(no subject)
So I'm taking creative writing not sure how I feel about it yet.
We were asked to spend exactly five minutes looking at a picture in class and write a very short story about it. This one was my favorite of the series
They called him Santa Claus, although it was clear with the fake beard and moth-eaten suit that smelled of stale cigarettes that he wouldn't fool anyone. He wore the suit all year round, rising early each morning to brush out the stringy beard and prepare for another day as the magical elf. He would wash the suit once a week in my small bathtub, muttering Christmas carols under his breath as he caressed the threadbare velvet. The suit would be wrung out and carefully slipped back onto his tiny form, still dripping from the bath. During the summer, it would became soaked through with sweat, turning dark in patches under his arms and forming a permanent triangle on his back. In this heat he would simply sigh, adjust his belt, and quietly ask for another water. I was used to the stares, the people crossing to walk on the other side of the street, the open hostility. A man dressed as Santa in December will receive smiles and nods of approval, a man dressed in a velvet suit and white beard in July is generally met with open disbelief and cautious concern. As I grew older I started to have my doubts, but these always vanished whenever I hugged him around his pillow-stuffed middle and sank my face into his #A57 Size C Authentic Santa Beard. They called him Santa Claus, but I just called him Dad.
We were asked to spend exactly five minutes looking at a picture in class and write a very short story about it. This one was my favorite of the series
They called him Santa Claus, although it was clear with the fake beard and moth-eaten suit that smelled of stale cigarettes that he wouldn't fool anyone. He wore the suit all year round, rising early each morning to brush out the stringy beard and prepare for another day as the magical elf. He would wash the suit once a week in my small bathtub, muttering Christmas carols under his breath as he caressed the threadbare velvet. The suit would be wrung out and carefully slipped back onto his tiny form, still dripping from the bath. During the summer, it would became soaked through with sweat, turning dark in patches under his arms and forming a permanent triangle on his back. In this heat he would simply sigh, adjust his belt, and quietly ask for another water. I was used to the stares, the people crossing to walk on the other side of the street, the open hostility. A man dressed as Santa in December will receive smiles and nods of approval, a man dressed in a velvet suit and white beard in July is generally met with open disbelief and cautious concern. As I grew older I started to have my doubts, but these always vanished whenever I hugged him around his pillow-stuffed middle and sank my face into his #A57 Size C Authentic Santa Beard. They called him Santa Claus, but I just called him Dad.