The North Pole just got way behind this year. Apologies! – Mgmnt.
Listen here, on your favorite podcast app, or on the Podbean site.
Right to it:
2024 Weird Christmas Flash Fiction Contest Winners:
Weird Card Winner: “The Study of Owls and the Christmas Contronyms” by Daniel Roop
Stocking Stuffer Winner: “All Eves for the Yule” by A.S. Hahrwort
All the stories: (in no special order other than appearance on the show):
- “Nativity” by John Nicol
- “The Sadly Beautiful Life Cycle of the Mrs. Claus” by Nicoletta Giuseffi
- “Rudolpha” by Nicholas De Marino
- “Countdown to Christmas” by John Wolf
- “Keepers of the Fruitcake” by Carla Rudy
- “Liturgy for the Feast of the First Regurgitation” by Cardigan Broadmoor
- “O Unholy Night” by Mathew L. Reyes
- “Northern Romance” by Reva Sherrard
- “St. O’Clause” by Lancelot Schaubert
- “Advent” by Ben Daggers
- “There Was Only Ever One Delivery” by Brian B. Humby
- “Santa Hooks Up a Sabbatical” by Paul Lewthwaite
- “Canary” by Stephanie Kelly
- “Growing Season of the Giver” by J. Rohr
- “Lightsgiving” by Greg Clumpner
- “Niklaus” by Rosa Meronek
- “The Study of Owls and the Christmas Contranyms” by Daniel Roop
- “The Mythical Muffinheads’ Annual Pilgrimage to the Cave of Forget-Me-Nothings” by C.L. Sidell
- “All Eves for the Yule” by A.S. Hahrwort
Please help support the contest, the podcast, and Weird Christmas website by donating/gifting any and all amounts at Ko-Fi.com (click here). The money from the prizes is all from donations. And the more donations I get, the more I can give to the contestants. My long term goal is to make every story count as a professional sale by most writing organization’s standards. You can also donate any amount through PayPal by giving to weirdxmas@gmail.com.
A big thank you to both volunteer readers this season: Dustin Pari (@dustinpari, who is always so wonderfully generous and optimistic and inspiring), and my friend Joel who wants nothing more to do with this whole thing.
Usual opening: “O Holy Night” by Tiny Tim, “Christmas Doesn’t Last” by Make Like Monkeys, “Santa Claus Boogie” by Hasil Adkins, “Space Age Santa” by Ross Christman
Special opening: “Christmas-Procrastination Blues” by Tom DeMasters.
Bumper music (ripped straight from YouTube): by Myuu (for the dark piano) and a host of wonderful theramin artists.
Contest results from previous years: 2023, 2022, 2021, 2020, 2019, 2018.
2024 Weird Christmas Flash Fiction Contest/Anthology/Conthology
All stories copyright © 2024 by the authors.
Nativity
by John Nicol
Jake couldn’t believe what he was looking at.
Santa lay at the base of the Christmas tree, moaning.
In the pictures he always had a big white beard, but it turned out that Santa was a hairless albino with a flabby neck that skipped right over his chin. He looked a bit like a whole belly clam. Beady pink eyes were set deep in his face. Wet nostrils stretched his upturned nose.
If this was an elf, then elves were weird.
Jake thought the Santa-thing was about to have a seizure, but no, it rolled onto its side and began peeling back layers of felt. A huge white belly flopped onto Jake’s mother’s favorite throw. Little legs curled behind it, tipped in black leather boots.
The stomach rippled. Jake watched as the tip of a Nerf gun emerged from the navel. Santa grunted and the rest of the gun squelched out onto the floor.
Jake held his breath. This was too cool.
Another present appeared from the hole, glistening, wrapped in foil paper with a pink bow.
Probably for Amanda. What about Tommy? Or Mom and Dad?
As if it knew what Jake was thinking, the Santa-thing began to drag itself around the tree, depositing more gifts in sticky-looking puddles.
Eventually—after what felt like forever—it made its way to the TV table with the cookies.
Gnawing one, it spit the crumbs on the carpet. That explained something else that Jake had been wondering about.
Santa looked strangely deflated after delivering Christmas. Jake almost felt bad for the thing as it wriggled into the chimney and disappeared.
Jake tip-toed across the room and peeked up the flue. Nothing.
The guys at school were never going to believe this.
On the way back to bed, because he couldn’t help himself, Jake snuck a look at his presents—they were awesome, and Santa’s secretions were already almost dry.
John lives in New England with his wife, three kids, and three weird cats. He tends to write late at night. ‘Hybrid’ from the 2023 show was his first published piece. When not writing, John enjoys guitars, yo-yo’s, and family dance parties.
The Sadly Beautiful Life Cycle of the Mrs. Claus
by Nicoletta Giuseffi
The life cycle of the Mrs. Claus begins with an elf. Typically, Santa selects an elf with red
plumage to match his own, but there have been cases throughout the long history of Christmas
where an elf with green plumage or, even more rarely, blue, has been chosen. The selection is
said to coincide with a decline in the number of worker elves (every century or so, barring an
unusually high number of factory accidents) because, as we well know, the Mrs. Claus can lay
between three to four million eggs a month. Once the Mrs. Claus is chosen, Santa enters his
yearly torpor, to be broken only by the intervention of his mate.
Although all elves are fed royal jelly as larvae and later switch to Christmas cookies and
drone-secreted hot cocoa, the Mrs. Claus receives a diet consisting solely of royal jelly. This substance is mined deep in the substrate of the North Pole and remains hard until warmed in
front of a crackling fire, where it softens into a gelatinous semisolid. After consuming enough
royal jelly, the Mrs. Claus enters her chrysalid state, said to be as beautiful as any glass
ornament, and hangs from a tree. She spends four to six weeks disintegrating into her component cells and then metamorphizing into a jolly old woman up to 36 inches taller than she was before.
After the Mrs. Claus awakens and couples with Santa, her role is to lay eggs. Since her
eyes are vestigial, her chamber requires constant guarding by soldier elves. She can produce
clicks and whistles known as piping to direct toy production while Santa is away from the hive.
When the Mrs. Claus is ready to die, she starts to wither and her limbs, having served their
purpose, begin to drop off. Her flesh is fed to the reindeer, and her bones are entombed in wax
below the impassive ice of the North Pole. At this point, Santa performs mourning calls, which
can be heard wherever the Northern Lights are visible.
Nicoletta Giuseffi is an English language professor and pansexual princess under glass. Her work appears in publications like The Fabulist and Mother: Tales of Love and Terror, which was nominated for a 2022 Bram Stoker Award. She has also received the Elegant Literature Prize. Her passions include photography, retro media and hardware, and the late 18th century. (“Lupo” was responsible for the clicks, whistles, and moans [Which were particularly delicious – ed.]) dearnicoletta.com, dearnicoletta.bsky.social, Instagram: @dearnestnicoletta, Twitter: @dearnicoletta
Rudolpha
by Nicholas De Marino
When my fake nuts land on Dancer’s rack the jig is up. Every reindeer in the arena freezes like Jack Frost himself just gave them a non-consensual back rub at the office Christmas party.
“He’s … he’s a she!” yips someone. “Simon’s a Simone!” All eyes flash to the VIP area, where The Big Eight stare, muzzles agape, at the dangling falsies.
I square up, even though my cover’s blown. You don’t get to the last round of the annual Red-Nosed Pain-Deer tournament without steeling your nerve. My opponent, Mannhardt, glares candy cane daggers.
“You all know the rules,” Comet bellows, lowering his RumChata cocoa. “Only a stag may wear the Very Shiny Nose!”
My sleepers in the bleachers raise signs and start sloganning — “Sleigh the Patriarchy,” “Flight Like a Girl,” “SIMONE 3:16.”
The big reveal was supposed to be when I whipped Mannhardt’s stub-tailed ass, but after that million-dollar roundhouse kick it’s now or never.
A conga line of goons in dark sunglasses and ear wires trots in menacingly.
“Stand down!” shouts Vixen. “You all saw her defeat Trotter, Guzzler, and Strum, fair and square. Let her fight.”
Mannhardt charges. I sidestep and crack a hoof onto his calf. He spins and swings his bloodied, velvet-shorn antlers at my neck. I guide the blow across my shoulder. He rears for a double-hoof stomp and I rush in, snapping until his carotid artery throbs in my maw.
“Wait!” trills someone. A fey rushes the ring brandishing a smartphone at arm’s length like a can of mace. “There’s a problem with this whole premise!”
If any mice are stirring, they’ve got ninja-level stealth.
“According to The Telegraph and LiveScience,” he says, “any reindeer who’s still got winter antlers is female.”
For a moment, silence. Then dozens of pairs of polyurethane testicles hit the floor.
“Get ’em!” yells Prancer, and the herd swarms. When they disperse, the only evidence of the heresy is a ribbon of scarlet soil and a crushed SIM card.
I grin at Mannhardt and square up.
“I didn’t hear no jingle bell.”
The ninth rule of Flight Club is, if you talk about Flight Club, you have to disclose personal information. Nicholas De Marino is a neurodivergent writer of fiction, non-fiction, not fiction, un-fiction, and semi-fiction. He has a particular fondness for women who write surreal Nordic cozies with feral, farting Santas. Read more at nicholasdemarino.com.
Countdown to Christmas
by John Wolf
If the radio played “Little Drummer Boy” again, he would kill somebody. Tom muttered this
under his breath. Laura mistook it as more counting. So far they were up to 16 houses with blue and white lights, 20 white and gold, and 44 green, white, and red.
Ugh, are we done yet?” Lilly whined from the backseat. Tom and Laura took note. That was 4
such outbursts from their teenage daughter, 14.
Would it kill them to get a prime number?
Tom gripped the wheel tighter as he drove past more houses.
20 blue and white, 21 white and gold, and another green, white, and red made 45. “Jingle Bell
Rock” changed to “Silver Bells.” Tom pulled over, closed his eyes, and breathed. With each breath, the holiday pressures melted away.
It lasted 4 seconds.
“I’m bored. Who cares if we see some stupid lights?”
Tom’s eyes flung open, rage boiling behind them. “Because we do it every year, Lilly. 4 years
before you were born, and all 14 after that! 18. We count the lights. It’s Christmas tradition!”
That shut her up.
Laura played peacemaker, “This is just so important.”
Tom drove. The street forked. Tom went left. A second fork, a second left. Warm holiday lights
faded into darkness. Tom raised his eyebrows.
“I don’t see any lights,” Lilly observed before descending back into Facebook.
The cul de sac was unremarkable, just like all the others. Only…there were 3 houses…
“Honey,” Laura touched his arm, “does this count?”
Tom’s mouth went dry. No lights meant no count. No count meant no tradition. He needed a
count!
“Silver Bells” faded. Then came the “Little Drummer Boy.” A Christmas miracle.
Tom parked the van, his pinched face breaking into a smile. “Let’s break tradition.”
The family picked out their gear from the trunk. Tom took 1 sledge and 2 butcher’s knives. Laura
picked 1 hacksaw, 1 buck knife, and 9 feet of rope.
“Ugh, finally!” Lilly said and chose the ax.
They walked 17 steps to the first house. Tom knocked 5 times, “Pa rum pum pum pum.”
John Wolf is a librarian lurking in the Pacific Northwest. When not on the clock, he likes making things up and putting them on paper. Some of these stories have appeared in the Go West, Strange Aeon 2024, and Tales of Superstition, Fear, and Doom anthologies. Upcoming work will appear in the Bite anthology, and with Dragon Gems publishing. You can find him on Bluesky under johntheengmajor. “Little Drummer Boy” is, by far, his least favorite Christmas song.
Keepers of the Fruitcake
by Carla Rudy
Every year, our whole extended family crams into the dining room, decorated with paper snowflakes taped to the wooden paneling. But it never feels like Christmas until Great-Aunt Bethesda plunks down the tin of fruitcake to a chorus of theatrical groans.
“That’s not a cake, it’s an heirloom!” Uncle Teddy shouts. A polite smattering of laughter.
“Generational trauma,” corrects Cousin Denise.
They’re not wrong. It’s literally the same fruitcake that Great-Aunt Bethesda, and her mother before her, have brought out, without fail, each year. No one can say how far back the tradition goes. My family celebrates and loathes the fruitcake, always looking but never eating.
“How come?” I ask, eyeing the colorful vintage tin at the center of the table.
“It’s tradition!” Aunt Winifred screeches. “We are the keepers of the fruitcake!”
“Why, though?”
Cousin Seth taunts, “You don’t understand because you’re adopted.”
A gasp around the table. It’s not a secret, it’s just never talked about.
Never when they know I can hear them, anyway. I’ve heard the whispers. I’m a cuckoo’s egg. Destined to bring ruin to this family, like Heathcliff in Wuthering Heights.
“Ya’ll are the keepers of the fruitcake,” I snap. “I’m the opener of the tin.” I scoop it up and pull at the lid. My fake family screams at me to stop.
“There’s probably nothing in here, anyway!” I shout. “She’s been laughing at us this whole time!”
Great-Aunt Bethesda cries out in anguish, but the cover’s already off.
I was right. Instead of a moldy lump of cake, the container is filled with… nothing. The impenetrably dark vastness of the void. Compressed to the size of a holiday dessert. A chill seeps into the room.
“And so the prophecy comes to pass,” Bethesda intones, as a cosmic wind pulls her out of her chair and into the tin. One by one, the others are pulled inside as well, the void silencing their cries. I slam the lid back on just in time.
I wrap up the tin to bring home. I suppose I have my own holiday tradition now.
Carla Rudy earned a BFA in Creative Writing from Emerson College. Her work has appeared in Helix Literary Magazine, 101Words.org, thriftstorefitness.com, and Strong Words. Writing and recording flash fiction for The Weird Christmas Podcast is one of her favorite holiday pastimes. She actually doesn’t mind fruitcake.
Liturgy for the Feast of the First Regurgitation
by Cardigan Broadmoor
(Priest enters Ring of Gastroliths carrying the Ejectakon above his head, kisses each giant stone in counterclockwise order, then stands upon central mound. He places right talon on belly and congregation does same)
Priest: May the Bile of the Leaver burn away your worldly troubles.
All: And yours as well!
(Priest touches his beak to the Ejectakon)
Priest: The Word of the Leaver!
All: Blessed, all who hear it!
(As priest begins reading, a bowl is given to everyone in attendance)
Priest: A passage from the First Regurgitation
In the Great Before, the Leaver flew in darkness. He swallowed up countless worlds until His belly was full. Then, when His belly began to hurt, He retched.
(Congregation retches in unison)
Then, He retched a second time.
(Congregation retches again)
Finally, He retched a third time.
(Congregation sticks talons down their throats and purges into bowls)
And from this Regurgitation, our world was born!
All: Peace upon the Leaver’s belly!
(As priest closes the Ejectakon and looks to the stars, congregation forms several lines in front of priest and his helpers)
Priest: O, Great Vomitous One, we are but lowly chunks in your cosmic soup!
All: Glory be to you, Prime Hurler!
[Song of Spew is sung by choir]
(Congregation pours contents of bowls into mixing pot and re-forms lines before priest. During song, priest prepares to administer the belly stones and purga-broth)
Priest: We offer our prayers to you, All-Feathered Spewer.
(Congregation holds wings above their heads)
All: Behold our supplication!
Priest: Here, among the ancient stones of your belly, we bear witness to your holy covenant with all living things.
All: We are unworthy!
Priest: All who wish to prove their devotion, come forth!
[Hymns gagged by choir]
(Priest and helpers place little stones on tongues of congregation and splash purga-broth against the giant stones)
Priest: O, Great Vomitous One, we have spewed our guts for thee!
All: We are empty!
Priest: Hurl down your blessings from Above!
All: Feed us, Leaver of Ages!
(Remainder of purga-broth used for feast. Priest kisses giant stones in clockwise order. Ceremony ends)
Cardigan Broadmoor is a scruffy, unemployed wizard who lives in a dumpster with his slobbery hounds. The three of them are wanted in several systems. His short story “From the Mouths of Snakes” was featured in the anthology Blood and Blasphemy from Hellbound Books and his drabble “Nothing’s Sacred” was part of the anthology Ho Ho Ho from Black Hare Press. When he is not writing, he enjoys hoarding books and sometimes even reading them.
O Unholy Night
by Mathew L. Reyes
The Star of Bethlehem shone on the crowd gathered for the sacrifice. Three shepherds stood stiffly over the pale figure writhing in its manger. Its mother knelt by it. Beside her, the father grinned a yellow, jagged grin. Three gaunt Magi stood nearby. Cold night air frosted everyone’s breath.
Mary, said one of the Magi, wherefore didst thou birth that thing from thy womb? From what circle of hell didst it come?
The mother, whose arms were frozen in supplication to the many-eyed entity that had visited her nightly for months, only grunted. She could not talk. She had no mouth.
Mary, Mary, said one of the shepherds, will you let us spill a little blood for it?
In the manger the thing squirmed and squalled. It lifted a chubby hand, flexing each clawlike appendage.
Feed it, already! Feed the damned thing so it will grow! The red bird in its gilded cage comes ever closer with the turning of the star. Feed the creature so that it might protect us! The shepherd who had spoken shoved his compatriot’s face downward. The older man fought, but the younger was stronger.
The newborn fed. The Magi chanted.
Now, the shepherd said as he let the faceless body drop to the earth, we might have a chance against the great winged beast.
Thou must feed it more!
Fuck off, another shepherd answered, you can’t—
“Kevin!”
Kevin blinked as he fingered the wooden nativity ornament dangling from the branch nearest him.
He turned.
“Dinner time.”
He merely stared.
“Now, Kevin.”
Kevin stood. He thwapped the nativity ornament and the Hallmark robin that hung next to it on the Christmas tree. He licked his lips.
In the kitchen, his parents set food out.
His father said, “Little guy was staring at that tree for ages.”
Kevin’s mother smiled. “I did the same when I was six.”
Kevin entered the kitchen. His father ruffled his hair, mistaking the gleam in those baby blues for something innocent.
The family ate. All the while Kevin stared into the living room, chewing his food slowly and smiling.
Mathew is currently the vessel for a traumatized Victorian child. He is also a copy editor based in Minnesota. When he’s not working as an editing gremlin, he’s jogging, writing, and haunting the wily, windy moors. He’s had stories published with Quill & Crow Publishing, Crystal Lake Publishing, the NoSleep Podcast, and others. You can find him on all socials (especially Bluesky) @MathewLReyes.
Northern Romance
by Reva Sherrard
When I click the porch light they stop brawling and stare up, two-week-old pad Thai clinging to their whiskers. One’s on his gut scrabbling in the overturned bin. I wave my arms and the santas grunt off toward the road with their balls swinging.
“Big this year,” I say to the freezer pizza wrappers and polystyrene that pile up because Becky Kvelund won’t go to Siam Café with me.
I’m a responsible hunter. Not like Kurt Enger, who shot his dad last year when the old guy wandered out with no clothes. I wait until polar midday brings enough light to see what I’m doing. Santas don’t go far from town. After the first heavy snowfall they mostly stick to plowed roads and parking lots, living off trash and making roadkill hazards. A goddamn nuisance. No females, but every year there are more.
A heap of dung steams by the gas station dumpster. Across the highway, a couple of the bigger santas are fighting. The rest of the herd watches, scratching themselves, while the bulls hoot and smack each other’s pale hairy flanks. I step over the guardrail into deep snow and take aim.
My first shot misses. The second drops my target. The others scatter, pushing their pot bellies through the drifts as I wade over. It’s a nice fat santa. I got him clean through the heart. I heft him onto my shoulder and take him to Becky Kvelund’s.
Her eldest answers the door, yells up the stairs, and then she’s there on the front step.
“Afternoon, Becky,” I say. “I thought maybe you could use some meat.”
She says, “My freezer’s full. There’s one in the smoke shed. I shot three last week.”
“I just thought, seeing as it’s the holidays ….” The hindquarters next to my face let out a slow honk of gas. I turn to leave.
“Bjørn Ole,” she says. Her head’s on one side, the little lines around her eyes crinkling. “Come to dinner tomorrow, for Christmas Eve. I’m making pork.”
The santa over my shoulder feels lighter, somehow. “All right,” I say.
Reva Sherrard bagged her first santa at the age of 12, in the way of her ancestors, by defeating it in hand-to-hand combat. She writes things and does music, too, although she’d rather be a luchadora. She’s not really on social media at the moment, but if you bellow her name into the tundra wind, she will answer. But she is on Bluesky at @reva-sherrard.bsky.social.
St. O’Claus
by Lancelot Schaubert
Dasher thought St. Patrick O’Claus couldn’t keep up with ill Santa’s team. Dancer didn’t go for sword dances. Prancer hated Paddy’s pugilist stance. Vixen tried to mother him. Comet burned out. Cupid preferred to drive Paddy, his patron’s feast day landing but one month prior to Paddy’s own. Donder shouted over Paddy’s shouts during drinking games. And Blitzen? Blitzen got a bit too nationalistic for Paddy’s tastes. There’s national pride, then there’s the bombing of London.
Reindeer wouldn’t work.
So Paddy dug for snakes. Pretty hard to find snakes in the arctic, cold blooded and all. No rattler, moccasin, python, or common garter to save his life. He dug too deep with some of the musk ox and found a den of ice wyrms and ice drakes. Bit of his pot of gold and those things were in flying shape. Strung them up to the front of the sleigh (new green paint job, elves approved). Then Paddy drove the snakes out of the arctic.
It felt like a cobra strike yank into the air, not a gallop. Getting them to even fly straight was a damned miracle (strictly speaking: demon dragons doing the work of God is a damned miracle). Had he not done it centuries prior, he’d have thought they’d whip the sleigh asunder.
Halfway to Iceland, Paddy realized he had loaded up all the wrong stuff. And let’s be honest, there’s no way he was going to stress himself doing this all in one night.
Presents arrived weeks late (some folks blamed a certain politician’s attempt to gut the USPS). He gave less prime rib, more beaver tail. Less figgy pudding, more lamb stew. Kept the kids warm. The only consolation? Double and treble servings. Which, in the end, fed more hungry kids and got rich folks to stop complaining about not having enough truffle salt, bacon fat, and creme de la creme de la whatever.
Green beer he gave to teenagers in teetotaling houses. The savvier kids thanked St. O’Claus. Parents scoured passages to figure out if Jesus ever gave wine to drunks.
Publisher’s Weekly called Lancelot Schaubert’s debut novel Bell Hammers “a hoot,” which sounds suspiciously as if that publication is run by owls. He now has succumbed to Substack’s wiles and started a newsletter wherein he rants about billionaires, jokes about holidays, applies metaphysics where the sun don’t shine, and shares fiction. 10,000 people promptly signed up for his Substack, but he hopes to preach them down to a nice round baker’s dozen. He wrote many books you simply must buy if you don’t want coal this Christmas, music you must hear, a film in Alaska he produced you could watch. If you’re a poor creative, have some free resources and the Showbear archive for Christmas. (Btw, there’s a longer version of “St. O’Claus” at Schaubert’s substack here.)
Advent
by Ben Daggers
The advent calendar started out innocent enough. The first week made small demands: a paper cut
on day one; a few drops of lemon juice into the wound on day two; a cigarette burn on day five.
Unsure of the best way to give himself the day eight black eye, Jonas raided his toolbox for
inspiration. A small rubber mallet proved perfect for the job, as a few heavy taps on his orbital bone
left him with just enough swelling to make it to the following day.
By day fourteen, the bespectacled, rosy-cheeked Santa Claus on the face of the calendar was so
streaked with blood that his signature white beard was now deep, mottled red. Jonas pinched the
perforated cardboard window between middle and ring fingers, the last two remaining digits on his
right hand. In place of a typed message, the space behind the window just contained a line drawing
of a foot. Jonas leaned in closer, double-checking which side the big toe was so he didn’t sever the
wrong one.
Day twenty proved challenging. With the teeth of his hacksaw jammed up with dried blood and
gristle, he was forced to drag himself to the hardware store for something a little more up to the
task. He was too late; all the premium power tools had already been snapped up, and even the
shelves of off-brand miter saws and angle grinders were empty. He grabbed the last mid-range
jigsaw, prompting angry tutting from an older gentleman who was little more than a collection of
badly-sutured stumps.
By day twenty four, Jonas had no choice but to rip open the final window with his teeth. A small,
transparent capsule was nested in the cavity, backed by a glitter-glued “MERRY CHRISTMAS!”
message. He sucked the capsule out, wincing as he forced it down his dry throat with hard gulps.
A moment later, acrid, white foam filled his mouth, spilling out the sides of his wide grin as he hit
the floor. Yuletide was finally upon him.
Ben Daggers is a short story writer based in Osaka, Japan. He loves to explore the dark edges of fiction, before slowly backing away before things get a bit too dark. His works have been featured in Black Hare Press and Crepuscular to name just both. When not writing, procrastinating, or feeling guilty for procrastinating instead of writing, Ben spends his time doting over an emotionally-needy Italian greyhound.
There Was Only Ever One Delivery
by Brian B. Humby
You asked how Santa delivers to every house in one night?
Very well.
Technically, he’s only done it once.
Old Kringle was a trickster god of dreams and waking. He knew every heart’s desire and could flip one from nice to naughty in a trice.
So the crafty elves of the North devised a trap. Old Kringle was wagered with trivial stakes. He failed to take it seriously and lost.
His forfeit was to deliver the contents of a pouch underneath a particular fir tree. He was unaware of the snare encircling it.
It was composed of a leaning hollow log, the fir tree, and fresh bread beside a bowl of honeyed milk atop a stump, all within the sealing circle of eight reindeer slaughtered and skinned.
Old Kringle could not disturb the circle, so he slid down into the hollow log. He walked over to the fir tree, opened the sack, and placed the box tied with crimson ribbon underneath. Unable to help himself, he partook of the bread and milk and sealed his fate.
When he tried to climb back up the hollow log, he found himself back at the bottom, the bread and milk unconsumed, the box with the bow undelivered. He was compelled by his wager to complete the task anew. And so on and so forth.
Where was this? You’d never find it. As I said, it’s only happened once. He’s still there, confined to the old times.
Thing is, all that magic needs an outlet. So every year the elves held a celebration of lights and gifts. Every time Kringle went through the motions, the magic transposed his actions to another time, another hearth, another tree, another present.
To sustain the trap, they needed more adherents. More hearths, more presents, more trees, and especially offerings of milk and treats.
Should you spy him exiting your chimney, mantle, mirror or whatever the magic happens to map onto the hollow log, do not disturb him. Today’s world cannot handle another trickster god loosed.
I beseech thee, have a Merry Christmas. Woe betide us should you not.
Brian B. Humby is a battery professional by day and an amateur writer by night. Some nights, anyway. He lives in mythical central New Jersey with his wife and baby in their cat’s house. Some of his other works can be found at https://www.royalroad.com/profile/612463/fictions
Santa Hooks Up a Sabbatical
by Paul Lewthwaite
Santa knocked at the door, a sack resting over one shoulder.
The door opened a crack.
“Yes?”
“Timmie? It’s Santa. I phoned earlier.”
“Oh, I thought you were kiddin’.” The door opened wider and a young woman wearing only little bits of tinsel stood to one side.
Santa stepped into her apartment.
“So,” Timmie said, sidling close, “you want to swap, yeah? Brought the money?”
“Yes.”
Santa dropped the sack and rummaged inside before withdrawing a wad of banknotes.
“One thousand pounds, as promised.”
“Okay,” Timmie said, eyes wide. “I’m not complainin’, but you must enjoy dressing up in women’s underwear.”
Santa’s forehead wrinkled. “Well, there’s a bit more to it than that. I’m bored with all the usual Christmas stuff. Same routine every time.” Santa winked. “Perhaps not dissimilar to your profession?”
“Yeah, yeah, whatever. I’m not sure how my regulars will react to findin’ out you’re a bloke! Follow me.”
When they reached her bedroom, Timmie frowned. “You ain’t goin’ to fit into any of my costumes—never mind, look good.”
“We’ll see.”
Santa disrobed.
Timmie stumbled backward. “Oh my God, you’ve changed into a woman! You’re stunning!”
“You think?” said the other woman. “Thanks. Mortals perceive me as a jolly fat man, but I am anything I wish to be. I call this body Santina.”
“Wow! So now what?”
“Your turn.”
Timmie ripped her tinsel off and then Santina touched her forehead. The girl’s slim figure became taller and more rotund, her face bulged, and white hair sprouted out in all directions.
“Oh, my!” said Timmie after the transformation was complete. “I’ll be able to pee standing up!”
“Try the suit on.”
She did.
“It fits!”
“So,” Santina said, “here’s a list of places to visit. The gifts will appear in the sack as needed, and the reindeer will keep you right.”
“And here’s mine,” the new Santa said in deep tones. “My favourites and what they like. Told them there was someone special for Christmas Day.”
Santina nodded. “Go on then, Santa. Rudolph and the gang are waiting. See you in a year.”
Paul is a retired physician living in Scotland with his wife and a small, but all-powerful feline companion. Some of his flash fiction can be found at Dark Moments; Scribes Micro, thehooletsnook and is forthcoming at 100-Foot Crow and Crepuscular magazine. His fledgling website is http://www.paullewthwaite.co.uk
Canary
by Stephanie Kelly
Grandpa Jack picked me up after detention.
“Beth started it,” I said, before he could say anything.
Grandpa Jack sighed. “This is the third time this month. Everyone makes mistakes, but when naughtiness becomes a habit — ”
“But Beth—”
“Beth will pay, if she continues on this path. But I don’t want you to be punished. I was naughty, when I was a boy, and I wasn’t sorry for it, so I was sent to the mines. You must promise to be good, even if Beth or any others are being bad, because I never want you to experience what I went through.”
He looked scared. I’d never seen Grandpa Jack look scared before, so I asked, “What happened in the mines?”
He took a breath that turned into a cough, spit black mucus into his handkerchief, then rasped, “There was no light, but you couldn’t fall asleep. If you did, if you forgot to open the trap and let in fresh air… more than the canaries died. It was constant darkness, constant cold, constant pain. Your only companions were the tired, broken sobs of the other children… and the boss.”
“The boss?”
“He was huge, towered over all of us. You knew he was coming from the sound of his boots in the shaft, crumbling the coal and rock in his wake. Once, he even caused a cave in. He had a big white beard, but I didn’t know it until later, because it was always black from the coal, as black as our knees and palms— we could never get clean. And the hardest, coldest eyes. But sometimes we liked to see him. Because except for the canaries, his red suit was the only color we ever saw.
We bled, of course— oh, we bled— but even our blood was black from the coal dust.”
Grandpa Jack’s story sounded familiar, but wrong. “No,” I whispered.
Grandpa Jack looked at me. “He has elves to make the toys. Where do you think the coal
comes from?”
Stephanie Kelly has been writing her entire life. She worked in editorial at a major publishing house in New York City for over 10 years before founding a freelance editorial service, Stephanie Kelly Editorial, in 2021. Her short fiction has been published in Points in Case and 96th of October. A Michigan native, she lives in Brooklyn with her husband and their three cats. She also really, really loves Christmas.
Growing Season of the Giver
by J. Rohr
When the wet goes glass the season is coming. Ghosts along the river, draped in snowy frosted lace, howl hymns they never believed in while living. The woods hum with the overtone singing of specters as seekers go searching for the sacred shack.
That ramshackle hovel which looks like the forest grew a poorly built shanty; every green season it grows legs then wanders the woods blindly. Come the cold, those lumbering limbs get shed to sleep soundly. But knowing what signs to follow, seekers always find the sacred shack.
Planting poles to mark the way back, they return to the village. There shrouded snatchers have already been about like ballerinas. Dancing from shadow to shadow, they gather the coal- hearted, young and old worldwide, to stuff in metal baskets hung upon those poles. Torches touch the fuel-soaked flesh, so they light the way.
As the cosmic candle wanes, the sky gets grey, and stars arrive earlier than usual. Void readers observe constellations until they have a list, check it twice, and determine who is chosen.
Some years the selected go quietly. Other times they must be dragged by leather reins. Any who help the latter resist soon light the way. Whatever happens, the chosen all end up in ceremonial red robes, strapped to the only seats in the sacred shack.
Fasting villagers gather to feed them. They’ve been preparing the finest cookies and pastries everyone can provide. Since even the willing eventually can’t eat anymore, ritual tools are used from the first. Silvery spreaders act as open mouth gags, keeping maws wide so devices can continue the gorging nonstop. Sometimes it takes a day or two, but once a belly swells sufficiently it’s beaten like a drum.
Cheers aplenty when the first gut busts. Praises as the rest pop. Then anxious silence.
Guided by the glow of a high priestess’s crown of candles, all assembled survey the mess across the floor. Carefully, they examine viscera for signs of a giver, that generous homunculus who races around the world rewarding the good. One isn’t birthed every year, but there’s always hope.
J. Rohr is a Chicago native with a taste for history and wandering the city at odd hours. To deal with the more corrosive aspects of everyday life he makes music in the band Beerfinger (available on Bandcamp, Spotify, Amazon, Apple). Currently, he writes film reviews and articles for Film Obsessive. All his various works can be found at www.honestyisnotcontagious.com. His social media babble can be found @jackblankhsh.bsky.social.
Lightsgiving
by Greg Clumpner
In the asteroid’s mining colony, one whole hour of sunlight through the viewing portal deserved celebration. “Wake up, Gareth!” Gareth’s mom shook his shoulder. “It’s Lightsgiving. We don’t want to miss a nanosecond.” She shook him again.
“How long till the rise? Can I sleep a little longer?” The soft glow of the blue artificial light annoyed him as he woke. The blue was supposedly best for mental health.
“Get cleaned up. We want to join the feast before the sun starts its path.”
Gareth did as bid, and the two rode the elevator up to the observation level. When they arrived the artificial lights glowed red over the various dishes laid out on the buffet—to optimize hunger levels.
This was Gareth’s third Lightsgiving, his last before his mom’s contract was up and they’d return to Mars for a spell. His mom refused to talk about money, and Gareth doubted she’d earned enough for passage to Earth. They’d return to the darkness and solitude of the colony within the year. He’d be of age and work the mines as well.
After stomaching the traditional bland dishes from the food replicator, the red lights dimmed, the signal to put on their viewing glasses.
“What’s the big deal anyway?” Gareth asked.
His mom fiddled with his specs, making sure they were tight on his face. “Hope,” She said, her voice calm. “Appreciation for the possibilities. Knowing that despite being cast into darkness, there will be a time when your universe will shine bright.”
They were dropped into darkness moments before the first sliver of the sun crossed the portal. Through his glasses Gareth could stare directly at the blazing ball, watching as it crawled by. He turned to his mother. “We’re coming back here, aren’t we?”
In the passing light, the wrinkles of her lips glowed around her smile. “I am.”
She enveloped Gareth in a tight embrace as they watched the sun flare above. “Happy
Lightsgiving, honey. You’re going home.”
Greg Clumpner is a product of Wisconsin residing in Pittsburgh, PA. Greg is published in multiple journals and is Editor of the Triangulation anthologies Seven-Day Weekend and Hospitium. When not working, writing, or playing with shelter dogs, you’ll find Greg engaging in any form of sport. Explore more at gregclumpner.com.
Niklaus
by Rosa Meronek
I’ve trained for so long I can’t believe it’s finally my first day.
I toss my bulging Santa-sack over my shoulder, weaving across the courtyard through the battalion of crimson-clad men, snow crunching beneath my biker boots.
I find my platoon, 2000 to 2057, and step into formation.
The guy next to me extends his hand. “Aaron, 2056.”
I shake it. “Max, 2057.”
“Welcome to team Niklaus.”
Awestruck, I let my gaze wander. The 2030s and 40s are scrawny – their uniforms dark. Ragged. Dystopian.
They look starved.
I’m so grateful my assessment slated me to the 50s – I am stoked for those milk and cookies.
The platoon to my left covers the 1900s and wears the classic uniform; full white beards, bright red suits, and white-trimmed caps. They’re older. Rounder. Jolly.
As a kid, I dreamed of donning the red velvet suit, fur-trimmed hat, and shining gold buttons.
But my uniform of black leather pants and thick maroon leather jacket is so much cooler.
I look badass.
Tugging open my Santa-sack, I run my hand through thousands of tiny, wrapped boxes – historical recorders disguised as presents for children.
My breath mists as a hush falls over the square.
I strain to see. It’s him. Our first; the original – Nicholas. Tall, with a flowing white beard, wooden staff, and a fur-lined sapphire cloak.
“A very warm welcome to our new historians.” Nicholas points his staff at us. “Don’t forget to unshrink your recorders before you leave them under the trees.”
A howling wind sweeps through the ranks, gusting swaths of swirling snow.
Nicholas raises his voice to be heard. “Be back at your sleighs before the time vortex closes as we cannot rescue you from the past.”
“Where are our sleighs?” I ask Aaron.
He slaps me on the back, pointing past the reindeer to several scarlet motorcycles.
“Awesome.” I grin. “I was dreading shoveling shit.”
Aaron laughs and leans closer. “I love this part.”
“We are the elite,” Nicholas booms. “Guardians of time. Keepers of history. We are Santa!”
Fists pump into the air as we chant.
“Ho. Ho. Ho.”
Rosa Meronek has written several short stories and is the author of the fantasy romance series, The Faerie Crown Series. She has a BFA in Theatre Production, and recently finished work on the film, M35, a Halloween suspense movie due out at the end of 2025. When she’s not working on film or writing, she attends fantasy balls across the country with her best friend.
The Study of Owls and the Christmas Contranyms
by Daniel Roop
The Study of Owls, the emperors of the city animals, valued knowledge and cleverness above all else, as mental prowess had elevated them to their lofty position. Each Christmas they gathered in the eaves of an abandoned loft above the butcher shop and celebrated their success.
They called it the Spree, a debauched evening of drinking and dining. Destitute mice from the butcher’s served them, bringing drinks and delicacies on silver trays. Often, after a few drinks, the owls would toss some of the terrified servers down their throats. Still, even in their wildest abandon, they toasted their minds, as each year’s gifts had a cerebral theme.
One year they gifted each other parables, another year, koans. Last Christmas was rhyming riddles. This winter, the theme was contronyms. They tittered with delight at the self-conflict of a single word having two opposite meanings. Their invitation celebrated such paradox, reading, “Look grave, like WE / when you’re bound for a Spree.” To bear a serious countenance arriving at revels? Perfect.
They gathered in their most dignified hats. They drank. They feasted. At last, Lord Orpington called the Study to order. “Who will present the first gift?”
Bouffon, feaking a bit of mouse fur from her beak, said, “I offer fast.”
Feathers ruffled and roused in appreciative laughter. Orpington bellowed, “Fast! To hold still. To move swiftly! Delightful!” He stuffed a squirming mouse into his gizzard.
Baron Wyandotte spoke. “I offer sanction.”
Orpington screeched joyfully, “To approve! To penalize!” Wyandotte downed a celebratory mouselet.
The owls grew louder, wilder; the mice shivered and served. Words filled the eaves. Oversight. Dust. Peruse.
A mouse, hanging above Barnevelder’s open beak, squeaked, “Wait, lords! We’ve a gift as well!”
Amused, Barnevelder lowered her to present this pittance.
The mice huddled in the back corner, then shuffled towards Barnevelder. They bent, turned, hoisted in formation, holding aloft the stolen butcher’s tool. “Cleave,” they said, as they rushed forward, together. “To join.”
The blade came down. “To split.”
One needn’t have been a diviner to read the entrails at party’s end. The owls were fast.
Sanctioned. Cleft.
Daniel Roop is a member of the Horror Writers Association and has been nominated for a Pushcart Prize for his work in Will Work for Peace from Zeropanik Press. His speculative fiction has appeared or is forthcoming in publications including Flash Fiction Online, Dark Spores, Black Cat Tales, The Maul Magazine, and Appalachian Places. He is a seventh generation East Tennessean, and his favorite superhero is Kitty Pryde.
The Mythical Muffinheads’ Annual Pilgrimage to the Cave of Forget-Me-Nothings
by C.L. Sidell
Nine Mycelial Muffinheads emerge from their subterranean beds wearing the eerily plastic smiles of those who have been brainwashed by the Stepford husbands.
On this moonless night – the year’s last – their minds are asleep, their bodies functioning to serve one purpose: to appease the ravenous cave dweller of Forget-Me-Nothings.
They pull on boots of cured bark, head into the snow.
Crunch-crunch-crunch.
Garments of refashioned Halspeeper petals cloak impossibly-lanky limbs and protect them from the frigid clime, while bibs of woven spider silk insulate thready torsos.
The lotteried ennead carry preserved four-leaf clovers and thumpers carved from the roots of ancient Elwhyp trees.
Lanterns – burning oil eked from decomposed worms of Shallott Swamp – light the way, highlighting ectoplasmic-green ovoids on the ground where each foot should be placed.
Thus, they continue single file, mile by mile, until they reach the Cave of Forget-Me-Nothings.
At its mouth, they form a half circle.
Five stride forth and place clovers on the snow. As they rejoin the perimeter, the remaining four strike earth with thumpers.
Tha-wump! Tha-wump!
The lanterns glow brighter.
Tha-wump! Tha-wump!
The clovers glow emerald-gold, shift and merge, forge a giant leafy bowl.
Tha-wump! Tha-wump!
From the cave emerges a giant ten times larger than the smaller nine. It scoops up snow, crush-melting it in its weighty mitt, dribbles it into the clover dish.
Wearing the same plastic smile as its pilgrims, it swirls the ice water with a gnarled finger.
As one, the Muffinheads lift their lanterns.
The ogre stares, unblinking, into the ectoplasmic-green mirror. Gulps air repeatedly. Then releases a gargantuan belch that vaporizes clover and water and extinguishes the lanterns’ flames.
Upon its retreat, the Muffinheads turn around.
With no light to guide their way, there’s a chance they’ll never make it back to their beds. But if they do, they’ll awaken as blank slates: strangers to themselves; strangers to others.
Such is the price to pay for keeping ogreish cave dwellers at bay.
For another year, at least.
Until the giant of Forget-Me-Nothings awakens from hibernation once again, famished and ready to feast on its pilgrims’ savory memories.
A native Floridian, C. L. Sidell grew up playing with toads in the rain and indulging in speculative fiction. A Pushcart/ Best of the Net/ Dwarf Star Nominee and Rhysling Finalist, her work appears in Apparition Lit, The Cosmic Background, Factor Four Magazine, Stupefying Stories, Toad Shade Zine, and others. This is her second appearance in Weird Christmas (following 2022’s “Humbug Hazel”), and she hopes there will be more to come! You can find her on various social media platforms @sidellwrites or at https://crystalsidell.wixsite.com/mysite
All Eves for the Yule;
or,
A Tale of the Few of One and the One of Many
by A.S. Hahrwort
Every year we celebrate the eve of Christmas. We do so for the Yule may come back; and if it comes, they must know that Earth is still full of man. So too made we many grand eves, like the Easter, Electing Day, and Hallow Night, but now we thin and they are names. We intuit that man in the Yule know of the Christmas, for all earthman had been, and for it was by the Eve that it lifted, and for the name. And if the Yule returns, they must be shown how the others are, and how the Eve is known, and how every thing is and well.
Every year we bring some of our self together in our centre-middles, and we work to shape us into red, big, green, bright, Eve-, and blue plant-shapes. We know they are big for they grow taller than the man-shape, and we know it is to be done for the imagery-memory of man, and they are like the Yule. We mold so every year-time; if the Yule returns then and looks to Earth, they will know to think that every thing is, and touch down, and will join.
Every year we make the Eve, but not every year-time is winter; and when it is not, we grow us a little ways up and color our self-mass holey white for our boot-shapes to step, and make it dark; our impact place—the most dark, and we grow us a hill over the rim, so the Yule never does see it. It has been many times since the last winter, and the last multiple times our memory had spread; but we observed remnant eve-imagery of man, and now we know. The man-imagery described a face, and we took the face, and we have a new eve face for the Yule, and when we see the Yule, we will smile.
Every year we eat into farther earth and rock, thin, and spread; and we will wait for the Yule and
the last of man; and every year we will celebrate the eve of Christmas.
A.S. Hahrwort lives and breathes and, on occasion, pens a page or two, always with an implicit promise to ink out more of his own “worlds of if”. Said worlds invariably prove to grow out of proportion much too quickly, but he keeps at it where his unquaint lifestyle allows. He is said to incessantly gush over old science fiction, radio plays, brass cannons, and Lord only knows what else. This, so far as anyone can tell, appears to be his first little publication.
A PLEA!!!!
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THANK YOU!!!!! And please go follow the authors’ links!!!
weirdchristmas.com 
Thanks for the show! A lot of fun stuff on display.
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When will the 2025 contest be opened???
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