14 December 2013

14 December 2013

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The prompts are:

  1. Santa! I wasn’t expecting you
  2. I put _____ in the fruitcake
  3. Santa just called…

Begin Writing
It was Christmas Eve and I knit my brows and set the phone gently back on the cradle, “Dammit” I muttered.

“What’s the deal? What’s wrong?”  Pamela asked.

“Santa just called.  He told me that he’s moved my name to the ‘Naughty’ list.  I’m telling you Pamela, I – I just don’t need any more coal for Christmas.  That’s all I’ve gotten for the last 17 years.”

“Whatever did you do?” Pamela asked.  “I thought you were pretty good this year”

“I thought so too.  I mean, I built that orphanage in Vietnam, I donated three cars to NPR, and only one of them was stolen.  I gave 4 dozen turkeys and a barrel of root beer to the homeless shelter for thanksgiving dinners and I spent my vacation teaching those troubled teens about drugs, just like the judge asked me to. But, that wasn’t my fault.  There was a communication problem.  He should have been more specific”

“So what’s the deal?” she asked again.

“I think the fat bastard may have found out that I put hashish in the fruitcake.”

“You did what?” Pamela snarled.

“Yeah, I took some liberties with Grandma’s recipe.  I figured it would make spending Christmas with your mother a little more palatable.  She’s the only one who would eat it anyway.”

“Wait,” I think Mom’s passed out at the table.  Maybe no one’s eaten any of the fruitcake.  Maybe we can get it back before anyone has a piece.  Santa will have to put your name back on the ‘Nice’ list if no one eats it, right.  No harm, no foul!  Right?”

“Let’s go check” I said hopefully.

We headed for the dining room and I peeked around the door jamb.  There was Mom, her head resting on her mashed potatoes, the knuckles of her fingers glowed white as she clutched the tumbler of Four Roses that stood next to her dinner plate.  There was a lot of gravy in her hair.  She was going to be a joy in the morning.

Pamela jabbed me in the ribs with her elbow.  She was pointing towards the sideboard.  There sat the tainted fruitcake.  It looked like it was all still there.  I straightened up and nonchalantly walked into the dining room.  I nodded my head at my useless brother in law, “Hey Jimbo.  You ready for some coffee?”

“Why? Are you out of booze?” he sneered and looked back at Uncle Billy.  The exchanged a high five and both looked smugly back at me, waiting for an answer.

“Let me go check, I think there’s still some Jagermeister in the fridge.” I said and I scooped up the fruit cake, turned on my heel, and headed for the kitchen.  Pamela was already there.

Time is up. Put down your writing implements and step away from the paper.

A small crowd today allowed us one more prompt and 15 additional minutes to write.  I elected to continue the story started above.

The prompt was:

  1. Neat as a pin

Begin Writing
“No one has had any yet” I said to her.  “Where can we hide this?”

“I’ll take it upstairs and stash it under the bed” Pamela said.  “You and I can use it to ring in the New Year.”

Sweet, I thought.  Now how do I get word to Santa?  I gotta get off that ‘Naughty’ list.

Just then there was a tapping on the kitchen window.  I looked over and there he stood.  The Jolly Old Elf himself.  Good I need to talk to him.  I reached over the sink and opened the window.  “Santa! I wasn’t expecting you.”  I said, “We’re all still awake.  Well, all of us except Mom, she got a bit tired.”

He touched the side of his nose and seemed to move effortlessly through the window.  He was suddenly standing next to me. His beard and suit were as neat as a pin.  “Ho, ho, ho” he said, and his belly shook when he laughed.

“Aren’t you supposed to come down the chimney?” I asked.

“You don’t have a fireplace.” he answered “Give me the fruitcake Thom.”

“Santa, there might be some Jagermeister in the fridge.  Or wait, wouldn’t you rather have some cookies and milk?” I asked.  “Pam and I sort of have plans for the fruitcake.”

“Ok” he sighed.  “I’ll just go put this lump of coal in your stocking.  Where is your stocking this year?” he asked.

“Wait Santa!”

Time is up. Put down your writing implements and step away from the paper.

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