Cookies were laid on the table, with a note to Santa, along with a glass of milk.
Cream had sat on the chair, excited for the man in red and white to come bring her presents, with the Christmas tree that the Frost People had bought her with their very own money. She could still remember how blue their fingers were, their eyes like Neptune, and their clothes soft, frilly, and dashed with ice. They were very cold people, with very warm hearts.
Her mother had prepared the turkey they also had bought them, along with cranberry sauce, stuffing, pies, and other wonderful things. Cream had never seen this much food in her six years of life, and she had seen many things when she went adventuring with Sonic, but she couldn't imagine having a feast at her mother's house, with her other friends like Sonic and Tails and Amy and Vanilla's gentleman, Vector and the Chaotix. Vanilla had told her to keep believing in these miracles, as their own god had granted them blessings and their long, white fingers had touched upon them, stroked their heads, and said, "Good work, my small child." Christmas had begun to bloom! She sat on the couch, listening to the wind whistle, the heavy boots creaking on their ceiling floors, the chimney dying away. Santa would come, Santa would come, she cried in glee! The milk and cookies had remained uneaten, the chocolate chips made with her own mother's toiling hands, and with her own tears, at how blissful and blessed they truly were, for creations that were merely fantasy, helping them.
Cheese wrapped himself with a blanket, cooing, ushering in the great man to come tumbling down, and they waited, eagerly, the cold wrapping around them, the blankets seeming to be such a nice venture, the venture into the world of dreams…
Come, come Santa! They had echoed. He had heard their call, but he was far away. He was carrying a giant sack of toys, ready to bring to the wonderful boys and girls, who have been so nice this year.
The eyes sinked, deep into the warmth of slumber, the Sandman taking them away, to meet with the Fixer of Dreams, as Cream had thought, many times before, her dreams were broken, but no longer. They were being fixed, by fantasy.
Santa had come, to see the children asleep. His garb was the color of maraschino cherries, and his skin was green, and scaly, but he wished them no harm at all to such a wonderful mother as Vanilla. He ate the cookies, (some of the best I ever had! He said) and swallowed the milk, and he stuffed Cream and Cheese's stockings, and gave her a present, a present that will keep her away from the doldrums of reality.
The next morning, Vanilla had awakened her child, with a present that was rectangular shaped. She opened it, seeing it was a book. Matilda, by Roald Dahl.
And for years, she read, to keep herself away from the darkness of winter, and the darkness of reality. She sunk further into the fantastic world her mother had believed in, as the Fixer of Dreams had rebuilt her world like a clock. The hours oozed on, the minutes were staved away from her reading, and the world appeared much brighter, a chiaroscuro of colors.