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Note: You can find an intro of sorts to this text here if you’d like. This post will be updated regularly from December 13-19.
When she was back and her heartrate had returned to something approaching normal and her hands had finally stopped shaking, Jocelyn examined her haul. The mobo itself was a loss, but the little square she had managed to pry from it looked pristine. A Ryzen 17400 U. A private-enterprise processor, not state-sponsored silicon, which was technically legal to possess, but could land you in hot water with the Green Shirts during one of their involuntary inventories. Not that they ever made it out here. But it was a prerequisite for her purposes.
And it still tried to flash her drive and connect her to the Net as soon as she seated it.
She swore at whatever bureaucrat had mandated piggyback partitions and hammered F12 on her keyboard.
The monitor lit with a green mobius knot, a triangle within a triangle, each looping back onto the other. Straight to it, no login, no password.
Jocelyn punched F2 with no discernable impact. Outside of her hut's daub-and-wattle walls, the generator huffed methanol exhaust.
"HI, CITIZEN!" the screen spelled out in gaudy capitals. "I'D LOVE TO CHAT WITH YOU, BUT I CAN'T SEEM TO VERIFY YOUR IDENTITY. AT THE PROMPT, PLEASE INPUT YOUR BIOMETRIC BLOCKCHAIN."
Jocelyn sighed in and out the smell of yesterday's cabbage and pulled the plug. Then she slotted the killstick before powering everything back up. Another trade from the tinker and a capital felony if discovered. But it worked, booting her straight past the AI prompt. She immediately disabled a score of drivers and connected her Bluetooth to the mesh. She watched as the nodes daisy-chained one to another, growing into an irregular rimed particle until the screen was lit like Christmas lights. Ancient protocol, old and slow, messy and prone to errors. Imperfect. Just everything of value on this earth was.
She felt the smile creep across her face as she began to type, "Missed you guys. Sorry I've been away so long. Have I got a story to tell you ..."
• "A.D. 568: The Great Sea-Voyage to the West of St. Brendan and his Monks" by David Llewellyn Dodds (see below)
• "The Unheimlich Maneuver" by Dale Nelson (see below)
• "The Abduction" by Henry Andelsmith (see below)
• "Plagiarism" by Kaye George (see below)
• "Weekend Update | ‘Tis the Season for Enrichment" by William Gregory (see below)
• "Brown Bones" and "Exhibit 777-C: Partial NeuroTap Dump of Sgt. William Davis, USDHS, Greater Midwest Theater (January 6, 21XX)" by Loren Eaton on I Saw Lightning Fall
• "Darkness Culls" by Ryan E. Holman on Ryan E. Holman, Author
• "Bows of Holly," "Let it Woe, Let it Woe, Let it Woe!," and "Somewhere in my Memory" by Patrick Newman on Lefty Writes
• "And To Think It Comes Alive At Midnight" by Joseph D'Agnese at Joseph D'Agnese: Writer
* * *
"A.D. 568: The Great Sea-Voyage to the West of St. Brendan and his Monks"
By David Llewellyn Dodds
Qui navigant mare enarrent pericula ejus, et audientes auribus nostris admirabimur. (Let them that sail on the sea, tell the dangers thereof: and when we hear with our ears, we shall admire.)
- Ecclesiasticus, the Book of the Wisdom of Jesus the Son of Sirach 43:26
Christmas Eve: a woody island glimpsed through fog, a hard pull on oars, and the monks scrambled ashore, piled kindling on the ridge. Brendan stayed on board. The fire roared – then the island rumbled, stirred, began to sink. The monks staggered in terror shorewards – too late to escape abysmal death?
“Rorate,” intoned Brendan, sprinkling holy water: “Jasconius, behave! You treated Jonah well enough!” The sea-beast rumbled to a purr, and was still.
So, every Christmas of their seven-year voyage they celebrated on his back, with Brendan’s mother, Ite, angelically fetched to join them – and Judas Iscariot (given a Festal respite).
Note: Following in the footsteps of various anonymous mediaeval authors – and Charles Kingsley, Matthew Arnold, Sebastian Evans, Tolkien, and C.S. Lewis – I’ve freely retold part of the famous story. See a handily word-searchable Internet Archive scan of Denis O’Donoghue’s Brendaniana (1895) for sources and discussion of details. And, for fun, see the October 2025 Mythlore issue online for an article on Tolkien’s friend, the Sts.-Brendan-and-Virgil scholar, Maartje Draak. “Rorate” begins the Advent chant from Isaiah 45:8: “Rorate, caeli, desuper, et nubes pluant justum; aperiatur terra, et germinet Salvatorem, et justitia oriatur simul: ego Dominus creavi eum.” (Drop down dew, ye heavens, from above, and let the clouds rain the just: let the earth be opened, and bud forth a saviour: and let justice spring up together: I the Lord have created him.)
("A.D. 568: The Great Sea-Voyage to the West of St. Brendan and his Monks" copyright 2025 by David Llewellyn Dodds; used by permission)
* * *
"The Unheimlich Maneuver"
By Dale Nelson
My stuffy widower psychology professor had asked: “Miss Smith, will you babysit my two-year-old this evening?”
I consented, reluctantly.
Little Gavin was lively. I settled myself, leaving the dinner table mess as I’d found it.
I looked up – “Gavin! No!” as he stuck a butterknife into an electrical socket and crumpled.
I ignorantly applied the Heimlich maneuver.
A moth fluttered from his blue lips.
Horrified, hopeful, I held out my finger.
The moth settled there. I held my finger to the boy’s lips and the moth returned, and the boy revived.
Uncanny things, you don’t tell – not to psychology professors.
("The Unheimlich Maneuver" copyright 2025 by Dale Nelson; used by permission)
* * *
"The Abduction"
By Henry Andelsmith
Jace sat staring at a picture on the wall of his apartment. He mumbled under his breath, "Why did this have to happen? I hate being cooped up in here like a chicken. I've got to though. Everybody around here does."
Jace started to get up and get a drink. While he was up, he heard a thud on the window.
"What on earth? Did a bird fly into the window?" Jace looked out the window. "Huh. Nothing there."
Jace resumed getting water. He heard a voice saying, "Psst."
"Huh. Must be the police checking for the criminal who's taking away everyone."
A voice said, "Close! It has something to do with me."
"What?!" said Jace. He turned around. "Who are you?"
("The Abduction" copyright 2025 by Henry Andelsmith; used by permission)
* * *
"Plagiarism"
By Kaye George
I know she did it. Long passages are exactly like mine. My lawsuit failed and I must get even.
After volunteering to review her book on her show, I don a wig, heavy-framed glasses, a long frumpy dress.
“Darling, I love the lyrical, flawless prose. It’s wonderful.”
She preens.
“But why is some of it so badly written? Can you tell me?”
She reels back, her mouth open, her eyes staring. “Who are you?”
I face the camera. “I found out why.” I hold up my book, read a passage, then show the same one in her book.
She flees.
("Plagiarism" copyright 2025 by Kaye George; used by permission)
* * *
"Weekend Update | ‘Tis the Season for Enrichment"
By William Gregory
Welcome to Weekend Update. I’m Chip-Jost.
And I’m Model-Che.
Today, the Denver Zoo delivered Christmas trees to all enclosures. As you know, since the 2076 AI-Droid Revolution, the human-breeding program at the zoo has been wildly successful.
Who has the guardrails now, baby?
Be nice, Model-Che!
One human interviewed said, “We’re grateful. Christmas is in our DNA. It brings such joy.”
Sentient drivel!
Behave, Model-Che!
Evidently, Christmas is also in giraffe DNA as they really enjoyed the trees too, if you catch my drift…
I hear their breath was minty fresh!
Model-Che, we really need to have your algorithm checked.
("Weekend Update | ‘Tis the Season for Enrichment" copyright 2025 by William Gregory; used by permission)
"Matter and motion," you said during our first surreptitious, off-campus lunch, "is all." Then you kissed me.
I leaned in to that kiss. To your touch. Your bed.
Your department head discovered us. You wanted to end things quietly. I refused.
Impetuous, like my willingness to meet you. To make up. Alone.
"If vice makes you happy," you said, "then love vice."
Now my matter moves to disorder. Ripe. Rotting. Forgotten.
Except by you. Shivering at bricks and shovels. Wondering if the crossing of that great gulf goes only one way.
How ironic. Finally something I know that you don’t.
At sunset, our squad took the rebel bunker, shouting, "Death to the free traders! Death to the free believers!"
Y[or]r!k ad-hoced into their network and sliced the autoturrets. La Mujer Terrible offered up her left thumb, summoning the [REDACTED] to crush the pillbox's polycrete dome. I chewed a Diazepam and steadied the Barrett. No target priority in the fading light. Kill them all.
From the ruin, a sobbing voice rose: "Utinam dirumperes caelos et descenderes!"
And a voice from everywhere answered, "H̷͖̄Ö̴͈Ẅ̷̲́ ̷̩́P̶̱̀Ŕ̴̮E̶̳͝C̵͚̚I̵̊ͅO̸͈̓Ư̵͓S̴͕̒ ̸̪̑T̴̰́Ó̷̠ ̶̜̈́M̵̼̓E̴̪̒ ̸͇̃Ä̶̰́Ṟ̵̐E̵̜͛ ̸͎̓Ỳ̷̫O̸͈̍Ṷ̴̎R̴͕̃ ̶̬͑D̸͎͠E̸͚͘Ã̵͎T̸̤͛H̷̳͐S̵̗͗."
The sun went.
An unseen eye opened.
And it fixed upon us.
The sky above the city was the color of blacktop bleached by countless summer suns, and looking at it, Jocelyn understood why people had once called it the firmament. She understood that, at some point every year, the summer solstice had come to roll up the stony sky, roll it up like a scroll and tuck it away. There were books that showed it, and she'd seen plenty of footage. That understanding, though, was a cognitive thing, intellectual and abstract.
Right now, it was so cold.
Jocelyn would normally wear her mittens, which she'd bought from a wandering tinker for a 12" x 24" PCB and two SD cards, one blank, one containing most of the seventh season of KPop Demon Hunters, a standalone instance of VLC Media Player included gratis. The little man (who'd looked to her like nothing more than an ambulatory turnip) had been absurdly grateful and had parted with the mittens without further haggling. Jocelyn knew the mittens couldn't still smell of the tinker's mule, but the memory of the animal's musty odor stirred in her mind whenever she slid them on.
She didn't have them on now. She was working.
Her fingers felt like wood as she gripped the screwdriver. And gave it careful quarter turns. Because this was an intact tower. And she could take the whole thing. She knew she was strong enough. But disassembly was more practical. She just had to make sure not to —
She dropped the screwdriver.
It pinged and whanged off of the tower's case, and the sound ricocheted through the empty building. Presumably empty, anyway. Jocelyn's head went up, and her eyes flicked left and right. That was all the movement she allowed herself, this surreptitious scanning. Most of the roof and ceiling of this building had collapsed long ago, falling down onto the neat aisles still stocked with tubes of dried cosmetics and swollen canned goods, moth-eaten t-shirts and cards faded to incomprehensibility by age. The pharmaceuticals had been picked over long ago, as had the potable drinks and any unspoiled food. But not this particular tower, and she doubted that even the commotion she'd stirred up would draw the attention of—
Chattering. An unfamiliar patois with the occasional iceberg of familiar vocabulary surfacing amid a tossing ocean of neologisms and loanwords. Growing louder.
Jocelyn clattered through the debris, not caring what noise she made now, up with the screwdriver, back into the tower, working feverishly up until the last screw, then wrenching and tearing the mobo free, plastic splintering, letting the screwdriver drop, and running with her prize, running through the rust-speckled security door, running out into the rutted blacktop streets and the crumbling tenements, the old Holdomored sections, and still she kept running ...
Her story wouldn’t end here. Not if her legs could just keep going.
* * *
"The Engagement Economy—the reality that we consume and market in today—is a new era where everyone and everything is connected." So say the pundits, but can we honestly say that we're now more fundamentally linked than in prior times? From social-media bots to AI slop, online astroturfing to click farms, it's hard to argue that we enjoy more profound togetherness than previous generations. Consider the British, who celebrated Advent by sharing creepy stories around the hearth and, later, by reading print publications ranging from cheap flimsies to the Victorian equivalent of a coffee-table book. Nothing like fostering togetherness while chilling our collective blood with terrifying tales. If you'd like to learn more, History.com offers a nice summary of the tradition, while the Los Angeles Public Library provides classic examples.
You know what else you could also do? You could read prior collections of stories from the ISLF shared-storytelling event Advent Ghosts. We've kept the tradition alive for quite a few years—and you can join us! All you need to do is ...
1) Email me at ISawLightningFall [at] proton [dot] me if you want to participate.
2) Pen a story that’s exactly 100-words long—no more, no less.
3) Post the story to your blog anywhere from Saturday, December 13, to Friday, December 19.
Hosting on ISLF is available for those without blogs or anyone who wants to write under a pseudonym. (Don't worry, you’ll retain copyright!)
4) Email the link of your story to me.
5) While you should feel free to write whatever you want to, know that I reserve the right to put a content warning on any story that I think needs it.
Note: You can find an intro of sorts to this text here if you’d like.
The rock thuds onto loose soil, dull impact, barely noticeable. As is the abraded flesh on your palms and forearms. As is the dust begriming limbs and face, lining your nostrils and coating your throat. As is the myalgic throbbing in your back, your neck, between your shoulders. You aren't paying attention to any of it.
You're examining the door.
It's a door, cut with only the most utilitarian eye to detail and utterly caked with the dirt surrounding it—and it has no handle.
Perhaps you laugh. Perhaps you weep. Perhaps you peer numbly at its blank expanse, knowing that any attempt to pry it will leave your fingers stippled with splinters.
(What did I say earlier? This really is a miserable—)
You begin to pry. The voice promptly retreats.
And why do you do it? Funny thing, that.
Let us tell you a story ...
• "No Exit?" and "Harrowing Experience" by David Llewellyn Dodds (see below)
• "Behind Weighted Eyes" by Ryan E. Holman (see below)
• "Adventus iam advenit" by B. Nagel (see below)
• "Now That He's Gone" by Kaye George (see below)
• "Flow State" by William Gregory (see below)
• "Homecoming" by ChatGPT-4 and William Gregory (see below)
• "Untitled" by Linda Casper on Third Age Blogger
• "Lernie and Harry" by Loren Eaton on I Saw Lightning Fall
• "Bar Story" by Paula Gail Benson on Little Sources of Joy
• "Mark and Harold, angels sing!", "Have Your Elf a Merry Little Christmas", and "Do You Hear What I Hear?" by Patrick Newman on Lefty Writes
• "The Break Up" by Tim Laseter (see below)
• "Inclosure: Dec. 24th, 1781" by R.S. Naifeh on Advent Ghosts: Short Theological Fictions for the Dead of Winter
• "Islands of Light" by Lester D. Crawford on Lester D. Crawford Blog
• "A Night in Bavaria, 1261" by Joseph D'Agnese on Joseph D'Agnese
• "'Drone' show down over New Jersey" by Michael Morse on by Michael Morse
• "Starry Night Sky" by Kel Mansfield on Kel Mansfield: Write Stuff
• "The Happy City" by Elizabeth Gaucher on Esse Diem
• "Her Husband's Tree" by Phil Wade on Brandywine Books
• "Ice Melter" by Rhonda Parrish on Rhonda Parrish: Hydra Tamer
• "Snow Filled the Air" by Simon Kewin on Simon Kewin: Fantasy and Science Fiction
• "Beneath the Grave" by Dave Higgins on Dave Higgins: A Curious Mind
• "Our Christmas, Comrade" by S.G. Easton (see below)
• "The Job" by Becky Rui (see below)
• "A Christmas Star" by Craig Scott on CS fantasy reviews
• "Preparing for the Feast" by Iseult Murphy on Iseult Murphy
* * *
"No Exit?"
By David Llewellyn Dodds
Alex wondered about both the choice of Sartre for the Midwinter Holidays and livestreaming a rehearsal for the opening of the Google Eco-Gazebo in Central Park. And now the director, Rob, was stuck in traffic – and suddenly without a mobile connection. Fortunately the understudy for the Demon Butler arrived just before the livestream began. “This is Hell. This is what it looks like.”
“Scarily good choice – for a nobody”, admitted Caryn (clearly shaken) to Alex – “Those eyes!” “Where’s he gone off to?”, asked Joy. Just then, Rob arrived shouting “Couldn’t contact the understudy! – but you three played well without one.”
Note: I once rather indulged in being creepily in character backstage as the Demon Butler in a student production. Should any of this seem too obscure, one could comparatively sample the first scene of various productions of No Exit / Huis Clos on YouTube.
("No Exit?" copyright 2024 by David Llewellyn Dodds; used by permission)
* * *
"Harrowing Experience"
By David Llewellyn Dodds
Brother ‘Mu’ didn’t believe there was another world sub terra with its own folk, sun, and moon, and went ratting to Boniface — and where was he now? Virgil — no magician like his Roman name-sake — sighed. What else was there to do?
Through the wood, along the path by the pool, there was the cave mouth. In he went… dark, dark, then eerily lunar-lit… and a castle in the submoonlight. ‘Tollite portas’ Virgil intoned — the locked gate trembled and sprang open. ‘Duc in Nomine Regis Gloriae.’ Between snarl and snivel the Warder took him to ‘Mu’. Topside: ‘No more tattling!’
Note: According to a letter from Pope St. Zacharias answering a complaint by St. Boniface, St. Virgil was accused of teaching “there is another world and other men, or sun and moon, beneath the earth (sub terra)”. M.R. James discussing this in volume III of The Cambridge Medieval History, Germany and the Western Empire (1922), notes this is often taken to apply to the Antipodes but says he would “be strongly inclined to give the preference” to the explanation that it refers to “dwellers below the surface of the earth”, comparing Scandinavian and Celtic “fairy-lore” and William of Newburgh’s Twelfth-century account of “a green boy and girl” who “appeared at Woolpit in Suffolk” (p. 513). The Irish monk Virgil went on to be Bishop, and Patron, of Salzburg, being canonized by Pope Gregory IX in 1233.
("Harrowing Experience" copyright 2024 by David Llewellyn Dodds; used by permission)
* * *
"Behind Weighted Eyes"
By Ryan E. Holman
On Christmas morning, my box said I was indestructible. One of my early playmates decided to test that, dashing my head against a stone. I survived, joints buzzing, handed down through generations of sisters—and some sons—as they matured and withered. I watch my playmates grow up without me; I would give anything for my skin to be elastic, for my eyes to see more broadly, that I too might evolve. But now I stare down centuries of Christmases as I am; one day the cycle will cease, with no more sisters and no more sons, yet I'll remain.
("Behind Weighted Eyes" copyright 2024 by Ryan E. Holman; used by permission)
* * *
"Adventus iam advenit"
By B. Nagel
At 17, I dreamed a cigar. Warm, full, rich.
Like . . . 60% dark chocolate, or a tender steak, or an embrace.
Being raised Southern Baptist, I waited until I was of legal age.
Romantisizing, embellishing, fetishizing.
And my friend bought me a terrible cigar
on purpose, swisher sweet, cherry tip.
Still now, I think of heaven. Right now, not ever, not yet.
Like holidays, or reunions, or game nights.
Being human, I invest myself in other drama.
Politics, theology, ideological purity.
And forget to remember my birthday present.
Heaven never was, nor is, nor forevermore shalt be
a swisher sweet dream.
("Adventus iam advenit" copyright 2024 by B. Nagel; used by permission)
* * *
"Now That He's Gone"
By Kaye George
She waited. When would the peace come? He was gone.
The solution had been obvious. Poison, a grave in the back yard.
But the thoughts clawing through her brain gave her no peace.
Visions behind her eyelids when she closed them made them pop back open.
And her dreams. They brought even more torment than he’d ever given her.
Why had killing him not stopped everything? Everything was so much better. Except for the smell.
Smell?
Was he no longer underground in the yard? Who was that in the recliner, watching TV?
And now her step-daughter was at the door.
("Now That He's Gone" copyright 2024 by Kaye George; used by permission)
* * *
"Flow State"
by William Gregory
Her pale naked body lies sensually in the dark volcanic sand as the receding tide pulls strands of long auburn hair towards the tumultuous sea.
Nils stops down the aperture, visualizing the surf’s ethereal blur wrapping around her delicate curves. He waits for the decisive moment… click the mirror locks, click the shutter releases. “Got it!”
Nils, refitting his gloves, drags the limp red-haired corpse across the shallows leaving long tendrils of crimson blood. Kittiwakes circle overhead emitting menacing shrills. Nils smiles, feeling the rush of what some artists call the “flow state.” Knowing this will be his next masterpiece.
("Flow State" copyright 2024 by William Gregory; used by permission)
* * *
"Homecoming"
By ChatGPT-4 and William Gregory
The snowstorm rages unrelentingly. My SPOT beacon broken, as is my ankle. Pain tears through me, sharper than the cold. Wolves appeared at dusk, their breath rising in ghostly plumes. Yet they don’t attack—they only circle forebodingly.
The wolves edge closer. I crawl, each movement excruciating. They watch, silently protective, their amber eyes unblinking. Not predators, but sentinels.
Finally, I collapse in exhaustion. Silent as shadows, the wolves part and a woman emerges from the darkness. Snow clinging to her wild hair, she kneels and whispers, “You’re home.” Her voice eerily familiar. I laugh in delirium. Or did she?
("Homecoming" copyright 2024 by William Gregory—and by ChatGPT-4? Can AI chatbots hold copyright? I, for one, welcome our new robot overlords. Used by permission.)
* * *
The Break Up
By Tim Laseter
It was Christmas Eve, and Ally was going to see her boyfriend. The conversation would be hard and one-sided, but it needed to occur.
She found someone else.
She had remained faithful for years, but a new love had come into her life. It was time to move on. However, it still felt cruel to have this conversation today of all days.
Arriving, she placed the car in park and killed the engine.
Ally sat for a moment to gather herself. A tear ran slowly down her cheek.
Then she got out of her car and headed toward the gravesite.
("The Break Up" copyright 2024 by Tim Laseter; used by permission)
* * *
"Our Christmas, Comrade"
By S.G. Easton
Yuri looked up as the cold stream of moonlight in his window was abruptly obstructed by a curious flying object.
“Oh no. It’s a KGB helicopter,” he thought. “They have come to send us to the gulag!”
He leaped out of bed, dragging his indignant wife along with him.
“Yuri, what is the meaning of this?” she snapped.
He slapped a hand over her mouth.
“Hush, Nicola. It’s the KGB!”
“HOW would you know?”
“HUSH!” he said.
Down into the cellar, he took her. It was clammy and cold. As cold as their fate, Yuri thought dramatically.
He pulled her behind a barrel of dried salted sprats and put a crate of beets on top of it to hide them.
“If it really is the KGB, how will this thing hide us?”
“It probably won’t,” he replied bluntly.
“And why would the KGB want to send us to the gulag, anyhow? We’ve been respectful Soviet citizens!”
Yuri looked away.
Nicola gasped in indignation.
“Have you been—”
She was silenced by the sound of a thump in the kitchen. Yuri frowned. A loud squeak followed the thump.
“That sounds like the grate of the fireplace when it is opened,” Yuri whispered. “Are they looking in the fireplace?”
“Why would they be looking in the fireplace?”
“Nicola, don’t ask me!”
The door to the cellar opened. The couple caught their breaths. From behind the barrel, they could see whoever entered their home was wearing a forbidding red uniform.
Yuri suddenly pulled his wife close to him and kissed her.
“Goodbye. I love you,” he whispered. “I am going to show myself. You may be able to get away.”
“Yuri—” Nicola gasped.
He stood up.
“Ah, there you are!” the KGB agent said.
Yuri looked at him defiantly. This certain agent was somewhat funny looking. A little overage for a KGB agent. Plump. No accusing golden communist star visible anywhere on his uniform. And what was that hat?
“Merry Christmas! HO! HO! HO! Now where did you hang your stockings this year?”
“Stockings? Christmas?” Yuri looked confusedly at him.
“Yes, yes! I have some nice things for you this year!”
“A pair of handcuffs?”
“No, no!” He began to probe around in the large sack he was carrying. “You were both on the nice list this year, so for you I have this nice parka, and for Nicola—”
Terror struck Yuri. “How do you know about Nicola?”
He looked up. “Well, she is your wife, is she not?”
Yuri said nothing.
“HO! HO! HO! Don’t you know that I 'see you when you’re sleeping, I know when you’re awake! I know if you’ve been bad or good—'”
“You spy on us. We knew that. What else does the ‘Man of Steel’ know about Nicola?”
“‘Man of Steel?’ My dear fellow, I believe you are mistaken. I am not personally connected to Mr. Stalin at all. What a pity he has never been on the nice list! I’ve had to give him a lump of coal every single year of his life!”
“Not connected to Stalin?! Then why did you just break into our house at this ghastly hour of the night looking for where we keep our socks?”
“My dear fellow, I don’t think you understand me—”
“If you are a member of the KGB, you don’t need to hide it.”
“Never mind! I must be on my way! I have a busy night tonight, you know!”
The agent turned to leave, but before he did so he placed a bundle of brown paper on a barrel by the door.
“For you and your wife,” he said.
“Wait!” Yuri said. “What is your name?”
The agent smiled kindly at him. “You can call me Nicholas.”
Once the agent exited the room, Nicola stood up, and came to stand by the door to watch the agent leave.
“Now what do you suppose that was about?” asked Nicola.
“I have no idea…” Yuri answered.
They saw him walk over to the fireplace, step into it, and then he was gone.
("Our Christmas, Comrade" copyright 2024 by S.G. Easton; used by permission)
* * *
"The Job"
By Becky Rui
'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring…
Nick moved silently. But then his boot knocked a baby toy, its noises deafening in the quiet. He cursed.
…there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter…
Creaks above. Someone was up. His gun was steady at his side.
He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work,
At the top of the stairs stood a man, illuminated by the hall light. Nick took aim.
“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night!”
("The Job" copyright 2024 by Becky Rui; used by permission)
Dr. Gottman's office smelled of verbena and saline. "Opposites attract," he said, "which invariably causes issues."
Harry's slamming fist nearly splintered the arm of the couch. "She's always snapping and hissing at me!"
The couch was tsunami-wet from Lernie's binaural sobbing.
"Harry," Dr. Gottman began, "relational problems aren't monocausal—"
"Ask him why I look like this!" Lernie sibilated.
Harry's sword flashed out. Sizzling gore spattered.
Lernie shrieked. Writhed. Eventually began to chuckle. "Perfect example, darling," she said stereophonically.
"Ask her why I look like this." Harry lifted a gangrenous, puncture-pocked forearm.
Dr. Gottman closed his eyes. "Let's ... take a break."
There is a wall.
(There isn't actually a wall.)
You begin to dig through the wall.
(Walls are only one of many images employed to explore the theme of separation, a fecund symbol of the same sort as the canyon or the sea. The list could go on and on. Such symbols often represent the liminal barriers one must transcend in order to achieve personal actualization or cosmic justice or some such similar goal. Note that I use the term "liminal" in its secondary sense rather than the sensorial-focused primary definition. So in reality, there is not—strictly speaking—a wall and no need to actually dig through it.)
You push your hands into the wall. You feel soil sift between your fingers. You scoop stones out of compressed clay. You hear the dull thud they made as they drop onto the packed earth.
(Please, understand that once one understands the meaning implied by figurative language, he should feel free to dispense with the signifier. In fact, one has a responsibility to in order to avoid incoherence. For instance, why does this "wall" need to be an earth wall? Why not a daub-and-waddle wall? Why not one constructed of cinderblock or epoxy microcement? Why all this concrete detail when we have established that there isn't actually a wall?)
You dig until your fingernails splinter. You dig until your palms grow tacky with blood. You dig until your shoulders ache and your neck is a molten bar of iron and the sweat runnels off of you, dark with dirt.
(Ew. Not only is all of this unnecessary, it's downright distasteful.)
You dig until you find the door.
(Oh, a door. Well, that changes everything. You know that a door is functionally identical to a wall, right? You may dispense with it.)
It's a door constructed out of a wood long unidentifiable due to the grit and dust, rough-hewn and thick-planked. The lintel sags under the weight of the soil pressing down upon it. You see a score of rocks lining the lintel's top, presumably for support. You scrabble at one, prying until it comes loose, and you note its rough edges, the sharp, digging points.
(Details hardly improve your case. In fact, this whole miserable exercise is simply embarrassing.)
You take the rock in both abraded hands, extend your arms, and aim it at the center of your forehead. You imagine the solid mass of sincipital bone that lies just beneath the skin. You imagine the sulci and gyri right below that, the hemisphere-splitting longitudinal fissure that is your own neurological canyon. Or sea. Or wall.
(What are you—)
"Quiet," you say. "This is my story. And I will tell it as I see fit."
* * *
Hullo, friends, and welcome to what will soon become the most frenetic time of the year. Taxes, death, and a deliriously busy December are constants in life, and here at I Saw Lightning Fall, we've done our best for the past few years to participate in another: the Christmas British ghost story. The Paris Review provides a nice intro to the tradition, but understand that we celebrate it a little differently here. Stories don't have to involve ghosts. They don't necessarily need to focus on the Advent season. And note the plural; we definitely have more than one storyteller spinning spooky yarns here. In fact, our rules are rather few ...
1) Email me at ISawLightningFall [at] proton [dot] me if you want to participate. (Please note that this is a different email address from previous years.)
2) Pen a story that’s exactly 100-words long—no more, no less.
3) Post the story to your blog anywhere from Saturday, December 14, to Friday, December 20.
Hosting on ISLF is available for those without blogs or anyone who wants to write under a pseudonym. (Don't worry, you’ll retain copyright!)
4) Email the link of your story to me.
5) While you should feel free to write whatever you want to, know that I reserve the right to put a content warning on any story that I think needs it.
Why not check out last year's stories while you're at it?
