Tag Archives: Christmas
Short Story Friday–Poem Edition
A Wild Animal Loose in the House
Elizabeth L. Lemons
It was the night before Christmas
And all through the house
Were remnants of spillage
Nog all over my blouse
For while I was chilin’,
Feet up by the fire
A deer crashed the window
Wearing sleigh-bell attire
He stomped and he slipped
He knocked pie to the floor
He licked it all up
Then looked to me, wanting more
Being pregnant, I moved slow
But tried to reach a broom
Ripping apart a pillow
White feathers he consumed
I coaxed and I yelled
I pleaded and I cried
While shaking straw broom
My pleadings still denied
When suddenly, on the lawn
My husband arrived home
He walked through the door
While this beastie still roamed
With one powerful yell
Hubbie threatened with all might
Get out of my house, deerie
Or there will be a great fight!
Short Story Friday
St. Nicholas Day
Anne Marie Andrus
A wiry man crossed the avenue and limped under City Park’s arched gate to admire fresh holly wreaths. Gravel crunched under his pointy black boots. “This could be fun.” He raked one hand through the platinum streak at his temple and plucked a glittery ornament from the winding path. “Hard to believe so many rotten children don’t believe I exist.” Behind him, impending sunset glowed through tangled boughs and draped Spanish moss. “In exactly one week, their nightmares will come true.” He crushed the cardboard Papa Noël in his fist. “Yessss…positively jolly fun.”
“Halt, beast!” Cloaked in a flowing sapphire habit, the figure emerged from an ancient grove. She strode through the cathedral of sweeping oaks and blocked his progress. “Not in my city, sir.”
“And who’s going to stop me? You?” The man snickered and offered his bony hand in friendship. “I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure.”
“I’m Charmaine Roussel.” She flicked her gaze to his mock greeting and then locked her eyes with his. “I’m aware of what you are and you know bloody well I’m not alone.”
“Do I?” The man turned and doubled over with laughter. “So, your back-up appears to be a nurse who has clearly never held a pistol before and a crone waving her crooked stick. With all due respect, Mademoiselle Charmaine…” He struggled to compose himself. “You don’t stand a chance.”
“Shoot it.” Charmaine glanced at the trembling nurse. He might look like a normal man, but it’s a disguise. “Shoot now!”
The first bullet flew wide but the next two rounds blasted through the man’s ribs. He dropped to one knee as the swamp around them swallowed the sharp noise and spat back pulsating silence.
“Leave now and I’ll spare your life.” Charmaine gritted her teeth. “You’ve been banned from this city for a century.”
“Oh, the mighty New Orleans…how she has fallen.” The man shrugged a heavy cloak off his hunched shoulders. His fingers plunged into the wound, ripped out the bullet and tossed it into the underbrush. “Seven years of mourning and seven years of weakness after an incompetent fool killed your Duke. Once a coward, always a—”
The elderly woman wailed, stood straight and wielded her cane like a sword, blasting a ball of blue fire that ripped the man from the ground. He slammed back down in a smoldering fractured heap.
Charmaine crossed her arms with precision. “You were saying?”
The groan that escaped his twitching lips descended into a growl as black hair twisted into horns. For a few seconds, the misshapen head of an animal loomed in blue-grey smoke. “Savior of the soldiers, defender of the innocent, care-giver to the hopeless…” A human face fought back while the figure staggered. His eyes glowed a crimson hue only found in the deepest embers of the devil’s fireplace. “I think your Duke was a fraud.”
“Demon!” The nurse tossed her gun aside and grabbed the old woman’s cane, waving it at the beast’s face as if stoking the flames in his skull. “Show yourself!”
Invisible ripples of power exploded through the emerald canopy while the sky beyond plummeted into deep purple. At the moment of sunset, a vampire with tasseled gloves stepped from behind a massive tree trunk and fired her crossbow. A solid gold bolt lodged in the man’s neck. His body twisted and swelled until the fabric of his clothes ripped free revealing the coarse fur of a demented goat. He pawed one cloven hoof and bared warped fangs before lunging at his attackers.
Charmaine took two steps, reached under her habit and drove a swirled blade into the beast’s heart with her final stride. Time flickered and the ground thundered as the creature collapsed to the muddy pebbles, swirling his split viper’s tongue around her ankles.
Four women—a nun, a nurse, a witch and a vampire—stood over the writhing body. In unison, they grabbed the blade’s carved hilt and twisted until the demon disintegrated.
“I’ll take back the Duke’s knife.” Charmaine plucked her weapon from the ash. “Bonne nuit, Monsieur Krampus.”
If you enjoyed this Holiday Lagniappe from the Monsters & Angels Realm, catch up on the saga...
Short Story Friday
A light tapping on the screen door awoke James. He had checked his alarm clock to confirm that it was way too early in the morning for any company to come over. Besides, he wasn’t expecting anyone in the first place. After a loud yawn and a bone cracking stretch, James shot out of his warm bed and immediately wrapped himself in his bright red house coat and made his way down the stairs to the screen door.
To his surprise there were eight neatly wrapped boxes with fancy bows on the tops of them. This puzzled him. Christmas was three months away and he had just moved into this home two weeks ago. This had to be a mistake. James decided he would investigate by inspecting the stickers on the boxes.
When he did, his name was written there in bold blue ink and no hint on who it was from. He tore into the box only to find small birch twigs bundled together by red wire. He opened another one and another to the same results: twigs. Angry, he dumped them all in his garbage to await pick-up on Friday. He closed the porch door and began to make his way up the stairs. Before he could make it midway up there, a sharp knocking made him stop. James made an about face and sped to his porch door.
Once he opened it, there were several more wrapped boxes in front of him. He tore through them only to find the same twigs in the same bundled pattern. This had to be the work of the teenagers who lived a couple of streets over. He couldn’t see them, maybe they were camouflaged in the bushes laughing at him.
“You’ve got the wrong one today. Do it again and you’ll be sorry!” James barked as he stormed in the house.
He made it to the top of the stairs when a knock at the door made him dive under his bed to grab his rifle. Once again he opened the porch door. This time a small man with pointy ears and a light green coned hat stood with his arms folded.
“Ummm…can I help you?” A confused James asked, scratching his head. The little man cleared his throat. “James, I’m Wrinkles, we have a mutual friend in the north pole. Those gifts were to send you a message that you’re on the naughty list. Do you understand?” The elf asked as James nodded with his mouth agape.
“Good, you need to get your act together or you’ll be using twigs to build yourself another house, ya hear me?”
“Loud and clear. “
“Good. ” The elf snapped his fingers then vanished into the morning air. James shook his head in disbelief. No one would ever believe that this had happened. He then used his phone to search for the nearest soup kitchen where he could volunteer.
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When Angels Weep
Last night, I saw the splendor of our future. Not in the glow of the bursting full moon or the blaze of crackling fire, but in the halo of my protégé.
In a tiny room, bathed in the glow of a rose-glass lamp, one of our dearest and loveliest patients received the Lord’s call. Reaching for the light, the elderly woman’s fingers trailed the air as if a loved one’s grasp fell short, time and time again. The hand she finally found belonged to you—her lifeline between the realms of heaven and earth.
Then tonight, I discovered you alone and grieving in our private chapel. Your tears fell to the stone floor with the weight of time’s relentless march, reminding me of all the life lights we’ve watched flicker out and the spirits we’ve had the privilege to set free. While we share what some call the curse of immortality, in your hands it’s a miraculous blessing. You, the youngest of old souls, soar closer to the flame than most of us dare—ever vulnerable to the heart-wrenching pain of human tragedy. Dignity and grace in the face of death…that is a talent born into your blood.
So, on this year’s darkest and deepest of winter nights, I implore you to celebrate the ritual of Solstice with our family. We will feed well, drink deeply, and unite our energies until the veil separating us from the ancestors falls away.
Mourning and respect offered for those lost, will heal your heart. Joy that transcends time and restores hope for the new year, will grant you wings.
Until tomorrow night then, my brave angel,
All my families love Christmas.
As a little girl from New York, I remember a tree so tall it rivaled the Manhattan skyscrapers. My mother decorated every inch of our little apartment and the aroma of her cooking wafted through the windows and lured crowds from blocks away.
Of course, coven life was different but Christmas was remarkably the same. Peace, love and hospitality that bridged species and set ancient vendettas to rest for one sparkling night.
Duke Banitierre’s mission for the season was to surround himself with as much family as possible, and mend the broken pieces of their unconventional souls in the warmth of his home.
The first weeks of December were filled with shopping in New Orleans but holiday central was at the plantation, sixty miles up the Mississippi River. Every room had its own tree, trimmed in a unique theme. For a week of nights we exchanged gifts, in the grand parlor, swamped in the glorious mess of wrapping paper, ribbons and bows.
On Christmas Eve, all roads led to Normandie Hall. One candle in the window, turned into a candle in every window.
Family and friends from around the globe, some who never attended a party or ceremony all year, always found their way through the arches of the white mansion. String quartets, brass bands and piano artisans took turns serenading a celebration that didn’t end until the sun came up.
Now, our Highland Christmas is traditional and austere. Bonfires and bagpipes on the lonely moor, a simple tree with white lights and a twinkling star; the beacon that has welcomed generations home for centuries.