A Christmas Story

The room looked like a scene from a Christmas movie. It was five o’clock and he was ready for their first Christmas together. Glancing round the lounge, he checked one last time to ensure everything was in place and just right. She would be home from work soon and he wanted it all to be perfect for her. It was a shame she had to work on Christmas Eve, but he’d lost his job and that meant she had to work as many hours as possible to keep up with the bills. He felt bad about it, but he did his best to make sure the house was tidy and there was always a meal ready for her when she got home.

The logs in the fireplace were burning brightly and the mantelpiece was festooned with a festive garland of holly, ivy and spruce. The Christmas tree sat in the corner of the lounge, resplendent with twinkling lights and sparkling baubles. It was a little bit too big for the room, but it was the perfect shape and you couldn’t beat having a real tree.

He’d placed Christmas decorations round the room, just as she had dictated. A pair of small pottery Victorian street scenes, backlit with tea-lights, sat on the mantelpiece. On the dresser was a small porcelain Christmas tree, complete with a tiny train winding its way up towards the star that crowned the top. Candles, dotted around the room added to the ambience.

He glanced at his watch again, if her train had been on schedule she would be at the station by now, climbing into her car to make the short drive home. He knew the roads were clear of snow, so it shouldn’t take her too long.

He clumsily knocked over a candle on the fireplace; it hit the stockings, causing an instant conflagration. Suddenly there was fire and smoke. He clutched his throat, he couldn’t breathe. His arms flailed about in front of him. He couldn’t see, couldn’t find his way out. He could feel the heat on his face, vaguely aware of the flames as they exploded from the fireplace and flowed like liquid over the Christmas tree. He stumbled over the furniture as he tried to escape. The noise of cracking wood and collapsing timbers was insanely loud. He fell to his knees in the smoke, blinded and choking. Darkness overtook him.

He woke and found himself still in the lounge. The room was a charred mess. He couldn’t quite believe it; somehow he had survived the inferno. He rose, checking his body. His clothes weren’t even charred, despite the heat of the fire. He stepped outside into the cold air of a winter’s night. The sky was clear, with twinkling stars and a full moon. It was quiet, the snow damping all sound. He glanced back at the house and saw skeletal roof timbers, black against the moonlight. The entire house had obviously been engulfed. Destroyed.

“How did I survive?”

He realised with a sense of infinite sadness he hadn’t. He couldn’t have. His body must have been completely cremated by the heat. He was…something. A ghost, a spirit. He felt nothing for himself, his sadness was for her. Thankfully, she hadn’t been home, that was the only saving grace. She had survived.

Weeks and months passed without notice. Time had no meaning in his new world. There were no seasons for him. It was always winter; it was always Christmas Eve. He knew he would forever be stuck in this ruined house, in the depths of winter. Alone.

His version of Hell was cold.

∼ RJ Meldrum

© Copyright RJ Meldrum. All Rights Reserved.

Pick Me Island

When the plane had to make an emergency landing in the Bermuda triangle, twelve girls swam to the closest land mass. They had been on a school trip, heading to Puerto Rico, and engaging in “compulsory volunteer work” with Habitat for Humanity.

Eight of the girls had resigned themselves to learning basic construction. They had hoped to get tan and perhaps meet some cute local boys who would entertain them in the evenings. The other four wanted nothing to do with the group. They declared loudly and often that they were “not like other girls” and were proud of their uniqueness.

“I don’t think we will meet any boys here,” Amber said, scanning the small island.

“Unless they’re part of a rescue mission,” Beth added hopefully.

The group explored the shore, with the mission of finding drinkable water or food. They stumbled over large bones that did not look as if they belonged to fish.

“Is that predator or prey?” Callie asked one of the “not like other girls” members. This one routinely skipped the school uniform and instead wore band t-shirts featuring obscure musicians that no one else was cool enough to recognize.

The girl didn’t answer, which was her usual response.

After finding zero coconut trees, the group began to consider other means of sustenance. Darcy turned to the “not like other girls” who always wore a taxidermized squirrel pinned to her uniform sweater.  “Can you catch us something to eat? Like a fish or bird or…egg or something?” she asked.

“I’m vegan,” squirrel girl replied.

Darcy raised an eyebrow. “Wearing that?” She pointed at the squirrel that was worse for the wear.

 Squirrel girl shrugged. “I didn’t kill it. Besides, we came into the world alone, we exist alone, and we die alone. I suggest we split up.”

The eight “joiners” were losing patience with the “not like other girls” crew, but they did not want to split up either. They believed there was strength in numbers.

Emily suggested that they build a shelter. The eight joiners gathered fronds and sticks and attempted to craft a makeshift tent while three of the other four sat and stared at the horizon. The remaining “not like other girls” member practiced yoga poses which is what she had been doing in the aisles of the airplane before the sudden landing

Fern looked at the “not like other girls” member who was cradling the thermos she always carried. The girl proclaimed the thermos to be full of alcohol and would make a show of sipping from it during class.
“Let me have your thermos, for the fire,” Fern said.

“It’s only water,” the girl replied.  

“Good, let’s reserve it,” Gina suggested. “It’s not much, but we can add to it if it rains. In fact, we should gather shells and other items to act as water containers…”

As predicted, eight girls searched for large shells and washed-up items to retain rainwater and four girls contributed nothing.

As the sun sank beneath the horizon and the island became bathed in darkness, sounds of a strange creature could be heard.

Eight girls hovered beneath their shelter, while the other four shrank into the foliage.

“That shelter is not gluten-free,” one of the four whispered, more to herself than to her companions. They listened as the grunts and snorts grew closer.

They smelled her before they saw her.

A girl-like creature lumbered toward them. She was the height of two of them put together. Her snout was long and twisted, like a caiman and her hair was alive with buzzing bees. Her skin was scaley and it glistened in the moonlight.

The eight girls in the shelter were in awe of the being. They stayed still and watched as she turned her attention to the four who were screaming from the foliage.

An impressive blood bath ensued, and as the creature pulled a large bone from her mouth, Hattie exclaimed, “She really isn’t like other girls.”

∼ Elaine Pascale

© Copyright Elaine Pascale. All Rights Reserved.

The Unshriven

They come through the tunnels of Hell into the sunlight, wearing rusted armor astride horses of gore. Ancient swords hang at rotted hips and over decaying shoulders. Some carry morning stars, or battle axes upon which the blood of old wars has dried so hard it has bonded to the steel.

In dark madness they come, up fiery slopes of magma toward the snow-capped mountains of heaven. But the holy gates are shut against them and only earth is left to abide their time.

Unshriven. Unforgiven. No Heaven or Hell will have them.

Fortunately, they find that humans are both filling and taste great.

∼ Charles Gramlich

© Copyright Charles Gramlich. All Rights Reserved.

The Stray

The scent of rot permeated the air; I knew I was close. I could almost taste the stench. I took each step with care—silence was essential. My eyes searched the darkness between the trees, looked for any sign of its bodily form. I tried to keep my imaginings to nil, as I didn’t want to spoil my initial reaction when my eyes finally witnessed its flesh. I wanted to see the dream for what it was, not for what it could be.

Movement in the brush ahead halted my breath. I listened to the silence that followed with fierce intent. The musky air thickened. But I heard no steps approach.

My heart pounded with a concoction of fear and excitement. I’d been hunting this legend since I was a boy. Those tales told around a fire, or with a few drinks—they stuck with me. They unraveled my focus on all other things. This was what I lived for. To find out what it really was.

Local lore said it might have once been human, an orphan raised by the wilderness. Others said it might be nature herself, risen from the earth to take vengeance upon anyone it could. No matter its origin, the stories said it traveled on all fours, and its nature was vicious and feral. If you think it’s close, it’s already too late. That’s how the stories always ended.

A release of breath shattered the silent night. It was hot against the back of my neck. I slowly turned to see what I yearned so badly for. My eyes went wide and took in all the moonlight had to offer. She towered above me, bare-breasted and malformed beyond description—an amalgam of evolutionary paths borrowed from a dozen species. But aside from her eyes and nose, her face was close to human.

She stared down at me as she reared up on her hind legs and let out an animalistic vocalization of aggression. I put my palms up and backed away a step to show I wasn’t a threat. She returned to four legs on the ground, her face now level with mine.

She approached, seemingly curious, and sniffed about my shirt collar. Her smell was so awful I could barely breathe. But I was content in that moment. I finally found what I was looking for. A smile spread across my lips as she ran her tongue along my neck.

Then the pain of her teeth sunk in. I heard the rending of my flesh in her mouth as it was torn from my neck. Agony, shock, disbelief, all surged through me in crashing waves. Her front leg pinned me to the ground. My ribs audibly broke beneath the weight.

Gasping for breath and drowning in my own blood, I struggled to gaze upon her one last time before she feasted on my body.

∼ Lee Andrew Forman

© Copyright Lee Andrew Forman. All Rights Reserved.