In the coming months, we'll be featuring winners of our monthly prompt clubs. This month, we have something a little unusual... a series of connected writings that one talented member of our club, stevopen, put together over three weekly prompts in December 2020. The prompts were:

3 word prompt: Tell a story in 800 words or less that uses the following three words: buzz, bath, outstanding

A magician suddenly learns their powers are real. What happens next? Tell us in 1500 words or less.

Tell us about this toy. You've got 2000 words.

stevopen did a fantastic job with these prompts and we knew that we had to share them!

Until the Ice Thaws 

1

The crunching of his boots in the packed snow quickened when he rounded the corner at the mouth of Bleak Street. He wasn't one to dilly-dally, which meant he could plough across the village square knowing it would be a truly remarkable thing were anyone to peg his tempo as uncharacteristic. Cretins, the lot of them, he thought snidely.

A smirk forced the corner of his mouth into an upturn. "Merry Christmas, Noel!" Snobe waved, mistaking Noel's smirk for good old festive cheer.

"Holly and jolly, Snobe!" he called back without missing a beat or raising a mitten-clad hand in return.

Should I have waved? Too late now. Just keep moving. Cretins they may well be, but something as small as a moment's indecision could be looked back on with suspicion.

Noel tramped through the square, dropped a chocolate coin for the brass band then exited onto Mirth Street with no further second-guessing of his conduct.

For nineteen years now, Noel Tinselbough had kept his pace brisk, his mood sickly-sweet and jolly, and could be counted on to put in more than his fair share of shifts in the workshop. Sweatshop, more like, he thought sardonically. And in a way, yes, it could be said he worked in a sweatshop. Because he chopped more wood, painted more toys, and brushed up more shavings than anyone--the productivity records kept by the forelf proved it--and always finished up rosy-cheeked, and dripping sweat.

He had almost twenty Christmas' worth of Outstanding Elf of the Season trophies buried, forever frozen, in his backyard. They were all a by-product of that evening, nineteen years ago, when Mary told him she had accepted Nick's hand in marriage. Noel assured her (and proclaimed cheerily to everyone in the village) that his tears were of joy, joy as pure as snow, that his good friend should be wed to such a fine fellow Nicholas.

But of course they were tears of glacial pain and heartbreak because Noel had dreamt of a lifetime of baking cookies and designing toys with Mary.

Rather than make a scene (He'd be labelled the village loon, made an outcast were he to so much as insinuate that Nick The Great Present Giver had stolen something, or someone, from him. "Nick would never be naughty," they'd declare before banishing Noel into arctic exile.), Noel resolved to channel his anguish into keeping his spirits higher than everyone in the sleepy snowbound village. Given time, he would work Mary out of his system by himself--after all, what use were villagemates who were too dim to be compassionate in your time of need?

Perhaps then, on some level, Noel had been laying the groundwork for today during all those years of false cheer and graft. Nervous energy? No, no, that's just Noel, always on the go, happy as a bird in a bath. Besides, he wanted to get today's work done in precious daylight instead of sneaking around under the cover of darkness. Nick did his business while the world slept and Noel wasn't like him.

He shifted his satchel from his left shoulder to the right, careful not to judder the tools within. Before leaving the sweatshop last night, he'd sharpened his chisel so much that he was worried it might slice through his satchel simply by brushing against it, such was its hunger for carving. Soon you'll dive into something meaty. Oh, the things we'll gouge!

It was Nick and Mary's only son Kriss' eighteenth birthday; the boy everyone saw as their own entered manhood. Noel thought he'd been generous to allow Father and Son Christmas to have eighteen years together--any other man (or elf) would have lashed out long before now. Not Noel. He'd worked and worked, positioning himself as the most desired bachelelf at the North Pole to which he feigned nescience but knew he could have his pick. They practically threw themselves at him, yet they didn't realise that even after all these years his heart still belonged to Mary.

Noel arrived at the Christmas Chateau. All roads lead south from here.

He rang the doorbell, making sure no-one was coming up the path behind him. He checked twice. It was a long moment until Nicholas' broad outline came duckwalking down the hall.

Christmas existed before and without St Nick, it will go on just fine after him. Better, even. Kriss will take over the reins... Kriss who is of age, Kriss who is no longer a boy needing his mother.

Noel's eyes blazed. 'I need his mother!' The hammer and chisel had crept into his hands. After the buzz dies down, Mary will come back to me.

The door opened. Warmth swaddled him. 'Ho, ho, ho! Noel! What a nice--!'

Noel sprang forth and drove the chisel into Santa Claus neck.

2

A storm began to brew over the North Pole. Clouds that usually reclined comfortably above Christmas Chateau slowly started to turn and spin. Noel Tinselbough, who would soon add the title of manslayer to his bounty of Outstanding Elf of the Season awards, looked up at the gathering storm.

Is the weather reacting to his distress? He shoved the thought away. It wasn't on a whim that Noel had marched up to Christmas Chateau to dispatch with the man who'd married the love of his life, no he'd taken time--years--to plan this out and research the implications. Like the best-laid plans, it boiled down to three points: make Nick disappear as if by magic, make a clean getaway, and make Mary his own after the period of grief and mourning passed.

He brought his attention back to the straining face he held inches from his own. Like the clouds, things were in motion now. Either they would work out or they wouldn't; St. Nicholas would soon be dead and there was nothing the weather or anyelf could do about it.

Noel cupped Santa's head in one hand, keeping the whetted chisel wedged firmly into the big man's neck with the other. "Don't struggle, Nick. You're losing a lot of blood; struggling won't do you any good." Bloodstains like roses bloomed in Santa's beard.

"Noel..."

"You've taken a bad hit to the neck. Don't waste your energy trying to call for help. 'Tis a mortal wound; you're beyond the reach of magic now."

"Noel... wh--"

"Hush, Nick. The best thing you can do now is make this easy for--" your loved ones is what Noel stopped himself from saying. "The village."

Noel's dreams would long be haunted by Nick with his face knotted in pain and strain. Indeed the spectre of St. Nicholas would hang over Christmas Chateau for some time to come. Damnation gnawed at Noel like rats eating into a sack.

"The world too, Nick. Make this easy for the children of the world." Some semblance of vitality flowed into Santa at this mention of his duty to the children.

Incredible, Nick thought. Such power, the sense of service he feels... if I hadn't taken him by surprise...

"Hold this," he closed Santa's hand around the chisel. "If it comes out you'll bleed to death in an instant. We're going to take a little walk--try anything and I'll have that chisel like the boy taking his sword from the stone!--then you can rest, Santa. You do so much for the children of the world, you deserve to rest."

It was a short walk to the garage. If Nick went down, Noel would have dashed ahead to get what he needed to complete his disappearance, but the Teutonic figurehead of Christmas led the way nary a slip nor a stumble. Again Nick wondered about the deep reserves he drew upon.

For the nineteen long years since Nick had proposed to Mary, Noel Tinselbough had been a divided elf. The pain and heartache (which he discovered accounted for most of him), he had forced underwater hoping to drown it lest it consume him, or at the very least drown it out. While, as an iceberg tip, he kept his spirits high and his work ethic exemplary.

Nick, too, portrayed himself as high spirited and endlessly jolly. Yet that couldn't be all there was to him. Christmas spirit alone couldn't sustain you when you had a chisel driven into the side of your neck. Noel had prepared for panic, to have to restrain Nick while the last of his life seeped out onto the snow-covered doorstep, indeed he had opted for his red work uniform rather than green as it would hide blood stains better.

He hadn't expected calm compliance.

If the nineteen years had been long for Noel, they had been something approaching an eternity for Nick for he alone knew how long Christmas Eve lasted for Santa Claus. All the texts stated on the matter was "when Santa rides forth on the night of four and twenty, the children in each slice of the world will be wrapped in slumber until the work is done." For the children, it was the quickest night's sleep of the year. For Santa Claus--for Nick--who knew what levels of endurance were required to make it from Christmas Eve to Christmas day morning? Noel began to wonder if he and Nick overlapped in more ways than their shared love for Mary.

In the dim and dusty light of the garage, with the storm gathering outside, Noel regarded the ancient, rotund man with the bloodstained beard with a species of pity. "It hasn't been as easy you let on, has it?"

Nick didn't reply. He just eased himself onto a three-foot-tall present, but before doing so, Noel thought he saw agreeance flash across the old man's features.

"The sack's up in the sleigh, isn't it? Presents won't be funnelled into it until it's hauled to the loading zone on the twenty-third. I'm going to hop up and get it. You stay where you are, Nick. You're doing great." said Noel with more sass than he felt.

The sack was down in a jiffy.

"I'm going to open the neck of the sack and you'll get in. Do you think you can stand up again? No-elf will look here for you. We both know how the magic of the sack works."

Nick shook his head from left to right then returned his gaze to the village view that lay beyond the garage. Down there, the brass band had packed up and everyelf was heading firesidewards before the storm hit.

"No," Nick managed. The wind howled in chorus as the outgoing Santa Claus spluttered fresh blood down his front.

"That's okay. I'll bag you myself."

"The magic... I don't think you realise... how it works..."

Everyelf worth his bell knew the sack was imbued with magic that allowed it to be filled up with toys without growing bigger or heavier. Then, on Christmas night, the magic made sure Santa's hand fell on the right present when he reached inside.

"It's a magic sack, Nick. You're going in. No-elf will find you in there." That much was true--no-elf would find St. Nick's body in the sack, but not for the reason Noel believed.

"Not...magic sack... magic me..." The chisel was clamped so tight into his neck that blood merely seeped out. Again, Noel was awed by the man's level of self-mastery. Only someone with the drive and determination to visit every child's Christmas tree in one close-to-endless night could exert this kind of self-control when death was near.

"The magic...is... Santa's--" Laboured breathing.

"Don't worry about Santa. Kriss is of age. He'll take over the mantle."

"...No."

"Yes. Now, let's end this."

"No," Nick's eyes blazed. "Kriss... doesn't have it. The magic of Santa... not... father to son."

Well, no. It was common knowledge that Nick wasn't his predecessor's son. It was a minor oversight on Noel's part to assume the reins would pass directly to Kriss but ultimately it mattered not, Nick would know his successor just as his predecessor had known about him.

"Then, who? Tell me, old man, and I'll see to it that Christmas continues without you."

"Hard to talk... drink in sack... please..."

Noel dipped into the sack and fetched out a flask.

Nick smiled a horrible bloodred smile at his executioner. "Thank you... Santa. It's exactly what I asked for."

The muscles in Noel's legs seemed to melt. He steadied himself against Santa's sleigh.

"I always knew... you had the magic... You're the first Noel... to be Santa Claus." The chisel made a gristly slurping sound as St. Nicholas withdrew it from his neck. "A Merry Christmas to all," he rasped, then toppled over.

A gale shrieked snow into the garage. "No, no, no!" Noel blurted. But of course, yes. He may have been mistaken about the source of the sack's magic, but hadn't he recognised the similarities between himself and Nick? Where everyelf else in the village were nought but joyful slabs floating on the arctic ocean, for he and Nick that was only the surface. Underneath dwelt something that could be channelled to stave off the insanity-inducing heartache of losing the woman you love, or to distribute presents the world over in one protracted night, if that was your calling.

Noel rolled Nick into the sack. The wind stilled when the last of him disappeared. "No-elf will find him because they can't. They don't possess the magic." He'd hoped to feel a sense of justice at having vanquished St. Nick, but instead, he felt cheated. Robbed.

"I can't be Santa. I don't want to be Santa. I just want Mary."

No-elf saw Noel Tinselbough trudge back home, they were all cosied up around their fires with hot cocoa and mince pies. The only thing that placed him at Christmas Chateau was his mallet, which lay ensconced on the doorstep under a fresh drift of snow.

3

There was a toy that didn't exist. And because it didn't exist, this toy didn't get wrapped or sent down the chute into Santa's sack. It never got the chance to experience being placed generously and thoughtfully under a Christmas tree in the stillness of Christmas night, and certainly, this non-existent toy wasn't ever plucked from the shredded remains of its wrapping, then held aloft in exultation before a lifetime of play got underway.

This toy dwelt only in the imagination of the child who, already growing embarrassed by her creativity, hid away from her parents to pen her letter to Santa Claus alone by candlelight. What Little Lakes' heart yearned for was a toy giraffe that rolled on four wheeled-feet of alternating yellow and orange, with a barrelled body of yellow bespeckled with orange constellations, supporting a kaleidoscopic neck and head the colour of friendly pink with wooden pegs for horns and vibrant green leaves for ears.

Little Lake knew that the elves could turn their hands to any task as long as the request came from a child on the Nice list. Lake was meek and kept her manners all the year-round. True, the toy she'd asked for was unconventional to the point of not existing, but Father Christmas had never let her down before and there was no reason to believe he would do so this year. Surely she deserved this one thing.

So, with the envelope sealed with great hope and care, Little Lake saw it on its way to the North Pole where Santa would surely set his elves to work on bringing the toy giraffe into existence.

That year, the magic of Christmas was not yet gone from the world. Expectant letters flurried into the North Pole sorting office from all corners of the globe. Normally, the office bustled with good cheer in the run-up to the big day, where the common goal of everyelf was to ensure the nice children of the world would wake up to find their chosen presents under the tree.

The envelope containing the request for the toy that didn't exist fluttered onto the gathering heap, but that was as far as it got. There was no hustle, no bustle, no elves there to collect it and sort it and pass it on to Santa Claus.

There was only panic, confusion, alarm, because the one unthinkable thing for which there was no contingency plan had come to pass: jolly old St Nick was nowhere to be found; Santa Claus had gone AWOL, disappeared into thin air without a word to anyelf. Poof.

Even the weather which was cold but reliably clear had given up the ghost; not a single iota of Christmas cheer reverberated in the air.

"There are less than thirty days until Christmas," said the Chief Elf. "And we are no closer to resolving the matter of the missing Santa."

"Letters are piling up in the sorting office," said another.

"Nicholas won't miss Christmas. We need to start production in the workshop or we won't be ready!"

"What about the naughty and nice list?" Asked somelf from the back.

"We can make the list ourselfs using the observations of the elves deployed to shelves."

"Aye, it'll be last minute and based only on a fraction of the information Santa Claus has, but we'll manage something."

"We must be ready. If Nick comes back--"

"When!" Corrected somelf.

"When Nick comes back, he'll be disappointed in us if we haven't prepared."

"We mustn't let him down."

"Quite right. That would never do."

"Have the observation elves been deployed to shelves?" The Chief Elf asked.

"No... we voted to keep them here to watch for St Nick."

"Oh, bother. All in favour of deploying elves to shelves say 'aye'."

"And if my father does not return..." said a low voice from the back of the chamber. "We have to be prepared for that eventuality, too."

Silence. It was a topic no-one had been brave enough to broach at these emergency village meetings.

"What is it ye are suggesting, boy?" The Chief Elf asked respectfully.

"That I be trained in the ways of Santa Claus. Then, if my father does not return I will ride out in his stead on Christmas night."

Hushed murmurings swept throughout the diminutive crowd.

"I am more aware than you of my youth. But Christmas is coming, so will you not put it to the vote?" Kriss, son of St. Nicholas, urged gallantly.

* * *

The elves who served with him in the workshop often joked that Noel Tinselbough never really clocked out and must have a workbench at home, such was the passion and zest for toymaking they saw in him. Had they seen him tonight, however, they might have questioned their opinion. The disappearance of St Nicholas had hit everyone hard, but Noel was coping worst.

It is said that the criminal always returns to the scene of the crime. Tormented, jittery, distraught, Noel slinked over to Christmas Chateau where he found that despite everything, the front door was unlocked. He let himself in.

A fire crackled in the living room hearth. Accompanying a towering wedding photograph of St Nicholas and Mary were paintings of them and their only son, Kriss. Here a painting of them staring off to the horizon together in Santa's sleigh, there a painting of Kriss as a toddler, opening a present on Christmas morn with Nick and Mary looking on delightedly.

Noel had always thought of Mary as a prisoner in Christmas Chateau. Never had he considered that she may have been happy here with Nick. He was impressed by the vast collection of merrymaking and memories they had amassed together. All he had to show for the last nineteen years was a streak of uncherished Outstanding Elf of the Season trophies. Noel Tinselbough had missed out on a lot of living.

"The bygone days that are gone before we barely realise they've happened," croaked a voice from the doorway.

Noel spun to meet the voice. Mouth agape, bells trembling.

"Mary, it is--"

"Spare me the pleasantries, Noel." Her tone that used to soothe him, was stinging. Repelling.

Noel steeled himself. "I wanted to see you," his mouth was dry. "See if you're okay."

"I'm as fine as fine could be! Who wouldn't be in my position?"

"I should have waited. It's too soon."

"Too soon for what?" Mary, who used to be so slender and nimble, tottered forward, caught her balance on the back of the settee.

"Mary!"

"Get your hands off me."

Noel remembered revelling in the aroma of cinnamon and peppermint whenever he was around Mary, but now he smelt--

"You've been drinking."

"Aye, the mulled wine. There's been a stash of the stuff in the cellar since before we moved in. Thought I might share a bottle with Nick when he retired but now all I can do is toast his memory on my own."

"You shouldn't. He might come back." Lying went against the make-up of an elf. His mouth dried further.

"Codswallop and you know it. Come to the kitchen, Noelly. What you've come for is there."

Relieved to get out from under Nick's gaze, Noel followed his childhood sweetheart speechlessly to the kitchen where he found himself ready to speak.

He recited his speech, telling Mary that without Nick to keep her in Christmas Chateau, it'd be in her best interests to move in with someone else who could take care of her. Everyone in the village was married with families of their own except...

"You're a few snowflakes short of a snowball Noel if you think I'm going to get with you. Now, or ever."

"Perhaps you shouldn't be so hasty."

"Hasty? You're the elf acting in haste, not me. I've just turned to the mulled wine, which is understandable, all things considered."

"Aye, maybe so. It was my intention to wait longer, Mary. Really, it was. I know that this must all be so sudden for you."

"Sudden! You don't have the first idea what it's like for me!" She slammed down her empty glass then stormed off to the utility room. Noel heard the bang of a cupboard door and then Mary was back. She threw something to Noel's feet.

"Now take that and begone with you."

Noel stooped down and picked up his mallet. He'd thought he'd need it to hammer the chisel into Nick, but the sharpened chisel had slipped effortlessly into Nick's neck and he'd forgotten about the mallet altogether. "I... I must've dropped it..."

"Aye, when doing whatever unspeakable thing ye did to Nick." She refilled her glass. "I've told no-one of my suspicions. Who'd believe me? Peace is all we know. They'd label me a lunatic before considering foul play."

"But I love you, Mary."

She went on as if he hadn't spoken, "I'd rather they label me a grieving drunk. Christmas is under control, and that's all the elves really care about. Kriss is old enough to take over the reins. He's with the council now, Christmas will go ahead. As for me..." She regarded the cellar door.

"When you come through your grief, you'll see things differently."

"The ice'll thaw out before I'm your Mrs Claus!" she screamed.

"You can't mean it."

Mary was silent and stern. A tear slid down her cheek.

"Then so be it, Mary. When you accepted Nick's marriage proposal all those years ago I thought... no, I honestly believed I would never recover. I wanted--"

"You never knew what you wanted! Nick was charming and clear. All you wanted to do was bake cookies! Now get out!"

"I'm going," Noel chuckled. "But know this, Mary. We are hewn from the same block of ice, me and Nick. Do you know what that means?"

Mary's eyes widened. Her hands dug into her apron and held on tight. "No, it's a trick... Kriss..."

"Aye, I thought Nick would pass the Santa magic on to Kriss too. But he showed me the truth before--"

"Say no more, ye horrible elf."

"I'll say this much: both me and Nick were imbued with the mark of the Santa Claus. For whatever reason, I was overlooked and Nick was chosen. I wouldn't have believed it either except... it makes sense. I realised me and Nick are the same--"

"You're nothing like him. Nothing whatsoever!"

"And yet I am, Mary. The magic to fly the sleigh, go down chimneys, and use the sack, was that magic in the sleigh, the chimneys and sack or was it in him?"

Mary Christmas did not reply.

"The magic is in me, too. I'll show you."

"No," she sobbed. "Get out now. The ice'll thaw before I'm yours."

"As you wish."

And so it was that Noel Tinselbough, with the magical powers of Santa Claus invested in him (powers that could be used to travel the world in one night to give every child in the world what they wanted for Christmas), left Christmas Chateau with a sense of release and clarity. He pointed his lost mallet at the moon and bid it not rise again until the sun had shone long enough and strong enough to warm the ice and thaw it out. Because he was Santa and someone had made this uncompromising request of him, the moon and sun complied.

The toy that didn't exist went on just as it had been, in oblivious non-existence. It didn't get to experience the process of creation, or being wrapped and sent down the chute into Santa's sack. That Christmas or any other, it never got placed lovingly and kindly under little Lakes Christmas tree in the stillness of Christmas night, awaiting a lifetime's play. Over time, little Lake discovered she couldn't believe in someone who ignored her letters.

It wasn't long until the magic of Christmas became nothing but a fairytale, recounted to new generations of children who drifted off to sleep imagining toys they would never have.