With jagged fingernails, Wormwood eagerly ripped through the obituary-wrapped gift.

“A candle!” he exclaimed, unscrewing the lid and breathing in deeply through his piggish snout. “Sulfur. My favorite! So pungent, really rotten. Whom do I thank?”

Bezoar blushed scarlet as sin, and raised a claw. “Me. I’m your Secret Satan!”

This is Alexandra’s sixth 50-word story. All she wants for Christmas is Tom Hiddleston and a cup of tea (the tea is optional).