A Man Named Bernie by Dawn DeBraal Drink, egg nog

This special man used his time

and money, spending every dime.

To work with wood, making toys

Trains and tops for girls and boys

Painted reds, blues and greens,

This generous man behind the scenes.

They don’t know he’s Santa Claus

In every way he is, because.

His generosity knows no bounds.

Working nights, his hammer pounds.

And then he serves the children, poor,

Leaving gifts at each child’s door.

And on the day their gifts arrive.

The spirit of Christmas is still alive.

 

About the author

  

Dawn DeBraal lives in rural Wisconsin with her husband, Red, a rescue dog and a stray cat. She has published over 700 stories, poems, and drabbles in several online magazines and anthologies. 

https://www.facebook.com/All-The-Clever-Names-Were-Taken-114783950248991 

https://linktr.ee/dawndebraal 

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Grandma’s Christmas Cake by Peter Lingard, egg nog

Grandma puts the cake on the table

then retreats to the hot kitchen.

Feeling the stress of Christmas catering,

she can’t witness the cake being cut.

 

She gathered the fruits in their seasons,

carefully dried them and set them aside.

Then, on a cold and bitter January day

she mixed and baked the holiday loaf.

Her creation dwelled in dry darkness

of brown paper and an airtight tin.

Fruit, eggs, nuts and drops of whiskey

maturing and growing full flavour. 

 

On Christmas Eve, she unwrapped the paper

and searched cake’s surface for flaws.

She spread a thick layer of almond paste,

then a snow-white crown of icing.

 

 

Eldest grandson has a duty.

Before the opening of presents,

he stands on a chair in the pantry

and rummages for the special platter

that sees daylight once a year.

When found, it’s dusted, washed and dried

and graced with a large white doily

before the cake is carefully placed on top. 

 

The knife is thrust downward

and back to make the first cut.

Turn the cake around, slice it again

and the moment of truth has arrived.

 

Grandma’s ears are alert as she waits

to hear diners assess her skill.

She grips eldest grandson’s shoulders,

prays the centre will be good and firm,

the cake moist and full of rich flavour. 

 

About the auhtor 

 

Peter Lingard, born a Brit, served in the Royal Marines, was an accountant, a barman and a farm worker. He once lived in the US where he owned a freight forwarding business. An Aussie now because the sun frequently shines and the natives communicate in English. 

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Saturday Sample:The Best of CafeLit 7, White Socks by Gail Aldwin, egg nog

I tie the cord of my dressing gown. I’ve grown so much the sleeves come right up to my elbows. Mummy says it doesn’t matter that it’s a bit small, it’s not as if I’m going to wear it outside for the neighbours to see. Walking down a couple of stairs, I loop the fraying edge of the carpet around my toes. The fourth step’s warm from the pipes underneath and I stand, listening for the gurgle from the boiler. There’s a smell of burnt toast coming from the kitchen. Mummy says bugger and the sash window judders – I bet she’s scraping the bread and tipping the black crumbs outside. This happens quite often in our house.

There’s no school this week so me and Paul are taking it easy. He’s reading a comic in bed but Mummy has to get up because there’s Daddy to look after. It’s not long until he leaves for work. The coins in his jacket clink as he swings it off the back of his chair and he finds his coat hanging on the stand. He sees me on the stairs but he doesn’t say anything – he nods at me and calls goodbye to Mummy. Now I know it’s safe to go all the way down.

The door to the lounge is closed. This is unusual, we don’t normally shut doors in our house. Grandma 8 says we ought to be ashamed of ourselves for all the heat we waste, but when she’s not around, Mummy says it doesn’t matter and that they’ve more important things to worry about. I push the door and peak inside. The Christmas tree’s in the corner and a few bits of foil twinkle. Switching on the light, I see the floor’s covered with carrier bags, and tissue paper, ribbon and felt. There’s one green bag with gold writing from Marks and Spencer. Lined up by the wall are a couple of baskets. Paul is written in red letters on one, the other says Sus, that must be for me, it’s meant to say Susan. There’s some folded clothes, it looks like a pink jumper and there are two pairs of socks turned into balls. White socks, long ones, they must be for me. I’ve been praying for white socks; I’m sick of getting teased for wearing my brother’s old grey ones. My heart thumps in my chest. I know I shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t be looking. There’s been some kind of mistake. It isn’t Christmas for another two days. I swallow down the lump in my throat and shut the door.

 On the kitchen table, the toast rack’s empty, but the cereal box is open. Yesterday Paul found the plastic toy but he didn’t eat any crispies, he had porridge. I told Mummy it wasn’t fair, you’ve got to eat the crispies to get the prize, but she said not to fuss and that life’s not fair. Mummy’s sitting on a stool over by the oven and the door’s wide open, making the room warm. The washing’s hanging from 9 the ceiling on something called a Sheila’s maid. I’m glad it’s not called a Susan’s maid. Mist covers the windows and I draw a flower to decorate the space, drips running down my finger. ‘Time for breakfast.’ Mummy closes the book. ‘Go and get Paul. Tell him to come down right away.’ In our room, my bed is against the short wall, and Paul’s is against the long wall. At night, light peeps through the slit in the curtains and I can see him. Sometimes we whisper to each other, if he’s awake and I’m awake. If there’s a row going on downstairs and you can’t sleep through that. Mummy says it’s the drink that makes Daddy shout and when that happens I curl up like a snail, pull the covers around my neck and stare into space. I like to know where my knees and my legs are, it doesn’t do to spread. You don’t keep warm when you spread. Paul throws back the cover and jumps into his slippers now that there’s food to be had. He rushes downstairs still reading his comic. I don’t know how he does that without bumping into something. The door to the lounge is still closed, but Paul doesn’t notice there’s anything strange. I’m sorry that I looked in. Mummy says when you’ve done something wrong it’s best to own up but I’m not so sure. I usually keep quiet when something’s gone wrong and I’m under suspicion. This makes Daddy angry and he shakes his fist. When I cry Mummy hugs me and then she sends me off to bed with a 10 prod. It’s strange going to bed in the middle of the day. In my bowl is a mountain of crispies and a moat of milk. I pour sugar from the shaker and make a crust on top. Grandma hisses whenever she sees how much sugar I take but Mummy says I’ve got a sweet tooth, just like her. Paul’s still reading the comic, the pages shake when he laughs and his shoulders go up and down. Swinging my legs, I tap the tiles on the floor and try not to hit the cracks. The flower I drew on the window has disappeared into a stripey mess. I finish my breakfast and I look around for Mummy but she’s not in the kitchen. I slosh my empty dish around in the washing up water and lean across the sink to reach for the mop with the shaggy head. Once I’ve finished, I turn the bowl upside down on the draining board. I rub the spoon and check it’s clean by staring into the shiny bit. In the reflection, I see my cheeks are puffed like a gerbil’s, and my fringe covers my eyes.

‘You’re looking at yourself again.’ says Paul.

‘No.’ I put the spoon in the cutlery drawer. Mummy rushes into the room, the flares on her trousers flapping. I wish I had a trouser suit like that. It’s purple with a tunic that goes right up to her neck. Daddy ordered it from the catalogue especially for Christmas, but he’s let her wear it a few times already. ‘Have either of you been in the lounge this morning?’

 Mummy holds her forehead in her hand. 11

‘Not yet,’ says Paul. ‘But I want to watch the telly later.

’ I squeeze the dishcloth and the droplets splatter. ‘What about you Susan?’ I get busy cleaning up. ‘Have you been into the front room?’ ‘No.’ I look at the taps when I answer. ‘That’s good,’ she says. ‘Just give me a few minutes, then you can watch telly all day if you want to. Special treat for Christmas.’ ‘Yippee,’ says Paul.

 ‘Oh.’ I wonder what has happened to all the special things on the floor.

‘You better get dressed,’ says Mummy.

The lounge door’s open when we come back downstairs and everything’s tidy. The curtains are open and the lights on the tree flash. But there’s no clothes, no white socks anywhere. They’ve gone, they’ve vanished. I hope I haven’t spoilt our Christmas and that they’ll be no presents for anyone. Perhaps it’s my fault. I walk up the stairs, tears dripping from my eyes. Beside my pillow I find Blue Ted, we sit on the floor and I squeeze him so tight that I can’t breathe. Daddy’s in a good mood when he gets home. He says he’s only got one more day to work until he has a well-earned rest. Hugging Mummy, he tucks his neck onto her shoulder and he dances with her, shuffling from side to side. She giggles, his whiskers 12 are tickling, she says. They cuddle for a bit, then Daddy sees me staring, and he lets go of Mummy. They stand holding hands, like they’re going to play ring-a-ring-a-roses. ‘I’ve got more good news for you Alan,’ Mummy says. ‘A card arrived from my mother today.’ She nods towards the one with three camels on it. Daddy walks to the mantlepiece. He doesn’t even look at the picture, he’s more interested in the piece of paper that falls out. ‘D’you think that’s enough to pay for everything?’ Daddy nods and puts the paper in his wallet. ‘It’s a relief, isn’t it? Now we can enjoy Christmas without worrying.’ Daddy says yes and asks if the kettle’s boiled. On Christmas morning, we’re not allowed out of our room until it’s seven o’clock. Paul’s in charge of the time, and I have to wait until he says it’s okay to look for our presents. I huddle in my bed while Paul chatters about the Scalextric he hopes he’ll get. Maybe I imagined seeing the room all covered with papers and the presents. Perhaps it was a dream. My heart pumps as the hand on the clock moves closer and when Paul shouts we race along the passage. ‘Wow,’ he says. ‘There’s a great big box under the tree. I bet that’s for me.’ Mummy and Daddy follow us into the lounge. We can open the gifts from Father Christmas, but not the ones under the tree. Not yet, anyway. Mummy passes me a pink pillowcase and Paul has 13 the blue one. lookingThere’s lots of lumpy things inside, and I pull out the basket first. The red letters say Susan, that’s better, I think. ‘What’s this for?’ Paul takes his out.

‘It’s a waste paper basket,’ says Mummy. ‘Not many children have their own, personalized waste paper basket. You can put your rubbish in there. Drawings that you don’t want anymore, sweet wrappers, things like that.

’ ‘That’ll be useful,’ says Paul. Inside my basket there’s another present, tied with ribbon.

I undo the bow and the paper falls open. I see the socks. The same ones from the other day. Long and white.

 ‘Do you like them?’ asks Mummy. ‘Yes.’ I cross my arms and hold them next to my heart. ‘They’re just what I wanted.’

 ‘Funny how Father Christmas always knows what you want,’ says Mummy. Daddy’s laughing and coughing at the same time. She gives him a little tap on the wrist and he becomes quiet. I open another present, and there’s my pink jumper. I’m pleased and confused. Nothing’s a surprise.

‘What’s up?’ says Mummy. ‘You look sad.’

‘I’m not sad.’ ‘She’s always been ungrateful, that little cow,’ says Daddy. I feel the tears coming and Mummy strokes my cheek. 14 ‘Whatever’s the matter?’ she asks. ‘Nothing.’ I gulp. ‘But are you sure all these things come from Father Christmas?’

 About the author

Gail Aldwin is a prize-winning writer of short fiction and poetry. Cast Iron Productions (Brighton) staged Killer Ladybugs, a short play Gail co-wrote in 2017. As Chair of the Dorset Writers’ Network, Gail works with the steering group to support writers by connecting creative communities across the county. She enjoys teaching creative writing and is a visiting tutor at Arts University Bournemouth. Her collection of short fiction Paisley Shirt was longlisted in the best short story category of the Saboteur Awards 2018.

Saturday Sample:The Macaroon Chronicles, The Three Wise Monkeys by Dawm Knox,egg nog (becaue it's a bit like custard)

 

 

Oscar held the mobile phone against his ear with his shoulder and grabbed a ballpoint pen.

“Oscar’s Signs. Oscar speaking, how can I help?”

“Hello, it’s Eddie. I emailed the other day to enquire about a large poster.”

“Who?”

“It’s Eddie.”

“Eddie?”

“Yes, Eddie the Bald Eagle.”

Oscar held his paw over the receiver of the phone, rolled his eyes towards the ceiling and whispered to his apprentice. “It’s that bald chicken what thinks he’s an eagle.”

“I heard that! I’ll have you know I am a bald eagle!” Eddie yelled into the receiver.

Oscar held the phone at arm’s length and winced. When he was certain Eddie had finished, he placed it next to his ear again. “All right, no need to shout. So, Eddie the Bald Eagle, what can I do for you?”

“As I said in my email, I’d like a large poster put on a billboard in Spudwell, as close to the music festival as you can, to advertise my band.”

“Hmm.” Oscar glanced at the calendar, “I’ll do my best but most of the billboards around Spudwell have been taken. You’ve cut it fine, you know. The festival’s in two days.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. I’ve had a few problems but they’re all sorted now… So, can you do it?”

Oscar sighed, “Yeah, okay, let me take down the details. Name?”

“Eddie, I told you!”

“No, not your name, the band’s name.”

“Oh, I see. It’s The Three Wise Monkeys.”

Oscar scribbled on the notepad. “And I assume the band members are actually monkeys?”

“Of course!”

“There’s no ‘of course’ about it. You’d be surprised the sort of stunts bands pull these days to get themselves noticed. So, your band members are monkeys and their names are?...”

“Brian and Colin.”

“Brian, Colin and?...” asked Oscar, scribbling on the pad.

“Just Brian and Colin.”

Oscar paused and chewed the end of his pen, “My maths is a bit shaky but I definitely make that two monkeys. Didn’t you say The Three Wise Monkeys?”

“Yeah, that’s our angle, see. Two monkeys called The Three Wise Monkeys. Get it? Good eh?”

Oscar sighed. “Yeah, whatever. I’m just checking my emails and I’ve found yours but you don’t seem to have attached any photos of Brian and Colin. You did send me some, didn’t you?”

“Ah, umm…”

“Never mind, we’ll use some stock photographs.”

“Okay, thanks, you will have it ready in time for the music festival, though, won’t you?” asked Eddie

“Of course. I’ll deal with it myself,” Oscar said and cut the call.

“’Ere, you can do this one,” he said and threw the notepad to the apprentice.

 

Eddie was striding about the car park outside the picturesque village of Cakehall when Brian and Colin arrived.

“About time!” said Eddie stabbing at the face of his watch with the tip of his featherless wing.

“Yeah, sorry we’re late. Colin was hungry, so we stopped off at the cheese mine down the road,” said Brian.

“Yeah,” said Colin, “want some?” He took a packet out of his bag and unwrapped it, to reveal a large portion of steaming, golden cheese. It had several bite marks in it. “There’s nothing better than cheese fresh from the mine,” he said and bit off a chunk.

Eddie shook his head. “Nice to see you two cheese-malingerers are taking the music festival seriously,” he said scowling at them.

“All right, keep your feathers on, Baldy, we are taking it seriously but we have to eat. You don’t want us fainting all over the place do you?” said Colin.

“I’m warning you, cut the ‘bald’ jokes!” snapped Eddie.

“Well, anyway, we’re here now, so let’s get going,” said Brian, looking about the car park. “Where’s the van?”

“It broke down,” said Eddie.

“Oh no! How’re we going to get to the festival? There are going be scouts there. It might have been our first big break,” said Brian.

“Don’t worry; while you two were stuffing your faces in the cheese mine, I managed to arrange alternate transport. Follow me.”

“Why are we heading away from the car park?” asked Brian.

“Yeah,” said Colin, “this path leads to the river.”

“That’s right,” said Eddie “with so many people on their way to the music festival, you can’t hire a van, car, or even a bicycle for love nor money.”

“Please don’t tell me you’re expecting us to swim there!” said Colin.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Eddie, “you can’t swim in custard. You’d drown. No, I’ve hired a rowing boat.”

“What! Are you serious? You’re expecting us to row through custard?” asked Brian, “If I get a blister, I won’t be able to play my guitar, then what?”

“I’ll row,” said Eddie “and don’t be so ungrateful. If we don’t go by boat, we don’t go to the festival, it’s as simple as that. I would’ve thought you’d have been glad I’ve sorted the problem out.”

“Well, you are our manager. We pay you to sort things out. I don’t see why we have to be grateful as well,” said Colin.

“Yeah,” said Brian, “you get paid more than we do and we’re the band.”

“Ingrates,” muttered Eddie.

There was silence for a while as they trudged through the field of candyfloss bushes.

“Is it much further?” asked Brian, “This case is getting heavy.” He shifted the electric guitar to his other hand.

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” said Colin, “my back’s killing me carrying these bongos.”

“Quit moaning,” said Eddie, “the river’s just around the bend.”

“Is that it?” asked Colin pointing at the tiny rowing boat moored to the jetty, bobbing in the custard. “You are joking, aren’t you?”

“It’s that - or you walk,” said Eddie.

A weather-beaten ferret stomped down the jetty to meet them, “Which one’s Eddie the Bald Eagle?”

“Are you for real? He’s a monkey,” said Eddie, stabbing his wing in Brian’s direction “and he’s a monkey.” He nodded at Colin, “So have a guess who’s the bald eagle!”

“I’ll have you know, I’m not a monkey, I’m a lemur!” said Colin.

The ferret moved his captain’s cap backwards and scratched his forehead, “Seems to be a lot of identity confusion round ‘ere,” he said, “I don’t care what you are. All I want to know is who’s paying. Is it the chicken or what? I’ve got more parties interested in The Saucy Tart, so if you’re not goin’ to hire her, I’ll bid you good day.”

“All right, all right!” snapped Eddie taking his wallet out of his pocket, “here you are,” he said and handed over some notes.

“Rightio,” said the ferret, folding the money and stuffing it one of his fishing waders, “I’ll see you back here on Tuesday. Make sure you look after her.”

“Wait a minute!” called Eddie as the ferret walked briskly off the jetty, whistling tunelessly, “Can’t you give us a hand to start?”

“I thought you said you knew what you was doin’,” said the ferret frowning.

“Well, theoretically I do.”

“And practically?”

“Not so much,” admitted Eddie.

The ferret put his paw inside his wader and began to withdraw the money. “I’m not sure I trust you with my boat.”

“I’m a fast learner,” said Eddie quickly, “and if you could see your way clear to giving us a crash course in boating, I could cover any expenses involved…” He pulled another note out of his wallet and held it out.

“Landlubbers!” muttered the ferret. He was still tutting, as he untied the painter.

 

“This is a bit cramped, isn’t it?” said Colin.

“Stop fidgeting,” snapped Brian.

“I can’t help it; your knees are bony.”

“D’you want to swap places?”

“Don’t be so stupid, you’re far too large to fit on my lap. Could you move that guitar case a bit? You keep jabbing me in the throat.”

“Well, move those bongos!”

“Can you two in the bow keep still? The chicken’s trying to board!” shouted the ferret.

“Eagle! I’m an eagle!” snapped Eddie.

“Yeah, whatever!” said the ferret, “By the way, you’re facing the wrong way, you’ll find it easier to cut through the custard if the pointy end goes first.”

“Oh! Sit down, Eddie, you’re rocking the boat!” shouted Brian, “I feel sick!’

“Well, keep your vomit to yourself!” snapped Colin.

The ferret crept away and left them to it.

 

“Are we nearly there?” asked Brian.

“I’ve no idea,” grunted Eddie.

“If you row any slower, the custard will skin over and we’ll be trapped,” said Colin, “we may never get out of this boat.”

“Don’t be ridiculous! And I’m going as fast as I can. There’s no current here.” 

“Well, it can’t be much further,” said Brian, “I just saw a poster advertising one of the bands who’ll be at the festival.”

“A poster!” said Colin, “What a great idea! Shame we didn’t think of it.”

“Actually,” said Eddie, “we did. At least, I did.”

“So, any minute now, we could see Frogs’ Scorn in enormous letters with our photos?” asked Brian.

“Um… well, not exactly,” said Eddie, “you see, I changed the name of the band and I didn’t have any photos of you, so they’re going to use stock photos of monkeys.”

“I am not a monkey, I’m a lemur!” shouted Colin.

“Sit still, you’ll capsize us!” yelled Brian grabbing the sides of the boat.

“Ow! Move that guitar case!”

“Boys, boys! Calm down!” said Eddie.

“And what d’you mean you changed the name of the band? You can’t do that without consulting us?” said Brian.

“I made an executive decision. I never liked the name Frogs’ Scorn anyway.”

“So, what are we called now?” asked Brian.

“The Three Wise Monkeys.”

“I’m not a monkey!” screamed Colin.

It was another hour before anyone spoke.

“Well,” said Brian finally, “let’s look on the bright side. At least we’ll be playing in the festival. And even if our name is really stupid, it’s our music that counts and it could be our first lucky break.”

“Yeah, s’pose,” said Colin sulkily.

“Is there any water left?” asked Eddie hoarsely, “I don’t think I can row much further, I’m exhausted.” He was quivering and his wing tips were covered in blisters.

Gradually, the tall broccoli trees in the woods gave way to roads and gingerbread houses.

“There’s a sign for Spudwell, we must be nearly there,” said Colin.

“Hey, look! said Brian, “that’s our poster! The Three Wise Monkeys.”

Eddie took the opportunity to stop rowing while they inspected the billboard on the side of the road. He gulped.

“What is that?” shrieked Colin.

Eddie let go of the oars and cradled his head in his hands.

Beneath the heading The Three Wise Monkeys it said ‘Appearing at the Spudwell Music Festival 2020,’ and beneath that, were photographs of two chimps wearing Hawaiian shirts drinking from tea cups. Below one chimp it said ‘Brain’ and below the other, it said ‘Colon’.

“Eddie!” shrieked Brian and Colin in unison.

Eddie estimated how far they were from the riverbank, then he peered over the edge of the boat. He’d heard that it was possible to walk on custard although he wasn’t convinced.

It might just be worth a try, he thought. 

 

Read more here 

 

 

A Spoonful of Cinnamon (Helps the Memories Go Down) by Kendra Jackson, freshly made egg nog

Sarah turned the pages of the cookbook to the recipe for a Christmas cake and used her 1kg dumbbell to hold it open at the list of ingredients.  The irony of her bookmark wasn’t lost on her.  Once she’d finished baking the massive amount of calories, the dumbbell would be retired to its more traditional use, in her house anyway, as a door stop.

 

‘Raisins, cherries, nutmeg, mixed spice.’  She rattled off the ingredients to herself as she lifted the large shopping bags onto her worktop.  ‘Eggs are in the fridge, flour in the cupboard, and whiskey is in the jar.’  She laughed to herself. 

 

‘You should have taken the eggs out of the fridge before now,’ her mother said.  ‘Now you’ll have to wait until they get to room temperature before using them.’

 

‘That would be the case,’ said Sarah as she rummaged in the lowest drawer of her kitchen unit.  ‘If I was planning on baking the cake today.’  A hand blender, a muffin tin, and a Pyrex roasting dish (with matching lid) were taken out before she finally located the round tin with its most useful spring release.  Reloading the drawer with all the other ‘once a year or less’ used items she kicked it shut.

 

‘What do you mean, you’re not baking the cake today?’ asked her mother.  ‘You know that’s why I’m here.’

 

‘I am not ‘baking’ the cake today,’ said Sarah as she put the tin down on the table with maybe a little more force than was strictly necessary.  ‘Today is for soaking in alcohol…the fruit that is, not me.’  Although give me another hour with your backseat baking, she added to herself, and who knows?

‘Dried fruit, zest and juice, a grated apple, mixed spice, and cinnamon.  A few other bits and pieces and then soak them overnight in whiskey.’

 

Sarah’s mother sniffed a bit disdainfully, ‘In my day, we just threw everything into the bowl and mixed away.’

‘Yes, but in your day, you were baking a dozen cakes for the season and wouldn’t have had enough bowls to soak everything.’

‘We could have used the bathtub.’ 

 

Sarah laughed with her.  ‘Your cakes were wonderful, and I’m not just saying that because of all the icing.  But the smell of them through the house.  It always reminds me of Christmases growing up when I take mine out of the oven.’

 

‘Even though you don’t actually like fruit cake and are only doing it for the tradition?’

 

Sarah ignored the comment as she laid out the ingredients in the order they were listed.  ‘Golden syrup, vanilla essence, mixed spice and cinnamon…’  Her voice trailed off and she searched through the shopping bags, emptying out the ingredients onto the table.  A bag of brown sugar ended up on the floor, but luckily didn’t split. 

‘Cinnamon…there’s no cinnamon, why is there no cinnamon?  I’m sure it was on the list!’

‘You have nutmeg there,’ her mother pointed out.  ‘You can just use it instead.’

‘That’s not the way the recipe goes,’ Sarah snapped.  ‘I can’t change the ingredients.’

‘You’ve already changed the method, why not skip an ingredient or two?’

‘It’s not the same.  It has to be perfect.’ 

‘No, it doesn’t.  That’s what the icing is for.’

 

Sarah’s face lit up.  ‘Maybe I still have the jar from last year.’  She could feel the smug look on her mother’s face, ‘Yes, because I’m a hoarder and don’t clear my cupboards often enough.’ 

 

‘Did I say anything?’ muttered Sarah’s mother under her breath.

 

It was now time for another search, but Sarah knew exactly where the cinnamon would be if the cinnamon was to be.  And less than a minute later, she had the jar in her hand.  The jar that had a best before date of six months earlier.  ‘Spices don’t go off?’ she asked her mother, hopefully.

Her mother shrugged, ‘Don’t look at me.  I baked so often that nothing had a chance to go off.  But cooking will kill any germs.  Well, those that you haven’t drowned in whiskey.’

 

Sarah opened the lid and sniffed it gingerly (or rather cinnamonly, she thought with a wry smile).  It smelled…well it smelled spicy, that was all she all she could say about it, since she didn’t really make a habit of smelling spices.  With a shrug, she replaced the lid.  ‘If I double up on the amount it should be okay,’ she said, trying to convince herself as much as anybody else.  She put the jar in its place in the parade of ingredients, grabbed the mixing bowl and set to work weighing and measuring. 

 

Reaching the final ingredient, Sarah added the required three tablespoons of whiskey, and then another one for good measure.  ‘Well, just in case it’s going off,’ she said aloud.  ‘And now for my annual upper arm workout.’  She stirred the mixture with a wooden spoon that was almost as old as she was and had certainly tasted far more Christmas cake mixes than she had made.

 

‘It’s starting to smell a bit like Christmas,’ said Sarah, a little wistfully, as she covered the bowl with tinfoil and carried it to a cool corner of the house.  ‘But it will be even better tomorrow, won’t it, Mum?’ 

She didn’t expect an answer.  She hadn’t had one in over twenty years.  But sometimes, with her mother’s old recipe book and spoon on the go, she could almost hear her voice as well.

 

‘Same time tomorrow for the baking?’ Sarah whispered to herself as she switched off the light.  

 

About the author

 By day, Kendra Jackson crunches numbers for a living. By night (and sometimes into the early hours of the morning) she expresses her pent up creativity by crunching words instead. For many years, those words consisted of fanfiction under the name Cein/Ceindreadh, but now she's switched to original work. 

 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)

The Trouble with Santa by Julie Blaho, egg nog

 

Tonight’s tips jangle in my coat pocket. It’s enough to buy a second Santa present for Judy. A small one, yet, together with the other, the joy on her face will make Christmas rich this year. Last year, Toys for Tots only had dolls, but if she was disappointed in Santa, I couldn’t tell. Judy’s a good girl. She never complains.

I knock on Mrs. Wheeler’s door and gather Judy from the couch. She shifts her arms around my neck. Her hair smells like cigarette smoke, but Mrs. Wheeler is all I’ve got, so I don’t complain.

 

***

 

“Santa came!” Judy tugs me into the living room and rips into the smaller package first. Her eyes light up. “Colored pencils! I won’t have to borrow Sara’s anymore.”

Then the big one.

“Pony monopoly?” She deflates. “Last year Sara got PlayStation from Santa. I tried to be good all year, so he’d bring me one too, but Santa loves Sara more.”

“Santa loves all kids equally.” I squeeze out the words around the lump in my throat. “I’m sure there’s a reason he picked this for you.”

“Maybe it’s because I love ponies. Will you play with me?”

“Dibs on the blue horse van, but I’ll let you go first.”

Judy giggles and doles out the play money. Christmas is as rich as I’d hoped.

 

About the author 

Julie Blaho is a creature-crazy country girl who divides her free time between teaching kids to ride horses and writing. She writes in Italy and has work published in Flash Fiction Magazine. You can find her on Twitter: @FelicioneFarm or Instagram: felicione_farm 

 

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A Word from the Big Guy by Fleur Lind, egg nog

 I think it’s time you and I had a talk.

Sure, you come and visit one of my many assistants each year when they are sitting in a big comfy red, velvet chair in a shopping centre or mall near you, but I need to have a word with you.

I’ve been in the business of delivering presents to you and yours for many, many years.   I’ve seen each new generation come along, grow, and evolve.  You have kept my elves very busy with your ever-changing Christmas list over the years, from the cuddly stuffed toys, building blocks, train sets, dolls, doll houses, books, play dough, skates, bikes, sports shoes,dress-up clothes, sailing ships for the bath, inflatable toys for the pool, trucks, remote control cars… (taking a breath as the list goes on…)

As you all grew, your 'wants' changed.  We stepped up a gear or two, maybe four, to more sophisticated things.

The elves weren’t happy about the racket that noisy muffler made for your car, and I had a heck of a job packing it in my big red Santa sack last year.

If I had a dollar for every high-tech, blue tooth-enabled gadget or phone that I see on your Christmas list each year, I’d be on a Santa Cruise somewhere.

The thing is – I’m not keeping up. Figuratively speaking, of course. We all know I am faster than a speeding bullet; as my good friend Superman, says.  He and I go way back.  We do laps around the Earth and other planets just for fun. And we can go further afield, or planet, as it were, now that I have had my mechanic install a turbojet that would make every petrolhead’s eyes water. It’s magnificent if I do say so myself.

As I had accumulated several million flybys points for the number of chimneys, front yards, balconies, patios, decking, park benches, shelters, and doorsteps I stop at each year on the 24 December…well of course I had to cash my flybys in. And in case you are wondering, the emissions from my turbojets meet all the safety standards. I won’t be causing any global warming with them; don’t you fret about that.  They meet with all the ‘Green Criteria’ in the handbook, which is updated every year up here at the ‘Pole.  The only meltdown that could possibly occur is if Rudolph doesn’t get enough carrots on the journey!

I digress. Back to Superman; he and I chase the Sun and dance around the Moon, just because we can. Mrs. Claus checks our time on each lap.  We are a sight to behold, better than a shooting star! We were even going to enter the Intergalactic Games, but Superman kept getting called away to save the world; it seems there is always something going on to pull him away. He’s such a busy fellow, but he takes it all calmly in his stride, and never ever has that boy got a hair out of place!  I’d love to know who is hairdresser is.  Mrs Claus thinks I need a trim.

Superman’s finger lights up too, so he’s a good stand-in when Rudolph is under the weather from too many carrots or indulging in my eggnog when my head is turned. Mrs. Claus has told him off a few times, but these young ones love to try it on. Thankfully we haven't been stopped by any speed cameras or RBT, it wouldn't be a good look to get a ticket if he was just over the limit. Heaven forbid!

On another note, with every household drop of presents I do, I am also giving you a complimentary bottle of 'Santatiser'…That's NOT a typo, it’s my own branded version. Mine smells far more pleasant than the sanitiser you buy in the stores.  My elves have been very inventive with the aromas; there is Frankincense, Mistletoe, Pine Tree, Fruitcake, and eggnog for the Northern part of the world, and for the good folk down under, we have done BBQ, Bubbly, Seafood, Sandcastles, and Sea Spray. I suggested Petrichor...that delightful smell of rain hitting the ground, given all the rain and floods in Eastern Australia, but the elves said you don't want to be reminded of it.

            Anyway.

            Back to your list this year.

I’ve been going to North Pole IT classes to try and find the fascination with the new phone you want. I still haven’t found it, but I get a lot of Christmas lists texted to me now. Also, my Facebook and Instagram pages are busy with requests, well wishes, images of your pets, and Christmas baking. I've also had a few requests for less rain along the East coast of Australia. Sadly, I can’t control that; I am amazing, and magic is my middle name, but I can’t tell the clouds and weather systems what to do. Believe me, I’ve tried, but it's a fail.

So long as I can get through on my big night without snow, a storm, strong winds, or heavy rain; that will be ideal. It’ll be disastrous if the heavens delivered all of the above. It is not a pretty sight when Dasher gets a lightning bolt tickling his tail! I will have to turn my turbojets off if that happens, or I will have finished my present deliveries before I've started!

But remember this when you are writing out those lists…or texting and posting them to me….

I miss the good ol’ days when you wanted books and blocks and trains or dolls and skates. There are so many good reads out there now; I know some great authors on a personal basis. and you should be outdoors more. Fresh air and exercise work wonders!

But I know I must move with the times, so text me and tell me what you’re leaving out for my supper this year.

I’m gluten-free now, and I’m trying to cut down on my sugar…so I’ll text you some menu ideas!

Stay safe my friends, and Merry Christmas!

Yours,

Santa.

About the author 

Fleur is a Kiwi, living in SE Queensland. She enjoys the fun, challenge, and possibilities of short stories. She is a member of the local writer's group - Rose City Writers in Warwick. For more of Fleur's work: fleursfabulousfables.wordpress.com 

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