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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?
Haywire reconnaissance drone. AWOL corporate killbot. Bolted-together back-alley abomination.
Whatever the machine was, it wanted P@tr!ck. Him, a scraper with a no-balance blockchain. But it was dialed to his DNA and parted the Night Bazaar crowds with an eardrum-rupturing sonic blast. Vivisected a dealer with a blur of articulated arms. Microwaved a guard, burnt-pork reek. Came on until it had him cornered.
Bitonal chittering. Sensors sprouting, synchronized tropism. P@tr!ck jerked as a vibroblade sliced a scalp sample.
The thing snorted. Twitched. Then without ceremony, left.
And there P@tr!ck stood, unsure if the stinging was his wounded head — or disappointment.
Note: You can find an intro of sorts to this text here if you’d like.
The man’s face kept changing.
Sometimes it was old, and sometimes it was young, and sometimes it appeared almost bestial. It was something Quinlyn glimpsed out of the corner of her eye, the flicker of antennae around the temples, a hyena-like flash in a mirthless grin, and his tawny (pale? dark?) hair swung about his shoulders in a leonine sweep. And she kept seeing him from the corner of her eye, because the mall and its idiosyncratic assortment of shops had vanished. All that remained? The stillness and silence of some region dark and deep, the stillness of the inside of a cored stump or the underside of a rock — or the interior of a crypt.
“It’s simple,” the man was saying. “You want something? You have to give something. That phrase, you can say it best in Latin …” He trailed off, stroking his bearded {beardless?) chin.
“You know it in Latin,” Quinlyn said, unsure exactly how she’d come by the knowledge.
The man inclined his head the barest inch. “I suppose I do, that and every other tongue. And what about you? Do you know what you want? That’s why you came to me, isn’t it?”
She was about to say that she hadn’t come to him, at least not intentionally, but a wave of vertigo twisted her inner ear, and she staggered, reeling, hands stretching out for purchase …
And Paul — V's Paul — had her, his hands strong, a gold flash at his wrist where his Piguet gleamed, and his smile held neither condescension or self pity, and she straightened, automatically smoothing the satin of her gown, murmuring, “Sorry, sorry, stupid Miu Mius,” but Paul was laughing, and …
The vertigo struck her again, blows to head and belly. The coffee came up, spattering her already stained New Balance trainers, and it went on longer than she thought possible, and only when the last bit of bile had dribbled down her chin could she manage the words.
“What do I have to do?”
“Oh, a trifle,” the man purred (hissed?). “Nothing more than a nibble, really, metaphorically speaking. Here, let me tell you a story …”
• "Baunton Village, A.D. 1522: Room at the Inn – but for Whom, or What?" and "Jemima of The Kilns: A View to a Kill" by David Llewellyn Dodds (see below)
• "For That One Hour" by Dale Nelson (see below)
• "Prey or Predator" by Becky Rui (see below)
• "Effective Amnesia" by Ryan E. Holman (see below)
• "An AI Christmas Story" and "Silent Night" by William Gregory (see below)
• "Jonah, 9,000 AD" and "Two Ants" by R.S. Naifeh on Advent Ghosts: Short Theological Fictions for the Dead of Winter
• "Sowing the Seeds of Christmas" by B. Nagel (see below)
• "A Warning" by Phil Wade on Brandywine Books
• "Second Chances", "The Babas’ Dilemma (Part One of a Four Part Tale)", "Tato’s Mama’s Story: The Adopted Snow Child (Part Two of a Four Part Tale)", "Mama’s Mama’s Story: The Icy Immortal (Part Three of a Four Part Tale)", and "Iryna’s Question (Part Four of a Four Part Tale)" by Paula Benson on Little Sources of Joy
• "The Protracted Haunting of Coolduff Manor" by Brian Sexton on AN ROINN ULTRA – IRISH SCIENCE FICTION
• "Minnesota Welcomes Mr. Frost" by Joseph D'Agnese on Joseph D'Agnese: Writer, Author
• "Target Priority" by Loren Eaton on I Saw Lightning Fall
• "What Lies Beneath" by Michael Morse on by Michael Morse
• "They Are a Ghost" by Elizabeth Gaucher on Esse Diem
• "Here We Come A-Caroling", "Santa's Claws", and "Joy, to the World" by Patrick Newman on Lefty Writes
• "A Christmas Lullaby" by Kel Mansfield on Kel Mansfield: Write Stuff
• "Reasonable Cost" by Dave Higgins on Dave Higgins: A Curious Mind
• "The Likeness" by Yvonne Osborne on Yvonne Osborne's Writing Blog: "The Organic Writer"
• "The Christmas Dance" by Jackie Ross Flaum on He said what? No, he did not!
• "The Santa-Verse" by Lester D. Crawford on Lester D. Crawford Blog
• "Sonata" by Rhonda Parrish on Rhonda Parrish: Creating Books and Stories
• "Johnny" by Bart Hopkins on The Creative
• "Unsolved Mysteries" by Paul Liadis on Cyborg Menagerie
• "White Christmas" and "Krampus Goes Up Town" by Eric Douglas on Books By Eric Douglas
• "Bed Fellows" by Iseult Murphy on Iseult Murphy: Horror, Fantasy & Science Fiction Author
• "The Shop Without End" by S.G. Easton (see below)
* * *
"Baunton Village, A.D. 1522: Room at the Inn – but for Whom, or What?"
By David Llewellyn Dodds
Tobias was jittery. As an innkeeper, he’d learned to deal with all sorts. But this ‘pilgrim’. Hooded like a cave, gloved – fair enough, in such foul weather. But after hours by the fire? Paid up front. But what queer sounds, drinking his ale, mug disappearing in hood. Polite, but a man of few words. ‘Man’? That voice was scarcely human. Demons could take a steady shape, firm to eye and touch. Bad for custom, too – glances, whispers, how soon everyone had chosen cold and dark to such company. A barking laugh, ‘We Cynocephali can’t be too careful, despite Saint Christopher.’
Note: Reading about Old English accounts of St. Christopher recently, I was struck by the one in the Old English Martyrology, which includes “he haefde hundes heafod” – ‘he had the head of a dog’. The Church of St. Mary Magdalene (formerly of St. Christopher), Baunton, Gloucestershire, has a fine and famous wall-painting of him in his more typical Western form.
("Baunton Village, A.D. 1522: Room at the Inn – but for Whom, or What?" copyright 2023 by David Llewellyn Dodds; used by permission)
* * *
"Jemima of The Kilns: A View to a Kill"
By David Llewellyn Dodds
Up through the Cave-Tree everything was different. Jemima the Chicken surveyed... No! The Wood afire!
No... in the Wood, and a sweet scent on the wind. Jemima fluttered to investigate.
Murder! A cockerel in a bonfire! Burned alive! Who did this? – were They still lurking?! O, not dead! Could she rescue? A dying croak: “Watch till it hatches, help the Worm!”
The skeleton collapsed. Domed in the cinders, a glowing egg! A Trap! A Basilisk! A red-gold-purple Worm with blazing eyes shot from the shell, mouth wide! -
“Thanks!” said the vermiform-Phoenix, “Please take me somewhere safe and I’ll explain.”
Note: As one of the young people evacuated to The Kilns during World War II, Lady Jill Freud née Flewett helped the Lewis brothers and Mrs. Moore look after their chickens, including an adventurous one named Jemima – for whom I have contrived some additional adventures.
("Jemima of The Kilns: A View to a Kill" copyright 2023 by David Llewellyn Dodds; used by permission)
* * *
"For That One Hour"
By Dale Nelson"
Keep the curtains drawn! Don’t peek through the blinds! It’s bad luck if they see you peeking.
People drive home right away after work. All-night diners close at dusk. Riders on the El keep their noses in their newspapers and don’t look down at the streets. Cops don’t patrol then.
The forgotten people come out of their apartments, their tenements, to dance silently, mirthlessly, in the streets, under the canyons of the buildings. The moon is full and the lonely people join hands, part hands, for a dreadful hour, and then like shadows disappear again behind closed doors. Don’t look!
("For That One Hour" copyright 2023 by Dale Nelson; used by permission)
* * *
"Prey or Predator"
By Becky Rui
The driver’s kind eyes twinkled. His white beard couldn’t conceal a warm smile.
The hitchhiker looked away through the windshield at the empty nighttime highway.
“Are you from here?” asked the driver.
“Just passing through,” replied the hitchhiker. His hand touched something tacky on the seat. He pulled away reflexively. “You?”
“Same. Too bad being stuck out here on Christmas Eve,” the driver continued.
“Yeah, but I wasn’t going to celebrate anyway.” The hitchhiker surreptitiously looked at his hand. A bang from the trunk caught his attention just as he registered the rust color on his fingers.
“Oh, I am…”
("Prey or Predator" copyright 2023 by Becky Rui; used by permission)
* * *
"Effective Amnesia"
By Ryan E. Holman
Sometimes the best gift you can give is not a memory, but forgetfulness.
You can forget that annoying song they played a billion times.
You can forget that they never managed to consume their coffee with any action quieter than a slurp.
You can forget that they forgot your birthday, every single blessed year.
You can forget that when you last said goodbye, they said they couldn't recognize who you were anymore.
And sometimes, if you're truly good at it, you forget that you ever forgot anything at all, and you can give this precious gift to yourself.
Happy Holidays.
("Effective Amnesia" copyright 2023 by Ryan E. Holman; used by permission)
* * *
"An AI Christmas Story"
By William Gregory
Mrs. Claus: “Kristopher dear, what are you doing up so late?”
Santa: “Honey, I’m using OpenAI’s GPT-4 to compile a list of children who’ve been naughty or nice based on their web-search history. And GPT-4 is generating the optimal route for my reindeer based on the latest European weather models and the global air traffic control database!”
Mrs. Claus: “Fine dear, don’t stay up too late.”
Santa: “I won’t, honey. Oh, and I got an email from Wells Fargo asking for our social security numbers and dates of birth. So, I took care of that too!”
Mrs. Claus: “Oh Kristopher!”
("An AI Christmas Story" copyright 2023 by William Gregory; used by permission)
* * *
"Silent Night"
By William Gregory
The rhythmic sounds of the ventilator always calmed him. The raspy intake and mechanical exhale of the breathing machine were as familiar and comforting to him as his mother’s womb. Billy had shared a room with his aged Meemaw since he was a baby.
Suddenly, the bedroom door opened. A bright shaft of light cut through the darkness illuminating his beloved Meemaw’s withered frame. She trudged across the room. Her arthritic fingers reaching slowly for the plug on his ventilator. Billy could not believe his eyes.
He gasped. But only once.
Meemaw whispered, “Merry Christmas my child.”
Then silence. Darkness …
("Silent Night" copyright 2023 by William Gregory; used by permission)
* * *
"Sowing the Seeds of Christmas"
By B. Nagel
I listen to the crack of the fire and the spit of fat from the dove breasts. Outside, snow falls. Re-locating our homestead hasn’t been easy. Friday was a nice respite and a chance to freshen up the coops and tidy the bedding for the guests who will begin arriving soon.
I check the prep list from my true love:
Starting Monday, 76 females and up to 40 cows.
Starting Wednesday, 30 males.
Starting Thursday, 34 undetermined with musical instruments.
In spring, they can start earning their keep. I am cautiously optimistic, still remembering the graves on our old property.
("Sowing the Seeds of Christmas" copyright 2023 by B. Nagel; used by permission)
* * *
"The Shop Without End"
By S.G. Easton
The bell hanging on the door tinkled as Kelly entered the dark, dank, dusty room. The little light that managed to filter through the delicate lace curtains was pale and sickly. Upon closer observation, Kelly noticed how surprisingly well-made the curtains were despite their age. The deep, sorrowful tones of a grandfather clock echoed throughout the shop. No one was in sight. Slightly disconcerted at the lack of customers, Kelly searched for an employee or clerk.
"Hello?" she called.
The response was nothing but silence. This silence disturbed her still further, but being the sensible girl she was, she so concluded there must be a legitimate reason for the deserted state this shop was placed in.
An unexpected sparkle caught Kelly's eye. It came from one of the many shelves that lined the rickety wooden wall. Walking over to the shelf, she found the source of the sparkle. It was an exquisite platinum candelabra. The top was encrusted with jasper and lapis lazuli. The base was inlaid with silver.
Dumbfounded, Kelly scrutinized the other trinkets and curios on the shelves. An engraved silver platter. A pair of brocade slippers. An elegantly extravagant white wig. Nailed onto the bottom of the shelf was an additional bronze plate reading: 1400s.
Kelly was momentarily confused, but considering the items on the shelf … She started to race eagerly throughout the shop, discovering ball gowns, furniture, Roman chariots, old-time radios, shelf upon shelf of antique books, and other such things. But after a while, Kelly wore out her interest and attempted to exit the vicinity.
Much to her astonishment, she … could not. It was as if some invisible hand was holding her, inhibiting her from returning. So she simply continued walking, hoping it would end at where she began. She walked. And walked. And walked. And kept walking. And she may be walking still for all anyone knows.
("The Shop Without End" copyright 2023 by S.G. Easton; used by permission)
It was only the slightest of exaggerations to say that Quinlyn would've preferred to have a millstone hung about her neck and subsequently be tossed into the sea rather than brave the mall on Black Friday. For her sister, though, the day after Thanksgiving was her high water, and Victoria liked nothing more than fishing for that perfect deal. And, of course, for Quinlyn to putter along in her wake feigning enthusiasm. It was the least that she could do for V given the divorce and custody battle, right?
Quinlyn had tried, really tried, but the outing wasn't exactly set up for success. Victoria prioritized discount percentage over the actual product and preferred to purchase items en masse. A single Louis Vuitton or Cartier would've tided Quinlyn over for years. Not that inflation and the economy left her much hope. A coffee, though? That she could manage.
A tap on V's shoulder, a grunted negative at the offer of Sumatra, and Quinlyn was out of Nordstrom Rack. Bing Crosby assaulted her eardrums as crowds milled around the silvery minimalism of the Apple Store, the flaunty lace of Victoria's Secret, the shut-and-guarded doors of Tiffany's.
Then, almost imperceptibly at first, the stores started to change to ones she didn't recognize. Ones that (she grew to understand) had no place in a 21st century commercial establishment. A wood-walled store offering ribbon and calico, flour and molasses, ax heads and a steel bear trap. A shop filled with piles of dusky paprika, daffodil-yellow turmeric, and carnelian-colored dried peppers. A clothier whose displays proffered hoop skirts. That was when Quinlyn tried to turn back — and struck the crowd's impenetrable mass, always a foot stomping on hers or an elbow in her ribs or a blocking torso.
So she whirled and went on, her pace quickening as she passed farriers and swordsmiths, past cattle yards and feed lots, past a butcher stropping a blade over a bound, bleating goat and painted-and-powdered women displaying themselves in windows and men in togas arguing over the purchase price of other manacled men, and she was running, sprinting, hurtling herself forward ...
Into darkness and emptiness.
No, not emptiness. There was a table and a man seated behind it, and for a moment, Quinlyn wondered how she was able to see him if it was dark. Then she wondered how he could look so old. Then so young. And then he was speaking.
"Why, hello," the man said. "What brings you here?"
"W ... who are you? What is this place? W-where is the mall?" Quinlyn managed.
The man smiled (or frowned) thinly. "Names. Such unimportant things. This place, and the mall are mine. All the kingdoms of the world and their authority and glory, if you must know."
"I ... don't understand."
He chuckled (sighed). "Of course you don't. Why don't you have a seat —" And suddenly there was a seat for her where previously none had been. "— because this story ... Well, it's a lengthy one."
* * *
Writerly friends, once again the year swings close to solstice, and we gather to celebrate the old traditions. Not only trees and stars and managers and the giving of gifts. This Advent Ghosts 2023 marks a continuation of an old British tradition of telling spooky ghost stories right before Christmas, a tradition this blog and a likeminded group of writers has been keeping for well over a decade in our own special way. To learn more about the custom, read History's How Ghost Stories Became a Christmas Tradition in Victorian England" and check out Bustle's Nicholas Was ..." by Neil Gaiman. We welcome all, asking only that you follow a few simple rules:
1) Email me at ISawLightningFall [at] gmail [dot] com.
2) Pen a scary story that’s exactly 100-words long — no more, no less.
3) Post the story to your blog anywhere from Saturday, December 16, to Friday, December 22. 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.
Please note that we're altering the submission process a little bit this year by providing a more flexible window during which people can submit their stories. Want to see what people submitted last year? Click here.
