Flash Fiction - Beer Battered Santa
I was up late—Johnny Carson late. Mom and her new friends were in the kitchen, where they’d spent the evening making jolly, singing carols, laughing and carrying on well past all the TV Christmas specials and evening news. Every once in a while she’d pop her head around the corner, the phone cord stretched straight as she reminded Angel and me that Santa would be over in a few minutes. It was a week before Christmas, and news of Santa’s special trip meant sleep was out of the question for me. Angel and I were on the floor. Angel her her head propped up in her hand. I was listening to the tick and hiss of the kerosene heater. Angel kept warning me how I was going to burn myself again and I kept asking Angel why she didn't believe in Santa Clause. She didn’t answer, just kept on pretending she understood whatever Johnny Carson was yapping about. But I saw the way she kept eyeing the door, just like I'd been doing since Dad took off a few months ago for his sales job. Mom said his...
