The Christmas Gift by Ken Whitson, a warm mug of mulled red wine

It’s been a year now since you went away, and my guitar still won’t let me sing your song, the one I wrote that Christmas Eve. Now, as then, I place a single package under the tree, my song to you within. The bow, your favorite shade of red, sits slightly askew now, like my life. But the paper, like my love, still sparkles and shines. A song is all I could afford that year. You’d have smiled and said it’s more than enough, more than you had for me. I’d have smiled back, seeing the lie. We’d have hugged then. And kissed. But our smiles never came.

About the author

 Ken is a retired civil servant who hasn't yet figured out what retirement means. When he's not consulting or otherwise unretiring, he enjoys crafting vivid, emotionally charged stories with unconventional themes—or hunting little green fish, AKA, bass. His work recently appeared in Dragon Soul Press's The Fear Doctor Anthology.

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Is Santa Claus Real? by Judith Skilleter, mulled wine, a pint please

Meg is in a bit of a pickle. It is coming up to Christmas and she is hearing the worst ever news. She has been told that there is no such person as Santa Claus and the presents are all bought by Mum and Dad.  The sources of this awful news are her two older brothers who took great delight in telling her that she had been told a lot of lies by Mum and Dad, and the grandmas and grandads and the various aunties and uncles. In fact Meg is in more than a bit of a pickle; she is upset and cross and very confused. She does not like the fact that people she loves having been telling her fibs all these years but the worst is what if it is true? What if there is no Santa Claus living in Lapland? What if he doesn’t fly through the night on his sleigh pulled by his favourite reindeer – with Rudolf leading the way of course? What if he doesn’t climb down chimneys to deliver presents to all the good little boys and girls? (Meg always tries to be very good from October onwards so that she is definitely on Santa’s present list.)What if the snacks she leaves out for Santa are not eaten after all by Santa and his reindeer? So who eats the carrots and mince pies and drinks the glass of sherry if not Santa and his crew? In fact Meg is very upset at the very thought that this delightful man in a red suit will not be squeezing down her chimney this year and worst of all never has.

Meg went to see her dad.

“Daddy” she said “the boys say that there is no Santa Claus and that the presents come from you and Mummy. Is that true?”

“Did they indeed?” said Dad whilst thinking “I’ll have words with those two later.” “Well Meg all I can say is that I hope there is a Santa Claus. But you know I have never seen him and I do stay up late on Christmas Eve hoping to catch him.

“But you then fall asleep on the sofa-every time.”

“I tell you what Meg, go and ask Mummy. She knows about things like this.”

Not convinced Meg went to find her mum who was writing Xmas cards. 

“What with the price of stamps these days I am not sure it is wise sending all these cards every year. We should give the money to charity – next year we will do that” Meg’s mum muttered to no-one in particular. “Oh hello Meg, what are you up to?” she said as her youngest came through the door with a strange expression on her face.

“Daddy sent me. He said you will know if Santa Claus is real or not because the boys have told me he is fake and that you and Dad buy all the presents.”

“What do you believe” asked Mum.

“I believed but now I am not sure. What if the boys are right?" said Meg.

Mum was really thinking hard at this point, trying to find the right thing to say.

“Well” said mummy thinking fast “I hope there is a Santa but the most important thing is what you want to believe. And if you want to believe in Santa Claus, then that is OK.”

 

About the author 

Judith Skilleter is new to writing fiction after a long career in social work and teaching. Her first children's novel The April Rebellion, has recently been published. Judith is a Geordie, who settled in East Yorkshire forty-five years ago and is married with four grandchildren. 

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Saturday Sample: The Post Box Topper Chronicles by Dawn Knox, mulled wine gone cold

 

The sender of the email was A. Godbin.

Vera Twinge didn’t recognise the name. She was most particular about emails. If she didn’t know the sender, she simply consigned the unopened message to the bin, having learnt all about spam and the germs it carried. She’d twice clicked on links in a strange email, resulting in an infected computer – and a large bill from her IT guru-ess, Amrita.

But the email from A. Godbin had the subject line, “Post Box Topper Outrage”, and Vera hadn’t been able to resist opening it.

As she read, a slow scream gathered in her throat. How dare he… or she – or in this society with its surfeit of political correctness – how dare they?

A. Godbin certainly had a nerve, whatever his, her or their gender. Vera rummaged through her well-organised brain, but she was certain there was no one in Creaping Bottom by that name. It was only a small village, and she knew everyone, as well as members of their extended families. She even knew the names of their houses and their pets.

Unable to believe it, Vera reread the message.

Dear Mrs Twinge,

I am emailing regarding the recent outrage that you and your club, The Creaping Bottom Post Box Topper Society, perpetrated on the letterbox in the High Road last weekend. I understand from passers-by that it is supposed to represent January and that you intend to commit a similar outrage on the village’s only letterbox each month for the rest of the year. I have no idea what a cow pat, a squashed insect and sleeping chicken have to do with January. I suspect this owes more to an inflated idea of your artistic abilities than to a desire to serve our community. I dread to think how you might massacre February and subsequent months.

I have reported the disgrace to the local constabulary; however, I do not feel they have treated my complaint with the seriousness it deserves. Be assured, I will not rest until the matter has been fully investigated and dealt with to my satisfaction. The police inspector is a member of the local golf club of which I am a committee member, and I am confident he will agree with me that the offending article must be removed with all haste.

Of course, you could save me the trouble and simply remove the eyesore yourself and desist from further installations. I would be most grateful.

Yours,

A. Godbin.

Vera stared at the email for several minutes. Yes, it definitely said what she’d thought it said the first time she’d read it. She pressed the Forward button and entered the names of the four other members of the Creaping Bottom Post Box Topper Society.

Petronella Asquelch, Stuart McPhail, Sally Bobbin and Levi von Regenschirm.

She pressed the Send button. A. Godbin’s offensive email left her inbox with a whoosh.

The club had started as a knit-and-natter group, the members of which had grown bored with knitting squares. When Petronella had seen a blog about Christmas post box toppers, she’d suggested they make one to decorate the letterbox outside the Post Office in the High Road as a Christmas project.

Vera had crocheted the bonnet, which fitted snugly over the top. After purchasing a hardcover copy of The Anatomy of the British Pillar Box, she discovered the top was referred to as the “roof” by post box enthusiasts. Now, she was thoroughly conversant with all anatomical terms relating to post boxes.

The other items for the topper – two snowmen and a Christmas tree – should have been fixed on the roof. However, although the crocheted bonnet had been straightforward, the other items proved to be infinitely more complicated. Eventually, after they’d produced eleven mutant snowmen and five Christmas bushes, they’d agreed their effort wouldn’t be ready in time.

Nothing daunted, Vera knew there were months in which to hone their skills before next Christmas to ensure the snowmen and Christmas tree looked… well, as realistic as woollen snowmen and trees could be.

Levi von Regenschirm had practised knitting a menorah for next December, creating a multi-faith theme. While Vera offered Levi encouraging platitudes, she consoled herself with the knowledge there were still months for him to practise. She certainly didn’t want to discourage him for fear he’d think she was discriminating against Hanukkah. But he was going to have to find a way to stiffen the arms of the menorah candelabrum.

His earlier attempts had given poor Sally quite a turn. Levi had flapped it up and down, demonstrating the drooping arms of the candelabrum. He’d done an admirable job of exhibiting their floppiness, but had been completely unprepared for Sally’s response. Her scream had reached the Creaping Arms pub, where patrons had hurried into the High Road, fearing a murder had taken place. As Sally had explained after they’d picked her up off the floor and Vera had wafted smelling salts under her nose, Levi’s menorah had looked remarkably like a hairy-legged spider.

Vera was determined that by the end of the year, the group would be able to create convincing snowmen, Christmas trees and a menorah. Possibly even some holly, crackers and an angel. She’d wondered about an entire Nativity Scene, but perhaps that should wait until the following Christmas… In the meantime, they’d concentrate on her latest project.

Such had been the enthusiasm; the January post box topper had been finished rapidly – in fact, it probably took longer to decide what to make than to actually create the pieces. They’d planned to knit the letters to spell out January, but ‘J’, ‘A’ and ‘N’ had proved so tricky, they’d decided to stop there.

Stuart had suggested that since Burns Night took place in January, he’d like to make a set of bagpipes and a haggis. Petronella had done her very best with a cockerel on a weathervane and a puffy, rain-bearing cloud to show the storms that were often experienced during the month. And the entire topper had looked splendid.

So, how could he – Vera was certain that A. Godbin was a he – how could he possibly have confused the haggis, bagpipes and weathervane with a cow pat, a squashed insect and a sleeping chicken? Although, to be fair, the cockerel listed to one side and didn’t look too lively. Had the stupid man thought the cloud was a pillow? No, surely not. It was obviously a cumulo-nimbus. Everyone knew gales blew in January. As for the cow pat… Vera had never seen one so… well, so well-formed. On the other hand, she’d never seen a haggis either. But a tartan insect? No, A. Godbin obviously didn’t possess even a modicum of imagination.

And anyway, what else could they have chosen? January didn’t contain many major events. And it wasn’t many people’s favourite month. Even the dismal grey wool she’d chosen for the bonnet – which she noted with satisfaction, A. Godbin hadn’t criticised – told its own story.

Ping.

A reply to the forwarded email arrived in her inbox from Levi. It contained a single word – not a word she approved of, or ever used. She wouldn’t fill up her computer with vulgarity. Vera deleted his email. But she’d got the message.

The others would reply soon. Well, if A. Godbin thought she’d give up, he’d better think again. February’s post box topper was going to be an extravaganza.

If A. Godbin wanted a fight, Vera was ready. Let the Creaping Bottom Post Box Topper Wars begin. She rubbed her hands together. Bring it on…

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About the author 

Dawn spent much of her childhood making up stories filled with romance, drama and excitement. She loved fairy tales, although if she cast herself as a character, she’d more likely have played the part of the Court Jester than the Princess. She didn’t recognise it at the time, but she was searching for the emotional depth in the stories she read. It wasn’t enough to be told the Prince loved the Princess, she wanted to know how he felt and to see him declare his love. She wanted to see the wedding. And so she’d furnish her stories with those details. 

Nowadays, she hopes to write books that will engage readers’ passions. From poignant stories set during the First World War, to the zany antics of the inhabitants of the fictitious town of Basilwade; and from historical romances to the fantasy adventures of a group of anthropomorphic animals led by a chicken with delusions of grandeur, she explores the richness and depth of human emotion.

A book by Dawn will offer laughter or tears – or anything in between, but if she touches your soul, she’ll consider her job well done.

She has been a finalist in the Wishing Shelf Book Awards for 2017 and 2020, Readers’ Favorite Book Awards 2018 and Independent Author Network Book of the Year Award 2018.

Dawn has also written two plays about the First World War, which have been performed in England, Germany and France.

If you’d like to receive some free stories and added information about her books as well as an email newsletter from Dawn, please sign up on her blog: https://dawnknox.com

 

The Basilwade Chronicles can be found here: https://mybook.to/TheBasilwadeChronicles

The Duchess of Sydney can be found here: https://mybook.to/TheDuchessOfSydney

A Cottage in Plotlands can be found here: https://mybook.to/ACottageInPlotlands

 

Reminiscences An old man’s Christmas Eve recollections by Olof Laamanen, mulled wine

It’s Christmas Eve, 2022.

The whole family is gathered in our house just outside Helsinki. Outside, it’s bitterly cold, pitch black and a howling snowstorm rattles the windows. Inside, it’s calm, warm from the logs crackling in the open fireplace, and the flickering home-cast candles on the Christmas tree’s branches have turned the room into an enchanted realm.

The air is filled with the fragrance of the freshly cut fir’s resin mixed with the softer scent of sugar melted over burning brandy—my father’s teachings of how to make the perfect glögg put into practice a while ago.

Stephanie relaxes in her easy chair, sending me glances of love; our daughters and their spouses are seated around the sofa table, steaming cups of freshly brewed glögg in their hands.

The grandchildren, busy unpacking their presents, sprawl on the floor, sweets within easy reach, and each surrounded by a heap of torn Christmas paper and empty cartons.

Magic no other evening can come even close to.

Luxuriating in the cozy family scene, my heart fills with that warm feeling of satisfaction associated with plans fulfilled and the knowledge I had made other people happy.

My old man’s eyes mist over, but within the haze, a long-forgotten image from my youth appears for a fleeting moment; the present dissolves, and I’m transported to another room and another era.

It’s 1962; I’m seventeen, and it’s my first Christmas Eve with Anne at my side. It is also the last one. That, however, is still hidden in the swirling mists of the future.

She’s my first teenage love. We met at a party the previous spring, and instant attraction blossomed. Our relationship grew in strength over the summer, and during the autumn, it became all-consuming. I could think of nothing but her. My grades slipped, and my parents, who hadn’t yet met her, became worried and wanted me to see a doctor.

Had they never experienced love as teenagers?

Anne’s Christmas visit to my home was her coming out; I hoped she’d be accepted as a future family member.

She was marvelous. Sitting sedately still, clothed in a blue silken dress, with a modishly short bob haircut and cheeks displaying the unique luster of a teenage girl in love. With wings and a halo, she would have been indistinguishable from an angel in a Raphael painting. My love was limitless, and that picture of her became forever imprinted on my heart.

All my hopes for the evening were fulfilled. My parents were enchanted by her and expressed gratitude for gaining such a delightful new acquaintance. I saw an engagement the coming midsummer as a distinct possibility.

Throughout the following winter and spring, Anne and I were busy wrapping up our twelve school years. Passing the matriculation exams with good marks was all-important; those marks were our keys to the future. She wanted to become a nurse, while I aimed to be an engineer.

We could spare little time and energy for our relationship, but our love thrived. During our sparse hours together, we spun grand plans for the future, building all those castles among the clouds inherent to teenagers. Villas, summer cottages, cars, and voyages dominated, but all the children we would have was a recurring subject. I told Anne I wanted three, and she countered with a teasing, ‘Why not half a dozen?’

How we should finance our dreams didn’t worry us. Such earthly problems we would solve when we faced them.

The future was ours, and life was great.

Time passed quickly, and with the exams behind us and school soon ending, we were getting ready for a summer with a particular shimmer, the last one with childhood freedom. In September, the Nurse Institute awaited Anne; a month later, I’d join the army for my eleven-month stint. In the autumn of next year, we’d be grown-ups. Free to take control of our lives, but without ever again having the luxury of three months of freely disposable time.

Determined to make the most of this unique summer, we busily jotted lists of everything we would do. First on my list was a midsummer engagement.

The day after school ended, I knocked on Anne’s door. Our magic summer was about to begin.

Her mother opened. ‘You’re too late; Anne left for the airport two hours ago.’ Looking ill at ease, she quickly added, ‘Let’s hope three weeks of Spanish sun will do her some good. She, for sure, needs to regain her strength after all the exams.’

Three weeks abroad?

 Without giving me a single word of warning.

And in Spain!

 Where girls bathe topless and consort freely with eager local men, capable of seducing any Nordic girl within an hour, if you can rely on the papers.

A searing feeling of betrayal devoured my heart. The mother’s shamefaced mien had revealed the truth; she knew I had been left in the dark.

But why?

 Devils of jealousy attacked me. Did Anne want to end our relationship but didn’t dare to say so?

Is this how girls behave when they no longer love you?

All the outrageous theories a hurt and jealous young man could dream up whirled through my brain. Wild speculations of her escaping to join a secret lover alternated with more plausible ones.

Maybe it was a surprise end-of-school gift by her parents, giving her no time to warn me? ‘Here are your tickets. The plane leaves in three hours; start packing.’

Did they fear I would make their precious daughter pregnant and thought it best to separate us?

Would serve them right if she came home from Spain knocked up by some dago!

My summer was thoroughly spoiled. Anne and her betrayal tormented my mind continuously. Images of her kept popping up in the middle of my studies, sometimes in her angel-like Christmas outfit, but more often, in only the bottom half of a bikini. I had never seen her that lightly clothed, but my imagination knew no limits.

The entry exams to the Technical University proved to be a push-over, but I felt only satisfaction, no joy. It was a milestone I had planned to celebrate with Anne.

The midsummer festivities loomed only a week later. All spring, I had looked forward to that as the right time for Anne and me to announce our engagement. Now, the event threatened to become utterly dismal. Having to watch all the happy couples dancing in the midnight half-dusk would only worsen the pain of Anne’s treachery. In desperation, I accepted a friend’s invitation to join his ‘Solstice Party’. There, I at least wouldn’t be alone.

However, when the magic midnight of the year’s shortest night approached, I was lonelier than ever, sitting alone in the empty dining hall. Everyone else danced on the terrace outside.

Suddenly, the door flew open, and two people entered. My host all smiles. ‘Cheer up! Your great love is back from Spain! Just in time for a midnight kiss.’

Behind him, Anne smiled shyly.

She was as angel-like as before but now also deliciously tanned and more alluring than ever.

The sight of her tore open all my wounds.

Angel-like had overtones of betrayal, and her enticing color made me think of wanton exposure of breasts to ogling latinos.

Weeks of suppressed bitterness burst forth, ‘She’s not my great love. No great love disappears to Spain without telling me first.’

Anne looked like I had slapped her, spun around, and ran from the room.

We never met again. Too hurt and too proud to admit I had been overly hasty, I avoided her during the summer, and while I was in the army, she and her parents emigrated to America.

 Still, I couldn’t forget her; she remained an open wound in my soul and a constant ache in my conscience.

Why had she disappeared without warning me?

What if I had given her a chance to explain herself?

Had I hurt an innocent person by letting my wounded ego have the best of me that midsummer night?

Questions begging for answers I’d never get.

Two years passed. My studies proceeded well, but not my personal life. I met fascinating and attractive girls and even dated some of them. But none measured up to the idealized Anne in my mind.

Then I met Steph. A young woman who shared my interests in literature and long walks. After a year of shared outdoor days, discussion evenings, or moments of togetherness over a coffee,  she became a permanent part of my life.

Done with our studies, we married. During the busy years when we built our life together and raised our kids, Anne finally faded from my memory.

But tonight, six decennials after that one and only Christmas Eve, she once again sat before me in the candles’s flickering light for a fleeting second. Eternally innocent, dressed in silky blue, eyes sparkling, and a halo stylishly askew over her head.

Was she thinking of me at that moment?

Nostalgia overwhelms me. What if I hadn’t rejected her? Would I now be a contented grandfather with her at my side and our children and grandchildren around us?—Children never born.

Dear Anne, do you, wherever you might be, ever think of me? Do you reflect on what could have been hadn’t I given in to my anger that night more than half a century ago?

I turn my eyes back to my family. Life had become great even without Anne.

 

About the author 

Olof Laamanen is a retired computer engineer. He’s a newcomer to fiction writing and specializes in romance novellas. None of them have so far been published. ’Reminiscences’ is his first short story. Swedish is his native language, and English is his third.

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.)