Description
In the tiny snow-dusted town of Tinselville, two siblings—Noah, the older and definitely more suspicious one, and Selma, the enthusiastic Santa believer—were tucked into bed. Also, the room was quiet except for the old radiator groaning like it had been trying out for a ghost role in a Halloween movie.
Then, Noah leaned over, his voice dropping to a whisper like he was sharing classified spy secrets. “Selma… Santa isn’t real. It’s Mom and Dad. They sneak the gifts under the tree when we’re asleep. I’ve seen Dad tripping over wrapping paper on Christmas Eve.”
Selma’s eyes flew open like a startled owl. “No! Santa’s real! He flies with reindeer that can literally fly! And they poop glitter! So, you can’t fake glitter poop!”
Noah smirked, “Mom eats the cookies, girl. She’s been training for cookie-eating Olympics since forever.”
That night, after their parents “went to visit friends” (which Noah suspected was code for ‘go to the Gift Storage Facility’—AKA the garage filled with too many Christmas boxes), Selma hatched a plan. She would prove to Noah, once and for all, that Santa was real. So she crept down the stairs and flopped dramatically onto the living room sofa—a grand, old, baroque-style piece with curves so fancy it looked like it was designed to seat actual kings. Read more
Clutching a pillow like a shield, Selma vowed to stay awake. Ten minutes later, she was snoring louder than the old radiator upstairs.
Meanwhile, Noah, half-expecting Selma to be drooling on royal upholstery, heard a mysterious rustle downstairs. Curiosity piqued, he crept down—each step louder than the last, like a detective who forgot to be quiet.
At this time, there, by the tree, stood Santa. Real Santa. Red suit brighter than a fire truck, beard fluffier than a cloud made of cotton candy, and twinkly eyes that looked like he’d just heard the world’s funniest joke. Oh, and the tiniest cookie crumb stuck in his moustache (Santa needs a better barber, Noah thought).
Santa looked at Noah, gave a cheeky wink, and pressed a mitten to his lips. “Shhh… My schedule’s packed—elves are waiting for a Christmas movie marathon.”
Noah nodded so fast it was like his head was a bobblehead doll on a bumpy road. Santa gently placed a gift on Selma’s lap; she sprawled sideways on the fancy sofa like a king who had just ruled over a cookie kingdom.
Just as Santa vanished into the snowy night, Noah whispered, “Maybe the glitter poop was real after all.” He crept back upstairs, disappointed that Selma had slept through the whole thing—she’d never believe him.
Then, the next morning, Selma woke to find a beautifully wrapped gift resting right on her lap. She shot up, clutching it, and raced to Noah’s room.
“Noah! Wake up!” she said, shaking him. “Be honest—did Mom and Dad put this on my lap, or… was it Santa?”
Noah sat up slowly, still groggy, but the image of Santa’s wink burned bright in his mind. “It was Santa,” he said firmly. “I saw him last night, right here, putting the gift for you.”
Selma’s eyes went wide, then lit up with pure excitement. “Told you! Santa’s real! Do you believe me now?”
Noah rubbed his eyes, fighting a smile. “I believe you, Selma. Just… next year, remind Mom to eat less of the cookies. They’re supposed to be for the big guy, not her.”
Selma will write her story and attach it to her baroque handmade miniature sofa.
The Santa Skeptic scene, including the handmade miniature sofa, will be made from:
- Organic cotton.
- Papier-mâché.
- Organic glue.
- Organic color solution.
- Oil paint colors.
- Special materials.
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