Santa is so drunk I can smell him through the pine when I enter the room. The party has gotten livelier. The children dance about under a shower of snowflakes. The young woman in the blue dress is at the center. She is shooting the snow from her fingertips. She is singing. The children sing along with her. Her voice is beautiful, she is beautiful. I lean against the wall and watch.

When her song ends all the kids come running in and hug her. She laughs. Even her laugh sings.

Something tugs at my shirt. I turn.

DEATH looks up at me.

“Please sir, can I have some more?” She says it in a cutesy British accent, then giggles. Her hands are cupped out to me. I place a candy in them. I look back at the young woman in a blue dress.

“It’s not her right?”

“Not her, what?” DEATH asks, pulling the candy off the wrapper with her teeth.

“That you’re here for?”

DEATH laughs. “No. But, you want some advice?”

The children surrounding the young woman in a blue dress have dispersed. She curls her finger at me and winks. I walk towards her.

“I guess not.” DEATH mutters at my back.

She smiles as I approach.

“Hi,” she says.

Being a little tipsy off Santa’s brown stuff I smile confidently. I hold out my hand. She takes it.

“What’s your name?” I ask.

“Elsa,” she says. She leaves her hand on mine as she talks.

“What do you do?”

She smirks. She waves her hand in the air between us. Snow falls from the spot onto the ground. It is soft and pure.

“Wow, that’s cool. Where are you from?” I ask

“Arendelle” she says. I try to think of where that might be, Latvia? Maybe…

“How’d you get here?”

She frowns, “they call it de-animation I think, they did it to my snowman too.” She motions to The Snowman in the corner. I follow her gaze. The Snowman’s backside has become cannon fodder for a snowball fight between two boys.

I smile. So does she. She leans in and nips the end of my ear. She whispers, “Do you want to go find somewhere quiet and do something nasty?”

All I can do is nod. She moans in my ear. She grabs my hand and leads me out of the room. Down the hall she pushes me into a classroom. I notice an empty bottle on the floor. Santa must have been in here.

“You have no idea how awful sex with animated men is,” Elsa says, pulling up her dress.

“I know,” I say, leaning in to kiss her, “wait, what?”

“When I am a two dimensional, the sex is awful. They’re always singing and they have absolutely no idea what to do with my nipples.”

“That sucks, wait–” I pull back, “–what?”

“When I am a cartoon.” she says.


She frowns at me.

“How do you mean?” I ask.

“De-animation, I told you. It’s awful. It feels as though I’m being filled up with concrete, then shaken out like a blanket.” She shudders at the memory.

I knock the remainder of Santa’s booze from my head. Elsa stares at me. She raises an eyebrow.

“So are we going to do this or not?”

I take a small step back. My brain is flooding with images of concrete filled private parts and Disney characters on clotheslines.

“I, uh, I…”

I back away further.

Elsa sighs. She walks to the door. She turns.

“I suppose I’ll have to find myself a real man,” she says, and leaves.

to be continued…

read about who else was at the party here:

bad_santa deadly_christmas

A Writer and an artist living in Russia

10 Comment on “Elsa at a Preschool Christmas Party

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