Lumpy Stocking

Tim’s mother peered into the gift bag on her lap and retrieved a box with Zales printed on the cover.

“Merry Christmas, Rita,” her husband said.

Rita laid the diamond tennis bracelet on her wrist. “It’s beautiful,” she said, hand on chest, gently clearing her throat. She turned to Tim, and the wrinkles at the corners of her mouth and eyes strained as she feigned a smile. “Timmy, honey, do you want to see what Santa left for you?”

“I know Santa ain’t real, so you can stop with the bullshit.”

Timmy’s father slammed his fist down on the coffee table. Startled, Rita flinched and flicked the bracelet off her wrist. It disappeared behind the crisp, browning branches of the Christmas tree.

Tim rolled his eyes and snatched the stocking hanging from the fireplace. He turned it over and dumped charcoal and ash onto the carpet.

“Santa knows you stole Mr. Swanson’s bike,” his father said glaring.

“Then Santa should’ve given me one,” Tim shot back. He stomped to his room and slammed the door.

word count: 175

—Nortina


photo-20151214095129364This piece is a combination of Day 15 of 31 Days of Holiday Hooligans & Flash Fiction for Aspiring Writers (a weekly challenge where you write a story in 100-175 using the provided photo prompt as inspiration).

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11 thoughts on “Lumpy Stocking

    1. He definitely has that “If Santa’s not real, then what’s there to be good for?” mentally, though as you said, this kid probably had some entitlement/behavioral issues way before that discovery.

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