Christmas Ashes
Authors: Robert Pruneda
CHRISTMAS ASHES
By
Robert Pruneda
This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and unintentional.
Copyright © 2015 by Robert Pruneda
Without limiting rights under copyright reserved above no part of this work may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system or transmitted in any form by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review.
All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.
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It’s that time of year again where the jolly old fat guy goes over his Naughty or Nice list and checks it twice. Every year, children from all over the world look forward to that special day. Kids beg Santa for the most popular toy of the season. Parents max out their credit cards. And retail stores ring in record profits. It’s Christmas time.
But not every boy and girl gets a visit from Santa Claus. At least not a jolly one that involves presents under the Christmas tree. Oh, no, Santa reserves those for the good boys and girls. So what about the bad kids? What happens to them? Will they get lumps of coal in their stockings instead of candy canes, gift cards, or video games?
One naughty boy in Restwood Mills might have considered a lump of coal a precious gift. He had to learn the hard way that staying on Santa’s Naughty List has serious consequences.
* * *
“Give it back!” Jonathan Brandon yelled. He shuffled back and forth between William Hamilton and Daniel Easterling. The two teenagers tossed a baseball cap over the ten-year-old boy’s head in a game of keep-away.
William laughed and whacked him over the head with the cap before tossing it back to Daniel.
“I mean it, Will!” Jonathan flailed his arms while trying to intercept it. “Give it back!”
“Uh-oh, he means it.” William snorted another laugh. “Little turd is serious.”
Daniel waved the cap just out of Jonathan’s reach and tossed it over his head. William caught it and held it behind his back, while keeping the smaller boy at bay with his free hand.
“Come on, man, give it.”
“You want it?” William said, smiling. “You really want it?”
“Yes! Now give it.”
William shoved the cap down the back of his pants. He bent over and let out a rumbling fart that lasted a good three seconds. Daniel held one hand over his mouth and nose, busting out laughing while pointing. William pulled the cap out of his pants and rubbed it against Jonathan’s face. Then he dropped it in a puddle of muddy water, stomped on it, and twisted his foot.
“No!” Johnny cried out. “My dad gave that to me!”
“Aw, poor whittle Johnny,” William said. “Did I hurt your whittle feelings? You gonna cry?”
Jonathan screamed and shoved William, pounding him three times in the chest. William didn’t even flinch at the blows to his body. He rolled his eyes and grabbed a wad of his little assailant’s hair. He pulled the boy's head back and landed a solid punch across his face. Jonathan fell into the puddle of water next to his baseball cap.
“Later, wimp,” William said as he and Daniel walked away. “And happy birthday.”
Jonathan cried and lifted his soiled cap from the water. He stared at the Marine Corps emblem, then rubbed some mud off it. He narrowed his eyes and glared at the two neighborhood bullies. Jonathan was short for his age and he didn’t have any friends. He’d always kept to himself, never bothering anyone. That didn’t stop those jerks from picking on him. He didn’t care about why they did it, either. He just wanted the bullying to stop.
* * *
Jonathan sat at a small wooden desk in his bedroom, his dirty cap hung on the edge of his chair. On the desk was an empty plate with bread crumbs next to a handwritten letter to Santa Claus. He lifted the sheet of paper and read what he had just written.
Dear Santa,
I don’t know if you are really real or not because some of the other kids say you are not real. But just in case you are, I only want to ask you for one thing this Christmas. There are two boys in my neighborhood that keep picking on me. I wish they would stop. They are really mean to me and ruined the baseball cap that my dad gave me for my birthday. Dad is a Marine and I haven’t seen him in months. He gave me some other stuff too, but the cap was my favorite because I want to be a Marine just like him when I grow up. Anyway, I just want those jerks to leave me alone. I don’t know if you only give toys and games for Christmas, or whatever, but I do not want any of that. You can skip my house this year. Just make William Hamilton and Daniel Easterling leave me alone. That is all I want for Christmas. Thank you, Santa!
~ Jonathan David Brandon
P.S. Give them an extra lump of coal this year too. They deserve it!
Jonathan tri-folded his letter and stuffed it into a white envelope. He addressed it to Santa Claus at the North Pole. Return address: Jonathan Brandon, 616 Silverton Lane, Restwood, TX 76695.
* * *
Santa Claus dropped another log into the fireplace and jabbed at the small pile with an iron poker. Embers rose from the crackling fire as the chubby man with the fluffy white beard arranged the logs. He set the poker back onto its stand and rubbed his hands near the fire. Then he headed back to his mahogany desk, where a bag full of letters awaited him.
Santa rubbed his belly and smiled, his rosy cheeks glistening. He eyed the fresh batch of cookies Mrs. Claus had made for him. He grabbed one and dunked it in a glass of milk. As he bit into the sugary treat, he lifted an envelope from the mail bag and sat in his antique chair. It squeaked as it resisted his weight. The jolly old fellow chewed on his cookie while he removed the letter from the envelope.
“Ho-ho-ho,” Santa chimed as he unfolded the letter. “Let’s see what little Johnny Brandon wants for Christmas this year.”
Santa’s cheery face turned sour. He set the cookie down and frowned, adjusting his wire-framed glasses. He read the letter again and pulled open the desk drawer. He removed a computer tablet, placed it on his desk, and turned it on. He swiped his chubby finger across the screen and tapped on an animated icon of a little boy's face. NICE flashed below the face when he smiled. NAUGHTY flashed when he frowned. A couple of seconds later the
Naughty or Nice List
welcome message filled the screen. Folks were right when they claimed there was an app for everything.
He pressed a little square button at the bottom of his tablet. “William Hamilton,” he said. “Restwood, Texas.”
A few seconds later, a photo of William popped up on the upper left hand of the screen, along with a short biography. It also included his birthday, names of his parents, his home address, and the school he attended. NAUGHTY flashed in bold red letters underneath the biography. Santa read the lengthy list of naughty things William had done over the past year. He'd lied to his parents, cheated on tests at school, and bullied younger kids. He’d also scratched his neighbor’s car with a key, and even defecated on the same neighbor’s porch. Santa cringed at that one. And those were from the list of minor infractions.
Santa tapped on a few of the listings and watched videos of William’s naughtiness. The fifteen-year-old’s behavior appalled Santa. What sickened him most, even more than the defecation prank, was what he'd done to a stray cat on Halloween. It wasn’t just naughty, it was downright evil. He watched William toss the poor animal into a barbecue pit. Charcoal was flaming underneath the grill. He slammed the hood shut, blocking the cat’s escape, and laughed as it shrieked inside.
Santa frowned and lowered his brow, tossing his half-eaten cookie onto the plate. He then checked Daniel Easterling’s file. He too was on the
Naughty List.
His violations weren’t anywhere near as severe as William Hamilton’s, though. The worst he'd done was minor bullying and stealing snacks from a convenience store. The two teenagers did have one thing in common. Neither of them believed in Santa Claus and had made it a point to tell younger kids that he didn’t exist.
Santa narrowed his eyes and twisted the corners of his mouth upwards. “Ho-ho-ho,” he laughed as he retrieved his half-eaten cookie. “I’ve got a special visit planned for you this year, boys.”
* * *
William leaned forward with a bowl of cat food in his hand. “Here kitty-kitty,” he said while shaking the bowl. A calico cat meowed a couple of times and inched forward. It had a red collar and a little silver tag in the shape of a paw hanging from it. “That’s right, come and get it.”
William set the bowl down and backed away, grinning. The cat meowed and took a few steps forward. It raised its head at the teen before sniffing the food.
“Come on, you stupid cat,” he said and scanned the neighborhood. As far as he could tell, nobody was watching. “Come on, eat up.”
The cat finally lowered its head over the bowl and took a few bites. Then it increased its pace. William’s grin grew wider. It turned into a guffaw as something snapped inside the bowl. Dry nuggets of food flew up and out of it. The cat shrieked, jumped about foot, and ran away.
William peered down at the bowl and frowned. “Damn it!” The mouse trap that he’d buried underneath the food was still there.
* * *
“Trixie!” Jonathan called out from his front porch, the door wide open. He had a personalized ceramic bowl in his hand with his cat’s name on it. “Trixie!” he called out again.
A few seconds later, a calico cat came running across the yard from down the street. She ran past Jonathan and straight into the house. Jonathan watched as she darted down the hallway towards his bedroom.
“Hey, where are you going?” he said as he pushed the door shut behind him. “It’s time to eat.” He found his cat hiding underneath his bed. It took him a few minutes to coax her out. He held her in his arms and brushed his hand over her back. That’s when he noticed the mark on the cat’s face. She was bleeding and missing some whiskers. “What in the world happened to you? Did you get into a fight again?”
Jonathan carried Trixie to the kitchen and set her down next to her food bowl. She sniffed it, then walked away.
* * *
“Dude, are you serious?” Daniel said into the cordless phone from the couch in his living room. “What if someone saw you?”
“No one saw me,” William said.
“Are you sure? Because—”
“Yeah, I’m sure. Besides, nothing happened.”
Daniel propped his feet on the wooden coffee table in front of the couch. “But what if something did happen? That cat would’ve been . . .” He spotted his little sister trotting into the living room from the bedroom hallway. “. . . you know.”
“Yeah, well, it didn’t,” William said. “Unfortunately.”
Daniel’s sister stepped up to him and tugged on his shirt. She was holding a sheet of paper in her hand. “Wanna see my Christmas letter to Santa?”
He glared at his sister. “I’m busy. Go away.”
“Come on. Don’t be a Scrooge.”
“That your sister?” William said from the other line.
“Yeah, she’s bugging me about her letter to Santa.”
William laughed. “Please. Little kids can be so stupid. I never believed in that nonsense.”
“Yeah, I stopped believing when I was six.”
“Stopped believing what?” Josie said.
“Nothing,” he said to his sister and shooed her off. “So what are you doing during Christmas break?” he asked William.
Josie tugged on her brother’s shirt again. He ignored her. “Danny,” she pouted. “Mom and Dad said you need to be nicer to me because of—“
“Oh, shut up, you little brat. They say a lot of things. And for the record, what happened last week wasn’t my fault.”
William laughed. “I remember you telling me about that.”
Daniel smiled.
“You flushed my bird down the toilet!”
William’s laugher was loud enough that Josie heard it. She wrinkled her forehead and glared at the phone. “I wanted to give Birdie a funeral.”
“Did she just say she wanted to give her dead bird a funeral?” William asked.
“Yeah, she did,” Daniel said. “Now beat it,” he said to his sister and pushed her away. “Santa isn’t real anyway. Mom and Dad buy you those gifts.”
Josie’s face drooped in shock and sorrow. Her lower lip quivered and her eyes got moist. “You take that back!” she yelled. “You’re a liar!”
Daniel rolled his eyes. “Mom and Dad are the liars. Not me. You’re way too old to believe in Santa Claus anyway.”
“Am not!” Josie yelled. “Santa’s real!”
“Isn’t your kid sister like eight years old?” William asked.
“Yeah, she’s eight. Too old,” Daniel said, eyeing his sister with raised eyebrows. “And the Easter Bunny isn’t real either.”
“I hate you!” Josie dropped her letter and ran down the hallway, crying.
“Dude, that was kind of harsh,” William said.
Daniel cocked his head back. “Like you’re a saint. You cooked a cat in a barbecue pit for Pete’s sake.”
“Tasted like chicken too.”
Daniel lowered his chin and made a gagging sound. “Man, that’s sick. You need serious help, dude.”
* * *
Four weeks later, Santa visited the Easterling home at 3:15 a.m. on Christmas morning. Little Josie slept on the couch in the living room, a blanket folded at her feet. She snuggled her arms around the teddy bear Santa had given her two years ago. There was a glass of milk and a saucer of chocolate chip cookies on the coffee table. Santa loved chocolate chip cookies!