MicroHorror

The elves pushed their chairs back and groaned. No one spoke.

“There’s nothing like a good Christmas roast,” said Glitter. It sounded a bit forced.

“Best ever!” said Gretchen. That sounded equally forced. There was a kind of finality to this feast that required a degree of solemnity. It was the end of an era.

“Tinsel, you out-sparkled yourself, girl.”

Tinsel blushed, knowing it.

“Yep! Here’s to you!” Spice emptied his flagon and farted loudly. The others ignored his lack of sensitivity.

Time was, a hundred elves would be seated around tables here in the workshop, singing and celebrating the success of the season well into New Year. Tinsel had cooked turkeys and hams, jellies and puddings that would do the heart good to see, and beers, breads and homemade sloe gin. That was before–they were just a handful now and they weren’t exactly celebrating. There’d have been more fun at a wake.

“What do we do now?” Pickles, always ahead of every game, sounded unsure for a change.

“The dishes?” said Gretchen, hopefully.

Pickles gave an exasperated sigh. “I mean, what do we do now?”

“As in?” inquired Sprinkle.

“As in, for instance, do we open the mail?”

There was already a pile stacked up in the corner and they all knew that if it wasn’t tackled bit by bit, it would build to a mountain in no time at all. However, none of it was addressed to them. Suddenly the dishes seemed to be the least of their problems.

“It doesn’t seem right somehow.” Glitter’s voice sounded small. “I know we used to help with the mail, but…”

“We’re going to argue ethics now?” said Pickles.

“You mean we should just carry on like before?” Franzipan had always been a keen worker. He specialized in handmade wooden toys, but the big stores with their mass-produced mouldeds meant he was the only one of his department left. It seemed there was little demand for craftsmanship. Santa had been going for cheaper options for years. It was more cost effective.

All that was part of the original dispute.

“It’s a consideration,” said Pickles, self-appointed shop steward through all the unpleasantness of the past months.

Franzipan had become bitter. “Whoa! Weren’t we made redundant? Let go? Cast aside? Cost-cutting exercises, remember? The economic downturn? Trimming the fat?”

“We could become a co-operative. Go it alone,” said Pickles.

“But nobody can afford Christmas any more. That’s what he said.” Glitter’s voice kind of swallowed itself.

“That’s right, comrade. And why should we work now? We have a roof over our heads; plenty here to eat.”

“Plenty of what?” asked Gretchen.

“Venison. We have a breeding herd.”

“But I like the deer.”

“Me too, Gretchen, but as Santa himself pointed out, there’s no room for sentiment in times like these–nice with redcurrant jelly on the side, too. You can manage that, can’t you, Tinsel?”

“Just as long as I don’t have to behead them myself this time.”

“Involuntary severance,” reminded Pickles, “and again, as Santa said, commerce is our business. He’d be the first to realize it’s nothing personal. Now–what about that mail?”

“I think we ought,” said Sprinkle.

“But we can’t deliver toys without logistics.” Franzipan thought of the beautiful sleigh he’d made so long ago. It had been replaced by ugly, fuel-guzzling lorries and now sat rotting in a shed, eaten away by profit.

“Someone should let the kiddies down gently. Whatever else happens, Santa definitely isn’t coming to town this year.”

It was a hideous truth.

Spice rubbed his rotund belly contentedly and picked a strand of white hair from between his teeth. “Tough old bird! Had to be, I suppose, old-timer like that. Been everywhere. Done everything.”

Franzipan gave him a look of disgust. “Ghoul! Nobody said you had to eat boots and all.”

Spice just laughed.

• Copyright: © 2011 Oonah V Joslin