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
"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)
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