Ponder I, alone: “What brought me here?”
The wind says nothing.
“What force?” cry I.
“God?” I wait for any answer.
“Nothing, then,” ponder I, alone. No fate steered my course. I chose this path.
I turn away to family dinner. How I despise political turkey.
Andrew is an unpublished fiction writer in the Washington area. In his spare time he enjoys pens, pads, word processors and pudding.
Santa’s drinking Dad’s wine.
Head held back, he guzzles, laughing like a honking goose. Reminds me of Dad.
Mother claims Santa loves me.
I lose hints of faith.
Four years later, Santa’s hurling wine bottles. Mother and I dart among fusillades.
She doesn’t say Santa loves me.
Love’s a myth.
Mir-Yashar is a graduate of Colorado State University’s MFA program in fiction. A recipient of two Honorable Mentions from Glimmer Train, his story, “Strangers,” was nominated for The Best Small Fictions. Mir-Yashar’s work is forthcoming or has been published in journals such as Maudlin House, The Drabble, Door Is A Jar, and Ariel Chart.
The big man strokes his white beard. “It’s been a hard season…”
“Seen the new requests?!” shouts one elf. “Epidemics, tanks, false flags… And we’re hungry.”
“I’ve brought in a consultant.”
A black, hooded robe enters, holding a tray. “All will be delivered this Christmas. For now, enjoy reindeer steaks.”
Joey thinks it is never too early to plan for the coming Christmas.
Her boys play outside with an old Nerf ball. As she leads him to the broken furnace, he sees her tiny house has a cross, but no gifts, no tree. He sympathizes; he’s had a rough year, too.
She sees him glancing and is grateful they have nothing to steal.
Graham Robert Scott teaches writing at a university in north Texas. His stories have appeared in Barrelhouse Online, Nature, and Blink-Ink. See more at hemicyon.wordpress.com.
Every Christmas has unique vibrations.
2010 was tremulous.
Our grandchildren were three and four. They didn’t know their mother was dead.
I imagine they held to the hope she’d surprise them with a last-minute appearance.
There was more chance a fat man in a sleigh would land on the roof.
Bob Thurber is the author of “Paperboy: A Dysfunctional Novel” and two collections of stories. A celebrated master of Flash and Micro Fiction, his work has appeared in 60 anthologies, received dozens of awards, and been used in schools and colleges throughout the world. He resides in Massachusetts where, though legally blind, he continues to write every day. Visit his website at BobThurber.net.
She stumbled in, water trickling down her legs. A sharp pain squeezed her and she bellowed a wild cry.
Between the pains, she opened her eyes. A pair of black marbles stared back at her. The donkey matched her pitch and brayed, to which she replied, “The King is coming.”
Maja Scheler is a creative writer and Spanish-speaking enthusiast residing in the Pacific Northwest. Mother to three boys, her days are wild and rewarding.
“I’m fat,” Chris told his mirror image, clutching his paunch. “Diet in the new year, Mary.”
Another year passed. His resolution lacked resolve.
“Oh Chris,” Mary soothed. “That’s why the children and I love you.” She tugged his beard towards her and kissed him. “Santa is supposed to be cuddly.”
Mark Towers writes children’s books, short stories and poetry.
Jim lived with Uncle Roy and Aunt Millie. Once he confronted Millie about a rumour he’d heard. “They say Santa isn’t real, and my presents from him are really from Roy.”
“Honestly, Jim,” said Millie. “D’you think I’d let Roy spend that much on you?”
Jim believed for another year.
Thomas A. North lives in rural Ontario, Canada. He has many relatives, and is owned by a grey and white cat.
I look into his unblinking eyes, staring intensely at me.
I shudder with fear, for I know my time is nigh.
He beckons me forth, wiggling a white-gloved finger.
It is time. I can delay no longer.
I must get my picture taken with Santa, or Mom will kill me.
Smoke was erupting from his engine. One more press of my trigger and his Messerschmitt would be no more.
I had won the fight, but it was the wrong time to deny a family their son for Christmas.
I banked hard right and into the clouds. The fight could wait.
Chris is a Network Manager involved in many aspects of IT. He has a love of writing short stories and technical articles, photography, and playing the guitar. He is from Dudley in the Black Country. He is also a member of The Oldbury Writing Group.