A Very Substack Christmas
Ho Ho Ho it's Aidan Claus
’Twas the night before Christmas, all through the platform,
Not a user was scrolling, not even a troll in scorn.
The inboxes lingered by Explore with great care,
In hopes that Aidan Claus soon would be there.
The readers lay nestled, devices held tight,
While visions of Hare-brained Tales danced through the night.
All cozy in content, all snug in belief,
That words could still offer a little relief.
All, save for one boy, who fancied himself clever,
Too sharp to believe in such nonsense as ever.
He scoffed at Uncle Bob and his Viking Dreams too,
Of a writer so funny, empathetic, and true,
So giving, so earnest, he’d cheer up the whole platform through prose.
When, ping! from his phone came a glow and a sound,
The telltale refrain of a Substack inbound.
For Aidan Claus had delivered, right there in plain sight:
A Very Substack Christmas, for all to read and delight.
Twelve Days of Substack
On the first day of Christmas
my paid sub sent to me:
A Kiwi in a Slutstack tree.
On the second day of Christmas
my paid sub sent to me:
And a Kiwi in a Slutstack tree.
On the third day of Christmas
my paid sub sent to me:
Three Lyrics restacks,
Two married Higgins,
And a Kiwi in a Slutstack tree.
On the fourth day of Christmas
my paid sub sent to me:
Four Rach notes,
Three Lyrics restacks,
Two married Higgins,
And a Kiwi in a Slutstack tree.
On the fifth day of Christmas
my paid sub sent to me:
Five Anomie bangers,
Four Rach notes,
Three Lyrics restacks,
Two married Higgins,
And a Kiwi in a Slutstack tree.
On the sixth day of Christmas
my paid sub sent to me:
Six thirst traps posting,
Five Anomie bangers,
Four Rach notes,
Three Lyrics restacks,
Two married Higgins,
And a Kiwi in a Slutstack tree.
On the seventh day of Christmas
my paid sub sent to me:
Seven nights of Imi’s insomnia,
Six thirst traps posting,
Five Anomie bangers,
Four Rach notes,
Three Lyrics restacks,
Two married Higgins,
And a Kiwi in a Slutstack tree.
On the eighth day of Christmas
my paid sub sent to me:
Eight unread DMs,
Seven nights of Imi’s insomnia,
Six thirst traps posting,
Five Anomie bangers,
Four Rach notes,
Three Lyrics restacks,
Two married Higgins,
And a Kiwi in a Slutstack tree.
On the ninth day of Christmas
my paid sub sent to me:
Nine Project Mayhems,
Eight unread DMs,
Seven nights of Imi’s insomnia,
Six thirst traps posting,
Five Anomie bangers,
Four Rach notes,
Three Lyrics restacks,
Two married Higgins,
And a Kiwi in a Slutstack tree.
On the tenth day of Christmas
my paid sub sent to me:
Ten comments arguing,
Nine Project Mayhems,
Eight unread DMs,
Seven nights of Imi’s insomnia,
Six thirst traps posting,
Five Anomie bangers,
Four Rach notes,
Three Lyrics restacks,
Two married Higgins,
And a Kiwi in a Slutstack tree.
On the eleventh day of Christmas
my paid sub sent to me:
Eleven celebs on Substack,
Ten comments arguing,
Nine Project Mayhems,
Eight unread DMs,
Seven nights of Imi’s insomnia,
Six thirst traps posting,
Five Anomie bangers,
Four Rach notes,
Three Lyrics restacks,
Two married Higgins,
And a Kiwi in a Slutstack tree.
On the twelfth day of Christmas
my paid sub sent to me:
Twelve zodiac signs Sushi explains (I don’t understand),
Eleven celebs on Substack,
Ten comments arguing,
Nine Project Mayhems,
Eight unread DMs,
Seven nights of Imi’s insomnia,
Six thirst traps posting,
Five Anomie bangers,
Four Rach notes,
Three Lyrics restacks,
Two married Higgins,
And a Kiwi in a Slutstack tree.
The boy looked up, the verses read through,
And scoffed with a smirk, as the clever ones do:
“Twas nothing,” he said, “but cheap references tossed,
Friends named and tagged, just to drive clicks and gloss.”
When creeeak went the floorboard, he froze in his seat,
Looked up, wide-eyed, and cried out,“Uncle Bob, is that you?”
Indeed, it was Bob, with cocoa held tight,
Steam curling upward in warm winter light.
“Now listen,” said Bob, settling down by the fire,
“For Christmas, dear nephew, is more than you think it requires.
It’s cheer shared in public, in jokes passed along,
In lifting your friends where they’ve written in song.
And if you doubt Aidan Claus, if you think him a myth,
Let me tell you a tale all the young ones should sit with:
For belief isn’t magic, nor clicks, nor applause,
It’s showing up kindly… and calling it Claus.”
The Last Christmas
“Daddy, Daddy, Daddy,” Marybeth asked, bright-eyed and breathless, bouncing on the stained carpet until the cheap springs in the couch squeaked in protest. “Is Santa coming tonight?”
Carl didn’t mirror her joy. He sat slouched at the small kitchen table, fingers curled around a mug of hot chocolate gone thin with Baileys, the steam long since faded. He nodded without looking up. “Yeah, sweetie,” he said, managing a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Santa’s coming.”
The apartment was threadbare in every sense of the word. A crooked plastic tree sagged in the corner, its needles warped and shining faintly under mismatched lights that flickered when the heat kicked on. Tinsel drooped like shedding skin. An Elf on the Shelf perched above it all, red felt legs dangling, stitched grin frozen wide and knowing.
It was enough for a five-year-old. Carl knew that. But his mind slipped forward, to Christmases yet to come, ones where Marybeth would hesitate at the door, or worse, stop coming altogether. Where she’d choose her mother’s house. Jeff’s house. The thought of his name sparked something hot and sour in Carl’s stomach. He scowled, muttering under his breath before he realized Marybeth was watching him now.
“What is it, Daddy?” she asked, her voice small.
He took another swallow of his lukewarm drink and shook his head. “Nothing, baby.” The lie came easy. Too easy.
His thoughts drifted backward instead, to their first Christmas together, when the apartment had been full of laughter, Sarah barefoot in the kitchen, Marybeth still small enough to sleep in his arms. Merry. Warm. Whole. Then to the last one: quiet, brittle, cold in ways the radiator couldn’t touch. Sarah distant. Sarah gone. Only later had he learned about Jeff.
Carl grimaced, but Marybeth had already turned back to the television, mesmerized by whatever saccharine Christmas slop flickered across the screen. He’d loved Christmas once. As a kid. Even as an adult. Now it tasted like regret. Sarah had wanted a ring, a promise. Carl had wanted time. Time had chosen for him.
He drained the mug and stood, joints stiff, reaching for the cheap carton of eggnog he’d bought at the packy down the street. As he rose, he felt it again, that prickling sense between his shoulder blades.
The elf. Its glassy eyes caught the light, reflecting it wrong, too sharp. The smile seemed wider than he remembered.
Stupid thing, Carl thought. He’d only bought it because it was cheap. Because Marybeth had asked. Because he was trying.
He poured the drink heavier this time and sank back onto the couch. The loneliness returned almost immediately, sharp, insistent, gnawing its way into his chest.
“MB,” Carl asked after a moment, only now really seeing the television glow, “what movie did you put on?”
Marybeth turned, beaming. “It’s Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer, Daddy. Jeff showed me last week.”
The smile faltered as soon as the name left her mouth. She glanced down, suddenly sheepish. Carl knew Sarah had told her not to mention Jeff.
Something hot surged in his gut, but he swallowed it down. “I know it, honey,” he said, forcing his voice steady. “It’s a good one.”
They watched Rudolph stumble through the snow, misfit and mocked, and somewhere between the swelling music and the alcohol warming his veins, Carl felt the dam inside him crack. His throat tightened. His vision blurred. He tried to keep it quiet, but the sobs came anyway, small, broken sounds he couldn’t fully suppress.
“Daddy?” Marybeth’s voice trembled. “What’s wrong?”
Through the haze of grief, he saw her looking up at him, confused, frightened, her eyes already shining. The sight cut deeper than anything else. Shame followed fast and heavy. He dug his nails into his thigh, hard enough to hurt, grounding himself.
“Christmas is just… really hard for Daddy, baby,” he managed.
She didn’t understand, not really, but she wrapped her arms around him anyway. He kissed her forehead, breathing in the faint scent of shampoo and his cheap sugar cookies. He loved his daughter, fiercely, desperately, and for a moment, that was enough.
Then the anger crept back in.
He hadn’t been perfect. Hell, he hadn’t even been good all the time. But he hadn’t cheated. He hadn’t raised a hand. And still, Sarah had left him, for Jeff.
Marybeth shifted, curling into his lap, her attention drifting back to the screen. Carl’s thoughts darkened again, spiraling inward. And that was when he felt it, the unmistakable sensation of being watched.
The Elf on the Shelf sat where it always had, its stitched grin unchanged. Its painted eyes gleamed in the flickering light.
Fixed on him.
Carl kept his eyes on the elf longer than he meant to, a thin unease crawling up his spine. He didn’t notice Marybeth turn her head.
“Daddy,” she asked softly, “do you think Santa got me everything on my list?”
He answered without thinking. “I’m not sure Santa had enough money this year.”
She giggled, quick and bright. “Santa doesn’t need money, Daddy.”
Carl exhaled, grateful she was five and not nine, still young enough for magic to patch over the cracks. He pressed his lips together, then said, honestly but with a quiet resignation, “I think Santa will get you everything on your list. He’ll probably make extra sure at his second stop, for you, MB.”
Marybeth smiled, satisfied. Carl returned the smile, hollow, until she turned back to the flickering screen. It didn’t take long before her breathing slowed, slipping into the soft, uneven snore she’d had since she was a baby. The sound tugged at him. It reminded him, painfully, of the way Sarah used to fall asleep beside him.
Heart heavy, anger smoldering beneath it, Carl lifted his phone and snapped a picture of Marybeth curled against him. He sent it to Sarah, hoping, stupidly, for a reply. For a word. Anything.
When none came, he opened Tinder. He swiped in silence, chasing the thin hope that someone, anyone, might dull the ache enough to let him forget.
Behind him, the tree lights flickered. And the elf’s smile did not move.
Carl carried Marybeth down the short hall to her bedroom, the one he’d decorated as best he could on a thin budget, silver tinsel strung crookedly along the walls, curling beside Frozen posters taped at the corners. She stirred in his arms, mumbling a sleepy protest as he tucked her beneath the covers.
“Daddy,” she whispered, eyes barely open, “will Rudolph help Santa find the way?”
Carl nodded, the answer automatic, his love for her briefly breaking through the anger lodged in his chest. “Yeah, baby,” he said softly. “He always does. Sleep good, honey.”
He kissed her forehead and lingered a second longer than necessary before turning out the light.
Back in the kitchen, Carl poured himself another glass of eggnog and darkened it further with a heavy splash of Tullamore Dew. The burn steadied him, just enough. His phone buzzed.
Sarah. His pulse jumped as he opened the notification, only to find she’d hearted the picture of Marybeth. Nothing else. No words. No message. It hollowed him out. He slumped against the counter, drank too fast, felt tears well again despite himself.
Why him? he typed, fingers clumsy, the words naked and pathetic on the screen. He sent it knowing full well there’d be no reply.
There wasn’t. The alcohol took him quickly after that, pulling him down into a thick, dreamless dark. As his eyes finally closed, the tree lights blinked on and off in the living room. And the elf watched.
Somewhere deep in the night, Carl stirred.
First came the sound above him, scraping, deliberate, as though something heavy were dragging itself across the roof. Then a thud. Another. A grinding weight that made the ceiling groan. He tried to move, to wake fully, but his body refused him.
There was a crash. Carl’s eyes snapped open.
Where his living room had been stood a fireplace that had never existed before, warm red brick rising cleanly from the floor, mortar dusting the carpet. A fresh mantle stretched above it, holding two stockings. Perched between them sat the Elf on the Shelf. Its stitched smile had split wider, seams pulled tight, eyes glassy and wet, reflecting the firelight like something alive.
The chimney coughed. Something enormous began to force itself downward. Brick groaned. Soot spilled like blood. A vast red shape writhed, compressed and reshaping itself, flesh yielding where bone should not. Carl watched, caught in a waking trance, not drunk, not dreaming, but helplessly aware. The thing tore free with a wet thump. Santa Claus stood before him.
Only, this was no Santa he had ever known. He was impossibly large, his body swollen and distended, folds of flesh pressing against crimson fabric stretched to tearing. His skin was mottled pink and angry red, veined and sweating, pulsing faintly as though something beneath it were alive. His beard hung in greasy ropes, tangled with ash. His eyes were pits of shining black, reflecting no warmth at all.
When he smiled, Carl saw gaps where teeth should have been, broken stumps and dark gums glistening with saliva. An empty sack dragged behind him.
Santa bounded forward with shocking speed, each step shaking the floor. He loomed over Carl, breath hot and sour, and spoke in a voice that scraped and rumbled, layered with something older beneath it.
“Ho… ho… ho…”
The sound ended in a wet, guttural laugh that rattled Carl’s bones. Santa raised one immense hand, fingers thick and swollen, the nail at the tip long, yellowed, and curved like a claw. With a single touch to Carl’s forehead, darkness slammed down.
Some time later, Carl’s eyes opened, but waking wasn’t the right word for it.
The fog still clung to him, thick and suffocating, his limbs heavy as if nailed in place. The fireplace remained, the chimney yawning above it like a wound that refused to close. Something in the apartment felt wrong in a way he couldn’t yet name.
Then he saw it.
Marybeth’s bedroom door stood wide open.
Panic cut through the haze like glass. Carl lurched upright, his body suddenly his own again, and staggered down the hall, calling her name as dread thundered in his chest. He burst into her room.
The bed was empty.
Her Bluey blankets lay twisted and half-dragged to the floor, as though she’d been lifted straight out of them. The air still held her warmth. On the pillow, where her head should have been, rested a single envelope, yellowed, curled at the edges, its paper thick and brittle as old skin.
Carl’s hands shook as he snatched it up. The writing on the front was done in a spidery, ancient hand, the ink dark and uneven, as though pressed in with a nail rather than a pen.
He unfolded it. And read.
Carl,
Do not mistake this for cruelty without cause. I have watched you for some time now, as I watch all fathers, all mothers, all those entrusted with belief. You invited me in with ritual and resentment both, drink poured heavy, heart grown light of joy.
You taught the child doubt. Not with words alone, but with bitterness. With envy. With the quiet poison of a man who confuses love with possession and cheer with convenience. Christmas is not remembered, it is kept. And you, Carl, let it rot.
Marybeth still believed. That is why she was chosen.
The elves are not born, as you were told. They are made, from children who still know wonder, who ask if Rudolph will light the way, who forgive their fathers even as those fathers fail them. She will be warm. She will be useful. She will never hunger for what you could not give.
Do not look for her.
The workshop is far from houses like yours.
Sleep well, Carl.
Christmas comes every year.
Santa Claus
Carl’s heart surged into his throat as panic, pure, uncut panic, seized him. He slapped himself once, hard, hoping to wake. When that failed, he struck himself again, this time in punishment. The dam broke. Tears came fast and ugly, but he was not yet defeated.
He staggered back into the living room. The fireplace was gone. The chimney, gone. In their place stood only the familiar ruin: a threadbare shelf, a barely stuffed stocking drooping from a bent nail, and a solitary figure perched above it.
The elf.
It sat clad in red, eyes glinting in the faint morning light, its stitched smile stretched wider than ever. Something in Carl snapped. Rage overtook grief. He stalked forward, seized the small figure, and squeezed, hard.
From it came laughter. High-pitched. Knowing.
Carl froze. With a cry, he hurled the elf across the room, where it struck the wall and fell silent. He collapsed to his knees, folding inward, not in self-pity now, nor anger, but in raw, unbearable grief.
“Marybeth,” he sobbed. “I’m so sorry, baby. I failed you. I love you so much.”
The words poured out of him, desperate and unguarded. He cried for her smile, her laugh, the weight of her small arms around his neck.
“I’d do anything to have you back,” he whispered. “Anything. I’d never take you for granted again. Please. Please. Please.”
How long he stayed there, broken and pleading, he couldn’t say. Eventually the weight of it all, fear, sorrow, exhaustion, dragged him under, and he fell into a fitful, restless sleep.
“Daddy, Daddy, wake up!”
Carl jolted awake, head splitting, heart racing. Marybeth stood beside him, eyes wide with fear. “Santa didn’t come,” she whimpered.
Carl pulled her into his arms, crushing her against his chest, kissing her hair, her cheeks, her forehead. “I love you so much, baby,” he said, voice breaking. “I love you more than anything.”
She hugged him back, then began to cry. Carl stroked her hair gently. “He probably came to your mom’s house,” he said softly. “Give me one second, baby. Go open your presents under the tree.”
That was enough. She sniffled, nodded, and hurried off. Carl rushed to the closet, grabbing the few gifts he’d hidden there, stickers reading From Santa already peeling at the corners. On top of the pile lay a letter.
From Santa.
Shock hit first. Then fear. Then revulsion. Carl snatched it up and tore it into pieces without reading a word, stuffing the scraps into his pocket.
He returned to Marybeth and handed her the gifts. “Here you go, baby.”
She looked up, bright-eyed. “Are these from Santa, Daddy?”
Carl laughed, a real laugh, sharp and defiant. “No, MB. Daddy and Santa don’t get along. These are from me. I love you very much.”
She frowned, confused, but confusion didn’t last long. She tore into the gifts with delight, oohing and aahing over the Dollar Tree treasures as though they were priceless. While she was distracted, Carl crossed the room. He took the elf from the shelf, carried it to the trash, and dropped it in without ceremony, along with the shredded remains of the letter.
It was his love that had brought her back. Santa and his elf could go to hell.
Nothing was taking Marybeth from him again.
The boy sat blinking, brow tightly drawn.
“What the hell was that?” he muttered, half-gone.
Uncle Bob chuckled, low and unafraid.
“A tale,” he said, “of Christmas betrayed
Of spirit grown thin, not Santa grown fat,
Of cheer mislaid in a world like that.”
“Bah,” scoffed the boy, ever smug, ever sure.
“A parody song and some Christmas folklore,
That’s not for me, I abhor.”
Bob only smiled, slow and knowing.
“Oh, nephew,” he said, “you’ll see. You’re growing.”
With that, he turned and padded away,
Slippers soft on the floor as the fire burned low and gray.
The boy rolled his eyes, gave a dismissive huff,
Certain belief was for other, duller stuff.
Then,
There came pitter-patter of soft padded feet,
He sat up in bed as the shadows did meet,
And there, clear as moonlight on windowsill stone,
Was tortoiseshell fur and a tail slowly curled lone.
A Substack ping! chimed through the hush of the air,
Then accordion, off-key, obnoxiously there.
Clio the Tortie
Ay, jing-a-di-jing meow-meow-meow,
It’s Clio the Tortie,
Jing-a-di-jing meow-meow-meow,
The Boston Christmas Tortie,
Lalalalalalalalala, lalalalalaladi-doo-da
Aidan Claus got a little friend, her name is Clio,
The cutest little kitty, with an attitude, though
She chirps, she trills, she side-eyes bliss,
You never see her hiss.
When Aidan visits townies with Clio riding free,
She’s perched up on his shoulder like she owns the city.
Because the reindeer slip and slide when streets get slushy,
And you can’t park a sleigh down in Southie.
Ay, jing-a-di-jing mrrp-meow-mrrp,
It’s Clio the Tortie,
Jing-a-di-jing mrrp-meow-mrrp,
The Boston Christmas Tortie,
Lalalalalalalalala, lalalalalaladi-doo-da
She prowls past Fenway lights and Beacon Hill snow,
Knocks ornaments down just to watch them go.
If Aidan needs help, she’ll do it her way,
Nap through the morning, work Christmas Day.
Ay, jing-a-di-jing meow-meow-prrt,
It’s Clio the Tortie,
Jing-a-di-jing meow-meow-prrt,
The Boston Christmas Tortie,
Lalalalalalalalala, lalalalalaladi-doo-da
“Oh thank God,” the boy whispered low,
“I hate the accordion…” then froze.
He was hushed by footsteps, louder now, deliberate, sure,
Purposeful strides across the floor.
The boy ducked down at the flash of brown,
Italian leather, rich and worn.
Uncle Bob hadn’t been kidding at all,
Aidan Claus was real, oh shit, he better fall.
Eyes squeezed shut, he heard a voice,
Softer now, higher-pitched, casual, choice:
“C’mon baby, we gotta move fast,
Twenty million more Substack homes before dawn’s past.”
The Christmas Tortie answered with a trill,
A sound both smug and merry still.
The boy crept up, heart beating loud,
Clambered from bed, emboldened, proud.
He peeked around, just barely brave,
To spy the legend Uncle Bob had claimed.
A tall figure stood, back turned just so,
White Air Force Ones with a red swirl glow,
Red jeans, Santa hat tipped just right,
Italian leather aviator catching the light.
He grabbed the iced coffee Uncle Bob had laid,
Bit the protein bar, took a long sip, unfazed.
Then glanced at his phone with a practiced squint,
“Naughty list… nice list…” he muttered, intent.
He coughed once, rough, then laughed through it,
“Ahh, Kitty, I need a cigarette.”
And with that, he slid the glass door wide,
Cold air rushing in from the night outside,
Leaving his phone on the counter bare.
“Aidan Claus is real!” the boy thought, wild-eyed stare.
He rushed for the phone, then stopped short, mid-step,
As the Christmas Tortie rose, unbothered, adept.
She looked up at him, slow blink, no fear,
Then rubbed against his leg, possessive, near.
Swallowing hard, the boy bent low,
And read the list’s soft, ominous glow.
Nice
Marlene: Snow, peace, and no more hunger for a day in Upper Austria (Sorry, my magic only goes so far)
Rachelle: A bottle of Eilish by Billie Eilish Eua De Parfum (I always thought she’d smell like sadness and starburst, Billie that is, Rachelle smells like sugar and sunshine but a wish is a wish)
Meditations on Permafrost: Socks (Well, that is just sad, but with a voice like that, I suppose you do not need too much)
Stone Wolf: Donations to the Center for Biological Diversity (Remember to do this after delivering all Substack gifts for the Wolf Lady)
Moe Writeous: Great new material for open mic nights (He doesn’t need my help, but what do you get a man who has everything?)
Kry5styn: The ability to teleport (Maybe give her acid so she can trip? Good lord, I’m Aidan Claus, not God, but do what you can, she is worth it)
I.P.: Slime (A big fan of Nickelodeon, I suppose)
CheekyBeat: Donald Trump to write an essay to Substack, that, on threat of exile to Uranus (The planet), has to be coherent and grammatically correct all by himself, which will be judged by the Substack electorate (Not sure I’m going to have a lot of success with this, but try for Cheeky)
Buzz Kantwrite: A fresh pair of socks that don’t differentiate left from right, so no one will know he can’t read (What do you get a man who says he has it all?)
Amanda Izzo: A spare kidney for someone special (with love and prayers)
Sapna: A big ass telescope, land far away from civilization so she can see with said telescope, a laugh a day, and a return to bartering like this was Bartertown in Thunderdome (A large telescope and a deed of land in Tristan da Cunha have been acquired, she will have to trade you for it, get more cigarettes)
Bougie Hippie: A brand new car! (Make sure you leave a note saying it’s from Oprah)
Naughty
Teez: For her family to have a good Christmas (Send the family love and good tidings)
Sadandslutty: A yoga mat and some books (A yoga mat and the Kama Sutra seem like a good match. Hope they make her less sad)
Smutty Simmons: A very expensive set of sunglasses and a lingerie set (Living up to her name)
Sister Bobbi Lynn: A crowded table this Christmas full of rejects, misfits, and trashy pandas (Left me edibles last year. Don’t eat them this year)
Morana in Chaos: Less being in chaos for 2026 (do not eat any of the food she left out this year)
Curiously Delulu: A boyfriend, a job, her sanity back, or Chanel ballet flats (check under your tree for the flats)
“Excuse me, can I have my list back, please?”
The boy jumped, “Ah, Aidan Claus, you gave me a freeze!”
“No more rhyming, please…
Dammit! I am done with that shit. Can I please have my phone back, kid?”
The boy moved to hand it over, then hesitated, frowning as he glanced again, “Wait… why am I not on the list? Is it because I’m Jewish?”
Aidan Claus paused, visibly disquieted, then laughed, “No. I don’t discriminate. Christmas is about more than religion or creed. It’s about love.”
“Yeah, yeah, I read The Last Christmas… I read all of this stuff. Honestly? It reeks of engagement-driving fluff. That’s not the Christmas spirit!”
Aidan Claus smiled, “Says the boy whose first question was about my Naughty or Nice list.”
The boy’s face flushed, then he ventured another question, “So… everyone on the list gets a gift? Naughty or nice?”
Aidan Claus turned slightly, breaking the fourth wall, “Especially if they’re naughty,” he said with a wink, then more seriously, “Yes. I am not a moralizing figment of capitalism like a certain someone.”
The clever boy pressed on: “So you’d grant any a wish,
Even if it came from Albert Fish?”
“What did I say about rhyming?” Aidan Claus groaned, rubbing his temples.
“No. I would not give a gift to a child murderer, you pedantic little boy. But you are missing the entire spirit of Christmas, or the Holidays, if you prefer. Speaking of which… Do you celebrate Hanukkah?”
The boy flushed again, “…No.”
“So are you actually Jewish?”
The boy’s face went fully red.
“Don’t lie about things like that,” Aidan Claus said gently, reaching into his great Italian coat, “Here, have a latke.”
He handed the boy a still-warm potato pancake. The boy bit into the crispy, golden treat, and for a moment, just a moment, everything felt right. Aidan Claus went on, softer now. “Christmas is about love. Not because of gifts. Not because of Santa. Not because of Jesus, and we are not getting into that. It’s about seeing the people you love, and telling them so, because you never know when you might not get the chance again. You never know what someone else is carrying. Christmas is when you let them know they matter. Not because you’re told to. Because you care. Because you’re thankful for them.”
The boy opened his mouth, clearly ready to say something about Thanksgiving, but Aidan Claus moved faster than thought and popped another latke into it.
“Because you’re grateful for them,” he finished. “And when you give that freely, you tend to get it back.”
The boy chewed thoughtfully. “…Okay. But what does any of this have to do with Substack?”
Aidan Claus smiled, a little sadly, “I guess not much. I hope the people reading things like this enjoy them. Yes, even engage with them. But more than that, I hope they’re reminded that Christmas, or any holiday, is bigger than gifts, rituals, norms, or capitalism. I hope they see what they already have, who they have, and what they themselves have to give. And if I can give them a bit of joy along the way, well. That’s the real gift. Along with a few presents for my friends, naughty or nice, whom I’m very grateful for.”
The boy squinted, “Are you talking to me… or breaking the fourth wall again?”
Aidan Claus laughed. An impatient mrrp from the Christmas Tortie cut him off, “Ah. Right. Many more houses to get to.”
He reached into his Italian leather jacket and pulled out a slender black paperback, handing it to the boy, “Your book!” the boy blurted. “So this was all just a promo?”
Aidan Claus was already turning away, “Don’t judge a book by its cover.”
The boy opened it, read the words on the inside of the front page,
and gasped.
And so, as the night drifted quiet, and the story took flight,
The boy learned some truths on that Substack-lit night:
That cheer isn’t clicks, nor lists, nor a clever endeavor,
But love, freely given, this Christmas and ever.
That was very funny and a bit like a fevered Christmas dream after eating too much cheese.
Loved the twelve days of Christmas 😂 🎄
That’s not a self-promo.
That’s brilliance. It’s like the Thai commercials that make you feel shit and you find out they’re selling phone service.
Slow clap.