Drawing: WANT PRETTY FLOWER

They make him happy.

Drawing: Puppy Love

"And they called it puppy love..."--Paul Anka

I can't get enough of drawing these two goobers. What goofs.

Drawing: After he discovered mistletoe...

...he discovered how fun it was to burn.

The yearly mistletoe destruction picture, courtesy of young Razubo.

Comic: Poor Santa

Christmas comic for my friends this year. Each one is represented by the animals on Santa's lap; they're our alter-egos.

Drawing: Tourist Foxes

The Tourist Fox is quite different from its wood-dwelling cousin. Instead of being sneaky and sly, they practically scream 'Look at me! I don't belong here!'

Drawing: The Beast of London

"Thirty feet from them the beast slowed, and stopped, with a grunt. Its flanks were steaming. It bellowed, in triumph, and in challenge. There were broken spears, and shattered swords and rusted knives bristling from its sides and back. The yellow flare light glinted in its red eyes and on its tusks, and its hooves...it was some kind of boar, thought Richard, and then realized that that had to be nonsense: no boar could be so huge. It was the size of an ox, of a bull elephant, of a lifetime."

--Neil Gaiman, Neverwhere

This book is so freaking awesome. I bought my own copy about ten minutes after finishing the library's copy. And last night I doodled this beastie (not even doing it justice).

Story: The Message

This is a short story I wrote about a year and a half ago (it was in summer, I was feeling the Christmas spirit) and I just went back this week and did some editing to it. I give you The Message:

It’s snowing. I hate snow. More than that, I hate the deluge of rush hour after a long day at work. Traffic had been backed up for miles because of some idiot who was driving too fast and had ended up flipping his truck. Even worse, the only song the radio stations play in December is the most annoying version of Jingle Bells. Ever. As if it’s the only Christmas song left.

I trudge inside, brushing the snow from my hair and coat—it’s possibly coming down harder now—welcoming the warmth of my house. My dog, a German shepherd named Jalapeño, comes up to greet me, licking me with his friendly tongue and barking twice, which I know means: “Hello, Kyle, I’m glad you survived the bitter rampage of the winter rush hour to return home to me.” For this kind sentiment, I scratch him behind the ears. He lolls his tongue and kicks his back leg in pleasure.

I throw my coat on the ground and pull off my shoes, leaving them to thaw and drip on the floor. Pulling out my cell phone, I note that I had received some messages during work. I push the button for speaker and set it on the table to listen to them as I prepare some ramen noodles for dinner.

“*Beep!* Hey, Kyle, it’s Chris from work. I have Janie in the secret Santa exchange, and since you sit next to her at work, I was wondering if you could give me any pointers as to what I should get her. Call me. *Beep!*”

Stupid Chris, I think to myself. He’s too lazy to find out for himself and so he’s bothering me about it.

“*Beep!* Hello. This is an automated message from Financial Security, Inc. calling to tell you of a new deal with our office--*beep!*” I rush over and push the button to delete it. I hate sales messages.

“*Beep!* Hello, Kyle? This is Santa Claus.” I freeze as there’s a pause in the message. Jalapeño tilts his head. “Look,” continues the jolly voice. “This is really embarrassing, but by some fluke of the system, or some mishandling by my elves,” (heavy sigh) “I have lost your data for the year. Again, this is terribly embarrassing, but I need to meet with you. If you can, tomorrow at the Burger World by your workplace at noon. *Beep!*”

It takes me a minute of staring dumfounded at my cell phone before I laugh. A Christmas prank. I’ve never heard of anyone pretending to be Santa and leaving messages, but I have to admit, it’s pretty clever. Which of course rules Chris right out. Perhaps it was Janie; maybe she got her brother to be Santa’s voice. It has to be Janie. Just last week she snatched my Luke Skywalker action figure and photocopied him on the copy machine, leaving that along with a ransom note on my desk in different fonts as if she’d cut it out of a newspaper.

I have my laugh and plan to meet the trickster the following day and hopefully one-up them.

* * * * *

I leave work for lunch, getting to Burger World at 11:45. I walk in, the bell on the door jingling. Since I’m early, I buy a burger and a drink when my stomach begs me. When my order comes up, I take it to a table, waiting to see a familiar face as I sip my root beer.

At 12:00 exactly, a familiar face indeed comes inside, though it’s nobody I know personally. A man dressed as Santa Claus is brushing the snow from his red hat and bushy white beard. Whoever’s pranking me is going to great lengths indeed. The Santa jovially greets the people near the door and looks around the vicinity, his eyes locking on me. He waves a gloved hand, and makes his way over, sitting opposite me.

“Ah, Santa,” I smile widely. “Come to bring me my presents early?”

“Aren’t you a funny one,” Santa laughs. His belly shakes like, well, a bowl full of jelly. Introductions over, I’m ready to find out who’s at the bottom of this.

“Okay, who sent you?” I ask.

“I came on my own,” the Santa man says. “I assume you received my entire message?”

“Oh I did,” I assure him, taking another sip of my drink. “Just what is this all about? It’s Janie, isn’t it? She hired you to prank me.”

“Janie did not hire me,” Santa says. “I thought the message was perfectly clear, embarrassing though it was.” He shakes his head as if he’s disgusted. Okay, I’ll play along.

“You said something like you’d lost this year’s data about me?” I say.

“That’s right,” Santa sighs, massaging his temples with a fuzzy mittened hand. “There was a new elf on the job. Everyone calls him Greenie.”

“She’s filming this, isn’t she?” I ask with a laugh, looking around now for hidden cameras.

“Look,” Santa says. “Just because you don’t believe in me anymore doesn’t mean I don’t know who you are, Kyle Jamison. You lived on 52 Penny Street when you were little, had a dog named Goliath and a parakeet named Tobias. Despite the fact that you told everyone you stopped believing in me at age eight, you really believed in me until you were ten. You were an honor student in middle school where you also had your first crush on a girl named Tanya George. You had your own band in high school, and had written a song called “Only Me” that you never had the courage to show the band. You’re so clever that you finished college a year early and, as for this year, I draw a blank thanks to Greenie, and that’s where my trouble begins.”

I’m speechless, of course, and a little creeped out. I’m trying to remember if I’ve told any of that information to Janie, but I’m struggling—I never told anybody any of that. This is beginning to get spooky.

“Your trouble?” I ask the old man shakily. I’m feeling in a whole lot more trouble than he is. There’s this weird feeling in the pit of my stomach. “You’re trying to tell me that you’re really the Santa Claus?”

“That’s what I’ve been saying, I’m glad we’re on the same page,” he smiles. His eyes twinkle. He certainly does look like an authentic Santa. His beard is real, and his suit looks velvet, and rather expensive. I don’t want to be caught in this trap, but it’s difficult not to. He really is a jolly old elf. I wonder what it is he wants. What Janie is trying to get out of me?

“Okay, what do you need?” I ask quietly.

“I need to interview you,” Santa says. “This rarely ever happens, mind you, records being lost.” He looks embarrassed again.

“But if I don’t believe in you, then why does this matter?” I press.

“Because I know that, deep down, you want to believe in me,” Santa says. “Perhaps even deeper down you actually do. You want to escape the cynicism of the world and remember what it’s like to be eight again. To sit on my lap and know I’ll come to your house on Christmas Eve. Deep down, that’s what most people want. To believe.” He stares at me in a kind, caring way. I swallow hard.

“So if you don’t mind,” he continues, a little more quietly, “I need to ask you a question, and it helps if you answer truthfully.”

“Okay,” I croak.

“Kyle Jamison,” Santa says, focusing intently on me with those piercing, loving eyes, “have you been a good boy this year?”

I’m so caught up in the charm and complete honesty of this Santa figure that I find myself shaking my head. I can’t lie to him.

“No, I haven’t,” I admit. “I shouted at the temp the other day, just for being slow in getting me some paperwork. I haven’t visited my parents in quite a while, and they don’t live very far. I snubbed those carolers the other night, got mad at Janie for stealing Luke Skywalker, even though she was just having fun. And just last week I called Chris an idiot.” I pause, thinking about what a jerk I’ve been. “No,” I tell Santa. “I haven’t been good.”

Despite my confession, Santa smiles, and his cheeks are rosy red. “Well, what better time to change than Christmas?” he grins. “It’s never too late. Thank you for your time, Kyle. Again, I’m dreadfully embarrassed this ever happened, I hope you’ll forgive me.” Santa gets down from his chair and holds out his hand, covered in the red mitten. I shake it, still caught up in the whole exchange. Then he turns to head for the exit. I scramble to follow him.

“Nobody put you up to this?” I plead, grasping for my sanity. “This is the real deal?”

“Believe what you want,” Santa says, walking outside. He pauses before closing the door, then taps his nose in that magical way. “Oh, and Merry Christmas!” I stand there in Burger World, slightly confused, and more than slightly happy.

I don’t know if I believe it, but deep down, I know I do.

End