Father Christmas - a story for kids written a while ago

Father Christmas   - a short story (8 + age group)

It was love, but not just love. More. A kind of worship. They told me he was the kindest man in the world and I believed them. I knew he was, he had shown me, he always gave me what I wanted, never failed me. He was perfect and I loved him.

He loved me too – they told me. Oh, he knew who I was alright, he’d seen me always, but I was never allowed to see him. I tried to, I tried to wait for him, but he never came, only when I couldn’t see, but I knew he came because he always left something special behind.

And then they told me I was going to see him. They were taking me to where he was, and he would remember me, and kiss me, and comfort me, and love me. I wanted to give him a sign of my love so I wrote him a letter. I wrote “I love you” because I did, I really did.

We went on a train early in the morning to the big city where he was. There were thousands and thousands of people. Strange people. They seemed to have forgotten everything they ever knew about him, but when I got to his kingdom I cried. I cried because there were hundreds of people there who did know him, people just like me who did believe in his love. We all stood together and a kind of love music played. It was dark and there were stars twinkling.

I wanted to be alone. I didn’t want them with me anymore. I wanted it to be just me, me and the kindest man in the world. I held onto my letter and walked on my own into his chamber.

When I got inside it went bright again. I could see a doll in a cot. The doll had one leg missing. Then I saw lots of pieces of paper with writing and pictures. His foot was on one of the pieces of paper. It had kisses on it, I think it said “I love you”. I remembered my letter so I went up and gave it to him. He put it on a pile and it fell behind the cot. Then he took my hand but he had gloves on and it felt funny. I tried to make him let go but he wouldn’t so I pulled it out and ran away as fast as I could.

That’s when they shouted: “Come back, come back at once, you must have a photograph with the nice man” I shouted back: “He’s not a nice man. He’s horrible and you lied. You said he was the kindest man in the world and he’s not. He’s the horriblist and I hate him and I hate you”

Then I ran round the corner but he was still there so I ran back but he was there too so I screamed and I screamed until all the belief was out of me and all the love was out of me and I began to understand about the people in the big city.

So please remember if they tell you about the kindest man in the world, whatever you do don’t believe them.

Best Boy - short story written on a course

Best Boy – a short story 

Nike Town never gets this exciting. The siren’s louder than the one at the unit. It’s like being in an action film. Towering Inferno or Apocalypse Now.

“Move swiftly but carefully to the nearest marked exit. May I remind you to pay particular care with the disabled.” That’s disablist isn’t it? If I was blind or deaf or only had one leg I’d be offended. Not about the leg, about the tannoy man. I’d probably go up to his tannoy room and smack him with my plastic foot, or stab him with my foldaway stick or turn my deaf aid up so it makes that screeching sound like chalk. I do the chalk thing in Miss Simpson’s class at the unit. Her veins come up on her neck. I’m going to put a knife through those veins one day. You think I won’t but I will. I’m just biding my time.

I can’t hear myself think for all the coughing: “It’s psychosomatic you idiots. You see smoke, your brain tells you to cough. You’re not really choking. See. He’s not coughing” There’s a man sat on the stairs next to the tennis shirts and the trainers. The smoke’s made his eyes water. He’s sitting in a pool of it. No. he’s pissed himself. “If you can’t stand the heat get out of the kitchen mate.” There’s a bloke in a suit telling me off now, trying to be my dad. My dad doesn’t exist, never has, so this freak is invisible to me. I’m going to nut him.

That was sweet. This is FUN. This is AWESOME. This is the best day of my LIFE. You know what would make this day even sweeter? If my mum burned in the fire. And I could watch her. She wouldn’t see me, I’d be disguised by the smoke, and when she was about to asphyxiate I’d shout out like a disembodied voice: ‘I love you mum, I love you. I don’t want you to die.’ And I’d do my crying voice and she’d feel really sorry for me and her last words would be ‘I love you Terry’ and then she’d go like in war films like Deer Hunter or Platoon, or something, when soldiers die and they can’t stand to leave their loved ones. It would be really funny ‘cause it would be the first time she’d ever said that to me. Sober. Drunk doesn’t count, that’s not real. This is though. This is really real.

I’m going to be an orphan. And I’m going to be a supidly rich orphan. I’m going to be the most materially encumbered orphan in Dagenham. I’m going to nick every game boy, every Beckham shirt, every effin Nike thing in this burning down empire. Mum keeps ringing my mobile.

The smokes black now, thick and black. I reckon no one’s left in here but me and my mum. She won’t leave ‘til she’s found me. It’s not love you understand. It’s guilt. She hates me. Look, look at these little round tattoos on my arms. Except they’re not tattoos are they? They’re one hundred and fifty seven little burn marks from one hundred and fifty seven Marlboro Lights. My arm is my mum’s ashtray. This fire is god’s revenge on all abusive mothers. I’m shouting this out through the smoke: “MY MUM SEXUALLY ABUSES MY ARM WITH HER LIGHTED CIGARETTES ON A DAILY BASIS. SHE SHOULD BE BURNED ALIVE” I added the “sexually” bit for dramatic effect. It worked. I’m being lifted off the ground by two Darth Vadar look-alikes. “Put me down. I deserve to burn in hell. I am the devil’s spawn. ”The Darth Vadar men press their Darth Vadar claws deeper into my arms and carry me out to the pavement.

It’s gone all quiet. Like the scene in Deer Hunter when they go hunting before the wedding. “Terry, Terry, Terry, Terry, Terry”. My mum’s squeezing me really hard. My ribs are busting. “Darling, Darling, Darling, Darling, Darling” Mum’s vocabulary’s shrunk. It’s not massive at the best of times – ‘Take these bottles back and get me some fags’, ‘Don’t spend the change or I’ll hit you’, ‘I wish you’d never been born’ ‘All you do is remind me of the day that bastard raped me’. That’s the sum total of it, and it’s worse when she’s pissed. You wouldn’t want to see those things written down.

And now she’s stroking my hair. And she’s saying I love you. And she’s not even dying of asphixiation. We’re both outside. We’ve got a blanket around us. The Darth Vadar men put it there. Her breath smells sweet. My ribs are fine. I’m not an orphan.

This is the best day of my life.

New Story from the writing class - Silver Bream

Silver Bream – a short story

I love fish. I’m a Pisces, see. I love all kinds of fish - battered, fried, grilled. I love seafood too. I see food, I eat it. That’s a joke. You’re supposed to laugh.

I love fishing too, for Mackerel when I’m in Wales with Mum, or for Bream like I used to with Dad. Dad’s not with us any more, he got eaten by a shark. No he didn’t. That’s another joke. I love jokes, especially fish ones. How do you get to Wales in a mini? One in the front, one in the….you know it don’t you? Everyone knows that one. It’s a groaner. You can groan if you like.  Not inwardly, outwardly, make a noise. You won’t though will you? You’re grown ups.

I hate it when grown ups pretend to do things, like when they pretend to laugh and go “ha, ha, ha”. That’s not a proper laugh, that’s an “oh how very amusing, how absolutely funny, oh yes how witty” kind of laugh. Mr Watkins, our headmaster, is like that. He never laughs at anything, he’s a miserable bastard actually. He looks like a dead pike, all grey and wet and beady eyed - and scaly.

He’s always on my case. Take last Monday, for instance. We had a Cup match against Arnold Hill who are top of the league. We’re third so it was a crunch game. I’m centre forward, the top scorer.  I had a dream the night before that I would score a hat trick so I knew we’d win. My dreams are like witchy premonitions, they always come true. I dreamt my Dad was going to leave us and live with Aunty Carol and sure enough the next day there was a note where he would have been having his tea  - “Dear Michael, one day you’ll understand why I’ve done this. I love you son. Keep fishing and scoring goals. I’ll always be with you”. That was last January and he hasn’t taken me fishing since. He’s gone like Mr Watkins, all grey and scaly. He came on my birthday for twenty minutes wearing a suit. It’s Aunty Carol’s fault, she’s made him like a robot, a career robot. All he does is work overtime at the office. He may as well sleep in that suit, at least he won’t have to get dressed in the morning.

Anyway, back to last Monday, to Mr Watkins, and the football match, and the fish. I haven’t mentioned the fish before but that’s how it started, with a fish, a silver bream actually. Dad caught it ages ago and we put it in the freezer. I took it in for Art, I was going to do a Still Life of it, until Billy Mason started playing football with it at morning break. By the time it was rescued, it only had a head and one eyeball left.

When I picked it up everyone screamed. That gave me an idea. I put it next to my face so it looked like I had a fish face and tried to kiss people with it. I tried to kiss Laura Diprose. Thing is, I want to kiss Laura Diprose anyway so the fish was a good excuse. If I could get a fish kiss, chances were next time I’d get a human kiss. Anyway, she totally freaked out and ran to Watkins. He came into the playground all arms and legs and baggy suit shouting in my eardrums: “Michael Jenkins I want a word with you?”

I was too busy fish kissing these first years, I didn’t see him come behind me and grab me in a headlock. I had the flight or fight instinct at that moment, like me and Dad saw on David Attenborough, only I couldn’t do the flight bit due to the headlock situation, so I went for the fight option. I thought I was punching Watkins with my fist but I was holding the fish head. By the time I’d finished smacking his face with a silver bream he looked like he’d been eaten by a shark. He had blood and scales and the eyeball all over his beardy face. It looked brilliant. Everyone was laughing. Actually I was laughing, no one else, they couldn’t believe I’d beaten up the headmaster with a fish. I think it was a first in the history of Lady Bay Junior School.

I got sent home at lunchtime and banned from the match. We lost three – nil. No one scored a single goal let alone a hat trick. Watkins had to go for a tetanus jab in case he caught salmonella, which is weird ‘cause it was a bream not a salmon. My Mum grounded me for a week, but I got to see Dad for the first time since my birthday. Mum let him come round because it was in the paper and he was worried about me. He thought I’d become a juvenile delinquent as a result of my home being broken.

He came on Sunday and asked me what I wanted to do. Fishing, I said, silver bream fishing. We caught three but threw them back. Dad said it was safer that way; I wouldn’t be tempted to attack any more unsuspecting grown-ups with a fish face. He asked me to tell him exactly what happened. I think he was worried I’d done it without provocation. He relaxed when I mentioned the headlock – apart from wanting to punch Mr Watkins. I told him about Watkins’ face, with scales stuck to his beard and his three eyes, two human and one fish, and we started giggling. We couldn’t stop, we were really laughing, not in that “ha, ha, ha” grown up way I was telling you about, but like a couple of naughty boys. We were wetting ourselves, I actually had to take a piss and Dad had tears streaming down his chubby Dad face. He looked hilarious. Not as funny as Mr Watkins, but still flippin’ funny, he made me laugh even more just looking at him.

When we pulled ourselves together, Dad said he wanted to take me next Sunday too, so all in all everything turned out pretty well. I didn’t score a hat trick but I got to see my Dad crying with laughter and that was the best feeling, the best.