Santa's Claws & Steven, Space Stowaway Read online

Steven Space Stowaway & Santa's Claws

  By MJ Ware

  Additional front mater and legal information.

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  Would you like to know when more low-cost and free ebooks are released by MJ Ware? Visit: https://www.MJWare.com.

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  Santa's Claws

  Recipe for Death

  Steven, Space Stowaway

  Monitor Mayhem

  Super Zombie Juice Preview

  About the Author

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  Santa's Claws

  “What is that?” Alyssa said, looking down at Ryan’s paper. “What are you drawing?”

  “Huh?” Ryan, hadn’t even realized he was drawing anything except bored scribbles. But sure enough, sprawled across the paper, lying on his back with a pained, pitiful expression was Santa.

  “Why would you want Santa to die?” Alyssa ripped the paper out from under him. She shook her head as she tired to make it out, her eyes searching like a detective.

  “What? No, he’s not dead. It’s just a dumb picture, anyway.”

  “Ryan, you even drew black X’s over his eyes.”

  “I told you he’s not dead, just… resting.”

  “You are sick Ryan Lynch. I’m not going to let you get away with trying to take out Santa.”

  “Okay, sure I'm out to get Santa—believe whatever you want.” Crumpling the paper, he threw it into the trash.

  “Since it’s the last day of school before Christmas break,” Miss Solano said, “you can be dismissed five minutes early. But don’t disrupt the other classes. That means you, Ryan Lynch.” She eyed him, like she was deciding whether to make him stay behind.

  Before she could change her mind Ryan jumped from his seat and bounded out the door, knocking down Stacy Lee in the process.

  Ryan sat on a big, gnarly, half-buried root under the naked oak tree that stood in front of school. When his bus pulled up, he didn’t try to make eye contact with anyone; he knew the other kids were too afraid to look his way.

  A long haired boy from the sixth grade made the mistake of sitting in the seat in front of him. Ryan kept pulling stray hairs from the back of his head, only stopping when tears streamed down the boy’s face. It was his own fault for having a mullet, Ryan told himself.

  He got off the bus and waited for Alyssa Abbot. She’d made him swear not to speak to her until the bus was out of sight. Ryan knew she wouldn’t even walk home with him if her parents didn’t force her to.

  “I guess you’re not going to bother writing a letter to Santa. Seeing how you want him dead and all,” Alyssa said, eyes fixed ahead on the black smoke billowing from the underside of the bus.

  “You’re the only dork in our class still writing letters to Santa.”

  “Ryan D. Lynch, I know you believe in Santa Claus. You told me last year he came into your room.”

  “It was just a dream; it had to be a dream. Santa doesn’t threaten kids.”

  “Only one’s as nasty as you.” Out of the corner of his eye Ryan saw Alyssa pause to see if her jab had stung; he kept his face stone hard. “Besides,” she continued, “he told you to stop being so naughty, or else. That really isn’t much of a threat.”

  “It was probably just Dad in a suit.”

  “We both know it hasn’t been your parents putting coal in your stocking for the last three years.”

  “Dad would.” Ryan knotted the straps that hung off his backpack, pulling them so tight his mom would never get them out.

  “Where would they even find coal? Isn’t it an illegal pollutant or something?”

  Ryan shrugged.

  As he turned to head to his house, Alyssa suddenly grabbed his arm. “I’ve got it,” she said, “What you need is… a plan.”

  “A plan? What sort of plan?”

  “Something to get back on Santa’s good side. It’s way too late for this year; you’ve been suspended twice for fighting. But next year—we'll make a plan to keep you out of trouble and you're sure to get something next Christmas, besides coal, I mean.”

  "Yeah, great Idea, Dufus," Ryan replied.

  While other kids were enjoying their Christmas break: sledding with friends, playing football in the snow, having sleepovers, Ryan couldn’t even use his computer. His mom had locked it up last month when she found out he’d used her credit card to buy $200 worth of game-points in Warlords Revenge. So he just sat around the house, all day, every day, thinking about Alyssa’s advice: What you need is a plan.

  Slowly he turned it over in his mind and somehow quite unexpectedly a plan did began to form. As he laid out each step, his stomach twisted and rolled as if it were tumbling with lumps of coal.

  The week before Christmas he finalized the last details. He’d come up with the finest, most irritate, most ingenious plan ever devised. But not one Alyssa would approve of—he was going to get his presents and he was going to get them this year.

  *

  Ryan’s mother was volunteering at the food bank, helping pass out Christmas baskets, so Ryan had to spend the day at Alyssa’s. He’d never admit it, but he’d been looking forward to having someone to hang out with.

  Alyssa sat finishing her letter; using her good colored pencils to draw a picture of Santa feeding Rudolph, his red nose way too big, with beams of red light streaming off it like rays of a Disco ball. Ryan was doodling on his paper, but made sure it didn’t look anything like Santa, he didn't even use red, which stank because that meant he couldn't draw any blood.

  “You know, it wouldn’t hurt to write Santa,” Alyssa said as she grabbed light blue to highlight the snow. “You could tell him you're going to turn over a new leaf next year. He might bend the rules and put a little something in his sack for you.”

  “Oh, I’m going to be getting more than a little something from his sack.”

  “What does that mean?” Alyssa pointed one of her boney fingers at him.

  “None of your business,” Ryan said as he snatched the blue pencil from her.

  Alyssa looked down at his drawing. “You know Santa’s bag is magic, he can pull anything he needs out of it. So you better not try to put on over on the big guy.”

  Ryan shook his head. “I’m going to take a leak.” But silently he wondered if Santa’s sack could really be magic. It didn’t matter, he was sure there wasn’t anything the decrepit elf could pull out of it that would stop him.

  Ryan turned on the bathroom facet and started rummaging through the medicine cabinet. He knew Alyssa’s mom took Ambien. He’d seen it one day when he was digging around for a Band-aid that didn’t have Disney princesses or Hello Kitty on it.

  He found the bottle, pocketed five pills and put the rest back.

  Alyssa was licking her envelope when he returned.

  “Ryan, before you leave, I got you a little something for Christmas.” Alyssa’s Mom walked out of the kitchen, over to the tree and pulled out a white box wrapped with a big red ribbon.

  Ryan took the box and eyed it suspiciously; it looked an awfully lot like clothes. He thought about waiting until he got home to open it, but there was no way that was going to happen. He ripped the box in half—the quickest way in.

  Trying to force a smile, he pulled out a pair of red and green plaid flannel Pajamas.

  Alyssa eyed him; he could tell if he complained he’d never hear the end of it.

  “These look warm,” was the only thing he could think to say that wouldn’t result in an endless string of lectures. “Thanks. Mom turns the heat off at night. Says if I get cold to grab another blanket. These will come in handy.”

  “Well, everyone’s trying to save where they can.” Alys
sa’s mom smiled. “Oh, and I have a goodie-plate for you to take home.”

  Walking home, he ate all the red and green Kisses off the plate. At his door Ryan turned looking back down the street at Alyssa. She was taking her letter out to the mailbox and putting the flag up. What a dork, he thought.

  Ryan’s mom was looking through the extra Christmas basket she'd brought home and franticly making a list of last-minute groceries. “Mom, don’t forget the eggnog.”

  “Don’t worry. Your father would flip if I forget the eggnog.” She grabbed her purse and keys.

  “And get Buds, not get that cheap cr—err, stuff.”

  “You’re getting more like your father every day.” She dashed out the front door slamming it shut.

  Everything was falling into place. Ryan stuffed one of his mom’s slightly over-baked, giant gingerbread guys into his mouth, crumbs falling in a pile on the floor. He took three more with him into the living room.

  Where to hide? He had to find the perfect spot or the whole plan would fall apart.

  Christmas Eve, after all his parents friends had come and gone, Ryan put out the Eggnog and cookies for Santa. He dressed in his warmest clothes, the Flannel red and green plaid PJ’s from Alyssa’s Mom—there was no telling how long it would be before Santa showed up. Once he was sure his parents weren't getting back up, he snuck into the living room and crawled into a huge gift bag—it was the size of a trash bag, but green, with little Jolly Santa’s printed all over it.

  The lights from the tree twinkled through the bag making the Santas glow and flash in eerie patterns. Now all he had to do was wait and hope Santa wasn't just an urban legend.

  Ryan tried to stay awake, but it wasn't long before he couldn’t keep his eyes open. Telling himself he was just going to close them for a second, he fell fast asleep.

  He was awoken by the sounds of bells. Peeking out of the hole in the top of his giant gift bag, he spied an old worn black boot, trimmed with white fur. The trim streaked with speckles of ash and spotted with small brass bells that sung as the boots swayed. Santa was short, probably a couple inches shorter than Ryan. His clothes well worn, but not shabby.

  Just then Ryan remembered the eggnog—had Santa drank it?

  Sure enough, all that remained on the plate was an empty glass and a few stray crumbs. Ryan smiled, wrapped inside his sack like a pig in a blanket.

  The rhythmical jingling of bells made him look up; Santa seemed to stagger a little before stopping right in front of Ryan’s Scooby Doo Stocking. He took something out of his breast pocket and dropped into Ryan’s stocking. It wasn't coal. What could it be?

  Ryan, careful not to make a sound, stared at his stocking while Santa flopped down on the big, well-worn, over-stuffed chair next to the empty plate.

  Forcing his gaze away from his stocking he peeked out the bag as Santa’s eyes slowly dropped close. Ryan stayed still in the bag, had it worked?

  A feeling of dread washed over him: He was in too deep. But there was no turning back now. Ryan waited several minutes before slithering out, shedding the skin of his sack.

  Slowly, Ryan slinked over to Santa. He could just make out quiet, but deep snoring. Ever so softly, Ryan touched Santa’s hand with his index finger. The elf didn’t stir.

  Ryan swallowed. He gently lifted Santa’s hand, then let go and held his breathe as it plopped back down. His heart paused when Santa made a slight grunt and his head slid to the side.

  He’s out cold. It worked even better than I'd hoped.

  Ryan searched for Santa’s magic bag, but his eyes stopped in at the fireplace. He stared squarely at his Scooby Doo stocking, an envelope sticking out the top. Maybe it was cash? Fat chance. Probably just more threats from the man in red.

  Ryan reached for his stocking when something grabbed his arm. He jumped. Then sighed in relief realizing it was only a branch from the Christmas tree. He shook his arm free, except the branch didn’t let go.

  “Hey, what gives?” He said, as a second branch secured his other arm. Ryan pulled hard and jerked around trying to slip his arms out. He’d almost broken free, when something looped around his waste. Christmas lights slid themselves across him, wrapping his stomach over and over, moving up his chest each turn tighter and tighter.

  He tried to scream as a strand of garland beads wrenched around his neck. He couldn't move, he could barely breathe.

  Ryan helplessly gasped for breathe as Santa got up and sauntered towards him. Loosening the beads around Ryan’s neck, Santa smiled and chucked—just like you’d expect from Old Saint Nick—Ryan took a deep, desperate breathe.

  “Trying to pull one over on o' Santie, huh?” Ryan looked down as Santa took off his gloves.

  Ryan didn't say a word, but continued to try to wiggle free. His bonds didn't loosen. He opened his mouth; but before he could think of something to say Santa popped up a hand and quickly stuffed his white gloves in. Ryan mumbled in protest.

  “What’s that, I can’t quite make it out?” Santa put his stubby finger to his ear. “I suppose you want to know how I figured out your little ruse?” The smell of sweet tobacco stung Ryan's nose. Santa reached over and took Ryan’s stocking. “I have to admit, my elves missed this one. It was a good plan, really. It might have even worked. Except, you forgot one thing…” Santa pulled the envelope out of his stocking. “Santa has friends everywhere.” On the front, square and center, Rudolph’s huge nose shone brightly.

  Carefully, Santa took the letter out of the envelope, then reached into the thick fur of his coat revealing a pair of wire rimmed glasses. “Let’s see here, standard I’ve been good this year... a new bike, a doll…Oh, here it is.” He cleared his throat. “Santa, you’ve got to watch out for this boy who lives down the Street, Ryan Lynch. He’s got something planned. I don’t know what it is, but he was drawing horrible pictures of you and told me he was getting presents even though he’s been a total turd all year.” As Santa put the letter back into the envelope, he smiled wide with off-white, crocked teeth. “She’ll be getting a little something extra this year.”

  The last thing Ryan saw was the dark inside of Santa’s bag as it went over his head.

  *

  Alyssa awoke before anyone else. Morning light softly streamed through her curtains. She glanced at her parents closed door. She'd let them sleep-in, a small Christmas gift. As long as she didn’t open her presents, they wouldn’t mind if she peeked under the tree.

  The living room was a wonderland of lights, decorations, and most importantly a menagerie of presents, everything as perfect as a greeting card. Alyssa looked out the front window to see which neighbors had left their lights on. She knew Santa saved the best toys for houses that remain lit all night. That’s when she saw the police cars, three of them, right in front of Ryan’s house. A slice of Christmas Joy, slipped from her heart. I hope Ryan’s dad hasn’t started drinking, again.

  Alyssa figured she’d stop by latter to check on Ryan. For now, she tried to put it out of her mind. She went over to the fireplace and pulled down her stocking.

  “Don’t open anything until Dad’s up... well I suppose the stocking's okay,” a yawning voice said.

  Alyssa glanced with a smile to her mom who was messing with the kitchen coffee maker.

  Something big was stuffed in Alyssa's stocking. She sat down with it in her lap. Reaching in, she found only a single item; it was long and wrapped in red and green tissue paper. Before unwrapping, she pressed her fingertips into it, gently probing. She knew what it was.

  Ding-Dong, the doorbell rang. She glanced up; her mom gave her a questioning look, then headed for the door.

  Alyssa had a couple other porcelain dolls Santa had given her over years. She was too old to play with dolls, but these weren't the kind you played with, they were too special, too beautiful; each one finely elf-crafted—they almost looked alive.

  She unwrapped the gift, expecting a baby or perhaps a little girl. But it was a boy, his mouth wide-open with a lo
ok of dumb surprise. Dressed in miniature red and green flannel PJ’s, hair so soft it felt real.

  The door opened and a police man greeted Mom. “Good Morning Ma’am, I’m sorry to disturb you on Christmas,” he said. “Were looking for a missing child. Have you seen this boy?” he held up a picture of Ryan Lynch. "He was last seen wearing flannel PJs."

  Alyssa’s eye’s dropped to the doll in her hands. She quickly put it down and turned away. It was one present she knew she couldn't return.

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  Recipe for Death (Flash Fiction)

  “I totally forgot sloppy joe money.” Kevin dug around in his pockets.

  “Least the lunch lady doesn’t hate you,” Sam said grabbing a tray.

  “Maybe it was yesterday’s joke about her unibrow?”

  “I didn’t know she was behind me.” Sam shook his head. “She never leaves the lunch line.”

  “Dawng, I’m twenty cents short.”

  “My dad says, treat food-handlers like royalty.” I flipped Kevin a quarter.

  “Why? They’re minimum-wage-drop-outs.”

  “Think about it. They can do anything to your food.”

  Looking down the line, I made a quick calculation; odds were three-to-one they’d be out of chocolate pudding before we got there. Food related math was the only kind I understood.

  “Look, she’s staring me down,” Sam said.

  “She’s not staring anyone down with that lazy-eye,” Kevin whispered.

  “Three sloppy joes…” As I forced a smile, the lunch lady did something completely unexpected—her mustache hairs twitched and her lips parted to reveal a haphazard set of yellow and brown teeth—was that a smile? “Please,” I squeaked.

  Still smiling, she dumped a spoonful of sloppy joe on a bun and tossed it onto my plate.

  “You boys drop dollar?” She pointed at us with her giant metal spoon. Sam flinched thinking she was about to take a whack at him.

  Hearing the word dollar, Kevin dropped to his knees, pawing at every piece of trash within reach. No one could beat Kevin to a buck. I turned back just as the lunch lady took a sloppy joe from under the counter, plopping it onto Sam’s plate.

  I started to speak, when her lazy-eye locked right on me. An ice water chill ran down to my toes.

  “There’s nothing but dirty napkins down here,” Kevin said.