The Soul Eater Comes Down The Chimney

In college we were asked to write a short-short story about Christmas. My friend Emma wrote one about elves and Father Christmas and happiness. I handed over my story and watched the teacher's expression as she read it. When she was finished she looked up and said to me "Tom, it's tragic." "That's life, Miss," I replied. The story - I wish I still had a copy as I really liked it - was about a young boy who went downstairs to discover Father Christmas wasn't real (a tragic moment in any childhood - sorry kids if you're reading this!) 

The obese, notorious criminal slips down the snowy

chimney in order to steal their souls. No need for a key

just the aggressive storm across the room. The little girl Chloe,

innocently nestled in her bed, unaware of he

who drags the souls upon his back. Creeping up the stairs,

avoiding the light, Santa Claus, the killer to be

feared. Upon the night news his photograph glares

at the children who once loved him. Eighteen souls

had been taken that night ready to share

it with his elves and reindeers. Children slipped through the holes

in the days of December. Lock your doors,

bar your windows, turn up your fires, Chloe was told

and that’s why the sharp candy cane, which broke many laws

lay under her pillows, waiting for him. Soon it would creep

and he would step in, dragging the bag, the bag with the head and jaws

and souls. Santa Claus did just that. He took a leap

and entered the room. The shadow cast vicariously across the bed

over Chloe, sweet Chloe who pretended to be asleep.

“Sweet child,” said Santa as he opened the sack. “You may call me Ted –”

“I’d rather not,” snapped Chloe and turned to face

the man who so idly killed the children, who snuck to their bed,

who stole their souls. In the darkness the space

between them was filled with the swish of the sharp candy cane

and Chloe took a massive fall from grace,

stabbing at precious Santa Claus – she must be insane!

but not so, really, not until she jumped and fought

and yelled. With wicked shrieks she would gain,

gain vengeance and life. She remembered what she had been taught

from Billy’s dying breaths, what she had to do

which disgusted her as much as a witches’ wart.

Santa had taken their souls, taken somebody’s son

and Chloe fought. Chloe who screamed and attacked and had had enough,

enough of the man who weighed a ton,

enough of the fat man. Enough of all this stuff,

stuff that ruined Christmas, the trees, the decorations, the Chloe

she used to be. She hooked the knife upon his cuff

wrestling him but the sack was opened and it looked snowy

like a thousand places she wanted to go. Like her soul was going,

and so, when Santa left the house, he left with a soul and the end of Chloe.