This was my first short story written for our monthly homework. The theme was Christmas.

A war reporter, that’s how the observer sees himself, gazing upon the seething hordes beneath him. A scenario played out a million times in a million different ways for a million years. Details change, sides change and weapons change. But the goals remain the same; to show one’s superiority, to claim the biggest prize and to cement one’s legacy.

The soldiers can be classified into different groups, each with its own identity and method of combat.

First the Alphas. Big, loud, and brash, they strut the battlefield oozing confidence. Darwin would classify them as the ‘fittest’ of the population. But evolution is far more nuanced. Biggest doesn’t always equal best, and many are too showy for their own good.

Enter the Dancer. Nimble and fleet-footed, he makes up for his lack of mass with guile. Battlefield manoeuvrability is his forte. Sweeping beneath the very nose of an Alpha, he steals the target with unmatchable grace and poise.

Next the Talker. Specialising in battle-field communications, he wins hearts and minds. A few well-chosen words and the physical superiority of the Alphas is dismissed as oafishness; the grace of the Dancer re-interpreted as embarrassing flashiness.

Finally, the Wingman. He’s the sturdy sergeant. Fighting along-side, supporting and defending his leader, he may get lucky, receiving crumbs from his master’s table, But more often he serves until victory is assured, before slinking away to drown his sorrows alone.

Yes, the observer decided as he watched the drama unfold. It’s all here, playing out as it always does, his thesis proven yet again.

But a good reporter seeks both sides of the story. With that in mind he selects the next record and settles back to see if the girls behave differently on the dance floor.

‘Last Christmas, I gave you my heart…’