In the end, Christmas was saved, but at a great cost. Many were lost that day. No one was left untouched. The elf population dropped 22%. The rabbits, leprechauns, elves, and ghouls all suffered great loss too. The Keepers took a vow that day to never speak of this event. To never reveal what happened or where it took place. The field became hallowed ground. The Keepers still go there regularly to pay their respects. To remember.
And for Santa, he has not been quite the same. I little piece of him died with Fizzle on that field on that day. He is still jolly around Christmas. Not so jolly around Thanksgiving. He can’t look at lumpy mashed potatoes without getting upset. Santa is still magic itself and part of him is still a little human. Just like you and me, he has good days and some bad. He gets excited, he gets sad. He gets happy and he gets mad. But now, when he gets mad it does not last, because he knows being mad can kill your best friend.
…
I will share one last thing with you because you made it to the end of my story. Not too many years ago, on Thanksgiving, a funny thing happened. At around eleven in the morning, I stepped outside to get some fresh air. To take a break from the gathering, the noise.
I happened to notice a man hunched over in disturbingly tight short shorts. He was putting potatoes in a pile. Stacked in formation. Five on the bottom, four above them, and up. A small pyramid. He looked at me quickly and ran away. As he ran away, I couldn’t help noticing the man had perfectly coiffed hair and handsome athletic legs. Since then, on Thanksgiving morning I’ve noticed these potato stacks. In different configurations. Sometimes three across the bottom and up. Sometimes five. Always in a pyramid shape. Some small, some large. I still don’t know what to make of it. A memorial? a remembrance? I don’t know.
If you are lucky, you just might find a potato pyramid on Thanksgiving morning. You might even be lucky enough to spot the mysterious man building them. You just have to look.
-The End-
