by Jonathan Moon
Little Billy Skip dreaded the Christmas season, not for its
candies and gifts- which he enjoyed quite a bit, but due to his crippling fear
of Santa Claus. The other children would tease and laugh, they found his
Santaphobia a real gas, but Little Billy saw something sinister in the Jolly Old Elf
and his holly decked halls.
He would write him no letters, nor sit on his lap. He
trust not his wide smile, his jiggling belly, nor his silly sagging cap.
On Christmas Eve Little Billy would go to sleep as early as he
could, in hopes of sleeping through his Santa-themed nightmares to wake up to
presents and everything good. His brothers and sisters awoke from visions of
sugarplums dancing in their heads by a thunderous thud-thudding downstairs
which scared Billy right under the beds. They ran downstairs to watch Santa dispense
his gifts, leaving Little Billy alone to cry and sweat in nervous shifts. Billy sat
thinking of years past, the flashy presents and the joyful laughs, soon he was
scampering after so silent and fast. He tip-toed noiselessly down tinsel wrapped
stairs, only to find headless his mom, dad, brothers and sisters.
A pale, thin Santa with scabby face and filthy beard, all dressed
in black from his boots to his cap, was dropping their heads into his swollen
black sack. Billy ran to his room, to hide in the safety and gloom. He dashed to his window,
and threw it open in a panic to scream out for help, but, sadly, fear choked
his voice and he could manage only a yelp. On the street outside below Little Billy
saw dozens of Santas in black, one and all a heaping bag slung over his back.
