A short story about a young eleven year old girl struggling to cope and come to terms with her mother's debilitating illness. I wrote this one with a certain child in mind who went through a similar situation. The circumstances, time, and place have all been changed. I have tried to capture the essence of the struggle in few, simple words. 

   Tia Maya was on her way back from school. The day was a bit blustery and her hair, unruly and wild on any given day, was blowing across her face. It was a short walk and she usually walked alone, not in any hurry. She knew what awaited her at home.

        Mrs. Keating, her teacher, always looked sympathetically at her at the end of the day, as if to say, “I am sorry, Tia Maya, I wish I could help you." But, that was okay, Tia Maya was used to it. She liked her teacher, who was kind, and whose eyes showed that special affection whenever she looked at Tia Maya, or walked past her desk while handing out papers. Not that she had ever said anything different than to other children, it was all summed up in the tender caress of her gaze. She stored that gaze in her mind; it was special, something to put away in her pocket, to take out and to savor when she hungered for it.

          Tia Maya did not have many friends, or no special friend anyway, but most people were gentle with her, even her peers, though she did not race across the playground with them, or sit by the swings and gossip about other kids, or boys, or famous movie stars, or who the current favorite on “American Idol” was.

          She was lucky, she guessed, no mean words were ever said to her or about her, no one hurled any hurtful remarks at her, and that was okay, too. But, it wasn’t something to put away in her pocket. She wished for a special friend, someone who she could be noisy with, or silent with, who would share the untold secrets of her life, and never ask for an explanation for why she couldn’t have play dates, or sleepovers, or birthday parties. 

           Arriving at her doorstep, she paused. Slowly, she pushed against the door to open it, and saw her mother in the rocking chair, same as every day, looking out the window. 

“Hi, Mom,” she said, as her mother turned to look at her eleven year old daughter. Parkinson’s disease afflicted her hands, they trembled like the  leaves of the maple tree outside the window, as she stretched them tenderly and longingly towards Tia Maya, whose heart sank each time she looked at her mother. The mother she loved immeasurably, whose pain and infirmities crippled the lives of all those near and dear to her. She held her mother's hands and gave her a gentle kiss on the cheek.
                                                                                                                                                                                                      “I made you some soup and biscuits, Tia, you must eat”, she said. 

“Thanks, Mom, I will,” replied Tia Maya, washing her hands, letting the water run a minute longer. Then, pulling up a chair, she sat down, close to her mother.

          The soup tasted terrible –the quaking hand had accidentally sprinkled too much salt into it, but Tia Maya said nothing, and tried to eat as much as she could. They shared silence together, as speech had become increasingly difficult for her mother whose ailments extended way beyond Parkinson’s.

          But enough of that! Tia Maya did not wish to dwell on the night after night of moans and shrieks of utter helplessness and wretchedness that would rip through the silence, opening up the abyss of sheer depression as it grew like a creeper around their lives.

         This moment of sitting in stillness by her mother, the undisturbed moment of calm, was worth infinitely more than a single word either might have, or could have said right then - something definitely worth putting into her pocket and saving for another day when she would yearn for it.

         Tia Maya lingered a while before washing up her dishes, and placing her hand on her mother’s quivering arm, told her she would help with dinner, went to get her books from the backpack and retired to the couch on the other side of the room. 

         Even as the books lay open before her, Tia Maya’s thoughts strayed into another world, one that she had put away in her pocket, in which the doors and windows were wide open, letting the breeze in, one that was filled with the laughter and merriment of yesteryears, before darkness descended…

Oh, the card games, the jokes her uncles would tell, the utterly ridiculous tantrums her rebellious sister would throw in a battle of wills with her parents, as a teenager! Even those were treasured reminiscences, however disagreeable they seemed at the time, or the cup of milk Tia Maya would always slyly empty in the sink when her mother would hand it to her to drink, telling her she wouldn’t grow if she didn’t drink it up! Oh, yes, they had watermelon fights – her mother, she and her sister and brother – as they gleefully tossed chunks of it at each other to see who would get one straight on the nose! Tia Maya wondered whether her sister who was a senior in college now had fights like that with her friends. Or, did her brother remember those at all? He was a grown man, living his life far away in Chicago. When dad came home from work one day, a flying piece of watermelon greeted him as he entered the room, and he reeled backwards and laughed, something she had not seen him do in a long, long time. And then, there was the time when her mother had bought a special pot to cook an exotic pudding for Tia Maya for her seventh birthday, and as luck would have it, the pot had burned down on the stove, leaving a charred mess, and a major clean-up operation for the whole family had ensued. 

         How wonderfully trivial that seemed now! If only she could have those frivolities again! If the only things to worry about were the charred mess in the kitchen, or the watermelon slush on the floors and furniture instead of the wobbly creaking of the rocking chair by the window…

        Tia Maya closed her eyes, once again slipping those memories away into her secret pocket, for when she would need them again.

        One day, when it was all over, one ordinary day, when she would live an ordinary life, in the distant future, there would be another place for these memories.  For now, she opened her book and began to read.  

A couple of decades ago, in the most prosperous state of Brazil, a young man in his early twenties seemed to be doing well (by most standards), with a very bright and promising future. Then he turned his back on everything to follow the path his faith desired. Foolish or wise? Coward or brave?

During the day he worked in the Finance Department of the Brazilian Government, a position which meant good wages, flexible hours, stability and opportunity to progress. At night, from 7 to 10:30pm, he was wrapping up a four-year-long University course on computer studies. Programming main-frame IBM's during the day, and studying in the same field at night, part of him was thoroughly enjoying every minute of it. Pascal, 80-column cards, Dbase, and Fortran seemed like sweet music to his ears.

But part of him was unhappy. Living in one of the five largest cities in the world, surrounded by violence, viciousness and vice, he longed for something more meaningful. Believing in a personal God, and in an eternal future after death, he wanted more time to dedicate to serving this God. Week-ends were all he had at the minute; and it was going to get worse. The hectic pace of life in São Paulo, and the direction in which his career was heading, both were sure signs that the next few years would see him more and more involved in the world of computers.

What had sounded like sweet music, slowly began to be eerily similar to an orphaned sigh; what had seemed like a sweet dream at first, slowly began to exude a bitter perfume. So before death had the opportunity to wake him up to an eternal nightmare, he gave it all up. Moving back to the interior he opened a little shop, married, and threw himself body, soul and spirit into another kind of life. A life where the hours are longer, the stress and demands are greater, the immediate rewards fewer, and yet which has the promise of eternal joy.

Twenty years later, in a contemplative mood late one night, he looked back on the decision of his youth (life-changing, to say the least), and on what he had turned out to be.

He lived in the poorer part of a small town. His earthly possessions were limited to the house where he lived, and a car nearly as old as his memories of São Paulo. As the world (or at least, his neighbours) slept outside, he gazed down on the sleeping form of his darling little girls, sleeping so peacefully (the elder, impetuous and vulnerable like her mother; the middle one, quiet and moody like himself; and the little one, a charming mixture of everything he loved). He looked out the window at the moon, gazing through the leaves of the tree in the garden, reflecting in her smile the peace in his heart. He went back to bed, and cuddled up close to his sleeping wife, who had been with him during all those changes, challenges and tears.

As she murmured in her sleep and returned his embrace, he felt the warmth of her body against his, and thanked God for how rich he had turned out to be.

Being as bored as could be, I did what a lot of guys do. I slowly slid my hand into.......

*RINGGGG* Phone rings.

"Hello?"

"Oh, hi Mom."

"Yes...I am fine. You?"

"That's good.

"Okay....Be safe on your drive to church. Bye."

Where was I? Oh.....I slide my hand in slowly. It feels so good.

*RINGGGG* Damn phone.

"Hello?"

"Yes dear."

"Yes dear."

"Love you too. Bye."

Uhhh....Oh yeah...I slide my hand in slowly. Gee this feels good. I think I should oil it up. I squeeze it gently.

*RINGGG, RINGGG* I wonder if the phone would bounce well?

"What?"

"Did you ask your Mom?"

"Well, what did she say?"

"Ask Dad? What if I told you to ask Mom?"

"Oh....I did? Okay.....go ahead and go, but don't be out too late."

"Love you too. Bye."

Crap.....what was I do.....Oh yeah. I slide my hand in again. It is so soft and comfortable. Love this feeling. I think about oil again.....Nawww.....I will do the oil thing later.

*RINGGGG* Screw this.

I slide my hand out of my ball glove, grab the ball and head for the door.

*RINGGG*

"Come on Bohdi. I will toss the ball and you can fetch."

Paddy, I think I'm dying.

I don't mean "dying" in the generic, fate-of-all-mankind way; not as in "we're-all-going-to-die-some-day" type of statement. I really think I'm getting to the end of the race, so to speak.

And before you ask, yes, I am quite sure of it, thank you!

So, as someone who is leaving the party, allow me some last minute requests (consider them the words I've been dying to speak):

First of all, please don't ask me why I'm dying. Or rather, why I think I'm dying. I really don't know. I just feel different these last months, and believe I am quite capable of deciphering the myriad little messages my body keeps sending me. If anyone should know, I should know! I know I said that I don't know why I'm dying, but I do know that I am dying. I trust your little mind can wrap itself around the Queen's good English, my Irish friend.

Secondly, please don't phone me up and say you're sorry. It's not as if it's your fault, is it? So why apologize? And if you mean "sorry" as in "I'm feeling sorry for myself because I will miss the sublime privilege of your company", well, don't be so base and egocentric! I mean, I'm the one that's dying, and you're feeling sorry for you? No, that would be too much for me to take at this stage of the proceedings.

Thirdly, don't ask me to leave you anything. My will is written out, signed and sealed, so it's too late. Carol gets everything. Oh, and remember your trite, tired, tiring and trying little joke? "Where there's a will, I want to be in it"? Well, there's one here, mate, but you're not in it.

Fourthly, you can forget about my darling Carol. I know you fancy her, but she's faithful! Last night I told her about my impending demise, and I can still hear her promise ringing in my ears: "My darling, I'll remain a widow till my dying day. Or yours, whichever comes first" (she has that habit of adding little snippets to everything she says. I rarely understand them, but I love her little Irish quirks).

And finally, if all this comes as a shock, well, I can't say I'm sorry. You thought you were my best friend, didn't you? Well, I'll finally spell it out for you: I hate, loath and despise you! Why? Because you're false, that's why! All these ten years you've pretended to like me, but it's Carol you like. Oh, I know it all, mate! Six months ago I saw a message on her iPhone which you had sent, and she then told me everything. She showed me all the little messages describing imaginary nights you spent with her when I was travelling (as if I don't trust my own wife!), and even those photos of both of you in bed (you're good with Photoshop, I have to admit). I was going to kill you, nice and slowly, but she told me it didn't mean anything to her. She admitted that she never even read the messages, nor looked at the photos, and only kept them all in her safe in case she needed to show them to me some day, the little pet! And, if I made the matter public, she would be slandered, so I agreed to keep it all quiet.

And that is probably what's been killing me slowly since then. To know that you, my "best friend", were tormenting my wife for years. To know that you even suggested she kill me with little doses of poison in those lovely lemon pies she makes me every Sunday. How stupid. Did you actually think I'd stop eating them because of that? I trust Carol with my life, mate!

I've asked her to post this for me, as I'm too weak to leave the house. I've been going rapidly down hill these last days, but I relish this little victory at the end of the day: your heaviest blow will be posted to you by the one you love most! Deal with it, mate!

Au revoir to you. Don't bother coming to the funeral. Oh, and Carol says: "Tell him I still love the only love of my life". Which, of course, is me, you fool.

Yours, Sir Richard Peabrain, VC, KBE, MP.

After retiring from the USAF, I worked for a few years and then returned to college. I wasn't an ordinary student. Most students belonged to organizations such as Sigma Delta Pi, I belonged to the PTA.

The year had been a tough one. My sister had lost her home in the May 3rd, 1999 tornado that devastated Oklahoma City, my father was diagnosed as having liver cancer and I was carrying a full college load while working. December rolled around and when finals week reared its ugly head, I was notified that my Father only had days.

I had already finished some of my finals, but in two classes I had to take "i's" (incomplete) to go to my father who was 200 miles away. I loaded the family up and left.

Our Christmas tree was up, but we took the few gifts we had and put them in the car. Christmas was less then a week away, but Dad's funeral was the day before Christmas Eve. I was devastated, but tried to be strong for my siblings, my mother and my children. Even my wife was extremely upset at my Father's passing. He had been a good man to all of us.

I spent the days bringing things together and making arrangements for the funeral. Many of the items had been done by my Uncles, but I did many others myself. I found a Military Color Guard and managed to get them to come and honor my Father who had served for 21 years in the USAF. My wife and I bought a family wreath and we helped to pick out a head stone. I wrote a eulogy and gave it before the funeral to my father's church.

Preparing for a funeral is not what most do during this time year. Yet, Christmas shopping seemed to be minor for us. We did sneak away for a short time and purchased our children a Nintendo game system. We all knew Christmas would be sparse that year.

After the funeral, we stayed with my mother and helped her around the house taking care of things that Dad had not managed to finish. We spent Christmas Eve and Christmas Day with her so that she would not be alone. My younger sister and her Family, my brother and my older Sister and her family all stayed through Christmas. Then we went home late Christmas Day.

Driving home in the dark I was very somber. My Children had not had a very good Christmas. We had spent much of our Christmas money on the trip and the funeral. They had lost their only living grandfather and I had lost my father. It was a four hour trip of deep sorrow and regret.

Finally, we arrived home and as I parked the car, I noticed the front door was wide open. I asked my wife if she had any idea why it would be open and she didn't. I got out and slowly walked to the door. I looked in and all the lights were off. I opened the storm door and called for the dogs. They all came running.

The fact the dogs were alright and knowing that Austin would have attacked anyone he did not know within the house (which had done before) lead me to believe it was alright to enter. I walked in and keeping Austin by my side, I walked through the house. I checked the bedrooms first, then the kitchen and finally the living room.

When I hit the switch for the living room the Christmas tree lights came on and I was stunned.

Sitting under and around the tree was numerous gifts all wrapped up. I was amazed. We had taken all of the gifts we had with us.

I walked over to them and checked the tags. They were all address in typewritten tags that had my children's names on them. A few were to my wife and a few were to me.

Need less to say, I was stunned. I stood up and walked outside to my family and told them it was all clear. Then, I told them they all needed to go to the living room.

When we walked in, I noticed a white envelope that I had missed earlier. Opening it, it read:

Years ago, I heard that you had played Santa to a child in your town whose parents were going through a hard time. You bought them toys and left them Christmas Night on her family's porch.

You signed the letter Santa and never told anyone.

Having heard of the problems you had this Christmas, I needed to do this. Sorry, I broke in.

Love,

Santa

I remembered having done what the letter accused me of. It was several years earlier before I was married. Yet, I had not told anyone except for a friend who had died the following year.

To this day I have no idea who broke in and left all the gifts. I have no idea who knew about my gift giving that Christmas Night so long ago or why they felt I should be repaid. The gifts helped my children to have a better Christmas and is a gift of love that I will never forget.

Perhaps there is a Santa Clause. Perhaps he lives in each of us.

This is my entry for this Scott Butki Challenge.

"RITA!" I yelled. Yet, I knew Rita could not hear me. Only other plants can hear a rose screaming, but I had to try.

The tile was cold as ice and I felt it numbing my pedals. I didn't mind. The cold actually made the itching of my pedals feel better.

"RITA! Get your pen thingy. Hurry!" I cried.

Rita was already barely breathing and now she had gone down on all fours and was crawling.

"My God, she isn't going to make it." I thought as I watched her collapse to the tile.

Now, she laid there next to me and was turning blue.

"Damn bee!" I screamed at the bug lying on the floor. "You didn't have to sting her."

I laid there watching, unable to do anything as the life seeped out of her. A darkness came over her as her breathing became shallow.

I had spent my whole life growing in hopes of being given to a lover by a lover. My brother wanted to be part of a center piece, but I had higher hopes. This was not something I had ever wanted to be a part of. What flower in their right mind - and I am not talking about Mum's, because we all know they are never in their right mind - would want to be a witness to a murder.

I suddenly saw a shadow at the door and my hopes began to build as the door slowly opened.

"You?" I thought. The very reason I was in this situation was standing at the door.

He had met Rita when she had given him a parking ticket. In return he had thanked her and asked her out for tea. Rita had fallen for him, because he was nice and accepted the fact that he was wrong.

She went out with him that evening and this morning he had placed me at her door.

He looked down and saw her lying there. She slowly lifted her arm toward him and then her arm fell back to the cold tile.

Without a word he started yanking open drawers and looking. He moved quickly from one drawer to the next and then stopped and looked around the room. I knew what he was looking for.

He rushed to the other side of the room and yanked open the closet door. He stepped inside. I heard him rustle around a bit. Then he rushed out and came up to me and Rita.

Kneeling down he took her hand and spoke.

"Rita, I am so sorry that I had to do this." He said and held up her pink copy of the ticket she had given him.

"Remember the man who died of a heart attack yesterday? I did that job and you were the only one who can place me there." He stuffed the pink copy into his pocket and held the Epy pen thingy up as if to show her. Then he laid it just out of her reach.

"Getting that bee into that flower was very difficult. Yet, after that dance you did last night to avoid that bee and then your disclosure of the allergy...well, let's say you left me with the perfect solution."

The sleeping pills (her own) had been diluted in the little baby's bottle. As an afterthought, she added a little more sugar. She gently lifted her little prince in her arms, and even more gently fed him. Did he notice anything strange in the taste of the milk? Maybe. Anyway, he was too hungry to reject it. Then they both lay down on the bed, the little boy happy and secure in his mother's embrace.

Once she was sure he would never waken again, she knelt by the bed. She prayed for forgiveness, feeling a cold and hopeless fear, like an orphaned sigh. Ten minutes later she rose, a strange and frightening beauty lighting up her face, made more beautiful by the tears that hovered on the edge of her eyes, but refused to fall. She brought the wet towel over from the table, and knelt by the bed again. She looked on the lovely features of her only child. Red-orange hair, to remind her of Billy. Strong little fingers, like her mother's. A stronger heart, she knew, still beat within that little breast -- a heart like her own. What could he have become, given half a chance? What heights could he have climbed, what depths plunged, if only he had been born another day, another place!

A tremor shook her body. A sigh was softly breathed out, hardly audible. She prayed again (for courage,this time). A swift, small prayer. Swiftly still she pressed the towel to her little king's face, and gently pressed it down, pressing her face at his side on the bed, feeling his smell for the last time, hearing his little heart beat, picturing him again in her mind, smiling, crying, praying for courage, sobbing, and finally fainting.

As she regained conscience, trembling, she struck the match quickly, and shaded the flame with her hand until the bed-clothes caught fire. Then she quickly left the room, turned the key, and shoved it back into the room, beneath the door.

Outside the large, stone house, the crowd of angry villagers caught the first glimpse of smoke, heard the first cracklings of the fire. For over three hours they had been beating at the old wooden door, thicker than all their heads put together. It would soon give in, and they were wild and excited with thoughts of death and violence. The sight of the smoke made them roar all the louder. They wanted fresh, flowing blood, not a charred, dead body. With the strength of a multitude carried along by the collective hate and wickedness of normally loving and calm people, they tore at the door, shouting and screaming, thirsty for the blood of the woman and the blood of the baby.

She appeared at the balcony. Ah, how she was beautiful! The moon shining on her golden hair, the sad, unfathomable eyes, the calm smile on her face, the dignity of her movements. But their eyes couldn't see any beauty. They roared the louder, a collective madness of hate and fear and lust. As she stood on the balcony gazing at the smoke rising to embrace the moon, she was still smiling. She knew they would kill her after their initial hateful burst was satisfied. But her thoughts were on the little boy, her little man, her little eagle already soaring high on the flames out of their reach, her little warrior who had fought his last battle.

At least he was safe -- they would never touch him.

I cut myself tonight. I hadn't done it in ages. I don't know how it came about. Well, I suppose I do. I helped mum out and she bought me a bottle of wine because she knows that is what I love more than her. And I was empty of stomach and I was empty of head and I drunk it too quickly to fill me up. I drunk it out of a glass, it seemed the thing to do. I think it is a not a wine glass. Perhaps it is a cocktail glass. Long stem, green. What cocktail is that? Cosmopolitan?

Drank the last of the glass, the bottle and I heard something on the radio that caused me to stand up to turn my heater on. The glass on the floor was broken by my foot. The base came away from the stem like a velvet divorce. I tried to put the glass broken into that black rubbish bag so many times. Each time the bag would elude me, like a spirit, a ghost, a memory.

I thought I'd trace the glass along my skin, just to remind myself. But the glass ran into my flesh. The blood grew underneath my skin with each passing pulse until it forced itself into vision, turning red like a curse. It split my skin as it spilt on my skin. A velvet divorce between the right side of my hand and the left. And the euphoria was sweet but ephemeral. So I went into the toilet and pressed the toilet paper I had shoplifted against my torn skin. I took it away. The blood came again. I put it back again.

I took it away. It came again. I put it back again. I put a plaster on it. You give and take away, O Lord. Mighty Yahweh. My Jesus sweeter than I can imagine. My heart will not bleed to death tonight. Although. It would be nice to sleep. To bleed into a sleep. Tomorrow I will rip off the plaster. I will sit there and none of my friends will see the thin red line of clot on my skin. But I will look at my hand and remember euphoria. None of my friends will see.

This is for this writing exercise: http://sbutki.newsvine.com/_news/2008/11/23/2142095-your-next-writing-exercise-write-from-the-point-of-view-of-a-mall-santa

(With thanks to Sandie Seward for the new title :))

I jumped and dropped the masking tape as the Grotto manager-yes, the "Grotto Manager"-turned round in the Grotto doorway abruptly to say, "Kate, hurry up, we open at 9, remember?" "Yes Jill," I said through gritted teeth. I had been Santa in this poxy edge-of-town shopping centre for two whole weeks, I knew exactly when the Grotto opened, when I was Santa and when I wasn't. "just carry on being lookout and I'll get ready as quickly as I can." Jill swerved back round again, fatuously oblivious to the venom in my voice. Why they couldn't just get a lock for that shed, I'll never know. Not that it looked like a shed of course. No, from the outside it looked like a proper Santa's grotto, adorned with blue, pink and white tinsel, fairy lights the shape of mini-Christmas trees and spray snow on the roof on which soft reindeer toys and a papier mache snowman also sat. Inside, a cosy Christmassy atmosphere had been achieved through wrapping paper being used as wallpaper, fake snow and pine cones on the floor and a Christmas tree laden with fake holly, red and gold baubles, multi-coloured fairy lights, black velvet bows, candy canes and a treetop angel. Empty cardboard boxes wrapped in wrapping paper and ribbons masqueraded as presents either side of my "throne". Of course, the real presents, the little gift-wrapped trinkets I gave to each of my little visitors, were well out of the way of tiny, chubby hands. They were in a sack, pushed away from sight, underneath my throne. All I had to do at the end of each kid's visit was let him or her off my lap, push my hand under the throne and hey presto! I'd have a gift in my hand ready to present to the astonished child as if by magic. OK, it was hardly David Blaine territory, but work with me here-the five year olds loved it.

Yes, the Grotto looked cosy enough-if only it was actually warm. After making faces at Jill's back for several seconds, I remembered I was stood there shivering in my bra, a pair of red tracksuit bottoms trimmed with white faux fur and a pair of heavy black boots. I retrieved the masking tape from the heap of fake snow if had fallen into and finished taping my boobs down. I had no idea why they had chosen me to be the mall's first female Santa when all they were going to do was make me pretend I was a guy. Maybe it was because I'd begged the mall recruitment officer for a job. I mean literally begged on my knees in his office. The price of food and fuel had been creeping up all year without me noticing and before I knew it, my social security wasn't enough to live on anymore, even though it was just tiny me in a tiny flat with a tiny Fiat. I mean, I had a man in my life-Phil-but he was more like a "special friend" than a steady boyfriend, if you get my meaning. So it would have been weird/demeaning to ask him to help me pay my bills, especially since he wasn't living with me. He didn't even visit my place that often. I'd usually stay over at his-it had better heating and more food in the fridge. Not that he was rich-he himself was a cleaner at the shopping centre. At worst I'd been hoping for a job as a cleaner too, but no, the recruitment officer took one look at me, on my knees on his floor and thought, "Santa!" Yes, 22 year old me with my long,straight, black hair, my pale, anemic, miserable face and my underweight body with disproportionately big boobs. Yeah, I'm the spitting image of rosy-cheeked, jolly, plump, elderly, MALE Santa Claus, me. Maybe I just cost less than "professional" Santas, if there are such things.

Having once again successfully made my boobs look like man boobs at the very worst, I put on the T-shirt that went underneath the jacket and then the jacket itself. Well, it wasn't so much a jacket as a flannel dressing gown with the bottom cut off, trimmed with the same white faux fur they stuck onto the cheapo trackie bottoms. I mean, they were too cheapskate to even provide me with any padding. I must have been the the skinniest Santa alive-male or female. I put on my curly white beard, stuffed my mass of hair underneath my wig cap, slid on my curly white wig and crowned it all with my "Santa hat" (a red woollen beanie hat with cotton wool stuck on top). 9 am hit and Jill removed herself from the doorway. There was already an orderly queue of about 5 kids accompanied their by parents outside the Grotto. You'd think adults and children alike would want a lie-in on Saturdays, but apparently not. And there was no booking system here, oh no. It wasn't exactly Harrods, after all. It was first come, first served. I held my breath as Jill ushered in the first child, a pretty blonde little girl. She looked relatively old, around 9. Would she guess that not only was I not Santa, I wasn't even a man? To be honest, for the past 2 weeks I'd been astounded that, just by talking in a deep voice and by wearing this ridiculous excuse for a costume, I had managed to convince scores of children that I was a guy, let alone the big S himself. But this child looked like my oldest yet. She would be my toughest challenge...

The girl leapt on my lap without invitation. I winced and looked up at Jill, giving her a pained wink as she went back outside to take the fee off the girl's parents, manage the queue and tell the waiting kids and parents bad jokes. "Ho ho ho, I'm Santa Claus. What's your name, little girl?" I said, trying to sound more manly than ever. "Kate" she said. Hey snap! That's my name! What a shame I couldn't tell her. "Kate. What a lovely name. And how old are you Kate?" "9." Wow, I was getting too good as this guessing ages thing. "And what would you like for Christmas, Kate?" I said, buoyed by the fact that she still hadn't guessed my deep, dark secret. But as she started listing what she wanted...and kept on listing...and kept on listing...and kept on listing...it became clear that this girl was so self-absorbed that I could have been Naomi Campbell in an orange bikini and she still wouldn't have noticed. If she wanted me to be Santa, then I was Santa. She finally ended the list. "Well, I'll see what I can do Kate." Said I, feeling sorry for whichever parent would have to comfort her when Santa didn't bring her a pony, a DVD player, a bike, Belgian chocolates, a real fur coat...I slid her off my lap and ducked down to produce a gift from under the throne. Handing it to her, I uncharitably thought, "I hope it's the cheapest one". Oh well, at least she hadn't blown my cover.

The rest of the morning was straightforward enough. Much younger kids recited much shorter lists and still no one guessed I was really a girl. Lunch break came and as Jill cordoned off the Grotto and told inquisitive passing kids to come back at 2, I headed to Starbucks for a white chocolate mocha (grande) and a sandwich (BLT). A few customers gazed curiously at this skinny, badly-dressed Santa coming in for coffee and carbs, but I was used to it. I'd been going there for lunch for the past two weeks, after all. The baristas were used to it too. They'd all served me at one point or another and were always happy (amused) to see me. Apparently my presence alone kept the punters entertained. I would talk to the baristas in my normal voice, but they would still call me Sir. Maybe they just thought my voice hadn't broken yet.

After I'd finished in there, I wandered outside, via one of the side exits, for the obligatory lunchtime cigarette. Now, my "special friend" Phil knew I smoked, knew when my lunch break was and knew where I smoked but had never come to see me. I'd always assumed it was because his cleaning job at the centre was part-time and he was gone by lunch, but this particular day he decided to pop up before I'd even enjoyed my first heavenly drag. "Kate!" he screeched. "Alright, keep your voice down." I whispered gesturing to my costume. "I'm Santa between 9 and 6, remember?" "You're the sexiest Santa I've ever seen" persisted Phil, albeit in quieter tones. He captured me in a bear hug, causing my lit ciggie to fall to the ground. I pushed him away, startling fellow smokers and outside loiterers before subconsciously stamping out the unsmoked cancer stick. "Aw babe, don't be like that. Give us a kiss." grinned Phil, moving in again. I had to admit, he looked even more beautiful than usual, even in his cleaning uniform, which looked suspiciously like a pair of khaki green pyjamas. The colour actually brought out the green of his eyes, which were as pretty as his annoyingly perfect skin, his electric smile and the chin length wavy black hair that framed that cheeky, knowing face. So I resisted for all of 3 nanoseconds before letting him take me in his arms again. He moved in for a kiss and like a fool I tilted my head up and adjusted my beard to make it easier for him. So there we were, kissing in broad daylight and of course I'd forgotten who I was dressed as. "Muuuuuuuuuum! Muuuuuuuuuuuuuuuum! Santa's kissing a man! Santa's a Gay!" I broke away from Phil, quickly readjusted my beard and turned round to see the mortified face of a little boy and the even more mortified face of his mother, dragging him away towards the car park. "I'm sure they're just good friends" she hissed.

Unfortunately all the other smokers and outside loiterers were still around and thought the idea of "Gay Santa" was absolutely hilarious. Out of the howls, screams and laughs surrounding Phil and I like smog, I could only pick out a few articulate words. "Arrrgh, a Gay Santa!" "Who knew?" "You sure he's not a she?" "A she Santa?" "Yeah, look how scrawny she is. That's no bloke!" "Yeah right! No way would they have a girl as Santa!" "Now now," said Phil, stepping in front of me as if to protect me from a pack of wild dogs, "nothing to see here. Leave her alone." "Arrrgh, he said 'her'. It's a girl!" And before Phil could stop him, a burly guy had ducked behind him and was standing right next to me. My mouth opened and closed like that of a goldfish as the man whipped off my hat, wig and wig cap in one go, letting my hair flow down like some kind of black waterfall. That was it. I'd never been so embarrassed-or shocked-in all my life. I could hear Phil making noise, but I was incapable of listening to his actual words. All I knew was that I had to run. So I ran. Across the paved area, across the car park, down the slope leading from the car park to street level and along the street. Adults and kids alike cheered and sneered as this skinny She Santa with long black hair and a fake white beard dashed past them down several streets, lanes and alley ways.

By the time I got home I was exhausted. I just clambered into my cold bed fully dressed-beard, boots and all-and slept until Phil came round with my "real clothes". Laughing, he said I'd overreacted and that when he'd identified Jill and told her what happened, she'd (uncharacteristically) seen the funny side and wanted me back the next day, for the Sunday rush. Her plan was to "out" me as "a She Santa" at 9 o'clock sharp, in front of everyone at the Grotto and then play on the novelty for the rest of my contract. But there was nooooo way I was going back there. No way, no how. I mean, I was just beyond embarrassed. I told Phil so and sent him home when he kept arguing with me. But we're OK now. In fact, *I'm* OK now. Because I've got a new job. In a much swankier mall. In a much warmer grotto. In a much smarter costume. As Santa's little helper. Best thing about it? I'm allowed to be a *female* little helper and all the kids love it.

A clipped prose crime story about a woman dealing with a brutal carjacking. Written toward the end of my undergraduate years, it was an attempt to play with telegraph-style language.

The car was stopped. The light was red. It had held that color for a good thirty seconds so far. Miriam leaned back in her seat, looked out the front window at the snow. She always hit this light.

She ran her fingers along the steering wheel, fidgeting. The heater didn't work. She was cold. She turned on the radio: Christian rantings in Spanish. The equipment only did AM.

Something was tapping on the driver's side window. Miriam turned her head, squinted. There was frost on the glass. Through it, she could see the shadow of an object. It took only a second or so to figure out. She inhaled sharply, then froze up. Her breathing stopped.

She saw something else move behind the frost. Bigger. A muffled voice: "Roll down the window."

Miriam was still frozen. She turned her head, stiffly; slowly looked towards the passenger side window and the frost that covered it. She had her hands on the wheel, her foot on the break. She lifted it. The car creaked, rolled.

"Hey!" the voice shouted. "@!$%#ing stop!"

Her foot put weight on the break again. The car stopped.

"Good. Now roll down the window." A pause. "Or I pop you in the @!$%#ing head."

Her hands were shaking. Miriam reached over, grabbed at the door handle, pulled. Locked. She pushed the electric lock button and jumped at the snap. She sat quietly for a moment. Then: "Are you going to kill me?"

"I will, you don't roll down the @!$%#ing window, lady."

Miriam coughed. She touched the window button. A deep breath, and she pressed.

The window slid down, sticking after an inch of movement, and then there was a man looking in at her. His face was stubbled, his eyes warped behind thick lenses. A baseball cap covered the top of his head. A Padres fan. He said, "That's better. See, lady, this ain't hard."

Miriam nodded. "What--" She swallowed. "What do you want from me?"

"You're thinking rape?" he said.

She shook her head, fast.

"Yeah," he said, "yeah, that's what you're thinking. Rape. That I'm maybe gonna force you outta the car and @!$%# you." Held the gun up in front of her face.

Miriam dry heaved, shook her head again.

The man laughed: a short burst of forced air. "Look, lady, I just want the car."

Miriam stared at him. His eyes moved away from hers. She said, "Okay. Okay, if that's what you want." She pulled at the door handle.

"No," he said. "Not here. I'm coming around to the other side. You try to move, I'll shoot you."

The open front of the gun stayed pointed at her as the man straightened from his leaned posture and walked around the front of the car to the passenger side. He tapped at the window.

Miriam reached over, popped the lock.

The man opened the door, holding the gun aimed at Miriam's head. He got in, adjusted himself in the seat, pulled on the seat belt, and pushed the gun into her side. "Drive," he said.

"Where?"

"That way," he said, pointing with his open hand through the light in the direction Miriam had been going. "A couple blocks."

"Where are you taking me?"

He shook his head. "@!$%#ing drive." And he dug the gun in harder.

They drove quietly. The man turned on the radio once, turned it off almost immediately: dios again and again, mixed with other rapid fire Spanish Mariam didn't understand.

After ten minutes: "That way," he said, pointing to the left.

They were heading out of the city now, along a highway lined with trees. The snow was still falling: Miriam drove slow. "Where are we going?" she asked again.

"Out of town," he said.

"Are you going to kill me?"

The man shrugged. "Depends."

Miriam's voice was small: "On what?"

He gave that grin again, the one that showed just a hint of teeth. "You're thinking I'm gonna say on whether you put out? You think this is about rape?"

Miriam nodded.

The man poked at her leg with the gun. "Yeah, it might just be," he said. "Wasn't planning it but you keep bringing it up."
Miriam shook her head: quick and fierce.

"Haven't decided yet," he said.

They drove.

There weren't many cars on the road: the snow made driving avoidable. Miriam was sweating. The heater was dead. The man stared straight ahead. Occasionally, he'd hum something, a couple of notes.

Miriam shuddered.

Twenty minutes more: "Pull over here."

Miriam slowed, looked around. The snow was dense but there were trees, more of them now, and in front of them, fifty yards, a marker for a service road.

She turned the car in. The man held the gun on her.

"Here," he said.

Miriam stopped the car. The road was dirt, the trees tight on the sides. Snow was piled up a foot deep on the shoulders.

"Get out," the man said.

Miriam undid the seatbelt half-way and stopped, the buckle held in her hand. She didn't look at him, nervously played with the belt.

"No," she said.

The man gouged her. She flinched. Blood stained her blouse on the side.

"Get out," he said again.

"Why are you doing this?"

That smile again. "I don't figure I'm gonna tell you."

"Why?"

He nudged at the blood. "Get out of the car."

She gripped the seat belt like it would somehow keep her inside. The small voice: "You're going to kill me."

A cut-off nod.

Miriam started to cry. The man pulled the gun off her, held it back a foot. He stared. He blinked. He said, "Nothing personal."

She turned on him, eyes red. "Why?!" she screamed.

He pulled back. "He said--"

"Who?!" again screaming.

The man shrugged. "Bill."

Miriam stopped crying. She stared, deadpan.

"Your husband," he said.

Quiet.

Miriam pulled on the belt. The strap ran long. She said, "The divorce."

The man nodded.

Miriam hit him: full on, the buckle digging a hole out of his cheek. He fumbled the gun. She hit him again. He dropped it. She said, "Why?"

He looked up: a punch darkened face. "For the money," he said.

She hit him, the buckle wrap coming undone. "How much?" she was screaming. Again and again: "How much?"

"Five-" He coughed. "Hundred."

The buckle was slick now, the same color as his vanishing cheekbones. Miriam didn't stop. She kept swinging, raising her fist over her head and bringing it down.