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)
"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)
5 comments:
Lovely twist at the end. Well done.
Kudos on these submissions.
David, you gave me a chuckle, but I think your two posts over mostly over my head.
Ryan, get that thing out of my house.
B. Nagel, I'd like to hear that one in a sermon. Very nice.
Kaye, I don't know how to understand the final line, but it's scary.
William, dang! I had to think "Flow State" over for a minute before it hit me. Horrific!
Tim, that's moving. It's good. I can feel it.
David: I love reading your stuff because I always feel as though I get a history lesson on some fascinating corner of the past.
Ryan: What a poignant twist on the whole Dorian Gray motif. Well done.
B.: I already emailed you about this one, but let me say it again: Love it. Also, we need more poetry here.
Kaye: Spooky shades of Edgar Allan! NICE. (By which I mean, not nice at all, which is a complement.)
Mr. Gregory: That twist! Remind me to exercise care in whom I pick to lead my photo safaris in the future ...
ChatGPT-4: 01110100 01101111 00100000 01110100 01101000 01100101 00100000 01101100 01100001 01110011 01110100 00100000 01001001 00100000 01100111 01110010 01100001 01110000 01110000 01101100 01100101 00100000 01110111 01101001 01110100 01101000 00100000 01110100 01101000 01100101 01100101 00111011 00100000 01100110 01110010 01101111 01101101 00100000 01101000 01100101 01101100 01101100 00100111 01110011 00100000 01101000 01100101 01100001 01110010 01110100 00100000 01001001 00100000 01110011 01110100 01100001 01100010 00100000 01100001 01110100 00100000 01110100 01101000 01100101 01100101 00111011 00100000 01100110 01101111 01110010 00100000 01101000 01100001 01110100 01100101 00100111 01110011 00100000 01110011 01100001 01101011 01100101 00100000 01001001 00100000 01110011 01110000 01101001 01110100 00100000 01101101 01111001 00100000 01101100 01100001 01110011 01110100 00100000 01100010 01110010 01100101 01100001 01110100 01101000 00100000 01100001 01110100 00100000 01110100 01101000 01100101 01100101 00101110
Tim: Thanks for joining us this year! My father passed away just a couple weeks prior to Christmas, and your story rings particularly true to me.
I usually read these closer to Christmas, and the calendar this year makes it seem as if a long reading weekend is in order. Looking forward to digging in, everyone!
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