Does Dear Santa Spoil Santa Novels & Stories

I reminded him, though my own resolve was quickly crumbling as his finger drew circle on my exposed thighs. He cocked his head, his grin widening. "Who’s Cole? I’m Santa," he corrected, his tone dead serious as he sounds disappointed. "Then Santa," I said, my voice dropping a bit low, "you need to stop groping my breasts. It’s wrong." I slapped his hands away as they wandered higher up my body.

Nox asked, "why are you worried about Santa?" She pointed out the large windows. "Because the man on TV said the snow is coming. He said lots and lots. He said no driving. What about Santa?" "Child," Jane said, "I told you, Santa flies a sleigh. Snow's a Christmas miracle." I leaned closer. "Jane's right." I glanced at her smiling brown eyes, winked, and looked back to my daughter. "She always is. Santa's sleigh flies better in snow."

He let out a startled eep. “Motherfucker!” I shouted, running for the Santa-eating zombies. “What the fuck!” I swung my machete hard, turning one zombie into two bite-sized pieces, but I was too damn late. The other bit into the side of the Santa’s leg, ripping a giant hole out of it. The hiss of escaping air and the zombie’s moans blended together, and the Santa dented, tilted, and deflated, his face morphing from a Christmas grin into a weird, distorted grimace.

was letting a group of giggling girls tuck dollar bills into his belt. “Mike… this is going to sound insane, but… is your dad at Club Velvet right now?” A long pause. Then a confused laugh. “What? No. Why the hell would my dad be at a club? He’s probably on the couch watching ESPN with a beer. Why?” “There’s a Santa act,” I said, voice low over the music. “And he looks exactly like him. Like… scarily like him.” Mike snorted. “You’re drunk already?”

I gesture weakly at the room, “snowstorm, cozy cabin, candles, warm bath appearing out of nowhere—this feels very… festive.” He stares at me like I’ve lost my mind. “And,” I add, because my nerves need humor to survive, “maybe Santa is real and he truly read my letter and he’s very invested in hypothermia prevention.” Silence. Then, very quietly, Damien snorts. The sound surprises both of us. “Santa,” he repeats. “Hey, don’t judge,” I defend softly. “I just watched your bathroom unlock itself and fill a tub. At this point, a fat man in red breaking into cabins wouldn’t even crack the top five weirdest things tonight.”

he states. “Yeah, I did.” “What, my workout yesterday morning wasn’t good enough?” He says, wrapping his arms around my waist. “Well, I mean, both are good.” After our shower (which we take our time with), we both get ready for the day and head down for breakfast. Later, while the girls are in the water, I ask Sue, “So what exactly do the girls think is happening with Santa tomorrow? Because I assume you didn’t bring gifts with you?” “We brought one for each of them and told them that Santa would deliver the rest to our house because he knew we wouldn’t have space for them on the airplane and that they could open them when they got home.”

Santa called her ass out. Next Christmas would be different. The baby would only be about six months old then, but Amber and Leo and Grayson would go overboard for sure. Buy him or her so much shit they couldn’t play with it all in a lifetime, pictures with a store Santa, set out cookies and milk for the reindeer, the whole nine yards. Over the top, take a million pictures to mark the occasion because the kid wouldn’t remember it.

“You're saying you can marry us? Legally?" He shrugs. “I’m ordained online.” I can see my future self telling this story to Anne when she’s older: “And that’s how your mother and father were married on Christmas Eve by Santa Claus. On your birthday.” I burst into the room, tailed by Santa, who laughs as he walks in. “Ho, Ho, Ho, Merry Christmas!” Kate cocks her head to the side. “Really, Dorian?" she asks. "Santa? Are you purposely trying to re-traumatize me?"

All along the sidewalk, children clapped and waved at the big man, some even shouting their Christmas wishes. Santa looked an awful lot like Sheriff Parks, even with his fake beard and stuffed tummy. The kids didn’t seem to notice. He waved and tossed candy from atop his sleigh, his plastic reindeer fastened up the roof of the pick-up truck towing his magical sled atop a flatbed trailer. It was decorated with fake snow and Christmas trees so that it looked as if Santa was flying over the top of a forest of lighted trees. “Well, that’s that,” Memory said, turning toward him, her hands deep in her pockets. “Until next year.”

A little boy with brown hair, and brown eye stomped up the stairs, put his hands on his hips, and glared at Joe. “Hello Carlton. Merry Christmas!” Joe said enthusiastically. “You’re not Santa!” Carlton snapped. “I’m not?” “No!” “Then who am I?” “I don’t know, but there is no Santa! Santa isn’t real!” “Who told you that?” “My big brother! He told me I was a big baby if I still believed in Santa.” “I see. Can I ask you a question Carlton?” “Ye….yes.” “Do you, in your heart, believe Santa is real?”