Wishing for Santa

Alan Cadman

 

A glass of sherry

I still cling to precious memories of that magical time when I was a little girl. On Christmas Eve, just before bedtime, my parents would remind me to leave Santa Claus a glass of sherry and a mince pie by the fireplace.

            One year I wrote to him and asked for a doll; the one with long blonde tresses that I’d set my heart on for months. I thought he’d forget, but of course it was in my room when I blinked my eyes open the following day.

            My mother and father passed away a few years ago; I’m now forty years of age. I still have that toy, which I simply named Dolly. She maybe threadbare, hair thinning, but I’m clutching her close to my chest at the moment. My bedside clock is displaying 1.30 December 25. 

            The front door slams against its frame. I tremble under the duvet; touch my bruised face. He stumbles upstairs singing the first line of “We Wish You a Merry Christmas”, over and over again. I kiss Dolly on her head.

            The bedroom door crashes wide open. I wish it was Santa standing in front of me instead of my husband. I wait, knife in hand. Whatever happens next, I’m certain only one of us will see the break of dawn this Christmas morning.

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About the author: 

Alan has been writing short stories for ten years. In 2011 he made the short list for one story and a prize winner for flash fiction. He also won first prize, of £100, in a poetry competition in 2013. The three accolades were awarded by the best-selling UK magazine for writers. His work has been read out on Internet radio and published in hard copy magazines and e-zines.