Christmas Cookies
Dec. 14th, 2006 12:06 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
wordwhackerMan, I need a title, and I need one bad.
This is the second draft of the Christmas story I wrote for the Telegraph Journal (yet to be submitted). Any comments would be wildly appreciated.
Christmas Cookies (Draft 2, short story, 500 words)
When I was seven years old I learned a valuable lesson at school one day. I had been neglecting a Christmas tradition that, surely, had a growing impact on my Naughty or Nice status.
“Mom,” I said, sliding into the kitchen after school like a speed-skater in my Christmas socks, “you never said you were supposed to leave cookies for Santa.”
She tensed. Yes, a secret had clearly been kept from me. “Well, Claire, some people do,” she said, slowly.
“Why don’t we?”
Mom put a hand on her hip, repositioned it like she was gauging the weight of a turkey. “I’m sure he gets plenty of cookies from other kids.”
“What if he thinks I’m naughty, mom? Please, mom?” I gave her the ‘please, mom’ look. She thought about it.
“Let me talk to your grandmother first,” she said, and a certain twinkle came into her eye. “She might have just the right recipe.”
We made the cookies on Christmas Eve while waiting for Dad to come home from work. Mom measured the ingredients and poured them discretely into the bowl. I mixed it all together and helped her drop the dough on the pan. It looked so good, crumbly and golden brown. A taste would be nice –
She snatched my wrist, quick as lightning. “No finger-licking,” she said. “Raw egg is bad for you.”
I washed my hands and then watched the cookies brown and flatten in the oven.
“Can we try one, mom?”
“These are for Santa,” she said.
“He won’t notice if we have one.”
“Claire,” she said, sternly, “don’t you think Santa knows?”
My eyes went wide. I nodded and helped her arrange them on the cooling rack. Somehow one arranged itself into my pocket when she wasn’t looking. I waited and waited, tried not to play with it, until finally I escaped to my room for a taste of our homemade treats.
The cookie was on the floor as soon as I’d taken a bite. They were awful! Guilt over my stolen winnings disappeared, first in disgust, then despair. Santa would hate these cookies – I’d be labeled ‘naughty’ for sure. But I couldn’t tell mom, novice baker that she was, or she’d know I’d taken one.
“Claire, come downstairs! Daddy’s home!”
I hid what was left of the cookie under my bed. It was time to sing Christmas carols and wait for Santa. The songs had never seemed so long. Finally, Mom put me to bed. I waited and waited for what felt like hours, then crept out to my bedroom door. I had to warn Santa.
I trembled as I tiptoed down the stairs, clinging to the railing with my sweaty little hands. It was mostly dark – mom had put out most of the lights. I could hear someone. Slowly, so slowly, my face peeped out into the living room.
There was my mother, with the plate of cookies. And there was Frankie, our three-year-old mutt, happily eating them out of her hand.
This is the second draft of the Christmas story I wrote for the Telegraph Journal (yet to be submitted). Any comments would be wildly appreciated.
Christmas Cookies (Draft 2, short story, 500 words)
When I was seven years old I learned a valuable lesson at school one day. I had been neglecting a Christmas tradition that, surely, had a growing impact on my Naughty or Nice status.
“Mom,” I said, sliding into the kitchen after school like a speed-skater in my Christmas socks, “you never said you were supposed to leave cookies for Santa.”
She tensed. Yes, a secret had clearly been kept from me. “Well, Claire, some people do,” she said, slowly.
“Why don’t we?”
Mom put a hand on her hip, repositioned it like she was gauging the weight of a turkey. “I’m sure he gets plenty of cookies from other kids.”
“What if he thinks I’m naughty, mom? Please, mom?” I gave her the ‘please, mom’ look. She thought about it.
“Let me talk to your grandmother first,” she said, and a certain twinkle came into her eye. “She might have just the right recipe.”
We made the cookies on Christmas Eve while waiting for Dad to come home from work. Mom measured the ingredients and poured them discretely into the bowl. I mixed it all together and helped her drop the dough on the pan. It looked so good, crumbly and golden brown. A taste would be nice –
She snatched my wrist, quick as lightning. “No finger-licking,” she said. “Raw egg is bad for you.”
I washed my hands and then watched the cookies brown and flatten in the oven.
“Can we try one, mom?”
“These are for Santa,” she said.
“He won’t notice if we have one.”
“Claire,” she said, sternly, “don’t you think Santa knows?”
My eyes went wide. I nodded and helped her arrange them on the cooling rack. Somehow one arranged itself into my pocket when she wasn’t looking. I waited and waited, tried not to play with it, until finally I escaped to my room for a taste of our homemade treats.
The cookie was on the floor as soon as I’d taken a bite. They were awful! Guilt over my stolen winnings disappeared, first in disgust, then despair. Santa would hate these cookies – I’d be labeled ‘naughty’ for sure. But I couldn’t tell mom, novice baker that she was, or she’d know I’d taken one.
“Claire, come downstairs! Daddy’s home!”
I hid what was left of the cookie under my bed. It was time to sing Christmas carols and wait for Santa. The songs had never seemed so long. Finally, Mom put me to bed. I waited and waited for what felt like hours, then crept out to my bedroom door. I had to warn Santa.
I trembled as I tiptoed down the stairs, clinging to the railing with my sweaty little hands. It was mostly dark – mom had put out most of the lights. I could hear someone. Slowly, so slowly, my face peeped out into the living room.
There was my mother, with the plate of cookies. And there was Frankie, our three-year-old mutt, happily eating them out of her hand.
