S.T. Schorey is an American scholar as well as freelance writer and editor of fiction and nonfiction. Her work has appeared in The Dread Machine, Punk Noir Magazine, Machines in Between, and Religion Dispatches.
Did you know a full quarter of Christmas house fires happen because of Santa?
Think about it—that little piece of coal in the stocking, pulling the fabric so it droops just low enough to be warmed by the fire.
He doesn’t even hide it. Not really. Fire, coal, fabric.
How long did yours take to burn down? One hour? Two?
And that naughty and nice list—what’s the criteria? Where are the receipts? You didn’t deserve that. None of us did. Dude is judge, jury, and executioner all on the same night.
You have one year to prepare. Listen close.
• • •
When you arrive at Santa’s workshop do not, under any circumstances, look Santa in the eyes.
Instead, walk directly—and I mean fucking directly—to your place in the assembly line. Follow the rainbow-colored stars dotting the warehouse floor, glittered from plastic and metal swarf, glistening from oil and tears and sweat. Yours is the last star on the third row from the back.
When you get there don’t say hello to the lead elf, you’ll know him when you see him—the one on the shelf.
The elf on the shelf is a fucking fascist.
I mean, look at him.
Pointy red hat. Snow white bands around his arms and legs. So attention-hungry he’ll do most anything to get an audience, and all the while he’s reporting on every part of your day down to the smallest grumble or grimace. You’ll need to react to his every move with a smile and laugh—you will need to pretend to be charmed by his hijinks, to love his constant surveillance.
Remember that you are supposed to be here to thread shoes.
The elf in front of you will cut the pattern. The one on the left will assemble the vamp, sole, and welt. The one next to him will attach the heel and finish the cuff. You are only here to loop the eyelets, to zig zag your fingers back and forth tightening the rope around the tongue.
You will be timed.
Don’t look the elf on the shelf in the eyes either. Should you need help, simply stomp your feet so your bells chime thrice and someone will assist you.
Wait until the third night of the DuPont shift, just after dawn.
• • •
If you have a panic attack, name the things you hear, smell, see.
In this case: the soft jingle of bells, on your shoes and everyone else’s.
The chemical concoction of pine, cinnamon, and hot cocoa pumped through the tiny vents lacing the exposed aluminum ceiling.
The warmth of the Walther PK380 that’s kicked back in your hand.
Santa’s cold dead body stretched out like a Macy’s Day balloon, popped and crumpled on the warehouse floor.
The lump of coal you throw on him on your way out.
~ fin ~
S.T. Schorey is an American scholar as well as freelance writer and editor of fiction and nonfiction. Her work has appeared in The Dread Machine, Punk Noir Magazine, Machines in Between, and Religion Dispatches.
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