where shadows stretch longer the more that he stares. And bent in the blackness behind the glittering pine’s stand, crouched near the chimney’s gaping dark ash, a figure moves swift out of sight.

“Santa,” he calls, and hopes against hope, until whoever’s behind steps into the tree’s twinkling glow.

The red-clad creature, short, fat and old, gives a wink and a nod, scratches his stub nose. his long pointed ears twitter and curl as he licks his thin lips which part to reveal tiny, sharp teeth arranged in bent rows. His beard, grey and grizzled, is soiled with ash from slithering down the chimneys of a countless Christmas. In his long-nailed hand he held a small box, wrapped in a perfect gold hue, which like a dream vanished as the boy reached his hand.

“No presents for children who don’t sleep Christmas eve,” explained he in a coarse and deep whisper. A far-off red shone for emphasis in his eyes, burning hotter than his suit and the tree’s light combined. And without a sound he slid beneath the mantle, into the cold, empty hearth…

Later, many years later, the boy would be pleased to discover that really and truly there is no such thing as Santa.

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