Yeah, you know sometimes when you’re supposed to be writing something, and instead, your brain starts going in a completely different direction.
That happened to me BIG TIME while I was working on Good Saint Nick for the Echoes of Winter Anthology. This is the result…
Twas the night before deadline,
and all through the house, not a device was clicking.
Not keyboard. Not mouse.
The writer was perched in a hard office chair, tweeting out #WritersBlock, but no one could care.
His family was nestled, all snug in their beds.
The writer sipped cold coffee and wished he was dead.
Then up on the rooftop, there arose such a clatter, that the cats asleep on the desktop all scattered.
And down the chimney, a cloud of soot fell.
Followed by a big fat man, three elves as well.
The writer cried, “Who’s going to clean up this mess?!”
But the fat man just laughed and said, “Don’t be upset.
I’ve got, in my sack here, some presents for thee.”
“Unless it’s ten thousand words, you’re barking up the wrong tree.”
The writer’s snide tone was not well received.
Santa was, to say the least, quite peeved.
“I’ll put you on my naughty list, you rude little cur!”
“OMG, what will I do now? I’ll die for sure!”
The writer rolled his eyes and turned back to his desk.
“Are you really quite finished? I must write the rest
I’ve only got six hours until this story’s due, and I doubt my editor will buy that I spent them with you.”
Santa was dumbfounded. “You want me to go?”
The elves shouted, “Hey wise guy!” and “Come at me, bro!”
The writer just shrugged and said, “Do what you want.”
Santa had never seen one so nonchalant.
He had to give this one something quite special, but what did you give someone so temperamental?
He thought long and hard about gifts, but none stuck, and just when he thought he was pure out of luck,
One of his elves stepped up and whispered into his ear, and Santa yelled, “That’s it! You’ve cracked it, my dear!”
The elf went all bashful as Santa pulled out his phone.
He unlocked the screen and punched the number for home.
The elves answered quickly and followed direction.
They hacked into the servers and avoided detection.
And as Santa went off, leaving the writer alone, a notification dinged on the writer’s smart phone.
An email had come from his editor’s desk.
“It’s the holidays, why don’t you take a rest?
My wife’s taking me on a surprise vacation.
No work is allowed, on threat of castration.
So don’t stress on the timeline, take an extra week.”
The writer was so shocked, he couldn’t even speak.
As he reread the email, he heard from above,
“Merry Christmas, dear writer! From Santa, with love.”
Copyright 2015 – Lu J Whitley