Rose

Greetings from the North Pole, Part I

/ J. Thorp / 2 Comments

Blogger’s Note: Back in 2003, our children mailed their letters to Santa Claus very late and were quite concerned that he might not realize we would be traveling on Christmas. Prior to that winter, Santa had always left a short handwritten letter near the cookie plate, but with more kids and more questions, he found himself in need of assistance. (After all, he is a busy man this time of year.) Several days before Christmas, we found a card on our mantle, and Christmas morning, a letter marked with a script S, but not for Santa! I’ve transcribed them to share, in hopes of spreading holiday cheer and bolstering belief.

* * * * *

16 December 2003

My dear Thorp children,

Of course we can deliver your presents on Christmas Eve Day — why, your mother used to receive her presents every year on Christmas Eve! We try to accommodate all Holiday travel plans (within reason), for there is nothing more important than Family at Christmas!

So rest easy these next few nights! Know that your letter was very well received — Santa loves to hear from his children, and especially appreciates your Honesty about those times you’ve been less than perfect. We will compare your Wish List against what we’ve prepared for you, but remember! Santa knows best what you need, and often has his own ideas. You may not get everything you’ve asked for, but I am certain you will be Very Happy on the morning of December 24!

Merry Christmas Brendan, Gabriel and Emma!

Siberius Quill
Elf Correspondent

* * * * *

23 December 2003
The Eve of Christmas Eve

Dearest Children!

Happy Christmas to you all! How fortunate that I should be assigned to your family, for I am the Very Elf who wrote you just a week ago to tell you your Santa Letter was not in vain. (Of course, no such letter ever is!) Ah! I am reminded that you are all so Very Young — I must think more slowly and write more simply. And as you are a New Family, and this is your first letter from a Correspondent, I should introduce myself…

So I shall! I am Siberius Quill III, a Correspondent in Santa’s Letter Corps and fifth-generation Elfin Scribe. I am to be your Personal Contact and Pen-Pal here at the North Pole for as long as you will have me. You see, when human children reach the age at which they begin writing letters, lists and questions for Santa — when he can no longer hand-write a note to you over cookies and milk — we Correspondents take over. Like your Father, my talent lies in language. Let the other Elves make toys; I’ve no knack for tools!

Unlike your Father, however, I am descended from a long and proud line of Writers. My great-grandfather, Siberius the Old, personally penned Mr. Kringle’s first List of Names. (That was long centuries ago, however — several Great Uncles, Uncles and Cousins now compile the names, but The Old Man still has a nose for telling naughty from nice!) My grandfather, Siberius II, is Santa’s Chief Calligrapher, and my father, Scribner Quill, teaches Foreign Penmanship — Japanese, Arabic and the like. My mother’s kin are Writers, too — her father, Brevity Parchment, heads the Tags and Greetings division.

We Correspondents are good for more than just lists and letters, Children — as you get older and wiser, you will likely have fewer questions about What Santa does, and more and more questions about Why and How he does it. Consider me your Primary Resource regarding All Things Christmas — I will do my level best to tell you everything I can! Of course, not even the Elves know everything Pere Noel is about — but what I know I will share, because sharing is one of the simplest Good Deeds you can do. Remember that!

Now then — you’ve asked me no questions, boys, but you did ask your Father one, didn’t you, Master Brendan? Let me see — I believe you wanted to know what happens should children like Yourselves awaken when Santa is about! Your Father told you what he thought, and it’s exactly so — old Santa smiles at them, his eyes a-twinkle; places his pointing finger to his lips, and shhh! Out they go, like an Advent Candle, to sleep deeply and dream pleasant dreams — remembering nothing, or almost nothing, of what they think they’ve seen. Ah, but your Dad remembers — buried in his head are the unconscious thoughts and waking dreams of the Little Boy he used to be. He remembers!

Master Gabriel, I must mention that Santa was most Impressed and Flattered that you wanted a red fur suit for Christmas, to match your Christmas hat, no doubt. Though you’d make quite a strapping elf, you are not quite tall enough for the robes of St. Nicholas, nor round enough to fill Santa’s trousers. Keep growing, young Master, and you’ll make a fine Father Christmas yet.

All our Love to Emma and your Mother and — Can this be? — a new Baby on the way? Bless my soul, but you’ll keep me busy. A fine, Big Family indeed! Happy Christmas, Young Ones — may God bless you and your family as He blessed us all those many years ago, in a Bethlehem stable, in the hay. And a Happy New Year, too!

Your Most Sincerely,

Siberius Quill

P.S. If you like, you may call me Quill!

* * * * *

As Christmas draws nearer, perhaps I’ll transcribe the others we’ve received over the years.

The Sticky Revenge of One-Eyed Jack, Part IV

/ J. Thorp / 2 Comments


The is the final installment, part four of four. To read them in order, start with part one in the Blog Archive at the right.

* * * * *

The sound of footsteps reached them from the open front door. No time, said the apparition, gliding toward the house.

Just then Sam’s mother stepped to the porch in her long coat and slippers, latching the door behind her. She entered the garage and flipped on the light. The ghost hissed his dismay—he had no desire to haunt a garage.

Listen, said Jack. Sam won’t scare easily—he’s an imaginative one; I’m sure he’s daydreamed worse than you.

The ghost hissed again, swooping close to Jack’s one eye. Jack stared, unflinching.

You saw who did this, he continued. That one deserves a good haunting, don’t you think? Do you know which house is his?

The ghost grinned hideously.

Gather my remains and take me there, and I will get you into his very bedroom, Jack said.

Swear it! said the ghost.

By my Mother Vine and the black earth, you’ll be his waking nightmare before dawn, swore Jack. Here’s the plan …

* * * * *

Moments later the ghost swooped low over Jack’s shattered remains, this time spreading like a deep shadow on the driveway until nothing could be seen. When it flew skyward, no trace of Jack remained. Sam’s mother emerged from the garage with a wide push-broom and battered snow shovel and stared at the driveway.

She was so surprised to find the pumpkin and glass shards gone that she barely registered the chill as the ghost passed quickly through her and into the garage. When at last she re-entered the garage, shaking her head, she didn’t notice the missing stapler.

* * * * *

Four houses down, soft snoring emanated from a tangle of blankets, candy wrappers, and dirty tube socks. A pale and skinny boy lay sprawled and sleeping, his blue eyes half hidden under half-closed lids. The clock on the nightstand flashed 11:53. Just then, there came a tap at the window.

The boy groaned, sat halfway up, then collapsed back on the bed.

Tap. Tap. Tap.

The boy rubbed his eyes and sat up. Who’s there?

Tap-tap.

He looked to see a dark, ill-defined shape in the window, and the lights of town shining beyond. In fact, the lights seemed to shine through the object, through a three-sided hole that was strangely familiar.

Tap, tap, tap, tap.

He untangled himself from his bedding and walked to the window, still half-asleep. What’s tapping on the window? he thought. A cat? A rat? A bird?

It was none of those things. He opened the window to see what it was.

* * * * *

The boy’s mother woke to a cold draft in the morning and assumed her son had been sneaking out of the house—on a school night, no less. “Anthony?” she called as she walked down the hall. “Are you there?” She knocked on his door. No answer. She gave an exasperated sigh and slowly opened the door. Then she screamed

The bed was empty; the window was open; and her son was gone. The bed sheets, the floor, and the window sill were smeared in sticky orange goo. Trembling uncontrollably, she stuck her head out the window and saw a trail of pumpkin remains, broken glass, and melted candle wax leading from the back to the front of the house. She rushed to the front door and threw it open. “Anthony!” she shrieked.

* * * * *

Sam’s mom broke the news about Jack to him as soon as he woke the next morning. He took it better than expected. He asked if she saw who did it, though he felt sure he knew.

Sam left for the bus stop to see blue and red lights flashing further up the street. Bryce came at a run from the same direction.

“Did you hear about Anthony?” he asked Sam breathlessly.

Sam shook his head and thought of Jack.

“They found him this morning,” said Bryce, “in his front yard.”

“Found him?” asked Sam. “What, dead?!”

Bryce shook his head. “Way better than that!” he said. “Someone stapled his pajamas to a tree with him still in them!”

Sam stopped cold. “His mom found him and screamed,” said Bryce. “There must’ve been a thousand staples! He frostbit his feet—couldn’t call for help because they stuffed a stump of candle in his mouth. He was shivering and crying and going on and on about a giant eye peering in his window. Can you imagine?”

Sam could imagine. Jack! he thought, and smiled.

* * * * *

For Bren, Gabe, Rose and Trevvy, who bring out the best (and worst!) in me.

Photo: Another of the old man’s jack-o-lanterns, 2007