The Rarities

Santa Grinch

'It's time.'

Claus opened his eyes and smiled. It's the first thought he grasped as he stretched his way off of his squeaky bed, yawning. He tapped for his specs on the drawer top. Soon as his salmon feet touched ground, he marched towards his wardrobe; clean clothes and cabinet engulfed him.

Claus pushed the hanged garments on either side, only stopping when the white-traced, crimson overall and a hat to go along emerged. He changed ensemble, sniffing cocoa as he shut the door behind. The elves glanced, upping their mugs to greet the young gift giver.

"Here's your booze, Santa." Melvin, his elf, stood at the foot of the ladder, raising Claus' mug as the smoke danced above it. Claus almost rushed down when the mug slid from his hand.

Claus narrowed his eyes as if to throw a fit but messed the elf's head instead while laughing. He then cadenced near the window twice his height. With lips pressed on his mug, he watched over Snowville as he savored his drink and his childhood memory.

He built a cabin north of this town, a bit far and elevated for his reindeers' benefit. He used to live in one of those apartments growing up. The central square was once a children's park. He would ruminate about these things plus a few more, sometimes at the expense of his drink getting cold. Luckily, Melvin's squeal was a call to Earth. Just like now.

"Santa, we may need to build another mailbox." He was hugging envelopes.

"They're coming in fast, eh?" Claus put his mug down his reading table four steps to his right.

"Not only fast, Sir!" Melvin said. "They're coming in bulk."

Claus put on his boots and strode the snowy path to his mailbox which now resembled a child's mouth stuffed with roasted chicken. When he unclasped the lock, the letters catapulted down the concrete as if a delinquent juvenile did it.

Claus and his elves hauled the letters till nothing's left before warming back to the cabin. The elves sorted the letters by continent while Claus dusted off his mahogany desk and stacked some in dishevel. The chair groaned as he sat.

This was the season his thick, round glasses were really that - for reading. He delighted receiving crayon drawn, mirrored and often misspelled letters just as much the nicely written ones sent by children across the globe. These had him laughing, bawling, and scratching head as he unearthed bizarre requests.

The letters ended up either in the 'Okay, You'll Have It' tray or the 'Will Give You Something Else' tray. Just that two, but had he wanted to spoil any child's Christmas he would have added a 'Declined' tray.

Afternoons were usually dimmer so it followed Claus would tug his yellow lamp sitting at the desk's corner. Then he'd pick his inked quill and penned a reply or a greeting. This had been his routine at the start of December leading to the big day.

And as that day neared, the letters kept coming. From a shoe tall letters, they now towered like a human and would quickly outgrow his yet to be adorned Christmas tree if he didn't add in a little more hour.

Contrary to a popular belief, delivering the gifts was as easy as squeezing the white fur ball of his hat. It had the power to replicate Claus and his reindeers so he could fly around the world just in time for the season.

The hard part, which was not really hard if you're enjoying, was to make sure all the letters had been read. This forced him to stay so late because tasking his elves or replica for the reading proved to be in vain. It had to be the real Santa or their wishes wouldn't come true.

He became Santa fifteen years ago. He was only ten when the first snow of winter circled above him. It was the only snow that didn't fall to the ground, the only snow that's glowing. His friends witnessed when it began making a hat by itself. And like an owl landing on a branch, it settled on his head. And now he's twenty five in the service of giving joy.