We meet at 7:30pm on
the first Thursday of
each month at
The Biffa Room,
St. Mark’s Church,
(off Avon Drive),
Bedford, MK41 7UY
Visitors (18 and older) and prospective members are VERY welcome, whether experienced writers, beginners, or just curious. Simply turn up on the night or contact us by clicking on the 'Get in Touch' icon for an interesting, enjoyable, and possibly instructive evening.
(A Christmas story using the words: Magnetism, recalcitrant, blood, hope and falling)
Blood! There’s blood! Blood Everywhere!
Reaching for the first aid kit, Santa put aside the bad-news message he had been reading. He was not at his most merry.
He knew, without looking, it was elf number 12 who was yelling. Always difficult that one, always causing disruption in the workshop. If it wasn’t histrionics, it was disobedience and foot dragging. Right little nuisance all round.
With the two drops of elf blood mopped up and the pin prick wound plastered, Santa took out his phone and continued reading the message from Greedo, the Great God of Trade.
“Workshop production must cease after December 12th. Your operation is no longer financially viable.”
An audible gasp from Santa went whooshing along the workbenches. The elves looked up alarmed. A somewhat forced smile and a wave of a pudgy hand from their beloved boss calmed them and set them back to their tasks. Apart from No.12 who was still whinging.
The message blurred in front of Santa’s eyes.
“Further; you will no longer be required to make deliveries. Amazon has got that contract. They will collect what products you’ve got and feed them into their distribution system.”
Santa ground his ancient teeth and sucked in his breath. He didn’t want to read any more but he had to.
“The aviation authorities, who have long been complaining about your drunken swooping about the world, have now refused to allow aircraft movement over Christmas if you and that red-nosed inebriate reindeer are taking to the skies.”
Santa slumped in his chair, his spirits falling, his mind whirling. He loved taking the toys round and drinking all the little glasses of happy juice left for him. Rudolph liked his share too, made him go faster. He stroked his beard and read on:
“Of course, we must keep the magic of Christmas for commercial purposes but you must accept that you will become a story and no longer a reality. However, we plan to trade on your magnetism and there are already contracts in the offing for you to appear on tv worldwide.”
Flattery always worked for Santa. Even in the midst of this hideous disappointment he felt hope tickling at the very edges of his soul. He sat up a little straighter. One more paragraph to read. Santa adjusted the damp-smeared glasses on the end of his bulbous nose.
“After considerable shrinkage of your labour force you will be required to run the workshop as a theme park only, for purposes of tourism, and that, along with the previously mentioned tv appearances, will help keep the myth rolling to encourage maximum Christmas spend.”
Santa didn’t relish choosing which elves he would have to let go. Perhaps he could use them on a rota basis; that would, at least, be fair. He looked along the row of industrious little workers.
Number 12 was missing again. At least, Santa thought, looking as he always did on the bright side, I can get rid of that recalcitrant little pest.