Troy gave his bronze bell a wobble and boomed out a valiant “Ho Ho Ho”, before he kicked the bucket.

Children stared in puzzlement as Troy fell flat on his back like a slice of bread butter-side down.

Frantic elves waded through the tide of children and crouched at Troy’s side. Pressing his fingers beneath the elasticated beard, one curly-toed elf shook his head sadly. “He’s gone.”

Horrified parents began shepherding their offspring away.

The ambulance arrived within minutes and Troy was zipped up into a black bag, his red bobbled hat perched on top like a robin.

***

“Children at the Royal Victoria shopping center were left traumatized on Saturday morning by the sudden death of Father Christmas. Troy Masters had worked as the popular Father Christmas at the Tunbridge Wells complex for five years and staff there have been expressing their shock at his death. Following a post mortem coroners were unable to establish the cause of death and have recorded a verdict of ‘death by natural causes’…”

The image of the newsreader’s carefully presented face was sucked back into a black hole as the red standby button clicked into life below it.

“Poor guy – and right before Christmas as well,” Mum said, tossing the remote onto the kitchen table.

“Was that the real Santa Claus that died?” Rio asked, sloshing her spoon into her cereal like an oar and scattering coco pops across the glass tabletop.

“No it wasn’t, sweetheart,” Mum reassured her, moving in to wipe up the mess.

“You know what probably happened though don’t you?” Dad said to the room at large in a conspiratorial tone.

“What happened?” Rio asked on cue, as her breakfast congealed beneath her.

“Well, the saying goes that every time a child says ‘I don’t believe in Father Christmas’, another Santa Claus falls down dead.”

The teenager in the corner rolled his eyes and Dad took a swig of coffee, a knowing look on his face.

“I thought that was supposed to be fairies,” Mum said.

“Yes of course, but it’s the same for all magical beings. So it’s very dangerous being magical in these days, because so many kids don’t believe in them anymore.”

Rio looked horrified. “Oh no! But I will always, always believe in them, for all my life!”

Dad chuckled and rose from the breakfast table, as he did so the teenager leant across his pop-tart plate with a withering expression.

“Dad’s lying, Rio. Father Christmas doesn’t even exist, so he can’t even die.”

“Of course he exists!” Dad said, scandalised. “Who do you think brings all your presents on Christmas morning?”

“You of course,” he said. “I don’t believe in Father Christmas any more.”

***

Henry was finding it really hard to get out of bed in the mornings, now that winter had rolled in.

He staggered out of the shower, a towel clinging on to his sizeable waist like a dying man.

Henry moved in front of the mirror and ran a comb through the tangle of white bristles on his chin.

He spread his lips into a jolly grin, exposing crisp white teeth, lined up like snow-covered cottages.

“Ho Ho Ho!” he rumbled as he pulled on his red and white hat, admiring his authentic look.

I do make a damn fine Santa Claus, he thought to himself before he croaked.

© Amy Roskilly 2009

This story is a part of the Spec the Halls contest for speculative winter holiday-themed fiction, artwork, and poetry. You may find guidelines and links to other entries at: http://www.aswiebe.com/specthehalls/guidelines.html

The Big Issue does good things for good people every day.  People who are striving to better themselves and better their world.

The sellers turn over a portion of their scant money to buy these magazines, which are compiled by professional writers and discuss such things as current affairs, political issues and popular culture.

Sellers work tirelessly to make their business work. If magazines are left unsold at the end of the day they cannot be returned or replaced with fresh issues, it is a gamble in today’s cynical society.

Still, some people have a big issue with The Big Issue, and they turn their faces away from sellers, trotting past as if they were a suspicious package on a train, emitting puffs of smoke.

Yet they’re not begging; they are working an honest trade as much the newspaper seller standing at the entrance to the underground is. As much as the shopkeeper on the corner is.

Give it a chance, give them a chance, and know that you’re helping them ever closer to their goal of a better life.

Countless times they’ve tried to ignore

That lonely someone beyond the door

Magazines in hand, a hat on his head

Try hard not to see him; to them he is dead

“Merry Christmas!” he calls to a retreating back

Fighting for life to be free of the wrack

But they shake their heads, flee in disgust

Throwing off thoughts of society’s rust

He’s trying to change, or he wouldn’t be there.

But the good folks won’t let him.

Dead expressions and air.

©Amy Roskilly

National Novel Writing Month

Sounds ludicrous doesn’t it, writing a novel in a month? Well, that’s exactly
what I thought when I first heard about NaNoWriMo 2008 anyway. It’s so
crazy an idea in fact, that over 100,000 people across the globe seem
to think taking part would be fun, myself included.

Starting on November 1st hundreds of thousands of pens started scratching across pages, keyboard keys started pumping manically, and all across the world thousands of novels were being born.

Now we’re nearly half way into December and despite hours of doubt and
downright disappointment, through days of dank, dark writer’s block,
there are a few thousand new novels in existence, dragged kicking and
screaming from the well of lost plots (J.F).

I’ve been scheming novels for years, I even managed to write one once, but
tragically that was where it ended; a neglected and unloved first
draft, bursting with blemishes and clichés.

Writing my second novel, T.Wrex, was one hell of a climb. It took countless
NaNoWriMo pep-emails to keep my stamina going, not to mention the
constant reminder that other peoples’ word counts were piling on the
pounds every hour I wasted.

The plot was one I had devised when I was 16 and about which I had written
something that can loosely be described as a short story.

So it was unearthed and dusted off, in desperate need of a drastic
overhaul, a complete plot make-over and the addition of one or two new
characters, or explosions, to get it where it is now (which is still
miles away from perfection, but has, at least, traversed into
existence).

The joy of writing it without agenda or any solid plan was that it was as
exciting for me to write as I could ever hope it will be for any
potential readers. A list of objectives got my characters from A to B
and the grey area in between was free game, leaving me as intrigued as
anyone else.

Now I’m half way there, the novel is in the bag and the redrafting devils
are looming in vain over my shoulder. But December is for liberating my
creative urges, for writing those short snappy stories that were all
put on hold, reigned in and channelled into one adventurous and
ambitious project throughout November.

NaNoWriMo founder, director and nine times winner, Chris Baty’s top tips for making the grade:

1) If you can, drag a friend or family member into NaNoWriMo with you.
It’s much easier to do this when you have someone to commiserate and celebrate with.

2) Lower your expectations. Your first draft will
have moments of crap and moments of beauty, and you should never be discouraged if the dreck seems to outweigh the gold. That’s how books get written.

3) Save all editing for December. Think of NaNoWriMo as
a creative experiment in output. Put away the red pen, and turn off your inner critic.

5) Know that you can
do this. Novels are not written by novelists. Novels are written by everyday people who give themselves permission to write novels. Give yourself permission, then go get that book written!

Above all, as Stephen King put so succinctly in his book, ‘On Writing’:

The first draft is for telling your own story. The second draft is where you start telling it to everyone else.

I just can’t help myself.

Every time I walk past those spangling, festive window displays I just have to walk in.

The colours and smells draw me in, luring me on a chain of cherished and distant memories.

The shop smells like fun.  That special smell, reserved for theme parks, a smell that you can never describe and never recall, but you know it as soon as you smell it.

It’s exciting.  It makes you think of spinning around on the aerial swings… or whooshing around on the run away train… or of taking a shower on the log flume.

No two ways about it; with its volcano of colours, and its distinctive smell of fun, the Disney store is too good to walk past.

I never buy anything in there.  (I like to tell myself I’ve grown out of that habit.)  But I like to just walk around, browsing but never buying.  I probably resemble a shop lifter.  Wandering between the shelves, lovingly looking at the magnets, pausing in front of the giant TV screen to sing along to the Lion King.  Undoubtedly I look a little out of place.

The Disney store is my guilty pleasure -and we all have our vices.  Standing amongst the mountain of soft toys and watching the animated figurines move mechanically up near the ceiling, dancing in time to those feel good tunes we all love to sing along to -no matter our age.

It all conjures up memories. My memories of a small girl who couldn’t get enough fun.  Who couldn’t ride on the tea cups often enough, and who found King Kong utterly terrifying!

I discovered something new today, and it was only more questions.

As a writer, I’m not an advocate of poetry, although I have turned my hand to it on an occasional whim.  It’s an incredibly subjective art, and a true manifestation of the proverb: Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

I like poems that rhyme.  Rhyming poems have a purpose in life, and that purpose, if you will, is to rhyme.

A poem with no rhyming, and no structure is simply prose, decorated under another name.  It is a collection of coherent sentences which do not add up to being a coherent result.  A poem with no structure, and no rhyme, is a story with no beginning, no middle, and no end.  It has no destination, and thus cannot take the reader anywhere.  If it cannot move you, then what is its function in being?

Poetry, to my mind, can be one of two things.  It can be a raw, and a beautiful expression of the unadulterated human emotion.  Or it can be a quirky method of story telling.

Poetry that can be described as an expression of human emotion is difficult to place.  Without a structure to the poem, how can it be considered as anything more than a snippet of prose?  Arranging prose into verses on the page does not make it a poem.  But in adding a classified structure to constrain and to tame the prose into a form of poetry, inherently deprives it of its raw and primitive nature, and ceases its ability to be a reflection of the human spirit.

I went to a poetry reading this evening with my preconceptions ready in my bag. Poetry has no bounds. If publishable poetry can show itself in the form of a shopping list, or a snippet of everyday conversation, then everybody is a poet. Some of us are lucky and attain publication.  Some are dedicated and drive themselves unquestionably to success.  Some spend the rest of their days collecting their ‘art’ in a folder of scrap paper, never deemed to be more worthy than the next one.  Never deemed to be even equal in stature to the one that got published.

If poetry is about the people, then surely the science and precise code of writing poems distracts from the true purpose of the exercise.  If Prose tells the story, then poetry tells of the inspiration.

I’ve learnt alot over this past year about the complex labyrinth of American politics.

When I was in Colorado last December I bemoaned how much hype and media coverage followed the election campaigners like flies.  I was concerned for the sanity of Americans across the continent; for having to keep pace with such a lengthy and drawn out campaign.

Since then I’ve learned about the existence of preliminary elections, the reason, I suppose, why the campaigns are started over a year before the actual election.  I’ve also possibly figured out what all this talk of nominees and running mates is about.

With no solid opinions on the matter myself, think Obama will be good.  Not necessarily a good president, I haven’t been following his campaign close enough to have any idea of that, but a good role model for the united states and the multicultural society they support.

But it makes me ponder how the traditionalists in the country must be kicking themselves right now.  How on earth do they vote? The choice between a black man in the Oval office or a woman as Vice-President must be a stark one indeed.

Either way, this coming election will represent a historical change in the country which, all things willing, will finally see some changes in the worldwise attitude towards the United States of America.

… Take care what picture you see!

Mamma Mia was good.  I didn’t think it was that spectacular as it was going along, but I couldn’t help but notice my left foot tapping to the beat, my lips mouthing the lyrics and the odd tear of happiness in my eye.

Meryl Streep was fantastic, throwing all her weight and soul into the performance.  The fun just oozed from the screen, not processed, scripted fun, but the obvious passion and enjoyment of the cast.

But the clincher for me was that I actually quite liked Pierce Brosnan.  All through his James Bond days I’ve stayed as far away from the man as possible.  I took into consideration that, when playing James Bond, he was portraying a womanising male chauvinist, and that this was most likely why he irritated me so much. But then along came Daniel Craig, and the James Bond movies became entertaining again, and against all the odds, I’m actually looking forward to Quantum of Solace later this year.

Walking into the cinema to see Mamma Mia, I cringed knowing that Pierce Brosnan would be in it.  But despite all my pre-conceived ideas, he was actually very good.  He’s not a fantastic singer, but neither am I, and I respect his throwing so much into the movie.  A brave step after playing the world famous super spy extraordinaire!

Hellboy II on the other hand…

I have never regretted spending money on a movie trip before, and likewise I have never contemplated walking out of a cinema mid performance.  But Hellboy II is a movie that inspires both regret and a swift escape!

It follows the ill thought out exploits of some “superheroes”, the main player having apparently been released from Hell itself, hence the name. He’s big, chunky, ugly and red, with a giant papier-mâché toilet roll on his arm, for some unknown reason.  The most imaginative names the writers could give this big red monster were…. you guessed it…. Red and Hellboy.

The film attempts to be a humorous romp through a world of fantasy and fairy tales, but leaves your skin creeping at their attempts at humour and what can loosely be described as romance.

Its one saving grace was the fancy, martial arts footwork of the Elf Prince, played by Luke Goss, which was quite breath taking in places, and was the one element of the movie that inclined me to remain in my seat.

As they sang in Mamma Mia…”Honey, Honey, he nearly kills me!”

Gordon Brown has likened our troops, fighting in Afganistan, to the winners of Britain’s Olympic medals.

I don’t like to see a solitary person the recipient of so many complaints and so much discontent, as Gordon Brown has recently been, but even I must join in the crowd this time.

Far from putting down the achievements and the sheer effort that has gone into the winning of every one of those Olympic medals, the winning of a sporting event simply is not the same as setting yourself in front of bullets for your country.

I think the comparison must be recieved as a great insult by the armed forces.  Surely, running repeatedly around a track, can not be considered the same as putting ones self against an infamous terrorist cell?

Meanwhile, we have learnt that parents, for the first time, are to be allowed to act as agents for their offspring when it comes to applying to university.  Parents are being allowed to conduct all communications with the universities and even to sit in on their offsprings’ interviews.

For me, attending university was a learning curve. Not just learning about my specialist subject, but learning simply how to live independantly as an adult.  University taught me, and countless others, how to take control of ones own affairs and how to become the master of your own life and decisions.

For many students, university is the first time they are allowed to make their own decisions and even to pick their own bed-times.  But now, with parents already sending emergency food packages to their incarcerated children, parents are to be allowed to pull the reigns of their offspring back in.

If youth is the future of tomorrow, crippling it from independent thought does not bode well for humanity’s future.

China has so far excelled itself during the 2008 Olympics which it is hosting.  The hot topic of discussion and jokes at the moment is just how Britain can possibly out do, or even match,  the Chinese opening ceremony when 2012 comes around.

The pride the Chinese feel for their nation is quite staggering.  Not only did they pull off one of the most breath snatching firework and dance spectaculars I’ve ever seen, but they’re topping the medal tables by a long shot too.

One could suggest that the amount of effort put into it was a necessary price to pay, what with their questionable ethics having increasingly been brought to light over recent months.  So determined are they to put forward an image of perfection and national unity that they would not allow a little girl to sing before the masses because she wasn’t deemed ‘cute enough’.

The girl in question, with a voice brilliant enough to sing the national anthem to the world, was allowed to sing but was not filmed doing so.  Instead a girl with the face to fit but not the voice was enlisted to lip-sing the anthem, thus creating the “perfect” voice/face combination.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the globe, Britons are making a mockery of their own Island in front of the rest of the world.  British tourists have been labelled as the most violent and most drunk of all nationalities at popular tourist destinations.  More arrests are made of Britons, more Britons are killed by excess alcohol and the accidents resulting.

With such a deplorable lack of patriotism and unity being displayed by the British, I hope for the sake of our pride and our egos that we do have something truely spectacular up our sleeves come 2012.  We will need something amazing, just like the Chinese, in order to recover our reputation from being the laughing stock of Europe to a position of more standing.

Okay… so it’s rather obvious that I haven’t quite grasped a thorough understanding of web blog jargon yet. But recently, some entries to my blog have been automatically snipped from my pages and super imposed into some mechanical blog elsewhere.

This, I’m told by my blogging colleagues, is a bad thing; I’ve read countless posts of fellow bloggers condemning anyone that would dare to do such a thing.

But with exploration of the pages owned by these blog bandits, I found that on every occasion there was a link back to my original post displayed.

How very kind of them to provide my humble blog with a tiny glimmer of publicity. As those tycoons at Tesco would say; “Every little helps!”