When Derek Handley initially contacted us of the Cover Stories gang to write a holiday euphiction I admit that I considered claiming flu-like symptoms and hiding under the bed til the holiday season had passed. I'm not big on holidays unless it's Halloween.
The thing is, I like Derek. I consider him a pretty close electric friend, in fact. He has this way about him that just makes you want to say 'yes' to his ideas and then make them happen 150%. So I said yes, and I gave it 150%. My first ever holiday piece.
Being that I'm me, the Hallmark special based on my story 'Home for X-Mas' will most likely not happen anywhere in the future. For the record, it ended much happier for Saint Nick than my initial story concept.
The idea came as many of my ideas come: late at night, and usually when I'm just about to fall asleep. I could see the end of the story, and it was bleak. Very clearly I could see a cozy living room, very Donna Reed decor. Everything was perfect in this Norman Rockwell living room. Too perfect. It was unsettling, and the old Victrola was playing a warped record with the song 'I'll Be Home for Christmas' playing over and over again in a scratchy but endearingly hair-raising kind of way. On initial inspection I couldn't see a damned thing wrong with the room. The kids wore their footie pajamas and set out a picture perfect plate of cookies while mom sat on dad's lap and they kissed under a held sprig of mistletoe. Picture. Perfect.
It struck me as sad that I distrusted this happy family and scene so much instead of embracing it as an ideal to aspire to, but again there was something wrong. I just hadn't figured out what it was yet.
That's when I looked in the fireplace. Amidst the happily crackling flames that the children played near I made out the charred remains of red fabric spread over the logs. Gaping holes dotted the back of the garment where flames had burned their way through, and the white trim was blackened in the embers. All that was left of the belt was the smoke-damaged glint of a buckle attached to what looked like a mummified snake.
I glanced up at the family in a sort of horrified daze. The kids were oblivious to the implications of that charred red suit. Perhaps they hadn't even noticed it. The parents... they smirked knowingly at me, and the father raised a snifter of brandy as if toasting my detective work.
The pen couldn't write fast enough to get it all down as the story unfolded around me. I could see this very dark tale of horror, and then I stopped writing. I stared at the pages and
hated myself. How could I kill Santa Claus? Even worse, how could I kill off Santa knowing full well that my mother still believes in him?
I put the pen back to the page and began to cross out certain things, add certain other things, and created a much more light-hearted story than what I had started.
And now, for your reading pleasure, I present to you.....
Home for X-Mas: A Holiday Tale of Dysfunction