Every Christmas, we must tell a good story, one that we may learn from, or share, or use to make for a better existence. This story could be about truth, or justice, or the origin of Santa Claus. Maybe that story could be about the uncovering of tru...
Of the many things that antisocial St. Nick had never had before now, the greatest thing he had been missing was friends. He had spent as long as he could remember living in isolation. Even though he had felt an ache in his chest attributed to something unseen, he had never realized it had anything to do with him living alone. Years had gone by in that bubble called loneliness, yet he never knew until now that loneliness was the thing that was building a wall around his heart. Thanks to all those annoying little elves buzzing about his workshop, he finally realized that having others around was necessary to end that aching feeling.
Or, at least their presence helped to numb it.
For several years he put up with the uncanny diligence of the elven population, which, thanks to his employ, was growing faster and stronger by the year, and his attitude toward them had gradually softened. But the ache of loneliness still had its shadow lingering over his heart, and he didn't know how to fix it. He observed the elves daily, attempting to crack the code to their happiness, but nothing really made any sense to him. They were all part of the same community, responsible for the same tasks, yet they were clearly happier than he was. Were they delusional? he wondered. Had they purchased some kind of herb from the traveling merchant that inspired happiness?
The truth was that confused St. Nick did not understand the inner workings of an elf, nor did he understand how doing the same job, the same way, day after day, year after year, could keep them so jovial. They had food now, whereas they were starving when he'd first met them. And he had given them something to do, whereas before they had nothing of the sort. But the weather was still bitter, and they still didn't have any coats to protect them from the cold, and they were still very, very low to the ground. He had more stuff than they had, yet they had more joy than he had. And he could not figure out why they were so happy. And not knowing what made them happy just angered him even more.
Then, one summer, when St. Nick was traveling to Canada to gather his yearly stock of wood and sheep, he came to discover a mysterious something that might've answered his teasing question. And, as he discovered this new ripple in his usual understanding, he finally figured out what that one thing was that the elves had that he never had for himself.
And he discovered it purely by chance.
He had planned on visiting his usual spot in the Saskatchewan area, as he was used to it and knew of everything it could offer him, but this year, adventurous St. Nick decided to try something different and head deeper south and east into the mysterious regions of Nova Scotia to find his plunder. It was there, somewhere near its Atlantic shore, that he had finally found the answer to his nagging question.
It was there that he met Martha W. Valentine, the future Mrs. St. Nick.
Martha was immediately taken by the buff lumberjack invading her backyard, both figuratively and literally, as he was searching for the best trees about fifty feet from her window near the edge of her property: the sight of his rippling biceps and quivering abs made her weak inside, but the sight of her supple cheeks and her dark porcelain doll hair caused a similar reaction in him when he saw her staring back, so he broke in and stole her from her bedroom before she had a chance to protest, which she didn't bother with because he was every Greek statue she'd ever seen in the flesh, and she wanted to wake up to the sight of that every morning. He just realized she had parts different than his, and it excited him, so he didn't care if she was beautiful or not—he didn't actually know if she was beautiful, for he never got far enough in his feminine research to figure out what the rest of the world considered beautiful, or what a guy of his proportions should've been naturally attracted to. It was all much too complicated for him, so he didn't give it much thought once he'd brought her back to the workshop and made her his wife.
Anyway, St. Nick became jolly that night and his unidentified ache went away.
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