Tag Archive for: microfiction

Spam Christmas

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by W. Ed George

 

Germans herald the Holy Child with breads, pickles and wurst. “Yummy,” decrees my mother-in-law from Dusseldorf each year; I call it “Spam Christmas.”

She takes umbrage; injects politics, money, my drinking every time. Holidays thus ratchet our rivalry.

But this year I’ve set the menu. I’ll mince garlic till our kitchen stinks, baste fatty shoulder (two) and slather on the Morton’s Tender Quick. Voila, Spam Christmas!

“Mum woulda loved this,” mein liebster will gush. “Sad she stayed home.”

I’ll confess on Boxing Day how, after much badgering, his mother had graced our yuletide table—rendered, uncharacteristically silent, and tastefully dressed.

W. Ed George

The author is a recovering journalist based in California. He caught the fiction bug during the pandemic.

 

It’s Beginning to Look a Lot like Christmas

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by Simon Clarke

 

Christmas tomorrow, we need to make space for the family. They had planned a move to Australia; I blamed our son, Mary blamed the daughter-in-law. We would never see the grandchildren again. It wasn’t fair. We’d be just another lonely, miserable old couple despite all our years of help and support.

It’s funny how if you think about something long enough, anything is possible. So we prepared, went on an adult education course, “Taxidermy for the Family”. Anyway, I think we should get them out early this year, so they are sitting round the table when we get up tomorrow.

Simon Clarke

Simon Clarke lives and writes in Norfolk, United Kingdom. He enjoys writing poetry and fiction and has been published by Hedgehog Press, Black Hare Press, Fifty Word Stories and Breaking Rules Publishing. He regularly submits to UK and international publications and enjoys reading poetry at open mic events.

Facebook: @sclarkenp

 

Maybe Next Year

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by Sophie Wagner

 

“What do you think, Stephen? Have we been good this year?”

“For his sake,” he said, “let’s hope so.”

Santa lay spread eagle atop a pile of coal, held in place by candy canes that were shoved through his forearms, his one remaining eye still twinkling.

Walter scanned both lists, then shook his head sadly. “Another year, another Christmas on the naughty list. Care to guess what we won?”

He grabbed Santa’s sack and shook another pound of coal onto the pile.

“Such a shame,” said Stephen, pouring lighting fluid over the pyre and striking a match. “Maybe next year?”

Sophie Wagner

Sophie Wagner is an emerging student author who has had multiple short story and poetry publications. You can find her work at Black Ink Fiction, The Macabre Ladies and For Women Who Roar. She hopes you have a horror filled day!

 

Season of Giving

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by Brianna Witte

 

I snatched up the large present under the Christmas tree, the bright red wrapping paper dropping to the ground in shreds. I opened the white box, my little heart racing with excitement. My breath caught, the pure astonishment paralysing me.

A human head sat perfectly preserved in the bag; the dark blood accumulated at the bottom reminding me of the fresh meat lining the grocery aisle. The face of my fourth-grade bully stared back at me, his mouth open and eyes wide. I jumped up in excitement, gleefully hugging my dad.

“I love it! This is the best Christmas ever!”

Brianna Witte

Brianna is an active member of the Writers Community of Durham Region. She had received a commendation for her short story, The Hunt, in the 2019 Author of Tomorrow Award by the Wilbur and Niso Smith Foundation. To date, Brianna has had many short stories published in various anthologies. 

 

Red Wrapping Paper

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by D. Matthew Urban

 

December 24, 11:54 p.m. Not yet.

I stand over my baby brother’s crib.

December 24, 11:55 p.m. Not yet.

He’s sleeping. So innocent.

December 24, 11:56 p.m. Not yet.

I never thought I’d have a baby brother.

December 24, 11:57 p.m. Not yet.

I thought it’d be just me and Mom, forever.

December 24, 11:58 p.m. Not yet.

“My miracle,” Mom said. “My present from heaven.”

December 24, 11:59 p.m. Not yet.

Almost time. I raise my arm, hold the knife high.

December 25, 12:00 a.m.

Christmas morning. Time to open the present.

D. Matthew Urban

D. Matthew Urban grew up in Texas but now lives, strangely enough, in Queens, New York. He has written weird fiction in both locations.

 

Naughty and Nice

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by Pauline Yates

 

On Christmas morning, I wake to find a blonde and a brunette, naked as newborn babes, asleep in our bed. They fit the description written on my husband’s Christmas wish list. He wished for a threesome—without me.

Wondering if Santa granted my Christmas wish, I hurry downstairs to the Christmas tree. I clap my hands with joy. My husband is impaled on the trunk, with red baubles jammed in his eyes, his intestines strung out like tinsel, and his Christmas wish list shoved up his…

Nice. Serves him right; unfaithful bastard. I must send Santa a thank you note.

Pauline Yates

Queensland author, Pauline Yates enjoys writing horror and speculative fiction but can’t resist injecting a dash of dark humour to brighten her bleak worlds. Her stories appear in multiple publications and she is the winner to the 2020 AHWA short story competition.
Website: paulineyates.com

One Sacrifice Demands Another

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by C.L. Sidell

 

The tree was too big for our house; its crown bent under the ceiling and too-long branches snatched our sleeves when we walked past.

“Best find in the state!” Pops boasted.

We woke Christmas morning to find every present under the tree open, a red-eyed ghoul crouched among wrapping paper and pine needles.

“No good,” it hissed, fangs bared. “I require greater compensation”—it scratched the trunk—“for losing home.”

Pops scanned the room. Then, finger shaking, pointed at me.

“You can have him.”

A scream clawed at my throat as Pops slunk backward, and the creature, salivating, slowly approached.

C.L. Sidell

A native Floridian, C. L. Sidell grew up playing with toads in the rain and indulging in horror stories. She holds a master of arts in both English and library & information science, moderates two creative writing groups, and reviews books for the Florida Library Youth Program. Her work has appeared (or is forthcoming) in 34 Orchard, 50 Haikus, 805 Lit, Dark Moments, The Dread Machine, opia, Quarantine Quanta, Spark: A Creative Anthology, and others.

Finally Over

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by Evan Baughfman

 

Crimson lights flickered along twisted strands, causing the tall tree to resemble a creature with blinking red eyes. Ghoulish garland snaked across countertops, cluttered with holiday cheer. The fireplace roared with hellish flames. Stockings hung limp, like fresh corpses from the gallows.

Aghast, I turned to my wife, shrieking, “No! What did you do?” My voice drowned beneath carols blaring from stereo speakers. 

Cobwebs had been replaced with tinsel… Skeletons exchanged for elves… Jack-o’-lanterns ousted for Santa’s eerie visage!

“Halloween’s finally over,” said my wife, sipping cocoa through a peppermint straw.

I moaned. “But Christmas already…? It’s only November first!”

Evan Baughfman

Evan Baughfman is a middle school teacher and author. Much of his writing success has been as a playwright. A number of his scripts can be found at online resources, Drama Notebook and New Play Exchange. Evan also writes horror fiction and screenplays. More information is available at amazon.com/author/evanbaughfman

Bloom

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by Stephanie Parent

 

They say the goddess of spring was plucking a blossom when she was nabbed, yanked beneath the earth, but here’s the truth: Persephone’s desire made that chasm yawn wide.

Even blooming is a profession you can grow weary of; even beauty becomes a burden. Even a mother’s love can twist and turn, make you boil inside till you nearly burst, till you crush the heartless petals and crack the soil.

Even darkness is a rebirth. Persephone knew this when she descended; when she went looking for jewels and fruit, deep beneath the surface, where the sun’s light could never go.

Stephanie Parent

Stephanie Parent is a graduate of the Master of Professional Writing program at USC and a writer and reader of dark fiction.

Twitter: @SC_Parent

The Flowering

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by Jameson Grey

 

I’ve always loved to be loved.

I look down upon myself, endlessly gazing at my reflection in the spring, reminded of my late twin sister’s beauty. Of my beauty.

I cannot leave now.

The air is no longer air. It has shifted—throttling my lungs as it flows through—like breathing has reversed somehow. Light-headed nausea tangles my mind, my guts.

My skin, it mottles. Bones soften, wilt. I strain toward the sun.

My feet take root. Become roots, drawing sustenance from below.

At this spring, I’ve been reborn while I watch. And although I remain Narcissus, I am flowering.

Jameson Grey

Jameson Grey is originally from England but now lives with his family in western Canada. His fiction and poetry have been published by Ghost Orchid Press, Black Hare Press and Hellbound Books.

Website: jameson-grey.com