“If you don't go to sleep, Santa won't come!”

It was the fourth time my weary and increasingly cross mother warned me. I was determined to lay eyes on the real Santa Claus, no matter the cost. I desperately wanted a Cathy-Quick-Curl, but even the hope of the highly treasured doll could not subdue my curiosity.

Momma ushered me to bed, laying beside me to make sure I stayed there. My sister was already obediently asleep. “Goody-goody,” I muttered, quietly resenting her ability to suck up even in her sleep. “I'll just lie as still as I can until momma thinks I'm asleep too.” Even at six years old, I knew that I would have to slow down my breathing and relax my body for it to be believable; yet I would have to be careful not to drift into slumber. It was a fine balancing act that paid off: to my surprise, momma fell asleep before I did.

I lay there a few minutes more, not daring to move in case she was faking it, too. I finally dared to slowly crawl to the end of the bed and breathed a silent sigh of relief when my feet hit the floor without her even stirring.

Gathering my slippers and a pillow, I stole to an inconspicuous spot beneath the Christmas tree to await our jolly old house guest. What I would say when I saw him, I had no idea. I hadn't thought that far ahead. I tried to imagine how it might go.

I would stay hidden as Santa unknowingly climbed out of the fireplace, then jump out and surprise him. Under my breath I asked myself, “What if he's so startled he drops the gifts and they break? He might get really angry – and that would certainly wake momma. I'd be in big trouble for a really long time. No, that won't do.”

I might stay hidden the whole time. But if he discovered me as he was leaving presents under the tree, that might startle him, too. And it would be really hard to explain why I was camped out there while momma was asleep in my bed. Again I said to myself, “No, this won't do.”

I lay there for what seemed like hours, thinking it over. It didn't matter what scenario I played out in my mind. The result was always the same: Santa would be upset, or angry, or startled; and I would be in trouble for trying to catch him in action. A yawn escaped my body as my thoughts drifted into nothingness.

A sunbeam shone through the window directly into my face, waking me. I opened my eyes slowly and sat up. Santa's cookies were gone, and there were new presents under the tree. I had missed him! I was about to sneak back to my room when I saw the note on the plate of cookies.

“Better luck next year!” it said. “Love, Santa.”

Luscious Bight was the foggiest place on earth. Moses Pike kept the lighthouse there. He was tall and thin but his voice was almost as deep as the foghorn that bellowed across the water.

One cold, windy night he heard a call from the black foggy ocean, so down he went to the dock and called out.

"Hallllooooo!"The muffled thumping of oars came in reply and a dory appeared out of the darkness rowed by a fat man in a red slicker.

"Well then," Moses said, "Come to the house for mug up. I have two biscuits left and you are welcome to them." He helped the fat man out of the boat.

Moses sat his visitor down in the chair and pulled the blackened teapot from the back of the stove.

"I'd ask if you want a cup or a mug, but I only have a mug." He poured the strong tea into the chipped mug and put the two biscuits on a plate along with some butter.

"Won't you join me, Moses?"

"Tis the last of my stores until the wind drops."

"Take a look in your cupboard," the stranger said, "I'm sure I saw a box of biscuits there." Moses shrugged and looked. Sure enough there was fresh box of biscuits. He put them on the table.

"You aren't going to have any tea?"

"Tis only one mug." said Moses, "I broke the other one last month."

"Only one mug? That is a strange thing. I would swear I saw one on the shelf over the sink.” Moses didn't shrug this time but went and fetched the mug from the shelf. It was a fine sturdy china mug. He poured himself a half cup.

"Don't tell me you're out of tea? Have another look in that cupboard of yours." Moses nodded and fetched the tea. He put more water on to boil.

"Is there anything else I can offer? Moses asked.

"Thank you, but no. Tea and biscuits and cheese is fine for me." Moses saw that a great slab of yellow cheese had appeared on a plate beside the butter. He cut himself a slice and nibbled at it.

"It is nice to have a guest," he said, "Thanks for dropping in. I have a bed for you to sleep in if you be needing it."

"I know, and I know it is your own bed too," said the stranger. "But I would be glad of some shut eye before I get on."

Moses showed him to his room then propped himself in a chair in the kitchen and cut himself another slice of cheese and savoured its sharpness.

He slept deep and well in the chair.

Moses woke in the morning to find the dishes clean, the food put away and the cupboards full.

There was a note on the table.

"Tis a fine man who will share his last biscuit with a stranger. Merry Christmas. S."

There's the house. I spotted her last week and I followed her to this house. It's a nice house. If 'nice' means anything.

It does to some people.

It does to my doctor. ”What about all the good things in life, what about the nice things?” she asks me. And I don't know what to answer, because I know what 'good' is, but the meaning of 'nice' has escaped me. I know 'beautiful' but I don't know 'pretty'. I know 'sorrow', but most people I meet seem to turn to sentimentality.

There she is. Right there, in the window. There's a tree also, a Christmas tree, as bright and beautiful as any Christmas tree in any house could ever be.

She can't be more than eight, maybe nine. Beautiful hair, shining eyes, the damp skin, hot from running around in the snow.

Since I first spotted her I have been watching her every day. And today she was playing in the park; she was alone for a moment, and I stepped out, and called to her, and she looked at me and she smiled, and when I held out the lollypop she looked back to see if anybody was watching. And then she smiled again, and she began to come closer, and I waved and held out the lollypop, and she knew that she shouldn't, but she couldn't resist, and it was so close, so close.
And then somebody called her, and she left, and I had to sit for a while, pretending I was feeding the ducks, not looking at them, not moving, just being 'normal.'

'Normal' is another word my doctor likes.
I don't care about 'normal.'

Not now, not here, now that I've climbed the big tree in the garden, and am totally concealed by darkness, and free to watch her.
She's running around the tree. Joyful, playful, happy, and I'm not thinking about that christmas past, she's the only thing in my head right now, nothing disturbing, nothing worrying.

And then she looks out the window and points, and people come to the window, and I hurry down the tree, and head home, running all the way. I'm not going to get arrested again. My doctor told me to explain it to them, but what's the point? I've got my former sentence already. They wouldn't understand.

I reach my house, and it's dark, of course, dark and empty, nobody there except the ghost. She stares at me from the mantelpiece as I enter the living room. I sit down in my chair and all the memories come back; the Christmas Past. The car, the crash, the guilt. The little girl thrown out through the windscreen, lying in the street, me screaming, me crying, why her, why not me, God, why not me, why her.

Since then I haven't known 'normal'. I know 'beautiful' but I don't know pretty. I know 'good' but I don't know 'nice'. I know sorrow.
I know loss.
I know ghosts.

I had a trophy winning entry. It was touching and funny, with vivid characters and catching dialogues.

I didn’t submit it.

You know, I’m a storyteller. I don’t tell stories for trophies, but for a reason. So instead of telling this trophy-winning story about a girl and a cat in a snow-covered forest (very sweet and christmassy), I’ll tell you about Elsa.

It was the bitterest winter. But Elsa didn’t know of bitterness yet. What she knew was that it was snowing outside.

“Mama, can I go out? They’re building a snowman next to the marketplace!”

“No, child. Stay inside.”

“But look, it’s snowing! I want to go! The other kids are outside, too!”

“They shouldn’t be. You will stay inside, Elsa. Now behave.”

Behaving was nothing Elsa was good at. She pressed her nose against the window. The clock ticked away the minutes. Her mother was scrubbing the floor. Perhaps father would be home for Christmas.

After dinner, mother sat in front of the radio, listening to the rasping voice with rapt attention.

Elsa seized her chance and sneaked outside.

The streets were empty, but the snowman was there in all his glory. Elsa approved of the craftsmanship. He had a carrot nose and stone eyes.

When Elsa reached up to touch him, the howling began.

Elsa froze. She knew this sound. It was when her mother started yelling and pulled her into the cellar. Everybody would be there, even Mrs. Klein, who always came last because she was old and slow. And they would sit and wait, and the sirens would howl and howl – until it was over.

Not this time. This time, Elsa was alone. She knew she should run for cover, try to find an open door, a cellar, anything – but she could not. She stood and listened. And then, there was another sound.

It was a low rumbling. At first, she didn’t know where it came from, but then, she saw. The sky.

Planes.

Elsa watched. Her fear slowly was replaced by fascination. The planes flew in formation, making patterns in the sky.

“Look,” Elsa whispered to the snowman. “Look, how pretty it is!”

The snowman looked with his stone eyes.

“Snowman, look! They’re dropping something! What are they dropping? Is it Christmas presents? Oooh… now I can see. It’s Christmas trees! They’re dropping Christmas trees!”

The trees hit home. That was when Elsa started screaming.

The next morning, under a collapsed heap of snow, a girl was found. She was shivering and exhausted… but alive.

For the rest of her life, Elsa heard the howling of the sirens in her sleep. It was worst in winter, when there was snow.

So when you hear this story, comfortably snuggled up on a sofa, with a mug of hot chocolate and Christmas lights aglow on your tree, remember those whose winter is bitter, and cold. And if you share some of your light, and warmth, it will be better than any trophy ever could be.

‘Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house, not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse…

I wish. Whoever wrote that had never driven for M&M Claus Holiday Delivery.

“Easy on the reins!” Louis barked.

“Women drivers!”

I was the first female driver for M&M Claus and not all of the reindeer were happy about it. I’d have to earn their respect one household at a time.

Our first stop soon came into view. Candy canes, plastic Santas and thousands of Christmas lights filled the yard. As we landed on the roof, music drifted up from below.

“Rudolph the red-nosed reindeer…” I smothered a laugh as Joe, Louis and the boys started grumbling. Red nose or not, Rudolph wasn’t the most popular deer on the block. GPS had replaced him a few years ago, but his legend still continued to grow, much to the chagrin of his anti-fan club. Listening to the Ballad of Rudolph just made it worse.

Humming along, I hopped out of the sleigh and reached into the gift bag for the next present. But instead of a nicely-wrapped gift, my hand closed around something long, thin, cold…and alive.

I pulled my hand out of the bag and a long, black snake came with it. Eight sets of male eyes watched me, daring me to scream. I gave them my brightest smile.

“Isn’t he cute?” I lied. It was a good thing the night had made the snake semi-comatose, or Santa himself would have heard me screaming.

I had one leg in the chimney before I realized I had a problem. Usually I drop the presents down the chimney, then follow to finish the delivery. Obviously this wasn’t going to work, so I had two options; wrap the reptile around my neck or tuck it into my shirt. Into my uniform he went.

I was halfway down the chimney before the snake woke up.

I leapt out of that fireplace in record time. Unfortunately, my screams had drawn an audience. Two young boys in Spiderman pajamas hid behind their mom while their dad stood in front of them, clad only in his tighty-whiteys.

The snake chose that moment to begin an in-depth exploration of my chest.

Red fabric and white fur flew as I tore open my shirt. I grabbed the snake and a flick of my wrist sent him flying.

Who knew that snakes were so aerodynamic? It sailed gracefully through the air, stopping only when it hit mom’s face – and dropped into her nightgown.
Mom started dancing like – well, like she had a snake in her nightgown. The boys shrieked in delight and demanded that she share her new toy. Dad just stood there, torn between helping his wife and confronting the half-naked woman in a Santa suit standing in his living room.

Before he could decide, I scampered up the chimney. Screams mingled with Joe’s catcalls and strains of Rudolph the Red-nosed reindeer as we took off into the night.

Old Miss McDougall took one last look at the Christmas tree in the corner before she turned off the lamp and settled into bed. A diminutive spinster, Miss McDougall had filled her life with hard work and charity and on the eve of seventy-forth Christmas she was still as sharp in mind as she was in body. She smiled as she felt sleep upon her, thinking of all the presents she had collected for the children of the orphanage and the joy on their faces when she delivered them in the morning.

Just as she was drifting off to sleep, Miss McDougall heard a rattling at the window; one eye open and ears pricked, for a moment she thought she heard sleigh bells but dismissed the thought as foolish the fall of footsteps got closer down the hallway. The doorknob slowly turned and as the door opened Miss McDougall switched on the lamp, revealing a man of about forty sneaking through the door carrying a large cotton sack.

“Aha!” cried Miss McDougall. “I’ve caught you, sonny! What on earth do you think your doing?”

“Sorry, ma’am, just making some deliveries and I’ll be on my way,” he replied, walking into the room.

“Just you stop right where you are! Don’t come any further! Now, who in their right mind would be making deliveries at this time of night? I never ordered anything!”

The man pointed to the logo on his red polo shirt. “NPL – North Pole Logistics, we’re contracted to deliver all the Christmas presents.”

“Don’t give me that poppycock! You’re breaking in! Just like last year when the poor Stephensons’ had their house burgled and all their kiddies’ presents stolen! I’m onto you!”

“Listen, lady, I don’t usually do the geriatric run. We’re delivering to all elderly people without family now, so if you just pretend to go back to sleep . . .”

“How dare you speak to me like that!” Miss McDougall roared. “You wait right where you are, mister, I’m ringing the police! I know your type!”

“Look, love. I’m just the delivery guy,” he pulled a business card from his top pocket, “if you have got any complaints, ring head office.”

“Don’t come any closer!” Miss McDougall screeched but he kept walking towards her, card in hand. Miss McDougall grabbed her walking stick with a speed belying her age and deftly whacked him on the shins. The man shouted in pain, hopping backwards. He grabbed the walkie-talkie from his belt and radioed headquarters for help while Miss McDougall rang the police.

With a grin of satisfaction she watched the flashing lights of the police car racing down the street. Yet the lights were not red and blue as she expected but red and green, and instead of the blue checkers down the side, the car pulling up to her driveway was emblazoned with candycanes: the driver, a large man with a white beard in a red and white fur suit . . .