This week's prompt was "Truth." This is my story...


"Don't you think there would be some sort of concrete evidence by now?" Heather flicked an impatient hand at the golden brown curls that fell across her forehead before picking up her pencil to write the word alphabet five times in neat, flowing script. "Just because your last name is Kringle, Roger, it doesn't mean there is a Santa."

"She's right," said Bill. "If there was really a Santa don't you think you would have seen some sort of story about him on the news? I mean a real story, not the usual junk."

"Face it," concluded Heather, "Those cool gifts don't come from any big, fat elf living at the North Pole. Those presents come from your Mom and Dad."

It was the last day of school before Christmas vacation and although they were supposed to be working on spelling, the kids were more concerned with the coming holiday than anything else. Apparently, the Mrs. Kaye was intent on the holiday too because she hadn't complained.

The argument had started when Roger asked his friends what they had asked for in their letters to Santa. Their answer made Roger want to cry but crying like a baby in front of his friends would have been worse than finding out there is no Santa. He thought furiously, trying to find a way to prove that Santa Claus really existed. Finally he said, "But the presents aren't in the house now. Mom wrapped up all the gifts weeks ago and there isn't a single tag that says, 'from Santa.'"

Heather wasn't bothered a bit by Roger's declaration. "I bet the stuff from Santa is hidden up in the attic or something," she said

At that point they were interrupted by Mrs. Kaye, their teacher, who called them to line up for the buses. Roger quickly slid his books into his backpack and joined the rest of the class in line. Mrs. Kay was his least favorite teacher. She always gave homework and Christmas vacation was no different. Here he had two weeks off from school and he had to write a book report about Robinson Crusoe. They had started reading the book together in class and then Mrs. Kaye had announced that instead of having fun for the next two weeks, they were supposed to finish reading it and write a book report. Yuck!

Once he was outside, Roger was sure he could smell snow in the frigid air. The sky looked like snow too. It was the color of the tinsel on the Christmas tree at home. It would be really cool to have a big snowstorm right before Christmas. Not even thoughts of the book report he would have to write could bring down Roger's excitement. Christmas was his favorite time of the year. He couldn't wait to get home. Excitement over the snow forced thoughts about what his friends had said about Santa from his mind. He ran down the street, whooping as loudly as all his friends.

When he arrived home, he stopped in the living room to kiss his mother and then ran right into his bedroom where he dropped his books on his desk. He considered starting to read Robinson Crusoe but somehow he just couldn't get started.

"Roger, be a good boy and play quietly for a while," said his mother. She stood in the doorway to his room, sweater clutched tightly across her stomach. "I'm going to take a little nap before dinner. Come and get me if you need something."

When she had gone and the house had settled into drowsy quiet, the conversation from that afternoon came back to him. He considered waking up his mother and asking her to tell him the truth about Santa Claus but then he decided against it. Mom was tired a lot lately. He guessed it was because of the baby she was carrying around in her tummy. Anyway, he decided he'd see if he could find the Santa present. There weren't many hiding places in the apartment he shared with his parents and it didn't take long to check them all. He found lots of wrapped packages but none of them said, "From Santa."

Finally he went to the living room and sat down on the floor in front of the television. He turned on his XBox 360 and put in Lego Batman with the sound turned low so it wouldn't bother his mother. Roger felt like gloating. Every package with his name on it had said "From Mom and Dad." He had enjoyed squeezing them and shaking them, trying to guess what was inside. Magic was back in the air and Roger was "happy as a clam," as his father always said.

Then it hit him.

He hadn't looked everywhere. There was one place left, one place that his parents would probably believe he wouldn't think about looking—the attic. The apartment complex where Roger lived was one long, three story building. There were three pairs of apartments, with a common flight of stairs between them, on each floor and the people who lived on the top floor were allowed to use the crawlspace that ran the length of the building for storage. Access to the attic was through a trapdoor in Roger's closet. Walking as quietly as possible so as not to wake Mommy, he took the key from his father's top dresser drawer. The trapdoor was heavier than he had expected but he managed it without too much trouble and in no more than a few minutes, he was standing at the top of the ladder, looking around the attic.

Dust motes floated lazily in the broad beam of late December sunshine that streamed through the sole window. Cobwebs were strewn over everything like old lace curtains. Clearly nobody had been up here for a long time because the dust on the floor was nearly as thick as a rug. Then he noticed a trail of footprints leading into the back corner of his family's section of the space. He followed the footprints to a spot along the back wall where he found a trunk.

The trunk was shaped like a pirate's treasure chest. It was made of wood and covered with a collage of antique maps. "Probably locked" said Roger aloud. Then he knelt in front of the chest and examined the latch. It was large and rusty. The keyhole was big enough for him to insert the tip of his pinky. Taking a deep breath, Roger put pressure on the latch. To his amazement, it lifted easily and silently. He paused. Maybe it would be better not to look. If there was a Santa present in here, it would ruin everything. He would have to admit that there was no such thing as Santa Claus.

He reached out to open the lids and—

"Roger!"

"Oh no," thought Roger, "Mom!"

He jumped to his feet and ran across the attic to the ladder, trying to be as quiet as possible. He was pretty sure that his mother wouldn't climb the ladder but he didn't want to be caught snooping. He didn't bother to lock the trapdoor, intending to return later and put everything back the way it had been. He opened the closet door just as his mother entered the room.

"Oh, there you are," she said with a relieved tone in her voice. "Why didn't you answer me sooner?"

"Sorry, Mom. I was in the closet looking for something and I probably didn't hear you."

"Daddy is on the phone. He wants to say hello." His mother handed him the telephone receiver and stood watching as he put the receiver to his ear.

"Hey, Sport," said his father.

"Daddy, when are you coming home?"

It took so long for Roger's father to answer that Roger wasn't sure he had heard the question. Then, finally, he said, "I'm sorry, Roger. I won't be home until after Christmas. You knew that."

"I know. But I was hopin' that you would come home this year for once."

"I can't. I have a lot of work to do every year at this time. Are you being good for Mommy?"

"Yes," said Roger. He wanted to cross his fingers but he was sure his mother would notice it and know he had been doing something he shouldn't.

"That's great, Sport." Daddy sounded distracted. "I love you. Have a merry Christmas. I'll be home the day after."

"I love you too, Dad." Roger tried to keep the disappointment out of his voice. Then he handed the phone back to his mother and went to sit at his desk.

His father had never been home for Christmas and Roger had no idea why. Every year for as long as he could remember Daddy had left right after Thanksgiving and didn't come home until after Christmas. He had no idea what his father did on these business trips or why they always had to last so long. Roger tried to read Robinson Crusoe but it wasn't going well. He wondered if he could find the movie on DVD at the library and watch it instead.

He pretended not to pay attention, but he listened carefully as his mother started talking to his father again. "Well, that's good for you, isn't it, Chris?" said Mommy. The tone of her voice didn't match the words. She didn't sound happy. As she left Roger's room and moved back down the hallway, he heard her say, "Will we have to move there?"

Roger groaned. He didn't want to move. He liked the place they were living. He had friends here and--he looked around his bedroom--his room was exactly the way he wanted it. He tried to put the thought of moving out of his mind and went back to his book. After a while, it became more interesting and he lost track of the time.

After his mother tucked him in for the night, Roger waited tensely, listening for his mother to go to bed as well. Once he was sure she was asleep he took a flashlight and climbed the ladder into the attic. If the large dark space had seemed slightly spooky in the daytime, it was even more so at night. Black shadows pooled everywhere. He could faintly hear the sounds of television coming from the next apartment.

He made his way carefully across the floor to the chest and carefully lifted the lid. The chest was filled with sheets of paper. He lifted out a few to see if there was something hidden underneath but as far down as he could reach, there were only more sheets of paper. He lifted out the top sheet. "Mary Cole has been teasing her little brother… naughty."

He scanned further down the page. "Bill Thompson has been telling fibs…naughty," and further down the page, "Lauren Smith set the table for her mother… nice."

Roger heard a soft pinging sound and another sheet appeared in the chest. It too was filled with names and comments. Each line ended in "naughty" or "nice."

At the bottom of the new sheet, Roger found his own name. There was no last name this time, but he was sure it was about him. "Roger is wondering whether there is a Santa…" as he started incredulously at the sheet, the words swam out of focus. He rubbed his eyes and then read the new entry:

"Roger Kringle believes… nice."

The prompt for this week's competition at Brigit's Flame is "Chaos." Thinking about it reminded me of the D&D concept of the Chaotic-Good character. This entry is actually a rewrite of a story of mine that was published some time ago on a web site called RITRO. It's a fantasy of sorts. I hope you like it. (Edited to add the missing word "graceful" in the second sentence.)
Jared wandered down the main street of the town of Westgate on a beautiful spring morning. He was a handsome young man; tall with the athletic yet graceful physique of a gymnast. His oval face featured bright green eyes and he wore a soft leather cap over his brown curls.

On all sides, people bustled to and fro, intent on their own errands. Westgate was the largest place he had ever visited. Far more people passed in and out through the huge gates than he had ever seen in one place before. He tried not to gape at the chaotic ebb and flow of horse and foot traffic. He had never been in such a large city before. He calculated that there must be hundreds of people living here. It might even be possible for someone to live here and not know everyone else in town.

He wandered at random thorough the streets, enjoying the sights. He whistled as he walked, watching the faces of the passersby, paying particular attention to the females.

"Psst... farm boy."

Jared saw a pretty, dark-haired girl. She was dressed in an elegant dress of green silk and her pale peach colored shift beautifully set off her complexion. She stood at the mouth of an alleyway. Waving her hand in his direction, she gestured for him to come closer.

He approached her, swept his hat off his head and said, "Yes, miss? What can I do for you?"

"You’re not from around here, are you?"

"No, miss. I just came to town to go to the market. Is there something I can do for you?"

"Well, you can—" and she leaned close to his ear and whispered her request.

"What?" A bright red flush crept slowly up his throat. "I hardly know you."

"You’d be the first, I swear." Her large, darkly-lashed brown eyes searched his for some sign of agreement, some sign of interest. When he didn’t back away, she continued in a rush. "Listen, I’m not the kind of girl who does this, but since the dragon showed up..."

Jared put his arm around the girl and kissed her softly on the cheek. "I understand," he murmured. He kissed her again, on the lips this time. Then he wrapped an arm around her shoulder and half-led, half followed her back into the alley.

Sometime later, he emerged from the alley, looked around, adjusted his clothing and continued his ambling stroll. A bit further down the street, he heard, "Psst, farm boy..."

He turned to find yet another young girl, leaning out the window of a small cottage. She was even prettier than the first with long red hair and creamy skin. She leaned forward and Jared was sure that her breasts would tumble out of the low-cut neck of her gown.

"This is going to be a good day," murmured Jared under his breath. Then he went closer to the building and looked up at the girl. "What can I do for you, miss?"

"Well, there’s a dragon in the neighborhood and I thought maybe you could help me by—" she paused, her cheeks turning a shade of red even brighter than her hair. Jared nodded in understanding, looked around to see if he was being watched, and then went into the cottage closing the door firmly behind him.

It was nearly mid-afternoon when Jared reached the market. He pulled a small collapsible stool out of this pack and seated himself in an out of the way spot next to the stall of a merchant who sold herbs.

Even in that out of the way spot, he was propositioned several times during the course of the afternoon. He told one or two of the prettiest that he would meet them later. He glanced up several times in the direction of the large mountain that overshadowed the town. The skies were a clear, bright blue, but once or twice, he thought he saw the distant shape of a dragon as it soared through the still air.

Finally, the day was over. Jared followed the road out of town towards the mountain passes. When he neared the peak, he slowed down and started looking from side to side. "Hey," he shouted. "Where are you?"

He hadn't gone far when a large dragon landed at the side of the road not more than ten feet from Jared. He approached the dragon, whistling merrily.

The dragon put out one leg so that he could climb up onto its back. Once he was seated comfortably, it took off, bunching its powerful hind legs to leap into the air. Once they were high enough, the dragon twisted its long neck to look back over its own shoulder at Jared. "Are you ready to leave so soon?"

"Don't want to push my luck."

"Explain this to me again. What makes you so popular?"

"I think they figure that by doing it with a stranger, word won't get around and they can keep it a secret unless they need to tell. Besides, by picking someone who is just passing through, they don't need to make a long-term commitment. Either way, nobody wants to be a virgin when there’s a dragon in the neighborhood."

The prompt for week one of December for Brigit's Flame is "Unity" and starting with December we have a word count limit of 1500 words. According to Word, this story is 934 words long. Here is my story...


Celia stared across the lawn at the gaily striped tents. Tiny white lights sparkled through the darkness, making the tent look as though hundreds of tiny fairies had gathered to join the celebration. The reflections on the water made it hard to tell, from this distance, where the wide sloping lawns left off and the lake began.

"Changed your mind?"

"Why would you even say that, Dad? Vincent is the perfect husband. He's handsome, romantic, and extremely rich." She laughed but the laughter sounded strained. "What more could a girl ask for?"

"Well I think it's mighty strange that he insisted on having the wedding so late. Who gets married at ten o'clock at night?"

"Apparently I do." Taking a deep breath, she tucked her arm through her father's as the first strains of the wedding march drifted through the quiet night air. "Ready?"

As she walked across the lawn towards the tents, praying that she wouldn't catch her heel and stumble, she tried to think what it was that bothered her. As she had told her father, it wasn't Vincent. Her fiancé—in a few minutes her husband—was the perfect man. They had only known each other for a few weeks but even in the first moment of meeting him, she'd known that he was perfect. Their personalities had meshed like two pieces from the same puzzle.

As they drew closer to the tent, she could make out his face, illuminated by the soft light of the lanterns that had been hung from the tent supports. His raven hair contrasted starkly with his pale skin, a contrast made particularly evident in his black tuxedo. He stood head and shoulders above most of the crowd but would have stood out even if he'd been a foot shorter with his aquiline nose, his grace, and the air of absolute confidence that he exuded.

As he tipped his head to say something to Arthur, his best man, Celia found herself caught once more by the sheer beauty of the man she was about to marry. It reminded her of the first time she saw him, at the Fourth of July celebration. Until that moment she would never have applied the word beautiful to a man, but for Vincent there was no other word that fit so well.

She had spotted him as he leaned against a tree, watching the fireworks. "Who is that guy?" She had asked her best friend Maggie.

"Don't know, but wouldn't I love to find out," Maggie had replied. Grabbing Celia's arm, Maggie had marched right over to where he was standing.

"New in town?"

Vincent bowed deeply. Maggie thought, "Who bows these days?"

Then he said softly, "Yes, I moved here just last week. I am Vincent D'Evereux. And you are..."

"I'm Maggie Carpenter and this is Celia Dominick."

Resisting the urge to curtsy, Celia had reached out to shake hands. After a slight pause, Vincent had taken her hand in his, turned it over and kissed the back of it. The spot where his lips touched tingled and she shivered.

"Are you cold?" Vincent took off his jacket and placed it around her shoulders. "The breeze from the lake can be a bit frigid," he continued.

Maggie had quietly wandered off about fifteen minutes later, winking at Celia. From that day forward, she and Vincent had been together every moment they could. For the first time in her life, Celia regretted the newspaper job that kept her at work until nine nearly every night. But Vincent was there, every night without fail, to pick her up and take her somewhere exciting.

She quickly got into the habit of sleeping from dawn until it was time to go to work and then spending the night on the town with Vincent. Her only regret was that he never seemed to take her up on her increasingly broad hints that he would be welcome to stay.

They had only known each other two months when he proposed. "Celia," he had said as he got down on one knee, "I have been a happy man for the past weeks, since I met you. The only thing that could possibly make me happier is if you would say yes to the question I am about to ask you." He paused dramatically and then said, "Will you marry me?"

Of course she'd said yes, who wouldn't? "Celia, are you all right?" Her father's whisper woke her from her reverie with a start. He lifted her veil and kissed her cheek, then took her hand and placed it in Vincent's as he stepped back to sit in the chair next to her mother.

The ceremony and the reception were a blur. Seconds later, it seemed, Celia found herself standing in front of the mirror in the hotel bathroom, brushing her hair. She saw the reflection of the open doorway behind her and the bedroom beyond where a huge four-poster awaited.

"Finally we will be united." She jumped as Vincent's hands caressed her back. She turned and kissed him, an increasingly passionate kiss that made her think that everything was going to be all right. As his lips softly skimmed the skin of her neck, she opened her eyes and caught a glimpse of her own reflection in the mirror. Her eyes widened and she gasped as she realized that hers was the only reflection visible.

"By the way," Vincent said, "There's something I've been meaning to tell you." His lips moved softly over the pulse in her throat and the sudden sharp pain made words unnecessary.

(Edit: forgot to italicize something!)