Category: Contests

Are you ready for the 2011 Christmas Short Story Contest winners???

These winners are guaranteed a spot in the next Christmas collection, to be released in fall of 2012. Other stories from the contest will be included, as well.

So here we go…

And we’re starting with a TIE!

Congratulations to the winners! You did some good work.

I’m done! I’ve read and evaluated every Christmas story submission, tallied the scores, sent emails to all the authors and I’m ready to post the winners.

(Authors, if you didn’t get your emails, let me know ASAP!)

Thank you to everyone who came to the site, read the stories, left comments, and voted. Your honest comments are very important to the authors as it gives them a sense of where they connect with the reader and where they miss. That type of feedback is crucial to learning the craft of writing.

Although the authors have received a score sheet evaluating various aspects of story and a partial line edit on their actual story, I’ve only posted a brief critique for each story highlighting what I feel are the weakest points. The reason for the limited online critique is it takes a lot of time—up to an hour—to read and evaluate each story. It would double my time were I to include line edits in the actual posts—and honestly, I don’t believe anyone but the author will actually go back to those stories to see those evaluations—and they’re getting them in a personal email. (If I’m wrong, you’re welcome to correct me in the comments and maybe I’ll reconsider, but it would require much groveling and begging from multiple readers to change my mind.)

We had a voting issue, but it was resolved to my satisfaction. We were able to determine exactly when the email was sent and discounted all anonymous votes after that time, plus some votes that the author recognized as family, leaving her with 7 counted votes. I believe the winner to have won fair and square.

There was another voting issue that has occurred in every short story contest I’ve held. Once again, SOME OF YOU DID NOT VOTE FOR YOUR OWN STORY! I just don’t get that!!! Did the fact that a story got zero votes effect my critique? No, because I didn’t look at those votes until after I made my own evaluation. But still, PEOPLE! Can someone explain that to me????

And lastly, some good news—I now have enough quality stories to do a second Christmas collection. It will be available for the Christmas season of 2012. I still need to go through and make the final determination on which stories will be in the collection. Authors, if you’re selected for the new collection, I will email you directly with instructions and a contract—probably some time in January.

Now for the big reveal…

Voting for the Christmas Story Contest is now closed.

You may continue to leave comments on the stories if you like (and feedback is muchly appreciated by the authors), but they will no longer be counted in the voting.

Contest winners will be announced on Tuesday, October 4th.

FYI: I assume that all authors will vote for their own story. (And they should. Because if you don’t believe in your story enough to vote for it, why bother submitting?) I also know that spouses, close friends and writers groups may have seen the story in its early stages and recognize it, or they may recognize the voice of the writer. That’s why I give everyone TWO votes in each category, to help overcome that natural tendency for bias toward people we like.

One of the stories received some votes that will not be counted. A well-meaning friend who recognized the story sent out an email to other friends, asking them to go vote for this particular story. They did not realize they were breaking the rules. When the author found out, they immediately contacted me about making things right. We will determine to the best of our ability which votes are legit and which are not, and adjust the total votes accordingly.

Authors in the Unpublished category will need to wait for the official announcement to determine if they’ve won the Reader’s Choice award or not.

Today is your last chance to vote for your favorite 2011 Christmas stories!

Voting ends at midnight tonight.

Click here for voting instructions.

Contest winners will be announced on Tuesday, October 4th.

All Christmas stories have now been posted. If you sent one in and it’s not posted, then I didn’t get it. Please resend ASAP. If I get it before I go to bed tonight, I’ll post it.

The submission portion of the 2011 Christmas Story Contest is now over.

Early Monday morning, September 26th, I will post voting instructions. Please read these instructions carefully before casting your votes.

Good luck to all those who submitted stories!

by Michael Young

St Nick was not feeling jolly. Just “Old St. Nicolas”.

He looked down and thought how his stomach was more like a half-deflated balloon than a bowl full of jelly, and his nose more black cherry than maraschino.

His job gave him every reason to feel jolly: perfect job security, cheerful co-workers, state of the art technology, travel to exotic places and unlimited hot cocoa. But today the calendar read Feb 25th. The most dreaded deadline of the year was today: the finalization of the Naughty List, based on last year’s deeds.

Sure, he could see kids when they were sleeping and know when they were awake. He knew if they were bad or good with the help of his monitoring elves. It was just so hard to make the final decisions. Though most people assumed he checked the list only twice, he often agonized over it for weeks, checking and rechecking it.

There was the regular Naughty List, which was bad enough, and then there was the Chronically Naughty List, where only the naughtiest appeared. Those on the list risked being permanently banned from Christmas privileges, with only coal to look forward to for the rest of their lives.
St. Nick didn’t like having to put anyone on the list. But, rules were rules and he couldn’t break them without setting a bad example.

He stuffed his large girth into the tinsel-draped chair behind his desk, and picked up his candy-cane striped pen. The Naughty and Nice lists lay out in front of him, filled with of names in calligraphy. Off to the side lay the third list, on which only one name stood. St. Nick’s eyebrows rose.

Several months ago, he had sent his elite elves to carry out interventions for each of those on the Chronically Naughty List. For those who remained after the interventions, he conducted a trial, with one elf as the prosecution and one as the defense.

Every year they had managed to shrink the last list considerably by the middle of February, but he had not expected this. A single name. “Dallin J. Snark,” read St. Nick. “How can we get you off this list?” There was nothing to do but conduct the trial. He’d have to call on Amras and Nerwen, his most talented elite elves.

St. Nick rubbed his black cherry nose. “Bisquat,” he said to his head secretarial elf, “could you bring me some of my Krisp Kringles? This case requires comfort food.”
Bisquat bowed, “No milk and cookies?”

St. Nick gave a “Ho, ho”. He couldn’t manage the third “Ho” today. “No, it’s usually June before I can even look at a cookie. Too many in one night. Why don’t you also fetch Amras and Nerwen?”
Bisquat bowed again and his exit was heralded by the sound of retreating jingle bells. A minute later, a full-size figure entered. St. Nick jumped in his chair. He was not used to looking up at any one around here, and briefly feared the intruder might have infiltrated the North Pole, intent on stealing trade secrets or perhaps a taste of reindeer venison.

“Amras! You’ve got to remember to shorten your cane once you’re back at the Pole.”

Amras glanced down and reddened to match St. Nick’s suit. “I’m sorry, your Saintliness. Right away.” He looked up at the red and white cane in his hand and pressed the down on the end. The cane retracted like a telescope, and, as the cane shrunk, so did its owner until he stood less than half of his original height.

St. Nick sat back in his chair, “That’s better,” he said. “Now where is—“

Another elf entered, already shrunken to the size of the door, her flushed face matching her fiery red curls. “Just in the St. Nick of time!”

She flung up her arms and waited for a response. None came. Her face fell.
“You used to laugh at that one.”

St. Nick managed a faint smile. “The first 20 times, Nerwen. You should really think of a new punch-line, or figure out how to be on time.”

Nerwen nodded and took a step back.

“Let’s get started,” St. Nick said, opening his bag of Krisp Kringles, which resembled a miniature version of his present bag. He took one red and green chip and popped it in his mouth. Each chip was designed to taste like something from Christmas dinner and this one tasted like eggnog. “I will hear three arguments to determine whether this boy should be given the Ban. Amras?”

Amras smoothed down his green vest. “Thank you, St. Nick. I’ve seen some terrible cases, but this is one of the worst. I shall endeavor to show that the subject deserves this punishment for three reasons: his disrespect for authority, his disrespect for his peers, and his disrespect for himself.” Amras withdrew a clear marble from his pocket and rolled it in his hands. It grew like a snowball into a large orb.

Amras approached St. Nick’s desk and placed the snow globe on a stand at the edge. St. Nick leaned forward and Amras tapped the globes surface. “Exhibit A,” Amras said as a young boy came into focus within the ball. The boy had a tangled mass of blonde hair and a husky frame.
“This is he?” asked St. Nick.

“Yes. Note the sinister smile, the darting, mischievous eyes.”

Nerwen’s hand shot up, “Objection! Speculation. How do we know that it’s not a friendly smile? That his eyes are not jolly?”

Amras remained unruffled. “In context you will see there could be no other explanation.”

“Continue.”

“Thank you. “ Amras tapped the glass again and the picture came to life. Amras narrated the events that took place. “On February 14th, the school held a Valentine’s Day assembly in which students were invited to perform love poems they had written.”

Amras placed his hand over his heart. “Not exactly Shakespearean sonnets, but touching nonetheless. During the recitation of one of these poems, Dallin stood and released stink bombs, yelling ‘Love stinks!’ Pandemonium ensued, and many were injured. Dallin was suspended, pending an expulsion hearing. He’s played every prank in the book and contributed several chapters of his own.”

St. Nick scratched his beard. “Nerwen, do you have anything to say?”

Nerwen shook her head, her red curls bobbing. “I would prefer to listen to all of the arguments first before refuting them.”

“That’s fine,” St. Nick said. “Continue.”

Amras tapped the globe and another scene appeared. “You will recall my second point was that he has no respect for his peers. Look.”

The surface swirled and came into focus. It showed Dallin next to a smaller kid in front of a locker covered with wrapping paper. At the top was a sign that read “Are you ready for s’more birthday fun?”

“What’s wrong with that?” Nerwen said. “He decorated that boy’s locker.”

“He did,” said Amras. “That boy is one of the most picked-on boys in school—a foster child with some serious medical problems. Our subject told him that he had a birthday surprise for him.”
St. Nick drew his eyebrows together. “You’re defeating your own point. That’s one of the nicest things I’ve seen in a long time.”

Amras jabbed a finger at the image. “That’s exactly what makes this deed so dastardly, this act so atrocious, this plot so pernicious, this-“

St Nick cut him off. “We understand. Go on.”

Amras smoothed his suit. “Dallin filled that boy’s locker with marshmallows.”

Nerwen burst out laughing, her clothes jingling.

“Once again, you haven’t considered everything,” said Amras. “The boy’s birthday falls on July 26th, which just happened to be the hottest day of the year. That day turned each locker into a long, thin Dutch oven.”

Amras tapped the globe again and the picture advanced, showing the poor boy opening his locker, only to find it flooded with sticky goo. A couple graham crackers and pieces of chocolate had been added at strategic points, making it look as if a boy scout’s backpack had exploded.
St. Nick put his head in his hands.

“It took the janitors a week to get it all off. The hallway still smells like s’mores and cleaning solution.”

St. Nick waved his hand. “Enough. I may never be able to eat a s’more again.”

“And worst of all,” said Amras, “my third argument.”

Amras tapped the globe, and the boy was seen holding a large bag of peanuts.

Nerwen’s hand shot up.”I suppose you’re going to tell me now that he’s a terrible person, because he likes to eat peanuts and leave the shells on the floor. You’ll have to try harder.”

Amras smoothed his dark hair. “I will, little miss. He has a violent peanut allergy and carries around that bag everywhere. And whenever things aren’t going his way, he eats some just for the attention it affords him. He’s tried this at home, school, and in various public places. He becomes violently ill and blames it on all sorts of things. He would damage his body to get away from his problems.”

In the globe, Amras displayed a montage. “His cousin’s wedding, his sister’s piano recital, his first day at his new school—the list goes on.”

Amras tapped the globe and stepped back, “These incidents show that the subject is an inherently naughty person. Intervention has failed, and he shows no remorse. I call for the immediate suspension of holiday privileges without the possibility of parole.”

Amras shot an overly-broad smile at Nerwen. “The prosecution rests.”

Nerwen walked over to the desk. “That was convincing. If I had not seen what I have, I would’ve been won over. But for his three points, I have three questions: Why? How? When?”

St. Nick adjusted his spectacles. “Please be more specific.”

“Specifically, ‘Why is Dallin the way that he is?’, ‘How can he be helped?’ and ‘When are we going to do it?”

“Good,” said St. Nick, finishing a Krisp that tasted like turkey with cranberry sauce. “I’d like to hear more.”

She produced a snow globe of her own and placed it on St. Nick’s desk. An image of a Dallin appeared, all smiles gone, mischievous or not. Nerwen cleared her throat. “Dallin lives a difficult life, and not all of his troubles are his fault. He was orphaned young and placed in foster care with poor parents.”

Nerwen tapped the snow globe a number of times and it cycled through different scenes of Dallin’s life, being ignored, being yelled at, being told that he was stupid, and finally left alone, shutting himself in his closet and crying softly.

She tapped the surface a final time and the picture froze on the closed door. Before anyone could say anything, she continued. “As demonstrated by the prosecutor, Dallin is a boy of considerable brains. He’s extremely creative and courageous. Now, however, he is applying his talents in a negative way. People have tried to change Dallin’s behavior by punishing, yelling, and threatening. I understand why he is so naughty.”

A faint snicker came from Amras’s direction.

“He feels unappreciated and under stimulated. If he felt there were people that really cared about him and if he were given an outlet to do something positive, the problem would cease.”
Amras sighed. “It is one thing to say how you feel. It is another thing to see what is really there. This boy has a chronic history of misdeeds. I doubt the solution is so simple.”

Nerwen shook her fiery curls. “I can prove it to you.”

“You can prove it?” asked St. Nick. “That’s a bold statement. Would you like to explain?”

Nerwen nodded. “The proof is contained in the third question: “when are we going to do something about it?’ The answer is ‘I already have.’”

All eyes fixed on her, “You better explain that,” said St. Nick.

“I talked to him myself. I used my cane to make myself a little bit taller and wore a cap to disguise my ears. I found him out walking by himself and started talking to him. His first reaction was ‘buzz off,’ but after we got over that hurdle, things went along nicely.”

Amras choked, even though he was not eating. “You actually risked talking to him? Don’t you think that’s a bit reckless when you’re the right size to get stuffed in a locker?”

Nerwen lifted her chin another inch. “Reckless, but necessary. I had to be sure that he was really the worst apple of the bunch. And you know what?”

Everyone leaned forward.

A broad smile broke over Nerwen’s face. “The outside is rotten, but the core is sweet.”

“Did you put on your rose-colored glasses this morning?” said Amras with a scowl, “You don’t get on the Chronically Naughty list by having a good core.”

Nerwen met St. Nick’s gaze. “I would like to invite you both to come with me. I have something to show you.”

With a sigh, Amras rolled his eyes. “We don’t have time to go looking at your snow angel gallery, Nerwen.”

Nerwen’s face did not flinch. “With respect, that is not what I had in mind, though the gallery is exquisite. I promise this will prove enlightening.”

St. Nick rose and nodded, brushing colorful crumbs off his suit. “I’d like a diversion. Lead the way.” He glanced over in Amras’s direction. “No snarky comments.”

Nerwen led them out of the workshop and up the snow-covered rise that overlooked the surrounding area. At the top, a railing marked off an observation area. The snow blew in thick flurries, carried on a wind that tasted of peppermint, so that every breath felt like brushing your teeth.

“With respect,” he muttered, “what are we supposed to see? I’ve been up here dozens of times.”

Nerwen pointed at a cluster of buildings below. “I’m sure you remember that you commissioned us to build a new gingerbread village.”

St. Nick ran his hands through his beard. “Yes,” he said, “But it was my understanding that construction has been delayed, because our chief candy designer has taken ill.” St. Nick fell silent. It was yet another thing that dampened his jolly attitude.

“I invite you, your Jolliness, and even you, your grumpiness, to look down at it now.”

They craned their necks over the edge and glanced down at the gingerbread village under construction. The village teamed with activity, with great carts pulled by reindeer lugging stores of candy down from the factories, and candy masons, sculptors, and artists swarming over buildings in various stages of construction.

“Donner and Blitzen!” cried St. Nick. “Everything is in full swing. How did this happen?”

Nerwen pointed down to the square where a single figure stood atop a fountain pouring streams of hot wassail. “There is our supposed bad apple.”

They craned to see, and nearly lost their footing. It was Dallin, decked out in full Christmas attire, with an enormous green pointed hat wreathed with sprigs of mistletoe and holly. He carried a large notebook in which he wrote with an enormous quill pen and shouted instructions to craftsmen as they approached.

“I don’t believe it,” muttered Amras.

“Correction,” Nerwen said softly. “You didn’t believe in him. I spoke to his foster parents and told them we’re a new kind of school willing to take him in to teach him a wonderful new trade. I had already seen how clever he is with sweets. I know it’s not a typical course of study, but he’s already shaping up to be one of the greatest gingerbread architects we’ve ever had.”

St. Nick removed his cap and scratched his head, marveling that he hadn’t noticed. “Remarkable.”

“It’s like that motto you’re saying all the time–the one that you put at the bottom of all your correspondence. You’ve even got it written above your office door.”

St. Nick nodded. “’Tis the season. Remember the reason.”

St. Nick leaned against the railing, staring down with wet eyes at the scene. “I think,” he said in a low whisper, “perhaps I’ve been doing things all wrong. The One whose birth we celebrate does not have a Naughty List. He serves everyone in the world and offers them incredible gifts, no matter what they have done. It’s true many people do not accept His gifts, but He is willing to give them anyway. I, on the other hand, have given my gifts conditionally. I’ve made it my business to judge people, and I wonder how many times I have misjudged them.”

St. Nick arose, the color returning to his cheeks, the cherry-like quality to his nose, the twinkle in his eye, and even the jiggle of his belly. “From now on, I will be setting the example. In celebrating Christmas, I will be more like Christ.”

He turned to Amras and Nerwen, his face aglow. “Come, I’m eager to see that snow angel gallery.”

Nerwen beamed to match St. Nick, but Amras frowned. “But, sir, do you have time? I’m sure you have more pressing duties.”

“No. Without the Naughty List, I’ll have plenty of time. Now that I think of it, so much of my time was spent judging people that I’ve hardly had a chance to appreciate them. Why don’t you come along? I promise we’ll pay a visit to your candy cane mosaics afterwards.”

For the first time that day, Amras’s lips rose in a genuine smile. “Really?’

“Really,” said St. Nick.

Amras fell into step and all three broke out in a rousing Christmas carol. When they had finished, St. Nick drew in his breath and let out a complete “Ho, ho, ho,” feeling jollier than he had in years. This Christmas was going to be different. This year, he’d be makin’ a list, but he would not have to check it twice.

[This was sent in time, but didn’t get to me. If you’ve already voted but would have voted for this one had it been posted on time, go ahead and vote for it.]

[If you haven’t already voted, never mind.]

Critique: Loved it. The only suggestion I have is to differentiate the two elves just a bit more through dialog, actions, quirks or something. Otherwise, it’s great!

What I liked best: Santa’s words about Christ. Loved that message. Great writing.

Publication ready: Absolutely!

by Jennifer Ricks

Two hundred and forty-three glass ornaments of all colors and sizes. Some were shiny Christmas red and gold. Some were frosted with sparkling paint. A few were clear with dainty pictures or patterns inside. Rich plums, crisp ice blues, even a few orange and yellow, glowing and blinking on the Christmas tree.

It was a fetish, Kayley knew that well enough. Hadn’t her mother complained about it enough over the years? Even in high school Kayley couldn’t resist picking up a box of shimmering orbs from the clearance aisle of the department store.

Now there were two hundred and forty-three, but Kayley also had a townhouse of her own and a Christmas tree of her own, so Mom couldn’t complain about storage boxes anymore. Kayley sat back on her heels to see the effect of her last sprig of tinsel. The tree looked just perfect.

Christmas was Kayley’s favorite time of year. It meant a two-week vacation. It meant crunchy snow and melted marshmallows in warm cups of rich cocoa. It meant a tangible excitement in her second-grade classroom that drove her crazy and giddy all at the same time. It meant talking of Santa Claus and wearing red and listening to old-time holiday favorites on the radio. It meant enough of a holiday—a whole season in fact—that it filled up her time and she didn’t have to worry about anything else in her life, or anything else that her life lacked.

The Monday of the last week of school, Kayley had started easing into what she liked to call “Holiday Week.” The kids were too excited for vacation to focus for the last five days, and Kayley was an experienced teacher enough to know when to give up. For the past three years running she had observed Holiday Week. She scoured all her materials and the internet to find enough “review” activities to cover most of the week—review activities that were all about Christmas: worksheets with trees and holly and snowmen, history excerpts of events that happened in December, and even science demonstrations about the water cycle and snow. The spelling list for the week consisted of evergreen, sleigh, reindeer, tinsel, carol, pumpkin, and (just to be more culturally universal) dreidle.

The week had gone as Kayley had planned: borderline mayhem the entire time. No one wanted to stay in their seats. Everyone wanted to compare Christmas lists. Slowly crude versions of the most popular Christmas songs spread around the school to be snickered at in corners. And someone was told that Santa Claus wasn’t real.

This year it happened to a little towheaded boy named Jackson. When she caught a glimpse of his tear-stained face after recess, Kayley couldn’t believe that she hadn’t seen it coming. Jackson was one of those rare sensitive second-grade boys. He liked to draw more than tell jokes or play kickball. He didn’t talk to his neighbor during lessons. He hardly ever raised his hand, but he always focused on everything Kayley said and followed instructions perfectly. It was one of the injustices of education that most of Kayley’s attention went to the rowdy troublemakers while star students like Jackson hardly ever worked with her one-on-one, but that’s how it was.

“Don’t forget your spelling test tomorrow,” Kayley warned just before the bell rang at the end of the day. “It’ll be first thing, so be ready.”

“And then the party?” yelled Howell, who never raised his hand.

“Yes,” Kayley decided to let the hand raising discipline pass just this once, “so don’t forget to bring the snack your mom signed up for.”

The bell rang and the students jumped to their feet. Kayley used the shuffling of twenty-eight pairs of eight-year-old feet as cover to quietly ask Jackson to help her wipe off the board. He jumped out of his seat eagerly and went to his task with a will.

Kayley stood behind watching him for a while. Every truth about Santa Claus case was different. She had seen many in her short lifespan in the second grade. Each one took special care and handling.

“Jackson,” Kayley said decidedly as she took her finger from her lips and moved a step towards the blond boy.

“All done, Miss Kelly!” Jackson said as he finished with a flourish.

“Jackson,” Kayley repeated, “I need someone to do something special for me at the class Christmas party tomorrow.”

“Really?” Jackson’s eyes widened. He was the only eight-year-old in the class who could look as eager as that. “I’ll do it!”

“Well,” Kayley leaned against a desk in the front row and put on a serious face. “I need someone to read a story aloud for part of an activity.”

“Sure thing!” Jackson agreed, nodding vigorously. “I’ll do it.”

Kayley was inwardly relieved. Talking in front of the class was not Jackson’s favorite thing to do, but she had started noticing that this wasn’t because he was afraid, just because sometimes he would rather think about things than talk about them.

“You can practice it at home tonight?” Kayley asked.

“Oh, yeah,” Jackson said, “I already have the spelling words memorized, so I don’t have any other homework. And,” Jackson paused for a second, “this isn’t really homework, right, Miss Kelly? I mean, it’s just a favor and all, right?”

“Of course,” Kayley smiled. “I wouldn’t dream of giving a good student like you extra homework.”

Jackson’s shoulders relaxed with relief, and Kayley turned away to hide her broadening smile.

“This is the story,” she walked to her desk and took a sheet of paper from a side drawer.

“A Gift for Santa Claus,” Jackson read from the sheet Kayley had handed him. He looked up at her doubtfully. “I don’t know, Miss Kelly,” Jackson shifted his feet, “Santa Claus and all—it’s just kid’s stuff, right?” The last word of his question hung in the air desperately.

“This,” Kayley said seriously, pointing to the paper, “is a really important part of our Christmas party,” she paused for emphasis. Second-graders were good at picking up on dramatic pauses like that. “Do you think you can do it?” she asked again.

“If you really need me,” Jackson beamed. He unzipped his backpack and placed the paper carefully in his folder.

“And remember,” Kayley called as Jackson tromped out of the classroom, “it’s a favor, not homework!”

Keeping with tradition, Kayley spent that evening in the most relaxed way possible, which this year happened to correspond with the TV rerun of “It’s a Wonderful Life.” Occasionally she smiled at the thought of all her students’ parents rushing around at the grocery stores to pick up the packages of cookies they forgot to bake for the party or hot-gluing pom-poms to popsicle sticks to set up for the Rudolph craft. Those were things Kayley had learned parents are good at—and fully capable of stressing over—while she could take the night off because no homework was due the next day, or the next two weeks.

As for the solitude of her situation—in her own living room, on her own couch, eating her own bowl of popcorn—that was what she was especially savoring on the last day of school eve. She would miss her students during the vacation a little, but not until after the first week, and with all the family events crammed into the holidays, she knew from experience that she would have few, if any, leisurely nights like this until New Year’s was over. And the thought of her mother commenting on why Kayley couldn’t find a nice man like George Bailey prompted her to dig out another handful of popcorn and continue savoring the evening alone.

The room moms came early to school the next day to set up the classroom for the party. Every year was the same. The construction paper garlands and decorations that Kayley had taught in art lessons all month were not sufficient. There was always at least a couple interior-decorating intensive moms who would come and make the whole classroom over that morning with trees, garlands, and lights strung everywhere. It was something that Kayley didn’t mind. She had a thing for ornaments, after all, so she could be patient with other people’s holiday obsessions.

By the time the morning bell rang, the classroom looked like it was part of the North Pole display at the mall. Two years ago a dad had even dressed up as Santa Claus and made a guest appearance at the party, but Kayley was grateful that such an elaborate scheme was not in the works this year because what was most on her mind that morning was Jackson and the story she had given him to read.

“Miss Kelly!” he whispered as she crossed by his seat to start class. “I’ve got it learned by heart!” He was grinning like crazy, and Kayley was relieved. His enthusiasm was a good sign. She only hoped it would carry her plan through when Jackson had to stand up for himself in front of the whole class—in front of Howell and the other boys that Kayley was sure were the culprits of Jackson’s tears the day before.

“Welcome to our class Christmas party,” Kayley said when the class went quiet. “Welcome to all the parents who could come. We have a fun day planned with lots of food and activities, so we’ll let Bridger’s mom get us started.”

And that opening speech was pretty much Kayley’s largest task for the day, until it came to Jackson’s story in the afternoon. Like all wizened teachers, Kayley knew that “class party” pretty much meant a day off for the teacher.

All day she wove in and out of rows of desks commenting on the crafts and activities, helping parents open glue sticks, and chatting with the room moms. She was ready with a fresh roll of paper towels from the back of the classroom for the inevitable large spill of punch during snack time, and she was the only one who could thread Janey’s frayed yarn for her stocking craft for the twentieth time. But all of these tasks were easy—a cinch—when compared with teaching the concept of multiplication for the first time, something she tackled every February.

At two o’clock, things were winding down. All the trashcans in the room were filled to the brim with red and green construction paper clippings, punch-stained paper cups, and paper plates sticky with paste or frosting (or maybe both). All the children were squirmy and beaming and wearing glittered homemade hats. All the parents were bleary-eyed and exhausted and looking at Kayley like they couldn’t believe that she spent every day in this classroom with these kids. Everything was just as it should be.

“I want to thank everyone for making our class party such a success,” Kayley smiled, “especially all the parents. We have just one activity left before it’s time to go home. I’ve asked Jackson to read a special Christmas story for us to end our day.”

Kayley nodded at Jackson and he moved to the front of the classroom. His dad was standing at the back of the room, a tall, thin man with glasses. Kayley could never remember if he was an accountant or a stock broker, but he had never come to a class party before and she was so glad he was there today.

“A Gift for Santa Claus,” Jackson began. Kayley could see that his hands were shaking a little, but his voice was firm. “Once upon a time, and a long time ago,” Jackson read slowly and clearly, just as Kayley had taught them all to do when reading in front of the class, “there was a snowy village high on top of a mountain. The village had never seen a car, or a train, or an airplane. They didn’t have cellphones, or computers, or TVs, or anything. But they had big fur coats to keep them warm in winter and a lot of hard work to do every day.

“All except one boy in the village. He was sick and couldn’t walk. Everyone else in the town did so many things—pushing carts, making shoes, baking bread—but the boy couldn’t do anything except lie in bed or sit in a chair and watch out the window.

“At Christmastime, all the children in the village would write down what they wanted for Christmas, roll the paper up in a scroll with a ribbon tied around it, and leave it in the windowsill of their house for—” here Jackson faltered and gulped. Out of the corner of her eye, Kayley saw Howell nudge his neighbor, but Jackson didn’t look at Howell. Instead, he saw his father at the back of the room, took a deep breath, and read on.

“For Santa Claus,” Jackson continued firmly. “And on Christmas Eve this year, Santa Claus would come by each house, read the notes, and leave a gift.”

“This year the little boy who couldn’t walk almost didn’t write a note. Even though he had something very big to wish for—that he could walk again—he didn’t think he deserved a Christmas gift. Everyone else in the village worked so hard, but he couldn’t do anything. Finally, just before he went to bed on Christmas Eve, he thought of what he wanted to write and left his note on the windowsill just like everybody else.”

“The next morning, Christmas morning, was sunny and bright. All the children of the village ran outside, bundled in their soft fur coats, to play with their new toys, all except the little boy who couldn’t walk. On his porch was a note written on the finest paper he had ever seen and in beautiful gold ink. This is what the note said: ‘Thank you for the best Christmas gift ever. Love, Santa Claus.’

“Most people in the village didn’t know what had happened to make the boy that couldn’t walk so happy, but a few had peeked at his note from the night before. ‘Dear Santa Claus,’ he had written, ‘Please, I would love my gift to be that you have a Merry Christmas.’ And those people knew that no one had a greater gift for Christmas than the boy himself because he had given a gift of joy to another.”

The classroom filled with applause and Jackson took a few bows before retreating, flush-faced and beaming, back to his seat.

Kayley shook all the parents’ hands as they left the classroom and wished dozens of students a Merry Christmas in return for their snickered, “See you next year, Miss Kelly!” Twenty minutes after the last mom left with her four boxes of artificial pine boughs, Kayley locked the classroom door and drove away from the school. She would be back later to redecorate the classroom for the new unit in January, but all that could wait at least a week, if not a few days more.

She had not had a chance to speak with Jackson after he performed his part so well, but she had not meant to either. His confidence throughout the reading was enough to show her that the story had worked its magic. It was enough that she had given it to him and that his father was there to hear him read it.

But on Christmas morning, Kayley was pleasantly surprised to find a small, beautifully wrapped gift box on her porch. Tied in the ribbon was a piece of paper rolled into a scroll with this note scrawled in second-grade handwriting: “Dear Miss Kelly, Thank you for letting me read the Christmas story at the party. I asked Santa Claus to give you a Merry Christmas this year because you are the best teacher ever. And then Mom said we could help Santa by leaving you a gift, so here it is. Love, Jackson.”

Kayley felt like her smile was as broad as Jackson’s had been when he finished reading the story as she untied the shiny red ribbon of the box. Inside was ornament number two hundred and forty-four.

Critique: We lose the ornament theme. I’d suggest weaving it in throughout the story, perhaps have her trying to decide which is her favorite. Add a description of the ornament Jackson gives her. The first three paragraphs were a tad slow for me, but then it picked up and kept me involved in the story. A few awkward sentences, but overall very good. Oh, but don’t use the word fetish. Obsession works better.

What I liked best: I could just picture her poor tree groaning under all those ornaments! Great classroom scenes. Great voice.

Publication ready: Yes, with just a bit of editing.