Breaking The News About Santa:

(I've been very busy, and I'm still busy.  In fact, I'm applying to nine colleges, so right now I'm the busiest that I have ever been.  Plus, it's Christmastime.  Also, I'm in the planning stages for a novel that I'm going to begin writing in February, but I'll explain more about that in the new year.  However, I did find some time to write some holiday-themed short fiction recently, so I've decided to share that with you just in time for the celebration of the birth of Jesus.  Merry Christmas, Happy New Year, and please enjoy my satirical story, entitled "Breaking the News about Santa.")

    “What do you mean, Santa Claus isn’t real?” Brendan said, his eyelids opened widely and his jaw slack.
    “I mean just what I said,” Michael responded.  “He’s not real.  You know it, and I know it.  There’s just no reason to believe in him anymore.”
    Before Brendan could answer, Lucille entered carrying a steel tray supporting several cookies formed and decorated to look like candy canes, stockings, and miniature, androgynous people.  Her torso was also decorated, as she was wearing an apron with the phrase, “Ho, Ho, Ho,” written many times across it.  “Would my boys like some Christmas cookies on this lovely Christmas Eve?” she asked, grinning at her husband and her son.
    “Lucy, there’s something you need to hear,” Brendan said hesitantly.  “But first you should probably sit down.”
    “What is it, Bren-Bren?” Lucy said to her husband as she sat down on the sofa, setting the cookie tray down on the coffee table and taking off her oven mitts.
    “Mikey, tell mommy what you just told me,” Brendan said, letting out a sigh.
    From his position on the floor, sitting Indian-style, Michael turned to face his mother and said without a trace of sadness, “Santa Claus isn’t real.”
    Lucille gasped and dropped her oven mitts on to the floor, where the family’s Chihuahua, Prancer, was quick to grab one of them in his teeth and treat it as his new chew toy.  “Merry Christmas, Prancer,” Michael thought as he stared up at the unveiled look of shock on his mother’s face.
    “Mikey, how can you say such a thing on Christmas Eve?” Lucille said sternly.  “You’re likely to get coal in your stocking if you keep up that kind of talk.”
    “But, it’s the truth, Mom, and you’ve got to accept it as much as I have,” Michael said.  “You couldn’t keep up the illusion forever.  I’m growing up fast.  You can’t expect me to be naïve like a kid forever.”
    “But Mikey,” his father insisted, “You’re only eight years old!”
    “Right,” Michael said.  “And that’s eight years that you’ve been forcing me to believe a lie.”
    “But Santa Claus is real, son,” Brendan said.  “Who would tell you any differently?”
    “Nobody had to tell me, Dad,” Michael said.  “It was easy enough to figure out myself, especially with the internet and all.”
    “I told you we needed parental protection on that gosh darned machine,” Lucille whispered too loudly.
    “I didn’t even know he could reach the keyboard,” Brendan said.
    “According to my findings, Santa’s trip around the world would be impossible in the time allowed,” Michael said.  “He would have to visit thousands of houses per second to deliver all the toys.  It’s ridiculous!”
    “But sweetie,” Lucy said, “That’s why Santa uses magic, like your friend from the books, Harry Potter.”
    “She’s right, son,” Brendan said.  “In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised to learn that Santa Claus went to Hogwarts when he was just a boy.”
    “When was Santa Claus ever ‘just a boy’?” Michael asked.  “And for goodness’s sake, Harry Potter is no more real than Santa is.”
    “Well, um, Mikey,” said the boy’s mother, struggling for a sound argument, “How can you say that Santa isn’t real when you met him yourself?  Don’t you remember last week, when we took you to the mall to meet him?”
    “Your mother’s right, Mike,” Brendan said again.  “You sat in his lap yourself and even told him what you want for Christmas.”
    “That man was not Santa Claus,” Michael said.  “His beard was held on by an elastic band, he answered to the name Steve, and he smelled like Uncle Alex whenever he talks funny and can’t stand up straight.  And when I told him what’s on my Christmas list this year, he told me that, when he was my age, he was lucky to get tomato soup and a block of wood.”
    “I told you that we should have taken him to Macy’s,” Lucille whispered, again much too loudly.
    “And I told you that I was never going to wait in line for two hours for something that we can get in our own local mall after ten minutes,” Brendan said.
    Lucille inwardly reached for her last resort, the final argument that might persuade her son and restore his youthful innocence.  “But Mikey,” she said, “If Santa Claus doesn’t exist, then who brings you so many presents every year at Christmas?”
    “You do,” Michael said before his mother could even hold her breath or cross her fingers.  “You and Dad hide my presents in the garage until I go to bed on Christmas Eve.  Then, you bring the presents in here, with the tree.  I can hear it all from my room.  I bet the neighbors can hear it, too.  You’re pretty loud.”
    “You’re right,” she said.  Brendan let his head fall to his chest in defeat.  There was a moment of silence as thick as a fruitcake, and then Lucille had an epiphany.  “We do bring your presents here, because your father and I are official, professional Santa’s helpers.”
    Michael looked up at his mother and saw signs of hope that lit up her eyes like gumdrops on a gingerbread house.  Try as he might, he couldn’t make his parents accept the truth that he had accepted the truth about Santa Claus.  So, feigning enthusiasm as best he could, Michael said, “Really?”
    “Um, yes, that’s the truth,” Lucille said, trying her best to continue what she had started.  “I guess the secret is out, eh, Bren-Bren?  There’s no sense in hiding it from him now.  Every year, Santa delivers toys to our garage in early December, because—like you said, Mikey, you smart boy, you—one night is not enough time to deliver all the toys.  So, we bring them inside on Christmas Eve, and it’s like the whole thing happened overnight.  Isn’t that right, honey?”
    “Listen to your mother, son,” Brendan said.
    “Wow,” Michael said, playing a role in very much the same way that his mother was improvising.  “Thanks, Mom.  Thanks, Dad.  That’s wonderful news.  I love you both so much.”
    “We love you, too, Mikey,” Lucille said.  “Now, be a dear and do Mommy a favor: go into the next room and get my oven mitt back from Prancer.  Make sure he doesn’t snap at you.  Thanks, sweetie.”
    In the next room, Michael saw Prancer rolling on the floor, his whole head inside the oven mitt.  When the Chihuahua could feel Michael’s footsteps, he found his way out just in time to growl at Michael’s approaching hand.  Prancer refused to release his grip on the oven mitt, and there was now a visible tear in the thumb portion.
    “Oh, Prancer,” Michael said, sitting down on the floor beside his manic dog, “If Mom and Dad took the news about Santa this bad, how will I ever be able to tell them that I’m an atheist.”

(End Post.)