I run barefoot down cold dark stairs
to see the star-topped tree bathed in coloured light, shimmering with silver rain.
and glimpse the tissue wrappings under its branches.
My stocking hangs waiting, lumpy with gifts;
racing up to my parents’ warm bed
I open it to share a
Catherine Mathews, retired from the Foreign Service, was stationed in Paris, Rome, Tel Aviv, Athens, Frankfurt, and Istanbul. She now lives in northern Virginia, has published a memoir, and is attempting to write short stories from her life experiences.
That there once lived a man
now called St. Nick, who secretly
helped children in need
That we light eight candles
did, and his people before,
a chain of light over 2,000 years
That we can’t wrap
but it’s love beyond boundaries
we’re meant to give
Jennifer L Freed grew up with Christmas and Chanukah. Now her children do the same. She writes mostly poetry and, sometimes, very short stories. To read more of her work, please visit her website, jfreed.weebly.com.
There were still several houses left, but he stopped, clutching his belly. The cookies were taking their toll.
At the mantle, his stomach lurched. He doubled over, retching into one of the stockings.
Then it was up the chimney, wiping his mouth.
The kid was on the naughty list anyway.
JT is a 21-year-old college student in Virginia who lives and writes in worlds of his own. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Nanoism, 365Tomorrows, and ThickJam.
“We’re eating healthy this Christmas,” Mom announced. “No artificial flavours or colours.”
Six-year-old Joey winced. “Yuck, more Brouches schproats!”
“Nothing wrong with Brussels sprouts,” Mom said. “Or fruitcake with natural dried fruits.”
Joey and Dad frowned.
Then, a miracle happened: Grandma walked in bringing candy canes and chocolate marshmallow Santas.
Krystyna writes poetry, fiction, and creative nonfiction. Her published works can be found online and in magazines and anthologies.
Carleton arrived at the office Christmas party sporting a black eye.
“How’d you get that shiner?” his boss asked.
“Boxing Day,” Carleton said.
“But that isn’t until the twenty-sixth and has nothing to do with fighting.”
“Tell that to the shopper who thought I’d blocked him from a doorbuster deal.”
John H. Dromey had a 725-word story, Hunger Gamesmanship, posted on the Stupefying Stories Showcase website on November 4, 2014.
December. There is no turning back.
For a working musician, December means less choice in what to play. Not that their ears are more attuned, not at all.
I dare not enter malls: the oppressiveness of yet another version of whatever will rob me deaf of my peace.
Ian Hanchet (aka Boy Blue) is a professional musician/songwriter/recording artist from Montreal, Canada. He teaches music to children in an elementary school.
She cleared her throat, he emitted a small cough, and both focused their eyes anywhere but on the ham they were each having trouble chewing.
It rested on a platter, unnaturally shiny: the kind of shiny borne not of glaze, but an aged cook neglecting to remove the plastic wrap.
Jennifer Hrovat was inspired to get back into writing when she won some free socks in a Haiku contest last year. When not trying to score accessories through the written word, she works as a counselor and spends her free time running, reading murder mysteries, and making a giant tasty mess of her kitchen.
Tom retired to Florida to play hopeless golf with wife Trish marking his scorecard.
In the Christmas tournament Tom swung and missed.
He swung again and the ball smacked into a tree then bounced back into the hole.
“What was that?” queried Trish.
“A par, Trish, and a pear tree.”
John B Sinclair is a much-travelled Scot who has now returned to Scotland, where he enjoys freelance writing on a variety of subjects.