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BV Lawson received a Master’s Literary Award from Center Press, and recently received an honorable mention in a contest for Mysterical-E and is a finalist for the 2007 Deadly Ink contest. She also has an upcoming story slated for publication in "Great Mystery and Suspense." In addition, She's written two articles for "Mystery Readers Journal" and penned public radio and commercial television feature scripts and articles for "The Washington Times" and special-interest magazines. She's currently working on a mystery series, including short stories, novellas, and novels, as well as general fiction. Her web site is www.bvlawson.com. Dreaming of a Spite Christmas by BV Lawson
Wonder if he should call it the "list of doom"? Baggy green pants with elastic waistband, check. Stuffed velvet jacket that made him look like a pregnant frog, yep, had that, too. Floppy hat with broken bell (wonder how that happened?), check. Curly-toed elf shoes that pinched his feet, check. Vial of poison, check.
Ten a.m., must be "White Christmas" again. The tape-loop at the Irving Towne Mall always started off with that piece of claptrap. How many times did this make, one hundred, two? White Christmas––bah. He’d always hated snow, although the anonymity was nice. Couldn't tell a crack house from a gingerbread house under a foot of snow.
Ten-fifteen, and guess who was late again? Mr. Big Shot, Santa himself, and those cheeks weren't rosy from the cold; it was 60 degrees outside. Wonder if Santa had been with her this morning? She'd gone to work an hour earlier than usual, hadn't she? Hmm.
Ten-thirty, and he tripped down the stairs and fell on his ass. Damn these pointy shoes. Would it kill them to make elf footwear that weren't instruments of torture? Oops, probably shouldn't be thinking about killing and torture. Note to self, don't say it out loud. Oh, panic––what about the vial? Whew. There it was, still in his side pocket, unbroken.
Ten-forty. Only ten-forty? He'd had root canals that flew by faster than this. Maybe he should see a doctor, with the pain grinding his stomach into mincemeat. Definitely a tied-up-in-knots kind of feeling. It only started recently, about the time he saw the two of them coming out of that seedy motel together. Yeah, that's when it started.
Eleven o'clock, and a line of children stretched back to Macys, a few of them crying. They'd had their share of criers lately, which Santa was quick to hand off to the elf. He looked past the kid-conga-line into the sea of shoppers, looking for that one expected face. Not yet, too early. Don't blow it, don't get ahead of yourself.
Eleven-ten, and the woman with the red-haired twins kept staring at him, but not in a I-think-you're-cute kind of way. Could she tell? Was she psychic? He'd been very careful to stick to his normal routine. Smile, take the kiddies from Santa, shoo them off stage with another smile, reset the photo counter, and smile yet again. It sure was hot in here. He probably had sweat stains the size of Lake Erie under his arms by now.
Eleven-fifteen, and his hands were shaking. Were the tots getting heavier?
Eleven-twenty, and if he had to hear one more ho-ho-ho, he was going to go ballistic like an ice hockey player after a sucker punch. No, gotta be careful, mustn't bring attention to himself. Just another generic Christmas sidekick, smiling and gritting his teeth.
Eleven-thirty, and finally, the patsy, uh, nice young woman arrived, lattes in hand. He'd given her a huge tip to buy those for Santa and his elf. Thanks young lady, now go away. He fingered the smooth vial in his pocket and opened the coffee lid. The liquid in the vial was supposed to be tasteless, but he'd had the chick buy a spicy gingerbread latte, just to be safe.
Eleven-thirty-two. Coffee break. Here you go, Santa, a holiday latte, just for you. After all, you've been working hard, haven't you? Juggling all those squirming kids on your lap, posing for photos, soaking up the love from your adoring public, screwing my wife in your spare time.
Eleven-thirty-three, and the Mall Manager picks this moment to drop by for a meet-and-greet. Damn. Where'd that coffee go? Please don't say someone knocked it over! Please don't––was the Manager carrying his own cup of coffee when he arrived? What was the Manager saying? Thanking Santa for the coffee––and gingerbread lattes were a personal favorite?
Eleven-thirty-five. He's thinking snow. He's thinking Saskatchewan or maybe the Yukon Territory. Anywhere above the Arctic Circle. After all, elves live at the North Pole, right?
THE END BV Lawson © 2007 |