I’ve been working on this Civil War fantasy: actually I started writing it last Christmas... and didn’t get very far, but I pretty much remember where I was going with it.

I’m posting this for curious fellow writers; really no other reason!

Santa Coal

Boom!

Giant, frozen, heavenly snowfeathers floated down, unaffected by the gunfire, cracking in the cold night air, splitting nearby ears, making them whine with a high pinched complaint.

It was a direct hit. Another smoking hole appeared on the already downed metal dragon creature. It roared in agonizing, unwilling defeat, and dropped it's head, melting the snow, oil pouring from it's shining, unconscious lips.

"Heck, what's a bazooka doing on your gift list for nice kids?" A voice rang out from behind a black sleigh... as a metal door banged open out of sight from the other side and the whole affair jostled as though emptying of hefty contents into the soft snow embankment. That is, if you could call that steampunk looking monstrosity a sleigh. It looked more like a snowski equipped van with too few windows.

Santa Coal (It takes Big Snowballs)
"I thought you were starting to see through new rose-colored, puffy glasses." Said the big man in the dark, dirty suit, with white hair so sooty it looked like grey hair that failed to go black with a dye-job. "Maybe it's because of that other eye I missed!" He raised his arm loaded with a large, icy packed snowball.

"Stop!" screamed Nick, raising his arm self protectively. "I need that eye, so I can clean you up with a good whitewashing!"

"Aaaah!" The primal scream accompanied a desperate rush at his dirty victim with his clean, beautiful coat,held up as though it could ward off anything. It wasn't even immune to one well packed snowball. Down with the impact he bellowed "for the love of all that is holy, WHY DID I GET CONTACTS as a gift from Father Time last Christmas?"

"I think the real question is why would you pick a fight wearing contacts, dumbass!?" Steampunk Santa's voice only rose in pitch slightly, followed by a cough. It was clear he was beat by the throw-down he had just delivered. "Seriously, though, you have some nerve to question my mission! You do your job, I do mine!"

Santa Coal (smoke break invite)
Breathless, the black sleigh in tatters, metal blasted to hell with the shell lopsidedly flopped open by multiple blast hits… Sooty Santa slides heavily against the belly of his metallic pal, Brix the Dragon; his dark britches sinking his large frame into the snowdrift which had built up against her disappearing side; snow that won't hold up his dense mass. Betrayed by the fluffy chair, he lays his arms with bloody knuckles, which actually welcome the merciful cold, to rest on the surface, only to see them, too, sinking into the fluff. Sitting with his head poking out of his body’s snowy ditch, he looks over at the mound of gathering snow blanketing Nick’s unconscious mass.

Some of the snow is melting from a steadily erupting geyser of steam beneath it. The rotund white hill is moving steadily up and down. Suddenly the steady pattern of steam halts and begins a new pattern drifting side to side and beginning to rise with a sputter, as Nick thrusts himself up into the air of the night’s blue-white world with a gut busting chuckle. His face looks like it has been to a good boxing match, as indeed, it has. His swollen right eye would be bright pink but already looks purple in the bounced light of night lamps and moonlight sliding between snow clouds. A thin trickle of blood and saliva has found its way from the corner of his mouth down his white waves. “Good grief! You have some left hook!”

Gingerly, Nick reached for his face. A serious fire lighting again in his bitter eyes. “You aren't going anywhere this season!”

Snorting, Santa waved him to come sit down beside him. “Get over here and shut up for a minute. Actually, we take five for a smoke. Agree?”