Christmas Magic by Lynne Curry, herbal smoothie

 Ice crystals jingled in the air like tiny bells. On a day as bright as a shout, the snow beneath my feet  

glittered. Maverick and I’d found a home on a mountain top. I’d stay forever, just my Newfoundland 

and I, but I’d left so much behind.

My life as a healer.

It called me back.

Once, I’d wanted to change the world.

Maybe I still could.

I mixed the dough. Oat flour and oats for texture; banana, blueberries, grated carrots and dates for sweetness; chia, hemp, sunflower and flaxseeds for antioxidant power and nutty crunch. Each batch carried a different spice. Cardamon for a sweet, citrusy warmth like dawn’s first breath; star anise, aromatic and mysterious, like secrets shared under a starlit sky; clove, bold, with a hint of danger; saffron, golden thread of sunlight; sumac, bright and unexpected; pink peppercorn, playful and unpredictable, and black cardamom, smoky, like a shadow at the forest’s edge.

The muffins’ golden domes shimmered, as if dusted with morning dew from an enchanted forest. Breaking one open released a scent that unfurled forgotten memories. I took a bite—magic that didn’t shout but whispered, something you felt deep inside. Each flavor danced as if the stars had whispered ancient recipes into the batter.

I brought each person I’d left behind into memory and placed a message beneath each muffin.

To the man who had left his daughter behind: Who do you miss—who might miss you, but you’ll never know if you don’t reach out?

To the woman buried in a career she hated when she longed to write stories: Instead of trying to do well what you don’t want to do, blaze a new trail.

To the eighteen-year-old facing an uncertain future: You don’t have to believe in yourself yet. Just believe the next step is worth taking.

To the older man recovering from his injuries: You may not control the road ahead, but every small step matters.

To the young teacher with dreams bigger than her doubts: Instead of asking, ‘What if I fail?’ ask, ‘What if I soar?’

I packed the muffins, messages and my spices. Tomorrow, I’d start the journey down. The world waited. I had work to do.  

About the author

Alaskan author Lynne Curry has published six short stories, three poems, and six books, including Navigating Conflict, Managing for Accountability and Beating the Workplace Bully. She founded “Real-life Writing,” https://bit.ly/45lNbVo and publishes a monthly “Writing from the Cabin” blog, https://bit.ly/3tazJpW. 

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Mittens for Christmas by Liz Cox, a saucer of warm milk and honey

It was the week before Christmas, and I was trying to settle myself into a new flat. My boyfriend had decided that he wanted to leave me – said ‘it was not me it was him’ -likely story. I thought it was more to do with the blonde I’d seen him with in the wine bar on the high street when I was supposed to be working late.  I’d finished earlier than I expected and decided to surprise him; thought he’d be pleased. Obviously not – shocked more like. Oh, he said she was just a girl from the office and didn’t mean a thing. I asked him if he always held the hands of ‘girls from the office’ and observed that he could be setting himself up for a few lawsuits if that was the case. Anyway, I didn’t want to think of him anymore and busied myself arranging my books accompanied by a large glass of good red and a big box of tissues.

My new flat is in an old-fashioned building. I had seen a card in the window when passing and phoned the number. I agreed the rental without seeing anyone, or indeed the flat, and without any references. I thought it was strange, but I was so grateful to be away from the number one cheat that I just said yes. Once a family home of stature, the owner had divided it into flats. Mine was at the front of the house and had windows which stretched from floor to ceiling. The windows had wooden shutters which you could close to make the rooms cosy and protective. Just what I needed to keep me safe from unfaithful boyfriends. Dusty red velvet curtains fell each side of the wooden frames. When you pulled them, spiders and other detritus fell on your head, not fairy dust. I had to warm myself in front of a gas fire which hissed. My landlady was an old friend of my grandmother, so she said, and that’s why she let the flat to me.

On the day I moved in she had met me at the front door. I couldn’t remember ever seeing her before but that didn’t mean to say it wasn’t true. She was quite a lot younger than my grandmother, who had died five years earlier, but her clothes belonged to a different age. Her hair was black streaked with grey, and she wore pince-nez style glasses. A long purple skirt and a red woollen cardigan completed the picture. She had a black shawl draped around her shoulders, and I wondered why she was wearing fur gloves indoors.

‘Hello dear, nice to meet you. I’m Cassandra. Do come in, I’ve made the flat ready for you.’ she croaked. ‘Sorry, it’s the damp, makes me hoarse. I was a friend of your grandmother you know.’

‘So, I understand. Where did you meet her?’ I hefted my suitcase over the threshold and pushed the heavy packing cases with my feet. My brother had just dumped me and my belongings on the pavement and left. Somewhere to be, he said. Being his usual helpful self- not.

‘Oh, somewhere, can’t remember where now, too long ago.’ She waved her arms in the vague direction of nothing. ‘It’s this way.’ She beckoned me to a wide staircase and began to climb without waiting for me. I struggled after her with the case but left the boxes until later. The stairs wound round in a spiral, edged with handrails made of metal which no one had polished in a long time. The building smelt musty and stale, with an underlying sharp aroma I couldn’t identify. Up the centre of the steps lay a threadbare patterned carpet covered with a thick layer of black fur making the stairs look like a velvet river.

‘Do you have a dog or a cat?’ I asked, trying to make conversation.

The woman looked startled. ‘No, I do not! Filthy things.’ Her voice was sharp.

As we climbed, her shoulders heaved, and she was breathing in fits and starts. She clutched the handrail with her bony hands.

‘This was my family home when I was small,’ she whispered, as if someone other than me might hear her. ‘I used to run up these stairs. The house is too big for me now which is why I converted it into flats – or rather my father did. That’s him.’ She indicated a large portrait in a heavy gold frame which hung in front of us. It showed a stern man with a buttoned-up collar and drooping moustache. He was stroking a large black cat which sat on his lap staring out of the canvas. It was a mean looking cat. The painting was dingy and needed a good clean like the rest of the house.

We arrived in front of a door displaying a number 6 in gold.

‘This is yours my dear. Do you have your rent money?’

‘Yes, here it is.’ It seemed abrupt, but I searched in my handbag and retrieved the envelope containing the notes which she had insisted on. Reaching out with her fur-covered hand, she grabbed the envelope, thrusting it deep into her skirt pocket.

‘Here are your keys. I won’t come in. If you need anything, I live in flat No.1.’ She thrust the bunch of keys into my hand and scurried away along the dim passageway, as if she couldn’t wait to leave.

I haven’t seen her since the day I moved in, but I hear her weary footsteps on the stairs sometimes. At other times I can detect voices, but I never see any of the other residents. I do hear a cat miaowing, but the only evidence of its presence is the hairy stair carpet.

***

I drained my glass of wine and decided I’d had enough of sorting through things. I would go out and see if I could buy some Christmas decorations to brighten up the flat. I pulled the collar of my black jacket up around my ears and wound a purple woollen scarf cosily around my neck. I let myself out of the flat onto the landing. Sitting at the top of the stairs was a large black cat. At last, I thought, the elusive animal. The feline stared at me with emerald-green eyes, and I could have sworn that it narrowed them to focus on me. I went towards it, hand outstretched to give it friendly stroke. There was a frantic miaow, and it disappeared.

I know I had consumed a glass of wine, but that could not have happened. Cats didn’t disappear like a will o’the wisp.  I searched all around the landing. Was there a cupboard or door into which it had disappeared? Feeling along the wall, I could not find any nook or cranny where ‘Blackie’ could have vanished into to hide. I decided to continue with my mission.

As I opened the street door and stepped out, a blast of chilly air hit me. It was already dark, and I paused to pull up my scarf to cover my face to avoid the chill wind. As I did there was a strident yowl. On the top step was the cat.

‘Hello pussy cat, how did you get there?’ Not surprisingly there was no answer, just a baleful stare from the bright green eyes. With a swish of its tail, the cat disappeared again. I was beginning to think I was going mad or had drunk too much wine. There was no sign of the cat anywhere, but Cassandra was standing on the top step. How had she appeared so suddenly? The wind ruffled her black hair, and she was brushing down her skirt, causing fur to fly everywhere.

‘Hello,’ I said, ‘have you seen the cat? It was here just a moment ago.’

‘There is no cat,’ she replied in a rasping voice, ‘I’ve told you there is no cat. Can’t abide the things.’ She looked directly at me, her green eyes boring into mine. ‘Don’t be out too late; you know I lock the door at nine pm.’ She rubbed her fur mittens together.

I glanced down at my feet trying to summon up the courage to challenge her. Surely, I had my own front door key? When I looked up again, she was gone. On the step lay a red collar with a silver bell. I looked left and right along the street. There was no one there just litter blowing along the road. The streetlights were ringed with frosty haloes. I sniffed the air; there was a distinct smell of fried onions and something else unidentifiable. Picking up the collar, I put it in my pocket and hurried towards the High Street.

Normally, there would be noise from traffic and the chatter of straggling shoppers as they rushed from shop to shop trying to complete their purchases before the stores closed, but there was deathly silence. I heard my own footsteps echoing, as I walked along. I pulled my scarf more closely around my face. Before me was a brightly lit shop with a lilac neon sign, I was grateful that it was still open. I pushed the door, and a cat’s cry announced my arrival. Startled, I soon realised it was the shop bell. I thought it was a strange sound to have, but assumed it was a new gimmicky item for sale. Some people would love it, but I wasn’t so sure. I’d had enough of cats for one day.

The shop was womb-like, lit with mauve and red lamps dotted around the room. A scent of incense floated on the air, and with that and the music of the Pan Pipes. I sauntered around, fingering items on the displays, my heart filled with joy at the beautiful bright colours. As I was choosing a few new Christmas baubles and some fairy lights, a youngish red-haired woman slipped out of the back of the shop. She was wearing a black ankle length skirt and a purple, green and red patterned shawl around her shoulders. I nodded at her. She nodded back and moved to the front of the shop. I could now see her clearly. She had luminous green eyes heavily made up, bright red lips and was wearing long silver earrings which jangled noisily whenever she moved her head. On her hands she was wearing fur gloves. I stared at the mittens. Then, aware I might seem rude, I smiled at her.

‘Just choosing some baubles and Christmas lights for my flat. I won’t be long,’ I whispered, ‘I know it’s late and I’m sorry to detain you.’

‘No problem lovely, I’ll just be here. Take your time.’ She waved her arm, and a strong smell of patchouli emanated from her person, almost making me choke. ‘I’ve been expecting you.’ As she moved, the music rose to a crescendo then halted abruptly.

The shop was now silent, and I was aware that the hairs on the back of my neck were standing up. What did she mean by that? I swallowed hard and hurried to pick out my goods. I knew I wanted to get out of this shop as soon as possible. Gathering the items, I had chosen, I strode over to the counter. There, sitting on a stool was a black cat licking its paws, the rasping sound of its tongue filled the air. The woman had disappeared. The animal lifted its head and stared at me. Another cat with bright green eyes; they must have the same neighbourhood tom as a father.

‘Hello, is anybody there?’ I shouted, ‘hello, hello.’

A low growl reverberated around the room. The kitty jumped down from the stool and disappeared into the rear room of the shop. Almost immediately, the curtain at the back of the counter twitched and the lady reappeared. She was licking her gloves. I stared. Really!

‘Could I buy these things,’ I asked, dumping the items on the polished counter. ‘don’t bother wrapping them, I have my bag here.’ I retrieved my purse and began to count out the money to pay for the things I wanted to purchase. Without waiting for any change, I scooped everything into my bag and almost ran out of the building. Once outside I took deep breaths to steady myself. What was wrong with me? The street was now alive with traffic and people. I hurried along to the flat, looking forward to getting inside and closing the door on the craziness.

As I approached my house, Cassandra was standing at the top of the steps polishing the brass doorknob in the dark. She turned to me,

‘Did you get everything you wanted, dear?’ she chuckled.

‘Yes, thank you,’ I muttered before scuttling into the hallway and up to my flat. The mean cat in the portrait seemed to be watching me, as I fumbled with my key. I finally managed to open the door and step inside. I slammed the door and leaned against it thankful to be safe at last. Shaking, I put the kettle on to make a cup of tea.

I took my steaming mug into the sitting room and switched on the gas fire. After lighting the lamps, I settled onto the sofa to drink my tea. Feeling calmer now, I went to my bag to examine my Christmas purchases. I pulled the gaudy items from the bag. Why had I purchased so many cat baubles? I was sure that I hadn’t selected them. The back of my neck began to tingle. I felt someone was watching me. Hardly daring to look, I lifted my eyes and there on the low table by the fire was another black cat. I screamed, at which the beast swished its tail and washed behind its ears.

‘Go away! Shoo! Where did you come from?’ The animal looked directly at me, its green eyes looking offended. It yawned, as if I were boring it, jumped down and sauntered into the kitchen where it proceeded to knock over the milk which I had left out. It then began to lap at the spilled liquid. I was frantic. How would I get rid of it? Or do I get rid of it? It obviously thought it belonged here.

I decided I needed to talk to Cassandra, so I went in search of her. As I rapped on the door of flat number one, I could hear a shuffling inside. The door creaked and she peered through the crack.

‘I need to talk to you, Cassandra,’ I babbled, ‘there’s a black cat in my flat and I don’t know where he came from. Don’t know who he belongs to.’  

‘Go away dear; you’re seeing things,’ she cackled.  'There are no cats here.’

‘But there is a cat,’ I whispered. ‘He’s in my kitchen drinking milk.’ I wasn’t going to give up without a fight.

‘You’re wrong.’ With that she slammed the door shut in my face.

I walked back down the hairy stair carpet dreading what I would find there. I decided to be positive, pulled my shoulders back and flung open my door. There sitting on the doormat, purring, was my furry visitor. I faced the puss.

‘You need to leave. You don’t belong here.’ The cat just looked at me and continued purring.

There was a chirrup, and the animal twitched its whiskers.

‘I do belong here.’ I looked around to see where the voice was coming from. ‘Can I have my collar back please.’  I froze. Had I finally cracked up?

‘Yes – yes of course you can. It’s in my pocket, I’ll get it for you.’ I went to retrieve the collar then stopped. What was I doing? Talking to a cat? And the cat was talking to me.

‘Don’t be scared,’ its green eyes twinkled, ‘I’m here to look after you.’

‘Look after me? Don’t be silly, I don’t need looking after.’

‘Yes, you do. Your grandma told me you’d been hurt.’  He stroked his whiskers with his black paws.

‘My grandma?’ I was sure I was losing it. Damn that number one cheat!

‘I better introduce myself. I’m Merlin. I’m sorry about all the random appearances I’ve been making, but I had to get your attention somehow. I hope I didn’t frighten you too much. I’ve been living here alone since Cassandra passed to the other side waiting for you to arrive.’

‘Cassandra has – passed -to-the-other-side? Then who’s….?’ I waved vaguely in the direction of the staircase. The cat swished his tail.

Then I realised. That’s how she knew my Granny. So, who was I? There were too many questions, so with a sigh, I pulled on my black fur mittens and settled on the couch with Merlin curled up on my lap. The Christmas lights and cat baubles twinkled in the lamplight. I purred in time with Merlin’s throaty rasp. 

About the author 

Liz writes short stories and poetry and is just finishing her first novel. She lives in North Yorkshire and at the time of writing is looking out on a dismal day at the sheep in the field behind her house. 

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Clinton and His Brothers by Frank Zahn, a cup of tea

Clinton Rinehart took off his muddy shoes on the back porch and hurried past Momma Rinehart in the kitchen without a word, his eyes downcast, his hair in disarray, his face puffy, and the pocket of his pullover shirt torn.

Momma followed him into his bedroom. He dropped down on the edge of his bed and stooped his shoulders. Momma raised his chin with her hand. She looked into his sad, brown eyes and smiled.

“Bad day at school, Clinton?” she said.

“I got into another fight. Doggone it, Momma, I can’t seem to get those maggots to leave me alone.”

Momma kissed him on the forehead. “We can talk about that later. You git cleaned up for supper, now. Papa will be home any minute.”

“I don’t want no supper. I just want to be by myself.”

Momma patted Clinton on the shoulder. “You’ve got to eat, so do as I say,” she said, then closed his bedroom door behind her and returned to the kitchen.

Clinton grabbed his bag of marbles from his drawer in the bureau and crawled under his bed. He lay on his side with his back against the wall and admired the colors in his favorite shooter.

A few minutes later, Harry opened the bedroom door. “Clinton, you in here?”

“No,” Clinton said from under his bed.

Harry bent down and gawked at Clinton. “What the hell are you doin’ under there?”

“Lookin’ at my marbles and stayin’ out of trouble.”

“You sure are weird sometimes.”

“I ain’t either. I like bein’ under here. It’s quiet and peaceful without any of those maggots up at school lookin’ to pick a fight with me.”

“Why in the hell would you worry about that? You’re big enough to lick any two guys at Hartman and most of the guys at Southwest High School.”

“Yeah, but winnin’ ain’t all that big a deal, especially when the principal and my teacher are always on my back. They blame me for all the fights I git into, and I’m not the one that starts ’em.”

“Well, don’t expect me to feel sorry for you. If I was as big as you, I’d kick butts from here to China if anyone messed with me.”

Clinton crawled out from under the bed and dropped down on the edge of it. “I’ll tell you the honest-to-God’s truth, Harry. The only time I’m glad I’m alive is when Papa takes us fishin’ down on the Osage River, which ain’t often enough to my way of thinkin’.”

“Did you hear about the streetcar wreck up the street?” Harry asked.

“No. What happened?”

Harry told Clinton about the accident and his belief that their brother Mark Allen had caused it by putting rocks on the tracks.

“What does Mark Allen say about it?”

“He denies it, of course, but I don’t believe him.”

“With a brother like you, Mark Allen don’t need no enemies,” Clinton quipped.

Harry slapped Clinton on the back of the head. “Hey!” he said. “You may be bigger than me, but I’m older and bolder than you. So don’t lip off.”

“Tell Harry to go jump in a bucket of crap, Clinton!” Mark Allen yelled from the living room.

“I’ll get a bucket of crap and throw it in your face, dipstick!” Harry yelled back.

“I want you boys to stop it, and I’ll not tell you again,” Momma called out from the kitchen. “Papa’s gonna be home any minute, and so help me God, if you don’t settle down, I’m gonna have him give you a whipping that you won’t soon forget.”

Clinton followed Harry into the dining room. He spotted a magazine on the buffet, picked it up, and thumbed through it.

Harry went into the living room and dropped down on the floor across from Mark Allen and Eddie in front of the radio. He stuck his tongue out at Mark Allen. Then he settled down and listened as Frankie Laine belted out his hit song Mule Train.

The boys' younger sister Fanny Louise strolled into the dining room. She picked up Tom, the family’s gray-and-white tomcat, which had been curling itself around Clinton’s leg, and went into the living room. She sat on the couch, placed Tom on her lap, and stroked his back while tapping her foot to the beat of the music.

Clinton tossed the magazine back onto the buffet, walked past Momma at the sink in the kitchen, and went out onto the back porch. He scraped the mud from his shoes with a stick, wiped them with pieces of newspaper, and put them on.

Outside, lightning flashed, and it started to rain again. Rather than run out to the outhouse on the boardwalk and get wet, Clinton peed through the screen door onto the porch steps. After he tucked himself in and zipped up his pants, he stayed on the porch. He watched the rain and longed for the day when he could leave the neighborhood behind and find himself a cabin on the Osage River, go fishing every day, and never have to be around people again.

Harry and Eddie joined Clinton on the back porch. They peed through the screen door, each one arching his penis so that his stream of pee flowed over the porch steps and splattered with the rain onto the boardwalk that led to the outhouse.

“Mine goes out farther than yours,” Harry said to Eddie. “That’s cause my dick’s bigger than yours and more powerful.”

“No it ain’t,” Eddie said. “It’s cause you’re archin’ yours more than I am mine.”

Harry tucked himself in and zipped up his Levi’s. He smacked Eddie on the shoulder. “Face facts, preacher boy. Like it or not, my dick’s bigger and more powerful than yours, and even though you’re taller, those facts make me more of a man than you.”

Eddie tucked himself in and zipped up his pants. “In your dreams,” he said and moved away from Harry, narrowly avoiding another smack.

“Harry, do you really believe Mark Allen put rocks on the tracks and caused the streetcar accident?” Clinton asked.

“Sure as hell do.”

“I feel sorry for him,” Clinton said.

“I don’t think he did it,” Eddie said. “But like I told him, it may not make any difference if the Lord has chosen him to suffer for a higher purpose.”

“Knock it off, Eddie,” Harry said. “The Lord don’t do shit like that.”

Eddie grimaced.

“Whether Mark Allen is guilty or not, every maggot in the neighborhood is gonna be out for his hide,” Clinton said.

“That’s for damn sure,” Harry said. “And cause we’re his brothers, you better believe we’re gonna be in for it too.”

Eddie nodded in agreement.

“Harry what do you think Papa’ll do to Mark Allen when he finds out about it?” Clinton asked.

“Beat the hell out of him, I hope.”

Harry’s attitude irritated Clinton. It reminded him of the kids at school who got a kick out of him being sent to the principal’s office for detention. “Papa might take Mark Allen’s side,” he said.

Harry shook his head. “I’ll bet he don’t, but we’ll find out soon enough. Papa’s due home any minute.”

All three boys went inside. They joined Fanny Louise in the living room, positioned themselves on the floor in front of the radio, and waited for the sounds of Papa’s footsteps on the front porch.

About the author

Frank Zahn is an author of fiction, nonfiction, and poetry. His publications include nonfiction books, articles, commentaries, book reviews, and essays; novels; short stories; and poetry. Currently, he writes and enjoys life at his home among the evergreens in Vancouver, Washington, USA. For details, visit his website, www.frankzahn.com. 

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Auld Lang Syne by Jon Moray, flat champagne

Lee Collins bobbed his way through the sea of humanity at Times Square on New Year’s Eve minutes before the close of 2022. He made it, he thought, free and clear, as he snickered at his apparent elusiveness. Earlier in the year he borrowed ten grand from Louie, the life ending loan shark that had a knack for foul play and a peculiar way of making debtors disappear. A bad investment insured Lee would have no way of making good on the loan, as he pleaded his excuse to the perturbed mobster. However, Louie loved a good game and struck a deal with Lee the last day of November that if Lee made it through the rest of the year alive, he would be absolved of his debt. The only stipulation to the deal was he had to go outdoors on New Year’s Eve.

Lee spent the month with his head on a swivel, avoided being alone and stayed at his aunt’s home until his abrasive behavior wore out his welcome in her cozy apartment. It didn’t help that she caught him with his stubby hands in her pocketbook while he thought she was using the bathroom. He thought he had a few close calls when his panicked paranoia twisted his mind into believing he was being followed several times by character bankrupt individuals.

And now, on New Year’s Eve, he escaped his tenement through a fire escape, hustled through the snow kissed streets and jumped on a crowded subway downtown to the starlit festivities.

Luck seemed to shadow him as he shared a car with a transit patrolman all the way to his stop. He struck up a conversation with the uniformed officer about how lousy the local football teams were doing. With a handshake, they wished each other a Happy New Year and parted ways. Lee quickly exited the subway car and took steps two-by-two to the street among the partygoers. Sweat beaded his forehead, even in the frost-like winter chill. His breath looked like he was smoking a cigarette through the air and his nervous twitch on the back of his neck made him look like a Pez dispenser rapidly spitting out candy. He would not feel safe until he was among the police monitored celebration.

He pushed through people from all over the world and emphasized his anxiousness with cuss words that would make a construction worker wince. He dodged tourists and settled in like a pig in a blanket enveloped by people there to ring in the new year.

The countdown from one minute began as Lee’s eyes glowed among the warmth of the unassuming crowd insulating him from his doom. As the numbers grew smaller, his heart began to race as if he were just one number away from hitting the lottery.

Twenty seconds, his breathing mimicked someone in need of an asthma pump, as he mouthed the numbers synched to the countdown.

TEN…NINE…EIGHT…I am gonna make it. 

SEVEN…SIX…FIVE…Stupid loan shark, what a sucker.

FOUR…THREE…TWO…ONE…Lee dropped to his knees and collapsed, dead.

The uniformed officer whipped out his cell and called Louie.

‘Yeah, Boss. Mission accomplished. He fell for the officer outfit. I shook his hand on the subway ride over and pricked his palm with the poison. He dropped at the stroke of midnight just like the ball. Happy New Year.’

About the author

 

Jon Moray has been writing short stories for over a decade and his work has appeared in many online and print markets. When not working and being a devoted family man, he enjoys sports, music, the ocean, and SCI-FI/Fantasy media. Read more of his work at moraywrites.com. 

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Christmas Stocking Surprise by Leonie Jarrett, a cup of eggnog

It was Christmas 2020 – the year that the COVID-19 pandemic wreaked havoc on our world. We had had draconian lockdowns in Melbourne, Australia but the lockdown was lifted in time for Christmas. A Christmas gift for the good, compliant behaviour of us Melburnians.

 

I called my 80-year-old father. “Dad, thinking ahead about Christmas, we’d like you to take a COVID rapid test before you come for Christmas lunch.”

 

“No. Not doing that,” he retorted.

 

“What do you mean you’re not doing that?”

 

“I don’t have COVID. Not taking a test.”

 

“But Dad, we’re doing it to protect you and the other grandparents. You all have underlying health issues. And Christmas is not for another two weeks so you don’t know whether you’ll have COVID then.”

 

“Not doing it. Probably won’t come. You’re being over the top as always.”

 

Dad hung up but he came on Christmas Day for lunch.

 

I am quite sure he did not take a COVID test.

 

I called my Mum.

 

“Mum.” (I should mention that my parents are divorced). “We’d like you to take a rapid test before you come for Christmas lunch.”

 

“Oh…ok.” Mum sent me a photo of her negative COVID test on Christmas morning. When she arrived for Christmas lunch, she waved her negative COVID test at my front door. Like it was show and tell.

 

“Sally,” I said to my sister. “We’d like you to take a rapid test before you come for Christmas lunch.”

 

“Not doing that. That’s stupid.”

 

“Sal, you work in a medical clinic. You’re surrounded by random, sick people all the time.”

 

“Not doing it.”

 

Sally didn’t come on Christmas Day.

 

We all sat around the Christmas tree to exchange presents. My Dad presented me with a Christmas stocking. My Dad hadn’t given me a Christmas stocking for many years. I was over 50 after all!

 

I reached into the stocking and felt a box. Excitement building, I pulled the box out of the stocking.

 

It was a box of COVID-19 rapid tests.

 

I turned to Dad, confused.

 

Without a hint of irony, he said matter-of-factly, “Well, you’re mad on those things so I bought you a pack.”

 

About the author

 Leonie Jarrett lives in Melbourne, Australia with her Husband of more than 3 decades, 2 of her 4 adult children and her 2 Golden Retrievers. Leonie is a lawyer and has owned several businesses. Now that she is semi-retired, Leonie is loving writing rivers of words. 

 

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The Christmas Devil by Sarah Das Gupta, a hot chocolate with a pink marshmallow on top

The Brewster family was busy decorating the Christmas tree. Outside, the snow was falling softly, transforming the garden to a sparkling wonderland. On the carpet in front of a glowing fire, the two children were searching in the old box which held all the exciting decorations from previous years. Many of these were like old friends which magically re-appeared each year. 

‘Look, here’s the silver star. It seems to grow brighter every Christmas'. Tina held a gleaming decoration which was so familiar, yet so enchanting. 

Meanwhile, Jon was holding up a prickly hedgehog and a tiny red squirrel which he tied to the lower branches. ‘The animals are my favourites. They always look so happy on the tree each year.’

Gradually the tree took on its wonderful, familiar Christmas charm. The children added a bauble here and a strand of sparkly tinsel there. Suddenly, Tina held up a glass ball. Inside was a miniature world of tiny trees. A shake of the hand prompted snow to fall on this delicate crystal scene.

‘Look Jon, I don’t remember this from last year. She held up the glass ball. Inside it was ‘snowing’ heavily. The two youngsters stared hard at the strange figure encased in the glass ball.

It was really ugly, a sort of goblin or devil. It’s got razor-sharp teeth.’

‘Yes, and the eyes are mean and nasty,’ Jon looked closely at the angry little figure, with its fists ready to take on an enemy.

‘Let’s fix it round the back of the tree. Perhaps, he’ll show some Christmas spirit once we hang him up.’ Jon laughed as he tied the ball to a hidden branch at the back.

 

Next day the children were up early. Christmas Eve was always a busy day, buying last minute cards and gifts. After a hasty breakfast, they were in the lounge, finishing decorating with sprays of red-berried holly and mistletoe. Jon was checking the tree and adding a few strands of tinsel.

‘Tina, come here a moment.’ He sounded puzzled.

They both stood silently, gazing at the glass ball. The trees still stood tall. The snow still fell when Jon shook the ball. But as for the ugly goblin, he was nowhere to be seen. The children exchanged inquiring glances.

‘Did we actually see these those horrid, piercing eyes and the angry, rounded fists?’ Jon spoke with a touch of unease in his voice.

They walked to the windows opening onto the white garden.

‘Look at those foot-marks leading from the window here, across the lawn.’ Tina’s voice sounded anxious.

‘They could be the prints of a bird. They are so small, it’s hard to tell.’

‘No, they’re not bird marks-wrong shape. Besides, birds don’t leave such a clear, straight path.’

The children finished off decorating, but a disturbing silence had settled over the room, despite the glowing fire and the shining Christmas tree.

They sat in the in the brightly lit lounge, wrapping last minute Christmas presents. Their old, Golden Labrador lay stretched out by the fire. Suddenly, the dog yelped loudly.

‘Bruno’s dreaming of the days when he used to chase rabbits.’ Tina laughed at the thought.

But the dog was wide awake, scratching his neck and yelping. He ran to the door, trying to escape.

As Jon let him out, he noticed a circular mark under the dog’s collar. The skin was raw and small drops of blood ran down Bruno’s neck.

About ten minutes later, Jon came back. ’Mom thinks he caught his collar on something. She’s taken it off and washed the sore spot on his neck.’

‘You didn’t mention the weird mystery of the disappearing figure in the glass ball, did you?’

‘No, Mom’s so, busy with Christmas and Granny’s not well. I’m sure we can deal with this ourselves.

It’s odd though. Bruno refused to come back into the lounge and you know how much he loves the fire!’

                                              °                             °                           °

  Jon found it difficult to sleep on Christmas Eve in his small bedroom under the roof. He was excited by the thought of the next day when the presents under the Christmas tree would at last be opened. He was also concerned about the disappearance of the goblin-like creature from inside the glass snowball. If Tina hadn’t been there, he would have begun to think it was nothing but his imagination.

Yet Jon thought no one would make an empty glass ball. What would be the point?

He was still tossing and turning when he heard the church clock chime midnight. The room was completely dark. The snow had covered the skylight and the main light had fused. Jon felt he was not alone in the small attic room. A clear scratching noise came from behind the bed. At first, he thought it could be a mouse or rat behind the skirting board. Then he remembered, only a few weeks before Mom had had the upstairs rooms treated by a local pest control company, because squirrels had been nesting in the roof. The noise stopped. Jon turned over and pulled up the quilt in an effort to get to sleep. As he sank back into the pillow, he saw a green light in the corner of the room. It was more of a mist than a light. Floating around the floor, the eerie, green haze hovered over Jon’s bed. At the same moment he felt a painful stabbing in his right leg. As he reached down inside the bed, his hand felt warm and wet. He swung his legs out of bed and felt his way to the door. Terrified, he switched on the light at the top of the attic stairs. A red stain had appeared on the right leg of his pyjamas. He rolled them up above the knees. There were three round, raw marks up the side of his leg. These were bleeding enough for the blood to have stained the thick, woollen material. He stood at the top of the steep stairs. He didn’t want to wake anyone on Christmas night of all nights of the year. Suddenly, Jon felt a power or force of some kind pushing him down the steep, wooden steps. He could feel cold breath on the back of his neck as if some one was breathing close behind him.

By clinging to the hand rail with all his fourteen- year -old strength, Jon managed to resist this unseen power. He heard an angry snort behind him as the pressure ceased. I’m damned if I ‘m going to be turned out of my own bed. He went back to bed, pulling the quilt over his head.

 

                                        °                                        °                                        °          

On Christmas morning, just as Jon showed Tina the three strange circular marks on his leg, they heard a scream from the direction of the kitchen. ‘Now what’s happened?’ yelled Jon as they ran downstairs.

In the kitchen, Mrs Brewster sat at the table with a pile of mince pies broken and crumbled into all sorts of strange shapes. She was close to tears as she looked at the disaster in front of her.

‘What on earth happened?’  Tina put a comforting arm round her tearful mom.

‘Somebody pushed me over while I was carrying the tray.’

‘But there’s nobody around. Tina and I were upstairs and Dad’s clearing snow from the driveway.’

‘Well, I guess I slipped but I swear I felt cold air, as if some one was breathing down my neck.’

Brother and sister exchanged glances. ‘We can eat the broken pieces. They’ll taste fine. You’ve got cookies and Christmas cake for any callers.’ Jon reassured his mother.

‘All this waste of time. I don’t think we will be eating Christmas lunch much before three this afternoon. I’m sure you two can find something to do till then.’ Mom began clearing up the pieces.

Jon wandered off to give Dad a hand clearing the snow. Tina sat down by the fire, determined to finish the Steven King horror story she had started. Looking out over the back lawn, she noticed a double trail of the same footmarks they had seen the day before.  When she walked over to the glass doors, she could see the curious marks crossing then returning over the otherwise unmarked snow. She noticed three black shapes on the edge of the garden path. They stood out against the smooth, whiteness of the rest of the garden. Slipping on her boots, Tina walked up the brick path.

She stared down, clapping her hand over her mouth to stifle a scream. Three dead birds lay across the path. They looked like crows which was odd. Tina never remembered seeing crows in that small town garden.  The corpses had been carefully laid out as if for a post mortem. The intestines, the hearts, the livers were all neatly set out with clinical precision. Tina walked back as she saw her father enter the lounge. The sight of the lights on the Christmas tree, the fire blazing in the grate and the smell of the turkey cooking almost took away the horror of the dead birds.

After a delicious Christmas lunch which had been well worth waiting for, Mr and Mrs Brewster forced themselves to put on their coats, hats and boots and set off for the Forster house, a couple of blocks away. Jack Forster, a great friend and golf partner of Gerry Brewster, was recovering from a recent stroke. He couldn’t come to Gerry so, the Brewsters must go to him.

Tina was clearing up the kitchen while Jon raked the fire and piled on more logs. Jon had heard about the dead birds. He found it strange and macabre. Just as he had finished making up the fire, he heard footsteps going upstairs. It sounded as if they had gone to the top of the house. Tina must have forgotten something. Then music blared out from overhead. It sounded like three brass bands all playing together and people dancing to the music. Then, as soon as it had started, it stopped. The silence that followed was in a way more unsettling than the musical mayhem. Jon stood with his back to the fire, rooted to the spot. Tina walked in eating bits of the broken mince pies.

‘Nothing wrong with these, if anything they taste better.’ She took off her apron, dropping it over the back of a chair.

‘What were you doing upstairs, dancing around and playing some awful music at top volume?’

‘Now you really are losing the plot. Probably those cocktails after lunch!’

‘Come on Tina, it nearly bust my eardrums.’

Tina stared at her brother. With a sinking feeling, she realized he really had heard something weird.

Silently they climbed the stairs. All was quiet and ordinary. Perhaps Jon had drunk one or two cocktails too many?

Then in the silence, they suddenly heard an old Sinatra song playing softly. The music came from Jon’s room under the roof. They walked quietly up the wooden stairs. As Jon opened the door the music became slightly louder. He walked across to the radio. Tina could see his shoulders suddenly tighten. He whispered, ‘The radio is not connected. Anyway, there’s no power in here.’

As they stood at the top of the stairs looking down to the front door, they heard an uproar coming from the lounge. It sounded like a full -blown fight, no quarter given. China was being broken, furniture being moved around. Screaming and yelling sounded through the house.

‘Come on, I’m going to settle this. That ugly little devil is not ruining our Christmas.’ As he spoke, Jon rushed downstairs. Tina followed, rather more slowly.

Jon threw the lounge door open. The furniture had been moved around. The sofa was upside down by the garden door. Two arm chairs were precariously piled up, one on the other. All the pictures had been turned to face the wall. The table was upside down, its spindly legs glowing in the firelight.

‘Just look over here,’ Jon shouted with excitement.

They stared down at the stone hearth. The ugly little devil lay across one corner. His face, swollen and bloody, was barely recognisable. His straggly hair looked as if someone had pulled it out in handfuls. The Christmas tree lay drunkenly on its side. All the decorations were scattered over the carpet. The angel from the topmost branch had her halo twisted round her neck, while one wing was badly bent. Her usual, beatific smile had changed to a look of grim determination.

‘We’ve got half an hour to get this back to normality. I am personally going to throw the Christmas devil into the trash can.’ Jon walked out holding the devil by one foot.

Tina began the task of restoring the room and the battered decorations. The Brewster couple, who it must be admitted, had had one or two drinks at Jack Forster’s, never noticed anything out of place.

                                         °                                     °                                     °

Eleven days later, on Twelfth Night, Mrs Brewster was packing the decorations into their usual box.

As, she picked them up she commented, ‘We’ll need a new angel next year. Quite a few are looking   rather battered.’

She was too busy to notice that the Christmas Devil was back in his glass ball at the bottom of the box. His eyes looked meaner than ever and his teeth, even sharper.

About the author

 

Sarah Das Gupta is an ex- teacher, aged 82, who worked in UK, India, Africa. She is learning to walk again, after an accident. Her work has been published in over 15 different countries. She is a nominee for Best of the Net and Dwarf star. 

Did you enjoy the story? Would you like to shout us a coffee? Half of what you pay goes to the writers and half towards supporting the project (web site maintenance, preparing the next Best of book etc.)