Santa's Weakest Link

Freebie short story I put together in the spirit of the season. Merry Christmas all!

Santa’s Weakest Link

 

Santa checked his list. He checked it twice. As much as he hated this part of the job, a botched season five years ago had forced his hand and he’d instituted changes to his operation. Performance reviews.

He stepped up to the reindeer paddock and cleared his throat. From the two hundred strong herd, his team of nine separated themselves. While they approached him at the fence, the others maintained a curious watch from a discreet distance.

“Well, it’s been another good season,” Santa said, dusting snow off his sleeves as he opened with the perfunctory good news. “All deliveries made and no incidents. Always room for improvement, of course.”

The reindeer shuffled, dark eyes flickering back and forth. Donner, the biggest of the team, snorted a puff of vapor.

“Okay, let’s get on with this. Rudolph, we’ll start with you.”

Rudolph’s expression behind that shining red nose was challenging, proud.

“Decent outing last night,” Santa said. “And you were a beacon for the rest when we hit that rough patch over the Ohio River Valley. Can’t say I was too pleased with your off-season work ethic, though. Lack of focus, half-hearted effort at times. Not the sort of example I expect from my team lead. Just because you’re the most famous of the bunch doesn’t mean you’re immune to criticism. I ran with a team of eight for centuries before you were born and I could do it again.”

Rudolph bowed his head, his nose dimming slightly.

“Donner, Blitzen,” Santa said, turning his attention their way. “Again, good job all around. I know I can always count on you two to pull your load. Don’t think I didn’t overhear you two second-guessing my call to hit Italy before Switzerland this year, though. Remember, I see you when you’re sleeping and when you’re awake.”

The two reindeer shared a quick glance before looking back at the ground.

Santa turned back to his list. “Right, Dasher. Excellent off-season, but a little too exuberant when it came to the big night. Take your pace from those ahead of you. Don’t need to keep pulling to the left because you’re in such a hurry.

“And Dancer. Unremarkable all around. No real sore spots, but nothing to set yourself apart, either. Might want to show some initiative and push harder next season. Just getting by isn’t good enough for my team.”

Dancer nodded her head and took half a step back.

“Prancer,” Santa said, pausing to look up and make sure he had the reindeer’s full attention. “Gotta say, I was pretty disappointed last night. Getting your harness tangled up, not once but twice? I don’t know where your head was, but I know where it wasn’t.”

Prancer trembled. Santa didn’t know what was going on behind the scenes, in spite of his claims otherwise, but she’d been losing focus in recent years.

“Slider,” Santa said. “I know you’re the rookie on the team, so I can let a bit of over-enthusiasm slide. Good energy and stamina, but you’ll have to reign it in next season.

“Comet, last year we talked about your tendency to lose altitude on longer hops. This year, didn’t happen once. Thanks for taking that to heart. Good, solid year all around.”

Comet shook her head.

“Ares, gotta say I’m disappointed. Still up to those reindeer games. I let it slide during your rookie season, but I fear I may have been too soft on you. I know Rudolph, Donner, and Blitzen were warning you as well. You never know when you might run out of second chances.”

The young buck looked properly chagrined under Santa’s withering glare.

“Look behind you,” Santa said, waving his black-gloved hand toward the herd. “There’s over a hundred others chomping at the bit for the chance, the honor, the responsibility of becoming a member of this team. It’s not a one-night-a-year job. You have to live it, every minute of every day. We’re a team, and we’ll only ever be as strong as our weakest link.

“Prancer, I’m sorry, but this year that was you.”

#

“Have I mentioned how I hate this time of year?” Santa said.

He settled his bulk into a creaking chair at the dining room table. The crackling of fire in the hearth and heady intermingling scents of pine, cinnamon, and baking bread, aspects of home that always made him feel relaxed after a long season, did little to soothe him today. He poured a glass of milk and sighed.

“I know, dear,” Missus said, poking her head out of the kitchen. “You work too hard, sometimes.”

“What? Oh, no, it’s not the work. It’s having to play manager, boss. Performance debriefs. End of year evaluations.”

“Oh, right. That. Well, it was your idea.”

“And it has improved team performance. Maybe even morale, a bit, I suppose. At least among those who were pulling their weight.”

Missus vanished back into the kitchen, but carried on the conversation. “At the cost of adding stress.”

“Stress.” There was stress, and then there’d been the stress of five years ago.

“What dear?” Missus came out of the kitchen, carrying a heavily laden plate that she set before her husband. It smelled divine.

“Just talking to myself,” he said, tucking a napkin into his shirt collar.

“A week from now, we’ll be soaking up sun in Tahiti and you’ll have forgotten all about this.” She gripped his shoulder and gave him a kiss on his rosy cheek.

“Thanks, dear,” he said.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll leave you to your dinner. You know how I feel about tonight.” Missus gave him a look and he nodded knowingly.

Once Missus had retreated to the kitchen, Santa picked up his fork and knife and assaulted the reindeer tenderloin in lingonberry sauce. A guilty pleasure, to be sure.

Measure of Fate

My first officially published story, Measure of Fate, is now available. I'm honored to be a part of Fictionvale Episode 1. This may be my first rodeo, but I have a hunch I've been spoiled by the quality and professionalism of the folks behind Fictionvale. It has been a great experience end to end.

I'd like to send out a few quick thanks, the first of which goes to Mark Palise, my indispensable sounding board and first line of editing. It's awesome having a best friend who shares a passion for reading and writing and who just happens to also be an English teacher. Second, to the Slug Tribe writers group, for their excellent critique of this story. And, again, to the folks at Fictionvale - Venessa and Serena in particular - who worked me over pretty thoroughly in the editing process. (All for the best, I assure you.)

So, it's out in the wild. I encourage you to check it out. Episode 1 was open to all genres, so there's something for everyone. You can find it at Amazon or in a number of other formats here.

NaNoPants

October is here, which for me means that NaNoWriMo is looming on the horizon. Over the past seven years, I've approached my effort in a variety of ways - from complete seat-of-the-pants to moderately well-outlined. Two years ago, I went in with nothing more than a title (The Milkshake of Destiny) and a half-baked notion as to what it might be about...all chosen as I sat down on November 1 to start writing.

What I've found from these disparate approaches is that the story tends to be better when I have it outlined. Seat of the pants yields some interesting results and lets the characters own their stories, but also leaves me occasionally struggling to define and stick with a plot. It's even tougher when I don't know how the story will end.

On the flip side, I don't like rigorous outlines. I know some authors are well-known for having excruciatingly detailed character biographies, political histories, and outlines down below the scene level. Once I start writing, my characters inevitably gain a life of their own, and trying to force them to stick to the script can make scenes feel forced...which is a major pet peeve of mine as a reader. So I've had better luck with character sketches and vague outlines that hit on key plot points and the general flow/structure of the story. Nothing is so firm that I can't adjust on the fly if and when the characters begin to take over.

So, after a couple years of largely "pantsing" it with a story picked at the last minute, this year I've decided to get back to the roughed outline approach (no-pantsing). In terms of settling on a story idea (90% certain) and beginning an outline (first pass done), I'm well ahead of the game for a change. Just putting my surgery recovery downtime to good use.

Happy day!

Okay, been away from the blogging for a bit, but not entirely away from writing.

As I posted back in April, I finally made my first story submission.  Finding it difficult to judge my work against the standards and tastes of various publications, I threw caution to the wind, aimed high, and sent it off to a well-known pro-level publication.  Two weeks later came the first rejection letter.  I took it well, though, having both fully anticipated it and accepting it as a rite of passage.  I couldn't quite tell if it was of the "personal" or "form" type, though...just that it was succinct and polite.

Quick turn-around from there to my second choice, also a pro level publication.  Another rejection, but this one was most definitely personal.  Hey, that counts for something, right?  According to the Submission Grinder website, that publication was accepting at a rate of about 2% and only 8-9% got personal letters. Again, moral victory.

My next stop was in a slightly different direction. I sent it off to a brand new publication that was still gathering stories for its first issue. The pay was in the semi-pro range (really could care less...just using this as a proxy for judging the audience of the publications since I don't follow the markets very closely) but they were working on bringing it up to pro (and succeeded).  I saw a post on their website saying they'd received something like 240+ submissions and were accepting 10, so it was long odds already, but the final selection deadline was fast approaching and I still hadn't gotten a rejection.

And then I got the email last night - they want to use my story. So - happy, excited, relieved, validated. Now I just have to wait for the contract, possible edits (if any), and then publication later this year.  So excited to have reached this part of the process for the first time.

More details once the contract is signed and sealed.

In the meantime, the pressure is now on to clean up my most recent story and get it out for consideration.

Collaboration 1, part 8

[MP]
* * * * * 

Gerald hated Elvis. And yet, for business trips, Elvis was invaluable. Elvis was everything. If Elvis were okay, all was well. Even Presley’s untimely demise in the fall of 1977 played its role. Gerald’s work had been made infinitely easier by the King of Rock & Roll. Still, Gerald hated him, in spite of, or perhaps even because of, his encyclopedic knowledge of the most minute detail of Presley’s life. And every time he had met him after the fall of ’77, even as he had appreciated the information Elvis’s existence gave him, he was still glad the man was supposed to be dead. 

Gerald strode north along 3^rd street, approaching Beale. The sights and sounds were familiar to him, but it was the smells that played havoc with him. Cigarette smoke – as often unfiltered as not, barbecued meat with the scent of cayenne pepper and paprika from the famed Memphis dry rib rubs, automobile exhaust saturated with carbon monoxide and lead; all of these catapulted memories into his conscious mind: Johnny Dicks, gunned down outside of the then-Beale Avenue Auditorium; Mabel Douglass and her sister strutting along Union Street, ermine hats and full-length coats in stark contrast to the pristine clouds of their breath against the crisp December evening; and of course, the music…B.B., Ray, Bo…the best of the best of the best.
However, none of these memories or the scents that triggered them could cover up the rank, fetid odor of mountains of garbage piled along every street and on every corner. 

He hitched up his pants again. One of the first things he had done was to find a new set of clothes. With what he was wearing, he had been far too conspicuous. Unfortunately, the transient he had sold his clothes to had been a bit larger than Gerald was now, although if he was still wearing these when – if, he supposed – he made it home, they would probably fit just fine. The .38 he had tucked into the waistband did nothing to help the sagging of his trousers either. 

His cane trailed behind him, remembered only because he was carrying it with him. He hated to lose the damn things, but more often than not, they got lost in the hustle and hurry of his trips. He should have left it at home, but then again, he hadn’t expected to leave the house today.
Speaking of home, he wouldn’t make it back to finish that damn crossword if he didn’t get about the business of business. 

He started with Elvis. If the King were good, he was good. 

“Excuse me, gentlemen,” he called to a trio of young white men waiting for a trolley. “Can you tell me when the Elvis picture is playing at the Orpheum?” 

The men had the tight close-cropped hair of the military. They looked at him askance and puffed up a bit, trying to decide whether or not to harass him. They saw the cane sagging in his fist and it seemed to confuse them enough that they decided to just answer his question. He wondered what he looked like to them. 

“What Elvis picture?” said the shortest of the three. 

“Whichever one they’re showing this week,” he replied. “I can’t really keep track of them, but I try not to miss any of them if I can help it.” 

“Boy, you must be drunk. There haven’t been any Elvis pictures since before the war. How is he supposed to make anymore movies?” 

“What do you mean?” 

The trolley arrived and passengers poured out of its sides. Two of the boys climbed onto a bench in the back, pushing each other a bit and jockeying for position on the inside. Before he climbed on, the final boy looked at him, almost with a look of pity. 

“I don’t know where you’ve been, but Elvis died 10 years ago. Friendly-fire during a training exercise.” 

Shit. Something was up. He grabbed the newspaper. April 1, 1968. It was his birthday. He was 35.

Spring in a flash...or not...

So, it's been a slow couple months on the writing front. After a brief flurry of activity in getting my well-aged short story polished and out for consideration (still waiting to hear back), I did manage to crank out my first real effort at a piece of flash fiction...as a hard sci-fi no less. For a change of pace, I started with a title and figured out a plot to go with it. The idea is decent, but I just couldn't keep it under a thousand words. It stands at around 1200 and really needs to be expanded to give the protagonist a better arc. Ultimately, it'll probably end up somewhere around 2000 words, but much better for it.

Might be a while before I try flash again. Either it's just not that easy to write, or I'm simply not wired that way. Heck, I still find novel length material easier to write than "ordinary" short fiction.

My short term goal is to fix up that non-flash story and then maybe knock out one or two other shorts I have in mind before getting back to the novel side of the to-do list.

In the meantime, I'll throw out another bit of the collaboration story. I think this is where it really starts to expand the scope of weirdness.

Stepping into Submission

In recent years, most of my writing has been centered around novel-length work, and none of that has been edited sufficiently yet to consider shopping around. Since joining the Slug Tribe writers' group where I've had the pleasure of reading and critiquing many dozens of quality short stories, however, I got the urge to dabble a bit in that format. One of those efforts finally reached my level of satisfaction to deem it worthy of trying to find it a home.

I've found the trickiest bit of getting that first story out there is figuring out where to try to submit it. The various markets all tend to have certain types of stories they buy - not just by genre but tone and style and such. I, unfortunately, haven't done a whole lot of reading in these short story markets, so there was a lot of poking around and consuming to be done. I think I read more short stories in the last month than I had in the past few years.

I finally settled on one for my first effort and the story is officially out. Now I get to sit back and wait for my first rejection letter. This all has a very rite-of-passage feel to it.