Dec. 25, 1995

Dear Lucy,

Your request for a pony is denied. What do you even need a pony to go to school for? There’s something called a SCHOOLBUS.

Besides, we both know it’s just going to end up in your parents’ “House Special Soup.”

Enclosed instead is this rubber band I found.

Best,

Santa

 

Dec. 25, 1996

Dear Lucy,

Again, the pony is a NO GO. Here’s a dictionary instead. (Your spelling’s horrendous.)

Also, the Tooth Fairy not leaving money under your pillow doesn’t have anything to do with me. You think all us magical people get together to play bridge something?

Go bother her for a change.

Cheers,

Santa

 

Dec. 25, 1997

Dear Lucy,

I am not a misser (sic) (didn’t even open that dictionary, did you?). I denied your request for a Princess Castle because A) what the hell’s a Princess Castle, B) you’re not a princess, and C) you wouldn’t deserve one regardless.

Here’s a rock I stubbed my toe on, which made me think of you.

Adios,

Santa

p.s. The Fairy gave me two quarters at our last bridge game to make up for two years ago; I used them for postage.

 

Dec. 25, 1998

Dear Lucy,

Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles is for BOYS. Here’s a one-armed Barbie.

Best,

Santa

 

Dec. 25, 1999

Dear Lucy,

You’ve been accepted into Hogwarts! NOT.

Also how could this be some elaborate prank of your parents’ given they can barely write a sentence in English? I’d say use your head, but we all know how well that turns out.

Enclosed please find a piece of gum I’ve been chewing on for two days.

Ciao,

Santa

 

Dec. 25, 2000

Dear Lucy,

You may have thought it clever to send your letter smeared in cat shit, but that just meant Al the Elf had to spend two hours cleaning it. Don’t get me wrong, I couldn’t care less about Al the Elf, but I wanted you to add this to your list of failures (which must be longer than any I’ve had the misfortune to slog over).

Here instead is a collar for that puppy you actually want but will never get because the world’s against you.

Yours,

Santa

 

Dec. 25, 2001

Dear Lucy,

In honor of your first period, here’s some Tampons.

Cheers,

Santa

p.s. Mrs. Claus insists I tell you heat pads work wonders.

p.p.s. The secret to a happy marriage is doing what your spouse tells you.

 

Dec. 25, 2002

Dear Lucy,

I don’t know why you thought it necessary to tell me about this Brian. A) He’s probably a tool, and B) he’d STILL be too good for you.

Here’s a picture of someone more suitable.

Best,

Santa

 

Dec. 25, 2003

Dear Lucy,

That’s Danny Devito, playing the Penguin. Did you wait a whole year to ask me that? Loser.

Also how have you never watched Batman Returns? Double loser.

Here it is, along with the first movie.

Salut,

Santa

 

Dec. 25, 2004

Dear Lucy,

I’m glad you liked the movies, but I’m not giving you comics. A) They’re expensive. B) People already think you’re a freak.

Here’s some makeup. Lord knows you need it.

Yours,

Santa

 

Dec. 25, 2005

Dear Lucy,

I noticed you didn’t send me a letter this year. To show I’m above your mind games, here’s a signed copy of Watchmen.

Best,

Santa

 

Dec. 25, 2006

Dear Lucy,

I can’t believe you actually thought that was Frank Miller’s signature.

Also, just because boys are interested in you right now doesn’t mean jack. It’s this thing called YELLOW FEVER.

Later gator,

Santa

 

Dec. 25, 2007

Dear Lucy,

I don’t care that you’re going by your Chinese name now. You probably think you’re the shit and oh so enlightened, but that’s how all idiot freshmen feel. Here’s a condom.

Sincerely,

Santa

 

Dec. 25, 2008

Lucy,

What in any of our correspondences would make you think that I, of all people, would want to hear any of that? I told you not to hang around douchebags and I guess you should have listened.

Here’s a therapist’s card. Jesus Christ.

Santa

 

Dec. 25, 2009

Dear Liew See,

No, I had nothing to do with Jackson’s unfortunate accident. There’s this thing called COINCIDENCE. Here’s a signed copy of The Dark Knight Returns.

Best,

Santa

 

Dec. 25, 2010

Dear Lucy,

Calling you by your Chinese name was a clerical mistake, as was sending you a copy of The Dark Knight Returns that was actually signed by Frank Miller. Also, what loser would turn down $2,500 for it?

Here’s a potted cactus, I guess.

Bemusedly,

Santa

 

Dec. 25, 2011

Dear Liew See,

Since you’re going to Law School, here’s Frug’s Women and the Law.

Apathetically,

Santa

 

Dec 25, 2012

Dear Liew See,

Not sure what someone as seemingly put-together as Jericho sees in someone like you, but congratulations I guess. Knowing your luck, he’s probably a serial killer. I won’t be able to attend the wedding, so enclosed is a travel voucher.

Best of luck,

(especially to Jericho, poor sap)

Santa

 

Dec 25, 2013

Dear Liew See,

I’m glad you liked Machu Pichu. You would ride a pony.

Also, the Fairy says I owe you a shit ton in compound fairy interest for taking your two quarters way back when, so here’s a wish.

Best,

Santa

 

Dec. 25, 2014

Dear Liew See,

Here’s me being surprised you used your wish on a baby.

Just so you know, I’m only accepting this godfather thing because she was born on Christmas, which makes it practically contractual.

Santa

p.s. I spilled some water on this letter.

 

Dec. 25, 2015

Dear Baby Kris,

Here’s a pony.

Don’t tell your mother.

Love,

your godfather,

Santa

Nicola Koh is a Malaysian Eurasian 16 years in the American Midwest, an atheist who lost their faith while completing their Masters of Theology, and a minor god of Tetris. They received their MFA from Hamline University and were a 2018 VONA/Voices and 2019/20 Loft Mentors Series fellow. Their fiction has appeared in places like Crab Orchard Review, The Margins, The Brown Orient, Southwest Review, and The Account. Amongst other things, they enjoy taking too many pictures of their animal frenemies and crafting puns. See more at nicolakoh.com.

My uncle’s execution is set for two weeks from now, which bothers my mother, not because it’s too soon or that he doesn’t deserve it, but because it’s happening on a Sunday. How could they do it then, she asks as she reads the letter aloud. Is nothing sacred anymore? A part of me is relieved, not that I’d say it—that these years of waiting will finally come to an end. His messy notes from jail, telling us he’s doing fine. Every letter signed with No complaints. My uncle, who once complained about everything, except for what mattered—the rising price of Menthols, the inconvenience of work. How few hairs he had left on his head. Always focused on himself, as if, when he looked out at the vast expanse of the world around him, all he saw was his own unshaven face.

A thing like that’ll get you killed, we warned.

But God forbid he’d ever listen.

My mother believes in justice, even if that means her own brother must go. We all have to make sacrifices—like families at war, who ration their food. Except for us, the war’s amongst ourselves. Either you work to save the planet, or you’re complicit in its demise.

By now, there’s no room for anything in-between.

I help my mother pack, since the execution’s scheduled for a glacier in Antarctica. Most of them are held there. It’s easy to ignore and no one takes blame for what happens–even knowing what we know now. The executed simply stand along the edge and wait for the glacier to melt. We board the boat with my uncle, his hands tied behind him, his hair neatly combed but thin. He is older than I remembered. More tired and bothered than his letters would suggest. I wonder if it matters to him that I’m here. If he is comforted by our presence or would prefer that no one saw. It takes four days to reach our destination. We eat with him and discuss whatever we like. I learn about his latest obsessions: his love of animals with giant teeth and TV shows from his parents’ time. I remind myself he’s part of the problem. But his eyes brighten when he speaks, two shining moons as the sun sets in the sea. I feel their warmth, his glow, when he smiles. With a spoon, my mother feeds him his favorite foods from childhood: chicken nuggets and mac and cheese and fruit loops in the morning. He is generous with his meals, insisting that I eat some. When he asks us where we’re going, we say, we are taking you to a glacier. Where you will watch the horizon for as long as you can before the ice gives way and the ocean swallows you whole. He laughs at this a little. He wonders if the earth has a belly and if it’s bigger than his own. I smile at this, until I don’t.

We try to prepare him for what’s to come. My mother bows her head and prays, as he peeks at her with one eye open. He loves when my mother says “mercy.” The sound of it on his tongue, as he echoes her prayer: Mercy for his sins. Mercy for what he must not understand. His hands are tied so instead of reaching for my mother, he leans his head on her shoulder, then mine. I press my ear to his, try to hear inside his mind. To know how a man at the end might feel. But it is quiet inside and empty, uncaring, unlike his eyes. I want him to know that I see him—not only now, but as the man I remember, chasing me through the backyard. When he paused to pick a flower and blew on the seeds so they scattered. He was a child in an aging world.

Complacency, we knew, was the enemy.

On the Sunday we were promised, my uncle steps onto the glacier, smiling as he’s told to move closer to the edge. We stand where the ice is solid, knowing it will melt soon enough—that where we are now will be forty feet of nothingness before the frosty, swirling sea. I imagine myself suspended, witness to this place but not a part of it. Two others move beside him, as they study the faint pink glow on the horizon. I wonder if they’re guilty of the same shared crime—of doing too little, too late, to help. To help what? This, I guess, as we stand there. My uncle chants, Mercy, again and again and again. My mother watches him, unmoved. The man who steered the ship clears his throat: It didn’t have to be this way, he says. I watch as my uncle aligns himself, the back of his hair tousled by the wind. He holds his shoulders straight, as if waiting for a command, but I want him to turn, to run, to get back on the boat and drive. To say to hell with it all, you can take my place in the sea.

But he waits as the captain follows his eyes to the skyline. It is dim, no longer pink, and only then, I promise myself not to look away.

Matt Barrett holds an MFA in Fiction from UNC-Greensboro, and his stories have appeared or are forthcoming in The Threepenny Review, The Sun Magazine, West Branch, TriQuarterly, The Cincinnati Review’s miCRo Series, Best Microfiction, and Best Small Fictions, among others. He teaches creative writing at Gettysburg College and is working on a novel.