Here’s a small xmas themed story I’ve been working on:

Around the world, Christmas morning, arises a plaintive cry: “Where are my presents?” Under the tree were packages from Perky Petunia, presents covered in bows from Billous Bob. Even socks and toothpaste from the parents. But no! No presents from dear old St. Nick. None. Not a single one. A jolly day, of family gathering, of present getting and giving. Marred by this momentous lack!

That is, except for one house. Nestled on the corner of an upscale New York neighbourhood, a rather simple (but elegant mind you!) brownstone. No, there, in that neighbourhood, of fake smiles, smug superiority, and simple vain-glory, one child recieved presents from Mr. Claus.

Michael was his name, a brat extraordinare. He loved proving just how much better he was than the other supercilious children. “Oh, I have more video games than you!” he would tell the others, even as he gestured at a stack of packages, complete with plastic wrapping.

On that early morning, just after midnight, the police squealed in, shouted with Irish accents into the house, eventually drawing the ire of the fashionable neighbourhood.

“Hmph! The nerve. Bothering us on Christmas morning.” muttered one ungrateful executive, double-chin quivering in indignation.

As the reason for the stir was revealed, the women gasped appropiately, “Ughh! Fur! Real fur! What a brute! And look at that outfit, red, with a big black belt? Why… is that… yes it is, its felt! What horrendous fashion sense!”

Caught red-suited, the thief was dragged out, illuminated in red, and blue, blaats of noise surrounding him. Flashbulbs making him blink, and scowl behind his snow-white beard.

Oh my, a thief was caught Christmas morning! Imagine the sheer audacity! was proclaimed on the fourth page of the Village Gazette. On the front page, there lurked images of kittens in christmas hats. Oh so very cute!

The children of the world wailed and cried, moaned and begged, wondering, oh wondering just where their presents were. Look! Theres the boxes from Bob! proclaim the parents. And see! presents from Petunia! What presents could you mean?

“The ones from Santa!” bawl the children, in each of their languages, to a set of consternated parents. The parents all smile sadly, and tell little Timmy, or Agatha, or Zezuna, that Santa was not real. It had been them all these years.

As the tears dried, and children began to calm down, a little old man, in a psychiatric hospital, arrested Christmas morning, began to change. His beard began to turn grey and wispy, his eyes lost their twinkle. He began to lose weight, but still, ever still, he insisted he was Nicholas of Myra.