

# The December Awethology

The Dark Volume

An Anthology of December Themed Dark Stories from the #Awethors

# Copyright 2015 The #Awethors Group

<http://www.awethors.com/>

All Rights Reserved

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information

storage and retrieval system, without permission in

writing from all the authors in the #Awethor

Anthology, except in the case of brief quotations

embodied in reviews.

# Acknowledgements

Without the following people giving up their spare time and expertise this anthology would not have been possible:

Proofreaders: Anita Kovacevic, CK Dawn, Christie Stratos, JB Taylor, LE Fitzpatrick Rebecca McCray,

Ryan Guy, and Travis West

Formatting: Claire Plaisted

Management: Claire Plaisted, L E Fitzpatrick, and Rocky Rochford

Publising Sponsored by

Plaisted Pubishing House Ltd

New Zealand

The Awethors would also like to thank the continued support from all members in the group.

# Contents

Foreword

That Couple

Jingle Jars

A Christmas for Everyone

The Christmas Assassin

A Christmas Tale

The Lamb's Gift

Piece and Quiet

Crimson Kisses on a Cold Winter's Night

Critical Mass

A Curmudgeons Christmas

A Christmas Treat: Spicy and Sweet

The Lament of Vienna

Gifts Both Light and Dark

Christmas Dreams

To All a Good Night

Christmas with no Atmosphere

The Cake and the Kumiho

The Naughty List

Seven Years Bad Luck

Afterword

Biographies

# A Foreword from L E Fitzpatrick

The Awethors are a group of talented and mostly undiscovered authors who gather online to host events and publish anthologies. We are spread throughout the world and cover a multitude of genres and writing styles, but we all have one thing in common; a passion for writing and literature.

We started our project asking our members to come up with short stories, based around the theme of "December." These could be Christmas stories, Hanukah stories, bah humbug stories – anything as long as it was set in the month of December. With such a diverse group all of our compilations appeal to a wide range of readers, but sometimes things get dark – really dark. And in a few cases worrying. These are the stories I had to pull from the December Awethology. Stories that are too dark for those warm Christmas nights. Stories that will give you winter worries and icy chills.

These stories are deliciously sinister, twisted, sometimes funny and in most cases quite disturbing. Above all else, as you would expect, they are awesome!

So if you're looking for a really terrifying nightmare before Christmas, on behalf of all of all of the Awethors,

Happy Reading

L E Fitzpatrick

Author of paranormal thriller The Running Game

and compiler of the December Awethologies

# That Couple

Jack Croxall

That Couple

That couple in the hospital, the boy's arm wrapped around the girl's shoulder. He's speaking Korean, I think. I can't understand what he's saying, but I know what he's telling her: It will be okay, I'm here, I love you.

I'm here too though, sitting beside the waiting room window. I came in with the draft, the other patients shivered when I entered.

But that couple.

They're sitting across the room. The girl is crying now, nodding at everything the boy whispers to her. She's trying, but it's bad. It's sad to see, even after all this time.

Christmas isn't far, she might just make it. The boy might even remember it. He might spare a moment in Christmases to come when he's with his new family, an instant to think of the girl. His eyes might even sting as he pictures her face. I hope he does remember her.

I'll take her soon.

# Jingle Jars

Jennifer Deese

This storm had to be the worst Christmas weather of the century. Sid was coming to terms with the idea that he may freeze to death in the whiteout when suddenly he stumbled into the wall of a structure. Keeping one hand on the wall he followed it to a door. Pulling against the drifted snow to open it he felt his limbs freezing; it took all he had to get it open enough to squeeze inside. Shutting the door against the elements, Sid found himself surrounded by an inky darkness.

Sliding to the floor he strained to see something...anything but his eyelids were heavy and his mind befuddled. He had been lost in the storm for hours. His last thought before falling into an exhausted slumber was that it was odd to hear bells jingling in the space around him. As he pondered this his head slumped and he slept.

Hours later, Sid woke with a gasp. For a moment he thought he was dead and this black void was Hell. Fumbling in his backpack his frozen hands found the flashlight. The beam of light cut through the darkness enough that Sid could see a fireplace across the room; a small pile of wood nearby. He forced his numb hands to search his pack for the matches he knew were there. Matches in hand, he crawled to the fireplace and with the wood, and some paper he found he managed to start a fire. Blowing the flame higher he heard, again, bells jingling. Sid thought his head was playing tricks on him...hypothermia maybe?

He was stranded alone in an abandoned cabin. Why would there be jingle bells?

As the fire began to throw off a minute amount of heat, Sid cast the flashlight beam around the room. The cabin had been abandoned for quite some time, that was obvious. His eye caught a glimmer from the other side of the room. Struggling to stand, he walked over to the glimmer. As he got closer he could make out a wall of jars. They were dusty and covered in old cobwebs but it was indeed a wall of jars. Through the grime he could make out lettering on them and he could see that some contained powders or sand. They were all filled; some full, some partially filled while others were empty. The dust made it hard in this light for him to discern any words on the old labels. Sid could feel the cold begin to seize up his limbs again and returned to the fire.

As he huddled before the weak warmth he pulled some photos from his bag. Each photo a reminder of Christmas Eves past. His breath quickened as the familiar sense of excitement settled over him.

Running an icy finger across the images he closed his eyes and reminisced. Sid could recall each and every one of those Christmas Eves, his special celebrations to pay homage to the Yuletide season. The most recent was from earlier in the day. He had really enjoyed those festivities. It had been one of his best Christmas activities to date. Oh what joy they had brought him; his own kind of joy. Flicking through the pictures, he relived each one and again he heard the mystery jingling sound.

The noise filled the room with a crescendo of sound that put him on edge. He turned his head from one side to the other searching for the source. He dropped the photos on the floor next to him as he realized, with a bit of a start, that the sound, that damned noise, was coming from the wall of jars. They were jingling! His first thought was that the wind had found entry into the cabin and was rattling them, causing them to sound like jingle bells. Then he noticed that there was no wind outside. The storm, though still dropping a ton of snow, had lost its fierce wind. The hairs on his neck stood up, and if you knew Sid you would know that nothing stood _his_ hair on end.

As he stood staring at the jars and covering his ears to the near deafening jingle, the door burst open. A flurry of snowflakes and a draft blew in around him as his fire sputtered and died. His flashlight was dimming as he swept the beam toward the door. All he could see was whiteness outside the cabin and a deep eerie silence fell over everything.

Sid could sense the arrival of something. Suddenly he began to make out a shape approaching in the distance through the open door. As he strained to decipher what was approaching he caught the scent of sulphur and rot. The odor grew stronger as the shape in the swirling snow drew closer. Sid felt his heart quicken as his senses told him something about this was all wrong. As he watched, frozen in place, he saw that the quickly approaching figure was adorned in what looked to be a very tattered and dirty Santa Claus outfit.

" _What the hell!"_ Sid thought to himself as the figure stepped onto the porch and stood face to face with him. The stink was even more intense and the man's eyes were obsidian black. Sid stepped back as the man came through the door and shut it behind him. The noise from the jingling jars abruptly stopped.

Sid knew he was in the presence of something sinister, dark and evil, and in a rare moment of honest introspection he almost wished things had been different in his life, normal even. He watched, frozen in place, as the Santa clad demon walked to the wall of jars. With his heart pounding Sid asked, "Who are you?"

Smiling demonically, the visitor ran his dirty, clawed fingers along the jars, causing them to jingle eerily in the dead silence. Sid could feel the noise deep in his brain. It caused a blinding pain that brought him to his knees next to the dead fire. He felt his body wanting to give in, wanting to shroud him in the promise of death, but he wanted to live!

As the thought of asking for redemption ran across his mind the demon turned toward him and whispered, "Tssk Tssk, my loyal human, I'm here to show you your jars, your jingling jars."

Sid had no idea what this thing, this demon meant. His Jars? This Christmas Eve had started out just like so many others. His special celebrations for the holiday had gone just as planned until he had gotten caught in the storm and ended up in this cabin. Now here he was face to face with evil. Why?

He watched as the demon walked to the wall of jars causing them to jingle at an unbearable volume. Just as he thought his eardrums would burst it stopped and the entity picked up another jar. With his gnarled hand he swept the dust away. Cackling maniacally he hissed, " _Chances."_ Menacingly he spoke. "This jar is empty.No more chances for you, Sid. You chose your twisted path."

With fear settling over his body, Sid sank to the floor as the demon replaced the jar. The jingling began again as he walked the wall, fingers trailing along their surfaces. Sids' body got rigid as the icy temperature bit his flesh. His vision was starting to blur. The demon grabbed another jar.

" _Compassion and sympathy",_ he hissed through blackened lips. "In all of your Christmas festivities did you show compassion? Sympathy? Never! So we find another empty jar. No compassion, no sympathy. Your jars of bitterness, hate, and resentment overflow. The most important are empty."

The demon tossed a jar toward Sid and walked out into the night. With what would be his last breath Sid reached for it. Whispering the word on the label he felt remorse and wished that this particular jar was not empty.

Christmas Day Headline News

Holiday Hacker Found!!!

In the early a.m. hours the body of the Holiday Hacker was found in an abandoned cabin. After twenty years of torturing, and dismembering women on Christmas Eve his reign of terror has come to a cold stop. A hunter found his frozen body inside a deserted cabin located about 100 yards from a main trail. Authorities presume the serial killer was caught in the storm and sought refuge there. His body was found lying next to a scattered stack of photos. The photos are being called trophies of his holiday kills. One of the photos was of the dismembered body of a woman found yesterday. Also found next to the Hacker's body was an empty jar labeled TIME; something this prolific killer has run out of. We can now rest easy on future Christmas Eves knowing that the Holiday Hacker will kill no more.

# A Christmas for Everyone

Rebecca P McCray

Walter set the cane aside, shuffled over to the counter, and placed his plate next to the sink. Bracing himself against the cabinets, he made a few quick swipes with the sponge, then sat it in the strainer to dry. The cabinets were full of dishes, but all a sandwich required was a plate. No point in dirtying anything else, except a single knife, which he'd already cleaned.

As he turned around, he held onto the counter for support. He grabbed the cane and returned to his comfortable chair by the bay window in the front room, Margaret's favorite. When she'd become home-bound, she insisted they add it. At least she enjoyed it for a few years before cancer beat her.

He settled into the recliner and flicked on the TV, since it was time for the news with that pretty little lady who always wore red. Red had been Margaret's favorite color. A horn honked outside. Craning his neck to the side, he saw a family pile out of the car, waving at the house across the street. John and Ruth would have a houseful for Christmas. They'd decorated the tree in the main window nearly three weeks earlier.

When had he last decorated? The last time Margaret had asked, perhaps. He plucked a red, paper napkin out of the holder on side table, folded it a couple of times, and set it by the lamp. That'll do. As he pulled his hand away, his eyes rested on the family picture: he, Margaret, and Joe were all smiling. That was before Joe shipped out to Vietnam and before Margaret, sweet Margaret, became so ill. Life had been happy then, full of promise. Joe wanted to be a veterinarian like his old man and they had plans to go into practice together. After he'd opened a place, the news came through that Joe wasn't coming home. He inhaled a shaky breath. He never took on a partner; how could he? The second office was Joe's.

A map came on the screen, so he turned up the volume. The blonde explained they might be in for a white Christmas. Well, that was great for Santa, but not so good for him. He was low on peanut butter and bread. Guess a trip to the store was in order. Pushing up from the chair, he checked to ensure he had his wallet, bundled up against the cold, and switched to his trusty walker for the trek to the corner mart.

As he passed the wooden fence of the last property before the shopping center, a boy popped up, shoving his bare hands into baggy pockets. "Good morning, sir. Need any help in the store today?"

The boy had been here a while back, then disappeared. Peering to the side, he wrinkled his nose at the dirty backpack leaning against the fence. The boy's long-sleeve shirt was hardly enough clothing for such a chilly afternoon. What kind of parent let a kid out dressed like that. Back in his day, his father would have slapped him. He grumbled and trudged to the steps, taking his time to make sure the walker didn't catch.

After picking up the two items, he waited in line for the chatty register clerk. She'd ramble to him as soon as she could. He tried turning his hearing aid down once, but the blasted woman's voice could wake the dead.

As he neared the front, the manager walked over. "Kid is out there again. I thought the authorities were going to place him in a new home after his mother blitzed out on drugs."

The clerk shrugged. "Heard they tried, but he ran away. The kid's been a handful since his father died in Iraq.

"Just don't need him loitering outside. Bad for business." He rubbed his forehead and sighed. "If I call the police again, they may put him in jail and that's no way to spend Christmas Eve. Let me know if he causes any trouble."

Walter paid for his items. The plastic bag pulled him to the right, but as long as he maneuvered carefully, he should be fine. As he angled the walker down the step, the end caught, and he pitched forward. An arm braced him across his chest as the walker clattered to the ground, the jar of peanut butter rolling across the sidewalk.

"You okay?"

He recognized the voice... and the foul scent.

As the boy righted him, his sleeve pushed up, showing a long burn on his forearm. He tugged down the sleeve, then set the walker in front of Walter, before retrieving the food.

"I'm fine. Just fine." Heat rose in his cheeks.

The boy wrapped his arms around himself and shivered. "I can walk you home."

"Just give me the bag. What, you think I'm helpless because I'm old?" He snatched the bag and steadied himself, then turned to leave. "Get a job. You're old enough."

A rumbling started next to him and the boy rubbed his stomach. "I've tried," he mumbled as Walter waddled away.

After reaching the house without further incident, he unloaded the groceries and settled in to watch a game show—a _'holiday'_ edition. Why not just call it Christmas with the big tree and red bows? All this political correctness mumbo jumbo was ridiculous. Another horn honked outside. The Brewer's daughter was home from college. She jumped out of the car and ran into her father's bear hug.

He smiled and looked around his drab room, then at the picture again, tears building in his eyes. Thinking back, he remembered the Christmas when they gave Joe his first bike. He had bounced off the walls with excitement. They'd gone riding that very day. He dabbed at his cheeks with the red napkin.

As it neared dinnertime, he hoisted himself from the chair and made another sandwich. Leaning against the counter, he peeled and ate the last banana. Margaret used to put on a big spread for Christmas: turkey with all the fixings, broccoli casserole, and homemade mashed potatoes. He licked his lips, then looked at his sandwich. Why not? What's the worst that could happen?

He slid the sandwich into a plastic bag, pulled on his thick coat, and headed back to the corner mart. As he passed the fence, the boy bounded to his feet again.

"Good evening, sir. I..."

Walter raised his eyebrows. "What's wrong boy? Cat got your tongue?"

"I guess you don't need any help." The boy toed the ground.

"Here." He held out the sandwich. "I'm not going to eat this and thought you might want it."

The boy raised his eyes and grinned. "Really?"

"Well take it before I change my mind."

After a moment, he took the bag and shoved a bite in his mouth.

"Got a name, boy?"

"Joshua. Thanks... sir."

He grunted, then continued into the store. A turkey dinner was just what he needed, but so late in the day, chicken might have to do. He stowed the walker at the front and slid onto one of those power carts the manager always tried to get him to use. New-fangled machines.

After the better part of thirty minutes, he found everything he needed and paid. The manager ambled over. "Mr. Johnson. Do you need some help with your groceries?"

"Just bag them and put them out on the porch. I'll manage."

"Not a problem. I can call you a taxi."

"The porch. Quite simple. No need to carry on."

"Yes, sir. And Happy Holidays."

He pursed his lips. Happy Holidays. The manager celebrated Christmas. Why not just say it? He shuffled out the door and glanced around. Joshua hurried over from his place by the fence.

"Let me help you down."

"I can manage just fine, young man. Besides, you have work to do."

Joshua stepped back and furrowed his brow. "What do you mean?"

"Well, there's enough food in those bags for an army and I sure as heck ain't going to eat it all myself, much less carry it." He shook his head and muttered, before starting down the sidewalk.

He heard some rustling noises behind him and a short time later, Joshua was walking beside him wearing a backpack and carrying the bags of groceries.

"I'm not sure what to say, sir."

"I got work to be done and you need a job. It's a business arrangement."

"What kind of work?"

"Tree to be brought down. Decorations to be put up. Meal to be cooked. Lots of things."

"But why me? You could hire someone else."

Walter stopped and faced him. "What's wrong with you? Man offers you a job, you take it. Outside of needing a shower and laundry, you seem like a good lad." He resumed his walk. "And who knows, boy. If you've been good, maybe Santa will come tonight."

"That's okay, sir. I think he already has."

# The Christmas Assassin

James Quinn

Christmas Day, 1934

There is an art to hunting a man to the death. But for the gunman and the assassin that was the game they were both playing now, so they cordially accepted the rules and the results without complaint.

The gunman sat and waited in the darkness, only a faint glow of the ambient light from the other room was visible. Such were the constraints of close quarter fighting that darkness was the accepted environment for this kind of battle. The pistol in his hands was slick with sweat and he was desperate to use it, desperate to confront the man stalking him, desperate to pull the trigger of the revolver and escape.

He was crouched down, resting on one knee, behind an old table that gave him concealment if not cover. He had been this way for... how long... minutes? Maybe five at most, but in this type of fighting minutes counted. He could feel the assassin approaching, knew he was near. He couldn't hear him—yet, but he could sense him, in the same way that a cat senses an interloper in its terrain.

He knew the assassin carried a weapon that was superior to his own. The assassin had a lever action rifle. Good for distance, for sniping, but not for taking down someone in face to face combat. The gunman's own weapon was a shiny steel six-shot revolver. He had been given it earlier that day, before he had been approached about his mission. He had practised with it and he trusted it. It was loud when it fired, but it was reliable and it would do the job.

He heard a creak from the other room, something that sounded like a door being slowly pushed open. The assassin was on the move and the gunman knew that he would be here soon. The time of minutes was long gone; now he was dealing with seconds....And yet despite the threat of danger and the inevitable violence, there was a rush of excitement running through the gunman's body. He felt alive; he had never felt so right. He was born to do this, he didn't know HOW he knew that, just that it felt natural to wait in the darkness, armed to the teeth and ready to take down a killer just as ruthless and cold as he was himself...

~~~~

The assassin stalked his prey. He knew where his quarry would be; had known all along. This entire charade, all this theatre was just playing with his opponent, teasing him, toying with him, all calculated so that he would make a mistake and give the assassin an edge.

He held the lever action rifle out in front of him, his finger on the trigger, ready to eliminate his foe. The assassin was older than the gunman by a good few years and had learned a thing or two along his path...nothing dramatic, just a few simple tricks that could wrong-foot his enemy.

He nudged the door open with the toe of his shoe, winced as he heard it creak, a fog horn blast in the silence. He paused and listened, eager to hear for any clue...and then there it was—a noise, a faint exhalation of breath from somewhere deep in the darkness...a corner, he guessed, over to his right. The assassin led with the barrel of his rifle, pushing the door open and searching the gloominess of the room. The table! It was where he was sure his target would be, hiding behind it like a child hiding from the bogey-man. How very apt...

The assassin moved quickly, far too quickly for a man of his age. He stumbled over something on the floor, some kind of box, but by then it was too late! He knew where his enemy was; he was within reach. He brought the rifle up to fire, but even then he was too slow. The shadow hiding behind the table was on the move, bringing up his own weapon of steel to fire...

~~~~

The gunman jumped out from his hiding place, his shooting arm already in motion, the revolver up and ready, one handed. He saw the large frame of the assassin in front of him, a huge black mass in the darkness of the room, and the gunman opened fire. The trigger worked fast, 1,2,3,4,5... no pause...

Each gave out a loud bang! He heard the cry from the assassin, of pain and terror, and watched as the dark body collapsed to the floor, dropping the rifle in the process. The gunman didn't need to ask for a second chance...he stepped forward and fired the final shot downwards—BANG!

Remarkably the assassin still moved! The gunman could see the body of his enemy curl up into the foetal position, trying to protect himself. The assassin was down but not out. With this killer, the gunman couldn't afford to take any chances. Instantly he flipped his revolver up and caught it one-handed so that the butt of the handle was prominent. The gun had now been turned into a cudgel. The gunman jumped onto the assassin's body, the butt of the revolver raining down heavy blows, beating faster and harder with each downward arc. Smash, smash, smash! With each strike the gunman yelled to give more weight to the blows, until finally he heard another yelp of pain and the gunman knew in that instant that the assassin was finished...he just needed one more killing blow and then his mission would be completed...he raised the revolver one more time and aimed for the top of the assassin's head...

"JACK DUNCAN GRANT!"

He heard his name called in the darkness. The room was illuminated by the ceiling light as it was flicked on. He froze, his eyes wincing from both the light and the voice. The sparse Christmas tree stood in the corner, a few baubles and tinsel scattered about it. Opened boxes and shredded wrapping paper that had once contained meagre presents were littered around the base of the tree. It was a scene from a working class house on Christmas Day. The gunman turned towards the voice that had halted him in his tracks. The voice had power and authority. It had stopped him from taking down the most ruthless assassin that he knew...

"Mein Gute!! What on earth are you doing to your father!! Get off him for heaven's sake," said his mother. She held a tea-towel that she had been using to dry the dishes from their Christmas lunch several hours earlier. Mama had that disapproving look on her face that said that they had both overstepped the mark.

"Oh the boy was just playing, dinna fash yourself woman," said the pretend assassin that was his father, his broad Scottish accent coming through, both loud and joyful.

Jack Grant watched as his mama shook her head, exasperated at the pair of them, and turned to her kitchen domain, but not before giving out her final command.

Please GO and wash up before we have to go and visit your uncle Ron and auntie Marnie. I don't wish to be late!"

Little Jack Grant, the four-year-old boy with the short blond hair that was the gunman, twirled the toy-cap gun revolver one-handed and slipped it back into the cowboy holster that he wore over his brand new Christmas clothes. He watched as his father picked up the toy-lever action rifle that had come as part of his cowboy set—hat, waist coat, sheriff's badge, holster, revolver and rifle.

Dad fumbled his grip, watched as it fell to the ground and his father had to make a hasty effort to pick it up. Jack sighed... Poor Dad; he would show him how to use it properly later on today.

"Come on now, little Jack, we'd better do as Mama says," said his father, straightening his cardigan and correcting his tie that had gone askew when he had been pistol-whipped by his little boy. "We have to catch the next bus to Ealing and we still have presents to deliver!"

The boy looked up and smiled at his father. He loved this big man.

"Can we play tomorrow, Dah? Maybe go hunting each other out in the park? Please!"

The father, who only moments before had been a ruthless assassin, looked down and smiled at his boy. He felt an overwhelming sense of joy and pride. He loved the fact that his son had retained the Scottish lilt of his place of birth.

"Of course we can, Jack...you little monkey."

# A Christmas Tale

Paul White

I paid for the whisky, said goodnight to the shopkeeper and walked out into the darkness of the night.

The streets were busy, people bustling about getting those last minute Christmas gifts; the stocking fillers and trinkets. The atmosphere was one of excitement and joyfulness, enhanced by the impromptu choirs and the street performers entertaining the steady stream of shoppers as they passed by.

I think the lights in the city were better this year too. I am certain there were more than the previous years, or maybe it was the displays themselves, the vibrant, pulsating multitude of twinkling colours which reflected off the snow laden footpaths? I am not sure, but I do know the entire city looked wonderful.

This year I had also made an extra effort at home. For once I suppressed the scrooge in myself, the _'bah humbug'_ of scorn and distain about the dreadful commercialism of the season. This year I was ready.

I had my tree in place and the house was fully decorated with garlands and baubles by midday on the first of December. The majority of gifts were wrapped, under the tree and awaiting their recipients. I just needed a few last gifts and I was set.

I shall admit to you now, I was actually enjoying myself. For the first time in years I felt the Christmas spirit within me.

It could be because I had settled into this house now, or because my new neighbours were kind friendly folk, or perhaps, just perhaps because I was in love.

I had only known Claire for six months. We had met in the supermarket where the fresh salad vegetables are kept on those chilled counters.

Claire dropped a cucumber. I think the condensation caused it to slip from her fingers. I was standing near her so, like a gentleman, I stooped to retrieve it from the floor.

That was when our heads clashed.

As I bent down Claire was beginning to straighten up. The back of Claire's head gave me a harsh crack on the bridge of my nose. The result was a nose bleed, a bloodied shirt, and a string of apologies from Claire.

The following day Claire arrived at my home carrying a brand new shirt. I told her that it was not necessary for her to replace my shirt, the head banging incident had been a pure accident.

Claire told me to put the shirt on. She said she wanted to make sure it fitted correctly. I took off the tee shirt I had on at the time, ready to slip the new shirt on. That was when it happened.

The next thing Claire and I were kissing passionately and then undressing, leaving a trail of clothing leading to the bedroom. That was about six months ago. I think that is why I was looking forward to Christmas this year. You see Claire is coming to stay with me. She has planned to stay until the New Year.

Besides the whisky I had just purchased I was weighted down with two large bags of groceries; actually they were Christmas treats. I had assorted nuts, chocolates, tangerines, dates, candied fruits and a large bag full of Claire's favourite, Crystallised stem ginger pieces.

The handle of the shopping bag in which I was carrying the ginger snapped as I rounded the corner of Mason Avenue. I stopped, catching the bag with my foot as it fell to the ground. I stood cursing for a moment. I would have to make do. I would fill the pockets of my coat with as much merchandise as I could. The remaining purchases could stay in the bag. Once I twisted the broken handle around a few times I could grip it, I could hold it together for the last few hundred yards or so to my home.

It was while I was rearranging my shopping he came up to me. I knew who he was immediately. I know my blood ran cold because I shivered. Not a shiver caused by the chill of winter, but a shiver of apprehension.

"I am sorry, Mark' he said 'but it is your time."

He was standing so close I felt his breath wash over me as he spoke, it had a hollow scent of yew trees and damp grass. It was the smell of a graveyard. Yet even as close as he was I could not see his face, there was just the shadowy hint of inevitability visible under his cowl.

I shall not say that fear did not enter my consciousness because it did. I felt it flutter over my heart. But the Reaper was practised. His scythe whistled through the air so fast I only caught a momentary glimpse of the festive lights glistening on the finely honed steel of the blade.

They say a car ploughed into me as I stood on the corner of Mason Avenue picking up my fallen shopping.

My death was reported as instant.

I would not have called it instant because I heard the Grim Reaper speak my name.

# The Lamb's Gift

Patrick Elliott

Falling snow clears the mind. Darkness brings great inspiration. Walking through the pre-Christmas drift leads to thinking on par with men like Tesla.

But not tonight.

My thinking is done. My mind has never been so purely focused. My thoughts are already in order. They have never been so clear.

So, amidst my meandering, I listen to carols so stale it is hard to believe they come from a can. The sounds of purchased joy wash over me like the cold blanket of snow that wraps my body. Having come to the correct decision three days ago, on my birthday, I have time for deeper thoughts.

Like, how people say the stupidest things around the holidays.

Things like... it's the thought that counts.

People who say that, or rather, people who believe it, have never had to explain to their six year old sister why she won't get even the cheapest doll for Christmas. They've never had to figure out how to convince a girl too young to understand such things, that when it comes to the choice between not enough food and toys, not enough food is more important. Never had to see more water than the house ever produces, before it gets shut off for non-payment, cascade from her eyes.

And, of course, they've never then gone searching through hypodermic infested dumpsters to find a doll, stained with blood, coffee, and less savory fluids, that is missing an eye and half its stuffing but has all of its hair frozen in a postmodern do. A doll cast off by the careless child of some family rich enough to afford food stamps. They've never had to hunt for that so there is some quantum of joy in a child's heart on a day that steals hope from the downtrodden.

They've never had to swallow their shame while their sister, six years younger than them, looked at them like they were a god for delivering such a piece of crap when their parents couldn't even provide a proper holiday dinner.

Some people also say... It is better to give than to receive.

I'm pretty sure those people didn't grow up in a family like mine. A place where the pain was not defined by the stark, utter lack, but by the abundance. You can get used to having nothing. I think people say that too, but them I agree with. The only people who say that have had to live their gospel.

It's harder to get used to having too much of a bad thing.

When you start to realize, at three, that Christmas at your house is never going to be like those movies everyone else claims are defining stories. The ones you watch for stolen moments through thick, barred glass keeping your kind out of even the lowest end pawn shops while your mother waits on the corner for her next "date", who she sincerely hopes doesn't have a badge. Badges are bad. They mean weird uncle Otis will be reciting half remembered fairy tales to you on the bench that makes your butt hurt. He'll do that while dad fills out the paperwork and pays the fine again. The fine that means it's another year without not only presents, but meat too. Those movies and special episodes of shows people like me will just never understand.

People who say that they never knew Christmas was coming because the fights started. The ones where mom insisted the stick pretending to be a tree would look better in the corner. Rows that continued with dad loudly insisting it belonged just outside the kitchen. The ones that always ended with the tree in the same place as every year, in front of the window, after dad gave mom a black eye and received a vow of no intercourse for a month.

Folks who say that never stood over the crib, watching their new baby sister sleep. Never once did they think about how it would be best to give her a wonderful gift. The gift of holding the tiny pillow that smelled like vomit over her face until she, mercifully, stopped struggling. Because struggling is all the older sibling knows, and wants to spare this tiny baby that. The gift of freedom. They were not faced with the decision to give such a blessing, only to decide to walk away.

Because they never received the curse of love that brought with it the need to protect that innocent angel... even from themselves.

Other people say... Christmas is in your heart, not a store.

Those people may be the stupidest of all.

I would bet forged money on the things they never had to do. I would guess they didn't start working at twelve. Four hours a day after state mandated school and ten hours on Saturday and Sunday. Sweaty labor in dives that don't bother checking ID for incoming employees.

They've never had to break their backs and blister their hands when most kids haven't even started considering college yet. People who can afford such esoteric thoughts never worked for a quarter of minimum wage—because who is a desperate kid going to tell—and have to contribute enough to the family that they ended up with less money than a pack of cigarettes cost in their pocket each week. They've never had to thank a god they knew hated them for the fact that they didn't smoke. Then again, with their charmed life they probably didn't want to.

They've never saved up their earnings for an entire year to buy a stolen television. They've never seen the guilty joy of their parents at getting such a gift from their oldest child. Not one time did they have to live through the rage and the beatings that ensued a week later. When the damn piece of crap broke.

They never had to understand that the anger was aimed at lifelong frustration, even though the fists were aimed at them.

These are the thoughts that pass through my head as I walk to the only part of town that is worse than the one I live in. The thought three days ago was better. That idea came from love. These ones are born of determination.

Three days ago I decided, my twelve year old sister was going to have the best Christmas ever. I was going to see to it. She would know I loved her. I was going to give her things I never had. Now, as I stalk the night I think about this crap.

I see the blood red door, stained ichor black by the hands of greed and desperation. I push inside the "clinic" and look around the shadows that bloom where hard men do business, that grow where weak men go in their hour of need. Two of those men of stone stand behind a table that passes for a counter. I walk up to them and look the one who appears to be in charge full in the face. He smiles at me, a glint in his eyes that I take to mean, 'I've seen your type before and they all leave crying.'

"Making a donation?" he growls through decades of smoking.

"Depends. What's the donor's cut on a full body's worth?" I show no fear, I am past that.

"Half a million for cash up front, if they are all in working order. Twice that if the donor offers on consignment."

"They are all perfect, young and vibrant. Cash up front. Consignment is for suckers."

He laughs, nodding as if to say he knows that too. "Well... where's the lamb? Don't keep me waiting, punk. Bring it in for inspection."

I straighten my spine. I move my eyes back to his, after realizing they have slipped. I smile my most gruesome smile at him, but the amplitude of it isn't even half of his. I slap down a piece of paper I have been carrying with me, careful to keep it out of the snow. I want to swallow hard, but I avoid it. Childhood is over.

"You've already seen the lamb and know the merchandise is good. Deliver the money to the address on this. Make sure every cent of it gets there. The donor's name is Maria."

# Piece and Quiet

Christie Stratos

Each broken fragment of the ornament on the floor held a different memory, just as each sharp piece now showed a different part of the words MERRY CHRISTMAS. At least it had happened at the end of the season instead of the beginning.

The red of the delicate bauble was still vibrant and shiny, but rough black spots had spread over it and even over some of its white lettering in the past few years. It was her grandmother's ornament – that was how she'd wound up with it. In this broken state, its threatening, uneven, thin edges reminded her of her grandmother more than the soft curve of the bits still intact.

She picked up a piece, overly careful of how she handled it. Knowing her grandmother, it would probably still cut her, but she rested it gently with the broken parts on her palm anyway, so that she could look at the harsh shine on the rounded redness. It was funny how she expected this inanimate object to prove itself her grandmother's belonging by cutting her unexpectedly. Maybe this was her final separation from the old woman, long since passed away. But probably not. On the floor, the rest of the ornament had already put itself back together. This was the third time it had resurrected itself over the years. She feared what else might resurrect if she threw it away. A fake smile spread across her lips as she donated the fragment she was holding to the almost-whole ornament. After it had melded itself back together, she put it away and ignored the darkened and stooped figure in the doorway.

"I put it back together," she said, her voice shaking. She pointed at it in the box. When she looked up, the figure was gone. Gone until the next inevitable breakage that she never caused. And the figure got closer every year, no matter what house she moved to. She wished she'd never killed her grandmother.

# Crimson Kisses on a Cold Winter's Night

Raven Blackburn

Snow and ice covered the country, the temperatures far below the freezing point. I stood outside, my skin nearly as white as the snowflakes covering it. Black pants hung low on my hips, my feet shoved in a pair of combat boots, that was all I wore and yet I showed no ill effects, for I wasn't human.

The sun had set long ago on this Christmas Day, but I did not need light to see my prey - a young woman, all alone in her small cottage on the outskirts of a tiny town in the middle of nowhere. Her red hair gleamed in the light of the fire she was sitting before, giving the illusion of being part of the flames themselves. She was reading. Coming closer I fought a smile. It was one of those dreadful romances, one with a half-naked vampire on the cover. Little did she know her fairytale was about to become reality, just not in the way she was fantasizing about.

Unlike every other house I'd come across this evening there were no Christmas decorations to be found here. No tree, no tiny lights, no towering stack of gifts waiting to be unwrapped.

I walked up to the door and knocked, crossing my arms across my chest when she opened it, pretending to shiver because of the bitter cold. "I-I'm sorry to disturb you, can I use your telephone? I was robbed and..."

"Oh you poor man, come in, you must be freezing!" she exclaimed as she took in my pitiful appearance. I tried not to let my glee show on my face as she beckoned me inside, for the legends of vampires being unable to cross a threshold, when not invited in, are entirely true. But she had welcomed me inside, so no magical barriers held me back, as I walked into the warmth of her home.

She hurried away, coming back with a blanket moments later, wrapping it around my shoulders. I was taller than she was, so I leaned down to her, inhaling her scent as I did. It made my mouth water and I quickly averted my gaze, not wanting to scare her. Vampire eyes turn pitch-black when hungry and I was starving.

Backing away she motioned to the couch in front of the fire, her cheeks flushed as if she were embarrassed by something. "Sit down, please. I'll get the phone to call for help."

I knew the phone wouldn't work, as I had made sure of it. I heard her frantically punching in several numbers, but finally giving up. Frowning she came back. "The phone is dead."

Her hands fluttered helplessly at her sides as she was chewing her bottom lip. She was uncomfortable with having a half-naked stranger in her house. As she should be. Getting up from the couch I limped to the door. "I'll try to get to town then. I don't wish to intrude."

She was at my side in an instant. "But you are hurt! You can't go out there. Please," she seemed to fight with herself, before she sighed, "please stay. We'll get you to a hospital in the morning."

Inwardly I smiled. "I don't want to be any trouble."

She offered me a watery smile. "And I don't want your death on my conscience. I'll get you something to eat, sit, please. I'm Alexis by the way," she called over her shoulder as she walked over to the kitchen. Alexis. The name brought a chill to my spine, but I shrugged it off. What harm could a name do?

I decided to play along, after all, toying with my victims was the only joy I had in life, so I sat down at the table, the blanket still firmly wrapped around my shoulders. I knew, however, that in staying, in talking to her, I risked becoming enthralled by her. "Thank you, that's very kind of you. I promise, I'm not a serial killer." That got a laugh out of her, transforming her already beautiful face into something almost angelic. For a moment I was transfixed by it.

"That's... not reassuring at all. A serial killer would say that exact same line to make a woman feel safe." But her eyes sparkled with amusement as she placed a bowl of steaming hot soup in front of me. "So tell me..."

"Chase."

"Tell me, Chase, what brings you to my doorstep?" Her voice held a slightly flirty undertone, awakening a hunger I had almost forgotten.

I fabricated a story of being stood up by friends and then being mugged, using the vampiric power in my gaze to put her at ease.

She placed a pale hand on my arm, squeezing it slightly as if to reassure me. "I'm sure the cops will find them."

I lifted my gaze, my eyes meeting her beautiful green ones. They were the most incredible shade, like grass bathed in sunlight. Fighting the urge to reach up and brush away a stubborn lock of flaming red hair that kept falling into her face, I leaned forward. "How does a lovely lady like yourself end up spending Christmas all alone?"

As if a switch had been flipped, she snatched her hand away and started walking briskly to the door. "Maybe it would be better if you left. There is a phone booth down the street, maybe you can call 911 there."

I was behind her in an instant, moving far faster than a human would. Her eyes flew open at my sudden movement, but I quickly took away her fear. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt you."

Her eyes were still slightly widened, her breath a little too fast and for a moment I was sure my compulsion had failed, but then she nodded. "It's ok, it's just I miss him so much."

"Who do you miss, Alexis?" I asked softly, trying to ignore her delicate fingers curled around my arm, trying to ignore the enticing feeling of her pulse beneath my fingertips as I cupped her face with my hand, gently tipping her head back so I could look in her eyes. "Who have you lost?"

"My husband. Car crash one year ago. It was Christmas. I tried to kill myself. I couldn't handle him being gone." She showed me faint scars on her wrists and I let out a curse.

Alexis was just as lonely as I was, just as lost in this enormous, vicious world. A cruel world that swallowed millions of souls each year without the slightest remorse. Looking into those pale green eyes I knew I might have found the one to spend eternity with.

"It's ok. Come sit with me. I'll make the pain go away," I promised. I would not take her husband's memories away, nor would I replace them, but perhaps I could help her live with them.

Feeling her warm body in my arms, her head resting against my shoulder and inhaling her intoxicating scent I made the decision that I would not kill her. I found I couldn't.

Brushing her hair away from her throat I pressed my lips against her racing pulse. She let me, even moaning softly.

I did not see the stake until it was being shoved into my chest with one smooth, lightning strike, piercing my heart. She had moved far too fast for a human and I froze in shock.

"Merry Christmas, blood sucker," Alexis said, a bitter smile twisting her full lips.

Then it struck me. Alexis McKenna. Beautiful, delicate Alexis was a vampire hunter. No wonder her name sounded familiar.

A fitting end for me, I suppose. I've been the downfall of many beautiful women, it seemed only right that one would be mine.

The last thing I heard before I turned into ash was the radio being switched on, a voice singing about crimson kisses on a cold winter's night.

# Critical Mass

A L Sayge

"This is supposed to be a happy holiday," Sandra spat aloud to herself as she slammed figurines into the manger scene on her fireplace. "Someone should tell my family that, especially Aunt Lucy. All I'll hear over the family Christmas dinner here tomorrow is negative perspectives on my life with that irritating sour sweetness in her tone."

She picked up the angel figurine from the manger set, using it as a stand-in for Aunt Lucy and speaking in a mocking "Aunt Lucy" voice. "'Still in the same job, Sandra? Isn't it wonderful how you've learned to stretch your pennies!' 'I see your apartment still has that...quaint...look about it.' 'It's amazing how you keep that sweater looking relatively new, year after year.' 'No beau again this year? Maybe if you ease up on the sugars, someone will come knocking.'"

She'll give me that "insider" wink. She'll tap my cheek like I'm a three year old. Every year it's the same thing. No, that's not true—every year it gets worse.

She hung the angel roughly above the manger, watching it swing from the hook on the fireplace brick. A sadistic smile spread slowly as she imagined her aunt swinging from a noose. _This isn't the Christmas spirit, Sandra._

Her eye caught the colorful foil-wrapped truffle balls shining in the glass bowl on the coffee table. She reached over, grabbed a red one and yanked on the twisted sides, sending the dark ball flying out and onto the floor. Snatching it up, she bit down angrily into the fudgy ball as if she were crushing Aunt Lucy's vocal chords.

The temporary tension release was interrupted when her gaze fell upon Mr. and Mrs. Claus decorations in the ornament box. She tossed the wrapper aside and snatched up the figures, one in each hand, angling them toward her. "Is this stuffing homemade?" she gave her mother's voice to Mrs. Claus. "It tastes like a package mix. I always made my stuffing from scratch."

"Sorry, Mom," Sandra answered sarcastically, talking to the figure, "but I actually _work_ for a living. And I volunteer on weekends, not to mention how you've forced me to host holidays for the past three years. I don't just sit home and play cards all day like you do."

"Sandra Beth," she deepened her voice for the Santa figure, "don't get testy with your mother."

"Oh, Franklin," Mrs. Claus said to Santa, "don't bother. Is there anything that isn't from a mix here, Sandra? I suppose the desserts are ready-made too. I could have brought some real food if I'd have known..."

Sandra threw the Clauses down with a disgusted huff and turned back to the truffle bowl. A blue one this time... _yank_... _twist_... _release_. She closed her eyes. Two minutes of unadulterated bliss as the creamy dark chocolate melted her nerves.

Back to reality. Among the decorations was an old, scratched-up stapler. Picking it up, she recalled the Christmas three years ago when she found it in her stocking. It hadn't even been gift wrapped. She'd held it out questioningly, looking directly at her mother. After all, who else would give her something that...weird?

"That's from me, dear," her mother had said with that semi-furrowed brow coupled with a small sly grin, her eyes boring into Sandra with that testing glint. "Everyone can use one."

"Well I do have a stapler," Sandra began cautiously, knowing that look from her mother could only mean a challenge was at hand. "And this is pretty old and beat up."

" _Beaten_ up." She wagged a reprimanding finger at Sandra. "And that's what stocking stuffers _should_ be," her mother lectured. _Here we go_ , Sandra thought. "Practical things. Useful things. I found that in the back of the odds and ends drawer but it's perfectly functional. You know, people have become so spoiled, they expect expensive gifts in their stockings. Back in the day, children were happy if they got an orange in their stocking."

"That was over a hundred years ago, Mom. It was even before your time." _Thin ice, be careful, she's in a mood_. "And no one expects Tiffany's in their stocking, just something new with some thought behind it."

And that launched the family fight of the year that ruined an entire holiday. Sandra had deliberately left the stapler in with the decorations to remind her not to take the bait anymore, especially on holidays.

Her stomach churned with anxiety over the upcoming family "festivities" she'd be hosting the next day. The annual ordeal had made her dread the holiday season—the season she used to love most. She snapped up two truffles this time, one in green foil and one in gold. _Yank...twist...ahhh_. Five minutes of sheer nirvana.

With a deep breath of resignation, she opened the next box. The odor preceded the visual. Ah yes, the old dime-store plastic poinsettias and holly decorations—the stink of decades-old plastic breaking down wafted from the box. These had been her Christmas gift two years ago from Aunt Sarah, her mother's sister. She'd thought her aunt was going senile when she'd opened the gift, but she was quickly set straight in front of the whole family.

"That's what's wrong with the world today," Aunt Sarah explained angrily in answer to her quizzical expression, as if waiting for the opportunity. "You young people want everything new and modern. You don't have any regard for the past, when things were made right. You just want what's in now, even though it's junk. Pure junk."

And with that, Aunt Sarah stormed out of the living room and locked herself in the bathroom until Uncle Herbert agreed to drive her straight home.

A silver-wrapped truffle made its way into Sandra's hand. The collection of foil wrappers that was forming around her on the floor looked rather festive. She flicked on the tree lights and watched the twinkles bouncing from wrapper to wrapper like a light show; it was mesmerizing. More wrappers would be even brighter. She could enjoy some true holiday cheer today before the drama began tomorrow, when the family arrived for dinner.

~~~~

They found her on Christmas day, propped up next to the half-decorated Christmas tree, her back against the stacked boxes of decorations, a wide smile frozen on her face. Dozens of colorful foil truffle wrappers lay scattered around her, sparkling with the reflected lights from the still-twinkling Christmas tree.

"Huh. Will you look at that," Uncle Herbert said derisively, thrusting his hand out toward her. "Dead. She finally did it—she ate herself into a chocolate death."

Aunt Lucy shook her head and tsked, staring down her nose at Sandra's body. "She never could control herself with sugar. Now look what she's done. And such a mess of wrappers all over the floor! She never did know how to keep house properly."

The smile remained. It was her happiest Christmas ever.

# A Curmudgeons Christmas

C E Vance

Here it is,

It's come already.

Sinister snow

Brilliant and deadly.

I hate the snow;

Silent and cold.

It makes me feel gloomy.

It makes me feel old.

Frozen fingers;

My toes are numb.

That blasted hot chocolate

Has burned my tongue.

My ears both ache

I'm not having fun.

The snot has frozen

Where my nose has run.

Green and red—

In October.

Forget pumpkins and scarecrows,

Kris Kringle took over.

Rudolph's been on

Since the first of November.

When last was I warm?

Not sure I remember.

Gifts over-priced,

People in fights.

I try not to go crazy

With all of my might.

It's no fun at all,

It really is not.

Would you mind too terribly

If your gift has no thought?

Bite my tongue,

Hold back that pout.

Pack 'em all in;

Roll everyone out.

I grit my teeth

Then start our car.

I said we'd be happy

To drive that darn far.

Come fight the crowds;

Come wait in line.

Come pay to see Santa

And hear babies whine.

Too many parties

With punch and glazed ham.

It's just not for me,

I'm now on the lam.

I'm off to Bermuda,

To the sand and blue sea.

Please don't laugh;

Don't shake your head at me.

The hassle, the stress

No peace can I find.

It's just not for me,

You won't change my...

My idle thoughts

Now start to wander.

My anger melts

And then I ponder.

I sit outside

In the chilly air.

Perhaps my perceptions

Were not always fair.

It's not about me

Or my unbalanced view.

It's not about gifts

Or a new pair of shoes.

It's all about joy

With those I hold dear.

Maybe it's time

To find Christmas cheer.

Warm apple cider

A glass of egg-nog.

The way snow sparkles

As light clears the fog.

Giggles and whispers

Tiny voices conspire.

Choirs on my doorstep

A warm hearth with fire.

Calm, crisp air,

Bright twinkling lights.

Driving 'round town

To see the sights.

The laughter of children,

A home filled with love.

Moments of peace

As stars shine above.

I'll freeze my face,

Put on those skates.

I promise to put

A smile in the place,

Where the curmudgeon inside

Would wear a frown.

Fill my season with love

I'll never come down.

There's room in my heart;

I've finally made space.

I made Christmas more

Than just things I hate.

It's not so hard,

You can do it too.

Focus on the love,

Not the curmudgeon in you!

# A Christmas Treat: Spicy and Sweet

Elizabeth Horton-Newton

The snow had been falling for over two hours and I had to fight lanes of traffic to get to the cabin. When I saw the brightly lit windows, the twinkling lights of the Christmas tree winking a warm welcome, I smiled. Cinnamon would be inside preparing another of her delicious dinners. I patted my pocket and felt the hard square of the jewelers' box. Her divorce was final and tonight I would propose. Grabbing the bag with the bottle of champagne from the seat beside me I stepped carefully from the car. It wouldn't do for me to slip on ice and break both the bottle and possibly my own leg on such an auspicious occasion.

My boots left large prints in the virgin snow, but they had already begun to fill by the time I reached the door. As I entered the house the wonderful scents of something cooking tickled my nose. Cinnamon had promised a special Christmas Eve surprise. Although I didn't know what was cooking, I had no doubt it would be a treat. The girl could cook.

"I'm home," I called up the stairs. I could hear her moving around upstairs and the sound of running water let me know she was running a bath. My hand was on the newel post when I saw the bright yellow note. _'No Peeking'_ was written in bright red. Laughing and shaking my head, I turned toward the kitchen where the promise of a delightful meal floated in the air.

Going into the kitchen I put the champagne in the refrigerator and turned to look at the oven. Surely a little peek wouldn't hurt. It was then I noticed the Post-it on the range hood. _'No Peeking!'_ was written in big, black letters. I had to chuckle. "She knows me so well," I thought.

Before heading back into the living room I poured myself a double scotch. Plopping down on the couch I stretched out my legs, propping my feet on the coffee table. The Christmas lights danced on the tree hypnotically. Cinnamon and I had worked hard to get to this night and I couldn't wait to see her face when I presented the two carat diamond to her. I'd played the scene over several times in my head. Soon the warmth of the room and the tumbler of scotch worked with my exhaustion and I dozed off.

Cinnamon and I had met at the gym where I worked. She was a member and I spotted her the first time she walked through the doors. I angled over to her and persuaded her to let me be her personal trainer. I admit I was surprised when I met her husband. Ray was a wealthy, dour man who was obviously quite a bit older than she was. In less than two weeks she was in my bed. In a month she was talking about how she wanted to leave old Ray.

I had no problem with marrying Cinnamon but I couldn't see leaving Ray with full pockets. I wasn't exactly the highest earning guy in the neighborhood. Cinnamon hadn't worked much in her life. Some of Ray's money would go a long way toward helping us set up housekeeping. At first she had been resistant; she just wanted out. Little by little I educated her. It wasn't too difficult. She liked her Chloe bags, Louboutin shoes, and Stella McCartney dresses. I couldn't afford those. Heck, I couldn't afford the dust bags you store them in.

In time Cinnamon saw things my way. The only question was how to have Ray see things my way. In her innocence Cinnamon provided the key, or the lever if you will, to push Ray over the edge. Ray had early onset dementia. If word of his illness got out his company stock would plummet and with it his fortune. After some negotiating with Ray and his lawyers, we came to an agreement. Cinnamon would receive two million dollars up front and twenty thousand dollars monthly until she remarried. Of course that would require our having a rather lengthy engagement. But we could acquire a considerable nest egg of goodies and see some exotic places while we continued our romance.

Cinnamon had no problem setting up a joint account for us so I would be able to access funds as needed. That was one reason I could afford the gigantic rock I would place on the third finger of her left hand. It should hold her off the marriage train for a while.

Don't misunderstand. Cinnamon is a hottie. She's a dynamo in bed too. Considering she reported Ray was pretty much a limp noodle in that respect I was really reaping the rewards. So you see, it wasn't just the money.

Anyway, I woke suddenly and realized I could hear the oven timer buzzing irritably in the kitchen.

"Cinnamon, the timer went off," I called as I stumbled, slightly inebriated, into the kitchen to silence the buzzer. I headed back to the foot of the stairs to call up to her again and heard the bath still running. She was something of a hedonist when it came to baths. Shrugging I went back to the kitchen.

Opening the oven door I pulled out the roasting pan and set it on top of the stove. Glancing at the warning, _'No Peeking'_ note, I decided it no longer applied since I had to see if the food was done. Lifting off the heavy lid I was hit full in the face with steam and closed my eyes momentarily. As the steam cleared I gazed down at the wonderfully scented main course Cinnamon had prepared. It took me almost a full thirty seconds to register what I was seeing. Cinnamon was staring up at me. At least she would have been if she still had eyes. They had cooked away into her head and down her cheeks. Her once full lips were drawn back tightly over the perfect white teeth Ray had paid big bucks for. Gagging and back pedaling from the stove I dropped the lid which clattered loudly on the floor.

Turning, I ran for the stairs and took them two at a time until I reached the upstairs hall. The carpet squished beneath my shoes and I realized it was saturated with water. Bouncing off the walls of the narrow hall I made my way to the bathroom. Flinging open the door I stumbled back, my feet tangling and landing me in a heap on the floor. Cinnamon's headless body floated in the garden tub, her perfect paid for breasts bobbing provocatively in the pink tinted water.

Turning my head I saw the opened bedroom door. Ray sat on the edge of the huge sleigh bed smiling at me.

"Hello Steve. Is dinner ready?"

My screams echoed off the walls challenged only by Ray's maniacal laughter. I scooted toward the stairs on my backside, desperate to escape the horrors I was seeing. In my frantic state I miscalculated and tumbled head over heels down the stairs to lie crumbled at the bottom like an abandoned puppet. Ray appeared at the top of the stairs holding an axe and still laughing. My mind screamed at my arms and legs to move but my body wasn't obeying.

As Ray slowly descended the stairs he began to sing,

"You better watch out, you better not cry, you better not pout, I'm telling you why..." He lifted the axe high over his head, his arms trembling at the weight. "It's going to be coal in your stocking Steve. You've been a bad boy."

# The Lament of Vienna

Matthew W Harrill

Annika clutched her doll, a one-eyed and frayed affair whose brown mop hair had thinned with time and rough treatment by her elder sister, Livia. Named Gertrude, the doll was Annika's only companion and her best friend. She ignored the faults, the skin so thin that the stuffing was beginning to push through worn patches, the leg hanging loose. Gertrude shared her life, filled the holes that were so achingly large.

Dressed in a striped cotton nightgown, another hand-me-down, she watched the street below, looking for any sign of movement. The man in the cloak had said he would come back this night. He would bring friends.

Echoes of 'Stille Nacht' wafted through the cracks in the window as a choir strolled past bundled up in coats and bearing crooked staffs with lanterns and tinsel. Vienna was cold around Christmas. The six year old Annika propped Gertrude against the window frame. The twinkling lights from the nearest Christmas tree shone past the shadowed husks of trees already shed of their leaves. This year was colder than most, so Papa said. The winter had Austria clutched in its deadly grip.

"Let's get you warm, Gertrude," Annika decided, wrapping her best friend close in a shawl. She continued her vigil. Annika was not welcome at the party. Livia and her brother Florian, whom she loved with his dashing looks and funny jokes, were the centre of attention. Annika was used to it. She was the child her mother had not wanted, that was what Livia said to her all the time. They would be downstairs with all the neighbours, drinking sweet Glühwein and eating gingerbread and Christmas cookies.

When everybody was asleep, she would creep downstairs with Gertrude and find what was left, if any. Mama ate a lot at parties. She would share it with her friend, and the man in the cloak.

The night drew on, candles winking out as revellers turned to thoughts of sleep. Their children were already abed, restless and sporadically waking, excited to see what the Christkind would leave them under the tree.

Annika had no such illusions, even for a child of six. Only she and Gertrude knew who stalked the streets this night. The darkness held wonder for her. Stars shone in the cloudless sky, the moon illuminating the street. Advent wreaths marked out the houses he would visit just as in days of yore.

"Days of yore, Gertrude," Annika said aloud, enjoying the sound of the words. The man in the cloak had spoken those words when he appeared a few weeks back, when she had made the wish. She had no idea what they meant but they sounded important.

"Annika," whispered a voice.

Annika looked at Gertrude. The sound had come from her doll. "Yes?"

The worn face remained impassive, yet the voice issued from the thin line of stitching that was Gertrude's mouth.

"It is time, Annika. He is here. Please take me down into the parlour. Take me there."

Excited, Annika jumped down from the window ledge, disturbing the small star she had made from straw, her only decoration and most treasured item after her best friend.

Opening her door, Annika crept on silent feet down the wide stone stairs to the floor below where Mama, Papa, Livia and Florian had their rooms. Each door had its own wreath, small golden presents and painted pine cones bringing them to life. For a moment Annika was sad that they would never share the decorations beyond this floor, hoarding them like a dragon hoards gold. She was sad, but never jealous, for Annika was promised a treasure better than trinkets. She was going to see him.

Tiptoeing down the wide and very grand stairs to the hallway, she showed Gertrude what was left of the feast in the dining room. The goose was mostly gone, as was the fried carp. The tree had been decorated without care; tinsel that had been thrown on was lying in piles on the floor in between several boxed gifts. None would have her name on them. Despite Gertrude's urging, Annika took the time to repair the tree decorations as best she could. She was not very tall, and never had a lot to eat.

Once done, Annika moved toward the parlour following the insistent and repetitive urgings of her doll. There was an inviting glow coming out from the gap under the door, golden and warming. Faint hints of music could be heard, violins and flutes, a tambourine being tapped. Annika reached out, pushing the door open.

Golden light bathed over her, so bright she had to use Gertrude to shield her eyes. Candles shone everywhere, the air warm and pleasant with the scent of apples and cinnamon. The music increased tenfold, the tune she recognised as a song Papa called 'The Blue Danube'. Children scampered around the table, reaching for slices of apple pie and chocolate cake, gingerbread and sweetmeats.

There in the middle, with his companions, stood Saint Nicholas, laughing with the joy of the occasion, the light strongest about him. His beard and hair so white that it was hard to make out the features of his face, he glowed. He must have been an angel.

Annika's stomach gave an involuntary grumble and the music stopped. All in the parlour turned to regard their new guest in silence.

"I'm... I'm sorry," Annika said, her eyes drawn to the food. "I'm just so hungry,"

Resplendent in his mitre and robes, both white with swirls of red-patterned stitching, Saint Nicholas stood and opened his arms. "Annika, welcome. Come in and eat of my table. Be neither afraid, nor hungry, not on this night. For tonight is a special night, for special children."

Clutching Gertrude tight, Annika ran into the embrace of the kindly old man, feeling overwhelming love in his arms.

"Come, child. Eat your fill. Then we will talk of your wish."

Annika ran to the table, and with joyous self-abandon, tucked into the treats that seemed to have no end. When she was full, Annika approached the kindly Saint once again. At his right shoulder stood the cloaked man, wearing chains and holding a bundle of birch sticks.

"Now my companion here tells me you have a very special request."

Annika smiled, just like the cloaked man had said that she should, and repeated the words he had made her remember.

"Dear Saint Nicholas, on this Holy night, I want my family to remember who I am. Papa works all the time, Mama never speaks to me. Livia and Florian say I get in the way. I have nobody."

Saint Nicholas frowned, his hair appearing silver rather than the blazing white as the light about him dimmed.

"Is this true?" He asked of his hooded companion.

"It is, my master." The voice was eager, excited. Long teeth Annika had never seen before ended in points.

Saint Nicholas gave a chortle, a merry bellow, and the lights shone again.

"Well then, let us not keep you apart from your family." He produced a large burlap sack, from which he produced four dolls, two male, two female, all looking just like her parents and siblings.

The Saint leaned forward. "Care for them well, little Annika. They are precious."

"I will sir," Annika promised, gazing at her new family. They looked so real. The music fell away and the parlour darkened to midnight shadow. Annika looked up to find it was just the cloaked man left with her.

"I can give you more," he offered. "Would you like to be with your family forever?"

"Oh yes sir, I truly would."

The cloaked man nodded, pulling his hood back to reveal horns atop his head. Heavy eyebrows topped a face covered in hair. Two red eyes glowed at her. "Look at your friend. Look at Gertrude, into her eyes."

Annika watched her best friend, staring until her eyes began to droop. She fell into the comforting embrace of her best friend, warm and safe. She remembered being carried by the cloaked man up, up into her skyward room where the stars winked down at her from the endless universe above her, around her, until at long last Annika was placed with her family, to remain with them forever. And the cloaked man smiled, for his job was done. He bid her farewell, never to be seen again.

And it came to pass that a house in Vienna, known for its owners' excessive tastes, was sold. The story was passed about that the family disappeared on Christmas Day, taking every object with them except for a small straw star in the uppermost room, and five stuffed dolls. When one held the smallest of the dolls, poorest and raggedy, calm presided and one felt loved. Touch any of the other four and one heard pitiful wails of anguish in the mind. The lament of the four dolls of Vienna.

# Gifts Both Light and Dark

Michael J Elliott

Emily first suspected their new next door neighbour was Santa Claus when her father mentioned his name—Mr Santos.

Santos—sounded very much like Santa.

To her seven year old mind, it seemed perfectly logical. But why would Santa be here in Australia at the beginning of December? Why because he must be having a little holiday of course!

Emily thought it must be very hard spending every year at the North Pole with all that snow and ice. No wonder he wanted to come somewhere nice and warm for a change.

He had probably left Mrs Claus or one of the elves in charge while he had a little rest.

When Emily saw Mr Santos leave his home dressed in a red tee shirt and matching shorts, she had no doubt that he was Santa in disguise. Emily desperately wanted to speak to Santa. She needed to ask him why he didn't visit her every year.

When Emily had asked her father about this he simply told her that Santa had run out of money. She couldn't understand this, surely Santa didn't need money—didn't the elves make everything? It was very confusing to her young mind. Some years Santa did visit her but he must have been nearly out of money because all she received was a colouring book and pencils, not that Emily was greedy. In Emily's house there was never enough to be greedy about.

She wanted to see how Santa had decorated his house. It was probably extremely beautiful. Emily always looked on adoringly at the brightly decorated trees in the department stores. She became very envious of the gaily twinkling lights on her friends trees. Emily's home was rather bereft of Christmas decorations.

There was a small plastic tree which her mother had won in a Christmas slot machine promotion. Unfortunately, she ran out of money before she could win any tree decorations. Emily had been given some coloured paper and a glue stick from her art teacher, Miss Stanley.

That night, whilst her father was at the pub and her mother was at the club, she happily sat by herself making paper chains to decorate the tree. The chains only partially worked, the empty, crushed beer cans and pizza boxes that littered the floor muted Emily's Christmas Spirit.

~~~~

Today, Emily was going to visit Santa. It wasn't actually a visit, firstly Emily was going to sneak into Santa's house and just have a look around. It was just to ensure that Mr Santos was in fact, Santa. Emily realised trying to break into Santa's house would put her on his naughty list but she also hoped she could explain her actions. She planned on checking to make sure Mr Santos went out before she visited the house.

After searching the cupboards, Emily managed to locate some stale cornflakes with just enough milk to moisten them, she sat eating her breakfast by the lounge room window waiting for any sign of Mr Santos. It wasn't long before she spotted the rotund gentleman walking down his garden path.

He looked around furtively, not surprisingly, thought Emily. He must be constantly worried that someone discovers his true identity. Emily decided to wait for a little while before venturing next door just in case Mr Santos returned unexpectedly. Emily couldn't really tell the time but she knew when the big hand on the lounge room wall clock was on six it meant she had waited a long time. When the big hand was directly above the six she jumped up from the chair excitedly. And headed out the front door.

Her mother was still asleep and wouldn't even miss her absence when she awoke. She'd probably head straight to the club without giving Emily a second thought.

~~~~

Mr Santos' front yard was a riot of daisy and overgrown weeds. When Mrs Beasley lived here someone from the government housing came and mowed her lawns but that was before Mrs Beasley was taken away to a nursing home. The house had remained vacant for over a year.

The curtains in all the windows were drawn. Emily considered testing to see whether the front door was unlocked and then decided against it. Nobody left their doors unlocked in this neighbourhood. Santa was clever enough to know this. The side gate was wire mesh with a simple catch. It was the same type of gate at Emily's house. There was no padlock present so she merely lifted the catch and proceeded to walk into the back garden.

The back garden was just as overgrown as the front. Since the house was exactly the same design as her own, Emily knew the window on the left hand side of the back door was the laundry one. She was delighted to see that it slid halfway open. Her lucky streak continued when she spotted a wooden crate near the back door. Using the crate to stand on, Emily managed to raise the window slightly higher and virtually step into the small laundry trough. Seconds later she was standing in the laundry and had the door opened.

Walking past the room which she knew to be the toilet, Emily headed straight to the lounge room. She naturally assumed Santa would have his presents in there as well as his Christmas tree but she was puzzled to discover neither. In fact the room contained nothing at all, no television, no furniture-nothing. Perhaps Santa didn't need furniture. Emily knew this house had three bedrooms so she decided to check each of them.

The first two were empty and smelt just as musty and stale as the lounge room. Emily's eyes lit up with delight when she entered the third bedroom. This was the largest bedroom in the house. She knew that because it was the same size as her mother and father's.

In the centre of the room was one of the largest Christmas trees Emily had ever seen. Multi-coloured garlands of tinsel festooned its branches. Glittery baubles spun lazily from a breeze which was due to a partially opened window. Surrounding the base of the tree were gift wrapped boxes of all shapes and colours. They glittered and gleamed as the sun shone through the lace curtain and into the room. Cellophane wrapped candy canes were scattered amidst the gifts. Emily's stomach rumbled and her mouth watered. Surely Santa wouldn't mind if she took just one. Emily sometimes found loose change at the back of the sofa the day after her father had passed out there. There was a very good chance she'd be able to pay Santa for the candy cane.

She bent down to retrieve one of the canes. She had to shoo some flies away from them. There seemed to be an inordinately large amount of flies in this room. They buzzed around then settled back onto the gifts. Emily was so absorbed in the rare rapture of enjoying a sweet treat she failed to notice the sound of approaching footsteps.

"Hello"

She spun around and her eyes widened with a mixture of surprise and trepidation. Mr Santos was standing in the doorway, a wide grin on his face. He was wearing a grimy white tee shirt which didn't cover his large belly.

"I-I'm sorry, I wasn't stealing the candy cane, I-I can pay for it later."

Mr Santos laughed heartily, "Oh, nonsense, I give them to all my guests. Even if they haven't been officially invited."

Emily meant to apologise but that wasn't what emerged, "I know who you really are."

"Do you?" He said scratching his long whitish-grey beard, "Yes, I suppose it was only a matter of time, it always is."

"Don't worry, I won't tell anyone. I just wanted to speak to you. I-I really like the presents you've made. They must take a long time to get just right."

Mr Santos reached behind him and pushed the bedroom door close. His tongue began licking his thick rubbery lips.

"Yes," he said moving slightly closer to Emily, "Sometimes they take a long, long time to get just right."

# Christmas Dreams

L A Remenicky

The flames dancing in the fireplace did little to warm her heart. Emotions were a thing of the past, like electricity, the internet, and pizza delivery. Kara Murphy wrapped the quilt around her shoulders and wished for the convenience of central heating. She looked around the room and sighed. Before the invasion, Christmas Eve would have been celebrated with a decorated tree and family and friends gathered together for a party and presents; now it was another evening spent alone. Her brother Kevin, the only one of her family still alive, was off fighting the aliens somewhere south of Indianapolis and Tim, her husband of six months, had been reported missing in action two months ago.

It had been two years since the aliens invaded and their weapons had disabled anything electronic. She was luckier than most, her brother's penchant for classic automobiles had saved them that day, his 1956 pickup truck still functioned while all the modern cars with their electronic everything had become useless hunks of metal and rubber. Most of the wood stacked outside the door she had received in payment for use of the truck, along with canned food and jugs of fresh water.

The heat from the fire and the quilt warmed her, pulling her toward sleep. She jerked awake when the logs in the fireplace settled, sending sparks shooting up the chimney. After tossing another hunk of wood on the fire she turned to the window, glad to see the wind had died down. The world outside had been transformed by the storm into a glittering wonderland. A doe and her fawn tiptoed through the yard, their tracks the only thing marring the pristine cover of snow.

"Beautiful, isn't it?"

She turned to discover a man sitting in the chair, his booted feet, crossed at the ankles, rested on the table. Normally Bently would have barked if a stranger walked into the house but he was in his spot near the fireplace sleeping. Her hand wrapped around the fireplace poker after a few steps to the left brought her back to the fireplace. "Who the hell are you and how did you get in here? I know I locked the door." The fireplace poker in her hand reassured her she could defend herself if need be.

"I have many names but you would know me as Santa Claus." He stood and pulled the stocking hat off his head. "It's finally your turn to get what you want for Christmas. I was disappointed Christmas isn't important to you anymore."

Convinced she was still asleep and this was a dream, she looked him up and down, wondering why her sleeping brain dressed Santa in jeans, a flannel shirt, and work boots. At least he had a beard even if it was black and shaggy instead of the snowy white portrayed in all the storybooks. He was supposed to be short and portly not six feet tall and built like an underwear model. "Okay... What do you mean my turn? I thought you were magic and could visit everyone in one night. And why do you look like a walking ad for Outdoor Living?"

His laugh filled the room, chasing away the shadows of the past.

"And why would I want to celebrate Christmas here by myself? What is there to celebrate? The fact I made it through another day without my husband who is probably dead and without my brother, the only family I have. Forgive me for not wanting to be around people."

"And the snarky award goes to..."

"I'm just tired of this life. Everything is so much harder now and the constant fear of alien attack. So, back to my question. What do you mean, it's my turn."

"The list says it's your turn." He pulled a book out of his shirt pocket and paged through it until he found the page he wanted. "See, it's here in black and white: Christmas 2020 – Kara Knight."

She marveled at the size of the book, how in the world did it fit in his shirt pocket? Oh yeah, this is just a dream. "What if I said I wanted my life back? My life before the invasion with all its conveniences, I mean. Can you stop the war? Make it as if it never happened?"

"Is that what you really want? Your life before the war?"

"Well, who wouldn't? Life was so much easier then: hot water gushing out of the faucet, radio and television to keep us entertained, and a fridge to keep everything cold. Right now those sound so nice."

"What about Tim? If the invasion never happened his car would have taken him on to Kentucky, he wouldn't have been on the side of the road for you to pick up."

She dropped the fireplace poker into its spot. "I didn't think about that."

"And your brother, you hardly knew him. You were so wrapped up in your social media friends and having the latest and greatest gadgets. Did you know he was contemplating suicide in the days before the war?"

"What? No. Not Kevin." She brushed a stray tear off her face. "He always seemed so happy when I saw him."

"It was an act. He was miserable in New York but he felt he needed to pay for your college tuition and so he stayed at a job he hated."

"I know I was selfish back then but surely I could have changed without the world being destroyed."

"Maybe."

"I get it. I wouldn't be the person I am now without the war. But I'm so tired of waiting to hear if I still have a husband. Surely there would have been some word by now. I don't remember what it feels like to be happy."

"What is the one thing you want for Christmas? You get only one wish so be sure it is truly what you want."

She stared into the fire, pulling out her memories and examining them one by one: chatting with her friends online, spending time with her brother, looking into Tim's eyes and seeing the love she had for him reflected back at her magnified by ten. Her life had been easier but it had been empty and devoid of love, an existence focused on material gain. The truth was there, buried in those memories. She wanted her husband more than her previous life.

"If I get only one wish I want my husband to be safe. I don't want to live in a world without him in it."

"And so it shall be."

Her head whirled as she stared at his smile.

Kara awoke to find herself on the sofa wrapped in the quilt. The wind howled and blew the falling snow into swirls of flakes and drifts, severely limiting visibility. "Wow, what a dream." She reached over to pet Bently, wondering why he had slept through her dream. "Some watchdog you are, even in my dreams."

Bently rushed to the window, barking, his hackles raised. "What is it? Surely there isn't anyone out there in this weather."

The doorknob turned back and forth as someone pounded on the door.

She pulled her gun out from under the couch cushion. "Who's there?"

"Kara, open the door. It's me, Kevin, and I have a surprise for you. Come on, hurry up, I'm freezing out here."

It sounded like her brother but she checked the peephole anyway. A brown eyeball stared back at her. Yep, it was her brother.

She unlocked the deadbolt and pulled the door open to find not only her brother but her husband. Her hands went to his face, her fingers running through the beard covering his jaw. "Is it really you? How? Where have you been?" She wrapped her arms around him and cried tears of happiness as he held her.

"Yes, it's really me."

Kevin stepped from around the corner, "Hi, Sis. I told you I had a surprise for you."

"How did you get here through the storm? Surely you didn't walk."

Tim sat on the sofa and pulled Kara down with him, his lips finding hers.

Breathless from the kiss, Kara snuggled into the warmth of Kevin's arms.

"Some guy in a sleigh offered us a ride all the way here. I tried to get him to come in and warm up but he said he had another wish to grant and took off," Tim said as he poked at the fire, sending sparks flying up the chimney.

None of them noticed the sleigh as it flew through the sky and disappeared, its lone occupant smiling at the reunion.

# To All a Good Night

William Lloyd

THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!

The breeze sneaked through the crack in the window as the noises in the house disturbed Adam Ballinger from his slumber. He rustled under his covers, feeling the cold tickle his feet. This was no ordinary Christmas Eve; there was something whispering in the trees. Lifting himself from the bed, the young boy rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Another thump from downstairs made him thrilled that Santa had finally arrived. He swung his feet from the bed and tiptoed across the oak floor. Not one little peep came from the boy's mouth.

A jingle and jangle echoed from the tree downstairs just around the corner from the last step of the stairs. He pressed his back to the wall, cautiously creeping to investigate the noises, but there was something sinister in the air. It was not jolly and filled with joy. Tonight the cold air was like a ghost warning him to run back upstairs and hide under his bed.

The wicked giggle broke the silence. An eruption of sparks and whistles cascaded around the corner. Adam continued to the final stair and when he peeked around the corner Santa was not there. It was an estranged elf sitting at the stoop of the fireplace. A cigar balanced between his fiery red lips and his round doll eyes twinkled with a blaze of hate. The boy stepped into the doorway and watched the elf blow a puff of smoke from his mouth. The bell jingled from the end of his hat as he rubbed the stubble across his jaw.

"Where is Santa?" Adam asked with a shiver. "And why are you not in his workshop?"

"Kid, it's all a lie. There is no Santa Claus that funnels down the chimney or reindeer that fly. Your mother and father lied. It is all a hoax to distract you from reality." The elf coughed and got to his feet. His green shoes curled back like the ends of candy canes.

"Who are you? Why are you saying those things?" He stepped back to the doorway. His eyes rolled over to the staircase, where the shadows toiled from the tree branches outside.

"I'm the helper that haunts your dreams on Christmas Eve. The Christmas spirit you never hear about in the dark abyss." The elf walked towards Adam and flicked the cigar into the tree. The embers caught the rug on fire and the branches engulfed in flames instantly.

Adam watched as the joy turned to horror. He tripped on the first step and crawled to the top landing. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw saliva dripping from the elf's sharp teeth, the elf's eyes thirsting for Adam's blood. He ran down the hallway, but the door extended further from him. His tiny little fingers wiggled in the air, but he could not reach the door handle. A tug on his ankle made him roll across the floor. When he flipped over onto his back, he saw the elf overpowering him and glaring down at him like an insane elf from hell. Adam crossed his arms over his eyes.

"Mom, Dad, help me!" His cries rattled the walls of the hall and a light consumed the darkness. "Help!" he screamed as the elf's sharp nails dug into his neck.

The bitter cold no longer gave him chills. Heat underneath his back and around his face made him cry harder. Flames surrounded him and smoke billowed overhead.

THUMP!

The noise pounded in his head as a hand grabbed him from the hallway. His body was whipped into the air and he was hung over someone's shoulder like a sack. His eyes burned from the heat and he dared not try to speak. A final jolt through the front door brought the cold Christmas air rippling down his back. He looked up into the sky at the white specks of snow, the moon hanging high, and the trees rustling in the wind. When he saw the fire truck and the police cruisers in the cul-de-sac, he realized the fire had consumed the house.

"You're going to be okay, kid!" the firefighter yelled, plopping Adam onto the back of an ambulance. The man turned to the police. "I'm going back in to find any other survivors."

Adam watched the windows explode, shards of glass glistening in the air. Pieces of the curtain fabric blew through the broken windows. It was a ruined Christmas for Adam, but was the elf only a dream? He looked up towards his parents' bedroom. There was the menace, blood dripping from his lips. The glint from his mother's wedding ring twinkled from the severed hand. It was not a dream, the fire was a distraction and Christmas was the fuel that awakened the beast.

A blinding light flashed over Adam's shoulder. He saw his father running towards him with another woman – the neighbor a few houses down. Adam closed his eyes as tears rolled down his cheeks, but all the chaos disappeared in a matter of a blink. A chill brushed his sleeve, and when he opened his eyes, he heard the sound again.

THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!

The room was black and the chill from the open window tickled his feet. He was excited because Santa was finally here. Adam flipped his feet over the side of the bed and ran to the door. He raced down the hall to the stairs where an orange glow lit the foyer below. When he turned the corner, the elf was waiting with a blood-stained grin. The elf dragged his feet towards the boy and flicked the cigar at the tree. Flames engulfed it instantly.

"You thought you could run. How did that work for you? You even hid like a mouse in a hole. You will always remember this night especially because _you_ caused your mother's death." The elf gestured its head towards the floor.

Adam looked down and there was the culprit: a pack of matches between his feet. He turned around to discover the fire consumed the walkway behind him. The elf's lips curled back into his mouth as he reached out to grab Adam.

"They all think they can escape their nightmares, but your fate was already decided when you died with the flames..."

# Christmas with no Atmosphere

Simon Coates

Steve opened his eyes and awoke. He was facing his digital clock, which showed 6:55am, and with it, the realisation that he had woken before the alarm would wake him. This was unusual; most mornings, he would have to be woken by the relentless automatic timekeeper, to begin another day, at 7am precisely. By now, the routine was fairly well established. Steve, along with the four other crew members had trained for this for years previously.

They were now simply putting that preparation into practice. Now, after succeeding in the most audacious and ambitious endeavour in the history of the human race, they were heading home.

Steve was one of the five humans that had set foot on Planet Mars some two months previous on 5th October 2037, becoming the first humans to walk on another planet other than Earth. Now they were on the return journey back home.

The moment had not yet sunk in, not for any of the crew. For Steve, it was almost disappointing, an anticlimax. He wasn't around when Neil Armstrong had landed on the Moon nearly eighty years ago, and ever since Steve had been placed on the mission to Mars, he had imagined what it would actually be like to be part of something truly pioneering, what it would feel like. The sense of achievement. The sheer thought that he was going to be part of something so amazing, that he would be written in the history books as being one of the five humans that had made up the crew of the first manned mission to Mars. Perhaps that euphoria would come later, when he and the rest of the crew would meet dignitaries and face the media, telling the stories of what it was actually like. Here, right now, he was on that mission, travelling home.

Wearily, Steve made his way to his shower area, had a brief wash, and got ready for his shift, piloting the spaceship home. By now, he moved easily in the zero gravity environment, something he had gotten used to after being in it for over a year. His uniform was fresh from the washer and always smelt nice for the first couple of days, before it would be cleaned as part of the normal routine of life on board the ship. It had become so normal, so routine, he did things almost without thinking. Leaving his quarters, he headed towards the ship's bridge.

"Hi Andrea", he said, noticing the figure of Dr Kowlowski, the main pilot. She nodded in a sign of acknowledgement, and returned her gaze back to the computer screen, another routine that was well established. The day-to-day monotony of life aboard their spaceship, which had been home since they took off from Earth, some 14 months ago.

One thing was different, however, and that was the empty chair next to the doctor. This should have been occupied by the co-pilot, a Japanese man called Kung Fi Koom. This sight caused a bit of consternation for Steve; such a thing was odd, in the normally 100% certainly of the schedule of their mission.

Turning to Andrea, Steve asked "Where's Kung?"

Andrea smiled, and turned to face another crew member who had just entered the cockpit area. This was the Russian Sergy Abramov, the man who was the first to step onto the surface of Mars.

Dressed in red, with an obviously fake long white beard, he came into the room that made up the ship's bridge, smiling. For a moment, Steve looked bemused at this strange turn of events. Then, suddenly, his expression of surprise and puzzlement changed into a smile. He nodded, gave a smirk and acknowledged the rest of the crew.

It was 25th December, 2037.

"Sorry guys, I had totally forgotten about the date. Well, Merry Christmas everyone. Sorry I haven't been shopping, but there weren't any decent places on the planet we've just been on."

This was met with smirks of laughter in the room. By now, the crew had established a good friendship with each other; there was no other way, confined to a cramped spaceship for such an extended period of time.

By now, Kung, and Nasser, an Iranian computer technician, had joined the rest of the crew on the ship's bridge. The mood had lightened significantly; for months, these people had been on board the spaceship to take them to Mars, and it had been two months since they had actually been on the Red Planet. It had been a routine of professionalism, of supremely gifted humans embarking on a voyage to Mars, the first one of its kind. Now, today, the sense of formality had lifted, today was going to be a day of celebration. Sergy had by now opened a bottle of champagne, which had been allowed on board, but had been forgotten about when they had landed on Mars; it should have been opened then. Christmas seemed a very agreeable alternative excuse to consume this beverage.

The crew chatted amongst themselves. It seemed that the normal formal arrangements of strict duties was on hold; for the five people on board, it was a very welcome distraction. On any normal day, Sergy would be taking his scheduled sleeping time, and the other crew members would be doing routine duties on board the ship. However, this was 25th December, Christmas Day.

Inevitably, the conversation turned towards a more profound subject, as was usual for scientists. If humans were to live on Mars, would they celebrate Christmas? Of course they would! And to that, the five crew members raised their glasses, and shared a toast to the people on Earth, wishing them a very happy and Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year— for a good and prosperous future, whatever that might bring.

# The Cake and the Kumiho

Isaac Jourden

The final bell rings. My classroom of middle school students shuffles into the hallway in their dusty grey school uniforms, not comprehending that today is a special day. To them it's just another Friday. To me, it's the most special day of the year; Christmas Eve.

I'm still shell shocked I had to work today. In Seoul, Christmas isn't special. It's a gimmicky couple's holiday designed to sell chocolate and movie tickets. Soon, my family back home will be gathering around a warm fire, opening presents, enjoying the solace. The people here scarcely notice.

Mrs. Han comes into the room. Of all my coworkers, she's the one I want to see least. She dislikes me intensely and doesn't try to hide it. She loved the last American teacher here, a cheerful blonde with a big smile and an unquenchable work ethic I can only describe it as annoying. Mrs. Han resents that I took her place.

"Lesson plan ready for next week?"

"Not yet," I say. "I've been very busy."

"Send it to me before you leave please. I need to prepare." She leaves in a huff. I spend fifteen minutes on YouTube, send her a lesson plan I found online, and leave. I need a drink.

Woodstock is my favorite bar in Korea. It's dark, it's loud, and they play only English music. One of few places you can drink without Korean pop music in the background. Plus, it's nestled in one of the back streets near Sillim Station, far away from Hongdae or Gangnam or anywhere else people typically party. Just get a drink, listen to some Guns 'n' Roses, and walk home in the dark.

My usual spot in the back corner is open. The lights are low and there's a candle on each table, and a wreath attached to the bar. If they play any Christmas music, I'm leaving. I can't celebrate properly, with friends and family. I can't celebrate like the Koreans, by taking a girl out on a date. I want to forget it's even a holiday.

Three Long Island Iced Teas—which taste like poisoned lemonade and not at all like a Long Island—help me along the way. That's when I notice her.

Short skirt, brown tights, and gaudy high heels. The room is a thousand degrees, but she's bundled in a white fur jacket, hood pulled up, complete with fox ears I always thought were exclusive to anime, until I moved here and discovered they were everywhere. Has she been there all night, or did she come in while I was drinking? I'm smitten. Stuck. I know ten words of Korean when I'm sober, and I'm nowhere near that now. I admire my new crush from afar.

The girl at the bar perks up, as though she's listening. She swings around on her stool to the tune of "Satisfaction" by the Rolling Stones. She walks toward me in time with the music. Or maybe not. I'm drunk.

Timed to the music or not, she slides into the booth next to me. It happens—she's curious about a non-Korean, nothing more.

"Hello, how are you?"

I swallow the urge to answer "I'm fine thank you, and you?" like textbooks instruct my students to respond. This would probably get a laugh, and is likely my only shot at a joke we both understand.

"I'm good," I say.

Up close, she looks... wrong, somehow. Eyes too big. Nose twitching, like she smells something enticing. But she's cute. It's hard to look away.

"It's Christmas time," she says.

"Merry Christmas," I say, toasting her with the watered down dregs of my drink.

The bartender, Subin, brings over two fresh Long Islands, and smiles at me. It's as close as a Korean would get to a suggestive wink. Normally, I'd enjoy seeing Subin, an attractive girl by any measure. Tonight, she looks disappointingly plain.

I look back to the stranger next to me. She's cute, but not stunning. Not the kind of girl you dream about. But around her, everything else seems, well, dull. My face is flushed. I'm thankful for the low light.

"I'm Kumi," she says. "Where are you from?"

"Portland," I say. "America."

"Do you like Korea?"

"I like the music," I say. She misses the joke.

"Are you having a nice Christmas time?" she asks.

"It's different here," I say. It's as diplomatic as I can be.

"In Korea, it is a day for couples. You have no girlfriend?"

"Nope," I shrug.

"Who will share your Christmas cake?"

"I don't have one."

The Korean Christmas Cake is one of the few traditions all my students adore. You place an order days, even weeks in advance, as bakeries crank out ornate cakes for every family in the neighborhood, topped with Christmas trees, Santa Claus, or shaved chocolate. Korean cake does not at all taste like American cake. It's not sweet enough, rich enough, or fluffy enough. They look beautiful, but they taste like cardboard display cakes.

"You _must_ have a Christmas cake. Go and get a cake, and I will share it with you. It's tradition."

I want to share cake with this girl—this woman—very much.

"Wait here," I say.

I rush up the stairs, out the door, and into the cold night air. How Korea manages to be so cold with so little snow, I have no idea. My skin feels feverish.

All the local bakeries are closed. But there's one place that never disappoints: Paris Baguette. Paris Baguette is a Korean chain bakery that churns out Korean-inspired breads, cakes, donuts, and sandwiches which are designed, I presume based on flavor, by someone who has never tasted the proper versions of any of these things.

At one a.m. on a Friday night, the Paris Baguette at Sillim station is _very_ picked over. The store clerk has wisely given up on replenishing missing items, waiting for everyone to go home so he can work in peace. I look over to the Christmas cake display window. Empty. I walk over anyway for a closer look, and there it is: a lone Christmas cake, sitting on the bottom rack, pushed to the back. The thrill of victory.

I bend down to pick it up. My victory is stolen—the cake is mashed and deformed. The only one left because no one else wanted it. I consider buying it anyway, bringing it back to my new date with a sheepish grin. The sentiment feels very "Charlie Brown Christmas." I abandon it.

I burst out into the crowded street, scanning the throngs of people for Christmas cakes. There are plenty. Someone must be willing to give up theirs. A mom letting her daughter hold the cake? No. An old man in a suit and tie? No. A gaggle of old ladies? No. Then I see them: a young couple, high school or maybe even younger, walking arm-in-arm, looking at each other, holding the cake between them. Perfect.

"Anyohaseyo," I say. _Hello._

"Anyo," they say back, justifiably confused.

"Christmas Cake jusayeo." _Christmas Cake Please._

They look around, not sure what to do. I think they worry I might attack them.

I quickly pull a hundred thousand won out of my wallet—about ninety bucks. Hardly enough to entice a working mother or a businessman, but jobless teens? Maybe.

"Jusayeooooooo," I say, stretching the word in a high pitched way, the sound Koreans universally accept as begging or whining.

The teens look at each other. They look at the money. They look at each other again. The boy takes the cash and the girl hands me the cake. I don't wait to see their reaction. Success!

I run back to Woodstock, half expecting Kumi to have disappeared, leaving me holding a disgusting twenty dollar cake and feeling like an idiot.

She's there. "You've returned!" she says. "I thought you escaped."

I slide into the booth next to her, displaying the cake. Snowmen and blue snowflakes. Classy. Subin brings us chopsticks from behind the bar, and Kumi cuts the tiniest of pieces of cake for us. With pieces this size, we could feed the whole bar.

"Since you have a present for me, I have a present for you," she says. She takes my hand and leads me upstairs. I can't imagine what she would possibly have for me. I just hope we can return for the cake—I certainly paid enough for it.

Kumi walks across the alley and touches the wall. There's nothing there that I can see, just a mural over red brick. But when she touches it, it glows around her, and a section of the wall disappears. Light beams out from it, so I can't see what lies on the other side. No one else sees it, except me and her.

"You are my Christmas date," she says. She holds out a hand.

I take her hand and follow her through the light. I'll celebrate Christmas with someone after all.

# The Naughty List

Joe Compton

"Lady and Gentle-elves if I could have your attention for just one moment please."

The music abruptly stopped. All the humming and hawing, loud pitch hammer pings, and overall chaos of a dozen or so Elves working away in Santa's Workshop suddenly faded into an almost horrific silence. A couple dozen or so humans, dressed in all black from head to toe including black ski masks, combat armor, and wielding hunting rifles, moved stealthily and clinically across the workshop floor. The sharp red streams of the laser targeting from each rifle finding an individual elf to point directly in on their heads or chests.

"I implore you not to make any sudden movements or try to be a hero here. It is not you we have come for or intend to hurt, but if you feel so inclined to be stupid, well then you will pay for that insolence. I assure you."

All the elves stood looking to one another, shaking from head to toe, mouths gaped open, and lips quivering. As these men stepped in on them, a smaller entity emerged atop the golden perch, a walkway that ascends above the workshop housed by a thick, golden, glistening metal rail. This entity was dressed just as the men were, in all black complete with the ski mask and combat armor, but only wielding a pistol, not a rifle. As this entity descended from the perch onto a visible open platform a couple steps above the workshop floor, it became very clear to all the elves, this was one of their own.

As surely as that revelation came, so did the unveiling. This entity reached up behind its head and pulled away the ski mask.

"Marty?"

All the elves turned in the direction of the voice that revealed the masked elf.

"That's right Scout. It's me."

Scout cautiously stepped forward, being very deliberate in her movements so she did not look threatening.

"What are you doing, you were one of Santa favorites?"

Scout was a young lady elf. Long blonde locks sprouting out from her scalp like branches on a tree, decked in a bright red knitted Christmas sweater and a long, cascading, green velvet skirt that covered her lower half down to the top of her work boots. Her fingers were nicely manicured. Her nails painted, one hand's fingers dark green, the other bright red (the colors of Christmas).

"That's far enough my dear."

Marty raised his pistol and took aim at Scout. She did not hesitate and took one step forward before all the laser scopes shifted focus and pointed in on her. A collective gasp echoed through the workshop like a stiff cold breeze.

"What's this about Marty?"

Scout held out her hands and remained still. Marty lowered his weapon and gazed into Scout's warm tear filled eyes. Marty took a deep breath. Then he resumed aiming back in on her, while the lasers went back to pointing onto the rest of the crowd.

"I have come for the book, Scout."

"You think he's really is going to give it...to you, then the legend is true. YOU HAVE GONE MAD."

Scout closed her eyes and took a deep breath, knowing that her soft and gentle approach had been all but ruined by that stern, random outburst coming from the peanut gallery.

"YOU ALL SHUT UP!!! SHUT UP NOW!! We are done talking. You two, by the door. Go get his fat ass up and bring him here."

Two of the masked men quickly rushed out through the door. As the doors swung shut, Marty shuffled a couple steps over so that he was looking around Scout and directly at the gathered group behind her.

"Now the next pointed ear motherfucker that spouts off, gets an early Christmas gift, a few fucking holes in their chest and forehead!"

Suddenly silence hushed into the room. Moments later the doors whisked open and Santa Claus was pushed through it. His hair looking as if he was just awoke, puffed out and everywhere. He was not in uniform, instead a white cotton t-shirt and his long johns.

A disoriented Santa upon surveying the situation, quickly gathered himself and showed a terrifying concern. Then he focused in on one thing.

"Marty?"

Marty smiled wickedly as he pranced down each step of the stairs in front of him till he too was on the workshop floor, holding out his arms with a smug smirk ripping across his face. Right smack dab in the middle of the room, in front of the whole workshop crew, for Santa to feast his eyes upon.

"That's right boss. It is me. Surprised?"

"How did you get past Comet, Dasher, the others?"

"Please! Same ole Jolly Saint Nick, always assuming he is better than everyone else. HOW DO YOU THINK I GOT PAST THEM OLD MAN? HAVE YOU TAKEN A LOOK AROUND! I have the best armed force in the North Pole with me here. We are about to wipe out Santa's workshop if I don't get what I came for."

"You really think this is the way to do this?"

"Oh gee, no Santa. I thought I would come skipping and caroling into the place that FUCKING FIRED AND BANISHED ME with a tray of milk and cookies and...oh pretty please can I have the list?"

"You know I will never give that to you and you know what happens if you kill us."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah, a new Santa will be sought and he will appoint new helpers, blah, blah, blah..."

With that Marty lifted his pistol and walked and aimed in toward Santa.

"Well maybe Santa, with you gone the powers that be might seek council with the last surviving elf. It's not like they know I was banished. Then I can bring in a sucker, someone I can curry quick favor with and ooh, look at that, head elf Marty is born."

"You are a disgrace!"

Marty spun around toward the voice that shouted out and saw Scout stepping forward toward him. Again all the lasers drew back onto her.

Marty chuckled and turned back to Santa, his gun now inches from his chin pointed in, ready to fire.

"Next step kills her and everyone in here. Give me the Naughty and Nice List and I will be on my way. It's not like you can't remember it and recreate it."

"That's not my concern Marty. It's what you intend to do with the list."

"Awe yes. I think we both know the answer to that. Children of the world have been judged long enough. Just as you judged me with your beady eyes and jolly demeanor as if it was all a sick joke to you. Telling all the kids of the world who you deem worthy of your love. Well tonight the Naughty strike back, armed to the teeth with the knowledge that their beloved Santa Claus was never going to love them like he did all the other fucking brats of the world. All because of what? The precocious nature one might exhibit as a youngling?"

"There has to balance, you know that. Give all the kids of the world something better to be, appeal to the better nature of their beings."

"Bullshit! They are kids...being kids. Who gave you the right to tell them they will never be more than naughty."

"This isn't about them Marty, is it?"

"Oh you think I am just being bitter because you PASSED ME OVER, time and time again? No, you know I have always had these ideals. I have always sought these changes. Your code and your 'this is the way it has been' bullshit needs to end. Since you won't listen to reason you gave me no other choice. Now give me the fucking book or say goodbye to the thing you love the most...being Santa."

Santa stood his ground, testing Marty's ticking time bomb of patience. Just as Marty cocked the hammer back and pushed his finger into the trigger well, a flash and sudden whisk of cold air rushed through the doorway. A rush of 30 or so kids, decked out in punk rock attire with hunting knifes and bow and arrows pointed in on the masked men and Marty. One of the older kids came in behind Marty and thrusted a sharp blade up against his throat.

"Drop the gun elf."

"This is not how kids on the nice list should behave."

The kid leaned in and whispered into Marty's ear.

"Who said we were on the nice list?"

"Let me finish my business here and there will be no lists."

"Sorry the devil, or in this case, the Santa you know is better than the one you don't."

Marty exhaled in frustration and lowered his gun. A sudden loud cheer from the elves vibrated throughout the workshop as Marty and his goons were whisked out the door.

# Seven Years Bad Luck

Rocky Rochford

Ever since that day, it's always there, right on the tip of the tongue and the first thing people always ask me:

"How did you come by such a scar?"

Well what a tale that is.

One of loss.

Pain.

And a never ending nightmare.

A tale that starts with a girl and ends with me holding a shard of bloodied glass.

It was Christmas Eve, a day I hate almost as much as Christmas. I've always hated the Christmas holidays, everything about it. It's just one of those things, like why the sky is blue, why the sun rises in the east and sets in the west. There are reasons for all these things, just not everyone understands them, but don't worry, very soon you will understand just one of the many reasons I hate Christmas as much as I do.

Like I said, it was Christmas Eve and to my own surprise I was spending it in a manner I never would have expected: I was spending it with the girl I loved and her infant child at her parents' house.

Don't for one second start thinking we were both children; we were eighteen, so still kids, but legal adult kids.

Due to her parents' hatred of me, of our relationship, we were in her room, just Maddie, Blake, and me. Her parents didn't know I was there because if they did, they would have surely thrown me out, but then again it was Christmas, so if they did know, they were actually being nice for once.

It's not Christmas without a tree, and because we were in an upstairs bedroom, away from the living room and the magnificent tree her father was able to grab this year, I decided we should have our own tree. I went to a lot and got the best thing I could get for close to no money as I was potless and something small, small and light enough to be strapped to my back as I climbed up the side of her home.

The three of us sat round the tree, well it was more a plant, but we were happy, you know. Blake was bouncing on my lap; he wasn't mine, but I was the only dad the kid knew. I was there the day he was born, beside his mother, my girlfriend of a couple of months, doing what she asked of me.

He may not have been biologically mine, but it really didn't matter to me.

I loved him like he was, and I loved his mother even more.

Her eyes met mine as we sat side by side, and I couldn't help but notice the distance there. She was happier than I'd ever seen her, but there was something false about her smile and that glint in her eye had me worried.

Worried but not enough to push the subject.

Something dark was haunting her and in time I would know what it was, the very next day, in fact. But like an idiot, I was too scared or too foolish to go into it and now it haunts me that I didn't.

"You're so good with me." She purred in my ear.

"I've had lots of practice." I chimed back.

She laughed, but it sounded empty.

"You know we're missing the fire, right?"

"Then let's not miss out on it any further."

This bit but gets a little sad. I pulled out a couple of candles and lit them up. "There, that's all the fire we need."

"It's perfect, just like our family."

I looked to her, to Blake, the "tree" and our "fire." Our family was perfect, my little family, and tomorrow I intended to make it a real one.

It wasn't easy, but I managed to get enough money together for the perfect present, a ring, because on Christmas morning, I wanted to slip into her room, gently nudge her awake, and ask her to marry me. Her parents would never give me permission; I already knew that, hence the reason I would never ask them.

"I've been thinking," I began to say. "About tomorrow..."

"You don't have to say anything. I know you hate Christmas. I know your reasons; I may not understand them all, but I know them. You don't have to come here tomorrow. I know I said I really wanted you here for Christmas dinner, but it's okay if you don't want to."

The words that followed took a while to form but I managed to speak them. "No, I do. I do want to. I'll be here."

That smile made a return, the "I'm so happy but harbouring a dark secret" smile, but I shrugged it off and allowed myself to be overcome by her warm embrace and loving kiss. I just wanted to stay in that moment, but I knew time was ticking on and Blake's bed time was quickly approaching, which means it would be time for me to leave.

Instead, we moved our kiss to her bed, after I put Blake into his. "Grab an early one mate, you deserve it. Big day tomorrow."

We laid in each other's arms, kissing the night away, and sure we could have done the typical thing of stripping the other one's clothes off, kissing each other's bodies and laying together as lovers, but neither one of us felt like that.

We didn't want to make a noise and cause her parents to come up.

And we didn't want to ruin that special moment,

A moment of belonging.

A moment of being a united family.

We ceased the kissing and swapped it for spooning, and Blake was struggling to nod off, so Maddie scooped him out of his crib and put him between us and we just laid there, eyes on each other, playing with Blake's tiny fingers and toes as the candle burned down.

It was paradise and then my phone vibrated.

My silent alarm.

It was time to go.

She knew straight away and unlike every other time, she didn't even try to fight it, to try and get me to stay for just a little longer. It was almost as if she couldn't wait to see me go. Hanging from the window, she kissed me one last time before she told me she loved me and I said the same back to her.

She closed the window and I dropped below, all ready to disappear into the night and go to the apartment I begrudgingly called home.

Come morning and it was already getting on, ten o'clock was just minutes away. It was the time I said I'd go over to the house, but there was no way I could go over in the dirty manner I was in. I got cleaned up, looked presentable, and grabbed the bag of presents I got for Maddie's brother and sister. They were hand-made, so I really hoped they would like them.

The entire walk to her parents place, I was actually wearing a smile and thinking the words " _Maybe it won't be such a bad Christmas at all._ " But then I arrived and noticed neither of her parents' cars were parked out front.

The garage was open.

As was the front door.

I had a very bad feeling.

A feeling that told me not to go in, but I did.

The place was deserted.

No belongings.

No people.

No Maddie and Blake.

Her entire family...

...just gone.

On a small table by the foot of the stairs was a piece of paper with my name on it. I opened it up and out fell a SIM card.

Her SIM card.

Everything suddenly made sense, why she was the way she was for all of last night.

She was saying goodbye...

...without saying goodbye.

I dropped the piece of paper, feeling betrayed, feeling heartbroken, and feeling a terrible rage. A mirror hung to my right and I walked over to it; I took one look at my broken reflection and growled before a growl turned to a deafening roar and the mirror exploded into my face.

With all the cracks, it was always going to happen.

I was so angry, I didn't feel any pain, not even when I pulled out the shard of glass that embedded itself beneath my eye and has scarred most of my cheek.

And now you know how I came by my gory beloved scar and the tale that wove it.

So why don't you do us both a favor and now ask me how I got the ones on my wrists?

Merry fucking Christmas!

# An Afterword

This compilation is part of the "Dark" December Awethology. The "Light" Awethology, featuring stories suitable for children, young adults, and also some light hearted and moving stories for grownups. You can find the December Awethology Light Volume available for download from most good retailers now. You can also find work from all of our Awethors, information about our group and other publications here:

www.awethors.com

# Biographies

Jack Croxall

Originally trained as an environmental scientist, Jack Croxall soon discovered a life in the lab wasn't for him. He started writing for student publications at university and writing quickly became his passion. He's now an award-winning author toiling away as a science/literature journalist in between working on his books.

www.jackcroxall.co.uk

Jennifer Deese

Jennifer Deese currently in resides in N.E. Pennsylvania, and was raised in Delaware. She is a Mom, a Step Mom, an Aunt, and a Nana. Miss Deese is currently working in book 2 in a fantasy series she is writing. The Orchid Keeper, book one of that series was her debut book. Miss Deese writes fantasy and horror/thriller. Jingle Jars has the unexpected twists/endings that Deese hopes to someday be known for. As a lover of reading and writing she has found her niche in the world and thanks her Mother for fostering a great love of books at a very young age.

www.jenniferdeese.wordpress.com

Rebecca P McCray

Rebecca P McCray is a financial consultant by day and fantasy world-builder by night. A Christmas for Everyone is a deviation from her series' genre, but she wanted to highlight in a positive way several social issues that are often overlooked during the festivities.

Her debut novel, The Journey of the Marked, was a finalist in The Wishing Shelf Book Awards. She enjoys building out a world that is a cross between high-fantasy and gritty sci-fi and plans to publish the second novel in the series in the first half of 2016. Besides being an avid reader, she loves to travel and experience new cultures.

www.rebeccamccray.com

James Quinn

James Quinn spent 15 years in the secret world of covert operations, undercover investigations and international security before turning his hand to writing.

He is trained in hand-to-hand combat and in the use of a variety of weaponry including small edged weapons. He is also a crack pistol shot for CQB (Close Quarter Battle) and many of his experiences he has incorporated into his works of fiction. His first book—A Game For Assassins—introduced the spy/assassin Jack "Gorilla" Grant. The sequel "Sentinel Five" will be released in 2016.

He lives in the United Kingdom and travels extensively around the globe.

www.jamesquinn.webs.com

Paul White

Paul White lives in Yorkshire, England. He describes himself as 'semi-retired'. Although he says he would like to be fully retired 'people keep asking him to do things' which prevents him from putting his feet up permanently. Paul is a novelist, poet, short story writer and blogger. His fiction writing covers various genres and topics including life, love, emotions, depression, trauma, suspense, sex, romance, social and world affairs.

Yet most of all Paul has that rare ability to weave the most important matter of all into his work, the human condition; the hopes, the dreams and the wishes, the excitement and passions, along with the fears, the self-doubt, and uncertainties that lie within us all.

These issues are portrayed through the characters that inhabit the worlds within the pages of Paul's books and Short Stories. They are reflected in his poetry, various Essays and Blogs.

www.paulznewpostbox.wix.com/paul-white

Patrick Elliott

Patrick has been writing for years, while surviving in the corporate world. He has published four books, two novels and two collections of shorts, and with the release of this book has contributed to two #Awethors anthologies.

When not writing he enjoys arguing with cats, telling children stories that make him promise to pay half of their therapy bills, and giving his own books to people on Santa's naughty list. He also plans on sneaking down your chimney and stealing all your really cool presents this year. He lives in Seattle because he is one of those sick people who enjoys the rain.

www.facebook.com/patrickelliottauthor

Christie Stratos

Christie Stratos is an editor and award-winning writer who holds a degree in English Literature. An avid reader of all genres and world literature, Christie reads everything from bestsellers to classics to indies, and is an audiobook reviewer at AudioBookReviewer.com. She is also a writer of published short stories, poetry, and novels. She dabbles in all genres. Christie can be reached through her editing business, Proof Positive

Raven Blackburn

Raven Blackburn was born in South Africa. After spending her childhood with her loving grandparents, she moved to Germany at the age of eleven to live with her mother, stepfather and little sister. She suspects moving halfway around the world at that exact age caused her letter to Hogwarts to go missing – something she deeply regrets.

Ever since her childhood she would spend each days creating stories in her head and frantically writing them down lest she forget them all. Most of her stories feature vampires, so be advised to close your windows at night while reading.

A L Sayge

A L Sayge has been a freelance writer since 1998, with hundreds of articles and columns published in national, regional, and local print publications on a variety of topics. Though nonfiction is her daily life, fiction is the dream she's just begun to achieve. Her silly pup, Daisy, is the subject of a blog that inspired her first cozy mystery novel, coming out in 2016.

www.raisingdaisy.wordpress.com

C.E. Vance

A reformed curmudgeon herself, C.E. Vance is also an avid reader and proud Indie author. She's most known for How Maxwell Grover Stole My House, her debut novel and the first book in a fantasy trilogy for middle-grade readers. In addition, she is the author of the Eternal Trial Saga, an adult series, and plans to have many more of her crazy ideas turned into books in the future. C.E. loves all types of literature, and enjoys good food, being outdoors, and spending time with her family. She happily resides in Utah with her husband, their four delightfully kooky children, and two very spoiled dogs.

Elizabeth Horton-Newton Author Bio

Elizabeth Horton-Newton has been writing short stories since she was a child. Born and raised in New York City, in the fourth grade she wrote an essay stating her career goal was to be an author. Over fifty years later, after marriage, divorce, four children, college, and a second marriage she made the goal a reality. Her first book, "View From the Sixth Floor: An Oswald Tale" was published. An intriguing fictional look at the fiftieth anniversary of the Kennedy assassination in Dallas, Texas, she drew on her memories of that day and subsequent conspiracy theories to spin a tale of intrigue and romance.

With her second novel, "Riddle" she firmly established herself as an indie writer. After contributing to the "Dark Awethology" she returned to her first love, dark short stories. Horton-Newton currently lives in a hundred year old house with her husband, writer Neil Douglas Newton, a collection of rescued dogs and cats, a bearded dragon, and regular visits from her kids and five grandchildren. She is currently working on her third book, "Stolen", as well as co-writing a mystery with her husband.

www.elizabethhorton-newtonauthor.com

Matthew W Harrill

Born and raised in Bristol, England, Matthew W Harrill is an international award-winning horror author. His series, 'The ARC Chronicles' consists of Hellbounce (which has received acclaim at the Halloween Book Festival, the London Book Festival and most recently the 2015 International Book Awards), Hellborne and Hellbeast.

In addition to his mentor David Farland (The Runelords, The Courtship of Princess Leia [as Dave Wolverton]), Matt is always thankful to know the British author Juliet E McKenna, who has helped him countless times. He is a fan of fantasy, loving Robert Jordan's 'Wheel of Time' series. He also has a lot of time for the truly bizarre horror of H P Lovecraft, citing this as an influence on his work. He also cites the fictional author 'Hank Moody' as an influence.

Matt has worked as a labourer, a barman, a cleaner, a joiners mate. In addition he has dabbled in commercial insurance and has for the past 12 years implemented share plans for Xerox.

When not working, Matt enjoys tennis with his son and the Insanity workout, watching movies and television series such as Supernatural and Grimm, blogging and cookery.

www.matthewharrill.com

Michael J Elliott

Michael J Elliott is an Australian author who has been creating "dark stories" since his early school days. Michael majored in Media Studies at secondary school and college where he wrote and created videos, radio ads and short films.

He also wrote a comedy sketch for an Australian television comedy special. He enjoys drawing, reading, cooking and watching Golden Age Hollywood movies. He's 53, single and shares his life with his two cats, Charlie and Smokey.

Michael loves interacting with his readers.

<http://talesfromthedarkrealm.blogspot.co.nz/>

L A Remenicky

L A Remenicky is a forty-something wife and mother of three fur kids. She has been an avid reader as long as she can remember, often disappearing with a book.

She reads all genres, but her favorites are romance and horror. She started out reading Nancy Drew and quickly graduated to adult romances. Her favorite romance is "Moonraker's Bride" by Madeline Brent.

Her favorite author is Stephen King - She loves how he can weave a story and characters together.

She only started writing after thinking about it for years, signing up for NANOWRIMO in 2012 and winning.

www.laremenicky.com

William Lloyd

William Lloyd has a home in Atlanta, Georgia, where he enjoys spending his days playing music and watching football. His specialty genres are horror and suspense as well as science fiction/fantasy.

He released his first novel _Horizon_ in May 2014 and is currently working on a new novella called _Afterlife: What Happens Next_. He loves playing golf, video games on PlayStation 3, and reading horror novels in the evenings. He attended college at the Art Institute of Atlanta, where he studied Audio and Video Production.

www.facebook.com/willlloyd25

Simon Coates

Simon Coates is a science fiction author from North East England, UK. His writing is based on a potential future existence of what life might be like around 300 years from now, collectively called the 'Galactic Echo', taking the name from the idea of an Echo newspaper and adding a galactic theme.

His stories are very diverse. His first book published was Bike Racing into the Red, a cycling story about an amateur bike racer who takes on the 240 mile mountain climb of Olympus Mons on Planet Mars. There is also a romance, The Discovery of Love, and also books covering a motorsport of the future, Formula X spaceship racing. Outside of writing, Simon is a keen bicycle racer, being a regular in time trial competition, racing up to National Championship level, having raced against some of the world's best bike racers such as Bradley Wiggins, Sean Yates and Alex Dowsett. Combining his two passions was undertaken in October 2015 when he sponsored the British Cycling National Hill Climb Championship, where the event winners each received a signed copy of Bike Racing into the Red.

www.galactic-echo.com

Isaac Jourden

Isaac Jourden is a 33 year old American living in Canada after a three year stay in Seoul, South Korea. His interests include board games, poker, Doctor Who, and flirting with the line between "jerk with a heart of gold" and "kind soul with a mean streak."

He enjoys the style of Chuck Palahniuk, Douglas Coupland, Art Alexakis, and Lady Gaga, and hopes those influences seep into his work. He is the author of two transgressive contemporary novels, _Petty_ and _The Gravedigger's Girlfriend_ (2016).

www.isaacjourden.com

Joe Compton

For as long as he could remember Joe has been writing. He had several poems and short stories published early on. Then he graduated to screenplays, writing, directing, and producing 3 short films.

Then he dusted off an old manuscript that was once going to be traditionally published and started Never Mind The Fine Print Publishing LLC and put out his first novel, Amongst The Killing. Joe also wrote a story for The #Awethors first Anthology, Awethology Dark, entitled "Down with the #Awethors."

www.nevermindfineprint.com

Rocky Rochford

Having lived by the coast his entire life, Rochford is a water boy through and through who loves to scuba dive, wake-board, and photograph animals in their underwater environment.

He is a self-proclaimed student of everything and master of nothing, devoted to sharpening and challenging his skills of story-telling whenever possible, stories such as London Calling, Wait and Bleed, and the Rise of the Elohim Chronicles, but considers his greatest achievement to be the #Awethors, his second family and a group that just keeps growing.

"We're not indie, we're the #Awethors, we are own scene and brand of writers."

www.rockyrochford.wordpress.com

